Story Archives 2000

by Staff Writer

· Welcome M-1 of dead prez to the Bay Area – East and West Oakland, San Francisco, Sonoma, San Jose, Santa Cruz – for six days of sharing his recent experiences in Gaza, Cairo and Europe and comparing them with ghetto life in the U.S. – six events Sept. 24-29 benefiting the SF Bay View and Block Report Radio. Get ready for some explosive revelations! Get a foretaste with 24 hours in Gaza by M-1.

by Tom Gomez

Sunday morning I went out the door of my shelter at 6:30 am. I intended to go to sit on a bench in U.N Plaza and read my Sunday Times while waiting for the Quaker services I regularly attend to begin at 11:00 am. Sitting on those benches and reading my morning paper is a daily ritual for me. If I have an extra dollar I also like to enjoy coffee with my paper. My job (yes, I have a job, and so do most homeless people I know) doesn’t start until 3:00 pm and nothing opens until 9:00 am. I would stay in and sleep late like most of you probably do, but I live in a shelter. So I occupy a bench at my local park, reading my paper and watching the sunrise while sipping my coffee.

The city is offended by that. Channel 4 is outraged by it. On Saturday the City removed the benches. A bench removal that had been planned for several months. Channel 4, I’m told, portrayed the park as an open sewer where homeless people sell and use drugs flagrantly. I don’t have a television. I missed the report. I miss the benches too.

Does the city expect me to believe that with literally thousands of officers they are powerless to prevent a few dozen criminals from selling and using drugs in broad daylight? The crime the city has targeted here has nothing to do with drugs being sold or used. The city wants to purge its downtown of poor people and especially men of color. Throughout the whole weekend after the removal of the benches I observed police stopping black men exclusively, for no apparent reasons, demanding they produce identification and conducting random searches.

I am tired of being victimized for no better reason than my inability to pay $2,300.00 a month rent on my income from a $9.00hr catering job! Being a man of color is not a crime, and should not constitute “probable cause” nor invite forced warrant checks and random searches.

No one supports urban blight. But in this case the city is responsible for failing to enforce existing laws for years, thus creating public outrage, and then mounting an outright attack on the poor in response. If the city is tired of seeing desperately poor people littering the streets of this city, I have a fine suggestion: BUILD AFFORDABLE HOUSING! And instead of punishing all of us, forcing us off public benches and into the streets at dawn, how about the innovative solution of curbing crime by arresting criminals? What a concept. Someone should suggest it to Chief Lau and Mayor Brown.

A coalition of groups and individuals is organizing to oppose the city’s racial profiling and its attack on the poor and public space. Persons interested in getting involved in fighting this injustice should contact Adam Arms at the San Francisco Coalition on Homelessness, 468 Turk, San Francisco CA 94102. (415) 346-3740

The Camera’ s gaze panned across the landscape at San Francisco’s United Nations Plaza lingering at discarded bottles, crumpled paper bags, empty beer cans...and then....a face... a man...An African-American man....smoking something...a cigarette, perhaps.. we’re not sure..then another African-American man.. then an African-American woman...then an African-American child...then another....then another and..another..and another and...until one would believe that the entire population of homeless folks in UN Plaza was African-American and then a voice, the voice of truth, the voice of.....authority?..

“At the United Nations Plaza our hidden cameras uncovered the rampant drug use of Homeless People in UN Plaza...” This so-called “undercover” report by KRON-channel 4 (which incidently is owned by the Hearst Corporation) was followed by a “shocked” interview with Mayor Brown - who after viewing the tape I just described, commented that he “would have his office look into it and see what could be done”

Several hours later the Benches at UN Plaza were removed, or rather

by Staff Writer

from age six to sixteen

we shared the same styles

we both grew out of it

but he had it a longer while

I bought his jacket

'wit only one working pocket

his was red and mine was black-

and it didn't even zip

he had southern roots

before did the RAM

Both of us are internationally expanded

He sang everywhere

just I in the shower

both performed dancing

but he back-slid his power

he had a long curl

and I had long dreads

we both got bird chests

like we were raised just off of bread

he had gold records

and I wore gold chains

I don't know which one of both

our families is the most crazy insane

he was truly loved

as so am I

we both proved success is possible

if you just try

RIP to Michael Jackson

by Kaponda

The zephyr bored through the thin layer of protective
shelter and pelted the young lad as his eyes opened to
the dawn of another school day. It carried the noxious
elements of the naval shipyard to woo the uncorrupt
lungs of the middle school senior. Yet, Jimmy has
known for quite awhile that his generation has had to
endure the brunt of unfulfilled commitments by
virtually every institution of America.

