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LIFE LESSONS BY J. PAUL SELTZER
Stories prompted by the relationships and
life experiences of J. Paul Seltzer
You can reach the author at jpaulseltzer@gmail.com
For this book as a Word doc file with dozens
of photos, seltzerbooks.com/lifelessons.doc
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PREFACE
Within these 73 Life Lessons
of ordinary events and relationships since the 1930's will
be found the unique experiences of Paul Seltzer. Here, the human
spirit of curiosity, wonder and spontaneous delight are tested
and flourish. There are dark nights and bright dawns that spark
ruminations about life and humanity. With clarity, humor, and
poignancy, these original life stories provide a vehicle to let
us live into the gamut of our own humanity.
From a child's delight in spinning Ivory soap
into a tub full of suds, to an adult diving into a mountain of
leaves; from the shock at the mysteries of death as a youngster
squeezes life out of a guinea pig, to an oldster reflecting on
the devastation of a tornado. In this array of tales, we come to
see the forces at work in our own minds and what we can do about
them. We see love and heartbreak with their consequences. There
is chaos and serenity. There are values and choices. There are
surprises and sameness. There is determination and resilience.
There is the craziness and comic lacing it all. In exploring Life
Lessons we understand that in our
ordinariness we sense a higher purpose and universality. It is
not about the fringe or the edges, but about us now.
A
HYMN FOR EARTH DAY -- SHINE MYSTERY!
ALBUM OF SELTZER FAMILY PHOTOS
MUSIC AND POEMS WRITTEN FOR
SPECIAL OCCASIONS
INTRODUCTION TO LIFE LESSONS
Obituaries don't tell our whole story. They
usually summarize our accomplishments, awards, jobs, relations,
connections, with the essential dates. Much is left to our
imaginations to fill in the details and make appropriate
assumptions about a person we have known.
How often we have lamented about a loved one,
"I wish I had gotten their stories on tape, or they had written
them down. It's all gone now."
My grandfather died before I was born. He was
a man of letters. He kept meticulous accounting records. He
wrote lengthy treatises on diverse topics. He kept a fact diary
of his Conestoga wagon trip to Kansas Indian country. In all of
his writings, little is revealed about his human feelings,
dreams, and disappointments. I would like to know that.
My father read multiple books at a time. He
wrote weekly factual letters to his brother Charles in
Philadelphia. He had some favorite stories he repeated through
the years. I would have appreciated more insights into his
humanness.
My mother had some life stories she verbally
repeated. I would like to have known more about her internals.
This shared desire to respond to this
frequent lament is what led fifteen people to convene a Life
Writing Group at the Mahone Bay Center in Nova Scotia in 2009.
We began 'mining the gold' of our life experiences with the
expectation that these glimpses would reveal some of the flavor
of what we had savored in life.
It had the immediate benefit for us of
digging deeply into the memory bank and cherishing the richness
of our 'gold dust.' We discovered wisdom in the fun, feelings,
and foibles of our past. We hoped all of that might connect with
others in our writing. We came to know that everything is a
vessel for the heart story.
Life Lessons is one expression
of that. Some stories are embellished where memory limits. I
have added some original songs and verse inspired by special
people and events.
I am deeply grateful for the treasury of
persons and events inhabiting my journey and exhibited in Life
Lessons, and for my fellow writers for their
critiquing of the tales.
Most especially I appreciate my nephew,
Richard Seltzer, a notable author in his own right, for his
encouragements and ongoing assistance in assembling this
material and navigating me through the jungle of devious
devices.
My wish is that Life Lessons
will be engaging and entertaining for you. May it also be a
catalyst to 'mine your own gold,' re-live your own hidden
memories, and savor your own flavor.
HOUSE
HOLDINGS
When a house holds 'heart,' it becomes a
home. For Warren and Lillian Seltzer, it starts when they are
talking in 1926. Warren says "I've been thinking about that ad
in the paper about that development way out in the Silver Spring
farmland. It's a new idea for a planned subdivision. I like it.
They're calling it Woodside Park. I can design our own home,
maybe a cottage."
Lillian responds, "It would be a long way
from here, probably ten miles. It sounds isolated. We'd be
leaving all of our friends and family here on 5th Street, but it
does sound exciting. Why don't we take a look?"
That weekend they drive the black Essex sedan
from downtown Washington, D.C. to just beyond the trolley line
on Georgia Avenue in Silver Spring. It is here, where Mr.
Hopkins, the developer, has built two stone gate shelters to
frame the entrance of the graveled Highland Drive into his real
estate venture of Woodside Park.
It is rolling farmland, divided into quarter
and half acre plots, with sewer and water and electric services
in place. Warren and Lillian spend all day Saturday traipsing
over the property possibilities, being guided by Mr. Hopkins.
They stop for a picnic lunch at one of their favorite spots, on
what will be called Pinecrest Circle.
Their dream machines are engaged. Warren
already has a design for their new house in mind. He has won an
award from the Architectural Design magazine for it. It
is an English Tudor Cottage. Lillian loves it as well. They
might be able to afford it. He has carefully planned it for
attractiveness, simplicity, and efficiency. It has sloping slate
roofs with a beige stucco exterior, accented with splotches of
pink stucco, stone corner pieces, and traditional dark tudor
beams. It will be a lovely little house for their growing
family.
They can make it into a home that will last
them fifty years. Their dreams are flowing for the next month as
they excitedly try to mix in the practicalities of how much they
can afford, and how far they wlll have to travel everyday to
downtown D.C. for work, church activities, family and friends.
The adventure of it trumps other realities. In May of 1928, #4
Pinecrest Circle becomes one of the first new homes in Woodside
Park, with its graceful fields of waist high barley and weeds.
I am introduced to this scene of newly seeded
grass and young trees in November of 1932. I can take any space
inside or outside of that house and tell you how the 'heart' of
its people, and their experiences together, morph the cinder
blocks, stucco, and timbers into a home.
Let me try with just the living room. Coming
through the front door you see the fresh concept of a large,
open space for combined living room and dining room. It is
surrounded with vividly grained dark chestnut paneling. The
flooring is random width oak planks. An eight-foot fenestra
picture window points your eyes to the fish pond and gardens
outside, and bathes the room in bright southern sunshine.
The inside wall is dominated by an imposing
stone fireplace at the center of the house with a cozy cubicle
and its fire watching benches tucked in. The furnishings of the
living room include a baby grand piano in one corner, an 1815
grandfather's clock standing very tall next to the front door, a
spindled sofa bed facing the fireplace, a well-worn rocking
chair accompanied by a cigar stand at its side, hot water
radiators on each wall, a varied colored carpet with a block
design, just right for playing 'town' with tootsie toy cars and
trucks. There is a cabinet radio, dining room table and
cabinets, assorted chairs, benches and lamps. A double French
door leads to the stone back porch.
This is the look of the 'hard house stuff.'
The feel of the 'soft home stuff' is personalized. It evolves
over my eighteen years of living there with family and friends.
Beyond the sight of it, how does the chestnut
paneling wrap around you with its 'heart?' Perhaps as a silent
container for all of the comings and goings, conversations and
music, flowing there through our lives every day.
How about the plank oak floor? Perhaps it
takes on 'heart' as we vacuum it, wax it, and polish it on our
hands and knees, to please the eyes of the party dancers. Or
maybe it was because it supports the rumblings of my tricycle
racing around the hallways and living room. The oak floor holds
the Christmas trees and trains and frames the carpet where
childhood pretendings spend hours moving the little cars and
trucks and garages and houses around its 'streets.' The floor is
a space separated from the adult world where I can lie on my
back and imagine and imagine. It is space where I am by myself,
or with my brother and friends, to play or argue. It is here
that I giggle or pout when I need to. There are lots of 'heart'
seeds sown on this carpet, on this oak floor, in this living
room.
How about the big picture window? 'Heart'
grows there by helping me connect with the natural beauties just
outside. I can run my fingers across the frosted panes, making
crude shapes and sounds. I feel the heat of the sun or the cold
of the ice crystals. I see the goldfish darting around the water
lilies in the pond. I stare at the iris gardens and the cherry
tree blossoms. There are the repetitions from Mrs. Parker's
upright piano of a Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto, which often
resonate from her house next door. I perch myself on the arm of
the couch and play truck driver with my pot lid as a steering
wheel, or as a cowboy riding his horse in pursuit of something
imaginary. All the while the inviting outdoor scene is in my
view.
The fireplace is a natural for developing
'heart.' Roaring flames from the applewood I helped to saw up
warms my body. The flickering firelight transports my thoughts
to distant places, people, and possibilities. It happens up
close in the cubicle benches, or on the couch from across the
room on a Sunday afternoon while listening to the New York
Philharmonic Orchestra on the radio. Or maybe it is Milton Cross
commenting on the latest offering of the Metropolitan Opera on a
Saturday afternoon, as I try to figure out what all the shouting
and singing is about.
The baby grand piano, draped with its silken
gold and tasseled coverlet, involves every family member on a
daily basis. Mother often awakens us in the mornings with her
hymn playing or accompanies my father on his violin in the
evenings. Each of the four sons practice on it, or with it, on
their trumpet, violin, saxophone, trombone or clarinet. The
combined family orchestra squeaks out its melodies on Sunday
evenings with lots of spontaneous laughter. You can count on
having the piano back up the frequent solos and singalongs
whenever friends drop in.
The vintage grandfather's clock sounds its
unmistakable clanging throughout the house every hour, including
during our sleeping times. There are the primitive movements of
the moon faces painted at the top of the clock to indicate the
position of the moon at this time. My father cranks the heavy
cables and weights that power the clock every few days. All of
this feeds the 'heart' issues of regularity, order, and
connections with a history of ancestors long gone.
The spindled sofa folds out into a sleeper
and holds the many guests who visit our home and share so many
of their life views, enriching our perspectives with warmth.
The dining room table is reserved for
holidays and special event meals with others. The culinary
pleasures etch 'heart' memories in our senses. The
mouth-watering aromas of cooking turkey, chicken, ham or beef
waft through the rooms of the house into our 'heart' places.
The Philco radio and new automatic record
changer provide the stimulus for the story world of our 'heart.'
We gather around the cabinet, parents in their chairs, boys
cross-legged on the floor. We absorb the likes of "The Great
Gildersleeve," "Fibber Magee and Molly," "I Love a Mystery,"
"Gangbusters," "Henry Aldrich," "It Pays to be Ignorant," "The
Phantom," and many others, including lots of musical offerings.
We have a little bowl of pretzels, or Cheez-Its, or popcorn,
with some Coke or ginger ale to keep us company as we carefully
use our fingers to dust the various angles of the wooden
grillwork on the front of the speaker.
The rocking chair is a favorite of my father.
With his cigar stand at his side, he can read his many books and
newspapers, and puff away. Sometimes I climb on his lap, there
to stroke the stubble on his cheeks and chin and absorb his
faint smile of satisfaction.
The 'heart' of our living room has its share
of laughter, arguments, Chinese checkers, Monopoly and finally,
some of "I Remember Mama" and "The Ed Sullivan Show" when TV is
introduced to us in the 1950's.
So it is that the 1928 'heart' dreams of my
parents are transformed at first into the physical components of
a house. Then every room and space takes on its own 'heart' life
as we live in them. These accumulating energies are held and
nourished in this house at 1234 Pinecrest Circle, Silver Spring,
Maryland. Such 'heart' moments make it into my home, affirming
the old adage, "Home is where the heart is."
1234 Pinecrest Circle, December 1949. The
house was gutted by new owners around 2000. Exterior looks
similar. Interior totally different.
JAILBREAK
(Earliest memory)
If I hadn't learned
better later, I might have thought I was in jail.
I peer out through
the white bars, whose paint had worn so thin, so that only
bare steel
meets my eyes. The
rumpled and frayed blanket lays twisted under me. A half empty
bottle
is at my side. A
mixed aroma of old urine and old powder fill my nostrils.
I cast my eyes
outward through the steel bars into dark nothingness. I think
about what will await me on the other side should I manage to
break free. Is there reason to be afraid? Or should I assume
that freedom will bring that for which I hunger?
I have plenty of
time to ponder the answer. There is no way out. The bars are
rigid and secure. I can only wait and see what the next
moment, or maybe a lifetime of waiting behind bars, might
bring. Perhaps it will bring infinite darkness. Or maybe a
glimmer of light. Or even a reassuring voice to allay my
fearful wonderings.
For now, it is
enough to know that while these steel bars seem to imprison
me, they may also be protecting me from unimagined dangers.
But then, these are
only the musings of a diaper clad, twelve-month old boy, from
his crib.
MAESTRO...PLEASE
Kindergarten 1937 is
a wondrous time for me at Woodside Elementary School. A
brand-new world is expanding for me in so many directions.
I am meeting
intriguing teachers and students. I am building trains out of
orange crates. I am imprinting my little hand in a plaster of
Paris mold for posterity. I am loving the milk and graham
cracker breaks. I look forward to the naps on the floor with
my homemade pad. I overcome my misgivings about stripping down
in front of others to get my "Schick test" inoculation. I love
making little "rooms" out of raked leaves during recesses. I
enjoy the field trip to see a weathervane in action. And there
are always new songs to learn and stories to hear.
But most of all I
love being selected to be the leader of the kindergarten band.
We practice for weeks with our tambourines, triangles, rhythm
blocks, drums, and xylophones to Mrs. Lyons' piano
accompaniment. I learn to be rather flamboyant with the baton,
and being the announcer of our two pieces for the school
assembly, which is attended by parents and students from all
six grades. My teacher, parents, and fellow kindergartners are
very encouraging. I am ready to make my debut on the musical
stage of my little world.
Showtime arrives. I
am properly scrubbed, in a starched shirt, with baton in hand.
The assembly hall is jammed with teachers, students, and their
families. The kindergarten band is the first to perform. The
plan is for me to announce our two musical selections and then
turn and direct the tambourines, triangles, drums, blocks and
xylophones, with Mrs. Lyons accompanying us on the piano.
Except I don't. The
band is all in place. I walk onto the stage with baton in
hand. The stage lights are blinding. I can only see the cavern
of darkness in front of me, with silhouettes of bodies lining
the back windows of the assembly hall. Everyone is hushed. All
eyes are on me.
I freeze. All of the
rehearsing of previous weeks is not helping. I am paralyzed. I
stare into the darkness. Mrs. Lyons is stage whispering the
song titles to me from her place at the piano. It doesn't
help. Nothing moves in my body or brain. Only silence, fright,
and paralysis. I hear Mrs. Lyons call to Mary Lou Forni to
step out and announce the music to the crowd. She does. I
don't. The music begins. I remain frozen, staring into the
darkness.
My debut is
humiliating. I leave the stage with the others when it's over.
No one says anything. Not the students. Not Mrs. Lyons. Not my
parents. At least I'm not aware of anything anyone says or
does. I am alone in my purgatory. I can hardly imagine that
there are any knowing smiles on any faces in the crowd right
now, but surely, there must be others who know about the
devastation of their world crumbling.
My insides are
wrenching as I play on the floor that evening at home with my
'tootsie toys.'
My parents do manage
to break the silence with, "You really disappointed us today."
Ugh! A hug would
be better. Or, words like "Don't fret about it. We love you.
It happens to lots of people. You'll do better next time. It
must have been frightening up there all alone, looking out
into the darkness. We know you're upset with yourself, but
we love you..etc. etc. etc." A lot words could be better.
This early message
tells me that love has some conditions. Conditions of
performing well, and making parents and others feel better. I
don't meet those conditions. Over the years I tell several
psychiatrists about this early life shaping experience. It
isn't so much about stage fright as it is about empathy and
love withheld. It is a catalyst lesson that hopefully helps to
turn my life in fresh directions. In fact, I come to see it as
a positive event because it shows me what I do not want, and
reactions I do not like. Therefore, I can use it all as a
contrast for future experiences and choices of what I do want.
Thank you, maestro.
CANNED
PEACHES
I should never eat canned peaches while
laughing.
On this Saturday I have been invited to lunch
at Ann Parker's, next door. Her mother has prepared a lovely
lunch for is two eight-year-olds . There are baloney sandwiches,
potato chips, chocolate milk, with Oreo's and canned peaches for
dessert.
We are seated properly at Ann's youth sized
table and chairs. A tablecloth and cloth napkins make it seem
special. Ann and I always get along well, often laughing without
much provocation.
On this day, just as we are beginning the
dessert course of Oreo's and canned peaches, we get into an
uncontrollable giggling session. We are bent over with laughter
and tears, but we never cease to ingest the peaches. I have my
first dramatic awareness of my alimentary canal.
With minimal chewing, I am swallowing the
canned peaches, and engulfed in laughter at the same time. All
of a sudden the peaches come shooting up from my throat, through
my nose and splatting onto my plate. Surprise is quickly
overtaken with more raucous laughter bursts from Ann and me.
I should probably never eat canned peaches
while laughing, but then I will miss a lot of fun.
THE
QUITTER
I start smoking early, at age six. I see the
movies. Everyone is smoking, especially my favorite cowboys,
like Deadwood Dick. I look through magazines. Every other page
shows men and women with cigarettes in hand. I stand behind the
curtains at adult parties, and the ash trays are usually full of
cigarette butts. I see the billboards along the highway flashing
that the good life includes cigarettes, even for doctors. But
not for kids, just adults.
That little rule does not daunt Jimmy Meserly
or me. He is a fellow first grader who lives across from a
vacant lot that has an assortment of large boulders. His older
brother, Jack, smokes the popular Lucky Strike brand. Jimmy and
I conspire for him to steal a couple of "Luckies" from a pack
that Jack usually leaves on top of his dresser.
Jimmy and I meet under the big boulder across
the street from his home on Highland Drive ... It is a warm fall
afternoon after school. He has the two cigarettes. The moment is
pregnant. We are following the directions we have learned for
the good life, but we are also disobeying the rules for little
kids. We're hiding under a rock, hoping not to be caught. This
will give us a head start on adulthood ... at six.
We each light a match. We bring to mind how
Deadwood Dick does it in last Saturday's movie matinee at the
Seco theatre. Cigarette in the corner of the mouth. Match
between two fingers. Breathe in strongly to get a sure light. So
far, so good. For a second.
Then, simultaneously all hell breaks loose in
our breathing apparatus. Choking! Gasping! Coughing! Hawking! It
is an assault on our taste buds. Jimmy and I look at each other
through our stinging eyes, and wave off the clouds of smoke. We
try to re-gain our composure and appear cool, as 'they' do it.
Maybe we don't get it right on the first try. Maybe another
drag. Same thing.
We pause longer between puffs. We want to get
the rest right. Holding the cig between the forefinger and the
thumb. There are some options here. We need to keep the medius
available to flick the ashes just when the cigarette need to be
rid of the ash. No one is here to instruct us properly. We just
follow how we remember the way Deadwood Dick and brother Jack do
it.
When the cigarettes burn down far enough, we
toss them to the ground and rub them out and into the dirt with
the tip of our shoes, just the way 'you know who' does it. Then
we we go off to meet our friends to play some ball.
This scene repeats itself everyday after
school for the next two weeks, while the weather holds. Then
there is rain. So for several days there is no smoking. We never
say anything out loud to each other, but there are probably some
private inner conversations going on. "This tastes awful and
it doesn't go away for days. What is so cool about choking,
and stinging eyes, and smelly fingers, and having to hide
under a rock?"
Jimmy says his brother isn't leaving the
Luckies on the dresser any more. "Oh that's really tough luck,"
we both affirm...but there is an inner sigh of relief that now
we can get on with some more pleasing diversions.
We are quitters. There is some satisfaction
at having succeeded at some level. After all, we haven't been
caught for either stealing or smoking the cigarettes. Without
outside pressure we have experimented without too much harm
being done. We have learned some lessons and made new choices
with resolve. We can become very satisfied with just rolling up
glued paper labels to look like cigarettes, and then let them
hang out of the corner of our mouths. Maybe Deadwood Dick won't
notice ... or care. We can taste our food again, and see
straight, and breathe in some of the sweet fragrances of the
mimosa blossoms outside my bedroom window. I stop smoking early,
at age six. I am now among the quitters, and breathing easily.
A postscript. I have a couple more tries at
smoking as a teenager, and my father includes me when he offers
cigars to the males at holiday dinners. But none of the
distasteful elements change for me. I have almost become a
crusader against smoke-filled cars, and parties, movies, and
study halls.
Knowing my preferences, the girl I first
marry agrees to quit smoking when we are engaged, and then
resumes soon after the wedding ceremony. In my passive
resistance mode to her change of heart I often leave water in
the ash trays around our apartment. Even more exasperating to
her is when I take the time to weave a needle and thread through
a pack of her cigarettes so that the cigarettes tear apart as
she pulls them out. This marriage doesn't last. My cigarette
crusade may be a contributor. I guess that's what quitters often
do.
SHADOWS
"How could you? What were you thinking? Don't
you know it's wrong to steal? What have you learned in Sunday
School? Please tell me why you did this?"
I am seven years old as I lie in bed, staring
into the dark but starry night outside my window.
I am tearily rehearsing these scary questions
and admonitions that have come from my mother moments before.
She has confronted me with the handful of boxed medicines that
she has discovered behind the socks in my dresser drawer.
I have been caught stealing. My young mind is
working overtime to come up with answers that might make sense.
It isn't easy. The back up lies are even harder to keep
consistent and rational. It isn't working. Internally, I am
plummeting into the black waters of confusion, humiliation, and
silence.
To the questions: "What are these? Where did
they come from?"
I attempt, "I don't know what they are. I
can't read labels. I found them in Mr. Packett's garage. He said
I could have them. ( Oops, my thoughts stumble, that can be
checked! It is.)
She goes on, "Why would Mr. Packett give you
these?" Mr. Packett is a neighbor and a pharmacist. He owns a
drug store in town.
In answering my mother's phone call questions
about these boxes of medicines she has discovered in my dresser,
Mr. Packett replies, "No, he had not given Paul any of them. No,
he didn't know what was missing. No, there was probably nothing
dangerous among them. Yes, he would like them back. No, he
wouldn't punish Paul. He would leave that up to her."
I am standing next to my mother as this phone
call develops, disclosing the painful details and cover-up lies,
and condemning me to the worst hell I have known in my seven
years.
My face is crimson from embarrassment. Beads
of sweat drip from my forehead and cheeks. All of my energies
focus on what to do with the panic of having been caught. I am
in free fall. I'm thinking, "There's no rhyme nor reason for
the stealing. I don't need them. I don't even know what they
are. I can't read the labels. There are lots of them in that
garage. Boxes and boxes. Stacks and stacks, all over the
place. A few won't be missed. I'll just tuck a few in my coat
pocket. The Packett's aren't home. They have left their garage
door open. I just wander in. I don't know what I will do with
the boxes and tubes. Maybe I can store them in behind my socks
in my dresser drawer. I can look at them now and then, until I
get things figured out."
After my mother's discovery, the questions,
the phone call to Mr. Packett, and more questions, there comes
the pounding of my psyche with pronouncements from my parents
of: "What a disappointment I have been, how hurtful it is for
them, how it will reflect negatively on the family, and how
people will be suspicious of me from now on."
I burst into uncontrollable tears and a
jerking body, bawling as I promise to "March them all back to
Mr. Packett, tell him how sorry I am, and never do anything like
this again."
All the high drama is done. My mother and
father are talking, while rocking in their chairs in front of
the fireplace. My father is puffing and re-lighting his pipe. My
mother is knitting. They are trying to understand what could
have gotten into their cute and loving fourth son. They ask,
"Who is he playing with these days? Where could he get such
ideas?" They look into expert's books for the possible meanings
and causes of kleptomania. They find that there is no particular
cause and no cure. Only some of the symptoms fit their son.
They question themselves, "Was he doing it to
get revenge, or to get attention? What have they done wrong? Is
there a chemical imbalance in his brain? Is this just the
beginning of something more serious? How can they nip it in the
bud?" Answers are not forthcoming. They decide the best they can
do is to keep loving him as best they know how, and to keep
their eyes on him and his playmates for any indicators that
might help them.
Meanwhile, I am painfully rehearsing the
parts of the events in all their detail. Still trembling, I lie
in my bed, looking forward to neither sleep nor the next day. I
am thoroughly confused about my actions, and their why's and
wherefore's. However, I am very clear about the feelings of the
emotional snakepit of remorse, humiliation, and anger at myself.
These are murky waters. The shadows of my behavior certainly
give me a contrasting and definitive picture of who I do NOT
want to be. The unarticulated shadows point me to the kind of
person I would rather be. But it is just a start.
There will be other incidents hinting of
kleptomania. My mother and father will never know of them. It is
not a matter of an ongoing and everpresent compulsion. It is
rather a few rare moments that contain similar elements and
produce the painful shadows and murky emotions. My expectation
is that my clarity about it all would expand. I know any change
had to come from more than fear of being caught or following one
of the Ten Commandments. I look to increasingly know the aspect
of the divine at my core, and then acting accordingly in
response to the life questions: "Is this who I really am, and is
this who I really want to be?" " Shadows, point the way, or be
gone."
FURNITURE STORE... AND MORE
Our family always visits relatives for its
summer vacations.
This year it is the Arnold's in Manheim, Pa.
They are jolly cousins. Laughter is plentiful.
I am seven. I haven't met them before. They
have a family furniture business which they run from their
spacious front room. On this evening my family and I are greeted
with hugs and humor. Inside, the array of cushy sofas and chairs
are close companions with the mattresses, dining sets, and
lamps. I trail the adults going back into the living area. On
the way I notice an unusual piece of furniture. It is a long,
half open, wooden box. A spotlight above highlights the soft and
dimpled pink satin cloth around the sides of the box. I am
awestruck by the man taking a nap in the box. The man is all
dressed up in a navy-blue suit, shirt and striped tie. He is
apparently not being disturbed at all by the raucous group of
adults passing by.
I am thinking "He's taking a nap, right?
After all there is a fancy sign on the box announcing: 'Man at
Rest'."
I stare at the man for some time, waiting to
see when he moves. But the man must really be worn out. He
doesn't move a muscle. My mother calls me to the living room
where the adults are laughing. After lingering in this mystery a
bit longer, I meander back to where the cousins are, while
keeping an eye on the man sleeping in the box.
When with the adults, I venture a quiet
question to my mother, "Why is that man taking a nap in that box
out there?"
My mother ties her first impulse of amusement
from my question, with her desire to be sensitive to my honest,
but halting query. The other adults grow silent as they realize
that something more serious has entered the scene. My mother's
quiet answer is heard by everyone, and spontaneous giggles erupt
among them.
She cuddles me as she explains in hushed
tones, "Well, he's not really taking a nap. He has died. That
box is called a casket. Our cousins also run a funeral business
from their home. They both sell the furniture you see out there,
and they help families who have had someone die by providing a
place for friends to come and see the dead person at peace, and
to tell them how sorry they are for the person to have died, and
how he will be missed. After that they have a funeral service at
the church, and then the man will be buried in the ground at the
cemetery."
The adult's giggles have changed to
understanding smiles and stares as they wait to see how I will
receive all of this new information. I notice that I am now the
center of attention, and not really comfortable with that
infrequent experience. My head points down and my eyes quickly
glance around the room. I tug at my mother's arm and want to
shrink into my own quiet places to process all of this new
experience. I am allowed to do that. The adults resume their
former spirited conversations. I keep my own vigil by peeking
back into the front room and the "Man at Rest." It is my first
encounter with a dead person.
In one sense it is just one more life
experience for me in what was to be a never-ending series of
death connections. In another sense, it comes to stand out, and
be a defining moment for what is to follow in my life.
After that summer evening in Manheim, Pa, I
often think about the "Man at Rest." I also ponder and have
dreams of my own father being in that casket. And my mother. And
my uncles and aunts. And my brothers. And my friends. And my
pets. And myself. All dead! The questions it stirs last a
lifetime in the reading it stimulates, in the living of life
that it evokes, in the choices it determines.
As a young teenager, I look to the Ouija
Board for specific answers. As a seminary student, pursuing my
thesis on "Death and the New Testament Faith." As a hospital
chaplain intern, choosing to work on the terminal ward. As a
pastor, focusing on suffering, death and bereavement as primary
teaching moments for all involved. As a chaplain, re-living the
near-death experiences with patients. As a hospice employee,
being a part of the freedom it produces.
Seeing my first dead person is the beginning
of the story. It continues.
FAMOUS
NO NAME
Ryland Packett starts it all. Life has been
simple and sweet before he wanders into my backyard. When he
leaves, I have to begin dealing with a whole new world.
It seems like a perfect summer day. Warm
enough to wear shorts and T-shirts. Enough clouds to soften the
sun. A gentle breeze to fend off beads of sweat. I am a
seven-year-old, comfortably growing up at 1234 Pinecrest Circle
in Silver Spring, Maryland. We have a yard filled with fruit
trees and grapevines, supported by a carpet of green crab grass.
I can wander around at will and let my imagination and
'pretends' take me most anywhere.
I can always lie on my stomach at the edge of
the fish pond, and talk with the goldfish as they repeat their
aimless wanderings.
Today is especially exciting. We have three
new guinea pigs to play with, and to care for. Word has spread
around the neighborhood about our new acquisition of the cuddly
critters.
I am in the backyard getting acquainted with
them. I take them in and out of their cage and box, replace the
paper strips and wood chips under them, replenish their water
and food. I am entranced by their scurrying about with their
nervous noses, soft fur, and searching black eyes. I can just
lie here and watch them, consider their needs, and feel the
friendship growing.
I think about, "What about night-time,
where will they sleep? In a box in my room, maybe."
My mother is saying, "How about the basement?
Then they won't disturb you and the smell will be out of the
way."
I am thinking, "I wouldn't be disturbed by
them. I'd love to have them close by to keep me company. I'd
hardly notice the smell."
I muse, "I have to think of names for each
of them." I hold each one several times and let them run
across my chest and stomach, wherever they want to go. "I can
always pull them back if they go too far in the wrong
direction," I think.
And more, "I just love their fur. It's so
soft and warm. They're so friendly. I think I could probably
talk to them about most anything and they'd understand and
give me a supportive sniff and wiggle. This all feels really
good. I can lie here and look up at the white clouds and blue
sky or look down at my three new guinea pig friends."
Ryland Packett lives three houses down from
me on Pinecrest Circle. He is only five, so we aren't regular
playmates. He has heard about the new guinea pigs, and wants to
have a look firsthand. He doesn't know anything about guinea
pigs. His world is expanding. His curiosity has led him to my
backyard. He kneels down beside me and we watch the guinea pigs
at their play. He touches the fur of one and smiles, "Oooh,
soft." He lets them sniff his fingers and offers them some food.
We play with them for some time. They run up
and down our little make-shift ramps, and in and out of the
cage, and around on the grass. Ryland is delighted. The guinea
pigs are delighted. I am delighted. It is a perfect day of
childhood bliss.
To make it even better, my mother calls out
from the kitchen, asking if we would like some lemonade and
cookies. We both shout back gleefully, "Yes mam!" I jump up and
run inside for the lemonade. I wait as she gets the lemonade
from the fridge and cookies from the box. She pours two little
glasses full of the pale-yellow drink. The glasses are the usual
ones, about the four-ounce size, decorated with little red
tulips on the outside. They are the kind of glasses that
flavored cream cheese is sold in. We have accumulated an
abundance of them, and they are always used to portion out our
drinks of soda, orange juice, milk, or lemonade.
I say, "Thank you," as I happily put four
ginger snaps in my pockets, pick up the glasses of lemonade, and
make my way to the back porch, pausing to take a couple of sips
from my glass on the way. I push open the screen door with my
backside and set Ryland's lemonade on the porch table .
I call to him, "Here you go Ryland, it's on
the porch table." I am ready to sit some more on the grass and
play with the guinea pigs.
Ryland's back is to me. His head is looking
down. He says nothing. I move over in front of him and say
again, "Your lemonade and cookies are on the table over there."
Then....I see what he is staring at. His eyes
are frozen in place, wide with fright and disbelief. In his two
hands he holds the black guinea pig. It isn't moving. No nervous
nose twitching. Black eyes wide open. I put down my lemonade and
hold my face in my hands.
"What happened? What have you done?" I yell.
I grab the guinea pig from his hands and tried to make it
move...or wake up...or sniff...or wiggle its little clawed feet
... something ... anything!
Ryland keeps staring at it.
I yell again, "It's not waking up. It's dead.
You killed it. What did you do?" I say, trying to stifle the
anger rushing up from my chest, hoping for a shred of
explanation. Ryland just keeps staring at the guinea pig, tears
welling up in his eyes, as he tries to comprehend the mystery
and tragedy that is devouring his young brain and heart.
He finally weakly stammers from his quivering
lips that, "I was holding him...he was wiggling and squirming
and trying to get away...I held him tighter... he wiggled really
hard...and I held him tighter and squeezed him so he wouldn't
get away...until he stopped squirming..."
I yell at him, "Oh no, you stupid kid. You've
killed him. You've squeezed him to death. What an idiot!"
My anger and anguish is now a torrent. I
continue yelling, "You're such a mean brat. Get out of here. Go
home. I don't want to see you again." Ryland runs off towards
his home, wailing.
I cry. I hold and stroke the warm fur of this
nameless and lifeless creature.
The perfect summer's day of child's play is
gone. It becomes a learning day, a famous day for stepping into
another world of reality. It is a day to begin the barrage of
life's questions, emotions, and just mystery without questions.
Life. Death. Anger. Grief. Guilt. Sadness. All of it. I have not
been close to the death of anything before. Here one minute.
Gone the next. A lively body. A still and stiffening body. A
warm body and then a cold body. I have not felt this measure of
anger before or lashed out like this before.
My mother tries to comfort me with some
welcome hugs and kind words. She also asks if I had told Ryland
about how to be careful when handling the guinea pigs. She says,
"Maybe he just didn't know enough about how to care for them,
and not squeeze them to keep them from squirming…"
"No", I admit. "I didn't tell him anything
like that, or even show him, I didn't even think about it." So
I am partly responsible as well. After all what does a
five-year-old know? This is added to the mix of my
thoughts about his being a mean brat.
I assume that the perfect summer day also
becomes a famous learning day for Ryland, although we never
speak of it again to each other. He spends the rest of his
childhood in the background of my life, growing up with
neighborhood kids his own age.
I have to decide what to do next. My mother
suggests burying the dead little black guinea pig in the
backyard near the fence, so the lawnmower will miss him. I sadly
agree. I find an old Red Goose shoe box in my bedroom closet. I
wrap him in a soft cloth. I get the spade from the garage and
dig a hole just big enough for the box. I cross out the Red
Goose shoe label on the box with a black crayon. Before putting
the box in the ground, I want to print his name on the box. But
he is so new, and with us such a short time, that I haven't
given him a name.
I have been thinking about names for all
three when we are playing on the grass, but I hadn't decided.
So, with another measure of sadness for this 'perfect day,' I
print in my best seven-year-old's lettering, "NO NAME" on the
Red Goose shoe box. Then with the tears of a seven-year old, new
to the death reality, and the finality of separating from such a
brief friendship, I fill the hole with dirt and tamp it down.
"No-name" is always in the background of my playtimes with the
other guinea pigs, who I quickly name, Fred and Charlie.
Without being knowledgeable about the easy
ways of guinea pig reproduction we soon have ten guinea pigs to
cuddle with. In hindsight, it would have been more appropriate
to have named the first two Fred and Charlotte, instead of Fred
and Charlie.
This summer day, and its changing from
perfect to somber to enlightening, becomes a template for much
of my life to follow.
HOOKY
HOLIDAZE
Crime can be titillating. At least at first.
Somewhere in the psychic recesses you think a particular course
of action will somehow make life better. Distorted logic engages
the excited ideas. Adrenalin starts pumping overtime. Deception
seems like fun. Deceptive judgements. Secretive plans. Slippery
implementation. Crime at the third-grade level of elementary
school almost seems sweet. At least cute. But the basic stuff of
it is all there. To cover inhibitions, we can say to ourselves
that no one will notice or care.
So it is that Bert Johnson and I, students of
Miss Clark's third grade class at Woodside Elementary School,
commence our early ways of crime.
"Whaddya think, Bert?" It is another
beautiful fall day with a warm sun dancing with us at our lunch
recess playtime. The air is so fresh with its early fragrances
of crunched leaves wafting through our nostrils. Our eyes are
glancing at the little yellow fall flowers scattered at the edge
of the playground as we run to and fro. We don't really need our
sweaters to keep warm, so we take them off and tie the arms
around our waists during our play.
After the lunch recess there are a couple
more hours or so of classwork inside. Bert and I are surveying
the situation as we have done on and off for the last three
weeks, weighing the possibilities … hmmmm.
"Well, it's another really nice day," Bert
says. "
"Yep," I say. "It's almost too nice to be
inside."
Bert says. "Yep," I say. "It's been working
so far,"
"Yep."
Our eyes dart around the playground as our
fellow students are running, jumping, laughing, kicking the
balls. "Who's going to know?" I ask.
Miss Clark is our third-grade teacher. She
has also been our first-grade teacher. She is sweet, chubby, and
lethargic. She yawns a lot. Bert and I have observed that her
frequent mode of operation is to give the class an assignment
after the lunch break, and then she puts her head down on her
hands at her desk and takes a nap. We watch this pattern for a
long time. Our conclusion is that she will never notice or care
if we were in the room or not. This shared observation is enough
to stimulate the crime juices in us to dream up ways to test its
validity.
We make our move. The lunch recess is winding
down, Bert and I gradually move ourselves away from our
playmates toward the trees and bushes at the edge of the
playground. We keep our eyes alert. No one notices us. The
school bell clangs, ending the recess. All the others
immediately turn and run toward the white school doors.
While they pointe in that direction, Bert and
I dart into the cover of the bushes and trees nearby. We stand
motionless as we screen the landscape of the school yard for any
slow movers. There is none. We look at each other. The adrenalin
rush brings smiles. In a burst of new energy we take off through
the woods, leaping over fallen logs, swinging from branches,
crunching the sweet leaves underfoot, half squealing, half
laughing. It is another successful escape into freedom. We come
to a familiar field of weeds. The beige strands come up to our
shoulders and we trample our way to a quiet spot about a dozen
yards from the path that everyone uses on their walk home from
school. We settle ourselves in. We each pluck a long straw weed,
lie down in the soft patch, and roll up our sweaters for pillows
under our heads. We triumphantly use the picked weed as a very
long toothpick. We smile and gaze up at the azure blue sky. Our
pride is overflowing. There are musings about how everyone else
is still stuck in that stuffy classroom, probably laboring over
a penmanship exercise while Miss Clark has her post lunch doze.
Here we are. Free as birds to enjoy the sweet nectar of freedom,
surrounded by nature's gifts. Ah, how clever we have been! Life
is good!
We lie on our backs, passing the time with
stories and occasional peeks above the weeds to see if anyone is
coming down the path on their way home from school. I suppose
that inside we might be feeling a bit bored. We have gone
through this process off and on, when the weather has
cooperated, for three weeks. Our purpose is elusive. We never
let on.
Soon a stream of school kids makes its way
along the path and we surreptitiously slip out of the weeds to
join them on the rest of their walk. We all help in making the
plans for after school activities.
One more sunny afternoon arrives. I suppose
that it is cocky over confidence that finally does us in. Our
surveillance has gotten sloppy. We probably think we are
invincible, as we manage to pull off the perfect third grade
crime, with no negative consequences.
Robert Preston must be the one. He must have
squealed on us. For three weeks no one has noticed. No one
knows. Not Miss Clark. Not our parents. None of the other
students. Robert has been running around the playground with
Bert and me during lunch recess. We are having a great time
re-enacting last Saturday's matinee cowboy film. It is another
gorgeous day.
Bert and I have given each other the signal
to implement our familiar plan. In our play we try to
occasionally distance ourselves from Robert. He has none of it.
He is a faster runner, and he can manage a more realistic fall
after being 'shot.' Bert and I are working our way toward the
trees at the edge of the playground. The school bell clangs.
Everyone starts toward the white doors as usual, including
Robert. Except he looked around on his run in. He sees Bert and
I standing still.
He stops. "Are you coming?," he yells. Bert
and I freeze nervously. We do not have a plan for this
eventuality. Bert and I glance awkwardly at each other.
I yell back, "We'll be along in a minute. We
have to check out something."
Bert confirms it , "Yeah, you go on in, we'll
be coming." Robert glanced back a couple of times on his way in
and then stops at the white doors. He takes a long look at us
still frozen in our positions.
We haven't made the needed adjustment in our
plans that this new situation calls for. The old pattern has
been working for three weeks. No one has noticed. It is another
beautiful day. We wave Robert on in through the doors
This unexpected turn unnerves us a bit. We
are a little less exuberant in our run through the woods and
fields to our established observation point. Breathing heavily,
we lie back, pluck a long weed with which to pick our teeth, and
gaze at the passing white clouds on a warm fall day. It takes
some effort to overcome our tense moments with Robert. Should
we have barged ahead with our hooky habit...or not?
Bert and I don't say much that afternoon.
Soon we hear the familiar chatter of classmates making their way
down the path homeward. We slip in among them unnoticed and
begin the usual planning for the rest of the afternoon.
Everything is copacetic.
Except it isn't. I quickly realize that the
sky has just fallen. I open the side door of my house. I am
taking my folded wax paper and paper lunch bag from my back
pocket to put on the kitchen counter for tomorrow's lunch. My
mother appears in the kitchen doorway. Tears are streaming down
her cheeks. My mind flashes into stress mode.
Thoughts are darting to and fro, like
lightning bolts in my head. Is she in pain? Has my dog died? Did
my father lose his job?" Her question, through the tears, clears
it up. "Where were you this afternoon?" she pleads. My jaw
drops. I stammer. She continues--which fortunately keeps me from
digging a deeper hole of lies for myself.
"What?!... Why?!", she cries. I haven't
analyzed the "why's,"
"I don't know," is all I can manage through
my penitent tears.
She volunteers a semi escape route for
me..."It's that Bert Johnson. He's a bad influence. It must have
been his idea. I don't want you playing with him."
I don't object to her judgements of Bert.
This can at least deflect some of the blame. I think about Bert.
He is probably going through the same grilling from his mother
right now. She is probably pointing her finger at that Paul
Seltzer, and how he is a bad influence on her sweet Bert. He
probably hadn't objected either. The tactic could lighten the
burden for both of us.
Bert and I both know the reality that both of
us are at fault. The same excitement. The same feeding of each
other's willful ideas. And now, the same fears and regrets. We
now know what it is like to be caught at wrongdoing. Ugh!
The only thing that lessens the severity of
the three-week hooky crime is that as far as I know, the
accusations are only addressing one afternoon of AWOL rather
than the actual three weeks of afternoons. Whew! I just have to
hope that Bert has had enough cool through his tears to keep the
extent of the crime to one day as well.
Some lessons learned. Some lessons not
learned from our hooky 'holidaze.'
DOWN
FRONT
The beauty of early dawn comes over me. I
wonder who and what my heart will reach toward today. This is
the first morning of my family's annual summer vacation at the
Daly Cottage on the shores of the Potomac River at Colonial
Beach, Virginia.
All is still and quiet inside the cottage. As
a ten-year-old boy, I have the privilege of awakening to the big
orange and red sunburst rising from its own sleepy bed on the
horizon of the river, and filling the window next to my bed.
There is no traffic or voices outside, just the cadenced "coo,
coo" of the morning doves calling to each other. I can inhale
the mix of salt water and drying seaweed from the beach across
the street, as it is topped with the delicate aromas from the
powder puff blossoms of the mimosa tree next to the porch. I
feel snug and secure with the musty cotton spread wrapped around
me. I can just gaze in silent awe as the huge new sun spreads
its brilliance into this new day. I can daydream.
The air is pregnant with possibilities for
the day. The inventory of abundant and delightful memories from
years past flood my mind. Our regular family gatherings usually
last a week or two, and often include an extended family of
cousins, aunts and uncles, as bed space allows. These remembered
good times shared in the humid heat of summer warm our holidays
together in winter.
Here it is. A brand new vacation at bucolic
Colonial Beach. And here I am, with my chin resting on my folded
arms, gazing at another sunrise, and feeding my anticipated
delights with the memories that might be repeated or added to.
How shall I prioritize my wish list? What would I most want to
do today?
Memories serve. I can let my imagination once
again have a field day in the storage space under the cottage
where family artifacts of furnishings, tools, clothing,
pictures, AND… Uncle Adolph's World War I leftovers of uniforms,
hats, holsters, boots , maps, and stereopticons from Egypt, are
kept in trunks and under wraps.
Or... I might be called to help when the ice
man or vegetable hucksters stop at our place on their rounds. I
can dare a pat or two on the tired horses or mules with the iron
weights around their necks holding them in place. Or ... if it
rains, I can open up the old mahogany Victrola in the hall and
listen to some of the favorite recordings from yesteryear like
"Uncle Josh at the Dentist".
There are so many options for pretending. On
the beach, with sand castles and skipping stones, climbing over
gates, exploring paths, watching the naval patrol boat and men
in the lookout tower, where for all the World War 2 years they
patrol the river, and measure where the newest artillery shells,
being tested at Dahlgren Proving Grounds, will land. There are
so many places to roam or hide out, even behind the cottage
outhouse at the end of the property with the pungent
combinations of sticky fly paper and lime, plus assorted
sweetnesses.
r
When the patrol boats leave, we can venture
out front for swimming and splashing and 'chicken fights.' To
get to the desired sand bars about fifty yards from shore we
have to sludge through the ankle-deep mud and clinging seaweed,
then tiptoe over oyster shells while avoiding the jelly fish
floating by. Alternative transport might be the Daly rowboat, or
a tire tube to keep us above the muck. After swimming we can
likely rest up and dry off while sipping a cool sarsaparilla
from the well house.
Soon we can expect aromas from the kitchen to
take over the odors of the kerosene stove, and whet our taste
buds with fried chicken, corn on the cob, crab cakes, or fish,
cantaloupe, watermelon...mmmmm...all in the shade of the pear
tree just outside the screened dining room overlooking the river
in the distance. The dinner cleanup will be fun with everyone
joining in some singing or laughing as we swish the little wire
basket with the leftover soap pieces to make the suds in the
soft slippery water, and then take turns drying off the plates
and glasses.
If this year lives up to my expectations, I
can look forward to the day being topped off with my favorite
family vacation ritual.... going 'Down Front' in the evening.
There are some bargaining chips from my mother: "If you want to
go Down Front, you need to take a nap. Or,"You have to put on a
clean tee shirt and shorts, and comb your hair, before we go
Down Front." Or, " Make sure you get all those pears picked up,
so we can go 'Down Front' tonight."
The trip "Down Front" is an almost daily
event at twilight, after some porch sitting, watching the
fishing boats gliding by, playing some games, and planning for
what the evening 'Down Front' might include.
There is the application of citronella oil
and lighting of punk sticks to fend off mosquitos on our long
walk. Then, in a jolly mode, we start our family adventure for
the evening. 'Down Front, takes us along the sidewalks, in front
of cottages, and parallel to the river waters. There are
greetings to neighbors and relatives along the way. The walk
always seems long, probably a mile or so, but enthusiastic
anticipation provides the needed energy.
'Down Front' is four blocks of a wide
concrete sidewalk along the waterfront of Colonial Beach. At one
end is the Wolcott Hotel with its lineup of emerald green rattan
rocking chairs on the porch. (Aunt Mabel and Uncle Irving met
and romanced here). Just across the street is the expansive town
pier, large enough to receive fishing boats and the tour boat
from Washington, D.C. Lots of people walk here and watch the
waves. Other folks climb into the speedboats or sightseeing
boats for a twilight cruise. At the other end is the historic
Colonial Beach Hotel and its sprawling green lawns. It was
originally the home of "Light Horse" Harry Lee, brother of civil
war general Robert E. Lee. Lots of history here. In between,
there is a diverse assortment of shacks. They house eateries,
beer joints, dance halls, and carnival-like amusements, all
framed with bright white and colored lights. The sidewalk is
lined with benches for relaxing and people watching. Behind them
is the public beach with its sand, seaweed and netted swimming
area. The foam of the gentle waves reflects the bright lights of
'Down Front.'
There is so much to encourage my wild-eyed
excitement. I get to choose one treat, so I take a couple of
trips up and down the four-block strip to see the options for
the evening. To start with there can be an ice cream cone from
the drugstore. Strawberry is a favorite. Then, let's see. I
am thinking, "A flavored snowball. I like root beer best.
Maybe a 'pig-in-the-blanket' (corn dog) with lots of mustard.
There are deviled crabs. But no thanks, too hot. Maybe a big
orange drink since it is very hot and humid. Am I ready for a
candied apple or saltwater taffy? Ah, but it will be hard to
pass up a favorite that I'm smelling right now. Hot buttered
popcorn! Nothing like it.
It's fun to watch 'Popeye,' the ebullient old
man with the bald head and captain's hat, tilt the cooker lid,
sprinkle in the hot butter and scoop those tender morsels into
the bags. He's been here ever since I can remember.
"I also get to choose one amusement. Let's
see. There's the 'whip' ride, or miniature golf, or shooting
gallery, or ring toss, or a boat ride. Maybe I'll just watch
the adults do their thing, like bowling or roller skating or
dancing."
All the sights and sounds and smells keep
stretching my little world. I hear the hawkers for the boat
rides, and announcers at the dance hall, and the clanging bells
in the background, ringing for winners of something, and babies
crying or laughing.
There are angry words and fighting, and the
town policeman with his billy stick through the belt of an
unruly drunk, hustling him out of the public eye to the town
jail. There are the young couples with arms around each other,
dreamily laughing and sauntering along the sidewalk, unaware of
anyone or anything else in their blossoming world. There is the
greasy smoke from the fried fish and clams and potatoes. There
are the juke boxes and shots ringing from the shooting gallery.
Lots of world to take in. It's fun. I'm tired.
It's time for the long walk home along the
dimly lit sidewalks. Someone agrees to pick up a stick and be
the leader of our family line to break up the yukky threads of
cobwebs that have formed across the sidewalk during the evening
along our walkway. We sing and laugh and recount some of the
eventful evening delights. Once home, it's time to get a half a
glassful of water and go out to the backyard to brush our teeth,
along with an outhouse visit.
Then we gather on the rocking chairs of the
front porch of the cottage, listen to the lapping of the waves
on the beach across the street, get another dose of citronella
and light up the punk sticks to do more battle with the
mosquitos . My father lights up a cigar. There is some singing
and story telling. My eyelids start drooping. Finally, the
willing trip to bed, closing the screen door quickly to prevent
mosquitos from entering and buzzing and biting through the
night. It's been a great day. The remembering. The dreaming. The
planning. The doing. And especially, 'Down Front.'
SNIFFING
EASTER
Memories of Easter excite my senses. The
anticipation of my ninth one is stimulated with the purchase of
a brand-new tan, wool suit. Anything new is cause for
exhilaration in our house during those waning days of the Great
Depression. Our household motto is the directive to "save,
re-use, and re-cycle…everything." Hand-me-down clothes, toys,
and sports equipment from my three older brothers are my eagerly
awaited prospects.
But this 1941 Easter is my turn for a new
Sunday suit. Of course, my parents' usual constraints of
conservation are in play. The expected echo from my mother,
"Remember Paul, this suit has to last a long time. It is too
large now, I know, but you will grow into it. The pants and coat
sleeves are too long, but I will turn them up and put cuffs on
them. They can be hanging in your closet and on your body for a
very long time." Any embarrassment from me about these obvious
adjustments have to be swallowed for the 'cause.'
No matter, it is still rare to have a new
item just for me. It smells new. It is Easter. There is also
included a brand-new white shirt to be excited about. Of course,
it's sleeves are also tucked for later extension. I know my new
suit is important because my parents have a professional
photographer come to our home to take pictures of me. He sends
us five poses, including the cuffing, with "proof" stamped in
black across them. They become our permanent record. No actual
prints are ever ordered. We save money.
Bounding down the stairs on that sunny Easter
morning my nose signals to me lots of other things to be excited
about. On the kitchen floor there is a flat brown cardboard box
with three dozen little chicks chirping and scratching the saw
dust and grains inside… with an odor all their own. In the
living room are the regal bugled white blooms of the three-foot
Easter lily. Its sweet fragrances have been wafting through the
house for days.
On the dining table are gathered the
assortment of Easter goodies. I gingerly finger the separate
baskets with their soft green cushions of cellophane grass
holding the brightly decorated hard boiled eggs that we prepared
yesterday. I move my head closer to my purple basket. With short
breaths I separate the unique spices wafting from the little
piles of red, yellow, green, black, and orange jelly beans,
along with the assorted Hershey 'kisses' wrapped in their foil
blankets, with the little paper tabs to help in their opening.
In the middle of the table is a box with four large chocolate
bunny rabbits. Each is a different size for the four boys. Mine
is the smallest. My oldest brother's is the largest. "Oh
boy! I think. All chocolate! I can't wait to get into
that…just smell that…"
Next to my basket is a soft and puffy white
velvet rabbit. Also new! With its store aromas.
All of these table gifts are just to be
looked at for now. Consumption time will be later… after
breakfast… after singing some Easter hymns together around the
piano…after shining my shoes and dressing for the big day at
church.
Our family of six piles into our gray 1936
Lafayette auto for the ten-mile drive to the Keller Memorial
Lutheran Church at 9th and Maryland Avenue in downtown
Washington, D.C. The excitement and stimuli keep growing.
The rows of white lilies are lined up around
the church sanctuary and Sunday school rooms with their
prominent olfactory sensations. Everyone proudly sports their
new clothes. Children eagerly spy the stacks of Easter candy
boxes that will be distributed at the end of the ceremonies. The
choirs and organ can be heard practicing in the distance.
I make my way through the bustling crowd with
its assorted aromas to my place at the table in the Junior
Department, where my Aunt Ruth is the superintendent. As usual
she leads the 150 students through the Sunday morning rituals of
singing some Easter hymns, helping us recite from our memory
work cards The Apostles Creed, Lord's Prayer, Ten Commandments,
Twenty-third Psalm, The Beatitudes, and the love chapter from
First Corinthians 13. … "though I speak with the tongues of men
and angels…but have not love, my speech is like a noisy gong…"
As we go through the rituals and begin our
weekly lessons at our tables, the boxes of Hershey kisses are
always in view. The sweet chocolate aromas they emanate make
their way to our nostrils. We have done our usual share of
giggling and shoving as we transition to our table lesson. Mr.
Frolic is our teacher. We each have in front of us our little
teaching pamphlet. It includes a lovely full color cover of the
Easter scene of the empty tomb with its calming angel and the
story inside. There are also printed exercises and questions for
discussion.
I have my eye on Barbara Mumper, the pastor's
daughter. For some time, I have thought she was quite attractive
with her long blond curls, cheerful personality, and freshly
starched and pressed clothes.
Today she is different. She is not joining in
our fourth-grade antics. She sits at the other end of the table
with her head resting in her cupped hands. Her usual bright
smiles and laughter have been replaced with quiet frowns. Even
her lovely new outfit cannot disguise her grayish appearance.
Her face is pale. Her eyes stare straight out as if there is a
deep puzzlement for her to figure out.
She doesn't open her pamphlet like the rest
of us, when Mr. Frolic has instructed us to begin our lesson.
The rest of us at the table get busy looking at the colorful
lesson paper, and of course we keep our eyes on the stack of
Hershey kisses boxes waiting for us next to Mr. Frolic's
clipboard.
What we don't see is what is coming. From a
befuddled Barbara gushes out an enormous blast of vomit. It
splashes across the whole table in front of us. It oozes over
every pamphlet and Bible. It drips over the table edges onto our
new pants and dresses. There are two more throaty surges. They
are received with gasps and screams as we scramble away from the
table.
Mr. Frolic jumps up and goes to Barbara,
wiping her mouth with his handkerchief, and mumbling. "Oh, dear
girl. I'm so sorry. Here, let me help you. Come with me. We'll
get you to your mother upstairs." He escorts her from the room.
As he is leaving, he calls to my Aunt Ruth across the room,
"Mrs. Seltzer send someone to get the janitor to come to help
clean this up quickly."
The whole Junior Department is in upheaval
and abuzz. This is a first for most of us. We are wide-eyed and
stunned. Another teacher brings out wet dishcloths and towels
from the kitchen and starts rubbing our new garments, trying to
reduce the damage. They finally march all of us into the
adjacent church kitchen where there is more water and towels for
the cleanup. Barbara finds her mother in the adult Sunday school
class and is taken home.
Our eyes share the upset we are feeling and
smelling. The stink penetrates our noses and takes over our
olfactory awareness. Everything reeks of vomit. Its stench
blocks the abundant fragrances of the perfumed lilies
surrounding us. The former sweetness of the awaiting Hershey
chocolates has disappeared ... but we will accept them anyway.
Our new clothes…will they ever be the same?
We have stories to tell our parents on the
way home. They don't have to be told about the malodorous part.
We all agree to keep the car windows open all the way home. We
feel sorry for Barbara. We feel sorry for ourselves. We can't
wait to get out of our new Easter clothes. The acrid pungency
follows us everywhere that day, even after we have showered.
Life does return to normal eventually.
Barbara smiles again. Chocolates and jellybeans please the
palates again. Soft bunnies and chirping chicks fulfill their
expected roles. Pants cuffs and sleeve tucks are finally let
out. I grow. I especially remember with smiles the sniffing of
that Easter 1941.
BUSY
BEE CLUB
It's Tuesday afternoon and time for the Busy
Bee Club meeting. You are welcome to join us. We are a group of
eleven-year-olds in Woodside Park, Silver Spring, Maryland.
Mrs. Lillian Seltzer, my mom, put out the
invitation last year. She is an affable, rotund organizer who
plants ideas, and can stir up a giggle fest. She gaily begins
most days at the piano accompanying her finely tuned contralto
voice.
She comes up with the name and format for the
weekly after school program. There's lots to do in our hour and
half session.
After Mrs. Seltzer's jolly welcoming, she
accompanies us on the piano as we start off singing some songs.
She picks one. We pick two. Her choice today is "The Band Played
On." Our choices are "Daisy," and "Reuben And Rachel" with the
usual boy-girl divisions.
After singing we nestle into the combination
of wooden and cushioned chairs arranged in a circle in the
Seltzer's living room. Beverly Woofall is the president for this
month. She is fair skinned, has a red-haired page boy cut, and
wears pink framed glasses meant to adjust her crossed eyes. Mrs.
Seltzer prompts her to ask for the minutes of the meeting last
week to be read. They remind us of our assignments, plans, and
provide the content for the club newspaper.
Beverly pushes her glasses back up her nose
to see better. She asks the secretary and editor for the month,
Ann Parker, to read what she has for the newspaper this month.
Ann, an only child, lives next door to me. We have been good
friends since we were three, which is when we venture our "I'll
show you mine if you show me yours," intimacies.
Following the news items Mrs. Seltzer takes
over saying, "Thank you, Ann. It's fun to remember all of the
exciting things we have in store for ourselves. Let's get to the
first order of business."
We all share our squirms from prior
experience, knowing that the first item in our Busy Bee meeting
is always to go around the circle as each of us repeats a Bible
verse that we have memorized during the week. It is a required
step along the path to the hot cocoa and cupcakes at the end.
The rule is that we can't repeat another member's choice.
Strangely enough we have figured out that if we go first, we can
get off easily by reciting the shortest verse in the Bible,
"Jesus wept."
Until Mrs. Seltzer catches on to the
strategy, she is pleased that so many of us want to go first. We
are sheepishly snickering among ourselves about this and
thinking about what the backup verse will be if we can't go
first. It's a mix of anticipation and angst … a small price to
pay to belong to the Busy Bee Club.
Once the Bible recitation routine is
completed, we are to share a newspaper clipping of community or
world news that is of interest to us. I pull out my page from
the Sunday papers' supplement that has a picture and article
about my older cousin, Al Dieffenbach, who is a bombardier on a
B-17 aircraft during World War II. He has received a Purple
Heart Medal after having been shot during a bombing mission in
Europe. I pass the article around the circle.
After everyone gives their news reviews, the
treasurer for the month, John Thompson, gives his report. We
each bring a dime to every meeting to put in the basket and then
decide where and when to donate the money.
He reports, "Well, we have $3.80 in our
treasury. I'd like to suggest that we donate it to Alfred, who
is the son of Marie, our family's maid. I know you don't know
Alfred even though he is our age. He lives with his mom in
Monkey Hollow (the black community) and never gets over this
way. Alfred loves comic books. We could take a dollar from the
fund and at ten cents each get him a bunch…ten
actually…different ones like, maybe…"Batman," "Flash Gordon,"
"Dick Tracey," and something funny like "Blondie. Whaddaya
think?"
Richard Petzold, with his curly blond hair
and usually restrained participation, surprises everyone as he
pipes up with, "Sure, a good idea."
I am is thinking there may be a sensitivity
connection between Richard's benevolent reaction to Alfred's
being black and feeling left out, and what happens at Richard's
own home where his mom is confined to a wheel chair and is also
feeling left out and disconnected from the world outside.
Everyone raises a "yes" hand to the idea. John says he will buy
the comic books and get them to Alfred.
Richard's unusual vocal response to the
donation idea isn't the only thing that draws extra attention to
him today. Judy Anderson and Joan Membert are sitting on each
side of Richard. They are both prim and proper with freshly
washed and starched dresses and neatly arranged hair. Agitated,
they turn away from Richard as they look at each other and roll
their eyes.
The wordless upset spreads around the circle
until Mrs. Seltzer joins in and addresses the "elephant in the
room." It isn't actually an elephant, but it could have been,
given the stench emanating from Richard's right shoe. There it
is. Dog poop, mixed with grass and gravel firmly stuck between
the heel and sole of his shoe. A mix of gagging, giggling, and
groans fills the room. Richard's white skin turns crimson. He is
immobilized, mortified with embarrassment.
Mrs. Seltzer moves to his aid, "Here,
Richard, take my hand. Come with me. We'll get this cleaned up.
It's too bad, but don't worry. It could happen to any of us. You
didn't know. Paul, you come with me. The rest of
you…Ronnie…Jimmy…grab some paper towels from the kitchen and
look around the halls and carpets to see if there are any poop
tracks to be cleaned up."
Mrs. Seltzer, Richard, and I go to the side
entry of the house to remove the problem shoe. I take it outside
to clean off the worst of it with a stick and then run it under
the hose, using an old brush, until it's clean.
Richard is is sitting on the steps inside the
entrance, bewildered, speechless, staring straight ahead, and
still very red. She says to him again, "Don't worry. It's okay.
It happens to all of us one time or another. I'll bet you walked
here today through the Thompson's yard. They have two dogs you
know. No doubt it would be very hard not to step in one of their
droppings scattered around the grass. Richard gradually calms
down and we return to the group where she repeats the same
explanation.
Mrs. Seltzer then diverts our attention
further with her demonstration for the day. She lifts her canary
cage with Cheeky inside to the floor in front of her. She begins
talking about her pet canary, his care, likes, and dislikes. She
encourages Cheeky to sing as she carefully has him jump to her
finger and close to her lips while she talks with him. We are
entranced with this exposure to life with Cheeky.
There are two more things on the agenda for
today's meeting … actually three, if you include refreshments.
Ronnie McDevitt, the only Catholic in our
WASP neighborhood, is to report to us on a hobby or new
discovery of his. He has brought his new crystal radio set that
his mom has given him.
He shows everyone, "Here, see this. There's
this five inch square wooden block. It has a nickel size metal
disc with a pea size crystal in the center. Then I have this
copper whisker arched over the crystal. I can move it around
with my finger like this. You can see these two jacks going out
from this block. One is attached to a copper wire which goes out
my bedroom window to a tree in the backyard. The other jack
holds a cord for the earphones that go on my head.
I gently move the whisker around the crystal,
and I can hear radio stations from all over…D.C., New York,
Wheeling. It's amazing…all these sounds going on out there and
you can't see a thing! Come over to my house sometime and try
it. It's wild!"
The last thing they do before refreshments is
to plan their next Busy Bee outing. A couple of ideas are tossed
out. Jimmy offers, "How about a hike along the Sligo Creek woods
with a picnic and dodge ball at the end?"
Beverly comes up with "taking a trolley car
from the district line to downtown D.C. to see the new
Smithsonian Museum displays and then to White Tower for
burgers?"
Liz Cave and Marjorie Hardee volunteer to
bring back more details to next week's meeting.
Finally, we move our wooden chairs around the
dining table and add a couple of sitting stools. It's hot
chocolate and cupcakes as promised for today's refreshments.
There is free-wheeling chatter and laughter now. Even Richard
has managed a smile about his "poop problem." He finds some new
connections with his friends as he haltingly relates his story.
"Man, this is so bad. I mean I keep smelling
this awful stuff. I never dream it is me. Then I see Judy and
Joan moving away from me and rolling their eyes. I don't know
what is going on…"
Everyone is now giggling about it, but not
about him. We all know we could have been the ones crossing
through Thompson' s yard and…"yuk!" We squeal and squirm and
laugh.
Another Busy Bee meeting is done. We pull on
our jackets, say our thank you's and goodbyes.
With today's gentle nudging our little
world's have expanded and been enriched. No doubt larger
versions of the Busy Bees will continue to merge.
BREAKFAST
PLANS
"How about a fish feast?" My brother James is
asking me. It is our summer vacation at Colonial Beach, Va. on
the Potomac River. The available weeks of summer at the Daly
cottage are divided up between my mother and her sibling's
families. During our turn, there is usually one morning that we
have a fish feast for breakfast. Our mother fries up a 'mess' of
Perch fish caught the day before. It is a simple but tasty
treat. There are the welcome additions of home fried potatoes
and onions, succulent sliced tomatoes, sweetly ripened wedges of
cantaloupe. It is a meal to be savored longer than the usual
breakfast fare because the butter fried morsels of Perch are
laced with lots of little bones that have to be extricated by
hand or mouth before swallowing.
On this particular day, James, my
fourteen-year-old elder brother and I conjure up a plan for the
for the traditional fish feast breakfast. This year, it will be
different. This year, my brother suggests, "We can surprise
everyone. We'll be the ones to catch the mess of fish."
I ask him, "How is that going to be a
surprise?" He answers, "Well, nobody has caught any fish yet
this week. We can be the ones to supply the string of fish. It
will be our secret. Without anyone knowing, we can get up really
early, before sunrise, before anyone else is awake, and row out
front on the river, catch a mess of fish, and be back in time to
clean them, get them to mom, and surprise everyone with our
fried fish breakfast. Whaddaya think?"
