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Summer 1997
Issue 2

Opening Thoughts

Feng Shui: The Ancient Art of Design and Placement
by Rhonda Kennedy

Will It All Come Tumbling Down?
by Jerry Scott

Reflections on Simplicity ... The Power of Gratitude
by Carolyn Berry

Passio
by Geronimo Tagatac

Focus On Dioxin
By the Editors

Environmental Toxin Effects: A Personal Case History
by Carroll D. Johnston

Ethics and Community Responsibility: Dioxin and the Toxics Right-to-Know
by Mary O'Brien

Medical Waste Incineration: The Hidden Agenda
by Ellen Twist

New Words, Old Ways
by John Rude

What Goes Around Comes Around Now...At Chemekata
by Jennifer Fanyak

The Oregon Plan: A New Approach to Recovering Salmon
by Bob Rice

Passio
by Geronimo Tagatac

"His dreams of proud city women, new cars, and tailored suits, were mingled with the muddy irrigation water soaking into the roots of the green beans and the summer squash..."

In the summer fields west of Sacramento, spirits are dancing in the dust devils. When the wind pauses, you can hear the metal on soil sound of hoes cleaving earth. Sometimes, when you don'tt expect it, you can hear the whisper of names: Tamayo, Cleto, Victor, Passio.

They found Passio lying between the rich green rows as still as the empty lettuce crates. If you had looked, you would have seen his dreams reaching up through the ground. They were reaching toward the faces of his father and his mother. They were trying to touch the face of a long ago lover and a wife. If you had listened, you would have heard the sound of his dreams running over the plowed furrows. They were running for the joy of running. They were running to far away bamboo groves, and cane fields, toward the sound of nocturnal guitars.

They found Passio lying as quietly as his hickory-handled hoe. His dreams of proud city women, new cars, and tailored suits, were mingled with the muddy irrigation water soaking into the roots of the green beans and the summer squash, into the dark mouths of gopher holes.

They found Passio with his dreams watering another man's soil. He was as brittle as thirty-year old wood. When they lifted him, he was as light as ashes; lightened by the departure of his dreams.

In the dark spaces between Isleton and Lok, there are spirits who flutter the pear tree leaves and ruffle the river's surface. They brush the lost faces of sleeping men with the sound of mandolins and are borne away by the night's breath. When they have scattered, if you listen, you can hear the sound of names: Gregorio, Jacinto, Tomas, Passio.

Geronimo Tagatac's father was from the northwestern Philippine province of Ilocos Norte. His mother was a Russian Jew and his Stepmother is a Cajun from Happy Jack, Louisiana. Geronimo published short fiction in the Writer's Forum, The Northwest Review, The River Oak Review, MoonRabbit Review, and Orion. He lives and writes in Salem, Oregon.

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