Summer 2003
Non-Fiction
Observing
The Long Line by Matt Layman
Snowy Night by Rod Loftus
Oregon’s Columbia River Gorge by Shelton Sisimai
Remembering
Clayton Street by Katie Stewart
Hidden Lies by Bittersweet
My Colorful Grandma by Rhonda Furgison
My Special Place by Carli Cominoli
Remembering That Vato by Rudy Rosales
The D.O.N by TS
The Scent of Memory by Clare Reavis
Explaining
What is Graphic Design? by Carli Cominoli
Who’s Running the Farm? by Beth Schweitz
Evaluating
Signs: A Sign of the Times? by Beth Schweitz
Mercy High School by Carli Cominoli
The Long Line
by Matt Layman
As I came out the door of my housing unit on the way to eat, I looked up and saw the line that I would have to wait in to get my supper. The closer I got, the longer the line seemed. People were crowding together tighter and tighter. Now, if anyone has ever been on a farm and seen the pigs crowd around a feeder, that’s what I’m talking about. In prison, I have seen inmates so hungry they literally run to the chow hall.
Today, the line is longer than any I have witnessed in the three and a half years I’ve been incarcerated. So many people in line, all hungry. They crowd together, jostle to keep their places. The noise is like that at a state fair. No one word is audible because so many people speak at once. The air is thick with clouds of cigarette smoke. Some prisoners play hacky sack. Tension grows. Fights break out. I’m getting so hungry I could act like one of those pigs on the farm, fighting for food.
I shift from foot to foot. My patience wanes. Minutes seem like hours. Then, finally, I am in the door. The line seems to move faster, but now I have two new things to contend with–the smell of the food and the stench of body odor from hundreds of inmates. These two new odors swirl up and mix with the cigarette smoke. Finally, I get my food. It is the reverse of what I expect. The smell, mixing with the odors of sweat and smoke, is awful. My hunger runs from me like water down a drain. At the garbage can, I throw away what the state of Nebraska calls food, mindful that I will soon be very hungry again. I hope the food is better next time I come through this line, and I hope the line’s a little shorter. too. Long lines and bad food; they are just the beginning of life in prison.
Snowy Night
by Rod Loftus
Years ago, standing on the snow covered steps of my dimly-lit farmhouse porch, I enjoyed the serenity of one wicked snowstorm. While the pure white snow fell, I watched motionless as the magical, blustery wind tossed it about. My grassy fields, pruned rose bushes, and tilled garden were invisible under the drifts of the crystal-like snow. Out in the yard, the group of tall, dull gray maple trees were crackling and fighting to keep the fierce winds from splitting them all into two. With the wind howling and the windows rattling, I felt helpless against this beast of nature. I could no longer gaze at the horizon in the distance; in fact, it was becoming very hard to see beyond my backyard due to the whiteout. Surely exposing myself to these harsh and brutal weather conditions much longer could become life threatening. Smelling the crispness in the air, I pulled my knit stocking cap down over my ears and tugged at the zipper on my parka, bringing it closer to my frozen face. Braving the elements, I stayed out a few minutes more because the beauty was, indeed, breathtaking. Unable to endure anymore, I headed inside for safety. Later on, resting peacefully in my toasty warm bed and looking out the half-frosted over window, I remember thinking this is one blizzard I’ll never forget.
Oregon’s Columbia River Gorge
by Shelton Sisimai
To experience the true beauty of nature, I would have to take a trail walk in the Columbia River Gorge. The ground is moist, soft, and filled with luscious green plants constantly nourished by the fast-flowing river alongside the trail. The rush of the river causes a fine mist of water droplets that eventually settles on the wide leaves of the bushes. When the sunlight is filtered through the leaves of the tall, imposing trees, and shines on the settled water droplets, I see a glitter like that of a diamond’s sparkle. Furthermore, the canopy of leaves from the magnificent trees gives the much-needed shade with the occasional shaft of light coming through and maintaining the relaxing temperature. However, the greatest feeling is when I close my eyes and just experience the fine works of Mother Nature. A soft sound of the river rushing on the smooth rocks is complemented by the whispers of the gentle breeze blowing on the wild berry bushes, and, of course, the sweet melodies from the graceful red and green humming birds gives a soothing feeling to the soul. Above all, it’s the aroma of the moist ground, flowers, and wild fruit that makes this place a taste of paradise. For a moment, all my worries seem to fade away. Oregon’s Columbia River Gorge, what a magnificent place to be!
Clayton Street
by Katie Stewart
The wood was still the same. Whenever I walked into that house on Clayton Street in San Francisco, California, I always noticed the beautiful cherry wood floors that stretched from the foyer to the edge of the dining room. I stood in the entrance hallway with my luggage in tow as I had done many times before, as I had done just months before. Now it was April, and the Christmas tree was missing from the living room along with a part of my life.
New Years was over and 1995 had begun. My mom and I had flown from blustering cold Bellevue, Nebraska, to spend the holidays with our family in the Bay area. We were staying with my Aunt Margie, her husband Ned, and their newborn son Ben in a small apartment off of High Street in Oakland. It was almost smothering to share such a small living space with four other people and two cats, not to mention the Christmas tree which took up one-fourth of the living room.