The idea stirs my imagination. I think,
"Hmmm. I'm only nine years old. Big brother wanting to include
me in an activity is cool enough. Add to that, having an
adventure like getting up before dawn and sneaking out with no
parental advice or admonitions to dampen the dream stream.
Taking on the Potomac River by ourselves. Wrestling with the
heavy, old, hand-made Daly family rowboat. Showing our stuff
in lessons learned about cleaning the fish properly by
ourselves. Surprising everyone. Wouldn't that be a hoot?!"
My controlled enthusiasm blurts out a simple,
"Yeah, man."
We spend the rest of that day piecing
together the breakfast plan and thoroughly enjoying its
unfolding and anticipated happy conclusion. Before drifting off
to sleep at night, in the musty double bed we share, we whisper
a few more details. The aroma of citronella oil fills the room
and sends its message to any hopeful mosquitos that they are not
welcome.
It is a wakeful night even without the
mosquito's buzzing. We are both anticipating the morning
adventure with our personalized scenarios of how it will all
play out. We don't want to miss it by oversleeping. There is no
alarm clock. We have to rely on our activated inner juices to
awaken us before the dawn.
This means frequent false wake ups in the
dark, each of us listening and wondering, "Is he awake? Is it
time yet?" Then another turn in bed, pulling the sheet over our
heads, and a determination to get back to sleep before 'H-hour.'
Finally, there is a hint of light in the dark
eastern sky, and the first wistful "Coo, coo" of the distant
morning dove. We nudge each other at the same time in
acknowledgement that this is 'it.' We push back the covers in
the dark and slip quietly out of bed. We find our tee shirts,
shorts and shoes where we have carefully placed them the night
before. Being quieter than usual, and in measured pace, we
imitate each other in our dressing routine. We slowly open the
bedroom door. Fortunately, no squeaks.
We tiptoe down the back hallway, reaching out
in the darkness for familiar objects, like the old Victrola, or
the horse hair couch, or the old family portraits that line the
walls. The main door is still open to let in fresh air during
the night. There is only the hook on the screen door left to
deal with. My brother deftly uses both hands to pull the door
toward his body to release the tension, and then he nudges the
hook out of its hole to its freedom, and ours. The door spring
and its stretching "twange" is engaged so slowly we can barely
hear it. Carefully we move through the doorway and gently close
the screen door.
We are free of the house proper and holding
hands as we inch across the porch and down the steps in the
dark. Small beads of sweat now ring our brows as we make our
escape. Our nostrils welcome the early dawn sweetness of the
mimosa tree blossoms as we brush by them on the way to outside
the back door of the kitchen where we have stored our gear for
the trip: The can with worms and their soil, an old tomato can
for bailing the boat, our fishing lines and weights and hooks, a
line to hold the caught fish, a fishing knife, and our box of
Cheez-Its for snacking.
The dew from the wet grass curls over our
sneakers as we walk to the garage to pick up the oars for rowing
the old Daly boat. Our eyes are getting accustomed to the
darkness and the eastern sky. We are also moving toward more
light. We can make out each other's shape well as objects along
the way.
The rhythmic waves of the Potomac River are
pounding the beach, louder than usual. There is the familiar
smell mixing salt water and seaweed as we approach the
riverbank, crushing the pine needles along the way with each
step. We find the usual spot for negotiating our way down the
bank to the water. The roots and rocks are spaced just right for
easy steps down to the loose mix of sand and gravel which sounds
its 'crunch, crunch' with every step.
We set down our gear and oars as we look
toward the horizon and relish the fulfilling of our breakfast
plans via our adventure on the high seas. Actually, the seas are
indeed quite a bit higher than expected. Usually, the Potomac is
a lethargic estuary showing nothing much more than a frothy
ripple slithering across the shore's shells and sand.
This morning it is different. There is no
storm, but there is rough water. White capped waves are rolling
in and crashing on the beach. The foam is almost rolling to the
bank. James and I can now see each other plainly, and we are
taken aback with this unfamiliar scene. But our stores of
enthusiasm for the benefits of providing the surprise string of
Perch for our fish feast trump any inklings of trepidation that
might be close to surfacing. It is going to be more of a
challenge than we have planned. Our adrenalin is ready for it.
Wide eyed, our dream is enlarging in front of us.
We move to the post and rope by which we
would reel in the Daly rowboat from its protected mooring about
thirty yards from shore. The boat is bobbing up and down with
each wave slapping its sides and sending huge splashes over its
sides. It will need both of us to reel in the rope and get it to
shore quickly. All the way in the boat is being pushed and
slammed in different directions. By the time we get it to the
beach several inches of water have accumulated on the bottom of
the boat and needs to be bailed out before we can start our
trip. James uses the fish bucket and I use the old tomato can to
feverishly get the water out. It goes pretty fast. We secure the
oars in their locks and stow the gear under the seats.
The bow is on the shore. The stern is taking
hits and more water from the back. We have to get the boat out
and turned around so the bow will face out and we can row away
from shore. The boat is heavy and the bow stubbornly sinks into
the shore's gravel and sand. Finally, an incoming wave coincides
with my push. The extra lift is enough to get it unstuck. I push
out some more until the water is up to my knees. I try to pull
the boat around as James pulls hard on the right oar. During the
turn-around effort another big wave hits the other side of the
boat. It knocks me over. I pull my drenched body up and push
even harder to get the boat around. Together, we get the bow
pointed out and James yells for me, "Jump in, quick!".
Once I am in the boat, he is pulling on the
oars but not making much progress as each new wave is pushing us
back to shore. He calls, "Come here. You take the other oar and
pull hard with me. We've got to get out of here. If we can get
out a bit farther the waves won't be so bad. Pull hard."
We are together on this, leaning way forward,
bracing our legs on the seat in front of us, digging the oars
deeply, pulling hard and leaning way back to get maximum benefit
from each stroke, so we can get away from the churning waters at
the shoreline. Over and over. It is working.
We gradually make our way to deeper waters.
The bow continues its wild thrust up and out of the water as we
crest the waves. Then with a loud "schwock!" we slam into the
trough, and the spray splatters across our backs. The water
rising in the bottom of the boat sloshes over our shoes. We are
soaked. The sun is not up yet. We are shivering. This is the
adventure and its reality.
This the way I have heard that they do it on
the high seas. Pull hard together. Meet whatever challenges show
up. We have the rhythm: Feet braced. Lean way forward. Get the
oars raised and planted in the water behind us. Pull hard.
Repeat and repeat.
The boat heaves uuup and dooown over the
crests and into the troughs. My hands grip the oar tightly. Soon
I am feeling the painful effects of the repeated friction on my
palms. We are now a couple of hundred yards from shore.
I am relieved when James says, "I guess this
is far enough out. Go to the bow and throw the anchor overboard.
I'll try to keep the bow headed into the waves."
I give him my oar, turn, and scramble to the
bow to toss the anchor overboard. In less than a minute it
catches on the river bottom. The line is taut, keeping us
steadily headed into the oncoming waves. The rolling and heaving
up and down keeps up. We bail out the several inches of water,
now soaking our shoes.
We manage to get our hand lines baited and
dropped into the churning Potomac waters. We are both tired as
we eye each other with silent satisfaction at having overcome
the first challenge of our mission together. We survey our
situation. The sky is fair and the full light of the big orange
ball now rising from the eastern horizon promises us some
warmth.
The water-logged Cheez-Its are thrown
overboard. We'll have to wait for snacks. We stow the oars. With
the lines out, we settle in, look around and back at shore. We
begin the wait for the first strike for our expected string of
fish for the breakfast feast. Our imaginations let us savor the
fish frying, along with the home fried potatoes and onions, and
all the rest. Especially pleasant to look forward to is the
delight and praise of parents and family for pulling off such a
welcome surprise for everyone.
It isn't long before the nylon line, draped
over my fore finger for early detection, reaching into the murky
Potomac, gives its familiar stutter. Somewhere, down under, a
sweet Perch was checking out a wrinkled worm for his breakfast.
A couple more nibbles for a taste test, a
chomp from him and a yank from me. He has discovered the sharp
hook waiting for him behind the tempting wriggling worm.
"I've got one," I yell.
"Good going. About fifteen more of these and
we'll have our quota for the surprise breakfast." James said.
He watches as I try to get a proper hold on
the flapping Perch. It is about nine inches long. "Not bad,"
I think. I proudly cup my hand over him on the floor of the boat
and hold back the sharp fins, twist the hook out of his mouth,
and maneuver the metal end of my fish stringer through his
pulsing gills.
I secure the string to a rib of the boat and
toss the line overboard so he can stay alive while we capture
some more. I re-bait the hook and drop it back into the water,
draped again over my fore finger for early detection of the next
catch. All the while I am bracing myself from the now familiar
rolling and smacking of the boat up and down, up and down.
In a few minutes I hear James yelp, "Whoa.
I've got one. Something big!"
We aren't used to 'big' so the curiosity and
adrenalin rachet up. His hand line is wildly coursing back and
forth in the water. This is more than another Perch. Clearly his
excitement includes the pain to his hand as he tightens the pull
in. The line jerks and runs through the water over and over.
Finally he brings it up tight to the boat.
"Oh no." he shouts. It is not a fish.
He wrestled the squirming creature into the
boat. "Holy cow," I'm thinking. "It's three feet
long".
"It's a snake," I blurt out. Wide eyed, I
watch James as he tries to get control of it. It whips and slaps
around his end of the boat.
"No," he says, "it's not a snake, it's an
eel." I have never heard of, or seen, an eel. It is olive green,
two inches thick and looks mean to me.
James finally gets his foot over the writhing
creature from out of the deep. He has heard about eels. What he
has heard is about to come to the present tense of reality for
him in living color.
He tells me that, "The thing about eels is
that when they take the hook they swallow it. Other fish chomp
on the bait and the hook snags their lip or gill. Not so with
the eel. He takes the hook by gulping it and it doesn't grab his
flesh until way into his gullet. This means that if you want to
retrieve your hook you have to cut the eel on the spot down its
middle until you find it."
James has never done this procedure before.
He starts in. With his foot still holding the eel in place, he
reaches for the fish knife in the bucket. He cuts off the eel's
head. At least that stops the wild whipping. He then continues
the slicing of the eel's mid-section, laying it open to find the
hook. It becomes a very stomach-turning scene on the boat's
floor, with the eel's blood and guts strewn all over. Added to
that is the continuing heaving of the boat up and down, up and
down.
I am having no more bites so I stare at
James' surgical process and begin to notice that as he searches
for the elusive and embedded hook, his own countenance is
changing to shades of grayish green.
As he is cutting away, I hear him mumble, "Oh
man. Oh man..."
He swallows hard a couple of times and wipes
the accumulating sweat from his brow with his forearm. He looks
to one side and then the other, over the side of the boat. He is
breathing heavily and gripping the stern seat of the boat as we
continue our rolling response to the oncoming waves.
He looks at me painfully, and says, "Man, I
can't do this anymore. I'm sick. We gotta go in. Haul up the
anchor and see if you can row by yourself for awhile." This has
not been a part of the breakfast plan. Clearly, we have to abort
the mission.
I quickly pull in my line hand over hand and
throw it on the floor. I scramble to the bow and tug at the
anchor rope until it releases. I stow it in the bow. I yank up
my lone fish and slip him free back into the water. When I turn
toward the oars my brother has turned in the stern seat and is
leaning over the back of the boat, vomiting what was left of
last night's supper, and any other juices his retching can bring
up. There are groans in between. I take hold of the oars by
myself and start the long trek to shore.
He looks awful, but the greenish gray hues
gradually give way to normal pinks as the blood rushes to his
face during his dry heaves. As he is resting up from his ordeal,
he tries to get back to normal by bracing his outstretched arms
on the stern backrest. He breathes deep gulps of the fresh air
in and out of his lungs.
He scrapes together the pile of dismembered
eel parts from the floor of the boat and tosses them over the
side in disgust. He uses his foot to slosh the unbailed water
over the eel remnants in a half-hearted attempt to be done with
it all. It is a long, quiet row for me back to shore, although I
am often assisted by a new wave coming under the boat and
carrying us with it at its faster pace.
By the time we reach shore James is still
queasy from the ups and downs of the ride but in much better
shape. His normal color is back. We have started talking and
rehearsing the eel event and getting our minds around the
disappointment.
"I'm sorry man," he offers.
"It's okay," I say. "I'm just glad you're
better. You looked and sounded terrible."
"Well," he volunteers, "at least it was a
secret surprise. Nobody is expecting anything, so they won't be
disappointed. We just won't say anything, right?"
"Right," I answer.
Even though it has turned out to be a
misadventure, it has its plusses. A dream has been shared and we
have given it our best shot. Circumstances have intervened. We
have another memory together.
On shore, we pull our gear out of the boat,
attach the rope of the boat to the pulley and reel the boat out
to where it had been two hours earlier. We sneak back into the
cottage and change out of our wet clothes. Apparently, no one
has noticed our absence. We hear some movement from other
bedrooms. We sponge off the salt and dirt with water from the
basin stand in the bedroom. (There are no inside bathrooms in
the cottage.)
We can smell bacon frying and coffee brewing,
coming from the attached kitchen. We empty the basin into the
slop jar and carry it to the outhouse, just like any other
morning. On our way back we hear our mother busily preparing the
breakfast she has planned.
She calls out, "Good morning, boys. What a
beautiful day, isn't it? I need you to set the table and cut the
cantaloupe. I'm going to make corn fritters for breakfast. You
can cut the corn off of the cobs from last night's dinner for
me, and then I'll fry them up. How does that plan sound?"
We reply in unison, "Sounds great!"
While we are cutting the cooked corn off the
cobs for the fritters, she says. "You know, sometime this week
someone needs to go fishing so we can have a fish feast for
breakfast, like we do every year. Can we plan on that?" Without
looking up, James and I half glance our eyes toward each other,
and murmured our "Uh huh" assents.
SUDS
Saturday night is bath night at our house in
the 1930's. The tradition of a thorough scrubbing of the body
from a week's worth of grime before Sunday's church activities
is well established. It is often a fun time. Being in the midst
of the Great Depression means that conservation measures are in
place at every turn. It is a way of life, accepted, and seldom
complained about. Our bath water is no exception. We are limited
to about eight inches of hot water in the bottom of the tub.
These same directives mean that I have to share the bath water
and tub space with my older brother, James.
Saturday night becomes 'suds' night for us.
We look forward to the freshness that comes from a good
scrubbing. The skin can show off its true pinkish hues and make
us feel tingly all over. We use Ivory Soap, the floating soap,
for our baths, so it can easily be retrieved when dropped. For
some reason, Ivory Soap is not on our conservation list. We can
use up as much of the bar as we want and get as clean as we
want. Ivory Soap can be easily be coaxed into a large mound of
bubbles. My brother and I learn to maximize its possibilities.
We are both small enough at the time so that
we each take up less than half of the tub. We can scrub each
others' backs. We cover our hands and washcloths with the soft,
melting soap bar. We feel the slippery stimulant oozing and
bubbling all over our bodies. We then vigorously splash the
milky water onto each other. That is just the beginning of the
fun.
We then each start spinning our cross-legged
bodies around in the tub as fast as we can go. The mass of foam
begins to build. The more we spin around and splash, the higher
and higher the pile of suds grows. After many repetitions of
this play, the mountain of froth reaches the top of the tub. We
are enveloped in Ivory foam. With each spin of our bodies and
with new suds being produced each time, we laugh and squeal and
try to go faster. With suds covering our heads and spilling over
the sides of the tub we laugh and shout at the top of our lungs,
"High's Ice Cream!
High's Ice Cream!"
If you live in Silver Spring, a suburb of
Washington, D.C., you will understand. High's Ice Cream is a
popular local, and low-priced ice cream. Our parents joke about
it because it apparently has been whipped a lot to increase its
volume. It seems to be mostly filled with air, not unlike our
Ivory Soap suds. James and I pick up on that little ongoing
family joke in our bathtub antics of spinning around and around
and squealing the announcement, "High's Ice Cream!" It delights
our parents as they poke their heads into the bathroom to share
in the fun.
It is a win, win situation. My older brother
doesn't mind having me around, at least for the moment. In fact,
he puts aside his usual, "Don't keep following me around, find
your own friends," admonitions. We are caught up together, and
bonding through this playful, frothy exercise. My parents think
us clever for turning the Saturday night routine into such a
happy time. In fact, our mother seriously considers sending the
idea, and maybe some pictures of us, to the Ivory Soap Company
to use for their advertisements. The mounds of suds also mean
that there will not be as much of a dirty rim at the water line
of the tub to clean when we're done with the bath. We go to bed
still chuckling at our shared frolic in the tub, and feeling
squeaky clean, inside and out. We are ready to start another
week of school, work, and play.
Ivory Soap is still available. However, my
brother now lives elsewhere. I can no longer cross my legs and
spin around in the tub to help bubbles grow. High's Ice Cream is
not sold where I live. Nonetheless, I can still bathe in the
memory of those sudsy Saturday nights, and smile at the simple
family delights shared along the way.
CABIN
FEVER
Outside, the wind is whipping ice pellets
onto the windowpanes. It is a dark, frigid February evening. My
brother James is aged fourteen. I am nine. We are feeling safe
and secure inside our home at 1234 Pinecrest Circle.
We sit across from each other on the benches
of the cubicle that frame the large stone fireplace. The blazing
fire warms us with its concentrated blasts of heat. The rest of
the living room is dark. Afternoon has slipped into early
evening. No lights have been turned on. It is better this way.
It makes for a smaller, insulated world where our imaginations
can take flight. It feels good. We have helped to cut up the
apple wood that crackles and pops in front of us. The leaping
flames sends
flickering light to dance the shadows across our faces as we
stare into the fire.
The sounds coming from our new cabinet sized
Philco radio and record changer are familiar. They bring Cesar
Franck's Symphony in D Minor from the grooves of the six double
sided 78 rpm records. It is the only set of symphony records we
have. We hear it often.
From the kitchen, the aroma of our mother's
homemade vegetable soup in the making wafts around our nostrils.
It all feels good. Warm, secure, music, food on the way. Little
brother sharing cherished moments with big brother. We are
sheltered from the wintery sounds and not thinking right now
about the four and a half years separating us. This is the usual
reason given for James to keep me at a distance when he wants to
play with friends his own age. But not now. No one is around. It
is just the two of us together. We are both relaxed and can
allow our dream machines to be engaged.
Stoking the fire, James says to me, "You know
what? We could build a log cabin in the back yard this spring.
Whaddaya think?"
My head turns from the fire and meets James'
eyes with an excited, "Sure!" I don't really know what will be
involved, but my older brother is inviting me to join him.
Whatever it might entail, it will be ours to share.
My brain brings to mind images of a log cabin
from my having had many hours playing with my Lincoln Logs set.
"Yeah, that sounds neat," I say happily. As if to say, "Let's
get started on it. Say more. What will it take to make this
brother cabin happen?"
James likes the feel of his leadership role.
And so, on that evening a special chapter in our growing up
years in Silver Spring is born.
Idea after idea keeps surfacing and providing
ready fuel for the embers igniting inside our minds and hearts.
We will need a plan, a drawing of some sort, a floor plan, to
show what it might look like. Our father is an architect. We
have both stood next to his drawing table and watched him
develop his plans. He deftly moves the slide rulers, triangles,
compasses, finely sharpened pencils, erasers, and other tools of
his trade, around the drawing board. We will imitate. After
supper, we are at the drawing table with ruler, paper and
pencils, starting to bring our ideas to life. Such fun!.
Ideas come together: "A simple design and
dimensions. Four walls. A door. No window — too complicated, too
much extra work, and there could be mistakes. We will use a
curtain for the door. We can get logs from among the dead trees
in the Sligo Creek woods. Lots of them. We can transport them to
our back yard on our little green wagon. We'll have to trim off
the branches with a hatchet or small saw, and use our two man
saw to cut the eight foot lengths.The cabin will be six feet
tall. That will mean twelve, six-inch diameter logs per side. It
will be eight feet square. That's four times twelve …about 48
logs in all. Then the roof. Leftover boards stored in our garage
attic will do. There is also tar paper and nails in the garage.
We can build it under the cherry tree in the back yard. That way
we can climb up on the cabin roof and have an easier pick of the
ripe cherries in June." We
proudly concur..
"When do we start?," I ask.
James replies, "As soon as winter's over and
the snow's gone. We can hike down to Sligo woods tomorrow
actually and spot the dead trees we want to use."
"Great!", I exclaim.
This can really happen. From now on our dream
time, day and night, at school, and during chores, is focused on
our joint adventure. Our parent's approval and support further
stimulates us. We have cabin fever.
Winter's signs finally subside. For several
days, James and I make our forays into the Sligo Creek woods,
spotting the dead trees that can provide the eight foot lengths
of straight logs. With stakes and string, we lay out the right
spot in the back yard under the cherry tree for the cabin. We
have told our separate groups of curious friends about the plan.
All of them want to help. James and I tell we them we will take
care of the building process. They can join in later for the fun
when the cabin is finished.
It is late March before we can get started.
We mark the dead trees we want. Each day after school and house
chores, we pull our little green wagon toward the woods,
carrying our two man saw and hatchet.
Once we sight the right sized logs, we trim
off the branches and the saw them into three, eight-foot
lengths. That's all we can fit on the wagon at one time. We tie
the logs to the wagon to keep them from rolling off. We make our
bumpy way through, and out of the woods. Rocks and fallen brush
don't make it an easy trip. We are pleased to reach the paved
road before the long hike home. All the way it is no small task
to keep the logs from rolling off of the wagon. We have to
re-tie them several times.
Once home James instructs me on the placement
of the logs. We both share in the notching of the logs at the
ends to get a tighter fit. Three logs per day is about our
limit. A few more on Saturdays. Nothing on Sundays. There is
Sunday school and church... and rules.
James and I are persistent and eager as we
work together and watch our cabin gradually take shape. As we
make the long trip from Sligo woods, tugging and pushing the
shifting loads, the ideas for what the cabin will look like, and
what we will do in it, keep flowing. One idea always spawns
another.
Thoughts are plentiful. We can pretend
and play out last Saturday's double feature cowboy movies from
the Seco Theatre. Deadwood Dick competes with the Lone Ranger
and Tonto for pretend times. We can have a secret club with a
password, and maybe tattoo-like markings on the backs of our
hands to prove membership. We imagine war scenes played out
with our real German and USA Army helmets, and other army
equipment from our Uncle Adolph's World War I days. We can
sleep out overnight in the cabin. There can be a table and
stools and a little orange crate to store our food and
equipment. We see ourselves with our cowboy hats and holsters,
rolling up some paper labels to look like cigarettes. They'll
droop from the corners of our mouths as we play cards in the
shadows around our candle lit table, and drink cola from our
tin cups. Maybe we'll also have some chips or pretzels to keep
up our strength. It is going to be so neat! Cabin fever.
After three months of our arduous labor, the
day finally arrives when the last nail fastens the tar paper to
the roof boards. The curtain is up at the door. The table,
stools, lantern, orange crate, and candles are all in place. The
dirt floor has been brushed clean of wood chips and nails.
Friends gather and climb all over. As
planned, the cabin roof gives easy access to the juicy ripened
cherries waiting to be plucked, and savored. The cherry seeds
then provide the small missiles for our little spitting battles.
A secret society is formed with passwords for entry and the
obscure pen markings on the back of the hand showing membership.
A proper written document spelling out the rules and conditions
is signed by all and hidden under the orange crate. Cabin fever.
The dream is accomplished. Excitement,
imagination, hard work, brothers bonding, parents approving,
friends joining in, have all been a part of the delight-filled
mix of cabin fever. The dream machine, and its wonderland world
will not be long dormant. There will be more wintery evenings,
gazing at the blazing fire, listening to Franck's Symphony in D
Minor, and more of brothers glancing at each other, exploring
the universe of thought and feeling, sometimes by themselves,
and sometimes with each other.
POOR
PASSAGES
It often happens that people and
circumstances beyond our control make decisions for us. It's
especially true when we're young. The older world, and the outer
world, decide what our life will look like.
An early example of this for me is in April
1941. I am in the fifth grade at Woodside Elementary School in
Silver Spring, Maryland. Mrs. Chiswell is my teacher. It is time
to choose which boys will become the school patrol for the next
year. It is an honored, and much sought after responsibility.
Many boys volunteer to care for the safety of the younger school
children at critical street crossings before and after school. I
am among the volunteers.
If chosen I get to wear the white belt and
silver badge designating my honor and responsibility.
I can be tardy for school in the morning and
allowed to leave class fifteen minutes early at the end of the
day to attend to my post. Both of these are daily reminders to
others that I am someone special.
It is an exciting moment when Mrs. Chiswell
calls me to her desk to announce, "Paul, I'm pleased to let you
know that you are among those chosen to be a safety patrol for
next year at Woodside School."
I was pumped and proud, although I'm sure
that my slight smile and quiet, "Thank you" don't reveal the
extent of my true feelings.
As I turn to go back to my desk she takes
hold of my arm to keep me attentive. She says, "I've also
nominated you to be either captain or lieutenant of the whole
patrol."
"Wow!," I thought, trying to process
the growing significance of this juncture of my life.
"Would you like to do that?", she asks.
The measure of my pleasure now breaks through
my polite restraints. My face lights up, my smile widens, my
eyes beam. "Would I ever!," I exclaim.
My imagination quickly kicks in and I am
aware of the admiration I have for this year's officers. I can
see myself cycling from crossing to crossing with my red
lieutenant's badge, or maybe even the blue captain's badge. It
will remind the patrol on duty of my authority and
responsibility to make sure we are doing our job according to
the book, so that the children would be safe. I am also thinking
that I probably need to dress up my bike with some new chrome
fenders and handlebars.
"That's wonderful, Paul, I'm sure you'll do a
good job," she says as she pats me on the shoulder in
affirmation. "And to help you be a good officer next year, you
will go for a week of officer's training this summer at Camp
Roosevelt."
"Holy cow," I thought, "this keeps
getting better, getting chosen to be an officer and then a
week away this summer at Camp Roosevelt. I can't wait! Summer
is going to be great this year. I'll have to get Johnny
Thompson to deliver my papers that week. It's all falling into
place. Life is good. All is well!"
Mrs. Chiswell says, "So we'll look forward to
this, Paul. I'll call your parents tonight to tell them about
your being chosen, and about the camp this summer."
"Great", I say, as I spin around on my heels
and make my way back to my desk. I am bathing in the mix of
emotions bolstering my self-esteem to the highest I can
remember. Not unnoticed I'm sure is my raised forearm and
clenched fist, and an audible "Yes!" as I sit down. This is all
I can think about for the rest of the day at school, at play,
when delivering my papers, and as I drift off to sleep. My dream
machine is fully engaged.
I bounce from bed the next morning still
relishing what is going on. I pay special attention to what I
might wear today to help celebrate it all. I excitedly enjoy my
usual large breakfast. My mother is quiet as she alternates
between serving the family our breakfasts and preparing the
lineup of sandwiches for all of us.
I leave the breakfast table and go through my
morning duties in the bathroom. They include scraping the
remaining toothpaste onto my brush from the tube that has been
cut open to take advantage of whatever paste could be salvaged
after no more can be squeezed through the top. I also gargle
with Listerine as usual, to fend off the germs. I march to the
kitchen to pick up my lunch for school.
My mother is quiet and thoughtful. She says,
"Sit down Paul, I have something to talk over with you." I obey
with a gulp because this is an unusual process. The question
marks are streaming from my eyes.
"Mrs. Chiswell phoned last evening. She told
us of your honor in being chosen to be a school patrol next
year. We are very pleased for you. She also told us about your
being nominated to be either captain or lieutenant. That's also
very nice. Then she told us that in order for you qualify to be
an officer you would go to Camp Roosevelt for a week of training
this summer, and that will cost $25."
I am on the edge of my chair. Storm clouds
seem to be gathering on what had been a very sunny day. I sense
something ominous impending. I can't imagine what could ever
prevent the unfolding of my dream.
"Your father and I talked it over for a
long-time last night. You know money is very tight for us these
days. Your father has managed to keep his job, for which we are
grateful. But there's always the threat of him losing his job.
Then we would be without income, and maybe have to give up
living here. We're always trying to find ways to save money and
cut our spending. You know that of course. You always get hand
me downs from your brothers. We buy your shirts and pants too
large and then take in the sleeves, or turn up the cuffs, so you
can grow into them. You fold your lunch bags and waxed paper
every day so they will last a week. We get your old shoes
re-soled. And lots of other things.
What this all means is that as much as your
father and I would like to send you school patrol camp this
summer for training, we can't afford it. $25 is just out of the
question. We're very sorry but that's the way things are, and
you'll have to be satisfied with being a regular patrol. You'll
have to tell Mrs. Chiswell this when you get to school this
morning."
There is silence after that pronouncement and
explanation. It's impact punches me in the stomach. Its
pressures spread throughout my body bursting through my eyes in
a flood of tears, and cries of desperation. Life is not good.
All is not well. My mother cannot comfort me. I stomp out of the
kitchen wailing and pound on the wall.
My thoughts are in a downward spiral. "Had
the world ever known such suffering? Honor is gone. Esteem is
gone. How can I face Mrs. Chiswell with this news? What will
the other kids think? Why do we have to be so poor? I don't
mind the hand me downs or saving my lunch bags and waxed
paper. But this, this is too much! "
My mother calls, "I'm sorry Paul, but you'll
have to pull yourself together and get to school. It's time. Mr.
Thompson is going to give you kids a ride to school this
morning. So hurry up. Dry your eyes, put on your jacket, and get
going."
I am in the bathroom, washing my face. The
mirror highlights my watery, blood shot eyes. "Geez?", I
thought, "how am I going to explain this? Maybe no one will
notice or say anything. I'll just try to keep my head
turned away and keep the talk on something light."
The four neighborhood kids are piling into
Mr. Thompson's 1941 black Ford sedan. He cheerily says, "Good
morning everyone," as he is climbing into the driver's seat. He
quickly glances at us all, and then does a double take at me. I
am pleading in my mind, "Please, Mr. Thompson, don't say
anything!." It is not to be.
"What happened to your eyes Paul, have you
been crying?" he asks gently. My mind goes into overdrive. "Oh
no," I thought, " What can I say? Quick, something."
Lies can be quickly manufactured.
I finally said, "Oh, no sir, I just
accidentally spilled some Listerine in my eyes when I was
gargling." He says no more, but the slight twist at the corners
of his lips stifling a smile send me the message that he doesn't
buy that little lie for a second. It also says that he
understands something about how life can be raw and biting in
its hurts. He knows I need to be alone with it for now.
Mrs. Chiswell tells me, "Well, I'm
disappointed of course. You would make a good officer. But I
understand when money is tight. You certainly will be a fine
safety patrol."
After the storm and its stream of realities,
the clouds disperse. I am able to file the experience under the
'what's so' category. I then have to move into the 'so what'
dimension. What is left for me to decide? I can control what my
attitude and emotions and perspectives are to be for what shows
up from now on.
I remember that during my sixth grade I enjoy
being a regular patrol at the corner of Highland Drive and
Georgia Avenue. I take pride in shining my silver badge and
scrubbing my white belt every week. I like the daily contact
with the younger children in my care.
Other responsibilities and honors come my way
in sixth grade. I get an important part in the Christmas play. I
am in charge of the War Stamp campaign. We raise enough money to
buy a jeep for the army. An army sergeant parades me and the
jeep around the school playground. I become a Boy Scout and pay
for my uniform with money I earn by delivering newspapers.
Ah, yes, I learn that life can be good again,
even when something else, or someone else, is making decisions
for me. Of course, as a fifth grader I can't comprehend much of
anything outside of my dark little tunnel. However, I learn that
life, and its lights to enjoy, seems to keep showing up in fresh
ways, with new people and places.
LONG
BEFORE
Long before the marvels of Facebook or
Twitter or emails, or iPods, or iPhones, or Skype, or computers,
or CD's, or DVD's, or cassettes, or transistors, or Walkman's,
or stereos, ... there is the marvel of crystal sets.
With my eyes open wide in amazement and
excitement I have just constructed my own crystal set kit. It
lifts my awareness to the invisible and mysterious presence of
the radio waves in which we live and move and have our being.
It isn't complicated, even in 1945. Anyone
can easily put the components together. There is a little 5"x5"
wooden platform. In the center is a nickel sized metal cylinder
with room for a pea sized crystal in its center. Attached, and
above the crystal is an arch shaped wire bristle which can be
manually moved about the surface of the exposed crystal. There
are two terminals on the little wooden platform. One is for the
shiny insulated copper wire coming in through my bedroom window.
Outside, it is attached to the backyard bell tower. The other is
for the headphones.
Everything is attached and ready to go on my
bedstand next to the window. I am told that crystal sets work
best at night. I follow the advice and put the headphones over
my ears. I gingerly start moving the bristle over the little
crystal, not knowing what to expect, touching here and there,
testing what might work best. All of a sudden, at one touch, I
heard an announcer's voice. It is Arch MacDonald, clear as a
bell, from WWDC radio station in Washington, D.C. He announces,
"The score is now seven to seven in the seventh inning of this
Washington Senators and New York Yankees baseball game." Wow! No
static.
After a while of listening in wonder, I try
randomly moving the bristle wire across the crystal again. This
time I hear music, country music, from Wheeling, West Virginia,
filling my ears with sound and my brain with wonder.
Another move, and I am listening to a WOR
newscast in New York City. Such magic! Such a thrill! From out
of nowhere, through these thin copper wires, over that tiny
crystal, and into my ears, I can hear voices and music from
hundreds of miles away.
My bedroom is small, but my little world is
now made massive. Who knows how big? Always reliable. Nothing to
wear out or burn out. Who can imagine this? How far can it take
us? For the moment, the awe and pleasure are more than enough.
A
CHRISTMAS MIX
It's Christmas time. It's wartime. It's 1942
in Washington, D.C. I'm ten years old. The mix of the big world
realities envelope and shape my little world. I play at
Christmas. I play at war.
It is my best Christmas yet for presents.
Growing up during the Great Depression, my brothers and I are
used to receiving one present each from our parents. A package
from Uncle Charlie and Aunt Edith in Philadelphia can also be
counted on to provide a new white shirt and tie for each of us.
Other relatives provide an assortment of smaller items like,
socks, candies, or toys.
This year is different. Second cousin, Grace
Behm, (I call her "aunt") and her daughter, Patty, are living
with us. They are among the thousands of wartime government
employees who have swarmed into Washington, D.C., with no place
to live. They are an added delight in our home, expanding the
laughter, music and warmth.
They are also an added source of two more
presents for me. It turns out to be a bonanza year for me. Three
big ones! My parents give me a toy xylophone on a wooden stand.
It has twelve chimes, two red hammers, and a bright purple
banner to wrap around the base. The banner spells out
"xylophone" in big white letters. This results on my being the
first ten-year-old kid in the neighborhood to know how to spell
it. I play on it and treasure it for years. It also provides me
a beginning place in our little family orchestra. But the
xylophone and the predictable shirt and tie from Uncle Charlie
and Aunt Edith aren't the end of the presents in 1942.
Aunt Grace hands me a big box wrapped with
dancing reindeer on the paper. According to family protocol, I
carefully peel back the tape at the ends, and remove the paper
without tearing it. I fold it so it will be ready for use again
next Christmas. I remove the top of the box. Under the layer of
white tissue paper a uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted
Police appears. I gasp as I unfold the bright red coat, and blue
jodhpurs with a yellow stripe on the seams. There is also a
holster and cap pistol, a broad brimmed Mountie hat, and
puttees. My eyes bug out. This is everything I need to feed my
imagination for RCMP adventures forever.
There is more. Cousin Patty presents me with
another big box wrapped with green and red Christmas trees on
the paper. Again, I follow the unwrapping procedure. That done,
I pull off the top and squeal as I find another full city
policeman's outfit. It includes the policeman's hat with a black
visor, the blue jacket and pants, handcuffs, a billy club,
another holster and cap gun. What a Christmas! I am so happy! I
shout my "thank you's" and spread my hugs all around.
I spend these holidays playing out one
"pretend" after another. Sometimes by myself, all over the
house...attic, basement, bedroom. I pop the cap gun chasing
outlaws up and down the stairs, taking the stairs two at a time
and sliding down the bannister, or into the darkened basement
hiding places. Sometimes an adult joins in. I put the cuffs on
Patty when she doesn't eat her cranberry sauce. I wear one of
the police uniforms all the time, even when we go visiting
friends.
It is a Christmas plus. It is music. It is
looking at our twelve colored lights around the outside of the
front door for five minutes each night. It is lying on the
living room floor close to the tree and watching our silver
Burlington Zephyr train speed around the track spewing its aroma
of hot oil as it breezes by. It is doing battle with the
formations of lead soldiers and tanks lined up. It is playing
"town" and moving the "tootsie toys" around the square designs
of the living room carpet. It is helping to set the dinner table
and fill the salt cellars and slicing an extra piece of
cranberry sauce to go with my turkey drumstick. It is joining in
the singing during clean up around the dishpan and dipping my
finger in the bowl of left over mashed potatoes for a final
taste, when no one is looking. It is gazing into the blazing
fireplace fire and dreaming dreams when the guests have
departed. And ...always in uniform. The best of times.
But these best of times are surrounded by the
dark shadow of World War II. It is not going well. I see the
daily newspaper headlines. Germany and Italy have conquered all
of Europe and are advancing through North Africa. Japan has
swallowed most of the Pacific Islands and much of China.
I see my parents cry as my two older brothers
leave home in the early morning hours to join the army. We have
our two-star service flag hanging in our front window to show
that our patriotism trumps our fears for their future. Gathered
relatives share worried stories of cousins and friends who have
already been wounded or killed. The hugs are abundant.
We cover our windows at night with black
cloth so that potential enemy bombers can't see any targets. We
hear the shrill whistles from the neighborhood wardens,
patrolling the dark night in their white helmets. We have our
victory gardens to raise vegetables. We raise chickens for meat
and eggs. We have our neighborhood "victory bins" to gather
scrap metal, paper, old tires, and anything that might be used
in the war machine. We have ration stamps for lots of
things...gasoline, sugar, shoes, butter, etc. We have a peek at
one unpatriotic neighbor's three car garage filled with brand
new black market refrigerators. We hear lots of war news, and
watch propaganda movies, and sing lots of patriotic songs. I
walk the mile to the grocery store with my little green wagon
for supplies. We children save our money to buy ten cent war
stamps at school. They will be recorded every day until we reach
$18.75 to exchange for a war bond that will mature in ten years
for $25.
We practice air raids at school. Sometimes
they are in the basement of the school, and sometimes in the
basement of a neighboring home. I'm lucky to be assigned to
Winship Green's house. He keeps a three-foot high stash of comic
books for us to enjoy. We keep metal ID tags hanging around our
necks. We are drilled in marching and military formations every
Thursday by the uniformed visiting high school students. We
doodle caricatures in our notebooks of the axis of the evil
enemy, Hitler, Mussolini, and Hirohito. We play at war, becoming
heroes in our imaginations.
War's dark shadows are pervasive. Mixed and
conflicting messages are being assimilated. Around the piano we
sing with equal gusto, choruses of "Silent Night" and "Praise
the Lord and Pass the Ammunition." I am learning the ways of war
and its ravages even as I gaze at the serene creche and its
sleeping baby Jesus. I am becoming accustomed to the inherited
ancient culture of fear and revenge with my cap pistol and
imagination close at hand, even as I memorize the Twenty-third
Psalm and Jesus' Beatitudes. Humanity's age-old laments
intersect with its age-old longings and find a place in my
psyche. As it is with those who have gone before, I can hear the
whispered echo of hope that someday a better way will prevail.
HOLY HAUNTS
"I gotta tell ya, that house is haunted." All
of us at Woodside Elementary School are saying it.
The old Wilson house is just across from
Woodside's playground on Georgia Avenue. It is in our face every
day at recess time. We have to walk past it going to and from
school. When we walk to downtown Silver Spring, the best we can
do to avoid it is to walk on the opposite side.
Just to look at it gives us the 'willies.' It
is an imposing three story structure, with a gabled moss-covered
roof with its gaping holes. It had probably originally been
yellow, but most of the paint is in the last stages of peeling
off. A few window shutters remain, with most hanging by only one
hinge, as is the remaining front door. Assorted vines and
brambles gnarl around the porch posts and sagging roof. Slats in
the front porch floor are missing and can easily trip up an
adventurer.
Overgrown weeds and thistles fight with each
other to obstruct any pathway to the porch. Any attempt to sneak
a view through a window is met with blackness and putrid smells
of dusty and musty everything, left over spoiled food, urine.
maybe even something dead or dying. It all
fits the vivid repulsive caricatures of
haunted houses we have stared at in our comic books and horror
movies. But here it is. Right in front of us, right now, in
terrifying full color.
The story is …that it is part of the
expansive Wilson estate that has been diminished in stages over
the years since its glory days in the mid 1800's. Montgomery
Blair and Abraham Lincoln used to bring their horses and buggies
out to the Maryland countryside for Sunday afternoon picnics.
Its sprawling acres have been reduced to this two-acre plot of
weeds and debris.
It is now surrounded by an expanding
subdivision of new homes and manicured lawns in Woodside Park.
There is another twelve-acre piece remaining, adjacent to the
haunted house. It is used as a golf driving range. With the
decaying house in our side view, we sixth graders can earn five
cents or a big orange Nehi soda as payment for picking up a
bucket of golf balls or a can of golf tees for Mr. Wilson. He is
something of a grumbling grinch. We are never sure if he is
connected with the original Wilson family. His personality seems
to be in sync with the unapproachable ghost domain next door to
his golf course.
It is a fear filled scene, almost terror.
Whether we are peering out of our classroom windows, running
relays on the playground outside, or speeding down Georgia
Avenue on a bike, the Wilson Haunted House is a spine-tingling
threat for us. It spawns our wide-eyed imaginations to envision
and feel the increasingly horrible possibilities of what awaits
us should we ever venture through the thorns to the evils
lurking in the blackness of that house.
The catalogue of creepy stories is always
expanding, being embellished and reinforced with ever eerier
possibilities to induce our nightmares. We are huddled just
across the street on the playground after school one day when my
buddy, Winship Green, excitedly volunteers, "Man, I saw it last
night, just like Dickie Fitch saw it last weekend. It was like a
blue glowing light moving from one window to another on the
third floor, probably the attic, right? It went on for half an
hour or so and then just faded out. No noises. Nothing like
that. Just that blue light, not a flashlight, just bobbing up
and down, from window to window. Scary, man! Whaddaya think?
Check it out some night when you're going by."
As usual, this spurs the unfolding chain of
hair-raising dreads. Jack Prettyman chimes in with a chilling
report of his daunting adventure to the Wilson porch.
Jack says, "On a dare from Charles Wickery
and Fred Stedman, I had worked my way through the thicket and
the scurrying …rats, I guess they were. Yeah, that's right,
rats, I'm sure. Lots bigger than any mouse. I get to the front
porch. It is still daylight. No way I'm going near there at
night. Well, that porch sags, you know. Up and down. I crawled
up on it, trying to miss the places that didn't have any boards.
I didn't touch the front door. It's hanging by only one hinge,
y'know. I went to the front window, no glass of course. I looked
in but couldn't see a thing. It was just black. All black, man.
But it did smell something awful. I don't know what it was. Just
really bad, man.
Then I heard a loud 'WHACK!' I don't know
what it is Boards or somethin'. I musta jumped a foot. I am
scared stiff. I feel like I am going to puke. Could be a
raccoon, or maybe one of those tramps they talk about who sleep
there sometimes. But I'm thinkin' it's probably a ghost of some
sort. I don't stick around to look or listen anymore. I jump off
the porch quick as I can and hightail it home, tremblin' all the
way. Wouldn't cha know I woke up twice dreaming' and sweatin'
about it all. Man, stay away from there!"
Once the bloodcurdling stories get going,
there is be no stopping us whether we gather in the school yard
before and after classes, or when two or more of us are hanging
around a streetlight, or sipping a phosphate at Crofton's Drug
store soda fountain. The spookiness of the haunted house
consumes our ghoulish thinking and telling.
Bert Johnson gets it going with, "You won't
believe this but when I was going by there the other night
before Scouts, I heard moans and groans comin' outta there. I
mean it. Like somebody's sick or dying or already dead, and
their ghosts are doin' the moaning for 'em. I'll tell you I was
doin' some quakin' and quiverin' for real, man. Bein' home never
felt so good!"
We don't really know what to do about all
this stuff that makes our flesh creep. A place inside of us
panics at the grim and ghastly paralysis these stories stir up.
Yet there is a level of camaraderie in our shared stupification
and horror. The stories and the emotions they generate are our
own and stay with us. Our parents don't know what we know about
the house being spooked. To them it is just an eyesore and
blight on the manicured suburban neighborhood.
One day when my dad and I are walking home
from Silver Spring, going by the ghostly Wilson house, my father
complains, "Just look at that place. What a mess, and in this
neighborhood! Somebody's going to have tear it down or put a
match to it sometime soon."
He is an architect and has an appreciation
for the beauty of its original design. "I'll bet it was a gem in
its prime. Look at it. It's stately. The gables are majestic.
Even in its deteriorated condition the iron work is exquisite. I
can just imagine it being on an elegant estate of a couple
hundred acres and the envy of the other landowners in its day."
My father's musings prompt me to open up
about the situation of the house from the standpoint of my
friends and me. I say, "You know what's really happening here
dad? It's haunted. It's scary as all get out. I mean it. My
friends all talk about it. There's strange lights going around
the attic at night. There are frightening sounds coming out of
there. I think it's more than just squirrels or raccoons. There
are groans and moans. There are awful smells. Some of the guys
think the tramps use it. Maybe someone has died. You can get a
whiff at the windows. Really."
My father asks me, "Have you ever been
inside?"
My reply: "No way, no sir! A couple of guys
have gotten close on dares, but never inside. The smells and
sounds and ghostly lights at night…no way. None of us. We don't
have to go inside. Imagine what would happen to us! No way."
The two of us keep peering at the house. I
peer apprehensively. My father peers with smiles.
l wonder what there is to smile about. "Here,
Paul, give me your hand. Let's have a look for ourselves," my
dad says confidently.
I am wide-eyed, shuddering inside, "Oh
no. Are we really doing this? I wonder if I'll be
around to tell the guys about it." I allow my hand to be
firmly gripped by my father as we pick our way through the
bramble and vines to get to the front porch. "Just like Jack
Prettyman did," I thought. "Next will come the strange
loud clacking noises and foul smells and moans and groans…and
ghosts! Jeez!"
We climb onto the porch. It does sag and
bounce, with not much to support it. My dad maneuvers over the
missing porch floorboards to the front door with the one hinge
left to hold it.
He carefully pulls it open and walks it
around to rest against the siding. I am still shaking. I think,
"Oh, holy cow, yep, just smell that. Yuk. Double yuk.
And its so dark." The light from the open door brings some
things into view.
My father still holds my hand tightly as we
carefully step into the musty and debris filled front hall.
Strangely this hand holding is making a difference for me. I am
in a state of observing and thinking, "If something is going
to jump out at us, I guess dad can handle it. He doesn't seem
to be afraid. He looks like he's curious and not wanting to
breath in too much of this dust we are stirring up. So far
there are no dead bodies showing up. Two squirrels are playing
on the broken stairway and knocking off some loose
debris…making some loud bangs in the process. Oh, look ..that
must have been the old dining room. Lots of old tin cans and
newspapers. Looks like someone sleeps here. Each room has its
piles of garbage and pukey smells. Whew! There's enough light
coming in from the windows for us step over these broken
stairs and look in all those rooms and then up to the attic.
No signs of ghosts or blue lights so far."
My father stops every so often, with his hand
over his mouth in admiration. I think he is picturing what it
must have looked like in its day. He fancies the grandeur of the
spiral staircase with its intricate carvings on the solid oak
wood. It is an adventure of a different sort for him. Seeing
through the present deterioration to its original glory.
I still hold my father's hand, but now
lightly, once my original trembling has dissipated. My
confidence is building. I am knowing that my father can handle
any of the fearful unknown goblins. It is turning out to be a
lesson of looking at the realities of the ghoulish specter up
close and letting the quaking shift into smiles of curiosity and
discovery.
I am wondering how the story of my newfound
freedom with my father in this scary and decrepit building will
go down with my buddies. Will they even believe me about the
haunted house… and how 'cool' it really is, once I feel safe and
fears disappear. What If they look closely? What if they become
curious about it? What if they discover its inherent beauty?
Will my experience entice them to try it out? Or will the old
scary stories still have their attractions?
Holy stuff…holy haunts…actually.
A WAR
STORY
War. War. War. In 1943 all eyes are on World
War II. All energies are being poured into the war effort.
Reminders are everywhere. It is pervasive. Billboards and
posters with Uncle Sam pointing his finger and saying, "I Want
You!" The radio blares patriotic songs like "Praise the Lord and
Pass the Ammunition!"
Every neighborhood has its own 'victory'
garden and its collection bins for scrap metal, rubber, paper,
and most everything. Every neighborhood has its own white
helmeted warden who patrols the streets every night at
"blackout" time to make sure no light is showing from any window
to be seen by enemy aircraft.
Every family has their share of ration books
for so many things, from sugar to shoes to gasoline. Families
huddle around their radios for the evening news. The newspapers,
magazines, and movie newsreels keep everyone posted on the most
recent battles in Europe and the South Pacific.
Our family home boasts its two sons serving
in the army with a two-star flag in the front window. We have
our own a 'victory' garden for raising vegetables and have built
a chicken house in our suburban backyard for eggs and meat from
our Rhode Island Reds. We have put up a pen for Elmer and Elsie,
our twin Toggenburg goats. There is talk that Elsie will provide
us with milk, but that never happens for some reason I wasn't
told. We raise some rabbits, but we could never eat them because
we have given them all names and they are just too cute to kill.
We have our shoes re-soled and re-heeled. I spend many Saturday
mornings with other Boy Scouts gathering and bundling used
newspapers and magazines to help the salvage effort.
At our Woodside Elementary School we have our
own version of the high school's 'youth army.' The uniformed
eleventh graders come to our school on Tuesdays and Thursdays to
teach and inspire us in marching drills. No uniforms for us.
We have regular air raid drills at school
where we quickly move in groups to the basements of neighboring
homes. I am lucky enough to be assigned to Winship Green's house
where a three foot stack of comic books awaits us for study
during the drill. My school papers and books often include my
doodling of the caricatured axis of evil of Hitler, Mussolini,
and Hirohito, reminding me again and again of what this war is
all about.
Everything is wrapped in the war's blanket.
Decisions are measured as to how they might help or hinder the
war effort.
Into this heady time of excitement and
unified purpose an opportunity presents itself for me to have my
"day in the sun". There is no congressional medal of honor, mind
you, but there are rewards....and consequences.
As a sixth grader at Woodside Elementary, I
am at the top of the heap. Our principal, Bess Young, is a
rotund single lady with an appropriate mix of smiles and frowns.
She approaches me one day.
She says, "Paul, as you know, the war effort
is so important. It requires the best from all of us. The
government has asked our school to raise enough money to buy a
jeep to help the army fight its battles." (I could feel Uncle
Sam's "I Want You" finger starting to point at me.)
"It costs lots of money," she said. "We can't
do it with war bonds because they cost $18 each. But we can do
it through war stamps at ten cents each. I want you to be in
charge of getting every pupil to fill a book of war stamps, so
that Woodside School can buy a jeep for the army." My eyes widen
into a 'tell me more' mode.
She continues, "It means that every day at
lunch time you collect all the ten cents that are gathered from
the students of each class, give them the war stamps for their
books, and then you bring the money to my office, count it, put
it into coin wrappers, tally the results for each class, and
post them on the bulletin board."
"Uh, huh," I say, as if the seriousness of
the task is understood.
"Will you do that for us as part of our war
effort?" she asks.
"Yes ma'am," I reply.
"Wonderful," she says. "We'll start next
month and distribute the books at an assembly. And oh, that will
mean you will have to miss your class session after lunch to do
the counting. I will let Mr. Johnson know."
"Bingo!" I thought. Mr. Johnson's
class after lunch is MATH! Not only have I been singled out for
this special honor to represent our school in this war effort,
but also, the icing on the cake, is this hallelujah moment that
quickly consumes my consciousness, " NO MATH CLASS!"
"YES MA'AM!", I exclaim, in what I hope are
muted tones so as not to to reveal the extent of my enthusiasm
which might arouse some suspicions of something being awry.
So it is that Miss Young presents the
school's mission to an assembly of the students. I am announced
to be the one in charge. The daily routine is spelled out.
Everyone is encouraged to bring their dimes everyday to receive
their war stamps, to fill their books, so that we can buy the
jeep that will help the army fight its battles in Europe and the
South Pacific.
It is an ecstatic moment for me. An army
sergeant brings a sample jeep to a school assembly so that
everyone can see and understand how important the objective of
our mission is. I get to sit in the jeep. Pictures are taken.
Posters are put on the doors and in the hallways. "All
this," I thought, "AND no math classes!"
I start into the routine the following
Monday. I quickly finish up my sandwich and milk, saving my
cookies and apple for later. I get into the task of gathering,
counting, and tallying. I feel like everyone is looking up to
me, being enthusiastic and responsive, and making me feel pride
for the school and myself.
As the aromas of lunch fade and the hallways
quiet, I seclude myself in Miss Young's small, sunny office,
crowded with its filing cabinets, bookshelves, piles of papers
on her desk, a couple of chairs. A small table is against the
wall where she makes room for my work. She shows me how to stack
the pennies into piles for the fifty-cent wrapper, nickels into
piles for the two-dollar wrapper and dimes into piles for the
five-dollar wrapper. Then I am to put a finger at the bottom of
the wrapper and stuff in the coins. She watches and works with
me for several days until I have it straight. Then for the best
part of the school term I am left alone to do my job ... for the
war effort...AND to cluck a bit each day thinking about not
having to endure the math exercises going on in Mr. Johnson's
room at that hour. It is a perfect combination, noble service to
help us win the war...AND freedom from the "concentration camp"
of long division and fractions.
Woodside saves enough war stamps to buy a
jeep for the army. They reward us with another visit from a
sergeant and the jeep that we have bought. It is displayed on
the playground at another assembly for both students and their
parents. I get to sit in the jeep again. This time we take a
ride around the playground. Everyone cheers. Such rewards for
service to your country!
The consequences of spending the hours after
lunch counting money for the jeep don't start to emerge until
seventh grade. I am now at junior high school. The war is still
going on. Our jeep is out there somewhere helping the soldiers.
My moment of glory is short lived and now fades.
I face a new reality. I have missed almost a
whole year of mathematic learnings. It feels like I am in a
foreign country. I can't speak the math language. I can't read
the signs. I recognize my fellow students but I can't play their
games. I have avoided the mathematics 'concentration camp' of
last year only to find myself in a new one with no help. Panic
sets in. I start realizing what I have missed. The foundation
blocks upon which the next levels of math learning are to be
built: geometry, algebra, trigonometry, calculus, are absent .
Cockiness has turned to contrition. How can I
play catch up? I am crippled from my war efforts. I am slipping
into a victim mode. I won't be able to follow my father and
become an architect. I'll need a lot of math for that. I won't
be able to become a doctor like my grandfather. I'll need a lot
of math for that.
It will mean a lifetime of struggle trying to
insert some of those missing building blocks into the structure
of my education. The blocks never fit easily. They are too big
or too small or out of sequence...and always irritating.
At least we win the war. Maybe our jeep is on
display in a museum somewhere. And now... I have a calculator.
All is well!
THE
BIGGEST FIRE I EVER SAW
I am only twelve. Everything seems big. It is
midnight on July Fourth.
I am awakened by screams from the Thompson's
house. It's just behind ours in Woodside Park.
Mrs. Thompson is yelling to anyone within
earshot, "Get out, get out through the window. Get the children
down the stairs. I'm going out through this window. The fire's
coming up the basement stairs. I can't go through the doorway!"
Wide eyed, I look out of my bedroom window. I
can see smoke belching out of the windows and the flickering
lights at the Thompson's house. Her sons, John, Bill, and Jim
are yelling in response to their parents' frantic directions.
They hurry downstairs and safely out of the back of the house
from their bedrooms. An orange, smoky glow fills the house.
There are screams to call the fire
department. I am quickly pulling on my jeans and trying to
straighten out my shirt. I carry my shoes in one hand as I rush
down the stairs of my house towards the Thompson's.
It seems like an interminable wait before we
can hear the distant sirens of fire engines approaching. We
helplessly aim water from the garden hose into the flames
roaring from the basement. Neighbors are running toward us in
their night clothes.
Mrs. Thompson is not to be consoled,
panicking, "Where is the fire department? Do they even know
where we are? Can they find Crosby Road?"
I run down Crosby Road to its intersection
with Woodside Parkway. I see the flashing red lights coming over
the hill. As the trucks slow down, probably looking for some
directions, I wave them on toward 9111 Crosby Road, now fully
involved with flames.
After an hour or so of water pouring in
through the windows and doors, the flames subside. Once
everyone's safety is assured, the biggest worry is that the
living room floor has been severely compromised with the flames
leaping up from the basement The fear is that it might collapse
and the two grand pianos would crash into the basement rubble.
The floors hold.
As the firefighters are rolling up their
hoses and retrieving their equipment, the crowd of neighbors who
have been witnessing the fiery drama from afar stay into the wee
morning hours and traipse through the halls and rooms of the
Thompson's home. The leftover water is dripping from the
ceilings. The acrid smells of burned furniture, walls, and
carpet fill their nostrils as they make their way through the
shadows and emit their sympathetic comments. The neighbors
become especially close that night. The enormous task of
cleaning and months of rebuilding begin.
CALOPHEN'S CONSEQUENCE
Calophen is a very small pink pill. It has a
very large and frequent impact on my family during my growing up
years in Woodside Park. Calophen is a laxative recommended by
our family physician, Dr. Atkinson. His formula for continuing
good family health includes a weekly dose of Calophen and a
morning gargle of Listerine before trotting off to school or
work. My parents follow his advice to the letter. It must have
some merit because our family of six avoids almost all of the
usual childhood diseases. Whenever the subject is broached, it
is only in hushed tones and confined to our immediate family.
Bodily functions are private and not acceptable for mealtime
conversations.
Our little family ritual goes like this. Friday night
before bed we are each given our allotment of Calophen. Being
twelve years old, I am the youngest, and the little pill is cut
in half for me. It is still far more than I want. I hate even
the half pill. I haven't learned to swallow a pill without
chewing. The slightest contact of the pill with my tongue or
taste buds trigger my gag response, which continues because I
can't get rid of the little pill, up or down, in or out. It just
bobs from one part of my mouth to another. The gagging repeats
itself.
I recover from each episode only after a
flood of water carries it down my throat assisted by my mother's
anxious coaxing to, "Swallow it quickly. Don't chew it. Let the
water push it down. Here, drink some more. It'll help with the
after taste. This is so good for you, just like Dr. Atkinson
says."
We all do it. My mother eventually thinks to
deal with the unpleasantness for me by wrapping the pill in a
little wad of bread or cake, or in with a spoonful butterscotch
pudding. Later I learn of other laxative options like
cherry-flavored Castoria or chocolaty Exlax. I wonder why we
don't switch products. Friday night is the first stage of the
weekly Calophen laxative event.
The second Calophen stage is on the following Saturday
morning. We have our usual hearty breakfast of fruits, cereals,
eggs or cornmeal mush and sausage with syrup and a glass of
milk. We then check my father's desk in the library where he
leaves a separate list for each of us of household chores that
need our attention today. I am proud to have my role to play.
Once done with the chores and lunch we get our twenty-five cents
for a double feature at the Seco Theatre and an ice cream cone.
However, before receiving these rewards, during the
morning chores, the Calophen purge sets in, with three or four
toilet trips for each of us. Fortunately, my father, being an
architect, has designed three bathrooms into our home, so
overcrowding is not a problem for the six of us. The whole
laxative event is usually over by lunchtime, allowing us freedom
for our Saturday afternoons.
My plan for his particular afternoon is to hold onto a
couple of pockets of carrot sticks from lunch for a snack later
on. Then go sledding with Johnny and Billy Thompson for a couple
of hours, before making my deliveries of the Washington Evening
Star Newspaper. I'll have to make my rounds with my sled today,
because my bike won't do well on the snow and slush.
All goes according to plan, so far. I meet Johnny and
Billy. We happily make our way to the long hill at Dale Drive,
chatting about the various tricks we would be trying with our
sleds on the slides down. I take my delivery bag along so that
after sledding I can just go to the pickup point for my papers.
I can roll them up, stuff them in my bag, make my deliveries,
and be done and home before dark. It is a lovely February
afternoon. The subtle sweetness of newly fallen snow fills the
nostrils, and the familiar crunch of snow and slush is
underfoot. Cardinals dance from bush to bush for a leftover
berry or two. The trees shadows from a late winter sun are cast
all around my path. It is a welcome and serene quietness.
About halfway through my deliveries, I start to feel like
is is Saturday morning all over again. The Calophen purge is
urgently wanting to repeat itself. I say to myself, "But
that's all done. At least it usually is by this late in the
afternoon, Good grief! What to do? The urge is growing and has
to be reckoned with. I really have to go! What are my options?
The Sligo woods are two blocks away. I'll never make it, even
if I run. I don't have my bike for a quick sprint to home. I'm
too embarrassed to ask Mr. Gruver to use his bathroom even
though he is closest and I just tossed his paper onto his
porch."
Cold sweat is forming on my forehead. I am
panicking, thinking,"No bushes are close by. What if
someone drives by and sees me? I'm afraid Calophen is going to
have the last word here. Nothing like this has ever happened
before." I can only stand still, staring straight ahead
into the gathering sunset clouds. Nothing more is to be said or
thought. Only the strange feelings of how Calophen is radically
changing my day,
There is a warm rush down my right leg, spilling over
into my boots. After the surge I pull up my pants leg to see the
steam coming up from the befouled carrots on the snow. All I can
think next is, "My parents are going to kill me."
I have to get my thoughts together. "Now
what do I do? I can't go home. It's too far. It'll be dark
before I can get back here. I still have half of my route to
deliver, up and down Live Oak and Red Oak Drives. I can't
explain this to anybody. I have to keep going."
I forge ahead as fast as I can with the
squishing in my right boot, hoping to keep Calophen's foul
fragrances behind me, with the bag of papers on the sled, and
hoping I won't meet anyone along the way. I keep thinking, "What
a mess! How can I deal with it and clean up and cover up the
whole affair?"
Fortunately, I meet no one along the rest of my paper
route as I half jog, half hop, between the houses, and on the
road to home. Upon arriving, I am relieved to see the garage
door open and the family car gone. No lights are on. No one is
home. I have to move quickly. I don't know how soon they will
return. I prop my sled against the porch post and hang my paper
bag on a nail on the cellar stairs. I turn on the lights and
rush to the wash tubs in the basement.
Frantically I stick the plugs in the drain holes on both
sides of the tub. I turn the hot water on full blast on one
side. I dump in the laundry detergent and swish it into a thick
foam. While the tub is filling, I pull off my boots, pants,
underwear and socks.
Yuk! I dunk them into the foaming suds and rub them over
the ribbed washboard as best I can. I do the same with my
underwear and socks in the other side of the tub. The water is
really hot. I leave everything to soak while I run upstairs to
clean my body, keeping an eye out for any lights coming in the
driveway.
I turn on the bathroom shower, even though there is no
shower curtain, because we only used the tub to bathe. But I
don't want to wait for the tub to get full enough to wash, and I
don't want to sit in the dirty water. So, the shower water
sprays onto the bathroom floor. "Too bad," I thought,
"I'll take care of that later if I have the chance." I
grab the red bar of Lifebuoy soap and run it over and over my
right leg and foot. Then I use the washcloth to finish that side
of me. I don't have time to do the rest of my body. That will
have to come later with my regular Saturday night bath. I dry
off as quickly as I can and run the towel over the watery mess
on the bathroom floor. I run to my room and grab clean pants and
shoes. There is no time for underwear and socks.
I then charge down the three flights of stairs two and
three at a time while holding and sliding with the bannister. I
scrub the clothes again as best I can. I run fresh hot water
into the tubs. A few more rinsing swishes and then I crank the
clothes through the hand wringer mounted on the centre of the
sink.
I am perspiring profusely as I listen for my parents' car
in the driveway. I know I can't hang the clothes on the winter
clothes lines crisscrossing the basement ceiling without drawing
attention to what has happened. So I drain the tubs, look
feverishly around for anything I might have overlooked, and then
race up the stairs again, two at a time, to my bedroom. I
quickly hang the corduroy trousers on a hanger in the rear of my
closet, hidden behind other clothes. I tuck the underwear,
socks, and shoes behind the radiator for a quicker dry.
As I see the flickering shadows from the headlights of my
parents car going into the garage, I do another quick wipe of
the bathroom floor and run a comb through my hair.
I do my best to sound casual when my mother
comes through the side door exclaiming, "Paul, we're home."
I reply, "Hi. I'll be down in a minute. Where
have you all been?"
She calls up the stairs, "We were just over
visiting Aunt Margaret. You know she's still getting over her
operation. We thought we might see you on your paper route from
her place on Dale Drive."
I called back, "No, well I got through my
paper route a little sooner than I had expected. I've been home
awhile."
"Phew," I think I've pulled it off. I'll check
the cellar after supper to see if I missed any telltale
signs." I have supper. We clean up. We play a round of
Chinese checkers. I take my usual Saturday night bath, with a
bit more scrubbing and soap than usual. Next Friday I will
confront Calephon once again, maybe a little wiser.
I have escaped shame and embarrassment. It has been a
solitary event. Never before. Never after. The secret remains
mine alone, until now. I never tell family, friends or
therapists about it. The only creatures in the know are my pet
black and white goats, Elmer and Elsie. I usually tell them
everything. I know it will go no further. There will be no
ridicule or judgement from them. They always just listen
intently, as they munch on their oats and corn, looking me right
in the eye, and licking my ear every once in a while. So, for
seventy years Calophen's Consequence has been locked in my bank
of memories, now revealed, for the sake of a smile.
ELMER
AND ELSIE
Goats are not to be seen in Woodside Park. It
is a cozy subdivision nestled outside of Washington, D.C. You
can find lots of the usual pets like dogs and cats. I have tried
having dogs. None has worked out. One had suffered from long
term mange and required regular applications of a very pungent
and purple medicine. One had to be put down because of
distemper. One was killed by a car. Another bit the mailman. Two
just ran away.
