This anthology is a collection of memoirs and a few short stories written by members of the River House Writers of Saint Augustine, Florida. Our group meets weekly at the beautiful COA Riverhouse on the shore of the Matanzas River with a view of Anastasia Island on the other side of the river. Our mentor and able editor/guide is Peter Guinta, a reporter for the Saint Augustine Record. Peter edits our submissions and helps improve our writing kills. During our weekly meetings members read various submissions and the other members comment on them.
Copyright © 2010 by The individual authors as listed with each story.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
Some of the current submissions are included in this blog, each with the author's permission. The page numbers show in the contents section below are the ones in the paper copy of this anthology.
The Drop of Rainwater - Howard Johnson 3
Flying High, A Racer’s Tale - Howard Johnson 6
An Unbelievable Wonderful Experience - Howard Johnson 10
The Clever Ladies of the River House Writers - Howard Johnson 17
Charlie’s Friends - Howard Johnson 22
Surprise! Surprise! - Howard Johnson 25
A Rented Room - Kathy Hynes 31
First Born - Kathy Hynes 32
A Rare Event - Susan Brummer 34
Dachau - Susan Brummer 36
Ramazan - Sharon Seider 39
Sad Recollections - Dee Healey 42
Working forWestern Union – Isabel Garner 43
A Night Fright – Isabel Garner 44
Your Government in Action, Burros in the Grand Canyon
– Howard Johnson 46
Chapter Sixteen - The Lure of Kipapa Gulch — Ann Carlin 49
Afterlife Hot Line - Susannah Castle 52
Betty, the Bridge and the Bear - Susannah Castle 54
Solo Summer - Dee Healey 57
Camp Francis - Bett Kelley 58
MaryLou's Going Away Luncheon - Bett Kelley 61
Allegheny Auction - Dee Healey 63
The Unusual Experience of a Seven-year-old - Howard Johnson 65
Incorrigible - Doris Oxford 69
Department Store Circus - Doris Oxford 70
The Palm Reader - Howard Johnson 74
Sunrises and Related Experiences - Howard Johnson 77
Back to Quadratic Equations - Frances Stelling 84
Christmas Memories - Delores Johnson 86
The Old Trashy Car - Isabel Garner 88
The Red Shovel - Sharon Seider 90
When the Bough Breaks - Sharon Seider 91
Over the River - Susan Brummer 93
Arested - Lori Thatcher 95
Cutting Brush - Lori Thatcher 97
The New House and the Lesson of the Pump - Lori Thatcher 99
Copyright © 2010 by The individual authors as listed with each story.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
Some of the current submissions are included in this blog, each with the author's permission. The page numbers show in the contents section below are the ones in the paper copy of this anthology.
CONTENTS
The Drop of Rainwater - Howard Johnson 3
Flying High, A Racer’s Tale - Howard Johnson 6
An Unbelievable Wonderful Experience - Howard Johnson 10
The Clever Ladies of the River House Writers - Howard Johnson 17
Charlie’s Friends - Howard Johnson 22
Surprise! Surprise! - Howard Johnson 25
A Rented Room - Kathy Hynes 31
First Born - Kathy Hynes 32
A Rare Event - Susan Brummer 34
Dachau - Susan Brummer 36
Ramazan - Sharon Seider 39
Sad Recollections - Dee Healey 42
Working for
A Night Fright – Isabel Garner 44
Your Government in Action, Burros in the Grand Canyon
– Howard Johnson 46
Chapter Sixteen - The Lure of Kipapa Gulch — Ann Carlin 49
Afterlife Hot Line - Susannah Castle 52
Betty, the Bridge and the Bear - Susannah Castle 54
Solo Summer - Dee Healey 57
Camp Francis - Bett Kelley 58
MaryLou's Going Away Luncheon - Bett Kelley 61
Allegheny Auction - Dee Healey 63
The Unusual Experience of a Seven-year-old - Howard Johnson 65
Incorrigible - Doris Oxford 69
Department Store Circus - Doris Oxford 70
The Palm Reader - Howard Johnson 74
Sunrises and Related Experiences - Howard Johnson 77
Back to Quadratic Equations - Frances Stelling 84
Christmas Memories - Delores Johnson 86
The Old Trashy Car - Isabel Garner 88
The Red Shovel - Sharon Seider 90
When the Bough Breaks - Sharon Seider 91
Over the River - Susan Brummer 93
Arested - Lori Thatcher 95
Cutting Brush - Lori Thatcher 97
The New House and the Lesson of the Pump - Lori Thatcher 99
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The Drop of Rainwater
Howard Johnson
Howard Johnson
My eyes followed the drop of water as it zigzagged down my windshield—a tear slipping down a face. The summer shower had ended, depriving the drop of enough new liquid to run so it crept downward in agonizingly slow starts and stops. A tiny image of the street lamp overhead shone clearly inside the drop. In the surrounding blackness, glistening drops on bushes shone, each with its own image of the street lamp. Around me lurked vague, shadowy shapes—a bush, a tree, a driveway framed by houses, a side door, and a fence—seen through the glistening glass. The revolver between my knees felt warm to my hands, a nearly living thing with a mission driven by fierce anger. I carefully caressed the demonic power in my hands.
My passion kept saying, Go! Do it! Get it over with! Another nearly inaudible voice kept echoing a single word, Think. My mind, indeed my whole body, buzzed with confusion keeping me frozen, waiting, almost as if stopped in time. Waiting for what? An explosion? An angry act of desperation? A bellowing of carnal blood reaction? Or a retreat into less-troubled contemplation. Primal juices coursed through my arteries, blinding reason and logic. A million years of driven instincts screamed for action. A few thousand years of civilization tried desperately to stem the tide. The battle raged within me, each force in turn gaining momentary advantage and then losing it.
I was about to step out into the damp night, walk up the driveway to the door, open it and mount the stairs, and then empty the missiles from the warm, almost living thing in my hand into my best friend. A vivid scenario swirled through my head as I waited. The dull sound of my feet on the carpeted steps, the soft swish of the door as I open it over the carpet, the look—first of recognition, then surprise, then realization, then terror—the thunder and flash as the shells explode, the soft thump as he folds and falls to the floor, my sense of primordial satisfaction at repayment of an inconceivable effrontery. I then turn, exit the house, enter my car, and drive away into the dark, damp night. It was so straightforward, so doable, so fitting. Would it be so satisfying?
The forces that lead me to this brink of action were inexorable, omnipotent, irresistible. My mind reeled with passionate hatred—a constant, anarchic seething through every part of my being, a fire-breathing dragon pounding in my head. Yet still, the voice of reason kept at me, a small child tugging at my coat. Think! Think! It whispered, but how could it possibly stand against the mob action of instincts and emotions screaming throughout my very being. Then came the time, the point of no return, the instant of final decision, the bitter sweetness of the moment of retribution—or?
I watched the drop reach the end of its tortuous path. Back and Forth
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Flying High, A Racer’s Tale
Howard Johnson
I had been racing sports cars of numerous kinds for more than ten years on many of the road courses around the country. During that time I had numerous interesting experiences, but none like the one from a Saturday in June, 1964.
I was at Mid-Ohio near Mansfield, sitting in the paddock in my 1954 MG TF-1500. I had just pulled in after taking my first few shake down laps of practice in my old MG with a completely rebuilt engine. The engine was still running when Roy Gelder walked up.
“You looked pretty good out there.”
“Yeh, the old inchworm is runnin’ better than ever after the rebuild.” I had a big, green inchworm decal on the spare tire cover on the back. It was a joking reference to my running in H production class, the slowest performance class in SCCA racing.
“Well you know, you were already up to your best time ever in that car, even with just a few laps of practice. I was timing you.”
“Hell, my pit crew hasn’t even started timed laps yet. They’re bound to get even better.”
“You’ll be giving that Pittsburg Press gal in her pink frog a run for her money this year.”
“I don’t know, Donna May’s got top notch equipment. My rig with me in it outweighs hers by at least 400 pounds, and she can drive.”
Roy changed the subject and looked serious as he spoke. “I came over to ask you a question.”
“Oh?”
“Do you think you can handle a really hot car?”
“Hell, Roy, I’ve driven everything from a TD to a Porsche spyder and last year I raced a ‘60 Vette at Watkins Glenn and Elkhart Lake. Anyone who can handle that horse can drive almost anything.”
“Ever tried any of those all-out racing machines, Lotus, Ferrari or Maseratti?”
“I drove a 1.6 liter Ferrari around the course at Santa Barbara, but never raced one. What are you gettin’ at?”
“Well, I just happen to have a brand new, BMW powered, 2 liter Lotus over there in the next aisle. After I took it around the course, I decided it was a lot more car than I wanted to try to race. How would you like to give it a ride?”
“Me? You want me to drive your rocket?”
“I know you can do it.”
Immediately there was nothing but cotton in my mouth, no spit. I was so excited my mouth dried completely. All I could think of was that this was a dream. “Hell yes, I’d love to give it a ride. Who do I have to kill to get in it?”
“Come on, How. Shut your damned engine off and come take a look—and bring your helmet.”
He didn’t have to ask twice. Within half an hour I was checked out, approved by the officials, and on the course in a drop-dead gorgeous, flaming red, rear-engine rocket. To a racer, this was a dream car. It was more responsive in every way than anything I had ever driven before. I took a few laps quite slowly getting the “feel” of the car. I road tested the steering, brakes and handling. All were superb. I stopped in the pit for a last minute parlé about pit signals before roaring out for some serious laps.
It took several turns around the track for me to find brake points and plan corner entries before I felt confident enough to begin pushing. During practice there were much slower cars out on the course at the same time so I had an entirely new (to me) dimension to deal with, the fast approach to a corner with a slow car right in my way. This required learning a lot of new cornering strategies—quickly. By the time I had gone twenty laps I was really getting into it, so I decided to start lapping at speed, pushing it as fast as I could.
The back straightaway at Mid-Ohio is actually two half a mile straights with a slight bend or kink between them. Up to about a hundred and twenty it is driven as a straightaway. Above that speed, it has to be negotiated as a turn. At a hundred and seventy it is a really tough turn where you must use all the roadway available unless you brake.
On about the twenty third lap I came out of the keyhole at speed and used max throttle going through the gears before setting up for the bend. Ahead of me, approaching the turn was a black Austin Healey going no more then ninety. My closing speed was in excess of 80 miles per hour, nearly twice his speed. Suddenly there was a loud crack and the smooth ride became a tooth jarring sensation. Quicker than I can tell it, the fiberglass front of the car shattered and disappeared. The right front wheel and tire tore loose from the frame and hurtled toward my head. It bounced off my helmet, cracking the visor in the process, and was gone.
I had no time to think as things were moving so fast. Without a right front wheel, I had absolutely no control of the car and I was rapidly approaching that black Healey. The brief thought, “I bought it.” flashed through my mind. Suddenly the car sort of pole vaulted into the air. All we could think of later was that the frame had dropped into a crack or hole in the road and dug in. This made the car rotate forward and go airborne backwards as the rear body shell caught the air. The car literally flew upside down. It must have gone fifteen feet or more above the roadway and directly over the Healey. Just for an instant, I found myself looking directly into the wide eyes of the Healey driver, upside down. The car finally landed on the roadway, in front of the Healey and upside down. At this point it slid on the roll bar with my helmet grinding against the road. Fortunately, my head was protected by the roll bar and held firmly against the headrest by the six point harness. The car slid through the kink and off the road onto the dirt in a huge cloud of dust.
By this time, I was completely disoriented from the rapid changes of direction and the road pounding my head. Thankfull, my head was encased in a very tough and to me, life-saving helmet. Finally the remainder of the car ground to a halt upside down in a cloud of dust that almost suffocated me. I believe my visor, still in place, kept the dirt from my eyes, nose, and mouth. I was quite conscious all during this time.
At first, the safety people rushing to the scene couldn’t find me as I was inside the aluminum box that held the seat with me in a six point suspension harness. There were several red pieces of the car body laying around that were more obvious than that box. Someone spotted my legs and shouted, “Here he is.”
I was very relieved when they turned the box over and began extracting me from the six point harness. By the time they had me free, the ambulance was right there. Quickly, but with care and precision, they strapped me to a back board and placed me into the ambulance. Siren blazing, they raced backwards across the course, turned, and drove out the gate to the Mansfield hospital. During this time I took stock of my condition. I didn’t seem to be hurting much in any one place, just an all over ache. I knew I wasn’t seriously hurt.
The accident happened about ten thirty in the morning. After several X-Rays, lots of feeling around by several ER doctors, and a long argument about keeping me there for observation, I finally won out and was back at the track in time to drive the Inchworm to second place in H production during the Saturday race. I just couldn’t stay in front of Donna May. We won’t talk about Sunday.
My friend, Roy, walked up and showed me a sheared right spindle from the suspension. It was definitely mechanical failure, not driver error that caused the accident. After totaling about $60,000 worth of race car that didn’t belong to me, I had a few pangs of guilt. I’m not sure, but I think Roy sued Lotus and won. It was definitely their fault. As for me, two days after the accident I could hardly move. It took nearly two weeks for the aches and pains to go away.
I have as souvenirs, a bright red Snell helmet with a three inch diameter hole abraded through the fiberglass and into the supporting foam, and a small ragged piece of red fiberglass from the hood. I also have one hell of a story to tell.
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An Unbelievably Wonderful Experience
Howard Johnson
An Unbelievably Wonderful Experience
Howard Johnson
On Saturday, July 11, 2009, I read the following email, sent on Friday, July 10, 2009:
Hello after all these years....
I hope this email from the family blog site still works to reach you.
It seems like a strange convergence of events that have brought me to writing this email.
A few weeks ago I received an update email from Classmates. It listed a small amount of information about the individuals that had searched my name. It listed an 81 year old from Leesburg, FL. Florida? 81? I quickly came to the conclusion that you had searched on my name.
Last Thursday on our drive down to the Great Sand Dunes, my eldest daughter (Cadence, 6) asked "Do you have a daddy?” “Where is your daddy?” To which I answered “Yes, I do. I am not sure if he is still alive, however I think he is and he might be living in Florida.” She has come to realize that she has "Opa" on her father's side of the family, but no grandfather on her mother's side of the family. She then asked why we didn’t see you when we were in Florida and I told her that was because we didn’t know exactly where you were.
Then on Wednesday evening, my mom and I took the girls (yes, two girls – Cadence Emily 12/21/02 &
So today at work I decided to
So, if you would like to converse, talk, meet…just reply and let me know.
It’s been a long time. People make choices. I’m not here to worry about the past. Can’t say I don’t have questions, but if you would like to get to know me, your son-in-law, your granddaughters....this is where you can start.
kristen
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After reading that email I sat and bawled like a baby. It was something I had prayed for and dreamed about for many years. As soon as I gathered myself together I responded:
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Saturday, July 11, 2009
My dear Kristen:
I hope you have some idea of the joy your email brought into my life. It is overwhelming! I have dreamed about having contact with you countless times. Several years ago I even wrote a short story of a fanciful meeting. Of course I would love to talk to you and your family, see you---anything. I am at your disposal as to what, when, where, etc.
I will be here at the lake in Leesburg, Indiana (not Florida) until early October when we head south to St Augustine, Florida.
Right now my heart is filled to overflowing and my mind is struggling with what to say---there is so very much. In spite of my nature to blurt out everything I can think of, I'll leave all those things for another time. Should you want to know a bit about my views and who I am, goto my website. It has links to many of my writings in blogs. Of course, it may have much more than you have the time or care to dig into. It's just a path to a lot of information.
Kristen, you opened a doorway I have prayed for many years to be opened. My hope is it will lead to many wonderful things.
Love, Dad
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After exchanging numerous emails and phone calls we were really getting to know each other. She was planning on making a trip to Columbus Ohio in early August and wanted to come to our place on Lake Tippecanoe for a visit. I was absolutely thrilled at that prospect. I sent her some memorabilia and with it the following letter:
- - - - - - - - -
Kristen:
I’m putting together a package of stuff you might find interesting. In it are a few things that need explanation. That evil looking guy on the cover of the Passion Play program is none other than yours truly. I played Tiras, a chief priest of the San Hedron for exactly 100 performances over ten years. It was an extremely rewarding experience, and for years I’ve been performing in amateur theatrical productions or singing groups. For the last fifteen years I’ve been on of “The Willows,” a local gospel quartet. We used to sing at churches and civic events. We decided to disband this year for several reasons when one of our members began having health problems.
I sing in two choruses in FL, “Singers by the Sea” in Jacksonville Beach and in the “St. Augustine Community Chorus.” I guess I’ll keep singing ‘til my voice goes away.
The book, “Words from the Lakeside” is self explanatory. It’s been written and collected over at least the last fifty years—most in the last ten. I write both fiction and non and find the freedom in calling my work fiction lets me tell stories, even true ones. If labeled non fiction, these stories would prompt many to remark, “You expect me to believe that?” I expect it to be published late this fall, but the copy I’m sending is very close to what the finished product will be. It was essentially completed when Barbara passed away, but it took me a long time to have the spirit to hone it into a finished product while I was putting my life back in order.
Nearly five years of increasing care of a treasured wife changed me a great deal. I was gratified to learn I had that kind of love and dedication. I don’t think any one really knows how one will react in a situation like that until facing it. To watch a once vital and very active lady with a bubbly personality slowly deteriorate to the point of being bed and wheelchair bound is a personally devastating experience, yet in certain ways it was gratifying. I found that I was so intent on helping and caring for her, the smiles and appreciation made it an extremely rewarding experience. During those last years of her life we were closer than we had been for many years. We were together 24/7 for most of the last three years. In spite of the terrible pain and growing weakness, Barb’s spirits were high and she always had a quick quip or two to brighten the moment. There is much about Barb in the last section of the book.
Here I go rambling on. I guess that’s the writer in me. Once I get started the words just pour out in a flood. At least that’s how it seems. The other day I snapped awake at the keyboard, looked up at the clock, and saw it was after eleven. A look at the window startled me because it was very bright out. I looked at the computer screen and it was appropriately filled with Zs. The last thing I remembered was noticing 4 o'clock AM on my clock. I started writing about seven in the evening, worked ‘til some time after 4 AM, and then fell asleep on the keyboard. With Daphne away overnight I had no one coming in tapping me on the shoulder and asking, “Aren’t you ever coming to bed?” I really don’t have a good sense of time, especially when I’m writing or reading.
I’m loving looking forward to your visit. It’s a bit unusual meeting some one who has been loved in absentia for so many years.
Love, Dad
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The August visit was fantastic. It was the first contact I had with Kristen since she was fourteen, 27 years ago. A bit of explanation by way of some personal history may be appropriate at this point.
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In the 60s, my wife, Dolores, and I had some serious marital difficulties which led to several separations and finally ended in divorce years later after the last long separation. We worked desperately to hold our marriage together for the benefit of our children whose welfare certainly gained from our efforts. Needless to say I was personally devastated. I did not handle our problems very well and soon embarked on a dangerous path driven by a mixture of anger and self pity which I will not detail. I became a not so nice person.
Well into this personal decline I met Caroline, a kind and wonderful lady who soon captured my heart. We fell very much in love. But for her influence I would probably have sunk further into the depths on the downward path I had been on for several years. She certainly turned my life around to the better—much better.
After several years we had a beautiful daughter, Kristen, in February 1968. For some valid and some foolish reasons which I will not enumerate I did not do what I should certainly have done. As a result, Caroline and I ended our relationship. From that date forward my self esteem deteriorated steadily. I reached a point where, for several reasons including Caroline’s request, I stepped completely out of their lives.
I was a mess, and stumbled into a second, sudden and foolish marriage to an absolutely intolerable woman. With that doomed marriage on the rocks I negotiated some consulting engineering contracts with the Navy and Air Force and spent a year working in the Philippines. It was a good time for me to be far away as I began a steady recovery. By the time I returned from the Philippines my divorce was in the works and I was regaining control of my life.
In 1982 during the early part of my recovery period and during my move to Chicago, I stopped to visit Caroline and Kristen at their apartment in Rocky River. I had fleeting thoughts of trying to get back together, but I was completely broke, had terribly low self esteem and was in the midst of that nasty divorce. After seeing them, I decided they would be far better off with me out of their lives. This was the second major mistake in judgement I made involving two people I dearly loved. Since one can take but a single path in life, there is no way of knowing how the other path might have turned out. It is entirely possible they actually were better off with me out of their lives.
Now gun shy of women I kept to myself, immersing my efforts in my work. After a year or two I found myself once more wanting companionship and joined PWP, Parents Without Partners, a group with many social activities and opportunities to meet singles. It was in this group that I finally met a great lady who helped me regain my self respect and put my life back together. Iola and I were together for several years. I adored her two teenage daughters who in time became almost like my own. For several nebulous reasons we never married and finally decided to go our separate ways. We have remained good friends to this day.
After Iola and I parted company, I met and then married Barbara. There are several articles about Barbara near the end of this book including how we met, our marriage, and her tragic death. Barbara helped me regain my self esteem, personal confidence, and to like myself once more. She also helped me to become a writer, something I really love that is very rewarding. It was a life changing experience.
After Barb passed away I met Daphne Fox, a wonderful, classy lady from St Augustine, Florida. We have been together enjoying the warmth of love and companionship ever since. She was with me when Kristen was due to visit.
- - - - - - - -
When Kristen arrived Sunday, August 16th, we shared a very long teary hug. It was an absolutely breathtaking experience. The two days she spent with Daphne and I were among the happiest days of my life. It was almost the Biblical story of the prodigal son all over again, factually quite different, but each father obviously had similar feelings.
Now I have a wonderful daughter back in my life, two beautiful new granddaughters, and a new son-in-law. In a few weeks I will be in Denver to meet my new family in person for the very first time. My excitement knows no bounds. In most respects, life has been kind to me as well as rewarding. The wonderful happenings far outweigh the hard knocks. Now that my youngest daughter is back in my life bringing with her two beautiful granddaughters and a son-in-law I have yet to meet, life is indeed sweet.
- - - - - - - - -
Saturday, November 21, 2009, 9:00am - I am in Denver, or rather Lakewood Colorado on Green Mountain several miles west of Denver in Kristen’s and Vince’s lovely home. My daughter is up and my two bright and beautiful little granddaughters, Cadence and Madeline, are having breakfast right beside me.
This has been an absolutely spectacular week with more beautiful surprises than I could imagine, It started last Saturday when I rode down the escalator in the Denver airport to be greeted by Kristen and for the very first time my two youngest granddaughters. I had been very nervous hoping and praying I would make a good impression. It’s not very often one meets one’s granddaughters, ages seven and five, for the very first time. My fears were unfounded as two beautiful little girls greeted me with big smiles and several hugs as I reached the bottom of the escalator. I was in emotional overload.
