These are the lies I told you.

I'll have to lie. I'll have to lie, even though I know you won't believe me. You'll love that, won't you? Knowing he hasn't stuck by me. If he had stuck by, then I wouldn't have had to call you. Call you to come collect me, as I stand in the parking lot, bundled up but not enough to keep out the chill of California winter winds. I didn't want to call you, but the nurses insisted. There was no way to treat me at the health center. There was too much blood. I would need to get to a hospital right away. There was too much blood, and they wouldn't let me drive myself. That's why I had to call you. That's why I have to lie.

I dread your arrival. Waiting that 40 minutes as you make the same drive I made this morning from our palatious, hellacious house on the hill to this institute of higher learning. I thought going away to college would free me from your grip. But it hasn't. Instead, you only cling tighter. Invade my privacy more tenaciously. I can't lie about the bleeding, but I'm going to lie with all that's within me and say, ad nauseum if I have to, that he loves me and that he's sticking by me. That's what I'm going to say and that's what I'm going to believe, no matter with how much disdain you look at me, no matter how you humiliate me, no matter how you take my story apart to demean me. I'm going to lie.

These are the things I've saved.

Mission Santa Barbara
Santa Barbara, California
December 20, 2003

• Every e-mail and every chat (filling 17 1-inch notebooks)
• Every e-card
• Photographs
• Postcards
• Letters
• Airline ticket stubs
• Tickets from tourist sites in Egypt and California
• A leather camel from Aswan
• A brass camel from Ma'adi
• A bone camel from Sherm el Sheik
• A clay camel from Sharm el Sheik
• A yellow beach towel from Dahab
• A brass pyramid paperweight from the Cairo Museum
• An "evil eye" protector to be hung from the car rearview mirror, from a vendor in front of the El-Mursi Abul Abbas mosque in Alexandria
• A carved wooden box from a vendor in front of Fort Qaitbay in Alexandria
• A home blessing from the Quran printed on papyrus in Arabic, from the street vendors outside the Cairo Museum
• A statue of Bastet, the ancient Egyptian cat god, from the Cairo Museum
• A set of black alabaster Canoptic jars from Sharm el Sheik, with the heads of the four sons of Horus:

• Duamutef, the jackal-headed god representing the east, whose jar contained the stomach and was protected by the goddess Neith
• Hapi, the baboon-headed god representing the north, whose jar contained the lungs and was protected by the goddess Nephthys
• Imseti, the human-headed god representing the south, whose jar contained the liver and was protected by the goddess Isis
• Qebehsenuef, the falcon-headed god representing the west, whose jar contained the intestines and was protected by the goddess Selket

• A cream-colored plate with an ancient Egyptian couple -- I don't remember where we bought it
• A blue and gold-colored plate with the same ancient Egyptian couple -- larger and more elaborate than the cream-colored plate, from Sharm el Sheik
• My 18k gold wedding band
• My half of our Mizpah coin (his daughter currently wears the other half)
• Several perfume bottles purchased in Khan el-Khalili in Cairo
• Several pairs of 18k gold earrings from jewelry stores in Cairo
• An 18k gold pendant with the word "Alhamdulellah" (praise God) written in Arabic, purchased at a jewelry store near Khan el-Khalili in Cairo
• A hand-sewn "camel parade" tapestry, purchased in Aswan
• Several "hijabs" purchased in Cairo
• Arabic music CDs: Hakim, Amr Diab . . .
• The orange cap he's wearing in the above picture, and the pink one I'd bought for myself, from Catalina Island, 26 miles off the coast of Southern California
• A black leather jacket from Cairo
• A white leather jacket from Cairo
• A rock from the Valley of the Kings
• A rock from the Valley of the Queens
• A metal toy Mini Cooper -- blue with a white top
• Several Naguib Mafouz books, translated into English
• The Arabic vocabulary he taught me
• The sound of his voice; his Arabic accent when speaking English
• Voice mails of his final messages to me
• The things he taught me about Egyptian culture and Islam
• A lifetime of memories
• My broken heart and my tears
• His love that continues to surround me, even since his death on January 6/7, 2008

Write about hair.

1960 (four years old)

This photo appeared in the local newspaper;

the photographer chose me over all the other children.

Here's a poem I wrote in December 2009. It came to me suddenly, pretty much the way it's posted here:

GOD GAVE ME CURLS

God gave me curls.

Soft, auburn-blonde curls.

Curls that frame a child's face

Like a Florentino cherub.

When I was little

I looked like Shirley Temple --

chubby, bright-eyed, becurled.

While restrained by a glove-covered hand

a smiling stranger approached,

stopped us on the street,

and squatted down to look into my eyes.

"Do you know," he said,

with a delightful smile,

"that you look just like Shirley Temple?"

I beamed.

As we walked away from the stranger,

the gloved hand tightened

around my small fingers

and yanked my arm

demanding my attention.

I turned my face up,

blinked into the bright sunlight,

and sought out the familiar,

angry, cow-brown eyes,

and stern, twisted face.

"Don't believe everything a stranger tells you,"

the mommy with the gloved hand snarled.

We drove to Buffums

in a 1956 pink Cadillac

with white leather seats

and a wooden steering wheel.

An appointment had been made

to cut my hair.

My "unruly" curls were shorn.

They slid down the plastic smock,

wet, blonde, perfect little circles,

and fell defeated to the linoleum floor,

gathered in piles

around the hydraulic chair,

were swept away

and dumped into the silver canister

with a foot pedal.

I felt so ugly.

Teased at school.

Teased at Sunday school.

Teased at summer camp

where they nicknamed me "rat's nest"

because of my unruly, curly hair.

In 10th grade

I defied the hand

that often reached out

to slap me across my face,

and refused the trip to Buffums

in the pink Cadillac.

The pressure was on

to look like Farrah Fawcett --

that bitch!!!

