Tidepools 2022i
Tidepools Magazine 2022 Issue 58 Tidepools is an art, photography, literature, and music magazine of the people of the North Olympic Peninsula in Washington State. It is published by students at Peninsula College with support from the Associated Student Council, The Buccaneer, and the Peninsula Daily News.
Design and Editing COVER IMAGE Richard Kohler DESKTOP PUBLISHING & LAYOUT Deirdre Frank STUDENT CO-EDITORS Ella Krohn Vanessa Flanagan Rebecca Lopez Cheyenne Maggard Katherine Marchant Alyssa McCallister Yessi Torres Olivia Wray FACULTY ADVISOR Deirdre Frank Copyright by Peninsula College and Tidepools 2022 ©.
Contest Winners Youth Art Ages 0-9 1st Place: The Screaming Sheep by Abigail Heistand 2nd Place: Baby Yoda by Ivan Heistand 3rd Place: Speaking Power by L.G.W. Youth Art Ages 10-13 1st Place: Shroomy Things by Elyse Kim 2nd Place: Seafoam Feeling by D.E.W. 3rd Place: Pringle and Me by Anouk Atwater Youth Art Ages 14-17 1st Place: Golden Gate from Alcatraz by Abby Sanford Youth Writing Ages 10-13 1st Place: The Lighthouse’s Domain by Noah Isenberg Youth Writing Ages 14-17 1st Place: Buried Truths by Maryrose Halberg Peninsula College Student Fine & Digital Art 1st Place: Accelerated by Emily Spink 2nd Place: Wolfsbane Cure by McKenzie Nelson 3rd Place: Phantasmagoria by Aziliz Dupont-Huin Peninsula College Student Photography 1st Place: Living in a Bubble by Courtney Smith 2nd Place: Alpine Perspective by Courtney Smith 3rd Place: Romanesco by Anson Wallenfang
Peninsula College Student Writing 1st Place: Empty-ish by Anson Wallenfang 2nd Place: Baseball is Fine by Kenneth Flaherty 3rd Place: Shared Experience by Carolynn Pype Adult Fine & Digital Art 1st Place: Fisher Kings by Kari Hardin 2nd Place: Violinist Point of View by Madeline Bryant 3rd Place: Northern Lights by Virginia Sheppard Adult Photography 1st Place: Sunset on North Beach by Patrick J. Johnson 2nd Place: Lake Crescent Sunset by Thomas Hightower 3rd Place: Praying Mantis on Dandelion Seed Head by Saundra Catiis Adult Poetry 1st Place: You Want to Write Nature Poetry by Angela Mordecai-Smith 2nd Place: Autumnal by Sharon R. Gilmour 3rd Place: December, Port Angeles, WA by Bruno Rescigna Adult Prose 1st Place: Vision Quest in a ‘63 Valiant by Katherine Kennedy 2nd Place: A Retirement Party by Pete Barthell 3rd Place: Samuel Explains the Box by Stirling Hall Music 1st Place: Nebula 86 by Dakotah Cole 2nd Place: Stoplight (Mtn. Blue) by Anson Wallenfang 3rd Place: When I Think about West 12th Street by The Atwaters
Contest Judges Youth Art Rosie Sharpe Youth & PC Writing Mark Valentine PC & Adult Fine & Digital Art Sarah Jane PC & Adult Photography Diane Urbani de la Paz Adult Prose Kate McDermott Adult Poetry Clair Dunlap Music Terry Smith
Contents Music Tracks................................................................................................................................1 Pysanky (Ukrainian Easter Eggs) by Llywelyn Graeme.............................................................................2 Samuel Explains the Box by Stirling Hall..............................................................................................3 Alpine Perspective by Courtney Smith ...............................................................................................6 Autumnal by Sharon R. Gilmour .......................................................................................................7 Fallen Fruit by Chris Kleinfelter........................................................................................................8 Serenity by Liberty Lauer................................................................................................................9 Dragonfly by Marilou Laisnez.......................................................................................................... 10 In Praise of Nellie by Nan Toby Tyrrell................................................................................................ 11 Saving Myself by Judith Duncan....................................................................................................... 12 Red Girl by Carolynn Pype............................................................................................................. 13 Shared Experience by Carolynn Pype................................................................................................. 14 Fisher Kings by Kari Hardin ........................................................................................................... 15 Vision Quest in a ‘63 Valiant* by Katherine Kennedy.............................................................................. 16 Northern Lights byVirginia Sheppard................................................................................................ 21 Robinsong by Oma Landstra........................................................................................................... 22 Red Winged Honeycreeper by John Kilzer........................................................................................... 23 Standing by Richard Kohler............................................................................................................. 24 Buried Truths by Maryrose Halberg................................................................................................... 25 Waves by Carlton Chastain............................................................................................................. 27 Seafoam Feeling by D.E.W.............................................................................................................. 28 Empty-ish by AnsonWallenfang........................................................................................................ 29 Romanesco by AnsonWallenfang...................................................................................................... 31 Shroomy Things by Elyse Kim.......................................................................................................... 32 The Lighthouse’s Domain by Noah Isenberg......................................................................................... 33
