GRMC alumni at front entrance (left to right): Dr. Sunil Mathew, Dr. Inder RS Makin, Dr. Praneal Sharma, Dr. Kayemba-Kay’s Simon, Dr. Jaspreet Brar, Dr. Shahin Nooreyezdan, and Dr. Jay Maharaj
Seven distinguished medical professionals returned to their college tracks at the Gwalior Medical College, Madhya Pradesh, India, after 45 years in international career tracks: Reconstructive Surgeon Dr. Shahin Nooreyedzan, New Delhi; Radiologist Dr. Praneal Sharma, Sydney, Australia; Psychiatrist Dr. Jaspreet Brar, Pittsburgh, USA; Hepatologist Dr. Sunil Mathew, Kochi, Kerala; Pediatrician Dr. Kayemba-Kay’s Kabangu Simon (native of Democratic Republic of Congo), from France; Biomedical Engineer Prof. Dr. Inder Raj Singh Makin, Phoenix, Arizona; and Family Physician Dr. Jay C Maharaj from Durban, South Africa.
The international group of doctors, most accompanied by their supportive spouses, retraced their college experience. They visited the various departments at GRMC campus, where college Dean Dr. R.K.S. Dhakar received the alumni in his conference room. The international group also chanced upon a dear colleague from the old days, Dr. Ranjna Tiwari, Professor of Community Health and expert sitar player.
“I had to take this young man under my wings back then, because he didn’t speak a word of Hindi,” Dr. Tiwari said about Dr. Maharaj, from South Africa. The Gwalior professor was bowled over with affection.
A number more surprises were sprung on the seven Gwalior alumni. Jaikishen (a.k.a “Jack”) chai stand was now surrounded by high volume traffic and the trees were missing, but the pakora, samosas, and chai were still delicious. A memorable photograph was recreated at the Talkatora pool location after 45 years, each doctor modeling the former pose of studious interest.
During the course of two days, the medical professionals went down memory lane swapping stories of mischief and accomplishments. The city had changed a lot but eventually each alumnus sleuthed out their former abodes. The seven GRMC exes, who had been planning this joint outing for the last five years, bonded even more strongly over this exciting endeavor.
“I can’t get over the fact that this feels like yesterday. But we are sure glad not to be staying in the dorms any more,” Dr. Nooreyedzan joked. Whew! His colleagues agreed with him wholeheartedly. They all had accomplished their specialties coming from the rigorous training ground of GRMC’s medical degree program.
I have many reasons for being unable to break out of anonymity. But the most telling one lies in my childhood.
When I was four years old, my parents took us to the zoo. It was spring time. Somewhere around the miniature goats, there was a green activity patch: May bug hunt. Instead of Easter eggs, the activity team had laid out lifelike chocolate bugs wrapped in printed tin foils. At a shot gun start, they let a bunch of us kids inside that corral. I picked up a bug and proudly showed it off to my parents.
“Run,” they yelled. “Get more!” But I was too slow for that. In 30 seconds, all the bugs were picked. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could take more than one treat. My parents were disappointed. I should have gotten at least five chocolate bugs for the 1 Mark fee they had paid.
This childhood May bug story only just starts to describe my predicament. I thought about it long and hard and came up with at least 13 reasons why I can’t be famous:
I am in a slow, contemplative gear by nature.
I am a perfectionist and my projects take a while to get them just right.
I am too nice and let other people go first.
I was raised to take turns and believe other people would do so too.
I was never taught to be greedy.
I abhor risk and gamble.
I hate bragging and lying.
I dislike small talk and public appearances in general.
I cringe at social media and the commitment to post.
I am bad at business and calculating my profit.
I missed the boat 20 years ago because now everybody is famous.
I am too old to spark the flame of fame.
I get stage fright.
My comfort zone gets disturbed easily.
Who’s got time for this?
I got better things to do. Maybe I don’t even like being famous.
Charlotte cherishes her blue bandana. This type of bandana is often associated with western attire, do rags and country folks. No doubt about that. But this one is truly extra special for its history.
“You ought to get rid of this ratty old thing, mom.” Carlene Davis leveled the large plastic frame that held a badly faded, formerly deep blue bandana.
The old thing was ratty with wear and tear and tears and snot from decades of overuse. A hole burned into the lower right edge was exactly the size of a 7.55 x 53 mm Mauser cartridge. The only thing not overly faded was a hand-sewn letter T in the center and a couple of dark reddish-brown stains. Apparently, the only thing holding the piece of cloth together was the smudged glass in the frame.
Carlene was a doting daughter, a member of the Southern Baptist Women’s Missionary Union, the Library Volunteers, and half a dozen community organizations in the small town of Token, Arkansas. She was 54 years old, portly in appearance and always slightly overdressed in style. Her gray hair was poorly disguised by whisps of light green, purple, and red streaked through-and-through in an attempt to recapture a youth she had never really experienced.
Her mom, Charlotte Tetrozoa, was the picture postcard image of a modern-day granny. She also was on the portly side, something she never tried to disguise. Her gray hair was pure gray, something she would never have thought to disguise either. She stopped her knitting and pointed a needle at her daughter. “Your granddaddy carried that ‘ratty thing’ into the trenches back in the Great War. Some German sharpshooter put a hole through that bandana and right into his chest. That blue rag plugged the hole and saved his life, young lady.”
“Mom, I’ve heard the story a thousand times.”
“Not enough times, I see. Your daddy took it with him all the way through the second great war.”
“I know, mom.”
“He took it to Korea.” She paused and sniffed. “That’s your daddy’s blood in the corner.”
“I know all that, mom, but it’s so . . . Well, it’s ratty, mom.”
“It’s yours when I’m gone. Do with it as you want, then.”
“Mom!”
“Enough of this. I got to fix supper. You staying?”
“Of course, mom.”
A week later Carlene burst into her mother’s home. She was practically giddy. Charlotte said, “What’s got you so agitated?”
“The university wants to expand their collection of historical artifacts and they’re really wanting stuff from World War I.” She waited for a specific response that never came.
“Mom!”
“That’s interesting.” Charlotte continued stirring her pot of pinto beans. She never looked up.
“The bandana, mom. That’s just what they’re looking for.”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’d be in a museum, mom.” Charlotte, focused on her cooking, didn’t see the rolling of her daughter’s eyes. Carlene looked over to the framed source of her grief and seemed to be imagining a paint-by-the-numbers substitute.
“That bandana is family. It’s right where it’s supposed to be.”
“They’re paying money if they like something–real money. They got a grant.”
“You don’t sell family, darling.”
“It’s an historical artifact.”
“You’re trying too hard, daughter.”
Carlene took a moment to take in a deep breath. “They have an appraiser. I’ve met him.
“I’m sure you have.”
“He’s real interested in that bandana. Can I at least bring him over to look at it?”
“Of course, dear.” Charlotte waved her right hand over the top of the bubbling pot and breathed in the earthy aroma. Her glasses fogged up and she took them off. “That’ll do. Are you staying for supper?”
Carlene showed up the next morning with the appraiser. Charlotte was waiting with a tray of coffee and cookies when she heard the knock on the door. Stedson Alborty was not exactly what she expected. Instead of a “university type,” he was a large, handsome man dressed in blue jeans and a work shirt. He wore a baseball cap emblazoned with LSU, Louisiana State University, in gold on a dark purple background. His eyes went immediately to the framed bandana.
“May I examine the—”
“Not to be rude, Mr. Alborty, but let’s chat a bit first.” Charlotte gestured to the couch and chairs around her coffee table. “Why are you so interested in what my daughter calls a ratty old thing, Mr. Alborty?”
Carlene looked away.
Alborty finished a sip of coffee. “Stedson, please. Call me Stedson.”
“Certainly.” Charlotte tended to be more formal than her nature when meeting people for the first time. She was not standoffish, merely observant.
Alborty was very polite and he made a fine and only a mildly passionate presentation. He spoke of the need for preserving history. He called it “real history,” the memories and artifacts of people who were really “there.” Charlotte eventually began nodding in agreement. Carlene nodded so vigorously that she was in danger of pulling a neck muscle. Alborty said, “I have a substantial budget. More than that, if I don’t spend it all, I’ll never get a bigger acquisition budget next year.”
“What exactly does that mean to me, mister . . . Stedsen?”
“It means I pretty much have to offer you more than top dollar for your bandana.” He smiled and scribbled a dollar figure on a notepad he carried in his pocket.
“This is quite a sum for a ratty old thing.”
