About Karen Pierce Gonzalez


It's true:  life is art. A continual coming together of elements, many   unseen until ready to be visible. Until we are ready.  Whatever form is taken - visual, verbal, kinetic, acoustic -  we are always artist and audience. This blessed weave occurs in its own time and always moves us into the next moment of seeing and being seen. 


My fiction, journalism, non-fiction, and poetry have appeared in Big Blend Magazine, BluePepper, Feral: A Journal of Poetry and  Art, Lagom Journal, Marin Independent Journal, The San Francisco Chronicle, Postcard Poems and Prose, Visual Verse, Tiny Thimble Magazine, Twist in Time, and many other publications
. Chapbooks include Down River with Li Po (Finishing Line Press) and Coyote Dreams (Finishing Line Press). Am also involved with North Bay Poetics.  More

As a  folklorist, I facilitate folklore-related and creative writing workshops in the San Francisco Bay Area, and am a former folklore columnist for Big Blend Magazine. I have also written and edited  several folklore-related books, including Writing Your Own Family Stories, Seaweed Song, Love: Potions. Lotions, and Lore and Turn Treasured Memories into FolkloreMore
    My mixed-media art is a conversation with tree bark, branches, roots, pastels, fibers, found objects, and, when lucky, salmon leather. Art exhibits include Finley Person Center, Santa Rosa Arts Center, Sebastopol Center for the Arts, Tiny Galleries Kiosk, Truckenbrod Gallery, and Virtual Art in the Park. More
      MORE: My former work as a seasoned, award-winning public relations professional was designed to shed light on the good work of others. Clients and projects appeared on traditional and online media outlets, including NBC TV, CBS TV,  KTVU TV, Northbay Biz, Bay Area Business Women, New York Post, Denver Post, The San Francisco Chronicle and more. Details

      Contact: kpgfolkheart@gmail.com



































      Sunday Brunch


      By Karen Pierce Gonzalez

      Arm in arm Katarina and Gerry walked silently through the park towards a bench that sat in the early morning sunlight.

      "Come on now, Gerry. We'll just have to adjust. No other choice, you know. We both loved Mona and that will go on," Katarina spoke first, breaking the quiet between them.

      "It's only been a few weeks," Gerry replied. The loss strained her. "It was hard to see the urn, and know that Mona was somewhere in all that dust." Her free hand flitted out for a moment like a bird's broken wing then returned to her side.

      Katarina tightened her grip upon Gerry's arm. The two faced one other. Katarina started to speak, then hesitated. She stared up into her friend's tired green eyes. The lines beneath them were getting deeper. Used to be such a strong-boned face Katarina thought then reached up to touch her own face. She automatically examined her hands for traces of finely ground face powder.

      "Just think, Gerry, of the possibilities. Mona maybe will come back in a new form! I bet she'd figure out a way to do it, too!" The absurdity of Katarina's comment caught Gerry off guard; unexpected laughter rippled out.

      "Sure, Katarina, sure ... maybe she already has," Gerry looked around her, "maybe she's one of those fat pigeons on the walkway, just waiting for two old ladies like us to feed it!" Then she caught sight of a young couple beneath the umbrella-like shade of a nearby Willow tree. She carefully raised a forefinger and drew an imaginary line to the tree's trunk.  "Katarina, do you see what I see?" She asked the smaller woman whose pixie head swam above her coat's wide and high collar.

      “Are they? No. They're awfully close ... do you think right here in the park? Oh my, it's hard to tell from here." Gerry, whose sense of sight was sharper than Katarina's.


       “Gerry, do you think they really are …?" Unwilling to admit that she couldn't see that far away Katarina suggested Gerry get a closer look. As her friend set off in the tree's direction, she settled into the curve of the bench and stared at her brown shoes until she noticed a shiny plump pigeon standing only inches away.

      "Don't come here," Katarina muttered. "I don't want to be bothered. Go away ... I don't have anything!"  She watched the bird meticulously peck at its feathers. A chill came over her as the bird stared at her, its blue-black eyes piercing right through her.

      "I don't have a thing for you ... maybe later, ok?"

      The bird just stood there.

       "Mona?" Katarina mustered up the courage to whisper, "Are you Mona?" Half-frightened by the possibility she quickly looked away.  Why was Gerry taking so long?

      Near the tree, Gerry jumped when the young man rushed out from beneath its protective limbs.  "Are you a spy or just nosey?" Flustered, Gerry started to apologize then turned around and headed as fast as she could back to Katarina.

      "Between that impertinent young man and that damn sun slicing up my view, I couldn't make out what was going on." She spoke between breaths.
                 
      "Hmmmm" Katarina's attention was divided between listening to Gerry's report and watching the pigeon waddle back to where the other birds were. “It’s time to go.” She stood up and linked her arm again through Gerry's.

