the meat and potatoes stuff

autumn reason

9-24-82
Hi. I’m bored here, but I’m starting to like that. I worked on some of my own projects this morning.
Anyway... I went out last night with some friends of mine from work and from high school... you met Ellen and Loretta, but Rich and Jack were also there, as well as John. We went to this local bar, sat around... They played darts. I talked to people, then went home. It was just something to do.
I have to go to dinner at Lori’s tonight for Nicole’s birthday. Fun. Susan just called me at work here this morning, asking me if next weekend (October 2-4) I’d want to rent a car and drive to Minnesota to see a football game. I guess I’m getting old, but I’m not in the mood for all the driving just to see a football game. Besides, I know I have to work Saturday morning (the 3rd), and I probably have to work Sunday (the fourth). Oh well.
I hope your car hunt is going well. I wish you had more luck when it comes to things like this. Every time you try to get ahead, something unexpected goes wrong, something backfires... Doesn’t that seem like the way it always happens? Not to get you down or anything, at least you still have me (or is that another problem?).
Geez. It’s not even eleven in the morning. How am I going to fill the next six hours? Maybe boredom isn’t such a wonderful thing after all.
Hi. I went to work for a while (well, I just kind of created stuff for me to do, actually). Now it’s about 3 in the afternoon. I think I could have sat here all day, acted like I’m doing things, and really have done nothing at all. I’m amazed at how some days they’re on my back like you wouldn’t believe, and some days I think I could walk out into the main office naked and no one would notice.
I can’t wait until Christmas, when you come to visit me. We’ll decorate the Christmas tree together (well, it will probably be after Christmas when you visit, so we’ll just admire the tree), we’ll have nice long evenings by the fireplace with lots of quilts. We’ll spend New Year’s eve together downtown. We’ll have a great time, and I won’t even have to go anywhere to do it.
I’ll invite all my friends who will be in the area at Christmas time over for a nice dinner, maybe. Okay, a buffet maybe. Okay, maybe cheese and crackers. But the point is, I’ll get people together and actually have a pleasant time over the Christmas holiday at my own place. That will be novel.
Hi. I’m back again, it’s almost 3:34 in the afternoon. I know, it hasn’t been long since I had written last. I’M BORED..... Not that I don’t want to write to you, of course...
I want to see you this weekend. Two days from now I’ll be even worse about - I’ll be at my second job just itching to leave. Oh... tentatively keep next Saturday night free, too, and don’t schedule yourself to work Sunday night until later. I figured I better remind you a few times. Thank you. I really do love you, it’s just that sometimes I think your brain is made of brick. or wet cement. One of those.
Catherine said you at times are pretty tactless. I know your intention isn’t to be rude, but it really comes off that way sometimes. You should be careful about the way you say things sometimes, and be careful to sometimes know when it’s not a good time to throw your opinion in.
Geez, it’s bitch about you time. I’m sorry. But I thought you’d want to know what Catherine said about you. I know that you have to deal with her when you visit me, and I know that sucks, but if you care about making any attempt to get along with her (and that’s entirely your decision), you should just be careful with what you say and how you act.
It’s 3:45, I’m still bored.
Amanda just called me asking me to work Friday night. I told her I had to go out to dinner for someone’s birthday.
I got pictures back. Remember when we were finishing the roll in my office Monday morning? I took one of you, and it’s absolutely adorable. I’ve pinned it up on my bulletin board. Now all we would need is a few burning candles and people would think you were a demi-god and we were trying to reach your spirit or something.
Well, maybe I am.
There’s not much else that I can think of. I want to write something, though, because I don’t want to sit here bored.
I write a sentence, pause, try to think of another damn sentence, and then I feel bored again.
Oh, sorry, I just said Damn. I know you hate it when I swear. Oh, I just wrote it again. Sorry. I apologize.
Geez, it’s only 5 minutes to 4.
Maybe I could go to the bathroom, waste some time in there.
But I really don’t have to go.
At least I don’t think I have to go. Maybe if I go in there, I’ll suddenly have to go, and I can waste a few more minutes.
I don’t really want to get up, though. Geez, I think I’ll leave early. This is stupid. It can’t be too early, though, or Jared might actually notice. We wouldn’t want that.
Okay, I just went into the bathroom. The whole “bathroom environment theory” failed. I couldn’t bring myself to go to the bathroom, so I just kind of stood there for a while, looking at myself in the mirror, thinking how ugly I was. Then I noticed there was an old padded living room chair in the corner of the bathroom (yes, I noticed it was there before, but I never bothered to “test it out” before), so I sat down on it. It was comfortable, but after about a minute of just sitting in silence in the bathroom in a padded chair staring at the wall, I realized that this was pretty stupid and I got up.
So here I am.
It’s 4:11 and a half now.
If I thought I could keep my head still long enough, and if I thought no one would walk by the door to my office, I might have tried to scan my head. Or maybe my butt. Oh, okay, I wouldn’t have scanned my butt. Or my face, it’s a bright light in that scanner. But I’m almost willing to try anything to keep myself occupied at this point.
Hm. I could think perverted thoughts about you..
Great!!! Why didn’t I think of this before? I’ll even write them down for you, so you can get all excited.Okay, now I have to think of something. Hm.... Oh, no, I can’t even think of anything perverted. Well, I suppose I have an obligation to write perverted stuff for you now, now that I’ve just started to make you think about it and all...
I know. I just got a picture in my mind of us sitting by the fireplace at Christmas time. It’s evening, we’re curled up by the fire, I brought a ton of quilts from upstairs to the floor next to the fireplace. It’s warm. We’ve got blankets up to our noses, but I start to take your clothes off under the blankets. Unbuttoning your shirt. You do the same to me, and before you know it, we’re naked under piles of padded quilts. It feels so good, just to feel your flesh, just to touch your skin. We sit up, but keep the blankets wrapped around us as we make love to each other. Everything just feels so perfect, I can just imagine it now, my arms around you, my hands running through your hair, me kissing your forehead. I can feel your arms around my waist, your hands on my back, pressing my chest closer and closer to you.
Shit. It’s 4:25, and it’s not even close to Christmas.
And now I’m all excited, and I have to sit here at work. Why did I do that? Now I can’t get this image of you and I making love out of my head.
Well, Jared just came in and gave me something to do for the last ten minutes. Making love is now out of my head. But my love for you never leaves me. Time to sign off -

9-30-82
Hi. I just wanted to tell you that I love you. I think about you all the time, I miss you something violent, and I always want to see you. I’ll be visiting in less than a week and a half. But the time until then will seem like forever.
This is just a reminder to you, a reminder that I’m always thinking of you, that I always want to be close to you.That I miss being able to curl up next to you and feel your arms around me. I love you -

10-1-82
Hi, there. I’m expecting to see you in less than three hours. I’m tired; I’ve been feeling really sick lately. I woke up the past two nights at 4 in the morning freezing, and then I wake up a 6 or 7 dripping with sweat. I’m tired, my body is trying to fight something off. I hate being sick. This is worse than a head-cold, there are times when I just want to pass out, at least when I’ve got a cold I can still work, I’ll just sniff a lot.
Everyone told me at work yesterday that I looked really sick. Pale, you know. Catherine said it, too. Please don’t constantly ask me questions about it or anything, for then I’ll think you’re really unhappy with my body and you really want me to lose weight. I’m just telling you this because I’m starting to get a lot of pain again, like I did last year because of stress. I think it’s because at this time of year is when I start getting more and more sedentary, and I think exercise will make the pain go away (at least to some extent).
It’s amazing how stress can make someone physically sick. We as Americans like to pop a pill for everything, and we like to assume that we just have to handle the stress, like something is wrong with us if we can’t handle to pressures of our work or something. I think stress should be paid more attention medically. We should do more for ourselves to eliminate stressors in our lives, and them our health problems would probably go away a lot faster.
I’m finding myself taking a lot of medication again lately because I’m in a lot of pain. I didn’t like having to take medication before, and I don’t want to get into the habit again, even if it is over the counter medicine. There has to be a better way to feel better, right?
Last night I wanted to get so much done, I wanted to clean my apartment, Jessica was coming over, I wanted to do computer work... I felt so bad that I sat on the couch almost all night. I finally dragged myself out from under two blankets to get drugs and dinner at 8:30. But then I took a shower, tried to relax, and I started feeling better. I think having a positive attitude will do a lot more for me than fretting over it. I tried to dress up more today, put on make up, just so I’d feel better about myself, my appearance. That might have a positive psychological effect too.
Well, I also get dressed up for you.
But you probably knew that.
Geez, my bedroom is a mess. There are clothes piled all over my bed, some of which I’m throwing out, some I just didn’t have the time to put away. Sometimes I have to run from one job to the next, and all I have time to do is throw some new clothes on. And throw the old ones on the floor. You know, I haven’t even unpacked from my last trip yet. I hate this.
I think it’s colder in my office than anywhere else in this place. I just asked someone to come in here and tell me if I’m crazy; they thought there was no difference in the rooms. It must be because of the way I’m feeling. I must begetting even more sick. Great.
Anyway, I think I’m going to go, I want to find something to do. I’m going to see you in almost two hours. You’re probably on the road as I type these words. I can’t wait to see you. I love you -

10-19-82
Hey, there, darling. I’m starting to feel a little better than I did yesterday. I got to work here at 8 a.m. and I’m going to ask Jared today if I could leave at noon Friday, partially so I can get my oil changed Friday afternoon. I am due for another oil change. I don’t see why he should say no.
I’m revising my resume today, too - and I’m going to make copies and start sending them out to places in the want ads. I’d like to see what my other options are. I can’t afford such a cheap job.
And I’m almost even thinking of quitting the my second job, if all they’re going to give me when it comes to hours is every other weekend. I haven’t worked a weeknight in the past two weeks. If this keeps up, there’s really no point. Getting a paycheck for 4 or 5 hours is stupid, especially when it gives me no time to rest.
So... Friday. Even if I go for the oil change first, I’ll still be there before dinner. Let’s have a cute little romantic dinner, PLEASE??? Oh, thank you. You’re so good to me. It doesn’t have to be fancy, we’ll make spaghetti, maybe have a little bread, I’ll bring lots of candles. It’ll be nice, and there won’t be any of my friends or any of your roommates to bother us. What a pleasant thought.
But... Jessica and Susan will be in town for the weekend. I have Tom’s number on file, and I’m sure we can get a hold of Susan sometime. I told them to bring their swimsuits. I think we should all get together and carve Halloween pumpkins. Maybe, if the weather is nice outside this weekend (I think it’s supposed to be), then maybe we could carve them outside, throw pumpkin guts at each other, stuff like that. Should be fun.
Thank you again for the candy and the books. I didn’t even think about the fact that it was the only chance I’d see you before Sweetest day. Hope you don’t mind my stupidity. Hey, we’re all allowed it sometimes. It doesn’t mean I’m not madly in love with you, though.
Anyway, I guess I should go. There isn’t much else for me to say, and I want to be sure that this gets out in the morning mail. I’m thinking about you, honey -

10-19-82 7:45 p.m.
I can’t stand Catherine. She’s driving me absolutely insane, I’ve got a huge migraine from her (I mean, I can’t even turn my head without being in pain), and she HAUNTS me. I mean, she won’t let me be in a room by myself. I tried to start this damn letter to you and SHE came in, talking about something really pointless and stupid to me.
She’s just such a moron. She can’t do much of anything right, and then she gets so stressed out that she gets even less accomplished, and then she feel like she can do nothing, and she becomes less successful, and the vicious cycle goes on. But it’s all her fault. And I can’t pity that. It only makes me sick.
I designed a new resume today. You would almost think I was someone successful or important or something by looking at it, too. Someone who wasn’t earning an income below the poverty level. I guess I shouldn’t complain about Catherine’s inability to succeed until I’m no longer living in the glass house, right?
Fuck. She just came in again. She keeps coming in and she keeps bothering me. Why does she think that I actually want to talk to her? It’s like she has to be in the same room as me. I just want my privacy. Now Catherine just told me she wants to use my computer when I’m done. Nice of her to ask. Well, at least I know she’ll be busy using the computer and I’ll be able to just sit and read without her bothering me.
Fuck, she drives me nuts. I know I’m swearing a lot, and I know you don’t like that, but I’ve got a lot of emotion here, and it’s hard to let it out and feel better when all I’m doing about it is typing at a stupid keyboard. I’m very emotional, and this is one way to keep me from blowing up.
It’s just so irritating to deal with a roommate that is so incapable of living or excelling when I feel so driven.
But what am I driven by?
Speaking of being driven, I almost cut off my boss on the street as I was driving home today, yes, I’m the type A driver... This guy in a wagon was going slow, so I eventually passed him, thought nothing of it... Then he came along side of me, rolled down his window, honked and asked, “Where did you learn to drive like that?”, and then he drove away. It was actually kind of funny.
I should have said “your mom,” but I didn’t think of it until now. Damn, another opportunity lost.
Of course I’m going to be driving as quickly as I possibly can when I’m trying to get away from that boring job.
But of course my fun-loving mood was spoiled when I came home and had to deal with THE BITCH. BITCH, BITCH, BITCH, BITCH, BITCH, BITCH, BITCH. I just don’t like her. I was telling her how she prods me to do things, and how she treats me like a child when I seem to have more of a head on my shoulders than bitch does. That’s it. From now on, she’s not Catherine. Her new name is bitch. It’s that simple.
Bitch is in here again, I don’t know why, probably under the guise of cleaning or something, although more of her shit is around this apartment than mine. I really have to move this computer into my bedroom and out of the living room, in order to have more privacy. But there’s no room in my bedroom... And when she would want to borrow my computer (and it’s not like she’s going to stop using it just because it’s in my bedroom), she’ll be in the only place in this apartment where I can have some privacy.
And she yells at me, often for no reason at all. She vents at me, but somehow transfers her anger toward me, instead of facing her problems.
The heating went out in our apartment. Catherine got to calling someone about it, since she works less than I do. That’s another thing I don’t understand, but I won’t get into it now, because bitch keeps walking in and out of the room. LEAVE ME ALONE, BITCH. DON’T YOU GET IT???
I think it would kill her if I said any of this to her. I think she would just shrivel up and die or something. She’s not very healthy. I’m glad I’m not like her. I mean, I know I have plenty of faults, and I know I’m not the best at a lot of things, and I know I get stressed very easily, but at least I TRY to be the best and I GET OVER bad things. Bitch doesn’t try, and if anything goes wrong, she flips out for weeks. She’s still flipping out over the leak from our bathroom, which was over a week ago. I mean, it’s a leaky faucet. Don’t cry over it. It’s fixed. Get on with life.
I could still be flipping out about the towing of my car and the taxi money, but I’d self-destruct if I did that. Did I tell you about that? My car got towed when I went out with Susan and Jessica, so we took a taxi to get my car, and I left in the taxi my silk blouse and a bottle of wine while we checked to make sure we were at the right place, but the taxi car drove off. Great... Now some cab driver’s fat wife is spilling good wine on my short.
Even that stupid problem, and other stupid small problems, aside, though, enough bad crap has happened to me that if I lived that way bitch does, I would never get anything accomplished. You can’t wallow, or at least you have to eventually get past it and do something with your life. You have to move on. I guess I just made a decision that I couldn’t live like that.
She never made that decision.
She’s exercising right now. Exercising for her mean walking in place for a half hour. GUESS WHY YOU DON’T LOSE WEIGHT. Let’s see... Could it be because you EAT LIKE A PIG? Or could it be because you need to do more than WALK for a half hour a day to make a difference?
Once again, I should move out of my glass house, but I’m not in as desperate shape as she is.
Move out of my glass house? How about just move out of my apartment? God, I want to get out of here so badly. You know, my friend Chuck said to me before, “You really hate your life, don’t you?”
If he was here listening to this, and asked me that question again, I’d have to do a really good job of hiding my true feelings until he left. Than I’d have to cry for a very long time.
Oh, crap, I should go. Try to relax. I think if I do this right, that typing could be a draining for me and I can fully relax now. I think I’ll have some tea, sit in my bedroom with a book, and imagine you coming through the door. I love you -

10-20-82 8-something a.m.
Hi. I’m here, at work, again. I think I had a better night sleep than I did the night before, but lately all sleep just hasn’t been up to par. I tried to read after I finished my letter last night, but Catherine twice needed help working on a program on my computer. “I swear, I was about to start throwing things,” she’d say,”It just won’t do what I want it to do.” And she says I have a bad temper. I twice fixed her problems immediately, but my tea got cold while I was doing her work for her. She’s just such a... No, I won’t use that word again. I don’t know what word I’d want to use to describe her anymore. A pain, I guess.
I tried to read my book, but I gave up at about 10-something. Besides, getting up before 7 a.m. means I should go to bed early, so I went into my room and tried to go to sleep. That’s when I cried.
I mean, I was just trying to have some soup and watch the debates last night and she wouldn’t let me. Everything is a horrid problem for her, and she inherently makes it my problem by being a constant bitch, a pain, a nuisance. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it anymore.
I brought the newspaper with me this morning. I’m going to look at the want ads at lunch and start sending out more resumes. I think I’ll print some up now. I’ll be back in a minute-
I just printed about 4 copies. I don’t want to get caught doing this and have to explain why I’m making updated copies of my resume.
Right now I just can’t seem to be happy or enthused about anything. My job doesn’t make me happy, being at home doesn’t make me happy, going out gets my car towed, well, you make me happy, but you’re too far away, which make me unhappy... This is just stupid. I don’t like this at all.

