Monday, May 23, 1983

2 POEMS: UP THE PALI, GUAVA JAVA

UP THE PALI

Up the Pali, the Chinese called this place 
the land of Sandalwood. 
Ginger and plumeria laden the air.
A solitary gecko chuckles in the night.

Koko head, Koko crater 
last point of volcanic activity in Oahu.
Pele, the fire goddess went looking 
for a last home here. Found none.

On the plains of Oahu, 
pineapples grow green skirts.
Dance in the wind.

8/23? 1983
added 9/15.2016
minor revision



GUAVA JAVA

The sun sculpted rain on the mountains
exoderm of ridges leaving rigid lava teeth exposed
The weight of ironwoods anchored in Pali winds.

8/23? 1983
added 9/15.2016

LOS CAPRICCIOS DEL PARADISO

LOS CAPRICCIOS DEL PARADISO
 —one breakfast delight, $2.45 plus tax

The mangoes aren't ripe,
the papayas aren't perfect
and the last tango was in Paris.
Pineapples ripen ever four years,
bananas take seven,
mangoes come twice a year
and in Waikiki—home to the spenders of paradise,
no grass hut for John Steinbeck
or anyone else for that matter,
pods of bronzed bodies outnumber 
the Hawaiian monk seals before colonization
where every season, the season of the tourist.
There is an open season on paradise every two blocks
But the fish still swim in Hanauma Bay, 
their bodies drift with the current
like leaves in the wind, 
and all is forgiven.

5/23/1983
Oahu, HI
added 9/15/2016

POSTCARD TO MARIANNE AND DAVE WARE

POSTCARD TO MARIANNE AND DAVE WARE


Aloha from Oahu.
The birds of paradise 
seem to get stuck up tourist noses
And the only real cure 
is to spend some puka puka.
The waihinis in bikinis on Waikiki
give rise to mail expectations,
But, the fish don't mind 
and that's the current count in the end. 
We all shaka shaka bro, Da kine,
Okay, okay, we hang loose.
The sign says it's okay, okay
And da water, she fine.
No Pele tears here.
Pele, she quiet for now.
Missionary man, he slapped her down good.
But she be like yeast bread 
in a bowl, rising, rising.
Soon, she make ready for da oven.

Oahu, HI
5/23/1983
added 9/15/2016

THE BIRDS OF PARADISE


The birds of paradise 
seem to get stuck up tourist noses 
and the only real cure 
is to spend some puka-puka.
The wahines in bikinis on Waikiki 
give rise to the mail expectations 
but the fish don't mind 
and that's the current count in the end.
We all shaka-shaka, dakine, okay-okay, hang loose.
The sun says it's okay-okay underwater, she fine.
No Pele tears here
Pele, she quiet for now.
Missionary man, he slapped her down good.
But she, like yeast bread in a bowl, rising. Rising.
Soon she make ready for the oven.
Aloha, Mahalo, mahalo.

5/23/1983

Sunday, May 22, 1983

Obligatory Hug, May 1983, Franklin St. Clubhouse, Santa Rosa (Maureen Hurley, Marianne Ware)





THREE POEMS from Hawaii

CHILDREN OF THE SEA

The children of the sea, 
the children of Mauna Loa
Pele raging against the sky
The fish swim between her toes 
in Hanamua Bay.
Her crying reaches the sea,
her black tears cool in its depths.


PAPAYAS

Papaya trees holding their clutch 
from beneath their leafy crowns.
Papaya trees holding their plantations skirts 
above their clutches of fruit
Waking to the cooling of Japanese doves 
wondering where I am anyway.


BREAKFAST DELIGHT

Papaya, Plumaria, papaya 
papaya papaya papaya.
White doves on the lanais in the tropical rain
Mahalo wahini, aloha welcome to Hawaii 
Hibiscus sunrise. Mahalo, Mahalo.
One breakfast delight, $2.45 plus tax.
$2.45 plus tax.

5/20-22/1983
Oahu, Hawaii
added 9/15/2016

Friday, May 20, 1983

RRWG reading, Franklin St. Clubhouse, with Marianne Ware, Maureen Hurley




MANINI

MANINI


How does the current level wave
capture that luminescence from the sky?
Tiny transparent fish in the surf 
schools of manini grazing on the coral 
as the wave changes, they suddenly shift 
as if they were fall leaves blowing in the wind.