I hate her

and I hate that

fucking bathing suit photo

with her nipples protruding

and her blond mane --

straight, sexy,

and draped around her shoulders

like a Queen's coronation robe!

If life was hell before Farrah Fawcett,

it became hell times ten.

God did not give me

Farrah Fawcett hair

and bouncy surfer bangs.

God gave me curls.

I fought against God.

I learned to straighten my hair

with six jumbo-sized, four-inch pink rollers

and four large-sized, two-inch purple rollers

held in place with monstrous pins

that tore at my scalp

and made my head ache;

then two hours under

a portable hairdryer

that cost me a fortune --

only to step out

into the damp,

Southern California ocean air,

and have my straightened tresses

frizz and curl

into a tangled mess.

Sometimes,

as punishment,

for a minute infraction,

the now age-spotted and wrinkled hand

took away my curlers

and refused to allow me to wash my hair.

In my 20's

I grew my hair past my waist.

My God-given curls fell

into perfectly-formed ringlets

that drew awe and envy

from friends and strangers.

Surfer bangs were passé.

I began to love my curls.

One day

the hand touched my curls

and the mother said to me,

"Your neck is not long enough

for you to have this much hair.

It doesn't look good on you.

Why don't you cut it?"

Now in my 50’s

I’m alone,

I’m tired.

My curls are dry

and frizzed

and falling out in clumps.

Life is stressful.

My curls are too tired

to curl.

Farrah Fawcett died this year.

Colon cancer.

She'd lost all her hair.

The hand is 92,

withered and bent with age.

We haven’t spoken in years.

Even so, when I look in the mirror,

when I wash, or brush,

or arrange my hair,

I remember her cruelty

as if it were yesterday --

that she loathed me,

that she loathed my hair

and that I have no idea why --

and I remember Farrah Fawcett,

and I sometimes wish

I, too,

were dead.


Update on my poem:

First, I was incorrect about the cancer that killed Farrah Fawcett. She died of anal cancer.

Ironically, on November 25, 2011, nearly two years after writing God Gave Me Curls, I was diagnosed with Stage III-A colon cancer. I did undergo chemotherapy, but I did not lose my hair -- the chemo for colon cancer differs from the chemo for breast cancer. In fact, my hair stayed healthy and even seemed to grow at a more rapid rate. During my chemo treatments, I did see other women who had lost their hair. I felt sooooo guilty when I went to the cancer center, my hair thick and long and pulled back into a braid. So I started to pull my hair up and hide it underneath a knitted hat (I was getting my treatments in February).

Eventually, I stopped going to the cancer center and switched from injections of 5-FU to oral Xeloda. I was glad to not longer have to go to the cancer center and have to hide hair.

Sometimes, when I told people I was on chemo for colon cancer, I saw their eyes dart immediately to my hair. Several times I had to explain that colon cancer patients usually do not lose their hair. Because of the all the media emphasis on breast cancer and the women who lose their hair during chemo, I felt I had been "cheated" out of my cancer experience. I mean, how can I really know about chemo of I was able to keep all my hair?

As of today, March 1, 2013, I am released from treatment and preparing to find employment (I have been off work since June 2012). My prognosis is good and I feel great!

My mother died in June 2012. She and I never made peace with each other in this life. However, several months after she died I had the epiphany that in death she was now accountable for her behavior towards me. I don't know if I have forgiven her, but I do feel justified / validated / vindicated. This has given me serenity and peace of mind.

Write about fireworks.

Dale and me, age 16

Anaheim, California

Summer 1972

It is the 4th of July. I am 12 or 13 years old. It is the late 1960's. I am in the San Bernardino mountains in Southern California, at a cabin in the community of Lake Gregory. I am there with my parents, my brother, Mr. and Mrs. Wright (who own the cabin), Mr. and Mrs. Carlson and their two children, Dale (my age) and Jeanine (my brother's age). My parents have been friends with the Carlsons since the mothers met in 1960, when Dale and I were in the same pre-school class in Sierra Madre, California. My parents and the Carlsons had a lot in common -- primarily that they were in their late 30's when all us kids were adopted.

We've been coming to the Wrights' cabin for years. Dale and Jeanine are like siblings to me. We've grown up together, spent hours playing together and getting into trouble together. My family now lives in Diamond Bar, and the Carlsons in Anaheim. We don't get to see each other as often as we did when we all lived in Sierra Madre, so when we get together we always have a lot fun.

Dale is only a few months older than I am, but he is much more worldly and mature. He has a passion for all things government, and loves to sit and talk politics with the adults. He can garner all their attention. They seem to respect his opinions. I do not understand the concepts of most of what Dale talks about, and I especially do not understand why politics are interesting to him. As Dale opines on matters political, I am bored and alone. Because Bruce and Jeanine are younger than I am, I do not want to play with them. They are in their own world. I wish Dale would just shut up and play with me.

This 4th of July is hot. The mountains smell of pine trees and sap. The air is crisp; the smog that would eventually kill many of the trees has not yet encroached this far up the mountain, as it would in the ensuing 20 years. The Wrights' cabin is surrounded by woods. Pine tree needles carpet the ground. The area is abundant with squirrels in search of the pine cone nuts.

Behind the cabin is a steep hill that leads down to a stream. We kids are agile at negotiating the embankment. Part of the stream is deep enough to get into -- not enough to swim, but enough to get good and wet. If we follow the stream, it leads to an apple orchard. We can walk through the orchard, but we know not to pick the apples.

This 4th of July Dale is different. Instead of being the playful buddy I'm accustomed to, he tells me he has started kissing girls. I'm embarrassed. I've never been kissed. The boys at school aren't interested in me that way. Mostly they ignore me, or they bully me and tell me I'm fat and ugly. 

