Here I Am

By Catherine New

In grade school did you make a relief map of California
pinch salty dough up into two parallel mountain ranges
flatten a long valley centered between them
and over on the left side,
scrape a little opening for San Francisco Bay?

Standing up straight outside under Noontime sun
did you rotate to orient your shoulders
at right angles between those two mountain ranges,
extend your arms and become a compass?
Which hand was pointing toward The Bay?

When your relief map was finally dry
did you paint California’s Central Valley green
the Pacific Ocean blue, Sierra mountain peaks snowy white,
recall yourself standing outside as a compass?
Were your toes pointing North or South?

Watching a sunset sky, sun sinking behind the Coastal Range
did you contemplate the Pacific Ocean, the Golden Gate
maybe ships sailing over a distant watery horizon,
remember yourself a compass, consider “that’s West”?
East behind you Sierras, a vague continent, another ocean?

Do you recall gritty dough on fingers, salty taste on your tongue
the little tray of watercolor paints, dipping brush into water
twirling the tip between your pursed lips to make a fine point
with which to trace blue rivers flowing Sierras to Bay? Then
glance in a mirror and notice paint-stained lips, tongue?

Did we really paint the rivers, I don't remember for sure
but 2023 now 75 living in Stockton, the San Joaquin Delta
I can imagine twirling that paintbrush between pursed lips
imagine my blue tongue in the mirror,
can you?

California Water

By SG Stiefvater

Farmers are armies on the grow

Their tools are the tractor and hoe

In California they plant a variety of specialty seeds

Or tending their permanent plants which have continuing need

The yews eat the spring grass up to their ---

The goats trim the grass to the ground

They go up the mountains when the valley turns brown

When summer is past, the crop harvest at last

And the farmer is paid by the weight of every crop

But the harvest in California is really measured by every raindrop

So, no raindrop no specialty California crop

The Bakery

By Mary Alexandra Stiefvater

All those in the know, knew

Over on Sierra Nevada St, in the old part of town

Right on the corner

With a wooden screened door

That made a loud slap as it closed, announcing you

The smell of fresh baked bread bid you welcome

…Please come in…

The old man would sit in the corner

By the dried bean sacks

Greeting his customers

Always in baker’s whites

Still wearing the horn-rimmed spectacles

That long since went out, then came back into fashion

A smile that carried more than the joy of building a bakery

This institution barely changing in century

Old timers shaking hands as they would come and go

Harkening back to a generation

That left because there was nothing to stay for

Building a haven in California that tasted of their roots

Their homeland

And their mama’s kitchens

Mothers that they would never see again

A taste of her Old World in this new one

A community in these four walls

Wooden displays in a tiny room crammed with culinary treasures

Customers would pack in, shouting over the whir of the slicer

1/2 pound of mortadella

2 pounds salami

A pound of fontina

Do you have any more focaccia?

Said with a soft sss

Not a hard ch-uh

…This was a Genovese establishment after all

You could set your clock by the thick baguette

Arriving on the countertop, twice daily

Same green and white paper bags

That rustled in your hands

The crackle of the crust

The brown waxed paper folded with cured meats, cheeses


Glass jars filled with fruit jujubes

Or anise sweets, Torrone and Baci

Limonatas, Arranciatas in the fridge

Cans of dried mushrooms, favas, baciccia beans

Sacks of polenta

The Christmas panettone went fast

So, we bought two to toast with butter for breakfast

The candied fruit and sweet brioche marking the season

My childhood, this refuge

On the corner of Sierra Nevada St.

All those in the know, knew

It was always more than bakery

The Arts Are Alive in Stockton

By Joy Neas

We came to buy a home

Bay area transplants

Coming into our own

Where is Stockton I wondered?

I heard it referred to on a TV show

The big city in the Big Valley

We've found so much more

I think of all we've gained

From rooting in this soil

Caring people all around

So much in one place

Port city, delta bound

Waterfront downtown

Surrounding Weber Point

Remnants of history

Mingling with diversity

College town

So many greats –

Dave Brubeck, Janet Leigh, Maxine Hong Kingston

Legacies of jazz, film and pen

The arts are alive

In Stockton

There is the Haggin, a world class museum in Victory Park

Stockton is a Delta city with its own symphony, live theater, jazz club and Hatch maker space

National Filipino Museum, Mexican Heritage Center and the Write Place

Plus even more beyond walls –

Public art, University Park World Peace Rose Garden, parades and festivals

Stockton gives opportunities

For dreamers to achieve

And those who see no limits

Like America's Got Talent Winner

Poet Brandon Leake

Without Stockton

Would we have lived by Filipinos and savored lumpia and pancit

Or bought tamales in store parking lots,

Would we have experienced the thrill of an arts filled First Night,

Or seen DeltaFusion giant puppets in the park?

Without Stockton

Would we have heard such mighty voices as Dolores Huerta and Maya Angelou

Or made altars celebrating those we love

And walked in posadas lit by a parol, the Christmas star,

Would we have floated lanterns

Or watched lion dancers bring luck to a new year

Without countless Stockton memories

Would my heart be so full?