Photographer: Mason Eubank
Pot-Holder: Frank Jones
Cazuela Donor: S&M Rousso
Concept: Colin Eubank
“A Succulent Stew”
Category: January Issue
Lessons In/Tact
Intact (adjective): remaining uninjured, sound, or whole; untouched… not changed or diminished; not influenced or swayed…
Tact (noun): adroitness and sensitivity in dealings with others or with difficult issues…denoting a sense of touch…from the Latin tactus “touch, sense of touch”…
The name Cazuela comes from a ubiquitous utensil for communal cooking, a vessel which mirrors the humble underpinnings of our project: to share a feast for the mind made of diverse ingredients and local talents.
We chose this collage in celebration and awe of the incredibly rich work of Fabiola Sillas and Makenna Lee. Working on acrylic and canvas, Fabiola’s abstract paintings find inspiration from the struggles of our disabled comrades, habitually maligned and left with needs unmet, deprived of the care and dignity they deserve in our society. Makenna’s black & white portraiture ventures in a different direction, capturing island ink on aging skin for a school project. We share immense joy in seeing the accomplishments of our island-kin. But we also believe the creative labors of both these women nourish something much more essential to our community than just “island pride.” Fabiola and Makenna think with their hands. And each of their endeavors resemble experimental gestures to reconsider our most basic senses and explore the unfamiliar aspects of a world usually taken for granted or abandoned by thought.
Fabiola and Makenna map the fault lines of fragmented bodies — an arm, leg, torso, chest, breast, ankle, neck, foot, rib. What happens when our thoughts are led by the heightened sensitivity of touch? We might attend with greater care to the flux and flow of material in the world. We might begin to better appreciate the residual interactions that facilitate meaningful interactions between persons, people, and places. This attentiveness might bear new responses to the same tired, old questions (like, Why did you get a tattoo of Catalina? What does it mean?) or generate new ones (like, How do we reckon with home and belonging on Catalina and far from it? How do these unsettled questions exercise themselves on our bodies?).
* * *
Let us learn from their maneuvers, their lessons in tact. At once exploratory and expository, Fabiola and Makenna push and pull us around the page. The words of Pablo Neruda, Rosario Morales, and Edouard Glissant work alongside and in conversation with the images they provide:
Neruda talks of existing in a world where each of us, born of scrapes and scars, are loved and found in an embrace of broken things. It’s a place of aftermath, where nothing remains (or ever began) intact. But while these conditions may seem bleak, Neruda testifies to this world as “the form of oblivion I prefer” [“la forma de olvido que prefiero”]. Why? Because here, at least, suffering contributes to something meaningful: the continued existence of a shared world surviving another day. The surrounding images push up against Neruda’s sentiments, challenging them while also pushing these words to pierce with an impossible acuteness (like the tip of a needle). Is the repetition of the island inscribed on skin a stinging contradiction to Neruda? or can it be seen as his most striking affirmation?
Looking at the places where ink and skin, skin and canvas, canvas and text each overlap, Morales interjects with a sense of relativity and patience. Too “early or late” we “change and change and change” to find unity with each other. We’re unsettled and on the move. Tentative in our growing, groping, grasping journeys. Our metamorphoses make us whole by being together — no longer brandishing claims to perfection or impenetrability, let alone the untouched purity of an “individual.” With a sense of partiality, under many influences, pushed by the sway of many currents, we are made in/tact: connected and completing each other by keeping touch with one another.
The final lines come from Glissant, who promises that we’ve come to learn something about ourselves in this turn to tact, better than before this whole ordeal. Glance back across the page we’ve traversed. He insists: “There is something we still now share: this murmur, cloud, or rain or peaceful smoke. We now know ourselves as part and as crowd, in an unknown that does not terrify.”
* * *
These words are more sure than we’ll ever be. But after reading this edition of Cazuela, glance down at your hands: have they picked up some residues of ink from these pages? And flip back through these pages: have they smudged under the abrasive touch of your fingertips? A feast for the mind is a feast for the senses. As you read the contributions of this Cazuela, we hope you will share in the collective experience alive in its pages. We hope you will allow the textures of each contribution to mix and clash and sway your thinking to unforeseen places. And, at the end of it all, we hope you enjoy this momentary and imperfect whole we’ve created.