9:05 a.m.
I’m so bored with my life. It’s quite a depressing one, you know. (I hope you realize that I’m writing all this depressing stuff because this is the only way I can ever vent it out and otherwise I won’t be such a sorry depressing case. I don’t think I’m depressed all the time, but I can’t seem to find another way to vent my frustrations. Thank you.) I’m looking forward to seeing you. I want to just have a nice, quiet, relaxing dinner with you, maybe rub your temples, curl up with you, kiss you, rub my hands along your shoulders... hmmm... that would be nice. Tonight I’ll make sure I get all my candles together. Maybe I’ll even get around to cleaning our glasses.

10:45 a.m.
Wow, even work here makes me feel better than staying at home and having to deal with... HER.
This new catalog is coming along pretty well. The other project is at the printers shop now; it’ll be finished in about 2 weeks. The new municipality project is the one I’m getting quotes on now. It’s cool to see these projects get done, to get back from the printers and look cool. It’s neat to think that a hell of a lot of people are going to see it - see the work I did. I think that’s nifty.
Well, I’m going to work on it a little more... I’ll write again soon...

1:29 p.m.
Hi. I just had lunch, and I can’t do much more of the tile catalog. I need more images, which are being mailed to me. I’m going to use cool paper and cool ink. It’ll be nice, I hope. A catalog that someone did came back from the printers and arrived here today. I designed the cover for it. One more thing for my portfolio... It’s really ugly looking, it’s bright red and bright blue ink on bright white paper and it just gives me a bright headache. But that’s what they wanted, something to jump off the page and attack you, as if it had a big stick or something. But it’s still nice to see a finished product.
Almost as nice as it is to see you (that was a pretty good transition, wasn’t it?)... This weekend will be nice. My car will be clean, my oil will be changed, and I won’t have anything that I’ll HAVE to do for 2-1/2 days. And I’ll have you. What more could I ask for?

2:04 p.m.
I want to learn how to make paper. I want to mash stuff into a pulp, put it in a press, roll it out, dry it and make my own paper. I’ve been thinking about that for a few weeks. I want to learn how. I could even put scraps of the potpourri into the paper and have potpourri stationery.
Wouldn’t that be cool, though? I could make my own paper, my own note cards, the paper would probably have to end up being thick, like card stock, so it would be sturdy and unique. It probably has the potential for looking really cool. I wonder if a kit is necessary, if all I might need is a bucket, a rolling pin, stuff like that.
I know, I’m weird. I can’t help it. I’m just like that. I get these weird ideas in my head and I can’t help it. I like being able to create things, being able to say, “I did that”, or “I made that.” “That wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for me.” I become woven into the things I make, they are inherently a part of me. That is my livelihood. That is what makes me feel like I’m alive.

Paul (the gay guy with the bicycle you met last spring) - when I was going out with his roommate, Paul would always be talking about the paper he made when I was over there. He’d be showing me little sheets, and he even put potpourri into some of them. The final product looked really cool. I want to try it.
No, I don’t know what I’d do with it when I made it. Don’t worry me with those little details now.
Maybe I’ll force myself to take some photos this evening as soon as I get home from work, just so I can get myself started in the thinking process of what I want to do with them.
I’m bored now. I want to make paper. God, that sounds really stupid. Go to the store and buy yourself some paper, idiot.
Hey - an evergreen bush... I could make paper with needles of an evergreen bush in it (you know, the needles that are about an inch long, we have them all over our courtyard). That would be kind of neat. I wonder if they have to be dry, though. No, they shouldn’t have to be, because the paper has to be in a mushy-wet pulp in order to make it into new paper.
Mushy-wet. That just got me excited.
blah. I’m bored now. I don’t think I want to do any work related to my job for the rest of the day. There, I have said the word, and it shall now be executed. What should I do instead?

I could put human hairs in my paper. That would look kind of cool. I could cut the hairs so they were kind of short, mix them in there with the paper. That would be weird if it worked. I could even put stuff in there like thin ribbons (just woven in and out of the top of the page), or... I don’t know, but there have to be more ideas. I wonder if I can have two different batches of pulp - paper in two different colors - and make one sheet putting the two pulps together, so that parts of the page were, say, blue, and parts of the paper were, say, pink. Nifty. Ugly color choice on my part, but nifty concept. Okay, new colors: light army green and dusty salmon. There. Better. Or Balsa. Or Hawthorn, or Aspen, or Cypress. How about Ash or Thistle? Okay, I’ll stop.
Okay, I haven’t done any work since I said I wouldn’t, but it’s only quarter to three and I don’t know what to do.
OH!!! I’ll call you. I’ll be back in a minute.
Okay, I’m on hold, your roommate is waking you up.
Okay, I just got off the phone with you, and you were very groggy. I was going to say that it was an unfulfilling conversation at best, but you started to perk up toward the end, and you actually put me in a better mood.

3:36 p.m.
Hi. I’m still bored. I tried to play on the computer for a while, make a new background for a program I’m making, but it didn’t really work out well, and now I’m bored again. Man, I’ve got an hour and a half here still. Poop. Super-duper-pooper-scooper. Plooper.
Oh, my. I think I’m getting delirious or something.

10-20-82 11:34 p.m.
I just got myself out of bed because bitch has been in my room pushing me into another argument. Just driving home today I got myself into a horrid mood thinking about having to actually be in my apartment and be with her. So then she comes into my room at 11, just when I think I’m going to be able to rest and be able to say that I made it through another day without killing her, and she comes in and start in on me. Basically, she wants to be my friend, to know everything about me, but then I tell her I need my space and she doesn’t understand it... Well, first of all, it’s called PRODDING, not concern. Secondly, does she really think that we can be
FUCK!!!!! She just came in to the living room and started bugging me AGAIN!!!! It’s like she can’t fucking leave me alone!!!!!
Oh, and then my sister called. And how I wish she’d get over this “But I took care of you when you were little” kick. I’m not little, and... Does she really think we can be a family? Does she think that I can erase my resentment toward her? She probably doesn’t even think that I hold any resentment toward her, but obviously I do, and I don’t think I could get rid of it if I tried. Why does she think that I WANT to be close to her? She wants to be “Sisters” with me. What DOES that mean anyway?What does the sister-relationship mean to her even? After the way she’s treated me all of my life, I don’t know what she wants to get out of this relationship. I don’t really know what it’s like to have a sister, I’ve had a mother for a sister because my mother left me when I was little, so I’m not very good at understanding this whole sister thing.
God, her and Catherine should get together. I want to be left alone most of the time, and she refuses to respect that. She’s overly concerned. And she makes me feel bad by saying that she’s just concerned and trying to be a good sister. No, she’s hurting me, I told her that, but not once did she hear me. I said to her, “Are you trying to hurt me? Well, that’s what you’re doing.” And she still doesn’t get it. I don’t know how much else I’m able to spell out for her.
Between Catherine, the roommate from hell, and the unexpected visits and phone calls from my sister, I think I’m going to go insane.
Oh, crap. I was in a bearable mood when I went to my room to go to bed. Why does she do this to me?
And why do I do this to you? Thanks for being an outlet for me. I might sound psychotic, but I’ve needed this.

10-21-82 10:28 a.m.
Hi. Catherine even got psychotic this morning - she was throwing her coat throwing things on the stairs and SCREAMING, I don’t mean raising her voice slightly, and she was swearing constantly (which isn’t something she often does), and she was running back and forth slamming doors and pretty much crying right before she had to go to work - and why? Because she couldn’t find her checkbook, it was somewhere in the house, she used it last night. It was insane. And then she dropped something in the garage (I think a computer disk), and she was flipping over that. I tried to stay as much out of her way as I could. What else am I supposed to do?
I tell you, that can’t be a healthy thing to have to deal with on a regular basis. It can’t be healthy for her, because she’s going to kill herself after a while. But it’s not healthy for me, either, for I don’t like the stress of not knowing how she’s going to react to anything, whether or not it be my fault. Yeah, I would like to live alone instead of this. I would like to have my privacy, to not have to worry about offending others or having to listen to people throw tantrums because they can’t find their checkbook, or have to listen to someone like that. I actually enjoy being here at work because I don’t have her around. It’s frightening when this place gives me solace.
I wish I could afford to live on my own. Four years of college, one of the best schools in the country in my field, graduated with honors, and this is what I get.
I’ve been looking in the want ads, and there is NOTHING in my field. I mean zero. There’s nothing that I could think to apply for. Maybe it’s just a bad time of year for hiring. Crap. It feels like I’m going to be stuck with this life forever. Promise me you’ll take me away from this. Promise me that, please.

12:56 p.m.
Hi. I’m feeling a lot better, since I’ve been away from her for a good five hours. I just got back from lunch, and I was sitting in the telemarketing room with Gwen, telling her about Larry and his psycho computer list of women.
You remember the list - this guy I knew made a list on his computer of all the women he ever had relations with, then he accidentally gave me the list when he gave me a bunch of other computer files... What a freak. And he doesn’t even know I know, and he wants to be pals with me. Like I’d want to be pals with a guy that writes up lists of women who have given him blow jobs (although I did have to laugh that there were only two women on the blow job list). What a pervert.
I just feel bad for all the women who didn’t know what a freak they were dating, and now they have their names on this list of his. What was his point in doing that? I’d love to go to his computer and destroy that list. On behalf of all the women on it.
I really want to thank you for reading this. I guess I could have written all of this and then just thrown it all away, but it’s nice to know that there is someone out there that will actually read this, it kind of helps verify these feelings I have. You probably think that I’m psycho after reading all of this, it’s just that sometimes I can’t handle the crap people like Catherine and my sister throw at me. If I never vented this all out, I would probably explode someday, and maybe someday soon. Thank you for being there to write to, thank you for just being a sounding board. Catherine can’t be a sounding board because she finds fault with my problems. Hell, she’s the cause of half my problems... And no one else wants to be my sounding board. So thank you.
And you can do the same, you know, you can tell me when something is wrong and what it is. A lot of times I don’t want to tell you my problems because I don’t want to spoil the time we do have together. I don’t want to think about the problems, so I just put them in the back of my mind. I had to vent stuff out now, and I thank you for letting me do that. But I do want to listen to you. I want you to know you can talk to me. I want to be there for you.
And on that note, I think I’m going to close this. I love you -

10-28-82 8:38 a.m.
I feel like I’m selling myself every day here. The work I do, if it’s good, people don’t appreciate it, if it’s crappy looking, they’re in love with it. They ask me to change the good stuff. I hate that. And I take it as a personal slam on me if they don’t like what I consider to be good, and I know I shouldn’t do that, but I can’t help it. Everything I do becomes a part of me because I created it. And they tell me it’s crap, a bunch of losers in this stupid business, and I’m not supposed to take it personally.
I don’t like being at my apartment, either. Great - where is there for me to go around here that I can stand? One of my jobs, maybe? I think not. And I don’t feel like socializing around here.
Fuck, this is a pretty miserable life. And the scary thing is that I know it could be a lot worse. Something to look forward to, I suppose.
Why do I have to be here? Why does my life have to go like this? I want something good to happen, something to change in a positive way. I don’t want to be depressed with my life. I don’t want to hate everything I do. I don’t want to feel like I’m settling for anything.
Isn’t it amazing that I never talk about this when I’m visiting you? I never want to talk about my life while I’m there. It’s a little escape.

Prosody

At least one Sunday out of every three successive weekends my father would spend the entire day fixing any one of the three Peugeots owned by our family. The cars seemed almost to be waiting in line, spread along the length of the driveway in a tri-colored ray of automotive despair, ready to submit to tools and techniques that would procure a repair that was, in the end, the product of wasted hours, since the duration of the repair’s effect was by far dwarfed by the stretch of time spent in its process.
This unfair ratio, effort to effect, is so common. But perhaps this was, in itself, the magnet that drew my father and me so often to the brinks of mechanical frenzy. From the edge of one cliff to another this thin yarn of a common mission was hurled across the depths of silence which separated my father and me yet proved that we were built of common tissue. (Shared sweatshirts or not, the polarities at which my father and I stood were endless, and forever ornamented these scenes with a subtle, ironic complexity.)
These sessions spanned the seasons, connecting the days when the driveway would scorch your hand to the touch and the days when relentless winter cold threatened to lock wrenches, bolts, or other various vehicular components in closed fingers until springtime arrived.
And what remained constant, constant, constant was the unrelenting steel fist clutching with insurmountable strength any real words we could have spoken, choking them like death-bound doves, and letting them fade before they ever arose. Sadly, our characters were based on an aversion to communication. Thus my father lost himself in the task at hand, and I just lost myself. For as often as my father, on his back, would slide himself underneath the sickly automobile, I would picture myself as an altogether formless entity, floating high above the entire scene and gazing down onto a gem of tragicomedy. Maybe my laughter was the wind and my crying was the sunlight. In the drama that I watched a mute character, seated like the Buddha alongside the locus of repair, nodded insolently to obscene remarks and blankly handed tools into a rectangular shadow whose shape moved from one side of the car to the other as the day walked obstinately onwards to its own demise.
This silence became a vase to be shattered only by derision or mockery: every opportunity was taken by my father to damn the French for the Peugeot. This man, a product of hand-worked American soil and cultured through an early marriage, would say to his son, who was a future ex-patriot, “If you ever make it to France, I want you to kill the bastards who designed these fucking cars!” At the moment of such assaults, everything accented with the Language of Love became the object of merciless perdition. “These people better be good at something,” said my father, throwing to me a glance I did not return, “Because they suck at engineering.” The words in my father’s phrases so often stepped apart from one another to allow room for profane neighbors. My father, it seems, had never read Flaubert, had never been graced by Rimbaud. (Incidentally - shall it be mentioned? - a friend of mine once dubbed our Peugeot station wagon as La Voiture Ivre.)
Once I asked him, “If these are such miserable cars, why do we own three of them?”
My father made a choking, repulsed sound: From some hidden point in the engine, a disconnected hose had begun dripping a viscous fluid, and a globule had spattered to his forehead. He mopped it off with a dirty rag. “Why don’t you just hand me that 30 mm socket, all right?”
The entire history of these hours passed by we two, this mal-aligned apprenticeship centered around faulty masterpieces, is sewn with the scarcity of our conversation. In the middle of silence framed only by extraneous noises - the clatter of wrenches, children playing in the street, a plane flying overhead - I recollected earlier scenes from this compendium of moments which, through incessant repetition, has led us up to the present.
Once, when I was very young indeed, my father had given me a bolt to hold on to while he grappled with some other demon in the engine. I clutched it so tightly that I must have squeezed it out of existence; for when I opened my hands again, or, rather, when I became aware that my hands had already opened, there was no bolt. I explored the ground around me. Had it secretly crept into the grass? Had my father already taken it back with his own, invisible hands? No, and when at length he asked me for it and I declared it lost, he stood there with a look of dismay and near-puzzlement, like a surgeon unable to account for the absence of an organ on which he had just been operating. And as though this all were transpiring in the era before the splitting of the atom, I was left bereft of any understanding as to how such a small constituent could play such an important role to any end-effect.
Those were days in which I should have foreseen that mundane mishaps would have to be taken symbolically if they were to be understood at all; when things can’t be discussed, they must be interpreted. Nonetheless, trying to understand exactly how my attitude was derivative of my father’s - how I was derivative of my father - instills in me the uncertainty of purpose one feels when measuring lines of poetry.
Effort to effect.
Is poetry so greatly enhanced by the recitation of Greek numerical prefixes? Come, now. I recall school days, the voices of classmates chanting in unison, ‘iambic tetrameter, iambic pentameter’ followed by a rhythmically demonstrative series of ‘duh’ sounds; these voices were blurred and glassy to my ears, as I was already far too drunk by the music of words to understand or care about the measurements of intoxication.
Is the distance of time made less turbulent by the subdivision of years and hours? And does conflict loosen its reign simply through being handed down to us from the fathers we modernize through the continuation of our own distinct lives? Time does and undoes its own process; and distance and proximity are caught for a moment, guilty of holding hands.
So it is that when I think or write about my father I have the inclination to dub the word with a capital ‘F’ in order to demonstrate distance and to escape the task of recognizing the interpersonal link I can neither define nor deny.

