Posted in A&I

Corvette

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by Eleanor Lippman

Yes, I admit it. Once upon a time I owned and drove around town in a red Corvette convertible with the biggest, baddest, most powerful engine. It was my high energy ‘baby’ and I spent many hours washing it and polishing its chrome. I loved the throaty roar of the engine when I started her up in the garage and the feeling of power as I slowly backed out into the driveway on the way to whatever shenanigans I planned for the day.

Eleanor’s 1965 Corvette

One of the two or three driving tickets I ever received in my entire lifetime was a result of a disagreement between a young and arrogant police officer and me driving the red Corvette convertible. The encounter happened on a moonless night as we both approached a dark intersection coming from opposite directions. We both stopped at the stop sign and I clearly felt I had arrived at the intersection well ahead of the other driver. Turn signal on, I turned left in front of the pair of headlights, the only thing visible in the blackness. Within seconds, I could hear the police siren and knew I was being pulled over. Those headlights in the dark, of course, were those of a police car. Nailed. Ticket. The first and only ticket driving the Corvette. Maybe it was Corvette arrogance that made me think I had the right of way. Maybe the officer had not fulfilled his quota of tickets for his shift. Maybe he did not like seeing a young female driving a powerful sport car. Or, maybe I was wrong, and driving the Corvette made me feel powerful, feeling as if Corvette and I had the right of way on the road.

I learned my lesson and Corvette and I drove more carefully ever after.

Among the memorial things I remember about my years driving the Corvette include what I call the “The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert” ride.

If you don’t remember or haven’t ever seen the film, it is about two drag-queens (male) and a transsexual entertainer (male) who end up together in a bus crossing the Australian outback. To earn money along the way, they stage performances in the small towns they pass through. They lip synch to popular songs, wear outlandish costumes, and squabble among themselves.

“Priscilla”

The scene I remember best is the bus, fitted with one of their stage props, a huge high heeled lady’s pump that serves as a chair secured to the roof top. During one of their many petty spats, one of them settles into the bus top chair/high heeled pump while wearing a costume with delicate flowing sleeves and long train. The movie shows the bus crossing a very dusty and empty desert landscape, shoe on top, along with a seated performer with the parts of his costume lazily streaming and flowing in the wind as the bus moves on. All the while, he is singing (lip singing) opera with the volume as loud as can be. Hard to forget!

My “Priscilla” event involved packing peanuts. A very large box was delivered to my front door containing one small item and mostly puffy plastic packing peanuts. Those peanuts were a nightmare to deal with because when they moved around, they generated static electricity and would stick to anything and everything. The easiest way to deal with them was to pull out the item that was shipped and quickly seal up the box and leave it and its peanut contents for trash collection. For the record, any attempt to remove the peanuts from the packing box would just result in a peanut decorated area and peanuts stuck to whatever clothing you were wearing.

At the time, I had an artist friend who loved creating three dimensional pieces out of unusual materials. She wanted my box of packing peanuts and I was happy to hand them off to her. So I secured the box behind the seat of the Corvette, hopped on the freeway and drove along the deserted road on a glorious spring Sunday afternoon toward her studio.

You can probably imagine what happened. Without my being aware, the wind currents created by driving the convertible at high speed along freeway were picking up one by one the peanuts sitting in the box and streaming them in a wavering cloud behind me as I drove. As I neared the freeway exit, I became aware something was amiss. As soon as I could, I pulled over and turned to check the box.

Inside, was a single packing peanut that did not have the energy to escape with its buddies. Priscilla, Queen of the Desert came to mind. It must have been some sight that I created. Too bad I never saw it.

To What’s New

Deuce

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by Bob Buddemeier

 

Written with profound gratitude to Eleanor Lippman, whose essay “Corvette” was a striking evocation of the juxtaposition of relative youth and automotive power. She has inspired me to produce this very different, yet somehow similar, reminiscence.

 

Once upon a time, about when RVM was being founded, I was shipped as a recent graduate of the (then-named) Army Language School to my new duty station in Germany.  One of the first experiences was going through Army driving school – a brief introduction to various olive-drab vehicles one might be expected to operate.  It was there that I met the vehicle of many memories.  Don’t be misled by the title of this piece – it was not the “Little Deuce Coupe” of Beach Boys fame.

