CERRO COSO COMMUNITY COLLEGE Metamorphoses 1997 Editorial Board Lori Bernard, senior editor Mark Dallachie Natawsha Dawson Thandi Garrett Shauna Mulvihill Haroon Saleem Advisors Carol Hewer Rick Rivera Graphic Arts/Printing Diane Mourton Bill Surgett Funded by the Associated Students of Cerro Coso Community College 3000 College Heights Blvd. Ridgecrest, CA 93555-9571 (760) 384-6100

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Sestina, Southwestern Romance

You held my face, my cobalt eyes became turquoise

rays behind the sun bowing low and red.

We slept on a wildflower bed of yellow,

funny how love needs no cushion.

Awakening to the fragrance of blossoming peach.

Cool water on our faces tinkled silver

bells. Can't live on love alone. Let's get our own pile of silver

making robin's eggs into bracelets of turquoise

trading eggs at the market, splurging on peach

pies, while you roast the chilies for salsa hot and red.

We'll pile up the pillows on the lawn in one big cushion,

let the neighbors stare at us! Cuddling, under the yellow

moon. Make you a breakfast of eggs, sunny yellow.

I'll set the table while my king counts his silver.

You dress me in silks, put my feet on a cushion.

We run to the ocean dancing in frothy turquoise

waters warm from too much sun makes red

noses. Bring forth a beautiful plump downy peach

of a girl child. Shout the news to baby! Dream job in a peach

city tower, I house hunt a house tall, clean, and yellow.

Get our baby lady a trike in candy apple red.

You'll stay at this job till your hair turns silver

and the cobalt of my eyes fades to cornflower, then turquoise.

We feather our nest with music and love's cushion

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begetting two more, man-childs, born disrespecting a cushion,

they throw it around till it becomes a lumpy peach.

Boys who dive blindly into wading pools of turquoise,

boys who smear their dinner with yellow

mustard, sparring daily sword fights with aluminum blades, silver

scaly lizards under their beds. Band-Aids hanging on red

shins. Young bucks at the prom disguised in red

cummerbunds. Customizing the perfect cushion

for filly girls who ride between the bucket seats cruising in the silver

Barracuda, intoxicated with their youthful promise of life's peach

bloom. My hands run through our sons' darkened curls, recalling yellow

towheads, my chicks soar into turquoise

clouds, brave red hearts seeking peach

nectar finding life's cushion against the blazing sun's relentless yellow

road to silver riches and their babies’ splash in waves of turquoise.

Martha Cox

A sestina is a poem that has six repeating end words arranged in a proscribed

pattern.

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Ceramics-Mask Mimi Olguin

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Princess Bumbarella

(an Italian Sonnet)

Bees call her The Princess Bumbarella,

Caterpillars nestle on her plump cheeks

'Neath down quilts, see her gossamer wings peek?

This blonding beauty waits for her fella

He sings in the garden, a cappella.

His voice hems her in mid-flight, her nose tweaks,

down she buzzes hiding in the foxglove, sneaks.

Who dares to woo Princess Bumbarella?

She fits her velvet head in Sultan's Cap

He's lifting her snood in the dragon's lair.

Calling her name, will her answer be yes?

A gentleman he'd better be, this chap.

Our princess weaves wings for him of hair.

Bees abuzz, garden wedding is my guess.

Martha Cox

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Abstract Pencil Drawing Mika Blank-Wilson

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Art

awkward shadows

not the art

cling in straight edges

to the squares

why the squares?

if it’s not in the boxes

it’s not art

are you disturbed if it implicates you?

are you impressed if it replicates your reality

which is a destination

of the consensus

of that which all of this is supposedly attempting to make look deeper

more meaningful?

when does it become art

when is it important and why is it collected?

Christie Scott

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Murder, He Said!

“Kill the TV

Shoot it in the head

And kill it d e d, Ded

But beware, sometimes they come back”

I really did try to kill my (expletive deleted) TV. Why you might ask? It was driving me

totally bananas, that’s why! The inane banality of the vacuous programs which were constantly

assaulting my overloaded sensory input banks with vast warehouses of worthless information was

pushing me right over the edge. What’s even worse was the fact that I couldn’t seem to detach

myself from this electronic vampire and eater of untold hours. No matter what I did to divert my

attention, my eyes kept drifting back to its hypnotic glaze and magnetic attraction. So I

formulated a plan. I deliberately and coldly premeditated murder of this high-tech cable-ready

Cyclops which had become such a parasitical force in my living room.

I didn’t have the resolve to kill it quickly so I settled on a plan that would allow me to

slowly throttle the life from my antagonist. Kind of a corporate downsizing, or maybe more like

diabetics who have their limbs amputated one at a time. I slowly, relentlessly, and mercilessly cut

off the surrounding tentacles of its life support system. First HBO and Showtime met their fate

on the chopping block and were terminated. The Disney channel was severed next. I followed

this by taking back the cable company’s little black boxes and downgraded the number of

channels feeding this cruel drug’s worthless pap into my home. I even traded rooms with my

daughter in order to move out of the room with the extra TV. When I moved into my new house, I

gave away my big TV and canceled the cable. No more addiction by subscription. I was almost

there with my murder plot and had only to drive the stake through the last remaining trace of TV

in my home, the 13-inch set and the VCR. Alas, I did not have the strength to kill my children’s

baby-sitter and I let a vestige of this time-sucking, brain-numbing creature survive in my new

home.

Thirteen inches was not enough, so I soon found myself moving in an old console set

which I spoon-fed from the VCR. It sputtered and fluttered and poured out crackly, hissing snow

which was maddeningly not enough. Next I installed signal-gathering devices as my house began

to bristle like a porcupine with antennas pointing into the sky. Like a recovered addict who has

slipped and fallen off the wagon, I began to crave more of the elixir brought in through this funnel

of channel madness. The decrepit old console could not satisfy my thirst, so in order to quench it

I went to Circuit City and paid a visit to the “dealer.” I needed a fix and I needed it now. Now in

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my home there is once more perched a one-eyed Cyclops upon center stage in my living room.

