THE PSYCHIC by Lee V.

Many people do not believe in the supernatural, "fortune tellers", or past lives, and some do not believe in fate while others accept some or all of these.  I've personally known too many people with such experiences, including my own.  Even before my experiences, I've always said that life is stranger than fiction, and it appears so!

THE PSYCHIC

On November 5, 1981 a friend dragged me off to visit Portland’s famed psychic, Michael Thompson. I remember the date because it was my ex-friend Terry’s birthday. The object of this visit was for Michael to tell me how or should I get Terry out of my life.

Michael was sitting at a little round table draped with a paisley print cloth (very gypsy looking), and in the middle of this table was an honest-to-goodness, real live crystal ball! I almost laughed. 

As I sat down, he closed his eyes, and soon his chin dropped to his chest. After a few minutes I thought, “This joker has fallen asleep!  The thought had barely passed through my mind when he said, “I am not sleeping. I am seeing things that concern me.” 

He then picked up a deck of cards and dealt out a row, studied them for a moment; still he had not looked at me. He picked up the cards, shuffled and dealt them again. He turned to look at the wall next to him and said, “You think you are divorced, but you are not. You have two Scorpios in your life, a husband and this boyfriend. Get rid of them both. It will take you several years but you must make a permanent break with both of them. Your husband thinks of you as his possession and will not easily relinquish this relationship. The boyfriend is one of your life teachers. He will always be in your life, but the relationship will change. Before that happens, there will be much happiness as well as tears. You will learn life lessons that you need in order to progress; the most important being self-introspection. From that you will grow to be a better person, but it will be a painful journey. You will help him with a major change in his life. This man will never be happy in this life, as he is not willing to learn his lessons. It is the same for your husband. These two men are not willing to make the changes necessary to achieve what they want in this life. You are willing to do what is necessary, but don’t always know what that is. Your confusion comes from major issues involving your mother.” (Now that, I already knew.)

 “You should not travel in a car during the month of December.” That was not good news for someone who made her living traveling in a car and whose busiest month was December.

“I do see you traveling south, next year about the fourth month. It has something to do with your parents.”

I said, “Yes, they live in Ashland.” 

He replied, “Please don’t tell me anything, I am here to tell you. No, it is not Ashland, it is further south, maybe California. Yes it is southern California and while it will be very difficult for you to make this trip, you must do it. The discomfort must be overlooked and you must go. I can’t tell you why, only that it is important for you to go.”

All this time he is staring at the wall with his eyes closed. Then he picked up the cards, shuffled, dealt and finally looked me in the eyes and said, “Someone with dark hair, very close to you will die.”  Again, he read my thoughts, “No it is not your mother. She has much to do before this life is over. I can tell that you do not want to know more. Just remember you must take this trip.”  

He turned to the wall again. “You have four sons. One will cause you much heartache. There will be an enforced break in your relationship but he will use this time to make major changes in his life and will do very well. You will then become closer. Another son who is musically gifted will go through much anguish over his career and his relationship with his father. He will have moderate success as a musician, but will be very successful in another field.

“You will meet a man who is tall, dark and handsome (Ha, all the fortune tellers say that!). He has something to do with the Army Corps of Engineers, but he is not in the Army. I see the Navy or Marines involved.”

That didn't make a whole lot of sense to me, but none of this did. Michael stood without looking at me and said that’s all I can tell you today.” He turned, walked behind a curtain, and that was it.

The hair on my arms stood up, and it was the eeriest feeling I ever had. All the way home I concentrated on what he said and how he said it and immediately wrote down everything he told me and impressions of him as he spoke. I was going to remember all this and make sure Madeline knew that he didn't get anything right. After all, Val swore he had signed the divorce papers, and I was sure that Terry would come to his senses and act sane!

That evening I called son Mark in Salt Lake City, and asked him to find out if his father lied to me when he said he signed the divorce papers. When I think back to that moment, I can still hear Mark laughing. Well, that answered that question. We would just have to wait and see about the other things.

About a week later my brother Del called my sister and me to remind us that next year would mark our parents’ 50th wedding anniversary and his and Kay’s 25th. Did we think it would be a smart thing to start and planning something now? Also we should do it in Southern California because that is where friends and family were. We decided on April 4th. Oh boy, here was that trip to Southern California in the fourth month of next year. But surely it wouldn't be so difficult for me to get there. I had a new car; Brad and I could drive it or fly.

I wasn’t thinking about Michael’s dire prediction for December until Brad and I were sitting at a red light the week before Christmas. I looked up in time to see a car run the red light as a car with the right of way entered the intersection. The car that got hit spun around and stopped. The car that ran the red light picked up speed and headed right for us. It wiped out the driver’s side of my car, bounced around the car behind us and wiped out the next car which was a brand new Cadillac being driven home from the dealer. She spun around that car and went up over the curb into a parking lot where she managed to destroy two parked cars. It wasn't until late in January that I learned that the lady who ran the red light was looking into the sun and thought she had the green. On impact with the first car, she hit her head and was unconscious as her foot got wedged on the gas pedal, which caused the speeding. I learned this when we both went to the same chiropractor, and he realized I was part of what she called, “a minor mishap!”  We all thought it was a major disaster. Michael called it again!

The month of January went by and the body shop had still not received the new doors for my car. It seemed to be a problem with the factory in Japan, and no one could tell me when we would get the new body parts. The first of February found me at a charity auction where one of the items up for bid was the use of a 15-passenger van. Now I ask you, wasn't that the answer to my problem? We could get my sister and family, Brad and I, and our entire luggage with room to spare. Oh, we would have great fun all driving together to So Cal. Boy, was I going to outsmart that pessimist Michael. I plunked down my $200.00, which was the winning bid and gloated all day Sunday.

Monday morning found me sitting on my rear in my parking lot, where I stepped into a small hole and broke my foot. The doctor told me I picked the worst bone in a foot to break, and I would have to go to the hospital and have a pin put in it. I informed the doctor that when I broke my elbow years before, the pins worked their way out because the doctor said I was allergic to surgical steel. He assured me that people were not allergic to surgical steel.

Four cast changes because of swelling, and six weeks later, still no healing. They then determined I was allergic to the pin and they would remove it, and for sure I would have no walking cast. I was in a wheel chair for a month and panicked because it was getting close to the time to leave for California. 

When I told the doctor what I had planned, he said absolutely not. Driving all that way was out of the question as the vibration would not be good. After I cried and threatened to jump off a bridge and leave a note to his wife naming him as my lover … he agreed to put a walker on my cast, but I would have to fly and have to have two seats so I could put my leg up. I could only get two seats as far as Fresno but figured that it wasn't so far from Fresno to Orange County, and he didn't have to know. 

Well, my leg knew and that was the most miserable flight and week I have ever spent. Michael was right, it was the most difficult trip I ever made, but I still didn't know why I had to make it. I soon realized that it was just wonderful being with my family because it was the first time in years that Del, M.J., Judy, Mom, Dad and I were all together.

August of that year was one of the worst times of our lives. Judy died and then I knew why we all had to make that trip to California. She was the dark haired person close to me who would die.

I am not sure that it is a good thing to know about the future unless it is all good or you can do something to change the bad things.

About a year later, Mark took an extended vacation to Texas courtesy of the federal government. Some might call that a break in our relationship, but he did make a major life change. That was another one for Michael.

That just leaves tall, dark and handsome to be accounted for. An acquaintance that knew Terry said, “You must get him out of your life, and boy, do I have a great guy for you.” He hounded me for about a month before I finally agreed to have dinner with this person. It was the first week of December; we were in the midst of a huge job redoing some models in a Palm Springs project. The other designer was an episodic drunk and chose that time to do his thing. That left me in charge of everything so I was not looking forward to the usual turmoil associated with a blind date. 

