Poetry and Prose by Writers’ Workshop (2019)

Since its inception in 1992, more than fifty people have participated in Writers' Workshop. The workshop provides a safe place for people to develop their own voice through poetry, fiction, and non-fiction prose.

The Workshop meets seven or eight times a year from January through June and September through December, on the third Monday of the month.

All are welcome to participate, gathering in the Boardroom at 4:30 pm. Express your interest to Kathryn Klingebiel, facilitator.

These group members displayed the following examples of poetry and prose as part of Faith & Arts Sunday (February 10, 2019): Willow Chang, Peter Flachsbart, Pat Harpstrite, Sharon “Sha” Inake, Donald K. Johnson, Jean-Paul Klingebiel, Kathryn Klingebiel, and Rebecca Woodland.

delivered to the surface

willow chang
october 24th, 2018

maybe adored, at birth

willow chang
october 18th, 2018

morning prayer

willow chang

requiem

willow chang
september 7th, 2018

My Duet with Johnny Mathis

This story begins early on Friday morning, November 2nd, when I received a text from Willow Chang at 10 minutes after midnight. It was clear she had sent it to many people ... not just me. It was an invitation to attend her Dia De Los Muertos celebration at the Ong King Arts Center on Fort Street Mall that evening. Dia De Los Muertos, also known as Day of the Dead, is comparable to our All Saints Day remembrance in early November. Dia De Los Muertos is typically celebrated throughout Mexico and Latin America to honor the cycle of life, family, and loved ones. This is the 12th year that Willow has hosted this event in Honolulu.

Willow’s invitation did not surprise me, since I had already expressed interest in this event to her a few weeks earlier. But part of her invitation did surprise me. It read: “Let me know if you want to perform—artist’s choice always—to honor the dearly departed … come dressed on your finest skull wear or face painted, too.” Suddenly, the phrase, “Fools rush in … where wise men fear to go” entered my mind. The wise man in me said that I should work on a manuscript that I needed to submit to a scientific journal in a few days. But my brain also said I needed a diversion to clear my mind, because I had been working on this manuscript for seven weeks straight.

Actually, my mind was filled with questions as I headed for bed that night. Should I buy a skull face mask or Halloween costume at Longs? What stage talent can I offer? Should I read a poem or short story? I decided to sleep on it. By morning I was thinking more clearly. I decided not to give a talk, read a poem, or wear an elaborate costume. Instead, I notified Willow that I would sing two songs. How hard could that be? After all, I sing hymns in church every Sunday morning. But which songs should I sing? Finding a suitable song could be a challenge. I had less than 12 hours to perfect my singing talent.

I considered several possibilities from “The Great American Song Book.” I knew Willow liked these songs, because she sang them during her Valentine’s Day concert—“The Seven Faces of Love” —at KHPR’s Atherton studio last year. I initially selected “In the Still of the Night” and “My One and Only Love” since I had both songs on a CD by Carly Simon. I practiced each song after breakfast on Friday morning using lyrics I found on the internet. Unfortunately, the melody of each song went well beyond the range of my voice … so I kept searching.

I recalled two other songs from that genre—“Chances Are” and “Misty”—made popular by Johnny Mathis in the 1950s. Although I didn’t have sheet music, I had the lyrics of each song from the internet and was familiar with the melody of each one. I also had both songs on CDs that I had inherited from my mother after she passed away last year. I practiced singing each song several times Friday afternoon. I was grateful that both were within my voice range. I decided to sing them a cappella Friday evening.

As I listened to the voice of Johnny Mathis, I scribbled a few notes on my printout of the lyrics since I didn’t have sheet music. These notes gave me some guidance on how to sing each song. As I drove into town that evening, I listened once again to each song on the CD player in my car. Sometimes I would sing along with the recording as I drove, until my voice started to give out. Then it occurred to me: What if my voice actually does give out this evening? I’m going to need Plan B; namely, perform the songs as a duet with Johnny Mathis. But what if the Ong King Arts Center—the venue for the party—doesn’t have a CD player?

I was suddenly distracted by another problem as I drove into town on the Likelike Highway. It started to rain. “Oh no,” I thought. “I forgot to bring an umbrella!” Fortunately, the Ong King Arts Center is near the Arts at Marks garage in downtown Honolulu.