The sparse surroundings of Jimmy's bedroom
bounced off his eyes through the mirror, as he
prepared to encounter another struggle at Luther
Burbank Middle School. In an effort not to frustrate
his schoolmaster, Jimmy had begun his journey at the
customary time. Looking at the abutting structures
from the window, Jimmy watched as his house
drowned in the distance, as the bus accelerated past
the density of drab houses. He mused over whether
anyone within that enclave of southern migrants --
from which he, too, is a proud product ñ- has ever
enjoyed anything other than substandard living
conditions since their arrival to the Bayview-Hunters
Point District at the height of World War II.

As he expectorated the noxious residuals from the
wind that had earlier swirled around his residential
community, Jimmy peered at a rodent, which bolted
off into a separate entrance of the Luther Burbank
Middle School. His eyes made a futile search of the
halls for anything that had not been riddled by decay.
The first battle for Jimmy will be to find a seat after
he enters his classroom, as there are not enough to
accommodate each student. There will not be a need
for him to check his coat because it will help insulate
him from the extremely cold classroom due to the
broken heating system. Jimmy has always focused on
completing his studies and passing his advanced
placement examination to continue his education at a
competitive university.

The substandard learning and living conditions to
which Jimmy is exposed may pose a threat to his
plans to further his education. For example, the
curricula offered at schools such as Luther Burbank
do not adequately prepare Jimmy for advanced
placement examinations. In addition, his problems are
compounded by a sense of inferiority, which affects
the motivation of a child to learn. These wretched
conditions were not hatched over night. Rather, they
are the result of years of Federal and State neglect.
Furthermore, these substandard learning conditions --
in which Jimmy must struggle to realize his hopes ñ
violate the laws of California, which require the State
to ensure the delivery of basic educational
opportunities for every child in California and vest the
State with ultimate responsibility for the Stateís public
elementary and secondary school system.

Neglect by the State of California to improve substandard
learning conditions in schools for people of color can be
traced as far back as the early 1950ís, when the majority of
schools for people of color were far inferior to the schools
of their white counterparts. The neglect of the State of
California to provide equal access to public education
regardless of race, color or national origin is rooted in the
May 17, 1954, Brown v. Board of Education, unanimous
decision, read by Chief Justice Earl Warren of the Supreme
Court.

In California, schools in economically disadvantaged
communities were underserved so severely that on May
17, 2000, the 46th anniversary of Brown vs. Board of
Education, civil rights groups and attorneys in California,
coordinated by the American Civil Liberties Union, lodged
a historic class-action lawsuit on behalf of students in 18
schools. The lawsuit charges that California has failed to
provide the "bare minimum necessities" required for an
education. According to the Complaint, the state of
California has allegedly "...reneged on its constitutional
guarantee to provide all students with at least the bare
essentials necessary for an education...."

The indictment of gross negligence underscores the reason
that supports the probability that Jimmy will never achieve
an education comparable to that of his white counterpart.
Furthermore, people of color in schools throughout
California have been subjected to the following conditions
as part of their everyday educational experience, according
to the Complaint:

• Lack of Materials and Basic Resources;
• Inadequate Instruction; and
• Massive Overcrowding.

California has recently adopted a system of statewide
educational standards. It entails a criterion that must be
satisfied by each student before being promoted to the next
rung of learning. However, ìofficials of the state of
California charged with carrying out educational
obligations have failed to develop or implement appropriate
procedures to identify and correct the substandard
conditions at the schools attended by Plaintiffs,î according
to the Complaint.

Furthermore, according to the class-action lawsuit lodged
by the ACLU, ìAlthough the State has established
academic standards that students must meet, the State has
failed to meet its responsibility to ensure that schools
provide teachers who are adequately trained to prepare
students to satisfy those standards, has failed to provide
sufficient materials to enable students to have a reasonable
chance to pass tests that measure their performance, and
has failed to provide facilities in which students can safely
learn the materials they need to meet the State-mandated
standards. In other words, the State has established a
system for education but has abdicated its responsibility to
oversee and superintend that system to ensure it functions.