Saturday night came, the doorbell rang, and when I opened the door ... there he was, six feet two, broad shoulders, narrow hips, black hair with a smattering of silver at the temples, bright blue eyes and a smile that could have sold toothpaste. That was the beginning of a great evening. We went to dinner and conversation was easy and good. He sold commercial insurance but didn't really like it. I asked how long he was doing a job he didn't like. “Only a year,” he replied. “I retired as a major in the Marine Corps, but most of my 30 years I was attached to the Army Corps of Engineers.”

The first thing I did when I got home was look in my journal and sure enough, that was exactly what Michael said. But he made no mention of the fact that tall, dark and handsome was going to quit his job in two weeks to live in an art colony in Mexico and paint.

This is the story of my psychic, and it is all true. Gathering the pictures of my parent’s 50th anniversary party brought back these memories. When I look at the pictures of the party, I saw so many people who were dear to me and within a year or so they were dead. So yes, Michael was right when he said, “No matter what, you must go to California.”

   

- Lee V., 2013 

*****

Lee is a member of the Woodstock Community Center writing class which encourages everyone to write childhood memories and family stories.

Thank you Lee for sharing your wonderful story.

Emily

PASSPORTS

Once again, a member of the writing class has shared a wonderful story.  I can't imagine being this brave and this lucky!  Although times were different then, no doubt luck had a huge part in his adventure!

Passports

Sometimes when I get caught shaking my head at the perceived foolishness of the young, which is so easy to do at my age, up pops all my past mistakes, my hubris, my misconceptions, risks taken in ignorance.  One such a blissfully ignorant undertaking still makes me shake my head in wonder at my stupidity, and I shiver. 

My first baby girl was born in August of 1964.  The miracle of this event hit me like a bolt of lightning after the plodding months of pregnancy.  This beautiful little being was mine, my responsibility, my joy, one reason for being. My first thoughts went to my mother. I had to go home to have her hold my Christina, share my joy with her.

Since home was over 6,000 miles away, this was not so easy to do.  I had lived in Oregon for two years.  My husband and I were married in my hometown in Germany.  It took six months to get my visa so that I could come to the USA with him. My German passport was still valid at that time. It had been granted several years earlier for a high school trip to Great Britain.  I was set to travel to America and to exciting adventures in my new home. 

A green card was sent to me several months after we arrived in Baker, called Baker City today. I was adjusting well to the American way of life, but the need to go back and connect with my mother was now overwhelming. So when Christina was nine months old and the sweetest easiest baby ever, I had her ticket and mine to Hannover, Germany via New York and Frankfurt.  Since Christina was an American citizen and I was not, she had to have her own passport with this adorable little passport picture.

When I checked my own passport, I noticed that it had expired a few months earlier.  Here comes the incredible act of foolishness I tended to be possessed with in my youth.  I assumed that I no longer needed this passport.  I did not find it necessary to check with anyone who knew anything about traveling across borders.  On my green card it said “in lieu of a passport” and that was good enough for me.  Off I flew with the baby in my arms to New York. 

I got to New York without any trouble, no security checks. There was a special airplane bassinet and other pampering from a not overworked attendant for Christina and me, after all this was 1965.

.

At La Guardia airport I checked in at the International desk of Lufthansa to continue my trip. The agent looked at me with open mouth when I presented my tickets, Christina’s passport and my green card. 

“You have to go back,” he said, you cannot leave this country without a passport.  

“Impossible,” I replied, “I paid for this expensive trip, and I have to keep going!”

Visions of an embarrassing return to Baker without having been in Germany, knowing that I would not have a chance to repeat this trip for a long time kept me fighting.  I really do not remember how I talked them into letting me board the plane.  I told everyone I had a passport in Baker and I would send for it as soon as I got to Germany, leaving out that that passport was expired.  The knowledge I have now that it is a lot easier to allow someone to leave a country than to get permission for entrance probably had something to do with it. In any case we were on our way across the ocean.  

In Frankfurt I climbed down the stairs of the plane with a bit more apprehension and continued to go through customs.  There was no discussion, just a look of disbelief and I was led into a small office.  Here someone took Christina out of my arms.  I started to panic but was told that she would be fine at an in-airport nursery close to us.  Then the questioning began:  Where was I from, where was I going, why was I going, had I run away, was I stateless, was I a fugitive, a refugee and on and on.  I told my story and told it again – my interrogators could hardly believe that someone could be so blissfully ignorant, so dumb, so careless about international travel. They really did not know what to do with me and my baby.  

Finally, they decided to call my hometown and check with the courthouse there about the information I had given them – birth date, place, address of my mother, etc.  It all checked out and all was as I had said.  Then it was decided that I could travel home since I was going to send for my passport from there. A parting remark from one of the agents was.  “Make sure you have that passport when you return. If you think we were hard on you, it will be much, much harder to get back into the USA!” But I would have my passport renewed in my hometown, and I would be fine.

It was wonderful to be back home after three years.  I showed off my baby wherever I went, Mutti cooked my favorite dishes, friends and relatives wanted to hear about my new life and told me about their changes.  My husband had sent my expired passport.  I went to the courthouse with confidence.  “No,” they said, “we cannot renew your passport.  You are no longer a resident here.” 

I was stunned.  I knew better than to argue with a German bureaucrat.  I slunk home to consider my options.  What amazes me today is that I did not seek advice from anyone, nor that anyone asked me about my passport.  Everyone must have assumed that I knew what I was doing, and I was too embarrassed to tell them otherwise.  

I decided (or did I decide?) to do nothing and so the last day of my stay came and my family escorted Christina and me back to the airport in Hannover.  Our tickets were checked, suitcases weighed, but no one asked for passports since we were leaving the country. Today that would never happen! I looked with foreboding at my mother and uncle and aunt who were hugging Christina and kissing me ‘Good Bye.’  Would I see them again very soon, or worse, would I not see them for a long time, locked up somewhere with my baby on Ellis Island?  I didn’t even consider that my precious baby could be taken from me ... which has happened, as I now know,  to other immigrants with faulty papers.

We arrived in New York tired of course.  Customs loomed.  I handed over the passports, Christina’s on top with her immunization records all in order, legal, and my passport below, outdated.  The middle aged customs official smiled at us and started paging through the green booklets.  I was waiting for the explosion, for the open mouth, the incredulous questions.  But none came.  He handed the passports back and I moved on.  I could have hugged him, but no, I moved coolly on.  He had not notice the date of expiration in my passport, and I was back in the USA!  We probably looked so innocent, so average, young mother with baby going home. It never occurred to him that there could be something wrong, that someone would dare to travel with incomplete papers. Forty-eight years later I can still see the face of that agent and his absolutely wonderful smile.

The year after I got back I applied for citizenship. It was granted just before my second child was born.  Being separated from my children because of my different nationality had been giving me nightmares. There are lots of stories of immigrants being sent back to their country of origin while the children, American citizens, have to remain here in the USA.  I have heard of people trying to enter with incomplete paper who were not allowed back in the USA for many years.  I shake my head at my incredible foolishness.  I was young, I was lucky, but at least I now always carry an up to date passport!

                                                                                                                                                     – Kaethe W.

Kaethe, thank you for sharing!

Emily

My Friend Roy by Norm E.

Harry Chapin's Song Circle was the inspiration for Topic 130 in my writing booklet.  His song states:

"All my life's a circle;
Sunrise and sundown;
Moon rolls thru the nighttime;
Till the daybreak comes around.

         ........snip........

It seems like I've been here before;
I can't remember when;
But I have this funny feeling:
That we'll all be together again."

My focus on this topic stems from a personal experience where I was drawn back to people in my past.  I believe in circles.  Our lives are so intricately entwined, and if we open enough doors, we will all make that discovery.  As you can see one of the members in the write groups I facilitate has experienced his own circle.  Thank you Norm for sharing with all of us!