When I arrived at Ong King, Willow showed me a community altar that she had put together. The altar had many photos of her friends and family who had passed away, along with many other artifacts related to “The Departed.” She gave me a quick “tour” of the family photos. I gave her a photo of my parents before they were married to place on the altar. If a photo was of a group of people, Willow covered the image of those still alive. She said it was bad luck to display photos of the living.

The showcase of talent began at 8 p.m. Willow served as master of ceremonies … a role she clearly relished. By then a crowd of about 30 people had gathered. I thought to myself, “This is actually going to happen!” Soon it was my turn to perform. Willow asked, “Are you going to sing a cappella or with the music on CD? Either way is fine … it’s up to you.” I replied, “Maybe I’ll sing one song a cappella and the other with music.” I still wasn’t sure what to do at this point.

When I gave the DJ my two CDs, he told me he didn’t have a CD player. But he had an idea. He tried to play my CDs on his DVD player … but that didn’t work. He couldn’t access the specific tracks I needed quickly. Fortunately, he was able to use his smartphone to download a recording of Johnny Mathis singing each song from the internet and send it out to the audience over the sound system. Meanwhile, Willow had no trouble entertaining the audience while they waited 10 minutes for me to get my act together.

When the DJ and I were finally ready, Willow introduced me but only by my first name. She skipped my last name, since she didn’t know exactly how to pronounce it. I think she said it was a “complicated name to pronounce.” She’s right! Hence, I introduced myself and told everyone that most people mispronounce my last name: “Flachsbart.” It means “flaxen beard” in German. The “ach” in “Flachsbart” is pronounced like the “ach” in “Bach”—the German composer. I told the audience: “Think of a flock of birds at a station of the Bay Area Rapid Transit system—commonly called BART—in San Francisco.”

I then told everyone that I was going to sing two songs as a duet with Johnny Mathis. I dedicated the songs to the memory of my mother who had passed away last year. After all … this was a celebration of Dia De Los Muertos. Since the stage was dark and poorly lit, I used a bright light from my smartphone to read the words on my printout of the lyrics. I held the mic in my right hand and the printout of the words and the phone in my left hand. Unfortunately, this kept me from making any gestures with my hands as I sang. For my costume, I wore a hat that I had bought in Australia many years ago. I was going to point to the hat when I sang the following words from “Misty”:

To my surprise, I wasn’t nervous as I sang. I did my best to blend my voice with the voice of Johnny Mathis. His voice and music on CD sounded great! Willow smiled and thanked me when I was finished. This time she pronounced my family name perfectly. When I saw Willow a few days later, she told me that my singing was “heartfelt” and that the melody of “Chances Are” would play over and over in her mind. From now on I’m going to think of this night every time I hear Johnny Mathis sing. Who knows? Maybe I’ll do this again next year. I now have a much better appreciation of what Willow does as a singer and performer. She makes singing look so easy!

Peter Flachsbart
LCH Writers Workshop
November 12, 2018

My Weekend in California Without a Driver’s License

After several years of failing health, my mother passed away on July 11th of acute respiratory failure at the age of 95. Her name was Florence Lillian Flachsbart. She was the mother of three boys, two of which were Lutheran pastors. She had five grandchildren and nine great grandchildren. Her doctor gave her a diagnosis of mild dementia several years ago and then Alzheimer’s disease earlier this year. She was receiving care from a hospice nurse since November of 2016. My wife Jan and I went to St. Louis for the funeral service. The temperature on the day of the graveside service was near 100 °F. Although it was a sad occasion, we were glad to see several friends and relatives that we had not seen for many years. Florence died exactly 13 years and one day after the death of her husband and my father, Bernard. He died shortly after a major stroke on July 10, 2004. Since March 2003, they had been living at the Laclede Groves senior care facility, which is managed by Lutheran Senior Services in Webster Groves, Missouri.