Jimmy was not born during the decision of Brown v.
Board of Education by the Supreme Court. However, the
Board of Education of California continues to preclude him
from any hope of attaining to the same educational level of
equality and justice as his white counterpart. Through
sheer determination, Jimmy may be one of the few among
people of color who succeed in passing the Advanced
Placement examination by rising beyond the seemingly
insurmountable obstacles of inadequate instructions,
massive school overcrowding, too few textbooks, no
access to libraries, as few as 13 percent of teachers with
full teaching credentials, chronically unfilled teacher
vacancies, and substandard living conditions.

by Husayn Sayfuddiyn

To the poor - a

mobile home

has new meaning

Life’s Blood on Wheels

Fancier than the

shopping carts

of the ne’er do wells

until SFPD stopped me

as unlicensed to live

illegal necessities

unwanted baggage

to Tow Away

and I saw in his steel eyes

that I was next

on the Tow Away list.

by Valerie Schwartz/PoorNewsNetwork Community Journalist and Poverty Scholar

I Remember my Mama

In the Bean field, The Potato field

Sending us to school to learn our A B C’s

Keeping the Camp Fire’s Burning

We did not know Much about city livin’

In fact I didn’t know much ;of anythin’

Except a Mother’s Love

If we did without

It was with Style and Grace

No Complaints

Doing without was no disgrace

As I sit here reminissin'- Life goin on by

I have Strength and Courage

Instilled in me!

For times of sorrow

And times of joy

Although I shed tears, I Radiate Joy

When I am Low I remember my Mama....

About two-years ago on a somewhat hazy morning in the Tenderloin, the sun was ambivalent about trying to make an appearance on the 200 block of Hyde Street. I was reclining against the fence. I was sick and could barely move and the light that shone on me was from Lula B. Seymore, better known as Mama. "What's wrong, Sugar?" she asked me with that sweet voice that was always maternal and then added, "It's not like you to be laying down out here." I had a staff infection that was attempting a coup d' etat on my right leg, which I have ongoing vascular trouble/ulcers with. Mama went to her van and got out some aspirin, peroxide, ointment, and some clean socks and jeans for me. I managed to get up and go to the store to buy some Band-Aids with money she had given me. We talked for a while and when I felt strong enough, she then sent me packing down the street, care-package in hand, with instructions to, "Go get cleaned up and come back up here." Although I barely had the energy, I followed the instructions given and back to the corner I went. This is only one of many times that Mama helped me.

I can't remember exactly when it was that I met Mama, an African-American elder, who had resided in the Bayview-Hunters Point district of San Francisco for several years working as a housekeeper for Children's Hospital, among other labor intensive jobs, before she became houseless or what we at POOR call, "Vehicularily Housed." It seems as though I had seen her around the Tenderloin and adjoining Market St. area for awhile. I would give a "guesstimate" it was the spring of 1998 when we first actually talked. It was on the corner of Hyde and Turk. This corner was a veritable sidewalk-mall whose proprietors were primarily homeless people. I have lived in the Tenderloin neighborhood for twenty-two years and therefore I know it very well. It has a high rate of crime, addiction, and despair as most areas of poverty do.

On that fateful day, my co-worker was inside the copy shop next to the Midori Hotel at Turk and Hyde streets getting copies made for my boss at the time; we did all the maintenance, painting, and whatever else was needed to be done in a nearby apartment building. As I waited, I sat on a milk crate playing some blues tunes on my guitar when Mama stepped out of the front door of her home, a dark green van. She made eye contact with me and gave a short but hearty little laugh while straightening her wig and said, " Hello, I'm Mama...That's what we need around here... a little music to soothe ourselves, praise the Lord." Mama then started, while humming, to set up her little sidewalk re-creation of a Goodwill store. She set down some blankets and then set the clothes and miscellaneous items she had to sell on top of them. We talked for a few minutes as she swept the sidewalk around her "store" and then it was time for me to get back to work.

After our first discussion, most every time I was on the corner, Mama and I would talk or exchange our "hellos" in passing. We forged a friendship on that corner. I started taking all the things that the former tenants had left behind or threw out and gave them to her so she could sell them, rather than take it to the dump. Eventually my boss became ill, was hospitalized, and I was back on the street again. Mama helped me through those times when I needed it and when I didn't.