This unbelievable week continued as I got acquainted with Vince and those two little sprites. When Vince called me “Dad” it touched me. He is the first one of my son-in-laws to call me Dad. I loved it. Five year old Mady came up with her own original name for me that was accurate, original, and really touched me. All on her own she started calling me “Mommy’s Daddy.” We played games, read, talked, went out to dinner, and fixed breakfast together. It was an intensely warm and loving family experience made all the more precious since it was our first time together—ever.
I was a bit nervous about meeting Kristen’s mother, Caroline, because of our history and because I knew she was coming over to pick up the girls. I expected a polite, cooly friendly greeting when she came. I was totally unprepared for the warm friendly hug I received even before we spoke. In an instant, thirty eight years of assumed hostility evaporated into nothing. It was two old friends, estranged for many years because of misunderstanding on both parts suddenly discovering each still cared for the other and so instantly renewed that close friendship. Once more I went into emotional overload because of the spiritual beauty of the realization of what had happened. It was a real joy not to be excluded from this wider family in Denver because of the past. It was a truly a beautiful and highly emotional happening where tears flowed frequently. It was a wonderful relief from those years of tension experienced by each of us—that tension, gone in an instant of realization. Life would now be different for us forever, all because of that simple email.
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The Clever Ladies of the River House Writers
Howard Johnson
The Clever Ladies of the River House Writers
Howard Johnson
There are times when simple happenings have tremendous impact on a person, even life changing impacts. Other times such happenings result in new realizations, thoughts or feelings—experiences that turn on a light in a mind or soul—an Aha!
Such an occurrence happened to me on May 5, 2010 in a writing class I was attending at the time. There were about 15 ladies in the class. There was one other gentleman who sometimes attended. Our teacher, leader, guide, was Peter, a reporter for a local paper.
Peter was absent, so several of the ladies read their work. Their stories had tragedy and comedy, sadness and joy, with bits of humor, pain, laughter and tears, all steeped in very human emotions. These women, these fellow wordsmiths, these new friends, shared parts of their lives with each us. They shared their pain, their innermost feelings, so much more than just the words they read. For just a tiny portion of our lives, we all were in each other’s lives, sharing and experiencing the joy and the hurt. Lives, that until that moment when we met, and spoke, and read, and shared, were no part of our beings. We were Samuel Johnson and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Edgar Allen Poe and
I read for them a piece named, The Calling. I had written this some ten years ago, about finding myself as a writer. I have been very pleased to be the writer of that piece. It is a confession of slow growth of understanding of one part of who I am. I think only writers or those with the spirit of writers, or maybe story tellers, would truly understand my words—or maybe not. Those ladies, my friends, each took their own understanding from my words. The beautiful thing was that they listened. That gave power to my words, depth to my feelings.
One of the ladies asked why I was in the group. Maybe because I come across as so experienced, so sure of myself. The implication was that I didn’t need to be there, that I was too advanced. I tried a short simple answer, but the truth is far to complex, too emotional, too thought provoking, than a few words can explain. The truth to me is from a lesson I continue to learn and appreciate. I have found that the more I know, the more I learn, the more I experience, the more I hear—all of these “mores”—make me realize how much more there is that I do not know, how much I have yet to learn, to experience, to hear. I also realized painfully how much, how inconceivably much there is I will never know, learn, or experience. Each of these ladies, my friends, had something important to add to who I am. Hopefully, I reciprocated. Is this not the essence of living? Is this not what makes us the very human creatures that we are?
Life is an extremely complex set of interrelated actions and reactions. It is far too complicated to describe in a few sound bytes, or even in a thousand volumes. I have tried to explain so much of life to my children, my grandchildren, even my friends, particularly those in difficulty or grief. I am certain that most people have tried to do the same. Sometimes it’s difficult. Other times it is impossible. Yet still we try.
I have had an unbelievably wonderful life, mostly through no effort of my own. At my advanced age, I am in a wonderful, romantic relationship with a spectacular lady. We met on the Internet four years ago. She brought me to St Augustine which I have grown to love and enjoy immensely. But then, I have always been a hopeless and optimistic romantic, so why not?
Several years back, just after my wife, Barbara, passed away, I went to see my personal physician for a checkup. Dr Andy had then been my physician for nearly forty years. We were good friends and he knew at least as much about my life as anyone.
After the exam was over we were talking and said to me, “Howard, I wish I had your life.”
I replied, “Why do you say that, Doc? Right now I’m broke, living alone, and trying to put my life back together after taking care of Barb full time for nearly five years. In the process, I lost everything I owned.”
“This is not the first time, you know. You’ll bounce back. Just like before.” he remarked with a grin. Then he rattled off a number of the things I had experienced and gone through during those forty years. Included were three marriages, two major relationships, six incredible children and being widowed.
I grinned back at him and said, “When you put it that way, I guess I have had quite a ride.”
He also reminded me how I had been broke twice before, and bounced back.
To that I pleaded, “Yeah, but I was twenty years younger the last time I was broke.”
He laughed at me. “Somehow, I think you’ll manage to come out OK.”
When I was asked that question about why I was in the writing class, I remembered that incident, and the story I then told him. Here’s that story, reconstructed from old memories.
My maternal grandfather was a wonderful friend for a young boy. He was a master story teller who could keep me occupied listening for a very long time, an eternity to a small boy. Many a time, as he would be telling me a particularly juicy tale, I would hear my grandmother call from the kitchen or other part of the house, “George! You quit filling that boy’s head with your nonsense.” Granddad would lower his voice and keep right on telling.
One evening, when I was seven or eight, he and my grandma came to our house for dinner. I of course, managed to sit right beside him. Among my mother’s offerings, we were having stewed turnips, a dish I did not particularly care for. When it came my turn at the turnips I declined, probably saying, “I hate turnips.”or something of that nature.
Granddad’s face turned to a scowl as he looked at me, bent down, and whispered privately, “Howard, You should never say things like that. Never!”
“Why not? That’s what I think.”
He then gave me a lesson in human nature I shall never forget. “Well, you think wrong, young man. You think wrong. Unless you change, you will deny yourself many really enjoyable things.”
I held my grandfather in awe and adoration, so I was extremely attentive as he continued.
“What you should say is, I love stewed turnips. . . . Say it now, I love stewed turnips.”
1
It made no sense to me, but I said it anyway, “I love stewed turnips.”
“Repeat it, several times. Announce it to everyone.”
“I love stewed turnips. I love stewed turnips. I love stewed turnips.” I dutifully remarked for all to hear.
“OK. Now, ask your mom for some turnips—right now. And tell her you love stewed turnips when you ask. Go ahead. Do it.”
Though I was skeptical, I did what Granddad told me to do. “Mom. May I have some turnips? I love your stewed turnips.”
Mom had a quizzical look on her face as she placed the serving of turnips on my plate, but said nothing, Granddad leaned down and whispered, “Now keep saying, I love stewed turnips, as you eat them. You’ll be amazed.”
Well, I was amazed. Not only were they edible, but I even took a second helping. They were delicious. To this day, I love stewed turnips.
While he and I sat on our porch after dinner, Granddad tried to explain why this was so. “Howard, you ought to apply what you learned to everything. Consider all the things you say you don’t like. Think about treating them the same way. Know why this works?”
I was in wide eyed attendance to his words. “No, I don’t, so why did that work. I really did like those stewed turnips. Still do. That’s hard for me to believe.”
Granddad smiled as he continued. “It’s quite simple. It’s the power of commitment. Once you announce something to your friends, to anyone, you then must back up your statement with actions. Let me ask you, do your friends like school?”
“Nah. They all hate school. Drather be doin’ almost any thing else.”
“That’s what they say, and once they’ve said that, it’s a commitment. They then have to prove it to their friends. They must act as if what they said were true. Each time they say they hate school, they must act as if it were true, and that reinforces their feelings. That’s human nature, and it is so with nearly everything in our lives.”
“I don’t know that I can do that with everything. Some things, like bad fish, just taste terrible. They even smell bad.”
“That’s quite true, but you’ll be surprised how many things, even people, are not nearly as bad as you say. Take school for instance. Do you like school?”
“I guess I really do like learning about new things—even have fun solving word problems in math. School’s not really so bad.”
“Don’t your pals tell you they hate school? How about you. Do you ever say you hate school?”
“They always say they hate school. I do too, sometimes.”
“Every time any of you say that, it’s a commitment. Then you have to prove it—continually. The next time you talk with your friends, tell them that you love school and keep on telling them that. See what happens.”
“I can’t do that. They’ll all laugh and make fun of me.”
“So you’ll just knuckle under and do what they want you to do. Is that it? You can’t do anything they won’t let you do?”
I bristled a bit at his words. “No, It’s not that way, not at all. They don’t tell me what to do.”
“Sure sounds to me like they do.”
Fortunately, I was already fiercely independent. I just had to prove I was not under the control of my friends, or anyone for that matter. “OK, Granddad. I’ll do it. I’ll tell all my friends I love school.”
“Now you’re on the right path. You’ll understand better as you grow up.”
Much later I would realize Granddad was teaching me two very important life lessons, the power of commitment and the force of peer pressure. It would take years for the full effect of these lessons to work into who I am. From that day on I always said I loved school—and it worked. I also learned to ignore taunts of others and make my own decisions about what I like or dislike. As a result, I have never been a joiner or member of a cause. Well, maybe some independent causes for what I believe to be the better good, but as far as any “movement” or ideology is concerned, I think and act on my own. I’ve never been a joiner. Peer pressure? I can take it or leave it as it suits me. If it’s not logical it falls away from me like water off a duck’s back.
To this day, I eat with relish virtually any food that is well prepared. I love everything edible. There is no doubt in my mind that those simple lessons my Granddad taught me have had a major positive effect on my entire life.
How does all this tie into my first comments and the question from the ladies in my writing course? It’s all about how I see people as individuals from whom I can learn valuable life lessons while enjoying good company.
In my lifetime I have never met another human being from whom I could not learn something I didn’t know, something of inestimable value. I have never reread anything, even my own words, from which I have not gained at least something. Those who do not listen, or value, the words of others, regardless of how less knowledgeable they may seem, are missing out. No matter how large yawns the supposed chasm between intellects or experience, nonlisteners (Been there. Done that.) shut themselves off from a vast store of information and emotions they may never feel, know, or learn of. I have a consuming desire to find, know, and feel these things. My father added a bit of wisdom when he told me, “We’re all ignorant, only in different subjects.”
When wondering about someone they don’t know, many tend to ask for statistical information. They want to know about their job, wealth, education, age, looks, religion, politics etc. I certainly see and recognize these things. However, what I would really like to know are things like the following: What does her voice sound like? What music does he love best? Does she collect butterflies? Does he talk with his children? Does she dream in technicolor? Does he cry at beautiful experiences? What does she hate and what does he love? What tragedy has bruised his life? What inconceivable joy has brightened her outlook?
So, ladies, and in particular the questioner, do you now understand why I am in this class? You can blame it all on my grandfather.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
Charlie’s Friends
Howard Johnson
Kathy Hynes
Charlie’s Friends
Howard Johnson
For the past four years I have lived in Villages of Vilano, a gated community on the barrier island between the Inter Coastal Waterway and the Atlantic Ocean just north of St. Augustine, Florida. It is a safe, comfortable community of mostly older and retired people. I live there because of the lovely and gracious lady who owns the house. We have put our lives together after having both been widowed from precious loved ones. During much of the summer, we live in my home on a lake in Northern Indiana. I am one extremely lucky man to have found Daphne and to have such a wonderful, loving relationship at my age.
There is another contributing member of our family. Charlie is a delightful, exuberant, little bundle of energy who loves everyone. His ancestors were caravan dogs in Tibet where they were expected to hunt small animals to feed the drivers and provide alarms so the protector dogs, Tibetan mastiffs, could do their thing. Lhasa Apsos are muscular little dogs with powerful hunting instincts and the ability to jump amazingly high for their size. They are notoriously friendly to people and are excellent with children. Charlie has been mauled by my small grandchildren with nary a complaint, or hint of a growl. He loves the attention.
Charlie has a thick, soft coat which grows long without shedding, so he must be brushed regularly, and groomed when his coat gets too long. We let his coat grow long in the winter, but crop him close for the heat of summer. Each of his substantial front paws is white. Otherwise, he is totally light caramel in color. He has large, expressive brown eyes, a black, inquisitive nose, and floppy ears with long hair. Charlie is the happiest dog I have ever known. He is an amazing communicator and understands so many of our words we have to spell things like “ride” or “bike,” and the mention of “go” brings about a dash for the door where he bounces like a rubber ball. He has no trouble telling us what he wants, be it food, water, to go out, or if someone’s at the door.
Charlie loves to travel and will quickly jump into any car with the door open. Sometimes we have difficulty getting him to come out once he’s entered a vehicle. When we travel in our motor home, he usually sits or roams about on the large, flat area between the dash and the windshield where he can see everything. He even sleeps there sometimes while we’re moving.
There is a figure eight loop of streets in the Villages of Vilano plus a few cul-de-sacs providing access to the homes. One complete passage through the figure eight rolls up a mile and a quarter. For the last three years, I have tried to pedal our four-wheeled bike-like conveyance called, a Rhoades car at least once around that figure eight each day. The Rhoades is a steel-framed, six-speed cycle type of conveyance with two seats side-by-side, and a large basket in back of the seats. It is a hefty vehicle weighing in at about 170 pounds. Each seat has access to a set of pedals that drive the rear wheels through a six-speed derailleur system, one unit for each seat.
On the first time we took the Rhoades for a spin around the figure eight, we took Charlie with us on his retractable leash. Maybe I should say, Charlie took us. From that moment on Charlie decided that the Rhoades belonged to him. No one would be able to get on that bike without Charlie going with them. He loves to run and can pull me on the Rhoades up to 8 miles per hour all on his own. This usually takes place at the start of each of our outings. I quickly throttle him back, as instructed by our vet, so he doesn’t over exert.
We are now settled into a routine. He runs as fast as he can with me pedaling furiously to keep up for the first fifty yards after which he settles back to a comfortable dogtrot. This makes both Charlie and his vet happy.
Except during our frequent travels, when Charlie goes to “camp,” we have done this regularly while in St. Augustine for the last three years. During rides around those loops, we have greeted many people and their dogs. Usually the other dogs are being walked slowly so we breeze by with Charlie’s little legs churning. By the time we have completed most of the loops and are on the last block or so toward home, Charlie has slowed to a walk and is making regular stops to claim his territory and tell other dogs, “I was here.”
Sometimes things happen that put one’s perspective in sync with reality. Such a thing happened to me just this morning. It certainly was not a boost for my ego. Charlie and I started out early for our bike jaunt, so as to miss the heat of the day. The sky was clear, the air still, and the streets of our figure eight were quite empty. As we headed east on the third leg of our journey, a man on a regular bicycle rode past going the opposite direction. I did not recognize him, but as he rode past he smiled and gave a cheery, “Hi Charlie.”
I asked, “Charlie, who was that?” Charlie, of course, did not answer.
Later, on the part of our circuit where he runs on the sidewalk, Charlie pranced up to a woman walking the other way. She stopped, bent down, gave Charlie a pat on his head, and said, “Good morning Charlie. How are you?” Charlie greeted this attention with a kiss and much tail wagging before sauntering off as if nothing happened. As we passed, we exchanged good mornings and went on. I did not recognize the woman, but she certainly knew Charlie. I have no idea whether or not either of Charlie’s friends knew me other than as the man who rides that odd bicycle with Charlie every day. There was no doubt they knew Charlie.
As we headed down the last street toward home, I wondered more and more why and how they knew Charlie, but I didn’t know them. Maybe I’m just the guy Charlie leads around every day, I don’t know. It certainly is humbling when people know your dog by name, no matter how loveable he is, but don’t know you.
But then, Charlie is no ordinary dog. You knew I was going to say that, didn’t you? As I write this, Charlie is curled around my right foot, his chin resting on my left. That’s where he is much of the time I’m writing. Sooner or later, he will thrust his head up between my legs and the keyboard, look me in the eyes and say. “OK, dad. Time for me to go outside,” or for a bike ride, or something else. Of course he can’t actually vocalize it, but make no mistake. Charlie is not subtle. He will let me know clearly just what he wants.
Howard Johnson __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
Surprise! Surprise!
After twenty-two years of marriage and five children, my wife and I mutually decided to part company, it was during a very depressing time in my life. We parted, but remained on friendly terms after struggling with a difficult situation that is best left undepicted. Soon after we separated, I attended a convention in Chicago, the same dental convention I had attended for the previous twenty years. During the convention, a long-time friend of mine who lived in Chicago invited me to attend a musical at the Schubert Theater near our hotel. I’ll not mention the musical for reasons that will be obvious later. My friend was a member of a support organization for the theater in Chicago. After the performance, he took me to a reception in the theater where we could meet and talk to the cast. I was quite excited to have the opportunity to speak with some famous performers who were in the musical we had just seen.
While my friend had wandered away, I ended up talking with Donna Lynn, (her name has been changed to protect the guilty) the beautiful lady who was the secondary female lead in the show, a bubbly singer and dancer who were quite famous. For some reason, we hit it off immediately, almost like soul mates. Finally, Donna led me to one of the couches near the bar so we could sit. While there, people came over to congratulate her on her performance and have a few words. After several people engaged her in conversation, I decided it was time to get up to move on. When I started to go, she grabbed my hand and said, “Don’t leave. I’d like to talk with you some more.” Of course, I stayed right there. She then began introducing me to the people who came up to her as “an old friend.” Soon she got up, took my hand again, and steered me through the crowd of admirers and introduced me to other members of the cast.
After at least an hour, things began to quiet down and for a moment. When no one was nearby, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Are you hungry? Would you like to skip out of this zoo for a while?”
“Of course,” was my surprised answer. “Where would you like to go?”
“Get your coat and meet me out front,” she said with a wink and a smile. “We’ll catch a cab to one of my favorite places.”
“Sounds like a winning plan to me,” I answered as I tried to hide my surprise and amazement.
She walked away swiftly, greeting several people as she sped across the room and out the door. I couldn’t find my friend to tell him I was leaving, but I could explain the next day. I walked to the checkroom, retrieved my coat and headed out into a near zero February night in Chicago. I didn’t have to wait long before Donna came bouncing out of the theater.
When we grabbed the first cab, she told the Cabbie, “Chez Paul please.” Then she turned to me and asked, “You don’t mind, do you? I mean, I’ve sort of run over you. . . . No, I can tell. It doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“You surprised me, pleasantly, but no, it doesn’t bother me.”
“I like that about you. I had you pegged from the first few bits of conversation we had when we first met. You, Mr. . . . My God, I don’t even know your last name.”
“Johnson, Howard Johnson.”
“Not the Howard Johnson.”
“As far as I am concerned I am,” I replied with the customary response to that frequently asked question. . . . “No, I’m in the dental business, not hotels and restaurants.” I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Well, Mr. Howard Johnson, you are a gentleman, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.” The twinkle in her eyes and the light punch to my upper arm told me a great deal about this little bundle of energy. If nothing else, this evening was going to be a memorable one. She was a real person, and very animated, much like her stage persona.
During our ride, she was suddenly very quiet and pensive. Then she began telling me how she and her husband had just separated a few months before. When I told her about my failed marriage, she replied dramatically, “We are kindred souls, destined to meet and have a wild, passionate love affair.”
I must have looked a bit shocked. “Don’t take me too seriously,” she said quietly. “I can be a little crazy, at times, especially when in untraveled territory, rather like the boy whistling while passing a graveyard.”
“I get your drift, but I don’t know. Right now a wild, passionate affair sounds pretty damned good to me,” I said to lighten things up.
“I like you, Howard Johnson. You’re a bit crazy yourself, good crazy!”
I will not detail what happened after that since that is not the purpose of this story. Suffice to say we spent numerous enjoyable times together for the next year in several locations when we could get together. She even spent most of two summer weeks at my lake home with me, incognito for her of course.
After seeing us together in my sailboat, one of my close friends told me, “Your new friend sure looks a lot like Donna Lynn, the actress.” Several other friends made the very same comment under similar circumstances.
“Now that you mention it, she certainly does.” was my usual reply, while trying desperately not to grin like a Cheshire cat.
For an ordinary guy with an ordinary income to become involved with a famous actress for a short fling is one thing, but by Thanksgiving, things were beginning to get a bit serious and that unnerved me, and I think Donna as well. We were talking about my kids and she coming to meet them at our Thanksgiving dinner when reality came down on us. We then had a serious and long overdue talk about the future in a downtown Cleveland hotel room. The details are irrelevant, but in the end, we decided it was best we part right then. It was a tough and sad parting for both of us. For the first time, our usual laughs were replaced by tears. We both knew it just wouldn’t work for us, regardless how much we cared for each other. Our worlds were just too far apart. We decided that a clean break with no contact would be the best way and so it was.
Some time later I read that she and her husband had reunited. As far as I know, they are still married and together. I wish her nothing but great happiness. She was a marvelous and happy part of my life that I will always treasure in memory, a bright, wonderful light during a very low and otherwise dark period.
There was a single exception to our separation, and that is the reason and purpose for this story. It was one of the funniest and most personally satisfying thing that ever happened to me. Several years after we parted I made one of the worst mistakes, stupid mistakes, of my life. With my personal life rather a shambles, I met and then married a divorced woman named Roberta on the rebound. I knew it was a serious mistake the evening of the day we married, but I stuck it out for several years. WRONG!
This too is only a reference point to the story. About three years after our marriage we became Hannah theater supporters in Cleveland. The Hannah was the only major downtown theater to hold stage plays, and in particular, musicals. One show that came to town, had as one of the leads—you guessed it, Donna Lynn. I had never told Roberta about my relationship with Donna, or even that I knew her as she would surely have gone ballistic if I had. I did so to avoid one of those common, scenes of angry recriminations. Of course, Roberta insisted we attend Donna’s show and the reception afterward in the Hannah lounge.
It was with great trepidation and some excitement that I walked into the lounge with Roberta after the show. A social climber who was always looking to impress, she headed for the most important person she could find to engage in conversation. Meanwhile, she abandoned me near the bar, so I could get our drinks. As I waited in line about twenty feet from Roberta, Donna walked into the room. It took her about five minutes to spot me.
When she did she almost screamed, “Howard Johnson!” ran across the lounge and threw herself bodily onto me, engulfing me with arms and legs. (That was her exuberant style) All of this took place as Roberta watched in awestruck silence. In fact, nearly the entire room was silent for a moment. By the time Donna unwound herself from me and had begun a nonstop series of questions, Roberta reached us. It was such a delicious moment for me; I had a hard time suppressing an ear to ear grin. My mind reeled as I wondered what she was going to say.