“Mom!” Carlene reached over and took the notepaper. “Oh, my!”
Alborty said, “Like I told your mother, this really is a one-time offer.”
“Oh, mom, you have to. You just have to.”
Charlotte leaned back into her couch and thought for a long moment. She looked at her daughter. “This will make you happy?”
“Me. And a lot of other people. A museum, mom!”
Charlotte looked over to the bandana in its cheap plastic frame. It had slipped again and was hanging at an angle. She sighed and said, “If that’s what you want . . .”
Alborty sat up straight and seized the opportunity. “Thank you, Mrs. Tetrozoa. For me and the university. And for the people who will see this in the museum. I will be by in the morning with a check and you can hand over the bandana then. Is that all right?”
Charlotte nodded.
Alborty and Carlene stayed only long enough to be polite before leaving. As she heard them drive away, Charlotte leaned back and took in a long look at the frayed and stained bandana.
Alborty arrived at ten a.m. the next morning. Charlotte was not in the least bit surprised to see her daughter with him. When they entered the house, Charlotte was nearly frantic.
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry, Stedson. Carlene. I am so, so sorry.”
“Mom, what happened?”
Charlotte motioned them farther in and led them to the kitchen table. An old cardboard box rested on the edge. “I . . . I wanted to make sure our bandana would be, you know, proper for a museum.” She wrung her hands nervously.
“Mom?”
Charlotte ducked her head and reached into the box. “I wanted it clean and pressed for you, Mr. Alborty.” She pulled out what looked like a large white handkerchief.
Stedson leaned in for a closer look. He saw a hole the size of a WWI German bullet in one corner. A badly washed-out letter T dominated the center. The blood stains were completely gone. “I am so sorry.”
Stedson’s shoulders sagged just a bit. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, Mrs. Tetrozoa, obviously . . .”
“Of course. I understand. I really am sorry. I just wanted to—”
“That’s all right. Things happen. Your loss is our loss, but I understand how you must feel. I, too, am sorry.” He seemed anxious to leave.
Charlotte folded the white cloth. “Well, at least I still have something.”
There was not much left to say. Carlene had bummed a ride with Alborty, so they left together. When they were gone, Charlotte walked over to the wall where the framed bandana had been. She reached behind the nearby couch and retrieved a paint-by-the-numbers painting of a farmhouse on a rural road. It was something she grabbed at a neighbor’s yard sale the afternoon before. She hung it and stepped back, nodding with appreciation.
That evening before going to bed, Charlotte pulled open a bottom dresser drawer in her bedroom. She pulled out the old plastic frame still holding in the old bandana. She wiped off a fingerprint smudge, smiled with approval, and placed the heirloom back in the bottom drawer.
The Bandana Book II was well received at the launch party. Thirty guests with international backgrounds celebrated the UNUSUAL ENCOUNTERS in the newest Bandana edition. With 24 delightful stories, the new Bandana Book is bigger and better than the first. Hopefully, it keeps going.
People came from just as many countries as backgrounds. We had a lot of amazing talent from India, Sri Lanka, Germany, Peru, Finland, Colombia, Latvia, cross-USA, and even home-grown Arizona talent. Let’s see where all the bandana stories and guests come from.
DAN BALDWIN, Bandana Author
is a prolific Mesa writer, ghostwriter, author, public speaker. He has two new titles out:
“My new how-to book on writing, I’m Looking for People Who Can’t Write Good – Random Brilliance, Brainstorms and Blogs on Writing is now available in ebook, paperback, and hardcover.
My latest paranormal non-fiction book will be released by the end of June –The Sky People and Our Ancestors. I’ll be appearing on podcasts Conflict Radio,on Shifting Paradigms In Medicine, and on The Typical Skeptic in June.”
is a writer, cowgirl poet, and reenacter of the Western glory days of the Wickenburg Marshals in Arizona. She teaches art and gives art therapy in her art studio or behavioral centers. She spends as much time as she can writing. You can find all her meanderings and writings atwww.americancowboyjournal.com or at www.jeantolle.com
RAINE (KEYA HUNTS-IN-WINTER), Bandana Author
Raine won the Imakinations “Totally Young Writer” Award. She is at her young age–going to be a sophomore in high school–a prolific writer of fan fiction and fantasy stories. She likes to dive into online platforms and has gotten an amazing response in cyber space.
NOEL ALVAREZ, Bandana Author
Noel is a longtime school counselor with Mesa Public Schools and over the years has served many families in the Native American Education Program, until she recently transferred into another position. She is Navajo and Muskogee Creek. She has improved many a student’s outlook in life. She makes anyone feel better with her gracious smile.
BETTY MERMELSTEIN, Bandana Author
“My latest publication: This is Fetch, an illustrated children’s book published by Pegasus Publishers. My books for children and adults can be found at Punkynotes, including published poetry and short story links.”
Tuula, now living in Henderson, NV, is a native of Finland and a world traveler. She has enjoyed encounters with Jane Seymour, James Patterson, and other celebrities. She likes to read true crime stories and mysteries along the lines of Patterson. She has written about two suspicious or criminal incidents.
UTA BEHRENS, Bandana Author
Uta Behrens has made her career as real estate investor. She has sponsored many educational and community organizations. In her golden years, she has authored 7 books: The Truth Seeker, Journeys in the Lifeboat, Journeys Into the Past, Ultimate Betrayal, Journeys into Foreign Lands, and Journeys as a Landlord. I enjoyed helping her produce the last two volumes.
TIM HUNTS-IN-WINTER
Tim is a member of the Lakota Standing Rock Reservation. He has been an advocate for Native rights and has worked as promoter and coach for Native youth in Mesa school system. He is also an excellent story teller and a treasure trove of Native American history. Lately, he has specialized in researching the Lakota code talker history of WWI and will soon publish a paper about his findings. Timothy Hunts-In-Winter
SRIANTHI PERERA
Srianthi is a professional, international journalist and book author with roots in Sri Lanka. She entered the book world with her well-received coming-of-age story, A Maiden’s Prayer. Srianthi recently published a humorous and educational travel story book that she coauthored with her childhood friend Romany, Two Friends on Many Roads.
INGE McKEEVER
Inge, with German and Latin American roots, has been a successful business woman, a Jill of Many Trades. She has the drop on fashion trends and is currently dealing in themed costumes. Special events and Halloween are keeping her real busy. As she has had much multilingual experience with the preschools she ran earlier, she is now working on a bilingual curriculum for children. It could be the next Rosetta Stone.
PATRICIA SAUNDERS
Patricia is the older sister to Inge (above). She recently documented her incredible life story in a memoir. Her journey led her from Ecuador to Colombia to finally Portland, Oregon. She overcame many challenges and professional obstacles to become a successful woman with great trust in God. Faith alone didn’t get her to the top; she worked hard for her success. A woman of her word, Patricia directly speaks her mind. Read up on her journey in From Surviving to Thriving.
MATT & MAYA KELLER
Matt (from New Mexico) and Maya (born in Lima, Peru) Keller are our long-time serendipity friends from church. Matt and Maya are expert trailblazers, and we enjoy their encyclopedic knowledge of hidden paths. Matt is a horticulturist and shares his experience with domestic and foreign fruit trees on his blog Phoenix Tropicals.
SANDE ROBERTS
Sande has been a mitigator for public organizations and a life/success counselor in schools and private practice. Her motto is “You can be the difference!” She now teaches workshops in suicide prevention, PTSD, Emotional Freedom Technique, and financial personality. Her book We Need to Talk about Suicide has received great attention. Recently, she also published a children’s book, Blake’s Great Day.
JEANNE DEVINE
Jeanne, our activist friend and founder of the grassroots organization Unlimited Potential in Phoenix, always inspires us to seek new adventures in humanitarian efforts.
as well as Dr. Inder Raj Singh Makin (host), Sarah Bohrer, Ruth Ann & Jerry Thacker, Rita Rucks, Debosree & Tamas, and everybody.
AUTHORS celebrating with us in Spirit:
ELISABETH SHERWOOD, Payson, AZ
Elisabeth is the inspiration and creator for the Bandana cover image. Her cowgirl, and now cowboy, collages are mysterious and humorous at the same time. You can see more of her art at INSTAGRAM.
CHRISTIAN BAUDY, Hamburg, Germany
Christian is a poet, painter, activist, and author. His German debut poetry collection Blättern unter Bäumen (Turning Pages below the Trees) appeared in 2021. In 2022, Christian published his first bilingual children’s book, Robert’s Teddy/Roberts Teddy. Sometimes Christian’s poems are coupled with paintings. His recent INSTAGRAM.