The shifting wave swings the aspen leaf 
bodies of the fish about, as if a sudden dance 
of fall stirred them to madness.

Pale rainbow fish, zebra-striped eels, blue string worms.
How can one describe the hundreds of fish in the reef?

May 20-22? 1983
Added 9/15/2016



Thursday, May 19, 1983

FRAGMENTS

FRAGMENTS


The tentacles of the Banyan tree strangled, 
seeking wisdom from the earth.
Too much of a good thing is good for nothing.



Watching Hawaii 5-0 in Waikiki'i
is like déjà vu all over again.



The USS Arizona Memorial 
rests atop a thousand soldiers 
entombed beneath its decks.

5/19/1983
added 9/15/2016

RIDING THE NUMBER 20 BUS

RIDING THE NUMBER 20 BUS

Riding the number 20 bus
the driver singsongs the stops in duplicate:
Diamondhead, Diamondhead
Nimitz Highway, Nimitz Highway
Two types of coconuts over dere 
coconut tree, over dere, coconut tree.
Good shave ice. Shave ice. Kailua, Kailua.
Windward side, Windward side
Punchbowl Arena, up dere Yea, up dere.
Condominiums, condominiums.
See da banyan tree, da banyan tree
Ala Moana, Ala Moana. Hang loose, 
hang loose, bro, sistah, we almost dere. 
Almost dere. Aloha, aloha.

5/19/1983
added and slightly revised 9/15/2016

LAHAINA

LAHAINA

The tentacles 
of the Banyan tree 
dangle down 
seeking wisdom 
from the earth.

Too much 
of a good thing 
is good for nothing.

5/19/1983
I added title later.

Tuesday, May 17, 1983

2000 MILES FROM SHORE

2000 MILES FROM SHORE

Flying west along the path of the sun, 
a perpetual noon blazing on the ocean, 
occasional clouds, carpeted white against the blue—
I awaken from sleep with words 
slowly crystallizing in the conscious realm of thought.
Where do thoughts sleep?

Clouds forming vast mountain ranges at sea
Clouds forming milk skins across the volcanoes.
Tiny islands, mid-Pacific, land catching the clouds, 
a shawl draped over paradise.
All cultivated lands look the same from the air.
The vacant gleam of dark eyes:
the twin summits of Mauna Loa and Mauna Kea
watching the sky for signs.

5/17-18/1983
Oahu, HI
added 9/15/2016
slightly revised

Mimi & Livena drawing, Hawaii Journal 5/17/83


Saturday, May 14, 1983

FIRST TIME

FIRST TIME
— for Jim Byrd

Our canoe rounded a sheltered river bend
collecting calm emerald water
until it glistened in a slow curved smile.
The towering trees punctuated its mirrored speech.

From our raised paddles, words escaped
unannounced as water droplets
spawning concentric ripples
in an undulating desire toward shore.

Who is naming these silent tremblings,
sneaking up, canoe-like along the river
where, like deer coming down for an evening drink,
our hearts stopped, afraid to slake their thirst?

Who will stand guard while they ask the river
where the trees stop and the reflections begin?
Through the trees the wind is trickling.
Only the shore answers in a slow curved smile.

Years later, while drinking from separate rivers
we keep asking each other the same questions,
and our hearts, no less thirsty or afraid,
find nothing in the backwaters, except ourselves.

1983
rev./88
Forestville

1984 Deepest Valley Review

Monday, May 2, 1983

Obligatory Hug, May 1983, Franklin St. Clubhouse, Santa Rosa (poem)

I was scheduled to read with Marianne Ware at the Franklin St. Clubhouse in Santa Rosa on May 22, but according to my journals. it looks like I stayed in Hawaii instead. However, I had a poem in the Obligatory Hug. So I'm posting it as a publishing credit. Rites of Extreme Unction





Sunday, May 1, 1983

AMBER


AMBER

From the listlessness of fog,
and the dark regeneration of cherozim soil
to the pungent breath of hot summer’s evening,
comes my whispering shadows
trading secrets with the wind.
After a long winter, animals bend
me toward their mouths and learn
the tender filaments of spring.
Worn around the neck of a woman,
I am the pine forests weeping before the fire,
and the artists’ solvent, I am the amber tears
pressed to the deep bosom of the earth,
liquid sun, frozen sun, the eyes of tigers,
the eyes of snakes, bees hidden inside me.

