Folio 13 by HFU Folio

\ I

(

Teneor Votis

I am bound to give of myself because I have received

The Folio is a belles-lettres journal of contemporary artistic expression. The magazine encompasses in words and visual graphics the thoughts of the faculty and student body of Holy Family College. Contributions from other institutions and artists are welcome.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

The Dedication ............................................Page 1 The Traveler ...............................................Page 2 by Linda Keough An Elegy: Lamentations of a White Nun .....................Page 3 by Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D., Department of English He Touched Us............................................Page 5 by Donald Dougherty Cages of Bones ............................................Page 7 by G.C. Daniels Pretender .................................................Page 7 by Cherie Smith Metamorphosis............................................Page 8 by Joanne J. Drechsel Thief ......................................................Page 9 by Jim Haas Haikus ...................................................Page 11 by Monica V. Fedorak The Boy From New Jersey................................. Page 12 by Nicholas Inverso Confusion ...............................................Page 12 by Mary Weinhardt The Passing ..............................................Page 13 by Terry Hejnar Photography of Silent Faces ...............................Page 15 by Joanne J. Drechsel Dreaming ...............................................Page 16 by Lisa Evans People Don't Expire ......................................Page 17 by James Bennett The Stain-Glass Window ..................................Page 18 by Monica V. Fedorak A Pause in the Country ...................................Page 19 by Dennis Natoli The Fire..................................................Page 20 by Francis Johnson Sunrise ..................................................Page 21 by Mary Alice Whelan Altai re Dei ...............................................Page 23 by Pat Market Red Gladioli and Other Flowers in a Vase ..................Page 25 by Valerie Tsafos Passages .................................................Page 26 by Kathleen Mallon Ode to the Unlearned One ...............................Page 27 by Ken DePinto Truce ....................................................Page 28 by Jodi Ann

Tďż˝e 1ledicatioq Once in a lifetime, one meets someone who totally embraces the Christian ideal and beautifully radiates its meaning to others. Holy Family College was blessed to have encountered two such individuals, namely, Sister M. Lillian Bu dny, C.S.F.N., and Father Dennis M. Mattern, 0.5.F.S. They were two people who gave of themselves so that others might have--abundantly! Let us learn from their examples. Give thanks to the Lord.

Tďż˝e Traveler I have left the city Miles and miles behind me. It's an easy, lovely trip I take To my friend. There's little memory Save the pleasure of its being A memory. And so I go--1 fly. I soar with the seagulls And the rainbow spray, As they make their way through The air. And open my arms To let the filmy sun Pour over me. The grainy prisms Beneath my toes Know why I've come, While the sweet green sea nods In a kind of constant understanding. You, my loyal friend, Have no need of me. But, oh, I-When the jangle without Makes too many parts of me-Â I need The caress of your misty fingers On my face and through my hair, And The rhythmic throbbing of your soul To soothe me, and make me whole. Linda Keough

ďż˝ Elegy: L8II1eqtatioqs of a WIJite NU11

(Dedicated to the Memory of Sr. Mary Lillian Budny, C.S.F.N.) He has wasted my flesh and skin away While tulips grew and roses bloomed, While mums pressed down beneath the snow. An albino crucifixion in a bed, some say. Two thousand years of agony and pain relived. Her outstretched fingers brailled the sacred wounds, Nailed on wood upon a hill in ancient Palestine. He has broken my bones American Dachau contoured to her face was Golgotha both in time and trembling shape. And yet her pale blue eyes, glazed white, turned slowly, Like two worlds, serenely moving in black cosmic space. And when she smiled the morphine and the life supports Numbed us, who saw what one should never see. 3

He has made a yoke for me Night and day the faithful watchers by her side. The whisperers whispering prayers and pleas: "Let go! Let go! Let go! Let go!" Resounded through their flowered dreams...

