Use

 

Azure The skies so filled with azure delight Laying flat on his back Watching the time go by Listening to the sounds All around his wide world Without a web To tie him down To any ground But his very own Azure within his mind On a Monday morning So clear from all the strife That once covered his life

The song from Avion Blackman Playing loud within his memory “Let it go… float away…” Knowing today is just fine And that tomorrow might come With a bang But no more dang this Or dang that For it is all Part of a plan That was mapped out Way even before Problems and strife Came knocking on his door

“Chant a Psalm as Day…” Another memory favorite From the group Steel Pulse Tearing out all that can bring him down As he looks forward to building Himself way, way up What once seemed so dark Now is just a long lost memory As his choice to fill his life With love and cheer Is something he holds so dear Letting go of not just this or that But the fear of it to come right back By Mark Grijalva Peres

I happen to learn about this procedure recently when a surgeon performed both an allograft and an autograft on a family member. What’s the difference? Grafting is performed on burn patients, whether they use allo or auto is the deciding factor based on the patient and burn area.  Usually they begin with allo (skin tissue from a deceased donor) and if necessary, they will do auto (skin tissue from their own). Both are amazing procedures that help the patient heal from their burns.--Lupe Garcia

al·lo·graft (noun Surgery) a tissue or organ obtained from one member of a species and grafted to a genetically dissimilar member of the same species. http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/allograft?s=t--Mark Grijalva Peres

He closed his eyes and listened to the woods around him. His thoughts kept taking him to a sterile laboratory in the capital city. The images of a doctor talking to him while peering into a microscope filled his mind, the doctor looked up and a lone word rang in his ears, “Allograft” the doctor was a genius in his field but a madman to his peers. This radical and unproven procedure meant to treat burned soldiers, had other potential applications, the doctor had said, more clandestine uses.--Gabriel Aguirre           

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

”Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet!” shouted the townspeople. “Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure; she is an important part of her church’s synod,” added another angry protester. Although Elizabeth Daugherty was always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it was always appropriate. She was eternally jocund as she tried her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as being her church’s beadle during all parish functions—and, she was never a harpy with anyone during such times. Even the need for a reprimand was doubtful; besides, no one had presented any proof that she had fomented the uprising against the church leadership.

At the same time, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, a visitor to the next door prisoner surreptitiously threw her a gimlet, with which she immediately worked her way from the leather straps confining her to the room. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. Where is the man I trothed myself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this. Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined because of her imprisonment; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth searched and finally remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance should be. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home—a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within, taking her key with her. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did and prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion, for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand what was happening, she felt compelled to search the recollections of her life that led up to the present. She finally decided that her time spent in Japan, starting in 1952, would be a good place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It didn’t take much to convince him; she was his teddy bear.

It was during that journey that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever.

At first, she just saw it as another word to memorize in what she felt to be a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans were promoting improvement amongst practices and procedures of Japanese businesses, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work methods.

Although Elizabeth started her life up to that time in Japan as a rather bumptious child, she soon learned grace and humility through her days spent with the local people. Within months of her expected short stay, the language began to flow and she fell in love with the charm and genuine kindness of the people. The strange new food there even started to be a delight to the palate. She began to enjoy herself like never before. It would soften the recent death of her mother—lost to a plague-like illness only months before. The country became a source of much-needed nurture.

Young Elizabeth had a precocious nature and started playing the piano at the age of three. Her parents had hired teacher after teacher to work with her, but she amazingly out-played them all. Eventually, her Grieg and other concertos, along with numerous self-written étude pieces for practicing her own techniques, prompted her parents to elicit the guidance of a master pianist of the day to help develop their daughter’s mystifying gift. This gift provided a means to entertain her father, as well as her many new-found friends in her adopted land.

She also developed a profound interest and talent in Japanese orthography and calligraphy. Elizabeth even became well-known amongst the finer writers of Japan. Her hiragana (writing with words of Japanese origin), katakana (writing with words of foreign origin) approached near-native proficiency within her first year in the country. Her kanji calligraphy (writing with Chinese characters) approached such an artistic level that her father was “asked” to entertain guests on her behalf by dignitaries she did not even know. Again, it afforded her father and her lifelong friends and contacts; it resulted in an unexpected epiphany.

As Elizabeth brought her mind back to the present, she once again felt puzzled about the imbroglio she found herself in. Why can’t I just return to my former, simple life, where I tend to the affairs of the needy and to those of the church? Is this just a bad dream? As she stared blankly across her basement safe haven, she tried to continue thinking of the past and was inclined to begin action towards freeing herself and her name.

She was thankful that Jean Pierre faithfully had kept her secret hideaway so clean—even after all these years! Through the local seamstress she always used, he even managed to keep up with her clothing sizes and kept her dresser stocked with an array of clothing that fit her perfectly—even in styling. Getting cleaned-up was actually her next priority, as soon as she partook of what she became fond of during her years in Japan—a stout glass of alegar.

After selecting fresh, clean clothes to replace what had become the rags she was wearing, Elizabeth stepped into the bath; she was thankful for the new boilers just installed in her home (at least she hoped it was still her home—left to her by her great grandfather). During her soothing soak, she again began pondering her earlier days in Japan; days when each person there was a venerator of the next. She had to re-train her Western mentality and learn to revere other people and put their interests before her own. Without a doubt, her life changed for the better; she began to love and appreciate this most provocative way of living.

From the first day she arrived in the port of Yokohama—one of the country’s cities bypassed from bombing during WWII because of important cultural landmarks the Americans wanted to save—Elizabeth discovered such disparity. In her mind, she clearly saw how the majority of people were the most impoverished she had ever seen—yet proud of their families and of their culture. She was soon escorted to what seemed no less than a palatial estate high atop ocean cliffs, where the periodic raging surf escarped the hill supporting the east face of her new home.

A noise suddenly jolted her back to the present when she heard the shutting of the entrance door to her hideaway, soon followed by a gentle tap at her bathroom entrance. She spread her bath curtain in front of her and asked who was invading her space. Listening closely, she heard, “Miss Elizabeth? Is that you?” It was the familiar, comforting voice of her loyal friend Jean Pierre. A relief immediately came over her, in addition to a few tears of joy and hope.

After confirming her identity and asking Jean Pierre to wait in the sitting area, she hurriedly prepared to meet her confidant and maker of the most saporous French bread she had ever known. Why he remained her gardener when he could easily become the local bakery legend she would have to ask some time—but the time was not now. She carefully ensured that she was presentable, complete with the comfortable and stylish new wardrobe she chose—from that which Jean Pierre had kept at the ready.