The fog rises until I no longer see
the grey whales drifting on the Baltic.

5/83?  84? with Susan Kennedy’s class CPITS

I was in Hawaii May 17

Friday, April 15, 1983

SECRET ADMIRER

SECRET ADMIRER

I know a child who prays nights
to the sun of beauty
so fish will swim in a stream
filled with light.

Hollow masks: air through eye sockets.
We are afraid to look.

This light: the crisp edges of the sand dunes
spend little time shaving stars
from the night sky.

He proposed, I'll keep your books
until you're eighty before I return them.

Lately, I've been receiving anonymous postcards
filled with cryptic messages:
this poetry by which we live.

(Most nights I sleep alone.)

Last rainstorm, the Alta Mira
almost slid back into the sea.
Close your eyes. Listen to the rain
on my roof.
The cat's voracious yawn
disturbs the air as you turn.

My car breaks down
the third time this month.
You ask me just what I plan to do

And tell me about the babies
you want to have before its too late.
We both sleep alone.

In the hot tub, we drink your first wine
and sing love songs in the downpour.
A neighbor throws both of his shoes.
How many times do we torture ourselves
before we realize we've had enough?

Use commas before.
use commas after.
Use commas to separate.
After a word separate
this language.

Alienation—there is enough reason
to be frightened. Turn down the music.
I'll try to speak more softly
and not sing when you do.

Another postcard arrives unsigned.
Birds fly together. Don't they know
the sky is an arena for thought?

These tiny competitions between us.
Another wedge driven home.
Bird wings. Clipped feathers:

At night thin men imagine golden birds
flying across the sky.
The sky is filled with blackbirds
obliterating the stars.

The window is open.
An indecipherable melody
rides the nightair on tiny hooves.
These words fly softly west,
away from the dawn birds.

Loosened from the lassos of the sun
we are small unchartered islands
rising
and sinking
at will.

4/ 83


Friday, April 1, 1983

PLACEBO date?

PLACEBO

Sparrows dip in the evening sky 
for insects as the warmth of the sun 
slips from the dusty cheeks of the aged. 
The sky assumes its night position 
and masquerades as a bed of quartz 
as if the light of the stars could comfort 
the old ones for the loss of the sun. 
Fog clings to the hillsides like late apples 
on a branch in November. Another false night 
for those still hungry for the light of day.

April 1983?
added 9/15/2016

TRUE RHYTHM


TRUE RHYTHM
                          (Saguaro Arms)

Off the crisp edges of dunes,
a fine spray of sand forms into rivulets.
Rocks glisten in manganese hues
dressed in eons of desert varnish.

In that arid landscape of the heart,
opuntia, beavertail, cereus.
Saguaro arms reach for cerulean
dreams of desert sky.

The yucca's pale scent
attracts the moth.
In the desert, a blossom lives
throughout the night
and into the cool dawn hours
before it withers and dies.

The only rhythm of the desert
is the slow heartbeat 
of the saguaro after rain.

Spring 1983
rev. 10/15
 

Parade, 1955

Early childhood memory

I drag my new patent leather leather shoes on the sidewalk. My aunt yells at me and jerked my arm. Sonorous traffic like an angry hive of bees, charges as the light turns green. Exhaust curls around my white socks and thin ankles. My starched dress hangs over my body like a crinoline cloud. I hold onto my grandmother’s hand, and run the other hand along the white picket fence. The crowd stares at beautiful ladies in evening dresses and long white gloves, riding on the tops of convertibles, smiling and waving at us. The light turns yellow. Horses clatter by, dancing sideways, leaving steaming masses of manure. A man follows them, busily sweeping it up. Where are they all going? Why does the light keep turning from green to yellow to red like an angry eye changing moods, as the parade sweeps by? Those corpulent men all waving, fat cigars in their mouths, and gold rings and the endless clicking of traffic street lights.

Year? 4/83 This sounds like it was the St. Patrick’s Day parade in San Francisco, in which case it’s either 1954 or 1955.

Saturday, March 12, 1983

CAMPBELL HOT SPRINGS (100 Monkeys) no efile on final copy

CAMPBELL HOT SPRINGS
(100 MONKEYS)

Like snow monkeys of Hokkaido
we sit in steaming pools
under a flurry of snowflakes
and discuss our stomachs,
Keats, and the idea of truth and beauty.
We bring our ideas of culture to backwoods
artists who were content to paint
on rusted frying pans and saws.
To them this is what art is.