This new one is even larger than the old, a full 27 inches in girth. Next, I expect I’ll be mainlining

from a satellite system’s syringe. Stephen King was right, “sometimes they come back!” It seems

I am hopelessly addicted, so give me back the channel changer!

Tony Jaime

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Personal Column

A place for lonely hearts to find each other

Alone but sometimes together

And try to mix and match their heart’s desires

A place to listen as they describe themselves

As they wish others to see them, hear them, touch them, feel them

Somewhat normal woman seeking true happiness

Tall and interesting gal, loves animals, seeking one

College student seeks someone to tell me everything

A funny guy with thinning hair wants a nice lady to maybe go to church

Marriage minded gal with future expectations seeks sensitive man

Focused female with sparkling personality likes to travel

A guy to know who’s never in a hurry seeks a life partner

Social butterfly with deep secrets likes excitement

Really romantic faithful female seeking teddy bears and flowers

Green-eyed blonde seeks the right guy with anything in common

Active lady, long blonde hair, nice eyes, body like an hourglass, seeks same

Spur of the moment, spontaneous guy guarantees good times

Love me for me seeks Mr. Wonderful

A shy guy with hopes and dreams searching for Ms. Right

A little bit crazy and into roller coasters wants someone to just be happy

Mature male with simulated job seeks woman to be honest with me

A mountain man is looking for a Sophia Loren look alike to share his life

New to area and has dimples wants someone to get out and do things with

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Kind and compassionate caring woman seeks nice guy to baby him

Funny mom with short burgundy hair and package deal wants a soul mate with good job

Not a bad looking guy with one brown/one green eye wants to appreciate a good lady

Open and honest single white female seeks strong willed man to keep me company

Non-smoking career woman/man looking for the anesthetics of life

Adventurous teacher wants someone to make her laugh

Bouncy housecleaning honey wishing for a good man

Are you interested? Compatible? Lonely? Unique?

Place your ad and wait!

Call me! Let’s talk!

Like to go out? Leave your number and message!

Try something new . . . Call

Tony Jaime

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Eclipse Thane Ratliff

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Winter Wedding

A winter wedding engages the heart

for love.

Encouraged by the promise

of spring.

the new blossom steadies in the long

and faithful summer

yielding only to the celebration

of autumn.

Finally returning to the white, and the wonder,

of a winter wedding.

Colette M. Marks

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February

My two hands

Enclose

Your kissed face

Your laughs, smiles

Consume me.

Remember February

Throwing you into the air

Catching

You became

Passionately mine.

Light sleeper

With dark brown hair

Thick and shiny

Left scents

On my pillow

My thoughts

My future

Feelings in me

Ache

John Connolly

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Galactic Journey

My world was without

form and void

and I longed for release

from this terrestrial

nonexistence and began

reaching for the stars.

Determined to not be

suffocated by the atmosphere

I thrust away from

the gravitational pull

that threatened to force

me down into

nothingness. I knew I must fly

as high as I could and though

my destination was unclear

I must not look back.

At last I broke free

and began searching

but what I found

was less than what I sought.

I stumbled on the cold, dark

side of the moon

and was burned by the star

of this solar system.

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I beheld the Milky Way

and knew it held promise

but I was unprepared

for its nebulous nature.

Disappointment turned me

around and I began

swirling through space

lost and out of control.

Once again I was claimed

by the atmosphere

of my world and it

began to drag me down.

With one last attempt at holding

onto something higher

I grasped a cloud in my descent

but it evaporated in my hand.

The landing was hard

and my heart was broken

I thought I should die but

against my will I took a breath.

Then suddenly something

caught my attention:

an unprecedented

phenomenon in my world.

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I saw your eyes shining,

shining like stars

and your smile appearing

like a crescent moon in the dark.

At a touch you penetrated

my crust like a cosmic ray

and I began to soar high

enough to see my universe in you.

Jean Bickle

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Endangered Species: Koala Cori Karnos

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My Grandmother

My grandmother was a wonderful person. I remember her as a very beautiful woman who was

still attractive despite her age. At the age of one hundred and two, wrinkles had taken a great toll

on her face. Her cheek bones would slightly protrude outward, and her eyes were sunk within her

orbital cavities. Her hair was receded and completely gray. Her gorgeous light skin now looked

scaly and would rub off like dust, especially when she bathed and did not apply body lotion on her

skin. My grandmother did not think that I was only a grandchild. Instead, she believed that she

was reincarnated in me even when she was still alive.

In my culture, we believe in reincarnation after death. But, when I was only two years old, I

barely knew how to talk. I don’t remember if I knew my grandmother’s name or not by that time.

One afternoon, I asked my mother to call me “uche” (my grandmother’s name). My mother

asked, “Why?” Then I said, “I am grandmother.” Not only was it absurd for one to reincarnate

into another person while still alive, but for a child to come up with this reincarnation

phenomenon made it a little food for thought for my family.

My grandmother, who was then a non-Christian, consulted the oracle, the deity, about this

matter. The oracle then confirmed that she had indeed been reincarnated in me, her

granddaughter. As a result of the confirmation by the oracle, my grandmother treated me as her

favorite grandchild. Best of all, she treated me as her equal.

There was a little family get-together held to celebrate this peculiar ‘reincarnation’ event. After

this celebration, all the immediate family now knew me as Grandmother. I was told that from

that day, I would not answer by my name. Instead, I would jump with great joy and answer

whenever my grandmother’s name was called. I was not only treated as a special person by my

grandmother, but I was also treated as a special person by all her children and grandchildren too.

The memory of the whole family converging together at my grandmother’s house for the feast of

the earth goddess called Nnekeeji is still fresh in my mind today. I was about seven years old then.

