DePaul Stories

Stories from DePaul

From the heart:
Accidental secret life at DePaul.
Tough Father goes to work.
A Dreamlike Night on the Beach
A Surprise to Remember
Butterfly Triumph Over Cruelty in Japan
Sad Passing of a Beautiful Woman
Inter-girls counselor at Camp Summit
Fear
Why adults play golf
Eulogy for Mary from Ireland
Cultures:
Growing up Filipino - "Mom are we Chinese?"
U.S. History -- reading as a child in Tennessee
U.S. History -- the Concentration Camp Years
Fumi in Africa and America
(humor) Take that! -- Motorbike for Eid
The Stand
At the Airport
Cautionary Tales:
Sixteen-year-old lush wins the battle
Love or Lies
Adventure:
Fool on a mountain bike
A True High
Rememberance of Isle Royale
Summer job taming contagion!
Slice of Life:
Just shoot me!
Job Performance Review
Vacation from Hell
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Accidental secret life at DePaul.

You know, I am not sure how this came about, but I lead a double life here at DePaul. On the outside I look and act more or less like everyone else, but on the inside I come from a different world. I never planned this for my life. It just seemed to work out this way.

As a (female) child I was very close to my family. We had terrific times together --- fun, lots of laughing. Everybody was in on it. It was just such a riot at home, and we did such interesting things, that I never seemed very interested in going out with friends. This never appeared too odd though, even when I got to high school.

Some of us moved away. Some died. I stayed with my mother, who has long been my best friend. I am almost forty now. I am an occasional student at DePaul, and also do some work here. I still have never gone out with anyone, male or female. I still look forward to seeing my mom at the end of the day -- engaging in our terrific converstations. I know that she will be gone some day, and I'll be on my own -- but I am not afraid of this. I am very content, and happy with my life. In fact I feel lucky. When my mother is gone (which might not be for thirty years!) I will do something else. It is not as though I do not like people -- it is just that I prefer to spend my time at home.

I know probably five hundred poems by heart. I know a lot about music. When I observe people during the day I see them as lines in the poems I have read, and as part of a musical fabric that starts when I get up in the morning. I observe a great deal.

No one knows these things about me --- or at least not much of who I am. It's kind of a joke because it is not as though I go out of my way to be secretive. I am not ugly. People like me. I am pretty quiet though, and it just never seemed to come up. After a while I just got into this groove of being a person so obviously unlike most of the others around me. I feel like a contented secret agent.

I think people around me see me as this nice, somewhat dull, agreeable person. Few have ever had any inkling of the depth of my passion for life, how much I observe them, the numbers of teachings of great scholars I know inside out...

I will be here for some time I think. You might even know me. Index

Tough Father Goes to Work

Background

Yesterday my father underwent major heart surgery. There was a significant chance that he would not live through his operation. Other than feeling uncomfortable, thinking he had some persistent cold or flu, he had had no indication whatsoever that he was seriously ill, and required almost immediate treatment.

In the week preceding his scheduled time for going into the hospital, during which discussions were held about whether or not the operation, quite risky itself, would help, I found myself needing to reflect on what the world felt like knowing that I still had a father. It was important to me to notice how it was to walk to the train on my way to work, to speak with my children, to eat lunch, knowing that he was there, thinking that in a week it might be important to remember those times that I would never have again.

I observed, from across the country, how my father carefully made his plans -- how carefully he considered those he might be leaving behind -- how truly brave he was about dealing with the sudden news that after going under anesthesia in a week, he might well never wake up again.

Toughness and courage were attributes I had always associated with my father, but had not thought about for a long time. I recalled an incident that had taken place when he was in his mid-fifties that seemed to illustrate well how he approached his role as a bread-winner, and one that I will share here:

Going to work

Although my father was a graduate from a prestigeous university, he preferred to keep, throughout his life, the newspaper job he had taken on to support his family while in school. He owned his own business, as a contractor, to deliver door-to-door, about a thousand newspapers every morning. He folded in inserts, folded and banded the papers, and threw them onto doorsteps while driving his truck, or convertible, with his knees. In this way he was able to complete the delivery portion of his work in about three hours (which was accompanied by the bookwork which took another three hours). On rainy days he had to place each paper in a plastic wrapper. On Sundays, of course, the job was much harder. Near Christmas, with the extra advertising, the weight of his load might reach four to five thousand pounds, all to be delivered on doorsteps before his customers arose in the morning.

The upside of the job was that he was his own boss, that he was up working in a truly beautiful part of the world every day to watch the sun come up, that overall the pay was decent, and that he had time free during the day which many did not have. The isolation of the life seemed to attract many iconoclsatic people, and it suited him well.

The downside of the job was that it required he be up every day, rain or shine, holiday or not, 365 days a year, in sickness and health, to deliver his papers. Some contractors had helpers, but this required that the helper memorize where to throw each of the 1000 papers (most in the dark), with little margin for error. The details of his contract were such that if there were more than three or four complaints a day from customers he was at risk of being replaced with someone else. Given that papers were stolen, that people made mistakes about when they said they were returning from vacation, and the like, meant that he had to be, essentially, perfect. The burden of learning the route, which might take two months (doing it "cold" from a list would take about ten to twelve hours and result in many hundreds of complaints), the drudgery of having to be up for work at 2:00 A.M., and the requirement that they be exceedingly reliable made it difficult to find helpers.

Because my dad was unwilling to trust his route (and hence our livelihood) to a helper, he ended up working, twice, for ten years without a single day off. In the middle of this span I did the route for him two or three days a week for several years. Thus I can relate, from experience, that it could be a very demanding job. I found Sundays to be, essentially, like sprinting for seven hours: hurling sixty or seventy heavy bundles of paper from the loading dock into the International Harvester Scout (in two loads, with bundles stacked on the roof, the hood, and hanging off back), folding heavy papers on the way up the hill to the houses while driving with my knees, pitching heavy papers out each side window over hedges, walls, through holes in the trees, making sure that none burst -- jamming on the brakes to have bundles from the back of the scout tumble forward so that I could keep delivering without having to stop the car. After several tons of papers I often wondered how my young body was going to make it through, and marveled that his old body did it day in and day out.

But -- this was the job he did, it is what paid for our food, braces for my siblings and me, bought our house.

On this one occasion, when my father was in the middle of his second ten-year stint, he was living in a two-flat that had a family with a young boy upstairs. It was the morning after Halloween, 2:00 A.M., and he had promised the little boy he would look at his jack-o-lantern on the way to work. In doing so he slipped on a smashed pumpkin and fell down the front stairs.

Landing on the sidewalk he sprained both ankles, and broke his leg. It took him about an hour to get up. Having made it to a tenuous standing position he thought, "If I don't go do the route now, I'll never be able to get in the car." He hobbled over to the scout, which has a manual transmission (meaning it required the use of a clutch pedal), and drove to work. He had others help him load the scout with his bundles, and delivered his papers, operating the pedals with his damaged legs.

After returning from the route he went to an orthopedic surgeon who insisted on placing him in traction for his broken leg, and to make sure he stayed off his injured ankles. Dad refused this because he knew that he had to do his route the next day. The second option, although one that the doctor could not endorse, was a full leg cast. This too was refused because it would not allow dad to drive. Finally they settled on a half leg cast, although the doctor warned this might well lead to permanent injury.

Returning home, exhausted from the pain, the effort, and the stress, dad was leaning over to get into bed when he slipped a disk in his back. He is a heavy man, and this causes painful spasms.

After resting that day, he got up again at 2:00 the next morning to go to work. At this point he was now hobbled not only by two swollen, painful ankles, and an inadequately treated broken leg, but also was doubled over from the back problem. When he got to the car he discovered that he was not able to drive with the cast, so he broke the back off of the top portion with a pair of pliers, and then went to work.

In such a way he kept doing the route, day after day, including some very difficult Sundays as he healed.

Living in another part of the country at the time I only heard the story later, and only as something I had to ask him about when others told me some of the details. He never mentioned it to me.

But -- this is my dad. It is the way he was, and is.

So far we have been blessed. He survived his operation yesterday, and seems to be recovering from it. In time we'll know whether or not his condition improves. As he said, "Well we'll see how it goes; I'm a pretty tough old guy." I agree.

Index

Sad Passing of a Beautiful Woman.

The year was 1987 and I was sixteen years old, I was sort of a wild child. I had seen my older brothers drinking so I started doing the same. I had also developed a bad habit of staying out late, making my mother worry about me. I had a "I don't care" attitude and it did not bother me what people thought about me. My father began to notice the direction in which I was going so he began to get strict. I was not allowed to participate in any after-school activities. I had to come straight home from school. The only person that I looked forward to seeing everyday was my mother.

My mother was the most beautiful women that I ever known. She was a five feet eight inches tall. She had long silky black and a slim frame. My mother was the kind of person who made it easy to talk to her about anything. Even though she had a full time job as a assistant manager at Essex Inn, she was always there to listen. She made sure that her children was the most important people in her life.

For example, I can remember when I was having a boy problem. I told her what was bothering me and she gave me some good advice. She told me to think things through and not to rush into something that I may regret later.

It was on a Monday that my mother began having severe abdominal pain. Over the next couple of days, the pain only got worse. Two weeks later my mother and I went to the hospital to find out what was wrong with her. After the doctor examined her she told me that she was just working too hard and she needed some rest. What she did not tell me was that the doctor wanted her to come back to the hospital for more tests. Six months went by before she finally told the family that she had been diagnosed with lung cancer and that she had to have surgery to remove the malignant tumors.