GISELA BAUDY, Hamburg, Germany
Gisela is a trained editor, and long-time freelance journalist, focusing on ecological and socio-economic change. Many of her poems can be found online and in her poetry volumes Worthaut (Word Skin), Blaues Ufer (Blue Shore), and Winter im April (Winter in April). She writes eco-social haikus, eleven-word poems, prose poems, and epigrams with her husband Christian Baudy. Follow her INSTAGRAM.
EMILY TOADVINE, Kentucky
Emily is this year’s first prize winner. She spent 25 years in journalism, mostly as features editor at a newspaper in Danville, KY. She now works in Kentucky’s bourbon tourism industry.
RENATE MOUSSEUX
Renate, originally from Freiburg, Germany, has been a lifetime educator in foreign languages, foremost German and French. She has documented her harrowing life story that ultimately led to great success through tenacity and ingenuity in her memoir, Renatle. After retirement, she has also become a body language interpreter and has evaluated witness behavior in famous criminal cases for TV stations. Her humanitarian activism is exemplary. She certainly has earned the Totally Humanitarian Trooper Award.
ZARCO GUERRERO, Mesa, AZ
Zarco Guerrero is an eminent figure in the Valley’s (Phoenix) cultural life. He is most well-known for his masterful masks that he carves or creates with papier maché, fabric, and other materials. He is also a community activist, philanthropist, story teller, performance artist, and historian. Zarco researched a much philosophical background behind the bandana, which is included in this collection. Find out more about him at Zarkmask.com
RUSS YOUNG, Kentucky
Russ is a photo historian who has researched a number of historic processes, such as cyanotypes and kalotypes. He gets called on many professional conventions that study the evolution of photographic chemistry. He has a keen eye for landscape photography. And he is a keeper of tradition to the point of reenacting parts of the same.
EDDA BUCHNER, Texas
Edda is a journalist and German correspondent living with her husband, Helmut, a sculptor, on a homegrown ranch near San Antonio, Texas. Edda has for many years shared her farm experience in her First Hand Living column in the New Braunfels newspaper and later collected her stories in a book called Texas Kaktuswein, Leben aus erster Hand. She continues, painting, writing stories, and gardening.
KATHERINE ZAWADA, Pennsylvania & Montana
Katherine is a first-year student at Swarthmore College by Philadelphia, PA. She earned herself a tennis scholarship and continues on the college path with top grades. If she keeps up the good writes, we will see a book from her soon.
BETH DOTSON, Kentucky
Beth won a prize in the first Bandana Book, but got too busy with her first novel. “This year, I will finally see one of my dreams fulfilled—my debut novel, Rooted in Sunrise, will be published and released into the world on September 17, 2024,” she writes in her newsletter. Aside from writing and publishing, Beth likes to get her hands dirty while gardening. bethdotsonbrown.net
VICKY LESCOE, Mesa, AZ
Vicky is a much cherished educator in the Mesa Public Schools system. She was recruited by her friend Noel to write a story about her hiking experience and knight in shining bandana. We hope she will write more for us.
HAPPY TRAILS to all of you writers! Keep up the good writes!
Environmental Day at the Capitolearlier this year, struck my memory chord like a gong chiming in my head. Activists from all corners had gathered on the Arizona Capitol grounds in Phoenix to lobby for water protection measures and have a word with their District reps.
Water rights are a hot topic in Arizona. All the Southwestern states’ livelihoods depend on their secure water resource, mostly the Colorado River share quotas.
The Colorado River is so dammed up that none of its waters reach the Gulf of California any more. Lake Mead, in 2023, was at its lowest since the Hoover Dam (1 of 15 Colorado River dams) was built. 2023 was another heat record year with 50+ days over 110F. It’s a damn’ dry situation. For many Native Americans, Navajos included, water has always been scarce.
My friends took me to Gallup. More precisely, a rural lot outside town on the Navajo reservation. I had been cautioned: there is no running water. So bring a pallet of bottles. For that part, there would also be no royal flush. I got it. Outhouse. No worries there. I had grown up on a farm with a Plumpsklosett.
A couple of miles on the north side of Gallup, my GPS turned me onto a dirt road. I made it across the narrow bridge, but was soon stopped by a curious horse in the middle of the road. Anyways, the rainy spring had made the road rutted, but after I got the hang of it, the tracks became quite passable.
It was a beautiful scene out here in the afternoon. The horizon started to take on an amber glow, the boulder mountains toned into a warm ochre, the blue zenith sky darkened to let the stars out, and the scarce pine trees poked their spiny arms into the fresh air. All was quiet out here, except for the dogs.
My friend’s house had a warm, cuddly, welcoming air to it. It was very much ranch-style in its decor with blankets, Native art, and the occasional antler. This was a much privileged outing for me, because a group of strong Native women shared their time and space with me. And I finally would get to see Window Rock, the Navajo capital, as well.
We had the most comfortable picnic with fine mattresses to sleep on. We were glamping on many things, television included. However, there was no running water. And you feel that right away. The kitchen had two large water containers by the sink, but, unlike rare wine, the water in it had not improved its taste since its delivery. It was only old and best used for washing dishes. And still, it seemed to be too precious for that as well. We used paper plates all the way through.
I learned fast: keep the hand sanitizer and wipes on the cabinet by the entrance for the bathroom trips, don’t drink too much, so you don’t have to go too often, and save your paper plate for the next meal. I learned to brush my teeth with bottled water and spit each mouthful into the desert bush. I had this urge–when preparing breakfast, making a sandwich, getting sticky fingers–to go to the sink. But the sink had no water. A long time ago, when the family still lived here, they carted in their water on a truck to fill the tank outside. But that was the old days.
Many Navajo families have no water lines going to their houses. Imagine, any and all water has to be hauled over long distances and bad roads. Imagine how hard it will be to maintain proper hygiene. Imagine how health-compromised individuals might suffer. Or what about elder and infant care? Staying well and healthy requires a reasonable amount of water.
Yes, on the second day I felt the dearth of water. My armpits got stinky. I wetted a Kleenex and went to work. But what about the long range? How would I keep clean, wash up, brush off the dust? I don’t think there was a creek nearby and many hopes for rain in the Southwest are in vain. All you can do, really, is drive to the next truck stop on IH 40 and use their public showers.
I wasn’t ready to do that just yet, but on the third day I hit the pedal to the metal to get home to my own comfort.
Back to the Environmental Day. One Native organization, Tó Nizhóní Ání (“Sacred Water Speaks”) from the Big Mountain community on the Black Mesa Plateau in NE Arizona, protested the industrial abuse (hydroelectric project) of water: The Black Mesa Pumped Storage Project.
Pumping groundwater to the top of a plateau to make it generate electricity—a questionable project. It would seriously endanger the aquifer. As of this February, three of such proposed pumped storage projects were fortunately denied. A remarkable victory for the Navajo environmentalists.
Native activists are fighting for the Earth and US ALL. Water is so precious. We think we know that. But that’s not enough. Someone needs to make us FEEL its preciousness.
Therefore I propose a universal
No-Water-Running Day
Switch off the water main in the evening and see how the next day goes. And touch no faucet at work or school either. Toilet included. Don’t flush. How will you get through the day? You will be allowed to prepare for the water emergency by your own design. But don’t forget: No water will run for you on tap. And why should it? Water needs a break too. It runs all the time.
LIVING INSIDE HISTORY: That Barbarian, Bavarian 70ies story.
Katrina, 17, lives in 2000-year-old village. And yet her historical essays stink. Success comes when Katrina plagiarizes her late grandmother’s diary and the story gets run in the paper. Now the whole village is up in arms against her. There was some old dirt and a skeleton in the closet. This is only the beginning of Katrina’s adventures, because soon a real skeleton is found.
What a story! Katrina is looking for love in all the wrong places until she starts seeing ghosts. Now the Celtic Stallion is out in English! The Celtic Stallion now also rides the American plains.
St. George’s Chapel on the hill, minus the horse ghost, painted by my grandmother Katharina
The original “Keltenschimmel” started in my Bavarian home town. There was a sensational archaeological find in the village: in the year 2000, a Celtic princess was unearthed during the renovation project of an old farm house. Imagine—she comes to life again. And imagine all the other ghosts in between. St. George’s Chapel on the hill had at least four of them: the dragon, the hound, the witch, and the white stallion.