I hadn’t a clue what she was thinking, but I was pretty sure there was a terrible conflict going on in her mind. I knew she wouldn’t blow up—right then. That’s because she would love to be in the limelight with a famous star like Donna. I knew she wanted to kill me for not telling her I knew Donna personally. I also knew she was totally baffled with the entire situation. I had never seen her that speechless, but there she was, standing mouth agape and no words coming out. I was in deep trouble.
Then, I did the only humane thing I could. I took Donnas hand, turned toward Roberta and said, “Donna, I would like you to meet my wife, Roberta.”
Roberta stammered something like “Very honored to meet you,” while I’m sure she was thinking something like, “I’d like to see you both dead.”
I’ll have to admit, she held her poise fairly well. I, of course, was living in extreme gratification, loving every minute of Roberta’s confusion and discomfort.
Then Donna said, “Howard and I are old friends, very dear friends. You must be a wonderful person to have such a husband, a very lucky lady.”
Her face a mask of total confusion, she replied, “Yes, he is a great husband.”
At those words, it was all I could do to control my reactions. I’m sure Donna sensed Roberta was extremely tense and irritated, and that I was enjoying things immensely.
“Nice meeting you, Roberta, but please excuse me. I have a necessary obligation to visit with more of these people. Stick around if you can. I’d like to talk to you later,” Donna said clearly before she wandered off.
At this point, I knew my only safe sanctuary was there in the lounge, so when Roberta suggested we leave I replied, “ I am enjoying myself immensely and would much prefer to stay.”
Roberta scowled and, quietly hissed at me, “Just how is it you know that woman, and why didn’t you tell me?”
“That was a long time ago and I didn’t think it important.”
“Not important that my husband knows a major stage star personally and didn’t tell me? Just what kind of relationship did you two have, and when was all this going on?”
I didn’t think she would start a battle right here, so I answered. “I never mentioned it because I knew it would piss you off. We had a wonderful close relationship for nearly a year, long before you and I met. We didn’t think it would work out, so we cut it off. She’s a wonderful human being in addition to being a talented singer and dancer. She’s a real person, and I treasure our shared memories. End of story.”
Roberta stormed out the door as she had done in previous temper tantrums. I couldn’t have cared less where she went and what she did. Since I had the car keys in my pocket, I knew she would have to find another way home unless she waited for me. It was useless for me to chase after her and, of course, I wouldn’t because I knew that was what she wanted me to do. By this time in our marriage, I was making it a point never to do what she wanted me to do. I was afraid that she was so infuriated that she might come back and make a scene. Then I realized that was the last thing she would do in a place with famous people. If anything, she would come back with syrupy conversation laced with not-so-subtle sarcasm aimed at yours truly. When, after half an hour she didn’t show, I was sure she was on her way home preparing me a particularly virulent purgatory. I decided, what the hell, I might as well stay and enjoy myself ‘til the last dog was hanged.
When I spoke with Donna after things quieted down, she made a classic remark. “Howard, I can’t believe you actually married the wicked witch of the west.”
“See what happened when you dumped me?”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry. My sense of humor is kinda screwed up.”
“I can see why. Where is she now? I hope she’s not lying in wait for me with a club. Boy, did I ever get some nasty vibes from that lady.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll save it all up for me when I get home.”
“You poor man. You deserve much better. Other than that I won’t say another word.”
“Come on, Donna, it will be a cold day in Hell when you don’t have something to say about almost anything,” I said with a chuckle.
“My Gawd, you do know me, don’t you? Let’s say I’ll try,” she replied with a grin.
“Seriously, how are things going with you?”
“I’m sure you know that Ray and I are back together. You couldn’t know, but you’re one of the main reasons we came back together.”
“Oh?”
“After you and I parted company, I began thinking Ray’s a lot like you, a real person. Within a month or two of when you and I parted, he called. One thing led to another, and we’ve been back together now for nearly five years. I think it’s going to work this time.”
“Wonderful! I’m happy for you. Uh, . . . you didn’t tell him about us did you?”
“Of course not. It would have served no purpose. There was certainly no point in rockin’ the boat.”
“Good.”
“Anyway, I’m fairly sure that if it weren’t for you, he and I would not have gotten back together. See what you did for us? I am so grateful.”
“You’re quite a lady, Donna. I’m so glad we had some good times together.”
“Yes we certainly did, didn’t we? I have some beautiful and exciting memories.”
“Me too. Of course, you knew that, didn’t you?”
“We both knew it. . . . I don’t give advice, but there are lots of really great ladies out there if you look carefully.”
“I’m a bit gun shy after this one.”
“I can see why. Next time, and I’ll bet a year’s pay there will be a next time. Next time, don’t move too quickly. Take all the time you need to make sure she’s right for you.”
“OK mom!”
We talked until the staff wanted to leave, had a goodby hug and that was the last time we ever had contact. I still retain those precious memories, and I’ll wager she does as well.
A kiss of love once tasted, lingers in the heart, leaving the sharer wanting more. Sometimes it just is not to be.
A Rented RoomIt was with great trepidation and some excitement that I walked into the lounge with Roberta after the show. A social climber who was always looking to impress, she headed for the most important person she could find to engage in conversation. Meanwhile, she abandoned me near the bar, so I could get our drinks. As I waited in line about twenty feet from Roberta, Donna walked into the room. It took her about five minutes to spot me.
When she did she almost screamed, “Howard Johnson!” ran across the lounge and threw herself bodily onto me, engulfing me with arms and legs. (That was her exuberant style) All of this took place as Roberta watched in awestruck silence. In fact, nearly the entire room was silent for a moment. By the time Donna unwound herself from me and had begun a nonstop series of questions, Roberta reached us. It was such a delicious moment for me; I had a hard time suppressing an ear to ear grin. My mind reeled as I wondered what she was going to say.
I hadn’t a clue what she was thinking, but I was pretty sure there was a terrible conflict going on in her mind. I knew she wouldn’t blow up—right then. That’s because she would love to be in the limelight with a famous star like Donna. I knew she wanted to kill me for not telling her I knew Donna personally. I also knew she was totally baffled with the entire situation. I had never seen her that speechless, but there she was, standing mouth agape and no words coming out. I was in deep trouble.
Then, I did the only humane thing I could. I took Donnas hand, turned toward Roberta and said, “Donna, I would like you to meet my wife, Roberta.”
Roberta stammered something like “Very honored to meet you,” while I’m sure she was thinking something like, “I’d like to see you both dead.”
I’ll have to admit, she held her poise fairly well. I, of course, was living in extreme gratification, loving every minute of Roberta’s confusion and discomfort.
Then Donna said, “Howard and I are old friends, very dear friends. You must be a wonderful person to have such a husband, a very lucky lady.”
Her face a mask of total confusion, she replied, “Yes, he is a great husband.”
At those words, it was all I could do to control my reactions. I’m sure Donna sensed Roberta was extremely tense and irritated, and that I was enjoying things immensely.
“Nice meeting you, Roberta, but please excuse me. I have a necessary obligation to visit with more of these people. Stick around if you can. I’d like to talk to you later,” Donna said clearly before she wandered off.
At this point, I knew my only safe sanctuary was there in the lounge, so when Roberta suggested we leave I replied, “ I am enjoying myself immensely and would much prefer to stay.”
Roberta scowled and, quietly hissed at me, “Just how is it you know that woman, and why didn’t you tell me?”
“That was a long time ago and I didn’t think it important.”
“Not important that my husband knows a major stage star personally and didn’t tell me? Just what kind of relationship did you two have, and when was all this going on?”
I didn’t think she would start a battle right here, so I answered. “I never mentioned it because I knew it would piss you off. We had a wonderful close relationship for nearly a year, long before you and I met. We didn’t think it would work out, so we cut it off. She’s a wonderful human being in addition to being a talented singer and dancer. She’s a real person, and I treasure our shared memories. End of story.”
Roberta stormed out the door as she had done in previous temper tantrums. I couldn’t have cared less where she went and what she did. Since I had the car keys in my pocket, I knew she would have to find another way home unless she waited for me. It was useless for me to chase after her and, of course, I wouldn’t because I knew that was what she wanted me to do. By this time in our marriage, I was making it a point never to do what she wanted me to do. I was afraid that she was so infuriated that she might come back and make a scene. Then I realized that was the last thing she would do in a place with famous people. If anything, she would come back with syrupy conversation laced with not-so-subtle sarcasm aimed at yours truly. When, after half an hour she didn’t show, I was sure she was on her way home preparing me a particularly virulent purgatory. I decided, what the hell, I might as well stay and enjoy myself ‘til the last dog was hanged.
When I spoke with Donna after things quieted down, she made a classic remark. “Howard, I can’t believe you actually married the wicked witch of the west.”
“See what happened when you dumped me?”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry. My sense of humor is kinda screwed up.”
“I can see why. Where is she now? I hope she’s not lying in wait for me with a club. Boy, did I ever get some nasty vibes from that lady.”
“Don’t worry, she’ll save it all up for me when I get home.”
“You poor man. You deserve much better. Other than that I won’t say another word.”
“Come on, Donna, it will be a cold day in Hell when you don’t have something to say about almost anything,” I said with a chuckle.
“My Gawd, you do know me, don’t you? Let’s say I’ll try,” she replied with a grin.
“Seriously, how are things going with you?”
“I’m sure you know that Ray and I are back together. You couldn’t know, but you’re one of the main reasons we came back together.”
“Oh?”
“After you and I parted company, I began thinking Ray’s a lot like you, a real person. Within a month or two of when you and I parted, he called. One thing led to another, and we’ve been back together now for nearly five years. I think it’s going to work this time.”
“Wonderful! I’m happy for you. Uh, . . . you didn’t tell him about us did you?”
“Of course not. It would have served no purpose. There was certainly no point in rockin’ the boat.”
“Good.”
“Anyway, I’m fairly sure that if it weren’t for you, he and I would not have gotten back together. See what you did for us? I am so grateful.”
“You’re quite a lady, Donna. I’m so glad we had some good times together.”
“Yes we certainly did, didn’t we? I have some beautiful and exciting memories.”
“Me too. Of course, you knew that, didn’t you?”
“We both knew it. . . . I don’t give advice, but there are lots of really great ladies out there if you look carefully.”
“I’m a bit gun shy after this one.”
“I can see why. Next time, and I’ll bet a year’s pay there will be a next time. Next time, don’t move too quickly. Take all the time you need to make sure she’s right for you.”
“OK mom!”
We talked until the staff wanted to leave, had a goodby hug and that was the last time we ever had contact. I still retain those precious memories, and I’ll wager she does as well.
A kiss of love once tasted, lingers in the heart, leaving the sharer wanting more. Sometimes it just is not to be.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
Kathy Hynes
After a week in our rented room, we were settled into our environment and had a routine. Our sleeping bags fit on the straw mat in the corner and a single hanging light bulb worked. Our corner opened to a rectangular courtyard with several other rooms and a porch upstairs. Sun splashed in on broken tiles and wild orchids crawled up the walls. Down the alley, our bathroom was a dirt room with no door and a large hole.
Every day we wandered into the market for mint tea and split a sweet
As for our neighbors - quite a colorful courtyard community. Upstairs on the porch, a solitary African drummer had a pet rabbit. Under him and next to us was the largest room. Behind its dirty glass doors were several British heroin addicts and 2 Americans, one a doctor. Across from us was an Australian couple. And finally, a French actor and his very pregnant girlfriend. This fellow would apply makeup every morning in front of the broken mirror outside his room. He was tan with rippling muscles and long flowing hair which he jammed inside his helmet for the movie.
In 1971, Morocco was a draw for worldwide wanderers, musicians and writers. In this coastal town of Essouria, gorgeous tables of all sizes were created with various woods and intricate inlays. It took two men a month to create one we bought from a middleman for $18.00. Sent to New York, it was damaged by customs inspectors searching for drugs in hollowed-out
As I look at our table almost 40 years later, I remember our stark room perfectly. The days and people are loosely woven into a braid of textures, smells and the vision of wild orchids in the dirty courtyard.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
First Born
Kathy Hynes
First Born
Kathy Hynes
The first birth pang came during a snow-storm and in the dark of a January night. My eyes popped wide open at the thoroughly unique sensation . After waiting and counting while watching the swirling snow outside our little house in the woods, we started the trek from tiny East Jordan to the hospital in Petoskey.
Thirty-six hours later, Patrick was walking wreckage, but we rejoiced with the appearance of our "little lamb" - the Hebrew meaning of the name Rachel.
As blizzard conditions blew outside, everything inside was white as well - walls, curtains, bed linens, tile floors. And a tiny, pink baby new to this world. Strange and surreal. Scary and amazing - like it had never happened to anyone else quite like this.
On the third morning, an elderly nurse arrived at my bedside without my daughter. Where was she? "I'm not free to discuss this." My body froze but my mind flew around like a frantic bird bumping into a thousand windows.
The doctor stepped in next. With a serious face and tone, she asked me what I had eaten in recent days. What? I was so confused, I could barely remember and I didn't care because what is happening here? Bring me my baby!
"Your baby is very sick." Now my brain was the white-out. Tears came and wouldn't stop. I could barely breathe. Now she explained what was happening.
Several infants in the nursery were jaundiced, so a special light was over them. Rachel was one of these, but she also began vomiting and having bloody diarrhea. Immediately, the doctor had isolated her and set up a make shift neo-natal unit in a spare room, complete with a covered plastic crib with two arm-holes to reach her. Tubes were attached to her head and body for who knows what. I couldn't get this all in my head until I saw her.
Patrick arrived and we went to the empty room with nothing but a lit-up crib and our new baby on her back with only a diaper. We could reach in and touch her. They left us alone for a moment and nothing seemed real.
The days became a long, gray waiting zone. I provided milk for her but couldn't hold her. We would stand at the windows and stare outside. We held each other and took turns praying. Our faith was new but somehow we knew God was above, next to and under us in this.
After nearly 10 days, Rachel's condition was stabilized but not improving. Our new pastor had slogged in often with his
When he would pray for Rachel in that empty room, he would whisper tender healing phrases that seemed to settle her down and yet fill the space with power. We knew we were in a story very much beyond ourselves.
Then one morning very early, two nurses came to my bedside, all bright and fluffy. They shook my shoulders and said, "Something has happened! During the night, the baby's vital signs adjusted to normal. Color came to her cheeks and it appears she'll be fine!" I went in to see her and our delivery doctor walked in reading her chart. He smiled and said, "A miracle has happened here. God has healed your little girl."
And now for the part that sounds like a made up story. We found out later that day from our pastor that he had called for an all-night prayer vigil at our small church. The entire congregation, including elderly folks, pig farmers, factory workers and families had spent the entire snowy night in that place praying for our little lamb.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
A Rare Event
Susan Brummer
A Rare Event
Susan Brummer
It was very unusual. My dad called me at my office on a Tuesday morning.
"I have some tickets to the ballgame tomorrow afternoon," he said. "Do you think you can get off to go with me?"
"I will certainly try, Dad. Plan on it. I would love to go with you"
I had some sick days coming but I decided I would just ask for the afternoon off. It was not an event to take a sick day for. I went to my manager.
"George, something has come up in my family. I need to take tomorrow afternoon off."
"It better be pretty important, as we have been a little short handed lately," he said.
"Oh, I think it is. My dad is driving into Minneapolis tomorrow and he wants to take me to the ball game." I said.
"To the World Series?"
"Yes, he has two tickets to the game."
I could see the envy in his eyes. "I guess I will have to let you go, unless there is some chance your dad would rather go with me."
I just laughed and the next day Dad picked me up at noon. We went to the Metropolitan Stadium in Bloomington Minnesota to see the
I had gone to lots of games in that stadium. My roommate Mary got Carol and I to go to games with her and I gradually became a fan. However going to the World Series was thrilling. It was not a regular game. I was excited to be there and so was everyone in the crowd.
Our seats were not good, we were on bleachers somewhere in left field. this was not like where Mary and I usually sat right behind First Base. It didn't matter. It was the World Series. The
My dad was not a Twins fan. He cheered for the Milwaukee Braves. Every summer growing up we went to Milwaukee to visit Grandma and the rest of his family. At least once during the visit we would all go see the Braves play. Everyone wanted to see Eddie Matthews,
My dad won't miss a chance to see the World Series even if it wasn't his favorite
It was hot in the stands but hardly noticeable as the Twins won the game 5 to 1. It really didn't matter to me who won. For me it was a very good day, not just going to the game, but in spending all that time with my dad. It was a rare event, but one I treasure always.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __Dachau
Susan Brummer
Ever since I was on the grounds of Dachau I have been haunted by the memory. A descriptive article in this Sundays newspaper reminded me of this experience.
During my Montessori training in Chicago in the summer of 1968, I met two people who were Holocaust victims. These two were special caring people who were attempting to make the world a better place. Dr Rudoph Dreikeurs, originally from Vienna, was a psychologist at DePaul University who dealt in family counseling and had written numerous books, one of the most famous being the classic, "Children, the Challenge." He was a gentle, but commanding presence. I was fortunate to attend one of his week-end training sessions watching him do a two day family counseling session.
The other was Hilda Rothschild from an Ohio Montessori School, who also did training sessions with our class. She radiated a sense of peace and hope, and I remember one important comment she made.
" The most important sense to cultivate in mankind is the 'sense of beauty.' We work everyday with the senses of sight, hearing, touch etc., but we sometimes forget that man craves beauty. This sense of beauty must be encouraged."
She went on to explain that she would not have survived her time in a concentration camp if she had not managed to keep a small scarf. She looked at it every chance and remembered that there was a world beyond the gray.
At the time I visited Dachau in 1972, I didn't yet know that my husbands two great uncles from Vienna, Austria had been confined to concentration camps in Yugoslavia. They were not there because they were Jewish but because they were part of the Austrian underground and were captured.
I had no plans to visit the concentration camp. We had been in Germany over two weeks. We were staying with Fred (one of Gerry's best friends from high school) and his German wife, Ingrid. They lived in Munich, where Fred managed a liquor store on an American base. I was slowly recovering from complications of the Hong Kong flu I had in the States and Gerry and Fred were enjoying Fasching (the spring beer celebration) and other facets of German life.
Since I was getting better and it was the week-end, Fred and Ingrid suggested that we go fishing with them at a lake north of the city. After a short drive we entered another American military instalation and soon were at a beautiful lake. It turns out that there was a fishing contest going on. Gerry and Fred were enthusiastically trying to out fish each other, Ingrid and I chatted and watched and then the guys gave us each a rod and we sat there fishing. We each caught one, it was clouding up and getting colder and colder on the February day by the lake.
"Do you want to go for a walk and try to warm up?" asked Ingrid.
"That sounds really good to me." I answered, "What about you guys, do you feel like walking?" They looked at me like I had lost my mind.
"The fish are biting," was the first response. The second being, "There is a contest going on." The third was, "Its not that cold."
Ingrid left the baby with them and we wandered off. It wasn't much warmer in the woods.
"Do you know where we are ?" asked Ingrid.
"I know we are outside of Munich if that is what you mean."
"No, this concern is Dachau. The concentration camp is just over there."
"Oh, my God! I had no idea." I replied.
"We can go in if you like. I've been there once. All German school children must go to visit so that we don't forget. It is a sacred place."
As we walked up to the back entrance it was starting to drizzle, and the wind was picking up. The camp was closed to tours and visitors on the weekend but the entrance from the army base was open. There were no guards. The place was totally empty. We walked in. We stood in the quiet and could feel the ghosts of the past swirling around us. The evil that had taken place in this small area of land is unimaginable, but you could feel it. It is something that should not have happened and yet it did.
Ingrid left me standing alone, and the feeling of desolation and pain on that dismal afternoon looking at the massive oven building left me without words. I remember the grey and the rain. And the cold, the bitter, bitter wind. I looked into the window of the sleeping quarters. I looked at the ovens again. I looked in all directions. I could see no beauty. This was truly a place that should never be repeated. The horror is real.
We left the camp. We walked into the woods. It was getting warmer. The rain was ending. The wind was dying down. The further we got from the camp, the more the weather improved. We reached the lake and the sun was peeking out. Ingrid rushed to pick up her son. Both of us were overcome by our experience. We were unable to say anything.
"You were gone a long time."
"Where were you?" asked Fred.
"In another time and space." I managed to get out.
"Well, while you were gone, you won third prize in the women's division."
"What?"
"The fishing contest, you won third place."
And thus, I was brought back to the present, but the past will always haunt me. Once again I started to see the beauty in the world.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
Ramazan
Sharon Seider
Ramazan
Sharon Seider
I looked up from the baby girl I was holding in my arms to a smiling round-faced little boy with laughing brown eyes and a broad smile showing perfect white teeth and a dimple in his check. “Merhaba Ramazan, hello” I said, as I reached out for him. A quick wave of his hand “hello” and off he ran chasing the other boys across the large playroom. That was the last time I saw Ramazan.
I never dreamed I would be volunteering my time in an orphanage, anywhere, let alone Izmir, Turkey. Jean Groves was looking for American women to accompany her to the Turkish orphanage in Karshiyaka. This was a 20-minute ferryboat ride from Konak Circle located in the old part of ancient Smyrna across the bay to Karshiyaka. Jean recruited about six of us and every Monday morning, we would meet at the ferry landing, buy our tickets and board the ferry. Each one of us would carry two or three bags of toys for the children at the orphanage.
Upon arriving to Karshiyaka, we walked through the main street while storekeepers set up their wares for morning shoppers. There were always hawkers selling fruit, sesame seed rolls, tea or newspapers. One could even have his shoes shined on the street before going to work. An occasional street beggar would approach us with an outstretched hand waiting for a few coins to start the day. By the time we ladies walked three or four blocks weaving in and out of crowds, we were glad to see the pink two-story building around the corner situated in a green space with tall pine trees shading the walkway. Huffing up to the front door, we took off our shoes, put on slippers or placed plastic booties over our street shoes in order to keep the building clean and sanitary. Gathering up our bags, we proceeded through the lobby, greeting the doorman and each person we met with a friendly “Gun Aydin, good morning, Nasil siniz, how are you?” greeting. The two flights of stairs were the last breathless effort before we opened a door to a large playroom. Children from babies to toddlers were running and chasing one another until they saw us enter. Then all stopped, and here they came in one full swoop to see the toys tumbling out of our bags. Each grabbing a favorite one and often the typical snatching of toys by the older children would occur. The younger ones, with tears in their eyes, would plead for us to intervene in their behalf. Usually I would quietly walk to the other side of the room, toss out a couple of balls and place toys here and there keeping a couple in my bag to entice the younger, less aggressive ones to come sit with me and play quietly.