All my other brothers and sisters were grown and did not live at home, it was my responsibility to take care of my mother, even though my sister said that she would help me in carring for our mother. My mother was in Thorex Hospital for one week before she was released. After she had the surgery, the doctor began to treat her with a combination of chemotherapy and radiation. My mother was doing fine in the beginning but it was not long after the operation that the chemotherapy began making her sick. She began to loose weight, most of the time she was nauseated and her strength was beginning to fail.She told me that the chemotherapy left a horrible taste in her mouth which made her not have a taste for food. My mother began eating less and less until she stopped eating at all.

Even though she did not have a taste for food, she continued smoking cigarettes. She told the doctor that she still had a lot of pain and he gave her a prescription for pain relievers. The dosage that the doctor gave her must have been too high because she started seeing things. A couple of days later, my father decided to have her readmitted to the hospital because there was not any that we could do for her.

Before my mother was readmitted to the hospital, I had a dream of my mother's death. I told her about the dream and she told me not to worry about it because it was only a dream. Soon I forgot about the dream, until Friday, October 6, 1989. That day I came home from school and found that my father was not at home which was very unusual. I was watching television when my father came in an hour later. He asked me had I heard what happened and I told him no. He father told me that my mother had died.

Early that morning around 9:15 a.m. she developed complications, then her lungs had collapsed. The doctor said that there was nothing that they could do for her. When the fact that my mother was gone forever sank into my mind, I started having a lot of problems. One of my problems was that I thought about dropping out of school, but I remembered how my mother was always proud of me. I felt that if I dropped out of school, I would have let her down.

My older sister, Cassandra and my father made all the funeral arrangements. My mother had on a beautiful white dress that made her look like an angel. She had on a my white lace gloves and her hair was laying on her shoulders. Her coffin was the whitest of white, trimmed with pink and with red and pink roses all around. Suzie Ellen Thrasher was laid to rest on Friday, October 13, 1989.The funeral was held at her church on the south side of Chicago and she was buried in Burr Oak Cemetery.

Eight months after my mother's death, I graduated from High School with a grade point average of 3.7, and now am a senior at DePaul University. Even though my mother is not her with me I know that she would be very proud of me. As I look back on my mother's death I now realize that I didn't only loose my mother but also my best friend.

Index

Sixteen-year-old lush wins the battle.

Seven years ago I enetred a drug and alcohol rehabilitation center in Minneapolis. I was a sixteen year old lush and druggie. Not exactly what my parents had expected. The funny thing is, is that two and a half years before, I had been totally against the stuff. But after one fateful day when I decided to see what all of the hullabaloo was about, I was hooked.

I've had people ask me how I know that it wasn't just a normal phase. Well, I don't think the phase involved drinking straight Vodka at 7 a.m. before school. It did not involve yearning to be blotto throughout most of the day. It certainly didn't involve locking myself in bathrooms at parties, and crying in the bathtub with the keg of beer. What I really didn't expect was the change in everyday doings.I would plan my day around the alcohol, the pot, the acid. It consumed me. After I had completed my task, I did not feel anymore. I no longer had to deal with anger, pain, despair. I had found my out.When I sobered up, I would quickly try to regain my high.

So, seven years ago, I had to face up to the truth. The truth that I was a mess. I watched one roommate get carried out in a straight-jacket, and another was sent to a psych-ward due to the after affects of huffing bleach. It was not easy. It was awful. The last thing that I wanted to do was to let go of the one thing that I could 'count on', getting blown out of my mind.

The realization that it was the most important thing in my life helped me to get sober.I looked around and saw that 'normal' people didn't get angry or depressed when there were no alchohol or drugs. They did not forget how they got home or what they did the night before. Finally, they knew when 'enough was enough', and never had to consciously think about not drinking anymore drinks on any given night - or rather- not drinking.

From this, I know that I am what I am, and I can never forget it. For, as I was once told," Addiction waits patiently for you to forget, or become complacent, and takes advantage. It sits by your bedside, watching." I know it sounds kind of creepy, but after all of these years that is what keeps me in check. I never want to be what I was before, but I never want to forget it. Index

U.S. History -- Reading as a child in Tennessee

It was a dreary, misty, cloudy day in west Tennessee. There was no school today so Juanita and her sister Belle were both sitting on opposite ends of the sofa with their heads buried in a book. It was May and the weather was warm, had been since March. "Why don't you girls go outside?" their mother asked.

"Because we want to finish our books," said Belle.

Juanita didn't even look up. Little did their mom know the girls were plotting a scheme to get more books since they had read everything in the house...

Juanita and Belle were the oldest of the five children of Mr. and Mrs. Britten. Mr. Britten was a crane mechanic at the American Creosote plant, and Mrs. Britten was a homemaker. Juanita was 10 years old and Belle was 8. The next child, a girl, was five years younger than Belle, and then two boys seven and nine years younger. Because of this Belle and Juanita were always together.

Each day Juanita and Belle walked the three miles to school and three miles back home. As they walked, they talked about funny things they had read and shared all the new and interesting things they had discovered. Sometimes their laughter would be interupted by the dust the school bus kicked up as it sped past them on the dusty graveled road. The bus was not for them, although it passed by them, along the same route, morning and afternoon each day.

"Mother," Belle said a bit hesitantly, "Daddy said he would take us to town tomorrow."

"Yes," added Juanita with a bit more courage, "to get some new books."

The two were so excited when their mother gave permission to go to town!

The next day they had already decided on the kinds of books they wanted and had even made plans to go back for more when it was time to return them. As they approached the library street, they started to talk about why the library was on a street called College street. They both had similar ideas. They said it was because reading was necessary in order to go to college. Such a place as a library should be on College Street they agreed.

They climbed the tall steps to the door and switched excitedly in to the desk. They were completely stunned to hear the woman at the desk say, "Colored can't use the library."

Belle, usually the spokesperson, even though she was younger said, "Oh, we just want to borrow a few books."

The woman explained that the policy was that no colored, as African-Americans were called then, could use the library. Neither Juantia, nor Belle, could even take the books home and most certainly were not allowed to sit there and read.

This was a hard pill for the girls to swallow. But, now they were about to understand for the first time why the school bus passed them full of white children morning and afternoon while they actually walked past the white school on the way to their own.

Belle and Juanita had many questions and got many answers, but the answers did not seem to satisfy them.

Today, Juanita is a probation officer for Cook County, but Belle, as fate would have it, ended up of all things a librarian. She says now, "I like to put my all into my stories. I want all children to experience the joy of reading. Reading can open up a whole new world." Index

U.S. History -- the Concentration Camp Years

My mother-in-law was born in Montana on a bee farm. Later her family moved to Hollywood, California where she and her three brothers and sisters attended elementary school and high school. My father-in-law was born and raised with his brother and sister in Stockton, California where his father owned a shoe store.

In the Spring of 1942, while my mother-in-law was in college in Los Angeles (a straight A student by the way) her family was told to sell all of their belongings, including their house, and be at the train station with only what they were able to carry. They were given four weeks. They were to be sent to concentration camp in Arizona. While the camp was being built they were housed at the Santa Anita race track where some families had to live i horse stalls (and note that Japanese are a very clean people, for them even wearing shoes in the house is somewhat akin to walking across the dinner table). Similarly, at that time my father-in-law was working to put his brother through the University of California at Berkeley. The brother, also a top student, was a month away from graduation at the time, but of course had to drop out of school. They too had to arrange to sell the family's house and belongings in less than a month. They were placed in a temporary concentration camp (yes with barbed wire and armed guards and the penalty of getting shot if one tried to escape), but in this case they were at the Stockton County Fairgrounds where the people that they grew up with could stand outside of the fence and wave to them from a distance.

At the Arizona concentration camp my mother-in-law and her family lived in a tin barrack with, I believe, six other families. Each family had a partition created by hanging cloth between them and the next family. Temperatures were often well above one hundred degrees in the summer.

My mother-in-law's younger brother fought in the war while his family was in prison at home. Her older brother was angry at the government for putting his family in prison and would not join up. After the war he was stripped of his citizenship for this and for the longest time was unable to buy a house or apply for many jobs.

Both of my wife's parents were later moved to concentration camps in the midwest. After the war there were only a limited number of universities that would accept them since they were undesirables. After he got his degree in architecture my father-in-law was generally limited to Midwestern firms since others would not consider hiring him. After my wife was born they attempted to buy a house in North Evanston but a committee of prospective neighbors was formed to tell them that Japanese were not wanted. Later they bought a lot in South Evanston and built a house on it. On her way to elementary school, including kindergarten, my wife used to have people drive by in cars and yell, "Hey Jap!"

In California, where I grew up, there were quite a few Japanese families. Nonetheless it was not until sixth grade, when I happened to pick a book, "End of Track", off of the Library shelf (at random) that I had any idea these kinds of things had happened to the families of my friends. Japanese Americans do not seem to talk about this much with those who did not go through it, although I have observed that when they themselves get together "camp" is often mentioned. I would not be surprised if there were still members of my sixth grade class who have no idea that this ever took place.

I will not add commentary here. I believe the facts speak for themselves. I will say this though: I hate to think of me and my brother, sister, parents and children having to erase our lives and be at the train station before the end of the month.

Growing up Filipino -- "Mom, are we Chinese?"

Growing up in a Filipino American household wasn�t always as interesting as it sounds

I just want to be normal!

Growing up in a Filipino American household wasn�t always as interesting as it sounds. Although many aspects of Filipino culture is very similar to western culture, the few differences that exist are what made my childhood somewhat unpleasant.