Sunset on North Beach by Patrick J. Johnson........................................................................................ 38 Goodtime Charlie by Al Kitching...................................................................................................... 39 Lake Crescent Sunset by Thomas Hightower........................................................................................ 41 December, Port Angeles,WA by Bruno Rescigna................................................................................... 42 This Easing Down of Night by Amy McIntyre....................................................................................... 43 Wolfsbane Cure by McKenzie Nelson................................................................................................ 44 Spirits for Sale by Bailey Loveless...................................................................................................... 45 Metamorphosis of the Spring Dragon by E. Randy Tierney ...................................................................... 47 The Screaming Sheep by Abigail Heistand............................................................................................ 48 Eeeeenk by Amalia Bell ................................................................................................................ 49 Praying Mantis on Dandelion Seed Head by Saundra Catiis....................................................................... 50 You Want to Write Nature Poetry by Angela Mordecai-Smith.................................................................... 51 Pringle and Me by Anouk Atwater..................................................................................................... 54 A Meta—Flora—Cal Play by Lara Starcevich....................................................................................... 55 A Clear Day at the Beach by Emilee Spoon.......................................................................................... 59 Living in a Bubble by Courtney Smith................................................................................................ 60 A Retirement Party by Pete Barthell.................................................................................................. 61 Accelerated by Emily Spink............................................................................................................. 62 Miles by Heidi Hansen................................................................................................................... 63 Violinist Point of View by Madeline Bryant.......................................................................................... 68 Showtime by Kristan Mabrey........................................................................................................... 69 Phantasmagoria by Aziliz Dupont-Huin.............................................................................................. 71 Golden Gate from Alcatraz by Abby Sanford........................................................................................ 72 Car Prowl by Thorkel Clark............................................................................................................ 73 BabyYoda by Ivan Heistand ............................................................................................................. 74 Baseball is Fine by Kenneth Flaherty.................................................................................................. 75 Speaking Power by L.G.W.............................................................................................................. 78
Music Tracks 1. Nebula 86 by Dakotah Cole 2. Stoplight (Mtn. Blue) by Anson Wallenfang 3.When I Think about West 12th Street by The Atwaters 1
Pysanky (Ukrainian Easter Eggs) by Llywelyn Graeme 2
Samuel Explains the Box by Stirling Hall 3rd Place Adult Prose Samuel was almost as tall as Daisy but not quite. Quiet, and say it in German, but then he’d spell it teaching her the like her, and easy to look at. “Let me carry that for you?” grammar and the root. He was clean, smelled clean and He’d ask with an open smile. fresh like soap and honey. Grandpa had smelled like that. “Merci,” she’d say. She liked being near him. He was the family she “Erwähne es nicht (don’t mention it),” he said while wanted. Plus, his hands were fast, and he could lift dragging a load of bloody sheets downstairs. someone from a cot. Following him down, she’d washed up and made him a cup of hot tea with a sugar biscuit. “Can you teach me that?” “I want you to come over for dinner tonight,” he said “Sure,” he said. “It’s easier than French.” looking at her while she spread a natty blanket over a “Oh, well…” she stammered in confession, “I can’t read.” dingy cot. “French?” “No. I never went to school,” she told him a small piece That night they maneuvered between checkpoints and of her story. document inspections until they got to the 11th District and “It’s alright. I can teach you how to read German.” Rue Saint-Maur.Walking up the third-floor middle-class “French?” residence they entered his adopted home. “No.You should learn German,” he said before sipping his tea. “It’s the language of Martin Luther and the printed At first, the heat and humidity overwhelmed her. And bible. It changed the world into what it is today. In many the cigarette smoke. She could hardly breathe or move ways, it is still being fought over by the Papacy and the around.There on the couch next to the window was Abba Reformists right outside. Mazal Tov!” (Papa), who was reading and did not get up. Eema (Mother) “Aren’t you Jewish? I mean, you…” was in the kitchen with pots boiling and the oven on, but “Practice Mitzvot? …Yeah, no. Oh, there’s so many she poked her head around long enough to get a kiss from rules. My family is much better at preserving whatever her balbit zun (favorite son).Which, of course, she said to heritage they’ve brought with them. I just want to finish my all her sons. studies and go to America.” “America…,” Daisy repeated with a faraway gaze. How Samuel went to his room to change clothes while far was she from that right now? Daisy wandered the living room looking at the life this He didn’t come in everyday, but when he did, Daisy family had remade for itself in a foreign land. Everything made any excuse to be near Samuel. It was obvious she liked tidy and no nonsense. Hundreds of books of all colors. him. Not only did he patiently point to something nearby Crystal glass. Painted plates. Paintings on the walls.The room was full of warm life. Curiously, on a bookshelf by themselves, were three finely crafted glass display boxes each identical with a flat glass top, four clear glass sides, and tiny purple pillow 3
inside. Each one the size of a coffee cup. On each of the little porcelain figurines, framed photos, eight dishes, and three pillows there sat a white grape. Each box had a tiny forty books that had been lain on their sides came crashing brass plate soldered to the leaded glass frames with a name down. Looking like she’d been caught robbing the Banque of or word in German orYiddish. Daisy had no idea. Paris, she raised her hands, “I’m sorry!” The old man watched as Daisy’s curiosity grew. So, he Abba, in the dark but still swinging his cane, tripped piped up. Speaking in German, he began to tell her the story over the forty books on the floor, fell on his knees. Smack! of the three grapes.This took a while because he hacked so His momentum carried him forward, against her legs, hard and sucked in so much cigarette smoke she thought launching his head firmly between her upper thighs. His he couldn’t possibly live long enough to finish. She could nose and cheeks became lodged in a place he’d never put his pick out some of the words, but he was talking so fast and face before. Ever. Except when he was born. coughing. Is that even German? He’d switched toYiddish. What was he talking about? He kept putting his fingers to Eema rushed in from her kitchen. Samuel ran in from his mouth like he was eating or drinking. his bedroom. In the darkness they ran straight faced into each