There is plastic toolbox in which my father stores the plethora of minuscule Peugeot parts, replacements or spares - the knee-deep tide of seemingly superfluous details that is the by-product of the conflation of electronics and automobiles. One evening as he was sealing shut one of the plastic zipper-bags which contained these trifles, he paused before he threw it back into the box. In his palm he bounced the bag, (in which lay six centimeters of rubber hose imprinted with the Peugeot Lion), considering it, and said, “You know, a lot has changed since I was your age.”
Had I said nothing, he would have said nothing, so in loco nihil I asked him, “How?”
He opened the lid of the toolbox and tossed the little bag in among twenty-odd others. “When I was your age, helping my father fix cars, all these little parts and pieces came in metal canisters.”
It was astounding to me that the same observation could be used to prove two completely contrary ideas - his, and my own, which for once I made heard as I said, “What? What you mean, then, is that nothing has changed!”

Decatur 38

Decatur, Illinois. Todd was fourteen years old, and his family - his mother, his ten year old half-brother Cory and himself - were medium-poor. They always had food but never went out to dinner. They never went on vacation. Todd and Cory had the same mother and different fathers, and Cory had another half-brother. Ron was nine years old. Cory’s father was the same as Ron’s, but Ron had a different mother. They lived four trailers down in forty-two. For a long time Todd thought Ron was his quarter-brother because the math made sense to him. Now he knew this wasn’t right. “But still,” Todd thought, “Ronnie is Cory’s brother so that’s something.” Most of the time Todd thought none of this mattered because all three of them hardly ever saw their fathers.
Todd was sitting in the living chair wearing an old U.A.W. t-shirt his father had left behind. The shirt had just started to fit this summer, Todd realized he had grown at least two inches and gained weight. Cory hadn’t put a shirt on all summer and was lying on his stomach on the floor. He held his head up with his hands to watch television. During the middle of this, their uncle pushed open the front door with a twenty pound bag of potatoes.
“Where’s your mom at?” the uncle asked looking down the hallway that led from the living room to the boys’ bedroom, the mother’s and then the bathroom, in that order.
“She went to that lady’s house. Her friend.” Cory said, still holding his head in his hands.
“What’s she doing there?” the uncle said, swinging the potatoes onto the kitchen floor.
“She went there this morning probably for all day,” Cory said. The man grabbed an envelope from the stack of mail to write a note.
“Todd, make sure she sees this,” he said scribbling. Todd didn’t look away from the television. “Todd, show her this note,” he waved the envelope in the boys direction.
“Yeah, alright, I will. Don’t make such a big deal about it,” Todd said pushing the hair out of his eyes. The uncle cleared his throat and leaned against the counter for a minute.
“I gotta get back to work,” he said. The man left the trailer, and Todd got up right away to read the note.
Jane:
School starts for the boys on Wed. I left $50 on the refrig. get the boys a haircut and stuff for school.
Steve

Todd slid his hand across the top of the refrigerator until he found the bill.
“Hey Cory, come look at his fifty,” Todd said holding the bill out in the air. He held the bill between them with two hands as they stood on the kitchen floor looking down at it.
“Who’s Grant?” Cory asked.
“I think he was in the army, then he was president.”
“Is it mom’s?”
“Steve left it here for us to get school stuff with,” Todd said. ‘’Haircuts too.”
Teachers in Illinois schools can tell who the trailer park kids are. These kids get put in low level reading class, wear jeans that are either too big or too tight, don’t join sports teams, have older brothers, steal their parents’ cigarettes, have long hair and some get free hot lunch. They squint at the blackboard from the back of the classroom, move in groups, and never talk about dogs because a dog won’t fit in a trailer.
But the thing is these kids don’t cause that much trouble; that’s just a rumor.
Cory was back in the living room, sitting in front of the television again. Todd stood in the kitchen longer, put the money back on the refrigerator and also went back to the living room.
“What are you going to do tonight?” Cory asked.
“I’m gonna go swimming - if mom will give me the fifty cents and I can find that tape I borrowed off Woodward. He’s gonna kill me if I don’t give it back to him sometime today.”
“You still got that?”
“Yeah. Well, it’s around here someplace,” Todd said looking around the messy trailer from the e-z chair, but really still thinking about the money.
“Is he gonna beat you up?”
“No, he just thinks I lost it and is pissed off. Change the channel. This is stupid.” Cory reached up and switched from four to seven, to a game show where the first person gives clues and the second tries to guess what he is talking about was on.
“Go to twelve,” Todd said.
“No, I like this.” Todd picked a magazine up off the floor and started flipping through it.
“What tape is it anyway?” Cory asked.
“Lynyrd Skynyrd.”
“Is he any good?”
“It’s a whole band not just one guy.”
“Are they any good?” Cory asked, turning his head toward Todd.
“Yeah, they’re these Southern guys. They’re really cool. Their plane crashed, and a couple of them died.” The game show ended. The team of one man and one woman beat the team of two men. Cory got up and went down the hallway of the trailer.
He was back a minute later wearing a white t-shirt and carrying his tennis shoes.
“When do you think Mom will take us to get that stuff?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Tomorrow, maybe.”
“I’m gonna go tell Ronnie.”
“Tell him what?”
“Tell him we might go tomorrow.”
“What for? He’s not going with us,” Todd said.
“Yeah, he’ll go with us with the money Steve left.”
Todd waited to make to sure that he understood. He was always explaining things to Cory, how to open a combination lock, how to bend a snow fence so you can crawl under it. How, if they are going to test your eyes at school and you don’t want to have to wear glasses get in line behind a kid already wearing glasses and just repeat the letters they said when it’s your turn.
“No, Steve only left the money for me and you,” Todd said.
“For Ronnie too.”
“No.”
“Why not,” Cory asked flipping the hair out of his eyes by jerking his head back quickly.
“Because me and you are brothers, and Ronnie is your brother, but he’s not mine. Steve is Mom’s brother,” Todd told Cory. He’s our uncle,” he said pointing back and forth between Cory and himself. “Steve doesn’t have anything to do with Ronnie.”
“But Ronnie is my brother, he’ll get something too,” Cory said.
“He’s your half brother, same as me. But Ronnie’s not my brother at all. Me and him have totally different moms and dads.”
“He’s your cousin,” Cory said pulling up his loose jeans.
“No, he’s not even that. Listen, mom is our mom, mine and yours, and we have different dads from each other,” Todd said.
“Right,” Cory said.
“So Mom is our mom, and Steve is only mine and your uncle. So the money is only for me and you because it’s from him.”
“Still Ronnie gets some of it because of....”
“Just forget it. I’ll have Mom tell you when she gets home.”
“I don’t even want her to,” Cory said, slumping onto to the carpet.

MANNY AND BELLE

When she was eighty five, Belle entered a nursing home, and abandoned Manny, her neighbor in the Lower East Side apartment building. At first, Manny, ten years younger than Belle, continued running errands for other tenants, mostly elderly widows. He’d refused to share his studio apartment with his only remaining relative, a widowed sister, who shouted at him, “Like I always said, still Mister Selfish - looking out for Number One!” In a burst of usefulness after her stinging insult, he bought groceries for Gussie in 312A and read to Flo, his blind next door neighbor. But he still lingered awhile outside Belle’s apartment; for so many years they’d chatted and joked.
Belle’s short, fat body was always stuffed into a house dress, the once naturally red hair now gray, the lively, self-assured voice eternally offering food.
“Manny, try my chocolate cake. I baked it fresh today.”
“No thanks, I already ate.” His mother had instilled in him the virtue of not imposing. Pushing up his shirt sleeves in the overheated room, one arm featuring an anchor tattoo, he leaned back on the green sofa, protected with plastic, like the opposite sofa and armchairs. The plastic squeaked when he moved, as if protesting any invader, and he scanned the immaculate apartment: the lace-covered dining table with cake plate; the spotless end tables with filled candy dishes, the clean green carpet. His blue eyes watered as his thin mouth twisted in a grin. “Belle, when’s the unveiling? Your place is spic and span; you don’t need to hide the furniture.”
Ignoring his remark, she wagged a fat finger at him. “Okay! So you’d rather eat Gussie’s cake, but everybody knows mine is the best!”
He laughed, his face scrunching up until his eyes almost disappeared in the pouches. “You know I always eat at home.”
“Yah.” Shrugging, she entered her tiny kitchenette, and soon emerged with coffee and onion cookies, which he refused.
“Belle, too much sugar’s making you fat. You need vitamins and minerals.”
“I’m not hungry for a regular meal,” she mumbled between bites. “Besides, if I’m not a beauty anymore, what’s the big deal? After poor Arnie died from Parkinson’s and I struggled to raise Irv by myself, a husband now I don’t need.” Her pale brown eyes narrowed with worry. “But, tell me, is your cataract ripe yet for an operation?”
He gazed at the family portraits dotting the freshly painted walls. “The doctor’s all the way out in Brooklyn and I hate to ask my sister to go with me.”
“What’s the problem? I’ll go.”
“I. . .don’t know. I still might not see too good.”
“Manny, if your right eye needs an operation, don’t make excuses. Otherwise, maybe you’ll have no eyesight at all. Make an appointment right away and I’ll take you.”
He nodded, and watched as a neighbor arrived to examine clothes that Belle sold for Hadassah. Though it was voluntary, Belle worked hard selling sweaters, tee shirts, scarves, and blouses from shopping bags stored in the closet. Eager to help struggling Israel, she bulldozed potential customers into sales.
“Please, Gussie, I can’t believe you won’t buy that sweater. Look how nice it covers your hips. You look like a movie star!”
The tall thin woman with long pinched face and cropped gray curls studied her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. “Well, I don’t like purple, and all those stripes...” A hand fisted on hips, she leaned on her cane, and turned for different viewing angles.
“Gussie, you’re a knockout! Buy it, all the mensch will chase you. It’s so cheap, practically free.”
“Okay!” Gussie nodded, and left with the sweater folded in tissue paper.
Manny laughed. “I don’t know how you do it, Belle.”
“It’s for a good cause - helping hungry children.”
They chatted some more and he left just before bed time, as usual.
Two weeks later, on a cold, wintry Monday afternoon, Belle accompanied him to the Brooklyn doctor. Bundled up in a heavy coat and scarf, her arm through his, she escorted him past treacherous snow mounds and onto the D train platform, then walked the few blocks to the medical building in Brighton Beach. She waited outside the office until he finally emerged. Reaching up on tiptoe, she anxiously studied the bandage over his right eye, and said, “So, how was it?”
He shrugged. “I’ll live.”
“Not bad then?”
He laughed and took her arm. “Why are you worried? I can see better with one eye then you can with two!”
“What a schlemiel!” she said, but she smiled, looking relieved. She helped him with his jacket, and guided him to the subway.
When it was time to remove his bandage, she again accompanied him to the doctor’s.
As their relationship continued over the years, Belle began staying home every evening. Or she’d tape a note to her front door, explaining where she was. Manny didn’t discuss their aging, but he walked more slowly because he still didn’t see so well.
Belle continued joking and cajoling him about food, but sometimes she stared at the family portraits as though seeing something else. And she began dropping things: papers, buttons, forks, and finally dishes. She bought plastic plates.
“Belle, what’s wrong?” he finally asked.
She shrugged. “I’m getting old.” Smiling then, she extended a filled plate. “How about prune humantashen - just baked?”
One day her son called to tell Manny that he’d taken Belle to a hospital. “My mother’s becoming senile - forgets where she is. It’s very hard to take...”
Manny reassured him. “She’s not senile! Just old. I’ll visit her.”
After hanging up, he took a bus to the hospital, while he told himself that Belle would get better. “Forgetfulness isn’t serious,” he said aloud.
In her room, she turned from the window and smiled when she saw him enter. “Manny! How’s your eye?”
“Okay. Why’re you here, Belle?”
She watched him pull aside the bed curtain and sit near her. “I don’t know,” she whispered, leaning toward him. I had a blackout, didn’t know where I was, and where the time went. I woke up in bed one afternoon with my clothes on. The grocery bag was still on the floor. The milk was spoiled. I can’t remember nothing too good. So I called Irving.”
“Do you remember two nights ago what we talked about?”
“Your sister?”
“Yah!” He smiled with relief. “You’re okay. A little run down because of your age. You’ll be home soon.”
But weeks passed and she didn’t return home. Manny finally called the hospital doctor who said Belle had been transferred to the Zuckerman Home for the Aged, near Grand Street.
Manny hurried to Flo’s, who knew what had happened.
“Irving took her,” the frail, white-haired woman said in the darkened kitchen while Manny unloaded groceries he’d bought for her. A veined hand groped on the tiled counter. “Belle told me she don’t remember anything and cries all the time.”
“Cries all the time?” Manny stared at Flo who stared back but couldn’t see him. “Why didn’t she tell me something was wrong?”
“You know Belle, poor all her life but always helping others. She hates bothering people, but finally she told me she forgets what day it is and it depresses her.”
“It’s just her age! They put her there because she’s forgetful?”
After leaving Flo, he walked to the nursing home, sniffing the spring air. “Thank God Belle won’t have to return home now in cold weather,” he said under his breath. He found her upstairs in “Recreation,” a short narrow room lined on both sides with patients. The only recreation was the corner television with fuzzy reception that nobody seemed to be watching. At the far wall, near the bank of windows, a patient sat buckled in a wheelchair, heavily sedated, head drooping as she stared at the floor. Another woman cleaned and recleaned a tv table, endlessly rubbing it with her hand. The woman beside her folded a napkin into ever smaller pieces.
Belle sat near the door, staring at the patients, but smiled at seeing Manny.
“Ah, look who’s here! Sit beside me, Manny.” She turned to the patient on her left. “My son comes to visit. “
“Son?” Manny said.
Belle looked confused, then grinned with toothless gums, her cheeks sunken. “Ach, you know I like to joke. Like you, right?”
He nodded, and patted her plump, freckled arm. “Belle, where’s your false teeth?”
She shrugged. “I lost them, and the ones Irv bought don’t fit so good.”
“So let him get another pair.”
She nodded, then whispered, “Lately, I forget names of relatives. I forget where I am and who lives next door. Why can’t I remember?” Her palm struck her forehead. “Stupid... stupid...”
“Ah, it’s this place!” He frowned, hunching his thin body in the padded chair. “You don’t belong here! Tell your son to hire an attendant and take you home.”
“Okay...” She smiled at the lady in the wheelchair, and leaned forward. “Manny.”
“I’m here, Belle,” he said, and touched her arm.
She turned toward him. “I know that!” She reached down past her huge house dress and touched her walking shoes. Mechanically she patted the thick treaded soles and unfastened and refastened the large velcro straps - like the lady rubbing the tv table.
“Manny, bring me chocolate cake,” she said looking up suddenly. “The nurses won’t give me any.”
He tried to smile, thin lips broadening in a forced grin. “No, Belle, cake makes you too fat. See how skinny I am? It’s from meat and vegetables!” He patted her soft, wrinkled cheek. “I’ll make you eat right - for a change.”
“I eat right, but I like cake.” She stared at the wall, and mumbled something.
Manny leaned closer to hear. “What did you say, Belle?”
She continued staring. “My husband is home from work and I have no food to give him. I bought groceries yesterday but he didn’t come, and now -”
Manny patted her hand. “It’s okay. You don’t need groceries. I’ll take care of you, Belle.”
On the way home to Pitt Street, Manny dropped by Gussie’s apartment to ask if she needed anything. When her married daughter suddenly appeared to cook for her, he dropped by Flo’s, but she was visiting her son. In his apartment, Manny shoved aside his plate of hard boiled eggs. “Why can’t Irv let her come home?”
During the following weeks, he visited Belle every day, after a meager breakfast of orange juice and coffee.
In Recreation, she said eagerly at seeing him, “So, Manny, tell me the news.” But when he started talking, she leaned toward a patient and said, “Manny.”
He sighed. Her attention span was shrinking to brief sentences; she couldn’t concentrate on a normal conversation. One evening, after being assured by a nurse that it was okay, he finally joined Belle for dinner in the dining room downstairs, the corner plastic-covered table with her name on it, and escorted her back to Recreation. She waddled, carefully putting one foot before the other as if trying to remember how to do it. Manny shook his head. If Belle were back home, she’d get well instead of getting worse!
Before leaving, he said, “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.” She nodded, smiling, and he walked the few blocks home.
In his apartment he stared through the window at Pitt Street bathed in dusky shadows. He’d quit reading to Flo; Gussie was away. Below tenement apartments, the Spanish stores sprayed with graffiti were closed by heavy metal grating to prevent nightly burglaries. Cars drove past playing rock music. He sighed. It don’t seem right, Irv depriving Belle of her apartment just because of forgetfulness. “I could buy groceries for her, clean, and read the newspapers aloud. She’d be happier.”
He tried explaining that to Irv the next time they visited Belle in the room she shared with an older, wheelchair patient who sat beside her bed and stared at the wall.
“So, Irv, selling a lot of fabrics?” Manny said, trying to be friendly before pleading his case.
“Just scraping by.” Irv’s lips pinched together. “My mentally-retarded son’s in a home, and now my mother.”
Manny nodded sympathetically and watched Belle waddle toward the bathroom. When she closed the door, he turned toward the slim, middle-aged man sitting beside him. “Listen, Irv, not being a relative, I don’t like butting in, but why not get a home attendant for Belle? She’s not happy here.”
Irv sighed deeply. “Before we took Ma to the hospital, my wife found matches in the oven and silverware in the refrigerator. It’s not safe to leave her in the apartment. She wouldn’t know what to tell the attendant. She might set the place on fire, injure herself. I’ve been tormented about it, but the doctor said her mind will continue deteriorating. There’s nothing anybody can do.”
“But I’d look after her,” Manny said. He leaned forward eagerly. “I’d be there all the time, like I’m here! So, Belle’s forgetful - who isn’t?” He scratched his thinning white hair. “I hardly remember some things, myself. I remember growing up in Lithuania, and coming to the States and joining the navy during World War Two, and going back after the war to look up relatives. Most of them died in concentration camps - some things you never forget. And I remember working in the leather factory on Delancey, and my pretty wife before she died years ago, when I was still young. I remember my sister - but her I don’t want to remember. I forget things, like Belle does. Who can remember everything?”
Irv’s dark eyes dampened. He hesitated and said, “Manny, it’s worse than forgetfulness... The doctor said she’s partly brain dead -” He broke off as Belle staggered from the bathroom, her dress hiked up to her waist. He rose from the chair and straightened it. She immediately hiked it up again. “Ma, don’t do that, please. Leave the dress alone.”
She paused, scanned the room, and began mumbling. She sat down at Irv’s coaxing.
“Belle, what do you want?” Manny said helplessly.
She looked bewildered, pale brown eyes vacant, then finally focused on him. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
Irv touched Manny’s veined arm. “Ma told me during a lucid moment that she enjoys visitors. Thanks for coming.”
“She’s not as bad off as the others,” Manny said, grizzled jaw thrust out determinedly. “She should be home.” He rose, hands jammed into baggy trouser pockets, and stared through the window at the budding trees shading the benches across the street. He turned to Irv. “I’ll be back tomorrow. You know, she’s my best friend. Took me all the way to the Brooklyn doctor when I almost lost my sight. Now she needs me.”
Irv said softly, “I know, Manny, but you can’t devote your life to her.”
“She needs me,” Manny repeated and smiled at Belle who smiled back, then looked at him vaguely, as if she might have forgotten who he was.
The next morning he breakfasted with her. After he helped her to sit, she stuck her hand in the fried egg and tried to lift it to her mouth.
“No, Belle, use the fork.”
She stared at him, not comprehending.
He fed her, and she didn’t protest. After that he fed her at every meal. He sliced the roast beef very fine so she could chew it, mashed the vegetables, poured sugar in her tea and stirred it. If she remained still, staring at the wall, he urged her to eat from the spoon he extended.
“Have some vegetable soup, Belle. It’s good for you.”
She nodded and occasionally smiled, as if she appreciated his efforts but couldn’t express herself. Then, he helped her upstairs to Recreation and talked to her, gossiping about the neighbors. Sometimes Belle whispered so softly he bent close to hear, but in time she shocked him by babbling intimate details: during her Polish childhood a Hebrew teacher touched her where he shouldn’t and she never wanted to get married - stories she hadn’t reveled during their twenty-five-year friendship.
He finally told Irving about the teacher during the son’s Thursday visit.
Irv had brought his mother outside after dinner that warm summer evening, and they sat on a bench across the street from the nursing home. Birds on overhead branches chirped; the flower beds smelled fragrant with carnations, azaleas, and sweet pea; the mellow sun warmed bare arms-everything fine, as if the world hadn’t turned upside down.
Manny, shaking his head at life’s contradictions, sat beside Belle. “Irv,” he said, “the love between me and Belle isn’t in a romantic way, like husband and wife. We were just good friends who looked out for each other. And now...”
“But you’ve got to accept her condition.”
“I can’t...” Manny stared at the sidewalk. “Without Belle, it seems like I got nothing to look forward to.”
Irv nodded and rose. “Thanks for being so good to my mother,” he said, voice faltering.
They chatted and walked Belle around the block, and back to the nursing home lobby. Irv hugged her and kissed her cheek. “’Bye, Ma, I love you. See you next Thursday.”
She nodded with a vague smile.
After he left, Manny escorted Belle into the elevator. She walked laboriously, clutching his arm as if terrified of falling. She’d gained more weight - probably due to lack of exercise. Upstairs, he embraced her thick waist and eased her into the chair.
“That’s right, Belle, sit down, right here. Easy does it...”
She stared vacantly.
“Don’t you know me?” he said, and waited for her scolding to such a silly question.
Instead, she replied, “Irv, why didn’t you visit yesterday?”
“Belle, it’s me, Manny. Not your son. Manny!” he shouted, and stopped, but the other patients ignored him.
“Sit down, stop shouting,” Belle said, suddenly coherent, as though her condition weren’t abnormal and she was home. She patted the empty chair. After he sat, she leaned toward him. “Manny, don’t think I forget everything, but sometimes it’s hard...” She looked toward the windows. “I was in his class for Hebrew lessons,” she said abruptly.
He sighed deeply. “Belle, tomorrow we’ll walk around the block a couple of times. You need exercise. Then, we’ll have lunch in the dining room and take another walk. Then, we’ll sit awhile on a bench under the trees. You’ll like that because you can watch people pass and it’s good to have something to think about. And then, it’s dinnertime already. And after that we’ll catch a little television, and before you know it, it’s bed time and I’ll go home.” He smiled, brightening. “Little by little, Belle, time will pass.”