It had been a nice Christmas, although our traditions seemed to have changed for that year. They had changed because our family had changed. My Uncle David had been living with AIDS for quite some time, but he chose not to tell us until it was absolutely necessary. By the time he told us, he had grown quite sick. He was struggling with pancreatic cancer at Christmas time. The chemo had gotten to him, and the stubborn person I had once known was nothing more than a dying, frail shell that had been abandoned by its occupant.
When I stood in the front entrance hall at the bottom of the plush blue carpeted stairs, I watched him drag what was left of his spirit and physical being into the upstairs hall bathroom. Trying to keep my attention elsewhere, I turned my gaze to the right. I peered through the living room and focused on the Christmas tree. The Christmas tree was always exquisite in that house. It stood seven feet tall and it was strewn with beautiful white lights and gorgeous ornaments that my Uncle Ray had collected over the years.
When I heard the faucet turn on in the upstairs bathroom, my daydream came to a halt. I was now focusing on the thin shadow in the dark bathroom, my uncle was scrubbing his hands intently, over and over again. I knew what he was trying to scrub away, but I wasn’t sure why. Maybe he didn’t like the smell that the marijuana left behind, but my guess was that he didn’t want us to know how he pacified the tantrum that his body was throwing due to his cancer treatment. That frail image in the bathroom hunched over the faucet is how he was ingrained in my head when we left that year. That image is the last true image I would have of him.
The shadow that his body became can’t even compare to the other memories I have of him. He stood about five feet and eleven inches tall. He had very short blonde hair and a pair of black-rimmed glasses that covered his eyes in an intellectual way. The glasses couldn’t conceal the rage in his eyes though, a rage he had had for so long. His rage came from being different, and being judged because he was different. He was gay. He had so many wonderful things in his life and he shared them all, but in the back of his mind the ignorance of others ate at him. The rage came through and haunted him in so many ways. It haunted the frail shadow hunched over the faucet.
Four months later the month of April stares me in the face. I stand in the entrance hall with my luggage in tow. I’m surrounded by my mother, my grandmother, my Aunt Margie, and Uncle Ray. That moment was the first time I had been in that house without my Uncle David. The house still looked the same. The cherry wood floors looked the same. I couldn’t understand how the house could look the same. It didn’t know things had changed, that it had changed.
Uncle Ray led my mom and I up to David’s old room, a room that overlooked the flourishing garden below. Looking above the garden you could see a beautiful green hillside that towered over the house. My Uncle David had led the last few months of life in that room, and now mom and I would be staying in it, awaiting his funeral the following day.
The memorial service honored a man who struggled all throughout his life, and then he struggled in his death. Sitting at that service I watched the people around me sob for the loss of a man who could be so stubborn and cruel at times and yet so eccentric and wonderful. That show of emotion made me cherish the memories I had of him. When we pulled into the garage of the house on Clayton Street and walked up the stairs to prepare the reception that was going to be held, I stood there in the entrance hall and stared down at the wood floor. The wood was still the same.
My Colorful Grandma
by Rhonda Furgison
Her name was Pauline. She was someone quite different, someone you should have known. She was a short, fat, Italian lady. She had a bad hip and waddled as she walked, like a penguin. She had no teeth and wore thick glasses, but, boy, was she cute. Most of the time, you would see her wearing a muumuu with no bra on. We would joke how they hung to her knees. She didn’t care; she was comfortable.
She lived in the projects (low income housing) for 30 years; this was quite a few years ago. Everyone knew her. They called her Mama Dukes or Grandma Dukes. Dukes was her last name. We were poor but never knew it; we had everything we needed. She always made lots of food and invited everyone to eat. She would spend her days walking back and forth to the store, only a few blocks away. Or she would just sit on the porch talking to people as they came by. She could talk to everybody and anybody.
Speaking of the store, my sister and I spent a lot of time with my grandma. My mom worked a lot. We loved going to Grandma’s house, but when it came to going to the store with her, we would be there forever. We would walk up and down the aisles. She would talk to everybody. Everyone who worked at the store knew my grandmother. The guys who worked there would ask, “How ya doing?” She would say, “Without.” I never understood what that meant until I was older. She would tell them she would take them to the meat cooler. What did that mean?
She was also very dramatic. She could cry at the drop of a hat. We said that she should have been an actress. She would always embarrass me at our school concerts. She would sit in the front row, and when we came out, she would begin to cry. I ‘d think, why is she crying over Jingle Bells?
She knew a little Italian, but she taught us only the dirty words. Maybe that’s all she knew. I remember her teaching all the kids in the neighborhood dirty songs. She knew a lot of different people, too, from the criminals from whom she would buy stolen goods to private detectives. One of her very good friends was a private detective. She helped him in some of his work.
As I entered high school, I remember a time I skipped school. I had a friend write me a note and sign her name. My grandma had no idea about this. When the school called, she said, “Oh yeah, I wrote that note.” When I got home she said, “Next time, just let me know.” She was quite a character.