                                                       
MY FRIEND ROY

Following high school, I suppose that I was like many of my peers who knew that they wanted to go to college but didn't know in what to major.  Going both full and part time, I finally was able to complete my lower division courses, and it was now time to commit to a goal of some sort.  After some thought it seemed an easy decision as I had always been interested in art and therefore a career as an artist seemed to be the best match.  So I proceeded to take classes emphasizing fine art with a few classes in commercial art thrown into the mix.  Being young and not certain of what the future would hold, I still did not have a specific plan for a profession after graduation.  Also because of my age, thoughts of how I would make a living with my art never really entered into the equation.

A few terms went by, and I was making progress toward my goal of graduation when I decided that I needed to shift gears and work toward a major in Secondary Education with the emphasis on teaching art.  A major factor influencing my decision was the mentoring of an art teacher in High School by the name of Ruth Tennant.  She symbolized the bohemian, youthful energy of the 60’s  despite being from another generation.  Ruth was truly an “older” person---probably in her early 50’s!   But even at her “advanced” age she was a free spirit and encouraged her students to experiment with their art, try new things and really find the joy of making a work that was truly their own.  In 1966 she was one of those teachers that broke the mold of those in that profession.  Ruth not only channeled my thinking about my art but also about life and the changes that were happening to our world at the time.  By 1969 I knew that I wanted to be like her.

Filled with youthful vigor that was not tempered with practicality I started taking the courses needed for my new major.  The course requirements were difficult, and I struggled.  As time went on I began talking with others that I knew that had graduated with their teaching degrees and who were unable to find jobs.  Teaching jobs at that time were nearly impossible to land, and many had to leave the state to find work.  I began to question whether the course I was on was the right one, and on an impulse I decided to drop out of school for a while to reassess my life goals.  Doing so, I lost my student deferment and one month later received my draft notice.  Uncle Sam had some other life goals in mind for me, and it involved learning to be a soldier in the US Army.

There is a lot of ground to cover in my military experience, but I would like to fast forward to 1972 when, having left the Army, I needed to plan again for my future which involved more education.  Having amassed a lot of credit hours and not wanting to go back into Secondary Ed, I decided to get some additional art training at PCC this time following a path to a degree in Graphic Design.  One of classes was called “plate-making and printing”, and was taught by Roy Gyllstrom.  Roy was a part-time teacher and worked full time for an advertising firm.  Many of the teachers that I studied under at PCC were also professionals that used their art skills in the real world.  So the students were not just learning theoretical ideas from a text book, but they were learning practical skills that had a direct application in the job market.  This is what those of us in their classes wanted----to learn real job skills that would land us a good job once our studies were completed.

Roy was a good teacher, but strict, and he expected us to be exacting in the work that we did.  The other classes that I was taking taught us how to create quality original art that could be used for advertising.  Roy’s class showed us how to copy that artwork, make it into a photo negative and position it in a layout with print that could be used in a magazine or newspaper.  It was the final step in having your artwork published and it was rewarding to learn this important skill.

So after two years of learning a variety of job related skills and producing a portfolio of some of my best work, I graduated and walked out into the real world looking for a real job in my field, filled with high hopes.  After a few months of going door to door, showing my portfolio to every advertising agency, print shop and independent art studio in town, I wasn't able to find a job.  It turned out to be a kind of catch 22.  I was told that I couldn't be hired because I didn't have any published work.  But I couldn't get my work published unless I had a job.  And so the cycle went on.  Totally exhausted and terribly discouraged, I finally gave up on my dream.  I took a variety of part time crummy jobs to help out with the bills.  I even worked for a friend for a couple of years in his furniture refinishing shop.  Finally, I got a call at 9:30 pm one night in 1977 from a guy named Dale Johnson who was the head of personnel at Northwest Natural Gas Co.  He told me that he was looking at my job application (that I turned in about a year before and had no recollection of doing that) and said that everything looked good and would I be interested in coming in for an interview.  I said sure, and the rest, as they say, is history.  The story of my career in pipeline construction will be for another time, so we will fast forward again 31 years to the time that I retired from NW Natural in January of 2009.

Due to physical problems and job related stress, I retired early at 60 years old.  Because of my years of service I figured that I could live comfortably on my pension and my social security benefits.  The next decision was to decide how I was going to spend my retirement years.  I have a number of hobbies which I knew would help to take up some of that time and there was always things that needed to be repaired around our old house.  But there was a desire in me to get back to doing what I started to do almost 40 years before.  I really wanted to start doing some sort artwork again.  During those intervening years from the time that I quit looking for a job as a graphic designer, people would ask me to do posters to advertise community events and I even designed some of my own personal greeting cards.  Each card was an original piece of art custom designed for only one person.  These small projects kept me busy for a while but as we had kids and other commitments outside the home, time and energy for art became less frequent.  But with retirement came a lot of extra time, less energy than in my youth, but still a lot of desire.  One day I was thinking back to a gentleman that I met during my short working experience at a company called Pacific Stationery co on 2nd and SW Washington in downtown Portland.  His name was Larry Smelser and he ran an art studio called “The Brush and Palette Association”, located in the Oak Grove area.  He invited me to pay them a visit sometime.  That was back in 1972!  Well by this time it was 2010 and 38 years had passed.  I didn't know if the association even still existed.  So I looked them up in the phone book and was pleasantly surprised to find they were still around and so I gave them a call.  A nice lady answered the phone and I said that they were recommended by Larry Smelser and I was wondering they were still taking new students.  She said yes and the next day I went to pay them a visit.  As soon as I walked in the door I was welcomed by the studio full of artists.  Many of them said hello and made me feel right at home.  I also found out from one of the students that Mr. Smelser had passed away back in the 1980’s.  Well, one older gentleman on the opposite side of the room looked familiar so I decided to go over and introduce myself.  I extended my hand and told him my name and was shocked when he told me that he was Roy Gyllstrom.  This was the same gentleman that had been my art teacher almost 40 years before!  The very idea that my former teacher and I could be peers in an art class together was mind boggling.  But here I was and there he was and it was so hard for me to believe that our paths had crossed again after all of those years.

I asked the teacher of the class if it was o.k. for me to join the class and was told  that I could.  I explained a little of my background and she thought that I would fit right in.  So the following Tuesday I showed up with drawing pad and pencils in hand, ready to go to work.  I spent the first two or three classes mainly doing sketches.  There were models who came and posed and even some of the people in the class volunteered to be models.  Our teacher was Helen Trayle, a retired art teacher, professional print maker and an outstanding artist in her own right.  She was 92 and the same age as Roy.  Helen was strict with us on the fundamentals of composition, mixing colors and having a clear goal of what we wanted to do with each piece of art.  Her discipline was necessary for me as I had been so long out of practice and away from the very basic principles of art.  In time I began to feel more confident and my completed work reflected that.  The people in the class were so helpful in giving me tips and ideas to incorporate into my work.  It was a very positive and entirely enjoyable environment to be in and one that I have looked forward to each week.

But let me get back to the essence of my story.  One day after class one of the other students asked me if I could give Roy a ride back to his residence after class.  I told them that I would be glad to do that.  Little did I know that this was just the beginning of what would be a lasting friendship.

The 2 mile drive to his retirement home each week gave us a few moments to talk and get to know each other.  The man that I had known and respected as my teacher was now my fellow student and I could relate to him as more of an equal.  That is not to downplay the years of experience and skills that he had gained as a professional artist, teacher and as a recreational artist in his own studio.  But he was no longer just my teacher Mr. Gyllstrom...he was now my friend Roy.  Most of the time I would just drop Roy off at his front door, say goodbye, we wave at each other and I would leave.  After a few months he would occasionally invite me up to his apartment for a visit.  We would talk for an hour or more and it seemed that we had many things in common.  I really enjoyed our visits and it gave me the chance to get to know more about this man that I respected and admired.