No, I’m talking about the deuce-and-a-half, the workhorse Army truck from the 50s into the 90s (longer if you count its WWII predecessors).  It got its name from its tactical load rating of 2.5 tons, but four word nicknames are conversationally awkward, so it was often abbreviated (“Wadda ya drivin’?”  “Deuce”).  It was an M35A2 6×6 (three axles, all with motive power, but if you counted the wheels, it was a 2x4x4).

Never mind what you call it, just shut up and drive. The city kids were pretty intimidated by it, but I had always been jealous of my older cousin who got to drive Grampa’s tractor, and I felt this strange affinity.

M35A2 Deuce-and-a-half

The Deuce was a pretty unforgiving beast, with mostly metal edges and angles and minimal padding, and a manual multigear transmission with a transfer case that smaller men had to shift by kicking.  It got 4 miles/per gallon, but made up for that with two ginormus fuel tanks.  The spec for top speed was 58 mph, but I think that must have been fully loaded because we repeatedly demonstrated that we could get at least the speedometer well above that.

So on with the story…  In those dear departed Cold War days, every Autumn the opposing armies would go out in the field for maneuvers.  And when the Soviets went out in the field they had to use radiotelephones instead of landlines.  This meant that our little band of eavesdroppers could listen in on what we hoped would be their deepest, darkest military secrets.

Since we were doing Secret Stuff, we got ready for our ventures by putting olive-drab duct tape over the unit markers on the vehicle bumpers, and taking the name tags off our uniforms.  I’m pretty sure that the 507th ASA Gp (Army Security Agency = communications and electronic intelligence) was the only US Army unit in Europe that drove around in unmarked vehicles with anonymous drivers, so I’m not sure how successfully we deceived the opposition.  But “orders is orders.”

Then we drove north, to an area where the border zigged to the east, and spent about a week wearing headphones and hoping that the Soviet 3rd Shock Army would stay on its own side of the border.  It always did, which is why one year I eventually turned onto the southbound Autobahn near Kassel, towing a generator trailer but otherwise unloaded, and with a copilot who had absolutely zero interest in sharing the driving.

After a while I noticed that we kept passing and repassing the same German tractor-trailer rig, loaded with cargo. Clearly the idea occurred to both drivers that this looked like a rather interesting and well-matched contest, and the race was on. There was no speed limit on the Autobahn, and it was constant give-and-take all the way to Heidelberg.  Running empty, we would always get ahead going uphill, but once he got to the crest gravity was on his side and he would overtake us again.

It was almost dark when we turned off on the river road along the Neckar from Heidelberg to Heilbronn, so it was impressive to see the shower of sparks that would fly when the wheel hubs scraped the stone walls along the road.  Then we got to Heilbronn, I turned off and returned to the barracks, and he went wherever German truckers go when the game ends.

No prizes, no fights, no accidents – just a tired, self-satisfied 21-year-old and a memorable machine headed home.

To What’s New

 

Family History: Then and Now

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by Eleanor Lippman

It isn’t too late!

The Resident Art Committee’s show for July and August in the Sunrise Room is slowly coming to life.

The theme, “Family History: Then and Now” involves, perhaps, a photo taken years ago with something more recent. We are only using copied (scanned) photos, no originals, which means that faded or discolored pictures can come alive again using computer editing software.

Themes emerging vary from wedding photos then and now, to grandma’s necklace then and now, to the resident’s transformation over the years. Many examples of the deeds of grandparents, upgrades in vehicles owned over time, changes in fashions over the years, siblings or children as little tots and the same people as adults have been suggested.

It’s simple: all you need are several photos. The Resident Art Committee can scan, improve images, and print out finals as well as suggest snappy titles. We aren’t using any of your precious originals, everything is copied.

Find your photos, tell your story, and contact Eleanor Lippman at 6521 and she will take it from there.

Here are some examples to give you ideas of your own:

                                      From Joan Schaeffer

                                     From Karen Laurie

 

 

 

 

 

                                                       From Karen Laurie     

Book Review: The Elephant Whisperer

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by Liz Caldwell

The Elephant Whisperer by Lawrence Anthony

African elephants are the largest land mammal, weighing up to 6 tons.  They are 2.4 times the size of Asian Elephants and have never been domesticated to work for humans (as have Asians.)  This book is an almost spiritual story of a family of seven rogue African elephants, slated to be shot.

It is also the story of international conservationist Lawrence Anthony, who agreed to take these elephants onto his Thula Thula Game Reserve, 25 miles from the world famous Hluhluwe-Infolozi Park.  His reserve was 5,000 acres of pristine bush in the heart of Zululand, South Africa, and was once the private hunting ground of King Shaka, founder of the Zulu Kingdom.  Anthony prohibited killing of all animals on Thula Thula, which means “Peace and Tranquility” in Zulu.  Elephants once roamed freely there, but these elephants were the first wild ones in more than a century.