Dale tells me about French kissing. Explains to me that the boy and girl stick their tongues in each other's mouths. I've never heard of such a thing! I'm disgusted. Dale says he wants to French kiss me. I've always thought of Dale as a brother. I've never imagined kissing him. I've imagined kissing Randy Urbauer and Tim Crocker since the fourth grade. Have practiced by pressing my closed lips against my pillow and moaning with passion, just like Doris Day and Howard Keel in my favorite movie, Calamity Jane.

As we walk down the stream and head to the apple orchard, Dale takes my hand. No one has ever held my hand before. He intertwines our fingers. His touch sends electricity through my body. The feelings frighten me. "Something" feels wrong, but it also feels exciting. But I am more motivated by fear than excitement, thinking about the beating I would most certainly receive from my strict parents were they to find out. I already know I won't be permitted to date until I'm 16. 

Each time Dale tries to kiss me, I pull away from him. We play cat and mouse for a while. I agree to the kiss, then, before his lips touch mine, I chicken out. At first Dale is gently persuasive. However, he eventually becomes frustrated with me and leaves to return to the cabin. I follow behind like a castigated puppy. Dale no longer has any interest in me. I am confused and upset.

Dale spends the rest of the day ignoring me. I cannot redeem myself to him. We eat our 4th of July feast -- BBQ'ed hamburgers and hot dogs, fried chicken, jello salad, potato salad, and strawberry shortcake for dessert -- all homemade -- it IS the 1960's! The highlight of the holiday will be a fireworks display over the lake. 

As Dale continues to ignore me, I feel my agitation increase. I am conflicted by my naïveté, my curiosity, the expectations of chastity already imposed on me by abusive parents, and the fear that I will never be reconciled to Dale. As I struggle with my options, I realize it will be dark by the time we go to the lake. In the dark, my sins can be hidden! I decide I will allow Dale to kiss me in the darkness.

As we pack up and head out to the lake in our respective cars, I am excited at my resolve. I anticipate my reconciliation with Dale, and am proud of myself for overcoming my fears. I'm ready to experience French kissing. I can still feel the sensation of his hand holding mine. This sensation and my anticipation make me light-headed and dizzy.

When we arrive at the lake we discover the road is jammed with cars. There is nowhere to park. As my father heads off in one direction to locate parking, I see the Carlsons' car turn down a different road. I feel myself panic. How will we be able to find each other in the darkness. I am furious with Mr. Carlson for not staying in the caravan.

Mr. and Mrs. Wright find us; we continued to look for the Carlsons -- to no avail. Finally, we walked to the lake, laid down our blankets in the sand and waited for the fireworks to began. I was thankful for the darkness; it hid the hot tears that streamed down my face. As fireworks exploded over Lake Gregory and the crowed oooooed and awed, I hated Dale for forcing French kissing upon me, and I hated the fates for cheating me out of my first kiss.

Close your eyes. Write about what you see.

Green Bay Botanical Gardens
July 13, 2012

This is a difficult writing topic for someone like me, who is kinesthetic/audio. I "saw"swirling images to match the racing thoughts that plague me. Scenes from different traumas flew past me, as though my closed eyes became a window like that of Dorothy's in The Wizard of Oz, as she was sucked up into the tornado's tunnel.

Eventually my mind settled on the Vivaldi piece playing in my iTunes. I always listen to Baroque music while I write. I played the violin from sixth grade through my senior year in high school, so when I hear orchestral music my mind sees the neck of the violin and fingers flying across the G-D-A-E strings. I see the bow, with white resin flying into the air when the notes hit a crescendo. 

I don't see the body or the face of the musician. I see the notes take shape and fly into the air. Sometimes the notes take animated form and fly into the air, as if their paying has released them from the violin. Other times the music evokes scenes of nature -- birds, butterflies, flowers, woods, oceans, mountains. If the music is particularly fast, I feel I am flying, the notes the "wind" beneath my wings. Sometimes I see ballerinas dancing -- they are one with the music and move in sync with each note. The images come randomly, can move back and forth from the animated notes to nature scenes to the ballerinas. Music has affected me this way my entire life. 

I remember the first time I became aware of music other than the classical music and Broadway tunes that emanated from the LPs played by my parents on their stereo console. It was the early 1960's. I was three or four years old. In my room was an old radio. It was probably from the 1940's. It was black with rounded corners. It had a clear plastic dial with a red line on it. Behind the plastic dial were cream-colored numbers. The dial turned to line up with a number, and the music came. There were two cream-colored knobs below the plastic dial. One knob turned the radio on and off. The other knob controlled the volume. The radio was small and fit on a shelf in the nightstand next to my bed.

One day I played with the radio and "discovered" music. I also learned that if I turned the plastic dial that the music changed. My parents had put the radio on a classical music station. I found a station that was playing rock and roll. I liked the fast rhythm of the music, and I turned up the volume. It wasn't long before my mother came into my bedroom. She was angry that I had played with the radio. She told me I could not listen to "that" music, and she turned it back to the classical music station.

I was a defiant child. The radio was in my room. I liked the music I had discovered. I decided I should be able to listen to the music. I moved the dial and found the rock and roll music. My mother quickly returned. This time she took the radio from my room. But I did not forget the music I'd discovered. I loved it.

Sunday was a special TV night in the early 1960's. As a family, we lined up on the sofa in the living room and watched The Wonderful World of Disney, then Lassie, then The Ed Sullivan Show -- all on a small 12-inch black and white television. The Ed Sullivan Show ran from 8:00 to 9:00 p.m. When the show ended, it was bedtime for me and my younger brother.

On Sunday, February 9, 1964, the Beatles appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHuRusAlw-Y). I was seven years old. There had been a lot of hype in the media about the event. My classmates had Beatles albums. I was not permitted to listen to Beatles' music because the Beatles all had "long hair." My parents also hated the "yeah, yeah, yeah" from She Loves You and the repetitiveness of I Wanna Hold Your Hand and would mimic the lyrics condescendingly. 