He has encircled my head with weariness That night, The eyes in which the light went out. The unfairness of it all, it seemed to everyone. How sweet the songs of Christly pain she groaned! With holy lamentations burned across her soul-Â Our sou Is...groaned...moaned... STO NE

He has forced me to dwell in darkness With the dead of long ago But she was born into another place: Her own New England of the saints, Where hills are green and streams are blue, Where sleepy little towns are true. With child Theresa and with baby Bernadette She studies butterflies in open fields: Or stands, a sentinel of faith, atop the wall of Avila, The Gave about her feet is warm as winter soup-Until transported on a perfect hymn they swoon, embrace, And kiss the life that they were destined to. And if there isn't such a place, such a thing, God would have to make one for her. And more. Thomas F. Lombardi, Jr., Ph.D. 4

He Toucqcd Us For Father Mattern He came to us and touched us all. Yes, he touched us everyone; And though his life has ended, It's really just begun. He's free! He's free! He's free to love us all; Nothing will hold him back -He is free! So life for him has just begun In a new and better way; He's looking down from heaven To guide us every day. He's free! He's free! He's free to love us all; Nothing now will hold him back -Â He's free! Although his new life has begun up there His memory will linger on. No, we will not forget the way He touched us all. And we thank you, Lord, for sending him And ask -- keep him well up there. We miss him here very dearly; He was with us everywhere.

Donald Dougherty

From within the depths of this Cage of Bones my spirit free from gravity soars upward. I go--1 go up and no one Can hold me. from within the depths of this Cage of Bones. G.C. Daniels

Prctcqdcr Don't think I can't see when you say that you care, All these feelings inside, we both know they aren't there. Don't think that you've won me when you say "I love you." For deep in your eyes I can see it's not true. You look past my eyes and right through my skin, Yet you don't seem to notice, I cry deep within. To you, I am flighty, and you'll never know, All my thoughts, my feelings, to you they won't show. I've needed your presence, your laughter, your touch, But beyond what I'm able, you've asked for so much. What you need is fake; it's a doll on a string. I've given my soul and all the songs it can sing. But you never will hear them, for now I can see, It is you that you love, and simply not me. Cherie Smith 7

When the density of the sky hangs crushingly on your shoulders, and what you really want doesn't become you, then sit by me along the edge of the river and wait. It is quiet here and the rest will be sufficient. If you would lie on your back and watch the sun flicker behind the gray clouds, something happens. You will feel it. It arrives in a moment and is gone. But you, my friend, will be different after that. Fire lashes from the sky -Â refining the lines across your forehead. A golden tightness remains. You are still you but yet changed. Who will tell in what way? Inside is not outside. The world will not know that flames have struck, until you open your lips... sputtering pieces of the heavens.

Joanne J. Drechsel

fHIEf I stood with a small group of gaping, curious people, watching a gluttonous steam shovel chewing massive holes in the wall of the old neighborhood movie house. Again and again the hungry shovel returned to the wall for another mouthful to spew into a waiting truck. Standing by helplessly while a building is being murdered is a depressing experience. Even a building moans a mournful dirge when death comes. Its cries are in the minds of those who knew the structure before time demanded its dues. Time is such a cruel thief; it steals happiness. It steals it animately and inanimately, each way inflicting its unique pain. Each pain delivers its portion of death. Each death portion crowds out an equal amount of life. I would miss this old friend with whom I had shared countless happy days. We met fifty years ago; even then there were many years behind her. She was shabby, worn by the winds and rains of unkind seasons. Long high walls of dirty yellow bricks held in the silence of her emptiness. She stood on a deserted corner, like a lonely old woman, waiting for a comforting consideration, but her filth and decay kept it from her. It had not always been so. My neighbor, who knew her from her birth, often recounted the days of her glamorous past when only "The Best People" attended her performances. As a legitimate theater she had hosted the famous of the stage, while music and laughter overflowed her capacity. "In the morning sun, her newness sparkled like the eyes of a young girl in love. And, by the way, her balcony was no stranger to love. I got my first kiss there," the old man said with a devilish grin creasing his face. As the wind comes and goes, creating change in its movement, so does time, and like the wind, time is beyond our control. Each has its individual technique for announcing its particular message. Ill winds and bad times are treacherous companions. If they possess any virtue, it is their lack of discrimination; truly, before them, all things are equal. Spanned by man's greed, a devastating financial whirlwind was blowing hard throughout the world, devouring its creator and his institutions. A desolation of terrified families, quiet factories, closed banks, and empty theaters lay strewn in its wake. My lady was not spared. Bread took priority over theater tickets and inexpensive movies over live theater. Fortunately, an entrepreneur with a discerning eye and a calculating mind saw new possibilities for the old girl's talents. She was to become the biggest and best movie house in the area--and she did. 9