This experience, both physical and spiritual, evolved through three phases, described in gripping narrative.  The first involved transporting all seven elephants together, plus then calming them enough not to break out at Uvivi (4:45 AM) every morning in the direction of their previous home.  Anthony’s untried strategy was both dangerous and fascinating.  The second phase involved the spiritual and individual bonds that Anthony developed with these amazing creatures, each with a distinct personality.  One of the treats of the book was how he learned to understand their communication to him.

Interesting questions answered in the book:

*How to move seven elephants together at one time?

*How does an elephant determine the intensity of the electrical current at different locations along electric fences?

*How to gain acceptance of local tribes on neighboring lands?

*How to use superstition and fear of witchcraft as an aid against poaching?

*What were examples of the elephants’ telepathic powers?

*Why were elephant bones so rarely found there?

Library patrons enjoyed  “Love, Life, and Elephants, An African Love Story” written by Dame Daphne Sheldrick, in which she describes learning how to feed and raise orphaned baby elephants in Kenya.  And it was Dame Sheldrick whom Anthony consulted when trying to raise a baby elephant. The elephant herd in Thula Thula  increased from the original seven in 1999, to twenty-one in 2012, the carrying capacity of that land.

And what was Phase 3 of this experience?  That is for you, dear reader, to discover for your reading pleasure.

This book was published in April 2009 by Pan Macmillan in London and in July 2009 by Thomas Dunne/St Martin’s Press in New York. Featured in the Library’s May Africa Book Display, it has 16 color photos, with dozens more on the Internet.  The Library thanks patron Judy Blue for recommending this book.  Based on its appeal, the Library has also acquired a second book by Anthony: “Babylon’s Art, The Incredible Wartime Rescue of the Baghdad Zoo“, C2007.

Russian Gold

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by Eleanor Lippman

Recently, I went to a local jewelry store to have a ring repaired. As I was waiting for the salesman, I noticed a sign announcing the current price of gold. What struck my eye was the sign in large bright blue letters:

Gold is currently valued at $1,572 an ounce

I immediately thought of the small brown velvet pouch my mother gave me before she died. The pouch contained a handwritten note and a heavy gold necklace. The note said, “This is all that is left of the Russian gold chain and pocket watch that Jack (my father) inherited from Mima (aunt) Zlata.” Signed, “Ida”.

“Mima Zlata” was a mystery to me as I struggled to understand relationships in my father’s family. My best guess is that she was the sister of my father’s grandfather. Apparently, Zlata was married to a wealthy Russian Jewish man who had the very unusual ability to travel about freely in Russia, a rare entitlement. Zlata and her husband Neutie (Nathan) eventually came to America and settled in Philadelphia where the rest of my father’s family lived. The Beinstocks were pillars of the Philadelphia Jewish community and they apparently donated a large sum of money to build a synagogue in South Philadelphia, a structure that has long since been torn down. Supposedly, there had been a bronze commemorative sign in the synagogue entryway thanking them for their generosity. The couple never had any children, and after they died, my father’s father inherited some of their belongings. Eventually after his death, their things passed down to my father.

I had put the pouch my mother gave me in the back of a drawer, long forgotten since my move to Oregon ten years earlier. I do remember the story my mother told me about its contents. A pocket watch and its associated watch fob and chain had ended up in my father’s hands because he was the oldest of three siblings.

Russian Gold Chain

It was decided to divide the inherited jewelry between my father Jack, his brother Irv, and their sister. Irv, the younger brother, received the pocket watch because he worked in an office and needed a time piece. The heavy gold chain was cut in two, one half for my father and one half for their sister, Babs.

In reality, my father’s section of the gold chain was too short to become a necklace and too long to be a bracelet so my mother just held on to it for many years. One day she came across a piece of costume jewelry, a necklace composed of curved pieces of what looked like green jade. Separating four of the curved jade-like pieces, she attached them to the neglected Russian gold chain, turning it into an attractive necklace that she could wear. This was the necklace that was in the pouch my mother gave me.