My Special Place
by Carli Cominoli
The song always said that if you are going to San Francisco, to be sure to wear flowers in your hair. Well, that’s what I did when I went to the Golden Gate City. Ever since I was a little girl, my mom had promised that for my high school graduation gift, she would take me to San Francisco. It was something I had always looked forward to. When I finally graduated, it hit me that we were actually going. From June 6th through June 10th, 2002, I ventured to a place I had been waiting to see for years.
On our first day in San Francisco, my Mom and I decided to take the streetcar down to Fisherman’s Wharf. It was a series of piers set right on the cool bay. Fisherman’s Wharf wasn’t at all what I expected. I thought it would be a foggy, quiet area with a few docks around the ocean and old men with beards fishing on them. The Wharf was an active and busy place with people scurrying all over. The strange part was that all the people there minded their own business and no one bothered us. I was so used to people not minding their own business when in public, but here it was different. I saw all kinds of people, from drag queens with pink umbrellas walking the streets to an old man painting a picture while smoking a joint in broad daylight.
My favorite memory was when my mom and I were walking down Pier 39. We were chatting about how excited we were about the new earrings she had bought. I looked up and saw at least five people with video cameras targeting us. I was so wrapped up in conversation I didn’t think anything of it. The next thing I knew, a bush jumped out at us and growled! There was a man who sat on the pier all day long holding tree branches waiting to scare the people who walked by! Mom and I couldn’t stop laughing because we had screamed so loud all the people watching were pointing and chuckling at us.
Before we left Fisherman’s Warf, I decided to get a henna tattoo. It was a non-permanent ink tattoo that would last about two weeks. A spunky redhead girl had a stand set up in the middle of the Wharf to give henna tattoos. I decided to get a cat’s face tattooed on my lower back. I remember being embarrassed because the lady drawing my tattoo had to pull my pants down really far to get it in the right spot. It took about fifteen minutes, and my mom tried to stand behind me so the people passing couldn’t see too much of my rear-end. Undoubtedly, as people passed I got some strange looks. But, in the end it turned out really unique looking. I was proud to show my friends my rare henna tattoo when I got back home.
On our second day in San Francisco, my mom and I decided to go to Golden Gate Park. It was three miles from the ocean, so the cool smell of brisk seawater was in the air. The park itself was beautiful with rolling grassy hills, stretches of open land, and hiking trails spread throughout. There were spots here and there with trees that had been there over a hundred years. I looked up at them and saw miles of creaky branches. When the wind blew, only the very tops of the trees swayed. They were sturdy with strong roots that went deep into the ground several yards around them. The trees looked old and wise like they had seen generations grow up in that park. A man selling sunglasses in the park told us that after the Vietnam War, all the veterans and hippies came to this area to live. I had a feeling it hadn’t changed much from that era until now.
As my mom and I turned around one corner of a trail, I gazed in disbelief at the sight before me. It was a huge piece of land that stretched for acres with hundreds of people scattered everywhere. Every face I looked at seemed at peace. The sun was shining and there was a live Jamaican Reggae band in the background. The air was cool but comforting, and all the people were relaxing. No one was bothering anyone else. There were couples lying on blankets, eating picnic lunches, and some people were walking the trails smoking pot. There were also groups of friends playing frisbee or soccer, and others had just fallen asleep in the sun. My mom and I just sat there in awe of this. I had never seen that many people in my life so at peace and doing nothing but enjoying life. There was just something about that park that was comforting and welcoming. I saw ages young and old, people white and black. They were all in one spot for the same reason: to get away from whatever they needed to get away from and enjoy life. I picked a daisy in Golden Gate Park and I am reminded of that beautiful place every time I look at it.
The last night my Mom and I were in San Francisco, we decided to go grab some ice cream after dinner. We left our hotel wearing baggy sweat pants and sweatshirts. We did that so the homeless people on the corners wouldn’t beg us for money. We walked a few blocks doing nothing but looking. We looked at all the tall buildings, the lights, and the people who came out at night. The air was cold and brisk. The wind swept through the streets and the buildings like nothing I’ve ever felt in Nebraska. We had to stop in one extremely expensive art gallery to warm up for a few minutes. The owner of the gallery gave us a dirty look and tried as hard as she could not to talk to us. We figured it was probably because of the way we were dressed. But we didn’t care; who was she to judge us? We finally stopped in a warm 1950’s themed coffee shop and sipped hot chocolate and split some warm apple pie. On the way back to the hotel, we stopped and listened to a jazz band set up on a corner. We finally made it back to the hotel and fell into a deep sleep.
Remembering That Vato
by Rudy Rosales
Hearing the eleven-fifteen Union Pacific train headed for St. Joe from my cold prison cell jolts me into remembering walking awkwardly on the railroad tracks with the local gang of kids from the East L.A. barrio where I grew up. We threw rocks and put plastic toy army men and metal slugs on the tracks so the train would flatten them into wicked shapes. I can remember the conversations we had then.