Before returning home to Honolulu, we stopped in the San Francisco Bay Area for about a week. We spent our first night at the Hotel Valencia at Santana Row, a well-designed residential and commercial district in West San Jose. I wanted to visit this district, because of I wanted to take photographs of the place to use in my lectures on city planning at UH Manoa. Shortly after checking into our room at the hotel, Jan asked me to get some ice. Upon returning to our room, I discovered that I did not have my driver’s license when I searched for my room key. I began to spin several theories in my mind of how I lost my license. Unfortunately, there were too many possibilities. The last time I had seen my license was when I went through TSA at the St. Louis airport. That night I reported the loss to the front desk at the Hotel Valencia in San Jose. Before checking out of the hotel the next morning, I notified Avis Rental Car, United Airlines, and the St. Louis airport police. I used the computer and printer in the hotel’s business center to produce whatever tangible evidence I could find of my identity on the Web. Some of this evidence included a few pages including text and a photo of me from the LCH website.

Meanwhile, my wife Jan took over driving duties to get us to our next destination. It was the Seven Gables Inn, a bed-and-breakfast in Pacific Grove on the Monterey Peninsula. It took two hours to get there, because there was a lot of traffic heading south from San Jose that afternoon. Our room at the Seven Gables Inn was at the top of three flights of stairs. But the room had a spectacular view of Monterey Bay. We also visited Carmel-by-the-Sea and took a drive south along the scenic Big Sur coast on Highway 1, which was and still is blocked by a massive landslide at Mud Creek. I was able to enjoy the scenery, since Jan was doing all of the driving.

We spent the last three nights of our trip at the Stanford Park Hotel in Menlo Park in Silicon Valley. We chose it, because I wanted to visit Dr. Wayne Ott, who lived in Redwood City. I first met Wayne in 1979, while I was teaching courses in city planning at Stanford University. Wayne is still an Adjunct Professor of Civil and Environmental Engineering at Stanford. Our research project has implications for developing countries with rapidly growing motor vehicle populations. Many of these countries launched or expanded their mobile source emission control programs in the 1990s, yet many of them do not have adequate inspection and maintenance (I/M) programs for existing motor vehicles. Our research project shows the public health benefits of more stringent motor vehicle emission standards for carbon monoxide (CO) on new cars in California and the effectiveness of an inspection and maintenance program (known as Smog Check) on the existing vehicle fleet in California. Our study also provides a protocol for conducting standardized field surveys of in-vehicle exposure to CO on a periodic basis. Such surveys could enable developing countries to assess the progress of their mobile source emission control programs.

I checked the TSA website several times during that weekend in Menlo Park. The TSA website advised us to arrive early at the San Francisco airport. I tried to anticipate their questions and what information I could provide to prove my identity. Jan and I even went to the Costco in Mountain View so that I could get a picture ID. When we arrived at the airport, TSA asked me to submit to a rigorous screening process. It took longer than the usual process and was more invasive. Ironically, the TSA agent did not look at my Costco ID, which had my photo, or any of the other tangible evidence of my identity that I found on the Web. We eventually made it through security with time to spare before boarding our flight home. While eating lunch at the airport in San Francisco, I received an email on my smartphone from United Airlines. It simply said that someone found my driver’s license and that it would be mailed to my home in Kaneohe. I was greatly relieved.

The email from United did not reveal where they found my driver’s license. I know I took the license out of my wallet to show a TSA agent at security in St. Louis. Instead of returning the license to my wallet, I think I placed it in my pants pocket next to my smartphone. I recall that my cell phone rang shortly before boarding the flight from St. Louis to San Francisco. Perhaps my license fell onto the floor in the boarding area as I pulled the phone out of my pocket to answer the call. Another possibility is that the license fell out of my pants pocket at some point during our flight from St. Louis to San Francisco. I think that scenario is more likely, because someone at United found it and they had my report that it was missing. In any case, I was “reunited” with my license later that week.

Peter Flachsbart
LCH Writers Workshop
February 19, 2018

Desert Memory

Pat Harpstrite

Cool Memories

Donald K. Johnson
2019

FOR WHOM DOES THE LION ROAR

I killed a rat this morning. Don’t like them in my house eating my ripening papayas. This morning’s slow mournful cadence of music was a dirge for the big black rat’s passing. Yesterday Mr. Rat ate my bait but didn’t trip the trap. Two days ago I eliminated his cousins Mr. and Mrs. Grey Rat in one drop of the cage door. I knew they were married for Earth’s life-force was in his mounting her, even when they were prisoners. I keep my drowning bucket handy for the next generation.