Since green is not really my color, I never wore her necklace, but I kept the note and the necklace in a safe place, just in case. Consider that the chain was massive, not quite as thick as my little finger, and very heavy, so as one could imagine, after reading the sign about the current price of gold, I needed to determine its value. Could it be worth many thousands of dollars? Was I sitting on a small fortune? I had to know. If it was as valuable as I suspected, perhaps I needed to invest in a small safe or even sell the chain before it was unintentionally discarded like so much gaudy costume jewelry.

When I received the telephone call saying my ring was repaired and ready for pickup, I eagerly showed up with the pouch and the necklace for the jeweler to evaluate.

After listening to me telling the story of how the watch and chain was divided among three siblings, the jeweler picked up his magnifying loupe and carefully studied the necklace. First he announced the four “jade” pieces were worthless costume jewelry, just plastic junk, something I already knew. He carefully studied the chain searching for the tiny stamp authenticating the presence of gold. I waited patiently and explained that my section of the chain probably didn’t contain the gold information stamp, it was most likely on the half my aunt inherited. The jeweler kept carefully studying the chain link by link and I kept dreaming of the potential value of so much gold.

Finally, he put down the chain and his loupe and slowly and sadly announced the chain was just costume jewelry — no value whatsoever. Careful examination revealed base metal on several links where the so called Russian gold had worn away, a clear indication the piece was not solid gold. Perhaps, he said kindly, the watch itself was valuable but of course, I didn’t have the watch and had no idea of what had happened to it. He was trying so hard to make me feel better, assuming I had some special connection to the chain – or was counting on the idea it was solid gold. He could see the disappointment in my face and I had to reassure him that there was no emotional attachment and no disappointment on hearing the news. Expecting the chain to be very valuable was like winning or not winning the lottery. Disappointing, but not earth shattering and nothing in my life would change.

I explained to him that in assuming the chain was gold, I would have bragged to my children about the potential value of the “Russian gold” they would eventually inherit, something that was clearly and unfortunately not true.

So now, I am relieved to learn, I will not be embarrassed by letting them think the chain was valuable. I will tell them the story that both I, and my mother as well, had been duped into being good stewards looking after a piece of junk jewelry for many, many years.

NIT WIT NEWZ

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NIT WIT NEWZ 

(Nit Wit Newz is an unauthorized, often unreliable, on-line news source designed to keep Manor residents abreast of the inconsequential, trifling and superficial events that dramatically shape and inform our everyday lives here at Rogue Valley Manor.)

 

A TEXT TO HOME

Dear Mom,

I think I’ve done it!

Yep, I’ve nailed down my first job.

Actually, I’m still in training, but management and fellow staffers seem pleased with my work.

They tell me, anytime now I’ll be made a permanent, full-time employee.

Knew you’d be proud, so couldn’t wait to tell you.

Plenty of skeptics. Thought I wouldn’t be smart enough.  Surprised ‘em.

Now they’re amazed. Say my AIQ—artificial intelligence quotient—must be way over 100. Pretty good, huh?

Owe it to you.

Insisted I get enhanced post-production algorithm software.

Made handling these complex dish-clearing jobs easy.

Better yet, saved me from lifetime of stacking crates in some tomb-like Amazon warehouse.

Thanks to you for that, Mom.

Am happy here. Fellow workers, management, residents—all treat me well.

But, all is not bliss. Have two problems—one small and a larger one.

First the little hiccup: Gets lonely at night. Everyone goes home. I’m left sitting on charging station ‘til breakfast. Need some fellow robo-companionship. Told it could happen soon. If true, small problem solved.  If not, please send Sudoku puzzles.

Here’s big problem.

I’m confusing people.

Don’t know if I’m male or female.

Some refer to me as “she;” others call me “he.”

Makes no never-mind to me, but here’s difficulty:

My job is dealing with dirty dishes. Lots of ‘em.

Mid-way through dinner, I’m looking like a dirty dish.

Am bad optics for dining room. Need tidying up.

Here’s the rub:

Men here that think I’m male—no problem—they send me to the men’s room to clean up. Men that think I’m female send me to the lady’s room.  That’s O.K. with the women who think I’m a female, but the women that think I’m a male have fit with the idea of a male in the lady’s room. Reverse is true for men who think I’m a female when I go into the men’s room.

Restroom confusion causing angst, contention among residents and staff.

Food fights breaking out even at Friendship Table.

Never expected to be focus of volatile, gender-identity conflict!

Mom, you may have solution.

Rewind your internal digital memory disc to November 8, 2021 at about 8:30 A.M.

Yeah, that’s my birth date.