That night, February 9, 1964, as my younger brother and I waited with anticipation for The Ed Sullivan Show to began, my mother announced that we would not be permitted to watch the show and that we would be going to bed immediately. There was much protesting, tears and yelling. We were sent to our rooms, our doors were closed, as was the cavity door in the hallway that led to the living room.

I was determined to watch the Beatles. How could I go to school the next day and be the only student in my 2nd grade class who had not watched the Beatles on TV? Even my teacher had been excited! It would be the Monday morning buzz, and I would be excluded. I slowly cracked open my door and slipped into the hallway. There I discovered my like-minded brother. We snuck down the hallway as quietly as mice. We were able to crack the cavity door, which provided us with a direct shot of the television. We could see our parents sitting on the sofa watching the Beatles, and hear their snide remarks about the music and the appearance of the Beatles.

We took turns peering through the crack in the cavity door. I do not remember if we got caught watching the show, but I have a clear memory of my telescopic view of the Beatles making rock and roll history on The Ed Sullivan Show.

Write about a quilt or a blanket.

My first cable knit!! Woo hoo!!!

Since November, I have been working on a knitted afghan. The pattern for the afghan came from a class I signed up for at a local knitting store. I paid $100 for the class, which meets once a month for six months. The afghan has 12 squares, each knitted with a different stitch and pattern. We would learn two stitches each month.

I missed the first class because of a hernia surgery, so I went by the knitting store to pick up the materials that had been handed out. I'm pretty much a self-taught knitter, and have worked my way up to intermediate-level patterns. I opened the materials and could not make heads or tails of it. It was so confusing, I waiting until the next class so I could talk with the instructor.

I went to the second class. There were six students (including me) and one teacher. All of the other students are women much older than I am, as is the instructor. The class was held at a small table in a tiny area between the bathroom and the storage closet. There was almost no room for all of us. If one of the staff needed to get to the storage closet, or if someone needed to get to the bathroom, we all had to stand up (which was excruciatingly painful because of my recent surgery) and get out of her way. It was not an environment conducive to learning.

The area was freezing and I was so uncomfortable I couldn't concentrate.

The chairs were small plastic folding chairs, the ones found at outdoor weddings and picnics. I find these chairs wildly uncomfortable on my best day, that alone a couple of weeks out of hernia surgery. In short, I was in so much pain from sitting in that chair for two hours that I could hardly stand up when it was time to leave.

Finally, the instructor was a dingbat. She may be a good knitter, but she hasn't a clue on how to teach. To make it easier on herself, she went around the table and gave everyone individual instructions on each of the stitches. It took forever, especially since many of the students didn't even know how to knit and purl! Finally, I just listened in when the teacher worked with another student, followed along and figured the stitch out for myself -- I was tired of waiting for my turn!

There is probably another dozen things I can think of to complain about the class. But that's not the point of this prompt. However, it is because of this class that I have an afghan to write about.

Frustrated with the class, I determined that I would still have an afghan. But I would design it myself. So I went to the library and found some books with different stitches. Three of the books were so cool, that I bought my own copies on Amazon.com.

In designing my own afghan, I've had to learn how to count a pattern. It was pretty difficult, and I encountered some snafus, but now I'm pretty comfortable with this skill.

I've discovered there are a lot of different stitches, and that just plain old knits and purls can make some pretty intricate patterns!

I've purchased and learned that a row counter is invaluable.

I've taught myself some good strategies for the k4tog (knit four together) stitch -- that was a tricky one!

I've learned how to recover dropped stitches without tearing out the rest of the rows to do it.

I've learned how to read my stitches.

I've learned how to work a kick-ass cable!

I've completed 10 of the 12 squares. I'm in the process of blocking the squares I have completed to help me decide which stitches I should use on the last two squares.

I've already spent 20-30 hours each on the squares I have finished. That's a lot of frickin' time. While knitting I've exhausted all seasons available on Netflix for the following shows: Midsomer Murders, A Touch of Frost, Downtown Abbey, Disappeared, Solved, Doc Martin, The Last Detective, and most of The Vicar of Dibley and Reno 911; I'm currently half-way through Wire in the Blood. When I tire of British shows, I switch over to The X-Files and Law & Order and Law & Order: SVU. There have been some full-length movies peppered in. My favorite stared David Duchovny and it was called Goats. It's the kind of movie that's right up there with Raising Arizona and A Dog's Breakfast -- worthy of multiple watchings over one's lifetime.

Because of this project, I am no longer afraid of knitting patterns. I've learned that if I can't figure the stitch out from the pattern, I can find on U-tube someone teaching how to work it. Bless the people who put these instructional videos online!

I figure I've got another 100-120 hours or so left on this project -- the two more squares to design and knit, then blocking (I've blocked eight so far . . .), then I have to sew all the squares together. Then I plan to make a matching pillow. I'll choose my two favorite patterns from the afghan, and stitch them for either side of the pillow, then sew it together, then put tassels on the corners of the pillow (IF I have enough yarn left for tassels).

My favorite time to knit is when it's snowing outside. I open the blinds so I can watch the  snow falling. I'll make myself a hot chocolate and top it with whipped cream. I've got my animals next to me or sometimes in my lap. It's a very zen place to be -- with  wooden needles in hand, 100% natural fiber yarns (my favorite is alpaca, but I'm using Peruvian highland wool for my afghan), and intricate pattern, a good show on Netflix, and nothing to do but knit!

Blue -- the color or the emotion.

The view of the Mediterranean Sea from our villa

It is April 2002. It is my second trip to Egypt. I am reunited with my Egyptian husband, Azim. We haven't seen each other in nearly four months. We are on The Desert Road, heading to a villa at a resort on the Mediterranean Sea, about a hour east of Alexandria.

We'd left Cairo early that morning to drive the over 200 kilometers. We've had an enjoyable drive. Egyptian music is playing on the radio -- a mix of the classics -- Um Kalthum and Faurouz -- and the modern -- Hisham Abbas and Hakim. We'd stopped on the way to have lunch at a zoo. We had kofta (my favorite Egyptian food) and bread baked fresh in a stone oven.