Prior to entering school, I had never really interacted with other children other than my two sisters and cousins. My neighborhood didn�t really have many children, but even if there were some, my siblings and I were never allowed to venture past our yard. My father was super paranoid when it came to his "three angels" that he built a 5 foot fence to enclose our yard. Without much interaction with others, I thought my household was quite typical � I thought everyone ate rice for lunch and dinner everyday and took their shoes off before entering the house. Little did I know that this was not the case.

I was always a shy kid. In pre school, I cried the time on the first day of class. I was so upset that my sisters weren�t there to play with me. It was here that I met my best friend, Brenda. We stuck to each other like glue. She was Chinese. Back then, I really didn�t see any differences in the other kids, other than sex � some kids were boys and some were girls. I didn�t notice that some kids were Chinese, Mexican, Caucasian, and African American. I also didn�t notice that I was the only Filipino kid in the room. I guess kids are color blind.

Up until the third grade I really didn�t pay attention to race. I had friends from all different ethnic cultures � Brenda was Chinese, Rosalinda was Mexican, Jeffrey was Caucasian. I was so happy just to have friends. It was then that other kids began to question me with things like, "Why is your skin so dark?" or "You eat rice everyday?" That�s when I began to take notice that I was different. I had gone over to Brenda�s house every now and then and noticed that in her house, they also ate rice everyday with every meal. And so, I concluded that I was Chinese. The problem was, her parents spoke a funny language. This language didn�t sound much like the funny language that my parents spoke with each other. I went home one night and asked my mom if we were Chinese. She told me that we were Filipino and that she and my dad came from a country far away in Asia. That sounded funny to me � Filipino. There weren�t any other kids in the neighborhood who were Filipino so my mom told me that my sisters and I were special.

I was walking home from the fourth grade one day when something happened. I was only a few houses away from home when I encountered some older kids from the sixth grade. They were on roller skates and they came up to me and started to call me names � dark girl, ugly�but the name I hated most was Chinese wetback. I didn�t even know what a wetback was. I ran home the rest of the way crying. When I asked my mom what wetback meant, she got mad and asked me where I heard that. I told her that a bunch of kids called me a Chinese wetback while I was walking home. She told me that it was a bad word used for people of Hispanic culture and that I should never call anyone that.

From here on, life was pretty miserable for me. I had a lot of friends, but I didn�t like being different from most of them. Whenever I was asked what ethnicity I was, I would always get funny stares from other kids. Filipino? What�s that? Are you like the Chinese people or Japanese people? You look like you�re Mexican. I didn�t like being different. I just wanted to be normal. That�s when I started to pray that I was Caucasian, much like most of the other kids in my class. My mom told me that God always listens to people who needed help, and so I prayed each night before I went to bed and also on Sundays in church. Each morning I woke up disappointed.

Junior high was when everything seemed to change for me. It was composed of kids from my school and kids from one other school across town. That was when I encountered Anthony, Regina, and Cheryl � other Filipino kids. Now I wasn�t the only one. We became the best of friends. We hung out just like the other kids � we talked, played dodge ball, went to McDonald�s across the street from school. I felt like I really belonged to a group. We never asked each other about being Filipino because we shared the same experiences. I was actually proud to be who I was � a Filipino American.

Anthony�s mom had told me that Filipinos were the best sort of people and that I shouldn�t hang out with my old friends who were Chinese, Caucasian, and Mexican. She told me that Filipinos should only hang out with other Filipinos and so I began to distance myself from my old grammar school friends, even my best friend, Brenda.

It wasn�t until the eighth grade that I began to wise up. I started to miss my old friends, especially Brenda, but I didn�t want to do the wrong thing by getting back with them. I went home one day and asked my mom about what Anthony�s mom had told me the previous year. She was so upset at what she had heard that she called Anthony�s mom and yelled at her. She then sat me down for a long talk. My mom told me that race was not important when it came to friendship. She began to tell me that differences are what make people special, but that they didn�t make anyone more special than the other. We were all God�s children and thus were all equal. It was one thing to be proud of your heritage but another to be prejudice.

From then on I took what my mom had said and lived by it. Each time I made a new friend, I didn�t figure race into the equation. If a person was nice, that was the kind of person I wanted to be around. To this day I have friends from all different backgrounds and life is pretty interesting.

Index

Just shoot me!

I was working at Trafalgar Middle School in Cape Coral, Florida, not too long after having graduated from college; in fact, I was twenty-five years old and considered myself just beginning my life's journeys. I volunteered to chaperone a school dance, and somewhat into the event found myself talking to an eighth grade girl named Tracy whose birthday was coming up shortly. I asked her how old she was going to be; she told me fourteen. She then asked the natural question of me: "How old are you?" Not thinking anything about it, I said, "Twenty-five." Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and her voice took on a deadly serious tone as she transfixed me with the intensity of her conviction. "Twenty-five! If I ever get to be that old, just shoot me." Index

A Surprise to Remember

Author: Heather

Saturday, November 25, 1995 started out as a typical day in my life. I awoke to the annoying buzzer of my alarm clock at 6:00am, rolled out of bed, and went off to work showerless. Working at a health club has many benefits, but working the Saturday opening shift is definately not one of them. Any way, off to work I go.

As happy, healthy, energetic aerobicizers greeted me with smiles and "good mornings," all I could do is yawn in return. I was continuously glancing at the clock impatiently waiting until 10:00am to call my boyfriend, Mark (I was thoughtful enough to let him sleep in slightly while I was dying of boredom at the lonely front desk). Surprisingly enough, he was not at home! How strange as I was naturally expecting to wake him up as I did every Saturday morning.

Approximately 30 minutes later, Mark popped into the club carrying a single red rose and a candy cane. What a pleasant surprise! He claimed that he just stopped in to see me and wondered if there were any errands he could run for me as we were attending a concert that evening and I would be pressed for time after work. From that moment on, the day only got better and better.

Three o'clock finally rolled around and I was free to go home. As I entered my bedroom, the potent aroma of fresh roses filled the air . . . a dozen long-stemmed red roses in a gorgeous crystal vase were awaiting my arrival! What was this for?! I called Mark immediately to thank him and was so excited to spend this greatly anticipated evening with him.

We planned to go to Houlihans restaurant for dinner as this was where we had our first date -- Mark thought this would be romantic. However, when we arrived there, the wait was about 45 minutes and being that we did not have very much time, I suggested that we go somewhere else. Mark subtlely demanded that we stay and he was acting slightly strange so I did not question him.

Just then, a couple approached us telling us that their name ahd just been called but they decided to leave so we were welcome to their table. "Great!", I thought while Mark seemed almost relieved. Why was he so tense and worried??

We sat down and ordered some soup and I began to reminisce aloud about what a wonderful day today had been thanks to Mark. He simply said "Well, you know the day is not over yet." He got out of his seat, walked around the table, and got down on his knee as I began to shake. He pulled a black velvet box out of his pocket and said "Heather, I am so in love with you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I was wondering if you would marry me."

I was in the most severe shock I had ever been in my life. I managed to gasp the words "of course I will" and hugged him, squeezed him for a solid 2 minutes. As I looked around, I realized that everyone around our area was staring at us and I began to feel slightly embarrassed until I looked behind me at two girls who were crying. They were so touched that my embarrassment quickly turned to feelings of being so fortunate, elated, and in love.

Mark and I were engaged for 13 months and have now been married for about 2 months. I have never been happier in my entire life than I am right now! Index

Fear

Author: Anonymous

All people at some point in their lives will experience fear. They may be afraid something unfortunate will happen to them, someone they know, or inanimate objects like possessions. Fear is a normal human emotion that needs to be met head on or else it can negatively influence ones life or hold one back from accomplishing something. A fear of something depends on the individual.

I personally fear for my future. I am a senior in college with a great internship, yet I am not sure if this is what I want to be doing for the rest of my life. Also, I will be completely responsible for my life with those new interesting things like bills, insurance, ete. Plus I am approaching that age where people typically start searching for people of the opposite sex to start a family with. Then, I'll eventually be starting to think of having children. This future is called the "real world." My fear is that I will not be good in the "real world." I often find myself staying up late in the night wondering if I will make enough money to support my family, if I will be a good husband/father, if I will be happy with the life that I will be leading.

My fear was overcome by talking with friends who too have the same fears. Everyone goes through this stage in the later part of college. However, a way to look at it is to just think I don't have to know what I want right now and I just have to try and be happy. After many long prayers to God I am confident that what ever happens will happen for a reason and that I will end up fine.

In conclusion to this story, it is totally normal to experience fear, but do not let an emotion keep you back from being happy. I have realized that having that wonderful job title and that wonderful home are not the important things in life. The important things in life do not have price tags. Happiness is a self induced item that cannot be achieved through work or bought. I'm pretty much saying that a trip to Wisconsin for a weekend with that someone special can be just as enjoyable as a trip to the bahamas. People have to look at themselves in the mirror and like what they see, then they can enjoy life no matter how much or how little they have. Index

Why Adults Love Golf

I constantly find myself adjusting to the situation. No matter where I go, no matter what I do I am always analizing what is going on around me and changing my behavior accordingly.

I think I first became aware of this when I was in the first grade. It was at that time that I realized that I was different. Well I've always been different, but that's another story in itself. In the first grade I discovered that none of my friends changed their behavior depending on where they were or who they were with. They always acted they same whether they were at school, at home, with friends or whatever. Whereas I, on the other hand, acted completely different in all of those situations. At school, I was expected to be the best. My parents wound not accept anything lower than a B- and anything lower than an A meant a long discussion and possible punishment. In sports, I was expected to be the best. I worked my butt off to be the best. If I wasn't the best, I was expected to practice hard until I was, even if it meant practicing by myself, on my own time.