So my parents think we might try goats. Black
and white, Toggenburg, twin baby goats. New possibilities
emerge. Goats might just prove to be very interesting and
lovable. They come to serve many useful functions for me at my
sensitive age of twelve. We name them Elmer and Elsie.
They are playful. We find that out on the
Sunday morning after they had arrive. They are in their fenced
pen in the backyard. Our family is at the breakfast table,
excitedly talking about the new members of our family outside.
In between bites, we all pause at the repeated sound of
"shwock", pause, "shwock", coming from the yard. We gather at
the window to see Elmer and Elsie, rearing up on their hind legs
and then slamming down to knock their heads together right where
their horns would grow. Our first thought is that they were
fighting.
I say, "I can put Elmer in the stall in the
garage and leave Elsie outside." They continue to rear back,
slam down, rear back, slam down, with a loud "shwock" each time.
It goes on for about fifteen minutes. Then they just stop, sniff
each other, and start munching on the vegetables in the bucket
we have left for them. It turns out that they go through this
routine frequently. It also turns out that this is a very
natural and playful way of being together. No fighting. Just
fun. Knocking their heads together and enjoying it.
Elmer and Elsie do more than play. As their
primary caregiver I soon realize their significant role in my
soon-to-be teenager life. They became listener, confidant, and
friend. When I come home after a hard day of trying to be "cool"
at school, I seek out Elmer and Elsie in their garage stall at
the back of our garage. I freshen their water bucket and pour a
mix of corn and oats into their food pail. They are eager to eat
and drink of course. But they also have time to listen to my
tales of woe and wishing. I know they are listening intently
because every time they lift their heads from the food bucket,
they look straight at me —as they continue to chew. I feel that
they surely understand me as I pull their heads close to mine. I
am talking. They are munching. I absorb that aromatic mix of
crunched corn, goat saliva, barnyard breath, and the not too
distant fragrance of slightly befouled straw under their hooves.
How sweet they are. On occasion, they lick my ear as if they can
hear my every thought. I know I can say whatever is on my mind
and in my heart. They will never betray my confidence. True
friends. Just what I need at age twelve.
I share Elmer and Elsie with the
neighborhood. They function well as grounds keepers for our ball
field. They receive the gratitude and adulation of my buddies.
Before leaving for school I chain Elmer and Elsie to a heavy
plank that I have dragged into the field of weeds behind my
home. Upon returning from school all the kids are delighted to
see two wide swaths of meticulously cut grass. Within a couple
of days of this process, Elmer and Elsie have prepared a
perfectly manicured ball field for us to play on. It is a win,
win. We get a lovely place to play, and they get a belly full of
healthy weeds and grass, plus some extra treats from the gang.
Elmer and Elsie were are quite mellow as they lay next to the
ball field watching us play. They re-live \their day's harvest
as they belch and chew their cud.
Elmer and Elsie also are the cause of my
learning some new vocabulary. There is one time when I have left
them chained to the plank in the field to take care of their
grass cutting chores. I was off playing at Mrs. Button's house
with her children and the gang. Mrs. Button called to me in the
backyard, exclaiming that my mother had just phoned. I must come
home as quickly as possible because the goats are bleeding and
need my help. I frantically jump on my bike and speed home with
visions of my pet goats dying in a pool of blood.
My mother points me up to the field where I
had left them. What I find is not a pool of blood from their
bleeding but their heads wrapped with their chains and holding
them tightly to the plank. They are down on their knees, pulling
desperately to free themselves. They have, over the course of
the afternoon, moved around and around in ever smaller circles,
and they never look up from chewing the grass. The chain catches
under the plank and keeps getting shorter and shorter until they
cannot move, and they panic. As I find out from my mother, their
frenzied bellows for help is called 'bleating'---not 'bleeding.'
It is a little piece of learning that stays with me.
In my early days with Elmer and Elsie I have
expectations that I can hook them up to the front of my
child sized covered wagon. They can prance me around the
neighborhood. I can do some real cowboy and Indian stuff. The
wagon has an authentic look with its canvas cover, and even a
yoke I can attach to the goats. With no preparation or
training,
I am using only my imagination to guide me.
Elsie is a bit more dainty and feminine. Elmer is stronger and
more aggressive. I tie Elmer into the yoke and begin to lead him
around, with the plan that once I get him going I'll jump into
the driver's seat and we'll be off on our first ride---just the
way they do it in the movies. Not so. Elmer spooks once he is
tied in and hears the wheels of the wagon clattering and banging
on the gravel behind him. His eyes bulge. His tongue turns
purple. He lurches. He is scared and not to be comforted. He
never gets near that thing again. My covered wagon dreams are
history.
There are other uneducated plans for Elmer
and Elsie. I have thought that they could help out with the
wartime food shortages by providing us with milk and cheese. My
father never enlightens me on the finer points of animal
husbandry. I never know it is unlikely for twins to produce
offspring. I never know that the only way to get milk from Elsie
isfor her to have a baby goat first. I never know what having
Elmer castrated is all about, other than making him whimper for
a week.
On a parting positive note, Elmer and Elsie
gives us a regular and plentiful supply of fertilizer for our
vegetable garden after my brother or I cleanse their stall every
week. They make me feel proud and unique when I put them on a
leash to join my friends as we walk our pets around the
neighborhood. I notice the neighbor's heads turn as they make
some humorous asides about the pet parade passing by.
The signal for Elmer and Elsie to exit my
life comes one afternoon as my mother is transferring them from
the garage stall to the yard pen. She has hold of them by their
collars. Elmer, now two years old, and grown quite strong,
lurches around a corner with my mother still holding on and
trying to regain control. He is too powerful for her. She falls
and is dragged across the yard before she can free herself.
The word at dinner from my mother is: "This
is it. The goats have to go."
We find a new home for them on the Lindsey's
farm. It is a sad day for me. Old friends separate. Two years
done. But I don't know how much of the sadness is shared by
Elmer and Elsie. One day on a visit to the Lindsey's I see them
happily grazing and then gazing contentedly at the green meadow
that awaited their attentions, once they complete their
immediate session of cud chewing.
Elmer and Elsie became a very special chapter
in my life's book. My life is richly expanded and enlivened
because of our friendship.
SMILE
SOURCE
It brings a smile. My first date. Yours
probably does as well. Awkwardness. Embarrassment. Outside the
comfort zone. Emotional turbulence. Hormones. Tongue tied. There
is some good stuff too. A marker moment. A passage. A silent
sense of pride for having taken enough initiative to overcome
the obstacles. New horizons.
All of this is here for me. Joan Membert and
I have grown up together in Woodside Park. This means we have
shared the birthday parties through the years, as well as the
informal gatherings for hide and seek, or Monopoly, or Simon
Says, on a summer's eve with the lightning bugs to chase. We
create a little drama and circus to perform in Thompson's
basement for the neighborhood parents. We go on hikes and
picnics with the twenty other kids our age in our neighborhood.
We have our bike posse racing over the gravel roads and dirt
mounds of the new houses. We practice our pianos to get ready
for Mrs. Thompson's big recitals. We walk to school and play
baseball and football and ping pong and badminton. We are loving
it.
There comes a time when something inside of
me is saying that I should be making some moves toward being an
adult, which, being translated, means I should be having a date.
I am in the seventh grade. Some say it is early for a date. I am
not deterred. Joan and I have been pals for years. She helps me
deliver the Evening Star newspaper almost every day. She is in
the sixth grade. She can run faster than I. She is two inches
taller than I. This gives me pause in the date asking phase. But
I have to deal with my shortness at every other turn as well.
So, I think about the possibility of asking my bike buddy for a
movie date. I think about it a lot. I talk to my male buddies
about it a lot. Finally, the thinking and the talking about it
move me to action.
With adolescent verve and juices flowing, I
do the proper thing. One day, after we have delivered the
papers, I go home, and I call her on the phone. I politely
invite her to go with me to the Silver Theater Saturday
afternoon. She also changes persona for the phone conversation
and politely accepts.
Early that next Saturday afternoon, she helps
me, as usual, in my newspaper deliveries. We are careening
around on our bikes in this process, talking and joking
incessantly, as is our custom. When the deliveries are over, we
both go home to get ready for our official first date together.
Somehow, the carefree is replaced with
nervousness and angst. I get myself 'gussied up' for the
occasion. Shower, hair slicked down with Brylcreem, starched
shirt, freshly shined shoes.
I leave my racing bike with the curved
handlebars and big wire basket for the newspapers, in the
garage. I walk the two blocks to her cozy white, and neatly
landscaped home. Going up the driveway, I am met by Bonnie, the
Membert's black cocker spaniel, who knows me well. She spends
extra time sniffing and checking me out, sensing that something
is different.
I properly knock on Joan's front door. Her
mother answers, with her huge smile, and welcomes me into the
living room where Joan's grandmother and other bridge playing
friends are sitting at their card tables. They all turn and give
me their best 'isn't he cute' smiles and hello's. My face, now
crimson, attempts a return smile. I enter into the nervous small
talk as best I can until Joan shows up. This is one piece of the
first date experience I have not anticipated. It seems to last a
very long time.
Joan finally appears, also 'gussied up'. Her
hair is properly curled. Her dress is starched and shoes are
shiny. The ladies all turn their 'isn't she cute' attentions to
Joan. I can relax ever so slightly. I'm not prepared for what is
needed for an exit move from this well-meant gushing from the
ladies. Fortunately, Joan's mother has sensitivity to what we
might be feeling.
She graciously moved us toward the door with,
"I know you don't want to be late for the afternoon movie at the
Silver, so you'd better get a move on. Have a good time. We'll
see you when you get back."
A flash of panic momentarily penetrated my
brain, "Not if I can help it. Enough of 'aren't they cute.' "
We are the same kids who minutes before have
been wheeling up and down Highland Drive, Pinecrest Circle,
Crosby Road, and the rest. But now we are different. For the
moment at least, there is a shift taking place, a marker being
laid, a passage being made. I'm not remembering exactly what I
say. I only know that I am out of my comfort zone, and whatever
comes out is probably stupid or inappropriate. Joan's family and
guests smilingly absorb my awkwardness and accept these signs of
change with their 'aren't they cute' smiles and well wishes.
Joan and I start the walk to the bus stop at
Highland Drive and Georgia Avenue. We are trying to cope with
this newness in our relationship with small talk that doesn't
seem to fit. Things like, "It's a lot hotter than it was
earlier." Or, "I hope the bus is on time and not too full." Or,
"Have you ever seen the Marx Brothers in a movie before?"
It will be so much easier when we are back on
our bikes and in other clothes. But we persevere. This is the
way dating adults seem to do it. We ride the bus the mile to
downtown Silver Spring, watch the Marx Brothers movie, with
popcorn, to keep our hands occupied.
After the movie we walk to the soda fountain
at People's Drugstore for a chocolate milkshake. I feel some
accomplishment at having earned enough money from my newspaper
route to afford these amenities. We catch the bus back to
Highland Drive, with its stone gate shelter inviting us to walk
under the arched pink and white dogwoods, framed by the bright
orange, pink, and fuchsia azalea borders on the way back to her
home. It all has unidentified romantic overtones for us
youngsters.
Joan's parents are waiting at their front
door with more 'aren't they cute' smiles. She says to me, a
proper, "Thank you. I had a nice time."
I say properly, "You're welcome. Me too."
I go home, take off my date clothes, put on
my play clothes, and ponder just a bit about what has happened.
Then I get my bike out of the garage, race up to Joan's house.
She mounts her bike. We both join the neighborhood gang. The
summer evening is spent in the usual fashion with our bike
posse, racing, laughing, and yacking about all sorts of things,
very much at ease again in our comfort zones of Woodside Park.
Joan and I date hundreds of times, off and
on, over the junior and senior high school years. There is also
lots of dating with others in our neighborhood group as well.
But this first date is the one that most quickly brings the
smiles.
WALLFLOWERS ANONYMOUS
I am short and shy at thirteen. Grade eight
is coming up in September of 1945 at Montgomery Hills Junior
High School, in Silver Spring, Maryland. As a part of the
socialization efforts of the school, Miss Nixon, the music
teacher, and Mr. Hitchcock, the vice principal, gather students
for an afternoon dance once a month. The dances are a catalyst
for the blossoming emotions, stirring and mixing them with the
untested fantasies and hormones of young teens.
I am no exception. Since grade four I have
been admiring and dreaming about married life possibilities with
several lovelies...Patricia Crabtree, Luanne Johnson, Joan
Membert, Liz Cave, and lots of others in between, who pass my
mother's frequent admonition to me to "make sure you marry
someone of good stock."
However, I am shorter that all of them, and
wondering if I will ever grow. So I never venture far beyond
polite conversational exchanges with any of them, stifling any
evidence of my dreams or wishes or fantasies.
I watch them all at the monthly dance, where,
with the other boys---taller boys--outgoing boys-- laughing
boys--, they are be cavorting and tripping the light fantastic
around the dance floor.
Embarrassed, I am glued to the wall with my
hands in my pockets, head down, some half smiles, with frequent
glances to the dance floor, trying to give some semblance of
being "cool" along with the other wallflowers. There are the
weak jokes, with maybe a little kick or shove thrown in.
Then I feel the blood rush to my face when
Miss Nixon tries to peel us from the wall with her cajoling to
"get out there on the floor and dance with the girls!" In
silence I shout back, "BUT I DON'T HOW TO DANCE THE WAY THEY
DO, AND I AM TOO SHORT AND TOO SHY!"
Of course I want to get out there with Pat,
Luanne, Joan and Liz, and the rest of them, with bodies
touching, gliding around the dance floor, BUT, at that moment,
what I want more, is a hole in the floor into which I can
disappear, or at least a way to ease myself out into the hall.
That's the way it goes for all of the monthly
dances of the seventh grade! (Moan) As the new summer begins, I
think, "Good grief, I have two more years of these scheduled
junior high dances NOT to look forward to. And, perish the
thought, three years of high school dances, and then four more
years of college dances. What a dismal prospect! If I don't
grow, if I don't learn how to make conversation comfortably,
IF I DON'T LEARN TO DANCE...I might as well become a hermit,
or just hang it all up. Something has to change!"
My teenage analysis goes like this:
1. I can't do much about growing up
physically, except to believe my parents' assurances that it
would happen sooner or later. (Probably later for me!)
2. I can follow up on an advertisement in a
comic book which heralds a product, The Art of Conversation,
as the road to social ease. (Maybe I'm not the only one feeling
that way after all.) I order it. The ten red booklets arrive the
first of July.
3. Then an ad in the Sunday Star classified
section catches my eye:
"Don Martini Dance Studio - Special this
summer. Ten dance lessons for $10. Learn the fox trot and
jitterbug. Be a wallflower no longer."
I show the ad to my neighbor friend Derby
Sussman - also short, also shy, and also thirteen. We agree to
try it. We phone. For ten Saturday afternoons in the summer of
1945 we make the trek from Silver Spring to Don Martini's Dance
Studio on Connecticut Avenue in Washington, D.C. It is an hour's
bus trip each way with three transfers. We are creating our
future.
On our first visit for the lesson, we meet
Ginny, our attractive instructor. She wears very high heels, a
tight black dress, lots of makeup and perfume, and her black
hair is in a tight bun at the back of her head. Anticipation,
excitement, and wonderment is heightened when she puts my hand,
arms, and legs in place for the first instruction, AND my short
frame positioned my bulging eyes to stare straight into her
generous bosom. I think I had on a bright red shirt that day. It
matched the crimson of my hot, flushed face.
We begin the dance lesson in spite of the
distraction. She has me look at and follow her feet...her FEET.
(Whew, that helps!) We then move together as we practice the
first of the twenty dance steps I am to learn. Ten foxtrot. Ten
jitterbug. I practice them with diligence this summer. My life
is changing, starting with lesson number one, "The Right Waltz
Turn" step. Derby and I alternate learning each new step with
"Buxom Ginny". "Sleepy Time Gal" is the tune for jitterbug
lessons.
At the end of the ten-week dance course, and
with my practicing, my confidence is blossoming. It is even
competing in attention with what confronts my eyes when facing
"Buxom Ginny" every Saturday at 2:00 p.m.
Along with digesting the instructions offered
in The Art of Conversation booklets, my dance lessons
ready me for September, and the beginning of grade eight. The
first school dance is announced to be at the end of September.
I eagerly anticipate the opportunity to
demonstrate that I am catching up and qualifying to be among
those who have the smarts to be at ease on the dance floor. A
wallflower no more! Hallelujah! Miss Nixon doesn't have to say
another word to pry me loose from the sidelines.
TO MY SURPRISE, and hidden delight, as I
dance with girl after girl, and observe more closely the moves
of the other boys, who in earlier days seemed so cool and
superior, I realize that NO ONE ELSE KNOWS HOW TO DANCE!!
At least they don't know any of the steps I
have learned. All along they have just been rocking back and
forth in the "pumping for oil" motion, shuffling as best they
can, and enjoying it. There I am, with my new "right waltz
turns" and "double dips" and "roll ups" and seventeen other
"cool" steps. I learn to lead the girls with a nudge here or a
twist here and there, encouraging them "Not to worry, we'll get
it better next time." In quiet times, away from the dance floor,
you can even find me encouraging some of the guys and coaching
them on what an actual dance step looks like.
I feel like I have grown about twelve inches
this summer. This caterpillar has morphed into a butterfly.
After that, there are two more years of the monthly junior high
school dances, three years of high school dances, four years of
college dances, and sixty plus years of enjoyment on the dance
floor, using those same twenty fox trot and jitterbug steps. In
the summer of 1945 I join Wallflowers Anonymous. Thank you,
Ginny!
A
PIANO RECITAL
Recital day is finally here. Evelyn
Thompson's fourteen Woodside Park students are seated in order,
two by two on the carpeted stairs leading up from her crowded
living room. It includes two grand pianos and a large Hammond
organ, leaving space for only one needlepointed wing chair in
the corner. A massive 7' x 9' spotlighted painting of a forest
covers the wall over a fireplace.
Mrs. Thompson sits in the chair and announces
the recital pieces. The forty-some parents and friends are
packed together into the screened side porch off the living room
and then into the entrance way, hallways, and dining room.
It is 4:00 p.m. on a warm September Saturday
afternoon. Windows and doors are all propped open, allowing a
welcome breeze. Mrs. Thompson greets everyone with her ready wit
and charm. All is then hushed as the students and parents settle
in for the next hour or so of piano renditions from the
assembled assortment of aspiring musicians. It is a time of
ordeal or opportunity for both students and guests, depending on
their perspective at a given moment.
The engraved program shows James Seltzer, the
oldest of the young pianists, to be the first recitalist,
playing Brahm's Waltz in A Flat. Gentle smiles and eyes
are upon him as he makes his way from the lowest stair to the
piano bench with no turns of his head or eyes. He sits. He pulls
the piano bench forward a couple of inches. He clears his
throat. He cracks his knuckles. He rubs his hands up and down
his trousers. He stares at the Steinway keyboard. His hands are
raised. Is this little preparatory ritual telling us something?
He makes his first move with his second
right-hand finger in proper hammer-like formation. He strikes
the "G" firmly. Just one note. There is a momentary pregnant
silence that seems like an hour to most of us. James keeps his
head down, staring at the keyboard. A crimson hue ascends from
his neck to flush his face.
No doubt his brain is shouting a mix of
messages through his body: "Wrong note!! You just played the
wrong note! Brahms Waltz in A Flat does not
begin on 'G'. You idiot! You have been practicing this piece
for three months. It has never started with a 'G'. What are
you going to do about it? Whatever it is, it had better be
quick."
The tide of crimson countenances is
spreading. First is Mrs. Thompson. Then the gathered guests.
Then the other students from their stairway perches. All
awkward. Embarrassing. Everyone's sympathetic mechanisms are
engaged. In that millisecond, thoughts are racing within them: "Is
this the first of many more goofs to fill the afternoon?" "Has
he practiced enough?" "He must feel awful." "Poor dear." "I
know how his parents must be feeling." "Should I say or do
something?"
And from the stairs: "Is this how it
might be for me too?" "What is my first note?" "What if I mess
up? What then?"
Finally, James looks up, and slowly turns his
head to the right. He announces, with a wry, red-faced smile,
"That was the wrong note. This is the right note." With relieved
giggles echoing from the stairs, and smiles from Mrs. Thompson
and the gathered parents, James starts with a "C" this time. He
proceeds as practiced through the waltz, with flaws that only
Brahms would notice. At its conclusion he is roundly applauded
not only for his commendable performance, but also for his
bravado in responding to the initial wrong note. With aplomb he
has quickly rallied his resources and smoothed the mistake with
a smile, to help everyone move on.
This is how the recital day begins. Fears
have been triggered. Sweaty palms are evident among the
remaining thirteen performers. Our starched shirts and skirts,
and scrubbed fragrances still dominate appearances in the stair
gallery.
Each of us has our unique family history and
baggage that brings us to this place and time. For me it has
been from my beginning a daily bathing in music of every sort
and source. Parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, friends,
neighbors, all embracing me with their inspiration and
aspiration toward choruses, choirs, solos, duets, bands,
ensembles, and instruments. Music is everywhere to listen to and
to experiment with.
The Thompson household is one more happy
example of music's abundant place in my life. They live directly
behind us at 9111 Crosby Road. As professionally trained
musicians they offer us daily reminders of their gifts with
solos and duets lofting through their windows to the whole
neighborhood. Mr. Thompson has a brilliant tenor voice and his
solos, combined with the sing-alongs at their frequent parties,
add to my family's enjoyment. All of which is enough to move me
to forego some afternoons of football and baseball in favor of
the laborious repetitions of the scales, Hanon exercises,
arpeggios and the rest needed to memorize each classical piece
measure by measure, line by line, page by page.
During eighth grade summer, Mrs. Thompson
somehow cons some of us students to compete for how many hours
we can practice each day.
We often check in with each other, "How long
did you practice today?"
"Two hours? I beat you. I did two and a
half."
Of course, we experience the level of
improvement that accelerated discipline produces.
I can only imagine what giving a piano lesson
is like for her.. She has to be very motivated to inspire us as
she listens day after day to her struggling students. We try to
plunk out the first notes of a new piece three months before the
recital.
I can hear her repeat: "That's it. That's the
right note. Good. Now, the left hand. Keep your fingers in the
hammer position. Concentrate. Let's try that again. Use your
third finger on that one, and cross under with your thumb the
way you do it when you practice the scales. Good. Now let's move
onto the next line and try to read it. Take it slowly. Remember
the F A C E is for the spaces and the E G B D F is for the
lines. Here, let me write out the fingering for you. Now, let's
try it again."
So it goes, over and over again, lesson after
lesson. Such is the scene. She sits beside me on her piano
bench, sharpened pencil in hand. Her rotund body is well
corseted. She frequently inserts her encouragements and humor.
'Buffburger,' their cuddly family dog blend of spitz and cocker
spaniel, is parked on a carpet under the piano sounding board.
He chimes in with his howls during the lesson whenever the
sounds combine to move him. These are the weekly lessons leading
up to recital day.
Now is the recital day. It has had a shaky
start with my brother James'—"This is the wrong note. This is
the right note,"— experience. This triggers the adrenalin glands
in the rest of us to use all of our resources to get our notes
right the first time.
Mrs. Thompson and the parents are no doubt
wondering how will it be for their own: Judith Anderson,
Elizabeth Cave, Joan Membert, Ann Parker, Bert Johnson, John,
Bill, and Jim Thompson, Lillian Longley, Kathleen Tyrell, Katie
Brunstetter, Ryland Packet, and myself.
Not to worry. We all make it through without
incident, including my rendering of Edvard Grieg's, To
Spring, and a simplified version of his Concerto in A
Minor . None of us performs perfectly, but we're all
passable, and we enjoy the polite parental applause.
Finally, comes the musical desserts from the
masters among us. We can all relax, enjoy, and be inspired. Mrs.
Thompson wows us with her rendition of Defalla's Ritual Fire
Dance. Then Mr. Thompson's tenor solo lifts our
spirits with Malotte's Lord's Prayer.
Glen and Ruth Carow, professionals
Mrs.Thompson brings in from Washington, D.C., move us to
amazement with their piano duet of Tchaikovsky's Second
Piano Concerto. What a treat! The dual Steinway's are
awakened to a brilliant level. It seems that the Carow's do it
still. They employ all the keys through all the varieties of
runs, arpeggios, ten fingered chordings. Their duets interplay
the loud, soft, and sustaining pedals, four hands, twenty
fingers, pianissimos, and sforzandos. Some passages are slow and
blissful. Others are ripping like a storm with the Carow's hands
moving so fast they appear only as a blur. Beads of perspiration
trickle from their foreheads. Their four eyes are intensely
focused and darting their attention from right hand to left
hand.. Their bodies rise up and down on the piano benches for
emphatic passages. We are all engrossed, wide eyed, with jaw
dropping awe. We wonder inside, "Can I ever be like that?"
Recital day is capped with the delights of a
pineapple punch, tea sandwiches, and assorted cakes. All of us
students are lathered up with the congratulations of the adults.
The prior two-hour crisis of nerves is quickly forgotten.
This recital day joins dozens of others that
follow it over the years. The rewards of all the practice,
discipline, and mistakes are mixed with the resulting habits,
vibrant rhythms, and melodious harmonies to provide a cumulative
musical legacy. This legacy is ever close at hand to delight and
lift the human spirit, especially mine.
DEMON
DEALING
The signs read:
"See Yourself in Woodside Park
A Brand New
Concept in Suburban Living
Silver
Spring, Maryland
(A
Restricted Community)"
A planned housing subdivision is a new idea
in 1928. All the roads, sewer, water, and electric services are
already in place. The buyer has only to pick out his favorite
lot, and get approval for his house plans from Mr. Hopkins, the
developer. It tickles the fancy of folks wanting to move out of
the downtown crunch of row houses in nearby Washington, D.C. In
the months of free flowing cash prior to the economic crash of
1929 it is easy to get the dream machines engaged for building a
new home in the midst of the apple orchards and barley crested
fields of Silver Spring. There are already pansied gardens and
sheltered stone entrances to the main roads of Highland Drive,
Noyes Drive, and Woodside Parkway, lined with arches of dogwoods
and azaleas.
The 'demon dealing' initially finds fertile
ground in the last line of the advertisement:
"A Restricted Community". It triggers the
lower human instincts of separateness, prestige, and fear.
Translated, it means that the real estate salesmen on hand for
the Woodside Park development would tactfully reject anyone who
was not a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant. W.A.S.P. for short.
Blacks, Jews, or Catholics cannot be a part of Woodside Park.
The word is clear from the developer: "Keep
your eyes and ears open. Be discreet and polite, but firm and
definitive, they will not be allowed to live here."
My parents qualify. They buy and build on a
quarter acre plot at #4 Pinecrest Circle in 1928. My father, an
architect with the U.S. government, has won an award from
Architecture Magazine for his design of an English Tudor
cottage. It quickly becomes his dream home.
I am born into this home, and this
"restricted" neighborhood in 1932, unaware of the invisible
demons at work. It is just the way things are. No one questions
it, as far as I know. I grow up not knowing any blacks, or
"coloreds" as my relatives call them. Excepting Marie, the
Thompson neighbor's black domestic, who comes and goes every day
from her home in "Monkey Hollow", two miles out Georgia Avenue.
No Catholics and no Jews. There are two
exceptions that somehow slip past the watchful eyes of the
salesmen. There are the Catholics, Ronnie McDevitt and his mom,
on Dale Drive, and the Jews, Derbie Sussman, his brother Arnie,
and their parents who live in the enormous gray stone house
sitting diagonally at the corner of Crosby Road and Woodside
Parkway. Both families are generally accepted by the neighbors,
as far as I know. Although, the handles of "the Catholics" or
"the Jews" are often included with the mention of their names in
conversations. Ronnie, Derbie, and Arnie fit in with our
neighborhood posse of twenty kids as we tear around the gravel
roads and dirt paths on our bikes and have softball games on the
vacant lots. We fill our playful days together.
The demon surfaces each time Ronnie visits my
home. We play with the array of 'tootsie toys' on the living
room rug. After Ronnie leaves to go home, my mother cautions me
to count my tootsie toys to see if any are missing after
Ronnie's visit.
She says, "He seems a nice enough boy. He
laughs, and is polite, and you have a good time together, but
you know, he IS a Catholic. I think you'd be smart to see if the
cars and trucks are all there."
I listen to my mother, but with my boyish
furrowed brow reveal the confusion cast by this shadow on my
good friend and playmate. "Why would he do something like
that?" I wonder, along with the other unformed questions,
like, "Are Catholics told to steal by their priests or
parents?" "Is there some mysterious evil lurking inside of
them?" "Are they real people?" But the questions are
tucked away for another time, in favor of enjoying a friend and
playtime.
The "restricted neighborhood" demon also
shows up with my Jewish friends, Derbie and Arnie Sussman. With
them, it is not "better count your toys when they leave" advice
from parents, or other WASP neighbors. It is offhanded slurs
about Jews being loud and pushy money grabbers. Their big stone
house on the corner is more pretentious than any other, with its
three garages, spiral staircases, circular driveway, and an
excess of large rooms.
Remarks are dropped in front of us kids,
like, "You do wonder where he gets all the money to build a
house like that. We don't even know what kind of job he has,
other than he says he's in real estate. He's away most of the
time. You could fit three of our houses inside his. It is really
out of place. But that's how THEY are." These comments are also
stored away for another time in favor of playtime and
friendships.
But all that which has been insulated in the
psyche is bound to surface again. It can't stay simple.
Complications occur for me one warm fall
afternoon on my way home after delivering The Evening Star
newspaper to my 45 customers. Coasting down the Dale Drive hill
with my large bike basket now empty of papers, and enjoying the
free cooling breeze on my sweaty cheeks, I spot Ronnie with his
red wagon at the bottom of the hill. He has finished his paper
delivery route for The Shopping News, a free weekly distribution
of 150 copies. Ronnie is looking up from the storm drain culvert
that runs under Dale Drive. I drop my bike on the gravel
shoulder and skid down the embankment on my heels so I can talk
with Ronnie.
When I reach the bottom I look over to where
Ronnie is standing. Beside and behind Ronnie are stacks of old
Shopping Newspapers. The sopping piles back up into the smelly,
wet culvert. I am trying to take it all in. What am I
seeing?
"What's happening, man? What's all this?" I
ask, as my eyes try to connect with my brain. Ronnie, is
embarrassed by my unexpected appearance on the scene, and my
quizzical look.
He sits down in the red wagon and tries to
help us both figure it all out by saying, "Yeah, I know, I know,
it's a mess."
l plop down on the driest stack of Shopping
News across from Ronnie, and plead, "What are you doing,
anyway?"
Ronnie twists his baseball cap in his hands
as he explains, "Nobody knows. Nobody has found out. Nobody sees
this mess from the road. The paper is free, so nobody misses it,
or is getting ripped off. Man, 150 papers is just too much. Even
though it's only once a week, it takes me almost three hours to
deliver all of them, so for the last month I only delivered half
of them and I dumped the other half down here. Nobody complains
if they don't get it, so my manager doesn't know either."
"Geez, Ronnie!" I exclaim as I stare at a
month's worth of non-deliveries in the culvert and try to
process the whole scene. I'm comparing own situation of having
to deliver The Star seven days a week...of course my
customers are all paying and expecting their paper...they
would let me and my manager know if they didn't get their
papers...and I am making some money at it...so dropping half
of my papers in the drain is not an option for me...but even
if it was?.
"Wow", is about all I can muster for a
response and then I clamber up the bank crunching through the
fallen red and yellow leaves, where I picked up my bike and
pushed off for the pensive ride home.
Some of those hidden questions about
Catholics pop into my head. Had my mother been right? Was
Ronnie doing this because he was Catholic? Cheating? Stealing?
Bending the truth? Lazy? Dishonest? Doing whatever he wants as
long as he doesn't get caught? My mind is churning.
Ronnie's undelivered papers are feeding the old suspicions. It
will be harder after that to stifle those uncomfortable
wonderings.
Next are the Sussman's. There are the demons
of the Jewish stereotypes and prejudices about them.
It is a summer night in 1943 when the world
is at war. In the United States practically everything is
rationed, or just not available at all. The Woodside kids are in
our nighttime game mode of hiding and seeking. I have partnered
with Johnny Thompson. We run behind the Sussman's house to hide.
We position ourselves next to the partially open back garage
door of the Sussman's house. The garage lights are ablaze. While
waiting to be found, we glance into the garage. There are no
cars. There are new refrigerators. Lots of new refrigerators,
filling the garage. It is at a time when no one can buy a new
refrigerator. Johnny and I know this. Strict rationing rules and
their effects, are often the centerpiece of adult conversations
. We gasp, "How come the Sussman's have a
garage full of them?" "Blackmarket!," is our conclusion. We
don't know for sure what Derbie's dad does for a living.
Obviously, black-market dealings, and potentially big money, is
part of it. Our minds are spinning. Suspicions about the
stereotypes are being nourished. The thoughts are here. Are they
doing this because they're Jews? Greedy? Cheating? It will
be harder to put away these uncomfortable wonderings.
That is not quite the end of it. The
questions about stereotypes, prejudices, the superiority of
W.A.S. P.'s, and the inherent inferiority of Catholics and Jews
continue to rumble through my consciousness for years.
One day I see things differently.
I painfully recall when I, a W.A.S.P.
thoroughbred, at ten years old, have been cruising the aisles of
Murphy's 5&10 store and stop at the toy table. I eye an
appealing yellow dump truck. I have no money, but really like
that truck. Anybody around, I wonder? After a
quick glance around to get the 'all clear,' I slide my hand into
the glass section containing the truck. I pick up the truck, and
am about to deposit it in my coat pocket, when my one last rapid
scan around abruptly catches the stare of Mrs. Clement, my fifth
grade substitute teacher that day, at the end of the aisle. Her
piercing glare of 'gotcha' sends my insides churning. I drop the
truck back into its counter cube, turn my crimson face toward
the floor, and move like a rabbit out of the side door of the
store. She never mentions the incident. Neither do I. But it has
been deeply implanted in my brain. My lesson has been learned.
I remember that day in Murphy's 5&10 and
realize that I have my own human demon. This puts me right in
bed with the human demons that judge Ronnie McDevitt and the
Sussman's. I am a W.A.S.P. They are Catholics and Jews. Beyond
those labels we are humans. We are one, not separate. We are
connected by both the fears that lead to the greed, stealing,
and cheating, as well as the aspirations that can lead to higher
moral ground. Moses would have pointed the Sussman's beyond
their hoarding of refrigerators. St. Francis would have guided
Ronnie to deliver all of his Shopping News. Martin Luther would
have advised me to think about the store owner and to pay for
the yellow truck.
I never heard what Ronnie, Derbie, or Arnie
might have experienced or learned from those days. But it is a
life lesson for me. I realize who we all really are. The ground
is level. These demons can be let go.
TROMBONE
TRAILS
My trombone has been a frequent companion on
my life's journey. So many shaping relationships and events
include my trombone and its tunes. I have been primed for it by
being surrounded by music and musicians in my family and
neighborhood from birth. Seeds are sown early. My first
definitive move toward the trombone comes at age fifteen. New
notes are coming into my life.
When I reach the tenth grade at Montgomery
Blair High School in Silver Spring Md., the principal wants to
form a band. As a rural high school, he has just hired the first
music teacher, Mr. Messerole. He is eager to start a band and
sets about recruiting members. He approaches me with a specific
request to play trombone. I have no instrument. He says he can
get me a loaner from the county storehouse. I won't have to
shell out for one of my own until I am sure I want to stay with
it.
It is good timing. I talk it over with my
parents. I know I am too small to try out for football at high
school. There is excitement at Blair about having a band. A lot
of kids are talking about it. Our family orchestra can also use
a trombone. I say, "Yes." The first lessons will be from Mr.
Messerole.
Mr. Messerole has the loaner waiting for me
in time for the first practice the next week. I have visions of
a shiny brass version to show off and get started. This
expectation is quickly shattered. He hands me a battered black
case with a broken handle, scrapes, and mildew fuzz all over it.
I think, "Where has this been kept in the county storeroom?
Are all the instruments looking this bad?"
Somewhat crestfallen, I cautiously open the
latches and lift the lid. It gets worse. It reeks of a pungent
and penetrating odor which I later learn is camphor. I wonder, "Is
this some kind of special storage chemical? Yuk!"
Gazing at the trombone parts clamped to the
frayed velvet interior do not boost my spirits one bit. Instead
of a shiny golden brass metal, it is a dull and smudged silver
color. Already, second thoughts are churning in my heard, "Do
I even want to take this thing out of the case and hold it?
Who's going to envy me this contraption?"
The condition of the other instruments from
the storage unit is similar. Disappointment is palpable among us
new students. Mr. Messerole doesn't give us time to chew
on our negative impressions.
He quickly tells us how to release the pieces
from the case. He describes the slide's inner and outer sleeves
and movements, and how they attach to the bell section. Then he
tells us how and where to attach the mouthpiece. I'm thinking, "Do
I have to put that to my lips? Doesn't look clean to me. Who's
been playing it? I gotta at least wash it off."
He shows us how to hold the trombone in the
left hand, rest the shaft on our left shoulder, and use the
right arm to move the slide. "Yikes,' I say, "I can't even move
the slide. It's stuck." He helps to get it started. I keep
trying to make it move more easily. Someone must have used a
thick lubricant like Vaseline. In trying to move it back and
forth, it bangs the mouthpiece against my lips every time. He
says, "We'll have to get some proper oil for that slide and
clean that old stuff off. "
Mr. Messerole gives us our introductory
lesson on how to get sound out of the trombone. He says, "Purse
your lips like this, and make a buzzing sound like bee." We
practice this awhile and then put the mouthpiece to our lips.
Sure enough, a sound comes out…like a sick cow, or a tired car
horn. Not a pleasant sound, just a sound.
He then shows us how moving the slide out
from us changes the sound. He says, "Do that every three inches
until the slide is all the way out. It's seven different
positions and you get seven different notes. Then, by loosening
or tightening your lips at each of those seven positions you can
add five notes at each position. Just keep practicing that again
and again every day for half an hour. We'll get together next
week. Pretty soon we'll have a band!"
My parents are also underwhelmed by the sad
condition of my loaner trombone. My Dad says, "Let's try to get
it cleaned up a bit and set that case out in the sun to get rid
of the smell."
After two months of my using the loaner my
parents see that I am staying with it enough to warrant looking
into getting a brand-new one, with shiny brass this time. We
will split the cost. I have saved money from delivering
newspapers for four years. We are ready for the next stage of
beginning my trombone journey.
We go to our usual supplier of most
everything, Sears and Roebuck. Its catalogue is always handy.
Yes, they picture a lovely trombone. We order it. It arrives
three weeks later. How I anticipate this moment. No more camphor
odor. No more sluggish slides and swollen lips. No more shoe
polish to cover the blemishes on the case. My very own shiny
brass trombone in a case lined with red velvet.
I proudly remove the packaging and put the
slide and bell sections in place. We all say, "Isn't it lovely!"
We mingle our other comments: "You bet. It's great … Except.
Wait a second. Look at the shaft. That upper part of the bell
section. Look at it. It's bent! It's in such a prominent place
too. It's cockeyed. It must have been damaged in shipping. We
can't keep this. We'll have to send it back and have them send a
new one."
Disappointed, I go through the return
process. Sears doesn't respond to any of the details of my
return explanation. They are prompt in sending a replacement.
This buoys my spirits. NOW I can get a proper start on my
trombone trail. The family gathers around for this second
opening, sharing my enthusiasm. I pop the latches open. My eye
goes directly to the shaft of the bell section that had been
bent on the first one.
"Oh no," I yell, "They've done it again.
Look, this shaft is bent too! I wonder if they really sent me a
new one. Maybe they just re-sent the first one. I mean, how
likely is it that a second one would get damaged in exactly the
same place?"
We suspect that Sears and Roebuck had tried
to pull a fast one on us. Exasperated, my father says, "We will
not have any of it. We send this back, get our refund, and look
elsewhere. We'll go to a proper music store like Moss Music,
downtown D.C. They'll have them on display, and we can be sure
it isn't damaged, and get what we want...with no bent shafts."
It is returned to Sears.
The next Saturday afternoon my father and I
go to Moss Music at 13th and F Streets in downtown D.C. My
father says, 'Look, there in the window, three trombones are on
display, like I said. We'll probably have to pay more here than
at Sears, but at least it won't be damaged." I am pleased that
this part of my trombone journey is finally being accomplished.
But ... oops … a closer look at all three
trombones in the display window…they ALL have cockeyed shafts! A
question to the salesman inside exposes my ignorance. He tells
us, "All trombones have a little bend in the shaft. They are not
damaged. It's there for a reason. It accommodates the trombone
to the shape of the player's neck for his comfort."
Inwardly, I lament, "Those two that I
returned to Sears were fine after all. They hadn't pulled a
fast one on us. But if I can afford one of these I'm not going
through the aggravation of re-ordering from Sears." I buy
a Conn brand, Pan American Model trombone at Moss Music that
day. It has soft red velvet lining inside the brown speckled
case with a proper shiny brass bell, slide, and mouthpiece that
will last me through many relationships and life experiences for
twenty-five years. Those stories have yet to be told. Lessons
are learned. New notes in my life are forthcoming on my trombone
trail.
WATER
MUSIC
For most people "water music" conjures up
royal images of July 17, 1717 when King George 1 and friends are
lounging and partying on the cushioned thrones of the royal
barge. It is a calm summer evening on the River Thames. The
barge is festooned with gold and red fabrics and furnishings.
Flags displaying the royal seal are positioned at six-foot
intervals above the rowers around the gunnels, and flap gently
in the breeze. Flaming torches are secure between the flags, and
their glow casts flickering shadows on the King and his party.
They also bring into view the thousands of the King's subjects
lining the banks of the Thames, excitedly straining for a closer
look at him. There are the cheers, "Long live the King!" There
are parents prompting their children's attention with, "There he
is. There he is. See him? Right in the middle there, with the
bright red vest and gold chains. You can tell your friends that
you saw the King today!"
Close behind the royal barge is another
brightly decorated vessel. It also has the gold and the reds
with more flags and torches. This time the flames reveal the
Royal Symphony seated, in their formal attire, with their
instruments, ready to please the King. The music is grand. It is
majestic, and aptly named "Water Music."
The oars dip rhythmically in and out of the
water as the barges slowly course through the waters of the
River Thames. King George 1 has planned it all. He has
commissioned George Frideric Handel to compose music for just
such an occasion to show off the King, and how wonderful it is
to live under his reign. The King loves it. The people along the
banks love it. It is often talked about. It is often repeated.
Fast forward 232 years to July 17, 1949.
"Water music" takes on another meaning. The scene is Colonial
Beach, Virginia, on the Potomac River. You will see the big
white Daly cottage. It is a simple four room structure set on
stilts. White lattice surrounds the open storage area
underneath. It has an expansive front porch, a screened dining
room and enclosed kitchen attached at the rear. The lime
fumigated outhouse lies at the end of a grapevine lined path
behind the cottage. There are whitewashed fruit trees scattered
among the shade trees of the yard with a white fence. Close to
the cottage there is a small icehouse for food storage and a
water spigot for unheated outside showers, and the nightly
toothbrushing ritual.
Across the front road, Irving Avenue, there
is an open deck nestled in the grove of pine trees for sitting
close to the water's edge and pebbled beach. Close by is an
eight by eight, forty-foot high U.S. Navy lookout tower secured
on metal pipes. After wartime needs end, it is still used to
test and measure distances of artillery shells fired from the
Dahlgren Navy Base. The Naval patrol boat keeps river craft
clear of the danger zone from 10 to 2 on practice days.
On this particular day, you will find small
groups of neighbors huddled along the shore and in front of the
Daly's white fence. Bert and Sara Stutz are climbing the metal
pipes under the naval tower and peering out into the river.
Mr. Monk and Mr. Stutz are busy attaching
their outboard motors to their eighteen-foot fishing boats for a
possible rescue mission on the river. You can see the Bergmans,
the Edwards, the Seltzers, the Berrys, the Monks, the Foxes, the
Stutz's, and others chatting and moving between each grouping,
with consternation and wonderment wrinkling their brows. The
groupings are large enough to draw the attention of the only
police car in town, with its officer, Beauregard, called "Bo"
for short. The folks direct his attention, along with theirs,
outward to the river. Bo reaches inside his '41 Ford police
cruiser for his binoculars.
What is attracting their attention and
bringing them together are the strange sounds wafting into shore
for the last twenty minutes. They can't see anything. They are
guessing what it might be. Maybe it's an animal, or a human
bellowing in distress. Is it someone who has turned up their
loudspeakers to full volume? Is it the patrol boat sounding a
warning for a trespassing watercraft?
They listen more intently with Bo there,
while looking at him for guidance. They continue their guessing.
Sometimes it sounds almost like a human voice. Sometimes not.
But what is it? Bo keeps peering out through his binoculars.
Bert and Sara report from the tower, "We
can't see anything from here." Someone from the Seltzer clan
volunteers that Paul and the family rowboat are missing. Can he
be the source of the distress call?
His father says, "He doesn't usually row or
go fishing out of sight of land."
Mrs. Bergman replies, " Maybe he's in trouble
and we ought at least go out in that direction and see if we can
locate him... or whatever it is that's still making that noise."
Mr. Monk pulls the starter rope on his
outboard Mercury 25 and calls from the beach, "I'll go out and
see what I can find."
Frank Stutz has his little boat tied up next
to the Monk's, and he calls out, "I'll follow you."
He unties his boat and yanks on the starter
cord. As the two boats speed in the direction of the noise in
the river a speck finally appears to them on the horizon. They
wave to each other, pointing toward the speck. It gradually
expands in size. Yes, it is a small rowboat. Yes, someone is
standing in the middle of it. But there are no waving arms
beckoning for help. It gradually comes into full view. Yes, it
is the Seltzer rowboat with "lil" painted on the bow, having
been named for Paul's mother, Lillian. Yes, it is me.
I wave and smile as the Monk and Stutz boats
come alongside.
They call out, "Are you okay? We thought we
heard you yelling for help, like maybe you had lost an oar or
something."
I smile broadly and sheepishly admit, "I was
just singing, very loudly, I guess. I thought I was alone out
here. I didn't know anyone would hear me."
Frank smiles and replies, "Sound really
carries over water. Everyone on shore thought there was trouble,
and then they realized that you weren't around, your boat was
gone, and thought you might be fishing and out of sight. Quite a
group has gathered, and Bo is there too. They'll all be glad
you're okay, and probably laugh a lot once they know that it was
you singing and not a distress call from a bull moose."
I shake my head in embarrassment. I say, "So
sorry you had to come all the way out here for me."
"That's okay. Don't worry about it," they
shout, "just glad you're all right." With that, they spin their
boats around and shove their throttles wide open for the trip to
shore to share the news.
I sit down on the center seat of the boat,
grab the oars and plant them in the water for the long row home.
I have plenty of time for the rush of thoughts to play through
my mind many times. With embarrassment pervading my mind, I
remember my penchant for music, and my frequent fantasy
performances. It is my habit, whenever I think I am alone, I
pretend I am more than an amateur, and move into the role of a
pro. It can be in my living room at home, with walnut baton in
hand, gyrating like the conductor, Toscanini, to the energized
strains of Tchaikovsky's "Capriccio Italien." Or it can be in
the shower bellowing like Gordon McRae to "Oh What a Beautiful
Morning," or Frankie Lane with "That Lucky Old Sun." Or just
like this afternoon on the Potomac River, with vocal cords at
their full emotional tilt, belting out my favorite aria of Canio
the clown, in the opera, "Pagliacci." Inwardly, I congratulate
myself, "Now THIS is 'water music'." There are no royal barges
or flags or symphony to support my efforts. It is just raw
enthusiasm, with willing, but untrained, lungs and vocal cords.
Finally, the half hour long row back to shore
is over. The big white Daly cottage is in full view. The
neighbors and family and Bo are still clustered, but now without
furrowed brows of worry. It is all eager waves and laughter and
sarcastic remarks filling the air as they share their takes on
the afternoon's entertainment on the Potomac.
I smile modestly and express my apologies, "I
had no idea you were hearing me. When the fish didn't bite I
just thought it was me out there, with the blanket of jelly fish
bobbing up and down around the boat. What better time to sing
out to the cosmos with some of my favorite opera. The jellyfish
didn't seem to mind."
It isn't like the 'water music' on the Thames
in 1717, but I am feeling some connections. Unlike Handel's
version, it is never repeated.
STARS
ETCETERA
The stars are clear and close on this July
night in 1949. I lay on the damp grass looking up and feeling a
deep connection with the vastness of the night sky and the
brilliant diamonds sprinkled above me. It is as if each blink of
the distant dots is sending out a message in code for whomever
might have the eyes to catch it. I am in wonder. What might be
there for me?
I'm not alone. I am with a half dozen other
high school juniors who are spending most of the summer as
counselors at Camp Nawakwa, a Lutheran church camp, located in
the apple orchard hills near Gettysburg, Pa. Each of us shepherd
the ten boys of our cabins through the camp activities of
morning religious classes, afternoon swimming, games, and
crafts, evening rituals of competitions, camp fires,
entertainment and worship at the Upper Temple mountain
overlooking the beautiful stretches of farmland and apple
orchards. We help them ready our cabins for inspections. We
teach them the camp songs and traditions. We hold the hands of
the homesick. It is fun and rewarding.
However, it becomes somewhat routine and
predictable after several weeks. We need some more excitement.
Some diversion. On an afternoon trip to the town of Gettysburg
we get into kidding about whatever comes up.
Doug Carlyle suggests, "You know what? We
ought to plan to sneak away from the cabins at night after the
campers are asleep."
Charlie Wertz chimed in, "Yeah, we could go
up on the Upper Temple mountain and have a party." Macho swagger
is kicking in and ideas are flowing from the six of us.
Someone else offers, "Yeah, you know what? We
ought to try out the stuff in those Benzedrex inhalers. It's
supposed to be really cool."
"You ever tried it?"
No, but I hear it's great."
"What do you do? What happens?"
"What are you talking about, anyway?"
"Well, you know those inhalers you use when
you have a cold and your nose is stopped up? Inside those
inhalers, if you break them open, are a couple of yellow strips
of this concentrated stuff that unstops your nose when you
breathe it in. I think the idea is that you take one of these
strips, roll it up and swallow it. After a while, it's makes you
feel real good."
More talk. More questions. More joking
around. It continues as we moved into the drugstore. We locate
the Benzedrex inhalers. Our joking around about the possible
non-nasal usage of them catches the ear of the druggist. He
scolds us for this kind of irresponsible talk. He refuses to
sell us any.
We are somewhat taken aback with this
encounter. It gives an additional naughtiness to what we are
considering. We have to be secretive about it. It feeds the
excitement and group camaraderie. We are more careful and
calculating at the next drug store. We are able to purchase the
inhalers here, as we stifle our laughter and bravado.
We make the plan. There is plenty of peer
pressure to go along with the whole scheme. Two nights later we
give the campers time to go to sleep, maybe an hour. We meet at
the swimming pool at eleven. We won't try walking the usual
trail through the woods up the mountain to Upper Temple. Too
dark. We will quietly walk the long way around, using the
country dirt roads. We can pick some apples from the trees along
the way, take some soda and snacks along. Maybe we can even
catch the sunrise.
It is a lark. Very dark until our eyes get
used to it. Eventually we can make out the trees and the apples
and the ruts in the road. The view from the top at Upper Temple
is always awesome. We look at the lights of Gettysburg in the
distance.
We realize we don't have to be whispering any
more. So, the party begins. We sing. I have my harmonica. We
open the soda and snacks and crunch the apples. We venture all
over the grassy knoll in our bare feet. We absorb the gifts of
fresh night air tinged with hints of newly mown hay and fallen
apples from the fields close by.
Finally, the moment of initiation into what
we thought might be a world of altered consciousness, is at
hand. We sit on the damp grass. No doubt each of us is having
his own inner conversation, trying to sort out the various
feelings in play. "Is this wrong? It seems exciting and fun,
especially with these guys, but I'm not sure. I guess I'll go
along. Too late to turn back now. What would that look like?
What would they think? How would they treat me? It's no big
deal I guess. I hope we don't get caught. Well, here we go."
We break open the inhalers with our heels.
The plastic covers are torn off and there is our first look at
the innards. Sure enough, even in the darkness, we can make out
the yellow strips, emitting their pungent and penetrating fumes.
We pull out the strips and roll them up. There are quick glances
and nervous smiles shared as we pop the strips on our tongues
and take a swallow of soda to wash them down.
We cast our eyes around the circle of six.
There are some moments of quiet anticipation. Nothing happens.
We finally lie down on the grass realizing it might take some
time for the effects to kick in. A few more swigs of soda and
some more chips.
We are quiet with our personal observations
and thoughts of the constellations of heavenly bodies hovering
overhead. In about ten minutes I feel my heart begin to speed up
and beat heavily. It becomes an alarming moment for me lying
quietly on my back, gazing at stars, to feel my heart rapidly
firing and pounding inside my chest. There are no feelings of
euphoria or even a buzz. Just my heart, going a mile a minute.
I am scared. I don't hear anything from
anyone else, my heart is making too much noise. I am thinking, "Oh
jeez, what's going on? What have I done? How stupid of me! Am
I going to die like this? How long is this going to last? Oh,
stars, are you looking at me? What are you thinking? I wish I
hadn't gotten myself into this. What's happening with the
others?"
I ask them if they are having the same
reactions. They are. The laughter and youthful swagger are muted
now. Each of us is wondering how it will all turn out.
I am making my inner personal pledge. "If
I live through this, I will NEVER try anything like it again.
I don't care what anyone thinks!" So my personal drug war
is short-lived. My first experience is to be my last.
The rapid pounding keeps up in spite of my
pledge. It lasts... twenty minutes? half an hour? .... an hour?
... too long! Streams of hot perspiration roll from my head and
face to join the tears from my eyes as I bathe in this stinging
little moment of reality.
Gradually my heart slows. The pounding
recedes and the perspiration dries. I gaze again at the stars
capturing my field of vision. No one is saying anything.
The stillness and darkness is broken by the
rumbling of a car motor in the distance. This is soon followed
by the appearance of dust clouds, penetrated by two headlights
bouncing our way over the rutted dirt road.
"Who could this be?", we wonder. "The
farmers
are surely asleep at this midnight hour." A familiar Chevy
station wagon turns onto the path to Upper Temple. The
headlights have us in full view. The side door opens.
"Do you know what you're doing?" It is the
bull horn voice of Dr. Reginald Deitz bellowing at us. He is a
seminary professor who serves as the camp director in the summer
months.
Apparently, we have not been as secretive
about our adventure as we had supposed. A short scolding for our
irresponsibility ensues. "The six of you have left sixty fifth
graders unattended. What if one of them had awakened and needed
you? What if their parents heard of it? They depend on us to
look out for them, and to be there if needed. What's going on
here?"
Carlyle meekly answers that we are having a
party. Nothing is said about trying out the Benzedrex inhalers,
etc. Dr. Deitz is rightfully angry that we have let him, and the
campers, and their parents, down. The purging adds fuel to the
already heavy weight of regrets for our drug testing party(?).
He tells us to start jogging down the dirt
road back to camp. He follows us with his station wagon. No
words are uttered on the long jog. All that can be heard is the
staggered thumping of twelve shoes meeting the ground. The
headlights from behind show up the puffs of dust as each foot
meets the dirt road.
All the campers are still asleep when I pull
back the screen door of my cabin with its squeaky spring. I
tiptoe to my bunk. Through the window above my head I can still
see the bright stars blinking above. In the mix of thoughts and
feelings rushing around inside of me before sleep takes over is
a keen awareness of my immaturity, the resolve of my pledge....
and the sight of one star in particular that seemed to be
winking some wisdom my way.
LIFE
BEGINS
There's an adage: "Life begins at the end of
your comfort zone." A major stretch for me
comes with my 1948 summer job in Silver
Spring, Maryland.
Before then I have experienced an assortment
of work situations since the fourth grade. I start out selling
the Saturday Evening Post and Ladies Home Journal every
Wednesday afternoon to about thirty of my neighbors. I go on to
earn money for my various causes by delivering morning and
afternoon newspapers for the Washington Post and Evening Star or
cutting grass and raking leaves for neighbors who want my help.
I also have been a soda jerk at Forsythe's Drug Store, and a
counselor at Camp Nawakwa. They are all jobs in a protected
environment of neighbors and friends.
1948 is to be different. After my junior year
at Blair High School I find summer employment at the Coca Cola
Bottling Plant at sixty-five cents an hour.
The summer heat means a surge in the thirst
of the public and therefore the need to produce more beverages.
They hire three of us as bottle washers. Each of us is placed
behind a 8' x 30' shiny gray giant washing machine. We stand on
an unforgiving concrete floor. Behind us are hundreds of racks
and stacks of wooden flats filled with soiled six-ounce Coke
bottles. Some are dirtier than others, caked with mud or grease,
and often filled with cigarette butts, or dead bugs, mice, or
even concrete. Some of the necks are broken, leaving jagged
glass edges to avoid. All of them reek of souring Coke syrup.
Our job is primarily to reach behind us for a
case of empties, slam it on the metal shelf in front of us, grab
four bottles at a time - two in each hand with a bottle between
the first and second fingers and another between the third and
fourth fingers. Initially, this produces blisters and sores, but
with repetition, large callouses grow between the fingers.
The metal spines on the rack in front of us
calls for twenty-four bottles at a time. It keeps moving
relentlessly. There is no stopping it. Whenever a case of
bottles has a bottle or two that is stuck or broken, we have to
quickly throw it aside and grab a fresh one to fill all of the
empty spaces as the machine rattles and swallows the bottles
into its gaping throat behind the rubber flaps. There can be no
empty slots showing up at the other end of the machine or we
will be called to task. There is no time to stop and blow your
nose or wipe the sweat from your brow. The clacking, clanking
machine has to be fed its continuing diet of dirty bottles.
And so it goes. Lift the crates. Grab the
bottles. Swing them into the open slots. Pile the empty cases to
the side. Then hurry to start it all over again. And over. And
over. Some days during the peak heat of July and August we keep
up the monotonous routine for thirteen hours a day, with just a
half hour break for lunch. Bill, the assistant manager, does
spell us for a five-minute washroom break when we signal him.
Occasionally, the machine's thirty-minute
bottle ride, which includes repeated scrubbings and washings
with detergents and caustic solutions, will shut down. Mr.
Sutton, the sullen plant manager, with a bull horn voice, can be
heard all over the plant floor, "Bill! Bill! Get over here!"
Bill comes running and tries to discover the cause of the
shutdown. He unlocks some levers, turns some bolts, opens some
doors, bangs on metal parts, climbs over and under the
machinery. He is resourceful and always remedies the problem.
These moments of repair mean a welcome relief
for the bottle washer operator. When it happens to my machine, I
am internally cheering "Yes! Yes!" and smile smugly at
my cohorts. Now I have some time to run to the washroom, get a
drink of water, wipe the sweat from my forehead and re-arrange
my endless stacks of bottle crates.
Breakdowns are cherished. After a couple of
weeks of the unending drudgery we learn how to assist in the
frequency of the breakdowns. It is discovered by accident. In
the rush to keep up with the rapid movement of the machine I
unwittingly drop a bottle into its slot upside down. About ten
minutes later we hear a 'pop' from the belly of the machine. All
goes quiet. No more of the jostling and rumbling din. Within
seconds Mr. Sutton is bellowing again, "Bill. Bill. Get over
here!" Soon Bill discovers that the shutdown is caused by a
broken bottle. Only we, the operators, know that the real source
is the upsidedown bottle originating at our end. This remedy for
our factory fatigue is tested and proven many more times that
summer without detection. Necessity is the mother of invention
once again.
Sometimes I am called away from my bottle
washing machine to other tasks. There are the fifty-gallon drums
of the secret formula Coca Cola syrup just arriving from Atlanta
to be unloaded from the tractor trailer. They are very heavy and
there is a trick to rolling them to the mixing room with their
rims at just the right angle. There is the carrying of the
fifty-pound bags of sugar and mixes for the orange and grape and
ginger ale drinks. There is helping the truck drivers unload the
empty cases and re-load their trucks with fresh ones. It has to
be done quickly because only four trucks can fit inside the
plant at one time for the loading process.
Another time I am sent up to the front of the
plant to fill in for a female bottle inspector who is off on
sick leave. Her job is to check the bottles coming out of the
washer and rattling by on a conveyor with bright lights behind,
shining through the familiar aquamarine Coke glass. The bottles
have to be sparklingly clean before they are re-filled and sent
out to customers. No dirt, no cigarette butts, no critters.
I don't last long at this watching job. Being
seated, and being very tired, I doze off. The supervisor
confronts me with a bottle holding a dead mouse in it. It has
been caught by a second inspector down the line. I am dressed
down and returned to the washing end of the machine.
Our thirty-minute lunch breaks are usually
outside, at the large acorn shaped shelter covering the original
silver spring of the town. The story is that the spring had been
discovered almost one hundred years earlier by Montgomery Blair,
the Postmaster General of Abraham Lincoln's cabinet. He had
traveled with his family in a horse and buggy to the farmland
outside of Washington, D.C. for a family picnic, and discovered
this sparkling and bubbling spring. We are continuing the
tradition of eating by the mica reflections in the spring
waters. We spend much of our time here commiserating about our
working conditions.
Out of sight, and unbeknown to corporate
officials, we are often joined by a dedicated union organizer
who wants us to strike and make corporate Coca Cola respond with
better pay, hours, and working conditions. It will not be of
much benefit to me since I will be going back to school in the
fall. I am inspired by this dedicated and vigorous union man,
struggling with grass roots folks, taking risks, and taking
stands on issues of social justice.
Even more than that, I am much concerned
about Bill, our assistant manager. He is tall, lanky, with a
full head of disheveled black hair. His eyes are deeply set and
surrounded by tired and darkened circles. At twenty-eight, his
shoulders are already bent over and he tends to shuffle, except
when he hears Mr. Sutton bellow for help. Bill is in his late
twenties, making eighty-five cents an hour. He has little
prospect of doing any better at Coca Cola. He laments his
situation but feels trapped.
I still hear myself pleading with him. "Bill,
you're a smart guy. You know all about these machines. Mr.
Sutton and the whole plant would be lost without you. But you've
been here ten years and still only make eighty-five cents a
hour. Any promotions? Any increases in pay? You've got a wife
and four kids. You're young enough to do something different.
Something that will help you to better support your family. I
know about a night school. You could learn to be an auto
mechanic, or a carpenter or a plumber. Think about it."
He makes me think about and be moved by the
plight of all the "Bill's" of the world, trapped in poverty and
dead ends at age twenty-eight.
There are some pleasantries with this
different kind of work life. I am warmed by the basic human
qualities that surface in some disguises of connectedness and
generosity. One example is evidenced by the truck drivers. On
some Fridays after work, they invite the summer help to join
them for a beer at Crisfield's Oyster Bar. It is a way of
thanking us for helping them with unloading and loading their
trucks. I have my first draft beer and follow their example of
adding some salt to make it foam. A pickled hard-boiled egg is
the protein for the late afternoon.
Another example is with my fellow bottle
washers who are my age but have dropped out of school. They are
more attuned to the ways of the world, still new to me. They
invite me to go with them to the visiting carnival in town. They
have met a couple of girls who are now in the back seat of their
car, giggling with each other, and enticingly slipping their
skirts up their thighs. My buddies expect the girls to be
sexually cooperative later on. They are. I'm a bit too far
outside of my comfort zone at this point. I make myself scarce.
I even have some understanding for Mr.
Sutton, the plant supervisor, and I suppose for all the others
in authority, whom I have not encountered. His frequently angry
countenance and furrowed brow have been creased by decades of
trying to survive in the corporate jungle.
My job at Coca Cola ends. I go back for my
senior year in high school. I have indeed been at the end of my
comfort zone. Life has changed. My perspectives have been
stretched. My eyes have been opened. I had previously been
sheltered from knowing how life is lived by many others. I now
have a taste of what life is like for factory workers with
interminable, repetitious movements and low pay. I have been
wearied and somewhat frightened by it. I can look at the
callouses between my fingers that have grown into knobs by
summer's end as reminders of lessons learned. I come to know
what I do NOT want my life to look or feel like. I am strongly
motivated to get as much education and training for a career as
possible. My new awareness of
life has begun.
SHOWBOAT
It is spring 1950 at Montgomery Blair High
School in Silver Spring, Md. It is time for its annual Variety
Show, "Showboat." The show has a long tradition of being a main
event at the school and in the community. Students spend much of
the year leading up to it, putting their talents together into
performances to try out for the April show. It is a time,
especially for seniors, to show their stuff and enjoy the
recognition it offers.
Donald Lindsey and I are among the senior
dreamers. We are friends and have been playing our trombones in
the two-year-old Blair Band.
I approach Don, "Hey Don, want to do
something on our trombones for the Variety Show?"
Don goes along with the idea. We decide to
make a run for the big Variety Show auditions in late February
with a trombone duet of "Londonderry Air." We think, "Surely,
a rendition of 'Danny Boy' will be a crowd pleaser."
For two weeks before tryouts Donald makes the
early trip to school from his farm, before classes start. I
carry my trombone the mile and a half from home to school. The
two of us practice diligently, without coaching, in the band
room.
The excitement of the upcoming tryout day
keeps growing. We think we are sounding pretty good. If
nervousness from being in front of the faculty advisors doesn't
sabotage us, we should be a shoo-in for the show.
Tryout day arrives. Don and I are on the try
out schedule for 3:45 p.m. We audition from the gymnasium stage.
The faculty advisors --and deciders-- are at a table fifty feet
out from the stage. They include Miss Stickley, a sweet and
jolly librarian, and the eldest faculty member, along with Mrs.
Worthington, the English teacher; Miss Libby, the phys ed
teacher; and Mr. Meserole, the music instructor. He is the who
calls out, "Okay boys let's get started."
Without piano accompaniment, "Danny Boy"
echoes from our trombones around the gym walls. There is some
nervousness. But at least there are no sour notes. We are
thanked by the faculty and told that the results will be posted
on the bulletin board the next week. Don and I smile to
ourselves, feeling pretty satisfied with our audition. We
nourish our performance dreams to the point of considering what
outfits we might wear for the show.