One little boy was just learning to crawl. He was quiet and seldom made eye contact with anyone, content to find a corner and play all by himself, barely moving from his spot. I couldn’t help but notice him. He was a cute little guy with round fat cheeks, a full head of dark hair and big sad brown eyes, who would look away from anyone who came near him. He was born during the holy fast days of Ramazan so he was named Ramazan. Just the child I needed to sit with, hold, talk and sing to. It seemed no matter how I tried to cajole him to smile, he would just look away and whimper in discomfort. I do not know if this child had ever been held or rocked in a nurturing way. Only the basics were given these children: food, bed, a bath, and clothes. Sometimes we helped on bath day. They were scrubbed down with soap from head to toe, and then buckets of water poured over their heads until they were rinsed off. We wrapped them up in a towel, fished out clothing from boxes appropriate for their age and dressed them, just in time to grab the next one, so many children, so few workers. That is why our group of women came there to help, play, and talk with the children. Disabled children were kept in cribs sometimes until they were 10, 11 or 12 years old. They loved it when we would lift them out and place them on the floor, giving them paper and crayons to color or books to look at. All of the toys were taken home with us at the end of our day because leaving them there meant they would only disappear within a few weeks.
I had a couple of favorite children whom I thought needed extra hugs and smiles. One was a little girl with Down syndrome about five years old named Noor, which means, “Light.” The other was a petite blond, blue-eyed girl around three years old named Aysha, with pouty lips that always seemed to be on the verge of crying at any moment. She would sit by me the entire time I was there as though I were her protector. Noor loved to be held up to the windows so she could see out on the street and I would tell her the names of what she pointed to. She was usually the first to run to me when I opened the door. But the one who stole my heart was Ramazan. I would gather him up each week and play peek-a-boo, patty cake, and bounce him as if he were my own. Gradually, his little eyes shifted toward mine and would lock. Over time smiles crept across his face, then a giggle, the clapping of hands, crawling, standing, walking, snuggling and falling asleep in my lap. Over the years Ramazan grew tall and strong. He became one of the favorites amongst the children and staff. He was still a quiet child, never rowdy or loud, always smiling and giving.
About five years later, I was one of the very few ladies who continued to go to the orphanage each week. This particular day I was alone, going through the routine of placing the plastic booties over my shoes, walking the halls, being aware of the effort to place one foot after the other on each stair ascending to the second floor. As I reached for the door, and opened it a crack, that old familiar smell of babies, dirty diapers, and potty chairs filled me with a wave of nausea.
“I can no longer do this.” I told myself, “This is the last.”
I knew from the beginning we were cautioned not to become over attached to the children and not to encourage feelings that would bind us to them. I did keep my guard, however unaware, that each visit had layered an emotional veneer that left me more and more emotionally drained from the visits.
Turning around I retraced my steps down the stairs, into the hallway, took off my plastic booties and headed back to the ferry. The fresh air filled my lungs with a sense of freedom. I felt alone, yet a sense of relief from the ever-beguiling emotions binding my heart. Five years I had been emotionally confined to the second floor playroom of that pink building. I walked away never to return.
I deposited these warm memories in a special place in my heart. I recall them from time to time as though they were pages turning in an old picture album.
I imagine Ramazan would be about twenty years old by now. Perhaps by great fortune, he was adopted by a loving family and is doing well. Quite possibly he could have been drafted into the Turkish Army. Regardless of his destiny, sometimes I remember to say, “God bless you Ramazan wherever you are."
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
My visits to my grandparents in my later years became less frequent and of shorter duration as I got caught up in a world of my own. As I grew older myself, I was struck with the realization that the lives of those I loved so much were ebbing away. I wanted everything to remain the same, and I tried to resist the losses that I knew accompanied advancing years. The small town life I had known and loved was slowly vanishing. The super highways had brought all the small towns together and broken the feel of comfortable isolation that had nurtured their cultural and financial health.
It was equally hard to see the life-long friends of my grandparents also growing older. The younger friends had seemed to me to live such exciting lives when I had visited as a child. They had traveled extensively and seemed to me to represent strength and self-reliance. But, when I visited in later years, even they seemed in physical disrepair as sad as the old houses they now live in. I would come away with a feeling of sorrow and regret at the inexorable passing of time in our lives.
When my grandparents were very old, I realized my childhood was dying with them and my memories would soon be all I had. The stores were mostly empty now, and Main Street seemed forlorn and quiet. Gone were the band concerts on the courthouse lawn, the excitement of Saturday nights when the merchants stayed open late, luring the farm families into town. The streets were busy with laughing crowds then, and the smell of popcorn wafted from a vendor on the street.
A way of life that is no more. A time when a small town of five thousand people made up a world of its own.
TheWestern Union office had a sign in the window:
I thought to myself, “I can do that.”
I was the last of my friends still at home. Everybody else had gone to college in September, but I had chosen Western Michigan College and it didn’t start until October because of a wartime Navy V-12 program.
There was not much happening to keep me busy, so I went intothe office and applied for the job. I was hired immediately and told to report the next morning at 9 a.m.
What a great job. I rode that bike all over town delivering telegrams.
Every morning I took a tip on the horses telegram to a strange place on Broadway. The house was mustard-gray color with shuttered windows and a small front porch. The front door was rough looking wood and a dirty gray color.
There was nothing cozy or friendly about the place.
I would knock on the door and a small horizontal panel above my head would slide open. A pair of eyes with bushy eyebrows and a scarred-looking forehead echoed, “What is it?”
“Western Union ,” I’d say as I handed him up the telegram and he handed me down a dime tip. No conversation.
One day as I was leaving the porch, a car drove by and one of the occupants yelled, “Hey, Iz, just going to work?”
What a surprise! There were several of my older sister’s friends in the car. They were just home fromWorld War II . I waved and laughed. It was great just knowing they had survived.
That evening at dinner I told about the boys driving past and yelling. My mother turned to my father and said something in Gaelic.
Dad quietly told me I was NEVER to go there again. He cleared his throat:
“Iz, girl, you’ve been delivering paper telegrams—gambling tips, to a house of Ill Repute.”
The doorbell rand at 2 a.m. We were asleep upstairs.
The doorbell ringing at that hour, jarring you awake, does not arouse ease and comfort.
I peered out the window but it was a black dark night without a trace of the moon so nothing was visible. Just dark and unfriendly feeling at the moment.
I went out into the hall and over to the top of the stairway and looked down. The stairway went directly down straight to the front hall, the entry hall, the front door, all glass, was directly opposite the stairs.
“Jack,” I screeched in a terrified stage whisper,” there’s a big covered bundle like a body on the porch. And there is a light beside it. Call the sheriff.”
Of course, his mind didn’t work like mine. He started right down the stairs.
“No, Jack, NO! Don’t go down. It could be a trap. It could be a dead body. Stay up here. I’ll call the sheriff. Let him see what it is.”
I was about wailing by then.
He kept going down and when he reached the door handle and turned it, he got my dire warning, “Don’t open that door. It’s dangerous. Don’t go out there. You might be killed.”
Out the door he went. Not charging out, but he went all the way out.
“You’re just an idiot, Jack. My mother was right!”
He glanced around the porch. It wasn’t really much of a porch, just a slab and a roof.
He said, “I can’t see if anybody is around. It’s just so pitch dark out there. I’m going to take this cover off.”
He leaned over, pulled off the white sheet cover and — There — — — — — There sat a blinking beautiful baby boy.
“It’s a baby. There’s a baby here. Oh, you poor little lamb.”
He gathered that baby up – and we heard it: Snorting and giggling in the side bushes. Out stepped out number three son and his wife laughing hysterically.
“I always wanted to leave a baby on dad’s doorstep. So we left Jacksonville yesterday and drove up here to Louisville. It’s your four-month old grandson, Pops.”
That baby is 21 years old now and next year he’ll be a senior at the University of Florida – in civil engineering.
The federal government’s view of what to do with every problem is pure and simple. Mess with it, find ways to tax it, talk about it, condemn everyone and every group you don’t like, or that disagrees with you for causing it, form committees to study it, spend tons of tax payer’s money on it, but whatever you do, don’t solve it. If you solve it, just think of all those loyal government bureaucrats working on the problem and paid by taxpayers who might lose their government jobs. Not really, they will simple be moved.
How our government dealt with the problems of burros damaging the Grand Canyon, is an actual example.
Daphne and I recently attended an Elderhostel near the Grand Canyon. The main presenter was a weathered cowboy—a senior woman who rode the range and wrangled cattle for many years. Yes, I said cowboy. She made it very clear she was not a cowgirl. She said, “cowgirls are the ones who wear those fancy outfits and run barrel races.” Her husband, a well weathered octogenarian who looks like he just stepped out of a western movie about the 1800s, had lived his long life on the open range, working cattle. He is still a working rancher who raises cattle on a huge spread of virtual desert just south of the western Grand Canyon. We’ll call him, Tom to protect his privacy. During the Elderhostel, Tom told us this wonderful story about government which I have since verified.
It came to the attention of some Washington bureaucrat that feral burros in the Grand Canyon were causing serious damage to the canyon by their destructive browsing. With no natural predators, their numbers were expanding geometrically and “something has to be done about this serious problem.” So a committee was formed to consider the situation. The committee selected a task force of experts to travel to Arizona to study the problem and report back their recommendations about solving the problem.
The task force descended on Flagstaff, wives andgolf clubs in tow, and settled in one of the local high class (expensive) hotels. They held many meetings and a number of dinners with presenters of different solutions to the tune of a great deal of taxpayer money. After all, didn’t these dedicated public servants deserve the very best?
During one of these meetings they asked Tom, as a local expert, to use his knowledge to answer some of their questions. The first question was, “Do you have any answers to this problem?”
Not one to mince words, Tom told them straight away, “Shoot ‘em.”
Of course that was not acceptable to the SPCA or those sensitive, caring people in the task force so it was immediately rejected. The next question was really a statement in the form of a question.
“Our experts say there are about 10,000 burros in the canyon, What do you think?”
Tom replied, “There are at least twice that many, maybe three times.”
They responded, “We are willing to pay you X dollars per head to round them up and pen them for us. Is that acceptable?”
“I have a counter offer, My men and I will pen the first 10,000 free if you will agree to pay twice X dollars for those over 10,000.”
After agreeing to Tom’s proposal, the task force, wives,golf clubs and all, headed back to Washington where they congratulated themselves and bragged to colleagues about how they had successfully solved the burro problem. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the roundup continued.
It is interesting to note here that the task force ordered further round ups stopped when the total number of burros rounded up and penned reached about 22,000. At this point in time the task force,golf clubs and all, reconvened at the hotel in Flagstaff to consider what to do with 22,000 feisty burros now confined in pens, down at the bottom of the canyon. There was no way to drive them up to the rim of the canyon from their several locations at the bottom, and taking them down river on rafts through the rapids was out of the question. Some idiot decided they would transport them out of the canyon by helicopter using slings and place them in pens being constructed on land on the canyon rim. After making this momentous decision, the task force, golf clubs and all, headed back to Washington—problem solved once more. Congratulations and pats on the back were liberally provided for all.
Anyone with any idea of the emotional reaction of any species of the family of horses when faced with heights and the associated fear of falling could probably have predicted what happened next. It’s a good example of the often tragic results of well intentioned idiots who haven’t a clue about what havoc their actual actions bring about. They might call it an unintended consequence, but I call it stupidity. It is so typical of bureaucrats, especially government bureaucrats. The first six burros lifted out were dead of heart attacks by time they reached the rim. They had died of fright, so much more humane than simply shooting them. So the lifts were halted. I asked Tom if they couldn’t they have sedated them and lifted them out safely. He said apparently no one thought of that. Back to square one.
Once more, the task force,golf clubs and all, convened at the hotel in Flagstaff. Once more they held meetings and dinners, all paid for by tax payer money. Once more, Tom was summoned before the task force, and once more he was asked what he thought they should do about their dilemma. Once more he replied tersely, “Shoot ‘em.”
Well, you know that solving the problem in that cruel and inhumane way would, as before, be totally unacceptable to those government geniuses. After spending untold millions to decide what to do, and after many hours of hard and expensive work to build all those pens and to round up, water, and feed 22,000 burros, can you surmise what the task force ordered? Think about it. These are government, anal retentive, liberal geniuses at work deciding the fate of 22,000 burros just as they are now deciding the fate of our nation.
Of course, they did the only sensible thing they could do to solve the problem. Oh yes, what was that problem? The current problem was 22,000 burros eating and drinking their way through thousands of dollars in hay and water every day along with all the hands required to maintain the pens, feed, water, and care for the burros. Withthe original problem long forgotten and in typical government fashion, their only solution—of course. They ordered the pens broken out and the burros freed. Problem solved.
Once more they could congratulate themselves and brag about how their genius had solved a knotty problem. Such is the true nature and talents of the growing number of government bureaucrats who have been running the day to day business of our nation for at least the last fifty years. This pathetic excuse for a functioning organization continues to grow like a hydra, sapping our nations economic energy while producing little benefit to any Americans save the politicians who use the money the bureaucracy spreads around in their districts or states to buy votes.
On the road between Schofield Barracks and Honolulu there is a bridge over Kipapa Gulch which held a macabre fascination for me. There were places on the edge of the bridge where one could easily run a car off the road and into the cavernous gulch. It would look like a moment’s inattention. There would be no reason for anyone to search out a more bizarre explanation.
A certain fascination with this spot gripped me every time I drove to Honolulu or back. Every time I crossed the bridge, I looked for the best place to drive off into the great unknown.
No one who knew me at the time would have believed I would ever contemplate ending my life. I had a handsome husband with a promising career as an army officer. I had three marvelous children, a son and two daughters. I was involved in a myriad of satisfying activities on post, including Cub Scout den mother, Brownie leader, and valued member of the scouting hierarchy.
What could be so devastating that I would even consider leaving my children without a mother? I knew things weren’t right in my marriage, but it was painful to contemplate. Nevertheless I knew I owed it to my family to try to understand my despair.
There was no intimacy in our marriage. If I tried to discuss my feelings about that lack, I was simply told “You are always making a mountain out of a molehill,” or, “Nobody should expect the romance of courtship to last,” or, “Nothing is wrong,” or, “You expect too much.”
It was clear there would be no real discussion.
Expression of feelings simply wasn’t allowed by this rigid, unyielding army officer. Everyone in the family was expected to “toe the mark” and keep feelings bottled up inside where they belonged, me included.
I kept a neat and clean house, provided delicious and varied meals, sewed for the girls and myself. I substitute taught at the post schools, dressed appropriately for all official functions and, in my opinion at least I played the role of army wife to perfection.
All my friends admired me. To judge from the number of men who pursued me at all social functions, I was an attractive, interesting package.
I looked happy on the surface but was miserable on the inside. I felt unloved and unappreciated. Most keenly of all I felt terribly repressed. Like most women, I wanted to talk about my feelings. It was difficult never to be allowed to ask why I was unwanted. Moreover, it was impossible to cure something when I couldn’t even find out what needed curing.
Kipapa Gulch kept its allure in spite of all the blessings I had. Divorce seemed out of the question. It didn’t seem possible for me to support myself and three children with my meager job skills even if I was awarded as much alimony as a captain’s pay could provide.
I did a lot of thinking about our marriage. At first it seemed to me that the problems began when my husband, John, came back from his first tour in Vietnam . We had seemed so close while he was gone. Every day each of us sent a small reel of tape to the other sharing the experiences of the day and expressing our love.
It seemed like a long year, but suddenly John was back and the closeness seemed to evaporate. How ironic that seemed.
I thought that perhaps the problem was with me. During the period John was gone, I had changed from a traditional wife who asked permission before purchasing a dress, to keeper of the finances. I had also begun making most of the decisions which governed our household. Was John feeling superfluous or diminished?
The more I thought about it the more that didn’t really seem like the problem. John seemed more than happy to let me do everything. He seemed just as indifferent to all of the aspects of family life as he was to intimacy.
I wondered if something had happened in Vietnam to change his feelings about me, or about life in general. Perhaps he had found someone else. Perhaps war had changed him. He had been an advisor to the Vietnamese and was never in combat that year, but he must have been exposed to a lot of wounded men. Also, I knew that he was in Saigon when the Caravelle Hotel was blown up and knew men who were lost in that debacle. However, none of these explanations seemed to ring true to me.
It was many weeks later on one of those drives to Honolulu that it occurred to me that lack of discussion and repression of feelings had been factors in our relationship from the very beginning. I knew my husband did not get along with his father, who died when John was 12. I also knew that his mother, Esther, was the most contained “keep a stiff upper lip” person I had ever met.
Once I thought more and more about this background, I began to lose the feelings of desperation that had led to my fascination with Kipapa Gulch. I finally came to the conclusion that the problems didn’t stem from anything I had done, or from the kind of person I was. With this realization I began to develop a deep sense of resolve.
I would not destroy my life or my children’s well-being. I would take action. I demanded that John seek counseling or give me a divorce or both.
I also resolved to train myself for the job market and ensure financial independence for myself and the children. I petitioned the University of Hawaii to accept me as a transfer student so that I could complete my senior year of college. I had given up completing my education for this marriage.
Before I received a reply from the university, John got orders to return to Vietnam . He begged me not to do anything about a divorce until he got back from the second tour and had a chance to try to work things out. Although I wanted things settled, I cared for him enough not to send him into a war zone with the specter of divorce hanging over him.
So in the end, Kipapa Gulch never claimed me, in spite of its lure. I was desperately needed on the home front. Everything had to be put on hold until John’s return.
I resolved to use the year well. There may be differences of opinion as to whether I did that or not. However, it is certainly true, that my whole life as well as my deepest personal attributes changed dramatically during that period.
When I died I found myself transported to a small phone booth. I tired to get out, but there wasn’t any door, and as far as I could see there wasn’t anything outside but empty space. When the phone rang I reluctantly picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Good day, this is the Afterlife Hot Line. How may we help you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “You called me. I thought I was dead.”
“This is the Afterlife Hot Line. If you think you should go to Heaven, please press one. If you need some time to repent, please press two. If you aren’t sure about anything, please press three. If you are sure about everything, press four. If you want to go directly to Hell, just say Hell and you will be sent there immediately. You don’t have to push any numbers or go through operators. Thank you for calling the Afterlife Hot Line. If we can be of further assistance do not hesitate to call us by pressing Zero.”
Well, I might as well go for the gold. What did I have to lose? So I pressed one.
“You have reached Heaven. St. Peter is busy right now, but if you give me your name and number I will have him call you back.”
I looked everywhere, but there wasn’t any number. “There isn’t any number I can give you,” I said.
“Oh I get so tired of this! Well, just give me your name and I’ll see if you are on the list.”
“Susannah Castle,” I said.
“Heavens no,” the irritated voice said. “You certainly are not on our list.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you press two.” And she slammed the phone in my face. I pressed two.
“Purgatory, hold please.” After what seemed an eternity I hung up. I would try again later. In the meantime I pressed three.
“Agnosticville, how may I help you?”
“The Afterlife Hot Line said I should call this number, but I’m not really sure this is the number I should be calling. My name is Susannah Castle. Is this where I should be?”
“I don’t know. I’m not really sure. I could think about it and call you back.”
“I don’t have any number”
“Well, I just don’t know. You may belong here and then again you may not. It’s not a decision I can make right now. Why don’t you try another number and I’ll think about it.”
Four was the only one left.
“Atheist Complex, how may I help you?”
“The Afterlife Hot Line said I should call this number. I was wondering if this is where I am supposed to go.”
“If those damn people don’t take us off that call list I am going to sue them. You don’t belong here. We don’t deal in Afterlife stuff.” And another phone slammed in my ear. I pressed zero.
“This is the Afterlife Hot Line, how may I help you.”
“I have pressed all the numbers and I still don’t know where I am supposed to go.”
“If you think you should go to Heaven press one--if you need some time to repent press two--
“I just told you, I already pressed all those numbers and no one knows where I am supposed to go,” I said.
“If you aren’t sure about anything press three,”
“Oh Hell,” I groaned.
“As you wish,” chirped the Afterlife Hot Line operator.
Betty was the kind of friend everyone should have in high school. She was loyal, kind, intelligent, and funny. We spent many hours together solving the political and philosophical problems of the world. But as so often happens, after graduation we went our separate ways. Betty moved to Wisconsin and I just moved and moved. We kept in touch for awhile, but ultimately our communication became just short notes at Christmas, until our 50th class reunion in St. Augustine, Florida.
I recognized her immediately. She could never lose that mischief smile. “Wow,” I said, hugging her. “It’s so great to see you again.”
After the usual,you look great, how are the grandchildren etc. we settled down over coffee to really catch up. I told her about some of the great places I had lived, some of the awful jobs I’d had and how it had taken me a lot of mistakes, but I finally married the right man.
“Now that your children are grown,” I asked, “what have you been doing with yourself?”
“I’ve been heavily involved in politics,” she answered—not surprising me in the least. We were both keenly interested in political matters. “I ran for Alderman in my town and have been serving for over seven years”
“You must enjoy it,” I said.
“Most of the time I do. Occasionally you get hassled by some pretty unreasonable and frankly, uninformed people, but I feel I am doing some good.”
“I know what you mean. My dad was County Attorney for several years and he had some really hilarious experiences. I think the funniest concerned the Bridge of Lions”
“Oh, yes,” Betty said, “the good old Bridge of Lions, that was built so low every time a shrimp boat came through the draw had to be raised. And if I remember correctly a lot of shrimp boats went through every day.”
“And it got worse,” I said. “As our population increased the draw bridge caused more and moretraffic problems.”
“You have to wonder why they never just built a new bridge high enough to accommodate the shrimp boats,” she said.
“The problem was discussed a lot at the County Commission meetings,” I told her, “but no one could seem to come up with a solution.” Then at one meeting a woman, my father described as the dumbest person ever elected to public office, said she thought she had solved the problem at very little cost to the county. Her solution was to dig a big hole under the bridge so the water would go down lower and the shrimp boats would be able to get through without raising the draw. There was complete silence in the room. She turned to my father and asked him what he thought.
My father, ever the diplomat, just smiled and said, “Well, Janet, I certainly think it would be legal.”
Betty just laughed and shook her head.
“Well, I said, “you must have had some crazy experiences in all the time you’ve been serving as an Alderman. What was the most unusual request you had?”
“Oh I remember a good one,” Betty said. “One day I got a call from a woman I had met once or twice. She was a very nervous, uptight person but I think she meant well.”
“Betty,” she said, “I know you’re not the Alderman for my district, but he’s a man and I just need to talk to a woman.”
“That’s OK, Frances, what seems to be the problem?”
“Oh this is so embarrassing I hardly know how to begin. You know I am a Girl Scout leader. Well, every so often we try to take our girls to our local zoo. It is such a nice place and so animal friendly.”
“Yes, we have a lovely zoo. Is there some problem at the zoo?”