Dressed in renovations, her glory days returned. A marquee with hundreds of blinking lights raced around her re-christened name, Bijou. Pastels trimmed with gold supplanted grim dinginess. Plush red seats and flowered carpets complemented the pastels and gold. Newly won patrons considered the refurbishments luxurious. A magnificent chandelier dominated the vast auditorium and the minds of the people. Slowly revolving from the apex of the huge concave ceiling reflected a trillion explosions of light from glass icicles; it was the chandelier's glow that I ured me from my House ofFantasy into the Land of Make-Believe. My red seat became a magic carpet carrying me anywhere my mind desired to go. There in the dark, with no adults to interfere with legalistic do's and don't's to hinder my flight, I was free to soar to places only a child's imagination knows. One Saturday's adventure would find me riding with Hoot Gibson, Tom Tyler, and Tim McCoy across desert and prairie --"slapping leather" and fighting Indians every inch of the way. And at the crucial moment, when each of us was down to his last bullet, the bugle would sound the rescue charge of the blue coated cavalry. The following week I would be the wealthy scion and master of a hundred room mansion, luxuriating in the opulence of my position, sampling foods not known to me by name or taste, dancing with the beautiful leading lady in a crystal ballroom. And there, hanging in that pretentious room, would be my movie house chandelier, reflecting the myriad colors of the ladies' gowns. Unfortunately, happy times travel at a speed much faster than light, and all too soon they are gone, leaving only echo dust in our memories. Once again time, the eternal thief, took its booty of happiness from the building. In this final exploitation, time used television to carry out its thievery. Once again, the cycle of emptiness and decay repeated. The winds and rains of the changing seasons had not weakened in their destructive effectiveness. They had etched their Sanskrit characters in my face as deeply as in the facade of the building. In both, the lack of maintenance excelerated the process. Pieces of pastel and gold fell to the shredded carpet. My red magic seat was faded and scarred by the heels of children's shoes. The lady was worn out--completely spent. Nothing was left to attract an enterprising entrepreneur or even a sleazy money-hungry leach. The Thief had stolen her last moment of usefulÂ ness. It was too late to sound the bugle. I stood with a small group of gaping, curious people watching my House of Fantasy and my yesterdays die. I wonder if they felt as sad as I. Jim Haas

Haikus Inch by inch a snail travels across the dry sand keeping his own time.

The long, thin needle sees with one eye and pierces whatever it wants.

I look starkly in the mirror only to find a stranger whom I faintly remember from my past.

Monica V. Fedorak

Tďż˝e Boy fro1I1 New Jersey Harry James gave him a chance. And why not? Hoboken is a lonely place to grow bowties. Nicholas Inverso

Coqfusioq What is this I feel? Is it hate or is that just a word I use to Describe my loneliness? Hate causes loneliness, but why does Loneliness cause hate? It is love? Am I jealous of the other one? Love contains jealousy. Why? Is not love sacred? Is not jealousy evil? Why, then does love hold jealousy So near? Hate is wanted by jealousy and holds Loneliness. Love is wanted by loneliness and sometimes Holds jealousy. Mary Weinhardt

0 .

�.7

.-·-

'� ...<--�- e.:_

The moonlight glistened in the many facets of the sand, and the waves continued their timeless lappings as the old man and young boy walked down the pathway of life. My child, I shall not see your face again after tonight. Do you not see the beckoning hands within the cold gray mist? Surely before Apollo brings the dawn, I shall dwell in the land of tranquility; I will have found inner peace. Sir, how can that be? I see no winter mist, only the meadows covered with dew before the dawn. And the rainbow, do you not see the rainbow? My son, you see what lies before you, for you are young. I am old. My future no longer carries the hopes found in rainbows. I can only look down the dark corridor and wait. However, before I walk into eternity, I have but one wish to fulfill. If I could gather every dream in the universe, I would send them to you, my little one: Wisdom--to know what is right. Perseverence--to succeed through Iife' s trai Is. Happiness--so you may never know irrevocable sorrow. Friendship--so loneliness will never cloud your days. Love--so you may share the most perfect dream with someone,and Faith--so when your days are over, you, too, will find inner peace. Son, release your hand from mine, for our paths now diverge. I have reached the end, but you must continue. Walk onward my child, and do not grieve. Father, do not leave me here... The boy was alone, the wind whispered its song, and the waves continued their timeless lappings, eroding away the pain of loss. For time heals all. Terry Hejnar

