Download PDF of Issue #8 - FORTH Magazine

SADIE(French Germinadour, a HardneckPurple Stripe Garlic)My father was born in Russia, mymother in Poland.They grew garlic in our garden inPennsylvania, near Pittsburgh.If I had an ear ache Poppa pushed agarlic clove into my ear.If I had a toothache Momma mademe chew garlic cloves.In combat, in WWII, in Germany,Russian troops did not havepenicillin.I would see Russian soldiers pullgarlic clovesfrom their pockets to rub on theirwounds.I am convinced my cat Sadie lived arecord twenty years,because of her love for garlic. Why?The gophers she killed and ate haddigested my garlic.Sadie became addicted. She wouldnot eat kibble or milkunless I squeezed a clove of garlicinto the bowl first.She preferred a variety calledFrench Germinadour(sent to me years ago, fromMarselly, by Lise-HeleneTrouilloud.)One morning I saw Sadie comingacross the field to greet me.She did not see the Red-Tail Hawkdrop out of the cloudsand plummet down through thesky.I did not have time to scream. I didnot have to.Apparently alerted by the feel andsound of compressing wind,Sadie, at the last moment, floppedover onto her backand clawed at the chest and belly ofthe hawk.The astonished hawk lifted itselfout of range of Sadie’s claws and,deserting several floating feathers,climbed back into the sky.Sadie was not a soldier, Russian orPolish or American,but she could fight to save her life.Thanks to garlic?paintings bymichaelshankmanTEENY BIAGGIO(Transylvanian, a Softneck Silverskin/Artichoke garlic)Teeny Biaggio is twelve years old.Her mother brought her to my farm to interview mefor a paper for her sixth grade English class.We sat outside, on the deck.When, suddenly, several bats flew out from under the eavesTeeny ran screaming into the house.“Teeny,” I said, “bats eat thousands of mosquitoes a year.Bats help us live.”Teeny said, “At camp, every summer, I get sick from mosquito bites.”The first night of the full moon Teeny’s mother brought Teenyto help me plant garlic brought to me from Transylvaniaby Professor Robin Miller of Brandeis University.Teeny and I dug fifty holes in the soil.I placed one tablespoon of bat guano in each hole.“What’s bat gu-wanno?” Teeny asked.“Bat-shit. It has nitrogen and other elements the clove needs to grow.”In June, when I harvested, the Transylvanian garlic was themost beautiful of all the varieties produced in all the boxes.I sent a card to Teeny, at Summer Camp, telling her the news.Teeny Biaggio sent me a card from Summer Camptelling me she had not been bitten by one single mosquito.Why? Because Teeny Biaggio had taken my suggestion that shemake a mix of crushed garlic and olive oil and spread it on her skin.“I am going to write a paper,” Teeny said,“about why I love bats and bat-shit.”With his recent paintings,Michael Shankman revealsinteriors and exteriors ofcollapsing homesteads fromsuburban areas of Colorado,the area where he grewup. Centuries ago peoplemigrated to this uninhabitedfrontier to build new lives,full of promise. Shankmansees similarities in thepresent-day migration ofhopeful newcomers whocontinue to make their wayto this mountain region, tobuild their homes amongthe skeletal remains of theirpredecessors’ dreams. Thepopulation of the FrontRange has nearly doubledin twenty years, alteringthe landscape dramatically.Where once there wasopen space and farmland,suburban sprawl nowextends to the horizon.Shankman’s small, square,modular panels mimic thestandardization of newlydeveloped enclaves, theirmodesty a reflection of theirfragility. The artist defineswith paint brushes andpigments the inescapablereality that we have come nocloser to finding Utopia inthe American West.