StanZtheMan

Rosamond Is My Name

2010-08-01T18:32:00.000-07:00

There are scattered towns out in the desert north of Los Angeles. Rosamond is one of them. I like the area. Early in the morning, before dawn slips in, the sky is a deep azure blue. At twilight the azure blue returns like the incoming ocean tide ninety miles to the west. It is so clear at those times that it seems the horizon is a few steps away, or on the edge of another world. I think we live here, my secluded neighbors and I , because we don't have to explain ourselves. There is little sense of community as we are spread out over long distances. Yet, when someone needs help, real gut wrenching help, a nearby resident might show up to offer his or her assistance. I have often wondered why people chose to live in desolarte areas, places not just out of the way, but hard to get to. Rosamond is a little like that. It is as different as a Hollywood Starlet is from Quasimodo in Notre Dame's tower. No one would imagine California to be like this. If asked where's Rosamond, there's usually a hesitation and then a reply might be;
"Oh, somewhere out there, maybe in Antelope Valley." That's close, it is a town in the driest, hottest part of the valley. It includes a scattering of outlying houses, snmall enclaves of newly built track houses. old slag heaps from Boron, scrub farms, barren desert and one Crematorium. That's where I live and work, The Rose Crematory.There's no connection between the names. Some know me as Rose, or even Rosy.I originally took the name Rosamond from the name of the town. It gives me a sense of empowerment and protection. Not many call me Rosamond or hear the name until they are dying. Usually the question is:
"Who are you? What are you?"
"Rosamond, just Rosamond." It is the last hing they hear before death joins us.

2010-04-24T09:50:00.000-07:00

River Run Journal

2010-03-27T11:30:00.000-07:00

River Run Journal Entries

August 25, 1959:
8 PM – It is still light. We have been drifting in a slow current for awhile. The outboard is over -heating every day. Started early, as usual. The heat is impossible; it just seems to get hotter and hotter the farther South we go. The air smells like a wet flannel blanket that soaks us as soon as we come out of the tent-lean-to. A nothing day. Need to get some sleep, if possible, maybe kill my fellow rafters if they don’t stop snoring and playing with themselves.
August 27, 1959
11:30 PM – Writing by flashlight. Yesterday was the same as the day before. The river is wider. Can barely see either bank through the river mist. It’s muggy all day. When the sun goes down the river mist comes up. We get soaked with the wetness and our own sweat from the top and from the bottom. Batteries dying, light goes dim. Sleep, please god, please sleep.
August 28, 1959
6 PM - After dinner. Well at least something broke the monotony. Corren, Tony and Dennis couldn’t take the heat any more. We are at a narrower place in the river and tied up to dead tree snag stuck in the water. There is a small town or village on the other side of the levy. The three jerks decided to swim in the river, even though it is murky and smells funny. They had to cool off. Pouring water over our heads wasn’t enough. Carlos and I stayed on board to tend the raft. Besides, neither one of us liked the looks of the river. We were right. Corren and Tony swam towards the bank. They got too near some large pipe to examine it. Big mistake. It proved to be the outlet pipe for the town’s sewage. A flow gushed out as they got close. Boy, did they take off. Never saw anyone swim that fast. Carlos and I told them they couldn’t come on board until they swam out into the deeper part of the river. It was clearer water where we threw them bars of Lava soap to scrub down. Actually it was funny to see the looks of disgust on their faces. The soap nearly took their skin off.
August 29, 1959
10:30 AM – Things are getting bad on board. We’ve been on the river now for nearly three weeks and feel the pressure to finish the trip in order to get back for the start of the fall term. Boredom has become an everyday thick stinking cloud of apathy.
The water slides beneath the rafts’ deck. It’s been three days since we left the dying town of Cairo in a last desperate run to reach New Orleans. I watch the river run on for hours now. I’m in a trance in which, at some point, the raft and I feel suspended in time. There’s no movement. I hang above it all, the water runs under, around and once in awhile over the decking. I glance down as the thin water washes across my feet. This is how the boredom sets in again. The apathy rules, offset by sudden temper flare ups at insignificant slights.
“Christ, can’t you two shut up for a minute?”
“What’s your problem?” Tony shoots back at me.
“I don’t have a problem, you two have the problem. You’re always picking on each other or complaining about how bored you are.” I answer.
“Well, Tony’s being a prick again. He keeps threatening me about Joy.” Dennis groused, throws a wet sock at Tony.
“Hey!” Tony shouts back and jumps up from washing some of his clothes in a pot of muddy brown soapy water. “I’m going to split your lip wide open.”
“Okay, that’s enough” Corren, the self appointed raft captain, interjects as he comes out of the wig-wam tent. “If you’re done threatening, finish the wash and stay away from each other.”
This is easier said than done since the raft is only twenty feet long and ten feet wide. Somehow a truce ensues with a minimum of black looks.
”Stan, what was that about?” Corren asks.
“They were going on about Joy again. Tony didn’t get a letter at our last mail drop. I think Dennis is needling him about it. You know how Tony is about Joy; he thinks he’s in love. Probably will marry her after school.”
“You, think? Well, what about you, Stan. Still stuck on that little blond in Cairo?”
“Corren, screw you, that’s none of your business. Why is it so important to you? I seem to remember you disappeared with someone for quite awhile without telling any of us. Caroline Anne is none of your concern. What you were doing in Cairo was up to only you. Find some one special, Corren? Girl or boy?”
“You know Stan, you’re an ass. You’ve got a cruel mean streak. I’m going back to my nap. You can screw yourself for all I care.”
Corren shot me a dirty look and went back into the tent.
What’s bugging him, I wonder?
I pulled the Panama hat lower over my eyes and watched the river flow again. Caroline Anne, sex and Cairo drifted into my thoughts. Cairo, Cairo, Illinois, two hundred miles back up river and a hundred years in the past.