Gabriel

She had lived there, in her fourth floor apartment on the near north side of the city, for nearly three years. It was an uneventful three years from the outside; Gabriel liked it that way. She just wanted to live her life: go to work, see her new friends, have a place to herself.

But looking a bit closer, it was easy to see what a wonderful life she had. Her apartment was impeccable, with Greek statues and glass vases lining the hallways, modern oil paintings lining her walls. She was working at her career for a little under two years and she had received two hefty promotions. She served on the board of directors for the headquarters of a national domestic abuse clinic and single-handedly managed to increase annual donations in her city by 45%, as well as drastically increase the volunteer base for their hotline numbers. She managed a boyfriend, a man who was willing to put up with her running around, working overtime for her job, visiting clinics. A man who loved and respected her for her drive. Not bad for a woman almost twenty-five.

Yes, life seemed good for Gabriel, she would dine in fine restaurants, visit the operas and musicals travelling through the city. And she had only been in the city for three years.

Eric would wonder what her past was like when he’d hit a nerve with her and she would charge off to work, not talking to him for days. She had only lived in the city for three years, and he knew nothing about her life before then. In the back of his mind, he always thought she was hiding something from him, keeping a little secret, and sometimes everything Gabriel said made him believe this secret was real. She told him her parents lived on the other side of the country, and even though they dated for almost two years there never was talk about visiting them. She never received calls from her old friends. There were no old photographs.

This would get to Eric sometimes; it would fester inside of him when he sat down and thought about it, all alone, in his apartment, wondering when she would be finished with work. And then he’d see her again, and all of his problems would disappear, and he’d feel like he was in love.

One morning he was sitting at her breakfast table, reading her paper, waiting so they could drive to work. “Hey, they finally got that mob-king guy with some charges they think will stick.”

Gabriel minded her business, put her make-up on in the bathroom mirror, hair-sprayed her short, curly brown hair.

“Hey, Gabriel, get a load of this quote,” Eric shouted down the hallway to her from his seat. He could just barely see her shadow through the open door to the bathroom. “‘My client is totally innocent of any charges against him. It is the defense’s opinion that Mr. Luccio was framed, given to the police by the organized crime rings in this city as a decoy,’ said Jack Huntington, defense lawyer for the case. ‘Furthermore, the evidence is circumstantial, and weak.’ What a joke. I hope this guy doesn’t get away with all he’s done. You know, if I--”

Gabriel stopped hearing his voice when she heard that name. She had heard Luccio over and over again in the news, but Jack. She didn’t expect this. Not now. It had been so long since she heard that name.

But not long enough. Her hands gripped the edge of the ceramic sink, gripping tighter and tighter until she began to scratch the wood paneling under the sink. Her head hung down, the ends of her hair falling around her face. He lived outside of the city, nearly two hours. Now he was here, maybe ten minutes away from her home, less than a mile away from where she worked, where she was about to go to.

She couldn’t let go of the edge of the sink. Eric stopped reading aloud and was already to the sports section, and in the back of her mind Gabriel was wondering how she could hurt herself so she wouldn’t have to go to work. She would be late already, she had been standing there for over ten minutes.

Hurt herself? What was she thinking? And she began to regain her senses. She finally picked her head up and looked in the mirror. She wasn’t the woman from then, she had to say to herself as she sneered at her reflection. But all she could see was long, blonde straight hair, a golden glow from the sun, from the days where she didn’t work as often as she did, when she had a different life.

She had to pull on her hair to remind herself that it was short. She pulled it until she almost cried. Then she stopped, straightened her jacket, took a deep breath and walked out the bathroom door.

Eric started to worry. As they car-pooled together to work, Gabriel sat in the passenger seat, right hand clutching the door handle, left hand grabbing her briefcase, holding it with a fierce, ferocious grip. But it was a grip that said she was scared, scared of losing that briefcase, or her favorite teddy bear from the other kids at school, or her life from a robber in an alley. If nothing else, Eric knew she felt fear. And he didn’t know why.

He tried to ask her. She said she was tired, but tense, an important meeting and a pounding headache. He knew it was more. She almost shook as she sat in that car, and she began to rock back and forth, forward and back, ever so slightly, the way a mother rocks her child to calm her down. It made Eric tense, too. And scared.

Work was a blur, a blur of nothingness. There was no meeting, the workload was light for a Friday. But at least the headache was there, that wasn’t a lie. She hated lying, especially to Eric. But she had no choice, especially now, with Jack lurking somewhere in the streets out there, winning his cases, wondering if his wife is dead or not.

She never wanted him to know the answer.

Eric called her a little after four. “Just wanted to check if we were still going to dinner tonight. I made the reservations at the new Southwestern place, you said you wanted to go there. Sound good?”

Gabriel mustered up the strength to respond, and only came up with, “Sure.”

“Do you still have the headache, honey? Do you want to just rent a movie or two and curl up on the couch tonight? Whatever you want to do is fine, just let me know.”

She knew at this point he was doing all he could to make her feel better. She didn’t want to put him through this. He shouldn’t have to deal with her like this. She searches for her second wind. “No, Eric, dinner would be fine. We can go straight from work to save the drive. Thanks, too. You really have a knack for making my days better.”

Eric smiled at the end of the line. And Gabriel could feel it.

They got off the phone, she finished her work, turned off her computer, started walking toward the elevator when it finally occurred to her: Jack might be there. She can’t go. Even if he’s not there, she could see him on the street, driving there. She just couldn’t go.

She pressed the button for the elevator. And he could just as easily see me walking out of work, getting in Eric’s car, she thought. I have to stop thinking like this. This is ludicrous. And he won’t be there, he won’t see me, because, well, the chances are so thin, and Hell, it’s a big city. I have to try to relax.

But she couldn’t. And there was no reason she should have.

At the restaurant, they sat on the upper level, near one of the large Roman columns decorated with ivy. She kept looking around one of the columns, because a man three tables away looked like Jack. It wasn’t, but she still had to stare.

The meal was delicious, the presentation was impeccable. She was finally starting to relax. The check arrived at the table right as the place began to get crowded, so Gabriel went to the washroom to freshen up before they left. She walked through the restaurant, feeling comfortable and confident again. She even attracted a smile from a man at another table. She walked with confidence and poise. And she loved life again.

She walked into the bathroom, straight to the mirror, checking her hair, her lip stick. She looked strong, not how she looked when she was married. She closed her purse, turned around and headed out the door.

That’s when she saw him.

There he was, Jack, standing right there, waiting for a table. He had three other men with him, all in dark suits. She didn’t know if they were mob members or firm associates. Or private eyes he hired to find her. Dear God, she thought, what could she do now? She can’t get to the table, he’ll see her for sure. She can’t stare at him, it’ll only draw attention to herself.

And then she thinks: “Wait. All I’ve seen is the back of him. It might not even be him.” She took a breath. “It’s probably not even him,” she thought, “and I’ve sat here worrying about it.”

Still, she couldn’t reassure herself. She took a few steps back and waited for him to turn around.

A minute passed, or was it a century?, and finally he started to turn, just as they were about to be led to their table. She saw his profile, just a glimpse of his face. It was him, it was Jack, it was the monster she knew from all those years, the man who made her lose any ounce of innocence or femininity she ever had. She saw how his chin sloped into his neck, the curve of his nose, how he combed his hair back, and she knew it was him.

By the washrooms, she stared at him while he took one step away from her, closer to the dining room. Then she felt a strong, pulling hand grip her shoulder. Her hair slapped her in the face as she turned around. Her eyes were saucers.

“The check is paid for. Let’s go,” Eric said as he took her jacket from her arm and held it up for her. She slid her arms through the sleeves, Eric pulling the coat over her shoulders. She stared blankly. He guided her out the doors.

She asked him if they could stop at a club on the way home and have a drink or two. They found a little bar, and she instantly ordered drinks. They sat for over an hour in the dark club listening to the jazz band. It looked to Eric like she was trying to lose herself in the darkness, in the anonymity of the crowded lounge. It worried him more. And still she didn’t relax.

And she drove on the expressway back from dinner, Eric in the seat next to her. He had noticed she had been tense today, more than she had ever been; whenever he asked her why she brushed her symptoms off as nothing.

The radio blared in the car, the car soaring down the four lanes of open, slick, raw power, and she heard the dee-jay recap the evening news. A man died in a car accident, he said, and it was the lawyer defending the famed mob leader. And then the radio announced his name.

And she didn’t even have to hear it.

Time stopped for a moment when the name was spread, Jack, Jack Huntington, like a disease, over the air waves. Jack, Jack the name crept into her car, she couldn’t escape it, like contaminated water it infiltrated all of her body and she instantly felt drugged. Time stood still in a horrific silence for Gabriel. Hearing that midnight talk show host talk about the tragedy of his death, she began to reduce speed, without intention. She didn’t notice until brights were flashing in her rear view mirror, cars were speeding around her, horns were honking. She was going 30 miles per hour.

She quickly regained herself, turned off the radio, and threw her foot on the accelerator. Eric sat silent. They had a long drive home ahead of them from the club, and he knew if he only sat silent that she would eventually talk.

While still in the car, ten minutes later, she began to tell him about Andrea.

“Three years ago, when I moved to the city, my name wasn’t Gabriel. It was Andrea.

“Seven years ago, I was a different person. I was a lot more shy, insecure, an eighteen year old in college, not knowing what I wanted to study. I didn’t know what my future was, and I didn’t want to have to go through my life alone. My freshman year I met a man in the law school program at school. He asked me out as soon as he met me. I was thrilled.

“For the longest time I couldn’t believe that another man, especially one who had the potential for being so successful, was actually interested in me. He was older, he was charming. Everyone loved him. I followed him around constantly, wherever he wanted me to go.

“He met my parents right away. They adored him, a man with a future, he was so charming. They pushed the idea of marrying him. I didn’t see it happening for a while, but I felt safe with him.