We spoke of a vato, a vato that everyone spoke about. This vato was the vato who got jumped by the Clover street gang and ended up with a fierro/switch blade in his back that took him to an early eternity. We spoke of this vato who was mistakenly shot and killed by the juras (cops) when they mistook him for another vato wanted from barrio White Fence.
This vato’s name eludes me, but this vato was the same vato who died driving his ranfla (car) off a cliff on Mohalland Drive, and then there was the vato who overdosed on chlva (heroin). This vato we spoke about was the same vato that had his ticket pulled after being blown to bits by Senor Claymore in Vietnam. It seems that we spoke of this vato everyday, yet his name escapes me. This vato died in San Quentin after unknown assailants tossed him over the prison tiers ten stories high.
“Dios mio!” This vato’s name is still a mystery to me, yet I sure remember this vato. He’s the same vato who caught a balazo (bullet) in the mug while cruising Whittier Boulevard for trying to get with those chicas (girls) from Eighteen Street, and he was also the same vato that was seeing La Giggles from barrio Lomas and was found floating face down, staring at the fish with dead eyes way out there in the lake at Alondra Park.
That vato had notoriety back then when we were shorty’s trying to make our bones. We didn’t talk about our next little league baseball game or Cub Scouts meeting. Chale! (Hell no!). We smoked grifa (marijuana), played on the railroad tracks and spoke of this vato. The vato the cops found in the street tunnel on Florence Avenue with lifeless eyes seeing nada (nothing) with a black garbage bag tied around his neck.
Every time I look in the mirror I am reminded of this vato, who had many names, who should have been me.
The D.O.N
by TS
I had just finished my Nursing Assistant course from the Clairmont Nursing Home. I had been looking forward to work at the same facility, and finally the fateful day had arrived. I got up early that morning, as I had to be at work by seven o’clock sharp. I arrived just in time or so I thought, and was punching in my card, as was the normal practice of that facility, when I heard, “First day and you are already late.” I turned around and saw her for the first time. If it hadn’t been for the stem look on her face and her thick glasses, she was almost pretty. I looked at the time in the punching slot, and to my horror it was five minutes after seven. It was much later on that I realized that their clock was faster than mine. She came very near to my face and whispered, “I will not tolerate it next time.” I managed to stammer an apology, as she walked away.
She was 5′ 8″ tall with long blonde hair which was tied up in a blue scrunchy. She was a pear-shaped woman in her mid-forties. She wore white nurse’s shoes, white trousers, and a lab coat. She was overweight, yet walked very fast. She had the air of a school principal about her.
That day, I was assigned to a hall of twenty total-care residents, of which ten were supposed to be in my care. Much of the morning was spent being oriented about the different chores that were to be my tasks.
The next time I saw her was in the break room. She looked through me as if I didn’t exist. I was almost grateful that she ignored me. One of my co-workers informed me then that she was Jane Terseton, the Director of Nursing. At that point, it dawned upon me why the other eight girls in my training class had opted not to work for this facility.
The next morning while I was wheeling one of the residents to the dining hall, she approached me, and whispered in my ear, “Every resident in your care should be ready and in the dining hall by 8 o’clock, and I don’t want to hear any ifs, ands, or buts about it.” Before I could say anything, she was gone. Now this was a matter of simple mathematics, ten total care residents to be woken up, dressed, transferred to the wheelchair and then wheeled down to the dining hall, all in one hour, that would be about six minutes for each resident. I couldn’t believe that this was happening to me. Most of all, I couldn’t believe that this was how one of the most prestigious nursing homes of the city was treating their residents.
In the break room, as that was the only time we had to speak to each other, I asked my partner how she managed to get so many residents up and ready in the dining hall in one hour. She informed me in a matter of fact way that she would just put on their clothes, throw them on the wheelchair, and take them to the dining hall. She did not do oral care or have the time to talk to them. She informed me that it was not wise to follow the book, the facility was understaffed and was being run by a corporation.
I gave my two weeks notice and resigned in protest to the treatment that was being given to the residents. Over the next two weeks that I worked in this facility, I got in trouble with Jane Terseton, the over enthusiastic employee of the corporation, innumerable times. Even if it was nine o’clock by the time my residents reached the dining hall, I didn’t care; I gave each one of them the proper care that they as human beings deserved.
On my last working day while I was feeding one of the residents in the dining hall, she came up to me and hissed “traitor,” in my ear. It did not intimidate me any more. I couldn’t care less what she thought.
The Scent of Memory
by Clare Reavis
Many things can trigger memories–a snippet of song, a movie, or a photograph. Perhaps a casual conversation with an old acquaintance that wanders into “remember when.” Some memories we cherish and take out often to view them again with pleasure. Others are buried and pop up unexpectedly, taking us by surprise. How many times have we said, “I wonder what brought that into my head?” In my experience, most of my unplanned voyages back in time are scent related. For me, smell is the most powerful memory trigger of all.
I carry a catalog of smells in my head which describe a variety of people, places, things and times. My mother is Oil of Olay, Tweed perfume, and warmth. My father’s scent is salt water, fish, printing ink, and solid. Summer is fresh cut grass and winter is pine trees and cookies. Church is incense and candle wax, and school is chalk and cabbage. Most of these connections are obvious and immediately recognized, but there are others not quite so easily reached and examined.