Pllotograplly of Sile:qt faces Speak to me silent faces! Lips drawn tightly within marble jaws. Sunken eyes stretching across The room touching questions Deep inside me. Bone and flesh hideously transformed. In your muteness I hear Screams of terror and pain. Suffering. Six million memories clutch my Throat's convulsing muscles Constricting a wild cry within me. Yet it is I who stand behind Barbed wire with sour stomach Waiting for fragmented Moldy bread or.... It is I who wait naked in tear Moistened lines for a shower... Without water Listening to notes created By Wagner for my death march. Face to the wall, Hands above my head. Cool stones meet my fingertips. Rifles crack in the morning fog Filling my lungs with warm suffocating fluid. I slump. "My God... Why art thou so far from helping me?"* Poet and diary keeper uttering " ... man is really good at heart." Anne Frank, what faith! Your words pierce my soul as Shrill cries pour into my ears -Â She is dead! She lies beneath the rubble at Bergen-Belsen. 15

A somber glow spreads Warmth throughout my limbs. Tomorrow's Holocaust must not come. Somewhere, unknown as yet, Anne Frank relives. Joanne J. Drechsel Psalm 22 Composed after a visit to Yaakov Riz's Holocaust Museum 1453 Levick Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

A wise man once requested me to tell to him my dreams. I said I had none of these to tell or that is what it seems. He said, "How sad it must be to live a life so plain, Without a secret fairytale or goal in life to claim. For one like you will crave real things like fame, success, and gold, and never see the beauty in life until you are too old. For a dreamer sees the good in life, a rainbow in every dawn; A dreamer will naturally pass away but his dreams live on and on. Lisa Evans 16

People Bo:q 't Expire My brother, three sisters, and I sat together in the living room, saying nothing to one another, yet each one engrossed in similar thoughts. Cathy sat in the green overstuffed chair, staring at the ceiling and unthinkingly twirling her hair. John was perched on the ottoman, bent over, holding his chin in his cupped hands. Grace and Maura, my youngest sisters who were always running through the house, now sat rigidly on the couch, staring straight ahead with expressionless eyes. My parents had left our home early that muggy August morning. A phone call from the Cape May County Hospital had stirred them from their light sleep. My maternal grandfather, who had been admitted to the emergency room two days earlier with a heart attack, had taken a turn for the worse. Could my parents come as quickly as possible? That had been some two hours ago. Now the five of us sat quietly, and the sound of the electric wall clock, which would hardly be noticeable any other day, filled the room with its monotonous drone. The sudden harshness of the ringing phone in the kitchen quickly brought us back to life. Maura, then ten years old, raced from her seat and grabbed the receiver. Her conversation was quiet and brief. We heard the receiver being returned to its cradle, and Maura walked to the archway that separated the dining room and living room. Her small white face was still expressionless, but as she nervously bit her fingernail, we knew that the news had not been good. "That was the hospital," she said, slowly. "They said that Grandpop had -- expired. Does that mean he's d... what does it mean?" she cried pleadingly. She was now visibly upset, but she already knew the answer to her question. What a horrible way to tell a little girl that her grandfather had passed away, I thought. Library cards expire, not people. I was hurt and angry. He was the only grandparent we had ever really known. The others had died when I was very young. We were his only grandchildren. And now God had seen fit to end our close relationship. How could that voice on the phone be so cold as to say Grandpop had "expired"? At least our Grandpop died the way he had lived--independently. He had been vacationing in Wildwood with his sister and her family when he had his attack on the boardwalk. Fittingly, he had driven himself to the hospital. My grandfather was a tough man--or so he liked to think. I, however, knew better. I was his namesake. In fact, he once told my mother that he and I were so much alike sometimes he couldn't stand me. He was right. I knew him too well. With me he might play tough, but I could make him smile. He often told me that "men shake hands," but I'd kiss him goodnight, and he would only feign objection.

ďż˝-

I have no wonderful tales of trips to the zoo with Grandpop or of walks in the park together. Instead I have memories of driving all the way to Port Richmond with him for what he called "a haircut from a man who still takes pride in his work," or of stuffing tomato slices in his mouth as he tried to nap. (Boy, was he angry about that one.) I have memories of begging him to "chase" me up to bed with a rolled up newspaper. But that was my grandfather's style. And I loved him for it. Our living room is different now; we moved since Grandpop's death. Maura is sixteen years old. Yet, sometimes, when the five of us sit together in the room, things suddenly become quiet, and the droning electric wall clock reminds each of us of the great loss we suffered that day. James Bennett

I once peered through a stained-glass window, watching the colors, alive. This rainbow window, wrapped in a frame, suspending the sun, still. The steel-glass was old, the colors remained bright, holding the beauty, tight. Life seen in a stained-glass window, past the colors, past the sun.