2009-11-23T05:59:00.000-08:00

The Road and The River: Hwy. 66 to the Mississippi River S. R. Zalesny 18 Nov. 2009
It was a map line that extends from Santa Monica, California –to Hannibal, Missouri. With the map and Highway color highlighted we felt safe in our choice of route. The six of us piled into my nineteen fifty three Mercury flathead, three in front and three in back. We were young and skinny. It was a close fit but we would only be driving for a short time. It was the ultimate Road Trip.
It was going to be an adventure as we dreamt of floating down the Muddy River on our way from Hannibal to New Orleans. We were not particularly concerned about the fourteen foot trailer we dragged behind with its precious cargo of equipment and our pre-fabricated raft we had worked so hard to build over the prior three months. We were on our way after three months of planning.
We did not see the land as we drove. The road was a blur to us as we forged ahead to reach our Hannibal destination, 2700 miles way, in forty eight hours of non-stop driving. Sometimes Highway 66 would be a narrow black ribbon with a Morse code of white dots and dashes imprinted on its rough tongue. It curved and dipped and ran eternally to a far vanishing point on the horizon where we stared till our eyes grew blood shot and dim. That is when the driver would pull over and we all rotate as a new driver took over, still groggy from a sleep of exhaustion. After a time it felt like we were skimming above the road bed like a giant bird gliding through the changing light of morning, noon, twilight and deep night only to be stunned awake by the sharp unforgiving light of a rising desert sun. The small talk was mostly of food or how far we had traveled.
“Where are we on the map?” someone would ask.
“Here, see, we’re somewhere here outside this town and into the Mojave desert now.” Someone else would offer as an answer. We did not really look at the land as we whipped bye, our cars glass packed mufflers growling a guttural snarl. We were in control of our environment. We flew the course of the colored line on our travel map that designated road numbers, miles from one point to another, from one town to another and in bolder lines designated the boundaries of the states to be crossed. Like Mariners of old, we followed the map that gave us a sense of control in our journey, even if it were to indicate, “Here be Dragons” or worse.
We didn’t really see the land that flowed to either side of our steel and rubber pack -animal.
Each State we crossed has its own identity imposed by man. However, there is no line of disembarkation from one State to another. The map shows arbitrary lines drawn based on so many degrees and minutes south or east or north. But, the land, the good earth, does not care for man imposed limits. Does the sand, dust devil or tumble weed care if it has have blown across the California - Arizona border? So to, do trees, seeds, or birds care if they are in a place called Texas, or Missouri? The coyote or wild horse cross the imaginary lines with no further thought than the search for food, water or shelter. Only man must have confining lines to designate where he is in the wild on trips and adventures. Only man thinks this is control of some sort.
Now, Highway 66 is a legend. In nineteen fifty-nine it was the best route for us to take to go east to Hannibal Missouri, the start of our river raft challenge. The road at first was a welcome means of escaping our lives of part time jobs and full time college courses. The road was our magic carpet out of our everyday lives of conformity. It was broad, but congested as we crossed the city of Los Angeles and out to the little towns of Glendale, Pasadena, Montrose, Covina, each fiercely independent, separated by groves of orange trees or vast spans of farmland. Even in the heat of August, with the everyday threat of smog, the way was surrounded by every shade of green. The Orange and Lemon groves helped spice the air as a counter to the creeping smog. . As we traveled out of the more populated areas the roadway became narrower. It seemed to us that the trip did not really start until we had crossed the surrounding mountains and were embraced by the heat and dryness of the high desert surrounding the city and towns of Metropolitan Los Angeles. It was already darkening when we reached the dilapidated hilltop train stop and water tower above Barstow, California.