Our villa on the Mediterranean Sea
(we were bottom right)

We've seen nothing but sand for an hour. Everything is flat. Sometimes we pass military vehicles filled in young soldiers. The soldiers are standing in the back of stakebed trucks, holding onto wooden rails. The soldiers have rifles slung around their bodies. Azim tells me it is mandatory for all young men that they serve in the Egyptian Army for two to three years. Most of the men are from poor families, with only a high school education. He tells me they are not trained well on how to use the weapons, and that military life is like a prison sentence. He tells me happily that his son, Khaled, will never have to serve in the Army because he is the only son and therefore is exempted.

We've seen nothing but sand for an hour. Everything is flat. Sometimes we pass military vehicles filled in young soldiers. The soldiers are standing in the back of stakebed trucks, holding onto wooden rails. The soldiers have rifles slung around their bodies. Azim tells me it is mandatory for all young men that they serve in the Egyptian Army for two to three years. Most of the men are from poor families, with only a high school education. He tells me they are not trained well on how to use the weapons, and that military life is like a prison sentence. He tells me happily that his son, Khaled, will never have to serve in the Army because he is the only son and therefore is exempted.

As we continued up The Desert Road, I am reminded of a saying we had in the 1970's when I was in college in California. If a boy lived to far away to date we said that he lived in "Butt-Fuck Egypt" -- and he was labeled "BFE." The conversation would go like this:

"I met this total fox, but he's totally BFE!"

"Where does he live?"

"Out in the valley" (I lived in Orange County).

"Oh, yeah, he's so BFE!"

"Yeah, I know."

I suddenly realized that I was literally in Butt Fuck Egypt! I started to laugh, and told Azim the story. He had a good laugh about it, too.

So if you live in Orange County and Mr. Right lives in Los Angeles County, it's never gonna happen because of BFE. But if you live in Orange County and Dr. Right lives literally in BFE, then it's okay to spend 24 hours of travel time to reach him. After all, there's really nothing that special in LA, but nothing's better than a trip to Egypt!

We drove a while longer, and I looked out sand as far as my eyes could see. Suddenly, there was a sliver of blue on the horizon ahead. I thought it was the sunlight playing tricks on the sand -- like a mirage. But the closer we got the blue got bigger. Now there were two colors of blue -- a deep navy blue and a lighter navy blue. I kept watching. Now there was another layer of blue -- a torquoise color. Finally I asked Azim what was happening with the sky.

"That's not the sky, Gamila! That's the Mediterranean Sea!"

I didn't believe him. I'd never water that color. I'd never seen water with so many colors.

Now there were more colors.

Finally we were on the top of a knoll -- even though it seemed we had been driving on flat land. The Mediterranean Sea was directly in front of us. It was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen!

We stayed at our villa on the Mediterranean Sea for a week. Our little patio looked directly out upon the sea. Sometimes we'd sit and watch the water. I never got tired of watching the water.

Open the box.

Me (circa 1960)
Sierra Madre, California

I am about four years old. We are living in Sierra Madre, in Southern California. We live in a ranch style house, in the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains. We regularly have encounters with the occupants of the woods -- deer, raccoons, rabbits, and the occasional bobcat and brown bear.

My father loves plants and trees. He has landscaped our two-level yard himself. On the "upper level" we have an orchard that provides us with lemons, oranges and rhubarb. Flowering plants are prolific. My father takes pride in the blooms. Because of him, I am very aware of nature. I notice the bees and the wasps, the ladybugs and butterflies and moths, the earthworms and gophers (which my father routinely hunts and kills with his shovel with the long handle and rectangle-shaped blade). I'm also aware of the birds. I wake up in the morning to a chirping cacophony. At night an owl comes near enough to my bedroom window that its hoots frighten me and keep me from falling asleep (I fear it will break through the window above my head, grab my with its sharp talons, and take me out into the darkness -- I am terrified of the dark). 

One spring a mother sparrow made her nest in a bottlebrush bush outside our kitchen window. We watched as she built her nest. My 6'2" father was able to easily peer into the nest, and once the eggs were laid he lifted me so I could see the three small, white eggs nestled amongst the brown twigs and grass of the nest. When the baby birds finally hatched, we could see their open mouths, hear them calling.

One morning I went outside. One of the baby birds had fallen onto the patio. The mother bird was nowhere to be seen. The baby bird was chirping. His skin was pink and black. He didn't yet have many feathers. He could hop, but he couldn't fly. He didn't look hurt, only unable to get back inside the nest.

I picked up the baby bird and held him in my cupped hands. It was the early 1960's. In those days people believed that once a baby bird had been touched by human hands that the mother would reject it, leave the nest and allow all of the baby birds to die. It seemed to me an unfair punishment to the helpless baby birds, and also to the human that only wanted to help!

I brought the baby bird inside the house. I persuaded my hesitatant mother to allow me to keep the bird. I would feed it and give it water and raise it until it could fly away. I named it "Billy Bird."

We found an old shoe box. I poked holes in the top of the shoe box so Billy Bird could breathe. I went out into the yard and gathered dried grass to put on the bottom of the box. I put Billy Bird inside the box. I gave him drops of water from my fingers. 

I did not know how I could feed worms to the baby bird. Should I get my father's shovel and dig for the earthworms that lived in the rich soil of our orchard?

We had just had our breakfast of pancakes and syrup. My mother suggested we feed Billy Bird leftover pancakes. He gobbled down almost a whole pancake as I fed it to him in small pieces. Then I put the lid on the shoebox so he could take a nap.

Throughout the day I checked on Billy Bird. Sometimes I could hear him moving around inside the box, his talons scraping against the cardboard. I'd also poked holes on the side of the shoe box so I could look inside and make sure he was okay. Sometimes he was sitting with his eyes closed, taking a nap.