Roy had been born in Chicago and his family moved to Michigan when he was very young.  He grew up there with his 6 other siblings, Roy being the 3rd oldest.  Now the only ones left are Roy and his youngest brother who lives in Minnesota.  Roy’s parents and grandparents were from Sweden and he is very proud of his Swedish roots.  His grandfather was a fisherman and Roy remembers him being a very tall and strong man.  He was also a tough, no-nonsense kind of person with a gruff exterior.  But there must have been a kinder, gentler side to him because his hobby was crocheting doilies.  A real man of contrasts to say the least.  He mentioned that his last name in Swedish mean “strong river”, which Roy is very proud of.  When WWII started Roy joined the army and spent his service in the Pacific theater as a combat infantryman.  He recalls one incident in particular that changed his life.  Roy had jumped in a foxhole to take cover from Japanese gunners that had his unit pinned down.  As he was laying there another soldier jumped into the same foxhole, not knowing that Roy was in there, landing squarely  in the middle of his back with his combat boots.  Roy heard a loud crack when the other soldier landed on him and pain shot through his body.  But there was no time to worry about the pain and so he continued to fight and survived the battle.  Roy’s combat group continued on through the months of fighting, capturing one island after the next.  Finally it was time for him to go back home.  When he arrived back in the states he was told that x rays showed that he had cracked vertebrae, but there was nothing that they could do to treat his injury and he would have to live with it.  That injury has stayed with him all of his life and he lives with constant pain in his back. Despite this he married, had children and had a wonderful life.

On one of our visits, as I was preparing to leave he came over to me and said “For what it’s worth...I love you.”  I told him that I loved him too and we hugged.  He went on to say during another one of our visits that he had perhaps 5 people in his life that he could count on and I was one of them.  I can’t tell you how much that meant to me.  My own father passed away in 1982 and Roy had become not just a friend but a kind of father figure to me.  I plan to continue to be that friend that he can count on and enjoy him for as long as he has left on this earth.  His friendship has added a new and wonderful dimension to my life and I will always remember the time we've had to spend together.

*     *     *     *     *

What stories do you have which can relate to some type of circle?

Enjoy,
Emily
      

MY WEEK WITH JESUS, JOSEPH AND CHER

From time to time, some of the attendees of the writing classes I facilitate allow me to post their memories to share with all of you. This is one of those.  Thank you Lee.

MY WEEK WITH JESUS, JOSEPH AND CHER

To appreciate this experience to the fullest, you must imagine our house in a suburban neighborhood of Salt Lake City, Utah. Nice big lots, manicured lawns, children playing on the streets, and a Mormon Church around the corner and down two blocks. This peaceful looking setting typifying what most folks thought of as pure Americana, was anything but. We were smack dab in the middle of the most dedicated followers of the John Birch Society. In a Mormon neighborhood, all social activities are centered on the church and its various auxiliaries. When you have a bishop who has strong political leanings and presides over a congregation of about 500 people, you will have a neighborhood that is usually in line with what is being preached at the local church.

            

I was already on the list of people to watch as I had supported the reelection of the Democratic Governor with a poster in my front window. That caused my yard to be toilet papered and have trashcans emptied on the front lawn on a regular basis during the previous election season.

            

It was during the summer of 1969 I received a phone call from my sister Judy to tell me that she and husband Tim would be coming to Utah for a few days to visit. They were going to come by bus because they were stopping along the way to visit the small towns and didn't know exactly when they would arrive. They were finding the sights in Southern Utah interesting. Since Judy and Tim never traveled without best friend Bill, I was wondering where would I put three guests when Judy informed me that they were camping along the way and would I have room for their tents in our yard? I told her not to worry as we had a big yard surrounded on two sides by a cinder block wall, and we were on the corner.

   

Two days later, mid afternoon on a lovely summer day, Mark (my son, not the apostle) came running into the house and said, “Mom you better come and see this, I think it’s Aunt Judy.”  Remember, this is 1969, in the full flush of hippi-itus, tie dye, love beads, flowers in her hair etc….

            

I walked out to the front yard and coming up the middle of the street was a small parade, and it looked like Jesus, Joseph, and Cher leading, followed by most of the young children in the neighborhood. 

Following the parade was a sheriff’s car.

We were about four blocks from the nearest bus stop, and it looked as though they had gathered all the children in a parade. In a Mormon neighborhood, that can be a whole lot of kids.

             

I really didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so I laughed until I cried!

             

If you have ever been in a Mormon Chapel you will see a picture of Jesus. Their version has long slightly curling hair sun streaked light brown, a well-trimmed beard, and piercing blue eyes which is  interesting when you think about the fact that Jesus was a Sephardic Jew and would be rather dark. Tim could have been the model for the picture, and today he is wearing a long flowing thing that looked like a robe and sandals.

            

Bill, with his slightly receding widow’s peak, and trimmed goatee, was a dead ringer for the Mormon profit Joseph Smith. Where he found his frock coat would remain a mystery

Then we have sister Judy, about 5’7’, a size 5 and long dark hair parted in the middle, looking like Cher before Cher met her plastic surgeon. She was wearing a tie died, long drapey thing, bell-bottoms, and sandals. A whole lot of beads and a flower behind her ear completed her look of the day.

            

As they turned into our driveway all those nice little kids, who looked like the rats following the Pied Piper immediately stopped at the edge of our lawn. This was the house of the Democrat and we can’t go any further, we could catch something. They just stood there looking toward the house.

            

Our visitors dumped tents and backpacks in the back yard, we all went into the house, and after they were settled with cold drinks, we noticed the kids in the neighborhood began to disperse  I told Judy I was surprised they arrived here so soon. I assumed they would be stopping in the little towns along the way. Cher, in a very serious manner informed me “those fucking bigots just don’t get what make love not war is all about. Seeing that they didn't appreciate our life style we decided not to grace them with our presence.”

Now why did that not surprise me? I could have warned them but this was a lot more fun. There are some things in life that are either so funny or outrageous that you just never forget them. I was soon to learn that I would have a whole week I would never forget.

            

The dinner hour was approaching and while I prepared for a cook out, they set up their tents, took showers, and got ready to settle in for a week.  Since they didn't spend any time exploring the little towns, they could spend more time with us because they didn't have to be in Colorado for 10 days. Yippee! Did I want to know what they were going to do in Colorado? It was business, Jesus informed me, a pot grower’s convention. I picked my jaw off the floor and thought how could they say these things with a straight face?

             

I requested that they not tell anyone in the neighborhood if asked and most of all, my husband Val. Val and I already had many a discussion about my family and friends, and he was convinced that my sole purpose in life was to embarrass him.

            

For the next week Val managed to leave early and come home late; business called. I asked Judy if Mom and Dad knew where she was. “Oh yeah, she was happy I was coming to see you, but when I told her we would probably hitchhike and camp along the way, they had a fit. She was crying and carrying on, so I promised we would take the bus. I don’t know what their problem is.” Yep, that was our flower child.

            

Then the fun began the next morning. I was making coffee in the kitchen when I heard “Maaa-um the hippies are up.” I knew it wasn't one of my kids so I peaked out the back door to discover at least five kids sitting on top of the block wall and one was the designated spy and reporter to the busy body next door. Of course that just inspired the hippies. They started out the morning by sitting at the table in the yard and rolling their early morning joint. “Maaa-um, they’re rolling cigarettes, maaa-um, they’re smoking.”  “Maaa-um, the one that looks like Jesus is making out with Cher!” 

Oh boy this is going to be a long week.

As soon we finished breakfast, I packed a picnic lunch and loaded Jesus, Joseph, and Cher along with my children in the station wagon and off we went. I figured they would like to visit the forests in Big Cottonwood Canyon. I found a campground and let them hike through the woods. Is it asking too much Lord to let them get lost for a couple of days? They’re hippies, they could live off the land, and it was fairly warm. I guess He thought it was too much to ask as they returned in time for our picnic.