I sat down and wrote the Celtic Stallion then, perhaps in a pursuit of preserving the “good old days.” My book of coming-of-age amidst village myths—between a Celtic burial 2000 years ago and the Comanche who roamed the area during WWII—spilled forth on the pages. I could not have turned this off. But why this urge?
Votive paintings, such as these, are part of a church robbery in the story that Katrina gets blamed for
Was I processing my past? Perhaps. Back then, as a teenager, I could feel the exclusion and sublime bullying caused by my pursuit of higher education. Was I processing the present? Maybe even more so. Conglomerate farming and the insanity of modern times had knocked tradition to the ground. Nobody went to church, but everybody was at the Corn Field Party. Does this show my age? I (hypocrite) am not such a good church goer myself. And, finally, I could not handle the fact that another archaeological study was done towards clearance for a hypermarket building permit. All that was discovered there, is now buried under the sales floor of the grocery store. And even more farmland fell victim to the new commercial district.
This could be the hen house in which Katrina dueled with her type writer against grandpa’s peening clanks
Enough of that. My story plays in a small, 70s, Bavarian village, when the world was mostly still in order. Or so Katrina, the 17-year-old high school student thought. Oh, well, not so OK for a capricious teenager. Katrina was looking for love in all the wrong places, wrote the worst essays ever, and sparred against her mute grandfather in a duel of clattering noises: he sharpening his scythes, she hacking away at her typewriter in the hen house. Needless to say, a modern girl who lives in an old-fashioned village is bound to run into trouble. And ghosts as well. The Celtic Stallion indulges you with the Otherworld or Adventureland of modern German mythology. Be entertained by Katrina’s mishaps and the devious ghosts of St. George’s Hill: the witch, the dragon, and the white stallion. They all come to life, one way or another. History never dies.
The Celtic Stallion is now available in English on Amazon.
The German reading at the Grabenmühle near my hometown was staged with love and care. We had four presenters, who practiced their stage skills. Harp music and singing, were all part of it.
Guest Column by Dan Baldwin, Ghost-Writer & Author
I remember the 1950s when conformity in life, belief and culture was not only expected, it was demanded. Most people went along, but there were a few on the fringe who refused to conform. This was before the age of the hippie. (Although of that generation, I have more in common with the beatniks—jazz, writing, being cool as opposed to being loud, “sick” comedians like Lenny Bruce, Mort Sahl.) We seem to be living in a retro-fifties era today. The cries for conformity are everywhere. If you’ll watch the news carefully you’ll see that the “free” kids of the sixties, who are now in their seventies, are bringing back the worst of the fifties.
That’s true in the writing universe, too. As with the “pantsters” vs. “plotters” debate, we have an ongoing confrontation between those who believe in the conventional and those who believe in the cool (originally a beat term).
Dan talking to the spirits of the past with his pendulum
The conformist seek comfort in well-established, inflexible rules. The cool isn’t afraid to risk pushing the edge of the box or even punching through now and then. For example, the conventional believes with the faith of a 12-year-old Southern Baptist at her first tent revival that a work must—must mind you—be rewritten and rewritten and rewritten until like Goldilocks says, “it’s just right.” The cool, with the confidence in his own ability looks across the uncharted literary landscape and says, “I wonder what’s over there” and then makes the journey to find out.
Being a beat generation survivor, I think of myself as a cool. I send my works to first readers for their input. I listen to that input, evaluate it, and incorporate their suggestions if I agree with them. A conventional writer will automatically submit to the recommended changes of an editor, critique group, best friend, fellow writer, or first reader without hesitation. Why? Because that’s the way it’s done. The rule book says so.
A conventional knows for a fact that the way to publishing success is to get an agent who will get a publisher who will then publish the work. He knows for certain that this is the only sure-fire method. The cool knows that he can take that road or choose another, such as self-publishing. I’ve debated the pros and cons of traditional vs. self-publishing and each side has its share. The amount of emotional attachment some authors have to conventional thinking, however, borders on religious belief.
I am not against conventional writing, publishing or marketing techniques provided they are not employed by rote simply because ‘that’s the way we’ve always done it.’ To me, conventional or cool should be a choice and not a self-imposed mandate.
Something to think about, eh? Give it some thought.
Dan Baldwin has been my role model and motivator for the last 15 years. He has penned and ghosted probably more than 70 books. Mysteries, thrillers, westerns, and the paranormal are his favorite genres. In his spare time he works as a psychic detective to let the departed speak through his pendulum. You can contact him through his website below.
Here is a taste of my my bandana story. It’s about the red snuff kerchief that my Opa always carried along. But how will this story end?
Opa took me to the St. Leonhard’s horse parade. I was 2 years old
“Opa has picked berries for you!” Mom was in her typical taking-care-of-business mode. She rushed past me through the kitchen with a load full of washed laundry. She had no time to waste before heading back out into the field.
This was the berry-picking and haymaking season in my Bavarian village. You could tell by the tattered house dress Mama was wearing. Her hair was tied under a headscarf. Her skin was flushed. On her upper arms tan lines showed from longer sleeves. She was ready to jump on the tractor as soon as the sheets were hung.
I flung my school bag into the corner of the bench. Then I dropped my four letters down and grabbed the plate, warmed-up pancake soup and a schmalznoodle. For those who do not know, pancake soup is a clear broth with plain omelet strips cut into it, and schmalznoodles are sticks of fried bread. Beggars can’t be choosers, but I could smell the berries before Mama had set the bowl on the table.
“Here, Opa picked these for you!”
Wow, raspberries, blueberries, strawberries. They glistened like sumptuous little jewels. “Where did he find them?”
“Inside the Marsh Moss clearing. Didn’t take him but 15 minutes to scoop these up.”
Grandpa always looked out for us kids, me and my three younger siblings. He helped us build bird houses, constructed an underpass along the creek so that we didn’t have to cross the busy state road, and made sure to drive us home at 6:30 with a stick.
“How did he carry them home? Did he have a basket?”
“Nope.”
“His hat?’
“Nope, his bandana. You know how he ties these knots in it.”
“His bandana?”
“Yes. Eat up. I must go now. There is some cream in the fridge. Aren’t you getting a royal feast today! Thank your Opa for it.” And out she was. Seconds later, the small tractor puttered off the yard.
Gramps’ bandana? The berries suddenly didn’t smell so good any more. I didn’t dare imagine all the places the bandana had been. And he never put it in the wash. He insisted on washing it himself, usually in the rainwater trough under the gutter spout. Easy grandpa logic. That red bandana was his only one. His lucky bandana. He couldn’t do a day without it. So, he washed it himself, as needed.
As needed? I gagged. I kept on ladling my pancake soup, very slowly. Gramps’ bandana, was it washed? When was it washed last? I ogled the sparkling berries in front of me. And my imagination went wild. Poisoned by a snuffed out bandana?
Should I risk a light bandana poisoning? It was a hot day today, and gramps for sure had wiped his sweat on his bandana. Or was I in for a severe intoxication from snuff snot? That is, my gramps was addicted to stuffing Gletscherprise (Glacier Pinch) up his nose and then blow it out like an erupting volcano into his almighty bandana. Brown goop. That and the recent bloody accident had made the “bandana berries” most unpalatable to me. Three days ago, gramps had spliced not only the kindling but also his palm with his splicing knife. Blood was dripping. “No big deal,” he had growled after mom had rushed to bring him a bandage. He beat her to it and wrapped his good-fortune bandana around his palm. Maybe it had curative properties? The next day the cut was gone.
Where all had the bandana been? I stared at the bowl of berries. The soup was finished and I was still hungry. I pulled the bowl closer and sniffed the stunning aroma.
Bandana berries—to eat or not to eat was the question
How do you think the story ends? Send me your (alternate) ending for this bit. It would be great fun to contribute your guesses to my story.
NOTE: My webmail isn’t jinxed. It just may ask you to declare yourself as human. So write in any time if you’re not an android. If you’re getting a weird reply, it’s my spam blocker.
The ad of the day: Dump the plastic detergent and find yourself a real man!
This can’t wait any longer. The Huntington Beach oil spill on October 4th, 2021, reminded me again. 25,000 gallons of crude oil flowed into the ocean. As the beach cleanup goes on, residents can apply for federal disaster loans. But why should the government (we) pay for the corporate oil exploitation sins? Make the oil barons cough up the money. Besides, no money can make the hazards of offshore drilling or pipelines breaks go away.