Take lilies, for example. They look so dignified and serene. Long, slender, dark green leaves lead the eye up to a graceful curve of white blossom, which in turn contrasts with an orange rod dusted with pollen emerging from its center. They are harmless blooms, needing no thorns for defense, and they are popular with brides and elegant in almost any surrounding. They are simple, tranquil, and understated flowers, and yet, when I catch a scent of lily, be it flower or perfume, I feel uneasy and a little unwell.
The odor is cloying and taints the air. It has an almost claustrophobic effect on whatever room I am in, be it as small as my living room or as large as a cathedral. I have an urge to hold my breath until I can escape to a fresher, cleaner, open space. The waxy feel of the white bloom makes my skin crawl and sends me to the nearest bathroom where I will wash my hands compulsively until both the scent and texture are gone. To me, they smell of death and decay. I take no joy in them.
I was five when my grandmother finally died, but she had begun dying a year before. Every day I went with my mother to Granny’s house. My grandmother stayed permanently at this time in the downstairs parlor. The curtains were closed to keep the heat in. A fire flickered always, regardless of the outside temperature, casting strange shadows in the dimly lit room. Propped up on pillows on what seemed to be an incredibly high bed, there was the wizened creature I called Granny. She was tiny, with sparse white hair, prominent cheekbones and blazing eyes. Her nightclothes billowed around her and her claw-like hands would constantly pluck at the excess material as though wondering where it came from.
I would be plopped onto the bed with her with directions to be nice and keep her company while my mother would attend to the daily housekeeping chores. She would hug me with brittle bones and speak in whispers to me. Enveloping me with an odor of lilies, she would gaze at my face until she grew too tired. Then her eyelids would droop, her grip relax, and I would escape for another day, to the outside where the clear, cool air would wash my brain clean. Then one day she was gone, and I didn’t have to go back to that room anymore. I don’t remember anyone telling me of her death, and the memory of that year faded and disappeared. But ever since then, I have hated the scent of lilies.
I was a child, barely four, when she developed the cancer that killed her. I didn’t know what was happening; I only knew she scared me. As an adult, I can recognize the desperation and love that were in her eyes. The desire to hold onto life and the living. I know my presence was designed to give her comfort. I don’t think anyone ever thought her passing and the manner of it would haunt my nights for years. In Ireland, lilies are not carried by brides, but displayed on the coffins of the dead. In my head, the scent of lilies will always represent death.
What is Graphic Design?
by Carli Cominoli
By now, I am used to the awkward and puzzled look people usually give me when I tell them I am going to school to be a graphic designer. I then have to give my long, repetitive, and boring speech about what graphic design is and how I plan to make a living out of it. People’s first reaction is that I will be doing some type of “Star Wars” outer space, weird alien movie. I tell them “no” and to sum it all up, I tell them that my job as a graphic designer will basically be to make things look pretty. So for all those who aren’t quite sure about what the field of graphic design entails, this is for you!
Graphic designers use a variety of print, electronic, and film media to create designs that meet their clients’ needs. They use computer software to develop the layout and design of magazines, newspapers, journals, corporate reports, and publications. They also produce promotional displays and marketing brochures for a variety of products and services. They design unique company logos for products and businesses. There are many graphic designers who develop material to appear on web pages, too. Another interesting task some graphic designers have is to produce the credits that appear before and after television programs and movies. That is one example that often goes unnoticed by the public. At the end of a movie, everyone usually leaves without even reading the credits. Someone has to put the credits together, and guess who does? Yes, a graphic designer.
Designers employed by manufacturing companies, large corporations, or design firms usually work regular business hours. An example of that would be the Oriental Trading Company here in Omaha. They have employed a group of graphic designers to create everything from their corporate identity, which is their company logo, to their catalog layout. Children’s Hospital also employees a group of graphic designers to create a design for everything from all their logos to their billboards. Just about every major company has a team of graphic designers to create all of their advertisements and logos.
One more type of graphic designer is a self-employed or freelance designer. They tend to work longer hours than those employed by one specific company. Designers who work on contract jobs frequently adjust their workday to suit their clients’ schedules. At times they may have to meet with them during evening or weekend hours. Designers may do business in their own offices, homes, or studios. It is easy for some graphic designers to become frustrated at times when their designs are rejected or when they can’t be as creative as they want to be. Therefore, this career demands patience and good stress management skills.
In the field of graphic design, the overall employment is expected to grow faster than the average through the year 2010. The demand for graphic designers should increase because of the rapidly increasing demand for Web-based graphics, web pages, and the expansion of the video entertainment market. Teenagers have literally leeched onto the video entertainment market in recent years. The notorious Play Station II created by Sony and the Nintendo 64’s popularity has skyrocketed because of the realistic three-dimensional graphics created by graphic designers. One of the hottest new items this past Christmas was the entertainment game Play Station II. It was so popular because it has the most updated graphics to date. This is all thanks to the work of graphic designers.