This feast is celebrated by both Christians and non-Christians in order to thank the earth goddess

for a bountiful harvest. All the family members are supposed to come together and celebrate this

special event. My grandmother would always have food, such as dried meat or fish, to give to her

grandchildren. She would call us one by one to come and get our share of the food. Usually this

roll-call would certainly start with the oldest and end with the youngest. I was supposed to be the

youngest grandchild of my grandmother, but because the entire family knew me as my

grandmother, the roll-call would always start with me. It is a common tradition that when a

person is being given anything by an adult, one has to genuflect and say “Thank you.” This

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genuflecting is a sign of respect and appreciation; therefore, we would all genuflect one after the

other while receiving the meat or fish and say, “Thank you, Grandma.” Not only did I get the best

part of the meat or fish, but my grandmother would always have a little more by the corner to give

me when the other children were gone. She would call me by my pet name Nnenne, meaning her

mother’s mother, as if I had forgotten something, and then she would give me the extra share.

This extra share of meat or fish was our little secret.

Commonly, I remember playing with the kids and usually assuming the role of Grandmother. A

stick was usually the fish while stones were dried meat. I would call all the children by their

names, and share the “meat” and “fish.” I would always insist that each child say, “Thank you,

Grandma,” while genuflecting. The thought of this has never left me.

While I was growing up, everyone that knew my grandmother said that I talked, walked, and

acted in every manner as she had when she was my age. At times, people marveled at this

complete resemblance. My grandmother would walk with hands akimbo style, balancing one

hand on her hips and swaying the other in the air, with the attitude that nothing else mattered.

This akimbo style always got me into trouble when I was in high school, because I always stood in

this fashion while talking to my teacher who would get offended, because it was disrespectful to

stand in this fashion before an older person. Unfortunately, I never intended to disrespect my

teacher, but instead I was unconsciously acting like my grandmother.

Also, my grandmother would always talk like someone in a great hurry trying to catch a late train.

This part of her attitude has never left me. I always found people telling me to slow down so that

they could hear and understand me whenever I talked. Even when I would consciously try not to

talk fast, I found that I could only succeed with two or three sentences. Isn’t this amazing?

The day my grandmother died, my whole world was shattered. I remember having a weird

feeling. While looking down at her lifeless body, I felt that it was I who was lying helplessly on the

bed instead of her. All I could see were images of my grandmother and memories of her when

she was alive—the memories of the time she and I spent together, memories of all the things we

did together, memories of the way she used to sit in her thatched-mud house in front of the fire

while roasting corn for everyone. My grandmother had lived in this same four-bedroom house

since she had married my grandfather. As you came in through the front door, you entered the V-

shaped living room. Turning to your right was a clutter of things collecting dust. To the left was

her so-called living room, full of outdated and mismatched furniture. The house looked used

because my grandmother had raised four children, all girls, in this same house. To me, the

mismatching furniture, black-mud pots in her kitchen, and all the half-broken mud plates and

cups looked like junk from the early man’s world. But, this “junk” harmoniously matched the

context. Everything had some distinct history to out live. Yet, despite the gloom, due to ancient

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architectural design, my grandmother’s house felt cool and comfortable—especially during the

harmattan. Her house had an inviting and healthy aroma which always made it impossible for me

to want to go home after every visit.

And I remembered as my grandmother lay helpless on the bed how she used to roast corn. We all

sat together in a circle around the fire with our legs crossed inside and hands folded. As the corns

started to pop, they threw up specks of light. We all giggled at this and tried to catch the specks.

While patiently waiting for the corn, my grandmother told us fairytales. My favorite tale was the

story of Cinderella (I was astonished the first time I saw the Disney version of the Cinderella

story). I sat very close to my grandmother with my head thrown on her lap. As she told the story

and cuddled with me, I often fell asleep without eating my share of the corn. All these memories

and thoughts filled my mind as I viewed my deceased grandmother. I quickly recollected my

thoughts and brought myself back to the present.

While I stood at the foot of her bamboo-bed (now placed in the living room) watching and hoping

for a miracle, my gaze was suddenly caught by all the pictures in the living room. For the first

time, I noticed that all of them were turned facing the wall. The television was covered with one

of my grandmother’s wrappers. The clock had a sheet of paper in front of it, but I could still hear

it ticking…tick tack, tick tack.

At the end of the bed where my grandmother was lying in state, was the bow and arrow that

belonged to her husband—my grandfather, whom I never had the chance to meet. He died before

I was born. My grandmother never stopped talking about him when she was alive. She used to

tell us what a great man and hunter he was. I could still see the tears that usually formed in her

eyes each time she talked about her lost love.

As I continued to look around the room, all I could see were somber but not sad, mourning faces.

Although all the faces had tears streaming down, their eyes had one peculiar expression, a

peculiar expression that made me wonder and exclaim aloud, “Oh, death! Where is thy sting?”

For the expression on their faces seemed to suggest to me that my grandmother was not dead—

but, instead, was still alive in me.

Elizabeth C. Ilechukwu

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Thinker Eric Jones

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Cocoon

thin skin stretched against time

inside I am, and

light is dimly straining against my eye

urging me to see

and moving air is a soaring song

to my dim hope of wings

inside, I am a surge of strength,

straining to break

these walls of thinning skin

I am a wish

for leaping, but collapse again

time’s pressure to coil

again, me against myself

suspended on moving air,

inside, I am slowed to stop

straining in the stillness where

nothing is happening. Nothing

against the strength of these imaginings

no beating of new wings

and nothing of what used to be

I am breaking this skin

shedding

and falling

new wings free

on moving moments

I will be

floating

flying

Anne Benvenuti

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Prophet Socrates

cheerfully he drank the poison

calm, awaiting death / jail cell door

cheerfully he drank the poison

to leave this life, the burden un-bore

birth to death

death to life

existence transient

pleasure/strife

life to death

death to birth

from below ascend

soul in chains again

flow like river

river bend

cheerfully he drank the poison

drank cup of fate with knowing grin

cheerfully he drank the poison

cocked his head back & poured it in

Christie Scott

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Dissection

sickness

perspective

it’s a lump in my throat

no, in my soul

this little piggy went to the Bio lab

because this little piggy’s mom got murdered and eaten

would it be so bad if it weren’t captivity?

