The Raspberry Post

The Raspberry Post

THE RASPBERRY POST By Eduardo Delgado It must have been the summer of 1925 or early 1926 when I was just one or two years old. Of all the summers to come, this one keeps coming back to me. Many years have elapsed since. I was in the care of my grandmother most days for the first few years of my life. Her best friend was Doña Pasquelita. Grandmother’s friend was an old Indian woman who was less than five feet tall and lived with rabbits, goats and chickens. She would grind corn every morning for the fresh tortillas she sold that day. She also had fresh eggs, goat’s milk and live chickens to sell. You only had to pick the chicken or rabbit and she would have it plucked or skinned when you returned. Everyone in the barrio knew Doña Pasquelita. She was an Apache Indian. http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/Raspberry-Post-Final.wav Every summer when raspberry season came, Doña Pasquelita and I, my grandmother, and my cousin Caroline would walk about two miles starting at daylight every morning to pick raspberries for Mr. Nakamoto’s berry farm. I was sitting on the ground next to the first post at the beginning of the row of raspberries. My grandmother took a yellow rope from her bag and tied one end to the post and the other end around my waist. She would say a few words, pick up her raspberry tray and start picking berries. I could see as she worked her way to the other end and back up the other side. When she returned she would wipe my nose and the dirt from...
The Change

The Change

The Change by Hans Lillegard Michael Kaspinsky stood on the cusps of a revolution, though he remained ignorant of it. There was a tension in the air like the tension before a thunderstorm except rife with the likelihood of results that could be good or bad. He was full of himself and didn’t see the hard world around himself. http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/The-Change-Part-1.mp3   http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/The-Change-Part-2.mp3   http://wholesomeprose.com/hp_wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/The-Change-Part-3.mp3 Friends and acquaintances that he had formerly chanced to see while writing papers in the computer rooms or grading papers in the coffee houses began falling away. He knew that others around him were becoming angry by the rigid way they walked. He was a graduate student and he only listened to his students and the politics they espoused. He had of course superficially agreed with his students but in a disguised way he sacrificed his honesty. He sidestepped their clamor over the recent budget cuts and how it was nothing more than austerity. Like many of the graduate students at university he had played along with the radical notions of the younger students so that he wisely became the hypocrite, avoiding what he thought to be their circular thinking and so preserved the sanctity of a clear mind and direct thought. It was when he went to the registrar to take care of the next semester’s graduate payments that the reality came home for him. The woman at the counter stood opposite him impassive at the tuition hike so that he felt bludgeoned run headlong into a brick wall. He started to make his way from the office glancing at the ceiling in the...