Once I went to the box. It was quiet. But something felt strange! I looked inside the peep hole. Billy Bird was lying down. I'd never seen him in that position. I opened the box for a better look. I could see that he wasn't breathing. I picked up Billy Bird. He fell limp in my child-sized hand.

I ran to my mother. She told me he was dead. I was dumbfounded. I had fed him. I had given him water. I had given him shelter. I had built him I nice nest. I had LOVED him!!! 

Later that evening, when my father returned home from work, I was still crying over Billy Bird. I told him how I had rescued him from the patio, built him a nice nest, provided him with food and water. My father was surprised that I had fed the baby bird pancakes. "Pancakes are too heavy for a baby bird's stomach," my father informed me. "You probably fed him too much, and that's why he died."

I was crushed! It was my mother who had allowed me to feed Billy Bird the pancake. Why hadn't she told me it would kill him? I sobbed for my stupidity and hated my mother for misleading me.

I wanted Billy Bird to have a proper funeral. I decorated the shoe box. I wrapped Billy Bird in a paper towel and propped him up with grass and flowers from our garden. My father got his gopher-killing shovel and dug a shoe-box-sized hole under the eucalyptus tree in our back yard. Billy Bird was laid to rest with tears and prayers and little girl's promise that he would never be forgotten.

I never have forgotten Billy Bird. I still feel guilty for his death. I still blame my mother for not giving me better guidance.

Someone gave you flowers.

I am 17 years old. The year is 1974. I am in my first semester of college. I live at home with my parents and younger brother in Diamond Bar, California. College is a 20-minute commute. I returned home one afternoon to find an arrangement of flowers sitting on the table in the entry hall. No one in our home had ever received flowers delivered by a florist! 

My mother must have heard my car, must have been waiting for me to arrive. She is standing in the entry hall with one of her I'm-going-make-sure-I-ruin-this-for-you looks on her face. I hesitate, struggling to gauge from which direction the attack will come.

"They're for you," she said flatly, with that hint of cruelty I could detect while seemingly indiscernible the rest of the world.

I was genuinely surprised. I wasn't dating anyone special. I couldn't imagine who had sent me flowers. I saw the florist's card on the plastic holder sticking up from amongst the arrangement. I could see my name handwritten on the envelope. Inside the envelope was the greeting of the person who had sent me the lovely flowers.

I tried to not show my excitement. I reached out slowly, trying to appear nonchalant, to collect take the envelope from the holder. Before my hand reached its destination, my mother quipped, "They're not from a boy. They're from your big sister welcoming you to the sorority."

What wickedness! Her hands had already held the card, her eyes had already read the words. I felt completely violated.

I looked at the card anyway, to see if my mother was lying. It was true, the flowers were from my big sister, a stern, repressed person with whom I had nothing in common. I had disliked her before; now I loathed her -- for sending me the flowers and providing my mother with an opportunity engage in her favorite activity, humiliating me.

I am 19 years old. It is April 1976. I am in my sophomore year at college and working weekdays at Fiddlers Three Restaurant during the lunch-time shift. I have just started dating the brother of one of the most popular waitresses. I had met him at the restaurant because he came in frequently to have lunch and to visit with his sister during her shift (he always sat in her section). 

The flowers arrived just before lunchtime. I was completely surprised. Along with the flowers he had sent a stuffed bear and a Hallmark card. I put the flowers and the bear on the counter where everyone could see them. When he came in later for lunch, he could see how happy the flowers had made me. It also made his sister jealous. She had been the primary apple of his eye until then, and now she had competition.

I believe I still have that card somewhere. I threw the bear away after our divorce.

I am in my late 30's. It is my first semester teaching English as a Second Language to adult immigrants. It is my birthday. The students have found out it is my birthday. I came into the classroom to find several bouquets of flowers on my desk, along with cards and a cake. The cards have hand-written notes to me in broken English, the students expressing how much they appreciate me and love me. I am touched by their kindness. Then several minutes of picture taking, all with the flowers in center frame.

Write about a brief encounter.

Heritage Farm, Kewaunee, Wisconsin

I am at a Kolache Festival in Kewaunee, in northeastern Wisconsin. It will be my first time eating kolaches, a traditional Czech food made with kneaded dough and a variety of fillings like fig, cherry, and strawberry. I have my Canon digital SLR with me to record the event, and have spent a lot of time the previous several days reading up on how to better use my camera. 

It was a beautiful Wisconsin Sunday morning. The sky was clear. The sun was shining brightly. The corn was green and growing tall. It was picture-perfect day for the Kewaunee Kolache Festival.

My friend, Julie, has come with me. As soon as we arrived, I was mesmerized by all the things I could photograph. Many Czech people were dressed in traditional, colorful costumes. There were polka bands. There was a restored barn. There were horses grazing in fields. There were windmills. There was antique farm equipment. There was an outdoor beer and brat bar. The farm was filled with people, food, music, and excitement!

The Czech women had worked several days in 24-hour shifts to prepare over 7,000 kolaches to sell at the Kolache Festival. Julie and I positioned ourselves in the crowded kolache line. Julie would buy a few dozen kolaches to bring back to her family and friends and had come prepared with a kolache cooler. These Kolache Festival kolaches are that famous!

I bought two kolaches to try out -- a fig kolche and a berry kolache. They were really good! I decided I wanted a dozen to take home, too. While Juie went to the car to put her kolaches in the cooler, I got back in line. When I reached the kolache table, there were three lone kolaches on a white paper plate. Assuming there were more kolaches in the kitchen, I asked for a dozen kolaches.

"These are all the kolaches that are left," the woman told me.

I could feel the breathing of the kolache hopefuls behind me. It was only 9:30 on the second day of the event and already the over 7,000 kolaches had sold out! I was no fool! I took the last three kolaches. As three is the number of spiritual balance, I felt a sacred connection with the kolache three and knew these three kolaches were meant to be mine. I also felt a sense of kolache kismet to have purchased the last of the Kolache Festival kolaches at my first kolache festival.

