CarolineGerardo haiku, photos, journal

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Jane Brucker





































Jane Brucker's "Bouquet"

Grandmother’s gone, pack her stuff.
Pressed flowers from a wedding rest in the Bible.
A bouquet, the word has a sound and an aroma,
 reminding she loved lavender.
A box of letters in French, though your ancestors were Irish.
A map and engineering plans signed with your father’s name.
An artist at her easel with haunting eyes in a daguerreotype.
Pieces combine in assemblage becoming, converting your soul.
Together they tell a story.

Fearless, open the box of secrets.
A sprinkler valve key opens.
Graceful wiring, ancient timepieces
and scissors to cut your nosegay.





Jane Brucker’s assemblage pieces installation 
are exhibited at SPARC in
South Pasadena until June 2nd 2015
1121 Mission Street 

Jane’s work combines 
found objects, performance and community.


Thomas Moore
“Like the gale, that sighs along 
Beds of oriental flowers, 
Is the grateful breath of song, 
That once was heard in happier hours. 
Fill'd with balm the gale sighs on, 
Though the flowers have sunk in death; 
So, when pleasure's dream is gone, 
Its memory lives in Music's breath. 









SPARC
BOUQUET 
JANE BRUCKER
South Pasadena

Friday, May 1, 2015

Lightning Bug Shine

gatlinberg lightning bug dance



Close your eyes to a dream.
Fireflies are frail. 
Put them in a jar, 
they won’t glow in the morning.
Appreciate moments; 
celebrate your life to a goal;
this is a map for future miracles.
Sweat, bloody elbows and bruises connect us.
Echo of shouting structure plays,
field lights shine through fog,
and black pebbles hitchhike in your shoes.
~
Share this flame,
dark days are tiny because
you know how to built a team.


Grateful to all.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Winning LAX





























“Look out for O’Shea on the field?” His Mother asks in the beginning of the season.
“What number is he?”
“28.”
From the Dana Hills High School stadium there’s a peek at the ocean; but dry rot in the bleachers. An unusual request comes from a tall black lady in this white community.
Lacrosse isn’t a popular sport in Orange County. Football reigns in most High Schools. The stadium is never full for Lacrosse games.
The Mom who does stats, brings snacks on the bus and carries the first aid kit knows which players have asthma, are allergic to bees or peanut butter asks, “There’s no 28 on the roster?”
“He just got a jersey.” O’Shea’s mother answers.
“Okay. Fill out the forms - write your cell phone number, his height, grade…” The blonde lady pauses, “Permission forms seem like duplication - Coaches don’t see the papers the High School gets.”
“Will do.”