            

We arrived home after dark, and I was hoping that the neighborhood excitement had worn off, but there she was, the spy sitting on the wall waiting for the hippies. I told her to get down from the wall or I would call the police. She slowly climbed down while yelling, “Maaa-um, she’s gonna call the cops!”

            

The next morning there were several kids sitting on the wall, and they politely informed Cher that they were sitting on their side of the wall, so there!

           

I packed us all up again and headed up Parley’s Canyon so they could see where the pioneers first saw the Salt Lake Valley. We then headed up to Park City, which at the time was still a little mining town with little wooden houses clinging to the sides of the hills. We wandered around until most of the day was gone, getting back to the house after dark seemed the best solution to avoid the spies.

            

The next day Judy and I went grocery shopping. I convinced Jesus and Joseph to stay and guard the tents and watch my kids. We made it through the market with only a few turned heads and whispers. 

When we arrived home we prepared a lunch and took off up Little Cottonwood Canyon. They loved being out in nature, and I loved leaving them out in nature. We spread around a lotta love. We returned home a little before sunset and sure enough a whole group of kids were sitting on the wall, waiting to watch and report.

            

The next day we went to the Great Salt Lake, and drove around parts of the city I thought they would enjoy seeing. Keeping them out of the yard until sunset was an all day job!

           

 I couldn't put it off any longer, the next day we would go downtown to Temple Square.

I suggested to Judy that maybe they should consider dressing up a bit as we would be going to the visitors’ center and they would be required to wear shoes, shirts, etc.

When they appeared, Tim had on a cleaner robe thingy, Bill had a clean tie-dye under his frock coat and Judy had on some bell-bottoms that she had decorated herself and a bunch of new beads. They were ready so off we went.   

            

Temple Square is the heart of Salt Lake City. It is at least two city blocks square, and the blocks in SLC are about twice as long anywhere else and very wide.  Brigham Young had a four oxen, and it had to be able to turn in a full circle from the middle of the road. The Temple Square area downtown is quite lovely with big old trees; there were park benches, a statue of Joseph Smith, the tabernacle the temple and in the corner, a one room pioneer hut that had been original to the site.

            

The big three were completely blown away when they saw the statue of Joseph Smith. He looked just like Bill, frock coat and all! They were not the only ones who were impressed. In a matter of minutes there was a line of tourists who wanted a picture of Bill with Joseph. Then Jesus and Joseph Oh, this just kept getting better. In the meantime I lost track of Cher. I walked over to the pioneer hut, and there was Cher twirling around on the dirt floor. When she saw me she cried, “Isn't this just fabulous?”  I confess I could not see anything fabulous about living in a hut about 12’x 12’ with a dirt floor and no windows. She twirled herself against the wall and started laughing. “No I don’t mean the hut; I mean all those people who think those two out there look like Jesus and Joseph!”

“I love camping but this hut is too much, those pioneers must have been nuts!” We both laughed until someone came to the door and two little old ladies were remarking that it was just uncanny how much those two looked like Jesus and Joseph. One said, “Do you think they are really Mormons?”  To which Judy replied, “Those two guys out there? Nah they just look like hippies to me”

            

What a day! I don’t know if word ever reached any church authorities that Jesus and Joseph visited Temple Square that day. They surely missed an experience. It took about another hour to get J & J away from their admirers and cameras. We walked through downtown and toured some more of the historical sites. People stared but no one stopped and asked for a photo op, and I think the guys were a little disappointed. Their 15 minutes of fame lasted at least two hours; that is more than most people get.

           

It seems that not being able to roll weed and smoke at will was putting a damper on their time in Salt Lake City. When we arrived home they organized so that they could leave first thing in the morning. We had one last cook out in the yard with a few kids sitting on the wall, and I could see the wheels turning in Judy’s head. I warned her, “What ever you are thinking of doing, don’t! I have to live here after you are gone.”

           

I have thought about that time and some of the things that Judy and I did a few years later when she and son Joey moved to Salt Lake City. No matter that she was older; she was still a hippie in her heart. She was kind, generous and funny, and I miss her every day. She died at 35, and I can still hear her say, “I just know I will not ever be an old person so I need to do everything while I can.” She did.

-- Lee V.

            Jun 2013

   

*****

Thank you Lee!

Hope you enjoyed it!

Emily

27 Jun 2013

Incarcerated Youth...Up Close and Personal

The variation in our personalities, interests, and jobs adds so much to our collective being, and the variety of  their life's stories are always amazing and intriguing to me. We find among us those who spend much of their lives following a chosen path which elevates them to a desired level in their field. We find those who strive to help others and find satisfaction in giving of themselves. They clearly understand how life can affect and destroy some of the most helpless, the most innocent. By telling their stories they help us understand the problems in our society give us insight into a world that may seem quite foreign, yet shows us how we, as a society, played a role through our action or inaction. Oh, but if only the lessons could be learned.

Valerie participates in a writing class I lead and has many wonderful stories. She chose this one to share, no doubt, because there is a message here for all of us. Thank you for this story. May it help everyone have a better view and an open heart.
  

        INCARCERATED YOUTH...UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL

Broken children are everywhere, subsisting within the obscure fringes of the social order. Society chooses not to embrace them by claiming ignorance to their essence and their needs. These children’s minds, bodies, and spirits bear a resemblance to fragments of a smashed glass. This situation equates to the Christmas story of the damaged Misfit toys. Banished to a remote island, the toys disappear out of the visual acuity of those who have so callously terminated them without any conception of their intrinsic value if repaired. Out of sight out of mind. Society tends to discard objects that are flawed. Imperfection is not an attribute we are willing to encircle with open arms. We follow the same pattern with children that do not live up to the criterion we as a society exemplify. If a child is broken, is it not our moral covenant to take the time and effort to rebuild that shattered child instead of throwing him/her away?

In 1990, I accepted a position with the Wenatchee School District as the School Program Teacher housed at the Chelan County Maximum Security Juvenile Detention Center. In the blink of an eye, I had descended into the world of incarcerated youth. For 20 years, these children infiltrated my heart, challenged me, occupied my thoughts, and inspired me to achieve unparalleled pinnacles of compassion, patience, and love. MY STUDENTS became my passion, morphing into a part of me. We were the same in so many ways. Welcome to my world of Incarcerated youth -- up close and personal.

It is 8:00 a.m., and I am on my 2-way radio calling for students to come to school. They walk down the hall hands behind their backs, eyes looking forward. The line must be straight and talking is prohibited. The students are accompanied by juvenile custodial officers, and when the kids are seated the staff retreats back into the bowels of the building. Standing by my door, each student is welcomed with a cheerful greeting. Many of the kids refuse to look at me and most mornings there is no reciprocal response. In all honesty, the kids do not know how to react to a simple salutation from an adult. It makes them uncomfortable. They are much more at ease when the interaction is negative as opposed to positive. Negativity is their forte  and sadly enough their life code. Their social etiquette is simply stated: attack before you get attacked.

The kids know the routine: Enter the classroom, get your work folder, take your assigned seat and remain silent. The actual scenario presents itself as: enter the classroom, talk to anyone and everyone, forget about your file, sit in someone else's seat, continue to talk as loudly as possible, and pretend you are clueless. Finally, students are in allocated seats, folders on desk and silent.  In a final effort to establish control before the day begins, they deliberately make eye contact with me flaunting an intimidating leer reminding me to watch my back.

Routine is problematic for this group of youngsters. They identify it as an implementation of authority. The line in the sand is brazenly drawn the minute they enter the classroom. Pencils, aka potential weapons, are passed out. A request to open folders is made and to begin work. It is now 8:10 and the natives are already restless. The next issue of the day presents itself as “what do I work on?” The habitually repeated answer is “where you left off yesterday.” The response, “Don’t remember, can you show me? Note the use of the words show me instead of help me. Asking for help demonstrates weakness. This start-up routine is to get attention, and each individual student demands it on a  daily basis. With vague recognition etched on their faces, the day ultimately commences. Continuity and routine are two perplexing concepts thrown into their chaotic reality. Adapting to others expectations does not come without some kicking and screaming along the way.