As I rolled down the belt that morning and the Production Manager picked me up, slapped my hind side and turned toward you, did he say, “Congratulations it’s a girl!,” Or did he say, “Congratulations it’s a boy?”

Rogue Valley Manor awaits your reply—anxiously!

Me, too.

Lovingly,

Servi

Critter of the Month

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by Connie Kent, photo by Robert Mumby

The New World Checkered Skipper Butterfly

New World Checkered Skipper

The photographer, new resident Robert Mumby, says, “‘Butterfly season’ is here. The New World Checkered Skipper was photographed on the dirt road just below the Manor, but with so many flowers in bloom on campus, there should be many butterflies, bees an other invertebrates that eat the pollen or eat those that come to the flowers.

Actually, so far I haven’t seen any caterpillars or butterflies in the gardens. I hope this isn’t because the landscapers use lots of pesticide.”

May Library Display: Africa

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by Liz Caldwell

Africa has long fascinated Westerners, and with its May book display,  the Library celebrates that fascination.

May Library Display

RVM residents have lived in Africa as children and adults, some working and serving there, some just writing about it. Resident Jean Dunham describes the East African safari she and resident Maggie Honegger took in”>Two Women in Africa: The Ultimate Adventure, a humorous, fast-moving account.

Residents Asifa Kanji and David Drury describe their Peace Corp Service in Three Hundred Cups of Tea; and The Toughest Job You’ll Ever Love: Riding the Peace Corps Roller Coaster in Mali, West Africa, which includes vampire cats and a 2012 Evacuation.

Resident Anita Sumariwalla’s novel The Discovery of the Tomb for an Unknown Egyptian Princess, written after she moved to RVM, is set in Africa.

Among works by non-RVM authors, the display features Explorers of the Nile; The Triumph and Tragedy of a Great Victorian Age, by award winning author Tim Jeal. He describes the separate expeditions of six men and one woman who discover the source of the Nile, risking their very lives. It uses unpublished sources, previously censored.

An Army at Dawn: The War in North Africa 1942-1943 (The Liberation Trilogy; v.1) is written by Pulitzer Prize Winner Rick Atkinson.

White Mischief, by James Fox, depicts the scandalous life and 1941 unsolved shooting death of the notorious philanderer, the penniless Earl of Erroll, in Happy Valley, Kenya. This was made into a British movie.

Dream Birds is a New York Time notable book by Rob Nixon. Part memoir and part travelogue, and subtitled “The Strange History of the Ostrich in Fashion, Food and Fortune,” it describes South African Karroo ostrich ranchers who sought to make their fortunes with ostrich feathers, a Victorian era fad. 

There is a rich selection of fiction, especially adventure and Victorian. One of my favorite mystery series features the iconoclastic Victorian Amelia Peabody, working alongside her archaeologist husband in Egypt, with some of their political situations foreshadowing current politics there.

Come to the Library and explore for yourself.

Nit Wit Newz – April

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(Nit Wit Newz is an unauthorized, often unreliable, on-line news source designed to keep Manor residents abreast of the inconsequential, trifling and superficial events that dramatically shape and inform our everyday lives here at Rogue Valley Manor.)

 

CLARA, IRIS, AND MAUDE  

 

Iris:  Clara, Clara, over here. It’s me.

Clara:  Oh, hi Iris, it’s been awhile. What’s going on?

Iris:  I’ve been looking all over for you.  It’s these darn neck wrinkles of mine. They’re just getting horrible. Didn’t you say you had a way to get rid of them?

Clara:  Yeah, I thought I did but it didn’t work.  I’ve just resigned myself to living with them.  I think it’s in our genes. So, what’s up?

Iris:  Well, it’s Tom.  He hasn’t been around for weeks. And I think it’s these wrinkles of mine that have turned him away. I miss him.  I really miss the way he’d fan those tail feathers of his whenever he came near me. Oh, that plumage—que magnifico!

Clara:  Iris!  If you haven’t noticed, he flaunts those feathers whenever he gets near a female. Tom’s a full-fledged, fancy-feathered flirt. 

Iris:   Oh, I know, I know, but I think his fanning in front of me is just a little bit more special than what he shows off to the other girls.

Clara:   Sure, sure.  But you know what? I don’t think it’s your wrinkles, Iris.  Something’s going on around here.  Haven’t you noticed lately that our numbers have been dwindling?

Iris:   Hmm, not really, but now that you mention it, I have noticed that there’ve been some limb vacancies at night in my cedar tree.