With my friends, I was able to relax. I was not required to use big words or have an opinion on anything. I was allowed to do anything I wanted as long as I didn't get in trouble. With my family I was expected to act as a mature adult. I was expected to know what was happening in current events, politics, and sports. I needed to know enough to carry on an intelligent conversation with other adults and I was expected to form my own opinion on what was happening in the world. With my grandparents, I was expected to display impecable manners, and only speak when spoken to. Most of my time with them was spent at the country club and I was never allowed to act like a child, that is until I learned how to play golf.

When I was able to play golf, I was allowed to act like a child just like all the other adults. I had the most fun playing golf, I was allowed to kick and scream when I did badly and I was allowed to gloat when I won! I was even allowed to place bets on games and drive the golf cart. Looking back on it all, I must admit that the game of golf was my first love. It alowed me to be what I was, a child. Even now that I am an adult I still occasionaly play a game of golf. I relish in it, becuase it allows me to return to my childhood. It allows me to return to the days when I was a kid, pretending to be an adult and loving it all. I remember driving around on the golf cart, taking money from adults and thinking I can't wait to be an adult. Now and then when I am working and the trials and tribulations of adult life are getting to me I think about the game of golf. It's kind of funny, because now and then when I find myself driving around on the golf cart, taking money from other adults, I realize that now I am on the other side, I am an adult pretending to be a kid! Index

Take that! -- Motorbike for Eid

						-Mohammed Islam(Monir)

I was 18. Eid celebration would be next week. Dad left some money with
my Mom for me and my brothers to do the shopping. Mom gave me my part. 
	- 200 dollars only!

	Mom: That's all your dad gave me for you.
	Me: I cannot buy anything for 200 bucks.
	Mom: Well, why don't you talk to your dad.
	Me: You know I am scared of dad all time. Why don't you talk to him
            and get me some more money?

Dad came back home at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. 

	Mom: Monir wants some more money for his shopping.
	Dad: 200 bucks is more then enough for him.
	Mom: Give him some more , would you?

Dad got mad. As my dad is a construction contractor he always had to keep
lots of cash with him so that he can pay the workers daily. He opened his
briefcase and left all money on the table he had in it and started yelling
at me .

	Dad: Here is 20,000 bucks. Take all this, do your shopping and
             give me back what ever you have got left.
 
I was silent. I knew he asking me in anger. I can't take it.

	Mom:  [In anger] Why are you quiet now? Take it and do your shopping.
	Dad: Don't bother your mom next time, take it ........

I was a student leader in my college. I needed a motorbike very badly.
But I know my dad was never going to buy me a bike. I was in a fix
whether to take the money or not.
 
Dad started yelling at me.  I get mad then. I took the money and
ran away and bought a motorbike which cost me all the money I took.

I know, after I ran away with all money my dad was thinking that that was
his biggest mistake ever.

Now I am here thousands mile away from my parents. I havent seen my
parents for about 5 years. I miss them very much. Whenever I think
this story in my mind I keep smiling. I know thousands miles away my
parents are smiling the same way.

Index

Butteryfly triumph over cruelty in Japan.

Author: Wendell Wright

When my family first moved to Japan, I went to a very expensive private school called the "American School in Japan." The first day of sixth grade for me, I learned that none of the kids liked me, the teachers were very hard, and my only friend was my math teacher. Wednesday was swimming day. I was pretty happy to see it come the first time since I was a loner. Things just got worse. The swim instructor/coach asked me how I felt about my swimming ability. Since I'd never drowned, I told him that I was pretty average. So he made go through a series of tests infront of my anti-me sixth grade class. When I was done, he told me in front of my class that I wasn't a very good swimmer and that I would have to swim in the beginners group. This was answered with muffled giggles from my peers. It was bad enough that my recesses were spent alone, but now I felt like crying in front of all of the people who liked to see me suffer. I soon left that school in disgrace.

At my new school, I joined the swim team. The first meet I was disqualified from all of my races. The next few meets I placed no higher than second to last. Things really turned around when I went into eighth grade. My swim coach was really hard and I trained hard. I eventually qualified for the Junior Olympics and went with a team of Americans that lived in the Far East. To my disbelief, my final heat had two kids from my sixth grade swim class whom the swim coach treasured. My heart pounded, but when the whole race was over, I was given a bronze medal in the 50 meter butterfly. The Kids from ASIJ did pretty bad, and my old teacher even congratulated me.

Index

A Dreamlike Night on the Beach

Author: Anonymous

Every year my family goes on vacation to the beach. It is usually my mother, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, two cousins, and myself. Being with my family is great, but we are a normal family and my siblings and I often fought when we were younger.

One summer at the beach particularly sticks out in my mind. At age fifteen, the trip to the ocean was a perfect get-away. As any summer, we spent our days lying on the beach, riding bikes, and swimming. The nights at this particular vacation spot were more fun. Every evening at about nine o'clock, all of the teenagers staying on this island would congregate on the beach. We would live, what we though, at the time, was the perfect life. As the sun set, the bonfires were lit, and the party began. We talked, played games, and drank really cheap beer one of the older kids stole from their parents or managed to buy at the drive-through.

We went through this average teenage summer routine for five nights. The sixth night, after the party ended at about midnight, my sister and I came inside. We then formulated a plan for escape. We decided meet two of our friends and sleep on the sand. We snuck out of the house, and scrambled to the beach. We lit a small bonfire and twisted the cap off a bottle of gin. My sister and I were not rebellious, we usually obeyed our mother, and rarely drank. But, the sixth night, we were inspired, and determined to stay out all night and be near the ocean.

We sat around the fire and planned out our futures. We told each other our dreams. As the moon glistened on the waves, we went for a swim in the black water. We walked along the sand, sat on the dunes, and watched the silhouettes of the wild horses run before us. The night had a dreamlike quality, either from the serene and constant crashing of the waves in the darkness, or the effects of the gin. The dream is filled with laughter, although we never did fall asleep. We laid on the sand and pointed out stars to each other, four different hands pointing up in the salty air. As the sun began to rise and everything appeared in shades of pastels, my sister and I began to treck our way back home. We held hands walking down the beach at ages fifteen and eighteen, as though we were both ten years younger. In our hearts we were. That night we were two kids sneaking out to spend the night on the beach, and we were best friends. Index

The Stand

Author: Anonymous

I guess we were six years old, my good friend Elliot and I, on a cloudy spring day. For us any day was a good day for riding our bikes on the four corners of our block. We rode our bikes on the sidewalk, which had become a learned obstacle course for us. The sidewalks of our block were broken-up concrete, which made the ride rough. There were, also, humps in the sidewalk, which made for ramps to jump. As we raced down the street and around the corner it was best for pedestrians to stay out of our way, or get hit. We were too busy trying to pass one another, or cause the other to lose control of his bike to pay attention to pedestrians. Elliot was bigger than I, but a nice bump of a front tire to the rear tire or vice versa, or even a kick to the bike, caused a control problem.

Though Elliot was bigger than me, I could still beat him racing. The only drawback to knocking each other around on the bike was the occasional slip of the chain. You are not going anywhere, no matter how hard you pedal, if the bike chain is not attached to the gear on the pedal and the rear wheel. But, chain slippage was minor problem; just, flip the bike over and, usually in a minute or two the chain is back on and we are racing again.

Elliot and I had probably circled the block at least five times that day; making the point where we pass the tavern on the corner the checkered flag. (We did not keep count of how many races we won, only that we won.) Elliot was in the lead, until I bumped his bike just before a hump. He didn't lose control long and soon we were side by side kicking at each other. Then my chain slipped and Elliot had taken the lead. He rode down to the corner before he had noticed that I had not caught up with him. He rode back toward me smiling, but he did not stop to help. Elliot passed me by and rode around the block before he stopped along the side of my bike. He still had that smile, and I had lost the humor in my situation. I told him to put my chain back on and, instead, he made some remark about his bike being better than mine. At this point I was ready to beat him up.

Beatin' Elliot up was nothing new to me. It hardly ever took more than a couple of blows before Elliot started crying and left. This time, though, things were different. His mother and grandmother always told him to stand up to me. This day was the day he decided to.

I yelled at Elliot to fix my bike. He came toward me on the opposite side of my bike and kicked the bike on top of me. I grabbed a piece of concrete, larger than my hand, and Elliot rode off. I threw it, but missed hitting him. I did not chase him. Instead, I went back to my bike, picked it up, and walked my bike home.

I do not remember ever getting Elliot back for that day. We remained friends, but our relationship was different. Now, when we fought we had a good fight. The days of a couple of blows, then victory was over. Elliot had finally learned to stand up to me.

Index

Job Performance Review

Dana

Recently, my manager called me into her office to review my job performance, as is done every year in order to determine areas of strength and weakness and most importantly to award salary increases. I have been with my current employer nearly a full year now, during which time I was promoted to a higher position which the company actually create for me, as a way to utilize and encourage the growth of the skills and attributes I offer to the company. This promotion also brought on many more responsibilities such as managing the Leasing Office and office personnel, planning and supervising Resident Activities, coordinating with my manager to promote our Leasing Programs and Incentive Programs, and completing several exhaustive reports for our corporate office and owners. Therefore, I walked into my manager's office for my review with high hopes of receiving a substantial salary increase, especially since I was not awarded any type of salary increase upon my promotion several months ago.