other. Bang! The collision knocked them both over. Intrigued, she opened a glass box and removed the dried Clunk! Eema dropped her bowl of Kubana she’d been stir- grape. Lifting it to her lips she smelled the old fruit. “Why ring for tomorrow’s breakfast right on Abba’s head. Crunch! would anyone want to preserve this?” she asked. Darting the Samuel, getting back on his feet, stepped on Abba’s hand. tip of her tongue over it, she expected a sugary taste maybe Daisy was pushing Abba’s head from between her thighs, but like a leathery candy, but discovered it was a bit saltier than he couldn’t back up. He was yelling but nobody could hear her liking. him because he had a face full of inner thigh. Daisy tried to back up but that made the last two shelves fall out, and the When she raised the small bit to her lips the old man remaining books landed on Abba’s head. raised his cane. Crash! The cane crashed down with such force it broke the side table.When the side table broke, The ashtray that sat on the table was now sideways on everything fell, and the lamp hit the floor.The bulb broke. the floor and the lit cigarette ignited a fallen newspaper. At The room went totally dark. least now there was light in the room. “What are you doing?”The old man struggled to get off A new, acrid smoke filled the dark room followed by a the couch. Standing upright he swung his cane down right leaping flame.The billowing grey cloud quickly filled the towards Daisy’s face like he held a machete. entire apartment burning everyone’s eyes. Daisy was frightened. She was frightened by the table The little glass box hit the floor and broke into three breaking and the lamp falling. She was frightened by the pieces.That could probably be repaired.The dried grape sudden darkness and the old man yelling. She couldn’t see landed on the carpet where the cat grabbed it ducking the weapon coming down on her, but she was so fright- under the couch. ened she took a step backward in the dark.That’s when she dropped the small glass box and let the grape go flying in Samuel helped Eema up then put out the fire. Daisy the air. She fell into the bookshelf. Hitting the bookcase picked up the bowl of Kubana off Abba who now had flour broke her fall but she knocked five of the shelves out. All the and butter all over his head. Everyone struggled to the kitchen for some wet towels. 4
Eema asked Abba what was wrong. He spoke, wheezing possessions of five lives that we’d accumulated, and all the like he’d climbed the Eiffel Tower before dinner, butter grandparents before us, we left everything behind while clinging to his satin kippah with tears running down his face. Father carried just the one suitcase over the border. Inside When he finished his sad tale, they all looked at Daisy and that one suitcase, all of the things we owned, that we could the cat. have brought, my mother chose to keep and carry those three glass boxes to honor her son’s covenant between “I’m so sorry,” she said again, “I thought it was candy.” Abraham and God.” Samuel interpreted for Eema and soon all three were yelling in animated German. Daisy slowly backed away as Daisy looked at him, “What are you talking about?” she saw the mother’s face pinch up and her eyes welled “That was my brother’s penis.” red with tears. Abba was pointing at Daisy, but Eema was Even though it was dark and past curfew, Daisy turned pointing at him. and went downstairs into the night. It took a while for everyone to calm down. Finally, Samuel pulled Daisy aside. “You didn’t know.” Eema already guessed her guest was, “So ein Dummkopf!” “I’ll get this fixed,” Daisy said looking into their aston- ished eyes. “Let me do this!”Thinking to herself: It’s just a box.And the dishes.And the porcelain figures.And the photo frames.All things she didn’t remember having in her life. Eema got a broom and scared the cat from under the couch. Samuel, with his big, quick hands grabbed some fir hoping to rescue at least some of the grape. But none was left as the cat finished chewing and swallowed just as Eema opened its jaws with her angry fingers. Sam dropped the cat the floor.There was nothing left to do but clean up. Taking Daisy’s hand, he led her outside the apartment door to the hallway, “Daisy, you know how men in the Jewish faith are, um, open, cut…” “You cut yourself for a grape?” she asked without a reference to anything she’s ever known. “That was not a grape.” He looked at her, “That was my brother’s…” he looked down at his trousers and pointed to his genitals. “That was his vórhaut.” He didn’t know if Daisy knew what he was talking about. She looked blank. “When my parent’s left Hamburg in 1938, they could only carry a suitcase. For all of us. For all the material 5
Alpine Perspective by Courtney Smith 2nd Place PC Student Photography 6
Autumnal by Sharon R. Gilmour 2nd Place Adult Poetry If he fails while inching across If his high-top boots with competent treads prove a ruse and his fate is revealed on scrolls of ochre madrone bark If pine squirrels gather to mock him If the galvanized roofing with parallel ridges becomes a chute and he slides to me here where I stand with this ladder my body mass still presumed adequate to curb a fall— to steady a friggin’ extension ladder on decking or concrete, in mud or glacial moraine. If he slides to me here where I’ve stood with this ladder for fifty-three seasons, I promise anew not to let go unless I need to craft a net—an intricate mesh of orb-weaver web laced with threads from my chignon: a safety device of silver lamé to be hung from the uppermost rung. 7
Fallen Fruit by Chris Kleinfelter I see a fine line between plowshares and reddened swords. My only weapon is these words. The pruning hooks that trim our orchards are in time turned to spears. For now, I keep my fears to myself and am thankful for the scared, brave men who left their fields in days past to die in other men’s orchards so that when Autumn comes I can pick my apples in peace. 8
Serenity by Liberty Lauer 9
Dragonfly by Marilou Laisnez 10
In Praise of Nellie by Nan Toby Tyrrell For Annie Duncan Women rise in darkness when the hours of daylight descend softly over their backs as they bend over ovens baking bread.They move through rooms with sleepwalking grace as children dream with songs under their lips. Somewhere in villages in Romania women in black shawls stoop with baskets of cornmeal and barley.Their eyes reveal loss, hunger. When you tell me stories of Nellie, I see her standing in front of the cast iron stove wiping her hands on her apron, cooking meals for five men, giving challah on Sabbath, praying for patience, strength. As I wash floors, I feel my grandmother’s Resilience flow through my arms carrying memory, hope, and anger. 11
Saving Myself by Judith Duncan shoebox a ball of twine sour milk stale bread through generations tradition transforms less to something more mindful mothers in country hills teach the rules of saving a slice of raisin pie spoon of apple sauce the last potato saved for Sunday dinner my purity for a boy in a white shirt 12
Red Girl by Carolynn Pype 13