Look, at the above sculpture “Water Is Life (Remembering Standing Rock)”, a porcelain piece by Cincinnati artist Lisa Hueil Conner. It was featured in an SOS Art Exhibit and Retrospective last year. Isn’t it beautiful? I just had to have it. I look at it every day. It tells an important story. And it’s also a stark warning about oil spills.
There are oil spills all the time. Remember the Amoco Cadiz in 1978? The Exxon Valdez in 1989? The exploded and burning oil platform in the Gulf at BP’s Deep Water Horizon in 2010? This was the largest oil spill in history, which left 11 workers dead.
And the spills continue. There were at least 8 spills at the North Dakota Access Pipeline in 2017 after it was put in operation again. The Native American DAPL protesters (2014 to November 2016), who held watch over their land, were trying to stop the pipeline transgression, but the protectors of the land were forcibly removed.
At the time of the no-DAPL protests in 2016, I marched too, in Arizona. At our Native American program in the high school, we held a presentation on the DAPL issue with Native American speakers, Tim Hunts-in-Winter (Lakota, Standing Rock), Stephanie Big Crow (Oglala Lakota), and a key participant by the name of Rance. (The assistant principal wasn’t too happy about it.)
The Dakota (Sioux) knew they had reason to be afraid: The Black Snake prophesy could bring life to an end. In that prophesy, a black snake would slither across the land, poisoning the water before destroying the Earth—the Dakota Access pipeline. It crosses over the Standing Rock Reservation and under the waters of the Missouri.
“There was a prophecy saying that there is a black snake above ground. And what do we see? We see black highways across the nation,” said Dave Archambault, chairman of the Standing Rock reservation, which straddles North and South Dakota. “There’s also a prophecy that when that black snake goes underground, it’s going to be devastating to the Earth.” (CBC News, December 11, 2016)
That’s why hundreds of people had gathered in 2016 to pray in camps along the Missouri River. The incoming Trump administration put a violent end to the encampments.
DAPL continued. The DAPL pipeline expansion is now vying to cross under the Missouri River without a federal permit. Standing Rock fears that their drinking water supply is threatened. They called on President Biden to shut down the pipeline.
Lisa Hueil Conner speaks my mind:
“We still see the disregard for indigenous people’s humanity in the handling of the Standing Rock Pipeline in North Dakota and its ongoing controversy since 2014. Hiking trips to several national and state parks in the Dakotas inspired my work in porcelain called “Water is Life (Remembering Standing Rock)”. This piece is a visual statement of my outrage over the pipeline that was allowed to be built below Lake Oahe and through sacred native lands in North Dakota. The base of the piece depicts a Lakota family (a father, mother, and child) with representative Lakota icons displayed beside each face. The faces are a composite created after viewing many photographs of members of the Lakota tribe. The rim is the pipeline as it leaks toxins into the ground water of the Lakota peoples. Of course, the pipeline has leaked countless times into the lake water.”
What can I say? Protest, protest, protest! Speak up when things are wrong. Art can give you a voice for that. SOS Art Cincinnati has been going strong for 25 years, giving a diverse voice to many political concerns. There is a lot say about humanitarian outrage—rightfully so.
What can we do? We all use oil. We can car pool and use less of it. We can opt for alternative energies. We need to be willing to pay a higher price for clean products.
But what would we be without water? Lake Mead is at its lowest point in history.
Lake Mead has declined about 140 feet since 2000 and now sits at 37% of full capacity.
Luckily we can always drive up to Horton Springs for some untreated well water right from the earth. Inder scooped it straight from the source; spring in the rocks to his right. (Yeah, yeah, wrong kind of bottle, I know!)
I hope this spring will stay clean forever. You all stay clean!
ABOVE: Performing at LeMars, Iowa, in 2015 are Frankie Carter (left), Tommy Buller (middle), Lillie Mae Rische (right, fiddle), and two more.
Bob Everhart has left the building. He passed away on August 20, 2021, at the age of 85 from heart complications. The world of Old-Time Country Music has lost its most passionate advocate. He was a great entertainer as well. Here we are with Bob and Sheila at LeMars in 2017.
I met Bob on my first trip to the United States in 1979, visiting my hometown Friend Maria “Leni” Petersen in Omaha, Nebraska. She, an accomplished zither player and singer, took me to a county fair park called Westfair.
Maria “Leni” Petersen, plays the zither, her friend the guitar, the harmonica, and the saw.
Instantly, I was immersed in a world where folks strummed and fiddled and balladed on every corner of some dusty arenas or around the camp fires in the RV park. You could hear bluegrass, honky tonk, highway music or Appalachian dulcimers, a vast range of styles topped off by gospels and spirituals. This good-natured music mania was also going on simultaneously on several stages. There were competitions, instruments, vendors, foreign guests–I was hooked. In the eighties, I often ventured to Iowa over Labor Day weekend for a country music bath and to hear familiar acts again.
Bob is recognizing Harry Rusk, a First Nations minister and singer from Alberta, Canada, with a lifetime award.
Bob Everhart was the perfect host at his festival, scootering on a golf cart all over the park. He was also an accomplished singer of train songs, when he let his harmonica do the Train Whistle Blues, ALL Around the Water Tank, the City of New Orleans, or the Wabash Cannonball. And in the winter he usually went on tour to Europe, including Germany. When I still lived there, I booked a couple of gigs for him at the Oklahoma in Munich, the Notabene in Wolfratshausen, and even Gasthaus Lacherdinger in Ascholding. I will never forget that raucous evening with the Black Bottom Skiffle group. That night I realized that I would never want to be a music event manager. How, dear Bob in heaven, could you do that tricky business for more than 40 years? God bless you! Please tell him/her to blow a bit of traditional country music our way, and not those terrible hurricanes!
A snapshot of Bob and me in 2015.
Nobody made a lot of money at Westfair, Avoca, or LeMars, but we all made lifetime friends. When I revisited Bob’s festival in 2015 and 2017, I recognized some familiar faces from the eighties, like Stanley “Gallon Hat” or Erv Pickhinke. Some I didn’t recognize because they weren’t born yet in the eighties. These young musicians were the maybe-soon-to-be-famous offspring of the CW hardliners. Bob cared a lot about growing up young country musicians. He was excited to provide them a platform to show their talents. Bob kept his Who’s Got Talent in Country Music going until his eighties. Well done! A life unmatched.
And so many of the young CW folks played him their last respects with songs like “In the Sweet By and By.” But here comes Jacob Austin as Dapper Dan.
Bye, bye, Bob! Keep on jamming with Woody Guthrie, Hank Williams, Johnny Cash and company.
Here is more In Loving Memory of Robert Phillip Everhart
Makin’ Art, Priyanka’s label, is catching on. My multi-talented daughter has produced artworks since early childhood. She has always had a creative knack and amazing patience for precision. That suited her well for her Computer and Electrical Engineering degree at UC Boulder. Now she tinkers with coding and microcontrollers, making new circuits for Sparkfun, an open source electronic components company, also in Boulder.
Art keeps growing on Priyanka and has taken on a technical form: she designs and builds electronic gadgets for art installations, such as Trey Duvall’s mobile constructs and Jaime Carrejo’s “Waiting” exhibit at the Denver Contemporary Art Museum.
All right, let this proud mom brag for a minute or two. Tenacity is one of my daughter’s trademarks. She does art in spite of a full engineering load and turns out a lot of good stuff. Who would have thought that in the digital age she would learn black and white print processing on her own initiative? (Didn’t ask me. You must know that her mom has a degree in photography.) She also paints beautifully in watercolor. Lately, Priyanka has developed the Shrinky-dinks into whimsical earrings and charms. And since she knows what makes a clock tick, other artist keep calling her about musical cuckoo doors, blinking neurons, or floating plants. That is the technical part of her art. How lucky she is to be an engineer.
Now here comes the joint project: Last Christmas Priyanka surprised me with the illustrations for my Random Accident story. That scenario, about 20 years in the making, is somewhat between Brave New World and Shrek. Her images are right on: a fantastical, hopeful, post-apocalyptical environment, in which salvation is steered by a little girl. Whimsical, humorous, and yet right down to earth in their floral splendor. What a multi-talented daughter!
You can find out more about Priyanka’s activities and projects at www.priyankamakin.com
Dr. John W. Molina is a remarkable health professional and activist. I met him first at my own house, when he attended my friend Renate Mousseux’s launch party for her memoir, Renatle, Mosaic of Life. Renate had known Dr. Molina for many years. She had organized fundraisers for his Las Fuentes clinic in the past. Dr. Molina makes a striking appearance, looking the part of a Native American doctor wearing a long braid and traditional regalia.