nothing would be

but it doesn’t make a difference

Christie Scott

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Endangered Species: Bald Eagle Cori Karnos

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In the Library

that which you see

written by me

is not for enshrinement in history

that which I pour upon these pages

is catharsis (not prophecy) as passion rages

all fates collide

weave chaos bride

as all which radiates past my eye spied

focuses/point lucid

growth root as acute id

tiny I within own sphere

with every nexus

path more clear

falling into traps of men

thought invalid

only of then

that which evolves to my paradigm

has withstood ravages

test of time

disregard all you’ve been told

some are wise but most just old

Christie Scott

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Ivy Cutout Stephanie Young

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Minerals Are The Answer

deficiency

of

Chlorine & Sodium

causes apathy

it’s proven

found it in my biology book

let’s put it in the water supply

and then

everyone would care

Christie Scott

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The Spirit of Freedom Will Not Be Contained Cori Karnos

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Make it Back Alive

“Hey, Medic! Medic! I’m hit!” This is how Dennis Olson describes the calls for help from

wounded GI’s. He heard these calls a lot as an aidman, commonly called a medic, during World

War II. Private Olson served in the 35th Division and saw action in France, Belgium, Holland and

Germany.

When asked how he became an aidman, he started his reply, “It’s kinda funny.” He went

on to say that in 1942, at age nineteen, he enlisted. He was trained as a truck driver and was

assigned to the Signal Corps, the unit that provided communications. “Two days before we

shipped out for England, they transferred twenty of us to the Medical Corps. When we got to

England, my sergeant tossed me an aidman’s manual and told me to read it. I was now a member

of a company of thirty aidmen.”

Olson’s next stop was Omaha Beach in Normandy, France on “D-day plus three (days).”

A landing craft, looking like a giant floating gray shoe box without a lid, was his and the forty or

so other GI’s transportation across the English Channel. To limit strafing by German aircraft, all

the landing craft on this trip were towing a large gray barrage balloon, looking like a quarter-sized

Goodyear blimp. The balloons hung back and jerked from side to side because of the motion of

the craft and the wind currents. These balloons gave an almost human-like impression of not

wanting to make this trip. The sea was full of these craft, and the sky above was a huge, gray

cloud of balloons. Though the GI’s may have identified with the feeling of not wanting to make

the trip, at this point they all had the same goal: make it to the French shore in one piece.

The crossing was slow, and occasionally a German aircraft would make a strafing pass.

Olson felt lucky that they never chose the craft he was in as a target. As the landing craft hit

ground, the large ramp at the bow slammed open, and they quickly made their way through the

surf and up the beach. “It was no where near as bad as D-day on the beach, but German aircraft

were strafing, so you had to watch out.”

That night, Olson was to see his first wounded GI. He was assigned to the 135th

Battalion, Medical Company B, located about five miles from where he landed, and he arrived

there about sundown. The Germans had been shelling the area all afternoon, and it continued

into the night. My sergeant told me to make my way up the line. He said, “There’s a guy hit in the

leg, dress his wound, and get back.” It was very dark. The sky and surroundings were lit by the

quick flashes from the shelling and the antiaircraft fire. The noise was intense. “I was scared to

death! It was my first time really under fire.” Olson found the guy and proceeded to go to work.

“Looking back, his wound wasn’t that bad, but I wasn’t prepared for it. The only training I had

was that book (the aidman’s manual). I used everything in my kit.” The kit had bandages and

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supplies that could take care of up to ten men, depending on the damage. “The sergeant knew

something was wrong when I came back looking for more bandages.” During the next few days,

Olson was given “on-the-job training” until he got the hang of it. At that point he was put in the

rotation.

During World War II, aidmen would rotate with litter bearers on two-month cycles. The

aidman was to remain on the front line. Locating and “patching up” the wounded was his main

duty. The litter bearer’s job, on the other hand, was to transport the wounded on stretchers to the

aid station that was within one mile of the front line. “The litter bearer got a break by not being

right in the action all the time.” The problem with both jobs was that at some point you had to go

to where someone was hit. “Most of the time the guy was in the open or you had to cross a lot of

open ground. The red cross on your helmet and arm band wasn’t much protection.”

All the allied field medical personnel advertised the fact that they were unarmed by

displaying the red cross symbol: a white square with a centered red cross. The problem was some

German troops honored the symbol and some, the SS and paratroopers, used it as a target.

“Depending on the information we got on who we were up against, we either displayed the red

cross or not. This included painting over the big version on the ambulances.” In one case, a

sniper, hidden in a group of five two-story buildings, was shooting at the aid-station personnel.

“We couldn’t see him, but from the direction the bullets were coming in, we knew he was in one

of the buildings.” Someone from his unit was able to make it over to a group of tanks in the

distance. “Those tanks leveled each building, one at a time, until they got the sniper.”

About the time Company B was to cross from France into Belgium, there was a need for

an aidman to drive an ambulance. Private Olson was assigned. “I was glad to be an ambulance

driver. Aidmen didn’t last long. By the time I made ambulance driver, only three of my original

group of thirty aidmen were still around! The others were either dead or wounded badly enough

to be sent home.”

The mission of the ambulance crew was to transfer the wounded between the aid station

and the collection station: a larger medical station where basic surgery was done. However, this

mission was secondary to the mission of getting the wounded off the battlefield. So even though

Olson drove an ambulance, he was still an aidman and would often be back on the front line

bandaging someone that had taken a hit. “If you got the wounded at least to the aid station where

there was a doctor, they had a much greater chance of making it. The wounded at the aid station

could wait, and the guys laying out in the field couldn’t.” Even so, the mission of the ambulance

crew was important.

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There were two men assigned to each ambulance. This was done for two reasons. First, it

required two men to get the stretchers into the ambulance. Second, they shared the driving.