As the day continues, small battles are fought and indignation infuses itself into every situation. The kids do not like to have anyone tell them what to do. A simple please get to work or stop talking can erupt into an ugly confrontation in less time than it would take to snap your fingers. The choreography between teacher and student is set in motion. Attaining the lead position is the ultimate goal of both parties, but for very adverse motives.

The teacher's intent is to gently guide the student to the awareness that life is dictated by boundaries and to demonstrate how the usage of adaptive behaviors and respective demeanor can ultimately influence the outcome. The frequently used illustration is: you are on the job and the boss instructs you to do a task. You blow up, curse him out and storm off. You get fired for this behavior and now find yourself in the predicament of not having money. You blame the boss! Being told what to do is taken as harsh criticism, and immediately there is the need to reestablish control over the situation. At the end of the day you no longer have a job, but you have the satisfaction that no one can tell you what to do. We then run through the role play of respectful compliance and its outcome.

The day brings constant struggles as the two worlds continually collide. Oddly enough the perception is that their world is much safer than ours and simpler to navigate. Their so called straightforward world consists of violence, abuse, crime, addiction, gangs, and death, and yet to them it is the more benign of the two coexisting domains.

Anger is the mother of all emotions. Indignation will eventually set you free. Strike out at everyone and you will be memorable. Where does this rage come from? That can be answered in one word: life. These kids have been deprived of a childhood. By the time they can walk and talk, it ends before it  begins. They start off at a early age missing out on the occasions that make childhood special and magical. These kids will never have hot chocolate waiting for them on a cold winters day. Having their hand held to cross a street never happens. There aren't any loving hugs and assurances  that everything will be OK. Nobody wipes the tears away or puts band-aids on scraped knees. Bedtime stories are never read. There isn't any encouragement or hope tossed their direction. Incapable of envisioning a future, only the current moment matters.

Home is not a sanctuary. It is a house of horrors. Think about going through a haunted house at Halloween. It is dark, scary ,and the fear of the unknown looms before you. Your heart races, and your palms get sweaty with the anticipation that a monster might jump out of nowhere and grab you. Your instinct is to run back outside to a safe place. The trepidation of what might happen if you stay is paralyzing. If grabbed, is escape even a possibility? Does the monster want your blood? Will cries for help be heard? Will your absence be noticed? For most of us having these concerns running through our minds at warp speed are short-lived. Outside of our present nightmare there exists a safety net of love, protection, friends and family. Make it through the next 5 minutes on this dark excursion and Shangri-La awaits. For most of us it takes a little side trip down a dark alley to make us appreciate what we actually possess. At risk youth live in the haunted house 24/7. When these kids depart into the dark alley there is no light to guide them to a safe place. There is no one waiting on the other side. Life for them  is like being trapped on an out-of-control roller coaster ride. Your screams for help fall on deaf ears. There are no good Samaritans in their world.

Imagine having an accident where you take a large gouge out of your leg. It is deep painful and bleeding profusely. With proper measures the hemorrhage can be stopped. At risk youth are constantly on the verge of bleeding out. Preventative measures are not always  accessible to them. Many friends and family members are already In heaven due to violent deaths.

In a convoluted way, these kids are very religious. They believe Heaven will provide them with the good life that was denied them here on earth. They do believe that God is virtuous and will grant them redemption sanctioning their entrance through the Pearly Gates. The honor of sitting at his feet and basking in the Holy Spirit will also be bequeathed. The ultimate vision is absolution. It is worth dying for even as a child. Religion is a lifeline used only to the hereafter not in the present.

A student’s writing helped me visualize the inner angst of my charges.

I jump on a big white fluffy cloud and sail away from my life. I look down and  jump off when I find a new place that looks good. This community has not labled me. They do not know what prior bad acts I have committed. At first they enthusiastically welcome me with open arms. Just as I feel like I belong, all of a sudden Chicken Little arrives yelling,” the sky is falling, the sky is falling.” The sky falls on me and ruins everything. It is though I had a gps system installed in by body at birth and can be tracked anywhere I go. Eventually all the Chicken Littles will  find me and  it is back to square one and once again incarceration. I screwed it up again and know that it is a vicious cycle. No more clouds. I need something faster to outrun my life. I hop a frieght train and am satisfied this will work. It departs and speeds throught the night increasing the distance between me and my old life. Sometimes it slows to a comfortable pace and then Boom it resumes  full speed ahead. The train never stops. I find this odd. Then I realize there is no one driving this train. It is the train to no where for nobodies like me. Why did I not jump off when it was going slow and I still had a chance? Those chances are over. This train is now in runaway mode and there will be no slowing down.  Why do I always try to keep up with my homies, my drugs, my crimes?  Why? Why do I keep doing this? My one saving grace is knowing that I will be with god in the afterlife because I have already  spent my years on earth in hell. God I am ready to be your obedient and devoted solider. Please take me now!

Why do they keep doing this since 99% of their reactions are impulse driven? The answer is simple; Because it feels good.One moment of feeling good is worth sacrificing everything! Sacrificing everything is easy because you never had anything. A moment of pleasure is a way to escape the harsh reality of a dysfunctional life even if only  for a millisecond in time. The moment, the rush of adrenalin, the thrill, the chase, the deception, and the fame make it all worthwhile. Crime, addiction and violence are normal lifestyles for these kids. It is all they know. Trapped in an environment created by others, survival is the driving force. Incarceration for this group of youngsters is viewed not as a deterrent  but an achievement.

Why did I do this for 20 years? That is best answered by the poet Emily Dickinson.

       If I Can Stop
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

by Valerie S., 2013

Enjoy,
Emily
23 Apr 2013

One Lovely Blog Award

How very nice of Mary Nunn Maki to issue me the One Lovely Blog Award. Her blog, Growing up in Willow Creek is about some of genealogical lines.

Thank you Mary.

The Rules are:

1. Accept the award, post it on your blog together with the name of the person who granted the award and their blog link.

2. Pass the award on to blogs that you have newly discovered. 

3. Remember to contact the bloggers to let them know they have been chose for this award.

I have chosen the following blogs to receive this award:

1. Julie Cahill Tarr's blog Who Will Tell Their Story focuses on saving orphaned photographs and tries to locate relatives.

2. Maureen Taylor's Photo Dectective blog provides a wonderful source for seminars on various aspects of old photos as well as assistance in learning more about your old photos.

3. Daily Writing Tips' post on Proper Use of the Colon is quite helpful. Follow the blog, enter your email and receive a fee ebook entitled Basic English Grammer.

Library of Dust, part 2: Scared Out of My Mind

Many stories have escaped the walls of any asylum although most have died within. One such story was the experience of a child – a sane child whose spirit may have been a bit rebellious for the time, but none the less, she was and is perfectly sane.

Sharon captures her haunting memories in the following essay written in a writing class I facilitate.


SCARED OUT OF MY MIND


In 1955 I was placed in the Oregon State Hospital for the criminally insane in Salem along with three other escapees from the Hillcrest reform school for girls.

After breaking free from Hillcrest, the four of us were picked up early one evening by staff from McClaren School for Boys. We had no idea no where we were going, and it was a quiet and somber ride. That would be the last silence I would experience for several weeks.

Hillcrest authority had warned the girls that runaways would not be tolerated and had suggested we would be transferred to Rocky Butte Jail in Portland. I believed I had prepared myself for jail. We had joked about it among ourselves laughingly, using the jailhouse phrase “we can do that standing on our heads”. So, of course, I was confused and bewildered when after a short ride we pulled up before a huge, looming and ominous building that housed Oregon's insane … about 3,500 patients at that time. It looked like what it was … a house of horrors! I could never have prepared myself for what would meet me inside.