When I walked into my manager's office, she offered me a chair at the small, round, washed wood table in the middle of the room. I sat down and greeted her, and she kindly greeted me with a smile in return. At this point, I was very anxious to know what type of a salary increase I would receive, being that I had just bought a brand new house and could really use the money. My manager proceeded with my review, which was better than I expected. She praised my efforts and creativity in all of my new and challenging responsibilities which I have taken on upon my promotion, and she further praised my ambitious nature, that I work full-time and attend college full-time on my two days off of work per week. Overall, my manager gave me the highest possible rating for my job performance, which I was more than thrilled about. I was sure that I would receive a large salary increase now. I was so anxious to know what I would receive that I just came out and asked what I would be awarded. Much to my dismay and disappointment, she explained that I would not be receiving any sort of increase due to the fact that I already receive quite a sufficient salary. I was devastated, and left the room with my head hanging down, wondering why I put so much effort and time into a company that does not appreciate a good employee. Index

Love or Lies

Anonymous

Over Christmas break I went to Las Vegas for a few days to visit my mother. My first night there, I met a guy named Ryan from Utah. We spent about eight hours together at a casino and had a really great time. During those eight hours we became quite close to one another. Unfortunately, Ryan had to leave for Utah that evening. We said our goodbyes and agreed to keep in touch through E-mail. I thought it was kind of strange that we didn't exchange phone numbers, but I did not question it. I liked the idea of writing each other because it saves allot of money and you can be more open with your feelings.

When I returned home to Chicago from Las Vegas, I waited a little while to send a message to Ryan. After about a week, I sent him a short message saying hello and asking how he was. Ryan responded with a really cute message explaining how happy he was to hear from me and how much he wants to see me again really soon. I didn't expect such a response from him, I wasn't even sure if he was going to write back! Being very surprised and excited. I wrote to him and told him I would like to see him again too and I was really glad that I had met him. After I received Ryan's first message, I had to question his sincerity. I am always very skeptical when it comes to men and relationships. I couldn't understand why this guy had supposedly fallen for me so quickly! I started talking to my friends about this guy that seemed too good to be true for me and they convinced me I am always thinking of the negative and why, just this once, don't I focus on the positive! Ryan and I started writing back and forth every day - sometimes twice! His messages expressed extremely deep feelings for me and started talking about our future together.

Me, being a little shy and confused about this whole situation, I kept my messages sweet, but not too sweet. I couldn't figure out if this was all true or were we living in a fantasy world! Either way was fine with me. I looked forward to his messages and enjoyed dreaming about the future. I explained to Ryan that I am the type to keep my guard up when it comes to speaking how I feel. Ryan responded: "you just have to follow your heart and do what you feel, you don't have a lot to lose, but you do have a lot to gain!" Keeping this in mind and trying to realize, communication over a computer can be a lot more intense than real life. I still went with my feelings, the same feelings I had when I was back in Las Vegas! I liked Ryan and was completely falling for him and every word that he wrote! One day after receiving one of Ryan's messages telling me that Nike wanted to sponsor him when he went pro for golf, I was going to send him something to congratulate him on this achievement. Instead of asking him for his address I looked it up on the Internet. I had found a lot of listings under his name, but only one in the town he had lived in. The listing I had found had his name listed with a girl named Brooke. At first, my heart dropped, but then I convinced myself it was just a coincidence and he must not be listed. This listing would mean he was married, but he is too young to be married and he is still in college! I still did not ask him for his address until a few weeks later when we were on line.

I decided to go to an on-line cafe so that we could chat in a chat room. During the two hours of chatting back and forth Ryan sent me his address. After receiving his address I asked him if he lived with a girl. Ryan responded the way I thought he would; he said "no way, why?" I explained to him that you are able to look up peoples addresses on the Internet. Explaining to him that I looked him up and saw his name listed with a girl named Brooke. He seemed a little concerned about this information that I was able to find out, but assured me that he lived two males. Later that evening after returning from the cafe, I decided to go back on the Internet and see if his address matched the one listed with Brooke. This time I came to realize this woman listed with his name was not the wrong one . . . it was his wife! At this moment I didn't know what to do. I sent Ryan a message telling him I finally found out the truth and asked how Brooke was. The next day I received an explanation along the lines; that he was married to Brooke for two years, but now they are separated and have been for 71/2 mos. , and . . . Brooke was due to have his son within two weeks! I guess at this moment I came to realize that all of this was too good to be true and I was living in a fantasy world! Needless to say; I don't write Ryan anymore and I don't care to hear from him either. The point is that I know if I never would've looked up his address I would not have ever found out the truth! I have learned through this experience and previous ones that I should always go with my initial instinct! Index

The Vacation from Hell

Lisa Olechowski

A few years ago, my friends and I decided it would be just great to go on a trip for Spring Break. It was the perfect time to get out of Chicago, and there was no school to be thinking about. We had been planning our vacation to beautiful, warm South Padre Island for months, and the anticipation was growing. Finally, finals were done and we were packing our bags.

We were on the airplane bright and early in the morning daydreaming about laying on the beach later that afternoon. The flight was long and tiresome, and my friends were all quite crabby. After changing planes twice and a very bumpy ride, we had made it to sunny, hot South Padre. We got to our hotel room and found out that we were quickly changing into our bathing-suits. As soon as I opened my suitcase, I realized that I had made a huge mistake. I picked up the wrong one! It was identical to my own, but it had some really fat lady's clothes inside. This was just the beginning.

Eventually, I got my suitcase back and we decided to go to the clubs. South Padre is a part of the U.S., so the drinking age is still 21 and of course we were underage. Let me just say that it is extremely difficult to have fun with a group of drunk frat boys when you're the sober one. Every night there was some girl from Kansas taking off her shirt and flashing everyone.

We did meet some people that were actually cool, and they let us have some of their beer. Since they let us drink, we were going to let them swim in our hotel pool. This sounded like great spring break fun, but as soon as we walked up to the hotel we were stopped by police officers. They wanted to search us for suspicion of alcohol. We had to pour out the beer one by one in front of the officers, and they wrote us a ticket. They told us we could keep it for a suvenior. Nice, huh?

Days later, and after many nights of three people to a bed, my friend Laura and I got bronchitus. Wow, we were really having fun. The laughs did not stop coming. The other three girls we were with wanted to go out and have some fun, but since Laura and I were sick we decided to lay by the pool. This was a brilliant idea. We ended up getting fried. I'm talking second degree sun burn--on top of being sick!

The last day of the trip finally came, and I could not wait to get home. I could hardly breathe or sit down, so the plane ride was not going to be fun but we were going home. Go figure, the flight was late. We were stranded in the airport for an extra hour. At last we took off, switched planes, and then I saw beautiful, gray, cold Chicago. I have never been so happy to be back home. Index

Fool on a Mountain Bike

I attended an academic conference at a resort in the mountains of Utah. At the time I had never been on a mountain bike, let alone been mountain biking. As an optional recreational activity, we were fitted for bikes and helmets, hauled up the mountain in a bus, shown a few of the basics about braking and then turned loose to practice in the parking lot for a few minutes while everyone else got suited up.

Once we started the ride, I enjoyed the thrill of motion, and was near the front of the group. One sort of ordinary looking fellow seemed to know something about what he was doing, and where we were going, so I simply copied whatever he was doing, figuring this to be an intelligent approach for a novice. After a while I noticed that there were not many others around, and soon just this one guy and from time to time two others.

As we were speeding down the trails it occurred to me that this seemed a little hazardous. Big rocks were flying past rather rapidly; I was airborne on a number of occasions. Still, I thought, no one else seems much concerned about injury so it must be both (a) pretty safe, and (b) something only a noice would worry about. I also was finding it a little bit difficult to keep up with my undeclared mentor, so although the straight sections were often quite steep, as well as somewhat slippery, I pedaled as fast as I could downhill to make up time.

I slid around turns, leaped over small embankments, passed (and in some cases bumped over) watermellon-sized rocks with disdain, and pedaled furiously up some short, but steep, inclines that dotted the overall steep downhill path. I found such experiences as, e.g., flying over the edge of a small cliff with both wheels in the air, headed for a rocky downhill slope and a sharp turn to be -- well shall we say interesting?

Miraculously I avoided spilling the bike, except on a few of the short uphill sections when I lost forward progress and could not keep my balance. I did get a few nicks on legs, face and shoulders from passing rocks, and trees.

At the end of the ride, which lasted about half an hour, I was thinking, "Wow -- this was a lot of fun. What a rush," but I also was wondering what in the world real mountain-bikers did for a thrill since this was obviously the vanilla novice-saftey version.

My "mentor" struck up a brief conversation with me that went something that sounded like, "Nice ride I was out at Devil's Massacre last month and we toured the Canyon of Doom the week before that I had to take a little time off to let my broken clavicle heal and still had some spells from the concussion I got when I fell off the monster at White Beach Run You fallen off that much?"

It turned out that this guy was a big mountain biking enthusiast who toured the country looking for interesting "rides." He had been injured a number of times, but also knew quite a bit about what he was doing, and had a lot of experience.

I, on the other hand, was simply attempting to hide my lack of knowledge about this contemporary sport by unobtrusively fitting in with the crowd. My main concern was taking a wrong turn and getting lost.

Hmmm. More evidence that having a PhD has little correlation to intelligence.

Index

Baptism by Fire

During the summer of 1995, I worked for the United States Forest Service as a part of the full-time fire crew, working at the Big Smoky Guardstation, near Fairfield, Idaho. Our job description included fighting forest fires, an arduous job for even the most athletically inclined. The previous year I held the same job, and even got in some experience fighting fires in Utah and Colorado for 12 days. However, the experience which I would like to talk about came during that summer in 1995. It was the day in which I was baptized into the rank of the firefighter.