A bachelor’s degree is required for most entry-level graphic design jobs. There are some formal training education programs for graphic designers available in two and three-year schools that award associate degrees. An example of one of these programs would be the Graphic Communications degree offered at Metropolitan Community College. The competition is high, so the more education one can obtain, the better.
Individuals in the design field must be creative, imaginative, persistent, and able to communicate their ideas in writing, visually, and verbally. They must also be open to new ideas, and quick to adjust to changing trends. A graphic designer must also have good business sense and relate well to people. The beginning yearly salary for a graphic designer is around $20,480. The higher portion of graphic designers make around $58,400 per year. Graphic designers can make a good living, depending on what type of graphics they do and where they are located. For instance, the west and east coast prices for free-lance graphic designs are a significant amount greater than what is charged in the midwest. The price difference is because the majority of television shows, advertising companies, and movies are produced on the east and west coasts.
Now that you have a better understanding of what graphic design entails, maybe you will notice the small details done by a graphic designer that you see each day. In our evolving technological world, graphic images are everywhere. So the next time someone tells you they are a graphic designer, you will have a better understanding of what they do.
Works Cited
Designers. Occupational Outlook Handbook. 26 April 2002. http://www.bls.gov/oco/ .
Fischer, Dominic. The Art of Design. Chicago: SchoolHouse Publishing. 1997.
Who’s Running the Farm?
by Beth Schweitz
Kenny Roger’s “The Gambler” tune, “You have to know when to hold’ em, know when to fold’ em,” is all too familiar to small farmers across the country as crop prices fall, operating costs rise, and extreme weather conditions stack the deck against them.
The United States Department of Agriculture, or USDA, National Agricultural Statistics Service reports that from 1975 to 2001, the number of farms has decreased from two and a half million to two million (“Farm Numbers”). The decline may not seem drastic until we consider that in the early 1900’s there were six million farms in the United States. That number grew to just over six and a half million by the 1940’s, and from that point on, the number of farms declined sharply over the next thirty years. Since 1970, the number of farms has continued in a slow, steady decline (“Farm Population”).
Families who owned a farm at the turn of the century were living a true American dream. In the 1900’s, forty percent of the population lived on a farm (“20 Century”). Even though running a farm was exhausting work, farmers took pride in their land, the livestock and crops they produced as a way of life, and a means of income for their family.
With advances in technology, it would be easy to assume that running a farm could be done much more efficiently and cost effectively, but the USDA reports that today two percent of the population live on and operate a farm (“Farm Numbers”). Why do farmers continue to leave their career, livelihood, and their way of life?
Arlan Schweitz, a former resident of Oakland, Nebraska, considers himself a hobby farmer nowadays, but that is not what he had set out to do with his life. The third born of four boys, Arlan started working on his father’s farm at the age of ten. The Schweitz family farmed four hundred acres of corn and soybeans, with pasture to raise cattle, pigs, and a coop full of chickens. After Arlan graduated from high school, he went to college to earn a degree. He continued to help his father during summer breaks, though he was not sure he wanted to be a farmer. None of the other brothers wanted to farm and once they graduated, they never looked back. Arlan decided to major in Agriculture and after graduation, made the decision to go into farming full-time with his father. They got rid of the chickens, rented more farm land, and shared expenses and income as partners. Though their farm had grown to six hundred and forty acres, it was small in comparison to the big farm operators.
Throughout Arlan’s farming career his income fluctuated, but the expenses always increased. Prices increase when there is a demand for their crops; however, during times of drought, bug infestations, or other conditions that cause crop failure, a supply shortage is created. If a farmer experiences a crop failure, the inflated price of zero product means zero income.
Red meat scares throughout the last couple of decades reduced the demand for beef, causing a supply glut, thereby reducing the farmer’s returns on his livestock. The USDA reports that from 1991 to 1993 the average prices farmers received for crop and livestock remained constant. After a huge increase in 1996, prices received by farmers declined rapidly, falling below the constant prices seen in the early 90’s. Statistics for 2001 show a slight upturn that could signal relief for farmers, but 2002 figures will be a better indicator (“Index of Prices Received”).
Arlan was not the only farmer that felt the pinch of rising costs. From 1991 to 2001, the average prices a farmer paid for goods and services rose one hundred and twenty-five percent (“Index of Prices Paid”). Inflationary costs of equipment coupled with high interest on loans to purchase the equipment are huge risks for a small farmer, but are necessary to keep a farm running.
Rising oil prices affect a farmer’s profit margin by increasing costs for many of the input costs needed in the farm operations. Fertilizer, gasoline, diesel, chemicals, steel, motor oils, grease, paint, and transportation costs for goods sold are all essential expenses.
In the early 1900’s, an average acre of land could be bought for twenty dollars (“Land Values”). Some farmers inherited their land. Others farmed a landlord’s acreage on a cash rent basis. After the depression, land values increased dramatically. In 2001, average land values were reported to be one thousand and fifty dollars an acre, “fifty two times greater than the twenty dollars per acre” in the early 1900’s (“Land Values”). Arlan and his father farmed six hundred and forty acres; however, they owned two hundred acres outright. The other four hundred and forty acres were farmed for someone else on a cash rent basis.