As she opened the door to see her lifelong friend, she saw him spin around slowly and gaze at her from the next room in a caring and loving fashion—cocking his head in a bit of bewilderment. Their eye-to-eye contact and the smile that each carried confirmed their continued camaraderie. He may have been the gardener, but to Elizabeth, her upbringing around him proved to be much, much more and the next few moments would prove his willingness to go beyond the gossip and meanness people can dish-out about her.

Even as the elderly gentleman before her gestured to have a seat so he could fill her in on the latest happenings of the estate, his gentle face with withered creases were like seeing the sound of her favorite allegro on a warm, spring day. It made her relax all the more. However, before either of them could speak their first words, from the room above they could hear the faint rustling of footsteps—multiple footsteps across what Elizabeth remembered to be the private office of her husband. Their eyes met and Jean Pierre showed a sad countenance as he slowly began nodding his head up and down, just as they both heard laughs and giggles of not one, but two additional female voices. Was he really the hedonist people would sometimes whisper about as they walked by us on Sunday mornings? Jean Pierre continued his nodding while closing his eyes, as if reading Elizabeth’s thoughts.

This revelation changed her entire thought process regarding her future plan of action. However, it did not take long for her to decide on a surreptitious visit to the life and actions of someone in whom she placed all of her trust only a short time ago; someone in whom she had already invested the majority of her life through the service of God. It was not God she was angry at in the least, but she had to admit that her deepest thoughts took her back once again to her days in Japan.

It was there, that one day at the young age of twelve, she fell asleep at the foot of a cherry tree in full bloom at the base of the large hill upon which her home lay. As she dreamt of a shower of white petals all around her, she awoke to find herself being carried away by a group of hooded, faceless people. Struggling was of no use, so she decided to wait until she might reason with them or even escape before getting too far away. Yet, within only a few moments, her abductors slipped amongst a bamboo grove, causing instant darkness and even more fright and mystery to the whole experience.

Upon arriving at an open area within the bamboo forest, she was let down from her hosts and motioned by the whole group to enter what appeared to be a small grass roofed barn. Fortunately, during her early time there in Japan, she had the good fortune to happen upon a martial arts school, where she had been the first non-Japanese ever to study under some of the greatest masters in the nation. However, before trying to utilize her skills of that nature, she chose to look further into why she had been whisked away so unceremoniously.

There, seated upon the highest portion of the floor area, she saw a darker-skinned person than she had ever laid eyes on—even with the world-wide travels with her father. He motioned me over and offered a cushion on the floor in front of him. I was quite surprised to hear an accent new to me, but of rather fluent English—although, obviously leaning toward a particular culture, including accompanying long, uncut hair. As he introduced himself, he at once apologized at my unusual offer to visit his enclave. Only a few moments later, my fascination with him and his apparent followers made me more curious than frightened; it was apparent he meant me no harm.

I soon learned of what years later became well-known as Rastafarianism and I learned from this local chief Rasta in Japan that there were already followers of his belief worldwide. In this instance, he just wanted to make contact with an outsider and practice his English! We chatted cordially a while, but his evening religious ceremony would soon begin, so he bade me farewell and asked my former captors to kindly escort me to where we first met.

The only reason this Rastafarian experience came to mind was that Elizabeth now wondered about the years her own husband pretended to be one person, but carried-out other activities on the side. She wondered, Does he consider himself to be a god, only to use the church as a cover for his personal convictions? At least Rastafarians are straight forward about believing Haile Selassie to be a god and the eventual redemption of blacks and their return to Africa, but she had no idea where he stood. Does he just want my fortune accumulated by my father, who himself did world trade while he served people from every nation he visited or lived in? She suddenly heard Jean Pierre calling her name; he knew she needed that time to compose herself after learning of her husband’s indiscretions. Together, though, they would plan. The exigencies of the moment required prayerful thought and wisdom that Elizabeth knew she could not handle alone.--Joseph Marlin

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

  ”Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet!” shouted the townspeople. “Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure; she is an important part of her church’s synod,” added another angry protester. Although Elizabeth Daugherty was always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it was always appropriate. She was eternally jocund as she tried her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as being her church’s beadle during all parish functions—and, she was never a harpy with anyone during such times. Even the need for a reprimand was doubtful; besides, no one had presented any proof that she had fomented the uprising against the church leadership.

  At the same time, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, a visitor to the next door prisoner surreptitiously threw her a gimlet, with which she immediately worked her way from the leather straps confining her to the room. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

  Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this. Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined because of her imprisonment; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

  Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

  With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth searched and finally remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance should be. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home—a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

  Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within, taking her key with her. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did and prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion, for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

  Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand what was happening, she felt compelled to search the recollections of her life that led up to the present. She finally decided that her time spent in Japan, starting in 1952, would be a good place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

  That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It didn’t take much to convince him; she was his teddy bear.

  It was during that journey that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever.

At first, she just saw it as another word to memorize in what she felt to be a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans were promoting improvement amongst practices and procedures of Japanese businesses, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work methods.

  Although Elizabeth started her life up to that time in Japan as a rather bumptious child, she soon learned grace and humility through her days spent with the local people. Within months of her expected short stay, the language began to flow and she fell in love with the charm and genuine kindness of the people. The strange new food there even started to be a delight to the palate. She began to enjoy herself like never before. It would soften the recent death of her mother—lost to a plague-like illness only months before. The country became a source of much-needed nurture.

  Young Elizabeth had a precocious nature and started playing the piano at the age of three. Her parents had hired teacher after teacher to work with her, but she amazingly out-played them all. Eventually, her Grieg and other concertos, along with numerous self-written étude pieces for practicing her own techniques, prompted her parents to elicit the guidance of a master pianist of the day to help develop their daughter’s mystifying gift. This gift provided a means to entertain her father, as well as her many new-found friends in her adopted land.

  She also developed a profound interest and talent in Japanese orthography and calligraphy. Elizabeth even became well-known amongst the finer writers of Japan. Her hiragana (writing with words of Japanese origin), katakana (writing with words of foreign origin) approached near-native proficiency within her first year in the country. Her kanji calligraphy (writing with Chinese characters) approached such an artistic level that her father was “asked” to entertain guests on her behalf by dignitaries she did not even know. Again, it afforded her father and her lifelong friends and contacts; it resulted in an unexpected epiphany.