O’Shea attends practices but his parents didn't buy him a stick or pads. Parents pay to have their children play Lacrosse in public schools. Even the bill for the electric lights is paid by fundraising. At games O’Shea stands leaning to one side wearing his jersey. O’Shea has Intellectual Disabilities and physical limb abnormalities. No one asks the name of his syndrome, the boys accept him as one of the team. His troubles are more visible than their own. All teenagers struggle to fit in. Perhaps in a wealthy beach community there is more pressure to assimilate.
When Junior Varsity lines up to watch the older boys play, a player shows him where to stand and what cheers to repeat. He learns to honor the opposing team by following the boys.
Gentlemen who choose a sport like LAX (as Lacrosse is nicknamed) may have increased physical drive. Players on the Dana team are rough as any boys with the hormones that drive them to poke each other. This sport allows gentlemen to hit one another with sticks. O’Shea participates in the pranks they play upon each other.
Riding home from a game, Coaches count the boys on the bus, as some impulsively might catch a ride with a buddy. The boys tell O’Shea to duck down. For a few minutes he plays along with the gag that he is forgotten somewhere in Murietta, much to the dismay of the Coach.
“Driver go back!” Coach shouts.
Then O’Shea pops up, “Hey Coooch!”
Everyone laughs that O’Shea was not left behind, and also at his progress to enjoy a joke.
“Oh sha oh oh shay,” they cheer.
Unexpected joy changed the boys.
In a home game a week ago, Coach planned to put O’Shea into the J. V. game. O’Shea doesn’t physically practice, as it is difficult for him to keep up. Coaches told the San Juan Hills team that we would let them score a few if they would allow O’Shea to play a few minutes and not be treated aggressively. Varsity boys loan him parts of their shoulder pads, arm guards and a stick. On the sidelines they pull the arm guards over his elbows. He is padded like the Michelin Man. The referees did not understand what was happening. San Juan’s team did not comprehend, only the Dana players and parents know about O’Shea’s disabilities. With gloves and a helmet and most of his body covered, he appears under the lights much like any other player, but his stance and his gate are stiff. As the whistle blows the defensive players circle him and lead him to the fifty yard line. He’s a bit rattled about where to go on the field. O’Shea never played contact or shot the ball. The boys shout instructions.
“We’ll run with you half way. Attacks will take you the rest.”
He says nothing.
“Two hands on your stick O’Shea!” Someone shouts.
The point player and bottom left and right surround him while the middies protect the ball at the fifty yard line bringing him closer to the crease.
“This way!”
O’Shea trembles as he jogs towards the ball on the ground. The boys toss and keep the ball ready away from opponents for O’Shea’s chance to pick up the ground ball. With assistance, he manages on the second try. The small audience cheers. The boys urge him.
“Shoot, shoot!”
The ball does not go in the net; however, all the players on the Dana team raise their arms to indicate a goal. They scream.
“O’Shea!”
The referee whistles some violation. A player tries to explain that O’Shea can’t hold the stick properly with two hands, inside the glove is a hand that is formed like a mitten. The foul is called off.
Coach puts O’Shea in again in the fourth quarter but this time it isn’t as dramatic. Winning tonight’s game is sweet.
At the end of the game, the announcer calls the player of the game. A Freshman player runs to find a pen and neatly write “game ball” on a new white ball. O’Shea beams. He holds it above his head. The field lights shine a neon glow.



*
This has been an experience of a lifetime for the Dana Hills High Lacrosse Team of 2015. “Mainstreaming” theory believes a disabled person grows with acceptable forms of social interaction. This wonderful inclusion was perhaps one of the vital lessons that the Dana Hills High Gentlemen’s Lacrosse learned this year. Winning is the goal in sports. Growing into a good man is more important. Thank you O’Shea for sharing your heart.
Our last season game is Thursday, April 30th at Dana Hills High School Stadium 5:30 Varsity and 7:00 J.V. against El Toro.







Sunday, April 19, 2015

Northwest College Acceptance Trip



Northwest Coast College Acceptance Trip 4/10/2015
Son was admitted to nine of the ten colleges that he applied to. Did he set his sights too low? He worries what choice will make his future. He’s smarter than I am.


Endings and a door opens.
Carson is my youngest child.

Cracks in the concrete allow seeds to lodge.
Waiting to surprise a bird with a morsel
or poppies bloom in the middle of the freeway divider,
crumbs are soothsayers.

The flight from Orange County to Oakland was bumpy.

This is a return trip to review narrowed down prospects. The first time was a dust storm trip where we took a region and hit three colleges a day with appointments and excuses about the traffic or tardy flights. It’s been expensive. SAT, ACT, applications, classes, and more fees to send the scores total over seven thousand dollars. The travel: airfare, Enterprise Car Rentals and a combination of Motel 6 and cheap local unbranded motels totals fifteen grand. My income is condensed by the crash and my life is in a turn over from working a seventy hour work week as mortgage banker. I act as Mom and Dad supporting my family financially and emotionally. On the horizon for me is a new life. The blitzkrieg depleted most my liquid savings. It was worth every screaming moment calculating lives for other people. It’s time for my son to map his course.

In the last swoop over broccoli trees and brown gravy grass, a familiar sound of flaps and engines in grinds in reverse. Hey we’re headed in an arrow shot forward; we laugh at brakes.

The drought doesn’t appear to have touched the Bay. The low mounds of rusty rock and snakes of dirt quell back high tide. If you look from higher heaven, the landscape has transformed. Accept change or drown, or better said perhaps dehydrate to dust.

We arrive in Seattle on the second flight. Enterprise Rental Car efficiently gets us on the road. My son puts the paper map in the pocket of the door. G. P. S. on a phone can lead, as long as there aren't too many sky scrapers in the way.