â&#x20AC;˘

Monica V. Fedorak

"..._____________, ďż˝ fďż˝US<E IN <l'H<E COUN<l'RY

Our senses were hypnotized for a moment, As our dreams were up-staged by the country's perfect production. We are theatre, pretending kindness to the props, The trees bowing slightly in gentility through the years; For their ballet is perpetual, an ethereal dance Entertaining our human tender, As we smile uncertain amidst the country layers. We are not a pause, captive by the same unforgiveable questions of time. The root that is the same. Footpaths traveled by Indians, wanderers, city people, And angels grasping the country quiet Dancing in carnival form in and out of our festive dreams. We do not see those angels -- but they are there Stimulating our tastes, conducting our wits In grand maestro form. At the end of our pause our fable is heavier And we look to those angels for the truth in the silence That the grandiose of the country stimulates The breath, the music, the words not yet realized. We have lived a moment in a fantasy still. It was ours.

Dennis Natoli

Old Baker sits in his pick-up truck Idling away the January chill. Drinking long draughts of years gone by And closing his eyes to the fire. The ground was quiet, the sky steel gray, The snow about to break again. He saw a boy running, a shout! a holler! And still closing his eyes to the fire. A rush of emotion. the dog! the cats! The walls ablaze, the glass panes shattered; Crowbar and axe, his front window gone! And still he closes his eyes to the fire. All is quiet, all is still now. Friends drifting back home to their tables. An em bar coolness in blackened parlour, As he closes his eyes to the fire.

Drink deep and sleep in the pale afternoon As the winds whisper through boarded windows. A lifetime resolved, it's time to go home And close your eyes to the fire. Francis Johnson 20

A violet void in my memory buoyed giving light to the fortress where I've spent my life. And the walls are so high that they vault to the skies so much that they empty the Sun from my eyes. One morning while sitting alone in my grief I managed to swim to my loneliness reef; I circled it once, I circled it twice, that which once attracted still seemed nice. Unknown to myself I was brave and then played the part of a traitorous knave. I planted the explosive so deep in my mind, the hardest, the hardest I ever could find, And I scaled the walls. The walls, once so high that they vaulted the skies, so much that they emptied the Sun from my eyes.

I blew it to bits, I blew it to hell; my new blood boiled over, my heart's pages swelled. I got out of it, that horrible pit. I've made it, I've done it. Mary Alice Whelan

ďż˝ltaire 'Dei My fears--many they are-Â call out to me... causing my heart to sway from doing the things I know I ought to. Where is the balm of Peace? the sweet scent of forgiveness; Where the Light to pierce the cold and chill? How could doubt and faith be so easily mixed? Like gray, running streaks along a marble piece. Oh, I know I should not be afraid. Someone once told me so, perhaps--then... the true beauty of the marble slab like the imperfections of my life run every which way in a harmony failing recognition, until long last, the creation over, stands ready to be used to give Glory... So, I too, am co-creator of my I ife, and upon this altar I am offered up.