  As Elizabeth brought her mind back to the present, she once again felt puzzled about the imbroglio she found herself in. Why can’t I just return to my former, simple life, where I tend to the affairs of the needy and to those of the church? Is this just a bad dream? As she stared blankly across her basement safe haven, she tried to continue thinking of the past and was inclined to begin action towards freeing herself and her name.

  She was thankful that Jean Pierre faithfully had kept her secret hideaway so clean—even after all these years! Through the local seamstress she always used, he even managed to keep up with her clothing sizes and kept her dresser stocked with an array of clothing that fit her perfectly—even in styling. Getting cleaned-up was actually her next priority, as soon as she partook of what she became fond of during her years in Japan—a stout glass of alegar.

  After selecting fresh, clean clothes to replace what had become the rags she was wearing, Elizabeth stepped into the bath; she was thankful for the new boilers just installed in her home (at least she hoped it was still her home—left to her by her great grandfather). During her soothing soak, she again began pondering her earlier days in Japan; days when each person there was a venerator of the next. She had to re-train her Western mentality and learn to revere other people and put their interests before her own. Without a doubt, her life changed for the better; she began to love and appreciate this most provocative way of living.

  From the first day she arrived in the port of Yokohama—one of the country’s cities bypassed from bombing during WWII because of important cultural landmarks the Americans wanted to save—Elizabeth discovered such disparity. In her mind, she clearly saw how the majority of people were the most impoverished she had ever seen—yet proud of their families and of their culture. She was soon escorted to what seemed no less than a palatial estate high atop ocean cliffs, where the periodic raging surf escarped the hill supporting the east face of her new home.

  A noise suddenly jolted her back to the present when she heard the shutting of the entrance door to her hideaway, soon followed by a gentle tap at her bathroom entrance. She spread her bath curtain in front of her and asked who was invading her space. Listening closely, she heard, “Miss Elizabeth? Is that you?” It was the familiar, comforting voice of her loyal friend Jean Pierre. A relief immediately came over her, in addition to a few tears of joy and hope.

  After confirming her identity and asking Jean Pierre to wait in the sitting area, she hurriedly prepared to meet her confidant and maker of the most saporous French bread she had ever known. Why he remained her gardener when he could easily become the local bakery legend she would have to ask some time—but the time was not now. She carefully ensured that she was presentable, complete with the comfortable and stylish new wardrobe she chose—from that which Jean Pierre had kept at the ready.

  As she opened the door to see her lifelong friend, she saw him spin around slowly and gaze at her from the next room in a caring and loving fashion—cocking his head in a bit of bewilderment. Their eye-to-eye contact and the smile that each carried confirmed their continued camaraderie. He may have been the gardener, but to Elizabeth, her upbringing around him proved to be much, much more and the next few moments would prove his willingness to go beyond the gossip and meanness people can dish-out about her.

  Even as the elderly gentleman before her gestured to have a seat so he could fill her in on the latest happenings of the estate, his gentle face with withered creases were like seeing the sound of her favorite allegro on a warm, spring day. It made her relax all the more. However, before either of them could speak their first words, from the room above they could hear the faint rustling of footsteps—multiple footsteps across what Elizabeth remembered to be the private office of her husband. Their eyes met and Jean Pierre showed a sad countenance as he slowly began nodding his head up and down, just as they both heard laughs and giggles of not one, but two additional female voices. Was he really the hedonist people would sometimes whisper about as they walked by them on Sunday mornings? Jean Pierre continued his nodding while closing his eyes, as if reading Elizabeth’s thoughts.

  This revelation changed her entire thought process regarding her future plan of action. However, it did not take long for her to decide on a surreptitious visit to the life and actions of someone in whom she placed all of her trust only a short time ago; someone in whom she had already invested the majority of her life through the service of God. It was not God she was angry at in the least, but she had to admit that her deepest thoughts took her back once again to her days in Japan.

  It was there, that one day at the young age of twelve, she fell asleep at the foot of a cherry tree in full bloom at the base of the large hill upon which her home lay. As she dreamt of a shower of white petals all around her, she awoke to find herself being carried away by a group of hooded, faceless people. Struggling was of no use, so she decided to wait until she might reason with them or even escape before getting too far away. Yet, within only a few moments, her abductors slipped amongst a bamboo grove, causing instant darkness and even more fright and mystery to the whole experience.

  Upon arriving at an open area within the bamboo forest, she was let down from her hosts and motioned by the whole group to enter what appeared to be a small grass roofed barn. Fortunately, during her early time there in Japan, she had the good fortune to happen upon a martial arts school, where she had been the first non-Japanese ever to study under some of the greatest masters in the nation. However, before trying to utilize her skills of that nature, she chose to look further into why she had been whisked away so unceremoniously.

  There, seated upon the highest portion of the floor area, she saw a darker-skinned person than she had ever laid eyes on—even with the world-wide travels with her father. He motioned me over and offered a cushion on the floor in front of him. I was quite surprised to hear an accent new to me, but of rather fluent English—although, obviously leaning toward a particular culture, including accompanying long, uncut hair. As he introduced himself, he at once apologized at my unusual offer to visit his enclave. Only a few moments later, my fascination with him and his apparent followers made me more curious than frightened; it was apparent he meant me no harm.

  I soon learned of what years later became well-known as Rastafarianism and I learned from this local chief Rasta in Japan that there were already followers of his belief worldwide. In this instance, he just wanted to make contact with an outsider and practice his English! We chatted cordially a while, but his evening religious ceremony would soon begin, so he bade me farewell and asked my former captors to kindly escort me to where we first met.

  The only reason this Rastafarian experience came to mind was that Elizabeth now wondered about the years her own husband pretended to be one person, but carried-out other activities on the side. She wondered, “Does he consider himself to be a god, only to use the church as a cover for his personal convictions? At least Rastafarians are straight forward about believing Haile Selassie to be a god and the eventual redemption of blacks and their return to Africa,” but she had no idea where he stood. “Does he just want my fortune accumulated by my father, as he did world trade while he served people from ever nation he ever visited or lived in?” She was brought out of her deep thoughts by the sound of Jean Pierre calling her name; he knew she needed that time to compose herself after learning of her husband’s indiscretions. Together, they would plan. --Joseph Marlin

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

  ”Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet!” shouted the townspeople. “Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure; she is an important part of her church’s synod,” added another angry protester. Although Elizabeth Daugherty was always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it was always appropriate. She was eternally jocund as she tried her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as being her church’s beadle during all parish functions—and, she was never a harpy with anyone during such times. Even the need for a reprimand was doubtful; besides, no one had presented any proof that she had fomented the uprising against the church leadership.