No need. Our names are not on the bulletin
board list of talent to be included in the big Variety Show. We
are looking at the list together. Silence at first. Then a
searching look at the names of those who have made it. Perhaps
an oversight? No. We glance at each other. Hopes are dashed. We
make a brief attempt at analyzing possible reasons for the
rejection, and a comparison with other acts that have been
accepted. It is a dejected moment. We wander into the cafeteria
to chew on something more appealing. It is Donald's only
audition attempt. He is through.
I, however, have tried out for two other
possibilities, and even offer to help out as a stagehand so at
least I can have some part in this last hurrah of my senior year
in high school.
My ultimate dream role for the "Showboat
Variety Show" is to be to be named the master of ceremonies
'captain.' Six others are trying out for this top spot in the
three-night extravaganza.
I audition for it as a long shot. I lose
out...again! Percy Goode is the choice to be the showboat
'captain.' For this set back I have no Don with whom to
commiserate. I swallow it alone.
My final try was to join with five other
guys, dressing up in female chorus costumes with wigs, et al,
and do a 'can-can' for laughs. We call our act, "Legs". There
are lots of laughs for us all along the way of rehearsing and
auditioning. "Legs" makes the list. I settle into enjoying this
lesser role of dancing with all the boys in our panty hose and
curly blond wigs. I also pursue the stage hand assistance role,
which means I have to be involved in all the rehearsals to help
move the sets and props. I get well acquainted with the
performers and their acts through the many hours of practicing
together for the big weekend show. It is fun.
One afternoon, a week before the show is to
open, another rehearsal is about to commence.
Mrs. Worthington approaches me to say that
Percy is home sick that day. "Would you just fill in for Percy
today where you can, just give a short introduction for each of
the performances?"
I immediately say, "Sure, I can do that
today." My adrenalin starts to kick in.
I have been watching and listening to all of
them for weeks. It is just be a matter of putting my
observations into some order and invite an audience to expect
some enjoyment from all of the talent. I study the program line
up and in five minutes the rehearsal is under way. (My memory of
my kindergarten band stage fright experience is nowhere to be
seen or felt.)
The best of me rises to the occasion from my
inner recesses. I provide a string of flamboyant verbiage and
humor that surprises everyone, including myself. Enthusiasm from
fellow performers is very vocal and persistent. The faculty asks
me to fill in for Percy for two more days on a temporary basis,
until Percy is well and has returned. In those next two days of
subbing I hone my newly discovered craft.
A groundswell of affirmation is coming from
the students. It is acknowledged by the faculty directors. It is
decided that even when Percy returns, I will be a better choice
for 'captain' of Showboat 1950. It is a conundrum for the
faculty, as it is for me. I am admittedly enjoying the kudos,
but I also like Percy and don't want to see him cast aside.
Percy does recover and return to rehearsals. The faculty comes
up with a compromise that has Percy as the master of ceremonies
for Thursday night, and I will do it on Friday and Saturday
nights. It seems to work amicably for everyone.
I am able to borrow a real US Navy captain's
uniform from my pastor who had been a chaplain in World War II.
All goes well during the performances. Everyone agrees that the
1950 Variety Show is a huge success and lots of fun.
I emerge from what I feel are the faceless
shadows of non-recognition in my high school days.
I become a local celebrity for those last
three months before graduation. There is the immediate applause,
the autographs, the compliments written on the programs by the
performers and teachers, the cast parties, the special "Hi
Paul,", from football players, cheerleaders, majorettes, in the
school hallways. The notoriety continues at all of the closing
events of the twelfth grade, like the proms, beach parties and
graduation ceremonies. It is a heady time. I feel like I have
finally arrived--at least for this limited, high school
awareness of 'success.' Yes!
Of course, once in college the whole process
has to start over.
THE
PROMISE OF TEA LIGHTS
We actually meet at the punchbowl. I have
known who Sydney Hepler is, but from a
distance. I see her, and even say some
hello's, during group activities at Blair High School. I am in
the band. She is a majorette. She is often with her covey of
girlfriends, kidding and laughing. She is also a performer in
this year's traditionally important Variety Show at Blair. Being
an accomplished pianist, she wows the crowds with her beautiful
rendition of "Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered."
It is at the Variety Show cast party in the
spring of 1950 that we chance to meet at the punch bowl, with
its array of tea lights floating on top. My gathering and
offering her some refreshment from in between the tea lights
prompts a stream of jokes, puns, and laughter. It is a sparkling
mix that adds up to the delightful excitement of a fresh
discovery of mutuality. The conversation continues for quite a
while, moving in and out of topics, but always generously
seasoned with stimulating repartee. "What fun!" I think.
"This relationship has possibilities. This is a connection
worth pursuing." I invited her to join me for the class
picnic the next day.
The juices of excitement are activated. It is
mutual. We are off on a long round of dates for the plethora of
springtime senior year events. There are parties, dinners,
proms, double dates, hikes, beach parties, park play time,
games, sitting together into the wee morning hours, even falling
asleep in the car, as we talked about every possible life event
and relationship, and of course, making out , with its happy
explorations.
I have her over to my home for dinner to meet
my parents. We play some badminton. She amazes my parents with
her talents on the grand piano. Other similar interactions with
my parents later on lead my mother to surprise me with, "Why
don't you and Sydney think about getting married!?" I have never
heard that one before from my mother. She has always emphasized
the importance of a mate coming from "good stock" and having
strong religious foundations. We don't know much about Sydney's
'stock.'
Her father is in the Philippines on
assignment from the U.S. Government's Agriculture Department.
Her mother is a sweet person, attending with care to her only
child.
Sydney has very loose religious connections,
if at all. Her musical gifts are her trump card with my mother.
That's what I think until I made the deduction that there is
another motivation for my mother's suggestion. The Korean War
has just begun. The U.S. Army is drafting high school graduates
like me. You can get a deferment if you are married. Aha! I
imagine my mother's thoughts go something like, "I've had
three other sons serve in the army for many years. I've spent
those years with its emotional stresses. I want to be spared
having more. Sydney is a nice enough girl. Why not marriage,
so Paul won't be drafted?" Her advocacy for marriage
serves to stimulate the ongoing question I have had with every
female relationship since second grade, "What kind of a wife
will she be?"
There is more than fun and games with Sydney.
Another side of her surfaces at our Senior Prom. For some
unknown reason, I am upset and sulking in a corner. Sydney comes
to me to find out what is the matter, listen, and encourage me
to consider a different perspective, and other options for
dealing with the now forgotten issue. We return to the crowd
considerably closer for having worked it through together.
After graduation, there is a summer filled
with all kinds of picnics, boat trips, water skiing, miniature
golf, movies, walks and talks with plans for our future
together. The time comes for Sydney to leave. She and her mother
are going to the Philippines to join her father for the last
year of his tour of duty there. We know this time of goodbye is
coming. We promise a year of separation filled with letter
writing. We will build on what has been blossoming between us.
We will fan the flames from afar.
The day arrives when I drive her to the train
station in Silver Spring. Holding hands. Stifling tears. Trying
to keep that wrenching moment of goodbye at bay. Silence is
pervasive and pregnant. There is only occasional small talk to
ease the pressures of the emotional cascade that probably would
erupt. We go through the necessary motions of gathering and
carrying the baggage towards the waiting train. The train greets
us with its familiar odors of hot metal and oil, and bursts of
steam from its undercarriage. Sydney and I hug and kiss amidst
the flood of tears streaming from our eyes. Our friend, Aimee
Lou, who is here with us to share the pain says, "I wish I was
the one leaving, instead." We all smile knowingly.
The train whistle screeches. There is a
shudder that ripples from car to car along the tracks. No more
words now. Just a final clutching and letting go. She climbs the
steps into the train. There is one last teary glance back toward
Aimee Lou and me. We wave gently. The conductor waves his flag
to the engine ahead, lifts the stepping stool, steps into the
train and closes the door. The train jerks, lurches, clanks and
gradually turns its wheels on the tracks moving from the
station.
I drive Aimee Lou home, still with tears in
my eyes. There is not much talk, other than her reassurances as
to how quickly the year of separation would pass, and some
reminders of all the good times we have shared through the
summer months.
Sydney and I exchange lots of long letters.
Five or six pages every day or so. They gradually shorten and
became less frequent. But we still rehearse our love for each
other, and our plans for when she returns.
She come back on schedule a year later. We
hug. We kiss. She sits on the sofa in my home. I sit in the
chair opposite. We talk of her trip back. We talk of her time in
the Philippines, and what life was like there. I tell her what I
have been up to in my freshman year at college.
Something is starting to churn inside of me.
What is it? Something is out of sync here. We are not connecting
the way I had expected. What is going on? I have to keep up the
flow of conversation on the outside, and at the same time try to
identify the emotions swirling in my gut. I am thinking... "She
does look somewhat different. But it is more than the extra
make up. Certainly, the cigarette smoking is new, and not
pleasant for me. But there is such a mix. The laughs aren't
here. The old shared feelings and dreams aren't surfacing. Her
countenance has changed. There are the stories of her new
friends. There are the plans her parents have for her to
enroll at Kansas State University. It is all seeming very
different, distant, and empty.
My mind is racing, "How can I jump start
that old engine? How can I re-light the brilliance of that old
flame." It seems like our brief love history is being
dragged into the quicksand of extinction. Our polite small
talk is accelerating the process. My head and heart are
choking with this unwanted turn of events. I can't be
transparent and talk about this elephant in the room.
That's the way it ends. There are kindly, but
mechanical gestures and conversations to try and bridge the
chasm. All of the earlier promises and intentions have been
yanked from us. Our inner emotions are telling us the truth. It
is too much reality to handle with honesty and transparence. So
we part with: "Hey, it's really good to see you again", "Glad
you had such a great year," "I hope everything goes well for you
in Kansas" ... "Keep in touch" ... "Bye".
The tea light has shone on us and in us. Its
delicate flickering has dispelled some shadows of growing up. It
has given its share of brilliance and warmth for its time. Now
it is done. The remnant of its luster brightens the treasury
chest of memories. I do not hear from, or about, Sydney after
that last goodbye, that time without tears, just wonderment.
HORIZONS
My summer job at Dupont Circle in 1950 has
some life lessons for me. It is again time to grow up. Fresh
from my high school graduation, I secure a job as a timekeeper
with Morauer & Hartzell, an excavating company in
Washington, D.C.
They have landed a $2,000,000 contract, their
biggest job ever. They are to dig a very large hole, five
stories deep, for a very large apartment house at Dupont Circle.
They prepare to meet the challenge of this project by buying
lots of new equipment. There are thirty new dump trucks to add
to their fleet. There are also new steam shovels, graders,
loaders, and tampers. They hire lots of new workers. I am among
them.
The job as a timekeeper is to check the dump
trucks in and out, noting the time it takes for each driver to
make the trip to and from the dump site. The excavation has to
be finished by the end of August. The foreman wants to keep a
steady stream of trucks moving the dirt out of that
ever-deepening hole in the ground. He wants to know if any
driver is missing, or late, or stuck in a traffic jam, or maybe
taking too long for a coffee break.
New dirt ramps for the trucks are fashioned
each day by the dozers and loaders, as gradually the cavity is
carved out of this block long stretch of real estate. With three
foot plywood paddles, I help to tamp the loose dirt on the back
of the trucks as they left the site. This will prevent dirt
spilling onto city streets during transit.
In time I get to know the fifty truck drivers
by name and countenance. There are the jokesters, kidders, fast
talkers, non-talkers, smilers, and grumps. We have a good time
together, with few problems. Occasionally, a driver might test
the system by taking longer than normal for his dump run. When I
call him on it, we have our moment of truth, or half-truth, or
lies. When they see the foreman looking over my time sheet, they
know it is serious business. Compliance is the general practice.
Being positioned curbside to monitor the
truck movement, I have conversations with lots of curious
onlookers passing by who are wondering what is going on. One
questioner is an attractive woman, probably in her thirties.
She comes by several times a week. She
reveals that she lives in the apartment across from our dig. She
is probably among the sunbathers often noticed by the work crew
during the day, accompanied by their testosterone inspired
comments. Her name is Joanne. She has long, curly brown hair. I
remember her blue cotton skirt and off the shoulder white blouse
best. She has a sparkly smile. We often exchange pleasantries
about the day and the project's progress.
At one point she asks, " Do you know if
they're hiring anyone new? I have a friend who is looking for
work."
I reply, " Well, I don't really know, but I
will ask the foreman when I have a chance."
She concludes, "Well thanks, I'll check back
another time." It seems a very normal question and exchange.
Joanne comes back several times, leaving me
her phone number and address.
I have informed her, "Richie, the foreman,
says that they don't need anyone right now, but might later on."
She is passing by on another day. We are
talking again about the usual, when I notice several of the
truck drivers gathered around the water cooler for a drink. They
are bent over laughing. They are also looking at me, and Joanne.
I am trying to process what is going on.
She is a friendly, interesting person. I am
trying to be a friendly, interesting person. I wonder,
"What's so funny about that?" She goes
on her way again with the parting comment, "I'll check back with
you again soon to see if anything turns up for my friend."
I say, "Okay, see ya. I'll keep my eyes
open."
It is then that the guffawing truck drivers
move toward me.
One of them, fairly choking with laughter,
blurts out, "Hey man, she's a pretty one. Did she tell you where
she lives?"
"Well, yeah," I said, "she lives in those
apartments across from the dig."
"And is she one of the topless sunbathers we
see over there on the balconies?", he asks.
The others chime in, poking each other, "And
did she invite you over? Ha, ha."
I half smile and say, "Well, no, but she gave
me her address and phone number to contact her if any work
becomes available for her friend."
They all roar with laughter, and poke each
other again. Charlie gets a little more serious and said, " Hey
man, don't you know what's going on here? She's a hooker."
"A what?" I ask.
He replies, "A hooker, a prostitute. She's
looking for some business with you for herself. Forget about her
friend needing a job. She wants a job with you, man!" They all
chime in with more "ha, ha, ha's".
"Yeah?", I question them. "She seems so nice,
so normal. Are you guys sure?"
Charlie says, "Oh yeah, we're sure. We've
seen her around here before. She's just playing a little game to
get you interested. Trust me. But she's not a bad looker. Pretty
nice, in fact. Gonna give her a try?" My brain is churning at
this point.
I look down at my time sheet and muse, "Man,
I don't know." They smile and leave me with a friendly poke and
slap on the back as they hop into their dump trucks. They know
they have introduced the naive timekeeper, fresh out of high
school, to one more of life's realities.
I am thinking intensely, "But Joanne is
so nice, so friendly, so easy to talk with, so sincere, so
normal. Do those guys really know what they're talking about?
Of course ... she is quite comely. The off the shoulder blouse
does 3reveal a little extra cleavage, I guess. ... And the
breeze does press her blue skirt around the shape of her legs
... And ... I wonder if she really is one of the topless
sunbathers on those apartment balconies across the way. I
wonder... Teenage testosterone is starting to color my
consciousness. What to do with all of this! I'll have to
pretend to be very cool, unnerved, and knowledgeable about all
of this. Someday dreams, maybe ... to myself.
Oops, there's the roar of another truck
groaning up the dirt ramp out of the hole, enveloped in its own
dust cloud. The familiar truck smells of hot engines, grease,
and gasoline waft through my nostrils and into my brain.
Instinctively, I'm back on duty, tamping the dirt on the back of
the truck and then jotting 11:33 on the time sheet for truck
#35, Wilson. Charlie Wilson, my most recent teacher.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
Dupont Circle Addenda...
Another life lesson of summer 1950 while
working with the excavation business of Morauer and Hartzell, is
being introduced to my first real interaction with a black man.
Actually, with many black men. I have grown up in the suburban
Washingon, D.C, WASP neighborhood of Woodside Park. The only
black person I have known is Marie Washington, the jolly, rotund
domestic for the Thompson family, who live behind us. She takes
the bus in the evening to her home in what is called, 'Monkey
Hollow'. There have been no black classmates in any of my
schools. My parents and relatives all recounted stories of
pleasant experiences with blacks while living in downtown
Washngton, D.C., before moving to the suburbs. They have fond
memories of 'Arthur, on E Street' and others. They refer to
them, without derision, as 'darkies' or the 'coloreds.'
At the Dupont Circle dig there is a mix of
blacks and whites employed. Heavy equipment operators are white.
Truck drivers are both white and black. Laborers in the hole
with the picks, shovels, and tampers are all black. This summer
for me is a rich initiation into what I later realize is a
cultural racial divide. This summer, we eat lunch together,
drink from the same water ladle, laugh, joke, and tell stories
about our families, our weekend parties, and growing up days
together. We work side by side, and mix our sweat and smells
while shoveling, tamping dirt, moving tarps, sweeping streets,
and patting the dump trucks. I experience a oneness that lasts a
lifetime.
* * * * * * * * * *
The reality of fear is also a new learning
for me during this summer. Not fear that I experience, but fear
that was very present for some others I meet.
On a normal workday I ride the bus to work
down 16th Street to three blocks away from the excavation at
Dupont Circle. I walk those three remaining blocks.
It turns out that my appearance is scary for
some. I wear surplus army fatigues for my work clothes. They
often have their share of the dusty remnants of the prior day's
work. My combat boots are encrusted with left over mud. Not a
pretty sight by any measure. I am not in my dancing clothes when
I approach an older woman to ask the time of day. She shrieks,
throws up her hands, and runs away in retreat. I am stunned. I
guess I assume that my pleasant countenance trumps the dirty
work clothes. It takes a second occurrence of a similar
situation to educate me to the realities of street fears and
strangers, and probable dangers. Men dressed in work clothes,
asking for the time of day, can be a frightening threat.
Summer ends. I enter the university for
learning to continue, through a different pipeline.
GLORY
POSTPONED
"Try out for football."
"Try out for football?!" Am I daft? But, "Try
out for football," is at the top of the list in my older brother
Richard's six-page letter advising me how to get the most out of
my college experience.
It is kind of him to take the time to write
this to me, and to want this for me. I admire and respect him
and his advice. He had graduated from the University of Maryland
years before I arrive on the scene. He knows his way around. I
appreciate his sensitivity to my nervousness and intimidation as
a freshman facing a student body of 20,000, and hundreds of
buildings on a strange campus of several hundred acres.
After football the advice is: get involved in
the marching band, the campus theater group, a fraternity, the
Daydodgers Club (for commuters), the Lutheran Student
Association, etc. The list seems long. I can't remember them
all. At the end is, "Oh, yes, and pay close attention to your
studies."
But at the front of the list is, "Try out for
football." Being a state school, they have to allow 'walk-ons'
to try out. So here I am, taking the dive, in my new sweats,
walking very self-consciously, with my head down, hardly
noticing the fresh fall breezes or the bright blue afternoon. As
I get closer, my nostrils absorb the aromas of crushed grass
mixed with the stale body odors coming from the used equipment,
and the practice uniforms of the veteran players already on the
scene. There are whistles screeching from several parts of the
practice field. There are the shouts from various coaches, "Go,
go, go! Move it, move it."
We follow him as he walks through the several
practice formations already in place toward what is to be our
spot on the field. I glance at the suited players on our little
walk.
"Holy cow!" I'm thinking, "They are
so big. I am so small. They must be West Virginia coal miners,
280 - to 300 pounds, 6'5". Look at them! I can't tell where
their shoulders stop and their heads begin. They're missing
teeth. They've got tape and splints on their arms and legs,
and blood stains on their jerseys! "
I'm thinking, "Hey, Bro, why am I here?
What did you say about me enjoying my college experience?
Would you notice what is petrifying me right now? I am 155
pounds, 5'9. I never played anything more than neighborhood
pick up football. Nothing in high school. I was too small THEN
. And incidentally, I'm just coming from my ROTC class where
the instructor asked if I am going to be celebrating my
fourteenth birthday anytime soon?!"
I am trying to shift my focus. If by some
miracle I can get on this team with these giants, maybe as a
kicker, or even assistant manager, or water boy, or ball boy,
it would mean I was part of a college team contending for the
number one spot in the nation, with Jim Tatum as head coach,
going to bowl games, on national broadcasts, on the covers of
national magazines. There must be some kind of glory in there
for me.
So, I trudge on and follow the older man with
the clip board. "Grab one of those canvas blocking dummies from
the pile and follow me, " he shouts.
I'm pulling one out and trying to lift it.
Can't do it. I'll have to drag it if it's going to move at all.
Half of the others drag theirs as well.
He yells and gives a screech from his
whistle, "Line up here, along the white line. Hold the dummy
firmly in front of you. Press your body against it. Dig your
feet in as hard as you can. Your job is to hold that dummy while
the guys who are the tackles and guards come at you and practice
hitting the dummy high or low, and moving it out of the way to
make a path for the runners and blocking backs. Now get set.
Here they come."
I think I feel the ground tremble as six of
those huge coal miners line up in front of us in a crouched
sprint position, with their fists planted on the ground in front
of them, and their heads up and their steely eyes peering
menacingly through the battered helmets at the dummies. I don't
think they are noticing what might be behind the dummies.
Then the din, combining the whistle signaling
the start, amidst the shouts of "Go, go, go, move it, move it,
move it."
I'm not looking at what's coming. I'm dug in.
I'm firm against the back of the dummy. My face is a part of the
brace at the back of the dummy. My nose is squashed against the
canvas. I can smell the mix of years of use ... sweat, grass,
dirt, old.
Then, WWHHOOMFF! I see stars. I'm on my back.
I can't quite get my breath. My face hurts. My body hurts. I
struggle to get back up as quickly as I can when the whistle
blows. I'm now ten yards back from where I started.
"Set 'em up" yells the old man at us. "Get
set," he yells at the giants who are good naturedly punching at
each other as they stoop down to do it all over again. I think,
"They're probably enjoying this, seeing the walk-ons peeling
themselves off the ground after their first attack."
Legs dug in again. Body and face firmly
against the smelly canvas again. Whistle again ... WWHHOOMMFF,
again. Ten more yards or so back from where we started. Body
hurts again. Face hurts again. Need some more breath, again.
This time though I get a good whiff of freshly crunched grass as
I brush it from my nose and off of my face. This time on top of
me is the canvas dummy, and on top of the dummy is the toothless
smile of the 290-pound coal miner from West Virginia. My crushed
155 pounds can't quite call him a friend yet, but his face and
hulk of a body are becoming very familiar. I'm knowing what to
expect when I hear the shrill whistle and the coaches shouts.
It's going this way for most of the practice
time. I keep rehearsing my brother's kind advice in my mind,
"Get the most out of your college years, try out for football!"
I go home and take a hot bath and look over
my scrapes and bruises. I think, "Maybe tomorrow will be
different, be better. Maybe we'll do something else to make
walk-ons fit in. Maybe today was like hazing. Give us the
worst first, and the rest will be a piece of cake."
At least on the second day I'm looking more
seasoned. My sweats are dirty and grass stained from yesterday.
There is some joking and shared complaints among the 'walk-ons'
as we hear the whistle and line up with our canvas companions
once more.
Today is like yesterday. My West Virginia
'friend' is still the one coming at me. Everything smells and
sounds the same. And more importantly, feels the same as the
WWHHOOMMFFS! continue. The third day is the same as the first
two. What might the future hold? Any other possibilities?
The only difference in today is that one time
when trying to get my breath back, and get back on my feet, I'm
hearing some band music. It seems to be coming from another
practice field. It sounds pretty good, certainly more pleasant
than the shrill whistle blasts of this football field.
I look over that way before my next pounding
and start thinking, "Maybe I can enjoy my college years more
from over there, rather than here. Maybe my brother's next
suggestion on his list would have its own glory. After all I
do know how to play the trombone. I can still go to the bowl
games with the football team. I can be marching right behind
the majorettes in every band formation. It's looking better...
Also, my body might stay together a little longer. It might
even grow a bit taller if given the chance, without being
pummeled for three hours every day."
If you don't mind Brother Rich, I think I'll
postpone football's glories, and see what the marching band
might have in store for me to maximize my college experience.
PITS
AND PEAKS
There are major pits, and no apparent peaks,
for me in the winter of 1952. Almost everything is looking
bleak. I am feeling sullen and ill-tempered.
It is my second year at the University of
Maryland but I can hardly qualify as a sophomore. My short
college career is teetering. It is my own fault. My freshman
year has been a false start. I join several clubs, party too
much, and study too little. My focus is blurred. After my first
theater audition I am given a prominent role as old Mr. Cherry
in the University Theatre production of "The Silver Whistle." On
the surface it is quite an achievement for a newcomer,
especially one such as myself who looks to be not quite fourteen
years old.
I am catapulted into notoriety on this campus
of 20,000 students. For the two weeks of the show time I am
recognized around campus by my powdered white hair, and I relish
the complimentary newspaper reviews. Upperclassmen call out to
me as we hustle down the sidewalks between classes, "Hey Paul,
great job. Hollywood's next!" I am on cloud nine in my narrow
world, and I am thinking, "This college life is pretty cool."
I soon find out that this part of it is all
fluff, and that such glory is fleeting. I neglect schoolwork
while riding this cloud and almost flunk out of college with a
report card of two "C's," two "D's" and two "F's." My study
habits and diversions follow me into my second year, to the
dismay of my parents and myself. John Veidt is a friend from
high school days. He is also a daily commuter for the six miles
from Silver Spring to College Park. We lunch together every day
at the Dairy of the university. We commiserate over the
miserable state of affairs we share with our academic records,
and hopeless attitudes about life at the college.
Our back up plan usually has us solving
everything by putting college behind us and going to see the Air
Force recruiter. We can join up to help the Korean War efforts
of the USA. Nothing seems to be going right. We are lost in this
vast university. But we hang on and keep going through the
motions of college life without ever joining up. I am adrift and
in the doldrums in the winter of 1952.
While on Christmas break from college, I am
at home and there is another deep pit. It seems especially bleak
this Christmas. During the holidays I work as a "temporary hire"
for the post office to help them deal with the surge of packages
and cards for the season. I make $350, enough to pay a
semester's tuition at school. I drive a postal delivery truck,
sort letters, and climb over the twelve-foot mountains of
packages, sometimes for eighteen hours a day.
When I come home in the evenings during the
holidays, and many days thereafter, I hear my father walking up
the driveway on his way home from work. He is sick. He is
retching violently. He continues his painful dry heaves in the
library by himself, until the spell subsides. I sit in the
darkened living room listening to him, and to another replay of
Cesar Franck's Symphony in D Minor. It is our only six-sided
classical record collection.
My father's episodes are repeated many times
during the prolonged and exhaustive medical investigations this
winter. Doctors are trying to figure out what is going on. It
comes to a head when after a couple of months of inconclusive
doctoring he falls unconscious at while at work. It turns out to
be a diabetic shock. Hospitalizations and surgeries later reveal
that a bleeding stomach ulcer has become cancerous. The stomach
has to be removed. The pancreas is dysfunctional because it has
become encrusted by the acids seeping down from the ulcerated
stomach. The old stomach is removed and a new one is created by
attaching the esophagus to the duodenum. Over time, and with
eating only baby foods at first, it will expand and function as
the stomach.
The intervening weeks and months of 1952's
winter present one crisis after another. My mother is left with
despairing questions.
She would say, "What will become of me and
our family if he dies? It's not looking good."
Dr. Stein visits my father's bedside, trying
to give my father some comfort. I give my father alcohol back
rubs which he says help some. The mood through it all is somber,
combining faint hopes with resignation.
Finally, by early May my father is
recuperating from the winter's ordeal of stomach cancer and
surgery, and diabetes. He feels well enough to accompany my
brother James on a weekend trip to Colonial Beach, Va. where
they can open up the family cottage for the summer season. It
can provide a needed change of scenery for him and help him mark
the road to recovery.
'Pit' number three of 1952 also occurs this
same weekend. I am probably also looking for a change of scene
and mood after the long dark winter of my father's illness and
my continuing decline in the college student department.
My ATO fraternity is holding its annual
spring prom at a rustic resort outside of Annapolis, Md. I am
late in securing a date, but Joan Appleby is available. She is
the very funny and attractive senior I have come to know briefly
when she applies my make up during the play the year before. We
are decked out in prom attire. She, with a lovely flowered blue
dress, and I, with my white tux jacket and accessories. It is a
roaring good party with lots of dancing, singing, and laughing.
I even played Malaguena on the upright piano in the
corner.
Champagne is the drink of the evening. As we
leave the dance for the forty-mile ride home, it is pouring
rain, horizontal rain. Two other couples need rides. They join
Joan and me in my father's 1948, two toned green, Nash auto.
We reach the town of Annapolis. In the
drenching rain I make some wrong turns and get lost. Soon
flashing red lights show up in my rearview mirror.
"Oh, Oh," I shout to the others, "Hide that
champagne and those buckets somewhere, it's the cops!" It is
raining so hard that the officer doesn't want to deal with us on
the spot. He motions for me to follow him to the station. During
the ride, the buckets with the champagne are dumped out the back
doors into the street. At the station the six of us stand in
front of the desk. The officer announces that we had been going
the wrong way on both a one street and a one-way circle. I try
to explain that it was raining so hard I couldn't see any signs,
and that we had gotten lost. He is sympathetic but he still
hands me two citations.
We make it out of town and settle in for the
long drive home by way of the dark, empty, and very wet country
roads. It is now 2:00 a.m. Everyone is tired and soon asleep on
each other's shoulders. I can feel myself nodding off. I roll
down the window to get some fresh air to stay awake.
No one knows my plight, so when the rain and
wind whips in on them they call out, "Hey man, we're getting all
wet back here, close the window." I do so.
It isn't many minutes later when I am
startled awake by the rough clatter of my car's wheels on
gravel, and then, 'Whack. Thud.' I have dozed off and drifted
across the road, over the narrow shoulder and into a shallow
ditch, before slamming and splitting a utility pole.
Seconds later, I look out to see and hear a
Sunoco gasoline truck barreling down the road from the opposite
direction. My immediate thought is, "Oh no! It just missed
us by seconds. We could have crashed into that instead of the
pole, and by now we would be toasted in a ball of gasoline
fire!"
There is a quick sigh of relief at that, but
there is still the damage to quickly assess. I have broken the
steering wheel as my face rammed into it. My nose is crushed to
one side of my face. Blood is running down onto my white tux
jacket. Joan is climbing up from the front floorboard where she
has been thrown after hitting the dashboard. No seat belts in
these days.
From the back seat comes muffled screams,
"I'm blind. I'm blind, Help me!" As the dust is settling, the
backseat riders are scrambling in the darkness to find out what
is happening, and who is screaming, and from where. It turns out
that Don Wilson had at impact been thrust forward and then
plunged quickly into the trunk of the Nash.
It is a car model that can be converted into
a bed. This is how works: The back rest of the back seat is
loose at the bottom. It can be suspended and held with side
straps to hooks in the ceiling. The bottom of the rear seat is
then shifted forward. Its place taken by a cushioned section
that drops into place from the trunk. In the split seconds of
the crash impact everyone surges forward. The backrest flies
open and upward. Don is thrown headfirst into the trunk before
the back rest comes back down. From inside the blackness of the
trunk, blindness is Don's frenzied conclusion. We get Don
extricated and everyone has a relieved and nervous laugh. There
are no serious bodily injuries.
However, the car won't start. It can't be
moved. Steam is hissing from the crushed radiator. The hood is
waving in the breeze. The front end has hit the pole dead center
and all the front parts are tightly wrapped around the base of
the pole. The upper part of the severed utility pole is swaying
back and forth, weighing heavily on the wires secured at other
distant poles.
Here we are at 3:00 a.m., stranded on a
country road in pouring rain. No police. No tow truck. No house
in sight. No way to get home. We decide the best we can do is to
wait for the light of dawn and then make a decision. In about
twenty minutes a fraternity brother from the dance comes along.
We pile into his car and he drives us to our separate homes in
Silver Spring.
It is now 5:00 a.m. The dawn light is
emerging. My distraught and incredulous mother meets me at the
door. She sees me. She sees no car. "Oh no!" she cries, "What's
happened? Where's the car? Look at you. Your father will be so
upset when he gets home, you have destroyed his car. After all
he's been through, after all we've been through this winter. Now
this. What if he has a relapse? You were drinking, weren't you?
I know these fraternity parties. How many times have I told you
not to? This is awful!"
I make my way to my bedroom, nursing not only
my crushed nose, but also my hurt feelings that my mother is
more concerned about the wrecked car than my condition.
After a few hours of sleep my frat brother
returns to take me to the hospital to see what can be done about
my apparently broken nose and disfigurements. The nose isn't
broken. It is only the cartilage that has suffered. The doctor
pushes the swollen mess painfully to the opposite side of my
face, holding it there awhile before trying to reposition it
properly.
I leave the hospital and get a tow truck to
take me back to the accident scene. We find the car, but it has
been broken into by someone. There are no signs of police being
aware of the accident. I don't report it. I get the car towed
back to the Nash dealers parking lot in Silver Spring for damage
assessment. I don't relish the thoughts of my father's reaction
to it all when he returns Sunday afternoon from his beach trip.
He is, of course, very upset, and gives me a repeat of my
mother's earlier lacing and lecture. The repair estimate is
$385. I am told, and agree, to work the summer to pay it off.
Insurance is not involved.
Some icing on the "pit" cake of that year
comes one afternoon in mid-June. I am working off my debt by
painting the family home and have enrolled in summer school
classes to try and get my academics on track. A knock comes at
our front door. My mother answers. It is a Maryland state
trooper with an arrest warrant for me. He wants to take me to
Annapolis to face charges. I am listening and gulping in the
next room.
My mother frantically asked for some
explanation, "Why? What did he do now?" The trooper told her
that there are two unpaid traffic citations from the Annapolis
Police Department for going the wrong way on a one-way street
and a one-way circle back in early May 1952. Aghast, she
persuades him to not take me with him, but to let her pay the
fines. He agrees. I'm cringing in the background, waiting for
the fall out when he leaves.
This is brand new bad news for my mother, I
have not told her about that part of the party night. I thought
it had been settled, and there was no need to deepen the problem
pit. Howie, another frat brother, had come to my aide after the
dismal night, saying that his father was the mayor of Annapolis.
He was sure that his father would take care of the tickets for
me, given the specifics of the heavy rain and all. I hand over
the citations to Howie, much relieved that additional
transgressions have been put to rest. So I am now mortified when
the trooper appears and stirs it all up again. I later call
Howie to ask why his father had not fixed my tickets. He
casually replies, "Oh he must have forgotten. Too bad."
The 'pits' of 1952 are about done. A corner
is about to be turned. I am ready for some 'peaks.' I pay off
the auto damage debt. I have done a careful job painting the
house. My father gradually regains his former robust health to
live and work another twenty-six years.
I sign on for two major summer school courses
to help make up for my lost academic ground. Amazingly, I
blossom in this new atmosphere of concentrating on two subjects
for six weeks instead of the normal semester system of six
courses for twelve weeks. I love the saturation opportunities
with Human Anatomy and Physiology, and the History of the Civil
War. I come to know and memorize all the muscles and bones and
workings of the body. I can rehearse all the battles and
strategies and human feelings of the Civil War. I ace both
courses. I love the sweet ecstasies from getting my first two
"A's" in college. It spurs me on. It lifts me from the morose
pit of self pity and starts me on a new path with a new
perspective. Something in the mix of uselessness and depression
has given me the push I needed.
Returning as a junior to classes that fall, I
make the necessary changes to no longer be a daily commuter. I
prefer not having to juggle both home and school issues. I rent
a room in one of the converted army barracks, now serving as
temporary dorms at the edge of campus. I can the handle the
$12.50 monthly rent. I also work as a houseboy at the Tri Delta
Sorority house and get all my meals as compensation. I can pay
for my $350 college tuition from my summer and holiday work. I
can pick up $10 now and then for pocket money and a few extras,
by playing trombone in a campus dance band.
I vividly remember walking jauntily down
College Avenue in my not-so-white, white buck shoes and hand
creased khakis, breathing the crisp fall air. My pockets are
empty. No money to jingle. Yet I have a lasting 'peak' feeling
that life is good. With my basic needs covered, I require
nothing more to enjoy the moment.
The image of that moment returns often and
reminds me, in the midst of new difficulties, that survival and
happiness can be had with very little money. The universe is
teaching me that "There is enough!" I can ask myself the
worst-case scenario question in the midst of new dark prospects,
"What's the worst thing that could happen? Can I live with it? "
The picture and feeling of that day on College Avenue flashes
before me and I can utter a resounding, "Sure!" Now that's a
'peak.'
GROWING
PAINS
It isn't easy getting from ten to twenty. At
least for me. Probably for most. It always seems a hectic mix of
fun and frolic, with a heavy dose of fear and uncertainty. It is
something like trying to walk up the down escalator. It doesn't
quit. At every turn of relationship and circumstance there is a
challenge to change something again and stretch me out of my
comfort zone.
This day in February 1952 is no different. I
am settling in for another session of Philosophy 101 at the
University of Maryland. It is my sophomore elective. I have
hustled over the frigid wind swept path from my zoology lab.
There are the ritual sounds of another class beginning filling
the room. Sixty of us are shuffling toward a vacant desk,
clunking our snow laden boots along with us. The ripping sounds
of zippers being pulled apart, and the pops of snaps opening our
winter, down filled coats pepper the air. We drape our coats
over the backs of our chairs, stuffing our scarves and hats in
the sleeves. We flip open our boots and inhale the aroma of snow
on rubber. We clap our book bags on the desktops and pull out
our philosophy notebooks. We click our pens ready for action.
Behind me someone crunches a first bite of an apple. In the
midst of the clamor eyes dart around to see if there are any
familiar faces and some signs of recognition. This class has its
share of World War II veterans who are getting their free
education under the GI Bill. I feel inside like my fourteen-year
old appearance on the outside, and welcome any sign of
friendliness.
The noisy bustle quickly hushes as Professor
Bradley comes through the door, moves to the podium, opens his
black leather notebook, flips a couple of pages, and reaches
into his vest pocket for his reading glasses. He looks up and
around at the gathered students. This commences what is to
become my big event.
He begins, "Today, we continue our
exploration and comparison of various philosophies and
religions, and what they offer for giving a belief system and
direction for life. Let me get into it today with a question.
How many of you would say that you were brought up with a
religious background and influence? How many had parents, and
other authority figures in your life who influenced you, trained
you, raised you, by making sure you got to Sunday school and
church and other things, like reading a Bible, listening to
religious music, having you memorize church creeds and dogma,
pray before meals or before you went to bed, or were sick or in
trouble? Did they send you to church summer camps, have you join
church youth groups, read and follow the rules from the Bible or
church documents? Did they teach you about rewards and
punishments, heaven and hell and things like that? Anybody
raised like that?"
Quite a few hands go up, including mine. If I
had known what was coming, I would have nailed my hands to the
desktop. I am in the third row.
He singles me out. "Okay, just for an
example, you there, young man. Your name?"
"Seltzer," I meekly respond, knowing that
eyes and ears are now trained on me, vets and all. I am
thinking, "This is going to be bad. There's no escape."
My cheeks quickly turn crimson. I clear my throat and smile
nervously. I look down at my notebook to avoid eye contact. I
start clicking my pen point in and out.
He continues, as he walks from behind his
podium toward me with the thumbs of both his hands tucked into
his vest pockets, leaving the other fingers to flap up and down
to give emphasis as he makes his points.
"Okay Mr. Seltzer, tell me what it was like
for you, and what good you think your religious upbringing has
done for you. What do you think about all of that?"
My mind races to find something coherent to
reply, I feel the embarrassment that brings the cold beads of
sweat to join my crimson countenance. The seconds of silence
from me seem like hours as my ears pick up the muffled chuckles
from others in the room, fueled no doubt by their relief that
they had not been called upon.
I am finally able to manage a response.
"Well, all these things you listed are true for me. My family,
the church, the Bible, praying, -- all of it."
He jumps in, "Did you ever question any of
it? Or did you just swallow it?"
I reply, "I remember I asked a few questions
of my Sunday school teachers and my parents along the way, but
mostly I probably thought, 'Well, these people, these adults,
pastors, teachers and friends, these authorities, are all
loving, caring, thoughtful people with me. If they are believing
and following it all, trying to live by it, then it must be
okay. If it's good enough for them, then it's good enough for
me. I guess I'll just follow their example.'"
I am surprised that so many words have gushed
out. They make some sense to me even though I haven't thought
much about it before.
Professor Bradley replies, "I can understand
that much. But what do YOU believe, what do you know for
yourself, not just 'hand me down's' from others. What is God for
you? How does your loving God allow so much horrible suffering
and evil in his world? How do you even prove his existence? What
about all of the conflicts in the Bible stories? Is every part
of it equal in its authority? Do you really follow all of those
rules in Leviticus? Why would a loving God damn his creatures to
an eternal hell? What happens to people who don't believe as you
do or follow the same rules? What about all of the atrocities
perpetrated in the name of religion over the centuries? How come
good people do bad things? Why are there so many different
religions?"
The flurry of questions and issues continues.
They are probably meant to overwhelm me. They do. I'm not sure
of the professor's motivation for all of it. Whether it is to
prove the rightness of his atheism, or to put enough of a bomb
under me to get me, and the rest of the class, moving toward
thinking more seriously about life's questions, and maturing
from simple to complex. Either way, at that moment I am crushed.
The adrenalin of humiliation is pumping through my veins. There
is no resolution of his questions or charges to me. By the time
the class hour is over I just want to exit as fast as possible
without making any eye contact. So, without looking up, I pack
my book bag, snap my boots closed, grab my coat and rush to the
nearest door.
My secure and safe little religious cocoon
has received a broadside attack and been splintered. I have been
shaken by the professor's apparent meanness ---and rightness. He
is right, after all. At least about my naiveté and ignorance of
such an essential part of life as a belief system. In trying to
re-group and resolve the quandaries he opens up in me I go to
see my pastor who both supports me in my desperation, and also
agrees that a long process of thinking and feeling and questing
is necessary for me.
So it is, this February philosophy class
becomes a marker event which nudges me out of my twenties to
turn from my pre-med and pre-teacher preparations toward a
thorough going spiritual overhaul. This comes by way of a
seminary education. It is to be followed by a lifetime of shared
questing to know and experience with ever greater clarity some
answers to Professor Bradley's questions, as well as the host of
new ones show up to excite me and stimulate my evolution.
A BAILIFF BIRTHING
If dreams have their way in the summer of
1954, I will be a bus driver.
I have just graduated from the University of
Maryland and need money to start graduate studies in the fall at
Gettysburg Seminary. I have responded to a Trailways Bus Company
newspaper advertisement for new bus drivers to handle the summer
vacation travelers, with the likelihood of driving weekend
charter trips throughout the year. My dream machine is engaged.
I see myself excited about being away from
home for the two-week bus driver training in Richmond, Va. Then
I will be ready to be wheeling one of those powerful, shiny
passenger buses all around the country. I will get to see new
vacation destinations and meet a wide assortment of humanity.
I'll make enough money to support my education for the next year
and probably even earn extra dollars with the football trips and
weekend excursions.
I send in my application to Trailways with my
best personal references...a bank president, a physician, a
couple of Washington, D.C. government officials. They are all
enthusiastically supportive. It all looks perfect. All I have to
do is wait for the acceptance call. I did wait, and wait, and
wait, for three weeks.
The pleasant dreams are gradually being
replaced.
This process goes from reasoning that: "they
are a big company, it probably takes a long time to deal with
the influx of hundreds of applications", to "I wonder if they
have even seen my application yet, or checked my references", to
"I wonder if I should call someone to check on the status of the
application," to "I guess I need to be more realistic about my
prospects." to " my parents aren't keen on me being down in
Richmond with who knows who being there..," to " I guess I'd
better not count on it and think about applying somewhere else.
Summer is almost here and I need a job!"
With the bus driver dream fading, I start
looking at the newspaper ads again. My mother, not one to stand
idly by, decides to make a move in my behalf by calling our
congressman, Dewitt Hyde, to see if there can be any patronage
jobs available for me. She has been a loyal supporter of his for
a long time. I am still waiting for the possible Trailways call.
Two days later Mr. Hyde's office calls back. They want me to go
for an interview tomorrow with Mrs. Callahan, head clerk at the
criminal court of the District of Columbia.
The job will be as a bailiff. "Wow, that
is quick," I thought. I also thought, "Just what does
a bailiff do anyway?"
I have watched Perry Mason on TV. The court
scenes have a man with a badge delivering a glass of water to
the judge from time to time and telling everyone to stand up and
sit down. I venture that I can probably handle that much. But I
wonder, "What else?" It certainly doesn't fit with my
bus driver dreams. Those dreams will evidently have to shift
gears. I have no idea what might be in store for me at the
court.
I have the interview. I am accepted for the
job on the spot. I can start the following Monday by reporting
to Mrs. Callahan's office and undergoing training and
introductions. I accept on the spot with a mix of relief for
having secured any kind of job for the summer, and a barrel of
internal questions as to what was ahead.
Upon arriving home, I report the sequence of
events to my parents with considerable excitement, which they
share. They also share that Mr. Robinson from Trailways Bus
Company has called that afternoon to say that he is very
impressed with my line up of references, and that he is offering
me a job as a Trailways bus driver, and to please give him a
phone call.
"Oh, no!" my mind and mouth shout. The
questions race through my head, "How can I get out of the
bailiff thing that I have just accepted? How will that look?
How will that make my parents look? How will that make
congressman Hyde look? How will it look to my references for
the bus job? That's the job I really wanted. Why didn't they
call a week earlier, or even a day earlier. Oh, man, what a
quandary".
My parents favor the bailiff patronage job
because of the 'low life's' I might meet up with driving a bus,
and because of their loyalty to the congressman. I have a
two-day internal struggle and then make my apologetic phone call
to Mr. Robinson to announce my dilemma, and prior commitment to
another job just the day he had called. He is understanding, and
also apologetic for his tardiness in getting back to me,
occasioned by his having been on vacation for two weeks. He
wishes me well. I sigh heavily. For the next two days I can be
seen kicking up some dust and pounding my fist for the missed
opportunity and dashed dreams.
Finally, Monday arrives. It is time to start
my new job as bailiff at the District of Columbia Criminal
Court, and to leave the bus driving to someone else, or maybe
another time. Answers to my line up of questions about all the
people, situations, and humanity's ways I might face quickly
become evident and instructive for me.
I will wear a badge but no special uniform,
just my personal suits and ties. I will carry no weapons. I will
deliver the paperwork for the daily cases from the
administrative office to the clerk in the courtroom. Then I'm to
go to the judge's chambers.
He is the first among the fascinating
assortment of people with whom I interact and expand my
awareness. I am assigned to Judge Thomas Scalley. As we began
our day, we exchange pleasantries. I help him don his courtly
robe and escort him to one of ten courtrooms housed in the
stately granite stone courthouse.
Judge Scalley is always pleasant with me, but
he has a fierce look about him. He is of recent Irish heritage,
and looks the part, with his full head of snow-white hair
flowing in the breeze as he walks. His bright red countenance
suggests he is often into the sauce, but I never witness it. He
carries his black horned rimmed glasses in one hand. In the
other hand is a thin leather satchel holding his legal pads,
pencils and a folder or two. I am not to allow anyone in the
hallways to approach the judge, even if the judge knows them.
Then there is the judge's clerk, Bob Ernst. A
thin, cheery, and efficient recent graduate from Georgetown Law
School, now learning the ways of the law from the inside out. He
has an excellent tenor voice, singing in several groups, and
still takes lessons along with more graduate law courses at
night.
Next is Mr. Flynn. He is the bond clerk and
manages a steady stream of bondsmen who quietly leave him little
gifts of liquor or cigars to gain his favor to be inclined to
send them more business. Flynn takes a liking to me and often
offers advice on how things 'really work' at the court. He is
also something of a lech.
With a sparkle in his eye and chewing on his
ever-present unlit cigar, he opens the bottom drawer of his desk
to show me his prize. It is an animal bone and joint which
obviously resemble a large human penis and scrotum. He delights
in its shock value to a viewer. He is always wanting to 'talk'
with my girlfriend. She sometimes stops in at the close of the
day. Incidentally, she has just won the Miss National Press
Photographer beauty contest and been pictured with Vice
President Richard Nixon.
For me, there are also the daily
conversations with the police officers who are in court to give
testimony regarding the arrests they have made. Often times,
they have to be present on their days off which produces many
complaints. Many times, during the long waits for their cases to
come up I also hear much of what their lives are about on the
job, and at home.
Lawyers are everywhere. Many are looking for
some favor from me to get their case expedited or to find out
details. Others have been legitimately hired and are doing their
best for their clients. I label some lawyers as 'court
vultures,' as they keep a keen eye out for a weeping family,
clearly unfamiliar and traumatized with the ways of a court,
jails, fines, and possible prison terms. Once these vulture
lawyers spot them, they rush in on them, appear caring, engage
the distraught family, to find out who and what the trouble is
about.
I can hear a typical conversation, "Oh my,
you say he was arrested for drunkenness and disorderly conduct.
That is very serious indeed. He could be sentenced anywhere from
sixty to ninety days in prison. Very serious. That could mean he
can lose his job, right? You certainly need me to help you."
I watch in dismay as they offer their
services, establishing their supposed credentials, and very soon
asking to see the bank book of the family. Thereupon they
establish their prepaid fees and promise their attention to do
their best to get the best deal from the judge in court. They
defer the case if possible until someone in the family can rush
out to the bank to get the lawyer's retainer fee.
The reality I know is that every first-time
offender is released. Always. No prison time. The vulture
lawyers also know this but paint a very dire picture for a
vulnerable family. The family is so appreciative of the lawyer's
efforts on their behalf to get the offender released, even
though they have actually been taken to the cleaners. I am soon
motivated to also be on the lookout for panicked relatives of
first-time offenders. I quickly move in ahead the vultures to
tell the family the real court story and 'not to worry.'
I have frequent conversations with the
prisoners as we move through the court processes together. Many
are repeaters. For some it has become a way of life. They serve
their sentences at the Occoquan, Va. correctional facility,
making license plates for the District of Columbia. It becomes a
community of a sort. Everybody knows each other: the prisoners,
the guards, the bus drivers, the clerks, the bailiffs, even the
judges know the regulars. Within a week of being released from
Occoquan they are back in court and expecting to do it all over
again.
Their pattern is that a few days after
release from Occoquan Jail they often get a loaf of white bread
and a pint of pure alcohol. They filter the alcohol by pouring
it through the length of the bread. They call it "Smoke." It a
favorite drink. It's also a sure path to drunkenness, the court,
and back to Occoquan.
The oft repeated weak defense of a
drunkenness charge is, "But your honor, I only had two beers!"
No defendant, no matter how drunken his behavior, ever admits to
having consumed more than two beers. Such defense always brings
smiles to court employees.
A memorable sight of my court experience is
the reunion of a just released prisoner and his common law
partner after being separated by a ninety-day jail term. They
can't wait to celebrate. Going to my lunch break through the
back door of the court I am smilingly surprised by their
copulatory activity just behind the bushes next to the court
building.
There are so many lives encountered, so many
life stories from which I learn, from both sides of the jail
walls.
I also learn from my daily routine at the
court. It looks something like this.
With the judge just behind me, I open the
heavy oak courtroom door and bellow, "All rise. Hear ye, hear
ye, all persons having business before the Municipal Criminal
Court of of the District of Columbia draw nigh and give
attention. The court is now in session. The Honorable Judge
Thomas Scalley presiding."
Once the judge is seated, I announce that
everyone else can be seated. The judge and his clerk briefly
discuss the upcoming cases. They look over the criminal records
for repeaters. I go to the holding room outside the courtroom to
escort the first ten handcuffed prisoners into the courtroom
chairs. They wait for the clerk to call up their case, naming
the charges. Prisoners new to the court system are frightened
and look anxiously into the courtroom for a familiar face that
might offer some kind of support for this traumatic moment. I
escort each prisoner to stand in front of the judge where he is
asked if he has a lawyer to represent him.
It is a busy courtroom. After a weekend, the
dark blue Department of Corrections buses with the heavy metal
grill work covering the windows, pick up prisoners from police
precincts throughout Washington, D.C. Often, they have
accumulated an assortment of 200 arrests. They are mostly drunk
and disorderly offenses, with a few assault and battery or DUI's
mixed in. Occasionally, the vice squad presents prostitution or
homosexual offenders. All of these detainees are dropped off
early in the mornings at the courthouse cell block, located in
the basement.
That cellblock is a seamy scene. My nostrils
are assaulted with the acrid combination of stale alcohol,
cigarettes, vomit, and other bodily odors. The noise is
deafening with the crowd of bellicose men and women, separated
by iron bars but yelling their invectives as if this is their
last gasp of control in their lives.
There are also the silent ones. They are
scared and morose about the turn of events in their lives. They
curl up in the corners to avoid any fights. If a case has not
come up by noon a lunch is passed to them. It consists of two
slices of white bread with mustard and a slice of baloney in
between, and water.
We bailiff's take turns arranging the hand
cuffed prisoners in groups of ten according to names on the case
list. We then have them join us on the elevator that takes us
from the cell block to the holding room outside the courtroom.
One morning, as court is ready to begin,
there are no prisoners in the holding room to be brought out
into the courtroom. Not knowing what might have happened I go
over to the elevator door and hear muffled screams and shouts
coming from the elevator shaft. The elevator has jammed between
floors. No one has noticed for a long time. The elevator is
filled with panicking female prisoners. The mechanical problem
is resolved. The functioning elevator delivers ten very
frightened ladies and their ashen faced bailiff escort.
When our court case load is complete for the
day bailiffs have some freedom. Some seek out an empty court
room for a nap. I usually sit in on other court sessions dealing
with crimes varying considerably from my usual diet of the drunk
and disorderly. It enhances my understanding of the law and the
legal tactics employed to gain from it.
It doesn't take much reflection to realize
the richness of this summer experience. The parade of people,
with their diverse range of life experiences and emotions serve
to stretch my awareness and understanding beyond my wildest
dreams. Oh sure, the bus driver dreams are appealing. But
another part of me, and its dreams, intervene and call the
shots. Just what I need at the time!
CHOICES
Inga Johannnson and Esther Bartlett are both
residents at The Home For Incurables in Washington, D.C. In
1956, as a chaplain intern for the Lutheran Inner Mission
Society, I visit with them regularly for a year. Inga and Esther
both have choices as they face their incurable conditions. Their
responses are miles apart. The contrast gifts me with permanent
life lessons.
Room 203 is called by the staff, "The Bitch
Box." It is Esther's room. She provides the staff and visitors
with a steady stream of reasons to support the naming. Esther is
six years into her permanent confinement to a wheelchair. This
gives her mobility in her room and through the hallways. She
chooses to use this mobility to spread her doom and gloom
whenever the opportunity arises. She is avoided by everyone at
every opportunity. True enough, the institutional green covering
the walls is drab indeed. The pungent odors of lingering urine
mixed with pine floor cleaners and alcohol are ever present. The
dimly lit halls mean more shadowed corners. The very name of the
institution does little to inspire the moment. Esther has plenty
of negative stimuli to justify her sour countenance.
She can move her hands and arms, so the front
locks of her hair have had a brush through them, but the rest of
her hair is like an oily rat's nest with no signs of attention.
A thread bare lavender wool shawl covers her black and spotted
dress. Frayed slippers hold her twisted feet. The rest of the
room is dark and stark. No pictures. No family remembrances or
knickknacks. Just the standard bed coverings with a pink
chenille bathrobe hanging over the foot rail. Large black and
white checked linoleum tiles cover the floor.
In this severe setting I have deep feelings
of sadness for Esther and her plight. Her aloneness. Her anger.
Her depression. Her expanding isolation. My mind races,
searching for some questions, or words of comfort and
encouragement that might move her toward a different
perspective, to let in a bit of light. I look for something that
might open her inner hurts to some kind of healing. I have a
measure of human caring just waiting to get behind her "bitch
box" label.
I hold her hand as we pray. It all sounds and
feels pretty limp and ineffectual to me, probably to her as
well. She is making an indelible impression on my understandings
of human nature and the choices available in the presence of
enormous odds. I don't like what I am experiencing from Esther's
choices. As with the other staff, I welcome the opportunity to
move on from "the bitch box", and to consider its lifetime
effects at another time.
Fortunately, right next door, in Room 205, at
The Home for Incurables, resides another Lutheran. I am to visit
Inga Johannson. Inga is a first-generation Swede, still with a
heavy accent. In contrast to Esther, Inga's room has been
nicknamed, "Angel Alley" by the staff, with good reason. Inga
has been in that same room, and in that same bed, for eighteen
years, paralyzed from the neck down. The range of her sight is
limited to how far her eyeballs can take her side to side, or up
and down, excepting when she is lifted or turned to change the
bed clothes or help her avoid bed sores.
Inga's room has the same institutional green
paint on the walls, the same black and white checked linoleum
flooring, the same dim light on the high ceiling, the same
unpleasant smells drifting in from the hallway. Like Esther, she
has no visits or remembrances from family in the room. But there
the similarity stops. In "Angel Alley" the walls are covered
almost top to bottom with various sizes of colored paper and
pictures with writing on them.
If I had been an invisible presence in Room
205 I might have heard something like this exchange between Inga
and Charlotte, one of the health care staff.
"Hi Inga, it's good to see you smiling again
this morning. I've come to change your sheets. You know the
routine, I'm sure. You ready? I'll get James and Charlie in here
to lift you while I change the covers. It should only take a
couple of minutes."
Inga looks directly at Charlotte with her
dancing eyes, sparkling with the full force of those delicate
muscles playing together. These are the delicate muscles around
her eyes. Muscles that move are scarce in her paralyzed body.
She makes these combine with her wrinkles into an infectious
broad smile.
She kiddingly replies, "What Charlotte wants,
Charlotte gets. Charlotte is a sweetie. What would a morning be
without Charlotte in here doing something. Everyone is watching,
you know. The bed sheets, bedpans, brooms, mops, washcloths,
soap and powder, combs and lotions, the little massages. They
all see you. Even Sam, my squirrel friend out there on the maple
tree limb, perched on his haunches, grinding his teeth away on
that hazelnut, has a front row seat. He's hardly aware of the
two caterpillars crawling around the branch at his feet or the
blue jay bouncing on the twig above him. It's quite an audience
you've got here Charlotte. Who knows how things look from where
they sit. I'll bet it's something you'd like to hear about. When
we're done here this morning I'll think about it some more, and
try to put together a poem about it.
Come back after lunch and I'll tell you what
I've come up with. Maybe you will want to put it on paper."
"Oh yes Inga," Charlotte replies, "I'll write
it down and paste another picture on it with my name, and we'll
see if we can find a spot somewhere on the wall for another of
your famous poems. Now let's get these sheets changed."
There are exchanges like this with other
staff and scores of visitors, who experience the unique
inspiration of Inga's presence through her smiles and vibrant
countenance from the neck up.
Inga's visitors over the years record the
words of inspiration flowing from her heart. Her simple,
humorous, and profound thoughts, often in poetic verse, and with
Swedish accent, are born from her keen observations of the lone
maple tree limb that diagonally crosses the single window next
to her bed. Day and night, month after month, year after year,
through the imperfections of the dust and frost, she comes to
see the extent of life available in the apparent stillness of
that maple tree. Its constant companions of insects and animal
life, busy through the steady changing of the seasons, with the
brilliance of the sun, and the subtleties of the moon and stars
as a backdrop, enhance it all.
Those of us who come to her room to change
bed pans, administer medicines, and offer words and prayers of
encouragement for Inga, leave her side blown away. We are
instilled with Inga's unique brand of healing and power. She is
the giver. We are the grateful receivers. We cover her walls
with the words that come through her light to show us life in a
new perspective. We sign our names and add our pictures or
symbols or speechless thoughts of gratitude, for having had the
rare privilege of being in her "Angel Alley" just when we needed
it.
She never wants us to close her door as we
leave Room 205. Even that admonition is symbolic and
instructive. I always remember Inga as a model of the expanding
power of her choices in the face of a lifetime of insurmountable
adversity. I'd also like to think that somehow Inga's
life-giving energies eventually penetrate through the wall to
Room 203, where Esther is... waiting.
IMAGINE JACOB
His mother calls him Jacob. His wife calls
him Jacob. His students call him Dr. Heikkenen.
He is professor of New Testament at the
Lutheran Theological Seminary in Gettysburg, Pa.
He has known hard times during World War 2 in
Finland. You will love him, as do his students.
He has some tell-tale signs of being a
professor. Imagine a well-worn baggy tweed suit, with a black
tie and white shirt. Imagine his head full of black, bushy hair.
Imagine his glasses with thick lenses, so you never get a clear
definition of his eyes, other than their sparkle to match his
ready smiles.
His home has loaded bookshelves in most every
room. Stacks of periodicals prevent dust from accumulating on
the tables. He has authored many professional articles. He is
respected and called on as a learned authority in his field of
New Testament studies.
Dr. Heikkenen's countenance is endearing,
gentle, and exudes an ethereal exuberance, as if at every moment
he is having a vision or insight emerging from the distant
horizon. You can often find the New Testament majors gathered in
his living room, engaging with him on current issues, as they
munch on snacks together. He politely addresses every student as
'mister' or 'miss.' You can probably imagine most of this.
You can also probably picture his vintage
bicycle. It is a very vintage bicycle. It does move, but without
some of the usual niceties. The originally dark green fenders
are now mostly rust laden. There are no gears to shift. The
brakes engage by a back pedaling movement of his legs. There is
no shield over the chain, so he wears clamps on his trousers to
keep them from being entangled. There is no basket, so he slips
his ever-present briefcase over the rusty handlebars. It is how
Jacob always moves around the campus.
The first little bicycle moment happens one
day when he is peddling along the seminary sidewalk, next to a
bushy hedge. Looking straight ahead to keep-his eyes focused, he
hears students across the road call a cheery, "Hi, Dr.
Heikkenen!' He quickly turns his head and waves with his left
hand. It is a momentary distraction, but long enough to throw
him off his course and into the hedge. The students rush to his
aid. He isn't hurt, just embarrassed. They all laugh it away.
There is a second incident with his
not-so-trusty bike. Students are gathered in front of the
refectory before dinner on a spring evening. Professors take
turns dining with the students. On this day Jacob arrives as
usual on his old bike. He is smiling broadly as he swiftly
pedals across the street toward them in anticipation of some
pleasant conversations. Abruptly, his smile turns to panic. He
looks down at his feet and yells to the students, "Look out, I
can't stop!" As he plows into the group several of them grab him
and the bike before they collide with the brick building. The
brakes have failed. Amid the inspections of the bike there are
more laughs, courtesy of Dr. Heikkenen.
Imagine one of his non-professional
entertainments. It is the day for the final exam to be held in
the classroom of the imposing administration building, built in
1829. There are intricately carved oak stairwells and railings
with vaulted ceilings. The doors are classically inscribed thick
oak, nine feet feet tall.
Students have been cramming for their finals.
Stress levels are high and need release, a perfect recipe for
shenanigans. Before Dr. Heikkenen arrives, some students
conspire to test him by locking the two giant doors to the
classroom with an old fashioned skeleton key that matches.
The minute hands of the clock creep toward
the 10 a.m. class starting time. Everyone falls silent, except
for some devilish giggles. They wait for Dr. Heikkenen to
approach and try to open the doors. He is always punctual, as he
is on this day. The students are all in their places. He is not.
They listen and watch. Finally, the door handle twists…several
times. Then the same thing for the second door. Another twist …a
bump…a shake. Then silence…more silence.
The students whisper, "Does he know where to
find another skeleton key that fits? Maybe the administration
office?" The students wonder about him, but they also become a
bit concerned that, "Maybe we've stepped over the line, gone too
far? Maybe no more smiles? Maybe 'F's' for everyone?"
They wait and whisper, "Should we open it?"
They are frozen. Time goes by. Lots of time … five, ten, fifteen
minutes. They listen for any sound to give them a clue.
Suddenly, a key is in the lock the handle
turns. The door bursts open. Dr. Heikkenen charges in,
yelling, "Hands up!" He is dressed in a 'Columbpo' style trench
coat with its collar turned up around his neck, and a wrinkled
fedora pulled down over his ears. He swings his son's toy
machine gun into action with rapid fire clackety, clack, clacks,
cutting a wide swath back and forth so that everyone will be
dropped.
We students are bent over with shrieks of
surprise and laughter. We have met our match. Jacob's eyes
sparkle through his thick glasses. He removes his coat and hat,
then quietly distributes the test papers. Everyone stays an
extra twenty minutes after the usual class time to finish.
You might find it harder to imagine Jacob's
next memorable adventure. He and his wife love concerts and the
theater. Sometimes they ride the train from Harrisburg to New
York City for a show.
One Monday morning waiting students are
informed that Dr. Heikkenen will not be meeting his classes. He
has to go to Harrisburg to meet the train from New York City.
His wife will be on it.
The details of the announcement are sketchy.
They attend a show together Saturday afternoon. There is no
disagreement between them, but for some reason he leaves the
theater during the intermission. Something quite apart from the
show consumes his attentions. Mrs. Heikkenen is left still
seated in the theater. It is a long wait. In the meantime Jacob
has made the train trip back to Harrisburg without her. Images
of an unbelievably absent-minded professor grow with the
students. There are gasps, 'Holy cow…good grief…are you serious?
… Can you imagine?" Apparently, with a mix of panic and anger,
his wife phones their home late Saturday night to find out what
has happened. She can't imagine. Neither can he.
This is Jacob: lovable, laughable…and
unimaginable.
THANKS
FOR THE CHANGE
I will be changing. There are two impacting
influences for me in 1957. The first has to do with my spending
a year away from my seminary theological studies.
I am participating in a clinical training
program at The Washington, D.C. General Hospital as a chaplain
intern. During this year, five of us meet twice a day with our
chaplain supervisor, Herb Hillebrand. He is a quiet-spoken,
gentle, but incisive counselor of Reformed Church origin. He
smiles easily and listens thoughtfully, as he leans back in his
swivel desk chair.
The process is that each of us interns is
assigned a different hospital ward for three months on a
rotating basis. We meet with various patients on the ward for a
couple of hours in the morning. Then we spend a couple of hours
writing down the conversations as close to verbatim as possible.
In the afternoon we take turns reporting our interactions with
the patients to the group.
Then we move into our own form of surgery.
Through questions from Herb and to each other, we try to get
behind our words and actions to the motivations, meanings,
feelings, and belief systems that are in play. We pry and probe,
peeling back layer after layer. It is often an intense,
penetrating, unnerving, and insightful exercise, both welcomed
and feared, for what it might reveal about who we are inside.
In our verbatim reports we include
descriptions of body language and patient responses. What
appears at first as a simple greeting or exchange, when
dissected, can open a can of emotional worms.