She hesitated then, “It’s—well it’s Chubby the bear.”
Betty explained to me that Chubby was one of the most popular animals in their zoo. The children loved him and no trip to the zoo was complete without a visit to see Chubby. Betty said the woman’s comment totally confused her and she asked if Chubby was a problem.
“I just don’t know how to put this, Betty. Here I had eight young girls all anxious to see Chubby. When we got to his area, he walked over as close as he could to the girls and, oh Betty, he started to—to—he started to self inflict pleasure on himself!”
“Frances, what in the world are you talking about? You don’t inflict pleasure. The words don’t go together. What was Chubby doing?”
“Oh, Betty, he was masturbating and the girls, well-- I just told them we had to move on. I thought it might just be a passing fancy, but when we came back around he was--well, still doing it. I think this might be traumatic for young children. You’ve just got to do something.”
I told her I would look into it and hung up. Then I thought what the hell am I going to do about a masturbating bear! So like any good Alderman, I called the Mayor. When she finished laughing she said to call the head of the zoo and see if he had any suggestions.
She said the only thing she could come up with was to call zoos and see if they had a female bear that might relieve the problem. She said maybe mating was less offensive than self inflicted pleasure.
Unfortunately the zoo keeper just laughed and said once the bears start, there’s no stopping them.
So I had to tell Frances there was really nothing her county government could do to protect the Girl Scouts from Chubby’s new found hobby.
Betty and I laughed, exchanged a few more stories. We promised to keep in touch, and went our separate ways.
A couple of years later I got a note from Betty. She said they had solved the problem by posting certain times the Girl Scouts shouldn’t visit Chubby. She wanted to let me know the bear died recently without ever having a mate, and from all reports he continued to self inflict pleasure right to the very end and died a happy, satisfied bear.
SOLO SUMMER
Dee Healey
SAD REFLECTIONS
Dee Healey
Dee Healey
My visits to my grandparents in my later years became less frequent and of shorter duration as I got caught up in a world of my own. As I grew older myself, I was struck with the realization that the lives of those I loved so much were ebbing away. I wanted everything to remain the same, and I tried to resist the losses that I knew accompanied advancing years. The small town life I had known and loved was slowly vanishing. The super highways had brought all the small towns together and broken the feel of comfortable isolation that had nurtured their cultural and financial health.
It was equally hard to see the life-long friends of my grandparents also growing older. The younger friends had seemed to me to live such exciting lives when I had visited as a child. They had traveled extensively and seemed to me to represent strength and self-reliance. But, when I visited in later years, even they seemed in physical disrepair as sad as the old houses they now live in. I would come away with a feeling of sorrow and regret at the inexorable passing of time in our lives.
When my grandparents were very old, I realized my childhood was dying with them and my memories would soon be all I had. The stores were mostly empty now, and Main Street seemed forlorn and quiet. Gone were the band concerts on the courthouse lawn, the excitement of Saturday nights when the merchants stayed open late, luring the farm families into town. The streets were busy with laughing crowds then, and the smell of popcorn wafted from a vendor on the street.
A way of life that is no more. A time when a small town of five thousand people made up a world of its own.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
WORKING FORWESTERN UNION
Isabel Garner
WORKING FOR
Isabel Garner
The
DELIVERY BOY WANTED
MUST HAVE BICYCLE
MUST HAVE BICYCLE
I thought to myself, “I can do that.”
I was the last of my friends still at home. Everybody else had gone to college in September, but I had chosen Western Michigan College and it didn’t start until October because of a wartime Navy V-12 program.
There was not much happening to keep me busy, so I went into
What a great job. I rode that bike all over town delivering telegrams.
Every morning I took a tip on the horses telegram to a strange place on Broadway. The house was mustard-gray color with shuttered windows and a small front porch. The front door was rough looking wood and a dirty gray color.
There was nothing cozy or friendly about the place.
I would knock on the door and a small horizontal panel above my head would slide open. A pair of eyes with bushy eyebrows and a scarred-looking forehead echoed, “What is it?”
“
One day as I was leaving the porch, a car drove by and one of the occupants yelled, “Hey, Iz, just going to work?”
What a surprise! There were several of my older sister’s friends in the car. They were just home from
That evening at dinner I told about the boys driving past and yelling. My mother turned to my father and said something in Gaelic.
Dad quietly told me I was NEVER to go there again. He cleared his throat:
“Iz, girl, you’ve been delivering paper telegrams—gambling tips, to a house of Ill Repute.”
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A NIGHT FRIGHT
Isabel Garner
Isabel Garner
The doorbell rand at 2 a.m. We were asleep upstairs.
The doorbell ringing at that hour, jarring you awake, does not arouse ease and comfort.
I peered out the window but it was a black dark night without a trace of the moon so nothing was visible. Just dark and unfriendly feeling at the moment.
I went out into the hall and over to the top of the stairway and looked down. The stairway went directly down straight to the front hall, the entry hall, the front door, all glass, was directly opposite the stairs.
“Jack,” I screeched in a terrified stage whisper,” there’s a big covered bundle like a body on the porch. And there is a light beside it. Call the sheriff.”
Of course, his mind didn’t work like mine. He started right down the stairs.
“No, Jack, NO! Don’t go down. It could be a trap. It could be a dead body. Stay up here. I’ll call the sheriff. Let him see what it is.”
I was about wailing by then.
He kept going down and when he reached the door handle and turned it, he got my dire warning, “Don’t open that door. It’s dangerous. Don’t go out there. You might be killed.”
Out the door he went. Not charging out, but he went all the way out.
“You’re just an idiot, Jack. My mother was right!”
He glanced around the porch. It wasn’t really much of a porch, just a slab and a roof.
He said, “I can’t see if anybody is around. It’s just so pitch dark out there. I’m going to take this cover off.”
He leaned over, pulled off the white sheet cover and — There — — — — — There sat a blinking beautiful baby boy.
“It’s a baby. There’s a baby here. Oh, you poor little lamb.”
He gathered that baby up – and we heard it: Snorting and giggling in the side bushes. Out stepped out number three son and his wife laughing hysterically.
“I always wanted to leave a baby on dad’s doorstep. So we left Jacksonville yesterday and drove up here to Louisville. It’s your four-month old grandson, Pops.”
That baby is 21 years old now and next year he’ll be a senior at the University of Florida – in civil engineering.
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Your Government in Action,
Burros in the Grand Canyon
Howard Johnson
Your Government in Action,
Burros in the Grand Canyon
Howard Johnson
The federal government’s view of what to do with every problem is pure and simple. Mess with it, find ways to tax it, talk about it, condemn everyone and every group you don’t like, or that disagrees with you for causing it, form committees to study it, spend tons of tax payer’s money on it, but whatever you do, don’t solve it. If you solve it, just think of all those loyal government bureaucrats working on the problem and paid by taxpayers who might lose their government jobs. Not really, they will simple be moved.
How our government dealt with the problems of burros damaging the Grand Canyon, is an actual example.
Daphne and I recently attended an Elderhostel near the Grand Canyon. The main presenter was a weathered cowboy—a senior woman who rode the range and wrangled cattle for many years. Yes, I said cowboy. She made it very clear she was not a cowgirl. She said, “cowgirls are the ones who wear those fancy outfits and run barrel races.” Her husband, a well weathered octogenarian who looks like he just stepped out of a western movie about the 1800s, had lived his long life on the open range, working cattle. He is still a working rancher who raises cattle on a huge spread of virtual desert just south of the western Grand Canyon. We’ll call him, Tom to protect his privacy. During the Elderhostel, Tom told us this wonderful story about government which I have since verified.
It came to the attention of some Washington bureaucrat that feral burros in the Grand Canyon were causing serious damage to the canyon by their destructive browsing. With no natural predators, their numbers were expanding geometrically and “something has to be done about this serious problem.” So a committee was formed to consider the situation. The committee selected a task force of experts to travel to Arizona to study the problem and report back their recommendations about solving the problem.
The task force descended on Flagstaff, wives and
During one of these meetings they asked Tom, as a local expert, to use his knowledge to answer some of their questions. The first question was, “Do you have any answers to this problem?”
Not one to mince words, Tom told them straight away, “Shoot ‘em.”
Of course that was not acceptable to the SPCA or those sensitive, caring people in the task force so it was immediately rejected. The next question was really a statement in the form of a question.
“Our experts say there are about 10,000 burros in the canyon, What do you think?”
Tom replied, “There are at least twice that many, maybe three times.”
They responded, “We are willing to pay you X dollars per head to round them up and pen them for us. Is that acceptable?”
“I have a counter offer, My men and I will pen the first 10,000 free if you will agree to pay twice X dollars for those over 10,000.”
After agreeing to Tom’s proposal, the task force, wives,
It is interesting to note here that the task force ordered further round ups stopped when the total number of burros rounded up and penned reached about 22,000. At this point in time the task force,
Anyone with any idea of the emotional reaction of any species of the family of horses when faced with heights and the associated fear of falling could probably have predicted what happened next. It’s a good example of the often tragic results of well intentioned idiots who haven’t a clue about what havoc their actual actions bring about. They might call it an unintended consequence, but I call it stupidity. It is so typical of bureaucrats, especially government bureaucrats. The first six burros lifted out were dead of heart attacks by time they reached the rim. They had died of fright, so much more humane than simply shooting them. So the lifts were halted. I asked Tom if they couldn’t they have sedated them and lifted them out safely. He said apparently no one thought of that. Back to square one.
Once more, the task force,
Well, you know that solving the problem in that cruel and inhumane way would, as before, be totally unacceptable to those government geniuses. After spending untold millions to decide what to do, and after many hours of hard and expensive work to build all those pens and to round up, water, and feed 22,000 burros, can you surmise what the task force ordered? Think about it. These are government, anal retentive, liberal geniuses at work deciding the fate of 22,000 burros just as they are now deciding the fate of our nation.
Of course, they did the only sensible thing they could do to solve the problem. Oh yes, what was that problem? The current problem was 22,000 burros eating and drinking their way through thousands of dollars in hay and water every day along with all the hands required to maintain the pens, feed, water, and care for the burros. With
Once more they could congratulate themselves and brag about how their genius had solved a knotty problem. Such is the true nature and talents of the growing number of government bureaucrats who have been running the day to day business of our nation for at least the last fifty years. This pathetic excuse for a functioning organization continues to grow like a hydra, sapping our nations economic energy while producing little benefit to any Americans save the politicians who use the money the bureaucracy spreads around in their districts or states to buy votes.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
Chapter Sixteen - The Lure of Kipapa Gulch
Ann Carlin
Ann Carlin
A certain fascination with this spot gripped me every time I drove to Honolulu or back. Every time I crossed the bridge, I looked for the best place to drive off into the great unknown.
No one who knew me at the time would have believed I would ever contemplate ending my life. I had a handsome husband with a promising career as an army officer. I had three marvelous children, a son and two daughters. I was involved in a myriad of satisfying activities on post, including Cub Scout den mother, Brownie leader, and valued member of the scouting hierarchy.
What could be so devastating that I would even consider leaving my children without a mother? I knew things weren’t right in my marriage, but it was painful to contemplate. Nevertheless I knew I owed it to my family to try to understand my despair.
There was no intimacy in our marriage. If I tried to discuss my feelings about that lack, I was simply told “You are always making a mountain out of a molehill,” or, “Nobody should expect the romance of courtship to last,” or, “Nothing is wrong,” or, “You expect too much.”
It was clear there would be no real discussion.
Expression of feelings simply wasn’t allowed by this rigid, unyielding army officer. Everyone in the family was expected to “toe the mark” and keep feelings bottled up inside where they belonged, me included.
I kept a neat and clean house, provided delicious and varied meals, sewed for the girls and myself. I substitute taught at the post schools, dressed appropriately for all official functions and, in my opinion at least I played the role of army wife to perfection.
All my friends admired me. To judge from the number of men who pursued me at all social functions, I was an attractive, interesting package.
I looked happy on the surface but was miserable on the inside. I felt unloved and unappreciated. Most keenly of all I felt terribly repressed. Like most women, I wanted to talk about my feelings. It was difficult never to be allowed to ask why I was unwanted. Moreover, it was impossible to cure something when I couldn’t even find out what needed curing.
Kipapa Gulch kept its allure in spite of all the blessings I had. Divorce seemed out of the question. It didn’t seem possible for me to support myself and three children with my meager job skills even if I was awarded as much alimony as a captain’s pay could provide.
I did a lot of thinking about our marriage. At first it seemed to me that the problems began when my husband, John, came back from his first tour in Vietnam . We had seemed so close while he was gone. Every day each of us sent a small reel of tape to the other sharing the experiences of the day and expressing our love.
It seemed like a long year, but suddenly John was back and the closeness seemed to evaporate. How ironic that seemed.
I thought that perhaps the problem was with me. During the period John was gone, I had changed from a traditional wife who asked permission before purchasing a dress, to keeper of the finances. I had also begun making most of the decisions which governed our household. Was John feeling superfluous or diminished?
The more I thought about it the more that didn’t really seem like the problem. John seemed more than happy to let me do everything. He seemed just as indifferent to all of the aspects of family life as he was to intimacy.
I wondered if something had happened in Vietnam to change his feelings about me, or about life in general. Perhaps he had found someone else. Perhaps war had changed him. He had been an advisor to the Vietnamese and was never in combat that year, but he must have been exposed to a lot of wounded men. Also, I knew that he was in Saigon when the Caravelle Hotel was blown up and knew men who were lost in that debacle. However, none of these explanations seemed to ring true to me.
It was many weeks later on one of those drives to Honolulu that it occurred to me that lack of discussion and repression of feelings had been factors in our relationship from the very beginning. I knew my husband did not get along with his father, who died when John was 12. I also knew that his mother, Esther, was the most contained “keep a stiff upper lip” person I had ever met.
Once I thought more and more about this background, I began to lose the feelings of desperation that had led to my fascination with Kipapa Gulch. I finally came to the conclusion that the problems didn’t stem from anything I had done, or from the kind of person I was. With this realization I began to develop a deep sense of resolve.
I would not destroy my life or my children’s well-being. I would take action. I demanded that John seek counseling or give me a divorce or both.
I also resolved to train myself for the job market and ensure financial independence for myself and the children. I petitioned the University of Hawaii to accept me as a transfer student so that I could complete my senior year of college. I had given up completing my education for this marriage.
Before I received a reply from the university, John got orders to return to Vietnam . He begged me not to do anything about a divorce until he got back from the second tour and had a chance to try to work things out. Although I wanted things settled, I cared for him enough not to send him into a war zone with the specter of divorce hanging over him.
So in the end, Kipapa Gulch never claimed me, in spite of its lure. I was desperately needed on the home front. Everything had to be put on hold until John’s return.
I resolved to use the year well. There may be differences of opinion as to whether I did that or not. However, it is certainly true, that my whole life as well as my deepest personal attributes changed dramatically during that period.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
Afterlife Hot Line
Susannah Castle
Susannah Castle
When I died I found myself transported to a small phone booth. I tired to get out, but there wasn’t any door, and as far as I could see there wasn’t anything outside but empty space. When the phone rang I reluctantly picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Good day, this is the Afterlife Hot Line. How may we help you?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “You called me. I thought I was dead.”
“This is the Afterlife Hot Line. If you think you should go to Heaven, please press one. If you need some time to repent, please press two. If you aren’t sure about anything, please press three. If you are sure about everything, press four. If you want to go directly to Hell, just say Hell and you will be sent there immediately. You don’t have to push any numbers or go through operators. Thank you for calling the Afterlife Hot Line. If we can be of further assistance do not hesitate to call us by pressing Zero.”
Well, I might as well go for the gold. What did I have to lose? So I pressed one.
“You have reached Heaven. St. Peter is busy right now, but if you give me your name and number I will have him call you back.”
I looked everywhere, but there wasn’t any number. “There isn’t any number I can give you,” I said.
“Oh I get so tired of this! Well, just give me your name and I’ll see if you are on the list.”
“Susannah Castle,” I said.
“Heavens no,” the irritated voice said. “You certainly are not on our list.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you press two.” And she slammed the phone in my face. I pressed two.
“Purgatory, hold please.” After what seemed an eternity I hung up. I would try again later. In the meantime I pressed three.
“Agnosticville, how may I help you?”
“The Afterlife Hot Line said I should call this number, but I’m not really sure this is the number I should be calling. My name is Susannah Castle. Is this where I should be?”
“I don’t know. I’m not really sure. I could think about it and call you back.”
“I don’t have any number”
“Well, I just don’t know. You may belong here and then again you may not. It’s not a decision I can make right now. Why don’t you try another number and I’ll think about it.”
Four was the only one left.
“Atheist Complex, how may I help you?”
“The Afterlife Hot Line said I should call this number. I was wondering if this is where I am supposed to go.”
“If those damn people don’t take us off that call list I am going to sue them. You don’t belong here. We don’t deal in Afterlife stuff.” And another phone slammed in my ear. I pressed zero.
“This is the Afterlife Hot Line, how may I help you.”
“I have pressed all the numbers and I still don’t know where I am supposed to go.”
“If you think you should go to Heaven press one--if you need some time to repent press two--
“I just told you, I already pressed all those numbers and no one knows where I am supposed to go,” I said.
“If you aren’t sure about anything press three,”
“Oh Hell,” I groaned.
“As you wish,” chirped the Afterlife Hot Line operator.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
Betty, the Bridge and the Bear
Susannah Castle - Feb. 2005
Susannah Castle - Feb. 2005
Betty was the kind of friend everyone should have in high school. She was loyal, kind, intelligent, and funny. We spent many hours together solving the political and philosophical problems of the world. But as so often happens, after graduation we went our separate ways. Betty moved to Wisconsin and I just moved and moved. We kept in touch for awhile, but ultimately our communication became just short notes at Christmas, until our 50th class reunion in St. Augustine, Florida.
I recognized her immediately. She could never lose that mischief smile. “Wow,” I said, hugging her. “It’s so great to see you again.”
After the usual,you look great, how are the grandchildren etc. we settled down over coffee to really catch up. I told her about some of the great places I had lived, some of the awful jobs I’d had and how it had taken me a lot of mistakes, but I finally married the right man.
“Now that your children are grown,” I asked, “what have you been doing with yourself?”
“I’ve been heavily involved in politics,” she answered—not surprising me in the least. We were both keenly interested in political matters. “I ran for Alderman in my town and have been serving for over seven years”
“You must enjoy it,” I said.
“Most of the time I do. Occasionally you get hassled by some pretty unreasonable and frankly, uninformed people, but I feel I am doing some good.”
“I know what you mean. My dad was County Attorney for several years and he had some really hilarious experiences. I think the funniest concerned the Bridge of Lions”
“Oh, yes,” Betty said, “the good old Bridge of Lions, that was built so low every time a shrimp boat came through the draw had to be raised. And if I remember correctly a lot of shrimp boats went through every day.”
“And it got worse,” I said. “As our population increased the draw bridge caused more and more
“You have to wonder why they never just built a new bridge high enough to accommodate the shrimp boats,” she said.
“The problem was discussed a lot at the County Commission meetings,” I told her, “but no one could seem to come up with a solution.” Then at one meeting a woman, my father described as the dumbest person ever elected to public office, said she thought she had solved the problem at very little cost to the county. Her solution was to dig a big hole under the bridge so the water would go down lower and the shrimp boats would be able to get through without raising the draw. There was complete silence in the room. She turned to my father and asked him what he thought.
My father, ever the diplomat, just smiled and said, “Well, Janet, I certainly think it would be legal.”
Betty just laughed and shook her head.
“Well, I said, “you must have had some crazy experiences in all the time you’ve been serving as an Alderman. What was the most unusual request you had?”
“Oh I remember a good one,” Betty said. “One day I got a call from a woman I had met once or twice. She was a very nervous, uptight person but I think she meant well.”
“Betty,” she said, “I know you’re not the Alderman for my district, but he’s a man and I just need to talk to a woman.”
“That’s OK, Frances, what seems to be the problem?”
“Oh this is so embarrassing I hardly know how to begin. You know I am a Girl Scout leader. Well, every so often we try to take our girls to our local zoo. It is such a nice place and so animal friendly.”
“Yes, we have a lovely zoo. Is there some problem at the zoo?”
She hesitated then, “It’s—well it’s Chubby the bear.”
Betty explained to me that Chubby was one of the most popular animals in their zoo. The children loved him and no trip to the zoo was complete without a visit to see Chubby. Betty said the woman’s comment totally confused her and she asked if Chubby was a problem.
“I just don’t know how to put this, Betty. Here I had eight young girls all anxious to see Chubby. When we got to his area, he walked over as close as he could to the girls and, oh Betty, he started to—to—he started to self inflict pleasure on himself!”
“Frances, what in the world are you talking about? You don’t inflict pleasure. The words don’t go together. What was Chubby doing?”
“Oh, Betty, he was masturbating and the girls, well-- I just told them we had to move on. I thought it might just be a passing fancy, but when we came back around he was--well, still doing it. I think this might be traumatic for young children. You’ve just got to do something.”
I told her I would look into it and hung up. Then I thought what the hell am I going to do about a masturbating bear! So like any good Alderman, I called the Mayor. When she finished laughing she said to call the head of the zoo and see if he had any suggestions.
She said the only thing she could come up with was to call zoos and see if they had a female bear that might relieve the problem. She said maybe mating was less offensive than self inflicted pleasure.
Unfortunately the zoo keeper just laughed and said once the bears start, there’s no stopping them.
So I had to tell Frances there was really nothing her county government could do to protect the Girl Scouts from Chubby’s new found hobby.
Betty and I laughed, exchanged a few more stories. We promised to keep in touch, and went our separate ways.
A couple of years later I got a note from Betty. She said they had solved the problem by posting certain times the Girl Scouts shouldn’t visit Chubby. She wanted to let me know the bear died recently without ever having a mate, and from all reports he continued to self inflict pleasure right to the very end and died a happy, satisfied bear.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
Dee Healey
Every year, as soon as school was out for the summer, I was put on the train for the hundred-mile trip to my grandparents. There I spent my entire summer in the blessed primacy and self-indulgence of the life of an only child. It was not that I didn’t miss my brother and sister, but after a week or so of being the complete focal point of two doting people, I could not say I missed them much. I soon grew to enjoy the supreme luxury of leaving paper dolls on the floor and returning later to find them untouched. My every desire was catered to, from the orange drink in the morning to the soda pop in the afternoon. Grandmother brought the soda by the case and, since she bought mixed flavors, I can still recall the multi-hued, jeweled tone beauty of that box on the back porch. It was a great comfort to know that if I did not choose the strawberry today, it would still be there tomorrow.