“When you got real tired, you swapped driving. You had to remain alert.” While the ambulance

crew was on the road, the front line could easily move forward or worse move back. “If you took a

wrong road, you could quickly end up on the German side.” In one case, an ambulance crew

disappeared after heading out to pick up some wounded. The next information received about

them was from the International Red Cross. The report stated that they were captured by the

Germans and were in a forced work crew near the Russian Front.

In one respect, their ambulance shared something with a civilian ambulance. The

majority of vehicles moved out of the way to let the ambulance pass. “Most of the guys knew they

could be one of our next passengers, but sometimes you had to remind them.” While trying to get

through to an aid station in Belgium, Olson’s ambulance was blocked trying to go in the opposite

direction of a convoy. “It was a small town with narrow streets.” A major waved them off the

road and told them that they were going to have to wait until the convoy passed. “I told that

major ‘We’ve got wounded in the back, and I hope you end up in the back of my ambulance

sometime when we’re told to wait!’” The major ordered a way cleared for them. “We drove on the

sidewalk, but we got through that town.”

Besides the obvious reason of getting the wounded to medical care, the ambulance was

considered a lifesaver for another reason. “Not many people realize this today, but the ambulance

was the only vehicle in World War II that had a heater.” During the winter of 1944-45, the troops

in Belgium were subjected to temperatures that dropped below zero and were constantly in snow.

“We would pull in somewhere empty (not carrying wounded), and leave the engine running.

We’d get out. Then the half -frozen guys would pile in and try to thaw out until we had to make a

run.”

As Olson’s division entered Germany in early 1945, a completely different task was added

to the mission of Medical Company B. It was assigned to provide initial medical support at a

recently liberated forced-labor camp. Olson was one of the twenty-five men given the job. “We

weren’t prepared for what we saw. I don’t think anybody in charge knew what was waiting for us

at that camp.”

When the aidmen arrived at the camp, the gates were open, and they could see small

groups of US Infantry throughout the massive crowd of prisoners. Olson found out later that

there were over five thousand prisoners in that camp, and they were from all over Europe: France,

Poland, Czechoslovakia, and Russia. “They (the prisoners) all looked starved. Their clothes were

just filthy torn rags. I’ve never seen people so thin, and there was just so many of them. Most of

them looked like stick people with rags hanging off them. There were just so many.”

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When the prisoners saw the red cross on their uniforms, they began to crowd around the

aidmen. “They thought we were doctors. They were all talking and pointing at different parts of

their bodies. Even though you couldn’t understand the languages, you knew they were asking for

medicine, but all that we carried for illness was aspirin. Our kits were set up to help the wounded,

not people in that kind of shape. It didn’t seem to matter that we didn’t have much to give them

that first day. Even if it was just a couple of aspirins, they were real happy. You could tell that no

one had given them anything in a real long time.”

For the next three days, Company B continued to do what they could for the prisoners.

“The problem was that we just didn’t have the supplies to help those people. We had to go back

to the Collection Station and try to talk the cooks out of food to take back to the camp. It’s not

that the cooks didn’t want to help, but they had a responsibility to feed the guys in the company.”

Finally, on the third day, the rear-echelon units arrived at the camp. “It was a sight to

see: four of those big trailers that the army uses when it feeds a large number of troops coming

into the camp.” Each trailer was a self-contained kitchen with at least two cooks and quite a few

support personnel. One side of the trailer would be opened up to reveal a large counter where the

food trays could be filled. “I still remember the first meal they made, beef stew. Boy, did those

people eat.” At that point, Olson and the rest of Company B returned to their mission at the front

lines.

The last place Olson saw a wounded GI was on the banks of the Elbe River in Germany.

This is the place where he and his company received the word that the war was over. “It took us

almost a year to make it from that Normandy Beach to the Elbe River. If you were to drive it

today, it would probably only take a couple days.” He was sent home in August of 1945. “I saw a

lot of wounded guys, but they were just faces. There was no time to get names, and too many to

remember anyway. I’ve always felt good about what I did in the war. I helped a lot of guys make

it back alive.”

Dale Olguin

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Collage Bruce Habberman

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Bodie

There is a land.

A barren land.

Where many stories told

of badman’s bullets and devil’s gold.

Timeless.

Wasting.

Footsteps in the sand

echo grief of death in this land.

Waiting.

Perishing.

An old house stands

awaiting the tempest and his demands.

Wind.

Rain.

An open window to the east,

a rider approaches on his black beast.

Tired.

Worn.

Struggling as he must,

then spinning back into the dust.

Gone.

Forgotten.

Dawn Kirby

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"Hale-Bop" A Photographic Montage Lee Fox

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Rough, Tough, and Ready

On a Saturday morning in late September last year, my wife and I were awakened by the radio

alarm at 4:00 AM. It was time to wake our four kids and one of their friends who has stayed

overnight. Stumbling down the hallway, I called out, “Rise and shine, it's football time—Hey you,

Marcum, get a move on 'cause we're gonna need our #40 today. Come on guys, fire up!” As the

defensive coordinator for the IWV Eagles sophomore team, I was anxiously anticipating the

outcome of today's game.

Our opponent for today was the Big Bear Youth Football team, and although we had

competed against them numerous times in previous seasons, IWV had never been able to win a

game at the sophomore level. My excitement and nervousness was further compounded by the

fact that two of my kids play for IWV, one on the junior level and the other as a sophomore. By

5:00 AM, five sleepy-eyed, yawning, grumbling youngsters had been packed into the two-tone

brown Ford van like sardines in a can.

Upon our arrival at the high school in Apple Valley, Marcum and the other kids began

carrying equipment toward the visitor side of the field. Carrying the green mesh football bag, a

black equipment and first aid bag, two huge orange water containers, helmets and shoulder pads,

the green and white lawn chairs, and a big chalkboard, the kids looked more like pack mules than

football players.