Imu, of the 100 monkeys story, was the first
to wash sand from grains of wheat in the sea
and soon the whole tribe copied her.
Scientists were puzzled by snow monkeys
arranging small white stones because
it had nothing to do with survival.
They couldn't bear the thought of monkeys
inventing a new game, or art.

Later, when the story of Imu's influence
was challenged by fundamentalists, I saw
a photo of the monkeys and people
bathing in the hot springs together.
Who was copying who?
Hoarfrost forms in our hair, melts and
trickles onto our scalps like blood.
Snow piles up on bare black willow branches
and leaves a dermis of skin on the water.
Nothing is as simple as it seems.

2/1983
Campbell Hot Springs
rev. 1988


CAMPBELL HOT SPRINGS

Like the snow monkeys of Hokkaido
we sit in steaming pools
under a flurry of snowflakes
discussing our stomachs.
Ice forming in our hair
melts and trickles down
to our scalps like blood.
Snow gathers on bare willow twigs
and leaves a dermis on the water.

2/83

IN KIND MATCH, and some haiku , Chico


Dear California Arts Council, this is just to say, that after my presentation, for my in-kind match I am deducting the price of a pair of gloves because we stayed too long in the hot pools and got caught in a snowstorm over Yuba Pass. I had to put chains on Ken’s car, because he didn’t know how, and then I couldn’t write for ages afterwards with my poor frozen hands. On the long straight slaughterhouse stretch of Highway 99, we gauged the distance of approaching cars in our lane by measuring how close together the headlights were. We hoped they weren’t in our lane. And we measured the speed of our death accordingly. And after that, I could only think in broken  haiku.

3/12/83

The precision of bird wings 
slicing through the air, 
A  scythe of feathers.

Honey locusts 
looking up through the mouth 
of a cliff to the sky.

Hydrants aching 
for a dog’s leg trickling water 
urging the bladder onward. 

Indian hot Springs, 
Big Bend, Pit River we were hot 
stones floating in the pool.

On I-5, the transparency of trees 
hiding winter’s houses in the hills 
clothed like green brides.

3/12/83

Friday, March 11, 1983

Gypsy funeral


Baro Ram, the big man, the leader, or king of the San Pablo gypsies, Staley Costello died. Gypsies believe that the dead should be surrounded by what they loved in life. Things to take with them on their final journey. Stanley Costello took a Styrofoam model of a leaping fish, a rod, some cigars, cans of Coke, a fishnet—all were  placed on the bier for that final journey.

No date. 3/83?

Note bene: The last gypsy funeral I witnessed was for Baro Ram Silva, the Santa Rosa King of the Gypsies. Swarthy men on horseback, decked in heavily tooled silver saddles, people crowded in Cadillac convertibles, down the middle of Santa Rosa Avenue, women in full skirts, shawls embroidered with roses, everyone, men and women wearing astounding gobs of jewelry, I stood outside of Madame Rosa’s Palm Reading parlor on Santa Rosa Ave., and watched a lost slice of history parade by, not understanding I was witnessing the end of an era.

Silva, or Silveria, lived on High Street in Sebastopol, across from the library, and made redwood chairs and tables. He supplied my friend Donna Champion’s fathers A&W franchise with tables and chairs. Come spring he found his way to my grandmother’s house in Forest Knolls, where he collected scrap iron and fixed our pots. One time we bought two chairs and a table that lasted forever.

Donna remembers one year Ursuline High School put on a Gypsy night, and the real Gypsies wearing massive chains of gold, turned out. Madame Rachael was reading palms in one corner of the room. It was a watershed event, as they are but nominally Catholic. Donna went to school with comedian Pat Paulson’s niece, Pulika (sp) was their gypsy name.

It seems I raided old notebooks and recorded everything in March. First paragraph is from my NPC journal. Silveria story I added later, with a lot of hindsight, 4/2020

See King of the Gypsies

Tuesday, March 1, 1983

GRAVID TREE

GRAVID TREE
      —For Daphne

Jonquils nod their heads toward the sun.
Shadows of trees claw at the edges of the meadow
 as winter sun pushes westward.

Like a river, the wind lifts me
and enters with greedy licks:
The only thing real. I am coming through the tall grass.

The wind carries me to the orchard.
and I sit astride a fallen tree covered with moss—
warm, yielding, like flesh.