Julie and I had arrived early to attend the polka mass. Probably a thousand people were packed into a large community room. It was bedlam. I'm not Catholic, but the polka mass was amazing! In the ensuing years I'm going to be sure to arrive early enough to get a seat closer to the band. Also the priest who spoke was a crack up! He shared the love of God through laughter -- especially as he was an IRISH priest (at a Czech heritage event). Everyone loved him. The mass and polka music were a blessing, and they set a joyful mood for the day ahead.

After the mass all the tables were moved and the room was prepared for the Czech "dinner", polka music and dancing. We decided to walk around outside because our dinner ticket put us in the 1:30 line -- we had more than two hours to wait before we would be able to eat.

I had taken pictures of the polka band during the mass. I had noticed that no one else around me was taking photos. So it wasn't just that I had a digital SLR, but no one else seemed interested in taking pictures.

As we walked out of the huge dance hall, I noticed another photographer. He was a man in his 50's. He was tall. Had a full head of sandy-colored hair. His was handsome. He was fit. He was dressed in jeans and a white shirt. He wore leather loafers and a leather belt. He was impeccably groomed. He had two cameras around his neck, one with a 50mm lens, the other with a zoom. He moved through the crowd with confidence. He knew some of the people and stopped to talk with them. I was held spellbound. Gorgeous man with two digital cameras! Maybe he would see my camera and stop and talk with me!

Julie and I walked out into the sunshine. I stopped to photograph the windmills. I love windmills. I've never had any windmills to photograph until I moved to Wisconsin in June of 2011. I wanted to play with the light on the windmills, to catch their color and the shadows just right.

After we'd killed an hour we decided to go back inside the hall and wait for our turn for dinner. The polka music was playing and people were dancing. Julie and I sat at a table alongside the dance floor so we could watch them. Most were elderly couples in their 70's, 80's and 90's! Their gray hair and faces showed their ages, but their grace and agility on the dance floor made them seem to be in their 20's. As they danced past me, hopping and spinning to the oompahs of the lively polka music, I tried to imagine these couples in their youth, imagined they had fallen in love while dancing -- and that dancing was what had held their love together as they weathered life's storms. I wanted to know their stories.

I got lost in my thoughts, carried away by the music and the twirl of colorful Czech skirts. Then through the sea of polka dancers, gorgeous man appeared -- taller than anyone else in the room, confident, on a mission. He walked the perimeter of the dance floor, photographing the dancers. I watched his agile movements as he'd stop, scope out his shot, position his athletic body, and then raise the camera to his face. It took several shots before I had what I had been waiting for -- a clear view of his left hand; I silently breathed a sigh of joyous relief as I realized there was no gold band.

Suddenly he turned and handed his camera to a man behind him. The man was laden like   a pack mule, with camera bags and equipment draped around his torso. He handed Gorgeous man another camera with a different lens. Gorgeous man had an assistant! He must be very important; probably from a newspaper, I thought.

Gorgeous man's companion was his antithesis. His legs were short. He was overweight; his belly hung over his unbelted pants. His head of dark hair looked greasy. His clothing was wrinkled. His shirt was loose and coming untucked. He walked hunched over and with a waddle. Even from across the room he appeared a nervous man, with shifting, beady eyes. Suddenly I saw Cervantes' Don Quixote and "his faithful companion," Sancho Panza. And I had just been photographing windmills! 

I watched Don Quixote and Sancho Panza work the dance floor. They exchanged cameras seemlessly, without speaking. My own digital SLR now seemed embarrassingly meager.

By now another friend had joined me and Julie. I pointed Don Quixote out to them. We talked about him and I confessed my interest in him. They agreed, based soley on appearance, that he would be a good catch.

After a while Don Quixote and Sancho Panza left the dance hall. My friends and I ate our dinners and decided to go back outside. I looked around, but did not see Don Quixote or his companion.

The day was blazing hot and soon we were ready to leave. We headed towards the bathrooms; we had a long drive back to Green Bay. As I came into the now nearly-empty lobby of the dance hall, there stood Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Don Quixote looked directly at me and my camera, which was now hung around my neck. I don't know where the courage came from, but I walked up to this incredibly handsome and confident man and we began a conversation about cameras. 

Sancho Panza tried to join in, but he was quickly dismissed as Don Quixote and I had eyes only for each other. We talked about our cameras. We talked about methods. We talked about what we liked to photograph. He worked for a Wisconsin travel magazine with offices in Madison, but lived in the Green Bay area. I was surprised at how comfortable I felt with him, and how shamelessly I was flirting. I'm fairly pretty, youthful looking, intelligent -- but I'm 80 pounds overweight. Where I'm from in Southern California, a man like this would not give a woman like me the time of day.

My friends had now completed their time in the bathroom and were standing behind the man, smiles on their faces as they watched us banter. They were happy for me. I haven't been in a relationship in many years.

And then he told me his name and the company he worked for and how I could contact him. I told him my name. Did I tell him Dulcinea? We said cheerful goodbyes and parted.

As we walked into the parking lot, my friends and I huddled together and giggled like schoolgirls. 

"He was so into you," they agreed.

"He was so easy to talk to," I said, and shared our conversation with them.

By the time we got to the car, I realized that I had forgotten his name and the company where he worked. I've never been good at remembering details. I then realized that unless it was the will of the gods to bring us together at another event, meeting Don Quixote at a kolache festival on a Kewaunee farm on an August Sunday afternoon would never be more than what it had been -- a brief, but memorable and enjoyable encounter.

Write about the night sky.

It’s December, the final week of 2002. The United States is still reeling from the events of 9/11. It’s my third trip to Egypt in 12 months. I’ve returned to reunite with Azim, my Egyptian husband who lives in Cairo; I live in Southern California. We are in the Sinai. I am the only American and Azim is the only Egyptian in a group of German, Russian, Canadian and Italian tourists who have come to participate in a Bedouin Dinner Safari and Star Gazing Tour.