  At the same time, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, a visitor to the next door prisoner surreptitiously threw her a gimlet, with which she immediately worked her way from the leather straps confining her to the room. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

  Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined because of her imprisonment; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

  Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

  With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth searched and finally remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance should be. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home—a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

  Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within, taking her key with her. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did and prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion, for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

  Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand what was happening, she felt compelled to search the recollections of her life that led up to the present. She finally decided that her time spent in Japan, starting in 1952, would be a good place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

  That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It didn’t take much to convince him.

  It was during that journey that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever.

At first, she just saw it as another word to memorize in what she felt to be a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans were promoting improvement amongst practices and procedures of Japanese businesses, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work methods.

  Although Elizabeth started her life up to that time in Japan as a rather bumptious child, she soon learned grace and humility through her days spent with the local people. Within months of her expected short stay, the language began to flow and she fell in love with the charm and genuine kindness of the people. The strange new food there even started to be a delight to the palate. She began to enjoy herself like never before. It would soften the recent death of her mother—lost to a plague-like illness only months before. The country became a source of much-needed nurture.

  Young Elizabeth had a precocious nature and started playing the piano at the age of three. Her parents had hired teacher after teacher to work with her, but she amazingly out-played them all. Eventually, her Grieg and other concertos, along with numerous self-written étude pieces for practicing her own techniques, prompted her parents to elicit the guidance of a master pianist of the day to help develop their daughter’s mystifying gift. This gift provided a means to entertain her father, as well as her many new-found friends in her adopted land.

  She also developed a profound interest and talent in Japanese orthography and calligraphy. Elizabeth even became well-known amongst the finer writers of Japan. Her hiragana (writing with words of Japanese origin), katakana (writing with words of foreign origin) approached near-native proficiency within her first year in the country. Her kanji calligraphy (writing with Chinese characters) approached such an artistic level that her father was “asked” to entertain guests on her behalf by dignitaries she did not even know. Again, it afforded her father and her lifelong friends and contacts; it resulted in an unexpected epiphany.

  As Elizabeth brought her mind back to the present, she once again felt puzzled about the imbroglio she found herself in. Why couldn’t she return to her former simple life, where she tended to the affairs of the needy and the church? Was this just a bad dream? As she stared blankly across her basement safe haven, she tried to continue thinking of the past, but was inclined to begin action towards freeing herself and her name.

  She was thankful that Jean Pierre faithfully had kept her secret hideaway so clean—even after all these years! Through the local seamstress she always used, he even managed to keep up with her clothing sizes and kept her dresser stocked with an array of clothing that fit her perfectly—even in styling. Getting cleaned-up was actually her next priority, as soon as she partook of what she became fond of during her years in Japan—a stout glass of alegar.

  After selecting fresh, clean clothes to replace what had become the rags she was wearing, Elizabeth stepped into the bath; she was thankful for the new boilers just installed in her home (at least she hoped it was still her home—left to her by her great grandfather). During her soothing soak, she again began pondering her earlier days in Japan; days when each person there was a venerator of the next. She had to re-train her Western mentality and learn to revere other people and put their interests before her own. Without a doubt, her life changed for the better; she began to love and appreciate this most provocative way of living.

   From the first day she arrived in the port of Yokohama—one of the country’s cities bypassed from bombing during WWII because of important cultural landmarks the Americans wanted to save—Elizabeth discovered such disparity. In her mind, she clearly saw how the majority of people were the most impoverished she had ever seen. Even so, she was immediately escorted to what seemed to be no less than a palatial estate high atop ocean cliffs, where the periodic raging surf escarped the hill supporting the east face of her new home.

   A noise suddenly jolted her back to the present when she heard the shutting of the entrance door to her hideaway, soon followed by a gentle tap at her bathroom entrance. She slid her bath curtain in front of her and asked who was invading her space. Listening closely, she heard, “Miss Elizabeth? Is that you?” It was the familiar, comforting voice of her loyal friend Jean Pierre. A relief immediately came over her, in addition to a few tears of joy and hope.

  After confirming her identity and asking Jean Pierre to wait in the sitting area, she hurriedly prepared to meet her confidant and maker of the most saporous French bread she had ever known. Why he remained her gardener when he could easily become the local bakery legend she would have to ask some time—but the time was not now. She carefully ensured that she was presentable, complete with the comfortable and stylish new wardrobe she chose from what Jean Pierre had kept at the ready.

   As she opened the door to see her lifelong friend, she saw him spin around slowly and gaze at her in a caring and loving fashion—cocking his head in a bit of bewilderment. Their eye-to-eye contact and the smile that each carried confirmed their continued camaraderie. He may have been the gardener, but to Elizabeth, her upbringing around him proved to be much, much more and the next few moments would prove his willingness to go beyond the gossip and meanness people can dish-out about her.

  Even as the elderly gentleman before her gestured to have a seat so he could fill her in on the latest happenings of the estate, his gentle face with withered creases were like seeing the sound of her favorite allegro on a warm, spring day. It made her relax all the more.

   However, before either of them could speak their first words, from the room above, they could hear the faint rustling of footsteps—multiple footsteps across what Elizabeth remembered to be the private office of her husband. Their eyes met and Jean Pierre showed a sad countenance as he slowly nodded his head up and down, just as they both heard laughs and giggles of not one, but two additional female voices. Was he really the hedonist people would sometimes whisper about as they walked by on Sunday mornings? Jean Pierre continued his nodding while closing his eyes, as if reading Elizabeth’s thoughts…. --Joseph Marlin

A musical composition or musical passage that is played quickly in a brisk lively manner. --Lupita Rodriguez

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

  ”Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet!” shouted the townspeople. “Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure; she is an important part of her church’s synod,” added another angry protester. Although Elizabeth Daugherty was always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it was always appropriate. She was eternally jocund as she tried her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as being her church’s beadle during all parish functions—and, she was never a harpy with anyone during such times. Even the need for a reprimand was doubtful; besides, no one had presented any proof that she had fomented the uprising against the church leadership.

  At the same time, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, a visitor to the next door prisoner surreptitiously threw her a gimlet, with which she immediately worked her way from the leather straps confining her to the room. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

  Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined because of her imprisonment; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

  Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

  With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth searched and finally remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance should be. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home—a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

  Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within, taking her key with her. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did and prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion, for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

  Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand what was happening, she felt compelled to search the recollections of her life that led up to the present. She finally decided that her time spent in Japan, starting in 1952, would be a good place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

  That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It didn’t take much to convince him. It was during that journey that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever.

