Pam in front, left. She does not look happy to be here.

I AM FROM

by Pam Wilkie©

9-4-09

I am from big rollers in my hair, from Ivory Liquid and Wonder Bread.

I am from ever changing places, foreign, different, and frightening.

I am from the ocean and sand, the wind and snow, the cactus garden at my grandmother’s house.

I am from holiday gatherings with laughs, cocktails, food and always high drama from someone or another.

I am from the strength to cope and thriftiness. From “you kids better straighten up and fly right” and from “get on your horse and get out of town”.

I am from Vacation Bible School and from sitting in the pew of a centuries old church in a centuries old country.

I am from California and Germany and Ireland, from the Amish and Ancient Romans, from my mom’s enchiladas which were really Granny’s and her mother’s before her, and my father’s pea bean pop that morphed into “Moat Soup”.

From the loss of a beautiful brother gone far too soon, a mother who slept till noon, and from husbands who flew the coop.

I am from the slides my father took and kept in a metal box (where are they now?), a scrapbook from my teen years that protects every secret note and Christmas gift tag and the oath of three blood sisters sworn to nearly fifty years ago. I am from airplanes, bowling, baseball and a dog named Gunner.

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Marine Beds by Robert S. Ynacay

I remember my years on active duty, having to sleep in a sleeping bag, canvas cot, canvas hammock-type bedding ships, and bunk beds, single and double. Those memories of long ago make my body ache as I grow older.

The sleeping bag during the Korean War was great and kept your body warm in the winter, but in a combat atmosphere, you slept on the ground, in a fighting hole, deep enough to where your head was just below ground level, and your buddy stayed awake, watching for the enemy, while you grabbed a quick snooze. The sleep was never deep, as you could hear animals – rats- running in front of your lines, still hear the artillery firing at the other side. You could smell a strong odor of gun powder, sulfur, and just the stench of the air surrounding your present position. A clean breeze would fill my lungs, with fresh air coming off the rice paddies around us, but that soon had the odor of human waste, as the paddies were fertilized with it.

I felt every imaginable type of insect of the night eating on my body. It it started raining, you would warp your bag around you body, put your poncho over you, and sit on an ammo crate to get off the ground. You would have your steel helmet on your head, and your weapon under this get-up – at the reading to come out fighting. The motivation for a Marine to be on the alert in this situation was strong. There was an army unit, caught in their sleeping bags asleep, and that was a disaster. A number of soldiers were bayoneted and shot to death because they couldn't get out of their bags. Any time we had good weather, the bag was aired out.

My favorite bed is the bunk on a troop transport ship, sailing back and forth from the Orient to the States, making the trip in about two weeks each way. The individual berthing space was about 3x7 feet; a piece of canvas with holes four inches apart for lasing down on a metal frame, which made it a very tight piece of bedding. No mattress. These spaces held four or five bunks from the deck to the ceiling, with about 30 inches between your space and the next person above you. There were no pillow, sheets or blankets. Your blanket from your Combat Pack, which you carried ashore with all your personal items, was used as a pillow. Your rifle was tied to this space, your helmet, cartridge belt, bayonet, and any other items you owned were placed on your space, and you could either sleep in your skivvies or your trousers.

The air was always warm, humid, stale, and smelly from the men throwing up from seasickness before they could make it to the head – or topside, where they could get that fresh cold ocean breeze in their faces. Each compartment held about 100 Marines, and shower facilities for troops was saltwater straight out of the ocean, so showing, for most, was every third or fourth day. The entrance to the toilets was wide open, adding to the aroma of a lot of body odor.

The men learned never to grab the bottom rack. The top rack was a little more spacious and they didn't have to worry about a seasick person barfing on them. Only the troops got the honor of these berthing areas; permanent personnel got the cabin type accommodations for ocean voyagers. Most Marines spent a lot of time on deck during the waking hours, cleaning their weapons, reading, sleeping, telling tall tales from their past young lives, and just enjoying breathing in that fresh salty air. A person will never forget his trip on a troop ship.