That same day a neighbor’s dog cornered my favorite Alpha-Female hen. Not cat and mouse this time but dog and hen. She’d escape his jaws, dart forward; he’d bound, pounce, chomp and shake. A puff of feathers splayed the air, then fluttered down to mark the spot for later remembering. My son was out taking pictures of the drama. It ended when the neighbor rushed around the corner and grabbed the dog’s collar. Mrs. Hen scurried away. It’s been a week now and my hen friend is gone. She is missing her morning clean up of left over bits from the cat’s dish.

Hard to figure who has the right to take another’s life. Sometimes we like to see death, sometimes we have a political aversion to allow abortions but accept the carnage of war as a necessary eliminating of the “rats.” So Putin tried to nerve-poison a traitor to his values. Besides that, assault weapons are toys, sometimes; deathly effective for the purpose for which they were created at other times. Why should I worry about my hen friend when I have two roasted chickens on this week’s COSTCO list?

Life is fragile, yet it is the life-force that makes Earth and its creatures this magnificent marvel we call home. I guess if regular creature death was not figured into the Planets’ equations our galactic island would not have standing room enough for all things that once and now live. I am glad dinosaurs are gone, they ate a lot.

When is it O.K. to kill? Who decides? John Steinbeck has Lennie killed as an act of love, and the Hawaii legislature just passed a euthanasia law. Deciding to live and let live when you are on the top of the food chain is a challenge, especially when death is as natural as birth.

Give thanks for life; it is in the trill of piano keys that just now put pleasure into my ears. It is in the chlorophyll tower out front that gives me shade and avocados. It is in my cat’s leap up to the deck railing this morning as I approached, inviting me to scratch behind his ears. It is in the noisy romp of my seven great-grandkids as they giggle through a goodnight tussle with cousins. It is in the roar of a lion at dusk when he hungers for supper thinking of you. And then be careful when you give thanks for death, for it ends all the spectacular shenanigans that life allows. Yet death is a natural coda to the wonder of things that blossom, wink, warble, growl, stretch, splash, and swish. So some of us plant seeds of renewal, hoping to demonstrate our dream of more life later.

Don Johnson
April 2018

Trumpeting A Raptor’s Rapture

Green Man

Jean-Paul Klingebiel
JPPoem24c-Green Man-2018-12-09

Green Man’s Autumn

Jean-Paul Klingebiel
JPPoem166-2018-11-12

Ode to the Sun

Jean-Paul Klingebiel
JPPoem165-Sun-2018-10

“Songs of the Season 4”

show magic Minnie
(a song for Willow)

Kathryn Klingebiel
2018-12-02

the jam what am

(a song for Janine)

Kathryn Klingebiel

upon learning of the death while sleeping of Whitney Thrall

Kathryn Klingebiel
2018-09

Six Views from a (Temporary) Lanai

2018-12-22 6:04am

2018-12-25 6:39am

2018-09-25 6:07am

Kathryn Klingebiel

Cell-Phone Saga

I grabbed my bag and whisked across the parking lot to my office. I wanted to get a head-start on my overly-scheduled Friday. Lots of phone calls to make, photos to take (of furnishings and fabrics), clients to meet with, and errands to run.

I set my over-stuffed bag down on the table near my desk and began unloading and sorting some of the items. I had the place to myself for the next few minutes. Now would be the perfect time to make those calls.

I emptied out the entire bag looking for my phone. I checked my pockets. I called my number from the land line. Luckily, I always keep the ringer on so I can hear the phone ring when I can’t find it. Unluckily, I couldn’t hear any ringing. Oh no!

I knew I had it when I left home. I know it was in the car, on the passenger seat. Surely it must be in the car, or in the parking lot. It was still early enough so the lot was half-empty, making the search a bit easier. I retraced my steps, scouring every inch of the path between my car and the entrance to my office. Nothing. I searched my car, doing contortions as I tried to check under the seat and between the seats. Nothing. I asked the parking lot attendant if she had seen a phone, or if anyone had turned in a phone. Nothing.

Now what?