  At first, she just saw it as another word to memorize in what she felt to be a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans were promoting improvement amongst practices and procedures of Japanese businesses, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work methods.

  Although Elizabeth started her life up to that time in Japan as a rather bumptious child, she soon learned grace and humility through her days spent with the local people. Within months of her expected short stay, the language began to flow and she fell in love with the charm and genuine kindness of the people. The strange new food there even started to be a delight to the palate. She began to enjoy herself like never before. It would soften the recent death of her mother—lost to a plague-like illness only months before. The country became a source of much-needed nurture.

  Young Elizabeth had a precocious nature and started playing the piano at the age of three. Her parents had hired teacher after teacher to work with her, but she amazingly out-played them all. Eventually, her Grieg and other concertos, along with numerous self-written étude pieces for practicing her own techniques, prompted her parents to elicit the guidance of a master pianist of the day to help develop their daughter’s mystifying gift. This gift provided a means to entertain her father, as well as her many new-found friends in her adopted land.

  She also developed a profound interest and talent in Japanese orthography and calligraphy. Elizabeth even became well-known amongst the finer writers of Japan. Her hiragana (writing with words of Japanese origin), katakana (writing with words of foreign origin) approached near-native proficiency within her first year in the country. Her kanji calligraphy (writing with Chinese characters) approached such an artistic level that her father was “asked” to entertain guests on her behalf by dignitaries she did not even know. Again, it afforded her father and her lifelong friends and contacts; it resulted in an unexpected epiphany.

  As Elizabeth brought her mind back to the present, she once again felt puzzled about the imbroglio she found herself in. Why couldn’t she return to her former simple life, where she tended to the affairs of the needy and the church? Was this just a bad dream? As she stared blankly across her basement safe haven, she tried to continue thinking of the past, but was inclined to begin action towards freeing herself and her name.

 n She was thankful that Jean Pierre faithfully had kept her secret hideaway so clean—even after all these years! Through the local seamstress she always used, he even managed to keep up with her clothing sizes and kept her dresser stocked with an array of clothing that fit her perfectly—even in styling. Getting cleaned-up was actually her next priority, as soon as she partook of what she became fond of during her years in Japan—a stout glass of alegar.

  After selecting fresh, clean clothes to replace what had become the rags she was wearing, Elizabeth stepped into the bath; she was thankful for the new boilers just installed in her home (at least she hoped it was still her home—left to her by her great grandfather). During her soothing soak, she again began pondering her earlier days in Japan; days when each person there was a venerator of the next. She had to re-train her Western mentality and learn to revere other people and put their interests before her own. Without a doubt, her life changed for the better; she began to love and appreciate this most provocative way of living.

  From the first day she arrived in the port of Yokohama—one of the country’s cities bypassed from bombing during WWII because of important cultural landmarks the Americans wanted to save—Elizabeth discovered such disparity. In her mind, she clearly saw how the majority of people were the most impoverished she had ever seen. Even so, she was immediately escorted to what seemed to be no less than a palatial estate high atop ocean cliffs, where the periodic raging surf escarped the hill supporting the east face of her new home.

  A noise suddenly jolted her back to the present when she heard the shutting of the entrance door to her hideaway, soon followed by a gentle tap at her bathroom entrance. She slid her bath curtain in front of her and asked who was invading her space. Listening closely, she heard, “Miss Elizabeth? Is that you?” It was the familiar, comforting voice of her loyal friend Jean Pierre. A relief immediately came over her, in addition to a few tears of joy and hope.

  After confirming her identity and asking Jean Pierre to wait in the sitting area, she hurriedly prepared to meet her confidant and maker of the most saporous French bread she had ever known. Why he remained her gardener when he could easily become the local bakery legend she would have to ask some time—but the time was not now. --Joseph Marlin

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod. Although Elizabeth Daugherty is always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it is always appropriate. She is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

  However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined because of he imprisonment; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

  Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

  With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth finally remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance was located. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home; a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

  Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did; she prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

  Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand what was happening, she felt compelled to search the recollections of her life that led up to the present. She finally decided that her time spent in Japan, starting in 1952, would be a good place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

  That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It didn’t take much to convince him.

It was during that journey that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever.

At first, she just saw it as another word to memorize in what she felt to be a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans were promoting improvement amongst practices and procedures of Japanese businesses, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work methods.

  Although Elizabeth started her life up to that time in Japan as a rather bumptious child, she soon learned grace and humility through her days spent with the local people. Within months of her expected short stay, the language began to flow and she fell in love with the charm and genuine kindness of the people. The strange new food there even started to be a delight to the palate. She began to enjoy herself like never before. It would soften the recent death of her mother—lost to a plague-like illness only months before. The country became a source of much-needed nurture.

  Young Elizabeth had a precocious nature and started playing the piano at the age of three. Her parents had hired teacher after teacher to work with her, but she amazingly out-played them all. Eventually, her Grieg and other concertos, along with numerous self-written étude pieces for practicing her own techniques, prompted her parents to elicit the guidance of a master pianist of the day to help develop their daughter’s mystifying gift. This gift provided a means to entertain her father, as well as her many new-found friends in her adopted land.

S  he also developed a profound interest and talent in Japanese orthography and calligraphy. Elizabeth even became well-known amongst the finer writers of Japan. Her hiragana (writing with words of Japanese origin), katakana (writing with words of foreign origin) approached near-native proficiency within her first year in the country. Her kanji calligraphy (writing with Chinese characters) approached such an artistic level that her father was “asked” to entertain guests on her behalf by dignitaries she did not even know. Again, it made for lifelong friends and contacts; all-in-all, it was a great adventure!

  As Elizabeth brought her mind back to the present, she once again felt puzzled about the imbroglio she found herself in. Why couldn’t she return to her former simple life, where she tended to the affairs of the needy and the church? Was this just a bad dream? As she stared blankly across her basement safe haven, she tried to continue thinking of the past, but was inclined to begin action towards freeing herself and her name.

  She was thankful that Jean Pierre faithfully had kept her secret hideaway so clean—even after all these years! Through the local seamstress she always used, he even managed to keep up with her clothing sizes and kept her dresser stocked with an array of clothing that fit her perfectly—even in styling. Getting cleaned-up was actually her next priority, as soon as she partook of what she became fond of during her years in Japan—a stout glass of alegar.