Shared Experience by Carolynn Pype 3rd Place PC Student Writing Rain above me storm within me Light my consciousness Keep my intuition speedy Ever wonder If I’ve become cold Too untrusting Too bold No such thing can a woman become Centuries of trauma Make you numb Do not worry I tell myself Your body holds wisdom Known to no one else 14
Fisher Kings by Kari Hardin 15 1st Place Adult Fine & Digital Art
Vision Quest in a ‘63 Valiant* by Katherine Kennedy 1st Place Adult Prose On a brisk autumn afternoon in 1974, I received a call their house to be met by an enormous moose hanging by its at my desk in The Edmonton Journal newsroom. I was writing rear legs from the eaves. an article for the newspaper using my CPT 4200, in essence a modified IBM Selectric typewriter, but then the ultimate I knew that Marie held healing ceremonies in their in computer technology. small frame house, and I had tried to persuade her to let me observe one of the rituals. She refused, saying they were not A woman’s voice came through the phone, the soft, for the merely curious. clipped speech I had become familiar with since reporting on the First Nations communities in northern Alberta. I tried now to elicit further details from Marie about the shooting, although I already knew I would not be “Katherine? This is Marie. Something horrible has writing this up for The Journal, whose editors were not happened to William,” she said. inclined to publish more reports of violence up North. She couldn’t tell me who the perpetrator was or what might “He was shot in the back, with a rifle. It went through have been the motivation. I told her that my husband Craig, the front window of our house.The ambulance just took a first-year medical student, and I would go over to the him to the University Hospital.” hospital that evening and see how William was doing. William was Marie’s common law husband.They were The last time we had seenWilliam, he had brought a Métis, descendants of Cree mothers and French fur trader couple of friends and a cousin down to our tiny hillside fathers.They lived in the town of High Prairie in Alberta’s apartment in Edmonton, above the North Saskatchewan Big Lakes Country, not far from Lesser Slave Lake. River. Upon arrival,William handed me a plastic bag of fresh bloody moose. I squeamishly accepted it and dumped If Marie had allowed them to takeWilliam down to the it into a pot for stew.While waiting for dinner, the young hospital in Edmonton, he must be badly injured. She was men smoked the bark they had scraped off red willow in the a medicine woman, widely known for her skill in herbal river valley. A sweet, pungent smell followed the blue smoke remedies and traditional healing. She usually had little faith of the pipe as it was passed around the room. After eating, in “white man’s medicine.” our guests spread out on the bare wooden floor of the living room and slept. I met William and Marie on a reporting trek to northern Alberta for a series of newspaper articles on the The congenial memory of that night made the hospital challenges facing Canada’s indigenous peoples.William and visit even more of a nightmare. It was unthinkable that Marie did not take their share of provincial oil revenues William, an affable, easygoing six-foot-four had been dribbled out to residents of the reservations; they preferred brought down like a hunted animal. He now lay, gaunt and a more independent existence from the fields and forests of northern Alberta. On one visit, I had turned a corner of 16
cadaverous, in a hospital bed.When we entered the room, Over the next week, I tried repeatedly to call Marie, his eyes were closed. but no one answered. I finally reachedWilliam’s cousin in High Prairie who told me something alarming. Craig slipped out to find the attending doctor, who— after learning he was a medical student—was willing to Marie had takenWilliam up to the Chief Smallboy talk, and even to show Craig the x-rays. A bullet had pene- Camp on the east slopes of the Rocky Mountains. I had tratedWilliam’s spinal cord.Trying to take it out could kill heard of Robert Smallboy. He was chief of the Ermineskin him. He would never walk again. band near Hobbema in central Alberta, 70 kilometers south of Edmonton. I had written a story for The Journal about The silence of the room was broken only by the beeping life on the Hobbema Indian Reserve, where members of of the machines monitoring Williams’s vital signs.We could four bands—Ermineskin, Samson, Montana, and Louis find no words to speak and soon left, encountering Marie as Bull—lived. she entered the room. Provincial oil revenues, estimated at $2.5 million a “We are so sorry,” I groped for words. month, were shared with First Nations peoples, but per “I am not giving up on him,” she responded, although capita payments at Hobbema averaged only $25 per person we could not imagine her vision of life withWilliam now. each month. Oil money had funded a recreation center On NewYear’s Day 1975, I baked ginger cookies and and a new administration building, but what the people Craig and I trudged across the snowy High Level Bridge really wanted, they didn’t have—decent-paying jobs.There to deliver a tin of them to William.We walked down the was little investment in the Reservation, and welfare for now-familiar pastel hallways with their institutional food Hobbema cost the feds over a million dollars annually. Chief smell and into his room, trying to think of what we could Smallboy had traveled with a delegation to Ottawa to ask say about the past year or the upcoming one that would not the Department of Indian Affairs for more farmland and sound insensitive or meaningless. meaningful work, but his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. The bed was empty.Thinking William might have been taken for a procedure or test, we sat down and waited. Chief Smallboy traced the main ills of his people— Finally, Craig and I went to the nurses’ station and asked the unemployment, breakdown of the family, neglect of head nurse where he was. children, loss of native language and traditional rituals, “Marie took him out Christmas Eve on a three-day alcoholism, drug use, hopelessness, and suicide—to the pass,” she responded. “He should have been back by now.We influence of the mainstream culture. He finally saw only one haven’t been able to contact either Marie or William, and way to save his people. He decided to offer the Ermineskin we’re really concerned about him.” an entirely different life, one where respect for the ances- Craig knew what they were talking about.William was tors and traditional Cree ways could be taught alongside completely paralyzed below the chest. Besides his medica- the native language. Perhaps isolated in the mountains, away tions, he relied on catheters that needed to be kept clean from television and booze and shopping malls, his people and regularly changed. Infection could kill him. would begin to find meaning in their lives. Perhaps rever- ence for the natural world and right relationships within it could be reawakened. 17