Sincerely In/Tact,
Colin Eubank & Mr. Sean
All submissions can be sent to catalina.cazuela@gmail.com
Recipe for the Issue
Start with a helping of
Articles and Observations:
• CATALINA SUMMER: A COIN DIVER’S DAY IN THE 60’S
by Dudley Morand
• SEALED BOTTLES
by Chuck Liddell
• SOUL ALIGNMENT
by Sky O’Connor
• YOU & I HAVE THE SAME SIGNATURE
by Alison Neville
• CANNOT PROVE NONEXISTENCE
by Rich Zanelli
• CONFESSIONS OF A D.I.Y. GUY
by Gene Eubank
• OVERCOMING FEAR AT THE BOTTOM OF THE WORLD
by Sean Brannock
• MY LIFE IN MY BOOKSHELVES
by Carlos de la Rosa
Mix in a handful of Creative Writing:
• VENTURE ACROSS THE CHANNEL
a poem by Michaela Edwards
• LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
a poem by Tom Quinn
• A GIFT FROM ABOVE…
a story and image by Jake Brannock
• THE PEACOCK & THE CRANE
an Aesop Fable
• ALL MY BOOKS
a poem by Leonardo Foley
• JULIA’S WAR
an installment of fiction by Tom Quinn
Season with a dash of Essay:
• WOMEN OF HERSTORY: PUNK PART I
by Constance Rux
• CADENAS DE ISLAS // ISLAND CHAINS
by Colin Eubank
Add a pinch of Community Shares:
• IN CELEBRATION & SOLIDARITY: ZAPATISTA COMMUNITIES TURN 25
by Cazuela Team
• LOCAL ARTIST OF THE MONTH: KELLY CALLAGHAN-SKOFF
by Catalina Art Association
• LEARNING TENANTS’ RIGHTS IN AVALON
by Anni
• HABLEMOS DE LA SALUD MENTAL…
by Viri Vega
• ROAD TO COMMUNITY WELLNESS
by the Avalon AC4P Movement
Steep all the above in
Visual Art:
• ROAR
a photo by Leonardo Foley
• THE LAST LEAVES OF GRASS
a portrait by Ron Pyke
• 26 FEET UNDER THE SEA (PART II)
a photo series by Blanca Alvarez
• AN AVALON MEME
by Gabriel Saldana
• FONEFAUNA: A SERIES OF STYLUS SKETCHES
images by Caprice Rothe
Venture Across the Channel
a poem by Michaela Edwards
* * *
The dark blue waters cry a white wash as I venture across the channel.
The birds fly, the families cry, and the mountains stay strong and dry.
As a child I would mourn the day to leave my island home and yet,
with each passing year, I grow weary and anxious with island fever.
The rolling glass of the sea, oh how it speaks to me, begging me not to go,
the clouds heavy and gray with thoughts of dismay.
The winds have softened, the ships have sailed,
my bags are packed, my words float through the air.
Sunny skies and cacti will live in my dreams tonight
as I sleep to the sounds of sirens and concrete sights.
A single white sail travels east,
and then a flight north to my city of peace.
Birds glide and they stride across the ocean surface,
my heart marches steady yet my mind types nervous.
Dolphins play and bask in my wake,
asking me when will I return to keep them safe.
The kelp rushes to the sun, soaking up rays,
and having a little fun.
The sage, both people and plant, remind me of home
and keeps my mind in tact.
I won’t forget you, my little rock in the sea.
I keep you in my heart wherever I might be.
CATALINA SUMMER: A Coin Diver’s Day in the 60’s
by Dudley Morand
* * *
Summer in the Sixties was a magical time to be a kid in Avalon. From sunrise to bedtime, each minute was filled with a parade of possibilities. Many of the day’s pursuits revolved around money, which could be attained many different ways — none of which were ever viewed as work! What follows is a typical daily routine during vacation.
Early morning brought you to the beach for a number of lucrative ventures. Since the beach wasn’t yet crowded, you could drag a “sifter” through the sands to uncover money, jewelry and other sorts of treasures. These homemade devices consisted of a wooden box shape with chicken wire and a long handle to pull through the beach.
Another activity was called “scraping.” This was simply swimming through the coin diving areas to find money missed during the previous day’s dive. If you recruited a partner, he could walk the pier above and direct you to the coins shining on the bottom.