I called home, from the land line. Has anyone seen my phone? Can you call my phone number just in case I left it at home? I knew I had it with me when I left, but I wanted to cover all my bases.

No luck.

That afternoon I visited the AT&T Store. I needed to buy a new phone, as my other (almost-new) phone had disappeared. I chose a similar phone. The guys at the store made sure all my contacts, photos, and everything else were synched to my new phone. Thank God for cloud storage!

I left the store relieved, but still mystified as to the whereabouts of my lost phone.

Now I could carry on, business as usual. I went back to work. The rest of the day was uneventful.

Early Monday morning I picked up my new phone to check messages, Facebook, and emails, as well as the photos I had taken on Friday.

An unexpected beep took me by surprise. The beep signaled the downloading of new photos to the cloud. I stared in disbelief as the screen displayed about a dozen photos that I had not taken. WHAT???

The bigger surprise: I recognized the person in most of the photos. There she was, the parking lot attendant, all 400 pounds of her. Surrounded by her kids and various other family and friends, it looked like a lively party! Everyone was smiling and obviously having a wonderful time. Especially the person with the newly-acquired cell phone.

Thank God for the cloud. Her party photos had been uploaded to my new phone! Now I had evidence, but wasn’t sure how to handle the situation. I didn’t want to get the thief fired. After all, she had a family to support, and her size and physical limitations would make it difficult or impossible to get hired anywhere else…

I talked to the building manager. I showed him the photos. He said he would take care of it, and advised me to not try to tackle this on my own. She was, after all, more than twice my size.

The manager spoke to her in private. “Have you seen or picked up a cell phone? One of our tenants is missing her phone and she knows it went missing somewhere in the parking lot.”

“Oh no, that’s terrible! I haven’t seen anything. No one has turned in a phone,” the attendant replied with a concerned expression on her face.

Long pause.

The manager stared at the attendant. She stared back.

“She knows you have her phone. She has evidence. The photos you took over the weekend showed up on her new phone.”

Without saying a word, the attendant reached into her pocket and handed the stolen phone to the manager.

The manager returned the phone to its rightful owner.

And everyone lived happily ever after, thanks to the cloud.

Rebecca Woodland
about a true incident. It happened to a friend in Honolulu, November 2017.

This is My Story

I am old now. How old? I don’t know, at least a century. I was around during the Russian Revolution. I have seen and heard things that no one else knows. I survived that revolution, a mid-winter escape across a massive frozen river, illegal immigration, the Great Depression, a house fire, a much more. Birth and death have been my frequent companions. It has been my privilege and responsibility to provide comfort and a sense of security for my family, even in the face of extreme danger.

My days of risk and adventure have long passed. Those who were close to me have long passed. There is no one left who knows my story. I must tell you my story before it dissipates into the mists of time. It may sound unbelievable, the fabrication of an over-active imagination, but I swear every word is true. I was there. I witnessed and experienced it all. This is my story.

I started out life in Siberia, in a rustic home near the Chinese border. My family included Katerina and Andrew, his teenage brother Johann, step-father Jakov and his wife Anna. There had been babies too. I was there to comfort Katerina when she gave birth to Lydia, the first of her babies to survive beyond infancy.

I spent most of my time lying around, ready to assist as needed. This was an unusual household. Andrew, born in Odessa (Ukraine), and Katerina, born in Omsk (Russia), were German by ethnicity and Christian by choice. Andrew, fluent in at least six languages and wise in the ways of the world, made friends easily and gained the trust of all who knew him. Katerina, the ultimate homemaker (yes, even though her home had a dirt floor), always had a pot of borscht on the stove, ready to serve a simple meal to anyone who might show up unannounced. Everyone worked hard. Everyone worked smart. You will understand what I mean as my story unfolds.

The Soviet border guards often showed up at the house around mealtime. They enjoyed Katerina’s borscht and knew they would be welcomed. Actually, that didn’t matter. They would enter even if they were not welcome. It was their style. But Katerina’s tasty food and Andrew’s conversational skills made these routine visits a pleasure for the guards. Sometimes they would even take a short siesta (what is the Russian word for nap?) on the bed. I wish I could figure out what was going on in their heads. I couldn’t hear what they were thinking, even though their heads were so close to me… I only heard their roaring snoring.