Thus, in the summer of 1968, Chief Smallboy and about nor studded tires. But theValiant was true to her name 140 members of his band left Hobbema for the eastern and plowed on. After about three hours, we turned off the slopes of the Rocky Mountains, an area known as the highway onto an unpaved Forest Service road lined with Kootenay Plains.While the federal government claimed this snowdrifts. If we had car trouble or got stuck here, no one as Crown land, British cartographer David Thompson, 150 would find us. But we didn’t turn back. years before, had identified the area as Sacred Indian Land. That was more than enough for Chief Smallboy, who defi- Finally, we saw the smoke from wood fires at Smallboy antly took the position that this land had never been ceded Camp winding between the trees, and spotted a few pickups to Queen Victoria, and in any event the treaty process had along the road, their beds filled with the season’s snow.We been a fraud. parked in a grove of snow-laden pines and were venturing down what seemed to be the central path in the camp The group pitched a large council teepee, twenty when a male figure wearing a heavy canvas jacket suddenly large tents, and erected a portable classroom just north appeared in front of us. of Abraham Lake. Smallboy Camp subsequently relocated farther north, not far from the small town of Hinton, about “Who are you?” 180 miles west of Edmonton. “Uh, we are friends of Marie andWilliam,” I said. And to compound the oddness of our sudden, unannounced appear- So now William and Marie were living at Smallboy ance, I nodded at my husband: “He is a medical student at Camp. No medical facilities, no nurses, no medications. the university.” And, depending on the weather, little opportunity to access “Why are you here?” a hospital if—as Craig expected—William’s condition That was a question I couldn’t really answer.We are rarely deteriorated. gifted to know why we are drawn to a particular journey, especially one into an unseen world.Alongside our concern Being young and impetuous, this meant only one thing. forWilliam, a sense of the unknown seemed to have propelled We would drive our 1963 Plymouth Valiant through the us into the dark northern forests, an eagerness to enlarge our wintry foothills of the Rocky Mountains to find them. I am own sense of what was real, or possible. But I didn’t know not sure, even today, what we thought we would accom- that at the time, and I certainly couldn’t have articulated it for plish.The rusting Valiant had been under cover for most of this brusque gatekeeper at Smallboy Camp. Edmonton’s unforgiving winter, plugged into a block heater “We just want to make sureWilliam is okay,” I said 24 hours a day to keep the Slant Six from freezing. weakly, preparing mentally to turn around the Valiant and head back the way we came. But set forth we did, the last weekend of January. “Were you sent by the government?” he demanded to We packed a lunch, poured hot tea into a thermos, put a know. “By the health board?” sleeping bag in the back seat, filled up the gas tank, and “Oh no,” I responded, finally gathering my wits. “We took off to the west on the icyYellowhead Highway (named have come on our own. It has nothing to do with the after the French fur trapper and explorer Pierre Bostonais, government or the health board.We are friends of Marie known as “Tête Jaune” orYellowhead). and William.” We kept an anxious eye on the purple snow clouds that hung heavily over the mountains.We had neither chains 18
Perhaps realizing the remote likelihood that a govern- We followed her gaze to a narrow bed covered with ment bureaucrat would drive a Plymouth Valiant through a brightly colored quilt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, snowdrifts to the isolated camp in the heart of a Canadian wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, his long black hair caught winter, the man seemed to relent a bit. in a woven band, and swinging his legs, was—William! “I will ask the Chief,” he said. “Wait here until I return.” We were speechless. While he was gone, Craig and I cast our eyes around the William’s renewed energy was palpable, and his untrou- camp.There didn’t seem to be much going on. Occasionally, bled smile lit up the tent. people would leave one of the large tents and duck into Finding words at last, I stuttered, “William! How good another.We didn’t see any children and couldn’t spot the you look! What—what—?” portable classroom. “The bullet was removed in sweat lodge,” he said in his After about ten minutes, the man returned. steady, mellifluous voice. “Now I can feel my legs, my feet. “I will bring you to Marie and William,” he said, “as long Before long, I will walk again.” He flexed his feet up and as we have your word that you will not report on your visit down from the ankle chuckling at our astonishment. here to anyone in the government,” “But how is this possible?” Craig asked, utterly dumbfounded. “No problem,” replied Craig, who had no idea why we “The invisible world makes many things possible that would be inclined to report on the camp, which was well you cannot imagine,” answered Marie cryptically. “Just known to provincial officials and the federal government. please do not speak of this to the health authorities.” Now Craig had been in medical school less than six months, and we understood; they were concerned about getting shut William’s care was not entrusted in him, much less was down by health officials who might accuse them of the unli- evaluating or reporting on William’s condition. IfWilliam censed practice of medicine. was on the brink of death, it wasn’t up to Craig to make that We told no one, nor did I write about it for The call.We could try to persuade Marie to take him back to the Edmonton Journal. Persuaded by its advertisers that there hospital and were fully prepared to do that, but nothing else. was too much Indian content in the newspaper, its editors “Follow me,” said the man, leading us to the flap of a eliminated the First Nations beat and assigned me to cover large tan canvas tent. As he lifted the flap, a wave of warm provincial social services later in 1975. air flowed across our faces. But it was all true. Six months after our trek to Fearing the worst, we ducked inside. Smallboy Camp,William came walking on crutches past my The first thing we saw was Marie, rocking in a chair, desk at The Edmonton Journal. No one knew why I stood and weaving grasses into a long plait. She did not seem surprised enveloped him in a bear hug, tears welling up in my eyes. to see us. I have one photograph of that trip to Smallboy Camp, “Katherine! Craig! Welcome!” she exclaimed, rising taken of Craig on the way back. He is standing on a bridge, to her feet. “You have come all this way to see William!” squinting in the bright sunlight of that afternoon, hands She gestured with a sweeping motion towards the far side jammed in the pockets of his bellbottom jeans, a befuddled of the tent. look on his face.We were divorced in 1981, and I never asked him what he was thinking as he stood there. 19