Meandering up to Capitol Hill, we intend to drop our bags at the Sorrento Hotel and walk the campus. Some mix up with the reservation, and my son kindly doesn't roll his eyes at me knowing that perhaps I made the reservation on my phone without my good glasses. The woman and the counter has kind eyes. She assures us that we can leave our bags and return when they call us.
“No rush we will be a couple hours.” I say.


Two umbrellas in one backpack and the camera; I will find the chip from our trip and share the images, soon.
We opt to take a self guided tour and lose interest of Seattle University quickly. Its better with one of those lovely students walking backwards sharing bits of their personal experiences.
We park the car near Pike’s Place Market. Then search for the gum wall, past the Art Museum and walk along the water. The wind comes and goes bringing rain when it gusts. Nothing stops us. My son’s a trooper but I can tell when he gets hungry.
“Let’s get back to the hotel and change for dinner.”
“Like a fancy dinner?”
“Whatever you pick is fine.”
Hotel Sorrento doesn't look luxurious from its brick exterior. The lobby is wood paneled and old world. We wait for the tiny elevator, like one in Brian De Palma’s Dressed to Kill.
The room is lovely. Down quilts covered in the finest Egyptian cotton duvets, plushy Italianate carpeting and tasseled drapery all add to the soft feeling. Carson takes a quick shower and I relax handwriting some notes. I didn't bring a laptop. I will be actively with my son as much as possible this trip. He turns on some Star Wars cartoons, and flips through his phone.
“There’s a Mediterranean restaurant one block from here. Okay?”
“Perfect.” I answer.
We don’t accept any offers for suggestions from a concierge or Yelp. I am following my son’s lead. We are on an adventure.
Mediterranean Kitchen Kabob is a block away. The owner cooks and there is one waitress. Your meal starts with a warm bowl of lentil soup, then next a fresh salad. The bottle on the table that I already played with is the garlic dressing. Don’t eat the pita, save room for a hearty meal. After dinner we peek in a bakery window.
“This is our breakfast stop Mom.”
It’s late, and we have a long drive to Portland University in the morning to be there by 8:30 A.M.
There’s some hospital noise, and seagulls in the morning to wake us up. I take a shower, and enjoy not worrying about my water company at home (I always take a shallow bath).






















A short stop in Gig Harbor, but we decide the Columbia River Gorge is going to be on the road returning to Seattle. Our bakery in Seattle wasn't open but we found Suzanna’s Bakery on the Harbor. A woman in front of us purchased the last almond croissant and his lips turned down.
“Do you have any more almond croissants?” I asked.
She smiled understanding the question. Behind her on the counter was a white bag, with a treat perhaps for herself for later.
“Yes a special one made for me.”
A pastry with extra almonds on top. Carson was appreciative and chatty with her.
I took my black coffee out on the deck. The bay is quiet, no boats moving in or out. Gig Harbor has modest Victorian houses with cheerful flowers in their front yards. I think about renting a place here and writing full time if Carson chooses Seattle or Portland. Perhaps it would be too smothering to even think such a thought. Still I could see myself holed in a tiny cottage, but in Ireland for a year. My savings wouldn’t last unless I take on a professor position or continue doing home loans. Someone suggested I ought to write a thriller under a pen name, as I am writing quirky literary fiction for my own creative design and I ghost wrote with huge success for someone else. I’m day dreaming about names Ryder O’ Hara or Blade Flannery when my son comes out on the porch.
“A photo of you with the water?”
“ME?” I nearly snort my coffee, as I shun the camera like a superstitious native.

