Sandra Sandoval
Last night at dinner
My right hand
Was magnetically drawn
To your left knee
I had to reprimand it
Last night when you talked
I wanted to spin your words
Into fine sugar strands
And feast on them
Last night I took your kiss home
And put it to bed
It lay on the pillow
And kept me company
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Scorpion and the Foot Bath
The Scorpion and the Foot Bath by Cooper Gallegos
It was the beginning of our first summer in the Mojave Desert. We had one brutally cold winter behind us and we felt like veterans, cocky and energetic, tramping around our five acres like true desert-rats. Life was refreshingly casual. We bathed only when we felt like it, chased Jack Daniels down with Coors beer and saw ourselves as combination outlaws and ranch wives.
One lazy afternoon, just after the water hauler had filled our 250-gallon water tank I was headed back into the house wearing only shorts and sandals. Just outside the door I stepped on a rock and my foot exploded in pain. I staggered forward in time to see a 3 inch scorpion the color of amber skittle through the dust, making a clean get away. By the time I got to the kitchen my foot was swollen and I was gasping what I thought could be my last gasps. “To the car!” my housemate screeched. We lumbered down our dirt road in our old green Buick. “Elevate your foot,” Pam said. So I did. “No, no, maybe that’s a bad idea!” She was trying to figure out the direction poison traveled through the body while navigating desert roads looking for the hospital.
When we finally pulled up to the entrance of Victor Valley Community Hospital Pam practically shoved me from the passenger door. I limped in and told the duty nurse what had happened. “In here,” she said. She was a no-nonsense type and I hurried after her. She produced a dishpan of sudsy water. “Which foot?” she asked. I pointed to my right. She grabbed my ankle, submerged my foot and scrubbed vigorously. I cringed on the chair, in pain, my head beginning to ache. My foot emerged, dazzlingly pink, clean as a whistle. The nurse took one look at my other foot, covered in desert grime. “Okay, give me your other one,” she said.
It was the beginning of our first summer in the Mojave Desert. We had one brutally cold winter behind us and we felt like veterans, cocky and energetic, tramping around our five acres like true desert-rats. Life was refreshingly casual. We bathed only when we felt like it, chased Jack Daniels down with Coors beer and saw ourselves as combination outlaws and ranch wives.
One lazy afternoon, just after the water hauler had filled our 250-gallon water tank I was headed back into the house wearing only shorts and sandals. Just outside the door I stepped on a rock and my foot exploded in pain. I staggered forward in time to see a 3 inch scorpion the color of amber skittle through the dust, making a clean get away. By the time I got to the kitchen my foot was swollen and I was gasping what I thought could be my last gasps. “To the car!” my housemate screeched. We lumbered down our dirt road in our old green Buick. “Elevate your foot,” Pam said. So I did. “No, no, maybe that’s a bad idea!” She was trying to figure out the direction poison traveled through the body while navigating desert roads looking for the hospital.
When we finally pulled up to the entrance of Victor Valley Community Hospital Pam practically shoved me from the passenger door. I limped in and told the duty nurse what had happened. “In here,” she said. She was a no-nonsense type and I hurried after her. She produced a dishpan of sudsy water. “Which foot?” she asked. I pointed to my right. She grabbed my ankle, submerged my foot and scrubbed vigorously. I cringed on the chair, in pain, my head beginning to ache. My foot emerged, dazzlingly pink, clean as a whistle. The nurse took one look at my other foot, covered in desert grime. “Okay, give me your other one,” she said.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
It's Just A Number.
"It's just a number" - the official philosophy of age for anybody over 40. But it also happens to be true.
Take the 81-year-old mother of 8, grandmother of countless grand and great-grandkids, who had a younger woman say to her not long ago "You can read that?" as the octogenarian, without benefit of glasses, read a passage from her most recent book.
Then there's the man who renewed his driver's license and bought himself a brand new Cadillac on his 99th birthday and went out to celebrate with his 78-year-young tenderoni.
And let's not forget the 61-year-young sister who's finishing her bachelor's degree in 3 weeks, just in time to embark on her new journey to earn a master's degree in Public Administration.