A couple of years later, I got to edit and produce Dr. Molina’s own life story. Having worked with Native American youth in the Mesa School District, his memoir was a real eye opener for me as I kept editing away. Molina’s title evolved over time and became Im Jittoa Bo’o—My Healing Journey, leaning on his Yaqui heritage. And the content reads like a movie. The “Healing Journey” and life experience thrilled me on many levels. I fell right into it. This book, which came as a complete and quite clean manuscript to me, helped me see the Native American experience through Molina’s eyes.
Dr. Molina’s story is written in an engaging narrative voice. He is careful with word selection but all out honest. He grew up in the little Yaqui town of Guadalupe near Tempe as a day laborer’s son. He finished high school (an exception in his community back then), hired on with the Navy, then became a pastor for a Christian church, studied psychology, and eventually landed a community project looking after diabetic patients from his own village. Molina saw many unattended ailments and a great need for a doctor. “Why don’t you become that doctor?” his mentor challenged him. And so he did. After medical school (UofA), Molina specialized in OBGYN and founded the Las Fuentes Community Clinic. So much for the first 25 percent of his CV. He is also a jurist, healthcare advocate, and Doctor of Humane Letters, the whole list is hard to remember.
Molina is totally honest about his bumpy road to success. He faced bullying, alcoholism, prejudice, peer pressures from his own tribe, but whatever he set his mind to—he accomplished it each time at a high price and at his own risk. Tragedy struck not only once. Racial bias in the professional arena did not deter him.
Along with studying the academics, Molina also observed the ancient knowledge of medicine men. As a healthcare compliance officer for Native Health, he now makes sure that Native American patients receive good quality of care. He has reached a position that allows him to work from his cultural roots, through a holistic outlook, to serve the the whole human being. As a young physician laboring through 36-hour-shifts, he also strove for integrative approaches and, when possible, allowed the traditional healing methods to cure the body as well as the soul.
Many times Molina encountered serious doubts and discrimination. “You are a doctor?” hospital parking attendants would ask him when he walked by in street clothes. At a very young age he had realized that a white coat makes all the difference.
My favorite passage is the part where Molina hashes through the decision making process of becoming a doctor. He tells his mentor. “If I go to medical school, I will probably be 40 years old by the time I become a doctor.” His friend replies, “You will be 40 years old whether you become a doctor or not.” Simple fact. Age is an arbitrary measure, but what you do with your time has real value.
As I navigated through the book, my admiration for this man’s determination, ambition, and compassion grew with each chapter. As an anthropologist I was fascinated by the fact that Dr. Molina also turned to traditional healers and the deep knowledge from the past.
Molina narrates his story with bone-chilling honesty. He shares painful details about his affliction with addiction, family tragedies, and professional trials and tribulations—as well as his remarkable, almost miraculous successes.
All throughout his reflections, Molina does not go easy on himself. He has led a full and restless life, but he overcame, regrouped, and always put himself back on the straight road again. Now, granted, he is still a workaholic, but all to the benefit of the Native American nations and their health improvements.
Im Jittoa Bo’o—My Healing Journey, by Dr. John W. Molina. Read it. Molina’s book will enrich your outlook. Money is not all that counts. Insights are important too—and maybe a long list of credentials. Or better, what you did to help others.
You can find out more about Dr. John Ward Molina MD JD DHL on his LinkedIn page.
Waiting. Waiting again. Now at Safelight Autoglass.
This wait was totally unexpected. The timing was freakish. An ice block from the overpass hit our windshield as we were driving under it. It delayed our trip by a whole day. Dreadful.
Aren’t all waits dreaded? The wait in the doctor’s practice, the turn of the red light, the hand of the clock to reach twelve? Waiting for summer, for your turn, waiting for what and why?
During this time of Covid, we had a lot of waiting to do. And we still haven’t learned anything. We still don’t like it and we are not good at it. Waiting takes practice. It’s a skill, It’s an art. Good waiting makes creative and happy.
Many of us (used to instant gratification at a click) couldn’t wait any longer but then we learned it again during the Covid year. Waiting to go back to school. Waiting for take out orders. Waiting in the carvalcade to get your specimen taken and then waiting for the results to come back. Wait, wait, wait a minute or an hour or a week.
The wait at the post office (even pre-Covid) was usually the deadliest for me. I always thought each PO visit would shorten my life by a day or two. So I avoided the PO. HOWEVER, I was so WRONG: actually the PO extended my life. It tricked me into appreciating my time more. The PO gave me slack time that I wasn’t aware I had in my rushed daily routines.
“Waiting for God” was a British sitcom about feisty older folks in an assisted living home. They didn’t jus want to wait around. They wanted to be players in their home court. Nobody wants to wait. Waiting seems a waste.
Waiting is good. Why? We discover our own inner world of fantasy and creativity.
Ask Jaime Carrejo. This Denver artist just now has an installation at the Museum of Contemporary Art called “Waiting.” He made up a colorfully decorated waiting room where the walls seem to come alive in floral patterns and the hanging plants randomly raise or lower themselves. I know all about the ins and outs of this exhibit because my daughter Priyanka Makin (proud mom shout out) designed and built the motorized mechanism for ten of these trailing plants. These spider plants are making a name for themselves by hanging on a thread.
The description for “Waiting” says that “Jaime Carrejo explores the relationship between confinement + duration (=waiting) by layering Southwestern symbolism, mid-century design, and objects from his domestic space.” Wherever this comes from, it is just fun to watch and live inside for a while. More often than not, the pictures on the wall of my doctor’s office have come alive too.
Here is what we learn in this exhibit: Waiting doesn’t kill time. It makes the relationship between space and duration more colorful and essential. Waiting entertains us too. We never know what might happen next. So waiting becomes the real adventure.
All grocery stores must recycle their store-brand plastic water bottles.
OR ELSE: We won’t buy them, drink tap water, refill our own.
All grocery stores must collaborate with beverage manufacturers to create a deposit/recycle system for any which plastic bottles.
OR ELSE: We only buy drinks in glass bottles or cans.
All beverage vendors must institute refillable(plastic) bottles/jugs.
OR ELSE: We only buy glass, cans, or cartons, especially milk.
Door Dash Company must establish a beverage delivery service that also returns our empties.
OR ELSE: What else? Duh! It’s a BUSINESS OPPORTUNITY!
All detergent companies must stop liquid detergents, as the plastic canisters generate unnecessary plastic waste.
OR ELSE: BOYCOTT liquid detergents!!!
All soap/shampoo/body wash and other hygiene articles producers must provide “infusion bag” style dispensers with reusable nozzle to reduce plastic waste.
OR ELSE: We only use bar soap and make our own beauty supplies.
All condiments such as mayo, mustard, ketchup, salad dressings, etc. must be available in glass bottles or squeeze tubes or infusion bags.
OR ELSE: We mix those up ourselves.
All plastic container/bag/bottle manufacturers must find next-to-zero waste packaging solutions, materials that can be disposed of with minimum damage to the environment.
OR ELSE: See all the above.
All food/beverage/restaurant franchises must use paper straws, paper cups, paper containers or other biodegradable packaging/serving ware.
OR ELSE: We don’t buy and cook our own dinner for a change.
All organizations/schools/communities putting on events must prohibit plastic bottles, plastic dinnerware, and plastic cups. Use water cooler, paper cups, wood utensils, porcelain, or edible containers.
OR ELSE: Organizer(s) must personally separate out the plastic refuse and either reuse or take the plastic to the recycling station.
All consumers (WE) must responsibly and conscientiously participate in plastic recycling, which means taking OUR empties back to the store or recycling station. (REMEMBER THE ALAMO . . . , I mean, PLASTIC BAGS?)
OR ELSE: We don’t deserve what was in the plastic bottle in the first place.
CONSUME LESS!
“Water Is Life” No debate about that. Thousands of people from all over the world gathered last fall 2016 at Standing Rock Reservation for a camp out. The Dakota tribe protested the pipeline because the DAPL violated tribal autonomy, desecrated cultural treasures and gravesite, and put the water resources–above all the Missouri River–in great jeopardy. To no avail. After a short-lived halt of construction by the American Corps of Engineers, the pipeline was finished by executive order and the protesters cleared away in January 2017. There are many stories of camp endurance, nonviolent resistance, and bravery in the harsh Dakota winter. Solidarity and support (such as donated wood-burning stoves from Germany) poured from all over the world.
Listen to this Native American speaker at a Phoenix solidarity protest march.