“And every once in a while, after a date, or a party, we’d get alone and he’d start to yell at me, about the way I acted with him, or what I said in public, or that the way I looked was wrong, or something. And every once in a while he would hit me. And whenever it happened I thought that I should have looked better, or I shouldn’t have acted the way I did. This man was too good for me. And I had to do everything in my power to make him happy.

“Less than eight months after we met, he asked me to marry him. I accepted.

“We were married two years after we met; it was a beautiful ceremony, tons of flowers, tons of gifts--and I was turning a junior in college. My future was set for me. I couldn’t believe it.

“And as soon as we were married, which was right when he started at the firm, he got more and more violent. And instead of thinking that it was my fault, I started thinking that it was because he was so stressed, that he had so much work to do, that sometimes he just took it out on me. I was no one’s fault. Besides, if he was going to climb to the top, he needed a wife that was perfect for all of his appearances. I had to be perfect for him. Take care of the house and go to school full time.

“Money wasn’t a problem for us, he had a trust fund from his parents and made good money at the firm, so I could go to school. But he started to hate the idea that I was going to college in marketing instead of being his wife full time. But that was one thing I wasn’t going to do for him, stop going to school.

“He’d get more and more angry about it the longer we were married. After the first year he’d hit me at least once a week. I was physically sick half of my life then, sick from being worried about how to make him not hurt me, sick from trying to figure out how to cover up the bruises.

“I’d try to talk to him about it, but the few times I ever had the courage to bring it up, he’d beat me. He’d just beat me, say a few words. Apologize the next morning, think everything was better. I couldn’t take it.

“I threatened with divorce. When I did that I had to go to the hospital with a broken arm. I had to tell the doctors that I fell down the stairs.

“A long flight of stairs.

“When it was approaching two years of marriage with this man, I said to myself I couldn’t take it anymore. He told me over and over again that he’d make me pay if I tried to leave him, I’d be sorry, it would be the worst choice I could ever make. This man had power, too, he could hunt me down if I ran away, he could emotionally and physically keep me trapped in this marriage.

“So I did the only thing I thought I could do.

“I wrote a suicide note. ‘By the time you find my car, I’ll be dead.’ I took a few essentials, nothing that could say who I was. I cut my hair--I used to have long, long hair that I dyed blonde. I chopped it all off and dyed it dark. Then I drove out to a quarry off the interstate 20 miles away in the middle of the night, threw my driver’s license and credit cards into the passenger’s seat, put a brick on the accelerator, got out of the car and let it speed over the cliff. Everything was burned.

“So there I was, twenty-two years old, with no future, with no identity. My family, my friends, would all think I was dead in the morning. And for the first time in my life, I was so alone. God, I was so scared, but at the same time, it was the best feeling in the world. It felt good to not have my long hair brushing against my neck. It felt good to feel the cold of the three a.m. air against my cheeks, on my ears. It felt good to have no where to go, other than away. No one was telling me where to go, what to do. No one was hurting me.

“I found my way two hours away to this city, came up with the name Gabriel from a soap opera playing in a clinic I went to to get some cold medication. I managed a job at the company I’m at now. Did volunteer work, rented a hole for an apartment. Projected a few of the right ideas to the right people in the company. I got lucky.”

She told him all of this before she told him that her husband’s name was Jack Huntington.

She brought him home, sat on the couch while he made coffee for her. He tried to sound calm, but the questions kept coming out of his mouth, one after another. Gabriel’s answers suddenly streamed effortlessly from her mouth, like a river, spilling over onto the floor, covering the living room with inches of water within their half hour of talk.

She felt the cool water of her words sliding around her ankles. And she felt relieved.

Gabriel, Andrea, was no longer Mrs. Jack Huntington.

Eric told her that she could have told him before. “I’d follow you anywhere. If I had to quit my job and run away with you I would.” It hurt him that she kept this from him for so long, but he knew he was the only person who knew her secret. He smiled.

There was a burden lifted, she felt, with Jack’s death, the burden that she didn’t have to hide who she was anymore. She didn’t have to worry about public places, cower when she felt his presence, following her, haunting her. It’s over, she thought. She can walk out in the street now, and scream, and run, and laugh, and no one will come walking around the corner to force her back to her old life, to that little private hell that was named Andrea.

But sitting there, she knew there was still one thing she had to do.

She put down her coffee, got on her coat, told him this was something she must do. Gabriel got into her car, started to head away from the city. As she left, Eric asked where she was going. She knew she had done what she could for the last three years of her own life to save herself; now it was time to go back to the past, no matter what the consequences were.

He thought she was going back to her family. She was, in a way.

She drove into the town she had once known, saw the trees along the streets and remembered the way they looked every fall when the leaves turned colors. She remembered that one week every fall when the time was just right and each tree’s leaves were different from the other trees. This is how she wanted to remember it.

And she drove past her old town, over an hour and a half away from the city, passing where her parents, her brother could still be living. She didn’t know if she would ever bother to find them. Right now all she could do was drive to the next town, where her old friend used to live. Best friends from the age of three, Sharon and Andrea were inseparable, even though they fought to extremes. And as she drove toward Sharon’s house, she knew she’d have to move quickly, if her husband was still there.

She double-checked in a phone book at a nearby gas station. And she turned two more corners and parked her car across the street. Would she recognize her? Would she believe she was there? That she was alive?

Gabriel saw one car in the driveway, not two; she went to the window, and looking in saw only Sharon. She stepped back. She took a long, deep breath. She was a fugitive turning herself in. She was a fugitive, asking people to run with her, running from something, yet running free. She knocked on the door.

Through the drapes she saw the charcoal shadow come up to the door. It creaked open. There they stood, looking at each other. For the first time in three and a half years.

Sharon paused for what seemed a millennium. Her eyes turned to glass, to a pond glistening with the first rays of the morning sun.

“Andrea.” She could see her through the brown curls wrapping her face. Another long silence. Sharon’s voice started to break.

“You’re alive,” she said as she closed her eyes and started to smile. And Gabriel reached through the doorway, and the door closed as they held each other.

They sat down in the living room. In the joy, Sharon forgot about the bruises on her shoulder. Gabriel noticed them immediately.

They talked only briefly before Gabriel asked her. “Is Paul here?”

“No, he’s out playing cards. Should be out all night.”

“Things are the same, aren’t they?”

“Andi, they’re fine. He’s just got his ways,” and Sharon turned her head away, physically looking for something to change the subject. There was so much to say, yet Sharon couldn’t even speak.

And then Gabriel’s speech came out, the one she rehearsed in her mind the entire car ride over. The speech she gave to herself for the years before this very moment. “Look, Sharon, I know what it’s like, I can see the signs. I know you, and I know you’ll sit through this marriage, like I would have, this unending cycle of trying to cover the bruises on your arms and make excuses--”

Sharon moved her arm over her shoulder. Her head started inching downward. She knew Andrea knew her too well, and she wouldn’t be able to fight her words, even after all these years.

“I went through this. When Jack told me I’d never be able to leave him, that I’d be sorry if I did, that I’d pay for trying to divorce him, that’s when I knew I couldn’t take it anymore. No man has a right to tell me--or you--what you can and can’t do. It hasn’t gotten better, like you keep saying, has it? No. I know it hasn’t. It never does.

“I know this sounds harsh, and it is. If I was willing to run away, run away so convincingly that my own family thought I was dead, then it had to be serious. Do you think I liked leaving you? My brother? Do you think this was easy?”

Gabriel paused, tried to lean back, take a deep breath, relax.

“No. It wasn’t easy. But I had to do it, I had to get away from him, no matter what it took. In spending my life with him I was losing myself. I needed to find myself again.”

They sat there for a moment, a long moment, while they both tried to recover.

“You don’t have to run away,” Gabriel said to her. “You don’t have to run away like I had to. But he won’t change. You do have to leave here. Let me help you.”

Within forty-five minutes Sharon had three bags of clothes packed and stuffed into Gabriel’s trunk. As Sharon went to get her last things, Gabriel thought of how Sharon called her “Andi” when she spoke. God, she hadn’t heard that in so long. And for a moment she couldn’t unravel the mystery and find out who she was.

Sharon came back to the car. Gabriel knew that Sharon would only stay with her until the divorce papers were filed and she could move on with her life. But for tonight they were together, the inseparable Sharon and Andi, spending the night, playing house, creating their own world where everything was exactly as they wanted.

And this was real life now, and they were still together, with a whole new world to create. They were both free, and alive, more alive than either of them had ever felt.

“I want you to meet Eric. He’s a good man,” Gabriel said.

And as they drove off to nowhere, to a new life, on the expressway, under the viaduct, passing the projects, the baseball stadium, heading their way toward the traffic of downtown life, they remained silent, listened to the hum of the engine. For Gabriel, it wasn’t the silence of enabling her oppressor; it wasn’t the silence of hiding her past. It was her peace for having finally accepted herself, along with all of the pain, and not feeling the hurt.

Andrea. Gabriel.

The next morning, she didn’t know which name she’d use, but she knew that someone died that night, not Jack, but someone inside of her. But it was also a rebirth. And so she drove.

A burger and fries for class spying eyes

Daily Telegraph, 15/02/1995 - Primary school children are being offered Big Mac burgers to inform on their class mates.
School governors have launched the scheme at Monkwick school in Colchester, Essex, in an attempt to cut vandalism and stealing from the school. The initiative is being backed by police and the town’s two McDonald’s restaurants.
Chairman of the governors, Ms Lynn Knight, said that the names of informants and any children reported would be kept confidential.
She said: “If we are able to find out who has done some damage or stolen from the school the person providing the information will be treated to a meal.”

---

from: BEYOND BEEF

The Rise And Fall Of The Cattle Culture

by Jeremy Rifkin

The Western world has a love affair with beef. But how many people are aware that the real costs of the cattle culture are animal suffering, global hunger and poverty, and environmental devastation?
Did you know?
* Cattle? There are currently 1.28 billion cattle populating the earth.
* Grazing? They graze on nearly 24 percent of the landmass of the planet and consume enough grain to feed hundreds of millions of people.
* Meat? Their combined weight exceeds that of the human population on earth.
* Global Warming? Cattle are also a major cause of global warming. They emit methane, a potent global warming gas, blocking heat from escaping the earth’s atmosphere.
* Grain? Cattle and other livestock consume over 70 percent of all the grain produced in the United States.
* Famine? Today about one-third of the world’s total grain harvest is fed to cattle and other livestock while as many as a billion people suffer from chronic hunger and malnutrition.
* Disease? While millions of human beings go hungry for lack of adequat grain, millions more in the industrial world die from diseases cau by an excess of grain-fed animal flesh, and especially beef, in their diets.
© Jeremy Rifkin

---

BURGER BRIBERY

By Donna Dawber

London Tonight, 15/02/1995 - Primary school children are being bribed with burgers to grass on school vandals.
The incentive to beef up the fight against crime is being offered to youngsters at Monkwick School in Colchester, Essex.
The young tell tales will be joining forces with top burger chain McDonald’s, whose own fictional crimebuster, Ronald McDonald, has been foiling the criminal plans of Ham-burglar for years.
School governors approved the scheme in an attempt to cut vandalism and stealing from the school and McDonald’s are giving them the burgers for nothing.
Talking about the initiative, which is backed by the police, Monkwick head teacher Roger Digings said: “The idea of the scheme is to encourage the children to be proud of what they have got and give them a sense of belonging to the school.
It’s a kind of neighbourhood watch and we’re not encouraging the kids to snitch on their friends. Most vandalism occurs after school hours, so if the children see someone on the school grounds when they shouldn’t be we want to hear from them.
When it comes to class mates we don’t want to cause friction by children snitching on their pals.
‘Grass on school vandals and you’ll get a free Big Mac’ - pay off for tell-tale kids
However, if a child discovers that a friend has committed a serious crime we would expect them to tell us.
You could say we are trying to give them a real understanding about what is morally right or wrong.
When the school falls prey to burglars or vandals it is the schoolkids who suffer.
For example, a couple of years ago we installed £700 worth of equipment for special needs children in a classroom on a Friday afternoon, one the Sunday the equipment was stolen - the kids hadn’t even had a chance to use the new apparatus.”
Lynn Knight, the chairman of Monkwick’s board of governors, has made assurances that informants would remain anonymous.
She said: “If we are able to find out who has done some damage, or stolen from the school, the person providing the information will be treated to a meal.”

---

from: CHICKEN & EGG: Who Pays The Price?

by Clare Druce

No wonder the poultry industry is under fire-from consumers, doctors professors, researchers. Even a government minister, Edwina Curie, lost her job in the furore. Never has there been such a high level of concern over the quality of British food. Intensive farming, on which Britain’s agricultural policy has been founded since the Second World War, is again being put to the test-and found wanting. The story is the all too familiar tissue of leaks and lies, of secrets and smug complacency.
Did you know?
* Mass extermination of day-old chicks? Most battery farmers keep their hens for the first, most productive year only. The ugly side of egg production begins on day one, when around 50% of all chicks that struggle free of their shells are exterminated.
* Diseases of intensification? Cage layer fatigue, fatty livers, egg laying problems and tumours plague battery hens, while infectious conditions such as bronchitis can spread like wildfire in the hot conditions within units where 30,000 birds or more may be kept together in one building.
* Only happy hens lay eggs? Another piece of false information circulated by intensive egg farmers is that ‘only happy hens lay eggs’. Egg laying is a sexual/biological function in no way connected with contentment.
* Campylobacter food poisoning? The most potent breeding ground for campylobacter organisms which affect man seems to be intensive broiler chicken units, where the birds pick up infection easily.
© Clare Druce

---

UK Government admits possible link between BSE and CJD

20th March 1996 - The UK government has finally conceded that the death of at least 10 people of CJD (Creutzfeld-Jacob Disease, an incurable brain disease that kills humans) is likely to be connected to the consumption of beef products infected with BSE (Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy, an incurable brain disease that kills cows).
Of course the evidence has suggested this for years, but protecting the meat, dairy and farming industries is more important to the government than the health of the people.
Despite the admission that a connection between CJD and BSE is likely, the government is STILL claiming that British beef is safe to eat because, since 1989, cows diagnosed as having BSE have been destroyed and all specified bovine offal, thought to contain the infective agent, have been removed and not passed into the human food chain.
Reassurances have not prevented millions from stopping eating beef, or thousands of schools from taking beef of the school menu, and many countries (five European countries alone so far) have banned imports of British beef.
Previous independent studies have shown that for every one infected cow discovered and removed from the slaughter house, at least two more infected cows get passed as safe and enter the food chain.
Leading microbiologist Professor Richard Lacey, who has long warned of the potential dangers to humans of mad cow disease, forecast a rapid rise in incidence of the CJD: “The worst case scenario is that about half the human population is vulnerable to Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease according to their genes and it is distinctly possible that perhaps five to 50% of people have eaten enough of the infected agent to produce the disease over the years. This is why we are now estimating that next century the typical number of CJD cases will run at between 5,000 and 500,000 a year.”
Scientists have also begun to say that the infective agent is not limited to the specified bovine offal but is found throughout the carcass.
It is clear that whatever the government choose to tell the public or what reassurances they try to give, British beef is NOT safe to eat. A disease such as CJD, with such horrifying and deadly effects, HAS to be guilty until proven innocent.

---

McDonald’s Stops Sale of British Beef in the UK

24th March 1996 - In a statement made shortly before midnight last night, McDonald’s announced that it is suspending the sale of British beef in the UK.
Pressure on McDonald’s had come from a McLibel Support Campaign Press Release, sent out one day before McDonald’s announcement, which quoted an exchange between Dave Morris (McLibel defendant) and Paul Preston (McDonald’s UK President) in the witness box. (Quote taken from the official daily court transcript, July 1st 1994):
Dave Morris: “If the McDonald’s Corporation, certainly in this country, felt there was any risk to the public from eating beef slaughtered in this country, or anywhere where mad cow beef is thought to be possibly present, would they cease selling beef?”
Paul Preston: “If we thought beef was a health hazard to the citizens of the world you may rest assured we would not sell beef. We are not going to endanger our reputation with our customers - under any way shape or form. We are not going to endanger people.”
It is clear that McDonald’s were unable to fly in the face of their President’s promises - made under oath in the witness box at the High Courts of Justice - and had no choice but to immediately cease selling beef. Nowhere in the country can a Big Mac, Quarterpounder or Cheeseburger now be purchased from their stores, although they are still selling non-beef products (including milk, which has not yet been exonerated from having links with BSE).
McDonald’s claim to have complete confidence in the safety of British beef but say that their customers wish them to take this action: “We believe that British beef is safe. However, we cannot ignore the fact that recent announcements have led to a growing loss of consumer confidence in British beef which has not been restored,” the company said in yesterday’s statement.
McDonald’s is the UK’s biggest purchaser of beef in the UK, accounting for £50 million-worth a year. Parts of 1 in 12 UK cattle end up in their burgers. The news that they are suspending sale of UK beef could represent a significant step towards the end of the British Meat Industry. Animal farming and human reliance on animal products in food is a major cause of human ill-health, environmental destruction, water pollution, resource waste, and animal suffering.