Andrew and Katerina, always hospitable hosts, had a hidden motive for being kind and generous to the guards. It was a cleverly conceived and brilliantly implemented plan to learn their habits, patterns, and personalities, while winning their trust.

Sometimes other unannounced visitors showed up, always in winter. These visitors also needed food and rest, but unlike the guards, they hesitated at the door and spoke in shivered hushed tones tinged with fear and relief. Katerina served her guests while Andrew discussed “the plan.” The exhausted guests then rested awhile ~ the timing depended on the weather, the border guards, and various other safety factors. I did my best to provide comfort; they obviously were in some kind of danger and needed our help.

We had some close calls. More than once, the guards arrived while we were entertaining our other guests. Our guests crawled under the bed as others in the family scurried to remove any evidence of their guests’ presence. I stayed in the bedroom and kept watch over the hiding guests.

The guards behaved in their usual manner. Loud, hungry, brusque, and demanding, they softened a bit after a second bowl of borscht. Satiated and warm, they relaxed. One headed for the bed while the other engaged Andrew in conversation about the weather and politics.

The guard stretched out on the bed and the snoring kicked in. Under the bed, our frightened guests stayed awake and alert, taking care to remain unnoticed. No noise of any kind. No coughs, sneezes, snoring, farting, shuffling, or heavy breathing. If they were found, too many questions would be asked. Their lives, and the lives of my family, were at stake. They listened for every breath, grateful for the snoring that indicated the guard was still asleep. I listened with them. I wanted to give them comfort, like I had with previous guests, but circumstances were different on this day.

This same scenario played out again, several times over the next few months. The guards had no idea what was happening right under their noses, or under the bed where they slept.

Our guests disappeared into the night. Andrew returned before dawn. He had personally escorted them across the frozen Amur River, into China, out of range of the Russians. Andrew’s stealth and knowledge of the river, combined with his familiarity with the habits and routines of the guards, made him the perfect person to smuggle people out of Russia without arousing suspicion or getting caught.

He repeated this over and over, but he never talked about it to anyone except Katerina. Over a period of two years, he had successfully smuggled at least 250 people, mostly Mennonite Christians, out of Russia. Interestingly, Andrew and Katerina were not Mennonite. I did not believe the numbers, but decades later I met many of the families, descendants of the people Andrew had smuggled out of Russia. Yes, 250 is a conservative estimate.

Baby Katie came into the world in January. I held her close and calmed her crying. I enjoyed my role in the family, to provide comfort and a sense of security. I am also a good listener, even though at my age my hearing has diminished. I listen but keep quiet. I overheard Andrew, Katerina, and Johann whispering late one night. Their quivering voices sounded desperate and determined. I don’t know if their voices quivered because of the cold, or because of fear. This is the gist of what I heard:

The family has to escape soon, to save the baby’s life, and all our lives.

Winter ravaged Siberia. Winter in Siberia can be life-or-death in more ways than one, especially during a revolution. The river froze solid, still flowing rapidly under the thick ice. In places, the ice pushed up, creating jagged outcroppings that looked like rocky cliffs. This was no skating pond. The frozen Amur River was our only exit route, even though it ran directly alongside the border, and the border guards. We had no alternative.

* * *

Katerina bundled ten-day-old baby Katie and her 15-month-old sister Lydia in blankets and fur and hid them under a pile of straw at the back of a horse-drawn sleigh. Katerina and her mother-in-law sat with me in the sleigh. I guarded the money, which wasn’t much ~ about $8. You see, we could not sell our home, our business, or any of our belongings. It would raise suspicion and could cost us our lives. And of course, we couldn’t get passports. Even if we had passports, we couldn’t safely use them. Then for sure they would know we were planning to escape.

Johann and Andrew attached traps to the sleigh. Andrew was a fur trapper. The men walked alongside the sleigh that carried the women and babies. The men carried guns, which made it look like we were on a hunting and trapping expedition. Just before noon, we left. The sawmill was in full operation, thanks to extra hired help. From a distance, it looked like “business as usual.” The borscht was still hot on the stove, ready for hungry guards who usually stopped by for lunch. We escaped into an unknown future, across the dangerous frozen river into a country more foreign than we ever imagined. Andrew was the only one in the family who spoke or understood their language.