Our summer had been a busy one, with a couple fires happening in our local district already. All of the fires were catching up to us. In addition to fighting these fires whenever they cropped up, we were also upholding our duties to maintain forest lands and United States Forest Service property. After a month without a day off, I was finally given a Monday and Tuesday which I could spend back in "the valley" at my home in a rural, Idaho town.

Monday morning, I hit the golf links early with my little brother. We had been looking forward to going out all year long, but just as we teed the ball off on the first hole, I heard my portable Motorola radio crackle the news that a secluded wilderness fire had been sited. Thinking that this fire might be handled by the group of firefighters on hand, I ignored the message. This was my day off!

As we finished putting out on that first green, one of the golf attendents rolled up in a cart and notified me that I was needed on the phone back in the clubhouse. We bounced back to the large building and inside on the phone, I was notified that I was needed to standby at the station while everybody else put out the remote fire.

I raced 20 miles above the speed limit home while my disgusted brother pouted in the passenger seat. When I got home, I tossed my fire clothing and gear into the back of our beat-up Suburu and raced back into the mountains.

After driving the trip in a record speed of an hour and 15 minutes, I stopped at the guardstation, where a USFS helicopter was waiting to carry firefighters to the fire's coordinates. There, I was told that in taking firefighters to the first fire, another had been spotted and that I would be the only one left at the guardstation. Disappointed that I wouldn't be able to go on the fire, I settled into a chair, only to hear the station's loudspeaker crackle as the helicopter pilot radioed back after reaching the 2nd fire's site. "I can see the 2nd fire", called the pilot, "But, there is another column of smoke directly below me!" Suddenly, it looked like I might see some action after all.

The pilot dropped the three firefighters he had off at the new fire and flew back to the station. In the meantime, I threw my gear together and donned my nomex shirt and trousers. The local Incident Commander scrambled to find another certified firefighter, coming up with Isaac Martinez, an old, grizzled Mexican from a different guardstation across the forest. Together, we stepped into the helicopter and felt a rise of elation as the helicopter lifted off towards the fire.

Arriving at the scene, the pilot ascertained that he would not be able to land on the steep mountainside, so we were dropped off in the bottom of the canyon there and told to hike up with our fire and overnight gear. Carrying the two packs which totaled around 80-85 pounds, I struggled up the steep slope with a shovel in my hand. About two-thirds up the mountain, Isaac and I arrived at the fire.

Seeing a fire, even this medium sized one-acre fire, roaring in heavy timber sends a thrill of danger which is matched by very few phenomenon. I raced the last 200 yards up the steep slope and immediately began attacking the flames, scooping the burning branches and pine needles and throwing them back into the "black" where the fire had already burned. Working my line this way, I moved up to the head of the fire, racing along the forest floor towards a tree. As the helicopter flew overhead on a recon flight to see how the fires were doing, the pilot asked, "Do you need water?" I stepped back from the intense heat and shouted an affirmative answer into the handheld radio set. Then I gathered my breath, and dove in next to the 4-6 foot flames lapping at the bottom of the dried-out pine. Knocking off the bark and shoveling dirt over the smoldering tree, I realized that my heart was racing faster than I had ever felt it before. It is much different to be digging a fire line with a crew of 15-20 and to be one of the only two responsible fighters on the scene.

As I finished dealing with this first threat, I turned to look back downhill and saw Isaac, desperately hacking at flames which had threatened to come up and around my position. I had committed a cardinal error in my excitement, picking a poor anchoring spot for my fire line. Together, Isaac and I pushed the fire back and moved up the hill, around the head of the fire and back down the other side. Just as we reached the head, where the fire was burning the fiercest, the situation began to look a little bleak. There was no way that the two of us could put this raging animal out with just handheld tools. The radio buzzed and the welcome chopping of the helicopter's blade announced the pilot's return. He dumped a large, 100-gallon bucket of water which doused the head and knocked the flames down. Diving into the smoldering mess, Issac made short work of the flames left while I tied our line into the wet trail which the bucket left behind.

We moved back down the mountain, making fire line and putting out flames which appeared close to the line. While the two of us worked on the perimeter, the helicopter came back for three more bucket drops onto burning trees before he went to check out the other fires. After about three hours, we had the fire contained and rested ten minutes before starting to knock down the fire in the middle.

For the next seven hours, until three in the morning, we worked the fire by hand, turning over smoldering piles of pine needles, branches, and ash. Finally, when all of the "glows" had died down, we decided to call it a day. We sacked out in sleeping bags on a hillside so steep that it threatened to roll us 600 yards to the bottom of the canyon. At 6:00, we awoke with the sunrise, chowed an army MRE, and set back out to knock down the flames which had developed inside our line over the night.

At noon, reinforcements from the other two fires arrived. Using backpack pumps which they brought, we toted water from a small trickle of a stream in the saddle of the mountain peaks. Using this water, one man would stir the hot ashes while the other would spray the water sparingly over top to cool the ground down. After a full day of this, we had cooled down nearly all of the fire. After another short night, we mopped up the rest of the area and put out a fire which was still burning, 25 feet into the air in an old snag.

That night, we hiked off of the mountain to find a Forest Service pickup a couple miles from the fire. When we found the location, we all piled in and headed on the 2 hour drive back to the civilization of our backwoods guardstation. That night, Isaac treated us to a batch of his homemade beer and we sat around and swapped tales of the fires which each of us had been placed on. It was that night that firefighting became more than just a way to get some summer money. It became a passion, the thrill of saving resources and land in the primitive wildlands of my home. Index

A Reflection:
Mary B. Brennan
A Eulogy Read At Her Funeral
May 1, 1997
Copyright 1998 Anne Brennan Morley

My name is Anne Brennan Morley. I am Mary�s niece. I would like to ask all of Auntie Mary�s nieces and nephews to stand please. As you can see there are many of us. I speak to you from all of our hearts as I talk to you about our Auntie.

The story goes that when I was born, my father, John Brennan, brought a gorgeous home-coming outfit for me to the hospital. The nurses at Mercy hospital thought that in it I was the most beautiful baby they had ever seen. They took me all around the hospital to show me off before I could go home. With this distinction there had to be a very special choice for my godmother. My parents thought of the most beautiful dear friend they had, and thus, Auntie Mary became my godmother.

I want to remember with you all for a few minutes Auntie Mary�s time with us.

She was the first of seven children born to Joanna and Jimmy Sugrue at a place called the Ohermong Cross up the road from the Brennan family in a wonderful town in County Kerry, Ireland called Caherciveen. It�s a place where if you don�t have a sense of humor you will feel like a foreigner. Auntie Mary and her brothers Pat, Jimmy, Frank and Johnny, and her sisters Eileen and Joan were children in a time very different from today. Auntie Mary was born of a time when many of the Irish left Ireland to make their way in life. But no matter how far Auntie Mary traveled from her brothers or sisters she kept her relationships with them among the most important in her life.

The Brennans were apparently part of the fast town crowd; Mr. and Mrs. Sugrue kept a sharp eye on the town crowd. There was a special fair-haired one among them who somehow charmed his way not only into their hearts, but into Auntie Mary�s heart. Daniel Francis Brennan, our Uncle Francie, won them over with his good looks, his quick wit and his obvious love for Mary.

That love carried them across an ocean and through 46 years of births and deaths, work and fun, joys and sorrows. Their love brought them the greatest joy of their lives with the birth of their children, our cousins, Joanie, Maureen, Pat, Eileen, Nancy and Dan.

They made their way to America after spending time in England. He came to Chicago before her while she finished nursing school in England. She came over on one of the ocean liners and our family knows that she had a very rough crossing. She stayed in her bed most of the trip. When she got to New York the man standing at the end of the gang plank to greet her was Uncle Francie.

She came to Chicago at a time when many young Irish came. My mother says that they were the greatest crowd of people you could ever hope to meet. All of them had left their own dear moms and dads and families, and so they became a big family together on the south side of Chicago.

She began her nursing career at St. George�s Hospital. In her life she used her sharp intellect, her infinite compassion, and her lust for life to care for the sick in St. George�s, Palos Hospital, and in private and company nursing. She witnessed and participated in a time in human history when medicine changed dramatically. She saw devastating diseases like polio become eliminated and she helped people who suffered with some of life�s most difficult challenges.

Her nursing friends tell me that she was the one always trying to make some fun in it all. She was the one who organized the parties. She was particularly famous for a secret St. Patrick�s Day party in the emergency room of St. George�s, right under the noses of the supervisors.

My brothers and sisters and I remember during the 1960�s when she would bring antibiotics to our house and inject us when we were sick. She served as a nurse as recently as last November. There are many people who are not here, people who are strangers to all of us, who are indebted to my aunt for her caring in their lives.

But I want to tell you for a minute about my Auntie. You probably didn�t know this, but she had a heck of a time as a mother getting her children to eat. My brothers and sisters and I still don�t know how they made it to adulthood with such poor eating habits. Auntie Mary was a fabulous cook and she made the best desserts. We cousins loved to stay over night so we could have those desserts. I can still remember her commenting to her kids "Why don�t you eat like Uncle John�s kids". You see we were fabulous eaters.

There are three families of us Brennans, uncle John�s family, uncle Mike�s family, and uncle Francie�s family. The three sisters-in-law Eleanor, Mary A. (Mary Alice) and Mary B. (Mary Bridget), joined together over and over again in our lives in party after party. We celebrated christenings, communions, anniversaries, holidays, graduations and vacations. If know one of us you might notice that we love to laugh. Auntie Mary, our parents and their friends passed this legacy on from Ireland to us.