---

BSE same as CJD in humans - powerful new evidence

24th October 1996 - A British scientific team says it has strong new evidence that Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease and BSE (the so-called Mad-Cow disease) are likely to be one and the same. They have discovered a critical similarity between the new type of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease which has infected humans, and bovine spongiform encephalopathy in cattle. The finding adds powerful backing to claims that BSE has crossed the species barrier between cattle and humans. Many believe that humans may get the disease after eating infected beef.
“Most of us felt that the connection was most likely”, said Dr. Michael Harrington, an expert on mad-cow disease at the California Institute of Technology, “But this gives us much stronger evidence”.

---

Children told: Come to school and win a burger

PUPILS LURED BY BIG MACS!

Lancashire Evening Post, 18/10/1995 - Children who turn up for school lessons are being rewarded with vouchers for McDonald’s burgers.
Youngsters at Albany High in Chorley will qualify for a free burger every two weeks - if their class has a 100 per cent attendance record.
The school is one of the latest to join the Improving School Attendance project organised by Lancashire County Council.
Last month, Lancaster’s Skerton High School announced it was offering incentives such as premiership soccer tickets and personal stereos for youngsters who attend lessons.
Albany’s headteacher, Marian Quirke, said: “Albany is a school which already has good attendance but I want to improve it still further.
There’s a whole range of different things to entice children into school. When children have achieved 100 per cent they get a certificate of achievement.
But it also reaps benefits if whole forms are achieving 100 per cent attendance week by week.
We have started to approach local firms to see if they are interested in offering rewards.
McDonald’s in Chorley has already agreed to join our scheme. If a form has full attendance for two weeks on the run, then members are rewarded with a complimentary voucher for a burger.”
Chorley McDonald’s manager Steven Seanor said; “It’s a great idea to encourage school attendance. We will be giving out achievement certificates and meal vouchers to forms.
Anything McDonald’s can do to encourage full attendance at school is a good thing.
And we back Albany High School 100 per cent in their scheme.”
Miss Quirke added: “We also have a voucher scheme for our own school tuck shop as well.
On an individual basis, if pupils attend every day for half a term they receive tuck shop vouchers. And if whole forms - that is every single member of that class - attend for a week then vouchers will be given out as well.
We have over 700 pupils here. Already this has led to friends warning each other that they must turn up for school.”
Project co-ordinator Beverley Lewis said the Improving School Attendance Project was launched in Lancashire two years ago.
She said: “The idea is to encourage full attendance in school. It’s a matter of positive, pro-active attitudes.

---

Duke takes Big Mac to task

Danny Penman

The Independent, January 27, 1995 - The Duke of Edinburgh became embroiled in the McDonald’s libel trial yesterday when the High Court heard that he allegedly accused the burger company of “tearing down” Brazilian rain forests to breed cattle.
Prince Philip was at a Worldwide Fund for Nature function in Canada in 1983 when a McDonald’s official was introduced. Prince Philip allegedly replied: “So you are the people who are tearing down the Brazilian rain forests and breeding cattle.”
The official denied the charge, to which Prince Philip is said to have replied “rubbish” before storming away.
Prince Philip’s alleged outburst was brought to light by Dave Morris and Helen Steel who are accused by McDonald’s of libel. The American burger
company accuses the “ McLibel Two” of distributing a leaflet which allegedly claims McDonald’s is responsible for acts of environmental destruction and its food is partly responsible for cancer, heart disease and diabetes.
The two unemployed environmentalists from north London, who are defending themselves, deny the accusations but claim they are a fair comment on the company’s activities.
Following Prince Philip’s outburst, McDonald’s issued an edict that no McDonald’s plant was to use Brazilian beef. Later Prince Philip clarified his remark by saying it referred to a “story” he had heard at a “rainforest symposium”.

---

Fast-food giant justifies packaging

Danny Penman

The Independent, July 8, 1994 - McDONALD’S claimed in the High Court yesterday that in a fast-food restaurant it is more environmentally friendly to use disposable packaging than conventional cutlery and crockery, writes Danny Penman.
Robert Langert, McDonald’s director of environmental affairs, made the claims in evidence for a libel action brought by the hamburger chain against two environmentalists accused of writing, publishing and distributing a leaflet stating the company is responsible for acts of environmental destruction and produces food that causes cancer, heart disease and diabetes.
Helen Steel and Dave Morris, who are conducting their own defence to save costs, deny libel, arguing the claims are a fair comment on the company’s activities.
Mr Langert claimed the use of conventional crockery and cutlery would require a large dishwasher “which would probably be the largest energy consumer in the restaurant”. “It would consume hundreds of gallons of water per hour and it would use detergents and chemicals to clean.”
Mr Langert admitted the company generally lagged behind public opinion on environmental matters but said “they wished to take into account the science”.
The case continues.

---

Kentucky Fried Chicken Protests in India

The Ecologist, November/December 1995 - The Government of India raised permitted levels of the flavour enhancer monosodium glutamate (MSG) in December 1995. The decision came after a Bangalore court closed a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet because it’s food exceeded the legal limits for the additve. Used in a wide range of fast foods, MSG is associated with behavioural disorders, such as hyperactivity, and has induced severe brain damage in rats. Unborn children are at particular risk since MSG concentrates in the placenta.
The Government fears that the Bangalore court’s decision will deter further investment in India by foreign-owned food processing companies and fast food chains such as McDonald’s, which plans to open the first of 60 outlets in 1996.
A broad-based campaign has developed against Kentucky Fried Chicken comprising health activists opposed to the entry of “junk food chains” into India, farmers’ groups and animal rights’ groups opposed to factory farming, environmental groups, and thoseopposed to the entry of TNC’s in India’s food sector. The campaign pressured the Delhi government to close KFC’s first outlet in the capital.
Citizen’s groups plan to contest the decision to raise permitted levels of MSG and continue to protest on other grounds as well.

---

Libel trial hears tall story of Big Macs

Danny Penman

The Independent, October 29, 1994 - Japanese consumers were promised that eating McDonald’s hamburgers would make them tall, blonde and pale, the High Court in London was told yesterday during a libel trial.
Den Fujita, president of McDonald’s Japanese subsidiary in the early 1970s, was reported to the court as saying in Behind The Arches, an officially sanctioned book: “Japanese people are so short and have yellow skins because they have eaten nothing but fish and rice for two thousand years . . . If we eat McDonald’s hamburgers and potatoes for a thousand years, we will become taller, our skin will become white and our hair blonde.”
Mr Fujita lectured in Japanese universities on hamburgers and attracted significant media coverage by making “outrageous” claims for them.
He said the Japanese were very conservative in their eating habits, “but we could teach the children that the hamburger was something good”, he was reported as saying.
The marketing strategies of the burger chain have come under fierce attack by two environmentalists from north London, whom the burger chain is suing for libel.
McDonald’s claims Helen Steel and Dave Morris published a leaflet claiming the company was responsible for environmental destruction, and its food caused cancer and heart disease. Both deny libel and claim the leaflet is a fair comment on the firm.
Asked by Mr Morris whether Mr Fujita’s statements were responsible, John Hawks, chief marketing officer for McDonald’s Restaurants, refused to comment because he did not know the context in which they were made.

---

McDonald’s ‘exploiting children’

Danny Penman

The Independent, July 6, 1994 - McDONALD’S was accused yesterday of enticing young children into its outlets cynically to boost company profits.
The allegations were made in the High Court by two environmentalists accused of libelling the giant American fast-food chain.
McDonald’s is suing them for allegedly writing, publishing and distributing a leaflet claiming the burger chain is responsible for destruction of the rainforests, Third World famine, and produces food which causes cancer, heart disease and diabetes.
The two defendants, Helen Steel and Dave Morris, conducting their own defence, deny libel and argue their claims are a fair comment on the company’s activities.
The pair said that Ronald McDonald, a clown character, is used to encourage children to eat fast food “high in sugar, salt and fat”.
Ms Steel, cross-examining Paul Preston, chief executive of McDonald’s UK, asked: “Don’t you consider it a cynical exploitation of children to use a well-known clown to drum up business for your company?” Mr Preston denied the accusation, claiming: “It’s a spokesman for children he’s a character that is known and loved by children. All you have to do is watch him with his magic acts.”
He said later the clown represents “a fun character, he is not a salesman”.

---

McDonalds ‘Deceived Customers’

James Erlichman

The Guardian, September 16, 1994 - The fast food chain, McDonald’s, was accused yesterday of deliberately hoodwinking customers and competitors by pretending it was first to declare voluntarily the ingredients of its foods.
The truth was very different, Stephen Gardner, former assistant attorney general of Texas, told the High Court.
He was appearing as a witness for Helen Steel, and David Morris, two unemployed environmentalists dubbed the McLibel 2, who are being sued for libel by McDonald’s over a crudely printed leaflet they are alleged to have handed out in London called “What’s Wrong with McDonald’s”. Its core allegation was that diets heavy in so -called junk foods like McDonald’s had been scientifically linked with breast cancer and bowel and heart disease.
Asked whether McDonald’s deserved any praise for being first to put ingredient and nutrition brochures in its shops, Mr Gardner, who was in charge of consumer protection for Texas, said: “McDonald’s deserved nothing. Figuratively speaking they had to be dragged kicking and screaming into the fold.”
Mr Gardner, now a law professor, told the court that the attorneys general of Texas, California and New York concluded in 1986 that McDonald’s was among five big fast food chains which were violating federal law for failing to disclose the ingredients of their foods.
The chains were warned they faced court action, and four - Burger King, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Wendy’s and Jack-in-the-Box - agreed to provide the information in brochures available at all branches.
But McDonald’s held out until the following month when it issued a press statement launching its brochures, making no mention of legal pressure or industry-wide co-operation, the court heard. “They tried to represent that they were doing it all on their own,” said Mr Gardner. “I conclude they intentionally deceived the attorneys general of Texas and California so they could intentionally deceive the people of our states that they voluntarily and unilaterally produced the brochure.”
Less than a year later McDonald’s was again in trouble for claiming in a US advertising campaign that their foods were “nutritious”. The attorneys general demanded it be dropped. They said: “Our mutual conclusion is that this advertising campaign is deceptive. McDonald’s food is, as a whole, not nutritious.”
The trial continues.

---

McDonald’s teaching aid is ‘brainwashing’

November 13 1995 - Hard-up schools are resorting to free educational packs from McDonald’s to teach children maths, geography and English.
Use of the teaching aids - packed with references to the hamburger giant - was last night slammed as a “frightening intrusion”.Some parents fear vulnerable children are being brainwashed.
More than 1,000 educational packs have already been sent to teachers unable to afford anything else. The teaching packs make obvious references to the hamburger chain.
For example:
Geography: Do you know where in England McDonald’s restaurants are?
Maths: Add up a collection of baskets of fries.
English: Identify words like Chicken McNuggets, Happy Meals and milk shakes.
The National Confederation of Parent Teachers’ Associations criticised the company for targeting young children.
Membership secretary Belinda Yaxley said: “This is subliminal advertising, brainwashing of the most vulnerable people in our society.
Mrs Yaxley, of Norwich, a mother of four, called for legislation to ban such a “frightening intrusion”.
She said that although the packs met all educational requirements, they also “rammed the message of McDonald’s down children’s throats”. She added: “Ronald McDonald is being put forward as a teacher. I don’t want to ban McDonald’s - my children like thm like anyone else. But schools need to be able to teach without indoctrination.”
McDonald’s said it’s pack had been drawn up by a teacher who did a work experience exchange with the company.
It was later endorsed by Humberside Education Business Partnership.
The company stressed the pack was not sent to schools unless requested.

---

from PESTICIDES, POLICIESAND PEOPLE: A Guide to the Issues

by Peter Beaumont

Is the present level of pesticide use sustainable? Pesticides have brought benefits in terms of increased food production, and have improved public heath. But many pest populations have development resistance to pesticides, and human and environmental health hazards are now becoming apparent.
The International Agency for Research on Cancer, for example, has recently concluded that the ‘spraying and application of ... insecticides entail exposures that are probably carcinogenic to humans’.
Recently a number of organisations have called for a reduction in the use of pesticides. The British Medical Association, the National Rivers Authority, and the Royal commission on Environmental Pollution have all called for a programme of reduced use. In Europe, Denmark, Sweden, and the Netherlands have for different reasons, embarked on programmes of pesticide reduction.
Did you know?
* How much? It is estimated that over 4.5 billion litres of pesticide spray are used in the UK annual. In 1991, 22.5 million kg of active ingredients were used.
* Illness? A 1984-85 study in Nebraska found an annual incidence rate of pesticide related illness in the population of 1.35 cases per 10,000 population.
* Chronic effects? There is sometimes a tendency to focus on cancer as the main chronic condition associated with pesticides. as well as cancer - and of course acute poisonings - pesticides are implicated in reproductive, neurological, immunological and other chronic effects.
© The Pesticides Trust

---

McDonalds’ Statements

WARNING - the information on this page is company propaganda, produced to persuade you to buy more of McDonald’s products. Parts of it may be deliberately misleading.