I don’t remember much about our time in this new country. Adjusting to a strange place with unfamiliar food and customs and a language we could not understand became even more challenging because we had no idea how long we might stay, or if/when/how we could possibly leave. Not to mention the matter of where we might me going, and where we might eventually settle. The upside to this: I felt very needed. After all, my job was (and still is) to provide comfort and a sense of security.

A couple of years later we moved again. This time we were not escaping from anything. We were leaving for America! Instead of a day-trip on a horse-drawn sleigh across a frozen river, we traveled by freighter across the Pacific Ocean. I was never left alone on this big ship. I knew I was loved and needed.

We landed in the United States, happy to be free to start a new life. Something strange happened at Immigration. The officials didn’t like some of our names, so they gave Andrew a new name. Instead of Andrew Mechanic, he would now be known as Henry Michelson. No one knows why.

Katerina carried me to our new home, which had real wood floors instead of hard-pack earth. I was so happy for her! Andrew, or I should say Henry, worked on a farm. I stayed home and did my job, providing comfort and a sense of security to the family. This was no small task, as the country was reeling from The Great Depression. Katerina couldn’t understand why everyone was so depressed about the Depression. After all, America was a free country where it wasn’t always winter, and houses didn’t have dirt floors!

The girls grew, started school, and became big sisters to a gaggle of siblings. I never left home unless the family moved. Henry built us a new house and planted vineyards. He worked hard. Katerina worked alongside him. One day Henry died. I don’t know why. I think he had a stroke or a heart attack. I was there to ease his passing. I believe I heard the angels singing. After he died, I was there to comfort Katerina and the girls.

Years passed. Katerina moved into town, so I got to go with her. I loved it when the grandchildren came to visit. Katerina and I lived in this house for decades, until she decided to sell it and move into senior housing. The deciding factor in her decision to move into senior housing: The living room was big enough for her quilting frame. She loved to make patchwork quilts. These quilts became my closest companions.

Katerina later moved in with Katie, her daughter, the same baby girl who had made the fateful journey across a frozen river in a sleigh, hidden under a pile of straw. Of course, I came along. I was with them then, and I’m still here, providing comfort and support as best I can.

One day a fire broke out in Katie’s house. Katerina was in bed. She was on oxygen. I was so scared! There was nothing I could do but stay close to her. The firefighters arrived quickly and took her to safety. The house didn’t survive, but she did. And so did I. Katerina was good company. She made us laugh. When people asked her about the fire, she told them that she liked getting attention from so many hunky guys! I miss Katerina. She could always see the bright side, or at least make a funny comment about a bad situation.

I was her closest companion throughout her long life. I knew her secrets. I knew where she hid things. I never told. But it’s safe to tell you now. The unreachable top shelf of her closet hid a giant bag of hand-crocheted slippers in all sizes and colors. They were for her kids and grandkids and their spouses, and for great-grandchildren. Katerina hid her dice in the small drawer in the table beside her bed, underneath her prescriptions. She wanted Becky to have them. Her marbles were in a Folger’s coffee can. (No one could ever say she ‘lost her marbles’.) The marbles were for Kathleen.

Katerina died at the age of ninety, on Valentine’s Day. Her last words were Thank you. I was with her until the very end. But now what? Now that she was gone, where was I going to live? Who would take care of me? Who would I comfort? Who would comfort me? What would be my place in the family?

My worries were short-lived. Katerina’s granddaughter, Kathleen, brought me to her home. We get along great. She understands me and knows what I have been through in my long life. She loves and misses Katerina as much as I do.

I don’t feel as needed as I did in my younger years, but I know I am loved. I have done my job, fulfilled my duties, and now I enjoy a quieter life. I have provided comfort to Katerina and her family through generations of suffering and losses, good times and bad times, dangerous journeys, births, deaths, cancer, strokes, heart attacks, migraines, divorces, widowhood, a house fire and much more.

I am a survivor. This is my story. Every word of it is true.

(Who am I?)

Rebecca Woodland
May 21, 2018

BASICS

Rebecca Woodland

TEA-TIME

Rebecca Woodland

MORNING, FROM MY LANAI

Rebecca Woodland