As for me, I remember how expansive and exhilarated I felt heading home. As the sun broke through the over- cast sky, the whole world was newly illuminated, from the sparkling billows of snow along the road to the blazing peaks of the towering mountains. Hidden below the surfaces of life was a bottomless well of unsuspected possibilities into which I had somehow been initiated. On that wintry day in 1975, I began to see that my understanding of reality was incomplete at best.The opinions I so easily held were open to question, and a different mindset could prove them arbi- trary or downright wrong.That journey ignited a lifetime of exploration into mind/body connections, alternative forms of healing, and contemplative spirituality. The Smallboy Camp became an inspiration to indige- nous peoples across Canada and the United States. For more than twenty years, it was a center for retreat and learning about Cree traditions and spiritual life. Chief Robert “Apitchitchhiw” Smallboy was awarded the Order of Canada on December 31, 1979, as “Chief of the Ermineskin band who led his people to a mountain wilderness east of Jasper so that they may revert to their traditional way of life, in recognition of his unique services to his people.” He would never know the gift he gave to me. *This is a true story.The names (other than that of Chief Robert Smallboy) have been changed to protect privacy. 20
Northern Lights by Virginia Sheppard 3rd Place Adult Fine & Digital Art 21
Robinsong by Oma Landstra The robin is visiting me again To sing her morning chorus And keep me company High in the budding apple tree. She and I await our destiny. 22
Red Winged Honeycreeper by John Kilzer 23
Standing by Richard Kohler 24
Buried Truths by Maryrose Halberg 1st PlaceYouth Writing 14-17 May 27, 2021 Over 215 Indigenous children’s remains were found at a Catholic boarding school. Their deaths were unmarked and undocumented. Bodies turned into debris scattered amongst the innocent earth. An attempt to “civilize” these children escalates to a mass political genocide. Their families were told the missing children ran away. 25
Ran away? Thousands of children years 3 to 18 ran away… Maybe they should have run away. Kids abused, raped, neglected, murdered like monsters. Their identities stripped away. How did we get there? Taking their lives away from their families. Taking their identities away, taking children’s lives away. They shouldn’t need to Run away. 26
Waves by Carlton Chastain 27
Seafoam Feeling by D.E.W. 2nd PlaceYouth Art 10-13 28
Empty-ish by Anson Wallenfang 1st Place PC Student Writing They say that the hollow bones of birds are what help give them flight. That there is a strength in their brittleness. Experiencing my own howling emptiness, silently the abdominal cavern plumbed and palpated created nonetheless in darkness echoing the void of a communal impoverishment, a gasping loneliness behind screens, a twisted sense of self doomed and damned to comparison but this is only because we are vessels. We must remember this. We must remember to fill ourselves not only with nourishment and joy but with permission, expression, forgiveness, vulnerability… …grace, mercy, courage, compassion, love… The bellowing voices of angst, fear, and shame heavy programs welded into a ridged structure of thought from which we hang knowing that if we do not bend then we will surely break. If I continue denying myself the right of expression, feeling like the clouded stench of diesel, I’ll implode with the compression. 29
Submitting to this status of societal norms, focused on earning a living, —as if life was not an inalienable righ— the irony is carved into my backbone having betrayed the very things that bring me to life, first postponed and then forgotten, or worse yet abandoned, rediscovered, withered, and rotten. As I reach for my oxygen mask I smother the only part of me worth saving. All out of fear. Falsified, injected, and projected. It’s been ground in, woven, recorded as the needle scratched the wax. It’s a cruel carousel, and there’s no escaping this without breaking the vinyl, we have to change the story! Overcome the ego. Let go of the glory. Rewrite the narrative, I implore thee to dig deep within.Your heart’s a quarry. 30
Romanesco by Anson Wallenfang 3rd Place PC Student Photography 31
Shroomy Things by Elyse Kim 1st Place Youth Art 10-13 32
The Lighthouse’s Domain by Noah Isenberg 1st PlaceYouth Writing 10-13 I begin in darkness. I notice the door across the room. It grabs my attention, Then the universe decided that there wasn’t time for that. seems to pull me in. Beautiful carvings adorn it with roaring I open my eyes, which I did not know were there lions and a rough stormy sea. Some part of me is compelled moments ago. I didn’t know anything moments ago. to open it, while another wants to go back to the bed and My eyes adjust to the light that found its way here from hide under the covers. a burning ball of gas ninety-three million miles away in about eight minutes, but I don’t know how I know that. I don’t know if I can trust myself with either of the I lay there for a moment, staring at the wood ceiling, options, so instead, the door decides for me: It swings open, beams supporting the roof. I blink a couple of times and and I take a step through. realization follows. Why am I not able to remember? I feel queasy. Nothing The sky beats my face with a whip made of wind, and I seems right. stumble blindly. My hands find a railing, which I grip tightly. I throw off the covers and find myself fully dressed. Not I blink a couple of times, and despite the blowing gale I can wasting any time, I bolt up, surprised to find I can stand. My see. I’m standing on a metal balcony that wraps around the muscles have done this before. entire circular room with the bed. After hopping out of bed, I find myself standing in front of a large golden mirror staring back at myself. It’s a star- I’m in a lighthouse. tling reminder of what I am–– a connection between now The watchtower is made completely of stone, climbing and whatever was before this. I’m human. I look like an into the sky. Looking down, I see it sits nestled on a hill of adult. My body seems strong and fit. green grass, overlooking the endless sea. Still grasping the I ponder myself for a moment. Am I an amnesiac? Is this railing, I make my way around the balcony of the lighthouse what amnesia feels like? and glimpse more sea stretching across the expanse as waves What doesn’t make sense is that I know about mirrors smack the shore. and humans and amnesia. I take solace in the fact that the I’m on an island. In the middle of an endless, inescap- memory isn’t gone. I’m a shell with knowledge and experi- able sea. ences, but no recollection of anything. Panic shakes through my bones, and I turn around, I tear myself away from the mirror and begin searching for trying to get back into the bedroom, but I don’t make it. meaning and memory. I try to search my mind, only to find The wind grabs me, pulling me back towards the railing. I useless facts and a few memories from the past five minutes. try again and the same thing occurs. “What do you want from me!” I scream at the wind. “Your pockets,” it whispers in a soft voice barely audible over the crashing sea. 33