And how about the 60-year-young grandmother who was carded at the local drugstore where the sign posted says "ID checks are required for the sale of alcohol if you look 35 or younger." Even her grown son couldn't burst her exuberance when he said "Ma, they card everybody."
OK, we do know that spandex is not everybody's friend, but other pleasures do present themselves with the marvelous passage of time. And all that time is wonderful.
Age is nothing but a number - but it's a great number to be, especially when those Senior Discounts ring up.
Take the 81-year-old mother of 8, grandmother of countless grand and great-grandkids, who had a younger woman say to her not long ago "You can read that?" as the octogenarian, without benefit of glasses, read a passage from her most recent book.
Then there's the man who renewed his driver's license and bought himself a brand new Cadillac on his 99th birthday and went out to celebrate with his 78-year-young tenderoni.
And let's not forget the 61-year-young sister who's finishing her bachelor's degree in 3 weeks, just in time to embark on her new journey to earn a master's degree in Public Administration.
And how about the 60-year-young grandmother who was carded at the local drugstore where the sign posted says "ID checks are required for the sale of alcohol if you look 35 or younger." Even her grown son couldn't burst her exuberance when he said "Ma, they card everybody."
OK, we do know that spandex is not everybody's friend, but other pleasures do present themselves with the marvelous passage of time. And all that time is wonderful.
Age is nothing but a number - but it's a great number to be, especially when those Senior Discounts ring up.
The Open Door
I can't look. I'm afraid - afraid of the unknown - why?
Could it be because the cat ran from behind the garbage can under the big fruit tree in the far corner of the backyard that night when I was 10 and it was my turn to take out the trash and my daddy made me do it even though he knew I was terrified of the dark?
"Go on out there girl. There's nothing to be scared of!" he said in his usual booming I'm-going-to-whip-your-butt-if-you-don't voice.
And, of course, my worst fears were echoed in the screeching scream that could only come from a skinny, scared 10-year-old little girl.
Damn that cat!
But the thing is, I always knew there was something in the dark - something lurking there waiting to scare the beJesus out of me.
But I didn't always know what it was. So, yes, I am still afraid to look. Yes, the unknown is always lurking, always scary as hell.
Could it be because the cat ran from behind the garbage can under the big fruit tree in the far corner of the backyard that night when I was 10 and it was my turn to take out the trash and my daddy made me do it even though he knew I was terrified of the dark?
"Go on out there girl. There's nothing to be scared of!" he said in his usual booming I'm-going-to-whip-your-butt-if-you-don't voice.
And, of course, my worst fears were echoed in the screeching scream that could only come from a skinny, scared 10-year-old little girl.
Damn that cat!
But the thing is, I always knew there was something in the dark - something lurking there waiting to scare the beJesus out of me.
But I didn't always know what it was. So, yes, I am still afraid to look. Yes, the unknown is always lurking, always scary as hell.
When I Think . . .
When I think . . .
When I think . . .
What do I think about? Whatever comes to mind in this moment in time.
I remember, I reminisce, I romanticize all that's passsed.
I daydream. I fantasize.
What will come of me now?
My memories of joy and pain sustain me while I'm here in this loving life.
What will come of me now?
My life is so full of days and nights gone by.
What will come of me now?
I surely can't say.
So I continue to remember, reminisce, and romanticize all that's passsed.
And I daydream and fantasize until now becomes the memories of joy and pain that sustain me.
When I think . . .
What do I think about? Whatever comes to mind in this moment in time.
I remember, I reminisce, I romanticize all that's passsed.
I daydream. I fantasize.
What will come of me now?
My memories of joy and pain sustain me while I'm here in this loving life.
What will come of me now?
My life is so full of days and nights gone by.
What will come of me now?
I surely can't say.
So I continue to remember, reminisce, and romanticize all that's passsed.
And I daydream and fantasize until now becomes the memories of joy and pain that sustain me.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Summer of '88
Sandra Martz
In the summer of ’88, I loaded up everything I owned in the largest truck I could get from U-Haul and moved to a former apple orchard outside Aromas. Within a few months I’d populated my two acres with a ewe and her two babies, a dog, a cat, and a pair of gay goats. In the rare evenings when the fog didn’t come in, I imagined I could see the ocean through the notch between two small hills on the western horizon.