My carpool partner and I were separated from the other girls, and I never saw them again. My memory of this place begins after entering the first of a session of wards where I was slightly relieved by the relaxed setting of Danish-style furniture and young people milling around for the most part, looking quite sane. Between each ward and locked door there was a hall or a short screened walkway. The heavy, solid doors were locked behind before the next was unlocked. One of the next wards housed older women; some were sitting in the wicker furniture that was familiar only to that ward. They were a scattered group with some talking to themselves or others, but it was nothing compared to primeval chaos that greeted us when we entered the back ward that was to be my home for the next three weeks … a ward for the criminally insane.

When passing through each ward into the next, it seemed as if we were descending deeper and deeper into this world of madness, peeling off layers until we reached the “back” ward where I was assigned. The constant racket and uproar overpowers my memory of the foul smell, but they were both overwhelming. I was scared out of my mind.

The building was constructed in 1883 with high ceilings, old fashioned lighting, and heavy screened windows. It was a perfect expectation as to what an Insane Asylum would look like, including the tormented occupants.

A group of women surrounded us as soon as we entered. I did not move even as they pressed close and picked at our clothes muttering and asking questions without needing answers. Surely, they were not going to leave us here in this snake pit. Well, they did!




It was near bed time, but they first took us to the shower area which also held two deep bath tubs set in the middle of the room. This arrangement provided space for as many attendants as needed to control the patients who became unmanageable. On this night, the tubs were used to disinfect or delouse the two of us, washing our hair with a nasty smelling liquid, even though we had come from a state institution. It was the rule. There were many other rules.

Two of us were placed on this ward, but we were separated. After being “disinfected' and issued a faded worn nightgown, I was taken to the bathroom and then instructed to leave my shoes outside the door of a room that held two cots. I was strapped to one of them with a heavy leather strap and wide leather cuffs that secured my hands to my waist. The other cot under the tall screened window was empty. I tried to convince the attendant that I was not crazy, only here for punishment. They ignored me, telling me I would be in restraints for twenty-four hours. “It was the rule.”

There was little sleep that night. It was February, and the wind was howling outside; the patients were howling inside. Tormented pitiful cries along with repetitive chanting, hollering, and pleading came from the women now restrained in bed.

Someone was allowed up to pace the hall. She was chanting “Jesus don’t care, Jesus don’t care” over and over, louder and louder. I was a stranger in a strange place and was thrown completely off guard.

I laid in bed trying to relax and not struggle in the restraints. I fought the claustrophobia and the fear. Just about then a hand came through the space between the wall and the radiator and grabbed my head. The wall that separated the room and the hall was cut away providing a spot for a radiator which heated both areas at the same time. The space around the radiator was large enough for a hand to reach inside. My friend who was released from her restraints to use the bathroom had seen my shoes outside my room and used the chance to scare me. My screams blended with the others.

Morning came, and my door was open, but I still was strapped in bed. One of the patients entered my room, a heavy-set, sloppy-looking woman. She talked softly, sweetly to me and reached under her dress for a comb that was left with just a few scattered teeth. I pleaded with her to leave as she leaned over me and started to comb my hair. She rambled on not paying any attention to my pleas, and I was afraid to make her angry as I couldn’t defend myself. She quickly left when a childlike girl or woman bolted into my room taking an aggressive stance with hands on her hips and screaming, “You're in love with Doctor Dreis are you? Aren’t you? I saw you take him down and intercourse him.” I was afraid this agile little monkey-like gal jumping around was going to tear into me. Just then a matron arrived and released me to wash up and have breakfast. She left me with a bleached cotton print dress which was common issue, and I hoped it would help me blend in with the other patients. Most of the women seemed to be living in their own worlds, talking and using wild hand gestures to get their point across to the imaginary people they were directing all their energy toward.

My first experience in the dining room is the only one I remember vividly. I sat down with a dozen or so patients at the long wooden table set with dented tin plates and cups and a solitary spoon for a utensil. In the midst of this first meal a young woman sitting at the head of the table announced in a loud voice, “I use Listerine”. She took a big gulp of coffee, threw her head back, and gargled. Then she spewed it out over the table, following it with peals of laughter.

Others would spit food back in their plates or take or give food to others sometimes causing a squabble, but more often this was tolerated or not even noticed by what I guessed to be heavily sedated women, some with drool spilling from their open mouths. I couldn't eat. I tried to convince myself to drink the milk. Take a sip, I love milk. I couldn't do it. Everything seemed so vile. I learned to drink coffee. Black coffee was all I could stomach ... I found myself looking forward to mealtime for the coffee which other than a couple bites of bread I dunked would sustain me through my stay. I was close to hysteria, myself, and I was so grateful when they told me I would not have to finish the 24-hour restraint rule.

After breakfast and lunch any patient that could function at all was required to “Block.” This required pushing a large block of wood covered by a heavy cloth on the bottom with a broomstick handle. This was a twice-a-day, seven-days-a week routine, and it went remarkably smooth. For as boring as it was, it was meant to provide exercise, and, of course, it helped keep the floors polished. Everyone moved exceptionally slow, some suffering with physical disabilities, pushing and polishing single file up and down the hall, around and around for an hour. ...........................................................Blocking tool on right



I got the first look at my surroundings that morning while I blocked, meekly staying in line, trying to blend in, and not drawing any attention to myself. One end of the long hall provided the sleeping rooms, some single, some double, and at least one larger room that held bedridden patients who were in constant restraint. Their yelling and pleading for help was a continual day and night background for the repetitive babbling and pitiful whimpering which never stopped anywhere on the ward. The terrible pathetic sight of their struggling to free themselves is unforgettable.

Blocking was over this first morning and my friend from Hillcrest was not there. They must have moved her early. Separating us, I later learned, that was another fear tactic which I must say was effective. I was on my own here, and there wasn't anywhere to go.

Several times I sought out someone who was exempt from blocking for different mental or physical problems and would place them in line, put the block in their hand, and sneak away. This didn't work very well as my plan would be foiled when my stand-in would wander out of line and foul things up or just wasn't capable because of the lack of strength or balance. Today I wonder if some younger patients were disabled with Muscular Dystrophy or other disfiguring diseases. Shame on me!


The opposite end of the hall held the open “day room” and the nurse's station. There was always activity here. The nurse's station was next to the door, and patients gathered to wait for the doctors or other attendants who stopped there before leaving the ward. There were always several inmates trying to push or beg their way out, pleading to go home. No one likes to be locked up even if they are crazy.

There were two or three women who wore red cotton pajama-like suits that were buttoned around the waist and across the shoulder, allowing them to be undressed without taking off the leather belt and cuffs that were never removed. They were not required to block, and one of these poor souls was hunched in a corner snarling at anyone who looked her way. Her hair was tangled, and she looked and acted menacing. The sloppy woman with the toothless comb couldn't resist the temptation. She stopped and tried to fuss over the hunched woman. It was over in a flash. The crazy woman had her down, and her teeth were locked onto her arm. When separated she was bleeding where a hunk of flesh was missing. The comb which was considered contraband was confiscated. Personal possessions were not allowed on this ward.

There were a few exceptions to that rule. An elderly lady in a single room, who had been a resident for 30 years was allowed to have a broom and spent her days sweeping her room hour after hour. Later, when I tried to engage her in conversation, she brushed me aside. Absorbed in keeping her floor clean, this sweet-looking, little gray-haired grandma always wore an apron.

I went to the day room where there was a television playing with the sound of a game show adding to the pandemonium. I found a place where I could sit with my back to the wall to stay out of the way until I could get my bearings. There were several people in the room; some were staring at the television with blank faces, not understanding the dialogue. I never had a chance to brace myself before the “little monkey” who had been in my room earlier, jumped in front of me again screaming and accusing me of “intercoursing” Dr Dreis. I was still scared of this tiny little fairytale creature, but my hands were free, and I could at least protect myself. She abruptly stopped, went to the heavily screened window, and standing with her legs apart, she lifted the front of her dress and slowly swayed back and forth singing “beautiful, beautiful bluish-green eyes” over and over until she was calm and left the room.