In the mid-1900’s, the government began to subsidize farmers as a way to help offset their losses in years of low returns on their crops and livestock. The government paid all big and small farm operations the same price for crops and livestock. It seems fair, but instead it has brought disparity between the two groups. The more land an operator/farmer owns, the greater their ability to absorb losses, and the bigger their government subsidy. For a big farm operator the subsidy is large enough to pay a sizable down payment on a new piece of equipment, or can be used to buy more land. Farmers with less land receive a substantially smaller subsidy. If the small farmer is lucky, his subsidy will cover the cost of a round of pesticides.
Government subsidies exist today in one form or another. In fact, the USDA reports that since the 1900’s, five billion dollars has been paid in farm subsidies (“20 Century”). Today, small farmers are faced with insurmountable challenges and from a historical point of view, it is not likely to change. When do the risks outweigh the gain? This is a question that more farmers have to ask themselves.
Farmers have persevered through good years and bad. Arlan’s father had lived with the risk of farming most of his adult life, and was willing to accept it as part of the deal when he went into partnership with his father. However, in 1998, the financial strain on the family’s budget, a family member’s health problems, and a couple of years of low crop prices were enough for Arlan to start looking at alternative career choices.
Arlan has since moved to Elkhorn, Nebraska to pursue another career. His father has moved to the town of Oakland. They still own and farm the original two hundred acres. Four hundred and forty acres went back to the landlord and the pastures and feedlot were sold. Arlan’s dream of passing on the farming legacy to his sons will remain just that–a dream.
Works Cited
“A 20 Century Time Capsule.” Trends in U. S. Agriculture. 3 Aug. 2002.
<<http://www.usda.gov/nass/pubs/trends/timecapsule.htm>>.
“Farm Numbers and Land in Farms.” Trends in U. S. Agriculture. 3 Aug. 2002.
<<http://www.usda.gov/nass/pubs/trends/farmnumbers.htm>>.
“Farm Population and Labor.” Trends in U. S. Agriculture. 3 Aug. 2002.
<<http://www.usda.gov/nass/pubs/trends/farmpopulation.htm>>.
Index of Average Prices Paid by Farmers, 1991-2001. United States. 3 Aug. 2002.
<<http://www.usda.gov/nass/pubs/stathigh/2002/graphics/prpaid.htm>>.
Index of Average Prices Received by Farmers, 1991-2001. United States. 3 Aug. 2002.
<<http://www.usda.gov/nass/pubs/stathigh/2002/graphics/prreceive.htm>>.
“Land Values.” Trends in U. S. Agriculture.3 Aug. 2002.
<<http://www.usda.gov/nass/pubs/trends/landvalue.htm>>.
Number of Farms and Average Size Farm 1975-2001. United States. 3 Aug. 2002.
<<http://www.usda.gov/nass/pubs/stathigh/2002/graphics/nofarm.htm>>.
Schweitz, Arlan. Personal interview. 3 Aug 2002.
Signs: A Sign of the Times?
by Beth Schweitz
Mel Gibson thrilled us in his high action Lethal Weapon flicks, revealed his other face in The Man Without a Face, and showed us a courageous heart in Braveheart. After seeing Signs though, I feel I have been lethally injected with the insensitivity and brashness of today’s society, and witnessed the blatant abuse of a great actor, or maybe a man selling out.
Notwithstanding, Mel plays the role of a recently widowed man, Graham Hess, left alone to raise two small children. He is a man of the cloth who tragically abandons his faith after his wife’s untimely death. The tension is immediate as Graham and his live-in brother are awakened by the children’s heart-pounding screams. Running wildly through the crop field, Graham and his brother find the kids standing next to crop circles. What! No aliens? Nope, not yet. Just good old fashioned terror orchestrated by music and heavy breathing.
Over the next few days, the media floods every television and radio channel with reports of worldwide sightings of more crop circles, ominous warnings of doom, and speculations of alien invasion and biblical end times. As continuing coverage escalates, Graham has a heart to heart with his brother about how he lost his faith and challenges his brother’s faith as well. It is a touching and realistic moment, and the audience is guffawing. I was sitting in a theatre surrounded by people strung high with the tension of impending disaster. All right, maybe nerves cause people to react in weird ways.
As the media drama mounts, I can’t help but think about the War of the Worlds radio program, except the television coverage reporting the sightings, and the imminent, aggressive alien attack is a very real threat to the country. They had me going until they showed the aliens. The movie loses its credibility as a drama/thriller, and teeters on the brink of B-rated horror. Not only are the aliens not ferocious or aggressive-looking as the media portrayed, but they do little more than lurk down a street, run through a field, and pound on doors. Aggressive attack? Sounds more like a teenage prank; however, you do begin to wonder what will happen to the main characters once the aliens are knocking at their door. Mel Gibson’s character feels that the situation is critical and they must barricade themselves into their home to keep safe. The family shares what they think may be their last meal. You can sense their fear, and the father knows he has to be strong for his family. He gathers them all in an embrace and they have a tearful moment. Again, the audience breaks out in laughter. Admittedly, it could seem hokey for Mel’s Lethal Weapon character to have a serious moment, but here it is definitely out of place for people to laugh at a man who has already lost his wife, his faith, and fears losing his family and his life.