Like the wind, the tree quickens
comes, and I fill the trees.
I am coming, through the tall grass.

The tree shudders & divides.
Embedded in the heartwood,
smooth as- silk, an embryonic apple
beats a slow rhythm.

The wind comes through the tall grass.

3/83 Forest Knolls

Tuesday, February 1, 1983

BOTTOM OF THE NINTH


BOTTOM OF THE NINTH

Our hearts catch an inside curve.
We try to sneak past each other
but the umpire yells foul play
and we are lost at the bottom of the ninth.
The player on third tries to steal home
but the bases are loaded and the score's
zero to zero in the moon's favor.

2/83

NIGHT HERON

NIGHT HERON

Night anchors on the dock
where the marsh heron's mask
is untouched by muddy water.
Only the slender bones of his legs
separate him from water and air.

 2/83

FALLEN ANGEL, drafts, no final efile


FALLEN ANGEL

Lost in the backwater
of each other's thoughts,
from the beginning,
we felt the letting go
into slow lees and eddies
until the current caught it,
eased it over venial stones,
closer to the whirlpool
in a slow gyrating dance.
Afraid of this sinuous twist-
ing of fleshéd days continuing,
we fishtailed, sought distance, slid
our attention into the river,
called it horizon. We named it mirth,
named it sin, grinned through
blackberry-stained teeth against
the skull-end of summer,
never calling it by its rightful name
The pelican daughters of King Lear
offered little solace. Like the redwoods,
their cliff-edged hearts beat once
a century. They never danced bone-
blind or drowned in the detritus
of amniotic love    after a coat-
hanger fished night’s labored descend-
ent from a crevice in the couch.

2/83  
rev 7/94

another version



FALLEN ANGEL

Feel the mind let go of itself
in the slow backwaters until
the current catches it, hurtles
it over stones closer to the whirlpool
in a slow gyrating dance;
the bone blind love
joined in the debris of night.

The mask of attention slips.
Afraid of this nakedness,
our eyes seek distant horizons.
Our hands offer hollow comfort.
We mechanically grin and laugh
calling it mirth, calling it laughter,
never calling it by its rightful name.
We are lost in the alleyways and cities
of each other's thoughts.

2/83
see
7 POEM FRAGMENTS, no date, end of summer 83? 
 

Monday, January 31, 1983

POEM FOR MARTY GOLDSTEIN

(Oct. 14, 1949 - Jan 15, 1983)

A woodpecker plucks seeds 
from a late fig in January. 
Bubbles rise as my hand 
traces along the surface of the tub. 
In another town, my friend Marty 
sits up in the hospital bed, 
stares wildly out, and vomits blood. 
What did he see before that final leap? 
A girl tucked baby mice in the fingers of a glove 
and put them in a bureau drawer for safekeeping.
Who forgot they were there and what fingers 
crushed the powdery remains of mice 
as she fitted the gloves to her fingertips? 
Was this a memory of home, 
or an old dream?

1983, no date, found in my 1983 Napa Poetry Conference journal

Monday, January 10, 1983

Guerneville Poet Boschka Layton to Read at Copperfield's Books Jan 10. (need tear sheet)


Canadian poet and Guerneville resident Boschka Layton's first book, The Prodigal Sun, by Mosaic Press, Toronto, Canada, has been released in Canada, the US, and abroad. A poetry reading and book party will be held at Copperfield's Books in Sebastopol on January 10 at 8 PM.

The book, a collection of poems, stories, and drawings, all by the author, reflect the style as diversified as the life of Boschka Layton. She has managed to fit in a full-time career as a painter, an editor, graphic designer, mother, and writer all within a 62-year period.

Winner of the Santa Rosa Junior College Fred Minelli Award for creative writing, recipient of an Ontario Arts Council grant, and a Canada Council grant applicant, Layton claims she wrote her first novel at the age of six, and at seven, her second novel, which apparently contained controversial material.

Her second novel was a how-to book for South Sea Islanders in need of instruction on the assembly of codpieces—which was promptly confiscated and burned by her grandmother. She gave up writing for the next 40 years, became an artist and established herself in Montréal, and later, in California.

Born in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, Boschka Layton, then Betty Sutherland, spent the next 12 years traveling across Canada with her family before her mother died. Her father remarried, and added three more brothers and sisters to the Sutherland clan.