2009-07-22T20:37:00.000-07:00

The Creek Race July 21,2009
S.R. Zalesny

It was the beginning of summer, 1959. My friends and my girl were at the Fraternity House on the beach in Playa Del Rey. A languid warm day matched with warm sand and warm bodies. Our friendly banter was interrupted by a blatant challenge from Bob Charbs, one of my best friends.
“Come on Stan. I always wanted to swim Ballona Creek. Think you can keep up? Think you can beat me?”
Perhaps he was jealous I was going to try to raft the Mississippi River in another month. Maybe he thought he should be going too. He had the chance, but didn’t follow through like the six of us had. He needed to prove something. A stunt like swimming the Ballona Creek channel, broad enough for large cabin cruisers to navigate, would appeal to his macho image. What I didn’t understand was why I should be the object of his cynicism? Why was I the foil for his self aggrandizement? I admired his self confidence, his athletic ability, but his sense of humor and intelligence were his two best attributes. Still, he needed the competition from a friend for reasons known only by him.
“Stan, can you swim that channel?” Alice, my girl asked.
It was a quarter mile across with some strange currents from the watershed flowing down and the ocean tide flowing in and back out. It was a warm day. The water should be an early June warm.
I couldn’t back down in front of Alice and my friends.
“Sure, Bob, let’s do it. Any bet on who gets across first? How about five bucks?” I threw out to him.
“You’re on. Let’s go.” Bob agreed and started out the door.

“Stan, it looks pretty far across. You don’t have to do this. Let’s just go to the beach, get some sun.” Alice said worriedly as we all stood on the boulder strewn jetty lining the Ballona Creek Channel. It was one of the last concerns she ever shared with me. I didn’t know she had something she wanted to tell me, alone. I did not focus on her enough to catch her hidden current of meaning. I focused on the water flowing up the channel. The color of water reflects many different emotions. I look back, now, at our excitement. Beneath Bob’s and my false bravado I sensed a current of caution touch the catacombs of our minds where fear swirled. Water, all water is clear, transparent. It contains no color. It can contain all colors. Water is a medium that reflects the color of sky, the banks of rivers, green of trees, white of snow and the sediment below. It can contain the sparkle of sun or the white diamonds and black coffee of a moonlit night. That channel water did not reflect the warm blue sky of a youthful summer day. The occasional white caps were like spittle on the corners of an angry mouth. The ocean tidewater reflected the gray and black stained boulders of both jetty banks. It ran deep, quiet as the dark heart of a brooding brute. The others climbed back up the steep bank and crossed the old bridge to the far side Jetty.

“Careful, see you on the other side,” broken words drifted back through the wind, mixed with the eerie cries of swarming seagulls.
“Whoa, it does look farther from here.” Bob whispered in his deep voice.
“Yes, it looks rougher too.” I answered.
“No problem. It’s just a little wind. The water looks fine. Just like a quick dip in a swimming pool. Just go.” With that he edged off the large boulder and into a half assed dive. He came to the surface and began to swim, drifting up the channel a little.
I looked deep into the murky water again to see if there were buried timbers, metal rods or jagged rocks below the surface. It was too late to turn back. I wanted to look better than Bob in my dive. I crouched low, arms back in a swimmers stance then sprang out and down in a full racing dive. I slammed into the brackish water on my face and chest. The shocking clutch of ice-cold water hit back with full force. Our race began.