Every night when Grandpa would return from the Oddfellows Hall where he played Pinochle, I would climb on his lap. While he rocked in his rocking chair, he would tell me stories about his boyhood in Iowa. It was wonderful to have no interruptions. I did not even have to share a knee with someone else.
My grandmother and I walked to town every afternoon. She, complete in hat an white gloves and I, in a pretty dress. We took the same route every day. We passed the courthouse, she nodding to the group of men always sitting on the benches outside, and then went on to the market and the drug store for a cherry coke. In preparation for our afternoon outings, I took a long bath and Grandmother threw delightful bath crystals into the water. They really did nothing more than scratch my backside, but to me they represented a touch of Cleopatra. I was pampered, spoiled, and the darling of all who beheld me!
Grandmother took me everywhere with her. A sitter was unthinkable. No one seemed surprised to see a child at the Ladies Aid Society of the Garden Club. And I felt no strangeness. In fact, I usually was part of the
And so the summers went, but the winter of reality always came, and it was time to go home. It was time to go back to the sharing, loving, quarreling, giving and taking which is the framework of family life. It would be time to return to the necessary lessons of living.
But I often think of those who have never basked in the sunlight of a solo summer and feel that they have missed much. Perhaps it was for gentle summers that God gave us grandparents.
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
Camp Francis
Bett Kelley
Bett Kelley
I remember the walk up to the dining hall, overlooking the meadow, with the blue topaz sparkle of Lake Waramaug in the distance, as though it were yesterday rather than yesterday plus 55 years. The early morning air would still hold some coolness, the sweet aroma of grass and trees, the fragrance of wildflowers.
As I drew closer to the dining hall I could hear the musical clang of the pots and pans as Minnie and her staff prepared breakfast for famished pre-teen and young teenage girls. The smells emanating from the kitchen could be eggs and bacon, French toast, sausage, muffins or biscuits. Even a breakfast of oatmeal or Cream of Wheat would taste better at camp.
Minnie was pleasantly rotund with dark, graying hair, and a bushy eyebrow forming a canopy over each eye. We loved the food she made except for one extraordinarily bad brown bag lunch we had while hiking one day. It consisted of peanut butter and apple butter sandwiches (good flavor, but incredibly soggy bread) and canned codfish prepared like tuna salad, except for the fact that it was much fishier tasting and it contained hard lumps. Most of us returned from the hike still hungry with our sandwiches barely touched.
My friend Alison had talked me into going to camp with her for the first year we were old enough to be in the unit known as Sunny Hollow. It was strangely exciting leaving my family behind. Looking at the photographs my father took of me in my camp uniform on that day it is hard to tell exactly what I am thinking.
Alison and I were placed in the same tent along with Carol Gardner, another girl from Troop 40. Our two other tentmates were a girl nicknamed "Smiley" because she wore a perpetual grin from ear to ear (she and I became fast friends), and Kathy Kelly, the daughter of Walt Kelly, creator of the politically satirical comic strip, "Pogo."
Kathy was somewhat eccentric, which probably was a given under the circumstances. While the rest of us came to camp in "training bras" (I guess we were training to even need bras), Kathy, physically well-endowed, probably moreso than the other four of us put together, wore ribbed undershirts. She also enjoyed the peculiar pastime of catching daddy longlegs and separating them from their appendages, upsetting me because I enjoyed watching their upside down balancing act as they made their way over the golden brown canvas of our tent.
"That's not very nice to do," I scolded. "They can't even hurt you."
I took to camp like a duck to water. I had always enjoyed being out in nature and doing arts and crafts. Even cleaning the latrines was not terrible although I may have pretended otherwise. Actually, all I had to do was pour bright blue disinfectant down the black hole and with a brush scrub the seat, lid and floor. This was probably the chore that was completed the fastest because no one wanted to stay in there for very long.
At one point, I think it was during my second year when my unit was known as Oak Ledge, I was given the nickname of "Angel" by one of my counselors. "You look like an angel," she said. "But you don't necessarily act like one!"
"Angel" was the name that followed me the rest of my days at camp and made me feel very special.
That same summer I took it upon myself to function as Oak Ledge's resident nurse. Whenever anyone received a cut, bite, blister, splinter or
I took away from camp a number of abiding things. I can make a whistle by holding a
My favorite things at camp were sleeping in a sleeping bag in the meadow under the stars on a clear summer night and awakening to the hymns of meadowlarks, and sitting around the campfire at night with sparks shooting into the air like startled fireflies. I felt such joy of camaraderie and sisterhood like I belonged to a very large loving, fully functional family.
My feelings of love for my counselors and fellow campers always made the last night at camp each year a difficult one and I shed more than a few tears at the closing campfire when we sang our favorite songs.
A song of friendship
Each campfire lights anew
The flame of friendship true.
The joys we've had in knowing you
Will last the whole life through.
And as the embers fly away
We wish that we might ever stay,
But since we cannot have our way
We'll come again some other day.
A song of the whole camping experience:
Wishcraft
If there were wishcraft I'd make two wishes,
A winding road that beckons me to roam,
And then I'd wish for a blazing campfire
To welcome me when I'm returning home,
But in this real world there is no wishcraft,
And golden wishes do not grow on trees.
Our fondest daydreams must be the magic
That brings us back those golden memories.
Memories that linger, constant and true,
Bring back sweet visions, camping days of you.
And of course:
Camp Francis
High on a hill beneath the summer blue,
Stars shining up above, Camp Francis is calling to you.
Birch trees at dusk, the murmur of the glen,
Soft twilight shadows fall 'till moonlight is reborn again.
Close to our hearts her beauty will remain,
Held firm in friendship true, the finest that ever we gain.
Then the plaintive notes from the bugle as it began Taps, and we sang:
Day is done, gone the sun
From the lakes, from the hills, from the sky.
All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.
He always seemed to be very nigh Camp Francis.
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MaryLou's Going Away Luncheon
Bett Kelley
MaryLou, one of the first people I met when I moved back to Miami, was moving with her husband to Tennessee. I knew how much she had loved living in Miami, so I wanted to have a special going away luncheon for her at a small gourmet restaurant in the Homestead area south of Miami.
MaryLou was a very organized person and a perfectionist. For years she had headed up a gourmet dinner club, where each month she had selected a country, researched the food, chosen a variety of dishes, assigned one to each couple, and coordinated with a host and hostess.
My sense of self-worth would in some fashion be tied to whether or not I could plan and execute a luncheon that would meet with her approval.
I needed to be organized. I needed to be efficient. I needed to be COMPETENT!
I had been very selective as to whom to invite. Each lady needed to be close to MaryLou, of reasonable intelligence and demeanor, and able to carry on a conversation with the people around her without feeling the need to be the center of the whole group.
I called the Main Street Diner and made reservations for 14.
The day of the luncheon I drove the few short blocks to pick up MaryLou and we headed to Homestead. Several of the ladies arrived as we did.
After we were shown our table I left MaryLou and the others to go to the front of the restaurant to greet the rest of the ladies as they arrived. As I led the last group through the restaurant to the room reserved for us, I was speaking animatedly and not watching exactly where I was going, when suddenly the rubber sole of my sandal caught in the carpet. Down I went, falling very hard on my left knee.
People at nearby tables gasped. My friends tried to help me up as did several gentlemen who had jumped to their feet. I waved them off as I tried to right myself with as much aplomb as I could muster, while the owner rushed from the front of the restaurant to ascertain whether or not I had any litigeous leanings.
As I hobbled into the room with my companions, much to my chagrin they excitedly related every detail of my movement through the restaurant. I quietly seated myself while I eyed my knee, which was rapidly swelling and turning a shade of red somewhere between a cabernet and a hearty burgundy.
I finally felt myself beginning to relax when out of the corner of my eye I noted a flash of something bright yellow outside the window. When I turned cautiously to get a better look, lo and behold, it was a fire engine.
They're just coming here to have lunch, I told myself. Firemen always know the good places to eat. But no, they weren't coming there to eat lunch, nor was there a fire.
When I saw one of the firemen lift a black bag from the cab of the fire engine I had a sinking feeling as to why they had come. It was for ME!
"Oh no," I muttered under my breath right before two firemen and the owner entered the room.
"We just wanted to make sure you were all right," she said in a sickingly sweet voice with a less then authentic smile upon her face.
"I'm fine," I said through clenched teeth, my smile mirroring hers.
"Hello ladies," said the firemen. "How are you today?"
They were tall and handsome with great abs. The ladies were a lot happier to see them than I was.
The firemen quickly flanked me, and while one took my blood pressure, the other examined my knee and requested ice from the kitchen. I was absolutely mortified.
"This is a going away luncheon for my friend, MaryLou," I said, gesturing in her direction. "She was supposed to be the center of attention, not me. Could you please pay attention to her?"
"Hello, MaryLou," one of the firemen said.
"We're sorry to hear you're leaving," said the other.
It was like a vaudevillian routine.
"Some people will do anything to get the attention focused on them instead of the guest of honor," said MaryLou indignantly with a twinkle in her eye.
After doing everything they could for me the firemen left and our food arrived shortly thereafter. It was delicious and the conversation that accompanied it was warm and friendly. I was finally able to relax.
When I brought MaryLou back home she told me with a sly smile, "Thanks for the luncheon, Bett. I'll always remember it."
I looked at her sheepishly. "And so will I."
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
ALLEGENY AUCTION
Dee Healey
ALLEGENY AUCTION
Dee Healey
The old house came into view in the hollow as we turned the bend, the weather-beaten gray of it forlornly etched against the spread of green hills. (Why is paint considered the most unnecessary of luxuries by these people?) Torn window shades, some almost shredded, added to a woe-be-gone look. As we approached the house, I could hear the chanting of the auctioneer from the side porch and could see the array of people spread out, carnival fashion, in front of him.
“And what will you give me for this box of mementos. There’s a postcard of McConnellsburg and a souvenir spoon of Pennsylvania. There’s a card from Niagara Falls. We’ll start with 50¢, who’ll give me 75? (What will you give me for the dreams of a lifetime?)
“And here we have some canners and boxes of canning jars, grinders and sausage makers, crocks, and baking dishes.” (Hours and hours of kitchen work)
“Here we have artificial flowers. Folks, there must be at least 25 artificial flower arrangements here, for every occasion of the year. There’s a valentine vase with red roses, Christmas arrangement, almost any color flower you want.” (Testimony to the owner’s yearning for brightness and beauty in a barren existence. Something cheaply purchased and could be changed often. A pathetic insult to reality, but nevertheless sensing a deeper need.)
“Here we have homemade quilts. Come on now, you’ll give me more than $5 for these.” (Worn looking, strictly utilitarian, representing hours of painstaking labor, but who remembers?)
Sheets, blankets, pillowcases, doilies, curtains, sold by the boxes with the holes and tears pitifully exposed to the gaping crowd. (The protection of the town dump would have been kinder.)
‘And now, into the house folks, where we can sell off the
“And here’s a hospital bed, folks, almost like new.” (An ominous note. Life seems to have come full circle.)
“And here is the treasure of the house. A beautiful carved organ in excellent working condition.” (There is an aura in this corner of the room, almost a light around this monument of beauty.) “Sold for $650!” (The bidder from the city knows what he is getting.)
Then the festive-spirited crowd moved out to the field, strewn with pieces of farm equipment, some almost new but most rusted with age. This was his world, and somehow it had more dignity lying there for all the world to see than hers had. There was a coldness about it that burdened the heart less. Somehow, a tractor can belong to anybody and bring nothing with it. (Is it because women love things too much? Or do we all love things too much? Why are we part of our things and they a part of us?)
At the back of the house there was wood for sale. An old dog tied nearby was howling. (Is it arthritis or loneliness that makes him howl so? Does he know that he will no longer go out on that crisp November day to watch his master chop wood? Or no longer curl up on the linoleum-clad kitchen floor? He doesn’t know, but I know. And it makes me feel sad.)
__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __
The Unusual Experience of a Seven-year-old
Howard Johnson
The Unusual Experience of a Seven-year-old
Howard Johnson
This is my story of what happened to me nearly seventy-six years ago. It is written as told to my thirteen-year-old grandson, Joseph, just last year. This is the very first time it has been written down as a true happening. I wrote it as a fictional story more than thirty years ago. There are enough miles on this old soul that I no longer have concerns about being believed or appearing foolish. I told Joseph this story as accurately as a vivid memory permits. This story has remained etched firmly and in exact detail in my memory for all those years.
“I was heading east on Eleventh Street, a few blocks from home, walking there for lunch from PS 54 in Indianapolis. It was a cold, crisp, blue-skied January day in 1935. As I passed the Buhers’ house, about halfway home, I happened to look up and notice a shiny object through the naked branches of a wintering tree. At first I though it to be a new kind of balloon caught in the branches, but as I took a few more steps, I realized it was above the tree and almost overhead, far from the winter sun hanging low in the southern sky. I was fascinated, for this was an exciting new wonder for a very inquisitive second-grader still in the intoxicating time of life when new things were constantly being discovered. I leaned against the concrete wall separating the Buhers’ yard from the alley, right where Mrs. Buher would place food for wandering beggars during the Great Depression.
“The object was round and about the same apparent size as the full moon in the sky. It was unbelievably shiny, almost like a mirror, yet I saw no reflection. Transfixed, I watched it for a very long time, for a small boy, probably just a minute or two. At this point, it began to move toward the west. It made no sound as it accelerated rapidly and disappeared over the western horizon just a few moments after it started moving. As soon as it was gone, I ran home excitedly to tell my mother and find out from her what I had seen. This was at a time when people ran outside to look when an airplane flew over, and my favorite was the new Douglas DC-3. This object was most certainly not like any airplane I had ever seen before.
“When I arrived home for lunch, my mother was very angry. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.’ I was astonished and didn’t even get a chance to ask her about the marvelous shiny object when she said, ‘You’ll go without lunch young man. Now hurry back, or you’ll be late for school.’ I couldn’t understand how I could possibly be late. I had a full hour at least for lunch, and school was just five minutes away. I only stopped to watch the strange object for a few minutes. What had happened to the missing time?
“I remember nothing of the rest of the day until I came home and my mother again questioned me about why I was so late. When I asked her about the object I had seen, she thought it was just another of the stories I used to invent to liven up my life and amaze others. I had discovered the price you pay and the pain of what happens when you become a story teller and people learn not to believe you. Every single person who heard my story laughed at me and ridiculed my tale except one, my grandfather. A storyteller himself, he listened attentively to my tale and wondered with me just what the object was and what happened to the missing hour.
“I was so humiliated at every attempt made to find out about the object I finally gave up. Since then I told no one else about my experience. My grandfather and I discussed it a number of times over a number of years, often when we were fishing together on the lake. I was probably fifteen the last time we talked about it. It was our little secret.
“When I was in junior high school, I began to experience a very strange phenomenon which has continued unabated to this day. In Mr. Armstrong’s science class, I discovered that I understood a great deal about things I had not read about or had not been explained to me by anyone. For me, this started a fascination for things of science that would last my entire life. I also found that I knew the answers to many questions I should not have known. My classmate and buddy, Fred Hunziker, who sat next to me, was utterly amazed at my knowledge. Even Mr. Armstrong was flabbergasted to the point where he quit letting me answer questions in class. Another classmate, a very bright girl, told me she thought I knew more about science than our teacher. They began calling me the brain and not always in a complimentary fashion.
“My sis, your great aunt Bobbie, who was six years older and ahead of me in school, brought home her chemistry book and let me have it. In my mind, I can still see the diagrams in that book of atoms with electrons in circular orbits about a solid, compact nucleus. I knew those diagrams were wrong, but of course, my sister thought I was nuts when I asked her about it. I was crushed, but what could I say? She was a high school senior and far wiser than I about absolutely everything. That book piqued my interest in chemistry, which then led to my selection of chemistry for my college studies. It was many years later when I read a nearly exact description of the indefinite cloud structure of electrons about a tighter cloud of protons and neutrons, the nucleus, that I had tried to explain to my sister. It seemed this was the latest concept of atomic structure, developed many years after I tried to explain the very same concept to my sister as a boy of twelve.
“There are many other concepts of our physical world that I know without any idea from where the knowledge came. I keep searching and reading to gain confirmation of many of these things. For example, I know, or at least can conceptualize, an understanding of our universe that has yet to be discovered or explained by anyone. I envision a roughly spherical shape for the universe. At the surface of this shape, all mass would be to one side of any point on the surface. The center of mass of this universe would be roughly at the center. Light, warped by this center of mass, does not escape from the universe. The true speed of light is a factor of its distance from this center of mass. Our measurement of light speed is a function of our own distance from this center of mass. Light passing near or through this center of mass is moving much faster than when it passes us. Likewise light, on reaching the limit of the universe, slows and finally falls back in the same way one celestial body orbits another, controlled by the force of gravity. The gravitationally limiting surface of the universe acts, in effect, as a kind of mirror, returning light and holding it within the gravitational grasp of the universe.
“The first time I heard a flying saucer or UFO story, I thought immediately of my childhood experience. The experience was so clearly described by so many of these tales. The ridicule heaped on those who saw a UFO caused me to rethink my experience and continue not to talk about it to anyone. The first time I heard an abduction story, I thought about that missing hour so long ago and of the things I know that I have no reason to know.
“I have no conclusions, nor do I make any claims other than those I have just described. The mystery to me is now greater than ever, and I surely will not have an answer in my lifetime. I search and ask in every way I know how, yet the mystery only continues to deepen. If there are others with similar experiences I would like to meet them, yet I hesitate even admitting what I experienced. I am still a bit apprehensive about any ridicule that might come and destroy even my own knowledge. I tell you this now because you know and understand me. Besides, I am nearing the end of my life and have so very much less to fear than when I was younger. You can decide for yourself if the story is for real or just the ravings of a crackpot. A discovery that confirmed the view of the universe I described would most certainly change the acceptance of my story now, wouldn’t it?
“Would it ever!” Joseph replied, then asked, “What do you think it was?” Joseph was utterly amazed, barely grasping the implications of the story, but never doubting a single word I spoke.
“I gave up speculating on that years ago,” I replied. “I only know what I just told you. No more than that, but no less either.
“Many years later, when the first UFO stories began appearing, I thought I might find an answer, but soon realized all I would do would be to make a fool of myself if I came forward with my story. It’s plain to me that whatever or whoever they are, they have a purpose to their activities. I’ve wondered for years what that purpose might be without ever coming up with anything logical. I can’t even determine if it bodes good or bad for humanity. It’s a real mystery.
“Why would they, or whoever or whatever they were, imbue a small child with advanced knowledge? I’m convinced that is what happened to me so long ago. There must have been others who received similar treatment. Though I’ve searched my whole life, I’ve never found another person who shared my experience. I’ve met and spoken with people who reported sightings and abductions, but none were anything like mine. In fact, I find myself doubting the truth of their stories just like everyone else.”
“The truth is just like the proverbial needle in the haystack, isn’t it?” Joseph commented.
“That’s almost an understatement. Over the years, I’ve had many incidents where the announcement of a new discovery was something I already knew. Did I really know it, or was that a trick of the mind, a déjà vu experience? I’ve pondered that question many times. Once, while talking with a group of engineers about a particular metallurgical problem, I posed a solution to them. It was during a meeting of the Cleveland Engineering Society. It was a solution that I didn’t have to think about. I just knew it. Several months later, the specific problem was actually solved by the method I proposed. One of the engineers from that group contacted me and asked how I had come up with the exact solution. He knew I was not a metallurgist and wondered how I knew that particular answer to a problem no one else could solve. I was at a complete loss to explain it. Had my lack of knowledge in the field let me think outside the limits imposed by an expert understanding? Was my solution one of those serendipitous aha experiences we all have on occasion, or had I actually known the answer? I don’t know and certainly would not claim to even understand where the answer came from.
“There are only two concepts that I feel certain were placed in my mind by an extraordinary process. The understanding of the true nature of the particles in the atom and the general makeup of the universe with the gravitational effect on light and other electromagnetic waves or particles. The first was only postulated by particle physicists many years after I knew and described it. The second seems only to be a theory in my mind.”
“Why don’t you publish your theory? Then maybe someone would listen.”
“Joseph, your granddad is not a lettered member of the scientific community. With only a BS in chemical engineering after my name, I have absolutely no standing in the rarified atmosphere of the elite scientists whose theories gain acceptance. That’s a simple reality of life which bothers me not in the least. Though I have studied and read enough scientific papers that I can converse with experts in the field, I still have no standing. Without those letters and what they represent, I possess no confirmation of my understanding, or of the formal knowledge I possess. Still, I benefit greatly because that also places me in a uniquely free position to say what I want without fear of grant committees or peer reviews.”
Joseph and I discuss all of this frequently. He is very interested in science and I, of course, encourage him. Until just recently, no universe theory I have read about is even remotely similar to mine. Of course, I don’t know if it’s correct, and I certainly have no idea how to prove it. One thing it would do besides drastically change the dark matter, dark energy hypothesis, would be to revolutionize current theories of how our universe works.
Since our first conversation, several interesting developments came about. I told this story to my sister, Bobbie, who said she remembered several of those incidents clearly, including our discussion about the diagrams in her chemistry book. A recent article in Scientific American magazine, titled, Forget the Big Bang. Now it’s the big bounce, confirms at least a part of my hypothesis. What that article tried to explain was amazingly similar to at least some parts of my theory. The other developments include several interesting new explanations from theorists working on the dark energy, dark matter hypothesis. It seems there are a number of new and competing theories in this field, a common happening in the scientific community. All of these new ideas tend toward confirming parts of my own theory. Isn’t that a kick?
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Incorrigible
Doris Oxford
Doris Oxford
Your daughter is incorrigible, the principal of my high school told my mother. You have a choice of her going to reform school or quitting school all together.
I was 15 years old and that was exactly what I wanted, to quit school. I hated it. I had come to this point by doing everything I could think of not to be there. I would ditch two weeks at a time. I wasn’t running with a gang or bad kids, I would spend my day at the Museum of Science and Industry, Chicago Library downtown or at the Art Institute.
I loved going to the
I am ashamed to say I would take money from my mother’s 50 cent piece collection and go to the big downtown theaters and watch stage shows and movies. I saw some of the biggest names in show business, famous big bands, movie stars and vaudeville acts. I saw big bands like Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey, and Harry James with Betty Grable. I saw great acts such as Danny Kaye, and Dean Martin and
I would go home and act like I had been at school all day. I knew that I was going to be caught pretty soon, and that the truant officer wold be calling my mother. I came up with a plan that was really stupid. I called the telephone company and told them to hold all incoming calls because my brother was very sick and we didn’t want to be
The one that really got me in big trouble was when I heard that Frank Sinatra was coming to Chicago on the 20th Century Limited train. A group of kids all ditching school gathered at the train station waiting for him to arrive. A photographer was there who took our picture and asked our names. Frank got off the train all right, but he got off on the other side of the station so we never did see him. Everyone including my relatives in Michigan saw my picture on the front page of the Chicago
Please note that in 1974 I took the GED test and scored high enough to attend Flaglar College at the age of 47. You can learn a lot in 30 years.