Many of the missed coins would wash under the pier and congregate around or below the pilings. This offered another type of sifting, requiring one to shovel loose rock and sand from around the pilings into a shaker box to retrieve more loot.
By now you would have worked up an appetite, which meant it was time to hit one of the doughnut shops to spend a few coins and prepare for the rest of the day. Many youth activities were planned around the morning beach routine. Mid-morning, for instance, was always a good time for Little League practice.
Around 11:00 a.m. everyone would begin gathering at the base of the steamer pier to await the “incoming” of the S.S. Catalina. Swimming ability helped dictate how each kid would greet the visitors. Either you chose the “little side,” where you could stand in a few feet of water and beg for coins as passengers walked down the pier. Or you could brave the “big side,” where you swam next to the ship as money was thrown from the rails. The “big side” divers observed a certain caste system. Lesser divers started at the bow, better divers at mid-ships and the pros at the stern — which was deeper and closer to the huge propellers. Diving at the stern was coveted because it was where the ship’s bar and “happiest” visitors could be found. Good diving required the ability to hold your breath for long periods of time while fighting for coins, as they moved erratically toward the bottom (often up to 60 and 70 feet deep). It could be disheartening to win the battle for a dime, only to look up and see the surface so far away with almost no air left.
Once the money was in hand, where to put it for safekeeping but in your mouth? On a good day, the better divers would emerge from the water with cheeks carrying as much as $10 worth of assorted change. Others had special pockets sewn into their suits which didn’t allow the coins to fall out during tricky maneuvers. At the bottom of the food chain were the unfortunate tourists who stuck their small amounts of change in their masks, which would eventually get knocked off during battle and spill coins for more agile swimmers to scoop up.
After all the passengers had made their way off the boat, the swimmers from the big side would make their way under the pier to the little side and try to blend in with the smaller kids for a few more coins. Then it was time to gather on the beach and count up the haul. All played fast and loose with the truth as they elaborated on heroics of the underwater scramble. A game of “lag” might take place, pitching coins against a wall with the closest coin winning.
Hungry from the morning adventures, the troop would split to dine at their favorite haunts. Among the most popular was the Busy Bee Cafe — located at the base of the pier. Food was good and cheap, but the Bee also offered a very unique service: banking. Cups with the divers’ names graced a special shelf where the days earnings could be safely kept and drawn from when needed. Not wanting to carry all that loot around made the Bee the ideal dining spot and guaranteed loyal customers for the restaurant.
Now if fries were on your mind, then the only place to go was Mother Gray’s Waffle Shop. You placed your order with owner and cook Joe Gray, and then sat on the wall across front street and dried in the warm sun while waiting. Joe would bang on the front window with his salt shaker, signaling that your insanely super-sized bag of fries was ready. All for two bits, 25 cents.
Money could be made all day long. Glass bottom boats and other tours departed from the steamer pier in the afternoon, bringing a steady stream of tourists past the little side of the pier where a chorus of kids would cry “throw a coin” and “c’mon now folks let’s see that coin.” One kid, nicknamed “Beaver” for his physical characteristics and affinity for water, would stay submerged on the little side from the steamer’s arrival ‘til its departure some four hours later. We never knew how large a fortune he amassed.
The one big vice practiced by all divers was the daily trip to Mardi Gras: Avalon’s pinball emporium. One of the largest, and surely most profitable, establishments on the front street, it beckoned kids to gamble on free games as thousands of nickels found their way into games like Peter Pan, Harbor Lights, Paul Revere, Rocket Ship or the always crowded pool tables. Fortunes were squandered but the social interactions were priceless.
Another afternoon pursuit involved the Casino Theater. If a new hot movie was in town, the local kids would line up outside the theater office to wait for a word with manager Tommy Clements, a professional clown and entertainer. The kids would vie for a chance to clean the movie house in exchange for a free ticket to that night’s screening of the film.
The “outgoing” steamers presented a reverse pattern for diving. Swimmers went from the little side, and under the pier to the big side, following the crowds as they embarked on the ship. Some energetic souls swam furiously as the steamer backed out, a last effort to entice a coin from the now broke masses.