Questions like, "What thoughts popped into
your head when you saw the tears dripping from the corners of
his eyes? What did you say? What did you do? What were you
feeling? Inadequate? Helpless? Tense? Hopeless? Calling on
religious clichés? Playing a role? What was his body language
telling you? Quick, say a prayer? What might have been done
differently? Were you judging him or yourself? Let me out of
here! Transparency here? If you had been in his place, what
would have helped you? Honestly, now. Think about it? Write it
out. Say it."
Progressively, through the year, our
sensitivities are sharpened, observations and insights
developed, and compassion deepened for those of us sharing in
the group remembering, as well as the patients in our pastoral
care. A year of daily interactions like these serve to re-shape
my core values and personality alignments.
The second major change comes through my
exposure to one other chaplain intern in particular. He is a
6'2" blond, handsome, bachelor Presbyterian from Princeton
Seminary. His name is Sinclair Van Tipton. He has a thoroughly
ivy league background. He is charming and articulate. He has
brought his own sailboat from Massachusetts and moored it at the
Potomac Marina for weekend outings. Sinclair is the object of
adoration by the nursing staff, and often sought after. From all
of the outer trappings he is a major "catch" for any of them,
even if for just a weekend sailing excursion. Sinclair is
pleasant and engaging with all of them.
However, he gives most of his attentions to
lunchtime conversations and weekend dates with the most
physically unattractive student nurse available. She is
diminutive, shy, short, thin, has a bulbous nose, close set
eyes, and an acne covered face. She has a sweet smile and
twinkle in her eyes. Her name is Angie.
Apparently, Sinclair has the maturity to
discern the angel in Angie. They engage in extended
conversations over lunch, focused on the insights and laughter
they share. It frustrates the more attractive nurses hovering
about. Angie's insights that Sinclair shares with our chaplain
group are enviable to my ears.
The maturity and awareness of important
realities the two of them evidenced brings me up short. It is in
stark contrast to my own and is frequently referenced by me as
the years go by. I realize that I have been focused on the
surface stuff and fluff of approval needs, I represent a college
fraternity culture that repeatedly tells me that good looks and
other appearance issues are the most important.
I have been influenced by it enough to seek
out and marry a beauty queen, the magazine cover starlet, the
daughter of a banker. We dance well together. She is sweet
enough. She agrees with almost everything I say. We are the
Hollywood couple. We are on national TV. There are five hundred
people at our wedding, providing us with a houseful of sterling
silver gifts. It is not the stuff of permanence or stability. We
don't last.
I don't know what happened to Sinclair and
Angie after the year at D.C. General Hospital. Maybe they pursue
their relationship to marriage, or maybe they just experience
the joys of simply living more maturely without the encumbrances
of surface values and judgments for those sweet moments in 1957.
The memories of them, and the intensity of
the intern group, both serve as major change agents in my life.
They continue to be reference points for meaning and value in my
life. I am changed.
FUNERAL
FARE
Funerals are a mixed
bag for me. On the one hand, I love them. It is when I feel
closest to people. I feel most useful. I feel most rewarded
sharing the pain with the people. They are most open to a
comforting presence, a hug, a word, a look. It is often a
teaching moment for everyone, including me. It is a time when
deep calls to deep, and inspiration often answers. Words of
holy writ that on any other day will receive little more than
a complacent nod, now carry ancient wisdom to sensitive ears.
Music from an organ or hymn singers sweep stored emotions into
the river of tears. Laughter is serendipitous from fresh
stories about the loved one. The gathered support of friends
and family point to nourishing connections. So often, funerals
are awash with love. I will reflect, "This is such a gift,
such a privilege. This is what it's all about, without the
fluff."
On the other hand,
and at the same time, there is the dance with the shadows of a
funeral.
There are the family
fences that have not been mended, connections that have not
been made.
Feelings of
separation are made even more raw in the presence of holy
things happening. The contrast is often bitter, if not
numbing. Somehow, I always hope that a word spoken, or a song
sung, would be a catalyst for positive change. Sometimes they
are. Often, not.
Also, on the other
hand, and at the same time, is my long-term inner grumbling
with the funeral practices themselves, and the businesses that
generate them. There are small things like the carnations
flavoring the hallways and clothing of the directors. It can't
be avoided. There are what seem to be the outrageous and
unnecessarily high costs. I hear a funeral director playing on
the guilt feelings of the bereaved.
Things like, "You
would want your father to have the best, wouldn't you, after
all he sacrificed for you for a lifetime?" Or, "Your mother
will look so beautiful with this polished oak casket and its
pink satin softness next to her kindly face."
I have taken on a
number of personal pastoral crusades as I accompany especially
vulnerable families through the casket choosing process. There
are the expensive, sleek, solid cherry caskets always
carefully lighted at the beginning of the display, and the
modest gray felt covered boxes hiding in the dark shadows at
the back of the room.
Then there are the
conversations about the many choices which, under pressure of
time, condense a lifetime of competing dialogues and meanings.
Topics like: how best to preserve and protect the body...maybe
an extra concrete vault, hermetically sealed, so no vermin or
water can get in. It is a long list. Embalming practices.
Cremation. Donation of body parts. "Who will be in the grave
next to mine?" "Which way will mother be facing?" Mausoleums.
Columbaria. All are mixed in with Judgement Day, Resurrection
Day, Heaven, Hell, and variations of Purgatory...and oh yes,
"How much will that cost?" Sometimes protests from new
relatives weigh in and distort realism even further.
Most of the funeral
directors themselves know their role. They are personable,
polite and pleasant. They are solicitous, solacing, and
dignified, no matter what, genuine or not. Their creed is to
maintain proper decorum and to be flexible in their
persuasion, allowing for many weird special requests. There is
always propriety, decorum, and tradition to be considered,
even while everything is swimming in syrup and baked in
phoniness. All of it is necessary in order to make a living
and improve the image.
The list of funeral
negatives is large, growing, and ever present in both my
conscious and subconscious mind. It is there even as I can
bask in the glories of a particular funeral service. There
doesn't seem to be much I can do about the negatives. Oh, here
and there, I can offer a word, a question, or a counsel. Being
with a family to keep them from being pressured or gouged in
their decisions helps. Suggesting ways of reconciling
distraught relatives helps. Just being present in supportive
silence helps.
My rebel and
maverick voice sometimes surfaces and makes itself heard. How
can I challenge a harmful tradition of the culture? How can I
register protest, and maybe even change a practice for the
better? It isn't like I am going to be carrying a sign in an
anti-war rally or locking arms with Martin Luther King
marching across a bridge in Selma. It is just my little
corner, my little way. It is probably on my mind enough to
make it surface into some kind of action, without even
thinking it through.
For an instance. It
is early in my ministry at Atonement Lutheran Church in
Syracuse, N.Y.
It is eleven o'clock
on a bright, balmy, breezy September morning. A funeral is
being held in honor of David Bruce, a longtime, hardworking,
and beloved member of the church. The choir turns out on a
weekday to honor David in song, and the organist gives
stirring fervor to her rendition of Widor's Toccata in F ...
nothing quiet and weepy for David. The pews are full. Everyone
sings the hymns with gusto and greets each other with hugs,
which helps in sharing the pangs of separation. It is an
inspiring time together.
Bill Lunsford is the
new owner of Ballweeg and Lunsford Funeral Home in the Valley
neighborhood. He is
a 6'2" slender man in his '50's, with a tuft of blond hair in
the center front of his otherwise balding head. He is sedate,
with shoulders slightly stooped in introverted fashion. His
smile is present but scarce. After the service, he is
attentive to his role of helping everything to move smoothly.
He properly gives dignified deference to the family as they
make their way to the freshly polished black limousines
waiting along the sidewalk. He and his assistants properly
dismiss pews of guests and guide them to their cars, asking
them to turn on their lights for the trip to the cemetery.
He guides the six
pallbearers as they lift the flower covered casket from its
carriage and carry it to the rear of the shiny black hearse.
Knowing eyes are on him, he opens the rear
door of the hearse
in measured fashion and instructs the pallbearers as they
carefully insert the casket into the hearse. He then directs
them to their waiting black limo.
The proper order for
the funeral procession is for Bill to be in the lead limo with
the pastor in the back seat as the only passenger. This is to
be followed by the hearse, the limo with the pallbearers, the
family's limos, and then the lineup of guest cars.
However, on this day
I need to visit patients at the hospital, after the
ceremonies.
I tell Bill, "I'll
drive my own car to the cemetery so that I can go to the
hospital directly from the graveside. It will save time and
unnecessary travel." He winces a bit. This is diverting from
the proper and traditional protocol. At first, hoping to find
a better option, he says that he can drop me off at the
hospital. But then he realizes that won't work. It would mean
that he would have to wait for me or come back to pick me up.
After some head scratching toward finding an option for me not
to drive, he finally tells me, "Okay then, follow right behind
me, and in front of the hearse." I agree and hurry back into
the church to drop off my robes and pick up my car from the
parking lot.
What I neglect to
mention to Bill -- accidentally or on purpose -- is that my
car happens to be a brilliant red Buick convertible, and the
top is down! If he had known that earlier, it probably would
have evoked more than just a wince and raised eyebrows when I
announced that I would drive.
There I am, driving
out of the church parking lot, in a bright red convertible,
with the top down, slowly passing the lineup of funeral cars
with their lights on. I am perched in the driver's seat, left
elbow leaning over the door, the other arm guiding the
steering wheel. My hair is flowing in the breeze. Solemn
looking, I am not. Once beyond the shiny black limos and
hearse I pull into the open space behind Bill. He has been
watching out for me.
Once in my spot, I
think I see Bill with his forehead down, turning from side to
side in anguish, and pressed against the rim of the steering
wheel. I am smiling a lot on the inside, and even some on the
outside. We sit there for quite a while before moving. The
folks watching the procession along the way would no doubt
notice the contrast as they hold their hands or hats over
their hearts, as is the old custom when funeral processions
pass by. They will see the big black limo, then the smaller
bright red convertible with the top down, with a pastor at the
wheel, and then the black hearse and more black limos.
I can only imagine
what is going through Bill's head as he bangs it against the
steering wheel rim. "Oh, no! What a mess! This is a
prominent funeral, proper and dignified in every respect,
except for this young bimbo of a pastor, who apparently has
no regard for the sensitivities of the family, my
reputation, or my business prospects. Who does he think he
is?
I'm trying my
best, and he makes this procession look silly. Well, it's
not silly, and it's not a circus I'm running. He needs to be
told the rules and the importance of what's going on....
But I guess I
won't tell him. What good would it do? He's making a fool of
himself as much as me ... This too will probably pass ...
Get over it, and get this procession moving."
Bill lifts his head
from the steering wheel rim, turns on his directional signal
and pulls out. I turn on my lights and follow. At the
graveside he appears collected and his usual calm self,
showing the pallbearers where to place the casket on the steel
frame above the hole. He leads people to their chairs and
standing positions. He gives me the signal to start my part.
He gives the grave diggers the signal to start their part.
It is after the
graveside ceremony, on my way to the hospital that I realize
some of what has surfaced from my inner rebellious grumblings.
I realize that I have been in my passive- aggressive mode. For
a brief few minutes, I have challenged what I perceived as
phoniness and wrongs. I experience these moments with
satisfaction, victory, and maybe even some nobility. It is
only a slightly disguised way of asserting my responses to
grievances that have bothered me for a long time.
I also realize my
selfishness and insensitivity to the family and memory of Dave
Bruce. I question the worth of it, and my motivation. It
doesn't really change anything, or anybody.
This isn't just
about me. It hasn't been a well thought out strategy. It is a
wimpy gesture at best.
At the next funeral
with Bill, when once again I announce that I need to drive,
instead of riding with him, so that I can make hospital calls,
I notice his body stiffening. I offer a compromise in light of
my lesson learned. I say, "Why don't you just lead with your
car, as usual, and I'll fall in at the end of the line with my
car and follow from there?" With a smile between us, I add, "
The top is up, and my lights are off.
DANCING WITH
CONVERTIBLES
My dance with convertible cars spends a long
time in the dreaming stage. Years of dreams. Years of
imaginings, focusing on what life with a convertible will be
like. I bathe in the magazine advertisements. My dreams turn my
head toward the the used car lots and auto dealers' showrooms as
I ride by.
I ask in silence, "Are there any convertibles
in there, any tops down?" An affirmative answer prompts a
slowing down or turning around for a closer look, and a
triggering of my convertible dream buttons.
It starts when I am eight. My older brothers,
Rich and Phil, are eyeing a 1934 purple Ford touring car in a
used car lot in Silver Spring, Maryland. As students, they are
needing commuter transportation to the University of Maryland.
They have both saved money for several years from their summer
nursery jobs and will go in together to buy their used car.
I am with them on one of their return trips
to the used car lot. They have excitedly settled on that purple
convertible now glistening under the strands of light bulbs
criss- crossing above the used car lot onto the lineup of
available cars. It is okay for me to sit in the back seat and be
thrilled me with their promise, "You can be our regular
passenger."
It is settled. We all go home feeling almost
giddy that night. The plan is to get their money from the bank
the next day and pick up the car Friday night after work. I am
day-dreaming all day about my prospects with the purple
convertible, even pretending to be the driver when my brothers
might leave it in the driveway.
I have to be in bed before they will bring
the purple chariot home. I awaken Saturday morning and spring to
my bedroom window to get my first look at the convertible in the
driveway that will nourish my dream. I look outside excitedly
and see--- not a purple convertible, but a black 1937 Ford
sedan!
"Oh no!", I gasp. What had happened? I am so
upset and go running to the kitchen where my brothers are having
breakfast to find out. They tell me, "Well, when we took our
money to the lot to pick up the convertible we wanted, it was
gone. Someone else had been there just before us and bought it.
We were really upset too. But we needed a car for school right
away, so we chose this one." They take me for a ride in it. No
big thrill here. My dreams are dashed. This part of the dance is
done.
There are more convertible dances in store
for me. Bill Allen is an older neighbor friend of my brothers.
He has a 1930 Ford Model A convertible coupe. It delights me
when he asks me and my friend, Johnny Thompson, "Hey guys, you
want to help me deliver my newspapers? You can each stand on the
running boards while I drive my route. You can run the papers up
to the doors of the houses." We do it. What a thrill it is
bouncing along the rutted dirt and gravel roads of Woodside
Park. "Man," I think, "I can't wait until I can have
one of these cars!"
Then there is Walter Tanner. He rents a room
at the Hardee's, next door. He owns a big maroon convertible. I
especially remember the August night in 1945 when all the
neighborhood kids pile into his convertible and we join the
dozens of other cars driving around town honking their horns,
banging on pots and pans, shrieking our euphoria over the
Japanese surrender, ending this part of World War II. Wonderful
convertibles! The blue sky and clouds at your fingertips. The
wind whistling around your flapping shirt sleeves. You can stand
up and shout. No restrictions. Freedom! More!
When in high school, a neighbor friend, John
Wolfe, gets a used Model A Ford coupe convertible. His parents
are well off. He is an only child. His Model A is often the
source of transportation for our large neighborhood crowd of
kids. One time fourteen of us cram in. We fill the rumble seat,
stand on the running board, and stack ourselves in the front
seat as we gleefully wheel around the streets of Woodside Park.
One Halloween night a half dozen of us are
positioned in John's coupe with a surplus World War II water
fire extinguisher that has a hand pump. We are playfully, and
naughtily, pulling up alongside cars at stop signs in downtown
Silver Spring, and spraying them with water, and then speeding
away. One time we unwittingly spray through the open window of
Jimmy Turner's car and onto his gang of toughs from high school.
They then pursue us, yelling angrily, and promising to "bash our
heads in" when they catch us. The chase and escape over hill and
dale is both frightening and exhilarating. We appreciate the
stillness of the clump of bushes in an obscure field where we
spend the rest of Halloween night hiding from them.
George Kennebeck has a Chevy coupe
convertible. He lives two blocks away from me on Dale Drive. He
often offers me a welcomed ride to high school. I have to carry
both my trombone and my book bag for the mile and a half walk to
Blair High School. It is too much to carry while trying to ride
riding my bike. As we prepare for our drive, George often has to
use the crank to get the car started, and then quickly jump into
the driver's seat to rev the motor before it conks out. His
Chevy needs work. There is a perpetual oil smell, and blue smoke
pours from the exhaust pipe. We can see the pavement through the
rusting floor boards as we chug our way to school. There is an
occasional "Auuugah", sounding from the horn, under the hood. I
think, "Maybe someday I can have one of these neat
roadsters."
When in college I am house boy for Tri Delta
Sorority. A fellow houseboy, Jim Pace, a war veteran, owns a
beautiful Oldsmobile green convertible. We often ride the hills
around College Park with the top down, feeling the envy and
attraction of the coeds on the sidewalks, and loving it all. Jim
offers to sell me the car. I would so like to have it. It is a
dream. But where am I going to find $900? My college
transportation is to be via my Uncle Adolph's 1936 Buick
hand-me-down and our family's 1948 Nash.
In 1962 my turn finally comes to dance up
close with my own convertible. I am driving by the Buick
dealership in Hyattsville, Maryland. A side glance focuses on a
shiny red convertible with the top down in their showroom. It
presses the energy button in my brain. I check the display floor
again on my way home from work. It is still there. This routine
goes on for days as I ride by in my rather drab and dumpy gray
Triumph sedan. Each day my appetite for the red convertible
grows. I eventually stop, go in, look it over very closely, and
ask the questions to see if it is within the reach of my
pocketbook.
I think, "Maybe if I get a stripped down,
basic version with no white walled tires, rubber mats instead
of carpeting, a manual instead of an automatic top, no
automatic transmission or steering, no cushy bucket seats. It
could still be red, and with the top down would satisfy my
dreams..."
But then, how about those rational arguments
against convertibles? It is said that convertibles are not safe
in an accident. They can be easily broken into. And then, as a
young pastor, I am thinking, "Some people will probably say
that it is inappropriate for a pastor to drive a red
convertible, especially with the top down. Too sporty. Too
secular. Would my career be jeopardized? He's immature, a
smart aleck, upstart, show off, drawing attention to himself."
But the dance juices, churning for so many
years, trump the reservations. I order and finance the basic
version. When it arrives, I drive it from the showroom, and all
over town with the top down for an hour before going home. I am
thinking, "What a thrill! What excitement!" The billowy
white clouds drifting about the azure blue sky are now so freely
available to my overhead gaze, and the rushing wind whipping my
hair and drying my eyes. Freedom! Delight!
Realities are also there. There is Bill
Lunsford, the funeral director, trying diplomatically to
persuade me to not lead the funeral procession from the church
to the cemetery with my top down red convertible.
He pleads, "Why don't you ride with me in the
lead limousine? Your car will be safe here in the parking lot
until we get back." Or maybe he would say, "If you really need
to drive to the cemetery, you could follow at the rear of the
procession and you won't have to turn on your lights."
My mind races through the arguments and
reasonings: "Am I being too much of a rebel, or just loving
the feel of this kind of freedom with the fresh air and sky?
Can I put my needs on the back burner for a moment and think a
little more about how a top down red convertible might be
appear as a unnecessary distraction to a grieving family?"
Then, of course, not everyone thrills at the
prospect of a long evening drive in a top down convertible. My
parents are among them. On a chilly night I can put up the side
windows, turn up the heater, and be cozily comfortable in the
front seat, while they are being frosted in the rear seat,
wrapping their scarfs around their necks and pulling their hats
tightly over their heads. They plead, shouting into the wind,
"Can you get some heat back here, we're freezing."
When this red Buick Sunbeam has rusted out in
ten years it is followed by a cushier Buick Skylark convertible.
This is followed by a 1975 used luxury Buick LeSabre
convertible. Its four horns under the hood sound impressive
train-like blasts to announce me. Its rumbling and powerful
engine and the super soft, gliding ride in the white leather
bucket seats complete the satisfying experience of bringing the
glories of nature to sit with me in my serendipitous chariot
rides.
More of life's realities bring my dancing
with convertibles to an end. I sell the LeSabre convertible when
my wife and I start a catering business in 1982. We need a van
or truck to transport our food and equipment.
So this dance is done. It is a delight filled
dance. It nourishes the beckonings of my psyche for much of my
life.
"Whoa! What was that car that just went by? A
lemon-yellow Miata convertible? Very nice indeed. Hmmmm."
MISSY
MOMENTS
The sign reads: "Free Puppies". It is in
front of a house on Valley Drive in Syracuse, N.Y.
Seven-year-old Cherie, her mom, and I have driven by it several
times this week. Each time I have slowed down a bit. It is
becoming obvious that its message is penetrating our psychic
recesses and starting to stir our individual imaginings. We each
test out the thoughts as they come.
Once, I announce, "Oh look, free puppies
there. I wonder what kind they are?"
Cherie immediately slides over to the
backseat side window to have a look and starts with her
pleading: "Oh, I want a puppy. I want one of them. Can I please,
huh, can we get one?"
Her mother and I exchange knowing smiles. She
cautions, "Well, you know they can be a lot of work, and
sometimes trouble."
I piggyback on that with "That's true.
They're fun and lovable for sure but...."
Cherie chimes in with, "Oh please, Colleen
and Fran have dogs and they have lots of fun with them."
I continue with my 'buts' as we proceed on
our drive to Green Hills Market.
I say, "I know they can be cute, cuddly,
playful, and lovable, and all that. But they have to be fed and
cleaned up after, and when you go away, you have to find someone
to look after them. You have to train them not to poop and pee
inside the house, and to not jump up on people, or bark
incessantly, or chase after cars, and to stay close to home.
They can cost lots of money for vets if they get sick or need
shots. And then of course there's the food and treats. Someone
has to look after them. And then you get so attached to them,
you're devastated when they die because they've become like
family."
It is a frequently rehearsed list I had also
heard from my parents throughout childhood, apparently passed on
from one generation to the next. As in past generations, once
the list of potential negatives has been recited, the pleading
and positives invade the thought processes and discussion.
From different quarters you can hear, "They
are wonderful companions." " She doesn't have any brothers or
sisters." "They can be so lovable and so much fun and company."
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to stop and have a look."
With each pass down Valley Drive to the
market this week the same scene of thought and conversation
repeats itself in one form or another.
One final pleading from Cherie, "Oh please,
can we go see them?"
The slowing down of the car becomes a stop.
Cherie bounds along the path, past the "free puppies" sign to
the front door. I try to keep a lid on my own anticipation. The
owner greets us and ushers us into her kitchen. There the
make-shift cardboard pen holds shredded newspapers, an old
blanket, and a momma dog nursing her puppies. It is a scene
inviting a warm response.
"Oh, aren't they adorable," we all exclaim.
There they are, six buff-colored pups,
thoroughly engaged in their new life adventure.
"They're a mix," the owner announces. "Part
lab, part golden. Six weeks old. Three are spoken for. These
three are still available," as she points them out.
"One male, two females. Jessie, their momma,
is friendly, has a sweet disposition. We're not sure who the
father is, but Jessie is part lab and part golden Retriever. The
pups look a lot like her."
We watch them eating and climbing over each
other.
To break the silence, I say, "Well, what do
you think? Want to talk about it awhile and come back, or ..."
The owner chimes in, "They can be ready to be
picked up next week if you're interested. Some other folks are
coming this evening to have look."
The negative reservations fade in the
presence of these cuddly creatures. The positive emotions and
imaginings accelerate.
Cherie gives a tug on my sport coat with a
"Oh please!" to push us over the top with our shared glances.
I say, "Well I think we'd probably like that
female in front, right? We'll need to talk it over some more,
but we will call to confirm today or tomorrow, so you'll know
for sure. What's your phone number? What vet do you go to?
She'll probably need some shots soon."
"I go to Valley Vet on South Salina Street,"
she replies. A few more pleasantries and we leave for our car
and the ride home.
It's dog talk all the way. "What will we name
her?" "Where will she sleep?" " Can she stay in my room next to
the bed?" "We need to get a puppy collar and leash and find out
what's the best food for a puppy."
Cherie exclaims, "Oh, I'm so excited. I can't
wait to tell Colleen and Fran. What will she do while I'm at
school?"
I say, "She'll probably sleep a lot, but
she'll be ready to play with you when you get home. It'll be
fun."
Through our evening dinner we are into the
naming process. "Missy" keeps re-appearing in the brainstorming.
Cherie likes Missy best. Missy it is. With repeated references
to what Missy might need or like or do, it is quickly
established as the permanent name for our new pup.
I make the confirmation call. A week later
Missy is in the back seat of our car, nestling into the warmth
of Cherie's lap and loving caresses, on the way to her new home.
We gather all of the needed dog
paraphernalia. "Missy Moments" with us has begun. We watch
admiringly as she waddles around our kitchen floor, sniffing
every object in her path. We laugh at her antics. She does all
of the usual: consuming puppy food; puddling on the rug just
beyond the newspaper spread out before her; whining at night
when left alone and confined to her box. Our calls to assure her
we are close, the ticking clock under her blanket, a toy or two
for company do not satisfy her loneliness. Her fatigue finally
puts her to sleep.
Her life, and our lives are now very
different. Over the ensuing months she gets her shots, comes to
know her way around our home, inside and out. She recognizes the
voices and caresses of her caretakers and friends. After
repeated accidents and reprimands with the newspapers, and rapid
trips outside, the housebreaking routine is finally engrained.
She can stand by the front door to signal it is 'time,'
Walks and play time with Cherie and her
friends are a natural part of the daily routine. I pursue the
directives of the training manual for teaching Missy to "sit,
stay, come, heel and down." The leash is accepted reluctantly,
at least as a concession to accompany a pleasant walk adventure
with the 'master.'
We all relish the quiet moments lying in
front of the fire in the living room or watching TV. Missy dozes
off. Cherie nestles in close, relishing the warmth of Missy's
tummy. She alternates scratching her back or fondling her floppy
ears. Sometimes I doze off only to be awakened by a curious and
attentive Missy licking on my face. She is always present and
alert for a Sunday evening pizza moment. She places her drooling
jowls on my freshly ironed trousers. Her eyes are fixed on the
bite I have just taken from the pizza in my hand. Then her
pleading eyes switch to what remains in my hand.
She is probably thinking, "That smells
and looks so good. I can't stand it. Am I going to get any of
it, even a morsel, or is he going to be his selfish self
again, and tease me, tempt me, taunt me, and leave me to
starve? I'll give him my most needful, loving stare. How could
you possibly turn me down? Don't my drooling jowls tell you
something about my intense need for some of that pizza. If you
ever set it down and look away for a second, it will
disappear. I promise."
There are those delightful Missy Moments when
riding in the car on a beautiful spring day. Missy is sitting in
the back seat with Cherie. The windows are down. Missy props her
head on the ledge, her head just outside enough to get the full
effect of the brisk breeze against her face, her eyes blinking
and ears flapping. She is probably thinking, "This is really
living. I hope it never ends!"
But end it does. Early one afternoon, while
Cherie is still in school. Jane Kilmer, a neighbor, comes
running to our door, yelling, "Paul, Missy's been hit by a car
at the corner of Comstock and Thayer. She's alive but she's down
and badly hurt I think."
I race on foot to the scene, a block away.
Missy is lying on the grass between the sidewalk and the street,
whimpering.
The alarmed driver of the car says to me as I
approach, "I'm so sorry. She's such a pretty dog. She just
darted out in front of me at the last second. I had no time to
stop before I hit her. I'm so sorry. How can I help?"
I tell the lady I understand, and that Missy
has run after cars before.
I go to Missy and bend over her. She is
breathing erratically and foaming at the mouth. Her eyes are
fixed straight ahead. When I touch her, she yelps.
Realizing the gravity of her condition I say,
"I have to get her to the vet to see if we can help her. Stay
here a minute if you can. I'll be right back."
I run back home and get a 3'x4' piece of
plywood from the garage to serve as a stretcher for Missy's
forty pounds of hurting flesh. I put it in the trunk of the car
and drive back to the accident scene.
Other people have stopped and are looking at
Missy's labored breathing, and talking it over. I ask one
bystander to help me shove the plywood close to Missy so we can
slide her onto it without doing more damage. Missy is still
breathing and doesn't resist or yelp. We gingerly place Missy's
stretcher into the open car trunk.
I drive away quickly toward the vets two
miles away. I carefully negotiate the curves, corners, and hills
to the vet on South Salina Street. I look at her briefly to see
that she is still breathing as I rush in to get the vet to help
me carry her in. We take her out of the car and are making our
way through his double doors. He is eyeing her condition as we
are briskly walking in. He solemnly announces, "I think she's
gone. Just now she stopped breathing. I'll check."
Without taking her off the plywood, we set it
on his operating table. Looking for signs of life, he says
again, "No, I'm afraid she died just as we were coming through
the door. She is really badly damaged. I'm sorry."
The rush of adrenalin to respond to Missy in
that last half hour finally culminates with my burst of tears as
I sink into a chair. Images of her brief life with us flash
through my mind. Emotions are churning. I am thinking, "Poor
Missy. I'm sorry I couldn't get you help in time. Why couldn't
you learn to not chase cars? We had some wonderful times
together. You gifted our lives with your bubbly presence. You
were such a cuddly bundle of beige fur just two years ago. How
shall I tell Cherie and her mom about this?"
The vet breaks into my thinking and says, "I
can take care her remains for you, if you wish."
"I would appreciate that. Thanks very much,"
I respond.
We slide Missy off the plywood. I give her
still warm body one final caress. I go back to my car, all the
while rehearsing the events of her last hour, and our two years
of companionship. I drive home slowly, taking another look at
the parks and paths that have been part of Missy's adventures. I
drive by Kilmer's house to let Jane know Missy has died.
When Cherie comes skipping home from school
with Colleen and Fran, I call her inside, sit her down, put my
arm around her and tell her the details of what has happened.
She cries and asks questions. Then we start the remembering and
celebrating the many special "Missy Moments" we had been
privileged to enjoy. This goes on for a long time.
SOULCIOLOGY
Tim has always been a stutterer. Kathy has
always cowered at life. I have has always followed the book.
This week all that will change. Life lived at
the core has a look all its own.
"Tim here. This is my third year of
the Confirmation Camp of Atonement Lutheran Church, Syracuse,
NY. Something rather amazing is taking place".
"Confirmation Camp is held during the last
week of August. Each junior high age student attends for three
years. Fifty or sixty young people spend the mornings studying
the meanings of Martin Luther's Small Catechism, (Apostle's
Creed, Ten Commandments, Lord's Prayer, Baptism, and Holy
Communion) which are to have been memorized. This is all in
preparation for our Confirmation ceremony, a ritual and rite of
passage to an adult religious belief system".
"After morning studies our camp schedule
includes familiar camp activity like sports, competitions,
hikes, campfires, swim fests, all with lots of laughing and
singing. It also includes what has turned out to be catalysts
for looking at and experiencing life differently. Nightly, 'Talk
It Over Groups,' are where we share, and intentionally look at
each other with accepting, and forgiving encouragement. We can
drop the many defenses and needs to 'be cool,' ax is normal in
our junior high agendas. Fresh ways of relating with each other
are experienced and relished."
"It is in this atmosphere of freedom and
non-judgment that something revolutionary is occurring for me.
Through the years of my growing up I have been a stutterer. It
is ever present. I have spent many hours with speech therapists
and psychotherapists, trying to remedy the problem. It has been
to no avail. Nothing really ever changes much. My family and I
have learned to live with my liability, all the while keeping
our eyes open for something new to try".
"This particular week at Confirmation Camp
everything is changing. By Thursday I am noticing less and less
stuttering. In the 'Talk It Over Groups' I am getting to finish
several sentences without a stutter or hesitation. Excitement
and wonder become my focus. What is going on? Others begin to
notice but they don't say a word about it".
"The full impact of the change is when my
parents are driving my brothers and me home from camp. They are
asking the usual 'how was camp?' kinds of questions. After my
responses I see them turn to each other in quiet amazement".
"Then they pull the car to the side of the
road and look back at me, asking. 'What in the world has been
going on? You haven't stuttered once in the last half hour.' I
simply exclaim, ' I don't know. I don't know'. My brothers, Mike
and Dan are beaming. My mother is crying. My father is about to.
Life has changed unexpectedly in a week's time. Into this
strange mix of life and relationships at camp, the soulful
energies have converged and smiled on me".
"Kathy here. I'm a first timer at
Confirmation Camp. I'm a seventh grader. So much of life now
seems so strange and frightening. It's hard to build my security
shell fast enough to survive. But that's where my energies go.
The prospect of having to attend Confirmation Camp is daunting.
My parents say I have to go. They want me to be 'confirmed'.
After that I can do what I want about religion. For now, they
had made a promise at my baptism to bring me up with the
guidelines and teachings of the church. But for me, right now,
it means going off for a week with people I don't know, to a
place I've never heard of, and not having any idea what to
expect. I am thinking, 'Is there any way I can get out of
it? I am so nervous and upset. Everything in me is saying,
'No, no!'"
"My parents drop me off with encouraging
smiles and words like, 'It'll be fine honey. We'll see you next
Saturday.' My thoughts as I quickly glance around at all of
these unknown faces are, 'Where can I hide. How can I get out
of sight. How can I not be here?' My stomach is churning.
I feel nauseous. My counselor greets me. I quickly move to an
unclaimed bed and lie down with my arm over my eyes. My
counselor comes over and starts trying to be friendly with the
get acquainted questions like, 'Where do you live, and go to
school? What do you and your family like to do together? What do
you think camp will be like?' I am thinking, 'Probably like
death.' She invites me to join her in walking to the
dining hall for supper."
"I am silent. Completely silent, and
suffering. No niceties from me. The best that I can manage is
that, 'I feel sick. I need to go home. Will you call my parents
and have them come to pick me up?'
She is kindly and sympathetic enough, but
just says, 'Let's walk some more to see if you might feel
better. If not, I'll talk to the pastor and maybe he'll call
your parents for you'. I give silent assent to that. I sit
through the opening meal, saying nothing, staring downward, with
sweaty palms and forehead, and fright streaming from all of my
body parts."
"After dinner, the counselor has the pastor
come over to me. He is friendly and wants to know what is the
matter. I can only say that 'I am sick and need to go home'. He
probably senses the origins of my condition as being fear about
what would happen to me during this week at camp. He tries to
reassure me and get my mind beyond my wrenching stomach with
stories of how others in the past had dreaded the week, and what
had helped them. I do glance at him once or twice.
He puts his arm around me and says, 'How
about we make a deal? You agree to stay until Tuesday to see if
things turn around for you. If you still want to go home by
Tuesday evening, I'll promise I'll call your parents, or give
you a ride home myself.?' I weakly agree and cower in my bed the
rest of the evening watching the others at various levels of
enjoyment. I am so sad and alone".
"That does not last long. After my fitful
night in and out of sleep and crying to myself , I am met the
next morning on the way to breakfast by Jim and Robyn, two
eleventh graders (camp alumni). Imagine! Eleventh graders
noticing and even caring about a seventh grader. But caring they
are. They stay with me through breakfast, including me in their
unaffected small talk. We laugh, as we play together with Dino,
the camp dog, on the way to class. They even put their arms
around me as we walk and let me know that we can sit together at
lunch. Some of the other seventh graders notice this 'adult'
attention and they make some moves and conversation toward me.
It is becoming contagious. My stomach has quieted down. My palms
are now dry. I even start a conversation or two".
"Tuesday comes and goes. Nothing is said. By
Thursday morning before breakfast I am swinging high in the
swings with two new seventh grader friends. I am laughing as I
wave to my rescuers, Jim and Robyn, walking by. Life has changed
dramatically for me since Sunday evening. I have experienced a
new level of living, free of judgment and separation, and full
of acceptance, compassion and connection. I'd like to live life
with more of this in it. I wouldn't even mind talking about life
beyond my comfort zone".
"Paul here. Tim and Kathy are just
two examples that have made this week at camp the best ever for
this pastor. There are thirteen other 'best ever' weeks, with
many other examples of the how's and why's of lives changing,
and young people experiencing who they really are at their core.
This heightened awareness may only last for a week. They will
have to return to the 'being cool' routines of public school
after camp. But whenever that memory is turned into awareness,
they will at least have a 'knowing' of a time when the need to
'be cool', when the dominant and defensive are diminished. This
brief time of life lived at the core has a look all its own".
"There's an important lesson for me here. Far
beyond the intellectualizing and laboring about dogma and
doctrine, I now know that outside the book learning there are
individual souls longing to know what life in relationship is
really about, and what generates meaning, freedom, and joy. That
is the life of inclusiveness, non-judgment, forgiveness, and
compassion. It's part of what I can call 'Soulciology'. Thanks,
Tim and Kathy."
SIDES
OF BACON
In my experience there are two sides to
bacon. One good. One, not so good.
The good side would be that of smelling
sizzling bacon. There are vivid olfactory memories triggered
just by thinking about it. The salivary glands are activated by
the anticipatory delights and before I know it, I am swallowing
more often than normal.
I fondly remember this scene as a child. I am
warmly enveloped in a pile of blankets on a winter's morn. Every
turn of an arm or leg reminds me of how pleasant this is to be
so cared for and protected from the chilled air on the other
side of these blankets. My pleasure expands by hearing my mother
downstairs playing some of her favorite tunes or hymns on the
piano. These delicious waking moments are topped with the
delectable aromas of bacon being readied in the kitchen.
It is appealing enough to motivate me to
throw back the security of the covers and pull on my corduroy
pants and flannel shirt as quickly as I can, and then on with
the woolen socks and recently half-soled shoes. All of these
take some time to warm up from my body parts. A dash into the
bathroom and a splash of eye-opening cold water to my face. A
brisk rub with a towel and then bounding downstairs to embrace
the warmth of the kitchen.
My mother is now bent over the Hoosier
cabinet putting together the lineup of sandwiches for the four
brothers' lunches. She wraps them with the wrinkled wax paper
and puts them into the wrinkled brown bags that had been used
and folded, put in our back pockets a day or two before, ready
for another day of service.
The kitchen table is full. There are the
halved oranges that we each have learned to dig out cell by cell
with a teaspoon. There is hot oatmeal with raisins, and butter,
brown sugar, and milk. Then comes what I had been salivating
over. The bacon. Fried bacon. Brown bacon. Its fat molecules
dance with my taste buds across my tongue and mingle with the
other breakfast entries of eggs, or mush, or buckwheat cakes.
Every morsel makes its statement: "Life is good!" It is
imprinted on all the message boards of my brain.
The happy side of bacon memories are
reinforced in the summer scene during our family's two weeks at
the Daly Cottage in Colonial Beach, Virginia. Once again, it is
the waking charm for the start of a fun filled summer day. No
blankets here. Just half of a sheet to cover my legs and a musty
mattress underneath. I'm looking out the front window next to my
bed and gazing at the big red summer sun glistening on the muddy
Potomac River flowing by. The summer's morning breezes are laced
with fragrances of mimosa blossoms.
These breezes are conquered by the smell of
frying bacon as it finds its way to my nostrils through the
cracks in the walls and spaces under the door. The smell of the
kerosene fired stove in the kitchen is always in the background.
It blends with the mix of breakfast pleasantries to inhale. The
percolating coffee. The cut wedges of juicy cantaloupe. Corn cut
from the remains of corn on the cob from last night's dinner,
join with eggs. But the most pleasant aromatic of all is the
sizzling bacon.
There is, however, another side to bacon
lodged in my memory bank. The scene is the Assateague National
Seashore Park in Chincoteague, Virginia.
It's July 1972. Our Seltzer clan gathers from
far and wide for a vacation reunion at this popular and crowded
campground. We join the usual assortment of camping options.
Tents of all shapes, travel trailers, pop-up vans, RV's. I have
a VW pop top camper van. We have the usual enjoyments of beach
activity together. Swimming, body surfing, chicken fights,
splashing battles, sand sculpting, smearing sunscreen,
campfires, foil wrapped dinners from the fire coals, singalongs,
stories, bugle calls, volleyball, games and general horsing
around.
My VW camper is wedged between a travel
trailer on one side and a pup tent on the other. Sardines would
feel at home in this tightly packed campground. Our neighbors
are very friendly. No one close by has a boom box or stays up
into the wee morning hours boozing, or laughing, or playing
games. Mosquitos and flies are kept at bay with regular
applications of OFF and lighted punk at night. The whole clan
will be together for a corn roast or fish fries or crab feasts
followed by games and stories and sing along around a blazing
campfire with harmonica and guitar accompaniments. It is a happy
time.
Two days are left in the week together when
the hot and humid atmosphere builds up into a fierce
thunderstorm at night. In a mild form such storms can clear the
air and bring a welcome relief of cooling breezes from the
oppressive sultriness. This storm is a big one, rumbling its
thunderous and black clouds toward us for an hour. When it
arrives, it explodes. Fierce winds. Horizontal rains, whipping
and slapping and pelting every surface in its path. Lightning.
Deafening thunder claps right after. It keeps us all jumping.
Inside our VW camper, with the pop top down,
we hunker down, grateful for the protection from the stormy
onslaught outside. The storm lasts into the early morning hours.
So much for sleeping. With the lightning flashes we catch
glimpses of the outside with tents and clotheslines whipping in
the wind. Flashlights outside reveal drenched figures scurrying
from one place to another, and sloshing through the rushing
water in gullies, clinging to a sleeping bag or lugging a
cooler, looking for safer ground, or their vehicle.
We hear the yelling of frantic instructions
like, "Forget about that stuff. Get to the car. Take my hand.
Where are the keys?"
These are the tent people whose fragile
dwellings have been ripped away by the winds and surging waters.
No one is hurt. It leaves a mess to look at and clean up the
next morning.
The storm doesn't clear the atmosphere the
way it is supposed to. It is still hot, muggy, and drizzling as
morning appears. We look out from our VW. Tents are missing,
washed away. Trailers are bent. We are okay, but we can only
stay inside so long. We are cramped and hungry. I make the move
to get going.
I push open the side door of the van. I pull
out the Coleman stove and aluminum folding table. I maneuver my
body through the watery sand. There are still channels of water
flowing around my ankles. No need for sandals. I open the little
fridge under the sink in the van and pull out the breakfast
fare: cartons of orange juice and milk and eggs, a package of
bacon, bread, and jam. I am trying to be organized. I pour some
juice for my wife and nine-year-old daughter.
It is too wet for them to come outside. It is
still drizzling. I need my poncho. I reach my arm into the
little rear closet stacked with tee shirts, shorts, and towels
until I feel the slicker on the bottom. I pull it out and throw
it over my head. Then I go back to trying to cook.
My mind is in gear, thinking, "Table's up.
Stove's primed. Fry pans and water pot are out. Food is on the
table and covered with a plastic sheet. I won't bother with
coffee. I should heat some water for cleanup. I need the
umbrella to keep the rain off of the cooking food. I'll slosh
to the rear of the VW to where the beach umbrella and folding
chairs are stored.
I'm still getting wet. I can't see well
because the head piece of the poncho doesn't turn when my head
does. I need an extra hand to pull it back. Okay. So now I 'm
thinking, "I should be set: table, stove, food, umbrella,
plastic over everything except the stove, I need a match to
light the stove. The matches are in the driver door pocket.
I'll slosh around and get them. I hope they're dry
enough. Step over that big gully if you can."
I look around at how others are faring. It
seems about the same. I call over to the folks breakfasting
inside their RV, "I know what you're thinking... don't say it
out loud."
Talking to myself under my breath: "I'm
ready to start. I'll prime the stove again, light the match,
and 'glory be' , look at that, the circle of blue flame pops
up around one burner and then another. Maybe bacon will work
its charms even here."
The running inner conversation keeps going, "Fry
pan is on the fire. Tear back the wrapper on the bacon
package. Peel off a half dozen strips. Lay them in the heating
fry pan."
"Oops. That drizzle on the bacon won't do.
I'll hold the umbrella over the stove. I'll get the eggs out
of the carton with my other hand. I know how to crack open an
egg with one hand. But I need to hold the bowl still while I
crack the egg on its edge. Not working."
"Here, I'll tuck the umbrella under my
left arm pit for a moment to free up that hand for the
cracking operation. There, I have one egg cracked and into the
bowl. It's not going to be fried eggs today. Too much trouble.
Scrambled eggs, if I can manage it."
"Oops again. Catch the umbrella. It has
slipped from under my arm and fallen over the stove and frying
bacon. Get a new egg in my right hand. Rescue the umbrella
from the fry pan."
" Oops. The egg in my right hand is
breaking. Try to grab the handle of the umbrella. Ugh, the egg
is oozing all over my fingers and down my wrist. Put down the
umbrella and grab a napkin from the package under the plastic
and wipe my hands. Maybe that rushing water under foot can
help with the residue stickiness."
"Keep cool. Take another sip of orange
juice. Try to regain some composure. Both hands are free for
the moment. The humidity's drizzles aren't helping. I have to
get these four other eggs cracked, The bacon will have to
endure the extra water. Quickly, dig around that other plastic
bag…find a fork to whip the eggs. What about salt and pepper?
I forgot about them. I can't leave my post to go digging for
them. I'll just tip in some milk and go from there."
"I have to get the umbrella over the stove
again. There's too much rain getting into the bacon pan. Look
at that. The middle three inches are browning but the outside
three inches on both sides are still almost raw. Call for a
spatula from the van. Get the umbrella upright again. It keeps
slipping. Push the bacon around the pan…try and get an even
burn. At least it's putting out its familiar and pleasant
aroma".
The resident flies and mosquitos apparently
also have an appreciation for the smell of frying bacon. The
signal has spread through their respective communities and
scores of them descend to practice their loop-de-loops, buzzing,
and dive bombing to the exposed parts of my body, like my face,
and legs and eyes and under my poncho.
Both hands are occupied with the hurried
breakfast preparation. My best response to the insect onslaught
is foot stomping, elbow waving, grimacing, and blowing at the
ones attacking my face. I wave the spatula over the crisping
bacon and hardening eggs to chase them away.
Increasingly agitated, I put the umbrella
down once in a while and launch a counterattack. I am swatting
at them them, flailing my hands, shaking my poncho to fend them
off. In the process I tip over the milk carton, and with a
reflex motion to rescue it, also tip over the orange juice. The
bacon goes unattended. The eggs go unattended. They both
experience third degree burns.
I turn the stove knobs to off. While still
trying to maintain umbrella protection from the heavy humid
drizzle, I can be heard to emote a few of my favorite
expletives. My nine-year-old daughter, Cherie, is watching the
scenario unfold from inside the van. No doubt it has been
revealing and fascinating for her, perhaps amusing. I see her,
the way kids do, with her face squished tightly against the side
door window so that her lips and nose and cheeks are spread out
in a grotesque configuration. The hint of a mischievous smile is
at the edges of her mouth.
Among my expletives, while passing the paper
plates with the semi-burned, semi-raw, breakfast fare of bacon
and eggs to my family, I can be heard making resolutions to
never do this camping thing again. Even now, the usually
inviting sensory messages from sizzling bacon include that
particular day when I experienced the 'not so good' side of
bacon activity. And all of that brings a smile.
TIMEPIECE
My gold watch. Treasured, not so much for its
slim lines, or for the brushed gold, pop open cover, or for its
fine Bulova mechanicals, or for its slender hands ticking away
the seconds, minutes, and hours of each day of my life.
Treasured more for the inscription engraved on the inside cover,
"In expectation of his next sunrise". This points me beyond this
little physical memento to the signature signpost of my life. It
opens me into the rich symbolism of this going away present.
It triggers the treasure chest of my thirteen
years of memories with the folks at Atonement Church in
Syracuse, N.Y. All of the ingredients of the good life are here.
The hundreds of relational interactions and their full spectrum
of shared emotions are here. The beginnings and endings of lives
are here. The moments of deep inspiration share space with the
frustrations and disappointments. Moments of revealing truth and
transparency are companioned with the guarded and shadowed
niceties. Laughter, love, tears. dreams, conflicts, acceptance,
bonding, separation, light and darkness, and so much more. They
make up the ingredients and seasonings of this divine and savory
soup of our life lived together.
Since then, this little timepiece has for
thirty-three years prompted the passage of my comings and
goings. Am I early? Am I late? How long must I wait? Is the
meeting too long? When will they show up? How much time is left?
It answers many questions for me about where I am going and how
I am spending my ration of life's time. It needs winding every
day. There's nothing digital here. As I hold it in my hand, all
of these movements of my life are infused with the reminders of
where my life had been thirty-three years ago with those dear
people. The philosophers tell me that time is not passing, but
that I am passing through time. This precious timepiece helps to
tell me how this is going.
Two weeks ago my gold watch stops. It is
wound tightly, maybe too tightly. But after thirty-three years
there is no more ticking and clicking. There will be no more
forty-three turns of the center post to wind it up for another
day's energy ... Life will go on without this timepiece in my
pocket to measure my pace. The unique memories to which it
points remain. But from now on it will rest from its
responsibility and take its place with the other memorabilia of
my top dresser drawer. It will take only a glance at this gold
timepiece to stir the gifts of gratitude to which it will always
point me. A timepiece for my piece of time.
SALES
BONUS
It is wake up time. In more ways than one. As
I stretch my body in bed, I can see the bright signs of a brand
new Sunday with sunshine laden puffs of clouds dancing in the
bright blue sky. The trees are shimmering from the brisk March
breeze. My body is refreshed after a needed night's rest. There
has been four weeks of trying to be an effective salesman at the
big St. Patrick's Day Sale at Dunk and Bright's Furniture Store
in Syracuse, N.Y.
The sale days actually span six weeks from
February 1st to March 17th. It is the largest furniture store in
New York, covering a whole city block. This sale is an annual
event and all of the hoopla and promotions yield a large public
response. Sometimes it is derisively nick named the 'Junk and
Bright' sale because of all of the lower end merchandise
advertised at low prices to entice the customers. Even though
they also carry high end products, many of the big sellers and
'deals' are of a quality not made to last. I am amused at our
congenial and cooperative customer service lady. She has just
consoled a disgruntled customer over her new, but problem laden
sofa bed with assurances of D&B service to the satisfaction
of the customer. She puts down the phone and audibly announces
from her cubicle, "Face it lady, what you got was a piece of
shit!"
I am personally in a survival mode of my
life. I am transitioning from twenty-one years of being a
pastor, now in the throes of divorce. There is no money, no job,
and no prospects for anything better than this commission only
sales job. I rent rooms in my home to pay my mortgage and to buy
gas for my car. I am entering a world very different from what I
have known. At forty-eight, it is a mid-life crisis and catalyst
to bump me out of my comfort zone into new realities of people
and things.
For the sale, the level of awareness is
crowded with all of the ingredients of major advertisements and
promotions to bring people in and send them home with furniture
and products they didn't know they needed. The atmosphere
includes the constant din of recorded Irish music from 10 a.m.to
10 p.m. pumped through the loudspeakers. There is free Irish
coffee and specialty cakes. The staff is decked out in green
Irish hats, ties and vests. The twenty-seven sales people are
carefully instructed to make sure every customer has unknowingly
been assigned a salesperson, and to greet them and keep an eye
on them as they wander throughout the vast store. We have been
indoctrinated with product information and methods to urge the
customer toward purchase. No one is to steal another
salesperson's customer, although frequent disputes arise from
such accusations. Every 27th customer is mine to convince to
buy…or to serve refreshments to.
For the big weekend pushes there are extra
salespersons, aggressive and high powered, brought in as part
timers who need a quick buck or two.
Since we are all paid on a commission only
basis, and most of us are in a survival mode, it quickly
degenerates into a thinly disguised, highly competitive rat
race. This even includes wearing our Reebok running shoes to
help us move quickly over the vast expanse of showrooms to try
to keep abreast of our customers ---and to make sure no other
salesperson has moved in on them when they have shown some
interest in an item.
In these first four weeks of the St.
Patrick's Sale I have been shocked at how quickly I have
succumbed to the greed god. Genuine regard for another
salesperson, or even the customer and their feelings, realities,
and thoughts is sublimated to a far shore in favor of clinching
a deal and getting the commission money I need to survive. There
seems no alternative. I race around the store, put on a smile
for the customer, and am ever watchful that they aren't stolen
from me. I am both shocked and dismayed at myself and the level
of existence to which I have drifted. I think, "How
different this is from days of pastoring and holding up
empathy, compassion, and caring as primary and necessary
ingredients for relationships and following a spiritual path."
I think often of these contrasts and am
troubled by them. It is dominant again on this Sunday morning in
the waking moments before I trudge off for one more day of the
same, at the big St. Patrick's Day Sale at D&B. Dressing
neatly and being polite aren't enough to erase the malaise in
which I see myself--and every other aggressive salesperson
involved.
This Sunday turns out to be different. Very
different. I walk through the front glass doors at 9:30 a.m. at
Dunk and Bright. I am expecting to hear the loud Irish music
again and expecting to see the usual cockiness and snickering
among the salespeople as they recount their Saturday night
conquests, or the great deals they had secured on Saturday.
The music is playing over the loudspeakers.
But this is it. There is no laughing, snickering or kidding
around. There are no groups of salesladies preening themselves
in front of the massive lobby mirrors as they usually do. No one
has even taken their chip number designating their place in
customer assignment. No words. All quiet. A couple of men are
seated on the lobby steps staring out the front windows. There
are handkerchiefs at some eyes. Heads are shaking. It is so
different. I have to ask the receptionist, "What's going on?"
Through her reddened eyes she whispers, "Helen Wentz and her
husband, and another couple were all killed in an auto crash on
Onondaga Hill last night. All four of them!"
I join in the shocked silence that pervades
the halls of the St. Pat's Sale. Our head decorator, a lovely,
distinguished, and creative designer is dead. Two or three of us
gather in small groups alternating from tears to silence, to
staring, to walking the halls, to trying to take in the tragedy
with all of the how's and why's and what can we do's. Even hugs
start emerging. We are still wearing our racing shoes, but the
motivation to run ahead of each other is missing. Those same
shoes, with our heads and hearts in a different place, are
moving us toward each other instead.
The protective layers between us have been
peeled back through this shared tragedy. This experience puts us
beyond the illusions of success and financial gain. Inside we
are experiencing the real, the natural state of our oneness.
It is the antidote to our weeks of
suffocating greed and its children. It feels so good, so right.
I am seeing Neil differently. He is the aggressive weekend
part-timer with whom I have argued on Saturday when I saw him
writing up sale for a dinette set with a customer who had been
assigned to me. Somehow, my plans to retaliate that I have been
devising during the night are no longer of primary importance to
me. I notice the tears in his eyes and know that there is a
hurting part of him that a dinette sale won't touch.
I think it is like that for most of us.
Shared suffering is making the ground level. It is happily that
way for all of that Sunday and the rest of the week. We
celebrate Helen's life and her ways with us, but also share
parts of our own lives without the fluff. I think a lot about
that. Then, and now. The antidote for greed and all the other
separating feelings and thoughts, is experiencing the reality of
our oneness. Shared hurt helps this happen. We can let go of our
fears and its defensive layers for at least a moment.
It needs to be said that this freedom,
honesty and oneness from our shared suffering only lasts about
week. Bit by bit, we retreat into our former protected places
again. We pull tight on the laces of our running shoes, and
resume our competitive, separating ways. But at least we have
tasted reality long enough to know that there is an alternative.
Choices can be made.
YOU'RE NUTS YOU KNOW?
"You're nuts, you know?" That's what people
usually think. Friends even say it. Susan and I announce plans
to start a catering business in Syracuse in 1982. The frequent
and penetrating questions are loud and clear. There are obvious
risks for us here in our new marriage and our catering venture.
People keep asking, "Do you have a business plan? Any money
saved up? What experience and references do you have? Where will
you be doing this? Who might be hiring you? Do you know anything
about pricing?"
The barrage of realistic questions evokes
mostly, "I don't know about this," or negative responses. They
warrant the conclusion, "You're nuts, you know?"
Our only answer is a weak, "Yes, but..." The
'but' of motivation is charged with the bleakness of scarce
options. For me, it is the motivation of a new life with a new
wife. I have been employed as manager of the furniture
department of Sibley's Department Store for two years. They have
been taken over by a mega company from New Jersey. There is a
pervasive atmosphere of fear and anger infecting and evident at
every level of the operation from the board of directors to the
delivery dock workers. It seems that everyone is always angrily
yelling at everyone else for something. Stress is the name of
the game. Susan, picking me up from work one Friday exclaims,
"You've got to get out of there. You look like you're going to
have a heart attack."
"I know," I reply, "it's bad, but what else
can I do? What else can we do?"
This begins the string of talks and
brainstorming sessions. Susan likes cooking. She, and her
friend, Ousma, have prepared, and been praised for, serving a
couple of church suppers. Susan is also doing the cooking
Wednesday evenings at a little yacht club. In the midst of these
limited possibilities, Audrey, a bar owner from the village of
Chittenango is wanting to expand the bar to include lunches and
dinners and asks Susan and Ousma if they are interested. They
are. Audrey sounds so excited and positive about its
possibilities that I offer to expand it even more by my doing
breakfast there as well.
It seems the employment needs have been met
for all of us. We are all excited about it and join making plans
with Audrey to re-decorate and expand her bar, with new tables
and chairs, curtains, and kitchen equipment. It isn't a dream
restaurant, but it will probably go well since there is no other
eating establishment in the village. I resign from the
department store, with relief. A new life is getting under way.
Except it isn't ... Two weeks into the
planning excitement, Audrey backs out. We never really know why.
Just a simple phone message from her, "I've decided not to do it
after all."
We are at the starting gate again, only now
without a job for either of us. The brainstorming then jump
starts with even more intensity. "What will we do?" "What should
we do?" A job search via newspapers, agencies, and people we
know, comes up with nothing. I cash in an insurance policy and
half of my pension annuities to pay for immediate bills. We
spread the word that we are looking for some kind of a new
start. We keep our eyes open for possibilities.
The only shimmer of light is from the modest
Wednesday evening supper at the little yacht club. I start
helping Susan there. The members give us a boost with their
enthusiastic praise for the dinners. We keep musing the
possibilities..."doing something with food ... other yacht clubs
... churches ... weddings ... funerals ... receptions ... clubs
... unions ... seminars ..." The idea factory is starting to
crank up, even to the point of being a dream machine.
So it is that the darkness of desperation
provides our motivation to answer the "You're nuts, you know?"
comments, with our meek, but determined, "Yes, but... we're
going to take the risk and start a catering business. It's the
best we can come up with right now, and we're going to give it
our best shot." We call it, "Cater To You", until someone has
their lawyer complain that it is already the name they are
using. So, we back up and add to it. It will be, "Seltzer's
Cater To You." This makes it legitimate, and permanent. Then we
go through all of the necessary start up regulations, permits,
and tax forms.
Since we have no startup money, the "business
plan" does 't have to be written down. We agree to do the
cooking quietly from our home's little galley kitchen for at
least a year. If things go well, we'll think about expanding the
operation to our basement.
Aside from well-wishing friends, "who don't
really know anyone of influence", we have to start in with cold
calls soliciting for potential customers. And so it is on a
frigid March Monday morning that I begin acquainting myself with
the yellow pages population. I start in calling the 'responsible
person' at insurance companies, banks, auto dealerships,
associations, unions, and on, and on. About forty calls a day. I
note potential future luncheons, seminars, and ask who else
might be called or visited who might be thinking about an event,
needing some tasty food. Nearly everyone is friendly and
encouraging, but there is no specific interest that might lead
to a catering job. It takes about one hundred calls to find just
one person interested enough for us to send or deliver a sample
menu for a planned event. Then there is the process of pricing,
waiting for decisions from the proper authorities, and checking
out venues.
The first actual event for Seltzer's Cater To
You comes in late May. It is a small wedding reception in the
MacArthur's basement. They are members of the yacht club. This
is followed by a couple of church suppers. Then a training
session luncheon for an insurance company. Then a picnic for a
health maintenance organization. Then a graduation party. I keep
up the calling every day. I pick up leads from happy customers
at the various events and follow up. The occasions are all
unique, and very gradually increase beyond a trickle. We
graduate from our sedan to a station wagon for transport. We
purchase equipment, platters, baskets, and generally expand our
catering profile.
At the end of the first year we decide we
have outgrown our little galley kitchen for food production. We
can continue the dreaming. We will stay in the catering
business. The relationships with customers and staff are
rewarding. The food preparation is creative and challenging.
Financially, it is viable. It will work for us. We move the
operation to our basement where we build shelves and tables,
purchase a used commercial stove, refrigerators, sinks, mixers,
a used Dodge van, and lots of other needed equipment.
The yellow pages phone calls and following up
on those leads are the main marketing tool for three years.
Finally, solicitation for new business has been replaced by the
word of mouth recommendations of pleased customers. The echo of,
"You're nuts, you know," has been happily replaced with, "You're
good, you know!"
THE CHICKEN LITTLE CAKE
"Seltzer's Cater to You" is presenting a June
wedding reception in Skaneateles. This fashionable and bucolic
resort town is at the head of one of New York's gorgeous finger
lakes. The fresh spring day is calling on the flowering crab
apple trees and azaleas to 'strut their stuff' in blooming
grandeur.
The site of the ceremony is St. Mary's
Church, nestled among the flowering trees along the water's
edge. The reception is to be in the well-appointed parish hall
with its large picture windows all along one side, giving an
expansive view of the sparkling blue lake. "Seltzer's Cater To
You" has been preparing for the two hundred guests for several
days. It is an extensive luncheon menu that would lead to their
hoped-for shared comment at the end of the day, 'another
triumph!'
The crowning feature is to be the specialty
wedding cake. Its tiers alternate with chocolate almond and sour
lemon layers. It is labor-intensive to put together. The very
rich and dense batters are baked ahead of time. The Italian
butter cream icing takes hours to prepare and apply to the moist
confection. The butter is whipped at high speed while the hot
syrup is introduced drop by drop, so it does not melt the
butter. The elaborate frosting is then piped on, using a variety
of plain, star, leaf and rose tips, fashioning an elegant basket
weave pattern, leaving a space between the tiers for fern and
flowers. I can almost hear the admiration from the recipe's
originator, Martha Stewart, "Well done, thou good and faithful
servant, it looks like you followed the directions this time."
All is in readiness for the showcase wedding
and reception. The Seltzer's have hired ten of their friends to
help as the staff. They wear their black and white outfits with
their signature raspberry colored bow ties. The tables are
covered with burgundy cloths and crisp white napkins in a
cardinal fold at each place setting. Spring flower arrangements
with candles grace each table. The schedule of preparation has
come together feverishly and perfectly. The flower bedecked
buffet is an elegant sight. Susan and I are nervously proud and
pleased.
We give the staff their final service
instructions, which conclude with, "And be sure to have a good
time!" Echoes of the ceremony and its musical flourishes from
the sanctuary above resonate into the hall as the last
adjustments to the food presentation are made.
I am in the kitchen slicing some extra ham
when Cindy Henderson bursts through the doors, screaming, "Paul,
the cake...it's falling...come quick!" She might just as well
have been Chicken Little screaming, "The sky is falling, the sky
is falling!"
I drop my carving knife and bolt into the
hall emitting a torrent of expletives that will hopefully not be
heard in the sanctuary above. Lohengrin's wedding recessional
march is now pealing from the organ. As I race across the dance
floor toward the gravity defying tiers of butter cream now
aiming for the floor, flashes of what the disaster would look
like, and what might be done about it, alternate in my spinning
head. Seconds before the lovely basket weave was to tip over,
giving in to nature's laws and splatter on the floor, I plunge
my ten fingers into three different tiers. I try to think of how
to get the cake upright again.
"What has gone wrong?" I am clutching
at causes. "Was the cake too heavy for the supports? Did I
miss some important details in Martha's directions? Had she
warned me?" None of that matters right now. The
recessional is concluding upstairs. The guests will be coming
through the doors momentarily.
The staff rushes out to see what can be done.
Susan quickly surveys the situation and races back to the
kitchen to find some extra icing for repairs. I finally get the
cake to stay upright again. Looming at me now are ten gaping
holes randomly placed in the butter creamed cake layers. What to
do about those ugly holes???
FORTUNATELY, Susan appears with a dozen red
roses and some fern she had saved for last minute garnishing.
With split second dexterity, she breaks the dozen roses from
their stems and shoves them into the glaring cavities. She lays
the two remaining roses at the base of the cake where the icing
has separated. A fern or two and she is done.
Just then, Ted and Clara Crenshaw, the
bride's parents, come through the door into the parish hall.
They quickly survey the whole scene. The expanse of picture
windows showing off the beautiful lake, framed with the pink
blooms of the crab apple trees, the meticulously arranged tables
with their decorations, and then the sumptuous buffet table
waiting to satisfy the appetites of their friends and family.
"Just lovely!," exclaimed Clara, and Ted agrees.
Then they walk closer to the cake table.
Clara puts her hands to her mouth and sighs, "That is the most
gorgeous, the most elegant wedding cake, I have ever seen. And
the way you have arranged the roses! How creative and unique. I
am so pleased!" Ted agrees, "Thank you so much, it couldn't be
more perfect!"
Susan and I, with perspiration beading on our
faces, a towel wrapped around my butter cream laden hands, and
Susan's hands behind her back holding the rose stems and extra
fern, jointly say a quiet, "Thank you. We're so glad you like
it."
Clara added, "And you all seem to really be
enjoying what you're doing," as she glances at the wait staff
taking their places behind the buffet table, with their bodies
bent over, and their eyes watering from laughter. Susan and I
smile nervously and agree, "Oh, we certainly are!"
A CATERING CAPER
I should have seen it coming. It has been a
non-stop, high stress assignment. "Seltzer's Cater To You" is
catering a buffet feast for 200 partying guests under a huge
white tent nestled in a bucolic setting of willow trees by the
quiet Onondaga Lake in Syracuse, N.Y.
Summertime. It is hot and humid for the
catering team on each of the five afternoons. We hustle to move
food, drink and furnishings into place to be ready for the
partying crowds waiting to enjoy their high-priced evenings. The
water and power source is 200 yards away from the party at the
county park offices. We can't use a truck on the bumpy terrain.
It all has to be hauled by hand...and remember, "you have to
hurry".
It is a strain, and my body is making it
abundantly clear that it is not pleased with this continual call
for adrenalin. The battle is on.
My body is yelling, "Stop! I hurt. Listen to
me."
But my ego is yelling back, 'You have to keep
going. This is the last night of the event. Keep going. Don't
stop for water or food. Keep at it. Everyone is having a
splendid time and there are lots of kudos for us everywhere.
Dinner is almost done."
My body responds, "I don't know if I can make
it. I hurt everywhere. I need to get back to the restroom in the
park office if I can!"