As we began warm-up practice, the sun glowed brilliantly in the clear blue sky. The air was

fragrant as the smell of freshly cut grass filled our nostrils. Gigantic green cottonwood trees

offered shade for the players as they responded to Coach Works, who was shouting out orders like

an Army drill sergeant. A shiny new stainless steel chain-link fence separated the actual football

field from the practice area. I quickly noticed that the home side of the field had heavy gray metal

bleachers, but on the visitors’ side, there were only two very small sets of bleachers made of old

splintering wooden boards. The field itself was lush and green with parallel white lines painted

every five yards apart and it resembled a giant ladder.

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As the day wore on and kickoff time drew closer, I began to feel butterflies fluttering in my

stomach. Concerned because I was worried about how my kid would perform in today's game, I

began pacing up and down the sideline. The smell of hot-dogs, hamburgers, and chili cheese

nachos made me feel nauseous as I inhaled the aroma coming from the snack-bar. During the

final two minutes of the previous game, the kids on our team were weighed-in, dressed in their

green helmets and full pads. For a few minutes, we huddled as a team for the last time before

marching to the edge of the battlefield. The team looked very professional in their black, green,

and white uniforms. At the signal, they charged through the goal posts like a thunderous herd of

buffalo in a full-fledged stampede. Marcum was one of the first players onto the field.

Marcum, Irwin, Goodwin, and Windish were chosen as team captains for the IWV Eagles. Big

Bear won the coin toss and received the ball on kickoff. During their possession of the ball, which

comprised most of the first quarter, our team was physically manhandled, and Big Bear was able

to score a touchdown by running the ball right up the middle of the field. They pounded on our

kids hard and the pain was evident by the grimacing expression on their hot, sweaty faces;

Marcum, #40, was no exception. By this time, the sun was directly above us and the heat was

taking its toll on all the players as the temperature exceeded the 100-degree mark.

Now it was IWV's turn with the ball. We opted to try running the ball up the right sideline of

the field. IWV's center, Suarez, snapped the ball to Cox, the quarterback, who then took one step

backward and pitched the ball to Windish, IWV's running back. As he ran toward the right, the

opponent's cornerback closed in to tackle him. Suddenly from nowhere, Marcum appeared, and

viciously buried the helmet into the opposing player's number, knocking him five yards out of

bounds. The air gushed from his body upon the impact, and he groaned pitifully as he writhed on

the ground, trying to suck in oxygen. Marcum looked my way, smiling, and winked

mischievously. Because of the great blocking by Marcum, Windish was able to rip off a thirty-

yard run. We successfully continued moving the ball toward our end-zone with the next two

plays. Coach Works called for a “time-out” with the ball on Big Bear's two-yard line and only

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thirty seconds remaining in the second quarter. The score was 6-0 in Big Bear's favor. We

desperately needed to put some points on the scoreboard!

After a brief consultation, the coaching staff decided to run the “X-Y quick-pass” play toward

Marcum's side. As the game resumed, the opposing coaches were shouting, “The play is going to

the right, stop #40!” Again the ball was snapped, and a hush fell over the fans as they anxiously

waited the outcome of this play. Marcum leaped into the end-zone, looking back for the ball. As

Cox released the ball, #40 jumped up and plucked it from midair, making it look easy and

graceful. As Marcum's feet touched the ground again, two players dressed in red and black drilled

our receiver so hard that I felt sure the ball would pop out, killing our chances for a touchdown.

Like a true Eagle, #40 clutched the ball tightly and scored our first touchdown of the day. The

sounds of the cheering crowd, screaming parents, filled the quiet desert. I shivered with a

mixture of emotions as I heard the announcer's voice booming through the loud speakers,

declaring, “ The touchdown is good!” On the subsequent play, IWV scored the extra point; it had

taken the Eagles nearly a full quarter to secure the lead. We went to half-time with the score at 7-

6 in favor of IWV.

During half time, we once again huddled together inside the North end-zone. Head-coach

Paul Works congratulated several of the offensive players, one of whom was Marcum, on their

outstanding performance. I was bursting with pride as I hugged #40, my daughter Candice

Marcum. This very pretty, petite, young lady with long, blond hair and bright blue eyes had

successfully caught passes, provided great offensive blocking, received many vicious hits, and

scored a touchdown while playing wide-receiver for the sophomore Eagles. She had also played

right cornerback on the defensive side, and had successfully covered receivers and aided in

containing the runs of the opposing team. Number 40 had racked up five vicious unassisted

tackles and numerous assisted tackles. This had been her best performance of the season so far,

and it was also the first season she had ever played full contact football on an all-boys' team.

When the game resumed, Candice continued to torment Big Bear's offensive players. She

caused a major disruption in both their running and passing attempts at moving the ball down

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field toward the seemingly evasive end-zone. Throughout the remainder of the game, the Big

Bear coaches continued to loudly plead, “Somebody please pick up #40; he’s killing us.” Candice

also made one fumble recovery. At the end of the fourth quarter, the score was 14 to 12, and IWV

had won its first victory at the sophomore-level against the mighty Big Bear team. As customary,

the coaches and players marched along the 50-yard line, shaking hands with the defeated players

and coaches, and congratulating them on a well-played game. I overheard the opposing coaches

remark to #40, “Great playin' today, guy. You're one of the hardest hitting players our team has

ever faced.”

A few minutes later, at the van in the parking lot, one of the opposing coaches, a running

back, and the star quarterback for Big Bear, approached me to talk about the upcoming game they

would have against Barstow. During this discussion, the other players were suddenly stunned to

realize that #40, who had wreaked such havoc on their team was, in fact, a girl— not a boy with

long hair as they had thought. Candice had removed her helmet and shoulder pads and come

over to stand with her arm draped around my waist. The other coach's face turned a sickly green

color and he swallowed hard as he commented about the hitting power she had demonstrated.

He was very impressed at her natural capability to catch a football and her physical ability to play

such a rough and tough sport. As they turned to walk away still with stunned expressions of

disbelief on their faces, I overheard the quarterback remark, “And she's cute too!”