Nevertheless we humans keep building industrial conundrums. In the process we are soiling & spoiling our water resources. Industries sprout like there is no tomorrow. What kind of tomorrow will it be? The Dakota Access Pipeline is finished and open for business. Pipelines spill all the time. Only we don’t hear much about it, unless an offshore drill platform bursts into flames–mega disaster. Deep Water Horizon?
Here is a much better horizon: Nature listened to people at Standing Rock and sent its buffaloes.
People from all over the world joined the Dakota Nation for Thanksgiving 2016. Native Americans are the Greenpeace of our times. We all need clean water. The descendants of Sitting Bull and Red Cloud are still fighting the legal battle for sovereignty and the environment. Let’s stand with Standing Rock. The debate about water is here to stay.
Tonspuren, Gedichte von Gisela Baudy, ist ein lyrischer Zirkel in zehn Stimmungsbildern des Sich-Suchens, Überwindens, Heimat-findens. Foto-Illustrationen von Chris Baudy und Gisela Baudy.
Tonspuren, bedenke: Der Weg ist das Ziel.
Lebensreise
Werden
der du warst
bevor die Flügel brachen.
Werden
der du bist
trotz Flügelbruch.
Das Leben bringt jedermann(frau) Abstürze und Flügelbrüche. Aber daran kann man arbeiten: „Der vorliegende Gedichtzyklus will allen Traumatisierten Mut machen”, schreibt die Autorin.
Aus Tonspuren spricht die persönliche Geschichte der Erzählerin mit zwei Identitäten (Reflektion= Spiegelbild und Original). Die Charaktere im Dialog heißen Clarissa und Alaine (alleine? ihr Alter-Ego).
Wieso der Titel Tonspuren?
Weil alle schrägen, dunklen, hellen Töne des Lebens auf jeweils eine Tonspur gesetzt werden, wie eine Symphonie der Seele. Manchmal aufrührend, manchmal träumerisch, in allen Gefühlslagen. Mit Tönen und Klängen gehen wir auf die lyrische Reise, wo sogar die Stille klingt.
„In uns allen leben Töne aus Worten und Bildern, die unsere Sehnsucht nach einem Zuhause zum Klingen bringen. Es sind stille Klänge aus Erde und Vogelflug.“
Haste Töne, los geht’s. Tonspuren führen uns auf eine lyrisch-literarische Reise mit erlebten Stationen. Jeder Mensch kennt die Knackpunkte und Neugeburten im Laufe des Lebens. Aber die Absicht der Autorin ist übergreifend. Nicht nur die persönliche Heimat wird durchwandert, sondern auch das Menschengedenken und Menschlichkeit gegen den Überdruss der Gleichgültigkeit, Bosheit und der Erderwärmung. Die Tonspuren suchen Auswege aus verschiedensten Krisen. (Wenn nur jeder aufwachen würde.)
ZUM BEISPIEL: Die Wende einer Beziehung
Brandstätte
Was hast du erwartet?
fragte er die Liebende
und kehrte den Rücken.
Flog zurück in ein Land
das er nie als seine Heimat
bezeichnet hatte.
Die Liebende blieb stumm zurück.
Jahre vergingen.
Die Brandstätte blieb.
Was sie erwartet hatte
war einfach:
dass er die Frage nie gestellt hätte.
Wer liebt
erwartet nichts.
Er liebt.
Eigentlich sind lyrische Betrachtungen nicht so sehr „mein Bier“. Poetische Prosa dagegen hat aber immer eine Anzugskraft auch mich gehabt. Von daher konnte ich Gisela Baudys Tonspuren und so manche Scherben wertschätzen. Der Autorin Wortwendungen sind tiefgründig und spitzfindig zur selben Zeit. An den kurzen Einsichten ist keine Silbe zu viel. Mit Oxymorons und Synästhesie bringt sie die Stille zum Klingen. Deshalb wollte ich mich dieser Besinnungsreise überlassen und auch einmal in mich hineinhorchen. Jeder hat in sich Dissonanzen, die entstehen wenn die Erwartungen von der Realität eingeholt werden.
In Stücke
Ich zerschneide
meine Tränen
in Stücke Papier
und werfe sie zum Abfall
meiner Träume.
Gisela Baudys Tonspuren Zyklus ist nicht zum schnell Leben oder schnell Lesen gedacht. Auch wenn man eine Betrachtung zum fünften Mal zu sich nimmt, entdeckt man wieder neue Facetten. Diese Lebensreise ist extrahiert von sehr persönlichen Erfahrungen und will jedem Mut machen, wieder Kind zu werden. Außerdem: um an sich selber zu arbeiten, braucht man nicht unbedingt einen Therapeuten.
V
Doktor
Sie müssen
sich nicht beeilen.
Wirklich nicht.
Ich sterbe
auch so.
Das sitzt. Die Grenzen der ärztlichen Kunst und Motivation. Vielleicht braucht man einen anderen Doktor als den mit dem Stethoskop. Einer, der auch ohne Hörgerät die Tonsplitter wieder richtet. Die Seele repariert.
Aber ganz so schwarz muss man nicht sehen. Man kann sich wieder finden:
Gewissheit Erde
Dem Flüchtigen
Konturen geben
im Wort.
Dem Wort
die Gewissheit
der Erde geben.
Den Alltag vertagen.
Hell werden.
Werden.
So ist vielleicht das Ankommen bei sich selber, sobald dem Kindlein Flügel wachsen, sobald es verloren gegangen ist. In diesem Sinne sind wir alle auf bestimmte Tonspuren geeicht. Die Hoffnung liegt im Licht.
Die Ton- und Wortmalereien haben einen Sinn: die innere Heimat in sich zu finden. Aber nicht nur für den Einzelfall (ego), sondern als Nachhaltigkeit (Sustainability) für uns alle.
Der erste Schritt
Der erste Schritt
die Sonne
in sich einzulassen
ist auf alten Wunden
und Sehnsüchten
nicht zu bestehen.
Wunderschön. In einer kleinen Rezension kann man mit dem kunstfertigen Wortspiel (vielleicht ist es kein Spiel) nicht konkurrieren. Jeder muss es selber erlesen. Was mir am besten gefallen hat, waren die Schattierungen des schwarzen Humors. Und das folgende Mantra in der Einleitung:
„In diesem Sinne sind wir alle Kinder der Erde. Es ist das Kind in uns, das dem Nachbarn die Hand reicht und die Erde für alle bewohnbar macht. Wir müssen es nur suchen wollen.“
Und dazu eine Lesung im Hamburger Raum: Am 21. März 2017 liest Gisela Baudy (2. Reihe, 1. von links) ihre Gedichte bei einer bei einer Gemeinschaftslesung in Hamburg-Heimfeld (Kulturverein“Alles wird schön”, Friedrich-Naumannstraße 17, 21075 Hamburg) bei der Suedlese-Aktion der Künstlervereinigung Südkultur. Die Lesung ist der Auftakt der Literaturtage, die vom 20. März bis zum 14. April 2017 in ganz Hamburg-Harburg stattfinden.
Buch Bestellungen:
Gisela Baudy, Tonspuren – Lyrisches Tagebuch, Verlag Stimme fürs Leben e.U., Wien 2016, 188 Seiten mit zahlreichen Fotos von Chris und Gisela Baudy. ISBN 978-3-903032-08-8. Verkaufspreis 19,90 Euro.
Bestellungen bei Stimme fürs Leben.
ODER bei Amazon oder die kostenlose Hotline der Buchhandlung Osiander 0800-9201-300.
Music by Waco Brothers, live at Monty Hall, Harm’s Way.
Yes, I am submitting my docu-shorts as a new category to the movie academy in Hollywood. If I don’t win, then Molly would for sure. Molly, aka Susie, does the Rubics cube in under ten seconds. What a Speedy Gonzalez. Whatever–Happy Oscars to you!
Music by Josh Armistead, Full-time Casual album, Peace with my Brothers.
Music by classy firetruck.
Music by catch-me-if-you can police. Video by Susmita Makin.
Renate Mousseux gathered with her friends Bruno, Barbara, and Brigitte at the Fountain Hills Gallery after a body language presentation. Like many, they had been looking forward to Renatle’s Mosaic of Life with suspense.
“Renatle, Mosaic of Life” is now out on Amazon. The cover looks sassy and the story is full of suspense. I am so excited! Renatle’s mosaic of life adventures came beautifully together in her memoir. It is out on Amazon as paperback, plus a digital version on Kindle. Here is a review from the Fountain Hills newspaper.