I have the key to the office and find the
washroom. By the time I'm inside the toilet stall my legs and
arms are tingling and going numb and limp. "Heart attack!",
I think. "Oh my!" Then there is the cold sweat, and
nausea and diarrhea and the hot poker pain ramming my lower
back. Dizziness.
The questions race through my foggy brain.
"Will I pass out? Am I dying? Is this how it's going to
happen?" There is no real fright here, but intense
curiosity, when I can think at all.
It's getting dark outside. I didn't turn
on the lights when I came in. No one knows where I am. I'm
alone here. Will anyone notice that I'm gone in the midst of
their busyness. How long has it been? How I would love to hear
someone call out, "Are you in there Paul?' But the only
sound is that of the crickets and locusts starting their summer
evensong.
Finally, I hear Susan's voice calling for me
in the darkness outside.
I yell, "I'm in here, in here, I need help!"
I hear doors rattling as she tries to get entry through various
locked entrances. I keep calling out, "In here, in here. Keep
trying."
As the restroom door opens, she finds the
light switch on the wall and turns it on.
I tell her, "I'm in here, in the stall. I'm
really hurting. I might be having a heart attack. I don't know.
My arms and legs are numb. I've vomited and have diarrhea. It
feels like a hot poker jamming up my back. I can't move."
She looks at me and says, "We didn't know
what happened to you or where you were. We kept asking each
other when we had last seen you, or if you had said anything
about where you were going."
I said, "At first I thought I was just coming
to use the washroom, but then the pain got worse and worse. I
didn't know what was going on. Once I got into the park office
and found the restroom, everything started getting so painful I
couldn't move."
With the burning poker pressing me against
the toilet stall and perspiration dripping down my face, I said,
"You'd better hurry and find a phone and get the rescue squad
down here. I don't think any of the offices are open in here.
Maybe you'll find a phone at the Salt Museum or someone
outside..."
She runs out in a panic trying to think where
there might be a phone or someone to help in this now almost
deserted dark park. As she runs toward the museum she spots a
woman walking along the path ahead . She calls to her for help.
It turns out that she is a woman we know from our having catered
dinners at the Liverpool Yacht Club, Emma Rickertson. Susan
quickly tells her our situation and how scared she is, and how
we need to get help. Emma doesn't have a phone, but she happens
to be a nurse.
She hears the symptoms and says, "I know it's
scary for you, but from what you're saying, it sounds more like
it might be a kidney stone attack rather than a heart attack. I
don't know for sure of course, but I've seen people writhing in
pain, and all the things you're telling me, especially the hot
poker up the back, and as painful as it is, I don't think it's
life threatening. But we'll find a phone and get the rescue
squad here and get Paul to the hospital to find out for sure.
Don't worry dear. You go back to him. I'll jump in my car and
find a phone and call for help. He's in the park office, you
say?"
Susan tells staff at the tents what is going
on. She comes back and asks what she can do to help. Nothing has
changed for me. She tells me what Emma has said about it maybe
not being a heart attack, but kidney stones. I have never heard
about kidney stones causing this kind of distress, but I hoped
she was right.
After what seems like an interminable wait
for the ambulance, I can hear the movement of the rescue
personnel making their way through the park office.
Susan calls to them, "We're in here, down the
hall, in the washroom." They roll in the stretcher and begin
asking questions about what I am feeling.
I quickly rehearse the symptoms and sum up
the list with, "Man, I can't move. I'm numb all over, and that
burning pain is shooting up my back."
They respond with, "We're going to be right
here helping you, and getting you to the hospital." The two of
them lift me onto the stretcher as I yell from the pain. Susan
has her hand over her mouth as she witnesses the process
wide-eyed and follows us into the ambulance. She says her "Thank
you's" to Emma for her help and for staying close by.
Once the ambulance is under way my attempt at
pain relief comes from digging my heels into the stretcher and
pushing hard to get away from the red-hot poker in my back. I
hear the roar of the motor and the turning of the wheels. I know
we are on our way to the hospital. But I don't hear any siren. I
wonder why.
The attendant, with a clipboard in his hand,
starts asking me questions: like name, address, phone, doctor,
Social Security number...."Wait a minute," I am thinking,
"here I am twisting and thrashing in pain, maybe dying, and
you want to know my Social security number!" I look up at
Susan, bewildered. 'What is going on?' I try to come up with
answers for the paramedic, but I'm adding a measure of anger for
his lack of understanding of what I am going through. I try to
deflect the answering to Susan, but the medic says he needs to
hear it from me.
It starts to dawn on me that through these
inane questions he is trying to get my mind off the pain, Maybe
he knows something that I don't. No siren? No rushing through
town traffic? These questions? All I know is that I have never
experienced pain like this before and nothing is relieving it,
not even digging my heels into the stretcher.
Arriving at the hospital emergency room they
move me from the stretcher to a hospital gurney. The triage
nurse takes over with the questioning and testing the vital
signs. I am wheeled into a hallway and left there, since the
emergency room beds are all full. I am given a shot of Demarol
for the pain and told that a doctor will be coming soon. Soon
becomes a long time. The pain remains intense. I keep digging my
heels into the gurney mattress. Another shot of Demarol. It is
now almost 11:00 p.m. It has been three hours since I had made
my way into the park office restroom with pain as my main
companion.
The nurses come by and try to give me
assurances. "Just hang in there, the doctor should be coming
soon to examine you. It certainly sounds like the kidney stone
symptoms to me. I know it's really painful right now but if the
stone passes, the pain will go away in a flash." It is small
comfort at this point. The poker is still there. It is still
penetratingly fiery. It is still shoving me against the wall.
Susan has been back in touch with our
catering staff. They have finished the cleanup, loaded the van,
and taken it home. They will be coming by the hospital to give
her a ride and see what the situation is.
I am still in intense pain, writhing and
twisting with pain.
Then, all of a sudden, it is gone! Just as
the nurse had predicted. The pain has completely vanished in a
moment. Nothing. No more pain after all these hours. What is
going on? I release my heels and sink into the gurney sheets,
now thoroughly tangled and drenched from my hours of painful
sweating.
As my eyes clear, I call to a nurse walking
by, "I really think I can get up and move around a bit, maybe
even go home when my ride gets here. I'll make an appointment to
see my doctor tomorrow. I'm pretty exhausted right now." Such a
dramatic turnaround has left me gratefully bewildered for the
night. Now I understand what the attending helpers had
apparently known all along. As painful as it in the midst of a
kidney stone attack, it is not as life threatening as it feels.
It often passes on its own somewhere along the way. That's why
there was no ambulance siren. That's why there were the
distracting questions to divert my attention from the pain.
That's why there was the long wait on the gurney in the hospital
hallway.
The ensuing doctor's appointment directs me
to try to capture the dislodged kidney stone with a urine
filter. He further instructs me to always drink lots of water to
avoid dehydration, especially in hot weather, and also to avoid
driving myself so hard, resting a little, every now and then.
This is a catering caper that will not be quickly forgotten.
JUST
ONE MORE DAY
Vacations change things. Always a little.
Sometimes a lot. Especially in a foreign country. Culture.
Cuisine. Sights. People. Language. The unexpected, often
serendipitous, and things not mentioned in the travel brochures.
So it is for Susan and me on our trip to
Costa Rica in 1988. It is fourteen days of stimulating and
satisfying exposure and interaction with a new place and new
people. Then there is an added day of an indelible, unexpected
adventure as icing on the cake to complete the delightful
memories.
There is lots to see and do to delight the
senses in Costa Rica. Our first accommodation is the Don Carlos
Hotel in the center of San Jose. It is a charming villa for
about twenty guests and had been the presidential residence in
its earlier days. It has an inviting ambience of lush shrubs,
brilliant blooms cascading from the roof tops and doorways, and
attendant parrots to amuse. It is intimate enough for guests at
their breakfast tables to easily share tales of the prior days'
adventures, and to offer what newcomers should not miss.
Among the many delightful options we choose
are things like the Arenal Volcano on a rare day without clouds
or smoke or fog to obscure the molten lava bubbling in its
cavernous bowl below. On another excursion we maneuver our
Suzuki four-wheel drive for three hours on an unmarked trail
over rocks and crevasses. It is our weekend in the rainforest
and its startling natural revelations. We interact with many of
the locals along the way, including a tavern owner whose father,
from Cornell University, had twenty-five years earlier begun the
now flourishing cheese manufacturing industry. We enjoy the
established Quaker community and its long term peacemaking
influence, including President Arias having received the Nobel
Peace Prize in 1986. We walk the pristine white sands of the
expansive beaches at Manuel Antonio National Park with a handful
of other tourists. The noisy monkeys at the jungle's edge busily
gorge themselves on the banana bounty.
We have the privilege of being escorted for
three days to both the prominent and the obscure of Costa Rica
by Jorge Hernandez, a former graduate student at our home-based
Syracuse University. He is researching ways to utilize the
abundant coffee bean shells as fertilizer and mulch. He hosts
and interprets for us at a sumptuous family dinner in our honor,
on their coffee plantation. The father initiated the
twenty-five-year-old strawberry industry in Costa Rica.
We spend a memorable day on the cross country
"Jungle Train" as it rumbles through the roadless precipices and
valleys, providing the only access from the Pacific to the
Atlantic coasts. Vendors a
We are deeply moved by the generous attention
of a poor native family sitting across from us on the train. At
lunch time, they notice that we have not come prepared for lunch
on the long train ride. The two small children with big bright
eyes and shy smiles come across the aisle offering us two basic
baloney and mustard sandwiches they had taken from their paper
bag. We have only a small bag of potato chips which we share
with them and their parents. It is a not-to-be-forgotten moment
of humans connecting, with only the language of the heart to
guide and nourish us.
We don't neglect the oft pictured quiet
sunset vistas from the pink and purple clothed tables of a
gourmet restaurant perched high above the diamond sparkled sea
below. Also enjoyed is the meal at the rustic cabin tucked in
between farmland hills with the not yet cooked chickens clucking
and pecking about under our chairs.
These are among the fascinations stimulating
us for our perfect fourteen day stay in Costa Rica. We spend our
last day in San Jose in order to be on time for our early
morning flight back to Tampa, Florida.
We do not realize that some vivid memories of
Costa Rica are yet to appear.
All goes according to plan as the departing
day dawns. Our passports are accepted. Our luggage is checked.
The flight is on time. We are in the waiting area ready to board
the plane when we are informed that the flight to Tampa is full.
Susan has a paid-for reservation. She can go. I have a stand-by
reservation by virtue of my daughter Linda being a flight
attendant, which qualifies her father for a free ride when space
is available. It is not on this one. There is no room for
stand-by's. I will have to wait for tomorrow's flight to see if
there will be room for me then. Oops.
Susan and I hurriedly make the adjustments we
can think of that have to be made. We are saying things like,
"Let's keep in touch from both ends. Remember to change our
accommodations in Tampa. Let Linda know when and where to meet
us. Change the return flights to Syracuse. Keep aware of
developments about tomorrow's flight."
We say our goodbye's, still trying to put the
pieces together, and to feel okay about it all. Susan's plane
takes off. My baggage goes with her. The waiting room empties of
airline personnel, police, well-wishers, and the other stand by
passengers. I am alone with only the distant echoes of other
flight announcements to other destinations to keep me company.
With palms still sweaty from the change of
events, I rehearse in my mind the priorities for my moves from
now on. I don't have to worry about keeping track of my
underwear or razor. They are having their free ride to Tampa. I
will be in San Jose for at least another day, with only my
passport, the clothes on my back, and some money. No other
encumbrances. I will catch the bus back to center San Jose, have
some breakfast, and then check back into last night's hotel for
another day. Simple enough. And then maybe some more walking and
sightseeing of the tourist attractions. I wonder if there might
be a concert at the National Theatre this evening that I can fit
in. It will not be daunting to adjust to this annoying change of
plans.
However, there is more to it than that. After
a leisurely breakfast at my hotel in San Jose, I saunter over to
the registration desk and request a room for another night. I
said, "Maybe it can be the room I just vacated earlier."
Politely, I am informed that last night's room is not available.
And neither is any other. They are full. Another 'oops,' and
change of plans. My day now has to start out securing new
accommodations instead of sightseeing.
I spend the next hours of the morning going
from one hotel to another, and from one B&B to another. I go
back to my favorite Don Carlos Hotel. All full. My palms are
sweaty again. I am thinking, "What are my narrowing
options?"
I am having lunch outside a plaza restaurant
and am greeted by a woman from Boston whom we had met at Don
Carlos Hotel, and with whom we had shared some travels in the
last fourteen days. I tell her of my unresolved accommodation
plight. She is still residing at Don Carlos, and half-jokingly
says, "You can sleep in the chair in my room as a last resort,
if your efforts continue to be fruitless" I half-jokingly thank
her. As my search continues into late afternoon, I begin to
wonder how that offer might actually work.
Eventually, I walk my way into the seedier
commercial regions of San Jose. The streets are crowded with
people. The web of utility wires crisscross the streets and
corners, almost obscuring the street signs. The curb and cross
walk stripes are faded. Trash bins are overloaded. The
equatorial heat can use some tropical ocean breezes. I still
have no prospects for accommodations. I wonder if the police
might have a suggestion. Or maybe a priest in one of these
churches I'm passing might know of something.
I am now at the massive central market of San
Jose. It sprawls for two blocks with its succession of booths,
stands, tables, and umbrellas. They offer a now picked over
variety of brightly colored vegetables, fruits, fish, and meats.
The vendors are kept busy waving off the flies from the exposed
and increasingly 'fragrant' chicken parts.
Just across the heavily trafficked street
from the market is a row of small shops. Hanging from the next
floor up are neon or painted signs vying for attention with
their varied heights and colors. Many of these second-floor
advertisements boast a "pension" labeling.
I realize "pension" has something to do with
accommodations, perhaps a room or apartment or a boarding place.
This series of offerings goes on for two blocks. They all look
pretty much the same. Each seems to have a narrow access door
squeezed in between the ground level shops.
I come upon one named, "Pension Americana".
(Probably especially attractive to the semi prosperous American
tastes and ambience). I think, "I'll give it a try. It's six
p.m. It's been a long day of no vacancies. I'll just turn this
floppy door handle and see what shows up."
I walk into the narrow and dimly lit
vestibule. There is a brown wilted plant at the bottom of the
stairs. I speculate, "It's probably a rare jungle species
struggling to survive the rigors of civilization. (ha)" I
brush by it to ascend the unbanistered staircase. A few of the
stairs have worn rubber treads, but not all. "For safety's
sake," I mused.
At the top of the stairs is a three foot by
three-foot landing, with another defunct jungle species in a
corner with a rumpled rag rug underfoot. I face two locked,
almost painted doors. The door directly in front of me has a
10"x10" square opening covered with a small metal door and
hinges. There is a sign in Spanish that I assume says, "Please
Knock". I do. Once. Then again. And then again. After about a
minute of this I heard the clicking of a metal latch on the
other side of the little door opening. The 10"x10" hinged door
swings back, revealing two metal bars across the opening. Behind
them, a bare twenty-five watt light bulb is hanging from the
ceiling of an otherwise dark room.
It gives enough light to show an unshaven
face with about two inches left of a well salivated cigar
protruding from its mouth. The aroma from the chewed tobacco
strands greeted me, along with a rather gruff, "Huh?" Underneath
the cigar I can see a red and white striped underwear top. In my
best English I try, "Room?"
He is looking at me intensely now, realizing
that I am probably not going to rob him. "Si," he responds. This
much Spanish I understand. It is the first "Si" since my trek
had begun at ten o'clock in the morning. It has been almost
eight hours of walking the streets of San Jose, waiting to hear
a "Si!" The only relief I feel at the time, given my initial
exposure to Pension Americana, is that at least I won't have to
sleep in a doorway or on a park bench tonight.
I then manage the next question, "How much?"
His reply, "Dos."
I say, "Two? Two what? Two dollars?"
Again, "Si" is his answer.
I pause, thinking to myself, "You've got
to be kidding. Just two dollars to sleep overnight. It's
either a really good deal, or this place is even worse than it
appears."
I hear another "Huh" from the cigarred
concierge on the other side as he starts to push the little
metal door shut.
I quickly say, "Okay."
He points to the little ledge under the metal
bars indicating that is where I am to place the two dollars. I
do so. He scoops up the money and closes the little door. In a
moment I hear his rustling around to the back of the second
locked door at the top of the landing. He opens it, and hands me
the key that will open it. He passes me the towel he is carrying
under his left arm. His original gruffness has softened. He is
only five feet tall. I think, "His growth is probably
stunted from a lifetime of chewing on cigars." He wears
ruffled tan trousers with gray smudges, and flip flops for
footwear. He motions for me to follow him toward my room.
It is a long and circuitous journey through a
labyrinth of barely lit hallways. There are no "exit" signs. I
wonder, "How will I ever find my way back and forth, and out
of here. What if there is a fire? Oh well, I really need a bed
tonight."
At one point on the journey to the bedroom we
pause. He points toward a raised platform that has two rusty
fifty-gallon drums suspended overhead. They are the water source
of our common showers, sinks and toilets just below.
The 'bedroom' turns out to be a 5' x 7'
cubicle. The walls go up to about seven feet but are not
attached to the ceiling. The whole 'bedroom' area is actually a
series of partitions painted a very 'off' white. The individual
spaces are only large enough to hold an army size cot, which
allows the door (with no lock) to open just enough to get a body
inside, before it bumps against the cot. I am wary about the
freshness (or not) of the sheets. The frayed olive colored army
blanket covers only half of the bed. There is no chair, no
chest, no mirror, no pictures. "But ," I think, "at
least it is off the streets. And for only two dollars. Who
will ever believe that?"
I have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow
to get to the airport. It leaves me only a short while to have
supper, locate the bus stop, and roam the surrounding streets at
bit. I make my way back to the Pension Americana. There is now
no cigar concierge to greet anyone. My key works in the lock. I
am able to eventually wend my way back to 'my place,' having
kept track of the various landmarks in the hallway of stacked
musty mattresses and piles of empty bottles.
I pause at the common washroom. I have no
toothbrush. The towel is in the bedroom. A quick splash, and
then to rest my weary bones. I think it's best to sleep in my
clothes since I am unsure about the history of the sheets, and
the wool blanket covers only half of my body. I think,"I hope
I don't have to share my space with too many unseen critters."
I have passed by only a couple of other men
in my hallway walks. There are greetings, but obviously I am the
only American staying at the Pension Americana.
In spite of my next-door neighbor's erratic
snoring, I am tired enough to fall asleep. The only lights
available are the bare, low wattage bulbs hanging from the
ceiling.
There is a ruckus to awaken me during the
night. I can't tell what time it is. The jarring commotion is
several cubicles away. It starts with some banging of doors and
furniture and bottles. Then there is moaning which grows into
screams and shouts from several voices of those who have been
aroused. There is a mix of anger and laughter with the screams.
Sirens approach from the streets. A gurney is rolled in with
more shouts. Brighter lights appear at the scene. Eventually,
the noise abates as the ambulance drives away with the ailing
person and the exchange of comments from the gathered group
subsides. Everyone goes back to their 'bedrooms,' and the
community snore begins. Except for me. I stay awake the rest of
the night, and am was ready to move out at the crack of dawn.
I gingerly move through the hallways of dead
plants and down the entrance stairway. There are two bodies
sprawled across the stairs at different levels. They are
probably non-patrons who have come in during the night. They
reek of alcohol and its effects. I step over them, although they
probably will not be much disturbed if I step directly on them.
I am out the street door from the Pension
Americana into the welcome freshness of a new morning. There are
two others already waiting at the bus stop for the six a.m. pick
up. It is a quiet ride through the empty streets of an
unawakened San Jose. The sky becomes brighter, but still without
the sun at the airport. I take my place in the waiting area for
the anticipated flight to Tampa, hoping it will have room for
this stand-by passenger today. It does.
As the plane lifts from the runway I rehearse
the events of the last twenty-four hours. I smile a lot. I
think, "What a neat way to complete a vacation! How many
other tourists will have something like this to remember?" Susan
is more likely saying, "I don't want something like this
to remember!"
I ponder the positive. I consider possible
appropriate titles to encapsulate the experience for a later
telling. What comes to mind are things like, "Standby for
Surprises," "A Bummer Bonus", "Some Negative Nudgings", "Beyond
the Brochures," "Completing a Vacation in Style," "Trip Advisor
and More," "Making Do," " Fourteen Days Plus One," "How a
Perfect Vacation Can Get Even Better".
It's hard to talk about the glories of Costa
Rica without including the vivid memories packed into that last
day. "Just One More Day" turns out to have a bonus of benefits
in spite of appearances. What appears to be a real downer is
actually stored in my memory bank as "two bucks, well spent".
LEAF IT
TO ME
It seems simple enough. A Sunday afternoon
walk. It's fall. It's warm. Most trees have shed their radiant,
color filled leaves. Their once brilliant reds, yellows, and
oranges are now muted browns, wrinkled and scattered into a
thick, soft blanket on the ground. I watch a final display of
uniqueness as the last of the leaves are released from their
nourishing source. On the way to the ground, some do their
spiraling gymnastics of flipping, floating, or drifting side to
side. Other are spinning, cartwheeling, and swooshing to the
ground.
Their decaying aromas infuse each breath and
are accentuated with my every kick and crunch as I stroll along
the paths of Oakwood Cemetery in Syracuse, New York. The
discarded display of fall's glories from the hundreds of
varieties of towering trees covering the hills and valleys of
this sprawling hundred-year-old cemetery is especially
bountiful. Their job is almost done. They begin their sleep in
deep and gentle layers.
There are huge mounds of raked leaves
everywhere, basking in the shadows of a receding sun. At the
intersection of three cemetery driveways is an eight by
twenty-foot mountain of leaves that has been scooped and shoved
together by a day loader, waiting for pick up on Monday morning.
Such a huge pile invites more than a passing
glance.
Now, as adults, such freedoms of play are
controlled and subdued. Childlikeness is often negatively
labeled childishness. No matter, it is still savored in my
silent parts. I can tell from the smile that is curling my lips
and wrinkling the sides of my eyes. It's still here. This huge
pile of leaves I'm staring at in front of me is a memory waiting
to happen.
The unspoken and unconscious motivators are
activated and overcoming my inhibitions. There is no one in
sight. No voices to be heard. Just a quiet, warm Sunday
afternoon. The dying sweetness of this leafy mountain, and the
memory it evokes, is calling me to a little reckless abandon, as
in bygone days.
I'll do it! Another quick glance in every
direction. All clear. My brain calls for more adrenalin. I take
a fifty-eight-year-old's version of a long running jump. The
legs and feet start. Clomp, clomp, clomp. Faster. Faster. Then
lift off. With hands and arms outstretched in a Superman
trajectory straight ahead, and, as of old, dive in, head-first.
WHOOSH! I land in the soft forgiving leaf pile. No squealing
this time, but plenty of internal delight at having crossed the
line to enjoy this moment of childlikeness. Now deeply imbedded
in it all, I turn myself around in the pile. Such fragrances
float around me to stir the treasures of memory and merge them
with the ignition of fresh excitement.
I'm thinking, "I'll just bathe myself in
them. I'll submerge myself in this leaf mountain of Oakwood
Cemetery." The leaves wrap around me. They hold me. They
feed me. They relax me. I am covered with leaves. I keep just
enough space for my face to show and to breathe. I am snug in
nature's leaf wrap.
I have a conversation with myself. "What
if someone comes along and sees me. Oh, who cares? Forget it.
That's an inhibitor. This is too much fun. I'll savor it
awhile. I'll let the sun and the leaves join in warming my
body. I'll just inhale deeply and notice the sensory details.
I'll just breathe and breathe and breathe...." There is
warmth. Stillness. Sweetness. Smiles. Silence.
Then sleep. Deep sleep. Probably forty-five
minutes of it. Mmmmm.
Then voices. At first they echo in the dark
recesses of my sleep. Not wanting to exit this blissful place, I
hold my eyes closed to avoid a rude awakening. I listen a
moment.
I hear a distant, "Oh my God! Look, look over
there."
"What, what?" is the response from another.
"In the middle of that mound of leaves ...
See ?... A face? ... A person? ... Is it alive?...Is it dead?
... It's not moving!"
The voices grow louder with each exclamation.
They're getting closer. I'm realizing that there's several
people closing in on me. My solitary nap of bliss is done. It's
back to reality.
For an instant I wonder, "How shall I play
out this game? Shall I keep my eyes closed and let their
imaginations take flight, thinking that they have come upon a
person strangely left for dead in this mountain of Oakwood's
leaves? Should I play at Halloween and jump out at them with a
jolt and shout?'
I quickly reason that the least startling
extrication would be to open my eyes, smile, and say a simple,
"Hi, I just couldn't pass up this pile of leaves as a place for
a Sunday nap."
That's what I do. Then I lift myself from the
pile and brush off the attached leaves as the group of six
walkers intermittently gasp with a mix of laughter and and hands
to their mouths. No doubt they continue their walk with comments
about the weirdo they have just encountered.
I'm thinking, "Maybe they are also having
some thoughts relishing the idea of such rollicking abandon. I
know I do".
The Sunday leaf nap event is over, but its
imprint and meaning continue. I sense a deep connection. In my
sensory absorption of nature's gifts of a leaf's flight, color,
fragrance, crunch, warmth, stillness, I am immersed in another
of life's thin places, where the consciousness of the heavens
mingle with the consciousness of earth.
As I plunge into that huge pile of leaves and
sleep in its embrace, my life form mixes with another. Once
again, nature teaches me. I teach nature. I am alive in its
stillness as I walk home. I smile.
SNAPSHOTS 1
I would like for you to meet my mother. Of
course, it is a partial introduction. It is limited by my memory
bank, my perspective, and by her undisclosed secrets and dreams.
My collage tries to include snapshots of the wealth of her
personality as seen in her relationships, causes, beliefs,
hobbies, habits, and emotions under the umbrella of love given
and received.
Lillian Leona (Daly) Seltzer is born October
6, 1890 and lives her whole life in Washington, D.C. Her father
(William Washington Daly) is Irish. Her mother (Margaret Matilda
Thour) is German. There are ten children. Eight survive into
adulthood. Her father is a dry goods merchant in Center Market.
Music fills the rooms and moments of her Lutheran origins
Lillian is a comely 5'2" girl with graceful
Grecian features. She grows into a portly, jolly, corseted
mother of four boys, and wife of Warren, an architect. Cheery
laughter, even giggles, are her constant positive companions,
along with the encouraging words for every project. Among the
games she loves playing is Chinese checkers. Loves for her are
harmonizing with her strong alto voice, even while doing dishes.
She uses her piano sight-reading skills to accompany assorted
soloists and choral groups, including her own family orchestra.
1915
Her generous bent includes sandwiches for
hungry passersby during the days of the Depression and opening
her home long term to various relatives in need of shelter. The
days of the depression also instill habits of limiting and
saving everything from dishwater, to string, lunch bags, and
waxed paper, to cutting open toothpaste tubes to get another
week's use of them, and of course a close watch on money at
every turn. New clothes for the children are always too large so
they can "grow into them."
Lillian enjoys vibrant health aside from some
neuralgia attacks and appendicitis. According to her it is the
weekly use of E-Z tablets and other laxatives that account for
her wellbeing. A wide brimmed hat, gloves and long sleeves keep
her skin lily white even while gardening.
Formal education stops at grade eight. Her
natural bent to assert herself follows her. This is seen in her
moments in business school, work at the Census Bureau, selling
at her father's market, asking for privileges from congressmen
or at a neighbor's swimming pool, or her dealings with
hucksters. ("Is it fresh?") and her sales jobs at Hecht's
Department Store.
The Women's Christian Temperance Union
becomes a major cause for her. She has to reconcile this with
her loving father's penchant for bringing home a bucket of beer
from the market every day. Her energies outside the home focus
on Keller Memorial Lutheran Church, its choir, Sunday School,
social groups, and African missionary support. Relationships
with her neighbors is not close, following her own oft stated
advice to "be friendly to all, intimate with few."
The Busy Bee Club that she organizes and
other gatherings for neighborhood children become occasions for
passing along the Bible stories and Christian values as well as
lots of laughter and advice. There is other advice like, "Marry
into good stock." "Waste not , want not." "A laxative a week
keeps you in the peak."
Of course, cause number one is raising four
boys and running a household in her dream house in Silver
Spring, Maryland. She is a dutiful and loving mother, following
routines, and inculcating helpful habits in her boys. She can be
seen cooking all the comfort food meals. She prepares sandwiches
for five every morning, and fixes full breakfasts every day.
This includes coaxing eggs into me, while she directs my
attention to the birds and trees outside. If a cake doesn't rise
she can affirm, "Well, it has good ingredients anyway." Our
mother prepares each of her boys to recite or play their
instruments on the living room 'stage' whenever relatives or
friends stop by.
The four sons all learn and share the
household chores every week…making beds, cleaning bathrooms,
washing, ironing, sewing, washing dishes, emptying trash,
polishing windows and stairs, always with words of encouragement
and praise from Lillian.
Lillian knows tears. You can see them when
her mother dies or when she plays "Rock of Ages" on the piano,
when her two sons go off to war, when one son has to get married
early, when her husband is very sick and she doesn't know if he
will survive…"What will happen to us?" ... When they argue …
when her husband has retired and is home all day long after
forty years of being away during the day … and probably quiet
tears beyond my seeing.
Joy is apparent as she cares for her
canaries, parakeets, and plants. Joy is apparent as she begins
each day playing the piano and singing as the family awakens.
Some things never happen for her. She never
learns to drive. She never finds her lost diamond engagement
ring. She never catches up on reading her stacks of magazines
and newspapers. She never gets her dream trip to Cape May, N.J.
She never quite gets over her own limited formal education. She
tries to advance her sons reputations ahead of time by writing
"Doctor" in front of their names on their music and in books.
She never gets over her reward and punishment notions about God
and the accompanying judgments. She never gets over leaving her
weeds and other residue strewn behind her gardening projects.
She never relents in giving advice and lecturing her sons about
a "better way" for most everything. She never gets over her fear
of doctors with scalpels. She lets her own colon tumor grow for
ten years, until she bleeds to death internally, with only
weakness but no pain.
This is a partial picture of Lillian. She
dies at 82, just before Palm Sunday 1973 in Silver Spring. St
Luke Church is full for her funeral. Each one there has their
own version of Lillian snapshots. They sing about it mightily.
SNAPSHOTS
2
Meet my father, Warren Ray Seltzer. My
memories are not complete because they can't include his
secrets. But I share some of my images of his life, his
intentions, relationships, causes, hobbies, and habits.
He is born April 20, 1891 and lives his whole life in
Washington, D.C. His father, Henry Hocker Seltzer, has German
origins, and careers of teaching, accounting, and medical
doctoring. His mother, Sue Arnold Seltzer, is of English origins
and grows up in Pensylvania Dutch country.
Warren has two older brothers: Charles, a
teacher, designer, and inventor. Charles spends most of his life
in Philadelphia with his wife Edith. She is notable for her
shrill soprano voice that turns heads in a church service, and
her pet rooster traveling companion. The other brother, Edgar,
spends his working life at the U.S. Government Printing Office.
His wife, Ruth, supervises the Junior Department at Keller
Memorial Lutheran Church Sunday school. She makes wonderful
pies. Both brothers are generous in their humor and laughter.
Warren is stingy with his smiles but enjoys his own dry wit.
At two years old, Warren has a double hernia, which means
he has to wear a truss the rest of his life. His activities are
confined to those limitations. There are few sports, no
swimming, and no military participation. He is a pretty boy, of
slight stature. In his twenties he has a full head of brown wavy
hair. In later years this gives way to baldness and comb-overs.
In spite of his firm "beer belly," the rest of his body has no
fat. He enjoys robust health, walking frequently for pleasure in
Woodside Park, Silver Spring, Md., and to meet streetcars and
buses on his way to work. These foot excursions allow him to
critique the homes under construction in the new subdivision.
A health crisis arises from the stresses of his intense
personality in 1952. A perforated ulcer leads to diabetes and
stomach cancer. Successful surgery removing his stomach allows
him another twenty-five years of vigorous activity. He wears
bi-focal glasses, and in later years sometimes chooses to turn
on his hearing aids. He has carries free teeth that last a
lifetime.
1926
His physical limitations, and the model of his own
father, promote his deep appreciation for books and lots of
reading. Hard cover books are sacred and held as treasures in
the crowded library of his home. There is often five books
stacked next to his rocking chair and smoking stand. They
satisfy his reading penchant for history, biography, fiction,
art, encyclopedia, and Bible interpretation. Most of the time he
keeps the wisdom and wealth of his readings to himself.
His creative inclinations lead him to a degree in
architecture from Catholic University in Washington, D.C., even
though the mathematics requirements are a struggle for him. He
uses his designing skills working for the Navy Department and
Veterans Affairs Department of the U.S. Government. He also
designs post office and hospital buildings, private residences,
including his own in Woodside Park, Silver Spring, Maryland. He
receives an award for his English Tudor cottage design of 1234
Pinecrest Circle, from the Architectural Design magazine. St.
Luke Lutheran Church, Silver Spring, and the communion rail at
Keller Memorial Church are among his favorite design projects.
He has a two-year unsuccessful entrepreneurial effort in
partnership with two other architects as they planned a
"triplex" series of house plans, with house parts that could be
pre-built, and interchanged, saving customers money.
Music defines much of his enjoyment of life. He has
trained as a tenor and fills his life with the pleasures of
singing solos, and with choral groups. A visit to his home often
includes his vocal offerings. He also studies and plays violin
all of his life in church and orchestral groups. This includes
his own little family orchestra: piano with his wife Lillian an
accomplished accompanist; and his four sons: Philip on cornet,
Richard on violin or saxophone, James on clarinet and saxophone,
and Paul on trombone. He has fond Washington, D.C. memories of
attending the weekly Marine Band concerts under the direction of
John Philip Sousa. Later on he regularly takes his family to the
various military band concerts at Watergate, Washington
Monument, and the Capitol.
There is often a smile of satisfaction from him as he
sits in his rocking chair, lightly puffing his pipe or a cigar
in front of a blazing fire in the stone fireplace, surrounded by
the chestnut paneled living room. He is absorbing the
instrumental variations coming from four different rooms as his
sons are practicing their weekly lessons. The sons are often
called on to stand the fireplace alcove and perform their latest
learnings for visitors. Warren regularly listens to radio
broadcasts of the New York Philharmonic, the Saturday afternoon
Texaco opera productions, Band of America, the Telephone Hour,
Longines Symphonette, the Fred Waring Chorus, and many others.
He delights in family and friends gathering around the piano, or
a summer night on the porch, for a sing-along of popular tunes
and hymns.
Warren's emotions are usually guarded within his cloak of
introversion and quiet affect. Embarrassing angry outbursts
accompany his misfirings in house projects, or when traveling
directions aren't accurate.
Simple expressions of affection can be seen
when holding Lillian's hand on the porch swing on a summer
evening. Quick morning and evening kisses are exchanged among
family members. He is rocking me while we gaze at a blazing
fire, and I run my hands across his whisker stubble. My third
birthday is the occasion for the gift of a bright blue and red
toy garage and a kiss. Weekly letters with his brother Charles
are regularly exchanged with little variation in the content.
Criticisms of others and their ways sprinkle his conversations,
revealing stored resentments. He is proudest of his home and
family. His discipline of the sons is by way of harsh words,
never spanking. Mother does that.
Strangely, he does not speak out against the older sons
when they are stealing some lumber from neighbor's homes under
construction to build their own huts. He is generous in tipping
mechanics and workmen, and sharing his home with relatives who
needed housing. He shares tears with Lillian as their older
sons, Philip and Richard go off to World War II. The two-star
flag is proudly displayed in the front window.
His abundant dreams and creativity find fulfillment in
his home and family with all the hobbies and habits this
includes. He recounts his larger dream of owning a large farm,
having his four sons owning their participating parcel on each
corner. Instead, he studies magazines like Farm Journal
and Organic Gardening and practices what he learns from
them on his quarter acre plot in Woodside Park, Silver Spring,
Maryland. There, he squeezes in a dozen fruit and nut trees, a
grape arbor, vegetable garden, many varieties of flowering
plants, with a large assortment of carefully tended rose and
berry bushes. He loves his assortment of fine quality tools. He
pours himself into his ongoing house projects: a bell tower, a
chicken house, goat stalls, replacing porch posts, a fish pond
with an antique pump. A visitor can count on a thorough tour of
his home and garden, with accompanying stories for each item.
Warren is appropriately frugal during the 1930 depression
days, saving and recycling at every turn. He usually has a
dustpan and brush handy for constant clean-up. To earn extra
money during the lean income days for architects, he sets up a
printing shop in his basement and
turns out stationery, invitations, church
programs, and pamphlets. Close by in the basement is his
drafting table for non-government designing projects. Other
dreaming is stimulated by frequent thumbing of the pages of the
Sears, Roebuck catalogues.
There is an 1835 grandfather clock in the
living room that clangs every hour through the night.
A cuckoo clock is in the hallway, clucking
every hour through the night. There is also the Seth Thomas
clock in the library with its quieter gong every hour throughout
the night. They all provide a nightly surprise cacophony for
unwitting guests. Warren winds them every week.
Guns are present but rarely used. There is an antique
squirrel rifle hanging over the living room mantle. A shotgun,
30/30 Winchester rifle, a 22 rifle, and a pellet gun are all
stowed along with the quilts in his bedroom closet. There are
occasional sharpshooting target practices in the basement, and
some skeet shooting excursions. One unsuccessful group squirrel
hunting weekend is the limit of gun use. The NRA magazine is
skimmed.
Vacations of two weeks per year usually include trips to
relatives in Pennsylvania farm country or shared time at the
Daly cottage at Colonial Beach, Virginia. A purchase of a
runabout boat at age 65 puts him in the world of boat and motor
care: caulking, scraping, varnishing, motor repairs, a very
bulky life jacket to offset the lack of swimming skills, and
fishing attempts…as well as some exciting coastal explorations
The transport through the years to these
vacation places relies on an odd assortment of car brands:
Essex, Devoe, Lafayette, and Nash. Antiques and their stories
are gathered from the Pennsylvania relatives. They have
prominent places at 1234. Whenever relatives or friends visit
Warren he has lots to offer in his tours of Washington, D.C. He
details descriptions of government architecture and historical
anecdotes, like "the pigs that used to wander along Constitution
Avenue in the old days."
He relishes downing a pint of shucked oysters when he can
afford them. The aroma of a whole Lebanon baloney arriving
regularly from Palmyra, Pa. pleases everyone, including the
postman. Bay rum is his favorite after shave. Paper napkins are
re-used. Underwear is of the single piece variety. Suspenders
are covered by his vest. There is a gold watch and fob. In later
years cupboards reveal the hoarding of various products like
toothpaste, or mayonnaise, or bulging canned goods. The attic
has bundles of the National Geographic Magazine. His office
Christmas party prize of Bellows bourbon from the 1940's is
never opened. A beautiful blue leather chair is secretly
purchased from Vermont. It incurs Lillian's wrath of "We can't
afford it, how could you?"
Politics is a frequent focus at family gatherings, all
reflecting deeply engrained Republican, anti-Roosevelt
sentiment. Prejudices regarding Jews, Roman Catholics, blacks
are revealed in the pride of living in a "restricted" community.
Religion and its accompanying beliefs and practices are a
regular part of the Seltzer family scene. Lutheran beliefs,
rituals, worship, music, classes, committees, leadership,
missionaries, picnics, parties, and their relationships fill
their days and conversations. There is grace at meals and spurts
of trying morning family devotions. Also remembered are his
rants and arguments in the car riding the ten miles home from
Keller Memorial Church, in contrast to the 'love' theme of the
morning. Married on June 19, 1918, my parents celebrate their
40th and 50th anniversaries with church celebrations, in
addition to dinner parties.
An undercurrent of bizarre beliefs surface when Lillian
dies from cancer in April 1973. Warren is hysterical for days.
When questioned about it, he says he believed that if he lived a
good life, raised four sons, made a good home, he would be
rewarded…he and Lillian would never die! Suffering and death are
a sign of punishment (Job's friends' style). It is the only time
it is spoken of.
His diligence for attending to, and
completing projects, extends to his retirement days. He has five
legal sized yellow sheets filled with things to be done. He
wants to avoid the 'rusting out' and dying that his colleagues
experience after their retirements. He has the wisdom to
voluntarily relinquish driving his car after he hits some bushes
when turning into his driveway. He is cared for by friends and
church members for five years after Lillian's death.
After living in the house of his dreams for exactly fifty
years (1928-1978) he has a month-long stint in a nursing
facility which he dislikes because of childish activities like
making pot holders or playing bingo. He longs for something more
substantive. His last two months alive are pleasant with the
familiar surroundings and people at the Lutheran Home in
Washington, D.C. He dies there of a stroke November 15, 1978.
St. Luke Lutheran Church is full for his funeral. He is interred
at the Fort Lincoln Cemetery Mausoleum in Washington, D.C.
MISTER
BIG
Let me show you a picture album of my uncle,
Adolph Daly, "Mr. Big" to me.
The pictures are expansive, bright, defined
and in vivid color. You might even be able to hear them and feel
them. Uncle Adolph has an imposing presence you can't miss. All
your senses get involved. His stately stature is always center
stage.
His voice is big. His laugh is loud and
infectious. His gestures are wide and flailing. His dress is
impeccable. His hair is always neatly combed. His face is always
freshly shaven. His shoes are always shined. His shirts are
always starched. His eyes are always animated, He is the "alpha"
in his pack of eight brothers and sisters. He has a lively
brain. He is the comic. He is the consummate
glad-handing-could-have-been-politician type with a quick
pleasantry for almost everyone who comes within his range.
As a child I am fortunate to often have been
within his range.
Here is some of what you can see with me. He
is a hero type. He has been a captain in the US Army in World
War I. I don' t remember him telling me any war time stories,
but in a book of memories, published by his fighting unit in
1931, there is a story of an occasion when Adolph had been
fighting with his machine gunners unit in France. They have
taken refuge for the night in a farmhouse. He is late getting
back with the unit. There is not room for him to sleep in the
farmhouse, so he goes out to the barn to sleep. During the night
a German artillery shell makes a direct hit on the farmhouse,
killing everyone inside. Only Adolph, sleeping in the barn, is
spared.
There is also a very large photograph of him,
in his captain's uniform, seated on a camel in front of the
Sphynx in Egypt, a copy of which is in every cousin's home.
There is also box after box of military memorabilia stored under
the Colonial Beach cottage. The cousins look forward to summer
vacations when they can wear the gun belts, and play with other
parts of the captain's uniform and equipment, look at the maps
of foreign lands, and let their imaginations have a wild ride
for hours on end.
At family holiday events, he is always the
turkey carver, the take charge person, and a lead sing-along
tenor around the piano. A cigar and a laugh are close by. You
never have to inquire about his opinion on anything, especially
politics. He loves the Republicans and his friend, J. Edgar
Hoover, FBI chief. He has nothing positive to say about the
Democrats or President Roosevelt.
He assumes leadership of the family dry goods
business at Center Market in Washington, D.C. after his father
dies. There is a shadowy nine-month experiment with marriage.
This generates much speculation among the relatives. He assumes
the role of caretaker of my grandmother when she becomes an
invalid. He drives her around in a big black 1936 Buick, with
pull-down tasseled shades. (The kind I see in the gangster
movies.) They live at 417 9th Street, N.E. in Washington, D.C.
with Aunt Mabel and her two daughters. It is the family (20+
aunts, uncles, cousins) gathering place for holidays and Sundays
after church. It's just a block away. It is here that the
cousins line up next to grandma's bed, which smells of Vicks or
lavender, to give her a kiss on the cheek and receive our nickel
and mint.
You never find Uncle Adolph in church. But
you can often find him at the racetrack in Atlantic City, where
he is always just one race away from permanent fame and fortune.
I never see him, or any other relative, drink alcohol. I think
the lessons from WCTU (Women's Christian Temperance Union) make
their mark on the whole family.
Uncle Adolph is hard working. Family is
important. He takes charge of the family summer home in Colonial
Beach, Virginia. You can often see him cutting the barley grass,
white washing and pruning the fruit trees, repairing and
painting, cleaning the outhouse, caulking the row boat, frying
up a barrel of chicken for a big crowd, chortling while washing
the dishes and having a cigar.
You can see him teaching me how to swim and
float on my back, holding me, and then letting me go,
encouraging me to relax and to keep trying when I gulp too much
water. He teaches me how to muscle my way ahead of the crowd
when trying to board a Greyhound bus during World War II. Gas is
rationed and travel limited, and most everyone has to ride a
bus. He laughs at how he can sneak "Chico", his tiny Chihuahua,
onto the bus all the time, by hiding him in his coat pocket.
He is overtly generous. A box of caramels, or
salt-water taffy, or a crate of Florida oranges, or a quart of
oysters, often shows up at the door. In this picture album you
can see six of my older cousins gleefully enjoying the weekends
he plans for them in Atlantic City. Later on you can see my
mother and brother and I on the receiving end of his hospitality
in Atlantic City during World War II, when thousands of men from
the US Air Force are filling the hotels. They train and march in
formations throughout the streets, shouting their cadences,
before the evening blackouts quiet the city. I am thrilled,
having my first experience staying in a tourist home with
starched sheets and eating at Horn and Hardart's Cafeteria. All
because of Uncle Adolph.
There is a shadow on his lavish lifestyle. In
this picture album you can see the clandestine gatherings and
chatter of Uncle Adolph's detractors among his clan. In one
scene they are in my family's living room and vocalizing their
mutual suspicions that Uncle Adolph is supporting his race track
habit, and his flamboyant gift giving, by dipping into the till
of the family estate, which he administers for my grandmother.
This is in the days of children being seen but not heard. I am
curled inside the fireplace cubicle and listening to what they
are saying about my Mr. Big, and not liking it one bit. My
father calls him a "windbag." It doesn't change my mind. My cap
pistol is at my side. In my childlike way of responding to this
threatening attack on my hero, I commence shooting off my cap
pistol every time they mention Uncle Adolph's name
disparagingly. They don't get my passive aggressive message.
They tell me to "stop making that noise." When that doesn't
work, they send me outside to play.
After my grandmother dies in 1943 you see
Uncle Adolph attending to a series of government job
assignments. They are often associated with the state
department. He has a degree from Harvard's Wharton School of
Business. Similar to his racetrack experience, the BIG job
always eludes him. In the midst of his unfortunate career
adventures he comes to live in our home for a year or so. My
father's assessment of his being a "windbag" does not abate.
In 1950 the picture album will show you Uncle
Adolph leaving for Okinawa for eighteen months on a government
post-war assistance assignment. He loans me his
fourteen-year-old 1936 Buick during his absence so that I can
commute to Maryland University in my freshman year. I am
thrilled. I spend many hours cleaning and shining it, and loving
the low rumble of the enormous twelve cylinder engine. Almost
everything works. It does belch a fair amount of blue oil smoke,
and the brakes need a lot of pumping before achieving a stop.
This eventually proves its nemesis with me. At one stop light I
don't start pumping the brakes soon enough and I collide with
another car. These are the days of no insurance, so I have to
pay the other driver for the damage. I spend most of the summer
repaying the loan from my father. In addition, the cost to
replace the master brake is beyond my means, so the old Buick
has to be retired. Uncle Adolph is not pleased to hear this upon
his return.
Some years later the picture album takes you
to Uncle Adolph's apartment in Miami, Florida. He has retired
from government service. He has secured an important job with a
TV station as its public relations manager, at least that's what
he tells everyone. He still writes often with his usual rambling
political diatribes. He recounts his favorite activities there
being frequent walks in the park and band concerts.
You can see that Uncle Adolph is still Mr.
Big to me when I tout his exploits and personality to my four
college buddies while driving to Florida on our semester break.
I am expecting his ebullient and hospitable gifts to shine for
us, thinking he would want to show us his TV station, and the
Miami sights. Not so. He was subdued, polite, perhaps
embarrassed. No laughs. No grand gestures. No cigar. No
invitations. Our conversation is over in half an hour. I never
see Mr. Big again.
You can see a few letters over the years, and
a few reports from other cousins who visit him. It turns out
that his TV station employment as public relations manager had
either been of the "windbag" variety from the beginning, or has
been reduced over the years to that of a part time security
person, who has access to the station's letterhead for his
communications.
One cousin visits Uncle Adolph in the late
1960's and finds his circumstances at the hardship level, with
deteriorating health, little contact with even his neighbors and
surviving on a small Social Security income. He dies alone in
1973, discovered by his landlord.
On the last page of the Mr. Big photo album,
the pictures grow dark and blurred. Uncle Adolph has his brief
day in the sun, when everything is bright and clear. He spends
his gifts, makes life happen in grand style, and often to the
great enjoyment of those around him, including me. Even though
the vivid colors and bigness of Uncle Adolph fade in his end
times, in my life's pictures with him, he remains "MISTER BIG"!
A SELTZER SAMPLER
On the occasion of the death of James Henry
Seltzer, March 6, 2013, I offer a sampling of my memories of him
that are stirred. It is my way of celebrating and honoring his
uniqueness and value among us. At his death he is eighty-four
years old, having been born July 7, 1928.
My earliest memory of James is when I am two
years old. It is winter at our home, 1234 Pinecrest Circle,
Silver Spring, Maryland. I am wearing my bright red snow suit
and hat. We are both playing separately in the yard. The
fishpond in the side yard has frozen over. I am trying out how
it is to walk on ice. The ice gives way. The visual image etched
in my memory bank is of James looking wide eyed at me from the
backyard as I am experiencing the shock and fright of going down
into the icy water, and probably crying out. He comes running
and pulls me out of the pond. He saves my life.
Cousin Virginia, upon hearing of James'
death, relates a new little piece about him. He is staying with
her family (Aunt Mabel, with cousins Doris and Virginia) during
the time our mother is in the hospital giving birth to me.
Apparently, he is attired with a Russian type shirt, which
causes them to repeatedly tease him and call him 'Ivan.' He
thoroughly resents this and lets them know it.
Another early memory for me is when we are
sharing a double bed at home. On a cold night we are allowed to
say our prayers while kneeling in bed, instead of kneeling on
the cold floor. As I am perched with bottoms up, hands folded,
and my head into the mattress, my mother has to leave the room.
This prompts James to give my bottom a big shove, pushing me
over, slamming my head into the headboard, and humiliating my
five-year-old frame and delicate disposition. He is also the one
to tell me of the non/existence of Santa Claus. Despite all of
my protestations, the big man won't be coming down our chimney.
Paul
(left) and James.
Being four and a half years younger, I am the
"go play with your own friends or by yourself" brother. He is
nicknamed 'Spike' by his group of friends, They then
understandably nickname me 'Little Spike,' being the tag along
little brother.
However, there are numerous times that our
interests and energies coincide, and we managed some wonder
filled moments together. These delightfully come to mind.
One winter and spring the two of us plan and
construct a log cabin in our backyard. (See my "Cabin Fever"
story). It provides months of pretend fun under the old cherry
tree.
We spend two years (1943-1945) raising Elmer
and Elsie, our twin pet goats. They have a stall in the back of
the garage and a pen in corner of the yard. They serve as our
'confidants' and friends. They graze the weeds and grass in the
Crosby Road field to help us make a clear play area for our
baseball and football.
Prior to the goats help we burned the weeds
off of the field. Onetime, when the winds are blowing, that
burning gets out of our control. The fire department has to be
called to assist our slamming the flames with brooms and
shovels. In spite of the embarrassment, James and I share a
smile through our reddened faces and blackened jeans and shoes.
James seems more of a loner in our
neighborhood. His only friends his age are Billy Esche, Jack
Whalen, and Charley Weigel. By contrast, I have about twenty to
pal around with. But he and his friends have fun. Sometimes they
include "Little Spike" in their plans.
One such time is their big idea to create a
'town' of their own. They lay out stringed boundaries in the
field where the bank, town hall, church, school and houses are
to go. James is the banker. He has watched our father working
the full-sized printing press and equipment in our basement. He
makes sure he knows how to use it. He designs and manufactures
the linoleum blocks to print money for the town. Imaginations
are engaged for many months by everyone involved, including me.
I am appointed the town messenger, which I think is very
important.
James and I follow the family rituals of
being assigned and carrying out a host of chores around the
house. My father leaves a list on his desk for each of us,
naming our tasks for the day. Internally, we take pride in these
responsibilities. Mother adds hers whenever the need arises.
James and I share things like cleaning bathrooms, sweeping the
basement, garage, and porches, painting, running the vacuum,
waxing the stairs, washing windows and dishes, picking up the
fruit that has dropped to the ground, wringing out and hanging
the wash on the clothesline, and sawing wood with the two man
saw.
During the World War 2 days we share the
victory garden duties. They include the winter days of together
catalogue gazing and choosing the vegetables to plant. This is
soon followed by the long hot afternoons preparing, tilling, and
harvesting the garden through the summer. We also learn to be
responsible for cleaning our room and ironing our clothes. There
is a full Saturday morning routine of jobs to be done, both with
our father, and by ourselves. They are rewarded with enough
money (twenty-five cents) for a double feature and an ice cream
treat at the Seco Theater in the afternoon.
James and I share frequent explorations of
the old Wilson haunted house next to the golf course. With
adrenalin at full tilt we hear the sounds and imagine sights
that send us running. Sometimes a bedded down homeless man gives
us tangible reason to run in fright. Old man Wilson's golf
course also provides us with an occasional chance to work for
some change. We get a nickel for either a bucket of gathered
golf balls or a can of tees. We usually exchange the money for a
big orange drink.
Other money-making endeavors include selling
the Saturday Evening Post and Ladies Home Journal on a regular
door to door route in our neighborhood. All the brothers have
done this through the years. We have much to show for our
efforts from the Curtis Publishing company. Weekly vouchers for
sales accumulate to be exchanged for premiums that last a long
time in the Seltzer home. The items include sports equipment
like mitts, bats, balls, bobsled, baseball shoes, and ice
skates. Even a set of dinner dishes regularly remind each of us
of our acquisitions. Mother provides close accounting guidance
and encouragement for our enterprise.
James and I also often cooperate in working
for neighbors cutting grass and gardening to earn money. We
always use the old-fashioned push reel mowers, accompanied by
the ever attendant bugs and summer's heat and humidity.
Sometimes we even need to use a scythe when the rains keep up
too long and the grass grows beyond a mower's ability to cut.
Summertime is delicious. We share some hikes
to Sligo Creek with lunches packed for a day's outing. We build
a teepee in the backyard. We augment our pretends of cowboys and
Indians with cowboy hats, cap guns, and holsters, and rolled up
paper labels hanging from the corners of our mouths for
cigarettes. Occasionally, we make a trip to Cabin John together
on the streetcar for the vast amusement park of Glen Echo with
its scary roller coaster, fun house, and dodg'em cars. It
reminds us of the fun times at Hershey's Amusement Park when on
our family summer vacations to visit Uncle Gus and Violet in
Palmyra, Pa. There we breathe in the Seltzer smoked bologna, or
go visit Aunt Elsie in Lebanon, in Pennsylvania.
Summer also includes frequent attendance
together at the armed services band concerts at the Washington
Monument, Capitol or Watergate. Or a crab feast in the backyard.
Fourth of July celebrations are important to us. James is big
into it. At one point he perseveres in making his own cherry
bombs to add to the purchased firecrackers. He wraps the gun
powder in layers of tire tape, inserts the fuses, and hangs them
to dry on the clothesline. We set up leftover iron water pipes
on wheels for cannons. We have our battles. Uncle Charley and
Aunt Edith, with her pet rooster, often travel from Philadelphia
to be present. It goes on all day. Tin cans being blown into the
air. Whole packages of firecracker popping at once. Punk is in
the air. Smoke is in the air. The day includes picnics and ends
with night time sparklers and ringing ears crowding out
conversations.
Summer always includes a week or so at the
Daly cottage at Colonial Beach, Va. There are loads of things to
do and explore and experiment with there. Uncle Adolph's war
memorabilia fill the storage area under the cottage. There is
fishing, crabbing, boating, swimming, chores, porch sitting and
going 'down front.' (See my "Down Front" story) Early one summer
morning the two of us sneak out into rough waters with the Daly
rowboat to catch a bunch of perch fish so we can surprise
everyone for breakfast. His first catch with a hand line is a
squirming green eel. In trying to extricate the swallowed hook
and cutting away the eels innards, James takes on a lighter
shade of gray/green. Close to being sick we row back to shore.
There are corn fritters for breakfast. (See my "Breakfast Plans"
story)
Summer also includes trying to get an
invitation from our neighbor, Barbara Wolfall, to swim in her
pool on a hot and humid day. We can don the boxing gloves and
set up the ring ropes between the trees in the yard for some
sparring. Or maybe we can sip a cool lemonade on the back porch,
play some Monopoly, or put together a puzzle. We keep our
sporting equipment and games in the pantry drawers. One drawer
for each of us. We also try setting up our tent for an overnight
or two in the field behind us, and then fending off the rain
water when we don't dig ditches around the perimeter of the
tent. James likes to pour over the large collection of National
Geographic Magazines, always available at our house, and let his
imagination play.
One scary trip to Aunt Elsie's is when a
summer downpour causes roads and creeks to flood. Our father
tries to drive across the torrent. The car stalls in the middle.
Water is rushing in through the doors of the car and rising up
to the seats. We ware panicking, thinking we will be washed
away. Some bystanders on the shore come to the rescue and tow us
out of the raging water.
Saturday night preparations for the next day
include each of us shining our shoes, and then a spell of being
in the bathtub together to get clean and to have fun spinning
around to make lots of suds with the Ivory Soap. (See my "Suds"
story")
Sunday trips are to downtown Washington and
the rituals for attending Sunday school and church and enjoying
the attentions of pastors, teachers, friends and relatives. On
holidays at church there is the treat of a box of Hershey
kisses. After church the family walks a block to our grandmother
Daly's home. She is an invalid in bed for much of the time. The
group of cousins lines up at her bedside to give a kiss on her
cheek and receive a gift of a nickel and a mint. Then we can run
through the house and play until the adults are ready to go
home.
James and I share winter fun. It can be on
Poston's big front hill with our Flexible Flyer sleds, racing,
standing up, going over the bumps and into the creek. Or it can
be with the bobsled, earned by older brothers, Rich and Phil, on
the big Dale Drive hill. It takes the two of us, plus some
buddies to get it back up the hill after a run. We share the
mixed winter attire gathered by our mother. We have furry mitts
that don't match and hand me down 'mackinaws.'
Palm Sunday, March 1941, is when 18" of snow
falls on the Washington, D.C. area. This prevents our family
from making the trip to Keller Memorial Lutheran Church at 9th
and Maryland Avenue, N.E. for James' Confirmation Service.
Instead, we play outside at 1234 building a monstrous snow fort
and having fierce snowball battles with all the neighborhood
kids joining in.
When inside at home our many shared
activities include playing with 'tootsie toys' on the living
room rug, with its appropriate design. It looks like streets and
city blocks, a whole city for our imagination.
Other favorites include sitting in the dark
of the living room watching the blazing fire in the stone
fireplace cubicle and listening to the ever-present classical
music programs on the radio. Among them are: The Band of
America, The New York Symphony, the Bell Telephone Hour, the
Longines Symphonette.
If not music, there are the favorite radio
shows coming through our new cabineted Philco. We sit right in
front of it with our pretzel or Cheezit snacks and dust off the
wood grille designs of the speaker case while listening to
fifteen minutes of "I Love a Mystery", or "Gangbusters", or "It
Pays to be Ignorant", or "Henry Aldrich", or "The Great
Gildersleeve" or "Fibber Magee and Molly" or "Duffy"s Tavern".
The possibilities go on and on for our delight. When the radio
is done we play Animals, Monopoly, Chinese Checkers, or a host
of other games stored in the pantry drawer.
Other favorite winter sharings are the Sears
and Roebuck catalogues. We do our looking and wishing and
listing of our favorites in October. Hopefully, they show up at
Christmas. Hours are spent practicing the piano for Mrs.
Thompson's recital. There's also the saxophone, or clarinet or
trombone, or getting the little family orchestra together to try
to make some music. What the music lacks in harmony, it is
certain to produce lots of laughs.
James loves guns. We have lots of play around
guns together. It is wartime and he has a German army helmet. We
have wooden guns, rifles and pistols, and we run about, climbing
in and out of the chicken house and playing "guns". His interest
in guns develops into having real antique rifles and pistols.
Not only does he have them but he uses them in target practice.
He makes the ammunition for them, melting lead into bullets and
casings for the powder charges. We practice shooting in our
basement with our father's twenty-two rifle and pellet guns.
James is on the Blair High School rifle team, and in the rifle
club. He leaves me behind in this. I just watch him without
following. In later years he sells all of his guns and buys a
rototiller with the money. It is his version of "turning swords
into plowshares".
We have many Halloween adventures together in
the neighborhood with our unkindly acts of soaping windows and
screens and leaving tipped water buckets at people's door to
spill into the house when they open the door. Our mischief
extends beyond Halloween. In my last conversation with him he
asks if I remember "Our Secret"? I don't. I do remember being
scared and hiding in a field with him and his friend, Billy
Esche. I remember police car search lights moving over our heads
and all around the field. I don't know why. He says we are "on
the lam from the police" because we have been going around the
neighborhood ringing people's doorbells and then running away.
This causes enough upset among the neighbors for the police to
be called to find the culprits. They don't catch us. We don't
ring anymore doorbells. We never tell this little "secret" to
anyone.
I embarrass James one night at the Silver
Theater in Silver Spring. The theater is full and watching "A
Song to Remember," the life of Frederick Chopin, played by
Cornel Wilde. In the dying scene with his tubercular blood
dripping on the piano keys and the tune of "Till the End of
Time" being played, I am moved to tears, actually, bawling.
James tells me to shut up as he cringes from everyone around us
looking on. I'm not sure if we ever go to a movie together
again.
James often occupies himself by himself. He
collects stamps. He diligently disciplines himself to follow the
Charles Atlas 'dynamic tension' exercise formula for body
building in his teens. Brother Richard has purchased and
followed the regimen before him with success. Both of them have
the motivational "no sand in your sandwiches at the beach" come
to fruition.
He enthusiastically experiments with his
chemistry set in the basement. Plumes of smoke belching up the
outside basement steps causes our mother considerable concern.
On another occasion, as a teenager, he thinks
it will be clever to produce our own home-made root beer. He
secures twenty-four, large, clear bottles. We have a capping
device. He finds the recipe, buys the yeast, extract, and sugar.
He makes the mix, funnels it into the bottles. I watch. Mother
watches. He wipes them clean and neatly lines them up on the top
shelf of the pantry cupboard to 'cure.' Some weeks later, we are
having dinner at the kitchen table and an explosion occurs. It
is a bottle of root beer blowing up. We run to see the sweet
liquid foaming all over the pantry walls and floor with lots of
splintered glass mixed in. In the midst of the clean up another
"Blam, blam.' and another two bottles empty and knock over more
bottles, which then explode. More cleanup.
Before we are done cleaning up, twenty of the
twenty-four bottles have made their mess all over the pantry.
The yeast is hyperactive and producing way ahead of the recipe's
schedule. We quickly uncap the remaining four bottles, hear
their hisses, and see their foaming bubbles drooling down the
side. We capture enough of the sweetly fermented brew to enjoy
its yeasty bite. There are lots of laughs to accompany the
repetition of the story over the years.
At fourteen, James asserts his independent
nature, rebels over some contested issue, and runs away from
home. He takes his stash of silver dollars, acquired as gifts
over the years. (He prefers the 'real money' to the paper
stuff). With a small bag of clothing he leaves in a huff one
morning, never to return. He makes his way down Georgia Avenue
from Silver Spring to Union Station in Washington, D.C. He takes
a train to Philadelphia. There he proceeds to look for lodging
and maybe a job. He quickly gets rejections on all fronts. His
angered ego begins deflating. He has second thoughts about the
adventure. He gets back on a train to Washington the same day
and returns home. Not much is made of it by our parents. Life
goes on.
He follows closely the progress of World War
2, its details, and our involved older brothers and cousins. He
is in high school at the time and is proudly part of the
government organized 'youth army.' They are uniformed for
possible future engagement. He never joins the Boy Scouts. He
never has a girlfriend in his growing up years. He is reliable
and disciplined as a three year after school employee of
Westland Printing Company in Silver Spring. He has his own small
printing business, following in our father's footsteps. There
are pets in addition to the goats. There are ducks, rabbits,
guinea pigs, and a dog or two wandering through. He also does
lots of work with our chickens, cleaning the shed, gathering and
washing eggs, chopping off heads and plucking feathers to get
them ready for Sunday dinners. He gives frequent gifts, e.g.,
Cesar Franck's Symphony in D Minor to our parents. A Hohner
harmonica from Germany for me.
In college years he is more on his own. I
watch. He starts at the University of Maryland, following our
older brothers, Phil and Rich. He tries pre-med, reaching for
the inspiring example of our physician grandfather, whose
surgical instruments have been a part of our play times. He is
more disciplined than I, but he still does not do well in his
first year. Discouraged with himself, he moves to a back-up plan
and joins the U.S. Army in 1946. After bouncing around several
training options and wrecking a truck as an army truck driver,
he lands in an army band, and plays his clarinet for the next
five years with his tour in Germany. He travels Europe
extensively, taking it all in in his intense style. He tries
lots of things as he is growing up and out. He meets Eleanore,
his bride to be, and he describes how they take frequent trips
together through the Black Forest.
James returns to America in 1952, without
Eleanore, on an emergency leave to help out at home with our
father's cancer/diabetes/surgery recovery. Eleanore follows six
months later.
He re-enters the University of Maryland as an
agricultural student with majors in horticulture and poultry
husbandry. Unlike his earlier academic trials, he aces every
subject. James and I connect once again, as I am also a U of Md.
student at that time and living close to James and Eleanore's
temporary housing. We both enjoy playing in the marching/concert
band, going to ball games, and also the inaugural parade of
Dwight Eisenhower in 1953.
Daughter Soraja has the privilege of being
born in the back seat of the family 1948 two tone green Nash.
James is called by Eleanore from his chemistry exam to race them
to the hospital for the birth. It is a difficult trip, having to
negotiate through the U. of Maryland Homecoming parade on the
way. Soraja is healthy. They all survive. He graduates from
college and is offered a job with Perdue Chicken Company near
Salisbury, Md.
James is my best man in my first wedding in
1956. Other brothers are also involved in the big "do" with 500
guests. Rich solos on the violin. Phil officiates the ceremony.