POLICY STATEMENT
McDonald’s: recognises it has a responsibility to help protect and preserve the environment for future generations.
is analysing every aspect of its business in terms of its impact on the environment.
is committed to waste minimisation with a target of a 50% volume reduction.
only works in partnership with suppliers with sound environmental practices, working with them to develop environmental management systems and targets.
has a manager responsible for environmental affairs.
is committed to timely, honest and forthright communications on environmental issues with customers, shareholders, suppliers, employees and special interest groups.
promotes sound environmental practices by sponsoring educational materials and initiatives which help to reduce litter.
is committed to quality in the built environment and is sensitive to Britain’s heritage and history in the siting of its restaurants and in the preservation or restoration of buildings in conservation areas.
CONSERVATION
[] McDonald’s does not purchase beef which threatens tropical rainforests anywhere in the world.
[] In the UK only EU-approved suppliers are used.
[] McDonald’s does not use any South American or Central American beef for hamburgers sold in the USA or Canada. Only 100% pure, USDA-inspected domestic US beef is used.
[] Suppliers in McDonald’s Central and South Americanoperations (Argentina, Brazil, Costa Rica, Guatemala, Panama and Venezuela) only use beef from established cattle ranches - rainforest land is not used.
[] Meticulous steps such as monitoring suppliers’ plants and checking government stamps are taken to make sure that McDonald’s suppliers do not sell any beef that has been imported from another area.
REDUCE WASTE
[] McDonald’s will continue to work in partnership with suppliers who work towards mutually established waste minimisation goals and energy efficiencies. McDonald’s European Environmental Partnership Conference for Packaging and Food suppliers was held in January 1994 and attended by 130 suppliers from across Europe. The next conference will be held in early 1996.
[] All McDonald’s packaging suppliers receive environmental audits annually.
ELECTRICITY
[] Average annual utility costs per restaurant reduced in 1994 from £44,000 to £40,000, a total saving across the company of over £2.2 million.
[] Light sensors are installed in a high percentage of restaurants to reduce internal electrical lighting levels in relation to external brightness.
[] High frequency lighting with low energy tubes reduces electricity consumption.
[] All restaurants have a controlled lighting facility to switch on 50% of lighting at non-peak times. The remaining lighting comes on at the peak trading times.
[] Electrical capacitors have been installed in all restaurants to reduce electricity losses through leakage.
[] In 1994, CFC-free air conditioning installations were introduced to a number of restaurants.
[] Sophisticated building management systems operate equipment, lighting, plant operation, temperatures and air flow to reduce electricity consumption.
REDUCTION INITIATIVES
[] A l.5 million capital investment programme has equipped 75% of McDonald’s restaurants with a bulk delivery system for Coca-Cola which consists of two 75 gallon stainless steel tanks requiring no extra packaging and creating no waste. The other syrups have been converted in all restaurants to a ‘Bag in Box’ system utilising a polyethylene sleeve. This yields a material source reduction of some 60% and a waste reduction element of 55% over the previous soft drinks packaging system. Together, these two new systems have resulted in a reduction in the volume of solid waste of almost 25%.
[] Bulk ketchup is now delivered to all restaurants in a’Bag in Box’, replacing 5-litre high density polyethylene plastic jugs. Consequent waste reduction is 25%.
[] In 1994 McDonald’s supplier Kitchen Range reduced the packaging required for McDonald’s fruit pies, saving 55 tonnes of CFC-free expanded polystyrene annually.
[] During 1993, the Golden West distribution service was able to reduce fleet mileage by over 310,000 miles through the use of composite vehicles, capable of carrying chilled, frozen and ambient cargoes, and by streamlining deliveries.
[] In 1983, electrostatic precipitators were introduced to,reduce the amount of grease’exhausted’from 70% of McDonald’s UK restaurants. In 1989, deodorising equipment was added to mask the remaining cooking smells,
[] Since 1991, all company cars have used lead-free petrol and have catalytic converters.
[] A revolutionary new static waste compactor is now in 60 restaurants, which reduces waste volumes by an average of 40-50%. The compactor will be a standard feature of new restaurants.
The majority of new restaurants are built to a modular design, resulting in raised quality standards and construction waste reduction.
RECYCLE
[] McDonald’s is committed to using recycled materials wherever possible in its packaging and business in general.
RECYCLED MATERIAL USAGE
Carry Out Bags- 80%
Medium Fry Boxes- 72%
Large Fry Cartons- 72%
Apple Pie Boxes- 72%
4 Piece Chicken McNuggets Boxes- 72%
6 Piece Chicken McNuggets Boxes- 72%
9 Piece Chicken McNuggets Boxes- 72%
20 Piece Chicken McNuggets Boxes- 72%
Napkins- 100%
[] Recycled paper is used for trayliners, Happy Meal boxes, take- away bags, take-away trays, napkins, kitchen rolls and toilet tissue.
[] All McDonald’s suppliers have to use a minimum recycled content of 50% in their corrugated containers. In 1994, the recycled content of paper and board in McDonald’s transportation packaging averaged 77%.
[] The recycled content of all McDonald’s paper and board packaging in the UK in 1994 was 59%.
[] All McDonald’s office stationery is made from recycled paper and all company off ices recycle waste paper.
All picnic benches, drive-thru tramic bollards, and a majority of fencing panels purchased by McDonald’s for new restaurants, are made from recycled polystyrene.
REUSE
[] A scheme has been extended to 425 restaurants, returning used corrugated cardboard MacFries boxes to central distribution for sale to industry for second time use. This one type of box represents 20% of a restaurant’s waste stream. During 1994, over 650,000 used cases were sold in this way, and the resulting revenue, 232,000, was given to Ronald McDonald Children’s Charities.
[] Waste oil makes up 10% of a restaurant’s waste and is recycled via local collectors at regional refineries, into animal feedstocks and other by-products.
CFCs
[] In April 1988, McDonald’s switched to non-CFC foam packaging which carries the CFC-Free message.
[] McDonald’s is committed to introducing CFC-free refrigeration, and other equipment in the restaurants.
LITTER CONTROL
[] McDonald’s was the first restaurant company to introduce “Litter Patrols” to the UK. Every day, McDonald’s staff regularly collect all rubbish (not just McDonald’s packaging) dropped in the vicinity of the restaurant.
[] McDonald’s is one of the country’s leading sponsors of council litter bins.
[] All packaging carries the Tidy Britain Group’s Tidy Man symbol.
[] Many of McDonald’s restaurants organise litter related competitions with local schools and youth groups.
ENVIRONMENTAL INITIATIVES
[] McDonald’s has supported Tidy Britain Group’s annual ‘National Spring Clean’ activities since 1988. Restaurants organise and support activities to clean up their local environment.
[] In 1991, McDonald’s in partnership with Tidy Britain Group created a litter initiative called ‘Bin It For Britain’. A nationwide educational roadshow, it is designed to encourage good litter behaviour in young people. It tours the UK annually.
[] Since 1991, McDonald’s, with the London Borough Grants’ Committee, has sponsored ‘London in Bloom’- an annual competition run by the London Tourist Board which aims to promote a cleaner, greener environment in the Capital.
[] McDonald’s sponsors environmental educational materials for use in schools. This includes the Education Resource Pack in support of the McDonald’s-funded Education Centre at the 1992 Garden Festival, allowing children to undertake projects based upon the environmental and ecological aspects of the Festival Park.
PRESIDENT’S ENVIRONMENTAL AWARD
The President’s Environmental Award is presented annually to the restaurant which undertakes the most effective and imaginative environmental project within their community during the year.
BUILT ENVIRONMENT
McDonald’s was the sponsor of the Civic Trust Awards in 1986 and 1987. These Awards are intended to create a greater awareness of the importance of high quality architecture, planning, landscape and civic design in improving the quality of the environment.
McDonald’s takes a sensitive approach to its built environment, working closely with planning and conservation officers to preserve buildings of architectural merit and to improve the townscape.
McDonald’s has successfully integrated into many conservation areas: eg. Windsor, Cambridge, York, Shrewsbury and Tower Hill, London.
In many towns, McDonald’s has invested considerable sums in restoring old buildings, often putting back architectural details that have been lost. York, Chester and Stratford Upon Avon are prime examples of this in practice.
45 restaurants have been built in Grade 11 listed buildings and at least 150 in conservation areas.

---

Measuring food by the mile

How much of your dinner tonight will have been grown locally? And how much will have travelled several hundred miles - even several thousand miles - to reach your table?
Measuring food miles is a complex task but, reports Tim Lobstein, the results make disturbing reading.
Living Earth and The Food Magazine
An analysis of the materials needed to produce our food can be startling. Ten litres of orange juice needs a litre of diesel fuel for processing and transport, and 220 litres of water for irrigaton and washing the fruit. The water may be a renewable resource, but the fuel is not only irreplaceable but is a pollutant, too.
The problem is that fossil fuels, such as petrol and diesel are remarkably cheap. The price of the fuel itself does not reflect the cost of providing the roads on which the vehicles travel. Nor does it reflect the cost of the environmental damage that burning fossil fuel creates. Nor the cost of developing alternatives when the oil wells run dry. All these costs will have to be paid for sooner or later, but they are not added to the price of the food. If they were we might think very differently about whether we wanted to pay the true price for fresh lettuces from California, strawberries from Israel, and flowers from Kenya.
Food Miles Madness
‘The real cost of food miles madness are seldom reflected in the price of food,’ says SAFE Alliance co-ordinator Hugh Raven, ‘It costs in terms of diverting land in food-deficit countries from producing food for local consumption into crops for export as with soya production in Brazil. It costs in terms of air pollution and carbon dioxide emissions from air and and road transport. It’s madness to fly food halfway around the world when UK growers are going out of business - like the American raspberries on sale in the UK at the height of the raspberry season.
Flying commodites by air, which uses nearly 40 times the amount of fuel that sea transport uses, is now a regular feature of world trade. But cheap fuel can also be used to undercut local suppliers by bringing in commodities from further afield. Take apples. Britain now consumes more French apples than British ones. We have grubbed up over half of our orchards since the 1950s and now bring in apples from Europe, New Zealand, South Africa, Chile and the USA. We could produce many more apples in the UK, benefiting rural communities and saving energy on packaging and transport, but we don’t because the big supermarket buyers can get a better deal from the French and the fuel costs are low. For a few pence per pound, the rural economy in Britain is depleted - and the subsequent social and environmental costs of this depletion will then have to be paid for (but of course not by the supermarkets).
Calculating Environmental Costs
Now researchers in Britain and Germany have started to investigate the composite distances travelled by food, taking into account their ingredients and the materials for their packaging. To produce a small glass jar of strawberry yogurt for sale in Stuttgart, strawberries were being transported from Poland to west Germany and then processed into jam to be sent to southern Germany. Yogurt cultures came from north Germany, corn and wheat flour from the Netherlands, sugar beet from east Germany, and the labels and aluminium covers for the jars were being made over 300 km away. Only the glass jar and the milk were produced locally.
In counting the yogurt’s environmental costs, the lorry emerged as the main culprit. contributing to noise, danger and pollution. The study found that to bring one lorry-load of yogurt pots to the south German distribution centre a ‘theoretical’ lorry must be moved a total of 1005 km, using some 400 litres of diesel fuel.
But there are a whole range of further hidden miles that these calculations ignore. To grow the strawberries for the jam for the yogurt, the farmer uses fossil fuels to plant, spray and harvest the fruit, and the sprays he uses have themselves been manufactured and distributed at some environmentat cost. The aluminium for the yogurt jar lids has come from mines many thousands of miles from the packaging plant. Then there is the machinery used for packaging the yogurt, which had to be brought in from Switzerland, perhaps, or Britain, to say nothing of the transport of the workers in the yogurt processing plant going to and from their homes every day. And the transport of shoppers from their homes to the shops, in order to buy the yogurt.. So the circle widens, at every point adding to the real costs of the yogurt, but which do not get added to the price and instead must be paid for in other ways at other times.
Food miles are big in the food aisles.
In early September, home-grown seasonal fruit and vegetables like apples, onions, carrots and green beans were available throughout the country. But so too, in three central London supermarkets, were apples 4,700 miles from the USA, onions over 12,000 miles from Australia and New Zealand, carrots from South Africa (51,000 miles) and beans from Kenya (3,600miles). And then there is the question of the true cost of meat, and the vast tracts of land devoted to the growing of feedstuffs for rearing animals. This land is referred to in the British study of food miles (published by the SAFE Alliance) as ‘ghost acres’.
Ghost Acres
These include some 44 million ghost acres in Thailand alone (ie an area about the size of Ireland) devoted to supplying manioc for European cattle. Export commodities such as these distort a developing country’s agricultural economy, encouraging small farmers to participate in growing cash crops for export rather than food crops for local needs. Brazil has become a major supplier of soya beans for European animal feed, but to do this it has to cut down a quarter of its Cerrada plateau forest, some 12 million acres, causing immeasurable damage.
These are typical of the ghost acres, the distant, blighted areas of the world being exploited to satisfy European demands for meat and meat products. In the UK we exploit two of these ghost acres abroad for every one acre we farm at home. We can do this only because the true costs of exploiting Brazil and Thailand, and the true costs of shipping the animal feed to Europe, are not reflected in the price of the food consumers buy.
Both the SAFE report and the one from Wuppertal, Germany, call for more realistic fuel pricing policies through the introduction of a targeted fuel tax. They also urge manufacturers and retailers to review their purchasing policies in order to give greater priority to local producers.

---

SICK OF WASTEFUL PACKAGING AND LITTER?

Waste from mass produced consumer packaging is a huge social and environmental problem. To highlight this we are focusing on one of the main culprits: the ‘junk food’ giants, McDonalds.
THE PROBLEM - A LOAD OF RUBBISH
Consumer packaging...
* Is wasteful and often unnecessary - It is designed to promote goods (which are often frivolous and can be of poor quality). It is often unnecessary, or could at least be reduced in volume and weight.
- McDonald’s packaging: A useful lifespan of only abut 10 minutes is a gross waste of resources. Eating at home or in cafe style sit down restaurants eliminates the need for such waste. McDonalds creates an incredible 10 MILLION KILOS of throwaway mater- ial each year in the UK alone(McDonalds own figures). this represents a massice vol- ume in the waste stream.
* Ends up as litter - Packaging often ends up littering our streets and green spaces, and fills bins to overflowing. Fast food outlets are the biggest culprits. Local authoritieshave the power to prosecute such outlets and force them to regularly clean up around their stores.
- McDonalds: their already overworked staff are supposed to do litter patrols, but even when these are done these rarely go beyond the immediate vicinity of the store. McDonalds are expanding their “Drive-Thru’s” which result in litter spread far and wide as modern car culture is encouraged.
* Damages the environment - packaging clogs up the waste stream, filling bins, dustcarts, landfill dumps and incinerators. Much is non-biodegradable and toxic, causing air, water and soil pollution. The companies responsible expect others to pay to clean up their mess. They’d soon change their ways if it was all sent back to them!
- McDonalds: Their styrofoam is particularly voluminous. It is toxic and unnecessary - and is not recycled after use. Much of the paper comes from “factory forests” which ahve been turned into unnatural plantations.
* Makes Profits Packaging is part of the marketing and hype to get the public to buy mass produced, low quality goods. This is all part of today’s modern junk culture and the throwaway society - all to make profits for a few.
- McDonalds: Each year they spend over $1 billion worldwide on ads and promotions in order to entice the public into their stores. Last year’s turnover was $24 billion, meaning fat profits for their sharehoders.
THE SOLUTIONS
* Reduce & Refuse: The first priority is for all unnecessary packaging to be eliminated. Refuse to accept needless packaging. Any essential material to be as safe for the environment as possible. Alternative and less wasteful ways of distributing food and other goods need to be expanded.
* Re-use: Wherever possible, packaging should be returned to the retailer for re-use.
* Recycle: Items unable to be re-used should be collected for recycling to save resources.
* Revolt! We can all influence our lives, our society and our environment, and make companies accountable for their business practices. We can promote alternative ways of doing things - society can be re-organised for the benefit of communities and the environment, not for profits.
COLLECT IT AND SEND IT BACK TO BIG-MAC
“Litter is certainly the biggest complaint (to McDonalds). It’s a British social problem.. I’m surprised you haven’t conquered it.” - Paul Preston, McDonalds UK chief, December 1991.
McDonalds are RESONSIBLE for creating millions of kilos of unnecessary and wasteful packaging which clogs up waste collection systems and is toxic and damaging to the environment. Their styrofoam is not bio-degradable, and it’s production contributes to smog formation and global warming.
On top of this, tons of their packaging ends up littering our streets and green areas. They are one of the biggest culprits.
The company makes little or no effort to eliminate or re-use their packaging.
It seems they need help to get the recycling volume up - LET’S HELP THEM!
PRESSURE WORKS!
In General - Groups like Friends of the Earth and the Women’s Environmental Network have run send-it-back campaigns pressurising companies to eliminate or re-use their packaging. Evironmentalists have spearheaded the growth of recycling schemes in most towns and neighbourhoods. People in local communities have opposed new toxic waste dumps and incinerators.
McDonalds: In the USA, campaigners against toxic waste and packaging, backed by schoolchildren, launched a huge Send-it-Back campaign forcing McDonalds to withdraw their infamous styrofoam clamshells (now replaced in the USA with paper wraps).
Here, residents ahve regularly opposed planning permission for new company outlets because of the litter problem.
WHAT CAN YOU DO
Get together with friends or neighbours - circulate this leaflet and collect McDonalds litter in your area.
Bring this up at your school as a project, or with yur residents group as a protest.
Write to local press etc...
“If I feed a million people and they all bought a soft drink, I bet in the entire UK we wouldn’t find 150 cups (as litter).” - Paul Preston 4.7.1994
Lets help Mr Preston appreciate the true extent of the problem and his company’s contribution to it.
Operation “Send-It-Back”, (a network set up by London Greenpeace and Veggies Ltd.) c/o 180 Mansfield Road, Nottingham, NG13HW. tel. 01159 585666 Feel free to continue this or launch your own ‘Send-it-back’ campaign. Or send your litter package to: Paul Preston, McDonald’s HQ, 11-59 High Road, LONDON, N2 8AW