YOU ARE INVITED: Friday, January 27, 2017, 7 p.m. Renate will be reading excerpts from her book at my house. Please RSVP to my e-mail.
One fine day, I chatted Renate up after the German luncheon about doing a story about her for Amerika Woche. Right there my own life changed. For this interview, Renate and I met in an Indian restaurant. She gave me the full scoop about her body language expertise—and some playacting examples. We had a fabulous time.
Several weeks later, Renate approached me about writing her life story. I had no idea what all was to come in Renatle’s Mosaic interviews. I was in for some genuine enrichment.
We started taping Renate’s story. Once a month I drove to her house on top of a Fountain Hills peak and listened to her true tales. War times in Germany. Concealed at birth. Prankster childhood. Love gone awry. Down and out in Los Angeles. More than once, my jaw dropped. Renate laid it all out. Barred none.
I won’t give away more than what is on the back cover: Renate was the love child between a French jazz trumpeter and a German patrician business woman. Renate’s questionable existence was concealed from the family for months. Aunt Liesel finally discovered the baby and brought her home.
As a toddler, in 1944, Renatle survived the infamous Tigerstorm carpet-bombing attack on her hometown Freiburg (Germany). The whole town lay in shambles. In that night 3,000 people died. Renate’s uncle and other good Samaritans brought aunt, grandmother, and baby Renate to a Luftschutzbunker—with nothing else but a blanket wrapped around their nightgowns.
Yes, but her mother and father, Trudel and Emile, were buried alive in rubble of the dental lab where they worked. By a miracle, both were rescued days later and put into a hospital for a year. They never fully recovered . . . and then, mother . . .
Tears welled up in her eyes. She asked me to stop the recorder.
More pauses were to come. Why did Renate go to America? She was expecting and wanted to give her baby a home—but not a brute, bisexual, drug-addicted father. Renate escaped, but barely. Finally, things seemed to fall into place in Arizona, with her teaching immersion classes for French and German. It all seemed good, or was it? Her new husband had charm and pedigree.
“I never dwell on the past, even though I sometimes cry”, Renate said. She is one of the most cheerful and people-oriented persons I know. And like any serious Girl Scout she is looking to do at least one good deed a day. She always carries a gift for unforeseen occasions in her purse.
Now it’s two years later and the book is done. “Renatle” turned out well. And so did her book.
Since we started writing, Renate has made many appearances at TV stations commenting on presidential candidates’ body language or the expression of witnesses in high profile murder cases. She started her flourishing BodyLanguage4Success business after her retirement as an Arizona foreign language professor for almost 30 years. More information at BodyLanguage4success
All this fame could have spoiled Renate, but quite to the contrary she is a charming, helpful, and very open person. A gem. And I learned a great deal from her. Each interview and every editing meet was a lesson for me. Here we are at the Fountain Hills Gallery presenting Renatle’s Mosaic.
The international group of doctors, most accompanied by their supportive spouses, retraced their college experience. They visited the various departments at GRMC campus, where college Dean Dr. R.K.S. Dhakar received the alumni in his conference room. The international group also chanced upon a dear colleague from the old days, Dr. Ranjna Tiwari, Professor of Community Health and expert sitar player.
During the course of two days, the medical professionals went down memory lane swapping stories of mischief and accomplishments. The city had changed a lot but eventually each alumnus sleuthed out their former abodes. The seven GRMC exes, who had been planning this joint outing for the last five years, bonded even more strongly over this exciting endeavor.
When I was four years old, my parents took us to the zoo. It was spring time. Somewhere around the miniature goats, there was a green activity patch: May bug hunt. Instead of Easter eggs, the activity team had laid out lifelike chocolate bugs wrapped in printed tin foils. At a shot gun start, they let a bunch of us kids inside that corral. I picked up a bug and proudly showed it off to my parents.
is a writer, cowgirl poet, and reenacter of the Western glory days of the Wickenburg Marshals in Arizona. She teaches art and gives art therapy in her art studio or behavioral centers. She spends as much time as she can writing. You can find all her meanderings and writings at 
Noel is a longtime school counselor with Mesa Public Schools and over the years has served many families in the Native American Education Program, until she recently transferred into another position. She is Navajo and Muskogee Creek. She has improved many a student’s outlook in life. She makes anyone feel better with her gracious smile.
Tim is a member of the Lakota Standing Rock Reservation. He has been an advocate for Native rights and has worked as promoter and coach for Native youth in Mesa school system. He is also an excellent story teller and a treasure trove of Native American history. Lately, he has specialized in researching the Lakota code talker history of WWI and will soon publish a paper about his findings. 
ELISABETH SHERWOOD, Payson, AZ
Zarco Guerrero is an eminent figure in the Valley’s (Phoenix) cultural life. He is most well-known for his masterful masks that he carves or creates with papier maché, fabric, and other materials. He is also a community activist, philanthropist, story teller, performance artist, and historian. Zarco researched a much philosophical background behind the bandana, which is included in this collection. Find out more about him at 
Edda is a journalist and German correspondent living with her husband, Helmut, a sculptor, on a homegrown ranch near San Antonio, Texas. Edda has for many years shared her farm experience in her First Hand Living column in the New Braunfels newspaper and later collected her stories in a book called Texas Kaktuswein, Leben aus erster Hand. She continues, painting, writing stories, and gardening.
Beth won a prize in the first Bandana Book, but got too busy with her first novel. “This year, I will finally see one of my dreams fulfilled—my debut novel, Rooted in Sunrise, will be published and released into the world on September 17, 2024,” she writes in her newsletter. Aside from writing and publishing, Beth likes to get her hands dirty while gardening. 
Environmental Day at the Capitol earlier this year, struck my memory chord like a gong chiming in my head. Activists from all corners had gathered on the Arizona Capitol grounds in Phoenix to lobby for water protection measures and have a word with their District reps.
The Colorado River is so dammed up that none of its waters reach the Gulf of California any more. Lake Mead, in 2023, was at its lowest since the Hoover Dam (1 of 15 Colorado River dams) was built. 2023 was another heat record year with 50+ days over 110F. It’s a damn’ dry situation. For many Native Americans, Navajos included, water has always been scarce.
My friend’s house had a warm, cuddly, welcoming air to it. It was very much ranch-style in its decor with blankets, Native art, and the occasional antler. This was a much privileged outing for me, because a group of strong Native women shared their time and space with me. And I finally would get to see Window Rock, the Navajo capital, as well.
Many Navajo families have no water lines going to their houses. Imagine, any and all water has to be hauled over long distances and bad roads. Imagine how hard it will be to maintain proper hygiene. Imagine how health-compromised individuals might suffer. Or what about elder and infant care? Staying well and healthy requires a reasonable amount of water.
It had to be written—I don’t know why.
I remember the 1950s when conformity in life, belief and culture was not only expected, it was demanded. Most people went along, but there were a few on the fringe who refused to conform. This was before the age of the hippie. (Although of that generation, I have more in common with the beatniks—jazz, writing, being cool as opposed to being loud, “sick” comedians like Lenny Bruce, Mort Sahl.) We seem to be living in a retro-fifties era today. The cries for conformity are everywhere. If you’ll watch the news carefully you’ll see that the “free” kids of the sixties, who are now in their seventies, are bringing back the worst of the fifties.
Being a beat generation survivor, I think of myself as a cool. I send my works to first readers for their input. I listen to that input, evaluate it, and incorporate their suggestions if I agree with them. A conventional writer will automatically submit to the recommended changes of an editor, critique group, best friend, fellow writer, or first reader without hesitation. Why? Because that’s the way it’s done. The rule book says so.
A conventional knows for a fact that the way to publishing success is to get an agent who will get a publisher who will then publish the work. He knows for certain that this is the only sure-fire method. The cool knows that he can take that road or choose another, such as self-publishing. I’ve debated the pros and cons of traditional vs. self-publishing and each side has its share. The amount of emotional attachment some authors have to conventional thinking, however, borders on religious belief.
Something to think about, eh? Give it some thought.
A couple of years later, I got to edit and produce Dr. Molina’s own life story. Having worked with Native American youth in the Mesa School District, his memoir was a real eye opener for me as I kept editing away. Molina’s title evolved over time and became Im Jittoa Bo’o—My Healing Journey, leaning on his Yaqui heritage. And the content reads like a movie. The “Healing Journey” and life experience thrilled me on many levels. I fell right into it. This book, which came as a complete and quite clean manuscript to me, helped me see the Native American experience through Molina’s eyes.