Several times a summer the steamship would make Friday or Saturday night trips to the Island. These occasions brought out a brave few to the inky black waters where many real and imaginary dangers lurked. The first problem was seeing the coins. If a deckhand was nice enough to illuminate the dive area with a spotlight, it was possible to see the coins thrown. But the tired captain often missed the landing, sending the stern of the ship into the swimmers’ path and triggering a mad dash for safety.
But, day or night, one of the most dramatic parts of coin diving was the ritual of entering the water. The youngsters on the little side were limited to wading in the shallows. The kids on the steamer side of the pier had more options. The seawall offered several different ledges to dive from, depending on the tide level. Each level added a huge addition of skill. In order of bravery was the lower ledge, top ledge, railer, running railer and the ultimate: housey.
Lower ledge was was easy for most under any tide conditions. The top ledge required skill to time for the waves and properly judge the depth. A railer required the diver to balance on a fence-top prior to diving, which made entry much more difficult. A running railer necessitated the cooperation of a partner, who decided when it was safe and signaled for the diver to rush across the street, leap to the fence rail and dive into the highest part of the wave.
The housey was another story, literally. The roof of the bathhouse at the base of the pier added 15 feet to the railer and 25 feet to the lower ledge. This dive was only attempted by the handful of wisp-like local divers, who seemed to be weightless in the air, or complete fools. Even for the best, a high tide was needed. Tragedy sometimes struck when uninitiated tourist divers tried to recreate the pancake landing required to avoid the rocky bottom below.
Though diving for coins took up most days, sometimes you just couldn’t go swimming. Colds, injuries, and other assorted maladies forced other activities such as carrying luggage to hotels or even shining shoes.
Summer in the Sixties was a grand time.
“Letters to the Editor”
a poem by Tom Quinn
* * *
Hey Eu,
December 30
A raven’s flying high
Still; in the clean swept sky
Gale warning fifty knots
Two red pennants on the Pleasure Pier
at stiff attention
Do you recall when we were younger…
On this same day five years ago?
Harbor Rescue saves all but two
Yachts are grounded on the Middle Beach
Language, luggage roll hopeful to the Mole
Let auld acquaintance ne’er be
forgot
SEALED BOTTLES
by Chuck Liddell
* * *
Of the 201 bottles thrown off the “Catalina King” between Catalina and San Clemente Islands, the first Sunday in April, 1976, only half have been accounted for. MY BOTTLE WAS NEVER FOUND AND I STILL HAVE HOPES! Of those found, none were any closer than Mexico. One such bottle took months to be found in Mexico and it belonged to the mother of Ray Rydell, one of our past mayors. She had been gravely ill and Ray was so excited to be able to share the find with her. “Mom, they found your bottle!” He detected a slight smile and then she went into a coma, never to come out. Ray was “sure” that she had been waiting for this news before she died! I WAS SO HAPPY FOR THE BOTH OF THEM.
Around 2000, a gentleman came up to me while I was sitting on a bench on Crescent Ave. and asked me if I was “Chuck Liddell”. He said that he had been to the Museum and they had tried to direct him to me. He worked for the “U. S. Geodesic Society”, and was in charge of plotting ocean currents. There had been a disastrous fire in their office, containing the records of their own bottle throws, and most of the data had been destroyed. He said that my records from the 1961 and 1976 bottle throws would be “invaluable” to his research and hopefully fill in many of their gaps. I took him back to the Museum and showed him our records. He was ELATED! Anything to help our government do their job!
Definitely the MOST unusual story occurred regarding Dorothee Hochberg, former wife of Mayor Fred Hochberg, and the daughter of the owners of most of the buildings on Crescent Ave., between Catalina and Sumner. You might remember her as the “lady in white” who always carried herself like a member of royalty and reminded me SO MUCH of Ingrid Bergman. A REAL CLASS ACT!!! In 1980, after four years of possibly floating, her bottle was found by a fisherman on a desolate island near the Philippines. The remarkable part of this find was the bottle was under the flipper of a dead sea lion! When I shared the strange circumstances surrounding the discovery of her bottle, I noticed that she had the strangest look on her face (proper place to have it! lol!)! I asked her if there was anything the matter. She told me that she wanted to share a story, that I would probably NOT believe. Being a LOVER of great and unbelievable stories, I begged her to continue!