Mama dealt with being poor everyday. When you are poor there are no days off. She fed and gave clothing to many of us who were, and still, are out there living on the streets. I remember how she used to pull out her little barbecue grill and make everything she could with what she had: soups, a pot of beans, sometimes chicken. She always shared with someone. Mama would not allow people to get high or sell dope next to her van. I remember her frustration with people sometimes; she also would never curse, but prayed instead. Mama always prayed, she prayed for everyone, myself included, and pray she did. Her faith was unyielding. There were days when she was hurt and angered with me for I was such a slave to my addiction. She wouldn't speak to me, or would tell me to come back later, and that was enough to shame me in ways that many could not. I'd walk away and she would tell me, "You got to fight those demons girl...now go." And as I walked I could hear her praying...

Rarely would anyone talk crazy to Mama, for most of us out there respected her and helped her in return. We wasn't havin' no-one "dis" Mama! I had seen the police give her tickets for selling her wares on the sidewalk without a permit. Some of them left her alone but when she would see them coming she got busy and put everything away quickly, and then they might still give her a parking ticket. I also know that some of the police used to "hassle" her for living in her van. Mama did not want to live in a "care-facility" and unfortunately I am afraid that she, as many elders do, felt it was not a choice.

As a person who is disabled, has been homeless, and is poor I have to stop and think about choices. Choices for elders, for the poor, and disabled are not always what I would consider to be choices. They mean having to choose between two-or-more evils. These "choices" are offered by systems that perpetuate poverty. Is it a choice for a person to live in a care facility where they are subject to many different kinds of neglect or suffer a houseless poverty? Is there a choice for elders who are forced into conservatorship by the county, such as Beatrice Sloan of Oakland (another African-American elder confined to a care facility and robbed of her assets by Government programs set up to "care for" elders which POOR Magazine has been advocating for)? Writes my colleague Ashley of POOR, " The nursing home industry is another form of big business disguised as hellthcare." Thus our elders are losing what they have worked earnestly and hard to keep and maintain: A family, a good home and integrity.

When I had the pleasure of attending Mama's memorial service last week, presented by the Faithful Fools Street Ministry where several family and friends spoke and presented words of grace in Mama's memory, more questions arose: Why did Mama have to leave after residing in her Bayview-Hunter's Point home for so long and what made her "choose" to live in her van? Some reports say that she was evicted due to an Owner-Move-In- Eviction. Some say it was her choice because she didn't want to live in a care facility. Was Mama facing a possible case management or conservatorship issue? Being told that she was a "very independent person", for me, does not answer the question, because of course, for poor folks, there is always the issue of shame. This society tells us it is bad to be poor - that something is wrong with you - not the people evicting you - not the system taking your assets - redlining your districts, employing you at nothing wages, and then criminalizing your poverty.

Being that I was in the dregs of my addiction I used to find myself in awe of Mama sometimes, that she had good boundaries and kept her faith intact. It just blew my mind that a homeless senior woman, alone, could deal with life out there knowing how harsh and just plain miserable it can often be and maintain a sort of grace, you might say. Yet, she never gave up. And on many days she inspired me to make it through another day in hell with just one of her beautiful grins, her intense, smiling brown eyes, and herself saying, "You stay outta trouble." There have been times since I have been in treatment that I wanted to go talk to Mama and let her know that I was okay. Today I want her to know that some of her prayers most assuredly have been answered, that I have been clean and drug-free for a year, and how very grateful I am for her friendship, love, and boundaries that I now understand. Mama's presence and spirit was always a beacon of light in the tempest of the Tenderloin and she will be missed and remembered by many.

PNN editors note; Mama was a contributor to POOR Magazine vol#4 MOTHERS, and will be included in the Poverty Heroes Anthology which will be released by POOR Press in December -as well, she was a powerful inspiration and friend to POOR mother and daughter editors, Dee and Tiny. If you would like to submit any words or art to POOR about Mama - please call us at (415) 863-6306 - if you would like to visit the Memorial Green Van - you can reach the Faithful Fools at (415) 474-0508 or go to the corner of Hyde and Turk street

by Leroy Moore/PNN & Krip Hop

The first official Thanksgiving in this country between the wealthy White settlers and Native Americans followed the same pattern of my 2001 Thanksgiving, looking back at it now. In both situations people of color were evicted from their homes and land by new wealthy White landlords. Everybody knows what happened between Native Americans and the White settlers at that time. Let me tell you it didn't match the description of the Last Supper that the Bible talked about, although it was the last supper for the Native Americans on their land that they respected and cultivated. The same was true for my sister and me on Thanksgiving in 2000, the Last Supper, together in San Francisco. In place of grocery bags stuffed with food were boxes stuffed with our belongings. No relatives, no friends, just a wealthy White landlord breathing down our backs making sure his place was clean that he recently bought with his inheritance and the fortune he made during the dot-com boom. Yes, another eviction!