“Why do you want my pockets!” I yell again, but So far, I haven’t done much other than wake up at noon and the wind does not respond. I’m fine giving the wind my find the journal. I think I’m going to head down to the beach pockets, so I reach into them, ready to tear them out when now. Maybe there’s someone who can help me or at least a boat my fingers find a book. or something. I take it out of my pocket and lift it to the sky. This is a continuation of what I wrote before:There is nothing “Do you want this?” I ask the wind. at the beach. I’m thinking about trying to swim away. I might “No, it is for you,” it rasps. be able to find something. I’m leaving the journal on the beach. I grip the book tightly and return through the door, the wind granting me passage. Are there others? More people suffering from the same Back inside, I sit at a study desk.The bedroom had been problem. Not knowing who they are. But where are they? replaced by a beautiful library. Somewhere on this island, maybe. I place the book on the desk. Its brown cover seems worn as if it has been around for many generations. It strikes me how familiar it all feels. Not what is Carefully, I open the book to find a withered page, with written, but how it is written.The shape of the writing, the handwritten words: slight mix between cursive and print. You don’t know who you are. I keep on reading through the entries and notice the That could be a problem or a gift. same thing. All of them are written in the exact same hand- writing. I flip to the final page to see what my handwriting But I know you yearn to know whether your memory is a gift or looks like, and what I see shocks me. a curse. Let this journal be a helping hand. Lines upon lines all writing the same sentence, repeated Log anything here that happens on the island, and it will come over and over again: This is my handwriting. And the freaky back around.You will find yourself hating this island, but learn thing is that each line looks exactly the same. I’m about to from your mistakes, and acceptance will follow. Let this journal write my sentence below the last, but I stop. An unsettling be a beacon in a stormy sea. idea occurs to me. Sincerely, Are all the people who have written in the journal the same? Are they all one? The Lighthouse It instantly seems true. I had written this down and I turn the page over, ready to begin logging, because I forgot again. I reset. I’m a new lifetime. don’t have anything else to do, but I see something written on the second page. For some reason, I hate this idea. I need to escape from it, but I know that it is impossible if we all have the I’m pretty sure I’m the first one to write in this, other than same thoughts. the Lighthouse (which makes no sense at all), though I’m not exactly sure who I am. I don’t understand what I’m supposed to I look down at the lines of the same sentence, and I do with the journal or how it will help me, but I’ll try to figure know from now on I need to go against the grain. At the something out. I need my memory back. bottom of the page, I write my sentence: This is our hand- writing. A small step, but an important one. 34
Satisfied, I flip backward reading the entries of the life- I stand on the beach, wiggling my toes in the sand. I like times before me, and I see a small frantically scrawled note way it feels. It comforts me, for some unknown reason. at the bottom of a page: When I left through the door it opened to a rocky path You do not have as much time as you think.Time does not down to the beach, which was strange, as a singular door work the way you think it should. It moves more quickly on the does not lead to three different places, but I decide not to island.What you should know is that it won’t be long before question it.The island works differently than the world I you reset and a new lifetime starts. think I know.The door, the wind, the journal–– it’s not normal. I condensed the current knowledge into two things you need to know: Despite trying to go against the previous iterations of myself, I found myself here, just like 11 said I would.The sea 1.At 5:00 you either accept your fate on the island or try to do is calming. It gives me some relief from my constantly busy something about it, which will result in death.At 7:00 we all, but blank mind. as far as I know, lose our memory. I pick up a rock and throw it at the water and the ocean 2. No matter what you do, you will find yourself at the beach. cries out. Even if you try to stay at the lighthouse or go away from the beach, something forces you towards the ocean. The seafoam begins to froth and swirl forming a tornado emerging from the ocean.The tornado folds in on ––Lifetime 11 itself, and out from the mass emerges a lion made of water. The lion is twice my size, still swirling and bubbling. Its eyes This isn’t how the world is supposed to work. But are two blue seashells that shine in the glinting sunlight. according to Lifetime 11, time and space warp around the island. I step back in fear. “I’m sorry! I’m not used to this island! I didn’t know This means that if 11 is right, I don’t have the time I the sea was alive! Please!” I beg.The lion stares at me and thought I had. I look at my wrist and am not surprised to then opens its mouth to speak. find a watch. 3:03. I only have about two hours. “You don’t know anything.” “Yes…” I say, deflating. I turn to the back of the book, and I come to a page “Why would you not think the sea is alive?” with ink on it that still seems to be drying–– Lifetime 56. “My brain doesn’t know this island,” I say. I look at the lion and I realize that he doesn’t seem angry. It looms over If they were 56, then I’m the 57th version of myself. me like a god. I’ve failed 56 times before!What are the chances that this “The sea is alive because it wants to be,” the lion tells time will be the time I succeed? me. “Its heartbeat pulses with the waves, its veins pump with the current, and it roars with the whitecaps.Why are I know all the lifetimes before me painstakingly wrote you alive?” out a journal entry, but after Lifetime 11’s entry and with “I’m not sure… My heart beats and my veins pump and my goal of doing everything differently than the other my mouth speaks, but I don’t know why! I don’t know if versions of me, I shut the journal. Time to go to the beach. 35