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Department Store Circus
Doris Oxford
Doris Oxford
Midway through
To this day I recall the pleasure that I always felt upon entering the magical transition with a swoosh of the revolving doors from the din of State Street into a hush that enveloped me like a genteel cloak. Genteel and urban, that was Marshal Field’s. The very last place that one would expect to encounter and elephant.
One afternoon, while I was enshrouding a $350 mink hat in tissue and cardboard for the wife of judge “Muchmoney,” a coworker rushed up to me and said, “You gotta see it, you gotta see it. There’s a baby elephant on three. His name is Eddie, and he’s autographing books called Eddie the Elephant in the Children’s Book Department.”
“Well now, that makes sense.” I retorted as I put the finishing flourish to the package containing Madam “Muchmoney’s” trifle.
Grabbing my purse, I headed for the book department on three. A sizeable crowd, held back by a rope barrier, filled the cleared area including the spectacle and overflowed into the adjacent aisles.
Somewhere in front of me a woman exclaimed, “Isn’t he adorable? Why, he’s just a baby.”
Another woman, probably her companion marveled, “Isn’t it clever how he holds that stamp in his trunk?”
Aha, I thought. So that’s how it’s done.
While wiggling my way into the crowd, I had intriguing glimpses of Eddie. Finally, I made my way up to see him actually autographing books; meticulously, almost daintily in contrast to his bulk, and with quizzical aplomb, he performed his literary routine of clasping the stamp in his trunk and pressing it unerringly upon the flyleaf of each open book that an assistant placed on the table. I watched in amazement.
The handler announced that Eddie must leave as he had an engagement elsewhere that evening. I followed Eddie and his entourage on their way toward the freight elevator. Although I had long over extended my coffee break, I just had to see Eddie leave. Eddie stopped abruptly in front of the yawning elevator as I pushed forward to see what was going on. During the ride up, it seems Eddie had developed an instinctive aversion toward that contraption. Either that or, as one whit quipped, “Maybe Eddie’s fallen in love with the literary life and doesn’t want to leave.” There was considerable laughter and even the frustrated handlers smiled as they went into a brief huddle. Breaking out of their huddle, the handlers turned Eddie around and tried to back him into the elevator. That elephant with its mind made up, though just a baby, clearly said no.
Eddie appeared to be growing more and more incensed with the handlers’ persistent tugging and prodding. Alerted by Eddie’s ominously lowered head and shuffling feet, I edged myself backward into the crowd. Eddie’s handlers were struggling to hold him back. I glanced around frantically for some avenue of escape. At that moment Eddie bolted. The spangled pendant between his eyes glittered malevolently as he headed straight at me.
The crowd surged back. Twisting frantically around, I flung myself into an adjacent aisle, tripped and fell in a face down sprawl on top of someone who had been unfortunate enough to precede me. Fortunately for me, they cushioned my fall. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw no adorable baby elephant, but a run amok mammoth, boom by on four massively thumping feet that missed my own feet by scant inches.
A stirring beneath me brought me to my senses. I scrambled awkwardly off my involuntary fall breaker and, with the support of a counter, managed to regain my feet. One leg was beginning to
“Whew, that was close. Are you all right miss?” Turning my head, I looked into the concerned eyes of a man old enough to be my father.
Mussed hair and tie askew were the only visible signs that he had cushioned my fall. In the face of his polite concern, I felt a wreck and tried to compose myself. The image of our joint headlong sprawl and its absurd intimacy defeated me, and I stammered, “I, I . . . think so. Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?”
Flustered, I looked around and saw absolute bedlam left in Eddie’s wake. Dazed, disheveled people were emerging from behind counters and adjacent aisles. One woman, on all fours, was retrieving the miscellany spilled from her purse. Another was hobbling around looking for a lost shoe.
“Good Lord!” a man exclaimed, looking up over my head. “Now how did she manage that?” he breathed in an awed tone.
I glanced around, raised my eyes and gasped. There, just under the lofty ceiling, a woman clung to th rungs of the iron maintenance ladder affixed to one of the massive pillars. With tailored skirt and jacket, pill-box hat atilt upon her silver-blue hair, such a dowager type in such a plight was an incongruous sight. I laughed out loud.
With our pillar scaling grandma safely aground, I went in search of our department runaway. Following an obvious trail that led me to the
I heard later that Eddie had been barricaded off in a corner of the oriental rug department which was then closed to the public for the remainder of the day. That night, a ramp was built down the service stairs. Eddie, of course, missed his evening appointment.
Back in “wrapping,” after returning from the medical department where my leg was treated and bandaged, my coworker said, “About time. . . What did you think about Eddie the elephant?”
They say, elephants never forget. Well, I’ll ell you something. I’ll never forget this day.
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The Palm Reader
Howard Johnson
Howard Johnson
It was June 1955 when my wife and I attended the American Dental Trade Association annual meeting at the Homestead, a very elegant old southern luxury hotel up in the mountains near Hot Springs, Virginia. Our daughter, Debbie, five, was with us. My father and mother were also in attendance. At the time I had been just a year working with my father in our dental supply business, Johnson-Stipher, Inc. in Cleveland.
After my father’s partner in the business, Henry Stipher, died suddenly, I helped my dad buy out the Stipher family’s interest in the company. In May 1954, my wife Dolores and I moved from Long Beach, California, to Cleveland, bringing our daughter, Debbie then four, and son, Howard, eight months old, with us. I left a job as a pilot plant engineer to go into the dental business with my father, also Howard Johnson, but with a different middle name.
After a year and a half in the business, I had developed enough to have a part in the program at the meeting. It had been quite a change from my engineering position. The meeting at the Homestead was my first time ever in any presentation and I was quite nervous. This was a meeting where all of the officers, owners, and principal players in the industry met to get to know each other personally. It was five days of morning socializing,
One evening they had a palm reader set up in a black tent in the lobby. She was a part of the
I had mixed emotions as the lady pulled back the black curtain and ushered me into her darkened palm reading alcove where we sat on opposite sides of a small table. She was younger than I expected, about my age, and did not have any kind of exotic look like the fortune tellers in the movies. She was a rather attractive woman in a long black, sleeveless dress, almost a girl-next-door type. She took both of my hands and placed them, palms up, on the table. She asked me a number of questions to put me at ease and then began examining my hands. She traced her fingers down several of the lines, turning my hands to see where the lines went around the sides. She made a number of notations on a pad of letter-sized paper on her side of the table. I’m guessing it was at least ten minutes before she spoke.
“You have extremely interesting hands,” she said. “I can see you are going to have a very long and interesting, even exciting life. Let me show you.”
With that she began pointing out features of the lines on my hands and what they foretold. She told me a lot of things that made me chuckle, things that could apply to almost any young man my age. Then she told me a few things that were so ridiculous I laughed to myself about them . Here’s what she said that I remembered because they were so far from what I could even imagine for myself.
“You will be married three times and have five, maybe six children, mostly girls.”
I couldn’t imagine my marriage to Dee not lasting my entire lifetime or that we would have so many children. We had two and were thinking about one more, but six? Impossible. Then she continued.
“You will travel a great deal and live in a number of different places, some very far away, even in a different country. You will change how you make your living numerous times in several different fields.”
Again, I remember almost laughing, thinking how wrong she was. Then she finished with the following comment, emphasized by pointing at the lines on my hands and explaining why.
“You will become a writer and then become very wealthy, very late in life.”
I laughed at these impossible predictions, thanked her, and rose to leave. As I did so, she handed me the paper she had been writing. It listed all of the predictions she had made—in detail.
“Keep this. Save it for a very long time. You may be surprised. The palms do not lie.”
I took the paper, and walked out through the black curtains to join Dee and some friends/ At dinner that evening I shared some of her predictions with Dee and those at our table commenting to the effect that fortune tellers were ridiculous. We all laughed at my experience. I placed her paper in a small briefcase I had with me and much later transferred it to a folder containing some things I had written about the meeting.
The last night of the meeting Dee and I sat at the head table because of my part in the program. Dee was seated on my left and a young woman a bit younger than I was seated on my right. The man on her other side was her father. I noticed that she was quiet, and very expensively dressed in high fashion. She spoke with her father a few times but hardly responded when I tried to engage her in table conversation. She was polite, but very reserved. In contrast, her father and I had several animated conversations during dinner. He was very friendly and quite charming. He carried on several conversations with others at the table, while his daughter said very little. By the end of dinner he appeared to be a bit drunk.
After dinner one of my friends asked, “How did you get along with Black Jack?”
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“The guy sitting next to his daughter, Caroline, at your table. She sat right next to you. You don’t know who they are?”
“No. Should I?”
“Well, she’s Jackie Kennedy’s little sister, and he’s their father, a very wealthy stock broker who knows a lot of people. Didn’t you hear his talk about investments?”
“Wow, really? Jackie’s sister. Now that I think of it she does look a bit like her. And no, I didn’t hear his talk. I attended another session when he was speaking.”
“They call him Black Jack Bouvier, probably because he’s so dark, but maybe because he’s just a bit shady. His wife divorced him years ago because he likes booze and womanizing. I’m surprised she let Lee—they call her by her middle name, Caroline Lee Bouvier—I’m surprised her mother let her go out with him.”
By the time we headed to our room for the night I had completely forgotten the palm reader. In fact, I never again thought about that reading until almost thirty years later.
It was 1981 when I had just returned from living in the Philippines for a year. My second marriage was over and I was moving lock stock and barrel from Euclid, Ohio, to LaGrange, Illinois. I was packing my things in my cargo trailer when I dropped an old box which fell open. Inside was the folder into which I had placed that paper from the palm reader those many years ago. I had never seen it since I first placed it in that folder. When the paper fell out, I picked it up and looked at it. In fact, I stared in disbelief. So many things she had foretold had come true. By this time my second marriage was over, I had five daughters and a son, was now embarking on my fourth career, and had lived in a foreign country. It was scary reading what she had predicted, damned scary.
Fast forward to today. Unbelievably, nearly all of her predictions have come true. She missed on a few of the smaller predictions, but many of the biggest have come to pass including my being married three times. Her prediction about my becoming a writer now blows me away. Uncanny! Of course, I’m still hopefully awaiting the fulfillment of her last prediction of great wealth.
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Sunrises and Related Experiences
a memoir - Howard Johnson
Sunrises and Related Experiences
a memoir - Howard Johnson
I don’t remember my very first magical sunrise experience as a single one, but rather a series over time that morphed into a mingled memory. It was certainly fishing trips with my father and possibly my grandfather as well over a number of different times. It was definitely on Tippecanoe Lake in Indiana during repeated early morning fishing trips. These trips happened frequently during warm, lazy summer mornings from when I was about five years old.
The scene before my wide expectant eyes is emblazoned on my memory like a motion picture or video. I see the pervasive grayness of a misty or foggy first light over the mirror smooth waters of the lake. The ghostly, barely visible black of forest trees at the water’s edge is outlined by that pale first light of approaching dawn. The stillness, the cool dampness, the relative quiet save the voices of awakening birds, was intoxicating..I can see the gentle bow wave, hear the rhythmic splashes of the oars in time with the slow surging of our small rowboat as I feel my father’s repeated strong pull and return of the oars. I can sense the boat reaching for a favorite fishing place as I peer from my perch on the front seat.
The unmistakable cry of a loon adds an almost mystical aura to the serene scene, the magic is soon broken by the raucous crow of a rooster, then the barking of a far away dog. As we move past Pierce’s Point toward the wider expanse of the east end of the lake, even the shadowy ghosts of the forest trees at the shore on our left fade into the grayness and disappear. We glide in silence over the shimmering surface, making a V of small waves. The oars create pairs of expanding circles of waves punctuated by sets of small whirlpools on each side. These regularly spaced disturbances reach off behind the boat in parallel rows, dissipating slowly as they fade away stretching out behind the boat and into the smooth surface.
A sudden splash gives evidence of hungry fish as they chase minnows at the surface. After nearly an hour rowing to the best fishing spot, my father peers deep into the clear water, watching for the sight of ghostly green water weeds far below, just barely visible. When finally he sees the first of the weeds, he reverses his rowing and backs the boat a few lengths into slightly deeper water, there to drop the anchors. He lifts the length of concrete filled two inch pipe that serves as the front anchor, checks to see that I have a secure hold on the rope and am prepared before he lets it go. I dutifully control the rope until it reaches the bottom then snug the rope and wind it around the front davit. Meanwhile, he places and secures the rear anchor.
About this time a bit of gold showing through the fog announced the sun is starting to win its morning battle with the fog. Directly overhead the center of the dome of gray is slowly turning blue.
The repeated barking of dogs, the voices of children, and other morning sounds carry crisply across the still waters, announcing to us and the world that people ashore are starting their day. The gray dawn is no longer, as a brilliant sun rising higher in a clear blue sky takes control. A slight breeze begins ruffling the satin smooth surface of the lake. All the activities of a summer day on the lake are about to burst forth. As water activities liven the lake, I know our fishing trip will soon be over.
There are many similar dawns, stretching back to the time before memories. There will be many more dawns of very different kinds over many years to come. I love dawns and sunrises. The colors of sunrises so very different from those of sunsets, so pastel, reserved and quiet, like the difference in lake activities between the same times. This in contrast to the bright pinks, brilliant oranges, and finally crimson colors of sunsets.
Another memorable sunrise, a specific single event, happened in the summer of 1943. My sister, Bobbie, and I worked at the same Howard Johnson restaurant in Shaker Heights, Ohio. At twenty-one, she was a waitress and could serve drinks from the bar. I started as a bus boy, then graduate to the ice cream, counter, and finally to the sandwich table where I learned all manner of sandwich building from hamburgers and BLTs to westerns and clubs.
Frequently I rode the four miles to work on my bicycle with my sister seated on the cross bar. We kept to the side streets rather than chance busy Lee Road with all its
Another magical dawn, also at Lake Tippecanoe, happened in late October of 1945, just before I started at Purdue University. I am fascinated by wildness and go to wild places whenever I can. The swamp and woods at the east end of the lake, near where my first recounting of sunrises occurred, was the wildest place I could get to easily. For more than a week I lived on my own, off of the land in the high ground woods and the nearly dry swamp in an area of several hundred acres. I packed an arctic sleeping bag, a boy scout cooking kit, a few utensils, matches, some crackers, salt, and butter. On my belt was a hand ax and a sheath knife. In my jacket I had my emergency rations, a large bag of peanuts and several Baby Ruth
Living off of the land is another story for another time, but I learned about finding and cooking edible water plants, mostly their roots. An accomplished fisherman, I had no trouble getting adequate protein from the fish I caught with my tiny pole and hand line. About the fourth night a fierce fall storm blew in from the northwest. I was prepared, or thought so. I located my camp for the night on the eastern side of the high ground. Knowing a storm was coming, I picked a spot of dry sloping ground that would drain well. It was beside the downed trunk of a huge tree. I spread my waterproof ground cloth and rolled my sleeping bag out, the head almost against the tree trunk. I rigged the rain guard over the head of the sleeping bag before fixing my supper.
The first blast of wind and rain hit suddenly, before I finished cleaning up from supper. I scurried inside my sleeping bag putting my boots under the rain guard near my head. I was wet, but not soaked. From beneath the rain guard I saw my view of the woods to the east disappear in a fury of wind, water, and leaves. I knew I was in for a rough night. Branches of different sizes fell all around me. The woods to the west gave some protection, but in return contributed hazardous missiles in the form of wind-blown branches and pieces of branches. By the time the wind slowly abated during at least an hour, my sleeping bag was covered with wood debris. Fortunately, though several large branches crashed down nearby, none of them hit me. After the storm died it was followed by a steady rain.
The sound of the rain finally lulled me to sleep, probably about eight. I awoke suddenly, wet and a bit cold. My rain guard was not in place and I saw a clear, starry sky overhead. I found the rain guard draped over the log above my head. The pegs that held it had pulled out of the now soaked ground when a swirl of wind had flipped it over the log as I slept. It was very cold, probably below freezing, but I was still warm inside that now wet bag. I checked on my spare clothes, mostly socks and underwear, wrapped in a towel inside the foot of the sleeping bag. I was happy to find my feet, socks and all, and my clothes, were quite dry. I decided to stay put until daylight.
First light of a clear, crisp October day crept slowly through the trees to the east. I watched that telltale pale blue sky turn pink, then turn into orange, then yellow, then the sparkle of sunlight burst through the forest. The billions of insects silenced weeks before by the first frost left the woods deathly still. An occasional bird call gave some comfort, then the raucous quacking of a nearby flock of ducks rent the silence. A scuffling sound as a squirrel ran frantically past me, a few feet away. Hot on the squirrel’s trail was a black fisher intent on making the squirrel its next meal. The world was awake to a new day.
A favorite James Whitcomb Riley quote describes the scene, “Suns and skies and clouds of June, and flowers of June together, you cannot rival for one hour, October’s bright blue weather.” This would prove to be just such a day.
It was December of 1955 when my wife, Dolores, and I together with our daughter, Deb, five, and son, Mike, two, were camping in the Florida Keys in our new Plymouth station wagon. We were in Bahia Honda State Park camped right at the shore. Deb was sleeping in the front seat while Mike and Dee were in the back of the wagon on a twin sized mattress. I was outside in a sleeping bag atop an air mattress on the ground near the car. It was quite cold, probably near forty, when I woke up to an early beginning dawn. Not yet prepared to get out of the warmth of the sleeping bag and face the day, I repositioned my body so I could watch the sunrise over the Florida Straight. As it grew lighter the scene appeared virtually colorless. The fog above the water blended into the gray of a haze-filled sky. Water, haze, and sky were all that same brightening gray with a very slight blue cast. When the sun began to burn through the haze, it was colorless as well, virtually white against the gray.
The only sound early was of the waves lapping against the seawall. As the dawn light brightened, sea gulls began calling as they flew overhead. The world was waking up. The full sun was finally shining silvery through breaks in the clouds. Still the scene was almost colorless. Finally the haze gave way to a bright crisp, cool, colorful day with blue sky and white pillows of clouds drifting past green trees and above a blue and white ocean. I pulled my clothes on and ventured out of the sleeping bag. It wasn’t long before I had a fire going to warm my hands and later cook our breakfast. By the time I had baited and cast our fishing lines out into the water hoping to catch mangrove snapper, my crew began tumbling out of the car. Today would be a new adventure for our little family from far away Ohio.
It was 1980 and I was on the beach of Grande Isle about ten miles out from Olongapo in the Philippines. I had sailed out to this R&R island on a Hobie 16 with Jingo, the Lieutenant Commander and XO of the US Carrier Coral Sea. We had with us, the bathing suits and boat shoes we were wearing, two large beach towels, a waterproof bag containing our billfolds, socks, and a few pocket items, and a fifth of Chivas Regal provided by the XO. We spent the day exploring the island where we found the remains of the American fort built after the Spanish American war. We climbed over two long six inch guns still mounted in their emplacements and dated 1906. By the time we stumbled out of the forest into the beach area we were tired, hungry and a bit woozy from the portion of scotch no longer in the bottle.
We stopped at the beach restaurant and had a hearty meal, the contents of which I have no memory. By the time we finished our meal, and much of the remaining scotch, we were in no condition to sail the fifteen miles back to the mainland. It was either take the motor launch back and return in the morning for the Hobie, or sleep on the beach for us. There are no sleeping quarters on the island and everyone including workers are supposed to leave for the naval base on the last launch at 11:30pm. With the only option being sleeping on the beach during a warm Philippine night, we said in unison, “The beach.”
We had to sneak off and find a comfortable place to hide from the Shore Patrol who searched for and herded the last stragglers onto the launch. They paid no attention to the bright white sailboat pulled up on the sandy beach not far from the pier where the launch tied up. After the launch left we found a nice smooth area of soft sand, spread our beach towels out, polished off the remaining scotch, and promptly fell asleep.
Much later—actually early the next morning—Jingo woke me and said, “Do you hear that noise? Something’s on the beach and I think it’s coming toward us.”
At first I couldn’t hear a thing. Then I heard it, a soft, scraping sound as if something was being dragged across the sand in short spurts, “scrape - scrape - scrape.”
“Yea, I hear it, but you cant see a damned thing on this beach on a moonless night. What do you suppose it is?”
“Are there salt water crocodiles around here? I’ve heard they come out of the water at night and eat people.”
“Thanks a lot, Jingo. That’s a comforting thought. I’ve not heard anyone mention crocs. Lots about pythons, monkeys and wild pigs, but no mention of crocs.”
The rhythmic sound continued and seemed to be coming closer. With no flashlight or matches we were locked in place by the blackness. We couldn’t even see to move our sleeping quarters. With no watches, we had no idea what time it was.
“I seem to remember that crocs have excellent night vision.”
“Damn, Jingo, That’s really encouraging. You really know how to cheer a fellow up.”
“Let’s be prepared to run. Both of us in the same direction toward the water. Don’t head up the beach or we could run into those trees we passed on our way here.”
In fun I said, “I can see the headlines now, ‘Two Americans disappear from Grande Island. Local authorities suspect crocs got them.’ I wonder if they’ll send out a rescue party?”
“Now who’s telling the scary stuff?
“Shit! There are no crocs out here. They’re all in Australia.” As I finished my tease I noticed the sky in the east was just barely starting to show light. “Look! It’s morning and will be light soon. You know how quickly the sun rises in the tropics.”
It can’t be too soon for me.” Jingo said.
As he spoke the sound changed. Each scrape was now accompanied by a rustling sound like papers being ruffled about, and it was very close by.
“What in Hell is making that noise?” I said sharply.
“I don’t know, but it is definitely quite close. Damn I wish I could see.”
In the pinking blue light of a rapidly expanding dawn, silhouettes of shapes were becoming visible. Before long we could see indistinct shapes on the beach Then we both saw something move just a few feet away. It became obvious the rustling sound was caused by the creature moving through the dried palm fronds that littered the sand near the tree line. Whatever it was, it was not a crocodile. It was oval shaped and about three feet long. In the rapidly increasing light we finally saw and recognized a huge leatherback turtle moving farther in shore.
“That damned critter must be very mixed up. It shouldn’t be heading away from the water at this time. It will dry up and die in the heat of the day.” Jingo remarked. “Let’s carry it back to the water. It must have gotten turned around in the dark on its way back from laying eggs. ”
That turned out to be a monumental task. I have no idea how much it weighed, but we couldn’t lift it, especially with amazingly powerful legs and flippers flailing away. We finally managed to turn it around and head it toward the water. We watched for nearly an hour as the exhausted critter flopped its way down the beach and finally into the safety of the sea. During its journey, we watched the pinkish, sea-gray dawn morph into a bright clear sunny day. We stayed out of sight while the first launch arrived, then picked up our belongings and headed for the restaurant to fill our empty, growling stomachs. No, we were not hung over, the advantage of drinking high quality scotch over an entire day. The sail back to the Subic base was fast and fun now that we could see where we were going.