On a warm summer day it is more than a shock to immerse into ice cold water. A rogue cold current had swept up the quarter mile channel during the night. A wet sheet of cold uncaring needles bit into every inch of my body. The sudden slam of the water sucked the life breath of air from my lungs. I struggled to the surface to gulp in air and a nose full of brackish salt water. My body wouldn’t move the way I wanted it to. Coughing and shivering, I sensed the color of the water had turned to the blackness of my desperation. The current had me in its fist. There was no bottom I could stand upon as I was forced deeper into the channel. The way across was to swim back against the incoming tide at an angle and to swim as hard and as long as I could to keep from a long sleep in the waiting sediment at the bottom. It was no longer a race. It was survival.
As I forced myself into a strong stroke and kick I could look up now and then to see Bob ahead of me. His strokes were no more in synch than mine. The cold water was affecting him as much as me. This thought somehow made me feel better. There was even a surge of vindictiveness that warmed me. It was a strange sensation, but I did not hesitate to nurture the feeling, hanging on to it as a drowning man might scramble to clutch a life preserver or a drifting piece of flotsam.
“See, Bob, it’s not that easy. You’re as cold as I am. Maybe it will slow you down. Maybe you’re even colder than me. Let’s hear how great you are now!” The raucous thoughts rattled through my mind. So disoriented by fright, I nearly laughed at our mutual danger. The additional thought came unexpectedly that I could catch up to him. Yes, even get ahead of him. My delusion was overwhelming. I began to believe. I began a steady and stronger stroke. I forced myself to swim in full form. Stroke, kick, kick, kick, stroke, roll head, breath in, roll, stroke and kick as I exhaled, roll my head, breath in was the focus of all my attention. I can catch him, I can catch him, I can beat him. Now anger, burning, hot consuming anger swept through me. I used it, welcomed it, reveled in it as a drug addict might as he stuck the needle in and pushed the plunger of the heron filled hypodermic syringe. Mine was not a sudden surge of sick pleasure rather a teeth grinding surge of pure hate. It warmed me. Stroke, kick, stroke, breath, was all I could do in my encapsulated universe of spittle flecked black water. I would not look to see how close I was until I could hear Bob’s labored breath. I imagined his shock as I drew along side. I imagined his dismay that I could catch him, that I was passing him. I hoped his ragged breath burned as hot as my anger and my joy of beating him. I would not look; I would not stop until I was there. I would not just make it to the other jetty, I would get there first. The race was back on.