  After selecting fresh, clean clothes to replace what had become the rags she was wearing, Elizabeth stepped into the bath; she was thankful for the new boilers just installed in her home (at least she hoped it was still her home—left to her by her great grandfather). During her soothing soak, she again began pondering her earlier days in Japan; days when each person there was a venerator of the next. She had to re-train her Western mentality and always revere other people and put their interests before her own. Without a doubt, her life changed for the better; she began to love and appreciate this most provocative way of living.

From the first day she arrived in the port of Yokohama—one of the country’s cities that was spared from bombing during WWII due to important cultural landmarks the Americans wanted to spare—Elizabeth discovered such disparity. In her mind, she clearly saw how the majority of people appeared to be as impoverished as she had ever seen, but she was immediately escorted to what seemed no less than a palatial estate high atop ocean cliffs, where the periodic raging surf escarped the hill supporting the east face of her new home.

  She was suddenly brought back to the present, when she heard the shutting of her secret door entrance, followed by a gentle tap at her bathroom door. --Joseph Marlin

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

  Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod. Although Elizabeth Daugherty is always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it is always appropriate. She is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

  However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

  Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined because of he imprisonment; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

  Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

  With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth finally remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance was located. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home; a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

  Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did; she prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

  Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand what was happening, she felt compelled to search the recollections of her life that led up to the present. She finally decided that her time spent in Japan, starting in 1952, would be a good place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

  That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It didn’t take much to convince him.

It was during that journey that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever.

  At first, she just saw it as another word to memorize in what she felt to be a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans were promoting improvement amongst practices and procedures of Japanese businesses, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work methods.

  Although Elizabeth started her life up to that time in Japan as a rather bumptious child, she soon learned grace and humility through her days spent with the local people. Within months of her expected short stay, the language began to flow and she fell in love with the charm and genuine kindness of the people. The strange new food there even started to be a delight to the palate. She began to enjoy herself like never before. It would soften the recent death of her mother—lost to a plague-like illness only months before. The country became a source of much-needed nurture.

  Young Elizabeth had a precocious nature and started playing the piano at the age of three. Her parents had hired teacher after teacher to work with her, but she amazingly out-played them all. Eventually, her Grieg and other concertos, along with numerous self-written étude pieces for practicing her own techniques, prompted her parents to elicit the guidance of a master pianist of the day to help develop their daughter’s mystifying gift. This gift provided a means to entertain her father, as well as her many new-found friends in her adopted land.

  She also developed a profound interest and talent in Japanese orthography and calligraphy. Elizabeth even became well-known amongst the finer writers of Japan. Her hiragana (writing with words of Japanese origin), katakana (writing with words of foreign origin) approached near-native proficiency within her first year in the country. Her kanji calligraphy (writing with Chinese characters) approached such an artistic level that her father was “asked” to entertain guests on her behalf by dignitaries she did not even know. Again, it made for lifelong friends and contacts; all-in-all, it was a great adventure!

  As Elizabeth brought her mind back to the present, she once again felt puzzled about the imbroglio she found herself in. Why couldn’t she return to her former simple life, where she tended to the affairs of the needy and the church? Was this just a bad dream? As she stared blankly across her basement safe haven, she tried to continue thinking of the past, but was inclined to begin action towards freeing herself and her name.

  She was thankful that Jean Pierre faithfully had kept her secret hideaway so clean—even after all these years! Through the local seamstress she always used, he even managed to keep up with her clothing sizes and kept her dresser stocked with an array of clothing that fit her perfectly—even in styling. Getting cleaned-up was actually her next priority, as soon as she partook of what she became fond of during her years in Japan—a stout glass of alegar.

  After selecting fresh, clean clothes to replace what had become the rags she was wearing, Elizabeth stepped into the bath; she was thankful for the new boilers just installed in her home (at least she hoped it was still her home—left to her by her great grandfather). During her soothing soak, she again began pondering her earlier days in Japan; days when each person there was a venerator of the next. She had to re-train her Western mentality and always revere other people and put their interests before her own. Without a doubt, her life changed for the better; she began to love and appreciate this most provocative way of living. --Joseph Marlin

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

  Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod. Although Elizabeth Daugherty is always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it is always appropriate. She is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

  However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

  Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined because of he imprisonment; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

  Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

  With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth finally remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance was located. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home; a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

  Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did; she prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

  Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand what was happening, she felt compelled to search the recollections of her life that led up to the present. She finally decided that her time spent in Japan, starting in 1952, would be a good place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

  That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It didn’t take much to convince him. It was during that journey that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever. At first, she just saw it as another word to memorize in what she felt to be a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans were promoting improvement amongst practices and procedures of Japanese businesses, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work methods.

  Although Elizabeth started her life up to that time in Japan as a rather bumptious child, she soon learned grace and humility through her days spent with the local people. Within months of her expected short stay, the language began to flow and she fell in love with the charm and genuine kindness of the people. The strange new food there even started to be a delight to the palate. She began to enjoy herself like never before. It would soften the recent death of her mother—lost to a plague-like illness only months before. The country became a source of much-needed nurture.

  Young Elizabeth had a precocious nature and started playing the piano at the age of three. Her parents had hired teacher after teacher to work with her, but she amazingly out-played them all. Eventually, her Grieg and other concertos, along with numerous self-written étude pieces for practicing her own techniques, prompted her parents to elicit the guidance of a master pianist of the day to help develop their daughter’s mystifying gift. This gift provided a means to entertain her father, as well as her many new-found friends in her adopted land.

  She also developed a profound interest and talent in Japanese orthography and calligraphy. Elizabeth even became well-known amongst the finer writers of Japan. Her hiragana (writing with words of Japanese origin), katakana (writing with words of foreign origin) approached near-native proficiency within her first year in the country. Her kanji calligraphy (writing with Chinese characters) approached such an artistic level that her father was “asked” to entertain guests on her behalf by dignitaries she did not even know. Again, it made for lifelong friends and contacts; all-in-all, it was a great adventure!

  As Elizabeth brought her mind back to the present, she once again felt puzzled about the imbroglio she found herself in. Why couldn’t she return to her former simple life, where she tended to the affairs of the needy and the church? Was this just a bad dream? As she stared blankly across her basement safe haven, she tried to continue thinking of the past, but was inclined to begin action towards freeing herself and her name.