Back to reality, back in our rented Jetta. Don’t slam the car, it’s a nice ride. Five or so miles back to the main highway, we continue southward. Farms, and strange blocks of empty trees perk my curiosity. Boxes in the forest where sometimes new conifers are starting, must be logging.
There are these mounds of timbers, piled by some colossus ready to create bond fires to the gods of Mount Rainer? I’m uncertain what they symbolize or for what purpose they stand. Make note of exit number 63 for our return trip.
The drive is a lime green slick. I swerve when I gaze out the window to mossy trees through windshield wipers.
“Want me to drive?”
“I’ll focus.”
We arrive late, not fashionably. Carson finds a friend from grade school. A faux leopard coat, burgundy hair and giant eyeglasses wraps my son in a hug. They giggle about the crowd of hundreds here for mass and the President’s speech.
She’s also uncertain of what college she will choose.
“My first choice is FIT NYC, but it’s the most expensive.” She gushes with her father silently steps behind.
Carson whispers that this school offered him, “Academic free ride.”
“Wow. Engineering! You’re smart.”
It wasn't Lacrosse that brought him here, they only have a club team. Something the Dean says about a men’s dorm that cheers for the women’s soccer team in kilts and face paint perks his interest.
“Let’s check out that dorm.”
Noted.
The tour goes well. He feels at home here on the Bluff as they call it. It feels safer than UC Santa Cruz, University of San Francisco or Occidental College to me. Admitted Freshman Day might change the order of his “picks.” The friend texts Carson about meeting for dinner.
“If you want, but tricky to keep an appointment and leave our schedule open.”
He nods.
“I can make time to see her when I get home.”
Driving northward in the car, we head out feeling good about the day. I think about the friend from grade school and even though they attend different High Schools. My son is better than I at maintaining those relationships. Frankly he’s great at everything.
We found our way past an old cemetery, wound around a gravel road and I captured photographs of the piles. They remind me of Fort Vaux, north of Verdun. There were several signs about no trespassing and anyone caught stealing firewood will be shot. Carson opted to stay in the car. A man watched me from the distance. The piles are twenty feet high, but he seemed more foreboding. I waved to indicate I was only taking photographs. Muddy ground engulfed my tennis shoes. The man walked closer, with his hands in his jacket pockets.
“These are beautiful. I’m sorry for intruding.”
He smiled at the compliment, “My family’s been here generations.”
I thanked him. He bowed his head. God I wish I can find the memory card for the images. All I have is these few from my iphone4. Saint Anthony will surely help me find the card.
Once back in the car Carson says, “I was ready to save you if he had a gun Mom.”
“No saving, I took the risk on myself.”
My son nodded silently.
“I love you Mom, nothing bad is going to happen when I’m around.”
~
Being together on this trip didn’t decide where Carson will attend college. Like many parents I assume who have this May 1st deadline, we pray for the best decision. Here is the list of colleges he was accepted. Please comment about your vote for the right fit. (He’s thinking Engineering and was interested in Catholic Colleges for a spiritual aspect that he thinks he missed in grade school)
Rochester Institute of Technology –offered $10000 a year cost is $55
Seattle University offered $22000 +/- a year cost is $50
University of Portland offered $22,000 cost is $55
Washington University offered $9000 he thinks classes are too large and impersonal
UC Santa Cruz offered $12000 cost is $24000 ( this is his current highest pick and my frown)
University of San Francisco offered $11000 cost is $54
Occidental College offered nothing cost is $55 he thinks too close to home
Harvey Mudd offered no $ he doesn’t like the campus and wishes he applied to MIT instead
Didn’t hear back from Boston College and they have some emails he can’t open




a burned out shack Carson says was a meth lab lol

Auburn along the way 

psychic help needed :)




Pike's Market Seattle 2015

Washington and Oregon

Gig Harbor 2015 road trip

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Spring Comes






 Spring comes.
Forsythia buried under five feet of snow
but Whole Foods sells peonies I know
Sleep on linens washed in lavender water




















Ordered galvanized beds?
Combed the seed catalogs?

Spring comes

ready or not

Renews all things.

Sprouts despite rust.

Builds nests from sweaters.


Spring comes!

Prepare your heart:

she'll send dandelions

up in shining glory

gold as fresh honey.


Spring delivers

amazing opportunities for you-

opposite of giving up for Lent,

fingers will create

and hearts share joy.


C G
2/19/2015
























I'm thinking about gardening.

In California there are no mounds of snow that
crocus seem to melt away. Spring starts
with flycatchers coming back to the creek,
with mourning doves nesting again in my
gazebo and the return of monarch butterflies
to milkweed on the hillside.
I pray for your heart to warm up, may all
your worries be put under your pillow like
those tiny dolls that can eat up the stress.
I keep you in my prayers and heart
for health and what you need.

If anyone wants seeds - email me
I'll mail them snail mail just don't tell
Monsanto. Not that GMO's read poetry.