Escaping her wicked stepmother, Betty studied art at a vocational school at St. John's, in New Brunswick. Layton remembers when she first became interested in art. Her brother John was sitting at the kitchen table trying to draw an apple. She helped them and in the process, became hooked. John gave up art and took up writing, and she became the artist.

Her brother John, founded an avant garde literary magazine, First Statement, which eventually merged with another periodical to become the illustrious Northern Review.

Betty who was in charge of layout and book design of First Statement, was also a member of the editorial board. In 1941, she met an unknown writer who wanted to publish his work, and three days later they were madly in love.

The tempestuous relationship lasted nearly 20 years and produced two children. Betty later married Irving Layton after the birth of their son, Max. Irving became a well-known poet, who was later "discovered" by the Black Mountain School poet Robert Creeley. But Betty and her brother "discovered" Irving first.

Irving eventually became Canada's premier poet and received numerous awards and grants. Betty continued designing his books, and she painted. She said, "I painted all my life. I didn't stop painting—even when I had my kids."

Betty finally had had enough of Irving's philandering ways, and left him for good, smuggling her small daughter Naomi out of Canada with an underground passport. But she had to leave her son Max behind. In Canada, a child can't obtain a passport without both parents' signatures—and Irving wouldn't sign.

Betty arrived in San Francisco expecting to find work in the publishing business but was unable to find work. She reverted to menial jobs, working at department stores, restaurants, and provided domestic services. Layton remembers, "Working as a char woman, scrubbing floors for an old lady, was rock-bottom."

Betty took up an itinerant life with a man named Price, and the three of them traveled all over the US, living a few weeks in one town or another, while Price looked for work. Layton, fed up with Price's unsuccessful search for work, sold her house in Big Sur, and left for India with her daughter in tow.

Living abroad for two years, Layton said, "India change my whole life. It cleared all the shit out, and it centered me. For the first time, I began to write again. Obviously, I couldn't write while I was with Irving. He was the writer and I was the painter."

Layton compares her India journals to that of DH Lawrence. Layton said, "After India I never lived with a man again. I'm not saying a woman can't paint or write and live with the man at the same time, but for me, that's when the change occurred."

She added, "I began to concentrate more on my own work. At the age of 50, it was about time. "After India, Layton settled in Sonoma County, in 1971, but continued to make yearly sojourns back to Nova Scotia to visit her father. She said, "I started young traveling across the continent. In my work I'm always trying to bring the two coasts together."

When asked why she didn't revert back to her maiden name of Sutherland after her divorce from Layton—she still signs all are her paintings as Sutherland—Boschka commented "my half-brother Donny was becoming well known as an actor then and I didn't want to be smothered by the association."

Actor Donald Sutherland made his first big break in The Dirty Dozen, and started movies such as Luke, Day of the Locust, and the Academy award-winning movie Ordinary People.

Layton, reminisced about her famous half-brother, and said, "Donny was the most extraordinary kid. There was nothing ordinary about him, even though he starred in the movie Ordinary People. I remember when he was three years old and a beautiful woman came to visit. He came running out across the lawn without a stitch on, and presented himself to her at her feet."

Writing under the nom de plume of Boschka Layton, Layton draws heavily upon her life experiences. She has one semi-autobiographical novel finished, and another novel three quarters completed.

She explained the origin of her name. When Betty married Irving, she converted to Judaism and took the name, Bashka, which in Russian Jewish, is a diminutive of Betty. But when she left Irving, she took on the name Bosch from the painter Hieronymus Bosch. The diminutive -ka ending means "little Bosch."

Boschka's poems and short stories have appeared in several local publications including First Leaves, Sonoma Mandala, Sonoma County Stump, and The Red Book. 

As far as future prospects go, Layton said, "I'd like to get a novel out, some poems out, a book of short stories out, so I can go on writing." She concluded, "sending stuff out is the worst part of writing. It takes up too much time. I think I need an agent."

Layton's book, The Prodigal Sun, will be available at Book and Brush, Copperfield's Books, and Eeyore's Books. Reading with Boschka at Copperfield's book party will be Ina Scrocco. The reading will begin at 8 PM, with one dollar admission at the door.

NO TEARSHEET
A shorter version of this story appeared in Rural Arts Services' ARC, a monthly periodical serving rural California. Boschka Layton, ARC article (tearsheet)

Boschka Layton (Betty Sutherland) 1921 - 1984