There are eight bridesmaids and eights groomsmen. James has
never done anything like this before and knows little about the
proper protocols. Neither do I. I don't know what to tell him.
We follow the instructions of others as best we can, and pretend
we are comfortable with it all. We smile our knowing smiles.
There are infrequent occasions for James and
I to connect after that. Sometimes at family holiday gatherings,
or larger clan reunions. He becomes active and a leader in the
Jehovah Witnesses organization on Maryland's eastern shore.
For reunions, the Seltzer brothers usually
manage to bring our musical instruments out of moth balls and
have lots of laughs trying to get into tune and make
recognizable music. James has become quite accomplished on his
clarinet through his long years of practice in the army bands.
We try all kinds of arrangements. When we have two or three days
to work at it, we can make some decent sounding music together.
The Seltzer brothers have two significant
gatherings in later days. The first is when we meet at 1234
Pinecrest Circle to dispose of its furnishings, after our father
dies in November of 1978. Dividing the goods that have
accumulated over the fifty years of living in the same house
that had been designed and built by our architect father in
1928, is a reason to pour through the many shared memorabilia.
The second brothers meeting is at Richard's
Ocean City, N. J. apartment in April 20, 1991. This is the 100th
anniversary of our father's birth. We spend the weekend
together, walking the board walk and watching the waves. It is a
grand opportunity to bring together many missing pieces in our
family memories and relationships.
To go beyond this sampling of memories of
James, I characterize him as having the gifts of intensity,
persistence, discipline, enthusiasm, a generous and ready
display of humor and laughter. He has a penchant for
experimenting with alternative lifestyles and medicines. He is a
purist. He likes growing his own food and grinding his own
grains. He is not afraid to go against cultural trends. Employed
as a state health inspector for most of his years in Snow Hill
and Ocean City, he is aware of what needs fixing. His memories
of parents and childhood are laced with expressions of wrongs
done to him by his parents, and things of which he didn't
approve. But none of these negatives is able to quiet his giant
laughter and gentle spirit.
I am glad that we are brothers.
A BROTHER'S BIRTHDAY PARADE
(Born June 5, 1923. Happy 90th Birthday!
Richard Warren Seltzer)
Ninety years of life lived and memories
stored. They're all here, in your psychic treasure chest. The
happy, the sad. The fulfilling, the frustrating. The warm, the
chilling. The cherished, the stifled. This is your day to
celebrate them all, and savor them all, quietly, with a gentle
smile. It's quite a parade.
My entries in your birthday parade are
abundant even though I am ten years late getting to your parade
route. Perhaps some of my memory nuggets will trigger more of
your own.
My earliest image of our connection is in our
parents bedroom at #4 Pinecrest Circle, Silver Spring, Md. It is
a summer afternoon. You and brother Phil are in charge of me, a
three-year-old, getting his nap. The three of us have the old
green flowered comforter to share on the floor. I am happy for
the attention from my big brothers. So happy, that I am finding
any way I can to enjoy the moments of play and banter without
succumbing to sleep.
You try several strategies. Things like, "Lie
down between us, close your eyes and we'll all go to sleep
together." Or, "We'll help you count to ten over and over
again." Or, "Stay still and we'll put our arms over you, and you
can listen to our breathing." Or, "If you settle down and go to
sleep, we'll treat you to a Good Humor when the truck comes
around at four." This one can be persuasive.
I remember watching in awe as you and Phil do
your time delivering the Saturday Evening Post and Ladies Home
Journal for the Curtis Publishing Company. Week after week you
accumulate their vouchers which are then traded in for prizes
like a bobsled, baseballs, mitts, and shoes, a set of dishes,
ice skates and all sorts of goodies. I eagerly take my turn at
this treasure trove source later on.
Some people lament having to be the youngest
child in a family because they have to make-do with
hand-me-downs. I love them. Among them are your green sport coat
with the yellow stripe, sports equipment, your adventure hat
that I cover with my signs, buttons, and insignia. Most
especially, I appreciate being gifted with your racing bike with
its curved handlebars. I re-fit the bike several times with new
chrome fenders, paint, wheels, and an oversized front basket for
the Evening Star deliveries. It serves me well for ten years of
growing up in an expanding Woodside Park, traveling to and from
school, picking up groceries, and dashing up and down the dirt
and gravel roads with my Woodside bike 'posse' of twenty
friends.
I have fond memories of sharing Christmas
days with you. Our imaginations have field days under the tree
with the Lincoln Logs, lead soldiers and the sleek Burlington
Zephyr electric train with its aroma of hot oils.
You big brothers usually get along well and
shared lots of interests. You take the long trolley ride to
downtown Washington, D.C. every Wednesday afternoon for your
violin and piano lessons with a very strict Mr. Harrison, who
often leaves you upset and in tears with his admonitions. You
diligently pursue your musical talents throughout your lives,
setting an inspiring example for this younger brother. 1234
Pinecrest is often graced for hours at a time with your practice
sounds of violin and saxophone, and Phil's trumpet and piano, to
the smiling satisfaction of our parents.
It all develops into a little family
orchestra over the years, playing our own renditions of the
hymns used in the Keller Memorial Sunday School orchestra and
semi-classics from father's Rebew orchestra. At gatherings of
family and friends there are usually solos and duets, and group
singalongs offered as the evening entertainment.
I remember following your musical dreams
beyond our home to the Max Calloway Dance Band, university
bands, talent shows, and later on, symphony orchestras and
choruses. There are even your melodic delights on the "Sweet
Potato," or the bugle, or harmonizing with cousin Doris,
accompanied by an ongoing stream of wit and horsing around. It
is fun for me to watch and listen.
I am in the background admiring my older
brothers and their abundant play. They often double-date. There
is Lucille, and Barbara, and badminton, and croquet, and dance
events at Hershey Park, and Colonial Beach. One party at 1234 is
so lively with swing band music and everyone jitterbugging that
our father is worried the living room floor might give way. He
intervenes in favor of slower music.
Adventure is always in the foreground for
you. I see your excited preparations for your summer pioneer
trip to Montana, with our neighbor, Mr. Thomas. Our parents have
serious reservations about it all. But you forge ahead. We look
forward to your letters recounting the adventures. Upon your
return you bring a decorative pillow with "mom" embroidered on
it, and a horse's skull you had found while camping out in the
wilderness.
You older brothers also have some
disagreements, and even one big fight in the kitchen. I don't
remember the issue, but I do remember our mother trying to break
up a heated physical encounter. It resulted in your getting one
big score, leaving an aluminum pot with its bottom caved in,
from having been slammed onto Phil's head.
You have a rebel in you. At one point in high
school our parents have to make several trips to Blair High
School to deal with your behavior with teachers, principal, and
finally, Mr. Knight, the superintendent. Your first year at
Gettysburg College continues the rabble rousing, even though you
are a pre-ministerial son of Keller Memorial Lutheran Church,
and a protege of Dr. Samuel Nicolas. With some embarrassment,
you transfer to the University of Maryland for your second year,
before joining the U.S. Army to help out with World War II.
I see you and Phil coming home from your
summer nursery jobs with bodies growing tanner everyday as you
sweat in the sun to earn enough money to buy your 1937 black
Ford sedan together. (I would have preferred the earlier choice
of a 1934 purple Ford convertible).
At some point in your college days, you and
Phil are double dating to a Saturday night basketball game at
Maryland University, using the family's 1936 gray Lafayette car.
I am up early on Sunday morning to deliver The Sunday Star. On
leaving the house I smell the pungent after-effects of a fire.
Wide-eyed, I look inside the Lafayette. It is all black and
charred. Someone in your group of riders had evidently left a
lighted cigarette on a seat. Upon leaving the ball game you are
greeted with the smoke and flames of a car engulfed. The
relational aftermath at home smolders for a long time.
I admire your thorough involvement at the
University of Maryland. I look over your shoulder when you are
drawing and re-drawing cartoons for the Old Line Magazine, and
colorful recreations of the seven dwarfs of Snow White. You are
later in theater productions like "Arsenic and Old Lace" as
'Teddy Roosevelt,' bugling the 'charge' into his imaginary
battle.
There are some months during the war when you
need transportation to and from your army camp to Silver Spring.
I'm not sure of the details, but I do remember you convincing
our parents to let you use the Lafayette during those months. We
make do without a car. The car breaks down on you and there is
quite a long stir getting everything sorted out.
For a time in the war you serve as the bugler
in 106th Infantry Division. Just before they ship out to
Europe's war, you transfer to the University of Pennsylvania in
Philadelphia for intensive training in the German language and
intelligence warfare tactics. You are saddened when you later
hear that your bugler replacement is killed in action.
A vivid memory in our parade here is my
having been a part of your wedding on your birthday in 1944 in
Philadelphia. It is also D-day in the war activity. All the
church bells are ringing throughout the day. You have met Helen,
a beautiful secretary, while dancing at the Stage Door Canteen.
The ensuing wedding brings my parents and me to join Uncle
Charley and Aunt Edith as our family's presence for your
wedding. Brother James stays in Silver Spring to tend to the
goats and chickens there. The modest ceremony and reception is
in the Germantown section of Philly. We all follow your letters
and pictures of your honeymoon in the Poconos and thereafter. We
learn of your adventures in Officer Training School and the
incident of the train leaving the station with infant Ritchie on
board, when you were not.
After the war, you and Helen move into 1234
for some months. It is a turbulent time of intense
relationships. You and Helen are frequently in heated fights.
There is lots of tension for all of us because of ongoing
undercurrents, opposing ways of life and expectations.
I am in my rebellious days of eighth grade.
You are just out of the military, where discipline is paramount.
In an argument with my father I call him "a bastard." It is
heard by all in the house. You bolt from your room, grab me by
the belt, and shout about the lesson of respect I need to learn
as you lift me up the stairs to my room, strip me down, and
proceed to beat me to a pulp. I learn that lesson. I also have
to admit the source of my two black eyes to my friends at school
the next day.
You later move to the Poston's cabin on
Pinecrest Circle. The distance and separation give us a better
perspective without frequent entanglements. I enjoy babysitting
Ritchie at the cabin with a big fire roaring in the stone
fireplace. You work part time cleaning St. Luke Church while
continuing your college career at Maryland University. You also
take over the new Boy Scout Troop #205 at St. Luke Church. I
work my way to Senior Patrol Leader under your tutelage.
You write me a memorable six-page letter of
advice as I am commencing my college career at Maryland
University. It includes lots of helpful, if somewhat
overwhelming, tips of how to transition from high school, what
to join, how to study, and how to enjoy the process. I follow
your advice.
I continue to follow: your evolving career in
teaching; life on Viers Mill Road in Rockville; earning your
doctorate; and career in education administration in various
locations. We connect at frequent family events, but everything
is mostly at a distance. I watch your progressions through
various job situations. I enjoy your "Schnitzelbank" painting
renditions in your Huntington home, and seeing the ways you
continue to participate in the arts, music, acting, and
modeling. You play your violin for my first wedding in 1956 and
serve as best man for my marriage with Susan in Syracuse in
1982.
Concluding the poignant parade with you on
this 90th marker, I remember best how music, in its many
expressions, has been in your fiber, and in our connections over
the years. Most recently, with fondness, I see our afternoon,
together with Helen, and your devoted children, Raven, and
Ritchie, in the community room of Edelweiss Home. We heartily
sing along with lots of the old favorites, and witnessing the
way our music, for those moments, trump your usual daily
exasperations with communication. It is a treasured moment.
Thank you, dear brother, for this parade of
my memories with you. No doubt, your parade is much longer.
Continue to enjoy that as well. Happy 90th Birthday!
THE
GIGGLE GIFT
I have known Nancy from the beginning of her
seventy years. I'm standing in the bright sunshine on the green
grass of the Takoma Park Hospital on July 26th, the day after
her birth in 1943.
I am looking up to the fourth floor where her
mother is holding her newly born up to the window for me to see.
I am ten years old, and children are not allowed inside the
hospital as visitors. I am now an uncle. Proud, but not sure the
role.
Imagine if I had been able to be on that
fourth floor, and in that room, on that day, it is likely I
might be able to detect some infant level sounds of a giggle
coming from Nancy Lee Seltzer. From my perspective of being with
Nancy at hundreds of personal and family gatherings over many
years, I suspect that her giggler genes are eager to get going
from the get-go. Memories highlight happiness. Smiles, giggles
and laughter are a dominant presence throughout her life, and
ready to be triggered at the slightest provocation. Even in the
midst of a crisis or sadness, her giggle gift is waiting in the
wings for its expression.
The giggle gift is in her genes. Of course,
it usually takes two to get the giggle things unleashed. For
Nancy, it seems it is coming from her Grammy early on. They play
table games like "Animals" or "Spoons" or "Chinese Checkers."
Out of nowhere a giggle session erupts between the two of them,
and it continues to the delight of everyone present. Everyone is
drawn into the contagion of silliness, partly quizzical as to
its source, and partly just enjoying the benefits of a laugh for
whatever reason.
The giggle gene expands to include her sister
Ruth as she comes of giggle age. The family moves from one venue
to another-- Silver Spring, Washington, D.C., Lordstown,
Colonial Beach, Camp Luther, Akron, Chincoteague , and Wheeling.
The two of them can now be counted on. They find a reason - or
not, - at meal time, or game time, or music time, or porch
sitting time, or campfire time, to start with a simple little
twitter. It grows into a chuckle, and then quick, wide-eyed
glances to each other, to signal whether this is another
effervescence bubbling unceremoniously from their deep places.
Then, in grateful exuberance of heart and lung, there is the
rocking back in rhythmic cadence of their bodies. They know that
this is one more unique connection for them, as it is and for
the rest of those gathered, who again wonder in delight as to
what it is all about, and not knowing or wanting, or caring,
when it will stop. Nothing more is needed. No reason. Just tear
filled, shared laughter. Joy!
So Nancy is walking with us, bearing many
gifts. One gift especially, cannot be missed. The giggle gift
reveals a profound ingredient at her core. It shows the rest of
us that spontaneous outpourings of laughter are the nectar of
the gods. She lets us also bathe in hers.
Thank you Nancy Lee and have a very Happy
70th Birthday!
Bathe in our love,
Paul and Susan
HERMAN AND HELOISE
Herman and Heloise are worms. They are
discovered under a rock. The rock is in the backyard of 'Under
the Eaves B&B,' just outside of Zion National Park in Utah.
Six-year-old Azzah, and I, as her Grandpa, find them while
trying to think of something interesting to do on a lazy
afternoon in April, 2009. Everyone else in our family group is
preoccupied with their own pursuits and getting ready to go to
dinner.
I say, " You know what, Azzah? I bet if we
look under these rocks lining the garden we might be surprised
to find some creatures that love the dark."
It seems to pique Azzah's interest for the
moment. Together, we start rolling back the soccer ball sized
stones separating the garden from the grass.
"Nothing here," she says.
I say, "Let's make sure we look really
closely. Let's get down on our hands and knees, and scrape the
ground around a bit." Still there is nothing to be seen under
several rocks. Then when we turn one more we are excited to see
two worms wiggling to get away from the shock of the new bright
light, and back into the darkness of the soil. Azzah and I watch
them for quite a while.
We lie down on our stomachs and prop up our
heads with our hands, our elbows on the ground. It is
fascinating. We watch every squirm of the worms.
Their little slimy bodies, half covered with
grains of dirt, slithering in different directions, as if to say
to each other, "What happened to our quiet little dark and
sheltered neighborhood? This bright light is too much! Let's get
out of here!"
After a while of intense noticing of these
other worldly creatures, I sense their plight and say, "I guess
we should put the rock back and let them get back to the
darkness they love so much, and where they can get on with their
lives there."
"OHHHH, moaned Azzah, just a while longer?,"
having been quite taken with the newness of these creatures and
their little world. Then I say, " Well, okay, why don't we
introduce ourselves, and give them a name in case we meet up
with them again?" Azzah likes that idea and gets into a little
conversation with them.
I suggest, "I'm sure there are lots of things
that they would like to know about you. Why not tell them a
little about yourself, like your name, where you live, your
favorite game, your friends at school, stuff like that?" So she
does, with a few prompts from me.
I say to them, "It's so nice to meet you. It
looks like you have a very interesting life here. It's hard for
us to imagine how it must be to move around in the dark all the
time and not be afraid, or always bumping into something.
Anyway, we'll let you go for now, but first we're going to give
you names so that we will know what to call you when we meet up
again. Azzah, how about calling them Herman and Heloise?"
She likes that and says, "Goodbye for now ...
Herman and Heloise," with a smile on her face, and a knowing
glance at me. We gently lay the rock back in place.
I say, "We can come back every now and then
and check on them," Azzah agrees, and takes it on as her
personal assignment. We hold hands. "Some lovely new friends,
eh?' (I am Canadian).
The rest of the family is ready to go to
dinner. Azzah excitedly recounts the backyard adventure, where
she and I had met some cute worms under a rock, and named them
Herman and Heloise.
She wants to see them again. After dinner she
hurries everyone back to the B&B so she can have another 'H
&H' look. She and I gingerly pull back the rock to maybe see
Herman and Heloise again.
"OH! OH! What the...?" she gasps as she jumps
back. There is a mix of confusion, surprise, and delight at what
she has now found under the rock where she has been talking to
Herman and Heloise just a couple of hours before.
No worms now. In their place are two Hershey
chocolate miniatures! What has happened? The wheels are turning
in her six-year-old head. Have the worms somehow morphed into
chocolate? Of course, she doesn't let the rush of questions
prevent her from unwrapping and savoring the Hershey's in short
order.
"Amazing", I say. "Let's put the rock back
again. You can check it another time until we can get this all
figured out". Her questioning delight is quickly spread around
into the ears of all the adults. They respond with a mix of
knowing smiles, and words of wonder at what has happened. Azzah
has much to think and dream about until morning.
At daybreak she is up and out before anyone
else. She checks the rock. Squealing, as she runs back inside to
her groggy parents, "I don't believe it, Mommy. There is more
chocolate under Herman and Heloise's rock." (It is being
consumed during her report.) Her parents relish her childish
excitement... with smiles. Azzah spends the minutes before
breakfast looking under more rocks in the backyard, to assess
the extent of this phenomenon. Nothing turns up.
But the news has to be broadcast. She tells
her grandparents of the morning's discovery. While breakfasting
in the restaurant she moves to neighboring tables to declare the
miracle of which she has been a part. She asks if others have
experienced the same magic of Zion National Park. Everyone says
that they would be sure to check it out where they were staying,
and on their way around the park trails to see what can be
found.
Everywhere she goes that day she is looking,
and with everyone she meets, she strikes up a conversation about
the miracle of Zion Park, and her worm friends, Herman and
Heloise. The miracle continues off and on under the rock at the
B&B and also rocks along the trails of the park, especially
when she is tiring of the long walks, and no one wants to carry
her,. They wish she would stop her whining.
I would say, "Hey Azzah, we'd better check
under some of these rocks, to see how far this thing has
spread." Every once in a while, not all the time, and in some
very unlikely places, there is evidence of Herman and Heloise.
Another chocolate miniature is discovered.
"This is a wonderful place," Azzah sighs.
Adults are looking up at the majestic cliffs and rocks and
waterfalls and trees and blue skies. Her beauty is being found
right under her feet, under a rock or two.
It is all she talks about. At bedtime her
father feels she has to have some other reality be a part of her
exuberant and expanding fantasy world. He tells her that
actually it is probably Grandpa who is hiding those Hershey's
under the rocks, just so everyone could have some more fun on
the vacation.
Grandpa chimes in. I admit that I have had a
part in the scene, "Isn't it fun to get excited, think about,
and enjoy?" She doesn't answer either of us but pulls up her bed
covers. She closes her eyes. The wheels are turning again in her
little head as she processes all of this information.
The next morning she has made her decision
about what was true for her. Before everyone was up, she is
running back inside, shouting, "Herman and Heloise have been
back again and left her more chocolate. Isn't Zion National Park
a magical place." And, "Thank you, Grandpa."
The lesson for us in Azzah's story about
Herman and Heloise and Hershey's is that you never know what
might turn up when you look closely at what is going on in other
worlds, even under rocks. There is always more treasure to be
discovered. Maybe this is what happened when gold was discovered
out west, back in 1849. Perhaps then it was because of some
magic performed by earlier relatives of Herman and Heloise.
ODE TO A
MIRROR
The most amazing gift...
That I could give you, and you could give
me...
There is much to give you.
What can best celebrate your birthing?
That is the gift for which I search.
Shall it be a diamond ring, to assure you
that you will never be poor?
Shall it be a mansion, to keep you warm and
comfortable?
Shall it be a fence, to protect you from all
dangers?
Shall it be a great banquet, to nourish your
every appetite?
Shall it be a magnificent painting, to
stimulate your creativity?
Shall it be a love letter, to confirm for you
our connectedness?
Shall it be a brilliant symphony, to fill
your ears with harmony's joys?
Shall it be a photo album, to remind you of
your abundance in nature and friends?
Shall it be a cathedral, to point you to your
origins and future?
All these, and more, can be sought and
treasured.
I will pass them by for now.
I have decided.
The best gift from me to you shall be a
MIRROR, clear and detailed.
So that you can see with expanding clarity,
The real you.
The image that reflects your divine core of
goodness, truth, and love.
The catalyst that shapes your perspectives
and perceptions.
And moves your every step to the next highest
version,
Of the greatest vision, you ever had of
yourself.
What you see in this mirror is the best gift
there is!
MUSIC
MAGIC
Music has always been magic for me. There is
not a time I can remember when the magic of music has not been
close at hand to transform the dancing decibels into my life
support system. A sea of melody has always accompanied me.
Saturated me. Buoyed me. Propelled me. Nourished me. Quieted me.
Enveloped me. Immersed me. Excited me. Its many variations
provide the language of relationship, connection, and harmony.
I am never the expert or prodigy. Rather, I
am the happy participant. A follower, A striver. An
experimenter. A cheerleader and admirer. In the hundreds of
images that memory provides, the music and its magic repeats
itself. We can retrace parts of this path together.
Early memories from HOME bring back morning
wake up calls. From my bed I hear my mother playing her
favorites on the piano and singing some hymns. Through the day
she sings and whistles encouragements to the canary or parakeet.
She plays her recordings of "Teddy Bear's Picnic" or Cesar
Franck's Symphony in D Minor. There are other recordings ringing
out the familiar big band tunes from my older brother's
collection. She sings along with Don McNeal's Breakfast Club on
the radio. After dinner, our shared dishwashing is often infused
with some harmonies, like Brahm's Lullaby.
Versions of 'surround sound' in my growing up
years include my three older brothers practicing instruments
from different rooms. Phil is on the piano or trumpet. Rich is
doing violin and saxophone. James is clarinet and sax. All the
while, I am sitting in my father's lap in the living room
rocking chair as he listens with a proud smile stretching his
lips after a puff on his pipe.
Every day of the week provides all sorts of
music's magic from the radio. There is Saturday afternoon with
the Metropolitan Opera and a Milton Cross commentary to assist
the imagination with the foreign languages being sung. A wintry
Sunday afternoon finds me lying on the sofa, gazing at a blazing
fire and letting my psyche play with music of the NY
Philharmonic Orchestra concerts. Throughout the week our radio
is alive with the Sousa marches on the Band of America, or the
classics of The Bell Telephone Hour, or Longine's Symphonette,
or Phil Spatanly's All Girl Orchestra.
At home I am hearing my father practicing his
violin parts for the Rebew Orchestra, or the Keller Sunday
School Orchestra. This is a large popular group which includes
professionals from the nearby Marine Band as the first chairs of
the sections. I take note of Lester Moreland, a young and
handsome trombonist. My parents love to sing, and often practice
their church choir parts and solos. Occasionally, they host a
party for the choir at our home, and then the fun music never
quits, to my delight.
We also have our own little family orchestra.
Before I am ready to make music I am gifted with a slender
walnut baton from my father, so I can be the 'director.'
Sometimes we perform as a group or as soloists for visiting
family and friends. A favorite Christmas gift one year is a
child's xylophone which occupies me for years. There is more
music from the farm bell in the back yard to call us home from
play, or a doorbell with multiple chimes.
Singalongs around the piano are regular fare
at family gatherings. Extended family musicians like Aunt Mabel
on the piano, and her daughter Doris singing. They are always up
for a rendition of something. Family nights out often take
advantage of the free concerts offered in nearby Washington,
D.C. by the Marine, Army, Navy or Air Force Bands at the
Capitol, Washington Monument, or Watergate. I hear my older
cousins singing and my brother Rich on his "Sweet Potato" (He
would try out anything). The bugle is always close at hand for
practice or a flag raising by the brothers.
I listen to stories about strict music
teachers like Mr. Harrison, who can bring my brothers to tears
with his discipline. I hear about my father's exposure to the
likes of John Philip Sousa, the march man. Music magic is
contagious for me. I can be heard imitating an opera singer with
a Palliacci aria from a rowboat in the middle of the Potomac
River at Colonial Beach. I think I am alone and far away from
listeners until I return to shore and confront a small crowd
eyeing me with knowing smiles. Of course, belting out tunes in
the shower and whistling along my paper route is my standard
operating procedure.
When I venture from my home into my
NEIGHBORHOOD of Woodside Park, music continues to hug me as a
dear friend. My senses are awash with the pleasantries of music
and its magic.
There is Mrs. Parker next door, who, thirty
feet away, for at least an hour or two each day, persists at her
upright piano with repetitions of Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto
#1 until she has it memorized.
Moving up several musical notches are John
and Evelyn Thompson, our neighbors to the rear of our house.
They are both accomplished pianists. The two Steinway grand
pianos and Hammond Organ they squeeze into their narrow living
room attests to their love of music. Their frequent piano solos
and duets shower into the neighborhood, delighting everyone,
especially during the summer months when all the windows are
open.
Mrs. Thompson is my piano teacher for several
years, as she is for fourteen of my playmates. She holds
recitals in her home for this unique group as soon each of us
has memorized two selections. On recital day we students occupy
each of the fourteen steps to her second floor. In our starched
shirts or skirts, we nervously await our turn. Parents are
squeezed into every other available space on the first floor and
porch. There is also always be a professional performer, like
Glen Carow, to inspire us neophytes in our efforts. I remember
him playing Stravinsky's "Fire Dance." At one rapid passage his
hands are moving so fast that they're only a blur to my eyes. He
puffs me up one time by asking me how I perform a tricky
maneuver in Grieg's "To Spring".
In the summer of 1945 Mrs. Thompson somehow
persuades us students that it would be fun to see who could
spend the most hours practicing. The competition catches on and
we find ourselves practicing two to four hours every day. We
improve noticeably.
Throughout the years our neighborhood gang
has its continuing fun with music. There are ukelele's
strumming, with country music being harmonized on back porches
and in the basements. Magic, and fun.
My excitement and saturation with music's
gifts expands at the various levels of SCHOOL. It starts at
ELEMENTARY school with my being selected leader for our
kindergarten band at Woodside School. Mrs. Lyons has never heard
anything quite like our assemblage of tambourines, triangles,
drums and blocks.
A regular part of the school routine are the
weekly gatherings in the assembly hall to listen to classical
recordings coming from the stage loudspeakers. We are encouraged
to let our imaginations conjure up our unique scenarios that
might fit the mood and tempo of the music.
Occasionally, a semi-professional performer
provides inspiration. There is an amazing 'whistler' who, for a
long time, I try to imitate. When back in our separate
classrooms, a part of most afternoons finds us with our "America
Sings" songbooks open and calling out our favorites where we can
all join in a class sing along.
The difficult years of JUNIOR HIGH school are
still laced with the pleasantries of music to carry me through.
Mrs. Nixon, music teacher, keeps us singing, and taking us on
musical field trips. Once we go to the National Theatre in
Washington, D.C. where we sit in the last row of the second
balcony to see "The Desert Song" and wait at the stage door for
cast autographs. There is a day when I help at the International
Day festivities at school by playing my recently memorized
pieces by Norway's Edvard Grieg, "To Spring" and "Concerto in A"
(simplified version). I take ballroom dance lessons. Charles
Wickre and I try out a start-up dance band in ninth grade. It
has lots of dream power but is short on musical talent at this
point.
By HIGH SCHOOL the joys of music's magic has
been established. I am ready to set my unique course. Trombone
is to be in the picture. Lester Moreland has planted seeds for
it being appealing. Our little family orchestra can use a
trombone. Montgomery Blair High School is organizing a new
marching band and needs trombones. I decide to do it. My first
horn is borrowed from a dusty closet somewhere. It reeks of
camphor. The slide is so sluggish I slam the mouthpiece against
my lips every time I move it. When my parents see that I am
going to stay with it, they order me a new one from Sears, &
Roebuck. I take lessons from Mr. Clark, a retired trombonist
from the Marine Band. I lug the instrument to his home every
week and to school every day. There are great musical moments
with the band including winning competitions, trips to NYC, high
school games, and pep rallies. Don Lindsey and I try out for a
trombone duet of "Danny Boy" for the annual Variety Show. We are
not chosen.
More musical enjoyment that spices my
lifetime comes by way of responding to an invitation from our
high school coaches to start a harmonica club. Not much develops
with the club, but it is enough of a start to get me practicing
a tune or twelve on the back porch swing or on a tree stump near
the river. My brother James, serving in the army in Germany,
sends me a Hohner chromatic harmonica to spur me on. There has
been so much magic and fun through the years playing it and
inciting singalongs at every turn at campfires, on buses, trains
and planes.
COLLEGE days at the University of Maryland
find me being generously nourished and saturated by music, still
as amateur and experimenter. The trombone is my ticket to the
university marching and concert bands, and then dance bands to
pick up few dollars for spending money, travels to bowl games
and parades. Singing is added to the mix through choruses and
inter fraternity singing competitions and lots of party
singalongs. The harmonica is ever ready for a USO show, to help
quiet a ferry load of seasick travelers, or just for solitudes'
sweetness.
SEMINARY days expand my appreciation of music
on all previous fronts by adding the listening to, and
participating in, the mystical mysteries of sacred classical
choral and organ music. There are lots of trips and performances
to give and receive, along with the old-reliables of party and
shower singalongs in those four years.
THESE DAYS, the magic of music continues into
my adult life. I'm still no expert but rather the enthusiastic
amateur in what I might produce from the ivories, trombone,
harmonica and vocal cords. I try new things along the way. I
take a few lessons. Memorize some new tunes. Try out some jazz
and improvisation. Even do some composing for special people and
events. Some barbershop quartets. Discover the freedom of 'fake
books,' to get me around my halting sight reading. I have a
unique, mostly unseen, sunset audience for my trombone serenades
from my Edgewater B&B deck. I even toot the oldies now and
then from the belfry of the Mahone Bay Centre. In town, at the
Father Christmas Festival, I dress up as St. Nicholas (Bishop of
Hippo) and give out lots of free hugs for fun in between
tromboned Christmas tunes. I love the regular rehearsals and
performances of our local swing band. I love the three-part
vocal harmonies with Ted and Monty when we entertain at the
nursing home. I am so grateful to be on the receiving end of the
plethora of music of every stripe right where we live. I bathe
in it and love it. I give a little and love it. I still whistle
a lot. I still sing in the shower a lot.
There is music in the air, in the soil, in
the water, in the sky. When it comes time for me to lie down and
continue on, I hope that there will be a tune or two in the
celebrations. I will do my best to join in. There will be magic.
MOOD
MAKER
When I want to choose a better mood for
myself, I probably won't take a pill.
More likely, I will think, hum, whistle, or
sing out loud. It will likely be a 1946 song called, "Zip-
A-Dee-Doo-Dah". Uncle Remus and Br'er Rabbit introduce me to it
in the movie, "Song of the South," It has become my therapeutic
mantra. The music is bouncy and memorable. The simple words
evoke positive energies that infect and affect the atmosphere.
Here they are. Uncle Remus says to Br'er
Rabbit, "Hi, how are you?" Br'er Rabbit perkily responds. "Fine,
how are you?" With this cheery start, Uncle Remus says, "Fine!",
and bursts into song: "Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-a. My, oh
my, what a wonderful day! Plenty of sunshine, heading my way.
Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip- a-dee-a." And then the verse: "Mister
bluebird on my shoulder. It's the truth. It's actual. Everything
is satisfactual." And he finishes with, "Zip-a-dee-doo-dah,
zip-a-dee-a, wonderful feeling, wonderful day!"
I have to wonder why a little ditty like
"Zip-adee-doo-dah" so resonates with me in eighth grade and
stays with me into adult hood as a mood maker. Imagine with me.
I'm a a typical eighth grader in 1946, who has never met the
likes of a happy and wise old Uncle Remus before. Like most
teenagers I have my share of downers to deal with.
The life questions blast into my comfort zone
on a daily basis to shake everything loose and put it all up for
grabs. What's right? What's wrong? What's true? What's false?
STAY COOL. What might offend her? What might affirm her? STAY
COOL. How can I deflect those snide remarks about my haircut or
choice of socks? How can I just hide when it comes time for my
gym classes and I have to change clothes and take showers with
the others, opening up that can of worms of comparing body
parts. When will it all just stop? Am I stressed? Am I scared?
Am I 'cool' in the midst of all these grade eight exaggerations?
A simple "Zip-a-dee-doo-dah" song is a
welcome antidote for me. It has a simple prescription for
attitude adjustments. I still value it. I may not be able to
change the reality of my circumstances, but I can choose to
change my perspective and attitude about how I will experience
it, which in itself can often change even the circumstances. At
least that has been true for me.
The words and music have been interwoven
through so many of my life experiences and relationships. Some
people might say that such an approach to the complexities of
life is hardly realistic. They will say that it's simplistic.
It's airy-fairy. It's pie-in-the-sky, head-in-the-clouds
thinking. Could be.
In response, I ask, "What are the
alternatives? What are the options?"
Looking at Uncle Remus more closely, I see
the wisdom of many profound and subtle insights at work. Through
the vehicle of his simple stories and songs he addresses the
serious Reconstruction leftovers from the Civil War in the
southern states of the USA. His timely old tales deal with the
ever present human issues of revenge, anger, sadness,
misunderstanding of intention, reverse psychology,
communication, resolving conflicts, loneliness, rivalries,
heartbreak, separation, comfort, scolding, controversy, and all
kinds of human commotion.
He has his fast talking, witty, and lovable
Br'er Rabbit friend to help him blend all of this 'real world'
stuff slowly into a dream world with its healing of a different
perspective. The Bluebird of Happiness, perches on his shoulder
as a symbol of cheer, pointing to deeper realities.
Through my years of repeating
"Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" in one form or another, the meanings of the
mantra have deepened. My personal history, often bewildering and
upsetting, is infused and moved toward healing and hope by it. I
sing it to myself over and over. I sing it to, and with, my
children and grandchildren as we are together in the car, or on
a bike, or while pulling a wagon, or when starting a day at
breakfast, or getting over an argument, or when looking for
another way around a problem, or while on a picnic in a park.
What are the results of a repeated
"Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" mindset, versus a more 'realistic' mentality
for me? Fundamentally, the "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" attitude leads to
choices that affirm that the universe is friendly, and ever
evolving, so that I see that even fire has light in it. It frees
me to become more aware of the essential goodness and positive
direction of it all.
So if I ever listen to the animals that sing
this song, and if I ever take the log-plumed water ride at
Disney's Splash Mountain, accompanied by a lilting rendering of
"Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" from the loud speakers, I will know it is
indeed, another "WONDERFUL DAY!"
A
SUNSET DIARY
(Thoughts connected with a photo of Paul
Seltzer and his trombone on the Edgewater B&B deck in Mahone
Bay, Nova Scotia)
It's summer. It's dusk at Edgewater Bed and
Breakfast. It's another gorgeous sunset scene. I am relishing
the serenity in Mader's Cove. Awe. Amazement. Gratitude. I
stand, silent for a while. I sit, silent for a while. I pace the
fifty-foot deck in silence for a while. No sounds. No people.
Just quietness below and magnificence above.
The water is still and mirror-like. It
reflects the blazing sunset of the sky overhead. The thousands
of pink and orange cloud puffs stretch across the western sky
and join the pot of gold at the horizon of silhouetted trees.
Schooners and power boats dot the cove, secure at their
moorings. A heron is perched on the prow of a rowboat. Two ducks
paddle back and forth a few feet from the shore. Occasionally, a
fish jumps from the water and momentarily ripples the
reflections.
An osprey circles high above with his
laser-like eyes zeroing in on his potential supper below. A
small crowd of feathery sea gulls await the osprey's dive. If he
does snatch a fish from the water, they will be in rapid
pursuit, trying to tear the fish from the overladen beak of the
osprey. The fresh and gentle breeze floats through my nostrils
and plays with the leaves of the maple tree at the end of the
deck.
I wonder what I might offer in response to
such beauty and peace. From my limited resources I think a
quick, "Thank you." Then I go to my music room, pick up
the trombone, lubricate the slide for ease of movement, and then
move back to the deck scene. There is no one to be seen. It will
be a solo in solitude as usual with these daily sunset
serenades, or so it seems.
There are a dozen or so memorized, or fake
book, big band tunes like: "I'll Be Seeing You", or "Love Is a
Many Splendored Thing", or "Tenderly", or "Red Sails in the
Sunset", for about twenty minutes, finishing with a rendition of
"Taps".
At first, nature's amazements are my only
audience. The melodic echoes waft around the water's edge. It is
only later and at random meetings that I become aware of how the
echoes are reaching the ears of the unseen listeners.
At times the audience becomes visible and up
close. The visual images from these musical sunsets of thirteen
years serve as a DIARY of soul nourishment. Across Mahone Bay,
over the hills, and around the corners, my simple notes,
(sometimes sour,) make their way to many ears.
A sampling: There is Patty Sayre's family,
out of sight on their wharf or front porch, clapping or phoning
a request for "Over the Rainbow." There is Lokman Abdullah,
across the Bay and over the ridge at Sleepy Hollow, tending his
garden, and phoning, "Paul, how about playing my favorite,
'Summertime'"? There are periodic reports of enjoyment from
folks across the Bay like the Butler's, Duncan's, Lutvick's, and
Welford's, as they relax on their patios after dinner.
Neighbors Mike and Sheila Mader are
entertaining guests on their porch, "We hear you real well and
are loving it. Thanks." Helen Cameron, around the corner, often
phones her request for "Love Letters in the Sand", for her
special dinner guests. "It was my favorite in high school,
please", she says.
Others in the audience come into sight and
participate in the musical serendipity. There are the tourists
from San Francisco, Jim and Holly Cole, dancing together at the
end of their wharf to "I Left My Heart in San Francisco". Doris
Cook and William, her golden retriever, on his hind legs, stop
in the road out front and dance around together. Next door
neighbor Gil Mader is a daily listener as he gazes at the waters
from his deck, and reflects on his growing up days in that same
house. Steve and Cheryl Dyer stroll by. Their dogs, Schooner and
Dory, are excitedly yapping and howling at the fanfare.
Power boats and sail boats glide into Mader's
Cove and pause to give a shout or blast of approval on their
horns. The tour boat takes a pass by. A musical friend from a
black schooner moored in the cove, perches himself on the boat's
prow and responds with a rendering of "Amazing Grace" on his
bagpipes. Wednesday evening's, a dragon boat load of 'Bosom
Buddies' (breast cancer survivors), paddles up close to shore to
hear a favorite tune or two, and salute with their paddles.
Passing cars pause or stop for a longer listen. Our B&B
guests return from their dinner in town to relax in the deck
chairs, chat, take pictures, and together we play a simple
version of "Name That Tune".
After the playing of "Taps" , the trombone is
quiet again in Mader's Cove. Evening shadows overtake the waning
daylight. Birds find their nests. Crickets exercise their
voices. Lights appear in cottage windows. Night is nestling in.
The sunset serenade is now just a memory, with only an
occasional whistling or humming of a tune somewhere to keep it
alive for a moment longer.
SATURDAY'S RABBITS
Last Saturday I start paying more attention
to my thoughts. I am thinking about where they might have
originated and where they might be taking me. I quickly become
aware that it is like chasing rabbits. The thoughts dart into
view from nowhere, make a couple of starts to the left and then
to the right, and then speed off in an unpredictable direction
or nothingness. There doesn't seem to be any sense of where they
come from or to where they take me, even if I can follow them.
Neurologists would substitute neurons and
electrons firings for what I'm calling rabbits. As they are
triggered, apparently randomly and erratically, they can bring
to mind thoughts of people and events seventy years ago or
imaginings of what might yet happen.
When my wife catches me staring into space,
she asks, "What have you been thinking about?" It takes some
concentration on my part to identify the thoughts of a
particular moment.
A frequent answer from me is, "They are sort
of bouncing and dancing around." There has been such a stream of
often unrelated, disconnected thoughts jumping in and out and
around my awareness. One thought triggers another, and another,
and another. Sometimes I can respond with, "But at that precise
moment I was thinking about..."
So last Saturday when I intentionally try to
be more aware of what I am thinking about, a constant flow pours
in, and each new thought brings several more, like a machine gun
spewing out bullets in every direction. Most
of them race into oblivion. It is not simple to hold on to
momentary thoughts for closer observation. I am trying.
What follows here is what I am able to hold
on to as an incomplete version of my brain's rabbit-like
activity last Saturday. It's busy.
In the waking moments, when darkness gives
way to new light in the sky, I can notice it through the
triangle section of the bathroom sky light that I can see while
still lying in bed. I notice the droplets of water that have
formed on the glass from condensation. I have my wonder moments
about the new day. I go through my mental to-do list for the
day. I remember scenes from the movie I watched last night. I
think about being hungry for some breakfast, and how I had slept
better because we had eaten earlier yesterday, and I had done
some grazing of smaller amounts through the day. I think this is
a better way, as has been advised.
I am pleasantly conscious of the warm, blue
sheets that wrap my body under the duvet. I feel my feet and
arms gliding over the soft cotton. I smell the pouch of lavender
inside my pillow to help speed sleep. When I notice the growing
light in the sky my mind jumps to daylight saving time and what
it will look like when we lose an hour next month. I get out of
bed and walk to my study to look at what time it is on the
digital clock. No clock in the bedroom, supposedly to enhance
sleep. I always have to take a walk to find the time. While in
the study I decide to lie on the floor and put my feet up on the
chair seat and go through my little back exercise routine to
straighten my vertebrae.
Susan has wakened and is sitting up in bed
viewing Facebook entries on her iPad. We talk about the status
of the Florida hurricane and the Trump election news and how, if
he wins, Marcia and Bill will be moving to Canada, as they say
in their latest email. We laugh in amazement at the Facebook
video showing a happy dog swinging gleefully on a tree vine he
was holding in his mouth. There are routine rapid-fire thoughts
about shaving, blood pressure medicines, shower, underwear,
grinding coffee beans, pouring in half and half and a teaspoon
of sugar, and wonderings about the baked eggs and sausage Susan
is making for breakfast. Setting the table and cutting up
strawberries all call for passing thoughts.
After breakfast, I see we need more eggs and
decide to drive to Sunnybrook Market. I pass the Millett's house
on Route 3 and wonder how they are doing. I haven't visited with
them for almost two years. They had been so welcoming when we
arrived in Mahone Bay seventeen years ago. They had been the
first to visit, and Marilyn escorted Susan to a gathering of
"The Birthday Club." Soon Dail had been at our door taking me to
my first rehearsal with the Mahone Bay Band. I drive by their
house often but there is always something else that seems to
need doing, and that precludes a visit with them. Sometime I
will ...
Cheery Karen is with a German customer at the
market. I get the eggs from the fridge and she puts them in a
plastic bag. I look at the jelly options and decide to get a jar
of the yellow plum jam to take to the Millet's on the way home.
Conversations in the market soon make their way to the latest
Trump insults, with the German adding his abhorrence at the
possibility of a Trump presidency for the world scene. Our joint
thought processes result in a cacophony of laughter, ridicule
and dismay.
On the lovely drive through Mader's Cove I
slow down to check out the status of our former B&B.
Apparently no one is home. The flowers in the hanging pots are
dried up and the front gardens need weeding. The new
contemporary house next door stirs the deluge of negative
comments about its inappropriate design and squished in feeling
of the new buildings. It's still not completed after two years
of work and over a million invested in the re-building.
I wonder if the Millet's will be home. I see
the car in the driveway and notice the garden tractor moving
along the back hill. I pull in and am greeted by Marilyn with a
big hug and our comments about how long it has been. I offer my
little gift of yellow plum jam. She says "Thanks very much, I
have some wonderful raspberry jam for you that I made from my
abundant raspberry patch," and marches toward her open cellar
door. Dail approaches and parks his tractor. After we are all
seated on the lawn furniture in the open-air garage, our
thoughts are free flowing as we share what's new about our
health, activities, family status and what's new in town. We
recall the shared pleasures of many sing-along sessions, with
Marilyn playing on their upright piano, and their cousin Don
from Boston on his guitar. He died suddenly two years ago from a
heart attack. His ashes are buried on the hill behind us.
Singalong talk prompts Marilyn to recount her
story of recently being in a doctor's office in Lunenburg, and a
man in his sixties, new to the area, walks in with a guitar. She
engages him in conversation, and before long they are singing
along with the old-time songs and everyone in the office at the
time joining in. Delightful nostalgia-driven thoughts ensue.
Once home I sit on the screened porch,
joining Susan. She says, "It's a gorgeous day, we should do
something or go somewhere."
I agree. "What do you have in mind?" I am
remembering the several times during the summer that we have
taken day trips to various parts of Nova Scotia that we have
never had a chance to visit while we are busy running our
Edgewater B&B. Our visits in those fifteen years are usually
in the off-season when most attractions are already closed.
"It's almost noon now, when do you want to
go?"
"Now, " she quickly replies.
"Let's try going up Route 10 toward Middleton
and coming back by Keji on eight,'" I said. We are on our way in
a minute.
It is the perfect day, clear, warm, and the
trees in town are just starting to turn. We stop at the
Blockhouse intersection to check out the man in the black
station wagon who has signs saying he is selling honey crisp
apples and culled carrots. Susan has looked at the price of
honey crisp apples at the Super Store and they are five dollars
a pound. This man's price is five pounds for twelve dollars. We
buy a bag and are soon crunching the juicy sweetness of a honey
crisp. We are on our way to an afternoon of unfolding of leafy
glory.
The brilliant reds, oranges, yellows
interspersed with spikes of deep green fir and hemlock finds
each curve of the road revealing an ever more astonishing array
of beauty. The bright blue sky behind it all seals the perfect
setting for thoughts of gratitude and amazement and memories of
past experiences of similar glory. There is plenty of time for
the thought machinery to remember, to be immersed and to
imagine.
Once beyond the verdant farmland from
Middleton to Annapolis Royal we find the little German
bakery/restaurant nestled in a bright yellow house across from
Fort Anne. We think and talk about our last visit to this little
charm. They are temporarily overwhelmed with take-out orders.
Service to our table is slow. One other couple, tired of
waiting, walks out. Finally, the sweet daughter of the owner
engages pleasantly with us. They are out of Susan's chosen items
of lobster sandwich and squash soup. She substitutes and we
settled in for the lengthy wait for the three o'clock lunch. Our
thoughts and conversation guess at the status of our lunch, and
who among the three owners might be involved in any of the
several tasks of doing the take-out orders, minding the bakery
line, working in the kitchen or cleaning up. I realize in the
process of trying to take note of my thought processes, how
crazy and without pattern the neurons fire and the rabbits move
in my head.
On the way from Annapolis Royal toward
Kejimkujik Park we happen upon a provincial roadside park named
Mickey Hill Picnic Park. We turn into the parking lot expecting
the usual picnic table and portable toilets nestled in a group
of trees. We are happily surprised that it is an expansive area
of enormous glacier-age rocks with steps up to the top of the
rocks and wooded paths to both a pond and Lamb's Lake, each
rimmed with its own version of fall colors. Each step along the
paths turns up new marvels of trees growing out of the rocks and
the extensive, exposed root systems curled in and around the
rocks. There are fallen trees with new saplings appearing out of
deadness. Ferns are abundant and thriving on only a bed of pine
needles thinly covering the rocks. The aroma of fresh and
decaying pine needles pleases our nostrils. We feel we have
discovered a mystical forest. Thoughts of amazement present and
past are jumping in and out of the brain connections.
Then we drive through Keji Park for its fall
display of color and majesty. We share this one with the deer
munching on grass on the parkway. (Why don't they eat only the
grass at our home instead of our lilies and plants?) We smile as
we slowly cruise through Jake's Landing behind a group of
fifteen Chinese young people who are unaware of our car behind
their leisurely walk as they fill the road like the sheep do in
Italy. I resist the temptation to scare them with a blast of the
car horn at their backs.
On the final leg of our seven-hour drive
through the engaging landscapes of Nova Scotia we pass through
Caledonia and notice its nursing home on our right. Thoughts
turn to considering if the residents ever have the chance these
days to see what we are seeing, and how life is for them and
will be for us, sooner than we think. Neurons firing about end
times often seep in.
By seven o'clock the sun has left only
remnants of light to show off the massive fall trees lining
Mahone Bay's Main Street. I keep intentionally rehearsing my
plan to think about what I think about on this particular day.
As expected, I think about the day and am amazed at what this
little experiment at awareness has produced. How busy are the
neurons, electrons and rabbits! And, of course, they don't quit
once I drift off into sleep. They also provide the crazy mix of
images and feelings that make up my dreams and what their
mysteries might be unfolding.
My final thoughts rehearse what I have
learned from this Saturday's experiment at awareness.
I know that the brain cells or neurons and
their synapses are infinite in variety and number. They just
don't quit. They are waiting in line in my consciousness to jump
in and send their signals. They translate into emotions and
feelings affecting bodily functions and health. They often seem
to pop out of nowhere with no apparent connection to what
synapses preceded them. And yet, while they seem to be random,
darting to and fro, I also know that I have some control over
which rabbits show up. I can, somewhere in my psyche, decide and
choose what my desires, expectations, and intentions are. They
influence what shows up in the front of the line.
Take intention for an example. Thought
neurons seek out thoughts of similar energy. Like attracts like.
Birds of a feather flock together. Thoughts of my intentions are
looking for consistency. So, if my intention is to have a
positive mindset, then positive neurons will gravitate,
congregate, and show up in my mind. I can influence what shows
up by my desires, expectations, and intentions. I can willfully
choose the people, events, and media that will nourish this.
Thoughts will often show up spontaneously, maybe in quiet times,
making it seem like I already have the answers and inspiration
deep within me. I can say to myself that my mind is filled with
inspiring and positive thoughts that help me to spread my wings
and fly. Of course, I can choose the opposite as well, and sad,
depressing thoughts will show up and fill the cavity.
This Saturday is done. The mysteries and
wonders are not. Long live the rabbits!
TAX SALE
My name is Westhaver Beach. Call me Wes for
short. I've lived here on Mader's Cove Road, just south of
Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia, for a long time. Some will say, since
the beginning of time. I've got quite a history here. I can't
even bring it all to mind right now. But I do know that its been
quite a parade here over the years, with lots of changes. For
one thing, I'm looking different. I'm a lot smaller than I used
to be when the lighthouse island across from me used to be big
enough for a little farm to raise sheep and grow cabbages. Most
of that has washed away and my shoreline gets narrower by the
year when nor'easters blow in hard, and the waves pound me up to
the road. I get re-arranged with every windstorm, but always I'm
a bit smaller. The Terns used to love to nest and breed here
among my tall weeds. There's not much left for them now.
But I can't get too depressed about all the
changes. Even though I can't compete with the big beaches, I do
have my modest advantages in this small corner of the world.
Folks come here in early morning and get awestruck with a
glorious sunrise of orange and pink puffs rippled across the
morning horizon. Then there's the end of a warm summer day and
they nestle into my sand and sigh at the big round moon rising
from the distant waters and glowing over them through the
evening hours. They quietly celebrate the manifestations of
beauty by soaking up the warm sun, or by splashing in the
chilled waters, or by skipping flat stones across the calm
ocean, or by singing with neighbors around a campfire with
roasted marshmallows and hot dogs. They cherish it all. And so
do I.
That's why I am startled one day in January
when a pickup truck stops. The driver gets out and plants an
8"x10" sign and post in the sand close to the road. The boldest
black lettering spells out 'TAX SALE.' I am curious. The smaller
print on this public sign doesn't say where the property is
located. It only says that $500 is owing in back taxes since
2008 on this $3500 piece of property. Then it says something
about how it could be suitable for a mobile home, and that the
tax sale is to be March 4.
Frequently, neighbors take their daily walks
along the road next to me. One day a walker glances at the sign.
Stops. Moves closer. Takes out her glasses from her pocket,
unfolds them and presses the frames over her ears. She squints.
Her eyes widen. She looks up and down along the road and along
the sand. Then she turns around and briskly walks towards her
home.
It isn't long before several other people
come to check out the sign. Some are on foot. Some are in cars.
Now and then clusters gather and chat intently and feverishly
about what might be going on. Apparently, someone has discovered
on the county website that the tax sale sign was about me,
Westhaver Beach. I am the property in question.
I am imagining all of the telephone activity
that must be going on at this point. Shock. Disbelief. "How
could this be?" "It's a public beach, isn't it?" "Let's get to
the heart of it." "What's going on?" They put the story together
that a Francis Smith owns the property. She has owned other
property and has lived nearby. She's dead.
The flurry of almost frenzied questions is
dominating every neighborhood conversation. "Who's been paying
the taxes up until 2008?" "What about the provincial "Beach Act"
which is to preserve all beaches as part of the public domain
with free access to everyone?"
Mrs. Smith had divided the beach into seven
parcels to go with nearby properties. "But what's there to
divide, or to tax, or to sell? There's not enough room to ever
build anything here, or even put in a mobile home. They'd be
under water in any storm, and the high-water mark is right up
to, and chipping away at, the road itself." "What if a new owner
was to put up a fence?" they are asking. "What if we can no
longer sit in the sun, walk our dogs, splash in the water, gaze
at the sunrises and moons glowing?" "Something must be done!"
" Maybe we can all chip in and pay the taxes
and own it ourselves, or through our Prince's Inlet Neighborhood
Association. We probably need some lawyers in on this." Ideas
are germinating. The phoning and emailing of officials or anyone
who might know or do something continues for days. Lawyers,
mayors, councilors, are all digging at discovering what had
brought about this turn of events for me, and how it might be
remedied.
It eventually seems to be sifting down to
that either the county or individuals in the neighborhood
association would intervene on tax sale day and then secure me
as property for future free public access. There is also talk
that all of this surprising attention over me might be a
catalyst to put a plan and policy in place to keep other
publicly used properties that make life nice, preserved and
safe.
Through it all, it makes me feel warm and
important inside, even though I have no say in the matter as to
who will have the right to own me or use me. I will be here for
all of them until that day when the waters finally wash over me
and never recede. Then I will be just one more little piece of
history rehearsed by the old timers about the good old days, at
Westhaver Beach.
MINING
GOLD
(Thoughts on Life Writing Classes at Mahone
Bay Centre)
It's Thursday morning. There is a story here.
In fact, there are hundreds of stories here. All of them have to
do with mining our gold. It is our personal and collective
adventure of traveling side by side, on parallel tracks, into
the mine shaft. We are discovering, releasing, and refining the
precious metal at our core.
How does it happen? First, there is our
personal inner nudging that there is indeed something of great
worth hiding in the dormant recesses of our being. It is waiting
to see the light of day. We respond to Ellen's invitation to a
Life Writing Course on Thursday mornings. At first blush our
reasons are: "I want my children and grandchildren to know
something specific about me, who I am, and what my life has been
like." We soon become aware that more than that is going on.
When first we gather, before the mining
begins, we notice our differences. All we know about each other
is what we see. We notice the obvious things, like gender, age,
size, countenance, clothes, and body movements. As we get a
little closer, we process the greetings and small talk and do
some early testing. There are unspoken wonderings, expectations,
and trust levels being set. It's all a part of defining our
differences.
Then Ellen, our coach and fellow miner, draws
us together with a welcome, and announces the plan for the day
in the mining process. We quickly move into digging. With our
pens and paper serving as our picks and shovels, we start to
penetrate the surface. Our brains have been mostly focused on
our day to day routines. Now they are called upon to reveal some
of their content and capabilities.
It's time for a 'prompt.' A topic is offered
by one of us to stimulate the connection between the brain and
the pen. We originally call it 'forced writing.' And later, we
substitute something gentler, like 'directed writing,' or
'encouragements to writing,' or some such. . We take turns,
playfully presenting a wide range of stimuli starters, e.g.,
"Throwing caution to the wind...", "Vote"...", Pet peeves...",
"Breaking rules...", "Beer...", "Candy...", "All I know is...",
"Women I have known...", and a host of others.
The instruction from Ellen: "Just put your
pen on the paper for five minutes. Make it move. Let come what
may from the 'prompt.' Write it down, even if it makes no sense.
See what shows up."
We respond with blank stares, furrowed brows,
nervous smiles and comments. We think, "Where can I ever go
with this?" We put our head in one hand and pen in the
other. An attempt is made. Sometimes it is frustrating and
unproductive. More often, we are amazed at what comes forth from
this prodding of the brain cells. Associations, Tangents.
Sadness. Flights of fancy and fun. Even longings surface, like,
"How's the handyman looking today?" Once into it, five minutes
doesn't leave enough time to finish the thought. We have broken
ground with a combination of amazement and satisfaction. We
think, "There are possibilities for this mining business."
Going deeply for gold continues when fellow
miner/coach Ellen offers soil samples of stories from famous
authors, recommends readings, and further tricks of the trade.
They can help uncover and describe the gold that is uniquely
ours. The objective is to share our stories in a way that
another may see, hear, touch, and feel our experience as if they
are here with us. This is precious.
Digging deeper, Ellen announces a general
category of life experience that could reveal a story for us. We
brainstorm topics like: "Decisions", "Jobs", "Disruptions in the
family", "School memories", "Childhood memories", and many more.
From the golden memory palaces, a long list of possibilities
pours forth from each of us. We pick three or four that sound
most promising at first glance. We share these preferences with
three others. Their observations help us hone in on what might
be worth exploring as a developing story with some of our gold
dust sprinkled in.
We are one in the searching process. We are
unique in what surfaces from the depths of our personal memory
banks. We are urged to continue the mining by quickly trying out
five different ways of beginning the story. Each five minute
"start" uses a different perspective of time, people, themes,
and feelings to emphasize. We are shown options for openings and
endings. We start to get an idea of what the story might sound
like, and where it is going.
We dig more on our own at home. The synapses
of our brains become our drilling equipment. We write out a
first draft. We embellish the empty spaces. Long forgotten names
pop up out of nowhere. We bring our refinements to class.
With three others we 'conference' our
stories. We offer suggestions as to what we like, or what is
confusing. We find out how it is looking to other eyes. Ellen
counsels us on what to look for in a story, e.g., the
possibilities of expanded moments, the conflicts, tensions,
dialogue, or where to change sentences that are too long, or
have too many 'ands' or 'buts.' We re-work the stories from all
of this input. We read them aloud to ourselves and to others. We
are saturated with this event from long ago. Finally, we choose
two of our favorites to include in the class publication.
Through it all, we get glimpses of the
treasures of life experiences stored deep inside each of us. The
memory snippets are like gold nuggets lifted from the source of
solid gold at our core. Personally, we experience the joy of
mining the precious metal that is our essence. One remembered
nugget uncovers another, and then another. As the mining process
evolves we are amazed at what of our uniqueness has filtered to
the surface. There are meanings here. The mining and refining of
our precious treasures together trumps the differences noticed
at our first meeting. We now know, and are known, a little bit
more. This is good.
AT LEAST…
AT LEAST I can hide awhile from the
punishment coming my way. I am a youngster, probably about six
years old, my mother is chasing me for my infraction, whatever
it is. I have run from her and the stick (a wooden piece that I
have fashioned into a rough representation of a sword for my
play) that will eventually make painful contact with my bottom.
I am running, running. She is chasing me around the house and
yelling at me. I have finally locked myself in the downstairs
bathroom.
She is still yelling, "You'd better open this
door this minute, if you know what's good for you." I cower and
fret, thinking, "How is this all going to end?" But at
least for now there is no physical pain to endure. There is lots
of psychic pain, and fear of what's coming, sooner or later.
A quick climb out of the bathroom window will
put it off a bit longer. I think, "She won't know.
It will be a silent and empty bathroom to
greet her when she finds the key to unlock the door.
I will be gone. I will be running down
Pinecrest Circle and wondering when and if I should return."
I think, "What 's going to happen when my
father gets home? I'm scared and panicky, breathless and
sweaty. But AT LEAST for now, there's no pain."
BEER
Beer is a long-time forbidden nectar in my
Women's Christian Temperance Union upbringing.
It doesn't seem that tempting. For some
adults, it is more than tempting. My mother apologetically tells
of her own caring father. He brings home a bucket of beer every
evening from the market where he has a dry goods stand. It is
okay for him, a loving, gentle, music loving Irishman. But not
for her. She is steeped in the Temperance Union and its
prohibitions against all forms of alcohol.
It is never in our home during my growing up
years. Nice neighbors who easily guzzled, are a target of both
puzzlement and derision. My first try daring to share some sips
of the evil brew are after a high school pep rally in Sligo
Park. It is a now and then thing for me. Of course, there is
college and its excesses. Another story…
CANDY
For most people, candy is always enjoyable
and a sign of the sweetness that fills life.
Bea Shaw educates me about candy. She is a
neighbor and girlfriend for a time in high school. One day she
is sick and stays home from school. I take her a box of assorted
chocolate candies to cheer her up. She is pleased and grateful.
The next week end I go to her home to pick
her up for a date. While waiting for her in the living room, I
see the same box of candy on the table.
She calls down from upstairs, "Help yourself
to the candy." I thank her and open the box. I pick up the first
piece. It looks like it might have a coconut center, one of my
favorites. I am about to pop it into my mouth when I notice that
the bottom of the piece has been pushed in. I put it back. I
look at another, and another. Same thing. All of the candies
left in the box have been punched in from the bottom. I have
never seen this before. It certainly diminishes its appeal for
me. Whenever we pick up a piece of candy at home, we eat it,
whether it is our preference or not.
I decide not to satisfy my sweet tooth
cravings this evening. I place the top back on the box.
A PONDER POND
Helen stops at her 'ponder pond' most every
day on her way home from high school. It isn't an idyllic scene
to look at. The pond is mostly backwater and storm drain run
off. Cat tails and weeds fill the edges. Entanglements of
discarded coffee cups, beer cans, and candy wrappers encourage
the stagnant foam dancing on the ripples. There is one stately
beech tree left over from another time. Its shiny green leaves
form a shapely canopy for the exposed roots that offer Helen a
natural seat for her pensive moments.
It isn't a 'smiley' place for her spirit work. But it is
a place of solitude needed for all that is raging inside of her.
Her list is long and severe. Her home is with her Aunt Lil and
her five sisters in the lower east side of Philadelphia. It
still looks poor after a century of German immigrants having
settled there. The row house is an unpainted gray stucco about
fourteen feet wide. Helen doesn't let her dates pick her up at
home or have girlfriends drop by. She shares a bedroom with her
sisters. She has to make the best of worn and faded hand-me-down
clothing. She helps Aunt Lil with the washing and ironing that
she does for some income from the wealthy folks on the upper
East side. Helen has sad memories of her mother's long sickness
and death five years before, when she was ten.
Worst of all is the walk every day on the only road that
leads to her school. She has to pass by the county prison of
high gray concrete walls topped with steel bars and barbed wire.
Her father is inside. He has been there for five years.
Just after her mother died, he had been found
guilty of child molestation on several counts, including her
younger sister Mildred. For almost a year the whole family had
been the focus of wide publicity through the trial and
sentencing. It is a persistent and choking dark fog of shame and
humiliation that fills every space and thought of her young
life. It is resurrected to hammer her every time she has to pass
by the prison. It seems that there will be no end to it. It
fills her pondering moments as she nestles under the protection
of the grand beech tree.
Helen also has her arsenal of gifts. She has her Aunt
Lil, who is always offering a sympathetic hug and a quiet smile.
She has her five sisters with whom to commiserate. She is pretty
and has a bright smile. She has a lilting singing voice. She is
intellectually astute. She knows she can never afford to go to
college, so she hones her secretarial skills of short-hand and
typing. She is learning that she can use her quick mind to
manipulate other people according to her wishes. She is clever
enough to either lather a person with sweetness, or quickly cut
them in pieces with her acid tongue. She is learning how her
creative determination and dreams can maybe move her beyond her
secrets of shame and defeat. Her fantasies of stardom, wealth,
influence, and respectability infuse her pondering this day and
will dominate her every move from then on.
Helen looks up at the towering beech branches, sighs,
tosses a couple of stones into the languid pond, and make her
way on to her home and Aunt Lil.
Helen rehearses the full listing of what is wrong with
her life as well as her resolve to get away from it all. Leave
it. There has to be a different way… without prisons, and rice
and beans, and faded aprons, and unpainted stucco. Aunt Lil's
way is not going to be Helen's way, as much as she longs for and
often retreats to Aunt Lil's warming fleece.
At ponder pond, for the next two years, before graduating
from high school, she becomes determined to hone and use her
natural gifts of physical beauty, sharp intellect, secretarial
skills, singing voice, subtle perceptions of personalities and
their vulnerabilities, to her advantage. She will weave them all
together, even subconsciously, to survive …and even thrive. Her
antennae are picking up the signals of what her culture requires
to have a life different from lower Philadelphia. She can know
prestige, prominence, glamour, wealth, stardom, recognition,
security, plenty of toys, influence. These will be her drivers.
These will provide the silent justifications for the life
choices that lay ahead.
The steps and stumbles of those passing seventy-five
years are behind her now. At ninety years of age, she looks out
over another ponder pond.
She has been wheeled up to the large picture window at
the Edelweiss Nursing Home in Boston.
Most of the scene is out of focus for her wandering mind.
There is a pond reflecting the dancing diamonds that flicker
through her window. There is another gnarled beech tree arching
over the water and cat tails dotting its edges. She sees it all
through the reflections of herself in the window. Her whitened
and disheveled hair surrounds the crisscrossing wrinkles of her
face and sinewy arms. Her drooping body is strapped into the
wheelchair with a blue bed sheet. The morning sun and its
shadows frame her vision of the pond. Her dementia tinged memory
catalogue erratically prompts her own seventy-five years of
shadows closing in on her fading awareness.
Helen's last days of pondering through her haze now focus
on 'what has been' and not 'what can be.' As she nods in and out
of consciousness there are the loud and faint voices, the smiles
and the tears, the images of people and places, the half-formed
questions that have filled her last seventy-five years.