There are 22 grandchildren with a 23^rd expected any day. Grandma loved her grandchildren with her whole heart. They will always remember the wonderful parties she threw for them. She touched each of them in a special way. They were lucky to have her in their lives and I hope as they grow up that they practice what she taught them, to care about each other and to be there for each other through the good times and the bad. She loved her son-in-laws Wayne, Kevin, Phil, Billy and Jim and her daughter-in-law Vickie, and she rests peacefully in heaven with the knowledge that her children have loving families and good lives.

The last time I saw Auntie Mary I promised her that I would pray for her. Every morning since then I said this prayer as soon as I opened my eyes. On April 27^th, my prayers were answered when Auntie Mary was embraced by the Blessed Mother of God and entered the kingdom of heaven.

Today I say it for us, to help us with our grief, for we all miss her so.

That never was it known
That anyone who fled to thy protection
Implored thy help
Or sought thy intercession
Was left unaided
Inspired by this confidence
I fly unto thee
Oh Virgin of Virgins
My mother
To thee do I come
Before thee I stand
Sinful and sorrowful
Oh Mother of the Word Incarnate
Despise not my petitions
But hear and answer them
Amen Index

Fumi in Africa and America

Author: Byron C. Harrison

I strongly believe that my rich African cultural and ethnic heritage was founded and rooted on the continent of Africa. In acknowledging this, I wanted to find some metaphorical, yet realistic and tangible bridge to connect me to this aspect of my life. Because I knew that taking an excursion to Africa was not financially or physically possible at this point in my life, I deduced that the next best option to this was to talk with a native of an African country.

Because she did not mind sharing her experience with me, I ultilized Funmi as the bridge to satisfy all of my questions, interests and concerns in comparing Africa and America. Because I could not acheive this experience for myself, I utilized her experience as one that is to be authentically cherished and shared with others.

In the Western world of this vast and diverse cultural melting pot that we call America, we have gradually developed many pre-ordained perceptions of the continent that we have all come to know as Africa. With regards to Africa's history, political structure, cultural heritage and the experiences of authentic African people, Americans retain so many misconceptions about Africa through inaccurate films, stereotypical images and even, educational literature and lectures. In this paper, my intent is to shed the luminous light of truth on these misconceived issues through the discussion of 1 person's individual perspective and experience in both Africa and America. I will use collected data such as personal interviews, written questionnaires and topic text materials to give an analysis of the experiences and feelings of native African DePaul students.

Constructively, I will take an evaluation of the African person's social, environmental and cultural adjustments in a comparative display of the perspective of someone who has lived in both Africa and America. Also, I will provide historical information on both countries to show the evolution of Africa and America in relation to the evolution of it's people.

It is true that the most superior and resourceful scholars in the world of the two countries are African-(Americans) who have had "in depth" experiences in Africa, and who are able to share and collaborate these with their experiences in America (Wyatt VIII). Although the people of Africa are unified in belonging, they still differ in their lives and cultures. The individual people of Africa have derived and developed their own lives and cultural patterns from centuries of singular experiences and learning; each within their own specified environment and tribal group. Presumably, cultural experience is cumulative; and over the centuries, the occurances that have convened within the isolated communities of Africa were reflexive of the previous generation's experience. Combining all of these experiences together has been the opposing force against cultural changes, which entail many problems of adaptation in their prime (Wyatt 70-71). Index

Comparative cultural differences between Africa and America such as political and family structure, education, religious systems, social problems, cultural heritage and misconceived stereotypes are the primary issues that most African diaspora encounter in America.

For my research purposes, I have interviewed Olufunmilayo Akinlawon (Funmi) who is a native citizen of Nigeria. In her native African tribe and language of Yoruba, her first name literally means "God Gave Me Joy"; and her last name means "warrior". She has a younger brother named Akinwumi, which means "Want to be a Warrior". Funmi told me that most of the children's names in Nigeria have some type of significant symbolism. The first names are usually reflexive of a religious attribution to God, while the last names are concordant with an ancient African tale, proverb or myth. A child's name can also be symbolic of the present emotional state or feelings of the parents at the time of the child's birth. Usually, it is customary to consult the grandfather on the father's side of the family to name a child.

Funmi first came to America when she was 7 years old. Her father was already here as a practicing engineer, and though he preferred for them to stay in Nigeria, Funmi, along with her mother and younger brother came to join and live with him in America. She is now 17 years old and has only gone back to her homeland twice in the 10 year period. Funmi described her transition into America as moderately difficult, stating her primary adaptive problem as having to re-initiate her economical status from the bottom. In Nigeria, her family was extremely wealthy ;but, their wealth was dramatically reduced to a minute fraction when it's value was converted to the American economic system. Comparatively, $1,000,000 in Nigerian currency is reduced to a value of $10,000 -$100,000 in America.

Funmi's Family specifically came to America to be with her father. Political tensions in Nigeria soon began to intensify once her family left the country. In addition, other African diaspora sought more prominent educational and employment opportunities in America, and also; refuge, freedom and sovereignty from the harshly oppressive militaristic dictatorship political system of Nigeria. To give you an example of the degree of political freedom that is allotted to Nigerian citizens, it is virtually illegal to verbally express anything negative about the Nigerian government. There are dyer consequences for anyone who does. Abacha, who is the current president of Nigeria, has complete control of the militaristic strong arm, which controls the people of Nigeria.

What many don't realize is that contrary to American political tensions which are based on divisions of race and socio-economic status, these are intra-ethnic political tensions where Africans are oppressing fellow Africans. This intra-group conflict has maliciously, deceptive and regressive historical roots. Intra-ethnic instability occurs when different ethnic or tribal groups within the same society are bounded by the same political and administrative territory. Their solidarity is thus compromised and a conflict is inflicted. It was this type of intra-group rivalry which initiated the Nigerian civil war (Wyatt 7). Index

Colonialism was the deceptive tactic of intervention that was used to create this intra-ethnic conflict among the Nigerian tribal groups. Nigeria was initially sought to be settled and colonized in the seventeenth century. The difficult task of colonizing these "primitive" and "illiterate" people was conceived as a great burden that was placed upon the European imperialists (Wyatt 5).

After they were successful, Nigeria remained a British colony under their control and rule beginning from the 1800's. Nigerian tribes such as the Yoruba, Haysa and lbo reactively formed an alliance in opposition to the colonialistic oppression. However, once their aspirations had been achieved, the tribes reverted back to their own tribal affiliations in support of the tribal leaders to whom they initially gave allegiance to.

This intra-group conflict in Nigeria, which was the country best optimistically promised for economic prosperity and growth, brought the various tribal groups into a 30 month long civil war which immensely depleted their resources. When Nigeria finally gained their independence from Britain and joined the United Nations in 1960, there was still political instability due to the position that the British government left Nigeria in.

The British government left the smallest tribe in Nigeria, the Haysa, in control of the political system. They intentionally did this in knowing that such a small tribe would be incapable of ruling over the people of Nigeria. The result from this is the present-day Nigerian control by the military regime. Several other countries in Africa are now controlled by military regimes due to the deterioration of governments controlled by civilians (Wyatt 48).

Throughout history, other sinister political tactics have been implemented to attempt division of the people of Africa. The apartheid (apartness) policy which was enforced by the South African government, legally and legitimately prohibited African citizens from participating in any aspect of the government or organized workplace, which is where most of the social power confided.

In addition, public facilities and resources were segregated and racially gentrified by standards of quality. Africans were accommodated with the least sufficient facilities and resources, while Whites were allotted the most abundant.

Perhaps the most ironic factor in this ordeal is that the native people of South Africa who statistically represent 80% of the population, were rendered powerless against an oppressive governmental apparatus controlled by a 20% minority (Wyatt 9).

In modern day Nigeria, the scenario is not much different. The Nigerian government strategically oppresses its people through an exclusive control over all resources, including a monopolistic restriction over the supply and distribution of electricity. The only difference from this form of oppression when being compared to the dilemma in South Africa is that this is an example of the previously mentioned intra-racial oppression where Blacks are oppressing other Blacks, as opposed to Whites oppressing Blacks.

Another strong social fabric of African society that the government has attempted to destroy is the African family unit. The apartheid policy of South Africa attempted to divide the African family through the reduction of roles and establishing residency boundaries between men and women in society. According to the policy, the African families are not delegated any civil rights in the urban areas of Africa. Accordingly, women can only reside in the urban areas which prohibits them from being with their husbands and children. Approximately, African men represent 90% of the African people who are admitted to reside in the White urban areas; the rest are women (Wyatt 22).

In a Cape Times article written on December 6, 1969, an anonymous author dynamically wrote:

	"The splitting of black families has become part of the pattern of
separate development. But familiarity with the situation does not lessen
the heartache, the emotional punishment rendered by the victims, or
sociological evils which are attendant upon husbands without women and
children without fathers. Any lingering doubts about the official attitude
towards the ideological inhumanity were dispelled earlier this year when
the deputy minister of planning, Mr. Froneman, referred to African wives
and children as superfluous appendages." (Wyatt 23)

Funmi tells me that in Nigeria, although the government has not necessarily attempted to destroy it, the family plays an integral role in the country's socialization. Men and women assume different roles of authority and responsibility. While the men are the dominant force in the workplace, the women are ultimately responsible for the nurturing and care of the family.Index

Respectively, I believe that regardless of the social inequities that have been implemented between men and women, their roles as individuals in the household are equally important. Also, it is my opinion that the oppressive African government has primarily failed in their interventional attempts to dismantle the African family. In fact, Funmi tells me that in Nigeria, the family has maintained a very strong bond of communal unity. Because there are no facilities such as nursing homes or shelters where the elderly or less fortunate relatives can reside, the extended family has become the family. It is not uncommon to have 10-15 people, most from an extended family, residing in 1 household together; this is the scenario for Funmi's family.