Although Candice continued to play well throughout the remainder of the season, the game

against Big Bear was one of her most dominating performances. She earned the respect of her

teammates, coaches, parents, and opposing players. Her reputation as a wicked player proceeded

her to the other games of the season. She was dubbed “the Bulldogger” by opposing coaches in

the league because of her method of tackling. I continue to call her “Sweetpea,” a nickname I

bestowed on her years ago. ”Don't worry guys, she'll be back rough, tough, ready, and cute again

next season!"

Ward Salisbury

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Gray Flowers Stephanie Young

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In Memory of Serendipity

ceremony is lacking from modern culture

created my own

blood, wine, and Artemisia

sage spontaneous combust

Serendipity

Funeral for a ‘79 Nova

dried roses, feathers, and shells

from travels

eclectic

beautiful

wore black today

3HDV580

RIP

my sweet Serendipity

Christie Scott

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Cars

A humpty dumpty mobile in black pants

and maroon vest.

The Chevy had a high clearance

so we could take, and we did,

every meandering two-lane trail

fording the waters intrepidly.

The silver tiger teeth grinned at me

whenever it returned to our driveway.

Turquoise Gaudy swirls embellished our ‘58

that could hold five children,

one old enough to drive and the youngest

still bringing his flesh-pink plastic potty-seat along on long trips.

It lay on top of the baggage,

bringing out groans of utter humiliation because

we siblings were positive that it somehow

smiled its buttocks at strangers

whenever our mom retrieved it

from the gaping jaws of the trunk.

Next, a silver blue stationwagon with automatic

transmission and the best radio.

The firstborn's red and black stallion,

El Camino, is stabled ready to consume every penny

of a young man's earnings.

Next, a red-orange horse with customized fiberglass hood,

now a black jalopy

with a rumble seat for stowaway kid sisters and brothers

purring through the evening streets

quietly peeking out.

A green and white finned '57 fish

so souped up, tucked and rolled,

deafening vibrations from big tires.

A first date car, the white marshmallow Malibu

with sky blue seats

irreverently replaced by a convertible British toy.

Mine, a German bug invading the family garage

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too foreign for the menfolk to fix

the blue turtle with its engine in the back.

Coasting downhill at top speeds

still under the limit.

Fickle brothers bringing home new loves,

now trucks, being passed from one brother

to the next after the first had done all the work on it.

A green horse for stock car races.

Maturity brings no release from the addiction:

family cars, wives’ cars, four-wheel drives

and matching campers in tow;

always paying payments until

it’s time to trade in on something

whiter, cleaner, more leg roomier

as offspring grow, chafing to get at

our steering wheels while

lusting after a car of their own.

Martha Cox

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North Door to Nature

The student center is buzzing with activity. The smells from the kitchen permeate the air. The

line at the cash register is long with many people ordering their noon meal or snack. As they step

away from the register clutching their lunch tickets, they are anxiously searching for places to sit

down. The tables all appear to be full, some with plates of food and yet others piled high with

books. Students as diverse as the landscape outdoors are clustered around the tables, sitting or

standing as space allows. Some are totally engrossed in reading books for their next classes or

studying diligently. Others are trying to loudly outtalk their neighbors, creating a disturbance for

the easily distracted students. The atmosphere inside is claustrophobic. As I chance to glance

outside at the empty patio, the sky looks wintry. Perhaps outdoors it is serene.

As I stroll out the north exit of the student center, it is quite apparent why the student center

is so crowded. I am immediately confronted with a bone-chilling breeze. The cool, crisp air

almost sears my lungs with every breath. As I glance up at the dark, threatening sky and feel the

sharpness of the air, it is quite obvious why winter keeps everyone else indoors.

As I walk beyond the concrete tables and stools, the grass seems to be alive. Even though the

warmth of the sun is hidden, I can see the blades of grass straining toward the sky for the tiniest

hint of sunlight. Each blade sways ever so slightly in the breeze, as if rhythmically dancing to the

Sun God, begging for the warmth of His caress.

Petite birds dot the grassy area just below the concrete tables. They investigate each blade of

grass in search of their midday meal. Forever searching for the elusive insect or juicy worm, they

hop around, or take a short flight, often landing only a few inches away. Most of the birds have

light grey bodies with dark grey or black hoods. They fluff their feathers, in defense of the brutal

cold, giving them the appearance of much larger birds. The black hoods appear to be silky

smooth with the hint of sunshine playing on the feather tips. I can almost feel the silkiness, just by

observing.

As I study one of the black-hooded birds, it is easy to imagine his pride. His ruffled satin

hood appears to magnify his stature. His proud stance sets him apart from the other birds; he is

constantly watchful, strutting from rock, to twig, to bush. As he carefully searches for the

exceptional morsel for his repast, he is mindful of his surroundings, never permitting the other

birds to startle him into flight.

Amidst the whispering sound of the cool breeze and the frequent chirping of the multitude of

birds, there is a persistent sound that grabs my attention. I can hear a popping or crackling

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sound. Listening very carefully to determine where the sound originates, I realize it appears to be

coming from the pine tree to my left. It takes a few minutes of intense scrutiny to isolate the exact

cause of the peculiar sound. The tree is filled with many different types and colors of birds—grey

birds with green hoods, dark grey birds with vermilion hoods, and light grey birds with dark

silvery hoods. A few birds are inconspicuously located along each branch, perched on or near a

pine cone.

With further observation, I determine that the peculiar sound is coming from the pine cones

that the birds are cracking open with their beaks. Each bird is sitting almost on top of a pine

cone, pecking and twisting until it cracks. This same process is repeated with unwavering

dedication, each bird pecking and twisting until I hear the crack again.

A grey bird with the green hood is carefully scrutinizing me, trying to determine if I am a

threat to his lunch. Since I am just watching him, he decides that it is safe to continue his feast.

He goes back to the task at hand, his pine cone, pecking and twisting until it cracks again and

again.