The Horsey

2007-02-02T12:00:00.000-08:00

“It is going to be a beautiful wedding. Everything is decorated. Dad even cleaned the basement so we can dance and have drinks there. The whole house is just lovely. Everything is cleaned from top to bottom,” his mother said excitedly into the phone.
“I know it’s short notice, but it’s almost done. Be happy. We’ll see you at the church in a little while. Yes, yes, we’ll be on time, honey. You’re going to be a beautiful bride, Lydia.” His mother sniffed, already holding back tears of joy.
“What? No, he’s staying here. It’s all right. He’ll be fine. One of the neighbor girls will come in to watch him. I know you’d like to have him there. But it’s better for him to stay home. He’ll be less trouble. Yes, we’re on our way. Goodbye.” She hung up and turned to see Butch peering at her through the stairway balustrades. She was flustered for a minute then smiled quickly.
“Butch, what are you doing up? You’re supposed to be asleep. It’s still early.”
“Not tired. Want to go with you.” He answered in his sleepy two-year old voice. He said it softly, as though he was hurt.
“Want to go with you.” He said again, this time with a little edge of defiance, as though he expected her to relent and take him.
“Honey, we talked about it yesterday. There’s only so much room at the wedding and I have lots of last minute things to do. I even have to finish straightening up here.” She tried to smile so he would accept the explanation. But, she had that look in her eye that said; we’re not talking about it anymore.
“ I have to go now, “ she said, then shouted, “ Mary, get down here and put your brother back to bed.”
His sister hurried down the stairs, scooped him up, and rushed him back to his bedroom. She laid him down and covered him up.
“Mare, I want to help. Can’t I go?” he said in a small pleading voice.
“That’s sweet, but no, you have to stay here. Go back to sleep. Joan from next door will be here while we’re at the wedding. You know her, you like her. Be a good boy now. Go to sleep.” She patted him on the head and rushed out the door.
He fell back asleep for a while. Too soon, however, he woke up. The big house was quiet, too quiet. Was everyone gone? Was he alone? He wasn’t scared. He knew everyone on the block. After all, he made sure he visited them almost every day, wandering on his own from one house to another.
This was different. Everyone had been excited, shouting and running back and forth. There had been lots of activity for days. It was for his oldest sisters wedding. He knew the wedding was at the big church. He didn’t really know what a reception was, but he knew it was like a party. He knew the party was going to be at his house. There would be lots of people. Mom and Dad and his other sister and some of their friends had been cleaning and decorating for days. It had been a big rush. There was something called a war happening. He heard the groom, the man who was marrying his sister, had to go right back and fight. When he grew up he would go off to war, too, he thought. Everyone would have a party for him then.
Oh, he thought, my horse. Did it get cleaned he wondered? He opened the door and quietly snuck down the stairs. He had a lot of practice doing that. He didn’t hear anyone in the house. Where was Joan? He went into the front room and looked out the big window. Joan was sitting outside talking to a boy from around the block.
That’s all right, he thought. He felt safer knowing she was there. Now, where was his Horsey? Off he went looking for it. Then he remembered. Dad had put it in the basement. He said it would be in the way. Down to the basement he went.
Gosh, he thought, it was pretty. Everything was clean. There were streamers of different colors on the ceiling. There were boxes with bottles in them stacked on the floor. There were big washtubs full of ice and beer. It sure looked nice. And, there was his best friend, Horsey, his favorite toy, a beautiful white rocking horse with blue eyes and a black mane. He was happy to see it. He saw it was a little dirty. He had an idea.
Butch pushed a chair over to the gray metal wash sink in the corner of the room. All basements in Cleveland had them. He climbed up the chair and onto the sink counter. He was a good climber. He was proud of that fact. Butch grabbed the orange and white box of Oxydall soap. He started to pour it into the sink. He had seen his mother do that when she washed clothes or sometimes the pet cat. The box was damp from sitting on the wet counter. It ripped open and the whole cardboard box and all the soap fell into the sink.
That’s all right, he thought. That should be enough soap.
He reached over and turned on the water. Luckily he turned both handles, hot and cold. The sink started to fill with water. It was quite a large and deep sink. Butch took a towel off the rack and dipped it into the sudsy water. He had to reach way down and nearly fell in. But, he was a good climber and had been in this position before. He pulled back at the last second and climbed down with the wet towel. Now he could wash Horsey and make him as clean as the rest of the house.
Butch worked very hard washing his beautiful white rocking horse. He started to yawn more and more. He dropped the wet towel on the floor. He went back up the stairs to the front room. He climbed on the couch and looked out the window. Joan and the boy were still talking. He lay down and went to sleep almost at once.
“Oh, my God,” someone was yelling.
“Come, come quick. Oh, my God. How did this happen? Who did this? ”
Butch woke up. It was his mother screaming. She was upset. Butch became scared.
“Mom, mommy, what’s wrong. Mommy, are you hurt?” Butch started to cry.
He ran to the stairway leading to the basement. He heard his mother there. She was almost at the bottom of the stairs. She stood pointing down into the basement with a look of horror, her hand shaking.
“What, what is that?” she shouted. She looked back and saw Butch. She saw him crying. She saw that he also looked shocked. He could see past his mother into the basement. He knew why she had screamed. He knew why she could not go farther down the stairs. He knew he had forgotten to turn off the water in the big gray metal wash sink.
“Come down here right now,” his mother said, in a strangled voice.
Butch had no choice. He slowly walked down the stairs, his pudgy legs shaking. He cried big salty tears that tasted awful and made him sick to his stomach.
“Look, look Butch, see what you did. It’s ruined. It’s flooded. Oh, my God.” She gave him a hard look, eyes glinting through her glasses, her mouth tight and stiff. A vein pulsed an ugly red in her neck.
“You should be ashamed of yourself. Look at all that water. Look at all those suds. You should be crying.”
The entire basement floor, the boxes of bottles, the tubs of beer, the chairs for guests, all, all was covered in thick blanketing suds. The soapsuds were even starting to push up the stairs. Butch cried harder.
“What, what happened mom?” It was his sister, Lydia. She was at the top of the stairs holding on to the doorframe with one hand, still dressed in her full white wedding dress and veil, still holding her bride’s bouquet in the other hand. She looked in shock. Tears came down her face.
Butch cried harder still. He cried with big gulping gasps. He could hardly stand up he was crying so hard.
“You should cry,” his mother said sternly. “You’ve flooded the basement.”
“You should cry,” his sister, shouted, “You ruined my party.”
Butch cried and cried. He could not speak. He could not tell them why he was crying. He couldn’t tell them he was sorry, he didn’t care about the basement or the party.
Butch could not tell them he was crying because he thought he had drowned Horsey.