      They merged onto the park's pathway. Newly expanded, it led them towards the downtown area where for years the three of them enjoyed Sunday brunch. Without exchanging so much as one word, they walked through the low-ceilinged bistro’s revolving glass doors. 

      "Shouldn’t we find someplace new?" Gerry hesitated as they stepped onto the lapis blue carpet.

      "We have to go on."

      The hostess asked where Mona was as she led them to a table set with peach and lapis blue pin striped napkins folded to resemble three pronged crowns. When Katrina said, “she’s gone” the young woman nodded over her words. “A vacation? Lucky… I’ll tell the waiter to bring your Trinities.” She returned to her hostess stand.

      "Let’s not bother explaining,” Gerry tried to smile as she eased herself into the chair.

       “When our drinks come, let’s toast Mona shall we?”

      “It’s her drink, after all.” Gerry replied as the waiter appeared with a basket of rolls and butter and the champagne, cherry juice and ice cube concoction Mona introduced to the place when they first came there.


      Under its influence, Mona told the bartender and her friends the Trinity was a perfect blend once the ice – the Holy Ghost part of the Holy Trinity she named the drink after - melted. She also explained that if she were a part of the trinity would have been the Holy Ghost. "Because," she whispered," it’s free.”  Unlike the rest of the trio, it could become part of anything, anywhere.

      Gerry fingered the rim of her glass.  "Mona and her religious nonsense! Say, Katarina, do you remember when she left the Church?"

      Katarina grinned. "Let's see, it must've been, oh, ten years before the Church even knew she was gone."

      "She had to leave… prayer could never satisfy her. If you ask me, unlike you and me, the rules held her down.” Gerry tapped one finger on the table.

      The women toasted their friend then sipped their drinks. Katarina frowned.  "Mona had a mind of her own and wanted to use it. No place for that in the pews. I think she was happiest, most at ease with herself without the rules ... more ..." Katrina fell silent without finishing her sentence.

      "Awful.’’ Gerry grimaced, then quickly added, "The drink, I mean. Not enough champagne.” She looked at the waiter but could not get his attention. He was leaning into the hostess’ words.  Gerry was about to get up when she noticed the flush on Katarina's face.

      "Now, Katarina, don't get flustered. This was her drink and somebody’s changed  it!” For the second time she walked towards a young man and woman huddled together.

      “Excuse me, there’s something wrong with our drinks,” she said.

      “I’ll be right over.” The waiter shooed her away.

      “Well!” Gerry raised her eyebrows in surprise as the pair reclaimed their conversation. “No respect,” she huffed and sat back down. “This is no way to be treated. Mona wouldn’t have stood for it. Neither should we.” Gerry seethed.

      With a thin-lipped smile the waiter came over and asked in his mechanical voice, "Can I help you?" Feet placed firmly together, stomach pulled in, he glanced past them as he waited for their response.

      "Do you have time to help us?” Gerry glared as she continued, “Either my taste buds are failing me or that drink was diluted." She pushed her glass away. Katrina did too.

      “Diluted? No.” The waiter pulled back his shoulders. “The bartender just put in more cherry juice. He figured less alcohol would be better.”
                 
      “Better?” Gerry snarled. “We aren’t dead and we sure don’t need you or anyone else telling us how much alcohol we should have! Of all the nerve.”
                 
      Katrina reached across the table and grabbed hold of Gerry’s shaking hand. “You know, Gerry, the weather outside is perfect. Why stay here where we aren’t wanted?” Her words lightly soothed Gerry twitching lips.

      "You’re right. This was Mona's favorite place and she's dead!” Midair, the words caught them both.

      Unaware of having crushed her cloth crown napkin, Katarina reached her other hand out to Gerry. In a complete grip, their fingers meshed, bridging each other’s gaps.

      “Are you ready to order brunch?” The waiter asked.

      "Yes, I believe we are!" Gerry snapped. "I'd like a ... well-done Sunday afternoon with a dear friend. What will you have, Katarina?"

       Katarina inhaled just enough air to extend the elastic waistband of her dress. "The same. But let’s add a few  of these French rolls," she hesitated, “You see, I met this pigeon in the park today. I think it could’ve been the Holy Ghost," Katarina's face lit up.

      "Really?" Gerry grinned. “Let’s find out, shall we?” And as easily as they had come in, they went back out through the revolving glass doors.


       Distilled Spirits

      Alcohol -fermented beverages - have been around ever since people learned to process wheat, barley rye, grapes and other grains and fruits.  Here are a few folkloric words of advice about drinking it:

      What butter and whiskey won’t cure, there’s no cure for.
      = He who drinks water does not get drunk.
      = To drink beer in a shop denotes prosperity.
      = Drink is the curse of the land: it makes you fight your neighbor, it makes you shoot at your landlord, and it makes you miss him.
      = If it’s drowning you’re after, don’t torment yourself with shallow water.
       = Spilling wine is a bad omen.