This is not only a midday feast for the many different birds, but is also a natural process of

pollination for the pine trees. The birds fly from tree to tree, taking pollen and pitch as they go,

searching for insects. As the winds begins to blow, the remaining pollen take flight on little wings

of their own. This is Mother Nature's insurance that all species enhance their chance of survival.

Since the majority of the landscaping on campus has been donated by different people or specific

groups, most of the trees are not indigenous to the natural desert terrain. Without humans it

would only be through the persistence of the birds in the area, flitting from tree to tree, that the

pine trees would survive. My mind shifts for a moment back to the student center. In recalling

the ethnic diversity, I can see clearly that even we students are not indigenous to this

environment. And yet we survive in harmony with nature in spite of our genesis.

As my thoughts and appreciation return to the rest of the petite song birds, I realize that

many of these birds are related to the sparrow family. Sparrow is the common name for this

quarrel of birds; they are properly named English sparrows or house sparrows. The English

sparrows are an imported species that were introduced into the United States in the nineteenth

century. As I discreetly watch these small wonders diligently foraging in their frosty paradise, I

realize that these nonmigratory birds are also not indigenous to this desert habitat. They were

brought over from Europe but had the ability to adapt and procreate prolifically in their new

environment. I watch in awe of these adaptable little birds. The only indication of the chilly

winter air is their fluffed out plumage.

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A quick survey of the immediate vicinity reveals shrubs and plants that are not native to this

region thriving with the native sagebrush and creosote bushes. The grass, pines and shrubs have

been planted, carefully cultivated and nurtured, by the college staff to create a more comforting,

pleasant environment. The harmonious balance between the natural and the indigenous plants

strikes me. This botanical paradise has created an ideal breeding ground for these little birds with

an abundance of tender morsels for their daily sustenance.

As my lungs burn from the intensity of the crisp air, I am reminded of my human frailties. I

must take refuge inside with my fellow students. Returning to the chaos and warmth of the

student center, I smell the fresh, hot buttered popcorn. I welcome the contrast between the

wintry patio and the warm cafeteria. Still as I reflect on my journey through of the north door, I

am struck by the similarities of the activities outdoors and indoors. People are pecking at their

popcorn and searching their plates for any morsels they may have missed. Some of the students

strut from table to table, checking the plates of their friends for any remaining tidbits of food. It’s

as if the humans are imitating their feathered counterparts.

Liza Farrington

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Writer’s Reflect on Their Writing

Jean Bickle

“Galactic Journey” Writing poetry has been amazingly therapeutic for me. Sometimes we think we have dealt with events or circumstances, but sore spots still remain. Often, when I sit down to write, what comes out is not what I intended and my words become a method of self-help. I don’t expect my writing to mean as much as someone else, but it has been very encouraging when others appreciate it. I would like to eventually expand my writing experience and perfect my raw skills.

John Connolly

“February” I keep a collection of short stories, sonnets, and poems. Writing is a way for me to record a special day or events that happen in my life.

Martha Cox

“Cars,” “Princess Bumbarella,” “Sestina Southwest” Writing is a neurotic activity that increases one’s introspection to the brink of depression and I have been unable to stop it. It is a pursuit in vanity. It is humbling to find out that anyone else wants to read what you’ve written. It is a human need to record one’s perception of one’s world. Remember, “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God.” Therefore, God originated writing.

Elizabeth Ilechukwu

“My Grandmother” To me, writing is a way of describing certain issues in life that are hard to express in words.

Liza A. Farrington

“North Door to Nature” This is a profile of a part of Cerro Coso campus. I found this a unique experience.

Tony Jaime

“Murder, He Said!” and “Personal Column” I think that all my work is a reflection of the many ways in which I tend to view life, sometimes sober, sometimes comically. While I feel that life is a very serious business, I also feel that if we can’t take the time to laugh at ourselves or poke fun at some of the more tragic aspects of our lives then we are in grave trouble. I try to reflect in my writings different viewpoints which range from solemn and sedate to the sublimely ridiculous, thereby ranging through the course of human emotions. I also tend to try and do this with a rhythm and tempo which reflects my musical background.

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“Personal Column” This is what I would describe as basically a found poem, arising from my reading the personals in the paper.

Dawn Kirby

“Bodie” I love the old west. I love to ride my horse and dream of how things used to be. I have seen many ghost towns and researched some of the history of Inyo, Mono, and Alpine counties. I have lived in the Owens Valley all my life.

Colette M. Marks

This poem “Winter Wedding” was readily available because I copied it into my personally journal. I wrote it prior to my marriage to Mitchell and we used it on our handwritten wedding invitations. Mitchell asked that I submit it as it holds a special place in his heart.

Christina Robin Scott

poetry is life is art is life is poetry is the absolute is ever changing is life is art is poetry. there are no distinctions between them and i don’t believe there should be. i write in stream of consciousness (as i live) and have no rules concerning the sequence or frame but let the work evolve as it does. i subscribe to a theory of natural creation, which is guided instinctively and is not “good” or “bad” pieces. i believe that poetry, as an art form (as any art form), is essential to the consciousness of humanity due to its emphasis upon individual expression transcending into the universal experience. poetry is therapy. poetry is commentary. poetry is everything and nothing, it’s talking to God and dancing with the devil. poetry is the absolute is ever changing is life is art is poetry is my soul.

“In the Library” I was in the library reading a book on Emerson and I realized that all of his information was dated; I don’t date anything I create and thinking upon this difference I began to ponder what makes greatness. The poem is a stream of consciousness of a keen awareness concerning the unfolding of life and how one must exist without (or despite) the thought of potential greatness because the time and place determine whether your contemporaries view you as an insane poet or a genius. (Recognition does not go to the most inherently brilliant (fate is real).)

“Prophet Socrates”: Inspired by a line from Plato’s Crito. Referring to how Socrates drank the poison (took the decision from his people). It just struck me.

“Art”: Written at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art while staring at the shadows cast by the art.

“Minerals are the Answer”: Just thought it was funny.

“In Memory of Serendipity”: Ode to my first car which recently went to vehicle heaven (a.k.a. Junkyard).

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