  She was thankful that Jean Pierre faithfully had kept her secret hideaway so clean—even after all these years! Through the local seamstress she always used, he even managed to keep up with her clothing sizes and kept her dresser stocked with an array of clothing that fit her perfectly—even in styling. Getting cleaned-up was actually her next priority, as soon as she partook of what she became fond of during her years in Japan—a stout glass of alegar. --Joseph Marlin

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

  Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod. Although Elizabeth Daugherty is always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it is always appropriate. She is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

  Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined because of he imprisonment; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

  Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

  With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth finally remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance was located. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home; a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

  Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did; she prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

  Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand what was happening, she felt compelled to search the recollections of her life that led up to the present. She finally decided that her time spent in Japan, starting in 1952, would be a good place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

  That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It didn’t take much to convince him.

  It was during that journey that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever.

At first, she just saw it as another word to memorize in what she felt to be a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans were promoting improvement amongst practices and procedures of Japanese businesses, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work methods.

  Although Elizabeth started her life up to that time in Japan as a rather bumptious child, she soon learned grace and humility through her days spent with the local people. Within months of her expected short stay, the language began to flow and she fell in love with the charm and genuine kindness of the people. The strange new food there even started to be a delight to the palate. She began to enjoy herself like never before. It would soften the recent death of her mother—lost to a plague-like illness only months before. The country became a source of much-needed nurture.

  Young Elizabeth had a precocious nature and started playing the piano at the age of three. Her parents had hired teacher after teacher to work with her, but she amazingly out-played them all. Eventually, her Grieg and other concertos, along with numerous self-written étude pieces for practicing her own techniques, prompted her parents to elicit the guidance of a master pianist of the day to help develop their daughter’s mystifying gift. This gift provided a means to entertain her father, as well as her many new-found friends in her adopted land.

  She also developed a profound interest and talent in Japanese orthography and calligraphy. Elizabeth even became well-known amongst the finer writers of Japan. Her hiragana (writing with words of Japanese origin), katakana (writing with words of foreign origin) approached near-native proficiency within her first year in the country. Her kanji calligraphy (writing with Chinese characters) approached such an artistic level that her father was “asked” to entertain guests on her behalf by dignitaries she did not even know. Again, it made for lifelong friends and contacts; all-in-all, it was a great adventure!

  As Elizabeth brought her mind back to the present, she once again felt puzzled about the imbroglio she found herself in. Why couldn’t she return to her former simple life, where she tended to the affairs of the needy and the church? Was this just a bad dream? As she stared blankly across her basement safe haven, she tried to continue thinking of the past, but was inclined to begin action towards freeing herself and her name. --Joseph A. Marlin

When I worked with John Benson Farms, Inc., I was expected to revise and correct its orthography before a letter or memo was sent out. --Inez Rubalcava-Fajardo

I like this one! My mother used this word a lot when she would correct our writing, spelling and correct use of language. It’s the art of writing words with the proper use of letters according to your particular language. --Lupita Rodriguez

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

   Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod. Although Elizabeth Daugherty is always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it is always appropriate. She is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

   However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

   Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined because of he imprisonment; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

   Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

   With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth finally remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance was located. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home; a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

   Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did; she prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

   Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand what was happening, she felt compelled to search the recollections of her life that led up to the present. She finally decided that her time spent in Japan, starting in 1952, would be a good place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

   That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It didn’t take much to convince him.

   It was during that journey that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever.

At first, she just saw it as another word to memorize in what she felt to be a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans were promoting improvement amongst practices and procedures of Japanese businesses, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work methods.

   Although Elizabeth started her life up to that time in Japan as a rather bumptious child, she soon learned grace and humility through her days spent with the local people. Within months of her expected short stay, the language began to flow and she fell in love with the charm and genuine kindness of the people. The strange new food there even started to be a delight to the palate. She began to enjoy herself like never before. It would soften the recent death of her mother—lost to a plague-like illness only months before. The country became a source of much-needed nurture.

   Young Elizabeth had a precocious nature and started playing the piano at the age of three. Her parents had hired teacher after teacher to work with her, but she amazingly out-played them all. Eventually, her Grieg and other concertos, along with numerous self-written étude pieces for practicing her own techniques, prompted her parents to elicit the guidance of a master pianist of the day to help develop their daughter’s mystifying gift. --Joseph A. Marlin

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

   Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod. Although Elizabeth Daugherty is always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it is always appropriate. She is  quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

   However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

   Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined in this ordeal; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

   Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

   With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance was located. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home; a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

   Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did; she prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

   Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand the present, she felt compelled to search the happenings of her life that led up to the present. At last, she decided that her time spent in Japan in 1952 would be a good starting place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

   That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It was during that journey that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever. At first, she just saw it as another word to memorize words and phrases in what she felt as a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans were promoting improvement amongst practices and procedures of Japanese businesses, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work method.

   Although Elizabeth started her life up to that time in Japan as a rather bumptious child, she soon learned grace and humility through her days spent with the local people. Within months of her expected short stay, the language began to flow and she fell in love with the charm and genuine kindness of the people. The strange new food there even started to be a delight to the palate. She began to enjoy herself life never before.--Joseph A. Marlin

12/3/2012

Kaizen

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

   Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod. Although Elizabeth Daugherty is always bedecked in the finest looking attire, it is always appropriate. She is  quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

   However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

   Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined in this ordeal; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

   Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

   With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance was located. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would need such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home; a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status.

   Elizabeth gently closed the entrance door behind her and locked it from within. Before going beyond her small, private sanctuary within her more than ample abode a few feet above her head, Elizabeth did what she always did; she prayed. It was difficult for some people to conceive that Elizabeth Daugherty was even remotely spiritual. But, those who worked alongside her and even those who took the time to observe her interaction with others knew that she was a giver of herself—her time; her heart; her compassion for anyone of any status. Her outward appearance spoke opulence, but little did most people know that she made most of her apparel out of scraps from the town seamstress.

   Back she went through the mental annals of her life events. To understand the present, she felt compelled to search the happenings of her life that led up to the present. At last, she decided that her time spent in Japan in 1952 would be a good starting place for examining life’s people, places and events. She was determined to learn exactly how she came to be in her current predicament.

   That was a time not long after a devastating war defeat for the Japanese people. Elizabeth was but a child of ten years who had begged her father to allow her to accompany him during his textile business trip. It was during that voyage that she learned of a new business philosophy called Kaizen, which would change her life forever. Although at first, she just saw it as another word to memorize in what she saw as a strange, new language. Kaizen—like all of the Japanese language—went deep into the culture. Even though the Americans, who were promoting improvement amongst business practices, little did those gaijin (foreigners) know that the term would take-on a depth of meaning far beyond simply improving work methods.--Joseph A. Marlin

11/26/2012

Vicissitudes

I am trying to make the best of these holidays, even through all the vicissitudes of these past months. --Inez Rubalcava-Fajardo

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

   Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod; is always bedecked in the finest, appropriate attire; is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

   However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

   Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined in this ordeal; this would be one of the first things to take care of.