      Interesting lore about specific drinks:

      = Mimosas – a mix of champagne, wine and citrus fruit juice were invented circa 1925 in the Hotel Ritz Paris and was most likely named after yellow Mimosa flower.
       = Gin was known as London’s Demon drink. The city had many gin houses in the 18th and 19th century, because it was cheaper to make than beer and could get you drunker more quickly.
       =Whiskey is the Gaelic word for "water of life."
      = Grog, a diluted version of rum, was created by Admiral Vernon, Commander-in-Chief, West Indies Station, so that his sailors wouldn’t get so drunk while at sea.
       =Wine was said to have medicinal qualities for ancient Persians when it was discovered that discomfort and fatigue of a Persian woman were relieved after drinking a jar of fermented grapes.


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      Isalene's Rose Petal Jam


      By Karen Pierce Gonzalez


           I have been making platters of  candied fruit for years for the children; to  reward them for spending all day learning how to read and write. They love the quince and jellied orange peel and always empty the trays I bring;  little hands eagerly reach for all they can hold. 

           It has been this way for a very long time and I am glad to see them happy. Especially little Asher. He has his mother’s deep-set black eyes and his father’s thick-lipped grin. This young boy is proof that my rose jam is perhaps the sweetest:  it brought his mother out of her shell and into the arms of his father who longed to make her his wife. Although it took some time for her to be able to return his gaze, it took even less time for her to say yes. 

          But I did not start out them for the children. 

          It began when my hair was still chocolate brown and bounced on my shoulders; I wear it now in a bun. Back then my eyes were bright with hope. Today I squint against the day’s brightness and can not see far away.

          Ah, but if I close my eyes and think only of then, I can feel the sun’s warmth on my skin as I waited for him to come out of the schoolhouse. He would greet me with a warm smile then place the fruit, one at a time, into his mouth. He'd tell me how delicious they were, then say, "There is no one in all of Turkey like you, Isalene, no one.” 

           So long ago. He has since left this place for another. Hadn’t it been on a day such as this that he told me goodbye, breaking my heart into many, small pieces? Sometimes, I can feel the scars.

           “I have good news,” he began speaking quickly.

           “What is it, Raphael?” 

            A stout man whose high cheekbones rose above his beard, he said, “You are so helpful. The children are eager to do as asked because they know you'll bring them quince and orange treats."
       
           And what about the rose petal jam I made just for him? Had it grown love in his heart for me? Just thinking that, I blushed. Sure my face was red, I looked away.

           At first the fruit gave me a reason to see him almost every day and I wanted that more than anything else. I was a plain woman with no dowry to speak us. He was older than I, but I didn’t care. He was more handsome than any of the young men in our village. A widower when he first arrived, he barely spoke to me, and it was customary to wait for the man to make contact first. Until then, I busied myself with collecting fallen fruit I could cook with.

           “If only I’d known someone like you,” he would tease me when I first appeared with trays of sweet treats. Those days seemed easy and full of promise. Then came his news.

           “I am leaving," he paused to nibble on a quince.

           “Leaving? What has happened. Do your brothers need help?” He had gone to visit them in the fall shortly after I gave him my first jar of jam to take with him. I did not tell him that it was sweet enough to soften even the hardest of hearts.

           “Yes, in a way it is family, Isalene.” At that Raphael brought his gaze directly to me and cleared his throat. “I am getting married.”

           Without thinking, I reached out for the tray and grabbed it back. As I held it against my chest, fruit fell to the ground. 

           “Isalene, are you all right? You’ve suddenly gone pale.”

           I couldn’t move. I swiftly went over the possibilities: had he shared the jam with someone else? Perhaps the rose petals soured?

           “Isalene?” Raphael reached out for my hand but I took another step back. He stumbled over his own words. “I… I have said nothing until I was sure. She … she makes me very happy.”

          Tears filled my eyes. He dropped his voice to a whisper, “Oh, Isalene, I am sorry, I… I had no idea.”  I shook my head and walked away.

           Standing here now, waiting for the children, I know I will never forget the way my throat closed; not a sound escaped even when he tried to comfort me. 

           But  I still make the jam, mostly to feel the tender beating of my own heart.



      Rose Petal Jam

      2 cups of rose petals (deep red and very fragrant)
      2 cups water
      2 ¼ cups honey
      Juice of a lemon

          Wash and drain freshly picked rose petals. Cut in ¼-inch strips, removing the base of each petal. Gently cook in water approximately 10-15 minutes until tender. Strain the liquid and put the petals to the side for later use. With the liquid make a syrup by mixing 1 cup of rose petal liquid with honey.
          Cook to a soft-ball stage. Add drained petals and cook over low heat about 15 minutes longer. Pour into sterile jars and seal with wax. Do not store in direct sunlight.
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