there’s a reason for it doing so. A method in the madness or I run as fast as I can, my legs pumping against the something. But it doesn’t make sense!” ground. I don’t need to look behind me to know that the Knight of the Night is in pursuit. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the lighthouse bell begin to toll. Five times. Is it five already? The sky is already I dash up the path to the beach heading back to the beginning to tint a pearly pink. lighthouse, but the lighthouse is not the goal. I am the light- house. If I went there, I would just be giving up. I can’t hide “Who am I?!” I shout at the sea, its seashell eyes from the night. burrowing into me.The lion sighs. Acceptance comes at five.The night comes at seven. “You are the lighthouse,” it says, calmly. “You are the I can’t let the night take me again. sea.You are the sky.You are the wind.You are me.You are I speed past the lighthouse, past its welcoming doorway. the island.” I notice jets of water shooting away from the It offers me protection, but that’s a lie. It’s not the beacon it’s creature. It’s dying. supposed to be. I know I’ve run in there many times before seeking shelter from the knight, but I was only sent back to “But the island is cursed!” I yell, but the lion does not square one. I need to rebel against what I have done previ- respond. Suddenly, it looks toward the sun slowly slipping ously, just like I did with the journal. I need to keep going. into the sea. “ The path becomes rough. Jagged rocks and clumps of grass burst from the ground at every step. You must go! The Knight of the Night is coming!” I feel a bond snap, one that I didn’t notice before now. “What?” I’ve lost connection to the lighthouse. It has given up, but “He prowls the land after dark trying to end you, trying I know the Knight of the Night won’t fall so easily. I must to draw you back into the unknowing night.The island is keep running. under his control as long as you don’t remember!You must Then I realize the weight in my pocket has disappeared. run! The night is your enemy!”The lion’s voice becomes I turn around and see the journal on the ground. warbled as if it is drowning in itself. I lift my gaze and make out the knight. His devilish “But it’s not night…” I trail off. I look behind the lion horse is pure black, with foggy red eyes full of hate.The and see the sun disappearing in the distance. I check my knight is huge, with armor made of shadows and darkness. watch. Nearly seven.The bell just rang at five! Time seems When I look at his face I see an empty hole. I instinctively to be crumbling, bearing no meaning. know that his soul should be there. Maybe that’s why he The lion roars in pain, the sea slowly dragging it back. hunts me. “Time bends to the will of the Lighthouse, as does every- Behind him, I see the lighthouse, crumbled and in ruin. thing else on the island! But you must go! Run, before he The illusion is broken.This is all the lighthouse truly was. finds you!” The knight pulls his horse to a stop when he reaches the The neighing of a mare echoes against the hilltops. journal. I think about charging, grabbing the journal, but that He’s coming. would be the end.The knight would ride again if I did so. I turn and run, as the last call of the lion comes from behind me. “Break the curse! Break the island! Break yourself…” 36
So instead, I turn and run, fleeing the knight. I hear the My memories rush back, slowly at first, but then sound of a sword slashing and I know the journal is gone. All quicker–– a steady flow of knowledge. that knowledge is lost. But the journal was all part of this intricate curse. I hear the neigh of the horse, and the knight I look up and hear the cry of the knight because he is chasing me again. knows he’s lost. My legs burn and my lungs fill with burning acid. I’m I hit the ground, but it does not stop me. I keep falling. climbing a hill now, one where the path does not lead. Above me, the island crumbles as I fall into the white void. Large rock chunks fall to pieces in the water. I think I The knight is right behind me. I’ve come so close; I see the lion as he finally watches the island fall back into the can’t let him get me. sea where it belongs. I’m returning to the world.The real world, whatever Slowly, I begin to feel memories start to return. I taste that may be. what real life might be. I need to get back, but the only way This was the lighthouse’s domain. to do that is to escape the beast behind me. This was my domain. May the domain be a malevolant dreamscape buried in But I’m forced to stop when I come to a giant cliff the depths of my mind, or a real island tucked in the corner plummeting straight down onto the rocky shore below. I’m of the world. May it even be a glance of death and a glimpse trapped.There is no escape from the knight. of the afterlife. No matter what it was it doesn’t matter now. I’m free and I know this place wil leave no trace upon me. For all I know, the other Lifetimes stood on this cliff Whatever this island was, whoever’s domain it is, the knight as well, while the knight cut them down.The night always has fallen, and I don’t have to be afraid of the dark anymore. found us. “Break the curse. Break the island. Break yourself…” The voice is faint at first but then grows. The wind! It has come to save me! But I realize it can’t interfere. It is just a messenger. “Break the curse. Break the island. Break yourself…” I am the island. I am the curse. I am myself. But only one of the three I have the power to break. I stare at the knight, who’s come to a stop near the cliff, slowly advancing. He’s savoring the moment. He can’t have my soul. He can’t have anything of mine. I stare at him, and somewhere in the hole where his face should be, I think I see his eyes. Then I turn and jump off the cliff. The ground rises up to meet me, and the sky falls down upon me. 37
Sunset on North Beach by Patrick J. Johnson 1st Place Adult Photography 38
Goodtime Charlie by Al Kitching Long ago, in the Philippines where you were born, I changed your diapers and rocked you in a straw hammock, hearing Mom’s lament that you could never be President. I always thought you could have been Tony Curtis, starting out so baby cute and teenage handsome, always mischievous and so very precocious. I see you in a small black and white photograph of a young child who had broken into Dad’s liquor cabinet, sampling his Vodka, a triumphant knowing smile distorting your cherub visage, tragedy and comedy foreshadowed in equal parts on your chubby face. So many not-choices, alcohol’s siren-call branded into your genes, your arms opened wide, welcoming its unrelenting embrace. Parental monies for treatments notwithstanding, no amount of money could cure your brokenness. You could walk the walk and talk the talk, sounding almost convinced, but your heart was never in those twelve steps. Your open-wounded compulsion was too deep to heal, your unfree will chained to fierce desire, obscuring your vision, preventing a close look at yourself, your only life, the infirm ground upon which you struggled. Even so, when you did work, you were a Chef of a cook, and, of course, a barbecuer char excellence, a griller of bodacious steaks, “Homemade Heart Attack,” I teasingly described your butter slathered pork chops, suggesting you start a restaurant with that name. 39
In the end, though I found your motives questionable, with help of extraordinary friends who loved you better than I, you cared for mom and dad in their final years. No matter what influences you were under, your wry humor would occasionally rise through your dark inertia, the ever-squawking television casting flickering shadows across your suffering. Of course, mañana was your mantra, to which most of us ascribe. As always, tomorrow came, which I think you mostly expected, a hospital bed your final destination, your unchosen destiny. It seems, youngest brother, that I’ve been saying goodbye to you for a long time. 40
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