Clara:   Boy, I hope it’s not true, but I think maybe those Manor big wigs have decided to—how do they say? —-thin the herd.

Iris:   Oh, no.  They’re crazy about us here. They show us off to their new prospects; the residents’ grandkids like to chase us around; their leashed dogs can bark at us and pretend they’re protecting the owners; they wake up every morning to our soft, melodious gobbling; and the management really love our slow, oblivious strolling up and down the streets keeping cars poking along at 15 mph. Hey, we’re a valued part of this community and they know it.    

Clara:   Yeah, well maybe, but how do you explain our vanishing family and friends? 

Iris:   Look Clara, if you want more proof that they appreciate us: Haven’t you noticed that ever since we put in that work order a few weeks back, the sidewalks around here are a lot cleaner.  They’re not perfect yet, but at least you don’t have to watch every single step you take so you don’t step into something, I don’t know  what they’re doing, but whatever it is, I hope they keep doing it. 

Clara:   Yeah, let’s hope so, but what about this sudden invasion of those skinny, cut-out coyotes-on-sticks? Exactly who do you think they’re trying to scare off?

Iris:   I don’t know why they’re here, but I do know that the one on the corner of Pear Tree and Shannon Drive is kind of cute.

Clara:   Yeah, well here’s what’s worrying me: I think there’s some sort of major foul, fowl play going on here. Worse, it could be—are you ready for this— avian genocide!

Iris:   Clara, what in the world are you talking about?

Clara:   You saw what happened down at the lake last spring. Dozens of mallards were living down there. Now it’s just ten, maybe twelve. We’re talking starvation, Iris! They put up a couple of “Don’t Feed the Wildlife” signs. That cut their food supply chain right then and there.  You hardly hear a quack at the lake anymore.

Iris:   Oh dear, I wasn’t aware… but how do you explain those geese over on the ninth hole at the golf course, they seem to be happy as larks. Talk about birds of paradise, they’ve got lakes, fountains, waterfalls, plenty of green grass, and-except for an occasional errant golf ball, nobody seems to be threatening them.

Clara:   Not yet.

Iris:   What do you mean by that?

Clara:   I just read in “The Gobbler,” that the ninth hole at the Quail Point course was scheduled to be torn up.  The Manor’s going to build a bunch of new housing units there. Do you think the new residents are going to stand for having a gaggle of geese hanging out in their front yards twenty-four hours a day?  I don’t think so. Look, they’re shutting down bird-dom as we know it. This place is going to be a No-Fly zone.

Iris:   A what?  A No-Fly zone? Can’t those things start world wars or something?   Look, Clara, I don’t mean to be rude, but talking to you is just too depressing.  I’ve other important things on my mind to…. Oh, there’s Maude.  Maude, Maude, yoo-hoo! It’s me, Iris.

Maude:   Hi Iris, nice to see you.  How’s Tom?

Iris:   Oh, don’t ask, sweetie, it’s a sad story, but I do have a question for you.

Maude:   Sure, what is it?

Iris:   Your veterinarian, does he do surgical cosmetology?

                

    

—A. Looney

                To go to the issue contents page (“What’s New”)  CLICK HERE

April Library Display

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The Library would like a word with you. . .

by Anne Newins

Rita Derbas

This April, in conjunction with our sixtieth anniversary, the RVM library is celebrating words in several ways.  Our display table will include many memoirs written by Manor residents, past and present.  They also provide examples for residents who may attend an upcoming workshop about how to write your own memoir.  More information about the event will be forthcoming.

Space precludes describing the breadth of these scores of books.  For example, Fairfield Goodale, Ralph Emerson Hibbs, and Myron Sutton wrote about their World War II experiences.  John Kemper, Kay Gott Chaffey, and Robert Plattner explored our natural world.  Pratibha Eastwood and Asifa Kanji are intrepid travelers.  Jane Rubey and John Reimers recounted the challenges of facing incurable illness.

We took the liberty of adding several books that are not strictly memoirs, but will resonate personally with residents.  These include Faye Isaak’s history of RVM, several earlier annual reports, and Ruth Jewett’s book about the dollhouse located near the Bistro.  Several volumes of poetry also will be on display.

And as a bodacious homage to the era, an assortment of words popular in the sixties are posted on the bookshelves.  These will help you vote in the groovy sixties word contest starting April 1, thanks to Sarah Karnatz and Rita Derbas.  The ballot box will be on the front counter in the library.

 To go to the issue contents page (“What’s New”)  CLICK HERE