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BACK TO QUADRATIC EQUATIONS
Frances Stelling
BACK TO QUADRATIC EQUATIONS
Frances Stelling
At age fifty-five I had to go back to school for algebra and geometry. Why does a teacher of Spanish and English need to master quadratic equations? The answer: the unenlightened Tallahassee education elite who set criteria for exams for Florida teaching certificates.
With me as both the teacher and the student in home schooling, the outcome was uncertain. I’d done nothing but basic math since college. My last quadratic equation exposure was in chemistry during my sophomore year in college.
The school administration in Martin County kindly lent me the requisite texts to study as I prepared for the big spring exam, to be administered in St. Lucie. Supposedly, the exam was a replica of the exam all state university students must pass before graduating. And yes, big A and G were definitely big elements of the exam.
The Tallahassee posse was pursuing longtime teachers and even some principals in Jacksonville, I read. If they hadn’t been able to pass the old exam, I wondered how they could pass the new, challenging one. If I’d had any optimism about their creativity, I would have concluded that studying for the new exam would educate or reeducate those poor performers, as it was doing for me.
A small blessing was the omission of big B – Biology – and big C – Chemistry. I know they’ve added a bit to both since the Dark Ages when I studied them. Probably they’d added another hundred elements with odd abbreviations and not a Latin or Greek based symbol in sight.
As I began to reabsorb equations and theorems, my experience in text book reviewing and proofing clicked in. By the time I’d finished the algebra text, I’d found fifty -eight errors, even computational ones with aid of answers in the back of the teachers’ editions. I, however, restrained myself from writing the editors, who might infer that I actually knew something about the subject.
With my fifty dollars paid –yes, they make you pay to suffer an exam (a wonderful literal translation from the Spanish) - and some hope to survive the math, I lined up early with all the other sufferers. To my surprise, there were two different designated exam venues. When I arrived at my assigned place, I learned that bureaucracy had again advertised its moronic IQ. I had to take the teachers’ old exam because my application had been received before a certain date. After silent jubilation, all I could think was that the old exam was likely stuffed with science.
As I chatted with my neighbor in the second line, I learned that she was the new superintendent of a nearby school district and had been a professor of education at the University of South Carolina. Even administrators and ex-college professors had to take the teachers’ exam. Worse yet, months earlier she had taken the difficult, math- marinated exam and passed it. They in Tallahassee’s tower of illogic had discovered that she had applied before a certain date and, therefore, must, like me, take the old exam. And pay another fifty dollars.
The old exam was, of course, on the level of the academic acme of those Tallahassee bureaucrats. The hardest math was ratios. I almost missed those quadratic equations
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Christmas Memories
by Dolores Johnson
Christmas Memories
by Dolores Johnson
Our family always spent holidays with my mother’s side of the family in and around Onamia, Minnesota. Thanksgiving was at our house Christmas Day was at Aunt Victoria’s and Easter was at Aunt Ruth’s but it was Christmas Eves at Uncle Bill and Grandma and Grandpa’s house that were the most memorable.
In memory the moon always glowed on the snow and the snow always crunched under our footsteps as we walked from our car to the back door and into the cold enclosed porch. Opening the door into the kitchen we were greeted with warmth, fabulous cooking smells and laughter.
Mom, Dad, my brother Don and I would pass through the kitchen and into the center room where we’d take off our heavy coats. In the front room we’d see the decorated Christmas tree and my cousins Maurine and Donna. In later years, little Billy would be there too.
The men sat in the center room talking, where my grandpa had his chair and spittoon, while the women went to the kitchen to help get our dinner ready, each of them having brought some special dish to heat up on the wood-burning stove. There was no electricity or indoor plumbing at Grandpa’s either.
At some point my grandpa would beckon us kids to go upstairs with him. We’d follow him into his room where he’d take a key out of a drawer, open a trunk with the key and extract a brown paper bag. He’d put his hand into the bag and hand each of us one Swedish chocolate mint. Then he’d put the bag back in the trunk, lock it and return the key to the drawer. At which point, we’d all traipse back downstairs.
When we were finally called to dinner, all thirteen of us would crowd around the table in the kitchen. We had Swedish meatballs, lutfisk, lefse and much more. I did not like lutfisk but my mother insisted I taste it each year. Grandpa must have not cared for it either because he sprinkled so much pepper on his lutfisk that everyone started to sneeze. I loved everything else. For dessert there were various delicious Swedish pastries.
After we ate, we kids were ready for Santa to arrive but the women had to clean up the kitchen and wash and dry the dishes. Maurine and I were sure we’d miss Santa. We kept going from the living room to the kitchen imploring them to hurry. We’d go from window to window looking out wanting to see Santa’s sleigh and yet not wanting to see it because the women were still in the kitchen.
Finally we all came into the front room around the Christmas tree. There were no gifts under the tree. The adults talked. We waited. Did we hear the jingle of bells? We’d run and look out the window. No! Yes, I was definitely sure I heard bells and then a Ho Ho Ho and into the room came Santa with a bag full of gifts. What excitement as he handed out the gifts. Each of us received maybe two gifts.
The Christmas Eve when I was seven years old and Maurine was nine, my cousin Donna at age fifteen decided we needed to know the truth about Santa and she threw up the sash on the window between the front room and the porch. There was our uncle Orban getting out of the Santa costume. I learned later that my mother played Santa one year. We kids were so excited that we didn’t miss anyone.
When all the excitement was over and we’d cleaned up the mess and collected our goodies, we’d head for our cars. Aunt Ruth, Uncle Maurice, Donna and Maurine went to midnight services at the Catholic Church and the rest of us went to the candlelight service at the Lutheran Church. It was truly a candlelight service with lighted candles placed along the windows as well as on the altar. It was beautiful. A girl dressed as Saint Lucie would walk down the aisle with a crown of evergreens and tall lighted candles on her head. My dad was a choir member and they would sing part of the Messiah and we all sang Christmas carols and listened to the telling of Jesus’ birth. It was a perfect ending to a perfect day.
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The Old Trashy Car
by Isabel Garner
The Old Trashy Car
by Isabel Garner
We raised our three sons in a great place, two acres of land to play in, next door to a new elementary school, which was next to the new city swimming pool and the little league fields. They never had to cross a street and they were usually nearby.
Our yard was always full of kids because we had a go-cart track, pole vaulting set-up, basketball goal and in snow time, the only hill in the neighborhood for sledding.
My husband decided they needed one more toy. He bought an old Nash car for $15.00, drove it home and parked it in the back yard. His only rule was: no breaking any glass. He rolled the windows down and the kids swarmed over it.
They steered, put dirt in the gas place, and climbed in the windows, but the best fun was getting on top – on the roof – and jumping. Whoever jumped hardest could make the speedometer swing over to high-speed.
That old “Trashy Car,” as they called it, was a magnet to the First Grade teacher. Every recess she brought her class over to play on that car. That was in 1960. Today, with all the liability issues, it could not happen.
All went well with it for months. Then one day our youngest, Pete the firebug, put a glowing ember stick on the back seat. The back seat had long since lost all its upholstery; it was just stuffing lying there. It caught fire right away, that old car just blazed up.
We got the fire out with the garden hose but the car was finished as a toy. My husband sold it to a junkyard for $20.00 and they hauled it away.
And as for Pete and his fascination with fire, –he was forever striking matches, so I got him a couple of boxes of those wooden matches and sat him out on the driveway with the matches and a bucket of water.
Strike! Plop! Strike! Plop! Through one big box, start the next. Strike! Plop! Through the next one.
I sent his brother to the store for another one.
Finally – at long last – he declared he didn’t want to do this anymore. For a good time, we had no problem.
I can tell you how he was: third son, last child, busy, fast, climber, into everything, constant.
When he was two and John was five, somebody said, “John, what’s your baby brother’s name?”
“Peter Damn-it Garner,” was the reply.
I realized I had been saying “Peter damn-it.” Didn’t even realize it.
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The Red Shovel
by Sharon Seider
The Red Shovel
by Sharon Seider
I sat in the beach chair watching my three-year-old granddaughter-shoveling scoop after scoop, her tiny hand grasping a red shovel, lifting and pouring the fine white sand into a yellow plastic bucket. As my eyes followed intently her rhythmic movements, this scene faded into a long forgotten memory of a cherished toy.
My family lived on a farm in central Kansas. World War two was wearing on the American spirit, but as a three year old, I had no awareness of such things. I did not have toys, as a matter of fact, I did not know what a toy was. I played with sticks, spoons, cans and things of that sort. One particular warm spring morning, while playing around the yard, I found a small red metal shovel near the foundation of our house. Thinking this a wonderful surprise, I began in total contentment filling cans with dirt and digging holes to bury small treasures in the soft black earth. By early afternoon, I began to tire of this play so I walked across the yard to the pump over by the well. Lying down across the weathered boards covering the well, I looked through the crack into the darkness below trying to see the depth of the water. Holding my newly found red shovel above one of the cracks, the heaviness of it caused my small fingers to give way and so slipped the red shovel, falling through the boards with a faint splash into the water below. Feeling sad at such a sudden loss, I rolled over onto my back and lay watching the darkening clouds pass above, tears rolling down my cheeks. I looked again down through the crack into the darkness below. My only toy, my red shovel was gone.
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When the Bough Breaks
by Sharon Seider
When the Bough Breaks
by Sharon Seider
Raindrops dripped from the black umbrella I held over my head as I scurried along the path in the graveyard.
Why did I volunteer to come to this dreary place on a chilly, rainy May weekend? ‘Where is this place? I wondered as I hurried along looking for a familiar face from the German/American Club. This was the main cemetery, the Haupfriedhof, across from the Daenner Caserne? I asked myself, trying not to become anxious.
A group of people was gathering near the southeast corner. Perhaps it is over there. Familiar German faces emerged from the gathering crowd and I relaxed as we greeted one another shaking hands in the familiar “Guten Morgan.”
I hope I am not the only American here from our group, I mused. It seemed Pamela and I were often the only Americans that attended these events. I wonder if she will show up?
I was new to this part of Germany and did not know many people. My German was rusty and I felt a little uncomfortable trying to communicate. The group moved closer near the speaker’s podium where we could hear.
The disagreeable weather continued. People huddled together under umbrellas with grim-looking faces waiting for the memorial service to begin. I stood looking at the hundreds of small gray headstones perfectly aligned row by row with an American flag and a small bouquet laying across each grave stone.
I swallowed hard. The impact of seeing so many gravesites of children left me saddened and light-headed. I had to look away and think of something else. Fortunately the honor guard from Daenner Caserne marched forward in precision to place the American and German flags. The military officials and the Mayor of Kaiserslautern followed to give the opening address and appropriate speeches.
Standing in front of me was an elderly woman escorted by a middle-aged man and woman. During the ceremony I noticed the older woman sobbing and being comforted by her companions. I knew in my heart they must be relatives of one of the children buried here. The Chaplain said the closing prayers. A lighted a candle and a large wreath were positioned at the entrance to the graves. When the elder lady turned to leave, I along with other members each introduced ourselves, and inquired how they happened to be there for the ceremony?
The tall gentleman introduced himself, his wife and mother. He gave us this account of their presence.
Back in the 1950’s his father was in the army and they lived in France. He was a young boy of four or five years old and had a baby sister about nine months old. She had become very ill and his parents had to take her to the military hospital near by. He had stayed with a family friend while his parents were in the hospital with his sister. After several days they returned alone and told him his little sister had died, and they would not speak of her again. As a kid growing up, he often wondered what happened to his sister, but never spoke of her.
One day, when he was a grown man, he read an article in the military newspaper, the Stars and Stripes, about the graves of children of parents stationed at US Army and Air force bases in the Kaiserslautern area. Many children had died before three months from causes such as pneumonia or being born prematurely. Support from the US government and Red Cross to transport these children to the United States was not available at that time. Four hundred and fifty-one American children of military personnel stationed near Kaiserlautern died during this period. Until 1980 their graves were scattered throughout the cemetery. Donations from the German/American Club and other private organizations provided funds for the city of Kaiserslautern to relocate the graves to a single site.
Some time later he decided to make arrangements for his mother to return to make a closure to a painful part of her life. His father had died earlier and it was just he, his wife and mother. Now he could be at peace to know what had happened to his baby sister.
We thanked them for coming and telling their story. Tears were rimming my eyes as we shook hands and said, “Good bye.” I looked again, tears streaming down my face, at the little gray stones side by side like tiny cribs lined up in a nursery wondering which one of them was hers, her final resting place.
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Over the River
by Susan Brummer
Over the River
by Susan Brummer
We actually did go over the river and through the woods to Grandmothers house on Thanksgiving Day.
We crossed the Chippewa River about a mile into the journey. Even though it was snowing we did not have a sleigh, this was the year that my Dad bought the silver 1957 Chevy station wagon.
The car seemed big, but we were a large enough family to fill it up. I was the oldest at 13 and a freshman in high school. Ellen was 10, Mary and Margi were preschoolers, and Joey was still a baby. Mom was due in four months with Amanda.
In addition to the seven of us, Mom was taking salads and desserts to add to the feast. With our extra wintry clothes and all the baby stuff, there was not an extra bit of space in that car. But it did not bother us and singing the 'Thanksgiving Song' and then ' Jingle Bells' a few times occupied everyone for the long twenty-minute ride to Grandma and Grandpa’s.
We tumbled out of the car and joined our other relatives. Mom's youngest sister Joan was there with her husband Greg. I had been Joan's junior bridesmaid the previous summer and this was their first visit home. She was telling everyone that they would be having their first baby the next summer. Grandma's sister Betty was there from Chicago, and this year Grandpa’s youngest brother and his wife Norma had driven all the way from Wausau. Adding to these numbers were Grandpa and Grandma and Aunt Jane and her longtime boyfriend, Bert. We had about sixteen for dinner if you counted the babies. At the time it seemed like a large group, but considering what was to come in later years, this was one of the smaller family celebrations.
While the adults had their customary cocktails, we kids played outside and visited with our friends in the neighborhood. As it was snowing quite heavily, we soon tired of making snow angels and built a couple of snowmen. Mike, the boy next door, (also a freshman in high school) said he had to talk to me privately. We went around the corner into the alleyway, and of course this caused his and my younger sisters to start throwing snowballs.
About this time, Aunt Jane called us in to eat. Mike said, "This is was I want to talk to you about,” and then he whispered a question.
I said I would let him know and then ran into grandma’s house.
The dining table sparkled with Nonie's Spode (she never called it china) and her sterling silver. The table was set for twelve, everything sitting on her beautiful hand embroidered tablecloth. Twelve! This year I got to move up from the card table and join the adults. I even was allowed a partial glass of wine, (horrible Mogen David tasting stuff), but I was didn't know that wine could taste better. The younger ones had kiddy cocktails and everyday dishes. The food was the same as other years, but tasted special as I was at the big table.
With age comes responsibility and I joined the other women in cleaning up after dinner instead of playing games in the family room with the younger kids. Finally the dishes were washed and dried, and then the kitchen table was cleared and it was time for the family card game. Instead of just sitting in on someone's hand, I had my own place at the table. We played this crazy rummy game that was called Run of Four-Set of Four. It was a noisy, cheerful game played for a tenth of a penny a point. I won forty-seven cents that evening and thought that I was grown-up.
A few hours later, the sleeping little ones were bundled up and put in the car and Thanksgiving had ended for another year. After a few cheerful goodbyes we sleepily made our way home in the new silver station wagon.
Oh, yes, what did Mike ask me? He asked me to go with him to the Christmas Dance at his High School. That was quite a Thanksgiving Day, first time at the adult table, first time at the card table and getting asked out on my first date.
No wonder I remember the Thanksgiving of 1957.
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Arrested
Lori Thatcher
Arrested
Lori Thatcher
As we followed the officer into
I had a glimmer of hope when he said this, that the policeman would turn to us, throw open the door and say “You’re free to go, just don’t do it again.” Me – I would have promised never to come back to Martha’s Vineyard if he would just let us go. And that might have actually happened if our loudmouthed friend Tom hadn’t marched up to the Chief’s big raised desk and asked “Well what KIND of people are you SUPPOSED to arrest?” That did it; there would be no early end to this.
It had started on a Tuesday morning in August 1970. Tom and Joan owned land on Martha’s Vineyard and we had joined them to pitch a tent next to theirs for a week’s vacation. Tom was reading the newspaper “Man,” he said, “They’re closing our favorite beach.” He explained that
I protested “I don’t want to get arrested Tom,” but he assured me saying, “They only arrest people on weekends when it’s busy; they don’t arrest anyone on Tuesdays.” He had been coming to the island for many years, so I believed him.
We did have to walk past one rusted sign that barely said “no trespassing” on our way to the beach but there were other people walking that way too, a clean cut father with a toddler and an older couple, so I felt safe. We never even made it to the beach. The policeman ran past the older couple and yelled “Stop, You’re under arrest.” Tom and Joan’s two kids began to whimper and the officer seemed surprised to see them, but Joan’s plea “We have kids, can’t we just leave?” was met with a solid “No, it’s too late for that.”
I think he chose us because of David’s long hair and Tom’s
When we got back to the parking lot, the policeman told the six of us to get in the back of
Once we got to
The kids burst out crying “Mommy.”
I thought at that time the young policeman was probably wishing he had arrested an armed robber instead. When he said that Joan and I could sit with the kids, they changed their whines to “Daddy,” Even I felt sorry for the officer when he stammered, “Just everybody sit on the bench.”
We ended up having to pay $10 bail each and had to show up at court in a week. It was an anticlimactic finish when they continued our cases without a verdict for a year, after which the charges were dismissed.
This experience stirred in me a fear of law enforcement and a distrust of government in general, but my fear was balanced in equal measure by being tickled that I could have been mistaken for the kind of person that should be arrested.
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Cutting Brush
Lori Thatcher
Cutting Brush
Lori Thatcher
When I saw his burgundy Pontiac Lemans drive in I didn’t know whether to feel happy, sad or scared. My dad didn’t live with us; he was just visiting. I never felt like he was visiting me or my siblings. I felt like he was visiting the property and the house that he had built but hadn’t lived in for very long.
When he would say “Lori, come on with me,” I would hold my breath hoping that we were heading to the barn to do something with the horses or to the car to go somewhere, but most of the time it wouldn’t be that. When he headed for the cellar and grabbed his axe, my heart would sink. I knew we were going to cut brush.
It wasn’t that I hated working with him; I loved it when he would grab the big pull saw off the wall. I was proud that I learned the rhythm of the long straight two person saw – pull, pause and be pulled – pull, pause and be pulled. Never push or the saw would bend and bind in the cut. I learned which wood made the saw grumble and which made it sing. Each time the log fell I would try to get the start on the next cut even faster.
I also loved it when he grabbed the Skilsaw because it meant we were building or fixing something and he might let me measure and cut the boards. I loved the black electrical tape wrapped around the cord where I had cut right through it the second time I used the saw. I held my breath when it happened and I loved that my dad had said “That’s OK, I’ve done that too.”
I knew how to use the axe and how to sharpen it with the smooth stone, but I never got much practice. When we went to the pastures to beat back the encroaching brush, the axe was his domain. I was the brush hauler, charged with following in his wake and picking up every twig, every tiny twig. He worked in silence most of the time with a satisfied look on his face as every minute dragged on for me. Telling him I had to go to the bathroom only meant that after the long walk back to the house, I would be way behind when I returned.
Sometimes in my head I would will him to get thirsty or to remember something he had to do today, right away. I looked at the horses in the other pasture wanting them to spook so we would go and investigate. I hoped my brother fell out of the tree he was climbing and broke his leg so my father would have to drive him to the hospital. That was fair because I knew my brother had slipped out of the house and run over to his friend’s so that he wouldn’t have to help. Nothing I wished ever happened.
When he finally turned back towards the house, I couldn’t contain my happiness; I would twirl and skip and sing. Then he would look at me and say “We had a good time cutting brush, didn’t we?”
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The New House and the Lesson of the Pump
Lori Thatcher
The New House and the Lesson of the Pump
Lori Thatcher
My grandfather owned a large piece of land in Montague Center, Massachusetts, in an area that people called the Montague Desert. The land had been part of an ancient delta that flowed into Lake Hitchcock, a lake that formed when the glacier receded and the melt water was blocked from flowing into the ocean by the terminal moraine. The delta sorted the soil so what was left was white sand that looked like it belonged at the seashore. We loved playing in the sandy dunes that stretched behind my grandfather’s house, sliding down the sand piles and dreaming of grand expeditions.
When I was four or five, my father began building a house on part of the land my grandfather owned. It was down the road and around the corner from the farmhouse where we had lived with my grandfather since I was born. It had a field and some woods and was bordered by a forest adjacent to and owned by
It was a modest ranch house meant to be a two-bedroom but with an added wall that segmented one of the bedrooms into both a tiny cubicle for my brother and a slightly larger room for my sister and me to share. I didn’t mind sharing a bedroom with my sister, it meant I could get into her stuff, and at least the house had a bathroom.
For as long as I could remember, our bathroom had been a small wooden shed out behind the barn. In freezing weather it was a pail in the upstairs hall which magically was empty anytime I chose to use it. My husband David says that I had the last outhouse in
Before he began building the house, my father built a tractor shed and dug a well which he topped with an old cast iron red-painted hand-pump. If we were thirsty we could pump cold water into our mouths, splashing it all over the rest of us too. After we moved in, that well would run dry almost every summer and we would spend time each evening taking jugs in our truck to the cemetery in the center of town and filling them at the faucet there.
The pump would be gone by then, but when it was there, I loved pumping as fast and hard as I could and that was the downfall of the finger that slipped into the
I ran up to the house screaming and gushing blood. I climbed through the front door where there wasn’t yet steps and into the living room where my father was installing the oak floor. He looked up when he heard me crying but immediately looked down at the drops of blood spattering on the bare planks and yelled “These are unfinished boards. Get out of here!”
I was sobbing so hard, I couldn’t move. I think he realized then how bad it was, scooped me up and stepped out the front door.
The rest of my memories of that day are a blur: The hospital, the big bandage on my finger, and the shattered fingernail.
My parents didn’t make a big deal of it and must have not told me that I couldn’t use the pump anymore because I was back pumping water the next day, getting my bandage wet, but keeping my fingers far from the treacherous
Long afterwards, I would show everyone the neat scar, “From where I cut my finger in half.”