Just like Native Americans in the US, who were forced to split up and travel to far away locations, thus breaking up families and tradition, my sister and I were forced apart. Because of this eviction, breaking up the tradition of my sister's famous stuffin' and our tight bond. She traveled across the country and I across the Bay in search for an affordable home. It's funny how history repeats itself! Like the days of the Underground Railroad, the ones that helped my sister and I out were also White, working class poor who sympathized and felt the injustice of gentrification by opening their homes to us once in Burlington, VT, and another in Berkeley, CA.

The year was 2002. Another Thanksgiving, too broke to buy a ticket to see my family on the East Coast so I decided to take my last thirty dollars from my Uncle Sam's disability benefits to get some food for the Thanksgiving weekend and to last me till the first of the month. You see like many of my disabled brothers and sisters, I too had to and still do decide between transportation and food, clothing etc. And because most of us are on a strict budget, I chose food at that point. Now how can I cook a turkey in a microwave! I thought to myself in the grocery store. After leaving with my food for my Turkey Day and for the rest of the month, I noticed a poor, working class Black man beside me asking me would I like help with my bags. I politely said no but he continued to grab my bag. To make a long story short, he learned what the wealthy White settlers did to the Native Americans, he discovered my Thanksgiving dinner and food that I just bought with my last dollar.

In 2004 the White settlers, our State government, had their hands out again to Native Americans in California with Proposition 70, asking them to pay taxes from their own casinos almost three weeks before we celebrate another Thanksgiving. However, like the saying goes, you can't keep a good person down. Now the federal government is asking for donations!! Isn't that a flip!

After the unsteady years of the dot-com and the fall of it, my sister, her sons and I will be eating her famous stuffing and continue to strengthen our family ties here in Berkeley, CA. Our ancestors, family ties, hearts and our sense of what is right are stronger than the systematic oppression that pours onto our shoulders daily like gravy. Happy Thanksgiving to our Native brothers and sisters and your family! Eat today for the revolution tomorrow!

by Mission Resistors

They say the universe was created by the destruction of another in a Big Bang. I know mine was destroyed and created by 2 Big Bangs. When I was 26, I was in and out of situations where I was getting free housing. My parents were going to my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary so I stayed at their place in Alsea, Oregon for the weekend. This place was a typical doublewide mobile home with medium brown false wood walls and burnt orange carpets. I invited my friend Jon Smyth over to watch a movie. We watched “Tomb Raider” all the way through and started “Fire Birds.” We wandered around, in and out watching the movie and doing other stuff. He went to the bathroom and wandered into my parent’s bedroom and came out with the “Hand Rifle”--my father’s .44 magnum revolver. He said, “’J’ sit down.” I looked and saw him with the gun. He repeated, “’J’ sit down.” It took me a moment to process what was going on and in the mean time the First Big Bang occurred to destroy my old universe and send things speeding in millions of directions. He had fired a warning shot across my bow. My hands went up in surprise. The shot went through my left pointer finger, the tip of my right pointer finger, opened my right middle finger at the first knuckle, and continued through my right thumb and hit the lamp on the other side of the wall. I had to look down to know all this. Again he said, “’J’ sit down.” I sat down. He walked over to the phone. I asked him, “Why are you doing this?” He answered, “Because life sucks.” In response I said, “That doesn’t mean you have to hurt me.”

“I do not intend to hurt you," he retorted.

I concluded, “You already have.”