Also, social family practices such as polygamy which have become unwritten laws of immorality in the American culture, have become widely accepted and practiced in Nigeria. For example, Funmi's grandfather on her father's side of the family had 26 wives! His abundant financial wealth and plethora of love were the only two qualities that made this circumstance possible. In Nigeria, the practice is considered to be legitimate with the exception that an equal amount of care, support and attention is given to each wife by the husband.

Another societal difference that exists when comparing Africa to America is that of the educational system. Comparatively, the annual progression of the educational system in Nigeria is advanced by approximately 2 years to the average American system. Funmi began attending school when she was only 3 years old; as opposed to the average age of 5 years old to begin school in America.

Also, the curriculum in Africa is much more advanced, superior and challenging as the primary concentration for all students is placed on the natural scientific studies.

In America, it is my opinion that a quality education is something whose value has been highly minimized and taken for granted. Funmi tells me that particularly in Nigeria, the social conviction is that "everyone must be educated to be successful".

One would think that if this conviction is indeed true and strongly upheld, that a quality education would be highly accessible to be utilized by all African people. However, for reasons of finances and accessibility, the education of an African person is something considered to be invaluable that is much more highly cherished in Africa than we do in America.

For White children in South Africa, education, including books, is mandatory and free of charge at all levels. Moreover, for African children, all schooling is optional with the additional stipulation that a high school education must be purchased by all nonwhite families. Statistically, between the time period of 1969-1970, the African government provided a minute $56,000,000 to fund the education of African children, while granting an overwhelming excess of $268,000,000 to fund the education of the White children. The remaining costs of the African education is complimented with the compulsory taxes that are rendered by the African people.

Also, as a regressive deterrent from obtaining any secondary level education, African children are taught in their native tribal languages at the elementary level, rather than in English. As a consequential result to this regressive educational system, there was only one certified African engineer in South Africa in 1968 and only approximately 150 African physicians. As a comparative ratio, the White population of Africa has 1 doctor/ for every 455 people, as opposed to the disappointing 1 doctor/ for every 100,000 people among the African people (Wyatt 23-24).

Optimistically, Funmi's father is one of the extremely fortunate individuals. He was given the rare opportunity to be prosperously educated in a place where so many other people in his situation are denied something that should be inalienably given to them. In a communal sense, Funmi is the living incarnation of the dreams and aspirations of all the African children who didn't get the chance to go to school. By graduating from DePaul University and transcending on to higher education and prosperity in America, she will help to initialize a legacy for the African people that will hopefully send them through a revitalized door of opportunity and new life.

Briefly, I will now discuss 3 final facets of the African-(American) experience which are religious systems, social problems and culture. In my opinion, these 3 issues are the most significant to the African people ;and also, differential when being compared to the American society.

In Nigeria, the 3 primary religious affiliations (in descending order) are Islam, Christianity and a secular belief system which Funmi described as "Tribal Beliefs". With the assumption that you already know what Islam and Christianity consist of, the tribal beliefs are a combined collaboration of mysticism, witchcraft and supernatural vudu. Generally, some Nigerians consider witchcraft to be a very demonic and sinister practice which can be used as a modem of personal gain or vengeance on an enemy.Index

Also, each tribe contains medicine men called the "Babalows", which are the equivalent to a "psychic" in America. Funmi's family practices the Pentecostal denomination of Christianity, with the exception that her father is independently Baptist. Funmi told me that there is definitely a stronger sense and acknowledgment of religious spirituality in Africa, comparing it to what she has observed in America. She said that in Nigeria, regardless of your religious affiliation, that EVERYONE dependently acknowledges God as the eternal source of their life.

In reference to the social infrastructure of Nigeria, it is nearly contrary to that of America. Social stigmas such as racism, bigotry, gangs and discrimination are virtually non-existent in the Nigerian society. Also, the violation rate for crimes such as burglary, robbery and murder is microcosmic when compared to the rate at which crimes in America are committed everyday.

The inexistent racial problems are attributed to the fact that in Nigeria, as well as in all other African countries, Africans comprise the dominant culture. In Nigeria, non-African racial groups represent a margin of only 1 - 5 % of the entire population. In America, minorities are susceptible to unfair treatment because their small numbers of representation make them easy to take advantage of.

Though it may be more simplistic with less strings attached, the Nigerian criminal justice system is definitely more effective in crime reduction than the American system. Their court structure derives from the British system which consists of the Counsel of Lords. The extremely low crime rate is attributed to the stronger sense of discipline and criminal punishment in Nigeria. Usually, if someone commits a murder, their punishment will be death with no chance of a 5-10 year appeal process. Funmi contends that had a case such as the O.J. Simpson trial proceeded in her country, he would have received a trial with absolutely no media circus. The length of the trial would have also been dramatically reduced.

Funmi told me that she was disappointed to come to America for the first time and sadly realize that the streets of America are not literally "paved with gold" as she previously believed that this was a flawless society. She quickly discovered that America, though it may be the land of free will and opportunity, still does have its significant share of social problems. In Nigeria, other social problems such as poverty and hunger do occur, but are far less prevalent than they are in America.

In Nigeria, there are no governmental public aid programs such as welfare, A.F.D.C., or section 8. This leaves people with no other alternative but to work to attain all that they need and want.

In conclusion, now that I have intricately discussed the political and family structure, education, religious systems and social problems of Nigeria in a comparative analysis to America. However, an issue which belongs to an even larger spectrum of relative experiences is at hand. The question of culture and what it means to native Africans, African-(Americans) and Americans has yet to be determined. In light of this issue, Donald W. Wyatt writes:

	With regards to cultural development, we believe that the
rehabilitation of African culture is a necessity and an obligation for
every African nation. For we have generally been considered as a people
without a culture, a people emerging from the dark of the night. We must
reestablish our past culture to refute this allegation. America, with over
one-tenth of its population of African origin, should be taking a leading
role in helping to bring Africa into its rightful role in the world
community. For their own self-esteem and dignity, black Americans need
Africa to be peer without apology among other groups of nations (Wyatt
40,50).

For these reasons of cultural restoration, Funmi does not want to take the T.O.E.F.L. government exam to become an American citizen. In Nigeria, just as it is in all other African countries, this is considered to be an abominational denial and desertion of your country and authentic African cultural heritage. If she became an American citizen, would she still be considered as an authentic native African-(American)? Funmi told me that Blacks who were born in America do not even deserve to be called "African" because they are ignorant to their African heritage and the experience of living in the motherland.

She also said that African-American festivities such as Kwanza and Black History Month, which are not celebrated in Africa, give an illegitimate upholding to the term Afro-centrism. Funmi says that native African people can applaud and appreciate sincerity, but condemn those who believe that they must be "African" out of obligation.

Funmi says that if she was ever told to "Go Back to Africa" from which she came, she would gladly do so to be with her "real own".

So now, in conclusion the question still remains: What then does Africa mean to us as Americans, and what particularly does it mean to the American Negro: First, to us as Americans, it offers an opportunity for us to observe patterns of life and interpersonal relationships different from what we experience in our own environment and which is fascinating and interesting to know. But more specifically, to the American Negro it should offer an area for interesting study and evaluation, for it shows that the American Negro has come from an area which is rich in background and history. Life in Africa in the heyday of slavery was not primitive savagery---it was quite highly developed in family organization, in its own political and social organizations, and in its arts and crafts. Unfortunately, in the time of slavery, Negroes were severed from this background quite suddenly and completely. They were brought to the new world and dispersed throughout throughout the Caribbean. As a result, family life was usually disrupted, often by deliberate intent. Parents and children were isolated and seldom ever met again. In such an environment it was, indeed, exceedingly difficult, rather impossible, to retain any sense of former cultural patterns and values (Ullmont L. James - Wyatt 76).

However, regardless of the country where it is sought, or the people to whom all the credit is due, respectively, "all cultural differences between native Africans, African-Americans and Americans are embedded in the experience" (Byron C. Harrison).

			Works Cited

Akinlawon, Olufunmilayo. Personal Interview. 29 February 1996.

Wyatt, Donald W., D.S.Sc., ed. Progress in Africa and America.
	New Orleans: Dillard University, 1972.


Index

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Stories from DePaul

Accidental secret life at DePaul.

Tough Father Goes to Work

Sad Passing of a Beautiful Woman.

Sixteen-year-old lush wins the battle.

U.S. History -- Reading as a child in Tennessee

U.S. History -- the Concentration Camp Years

Growing up Filipino -- "Mom, are we Chinese?"

Just shoot me!

A Surprise to Remember

Fear

Author: Anonymous

Why Adults Love Golf

Take that! -- Motorbike for Eid

Butteryfly triumph over cruelty in Japan.

Author: Wendell Wright

A Dreamlike Night on the Beach

Author: Anonymous

The Stand

Author: Anonymous

Job Performance Review

Love or Lies

The Vacation from Hell

Fool on a Mountain Bike

Baptism by Fire

A Reflection: Mary B. Brennan A Eulogy Read At Her Funeral May 1, 1997 Copyright 1998 Anne Brennan Morley

Fumi in Africa and America

Author: Byron C. Harrison

A Reflection:
Mary B. Brennan
A Eulogy Read At Her Funeral
May 1, 1997
Copyright 1998 Anne Brennan Morley