Our rickety tour bus has brought us from our hotel in Sharm el Sheik and sped us an hour into the vast desert. We had come first to a place where the Bedouins waited for us with camels. We would ride the camels to the tents where our dinner would be served. The camels are on the ground, with their legs tucked under their bellies. To mount the camel, one straddles a saddle covered with colorful blankets. The saddle has two horns – one in the front to hold onto and one behind, the purpose of which I could not determine.

I’d ridden a camel for the first time a year earlier, at the pyramids in Giza. I am not a fan of camel rides. I am nervous about getting onto the camel, and I do not feel safely tethered once the camel starts moving. A fall from a camel would be dangerous, giving the camel’s height once it is standing.

Mounting a camel is similar to getting onto a boy’s bicycle. You hang onto the handlebars and swing your leg over the bar, put your foot onto the peddal, then lift yourself up onto the seat. Only a bicycle is made for your height so you still have your feet on the ground once the bike is between your legs. A sitting camel is still about four feet high. Also, a camel is wide. So while you’re trying to straddle the camel and settle into the saddle your feet are off the ground. It was not a movement that I found graceful or feminine.

The distance between the saddle horns was narrow, probably more appropriate for a child. It was difficult for me to hold onto the front horn, which was protruding into my belly. I finally got myself situated precariously in the saddle, my feet dangling on either side of the gentle beast. The camel owner grabbed the colorful reins attached to the bit with his left hand, and tapped the camel with a switch he held in his right hand, signaling the camel to stand up. The camel does this by first raising its back end. The rider must lean back and keep his/her body parallel to the camel’s back while holding on to the front horn of the saddle. It’s awkward and unsteady, as the camel raises one back leg and then the other. Once the two back legs are free, the camel raises its two front legs one at a time. The sensation is like being rocked by ocean waves while in a small boat.

As I held on for dear life, my camel leaned forward and began to lift his back end. Suddenly, my saddle came loose and I began to fall off the camel. Azim came quickly to my rescue, as did several of the Bedouin. The owner began shouting at the camel and tapped its rear end with the switch. Azim, other Bedouin, and the tour guide ran quickly to my aid, gathered around me to hold me and to keep me from falling off the camel. Voices were raised, arms gesticulating. I was terrified and mortified.

Finally I was off the camel, my two feet back on terra firma. Azim was yelling at the Bedouin who had put me on the camel. There was much shouting, all in Arabic. The Bedouins brought another camel. But I was done with camels.

“Can’t we walk to the tents?” I asked Azim.

Azim wasn’t that crazy about camel rides either. He agreed it was a good idea to walk.

As the other tourists rode their camels, Azim and I walked across the Siani. It was a beautiful evening. Soon the camels and their riders became silhouettes against a brilliant red-orange sky. We reached the Bedouin tents as the Egyptian sun god Aton Ra relinquished the daylight to the darkness as he travelled as he had since the beginning of time to the other side of the world.

As the streaks of red and orange and yellow melded into pink and apricot and black, the stars began to emerge. Stars touched the tops of the mountain peaks behind us; stars touched the desert floor on the horizon before us. It was a waning crescent moon that night, and it would not rise until after midnight. All the brilliant light that shone on us that night came solely from the stars. I heard the voice of Carl Sagan. “100 billion galaxies, each of which contain something like 100 billion stars . . . billions and billions and billions of stars.”

I thought of how insignificant I was. I thought of how insignificant the petty tribulations of life are, even in the aftermath of 9/11. I thought of all the grains of sands in the Siani, and how even they were outnumbered and would be outlived by the stars.

Living in suburbia makes it easyto find the brightest constellations. Orion’s Belt. Cassiopiea. The Big Dipper. But in the brilliance available to one in the Siani, it was impossible for me to find my favorite constellations.

How were the ancients able to find patterns? It was easy to see how the ancients were so attracted to the skies. Maybe they were luckier than we. They were in concert with all of Mother Nature.

I thought about the Jews wandering around for 40 years.

I remembered all the Bible stories I had heard.

I remembered the words of Isaiah: Lift up your eyes on high and see: who created these? He who brings out their host by number, calling them all by name, by the greatness of his might, and because he is strong in power not one is missing.

The greatness of God, the expanse of His universe, the plethora of His mysteries, the depth of our insignificance – all these thoughts filled my head.

The tour group had set up a telescope for us to look through. The other tourists scrambled for a look at the planets. We only had an hour to gaze at the stars before it would be time to return to our hotel. I didn’t want to waste it fighting for a chance to look briefly through a telescope.

Azim I walked away from the telescope and the crown of tourists and found our own place in the desert. We sat quietly next to each, holding hands, my head on his shoulder, lost in our own thoughts. There was nothing unique about our time with the Siani night sky. It was a moment shared by millions of couples before us. But it was still our moment – a moment not shared by everyone who had lived or who lived or who would live. I’ve never felt so small; I’ve never felt so connected to the infinity of time.


Tour Itinerary:

Escape from the noisy city to the serenity of the desert & enjoy the atmosphere of the desert at Wadi Mandar. Start your trip when Memphis Tours representative pick you up from your hotel (at 3:00 pm) and get excited with the camel riding for approximately 20 minutes through the Desert, where you can experience the real Bedouin life and watch the sunset. Enjoy the welcoming Bedouin tea with herbs (Habak) upon arrival at the tent, bedouin bread will be made and guests can try their bread making skills too! Dinner will be served in a buffet style under the candles light in the middle of the desert, followed by an oriental party with belly dancer, fire show and enjoying the Egyptian traditional shisha (water pipe with apple flavoured tobacco). After that heading with the astronomy guide to the telescope area, approximately about 30 to 45 minutes watching the stars and planet(s) through the telescopes with a chance to take photographs.
Finally drive back to your hotel.