The end comes with little drama as the alien threat is extinguished. The saving grace in this movie lies in the end. Faced with the prospect of losing his son, Mel’s character cries out in despair to the God he had abandoned and his son is spared. His faith has been restored and the threat to his family has been vanquished. Thankfully, the audience did not laugh.
There are a few mysteries that beg solving, but otherwise, I give the movie three and a half stars. Even though the telling could have been better, the key elements of drama, tension, emotion, and comedy were there. Just the ticket for young, impressionable audiences that want the heart pounding thrills that stop you just before you go over the edge. This could be the next generation’s War of the Worlds, except they know it couldn’t be real…right?
Mercy High School
by Carli Cominoli
Mercy High School is a small school located at the corner of 48th and Woolworth in Omaha, Nebraska. The Sisters of Mercy founded the all-girls Catholic high school in 1903. There are roughly about 400 students who currently attend Mercy. Mercy High School is the ideal place to send a young girl for high school to become a confident, independent woman of faith.
There are many good things about Mercy High School. For starters, the student body is all-girls. That is a major incentive to send your child there because it is so much easier to focus on learning without boys in every classroom. With the absence of boys, it has been proven that girls get better grades in math and science than those in co-ed schools. Also, there is little pressure to look beautiful every day when you come to school. There is no need to wake up two hours early to curl your hair and cake on your make-up. From my personal experience, the girls at Mercy are more concerned with inner beauty than outer beauty. The absence of boys relieves much pressure to conform to the image of the “normal” teenage girl who looks like Barbie and wears the most expensive clothes.
Another great thing about Mercy is that they require a uniform. At first, many people cringe at the thought of wearing a uniform every day. However, as the days go by you realize that the uniform is actually a great thing. You don’t have to waste time in the morning figuring out what to wear, and you don’t have to try on seven different outfits before you finally choose one you like. Some will argue that having uniforms restricts students from being individuals. On the other hand, there are many varieties to the uniform like different colors of shirts, and it is also easy to stand out with different accessories like hair ties, jewelry, and shoes.
I feel that the best thing about Mercy are the teachers. They truly care about the success of their students. As a graduate from Mercy, I can honestly say that the teachers at Mercy are more than just teachers. They are almost like moms and dads. They care for their students so much. I have had teachers sit down and pray with me in struggles, I have had teachers offer to help with my schoolwork on the weekends during their free time, and I have seen teachers cry when students have to leave. These are some of the most dedicated and hard working teachers I have ever heard of. I was blessed to have been able to be taught by these amazing men and women. The teachers hold that school together. Without them, Mercy High School would not be as special and unique.
Another great thing about Mercy is that with only around 400 students attending, students receive more one on one time with their teachers. It is very easy to get to know everyone by name. The class sizes range from about ten to twenty students in each, so it is a more individualized learning environment. I found that to be very helpful in the learning process, especially in classes I found difficult, like math and science. Mercy’s small size allows for a more family-type environment.
An interesting fact that not many people are aware of is that you don’t have to be Catholic to go to Mercy. They welcome girls of all religions. The faith community within Mercy is very strong. You can always find a prayer service to go to or a religious group to join like Operation Others, Pastor Council, and Amnesty International. It is very easy to get involved in the community through these organizations at Mercy. An optional mass is held once a week and an all-school mass is held every month. There are also Reconciliation services twice during the school year. Morning prayer is said every morning before the Pledge of Allegiance. This enables the girls to start their day in prayer and reflection.
The opportunities to grow in one’s faith and become closer to God are provided for the girls who attend Mercy. One of the things that helped me come closer to God while at Mercy were the visits I took to the chapel. The rarest thing about Mercy is that students are allowed to visit the chapel during their study hall period if they want to. If I was having a bad day, I could just go to the chapel to be alone and have some quiet time with God. You certainly wouldn’t be able to do that in a public high school these days.
The tradition at Mercy is another reason Mercy High School is one of the best high schools. Days like Mercy Day, P.A. (Prom Announcement), Sophomore Talent Show, and Farewell Day are all traditions that make Mercy unique from any other high school. Mercy Day is celebrated every year on August 24th because that is the day Mercy was founded. Prom Announcement is the day when the junior class reveals the prom details to the senior class. Sophomore Talent Show is the day when the sophomore class has an opportunity to show the school all their special talents. Lastly, Farewell Day is the senior’s last chance to say good-bye to the school in a play they create. These special days give the girls an opportunity to become closer to their class, and they help the school grow together as a community. Girls look forward to these exciting days all year long.
As you can see, Mercy is the best choice when it comes to selecting a high school for a young girl to go to. In a world where teenage girls are put under so much pressure to be someone they’re not, Mercy High School enables them to become individuals. It is the ideal place to send a young girl to become a confident young woman of faith.