Pat Markert

I I

.---------------

Red Gladioli a11d Otller flowers i11 a Vase Red Gladioli and Other Flowers in a Vase, a painting by Vincent Van Gogh, stands before me. Because of its surface beauty and the emotion it transmits, this work captivates me. Let me try to share this experience with you. The painting is a still life composition of two tall red gladioli sur足 rounded by short white flowers arranged in an earthen jug. The jug is sitting on a flat surface which could possibly be a table. Van Gogh has chosen a crimson red for his gladioli, the stanchion of the painting. The small flowers which surround the gladioli are done in a subdued white tone. Intertwined with the gladioli and the other flowers are stems of olive green. The jug is painted in varying hues of brown, green, and gold. The surface upon which the jug sits repeats the scheme of brown and gold but adds a fiery orange in the corner. The background of the painting is basically dark with glimmers of gold highlights. Technique is a major part of this painting. There is a luxuriance of rich, deliberate brushwork, each stroke indomitable. Van C,ogh applies his paint generously, and it lies bountifully upon the canvas. The stroking technique, which is so much a part of the flowers, is also used in the jug, the surface upon which the jug sits, and the outer portions of the background. The only flat section of the painting is a dark, nightlike area immediately surrounding the arrangement of flowers. This painting entices me in and insists on my involvement. Initially, the vibrant, bold red gladioli demand my attention. My eyes are pulled through the long, slender, ruby network into the jug where zigzag ribbons of gold interest me in the otherwise somber vessel. Immediately the gold strokes of the jug handle direct me back to the red center of attraction. But, no, I must not miss any part of this magnificent work, so I force my gaze downward back into the earthtones of the jug and the table upon which it sits. The depth of the tones is captivating, and I gladly accept his gift. Just as my eyes are relaxing in the familiar earthy tones, a deep area of burnt orange captures me and directs my gaze back into the composition. Sur足 rounding the flowers, I see the only flat area of the paintiQg. This contrast pushes the gladioli into the foreground. Now I notice the other flowers which share the jug with the gladioli. These lively tenants summon my allegiance to the reigning ruby monarchs. They are pale in contrast to their royal neighbors but just as beautiful. Each petal is de足 liberately and carefu Ily formed. The background, other than the dark flat area, is a basketry of colors, adding interest even here. Though the glad足 ioli reign supreme, the opulence of the painting makes each segment regal in its own way.

Stepping back from the painting, a new dimension is added. The flowers reach out from the pool of darkness surrounding them. I feel that I have touched them. A feeling of warmth overwhelms me. I sense a peace, yet a curiosity to look and search again. Van Gogh's thick, lavish brushwork is addicting. There is a vitality residing with a quiet splendor. The tones are muted yet alive. Van Gogh has expertly joined dark, somber tones with blazing, fiery colors. He has so mastered the balance between dark and bright hues that they appear as if a tryst were made between them. Because of Van Gogh's intense expressionistic style, I feel that I have profited more by experiencing this painting than I would have had actually seen an arrangement of red gladioli and other flowers in a vase. Valerie Tsafos

Passages Like ships at sea They're going out On their own. And I want to shout: "No! don't leave! We love you too much To let you go Out on your own. For surely you can't know About the world." An inner voice whispers: "Give them wings For they must fly Off to other things About which they care." Kathleen Mallon

Woe to the one who refuses to learn! Unnecessary impediments that need to be removed. The seed of knowledge has been planted in each. ....,,_ , But without the constant watering that is learning, The seed shrivels and is capable of being blown away. 0 Conscience! That is given to all, Increase our knowledge through what we learn. How can one survive the blustery world outside, Unless learning has permeated the tranquility of ignorance? 0 Calamity! Why the unlearned man? The ignorant fool who wanders listlessly Through a long and unlearned life, Doomed to remain stationary while others advance! Intelligence does not provide his enthusiasm. Thought alone cannot supply his fervor. Learning comes from within, With its curiosity and inquiry and a yearning to know. 0, but that disinterested leaf! Blown around by the strong wind that is life. Unable to change its path by its own choosing. If only the strong tree of learning that leaf could become. Bending in that strong wind, Pliable and remaining upright, And capable of resisting force. The unlearned one lives an unlearned life, And his miserable, meaningless attempts to learn Remain unsuccessful if done only to appease others. Successful learning sprouts from self, And its quest to conquer why.

Ken DePinto

Truce

Mom and Dad: Let there rest a peaceful radiance of light, where there dwelled darkness before. Let our hands clasp a hold of friendship, trust, and strength, where before we lay our weapons of war. Let our feet stand firm on the ground. When before our feet fled a race across the threshold scared and upset and enraged by the sounds of war. May we put across the greeting of our faces welcome: "Hello, glad we are together again. Don't leave for so soon and so slow a return." When at the end of a day, a month, a life, we all will have known that we did indeed share of each other in true deep love Amen.

Jodi Ann

Editor:

Patricia Obelcz

Associate Editor:

Kenneth J. De Pinto

Moderator:

Thomas F. Lombardi, Ph.D.

Staff:

Katrina Bertin Mariane Brajer Don Dougherty Joanne Drechsel Bernice Lisicki Felicia Panzera Tony Piscopo Bernadette Stringer R. W. Stringer, Jr. (Cover Design)

Artists:

Mike Maguire James Mouat