I have slept on canvas-type civilian camping cots, bunk beds – single, double, triple high – and I have gotten a good night's sleep. Now I cannot sleep on cots or bunks, for the fear of rolling off onto the floor. Only the king-size bed is my favorite, giving me plenty of room for thrashing around without finding myself on the floor, not able to get up. 

Instructor Marilyn Donahue and Nancy O'Connor show presentation board.

Nancy O'Connor explains the Memoir Writing Class presentation board displaying written copy and pictures of the class at work.

Mexicali Stars by David Dowling February 2011

1MEXICALI STARS by David Dowling© February 2011

Were we running from or searching for the illusive, the changing, a cosmic answer? Youth and it’s passions cause large ideas that can co-exist in a small narrow world. Chances that are received and in some cases grabbed in mid-air. The need to experience what cannot be seen only dreamed and smelled and listened to….deep in the night, far from home, sweat in the air, wind through your hair. Through the mysteriousness of a very black night in a southern desert on a strange highway along an abandoned sea with ancient shorelines passing broken buildings over smashed dates from their fallen trees along seldom used railroad tracks canals of sweet water smelling dead fish, coyote eyes stare bright to the right, discarded cans, hitchhikers to everywhere and nowhere, aliens from below, police from above, hot wind pushes us along, tumbleweeds racing past across and over, Chinese tacos for breakfast. Indio, Mecca, Niland, North Shore, Brawley, Westmoreland, Calexico, over the rumbling earth through Ocotillo red toward the destination, ever closer and blanketed by the Mexicali Stars.

Three hours ago there was television, people, many cars, talk, answers, questions, idle time, boredom. Now there is few people, neon in the darkness, cargo trucks, bars and borders. Always hot in the summer, perspiration at midnight, sleep, beer, scared. Keep moving moderately fast never slow… wagons ,carts, horses, neon cars, bicycles, no sleep, through border no questions, red light green light, o no wrong one. Below border police stopped, questions begin, pay now or wait for later. Pay now leave quickly but slowly. Breathe… tortillas, beer, south 3 more hours, focus, pass cargo trucks that pass us. Truck stops in middle of road, no lights no flares, driver sleeps underneath. Good luck. Ancient salt flats, camels, rabbits, date palms, fertile fields, black dark deathly, hot and empty. Pit stop side of road, sewage smell, no sound from car approaching, way off, passing… whoosh, silence again. Two more hours pass. Sliver of sunrise on horizon, craggy mountains on our right, ocean water to our left, reflections, slight breeze from Cortez cools air. No cars, people, buildings for last hour, sign ahead, sun higher, road left, jet contrail above, very fast car passes. San Felipe ahead, Shrimp Man shack, buy land, build house, fish, sleep, live and die, dirt airstrip, town. Mexicali Stars left behind.

Highway stops at ocean, small town, many people, little electricity daytime only, shrimp boats, lighthouse, breakwater, tide out way out, dogs, street carts with tacos de pescado, sun up, hot returns, no relief, humid, no breeze, desert expatriates, sand buggies shrimp, Radio Venezuela, bars, thirsty, no English spoken here, Club Miramar, American girls, convertible from Berkeley over mountains from Ensenada. Why? Beer, food, beer…answer. Smile Drugs and Men serious…. Beach, sleep, search, sleep, swim. Saw girls next day, successful in their search. Six hours from San Bernardino to San Felipe Baja, midnight to 6AM, early 1970’s, under the attentive eyes of the Mexicali Stars.

Sagebrush is My Heart by Monica Zollinger 2011

There is a particular sagebrush plant native of Southeastern Utah which has a stout trunk with stems that are erect, slender and freely branching. It can tolerate extreme temperatures, various soil conditions and lack of water while providing thermal cover for smaller birds and mammals and food when other resources are scarce. While it is not beautiful, its tiny inconspicuous buds loosely spread out along the tips of the silvery stems. In order to truly admire this grayish-green plant, you must pick a leaf, crush it, and smell it. Only then can you enjoy it’s true essence.