He did not answer. I said, “I need to go to the bathroom.” He nodded as he picked up the phone to make a call. I went to the restroom and washed off my hands to see how bad they were damaged. They looked like hamburger. During the same instant I was doing this my friend was asking for a girl by name. When she answered he said, “This will teach you to mess with men’s hearts.” And then he fired one last shot. I knew this was his final act. This was the second Big Bang. As tragic as this was it was the action that started my new universe. From this point forward, things started to slow down and recoil less. I went into the front room and saw my friend laying face down on the floor in the exact position he used to sleep, in a face down fetal position. It was still so obvious that he was dead that I did not need to check for vital signs. The next thought that went through my mind was whether or not I should see if the girl was still on the phone and help her. I decided it was more important that I get help for myself. I hung up the phone and called 911. I waited for the local E.M.T. when they got there I was very grateful that I was in a small community and knew all the E.M.T.s. When they wanted to keep me talking I told them I needed to talk as little as possible so I could concentrate on keeping conscious the pain was so great. They transferred me to the main ambulance and they took me to the hospital to start my road to healing. Later when I was asked how I got though it all I could say was, “It happened, nothing I could do about it.” And that is how my new universe started.

Things like this in my life and the lives of others start hidden disabilities. These disabilities are the kind that other people that don’t have them can’t see. This is a major problem because it is these kinds of disabilities that are hardest to overcome. So it is nearly impossible to get help because nobody will admit that we are in need of help.

by Queennandi XSheba & RAM

This was the 14th annual national day of protest against a plague of legal lynchings that if the Sssystem was true to its’ citizens, would never exist - po’lice terror.
This was the national day that fallen comerades & leaders such as Idriss Stelley, Cameron Boyd, Sean Bell, Oscar Grant, Bobby Hutton and Chairman Fred Hampton were remembered. For some of us at the march, it was an almost-new experience, but for those such as myself, It was a wound re-opener and a slap-in-the face fact that regardless of our heroes and sheroes waterfalls of bloodshed, The struggle continues. Painfully, I listened to the mother of our SBP (Slain By Pig) brother, choked up with emotions speak on her child. “He was a father, a brother-my son!” The pictures of Asa Sullivan, Idriss Stelley, Anita Gay, and many, many more shone away on this beautiful day as if the sun was their spirits, sending their warm blessings to inspire us to keep on fighting, and not to forget them.

All of us in the crowd jeered and booed when learned that the change of venue in SBP brother Oscar Grant’s Case was granted, for we all believe that if the crime was committed in Oakland, it should very well stay there. How is it that a pig like Johannes Mehserle can murder a man in cold blood, and his so-called right to be tried by a jury of his peers be handed to him on a gold platter? The foundation of the venue change is made of racism, cover-ups, political bootlickin’, back room shady deals, and of course, the pig’s right to a jury of his peers, so definitely the trial will be held on copland territory.
Fellow comerade, and “Man on the cross”, Brother JR spoke with fire:

“Wherever the trial goes, we will go! We will organize and educate the people ( in the area that the trial will be taking place) and enlighten them on the seriousness of po’lice brutality and murder!” Brother JR himself has been nailed to the cross for his souljah role in seeking justice for Oscar Grant. (JR’s court date is set for Oct 30th in Oakland) His unbroken spirit opened eyes and restored faith in the fact that the only way to justice is in the hands of Just Us.

I held back tears as I spoke on the assault I endured when I was seven months pregnant by SFPD’s “finest” officers Miller (ret) and shea. I was slammed viciously on my huge belly, and when witnesses began to gather around to protest, I was punished even more. One officer actually had the “beastly” nerve to put his knee on my back, using all of his weight and I thought for sure that my unborn cub wouldn’t survive. Po’lice brutality has become a generational experience in my family. My mother and younger brother did not survive this hateful wicked Sssystem, and it is up to me, and the rest of us to take a stand to demand of this murderous Sssystem that there will be NO MORE STOLEN LIVES!!!

With that said, I’d like to share a piece I wrote entitled “I AM TIRED OF BEING A SLAVE!”

QUEENNANDI. PNN

by Joe. B.

Thursday, Sept. 28, 2001 10:54 am.

Personally dazed and confused wondering how this could happen I could not write "Mess on Market Street" series for a while until I let sink in what happened on Tuesday, September, 11th 2001.

Went to bed, have a restless sleep.

Tuesday, Oct. 2, 2001 7:30 am seven people including myself walking on Market Street. Gray skies meet me with a whiff of a cool wind.

Usually a taperecorder, an aide to voice and memory, is in my hand.

A week or two ago it is lent to someone who need was greater than mine hopefully today or in days to come it will safe in its owner's possession soon.

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