   Even in her perplexed and befogged state of mind, upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener, Jean Pierre Montineau.

   With Jean Pierre nowhere to be seen, Elizabeth remembered the hidden place where the key to her as-of-then unneeded entrance was located. Would it still be there after all these years? How could she have known that someday she would be needing such an entrance to her own home? The key was right where she had placed it when she was still a blushing bride of tender years. She had no idea that life’s vicissitudes would play such havoc and bring heartaches untold. The small door noisily swung open and provided her safe passage into what would become her home away from home; a place where she would possibly take-on an unwelcomed guest status. --Joseph A. Marlin

11/19/2012

Elucidate

“Fill up the jails,” was one the finest and bravest ideas ever put forward by the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I was three years old when he said that, and my parents were already deeply committed to the ideals that Dr. King elucidated. --La Prensa San Diego, November 16, 2012, ¿Llenaremos Las Carceles de Arizona?,  By Adam Gettinger-Brizuela MA, CATC-IV, --submitted by Juan Campos

The purpose of Word of the Week is to elucidate the meaning of these unknown words and apply them to any daily situation --Lupe Garcia

11/12/2012

Pragmatic

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

   Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod; is always bedecked in the finest, appropriate attire; is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

   However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

   Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. “Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this.” Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined in this ordeal. This would be one of the first things she would take care of—in spite of her befogged state of mind.

   Upon reaching her abode, Elizabeth chose to be pragmatic in her approach. She wanted to trust her husband of twenty-seven years and to have him help her elucidate the events of the recent past. However, her survival instinct (along with her desire to bathe and dress in the clothes she knew would make her feel better) was strong enough that she felt she must play the sleuth and enter through a secret entrance known only by her and her most trusted gardener. --Joseph A. Marlin

 

Pragmatic My father was pragmatic He got down and to the point A merchant he was Knew the ins and outs Of this and that And how to use The words and actions To make his point be heard And come across At time crassly At times with laughter “Que bonito, si, que bonito” Were the words of consumers Which my father called “Pain in the behinds”

They looked and touched Saying… “Que bonito” They were not pragmatic But problematic Especially when touching The white garments They had no intentions Of purchasing nothing But went beyond The window shoppers By coming in his shops Saying: “Que bonito” With no intentions Of purchasing anything He said it well

The ‘Que Bonitos’ Waltz to their beat Moving and moving With their hands and feet Waltzing right on in Singing their lyrics Throughout the shop: “Hay, que bonito, si verdad, que bonito” And waltzing right out Pragmatically my father would ask “Quieres comprar, porque esta bonito” A smile he would get With a stalled remark And an exit as the curtains went down By Mark Grijalva Peres

11/5/2012

Befog

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

   Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod; is always bedecked in the finest, appropriate attire; is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

   However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

   Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this. Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined in this ordeal. This would be one of the first things to take care of—even though she was completely befogged by everything that had just transpired. Right now, getting home was priority one… --Joseph A. Marlin

10/29/2012

Troth

The Perils of Elizabeth Daugherty

   Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod; is always bedecked in the finest, appropriate attire; is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

   However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night—beyond the dozing presence of her captors.

   Thoughts rushed through Elizabeth’s mind as she deftly worked her way out and beyond her momentary imprisoned life. Where is the man she trothed herself to? Surely, he had nothing to do with this. Coming out of her inward analysis of the occasion, she couldn’t believe how her fine clothes had been ruined in this ordeal. This would be one of the first things she would take care of…. --Joseph A. Marlin

10/22/2012

Beadle

   Don’t hang that woman on this rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod; is always bedecked in the finest, appropriate attire; is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor—including performing such menial tasks as our beadle during all parish functions—and, she has never been a harpy with anyone during those times. A reprimand is the most she deserves, but doubtfully even that! Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership?

   However, Mrs. Daugherty could wait no longer down in the musty dungeon of the ecclesiastical edifice. Without the guards’ awareness, she somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night, beyond the dozing presence of her captors. --Joseph A. Marlin

10/15/2012

Gimlet

Gimlet has a double meaning: 1) Small t-shaped tool with a screw-tip for boring holes. 2) A cocktail of gin (or sometimes vodka) and lime juice. --Mary Cavazos

   Don’t hang that woman on your splintery old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod; is always bedecked in the finest attire; is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor and is never a harpy with anyone. Besides, where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership? A reprimand is the most she deserves, and a proper trial would be even better! 

   However, without anyone’s awareness, Mrs. Daugherty had somehow acquired a gimlet and slowly worked her way from the leather straps securely binding her. Once loose, she used her newfound tool to work her way through the crude wooden-framed door of the cell and slipped quietly into the night. --Joseph A. Marlin

10/8/2012

Foment

Don’t hang that woman on your splintery old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod; is always bedecked in the finest attire; is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor, and is never a harpy with anyone. Where is your proof that she fomented an uprising against the church leadership? A reprimand is the most she deserves, and a proper trial would be even better! --Joseph A. Marlin

10/1/2012 

Bedeck

Don’t hang that woman on that rustic old gibbet! Her actions don’t deserve such a drastic measure. She is an important part of her church’s synod; is always bedecked in the finest attire; is quite jocund as she tries her best in every endeavor, and is never a harpy with anyone. A reprimand is the most she deserves! --Joseph A. Marlin

9/24/2012

Harpy

Her harpy nature had earned her the nickname "Old Battle-Ax" amongst the synod. A more jocund member even went as far as to dangle an old ax from a makeshift gibbet in the courtyard. Needless to say, she was not amused. --Gabriel Aguirre

Don’t gibbet that woman! I’ll admit that she is a harpy at times but she is always jocund in her actions. She is a deacon’s wife; let their church’s synod decide her fate. --Joseph A. Marlin

9/17/2012

Gibbet

Don’t gibbet that man on that rustic old gibbet, he was an important part of his church’s synod and quite a jocund fellow! --Joseph A. Marlin

9/10/2012

Synod

He is an important part of his church’s synod and quite a jocund fellow! --Joseph A. Marlin

9/4/2012

Jocund

He is quite a jocund fellow! --Joseph A. Marlin