A few years before our “Bi-Centennial”, she and her granddaughter were walking along a Southern California beach when they noticed a large crowd of people standing around and starring at something. They went over to investigate and saw a very sick seal pup being teased by some young boys. She immediately told the boys to stop their harassment and instructed her young granddaughter to stay with the injured animal while she went to call “Fish And Game”. Once the authorities arrived, the two “Good Samaritans” left, never to learn the plight of their new little friend. Dorothee sat back and, with a BIG smile, said “I somehow believe that the dead sea lion in the Philippines was the same one that my granddaughter and I saved. It ‘somehow’ knew that the bottle in the ocean was ours and accompanied it on its journey to the deserted island. It had intentionally laid its flipper on it to protect it and to make sure that someone would notice the creature and the bottle, making the find that much easier!”
Even I, with my VAST imagination, found this story to be well BEYOND probability, but I told Dorothee that I thought it would make a GREAT children’s story; hopefully that she would write with the aid of her granddaughter. JIM, LIKE THE STORY!?!
Well, time passed and I never heard from Dorothee again. She had moved up to Santa Barbara to live with her son, as she was suffering from major medical issues. One evening in 2002, I was working at another of my part-time jobs (almost EVERYONE who works on Catalina has at least two, three, or more jobs!). I was now “host” at the Country Club Restaurant. BOY, DO I MISS THAT WONDERFUL LOCATION AND FOOD (some of you might remember my story about Barbra Streisand, “Smith, Party Of Four”, January 1, 2016). One of our serving staff came over to me at my station to inform me that the party at one of her tables was disturbing some of the other guests. I was of course concerned and asked her what the problem was. She told me that the ladies at the table were crying uncontrollably and she didn’t know why. I knew that I had to find out what was causing their grief, but didn’t know how to tactfully address it.
Luckily, a few minutes later, a group of these ladies came by me on their way to the restroom. I could tell that they were still VERY UPSET and obviously had been sobbing. As diplomatically as I could, I went up to them to inquired if I could possibly help them with their matter. They told me that their mother, grandmother, and great grandmother, who had been a long time resident, had recently died and they had planned to throw her ashes in the ocean the next day. For whatever reason, they had been out of touch with her for a number of years and had hoped to have some “uplifting stories” to share about her life, so that the service would be a more happy ceremony. She had been quite ill and her life, especially toward the end, was NOT something they wanted to dwell on, but that was all they could think about. I asked them the deceased woman’s name and they said, “Dorothee Hochberg. Did you know her?” DID I KNOW HER AND DID I EVER HAVE A STORY TO SHARE WITH THEM!!!
After extending my condolences, as I hadn’t heard about Dorothee’s death, I then proceeded to tell them the sea lion and bottle story. From the looks on their faces, you would have thought that they had just won the lottery! They now had their UPBEAT story to share the next morning at tomorrow’s “Neptune” burial. How fitting for a story about the ocean as they placed her remains there! To be more accurate, they ALL smiled, except one, whose “flood gates” really brought forth the tears! When she finally calmed down, I apologized for having upset her and asked what I had said that caused her reaction. I thought I had shared with them a pretty remarkable and heartwarming story!
She quickly regained her composure and in an almost apologetic tone assured me that she wasn’t upset, but OVERJOYED! (AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO HAS TROUBLE WITH THIS!?! As a male, I have NEVER been able to tell the difference between whether a woman is crying out of happiness or sadness. This difficult distinction will be one of my FIRST questions I will ask God when I get to Heaven. Of course, in Heaven, since there is NOTHING BUT happiness, my questions will most likely be “moot”.) “You see”, she explained, “I am THAT granddaughter, with whom she found the sea lion on the beach years ago. I NEVER heard about the bottle episode from my Grandmother! I now feel closer to her than ever before, and can now face her funeral tomorrow with a big smile, because of that beautiful story you shared with me! THANK YOU!”
You know, I guess there are “some” benefits of getting older, as long as you still have your “gray matter” upstairs (I DON’T mean hair!). I was able to “reunite” a family with their passed loved one, because of a bottle launching celebration of America’s 200th Birthday so many years ago. I am STILL waiting to hear about MY bottle, but, in case it is NEVER found, I can rejoice and share in the bottles found by others, especially Mrs. Rydell and Dorothee Hochberg!
Chuck Liddell writes about all things Catalina. Find more of his writing at www.catalinaislandman.com
Questions? Send Chuck an email at chuckliddell.catalina@gmail.com
Cazuela 