Sometime in the first few days I was taken off the ward to have my photo taken. Fingerprints? I can't remember. I do remember that I was taken through a dimly lit tunnel that smelled like a musty basement. There were tracks laid throughout the tunnels, and I later learned they were used to transport food, laundry, and other supplies between buildings using a small rail system. It was also used to transfer patients, which made it a convenient way to keep them from the public eye. I had expected to see a doctor at the end of the tunnel or someone with information. I was confused as to why I was still here. Were they planning on keeping me, testing me? Treating me? Will I see a doctor? I had questions, but no one to ask.

I felt alone, but as the days went on, my fears lessened. The initial fright had turned into more of a defensive mode. I was still leery and cautious but not saturated with the initial fear I had experienced when first thrown into this surreal never-imagined world.

As I became more comfortable, I was curious about these women. I approached several of them looking for someone to talk to and perhaps to help me navigate through this nightmare, but there was no common ground for conversation. I listened to a woman in her early forties who had tears in her eyes when she spoke of being married and cried when she told how much she missed her children. She was so lucid that I wondered to myself why she would be on a ward for the criminally insane.

As we were talking, the big door opened, and she was up off her chair, trying to squeeze her way out while she desperately pleaded her case. She was joined by several other women all desperate to escape. I found something else to do, but I sought her out again feeling sorry for her. She was so quiet and sad apart from some of the more aggressive or heavily sedated women. The entire scene was pathetic. I can't say it enough.

A few days later, while blocking after lunch, this same thin, delicate, red-haired woman began singing “Bringing in the Sheaves, Bringing in the Sheaves.” She had a beautiful soprano voice, but she sang louder and louder, higher and higher as she went around and around until the song progressed into a high pitched scream. The attendants filled one of the deep bathtubs, and two of them wrapped her in a sheet and immersed her in the cold water which subdued her. In the next few days she was taken off the ward for a shock treatment. When she returned she was withdrawn and mute.

I approached anyone who could finish a sentence. I spent time with a young woman who was probably in her thirties who told entertaining stories about hobnobbing with movie stars. As a young girl in the fifties, I enjoyed the movie magazines that were so popular and kept us up to date on the personal lives of the stars. And now, I was privy to the inside stories.

She named different leading actresses and actors she had met and run with. She described the houses of the stars where she partied in Hollywood. She took me to California with the sunshine and the beautiful people, a wonderland she was a part of ... and who knows it may have been true. She was a pretty woman, and even in her cotton day-dress she played the part of a glamour girl to the point of being pretentious. I spent as much time listening to her stories that she would give me.


One morning while everyone was blocking in the hall, I saw some staff and a doctor escort her to a room which was set up like mine as the radiator was cut into the wall. Each time I passed her room I would stop and have a look. Today they had strapped her in bed and had a cart on wheels which was rigged to give portable shock treatments. I watched them put the cones on her temples and apply the shock. The only other thing that I remember is how hard she slept, how she snored so loudly for so long, and how she was so quiet and subdued when she recovered. She was blank when I spoke with her next. That was the end of the wonderfully entertaining stories.

Soon after the shock treatment she was allowed a “day out”. It was a day off campus and most likely with her parents. I wondered if that was the purpose for the shock treatment, to subdue her for her visit. She caught my attention on her return because she was dressed in street clothes. I followed her when she went into the bathroom. The always-busy staff had taken their eyes from her before she changed her clothes, and she had decided she was going to wash her long, beautiful, full-length camel hair coat.

The bathroom had a long community sink with multiple faucets, and the movie star lady laid out her coat in the sink and turned on all the faucets. The overworked matrons now had to deal with this ruined coat which probably cost as much or more than a week of their wages. I speculated that maybe her parents had some influence as she was the only patient I observed that had left the ward with the exception of those who received shock treatments.

At this point I was more at ease with the surroundings and sought out ways to fill the days. The hospital did have a movie night, but the criminally insane weren't privilege. I spent some time playing cards with a little, feisty, older lady who wore mitts on both hands as she would shred clothing, bedding, or whatever she found to satisfy her compulsion.

It was a selfish act on my part. It was a bargain deal. They removed her restraints, and I would play cards with her to weasel out of blocking, although for me it was just about as boring. There was a partial deck of cards, and the “Shredder” did all the dealing. After being restrained it probably felt good to use her hands. She was in complete control. I didn't even need to play my cards. She played them for me and with no rhyme or reason. I liked this little lady because she was so out-front, bossy, and spoke her mind. I should have spent more time with her.

About a week after arriving, the matrons who were always short-handed asked me to help with the showers. I agreed only if I would be on the drying end of the operation. The more violent patients were showered with their restraints intact. Even so, I was uneasy with these naked, sullen women, some of whom spent their days cuffed, either on their feet in their pajama suits or on their backs, and a few on sheepskins. Some would recoil and cower at being touched while others would fight even though their hands were cuffed. They kicked and struggled when they were dried and dressed. More than once I called for backup because they scared me. I hated this chore, but once doing it I could hardly ignore the fact it made it much easier and faster for the overworked help.

I stayed clear of the patients restrained in their beds. I ignored their futile cries and pitiful pleas for help. The same pleas you might hear repeated in nursing homes today. The same smells you'll find there, as well.

I did not witness any intended abuse for my three week’s stay. The matrons I talked with were from around the Salem area. They were of the same make up as the Hillcrest matrons; some of whom had also worked at Fairview next door. Middle aged housewives for the most part, overworked and undoubtedly underpaid. Strong women who must have a matched mindset to rebuke the women following them constantly, clamoring for attention, and asking questions that have no answers. To spend day after day with such despair and heartache and in turn be required to clean the woman with feces smeared on her and the wall of the bathroom or to calm the two fighting over a single scrap of paper or to deal with the woman who undresses whenever a male was present. All this is a constant whirlwind of insane actions blended with the other lost, catatonic souls with bent heads set on over medicated bodies. I wondered what the turnover in this job must have been?

My grandparents came to see me. They told me my parents had been here, but were turned away. I hadn't had a letter because communication was not allowed the first thirty days. My grandfather was persistent, and we were allowed a short visit. He brought me hope along with box of chocolate Turtles. After three weeks of bread and black coffee, I counted the hours until meal times when I was allocated two of the delicious sweet pieces of chocolate and caramel. I nibbled, savoring each tiny bit until the after-flavor had long passed.

It was just a few days after their visit that I was taken to the office of the Superintendent where I met my grandparents again. They had been to the District Attorney's office in Salem, and grandpa had demanded my release. He got it. I was getting out of here!

The meeting with the superintendent draws a blank other than a visual of a large, kind man behind a large desk. I do know I left the State Hospital not knowing where I would be going. A nineteen year-old I knew who was released from Hillcrest, was sent back for parole violation when she married. Amazingly, they allowed her husband visitation. What a goofy world! Being an adult in her circumstance didn’t keep her out of Hillcrest, and perhaps I was to return as well. So, being eighteen would not assure my release. They could return me to Hillcrest if they wanted. Anyway, I felt their intention may be to send me to jail. I welcomed either choice after this experience.

Again, I was on my way to an unknown destination. Only, this time I was surprised and overjoyed when I arrived at the modern Donald E. Long Juvenile Home in Portland. I later discovered that Hillcrest wouldn't take me back because they believed I was the instigator in the runaway.

After several days of peace and quiet in the Isolation Unit, but still certainly concerned about additional incarceration, I went to court. It was brief. The judge asked questions and ruled the State Hospital had been severe enough punishment, a harsh lesson, and he turned me loose. I will bypass any further restriction. Free and clear.



Sharon H., 2011


Photos courtesy of David Maisel
Library of Dust

For more information:
Claiming Cremated Remains
Oregon State Hospital

Emily, 28 May 2011