---

IN THE LAND OF FRENCH FRY, STUDY FINDS PROBLEMS

by Timothy Egan

The New York Times, Monday February 7 1994 - SUMMARY: The quest by McDonald’s to make perfect uniform french fries has come at a big cost according to new report on the potato processing industry, which contends that the processing plants like the one in Othello, Washington pollute underground water supplies. The reports also asserts that the industry is heavy on chemicals and wastes half of every potato it processes. Othello, Wash. - More than thirty years ago, the king of fast food hamburgers and the patriarch of potatoes came together for a meeting that would change the American meal and create a new breed of corporate farmer.
Ray Kroc founder of the McDonald’s nationwide restaurant chain, and J R Simplot, the food processing and chemical magnate in Idaho, forged a deal to make the perfect french fried potatoes - upright, bright, cheap and free of moulds. They would look the same whether they were sold on Jersey shore or in a drive through in Idaho.
The potatoes would grow in the dry volcanic soil of the inland pacific North West, then be washed, sliced, cooked and frozen in factories in this region before being shipped to fast food outlets from sea to shining sea. The combination of cheap federal hydro-electrical and irrigation water made this desert region perfect for the operation and by the mid 1980’s more than 6 million lbs of potatoes were being processed by ten big factories owned by different companies in the Columbian river basin providing America with most of its french fries.
But the process of making one fry look exactly like another has come at a big cost according to a new report on the potato processing industry.
The demand for uniformity has created an industry that is heavy on chemicals, wastes half of every potato it processes and pollutes underground water supplies, according to the Columbian Basin Institute, a research group in Portland, Ore. It’s study was financed in part by grants from the Ford foundation, the Aspen Institute and the Bullitt Foundation of Seattle, which is concerned with environmental issues in the North West,
“If you want to produce most of America’s french fries this way, you should have to pay the costs - social, environmental and other,” said Bill Bean, founder of the institute and co author of the study. “We’ve got a uniform french fry, but it came with a lot of hidden costs.”
Industrial leaders say much of the criticism is wrong or misleading. They say they have cleaned up many of the environmental problems, investing millions of dollars to better dispose of the water used to wash and cook a perfect fry. They say they provide more than 4000 year round jobs, among the best paying in the low skill farm sector. And they say they have kept alive rural communities that otherwise might have had severe unemployment and a declining tax base.
The french fry producers here have prospered in part because of public works projects that provide cheap electrical power and bring water to what was once an unpopulated desert.
More than 50 years ago, President Franklin D. Roosevelt envisioned the Columbian Basin as a haven for Dust Bowl refugees who could farm the desert with the help of irrigation water provided by federal dams and reservoirs. The laws were written so that people who own and run small farms would be the primary beneficiaries of federal water projects coming from Grand Coulee Dam and other big dams on the Columbian river.
But over the last 30 years, small farms in this region have all but disappeared, replaced by large corporate operations that can afford the heavy fertilisers and chemicals needed in growing the thick Russet potato used for making french fries.
Before the mass marketing of french fries, about 1000 farmers grew a variety of potatoes on 20,000 acres in this area; now half as many farmers grow mostly Russet Burbank potatoes on 115,000 acres. The irrigated farmland in the Columbian Basin is second only to the Imperial Valley of Southern California in size and the amount of support it receives from the federal government. State funds from Washington and Oregon were also used to lure the processors here.
Mr Bean contends that these subsidies are “an unnecessary and gratuitous use of public funds.” The french fry producers say they would probably have come here even without the government enticements. But as long as the subsidies were offered, they said, they took them.
“We would be the first to admit,” said William Voss, President of McCain Foods, a large processor that received a $5 million dollar loan from Washington state. “But this is an industry that has brought thousands of well paid year round jobs to this region.”
Community leaders here tend to agree with Mr Voss. And indeed, what the government has helped to produce in large part, is an industry that might never have come into existence if Americans did not have such a love affair with burgers and french fries. Before the perfect fry was created, most fast food restaurants employed teenagers to wash, peel and cook fresh french fries. Now those jobs are done in foul smelling factories here in the Columbian Basin, where each plant uses more than 2 million gallons of water a day and the fries are frozen when they leave the factory. A stench hangs over the factories, a residue of cooking oil and processing. A request for a tour was turned by industry officials, who said they did not generally allow outsiders to see how french fries are made. Industry officials say that if potatoes were square or rectangular they could use the entire potato to make fries. But because of its shape, only the core is cut into fries. What is left is used for slop, for cattle in feed lots, and the strained waste water from the factories is spayed onto fields for irrigation and fertilisation.
But now the underground water supply in the Columbian basin is slowing high levels of nitrates from fertiliser and farm and animal waste, prompting investigations from state and environmental officials. The potato processing industry attributes the heavy nitrate concentrations to past agricultural practices and poor municipal treatment centres. They say their waste water is contained in small pools near the plants and is not a threat to drinking water, a contention challenged by some critics of the industry.
Producing most of America’s french fries has created the equivalent of a “smokestack industry” along the Columbian basin, according to the report. At the ten plants, three shifts of workers every day produce at the vegetable choice for fast food consumers. The pay ranges from $6 - $9 an hour, on average. About half the workers are relatively new arrivals from Mexico or the South West, according to state labor officials. Here in this agricultural town of about 4600 people in South Eastern Washington, many workers live in a run down section known as Little Mexico within smelling distance of a huge feed lot.
Sally Jamie, President of Espanos Unidos, a group representing some of the factory workers describes it as a “barrio” and argues the industry should take more responsibility for its condition. Tensions between the Anglo and Latino populations in Othello are high, civic leaders say because the area has changed so quickly with influx of factory workers. Without the french fries, though, the town may have died. And the workers say the pay is relatively high and the relatively stable, with benefits which include health care. “We are proud of our Latino work force,” said Craig Smith, a vice President of the North West food processors association, which represents the industry.
“The fact is we didn’t create that neighbourhood.” Mr Smith was sitting in a McDonald’s in Othello, arguably the potato capital of the world. But the french fries sold here taste and look the same as they do thousands of miles from the potato fields. “The consumer is the ultimate driver of all this” Mr Smith said. “McDonald’s doesn’t tell us how to grow potatoes. If those fries had brown spots, if one of them didn’t look right and people would still buy them, it would be a lot easier for us to make french fries.”

---

Nick DiSpoldo, Small Press Review (on "Children, Churches and Daddies," April 1997) Kuypers is the widely-published poet of particular perspectives and not a little existential rage, but she does not impose her personal or artistic agenda on her magazine. CC+D is a provocative potpourri of news stories, poetry, humor, art and the "dirty underwear" of politics. One piece in this issue is "Crazy," an interview Kuypers conducted with "Madeline," a murderess who was found insane, and is confined to West Virginia's Arronsville Correctional Center. Madeline, whose elevator definitely doesn't go to the top, killed her boyfriend during sex with an ice pick and a chef's knife, far surpassing the butchery of Elena Bobbitt. Madeline, herself covered with blood, sat beside her lover's remains for three days, talking to herself, and that is how the police found her. For effect, Kuypers publishes Madeline's monologue in different-sized type, and the result is something between a sense of Dali's surrealism and Kafka-like craziness.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada
I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer's styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.

Ed Hamilton, writer #85 (of children, churches and daddies) turned out well. I really enjoyed the humor section, especially the test score answers. And, the cup-holder story is hilarious. I'm not a big fan of poetry - since much of it is so hard to decipher - but I was impressed by the work here, which tends toward the straightforward and unpretentious. As for the fiction, the piece by Anderson is quite perceptive: I liked the way the self-deluding situation of the character is gradually, subtly revealed. (Kuypers') story is good too: the way it switches narrative perspective via the letter device is a nice touch.

Children, Churches and Daddies.
It speaks for itself.
Write to Scars Publications to submit poetry, prose and artwork to Children, Churches and Daddies literary magazine, or to inquire about having your own chapbook, and maybe a few reviews like these.

Jim Maddocks, GLASGOW, via the Internet I'll be totally honest, of the material in Issue (either 83 or 86 of Children, Churches and Daddies) the only ones I really took to were Kuypers'. TRYING was so simple but most truths are, aren't they?

---

what is veganism?
A vegan (VEE-gun) is someone who does not consume any animal products. While vegetarians avoid flesh foods, vegans don't consume dairy or egg products, as well as animal products in clothing and other sources.

why veganism?
This cruelty-free lifestyle provides many benefits, to animals, the environment and to ourselves. The meat and dairy industry abuses billions of animals. Animal agriculture takes an enormous toll on the land. Consumtion of animal products has been linked to heart disease, colon and breast cancer, osteoporosis, diabetes and a host of other conditions.

so what is vegan action?
We can succeed in shifting agriculture away from factory farming, saving millions, or even billions of chickens, cows, pigs, sheep turkeys and other animals from cruelty.
We can free up land to restore to wilderness, pollute less water and air, reduce topsoil reosion, and prevent desertification.
We can improve the health and happiness of millions by preventing numerous occurrences od breast and prostate cancer, osteoporosis, and heart attacks, among other major health problems.

A vegan, cruelty-free lifestyle may be the most important step a person can take towards creatin a more just and compassionate society. Contact us for membership information, t-shirt sales or donations.

vegan action
po box 4353, berkeley, ca 94707-0353
510/704-4444

---

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review (on Children, Churches and Daddies) cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist. "I really like ("Writing Your Name"). It's one of those kind of things where your eye isn't exactly pulled along, but falls effortlessly down the poem. I liked "knowledge" for its mix of disgust and acceptance. Janet Kuypers does good little movies, by which I mean her stuff provokes moving imagery for me. Color, no dialogue; the voice of the poem is the narrator over the film.

Children, Churches and Daddies no longer distributes free contributor's copies of issues. In order to receive issues of Children, Churches and Daddies, contact Janet Kuypers at the cc&d e-mail addres. Free electronic subscriptions are available via email. All you need to do is email ccandd@aol.com... and ask to be added to the free cc+d electronic subscription mailing list. And you can still see issues every month at the Children, Churches and Daddies website, located at http://scars.tv

Also, visit our new web sites: the Art Gallery and the Poetry Page.

Mark Blickley, writer The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. "Scars" is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

---

MIT Vegetarian Support Group (VSG)

functions:
* To show the MIT Food Service that there is a large community of vegetarians at MIT (and other health-conscious people) whom they are alienating with current menus, and to give positive suggestions for change.
* To exchange recipes and names of Boston area veg restaurants
* To provide a resource to people seeking communal vegetarian cooking
* To provide an option for vegetarian freshmen

We also have a discussion group for all issues related to vegetarianism, which currently has about 150 members, many of whom are outside the Boston area. The group is focusing more toward outreach and evolving from what it has been in years past. We welcome new members, as well as the opportunity to inform people about the benefits of vegetarianism, to our health, the environment, animal welfare, and a variety of other issues.

---

Gary, Editor, The Road Out of Town (on the Children, Churches and Daddies Web Site) I just checked out the site. It looks great.

Dusty Dog Reviews: These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding.

John Sweet, writer (on chapbook designs) Visuals were awesome. They've got a nice enigmatic quality to them. Front cover reminds me of the Roman sculptures of angels from way back when. Loved the staggered tire lettering, too. Way cool. (on "Hope Chest in the Attic") Some excellent writing in "Hope Chest in the Attic." I thought "Children, Churches and Daddies" and "The Room of the Rape" were particularly powerful pieces.

C Ra McGuirt, Editor, The Penny Dreadful Review: cc&d is obviously a labor of love ... I just have to smile when I go through it. (Janet Kuypers) uses her space and her poets to best effect, and the illos attest to her skill as a graphic artist.

Cheryl Townsend, Editor, Impetus (on Children, Churches and Daddies) The new cc&d looks absolutely amazing. It's a wonderful lay-out, looks really professional - all you need is the glossy pages. Truly impressive AND the calendar, too. Can't wait to actually start reading all the stuff inside.. Wanted to just say, it looks good so far!!!

Dusty Dog Reviews: She opens with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, "Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment." Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers' very personal layering of her poem across the page.

---

Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA
Indeed, there's a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there's a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Mark Blickley, writer
The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. "Scars" is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing her book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.

Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book or chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers. We're only an e-mail away. Write to us.

---

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies') obvious dedication along this line admirable.

The Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology
The Solar Energy Research & Education Foundation (SEREF), a non-profit organization based in Washington, D.C., established on Earth Day 1993 the Center for Renewable Energy and Sustainable Technology (CREST) as its central project. CREST's three principal projects are to provide:
* on-site training and education workshops on the sustainable development interconnections of energy, economics and environment;
* on-line distance learning/training resources on CREST's SOLSTICE computer, available from 144 countries through email and the Internet;
* on-disc training and educational resources through the use of interactive multimedia applications on CD-ROM computer discs - showcasing current achievements and future opportunities in sustainable energy development.
The CREST staff also does "on the road" presentations, demonstrations, and workshops showcasing its activities and available resources.
For More Information Please Contact: Deborah Anderson
dja@crest.org or (202) 289-0061

Brian B. Braddock, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) I passed on a copy to my brother who is the director of the St. Camillus AIDS programs. We found (Children, Churches and Daddies') obvious dedication along this line admirable.

---

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA
"Hope Chest in the Attic" captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family.
"Chain Smoking" depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. "The room of the rape" is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

want a review like this? contact scars about getting your own book published.

---

Paul Weinman, Writer (on 1996 Children, Churches and Daddies) Wonderful new direction (Children, Churches and Daddies has) taken - great articles, etc. (especially those on AIDS). Great stories - all sorts of hot info!

The magazine Children Churches and Daddies is Copyright © through Scars Publications and Design. The rights of the individual pieces remain with the authors. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Okay, nilla wafer. Listen up and listen good. How to save your life. Submit, or I'll have to kill you.
Okay, it's this simple: send me published or unpublished poetry, prose or art work (do not send originals), along with a bio, to us - then sit around and wait... Pretty soon you'll hear from the happy people at cc&d that says (a) Your work sucks, or (b) This is fancy crap, and we're gonna print it. It's that simple!

Okay, butt-munch. Tough guy. This is how to win the editors over.
Hope Chest in the Attic is a 200 page, perfect-bound book of 13 years of poetry, prose and art by Janet Kuypers. It's a really classy thing, if you know what I mean. We also have a few extra sopies of the book "Rinse and Repeat", which has all the 1999 issues of cc&d crammed into one book. And you can have either one of these things at just five bucks a pop if you just contact us. It's an offer you can't refuse...

Carlton Press, New York, NY: HOPE CHEST IN THE ATTIC is a collection of well-fashioned, often elegant poems and short prose that deals in many instances, with the most mysterious and awesome of human experiences: love... Janet Kuypers draws from a vast range of experiences and transforms thoughts into lyrical and succinct verse... Recommended as poetic fare that will titillate the palate in its imagery and imaginative creations.
Mark Blickley, writer: The precursor to the magazine title (Children, Churches and Daddies) is very moving. "Scars" is also an excellent prose poem. I never really thought about scars as being a form of nostalgia. But in the poem it also represents courage and warmth. I look forward to finishing the book.

You Have to be Published to be Appreciated.
Do you want to be heard? Contact Children, Churches and Daddies about book and chapbook publishing. These reviews can be yours. Scars Publications, attention J. Kuypers - you can write for yourself or you can write for an audience. It's your call...

Dorrance Publishing Co., Pittsburgh, PA: "Hope Chest in the Attic" captures the complexity of human nature and reveals startling yet profound discernments about the travesties that surge through the course of life. This collection of poetry, prose and artwork reflects sensitivity toward feminist issues concerning abuse, sexism and equality. It also probes the emotional torrent that people may experience as a reaction to the delicate topics of death, love and family. "Chain Smoking" depicts the emotional distress that afflicted a friend while he struggled to clarify his sexual ambiguity. Not only does this thought-provoking profile address the plight that homosexuals face in a homophobic society, it also characterizes the essence of friendship. "The room of the rape" is a passionate representation of the suffering rape victims experience. Vivid descriptions, rich symbolism, and candid expressions paint a shocking portrait of victory over the gripping fear that consumes the soul after a painful exploitation.

Dusty Dog Reviews, CA (on knife): These poems document a very complicated internal response to the feminine side of social existence. And as the book proceeds the poems become increasingly psychologically complex and, ultimately, fascinating and genuinely rewarding. Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Dusty Dog Reviews (on Without You): She open with a poem of her own devising, which has that wintry atmosphere demonstrated in the movie version of Boris Pasternak's Doctor Zhivago. The atmosphere of wintry white and cold, gloriously murderous cold, stark raging cold, numbing and brutalizing cold, appears almost as a character who announces to his audience, "Wisdom occurs only after a laboriously magnificent disappointment." Alas, that our Dusty Dog for mat cannot do justice to Ms. Kuypers' very personal layering of her poem across the page.
Children, Churches and Daddies. It speaks for itself.

Debra Purdy Kong, writer, British Columbia, Canada (on Children, Churches and Daddies): I like the magazine a lot. I like the spacious lay-out and the different coloured pages and the variety of writer's styles. Too many literary magazines read as if everyone graduated from the same course. We need to collect more voices like these and send them everywhere.
Fithian Press, Santa Barbara, CA: Indeed, there's a healthy balance here between wit and dark vision, romance and reality, just as there's a good balance between words and graphics. The work shows brave self-exploration, and serves as a reminder of mortality and the fragile beauty of friendship.

Published since 1993 No racist, sexist or homophobic material is appreciated; we do accept work of almost any genre of poetry, prose or artwork, though we shy away from concrete poetry and rhyme for rhyme's sake. Do not send originals. Any work sent to Scars Publications on Macintosh disks, text format, will be given special attention over smail-mail submissions. There is no limit to how much you may submit at a time; previously published work accepted.