Some nights I’d pick up a jug of red wine, throw briquettes on the rickety barbecue, and grill a big ribeye for me and the dog. Most days I’d work awhile in the yard or the garden area. Once I came across a small snake hiding under a thick patch of Johnson grass. Deathly afraid of snakes, I called the Aromas Fire Department for help. “Is it on fire?” they asked.
Another time a red ferret raced into the garage and out again. Occasionally wild chickens would try to roost in the laundry area. Once I found a small greenish egg up near the box of Tide.
Over time I grew tan and muscled and comfortable with myself in a way I didn’t remember being before. I canned apples and made applesauce and finally got a small garden put in. I got to know my neighbor with the funny accent (he was from Malta by way of Canada) who made his own wine and cured olives. I learned to take his advice about most things.
My life now is much tamer. I miss the sense of adventure, the naive belief in unlimited possibilities.
In the summer of ’88, I loaded up everything I owned in the largest truck I could get from U-Haul and moved to a former apple orchard outside Aromas. Within a few months I’d populated my two acres with a ewe and her two babies, a dog, a cat, and a pair of gay goats. In the rare evenings when the fog didn’t come in, I imagined I could see the ocean through the notch between two small hills on the western horizon.
Some nights I’d pick up a jug of red wine, throw briquettes on the rickety barbecue, and grill a big ribeye for me and the dog. Most days I’d work awhile in the yard or the garden area. Once I came across a small snake hiding under a thick patch of Johnson grass. Deathly afraid of snakes, I called the Aromas Fire Department for help. “Is it on fire?” they asked.
Another time a red ferret raced into the garage and out again. Occasionally wild chickens would try to roost in the laundry area. Once I found a small greenish egg up near the box of Tide.
Over time I grew tan and muscled and comfortable with myself in a way I didn’t remember being before. I canned apples and made applesauce and finally got a small garden put in. I got to know my neighbor with the funny accent (he was from Malta by way of Canada) who made his own wine and cured olives. I learned to take his advice about most things.
My life now is much tamer. I miss the sense of adventure, the naive belief in unlimited possibilities.
A Good Year
Sandra Martz
Daddy stands near the Chrysler engine that powers the irrigation well. This is the last time he’ll water the cotton this summer. The stalks are full, almost touching each other across the furrows, the creamy-yellow flowers beginning to wilt and brown at the edges. They’ll drop soon, revealing tight green bolls. Most of the serious threats are past: the blistering spring sandstorm that can strip the young plants right down to the stems; moths that lay eggs on the tender cotton leaves that hatch into ravenous boll worms; the blistering July sun that drives midday temperatures to 100 degrees or more.
“This will be a good year,” my father says, not so much with words but with the glitter in his eyes, the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth. This year--if the cotton puller doesn’t break down, if the prices hold up, if there’s no August hail storm--there’ll be enough to pay the butane bill and buy seed for next year and make the payment on the farm. Maybe even enough to get that bailer for the alfalfa. And, of course, enough to pay the church tithe on what’s left.
Daddy stands near the Chrysler engine that powers the irrigation well. This is the last time he’ll water the cotton this summer. The stalks are full, almost touching each other across the furrows, the creamy-yellow flowers beginning to wilt and brown at the edges. They’ll drop soon, revealing tight green bolls. Most of the serious threats are past: the blistering spring sandstorm that can strip the young plants right down to the stems; moths that lay eggs on the tender cotton leaves that hatch into ravenous boll worms; the blistering July sun that drives midday temperatures to 100 degrees or more.
“This will be a good year,” my father says, not so much with words but with the glitter in his eyes, the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth. This year--if the cotton puller doesn’t break down, if the prices hold up, if there’s no August hail storm--there’ll be enough to pay the butane bill and buy seed for next year and make the payment on the farm. Maybe even enough to get that bailer for the alfalfa. And, of course, enough to pay the church tithe on what’s left.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
The One
Sandra Martz
She looked into the future
saw memories unraveling
bits of color traveling
into space
searching for the one
who could remember their names.
She looked into the future
saw memories unraveling
bits of color traveling
into space
searching for the one
who could remember their names.
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