Her high school dreams of prestige, pedigree,
recognition, acceptance have been realized…at least
partially…outwardly. Leaving East Philadelphia behind, she has
discovered family tree threads that lead her to connections with
a prominent U.S. senator from Tennessee. The same threads
qualify her as a Daughter of the American Revolution with its
conventions at Constitution Hall in Washington, D.C. She finds a
third cousin who is a movie star in England and from whom she
gains some spilled over recognition in the Philadelphia
newspapers. Her son and daughter graduate from Yale and Mt.
Holyoke. She holds top jobs as an executive secretary. She has
modeled, sung solos, and in choruses. She dresses smartly in
tailored clothing. She turns eyes. Looking out at the pond, you
can see her shadowed smile for these 'ice creams' and a tear for
her ongoing unrest at what she thought life should bring…
She has met a handsome young U.S. army private at the
Stage Door Canteen. Blossoming with romance they have married on
D-day of World War 2. He goes on to become a commissioned
officer and spends the war being trained at the University of
Pennsylvania in German intelligence tactics. Later, after
graduating from college he moves up the ranks of authority and
salary as a teacher, principal, dean of Plymouth College and
superintendent of schools in Lancaster County. He stays with the
U.S. Army Reserve to the rank of colonel. Even though the list
of accomplishments expands for both of them, the size of the
bank accounts can never keep up. The ever-new purchases of
houses, boats, and autos keep them in the poor house mentality
with its accompanying stresses and blaming. There is never
enough.
Her body shifts in the wheelchair, but the sheet holds
her firmly in place. Memory thoughts drift in and out of her
foggy brain … It is not enough to ride the coattails of her
husband's successes.
She pursues her own creative drives expecting
that each new project will jettison her into national fame and
fortune. She creates a small business of making lampshades with
pressed leaves as designs. Next comes manufacturing jewelry …
rings, with family crests. Then there is a glitzy catalogue
promoting "after sex" lingerie. When she presents this at a
family reunion she loudly tries to persuade family to invest in
this catchy fad. "It will bring in thousands for you …" One
cousin hustled her twelve year old daughter out of the room,
saying, "You don't need to hear this disgusting stuff…!"
There is another financial venture which involved
producing and maintaining soda, beer, and snack vending machines
at various holes on golf courses. Helen is the assertive
salesperson letting everyone know that this is "the biggest
innovation of the decade. It's just what the golfers are looking
for. With only a $50,000 investment, you can triple it in a
year." All of her ventures require substantial outlays of
capital which is in short supply for her. Extended family is
solicited for financial assistance. It is the only time they
ever hear from Helen.
She has never figured it all out, but interwoven in the
apparent accomplishments for Helen are the toxic ingredients of
an acid tongue and putdowns of others whenever she cannot
dominate and control an event or relationship. She often finds
herself being separated from churches, neighborhoods, and
relatives. Her strident voice and tone repel people from wanting
to be in the same car or circle with her. For example, she can
see people cringing as she loudly preaches to the Pakastani
motel manager about her "What would Jesus do?" bracelet, and
how. "Jesus was what he needed, too."
She has wondered why she and her husband were
the only ones present for the campfire at a family reunion
sing-along. She has the hurting thoughts, "They all love to
sing. Why aren't they here?" Repeatedly, her inquiries about the
possibility of visiting cousins are rebuffed with: "Sorry, it
isn't convenient at this time for you to stop by." There are
rare occasions that the nagging and haunting question surfaces
from the shadows into consciousness: "Why don't people like me?
I don't understand."
In the fading morning light even now her tensed wrinkles
reveal a life of bewilderment and fear.
Helen's most painful experiences of her last seventy-five
years have been the vicious fights with her husband, in private
and in public. From their honeymoon to life at Edelweiss, no
one, including her, know when the hair triggers would be
tripped. Anytime. Anywhere. But everyone knows, and is in a
state of disbelief, from the screaming and swearing they witness
between the two of them, without regard to the sensitivities of
who else was present.
Their children are spared some of it while
away at boarding schools for much of their growing years. But at
dinner parties and family reunions, with passengers in their
car, at neighborhood barbeques, while attending the symphony, or
at ball games…all become mine fields for the spontaneous
explosions. Sometimes, consumed in anger, the two of them
separate for days.
Because of neighbor complaints they are asked
to vacate their apartment in the prestigious Rittenhouse Square
buildings. In their final years they are put on separate floors
at The Edelweiss Nursing Home so that other residents won't be
subjected to their outbursts.
Their only public reflection on the effects
of the uncontrolled tongue attacks is an attempt at humor. "We
don't know why we're still together either…but the sex after a
bout is amazing!"
Now she whimpers repeatedly, "Where is my love? I want my
love. I miss my love so much!" There are free flowing tears as
the Edelweiss attendant wheels Helen back to her bedroom. The
biting self-incriminations from her life review dodge in and out
of her semi-consciousness. "Why don't they like me? What can I
do?" Her last sleep finally overtakes her as she whispers,
"Maybe…different… next time.."
Her ashes are now nested next to her husband's in
Arlington National Cemetery, Washington, D.C. There is a
ceremony with the full military honors appropriate for a
colonel… a horse drawn caisson, a platoon of soldiers in full
dress, rifle volleys, an army brass band playing "Nearer My God,
to Thee," an unknowing chaplain with his blanket platitudes,
"Theirs was a marriage made in heaven." A bugler's mournful
'Taps.'
And, oh yes, their grave is ten yards from a reflecting
pond, with cattails around its edges and a gnarly green beech
tree providing a canopy… for future pondering?
A JANE DAY
It's morning at Cherrywood Haven. I open my
eyes to darkness excepting the sparkling spray of yellow from
the night light under the window. There's no light outside the
window. It's too early I guess. And the emerging signs of a
lighter sky are hemmed in by dark clouds.
But it is morning, right? I'm not sure. I
hear the rattling of trays and glasses on the carts as they pass
by my door in the common area probably carrying medicines or
food to another room or table.
I see the stream of bright light spreading
under my door. This must be how morning begins at Cherrywood
Haven, my new home. I see the ceiling curtain in the middle of
my tiny room is drawn. It still separates me from my new
roommate after last night's prickly beginnings.
There had been shouts of "Hey over there,
turn down that TV," and "Answer your damn phone, will you?!" I
had tried to comply, but I'm deaf in one ear and don't comply
fast enough for her. She has reached out of her bed with her
cane and yanked the room curtain along its ceiling track to cut
us off from any further communication. I wonder for how long,
and what else might be in the offing.
Behind me I hear the door open and a cheery,
"Another beautiful day comin'. Time to get up and washed and
ready for breakfast in an hour. How you doin', hon? You're new
here, right. Just last evenin'? Jane, is that right? I'm Tara.
Let me know if you need anythin'. You need any help gettin'
outta bed or washed up or dressed?"
I'm silent as I watch her busily move around
the cramped room, turning on lights, pushing back the curtain,
adjusting the window blinds, tossing my roommate's robe over the
foot of her bed and keeping glances coming my way to see how I'm
doing.
"Soon as you get dressed, put that respirator
gadget over your face to get you breathin' better before
breakfast."
"Pretty quiet in here. You two know each
other yet? Patty, you know Jane?"
We both grunt our assents. "You'll hear the
bell when breakfast is ready out there. I'll show you where you
can sit, Jane."
I'm praying, Dear God, somewhere far away
from Patty so I can digest some of my food, whatever
it is."
As she is backing out of the door Tara says,
"Anything else hon, I gotta get going?"
I pipe up and say, "Well, yes, I have a
friend, Mary, who is here somewhere. I'd like to sit with her if
you can arrange it?"
Tara takes it in and replies, "Mary, huh?
I'll see what I can do."
Patty and I sit on the sides of our beds in
our nightclothes, legs dangling, heads looking left and right,
up and down, neither of us wanting to look at each other for
fear of what might ensue. We both busy ourselves fussing with
the sheets, smoothing out the wrinkled blankets, and fluffing
the pillows on our beds. We stretch our feet into the slippers
waiting at our bedsides. The silence is pregnant with our
unresolved hostility. It is a painful damper on my hopes of a
fresh start after my four-month stay at the hospital waiting for
this available nursing home bed.
I wonder, What now? So tense. Hard to
catch my breath. Have to get that respirator on soon. Hands
are shaking. My stomach is not going to be able to handle much
breakfast, and yet I need some strength.
I decide to offer a small positive gesture of
motioning Patty to use the bathroom before me, without looking
her in the face. She moves into the bathroom quickly without a
sound or acknowledgement and closes the door. I am grateful for
at least momentary relief and the avoidance of confrontation.
I stand and stare at the bed sheets, shaking
my head as my fists are planted on the mattress. I am thinking
again, as I have been doing so often since Glenna died, Who
would have thought that it would all come down to this?? Oh,
dear Glenna, I miss you so! We had 41 wonderful years
together, didn't we? So much fun! Overnight hiking trips in
the rockies with our beautiful border collie Dasher? Lots of
laughs. You loved my jokes. Can still see you rocking back and
forth and hear your raucous howling. Oh, yes... we had our
tears too, hiding in the closet for so long. Your long
downhill trip with cancer. Oh dear Glenna, how your body hurt,
how we hurt! Here I am at 84, my body going to hell. The
"great diminishment" they call it. I guess so! The list keeps
growing...advanced COPD, breast cancer, blind in one eye and
the other on its way out from detached retinas, pneumonia
episodes that keep repeating. Cheesus! Who would have thought!
You were my family.
I look left and right and out the window in
wonderment. In these precious solitary moments I smooth the bed
coverings and fold my bedspread and reach for a tissue to dry my
eyes.
Now it's Alice, my dear angel in Regina.
Just a neighbor and her husband at first, now my last flicker
of a connection. Bless her heart! She has my power of attorney
and keeps persistently caring, trying guide me through the
maze of financial crises... government regulations... cheating
lawyers and supposed friends who pilfered all my money... left
me with nothing. Cheesus! Now this! My today. My fresh start
in this place so far from familiar foundations... Patty
greeting me with shouts to 'answer my damn phone and turn down
my TV! Glenna, I wonder if God is punishing me? I just don't
know. I don't know. Who would have ever thought ...
I hear Patty flushing the toilet in the
bathroom. I wipe another tear. Take a deep breath and stand up
straighter.
Come on Jane, you have to get a grip. I
know. I know. One step at a time. Baby steps. Get dressed. Put
a comb through your hair. Look out the window. It's getting
lighter. There's a sunrise going on somewhere. Patty will be
opening that bathroom door in a moment. Try a glance in her
direction as she comes out. See if there is any possibility
for some kind of a truce. See if she is affected positively at
all with my move to have her go first...
The bathroom door opens, she turns off the
light. I look. She quickly moves out and our eyes meet in a
flash. She then gives the door a slight shove backward as if
inviting me to take my turn. Her eyes gaze past me toward her
bed. But our eyes meet for a second. I see her minimal
acknowledgement that I am a person after all, and that perhaps
without words we are experiencing the beginnings, not of a
normal and longed for friendship, but maybe at least a truce. We
remain silent, but it is a bit easier now. My stomach muscles
relax a bit. My hands stop shaking.
After the bathroom routines I dress and then
attach the respiratory mask meant to loosen my bronchial phlegm
and avoid another bout with pneumonia. I sit in my lone armchair
and face it toward the window to watch the spreading light of
the clouded sky. The breakfast bell rings and I remove the
respirator.
I go to my night table to pick up my
dentures. I left them here last night, either in a glass of
water or wrapped in tissue. The table is empty. Oh no! I grab my
cane and look under my bed and chair. I open the drawers of my
dresser. I empty my trash can. I check the bathroom shelves.
Still no false teeth. Another crisis is brewing.
I say it out loud. "I can't find my teeth. I
know I left them on the night table. They're not here. And
they're not on the floor or in the trash or in the bathroom."
Patty volunteers, "I haven't seen them.
Sorry." It is the first indication of a normal human
relationship. I'm very glad for that. But I'm in a panic about
my dentures.
Thoughts dart around my brain: Who could
have taken them? When? Won't be able to eat. It'll be all
porridge, and jello and custards and soup from now on. Can't
afford new ones. It'll take ages to get fitted and have them
replaced. Sweat droplets emerge on my brow. I retrace the
search process... steps...table, floor, trash can, bathroom,
drawers...
Without thinking, I call out, "Tara, Tara,
help me, help me!"
Tara comes running in response to my panicked
pleas. "What is it, hon? What's the matter?" I hurry through the
story. She follows the same search steps I had taken.
I don't know, hon. They can't have just
walked away."
Patty is standing in the doorway on her way
to breakfast. She offers that maybe it had been "that woman in
the wheelchair with the red hair, Agnes, I think they call her.
She's a bit weird. They say she scoots in and out of rooms in
her wheelchair and takes stuff."
My mouth is open in astonishment. "Cheesus,"
I exclaim.
Tara says, "Oh, I don't think so, hon. Why
would she ever take a set of teeth. She couldn't possibly use
them or give them to someone else."
I repeat, "Well, they're gone, and I can't
eat and I can't afford new ones!"
Tara tries to calm me: "They have to be
somewhere. We'll just keep looking everywhere. I'll tell the
others to look through all of the trash containers. We'll keep
an eye out in the rooms. Meantime, I guess you will be having
cream of wheat this morning. You can dunk your toast in your
coffee to soften it up. They'll turn up hon,"
Tara seats me at the table with Mary, who
greets me with a hug. I tell her what has been going on in my
life in the last year we saw each other. We had shared happy
times playing Scrabble and putting puzzles together when I had
my apartment in the seniors housing in Lakeland. Of course, I
include my immediate crisis with the lost dentures in my tales.
I am so glad for this bit of normalcy. After a few minutes I
look up from my cream of wheat and over at Mary. Her head is on
her chest. She has fallen asleep in the middle of breakfast. I
motion to Tara as she refills my coffee cup that Mary is out of
it.
Tara replied, "Oh yeah, she's a sleepy lady
all right. Awake for fifteen minutes and asleep for an hour or
two. It's that way for lots of these folks."
I look around. She is right. Half of the
tables have women and men in various stages of fog. I think,
Oh my God! A year ago Mary and I were laughing over Scrabble
and puzzles, and now it's silence and sleep. Look at all of
these people. Heads tipped down or sideways. Some drooling. So
old, so old. Is this me too? What's going on inside of their
heads? Anything? Just numbness? Is it sweet? Is it sour?
Surely, they all have memories? Images. What's going on inside
of my head? Oh Glenna, I miss you so much!
I touch the napkin to my tearing eyes, pick
up my cane and walk back toward my room.
Patty has preceded me. I hear her shouting,
"Hey, answer your phone. It's been ringing a dozen times. Don't
you hear it? Good Lord! How long is this going to go on?"
I mumble a "Sorry," as I reach across the bed
in a rush and grab the phone on the night table before it can
jangle another time and further splinter our shaky start.
I finally get the receiver up to my better
ear and hear, "Jane. Jane?"
"Yes, yes," I answer.
"It's Alice. Where have you been? I wanted to
wish you a happy new start. But you didn't answer. I almost hung
up. So, how are you doing on your first day?"
I am relieved that Patty is thoughtful enough
to pick up her cane and walk out to the common room so I can
talk more privately with Alice.
"Wait a second," I say, "I want to put the
phone down and get comfortable on my bed."
I pull the spread over my legs and prop a
pillow at my back as I settle in for our talk. I tell her of my
first experiences in my new home, with Patty, Mary, Tara, teeth
theft, and all the rest. I tell her that I have heard that a
ukulele choir is supposed to come to cheer us up tomorrow. I ask
her what am I going to do if I have to get new false teeth. I
ask how she had made out with Revenue Canada, and the Lakeland
police with the lawyer rip offs at the seniors housing, and if
we are going to get some financial assistance at Cherrywood.
I always load her up with an expanding list
of problems and crises to be resolved. She is my angel. She
lives so far away, and for the last ten years has been my caring
advocate for so many of my hairy details to be dealt with. She
is the light at the end of my tunnel.
.
She tells me everything she is up to on my
behalf and also advises me to make more of an effort to meet and
be pleasant with people. "Tell them a joke. You're good at that.
Everybody likes a joke." She is always encourages me and is
direct in her guidance.
She signs off after a half hour with: "We'll
get it all together somehow. We'll take each problem one small
step at a time and get it straightened out. I'll talk to the
Cherrywood nurse about getting you a dentist appointment for
dentures if you don't find them. Don't forget you have another
appointment Monday for a shot to your retina to see if they can
stop your better eye from going blind... Remember what Glenna
would probably want you to do. That will help. Love you. Bye."
I close my eyes and drift off for a nap.
There is a nudge on my arm. My eyes open to the familiar smiles
of Jennifer. She has become my friend from the helping group in
Lakeland when I was in the seniors housing and needed a ride to
my eye injections.
"Hi Jane." She leans over and gives me a
kiss. I am so pleased to see her.
"I brought you your favorite from Tim's, a
large iced cappucino."
"Oh," I exclaim, "you are such a dear. You
have made my day." I draw the sweet cold coffee up through the
straw. "Mmm. So good. Thank you." We have a lovely chat. I tell
her my sad tales of woe.
She counsels me, as does Alice, to make the
extra effort to keep an eye out for someone beyond the sleepy
people who might have common interests.
I always reflect back to her my familiar
lines, "Who would have thought my life would come to this...do
you think God is punishing to me?"
She assures me, "That's not God's way," and
to "think about more of the stuff that makes life have some joy"
"I love your jokes. You love your jokes. Everyone loves your
jokes. Tell me a joke Jane. Got any for today?"
My funny bone is triggered. I say, "Well as a
matter of fact I did hear a good one from that doctor from
Newfoundland who was on my hospital floor. Wanna hear it?"
"You bet," Jennifer replies.
"Well, it goes like this. Up in Newfoundland
the Pentecostals are big, you know. Lots of 'em. This one Sunday
afternoon a whole crowd of the Pentecostals have gathered down
by the river for a big baptism. Lots of people gettin' dunked
and saved and finding Jesus. And they are all worked up and
making lots of noise with their singing and shouting.
The town drunk happens along and wonders what
all the excitement is about. He meanders closer until he is
right next to the preacher in the water. When the preacher sees
him he gets all excited with another salvation prospect at hand.
He looks at the drunk and says 'Brother, do you want to find
Jesus?' The befuddled drunk responds 'Well, yeah, I guess so.'
'So the preacher pulls him close, grabs his
head and shoulders and plunges him into the water. The drunk
comes up from the dunking, gasping for breath. The preacher
says, 'Well, brother, did you find Jesus?' The drunk, somewhat
stupified, says, 'Well, no, I didn't find Jesus.' The preacher,
taken aback, says, 'We'll do you again.' He firmly grabs the
drunk by the head and shoulders, and again plunges him into the
river. He holds him under quite a bit longer this time until the
drunk starts writhing and jerking to come up for air. When he is
above the water, the preacher repeats his plea, 'Well, now
brother, did you find Jesus?' The drunk looks around at all the
people watching and tells the preacher, 'Well, no, I didn't find
Jesus this time either.'
The preacher is now exasperated. He says to
the drunk 'We'll make sure this time.' He grabs him, head and
shoulders, throws him under the water, and holds him there. And
holds him there. And holds him there. The drunk's arms are
flailing and legs are jerking as he tries to get free and come
up for air. Finally, the preacher brings the drunk up, choking
and gasping. He yells at him, 'For the love of God brother, did
you find Jesus?' Still in his apologetic voice, the drunk cries
out, 'Well no preacher, I didn't find Jesus. Are you sure this
is where he fell in?'"
Jennifer and I rock back and forth in
laughter, tears streaming down our cheeks. "See," she rollicks,
"I knew you could do it. You are so funny! She leaves me with a
hug, still smiling. "I'll see you next Wednesday. I hope you
find your teeth. I'll try to pick up some headphones for your
TV. Find me another joke Jane. Bye."
So here I am thinking again. My first day
at Cherrywood Haven. What's left? Guess it'll be some TV, like
always. I'll have to keep the volume way down. I don't know
how to get captions on this thing yet. Maybe Tara can help me.
Too many remotes. Too many buttons. I get confused. Don't need
'em all.
At dinner Mary nods off again. It's pureed
carrots and potatoes and something that's supposed to resemble
meat I think. I talk to myself a little more... Maybe I'll
take a walk down the hall and then to my room to change my
clothes and watch some more TV from bed. I'm thinking the old
stuff all over again, and again. My eyes are no good for
reading anymore. This all just keeps reminding me that I'm
wearing out. I used to have such a sharp memory when I was a
paralegal all those years. I could bring up all those rules
and remember all those people. No more. I'd be happy right now
if I could just remember what I did with my teeth. Getting
drowsy earlier tonight. I miss you so, Glenna, ...and Dasher.
Oh my. Just memories, lots of memories for now. And the old
questions, "Is God punishing me ... who would have thought my
life would end up like this. I don't know. I just don't know
... Maybe the gentle night, soon.
JETHRO'S
PARADE
Jethro
Smalley is jolted awake as his Greyhound bus comes to its
first stoplight on the highway outside Las Vegas. The morning's
sun streaks its rays into his squinting eyes. He pulls his
rolled-up jacket from behind his head and sits up straight, then
stretches to the empty seat next to him to let his body know
it's time to wake up. He glances around the bus. No one else is
stirring. The scene from his window reveals a familiar
combination of highway vistas…scattered dirty white houses…with
dirtier sheds to accompany them …trash blowing in the streets… a
lineup of dust-laden pickup trucks in front of the little houses
settled in the shadows of power line towers…two dogs barking at
the bus…no grass… no trees… lots of sand. The sun is doing its
best to reflect the brightness and promise of a new day.
Jethro has
been on the road from his home is Oskaloosa, Kansas, for over
twenty hours, with rest stops along the 1300 miles. It is his
first time away from his home of 1113 people, with its
cornfields and soy fields, and wheat fields. It was all
absorbed and loved for his eighteen years with his farmer
parents and younger siblings, Emma and Falco. Over the years
he had learned to work the farm with the planting and
harvesting. He had also done part-time work in Weldan's
Pharmacy on weekends. The money earned there has been saved for
going on this big adventure after having graduated from high
school last month.
He doesn't
know how it is all going to work out. It is summer 1971. The
Vietnam War is in full swing. Friends from school have already
been drafted into the U.S. Army. It's likely that his number
will be coming up. His Uncle Malcolm manages an almond-pistachio
ranch in Lost Hills, California. Help is needed on the ranch
with all sorts of jobs, like painting fences, oiling machinery,
harvesting the nuts, and lots of cleaning. Malcom promises
Jethro work for at least a year if he wants to try it. Jethro is
thrilled with the prospects of the world's parade beyond
Oskaloosa.
There is a
flurry of goodbye exchanges:
"We
love you, Jethro."
"I
know, Mom. I love you too."
"Take
care now, and careful with your money."
"I
will be, Dad."
Falco chimes
in, "Give us a call when you get to Uncle Malcolm's.
Write us and send some pictures when you can."
Dad adds, "Work
hard for him…let us know if you need anything."
Jethro
assures, "I will. I will."
He motions
for all of them to stand together, "You'll be my first
picture with my new graduation gift."
There is
more nervous banter as he leaves his family and friends. His
mother dabs her handkerchief to her eyes.
The bus revs
up and moves out. Wide-eyed, he focuses on the details of the
landscape he has never seen. Through Kansas, it is miles and
miles of flatlands, green with the fresh shoots of corn, soy
and wheat. They give way to the mountains that rise in
Colorado. He takes lots of photos of the parade of scenery
and people along the way, at the rest stops, and in the bus.
It is all so
new. He wants to remember it. He has savings of $271 with him.
For safe keeping, following his father's advice, $100
is inside the right shoe. $100 is inside the left shoe. $71 is
in his pocket. His mother has packed enough egg salad and ham
sandwiches, with fruit and cookies, to carry him through these
twenty hours of Greyhound travel. About midway through Colorado,
darkness fills the sky and only occasional headlights flash a
piece of pavement into view. The drone of the bus, the sweet
memories of home, and the unexamined excitement of his future,
are all enough to have him smile, roll up his jacket to support
his head against the window, and drowse him into sleep for the
rest of the night.
This is
morning in Las Vegas. He has seen so much about it on
TV over the years. All the ads. The electric city. Flashing and
rippling colored lights on dancing fountains. Famous
entertainers. Enormous theme hotels. The lure of big money wins
and losses. The crime. The culture. He takes pictures even at
7:00 a.m. as the bus motor roars from one stop light to another
along Fremont Street. It finally rumbles into its slot at the
Greyhound Station at 200 Main Street. As other passengers are
waking, the driver announces:
"There
will be a two-hour layover, leaving for Los Angeles at 9:00 a.m.
You will have a new driver. If anyone misses that connection,
there will be another chance at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.
Thanks for traveling with Greyhound. I'll
help you with your luggage outside."
Jethro is
thinking … Only two hours to see Las Vegas?… I
don't know … It's not much time… It looks like there's a lot
to see… I probably won't come this way again any time soon …
Maybe I'd better get my suitcase out of the bus and store it
in a locker in the terminal, in case I don't make it back in
time…If I need to, I can call Uncle Malcolm and let him know
I'll be late."
He takes
some photos of the bus, the driver, and the folks retrieving
their luggage. Inside the terminal he spots the lockers and
deposits his suitcase. Now it's time to have a look at
this famous Las Vegas. He follows the directions guiding him
from Main Street, past the Golden Nugget Hotel, with its fancy
purple canopy over the entrance, and onto Fremont Street. The
massively glitzy 'strip,' its flashing and pulsating lights are
still putting on their show at 7:30 a.m. His camera is clicking
away at the parade of people. So much is new to his eyes.
The "Hiya
honey," friendly women roaming the sidewalks with their long
platinum blond hair, stiletto heels, netted stockings, short
skirts, and bulbous bosoms bouncing to and fro inside thin
silken blouses. He tries not to stare as he fumbles with his
camera, appearing to make adjustments. His blushes reveal his
sexual arousal and hormonal activity, reminding him of how he
felt when paging through the girlie magazines at Weldan's
Pharmacy on a quiet Sunday afternoon. Here it is, live!
Some of the
unshaven men are not so friendly as they cough and crouch in
doorways with newspapers for cover, and others carefully
watching the slot players. Even at this hour there are lots of
folks in fancy clothes, passing in and out of the guarded
doors of enormous hotel casinos with names like Caesar's
Palace and Circus Circus, as they dominate the streets and
skyways. Squeezed in between the giants are lots of smaller slot
machine line ups, fast food restaurants, pawn shops, 'pay-day'
loans, hair salons, Traveler's Aid, and a fourteen-foot-wide
entrance to a 'gambler's anonymous' gathering spot.
Jethro is
approached by a thirtyish man with sunglasses, a
flopping pink and purple shirt, offering him a handful of
nickels.
"Hey man, here you go, try these out on the
slots right here."
Jethro looks
bewildered by this offer.
The huckster
continues, "Come on young fella, it's free. You look
like you're new here. This is the way we do it. We give you ten
nickels and show the way to start having some fun on the slots.
Just put a nickel in the slot and pull the handle down man."
He is
laughing at Jethro now. "Don't be shy. It's not going
to bite you. See all those people lined up at those slots.
They're making those nickels sing for them. Hear them bells
ringin' and people squealing'? They're gettin' loads more
nickels coming's' at 'em. They're buildin' up a fortune. You can
too. Have some fun with it. Ha, ha."
Jethro is
smiling politely, but silent, as he tries to swallow
all that is coming at him. He opens his hand and accepts the
offer.
There are
more chortles, "It's fun man. You can get more nickels
from that woman behind the window. It'll cost you this time.
Then, if you want, there's a steak breakfast for just two bucks
up in that hall behind the slots. Can't beat that deal. Get you
ready for a big day on the strip. Ha."
So this is
Las Vegas. He is starting to join the parade of lights,
nickels, and cacophony of bells, loud music, shouts of
"Yes, yes!" from big winners, and "shits!" from big losers, and
silence from the dozens of people dutifully pulling the handles
of these jangling slot machines of all coin denominations. Some
of them are working three and four shiny dispensers at a time.
Put in the coin. Pull the handle. Without waiting to see the
result, they walk to the next machine and do it all again and
again. Without a frown or a smile. Letting the coins pile up
when there is a lucky combination. If there is a jackpot for
someone in the carpeted aisle, the coins come pouring out. The
winner jumps up and down. Folks turn, smile, and go back to
their own versions of trying to beat the odds. Some watch, maybe
waiting until a user leaves an unproductive machine. That is the
time to move in and take over, with the expectation that this
machine is 'due.'
There's
lots of camera activity for Jethro here. There is a plump,
gray-haired woman, probably another tourist. She holds an
emptied coffee cup, oil filled with quarters. She is wild-eyed,
smiling at her five whirring and beneficent machines. She
excitedly yells back and forth to her companion across the
aisle. Her other arms keeps pulling the handles and inserting
the coins.
Jethro is
enticed to take the plunge. The shiny giant sucks up his ten
nickels with no return. There is a momentary thought about
buying some more but decides that the two-dollar steak
breakfast 'sweetener' is the better option for now. He
eats. He watches. He buys more film. He takes pictures. He
shakes his head in amazement at the scene.
At the next
table in the eatery is an old man with a long white beard,
white hair poking our from under a soiled hunting cap, red
suspenders attached to his wrinkled jeans, topped with a green
tee shirt with the printing proclaiming, "Heaven is
now!" He is counting and stacking the coins spilling from a
small satchel in front of him on the table. He dunks his donut
in his coffee and leans in to slurp in the saturated mix. He
sees Jethro looking at him. A toothless smile is exposed, and he
proudly concludes, "Not a bad take for an early mornin,' You
been playin'?"
Jethro
smiles, "A little. Enough to lose the ten nickels. Ha.
Do you mind if I take a picture of you and your stash?"
With a
throaty belch, the old man replies, "Sure, mind you,
pictures of me have been known to crack a lens or two. Heh,
heh."
He makes a friendly turn on his seat to
Jethro and introduces himself, "They call me Walrus. I don't
know why. I'm living' in Chloride. it's somethin' of a ghost
town, twenty-five miles north of here. I come down most weekends
to try my luck. Sometimes it's pretty good. Others not."
Jethro
responds, "Well, I'm Jethro Smalley. I'm just stopping
over here on my way from Oskaloosa, Kansas, goin' to my uncle's
almond ranch in Lost Hills, California. It's my first time here.
Actually, it's the first time away from our farm in Oskaloosa. I
just graduated from high school. From the looks of things I'll
be drafted for the thing in Vietnam pretty soon. Never seen a
slot before, or anything like this place."
"It's
pretty wild alright. Let me tell ya. You see all kinds.
Everyone's greedy to beat the 70/30 odds. You can get caught up
in the fever of it all. Little money, big money. Frayed jeans,
sleek tuxedos. Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis at Caesar's Palace,
or Joey Henshaw at the Big Red. Smiles. Tears. Sometimes a
windfall. Often a prison. Oh yeah, it's all here."
Walrus leans
in to whisper, "See that fella there, two tables
down?"
Jethro nods.
"He
came in here an hour ago, swearing' up a storm of 'shits'…shit
this, and shit that. Tears streamin' down his face. Tippin' his
head back to drink from that pint inside the brown bag after his
'shits.' A hurtin' guy. Probably lost his shirt last night.
Tryin' now to figure out what's next, and how to 'splain it to
his family at home. I know the feeling'. I been there. Family's
gone now. It's just me and my mutt in a trailer outside
Chloride. I 'spect there's a trail of us out of this place. I
never made it to the tuxedo games or big name shows…just dreamed
about it."
Jethro
stares in wonderment at Walrus, and then at the shit'man
down the aisle. He is pondering this whole scene. There's so
much in this parade to take in. All the glitzy stuff. All the
people stuff. Where does he fit with it all?
Walrus
smiles at Jethro, saying, "I know you're new young
fella. But drink it in. Listen to it. It has its own lingo and
rules. Just walk up and down under those crystal chandeliers, on
that cushy carpet, and see what's goin' on. See if you can
figure it out. You'll hear lots of new stuff, a whole new
language, like 'barber pole.' That's when there's more than one
color or denomination in a pile of chips. Or 'capping,' when you
cheat the tables by adding extra chips on top of an original bet
once the game has begun. You get that? Ha, ha."
"Yeah,
I guess."
"There's
a million of 'em. What is it when you hear somebody talking
about 'cracking' the nut.' Any idea?"
"Nope."
"Well,
it'll probably be a casino manager talking' 'bout his net
profits after expenses. Or, if you hear him sayin' someone is
'down to the felt,' it means he's pointin' at someone's who
broke or busted. And when you hear a manager complainin,' he'll
call a customer a 'flea' because he is a very irritatin' player.
Get the idea?"
"I
guess so."
"Well,
I could go on all day, but I'll quit with a big one.
'Scampi capper.' Any idea?"
"Not
a clue."
"That,
my friend, is a gambler who is making outlandish claims about
his win percentages and expectations."
Walrus wraps
up his teaching session with, "Yeah, it's a strange
world, a crazy world man. It's the only world for a lot of
us…Sure, take another picture, lots of pictures, so you'll
remember."
He gathers
his stash of coins into his satchel and says, "Well,
it's nice to met ya…Jethro…was it? I gotta get back to Chloride
and my mutt. Good luck, and I hope they don't catch up to ya for
the mess in Vietnam."
"Thanks,
Walrus. I'm glad we met."
Walrus pulls
his jeans into place, gives a slight wave of his forearm, and
with his toothless smile disappears into the passing crowd on
Fremont Street.
It's
too late to get back to the terminal for the bus to L.A. Jethro
calls Uncle Malcolm with the news. He spends the whole day and
night walking the main streets and the side streets of Las
Vegas. The glitter and the noise never quit. What are people
thinking?
He pockets
lots more nickels from the many small arcades along the way…enough
to buy him lunch, supper, corn dogs, and ice creams. He wanders
through Circus Circus and notices the hefty, tuxedoed men
guarding the big steel-clad doors hiding the high stakes gaming
areas for the tuxedoed clients. He observes lots of surveillance
stares from the dealers and strolling supervisors.
Jethro sees
the 'shit man' again, twice. He takes pictures. The
man still has his bagged bottle in one hand. Once, he is leaving
the Traveler's Aid office. Then, he is opening the door to the
Gambler's Anonymous place on Fremont Street. Jethro thinks about
him often.
The crowds
on the streets and in the joints during the day become surging
masses of people as the night skies darken. The pulsing flood
of dancing lights allow electricity to take over and provide
its substitutes for brightness.
Jethro is
close to 'parade' overload and fatigue. At 3:00 a.m.
he makes his way back to the Greyhound terminal on Main Street.
He retrieves his luggage from the locker. It becomes his pillow
on a terminal bench, along with the jacket under his head. Sleep
comes quickly. The early morning hours are punctuated with the
public address system announcing departures. He is ready for his
9:00 a.m. bus ride of six hours to Los Angeles, and then a
150-mile connection north to Lost Hills and his uncle. He sleeps
a lot. He remembers a lot…sees them all again…hears them all
again…the people and places in his Las Vegas parade.
SHADOWS AND GOLD DUST
The shadows were deep and dark for Flynn.
They were no less
ominous for his caregiver sister, Maddie. They had lived
together in a four
room second floor flat on Fayette Street for the last ten
years. Flynn had
retired from a lifetime of welding, and gone on Social
Security. Maddie’s
arthritis in her back and legs had also forced her to leave
her clerking at the
Food Barn, and rely on a monthly Social Security check. Their
combined modest
retirement income allowed a less than modest apartment.
It was bare bones decorating with peeling
paint around the
doors and windows, floors of old brown linoleum, soiled shades
and wallpaper.
There were a couple of frayed gray throw rugs at the entrances
and under the
three legged coffee table. A brick supported its broken fourth
leg. There was a
matching dark brown velour sofa set with its easy chair. A
‘forties’ chrome
metal dining table and its two red padded metal chairs
completed the living
room furnishings.
Flynn was two years older than Maddie. They
had never done
much talking with each other, even as children. Nothing had
changed over the
years. Every day conversations were sparse
for them, like:
"Mornin’."
"Mornin’."
"Coffee?"
"Yep."
"Cold out."
"Yep."
"Anything on TV?"
"Don’t know. Turn it on."
The remainder of the their daytimes they
filled with
watching TV, thumbing through pop magazines for Maddie, and a
sidewalk stroll
for Flynn, ending up with a brew at O’Reilly’s Bar. They had
seemed satisfied
with their simple, uneventful, and unexamined life. That
changed.
Flynn started having difficulty with his
digestion. He
self-medicated with over-the-counter antacids. Relief was only
temporary. He
had always been reasonably healthy, as well as averse to
medical help. No
doctors. No hospitals. Over time his digestive distress had
moved into
unrelenting intestinal pain.
Maddie, along with Maureen, the neighbor in
the first floor
flat, had been awakening to the nightly moans from Flynn’s
bedroom. It was
exasperating and wearing on their nerves.They had to say
something.
"Brother, you are in so much pain and your
groaning
most of the night keeps me awake, and Maureen downstairs too.
We have to do
something. Your stomach pills aren’t helping. You need
something for the pain."
"I guess… I’m sorry."
"You can’t help it. But maybe somebody…
some doctor at
St. Vincent’s emergency room can help. We have to try… Maureen
thinks so too"
"I guess."
They convinced him. In resignation, Flynn
gave in.
The emergency room visit ensued. The visit
and what
followed, confirmed his aversion to medical attentions. The
lengthy process of
blood tests, biopsies, X-rays, MRI’s, all revealed an
inoperable tumor in his
lower intestine.
"I knew I never should have gone to that
emergency
room!" was his visceral response to the news. The beads of
sweat on his
furrowed brow, his shaking hands, and wide-eyed stare told the
story of fright
and anger coming from his insides.
The discharging doctor at St. Vincent’s
invited Maddie into
his office where he gravely informed her of Flynn’s condition.
"Have a seat Ms. Robar —Maddie, is it?
Maddie, you and
Flynn have been through a lot with all of these tests and
having to wait for
the results. But we wanted to be sure. You both know how much
pain he is in.
The results of all the tests and X-rays tell us why. I’m very
sorry, but your
brother has a massive tumor in his lower intestine. It has
grown and it is
spreading beyond any operation or treatment at this point."
When the half-expected news spilled out,
Maddie had her hand
covering her mouth, her eyes wide, as her head moved back and
forth.
"The best thing that we and you can do for
Flynn is to
try to make him as comfortable as possible for his remaining
days. It won’t be
long. He has less than six months to live. He has not yet been
told about this.
I’ll follow your wishes on that."
Maddie looked at the doctor with
bewilderment, but said
nothing. It was her secret to hold as she followed the
doctor’s instructions.
"Get these pain killers filled at the
pharmacy and keep
him as comfortable as possible. These other pills will help
you get some sleep
at night."
Maddie lightly patted Flynn’s hand as they
rode home
together in the back seat of Maureen’s car. Their eyes did not
meet. They both
stared out the window on their own side.They did not speak, as
was their
custom. Neither did Maureen, not wanting to interrupt their
thoughts, and not
having heard the doctor’s prognosis.
The days and weeks that followed deepened
the shadows… shadows
of pain, impending death, and scarce conversations.
"Need another pill."
"Yep."
"Warm enough?"
"Nope."
"Think maybe some broth will taste good?"
"Maybe."
Maddie had her own quiet pains to deal
with. She was
struggling with, should I
tell him what the
doctor told me, that he’s dying? I don’t know what to say
or do, I never have!"
She finally confided some of her thoughts
and the prognosis
to Maureen, who was more of a feeler and talker.
After a pause Maureen responded, "I thought
as much. It
must be so hard for you…knowing all this and keeping it all
inside."
"Oh my, yes. I’m still awake half the night
about it."
"I’ll bet he already knows. He’s no dummy.
I’ll bet he
heard you and the doctor whispering about him outside his
hospital room."
"I hope not. I just don’t know what to do.
I don’t know
if he can handle it…what he might do.."
"Even if he didn’t hear you, his pain
hasn’t let up. He
has to take more
pills, He’s feeling
weaker and weaker. He says that."
"And he sees himself getting thinner and
thinner."
"I think he knows where this is going. It’s
too bad he
can’t talk about it. It’s too bad you
can’t talk about
it with him."
"I don’t know. That’s the way it’s always
been between
us."
"Hard to change all that now I guess. Dark
times,
these."
"Oh my, yes, yes."
"You might try it sometime though. Ask him
if he wants
to talk about, right out. See what he says. Can’t hurt. You
might be surprised.
And even if he’s not ready to talk, it’s another way of
letting him know how
you want to care for him. Think about it.
"Mmm. I will. I dunno, but I will."
"I gotta go now, but come on down whenever
you want to
for a chat or visit. Let know if you need anything…or if you
need to move him
or something."
"I will. I will. Thank you, Maureen. I hope
you can
sleep better tonight."
Maddie looked at Flynn’s emaciated body
lying in bed. He was
staring at the ceiling. She sidled close to the bed, gently
put her hand on his
cold skin and
gathered the courage to
ask,
"Well, brother, do you want to talk about
any of this?
It’s been a long haul for you…for us."
His eyes turned from the ceiling to meet
hers. There was a
pause. Then he looked down and said,
"I guess not…but thanks."
Their wall was still there but it seemed
softer.
Maddie broke the silence with, "Would you
like me to
help you get into the other room so you can rest on the couch
and maybe watch
some TV?"
It was an arduous walk. But they were
together. They did
touch some. They had to. They had to have that moment of
closeness. Still few
words. She managed to make him reasonably comfortable with the
soft couch
cushions under him and another dose of pain killers. He didn’t
want any broth.
And so went the shadow days, and the shadow
weeks. More pain
killers. Less food. She tried to clean up after him. There
were brief chats
with Maureen when she brought some food. Flynn was finally
confined to the
couch day and night. Maddie was worried about the expanding
sores on his back.
Maureen thought, he surely
knows that death is
in the offing. But even in the extremes of the
shadows there was no
talk of it between brother and sister.
But there was talk of it all between Maddie
and Maureen. The
putrid smells emanating from Flynn’s decaying body and its
fluids penetrated
beyond their flat into the hallways and stairway down to
Maureen’s flat. She
said to Maddie,
"I don’t know how you can stand it. The
awful smells..
the filth. It’s driving me bananas downstairs, and you’re
right in it all day.
We have to do something. We have to call someone for some
help."
Maddie
replied, "I
know. I know. It’s awful. I try to open the windows whenever I
can to get some
fresh air in. But then the cold air makes everything worse for
Flynn. It’s such
a mess in here. I try to clean up a little where I can." She
fingers the
dust along the ridges of the coffee table.
"I know, it’s overwhelming for you. I can
see that."
"You’ve been so good. Thanks for the food
you’ve
brought up. But he can’t eat any of it, and my appetite is
gone most of the
time."
"You’re certainly welcome and don’t worry
about it. I
understand."
"I honestly don’t know what to do. He just
stares up at
the ceiling with his eyes half closed. His wheezing is all I
hear, even with
the TV on. All I can do is give him more of this morphine
stuff."
Maureen put her hand on Maddie’s,
"Well, why don’t I try to get ahold of that
doctor at
St. Vincent’s and
see what he says. What
was his name? It was foreign, like Berbarian, right?"
Maddie nodded agreement, "But Flynn won’t
go back to
the hospital. I’ve asked him a bunch of times. He’ll have
nothing of it."
"I know. I know." Maureen assured, "but
maybe
the doctor can suggest something else. We have to do
something."
"Okay. Okay."
"I’ll use my phone downstairs and be right
back."
Maddie sat on the metal chair next to the
couch, tenuously
stroking Flynn’s arm, as she waited for Maureen to return.
In a few minutes she heard Maureen coming
up the stairs. She
came in with a hot pot of tea and announced,
"Well, luckily I reached the doctor at the
hospital
emergency room. I told him who I was, and briefly about your
desperate
situation. He remembered you and Flynn and asked for your
address."
Maddie’s eyes were wide with her mouth open
as she absorbed
the news.
"He said that Hospice would be the best
help for you
now and that he would contact them right away. Flynn would not
have to go to
the hospital. Hospice services will come to you at your home.
He won’t have to
be moved. He was very nice. He said that Hospice would
probably be here within
the hour. Have you heard about Hospice?"
"A little. But they come here?"
"Yes. That’s what I understand, and they
take care of
everything. It’s hard to imagine isn’t it? We’ll just have to
wait for them and
hope they can do something this afternoon."
At Hospice the coordinator for admissions
looked around for
two people to respond. Ginny would be the nurse. She was
bright and cheery,
with a deeply caring countenance that evoked relief and
confidence from her
patients. She was of a slight build, trim from all of her
marathon running.
Paul, was coordinator for volunteer training and public
relations, but like
others at Hospice, wore many hats, and could handle
admissions.
When they arrived at Flynn and Maddie’s
address they opened
the street door at the bottom of the stairs. Their nostrils
were stunned by the
intense odors of putrefaction filling the air. They turned,
looked at each
other, rolled their eyes, wary as to where this would lead.
"Phew and ugh," were Paul’s words as he put
his
handkerchief over his mouth and nose.
"Oh dear. Oh dear. This is serious," were
Ginny’s
words as she coughed into her fist.
Apprehensively, they made their way up the
stairs. The door
to the flat was open. Maddie and Maureen were sitting at the
metal table having
tea.
Paul and Ginny entered the room as Paul
announced, "Hello,
we are from Hospice. We are looking for Flynn Robard, who was
referred to us by
a Dr. Berbarian at St. Vincent’s Hospital."
"Yes, this is his place," Maddie replied,
rising
to meet them, "I’m his sister, Maddie Robard. He just goes by
‘Flynn.’ This
is my neighbor from downstairs, Maureen. She’s been a dear.
Thank you for
coming so quickly."
They exchanged handshakes and removed their
overcoats.
"We really need help. He’s in a bad way
over there on
the couch. He’s got some terrible back sores. Won’t eat
nothin’. Just stares at
the ceiling and wheezes all day and night. I haven’t been able
to get to him to
clean up his stinkin’ mess for over a week. He won’t go to the
hospital, so I
just get the morphine stuff down him whenever he yells out."
Maddie, wringing her hands in helplessness,
glanced at
Flynn, then whispered pleadingly, "I know he’s dying. He
probably does too
but we’ve never talked about it. Of course we never talked
about much of
anything. We just both went about our business here for the
last ten years. I’m
at my wits end…"
"Well, I know these are hard and dark times
for you,"
replied Ginny, "We’ll try to help out a bit. First of all we
need to get
some fresh air in here so we can all breathe better. Why don’t
you two put on
your coats and find me a blanket for Flynn. We’ll see what we
can do to make
him more comfortable."
Paul went right to opening the windows as
the women found
their coats and the blanket.
Flynn, his eyes half open, stared at the
ceiling. His
breathing was in short bursts of wheezing.. He looked to be
numb from pain.
Ginny spoke loudly, "Hello Flynn, I am a
nurse. I need
to have a look at you to see what can be done to make you a
little more
comfortable. We need to turn you to see your back. You let us
know if you feel
any pain, okay?"
Paul and Ginny reached behind Flynn and
turned him over.
They gasped at what they saw. Ginny turned her head and
whispered to Paul, "This
is the worst…ever."
Rotting flesh surrounded football sized
open wound at his
lower back. It exposed the lumbar vertebrae and also a
blue-gray tumor
competing for space with his exposed intestines.
The intensity of the stench made their eyes
water. They were
speechless as they tried to comprehend the sensual impact
confronting them.
Flynn didn’t flinch. Ginny’s tongue curled to her upper lip as
she tried to put
the whole scene and its options in order.
Ginny internally joined her compassion with
her pragmatism
and started in, "This is very serious. There is a lot that
needs doing. I
need your help as well. I need to call for a hospital bed
right away. Maddie,
where is your phone?"
She answered, "I don’t have one. Never
really needed
one. But Maureen has one downstairs."
Maureen chimed in, "Yes, I’ll show you.
Follow me."
Ginny continued with her list, "Paul, while
I’m gone
you get the information you need from Maddie, and then get a
basin with some
hot, sudsy water so we can start to clean him up…and that mess
around the
couch."
"When I get back, Maddie…you need some
fresh air. Why
don’t you and Maureen take a walk for a half hour or so. Paul
and I can get
Flynn’s wound cleaned and dressed. When the bed and other
stuff I’m ordering
arrive from medical supply, we’ll get it set up, have the men
help move Flynn
from the couch to the bed. Then we’ll ask them to help get
this couch out of
here…"
Ginny sensed Maddie’s angst as her little
world was suddenly
incurring major disruptions.
"Maddie,
you can
see it’s ruined. It’s soaked with body waste and reeks to high
heaven. We have
to get it out of here, and the place needs a thorough
cleaning…with Lysol or
something strong. Maureen, can you help with that soon?"
Maureen nods her
okay.
"So Maddie, I know there’s a lot happening
very fast
here. Are you okay with all of this?"
From her mixed state of bewildered relief,
"Oh yes,
yes. I guess so. Thank you. Stinks awful, don’t it?"
"Okay, Maureen, if you would show me to
your phone,
I’ll also see when the Hospice doctor can come by."
Within the next three hours all of Ginny’s
plans were
accomplished. Then the four of them stood together at Flynn’s
bedside. Maureen
and Ginny had their arms around Maddie. Paul gently stroked
Flynn’s arm.
Maddie, in her effort to reflect,
summarized the moment,
"Well, who’ve thought it would all come to
this. My,
my. I didn’t know what I was going to do. You’re doing so
much. It helps a lot.
Thank you."
Warmly, Ginny replied, "You’re so welcome
Maddie. I’m
glad to know you, especially now. I’ll come by everyday to
redress Flynn’s
wound and see what else needs doing. Dr. Wesley, from Hospice
will be coming
with me tomorrow morning."
After some welcomed silence together, Ginny
spoke up,
"In the meantime, Maddie, you need to do
some looking
after yourself. Why don’t you let Maureen help you clean up,
shower, and get
some fresh clothes on, get the dirty things to the laundromat,
and a have a
bite to eat. Would you do that Maureen?"
Maureen squeezed Maddie’s shoulder with an
"Absolutely."
Maddie repeated her quiet reflections,
"Don’t know what
I would have done without you …all of you…I’m not sure what I
can do now…Is
there something…anything…or do I just sit and look at him and
wait for the
wheezing to stop and he dies? Is that it?"
"Well, I think there is something very
important you
can do in these final hours with your brother. I know that you
said that he,
and you, were never much for exchanging thoughts and words,
and even less for
ever touching or hugging each other…"
Maddie interrupted with, "Oh my God, no.
Few words…only
enough to make it through the day, and never, never, any
hugging or any of that
stuff!"
"Well Maureen and I have had our arms
around you for
the last half hour, I saw you touch Flynn’s hand when he was
on the couch. How
was all that for you? Scary?"
Maddie replied, as she looked at Maureen’s
smiling face, "A
little ..at first anyway."
Ginny added, "Well, it feels really fine to
me. I think
it’s worth you trying with Flynn…maybe sometime tonight…just
for yourself, and
not worry how he might or might not respond…test it out… a
little at a time.
Maybe another touch on the hand, or a little kiss on the
forehead..a stroke of
his arm..even a…well, you decide."
In the silence Maddie stared at her brother
and rubbed away
her trickle of tears.
"It could be an important way to speak to
him without
even using words. You’ll be alone with him. You can have your
special thoughts
about things you might have said and done, or what just the
moment can mean." Maddie
was thoughtful and silently absorbed.
As the four of them separated from around
the bed, Ginny
said to Paul, "Why don’t you drive your van to the dump and
get rid of the
couch. I’ll stay here and watch over Flynn while Maureen helps
Maddie get
cleaned up. They all parted ways.
When Maureen and Maddie returned from
getting cleaned up and
having a bite to eat they found…of all things…Ginny, the
skinny Hospice nurse,
curled up in bed next to Flynn.
Though amazing to Maureen and Maddie, it
was not unusual for
a Hospice nurse to demonstrate this kind of connectedness with
a patient,
especially one who had chosen to be alone most of his life.
Now, he was very
alone, even though he probably hungered for this oneness at
his core.
Using her free arm, Ginny was softly
running her hand over
his head and face. He was quieter in his wheezing now. His
eyes were closed.
Maddie was taking all of this in and wondering…it was new
territory for her…but
strangely it felt right…it felt better.
When Paul returned from the dump run, he
and Ginny said
their goodbyes to Maddie and Maureen, with a hug, a smile, and
a promise to
return in the morning with Dr. Wesley.
Arriving as promised in the morning with Dr
Wesley, Ginny
knocked at Maddie’s door. At first there was no answer.
Another knock produced
Maddie in a bathrobe. After a welcomed hug and introduction of
Dr. Wesley,
and then his
brief examination of
Flynn’s condition, Ginny moved closer to Flynn’s bed. She was
deeply pleased to
notice a second pillow next to Flynn’s. It was Maddie’s
pillow, borrowed from
the easy chair. The scenario was evident. She had taken the
leap from Ginny’s
invitation and spent the night next to her brother in bed.
Gold dust had sprinkled into the shadows of
that room that
night. There had been a birthing of closeness. There were the
whispered stories
Maddie rehearsed to Flynn of their lives. Missed
opportunities. Dreams
postponed. Openings to the inside.
She
couldn’t know for
sure, but it seemed that the gold dust had made its way into
Flynn’s decaying
body…certainly into his soul parts. His wheezing was less
labored. His brow was
no longer furrowed with fright. Even though there was not much
time left for
his skin draped skeleton, a rebirth had happened…certainly for
Maddie…maybe for
Flynn. Late,
perhaps. His body gave out
in two days.
But not really too late, because in matters
of the heart,
then and now, what matters most is the quality of the time,
not the quantity.
Gold dust, in whatever form, is always welcome in the shadows.
EXTRAS
A HYMN FOR EARTH DAY
-- SHINE MYSTERY!
Our eyes are veiled, but yet we see
God's glory so oft revealed;
A ray of sun, a blade of grass, a bird in flight,
Soft moonbeams light, emblazoned sky,
Cosmos expands, atoms divide, sweet butterfly
Sing alleluia, shout alleluia,
Love's whole creation, shine mystery!
Expose it more to us each day,
We shall ever expectant be,
The joy of eyes, and ears delight;
The sounds beyond, an inner sight,
The mystic harmonies of love,
Connected hearts and souls entwine.
Sing alleluia, shout alleluia,
Love's whole creation, shine mystery!
Prepare our hearts, affix our gaze,
Compassion fill our miseries;
Let wounded hearts melt with our own,
Reveal our union long since won,
Let us receive and then respond,
With Love's mysteries held deep within.
Sing alleluia, shout alleluia ,
Love's whole creation, shine mystery.
Sing alleluia, shout alleluia,
Love's whole creation, shine mystery!
HEAVEN
POSTPONED
They both hear it. The sirens of the gods are
screaming across their emotional skyways.
They answer "yes" to the allurements.
Separately they navigate life's jagged rocks in their paths,
arriving a quietly scintillating pond secluded among the gently
billowing willows. There are abundant low hanging sweet fruits
oozing their tempting nectar. They taste. The siren's
enticements are coming true.
Heaven is pregnant here.
They eye each other as they show-off in the
sparkling spring. Splashing. Sometimes floating. Sometimes
propelling dolphin like, undulating through the waters. A laugh.
A squeal. They churn a trail of bubbles as their bodies dizzily
absorb the honey of this heaven. Urges within serve as magnets
to pull them closer. They do the mating dance as fingertips
slide alongside for a moment's spark. Hair strands glide around
an ankle. The curves of the calves and shoulders are lightly
caressed. Touches and tickles titillate the hungry skin. Shared
smiles of anticipated pleasure promise more excitements.
Imaginings whirl into gratifying harmonies. What could be
better?
Heaven is birthing here.
Every body part is on alert and engaged in
the teasing, the testing, the enfolding, the clutching, the
improvising, the pulling, the stroking. The brain seems absent
as the bodies entangle. The potent qualms about desirability are
being smothered with the rapid tingling of the spine and toes.
Fully enmeshed, their bodies are now swirling in the vortex of
ecstasy. At the end of the glistening pond they are fully joined
and being swept through the surging whirlpool to the turbulent
rapids of sexual bliss. Together they are tossed to and fro, in
and out, up and down, through the heaving froth. In their
orgasmic blur they exclaim primal moans, piercing shrieks of
laughter, and shouts of delight. They see the bulging blue veins
throbbing on their necks. They feel the fingernails scraping
plump flesh across their backs...ahh...just as the sirens had
promised.
And then, with faces tightly squinched, limbs
straining, there is a final heaving, pulsating explosion as
piercing shouts herald the release from every pore. Their bodies
have offered up their treasure trove of pleasure. They collapse
together for the tastings of the sweet after glow. Her breasts
press into his chest. They are awash in the sweat and juices of
love making. The rapid thumping of their hearts begins its
decline. Crimson hickies rise in the shoulder shallows. Droplets
of perspiration trickle down their backs.
Heaven is spent here.
Quietness surrounds their interlocked limbs.
Heads start to clear. Sleep beckons. What more could the sirens
of the gods have to offer? From their inner recesses rises the
sense that one thing more is needful. For a few passing seconds
their heavenly longings are looking for expression. Before they
separate to replenish their physical energies, their lips part
with smiles of pleasure and hope. Their eyes meet and stare for
an eternal instant. Their four white globular organs peer behind
these windows. They are like searchlights into the hidden
reaches where the soul might dwell. Signals race through their
synapses, searching for the precious combination of elixirs that
will give permission to unlock the necessary words from their
heart places: "I LOVE YOU." It is not to be found in the look.
It cannot be said aloud. There is nothing to alchemize the joys
of physical joining into soul joining. The penetrating gaze into
heaven's home is empty. In that instant of poignant awareness
they hear the whispers of regrets echoing in their world.
Verbally, they share assurances of their
marvelous love making adventure. Their bodies slide apart. They
hold hands as they fall asleep with the unspoken knowings that
...
Heaven is postponed. They will listen for the
sirens again.
SELTZER GENEALOGY
complete genealogy
online at
http://www.seltzerbooks.com/gen/seltzer/seltzergenealogy.html
Charles Philip Seltzer (1921-2008)
Richard Warren Seltzer (1923-2014), his
autobiography is online at http://www.seltzerbooks.com/lifeandtimes.html
and http://www.seltzerbooks.com/lifeandtimes2.html
James Henry Seltzer (1928-2013)
John Paul Seltzer (1932- ), the author of
this book
Children
of
Warren Ray Seltzer
(April 20, 1891 Washington, DC -
April 13, 1978, Washington, DC)
architect, md. June 19, 1918 Lillian Leona
Daly (Oct. 6, 1890 - April 15, 1973)
Newspaper notice of his death:
Warren Seltzer, Retired Architect
for Government
Warren Ray Seltzer, 87, a retired government architect, died Wednesday at the National
Lutheran Home in Washington
after a stroke.
He worked
for the Navy's bureau of Docks and
Yards, and after World War II, the
Veterans Administration for 40 years
before retiring
in
1966.
Mr. Seltzer was a native
of Washington and
graduate of McKinley Tech
High School. He
earned a degree
in
architecture
at Catholic
University.
A resident of
Silver Spring for
50 years, he had
been active in the
senior fellowship,
Sunday
school
and choir at
St. Luke Lutheran Church in Silver Spring
since
1942.
His wife, the
former
Lillian Daly, died in 1973.
He is survived
by four sons,
the Rev. C.
Philip of
Marshallville,
Ohio, Dr.
Richard W. of
Columbia, Pa.,
James H. of Snow Hill, Md., and the
Rev. Dr. J. Paul of Syracuse, NY; 12 grandchildren,
and six
great-grandchildren.
Warren's siblings
(by mother Susan) =
Charles W. Seltzer
(1880- )
Edgar Arnold Seltzer
(1884- ), daughter = Olive
children of:
Henry Hocker
Seltzer (Aug. 28,
1856 - Aug. 7 1925), physician,
md. (1) 1877 Susan Arnold (April 1859 - Dec. 1916), daughter of Peter Arnold
md. (2) Oct. 18, 1918 Sarah L.
Behm (1856-). Henry and Susan both buried in
Washington, DC.
His autobiography
= "Henry Hocker Seltzer, Pennsylvania Dutch Teacher, Civil Servant and
Physician - Memories of
1856-1915"
as web page http://www.seltzerbooks.com/hocker.html
as
pdf page http://www.seltzerbooks.com/hockercomplete.pdf
He grew up on a farm near Belle Grove,
Pennsylvania. Pennsylvania Dutch was spoken in the home. English was his second language, putting him at a
disadvantage when he went
to school, but he became very bookish, proud of his
educational accomplishments. For 10 years,
he taught in one-room schoolhouses in
Pennsyvanian Dutch
farm country. At
times, he handled,
alone, as many as 65 students
ranging in age from 5 to 21, and for a wage of $33/month.
He had to deal
with the vagaries of rural
schools, with behavior
problems and parents who had
little respect for book learning,
and arbitrary
decisions of county-level
school
administration.
During corn-husking sometimes only 3-5 students would
show up. He traveled by train to Kansas in 1878, and
almost settled there. Later, le got a civil service
bookkeeping job with the US
Treasury Dept and wrote
a bookkeeping text
book for farmers. And,
at the age of 40, he got an M.D. degree from what later became George
Washington
University. He practiced medicine
very little, having gotten the
degree mainly to prove that he
could.
half-siblings of Henry
Hocker Seltzer
children of
Henry Uhland Seltzer and Barbara Smith Seltzer
John P. Seltzer (1851-1922)
Martin
Seltzer (1852-1934)
James M. Seltzer
(1854-1855)
Elizabeth E. Seltzer
(1859-1934)
Benjamin F. Seltzer
(1861-1949)
Charles Augustus Seltzer (Uncle Gus)
(1864-1965), daughter = Violet
Harvey L. Seltzer
(1866-1936)
Henry Hocker Seltzer is the son of
Henry Uhland
Seltzer (June
15 June, 1824 - Nov. 25, 1897; md. Anna Hocker (May 10, 1827 - Jan. 10, 1914) Hocker
Family
Henry Uhland
Seltzer = son of
Philip Seltzer (stone mason, also cultivated a small
farm which he owned) ( Dec. 6,
1772 - April 19, 1847) died of tuberculosis, buried in the Reformed cemetery at Annville, PA; md. March 25, 1800
Maria Uhland (Aug.
10, 1784 - Feb. 25, 1860) died
of cancer, buried Lutheran cemetery at Bellegrove, PA.
Philip Seltzer's siblings =
Anna Maria Seltzer (1771-
)
Abraham L. Seltzer (1773-1863)
Jacob Seltzer (1776-1846)
Barbara (1777-1875)
Michael Seltzer
(1780-1863)
John Seltzer (1783-1856)
John George Seltzer
(1813-1899)
children of:
Johann Michael Seltzer
(March 23, 1740 Lutheran, Parchim, Mecklenburg-Vorpommern,
Germany - 1815 Mount Zion, Lebanon, Pennsylvania) md. Barbara
Gasser (1748 - ). Michael arrived in Philadelphia
with his father in 1752. He
served in the American Revolution. His descendants qualify for
membership in the Sons of the American Revolution
and in the Daughters of
the American
Revolution.
Michael was
buried in the cemetery at Zoar's
Lutheran Church, Mt. Zion, Lebanon
County, PA (tombstone made of native
sandstone worn by the
elements and illegible in 1937; per handwritten
notes by Richard Seltzer, Sr., this tombstone no longer existed in
1975).
Barbara Gasser was daughter of Jacob Gasser of Helidelberg
Township near Schaefferstown,
Lebanon County, where he owned and cultivated 38 acres which he
purchased form the Penn agents in 1735) reportedly
buried in Jonestown,
Lebanon County.
Children: i Anna
Maria ii Philip iii Jacob iv Michael Jr. v
John vi Barbara
Michael and
Barbara Seltzer probably established their
first home in or near
Schaeferstown, where their first child was born and
baptized in St. Luke's Lutheran
Church, of which they
were members in 1771.
Michael signed
the Oath of Allegiance to the American Colonies in 1778 and
served as a soldier of the third class in Company 7 of the 9th Battalion
of Lancaster County in 1781, under Captain Bradley
and Lieutenant Adam Mark. [per handwritten notes by Richard Seltzer, Sr., spelled "Michel
Selcer" on the muster roll.]
He paid a tax of eight pounds (English money)
on 150 acres of land which he
owned in Bethel township in 1782. Bethel township and
Heidelberg township were both then in Lancaster County. When Dauphin County was created from
Lancaster in 1785, Michael Seltzer and his brother Christian,
both residents of Bethel township were among
those who protested about Middletown
becoming the county seat of Dauphin County.
On May 5, 1789, Michael and his wife Barbara purchased 166 acres of land from
Archibald Sloan for 560 pounds. This
was part of a larger tract granted to Samuel Sloan by the
Proprietaries of Pennsylvania, on November 26,
1748. (Samuel was Chibald's
uncle). This tract
lies directly north
of the bridge that
spans the Swatara Creek at what is know
as the Water
Works, north of
Annville, PA. On this tract,
Michael Seltzer
erected a house and barn. A
stone in the upper part of the
house has this inscription
"M.S.
1802". Cross the bridge across
Swatara Creek at Water
Works, the farm lies on
the left side of
the road. Go
down
the lane to the
creek. Here is the
house, shaded
by trees.
This tract is recorded in Book G.,
Volume 1, Page 307 in the Recorders
Office, Dauphin County Court
House, Harrisburg, PA, as
follows: "Beginning at a
F____ thence by land of Robert
Young, North 50 degrees, East 174
perches, thence by land of Peter Gingrich,
South 113 perches, thence by same East 18
and two tenth perches, thence by same South one and
one-half degrees
and
169 perches, thence down
Swatara Creek 2786 perches to place of beginning."
Johann Michael's siblings =
Georg Christian
Johann Jacob
Johann Phillip
Maria Eva
children of
(Johann or Hans) Jacob Seltzer (Feb. 15, 1711 - 1772)
md. 1733
Anna Maria Welsen ( - 1769)
Immigrant.
Cooper and farmer. Arrived in Pennsylvania 1752 with
Wife Anna Maria Welsin; Daughter Maria
Eva; Son Johann Michael; Son Johann Philipp; Son
Georg Christian; Son Johann Jacob. Source: BURGERT, ANNETTE KUNSELMAN. Eighteenth Century Emigrants from German-Speaking Lands to
North America. Publications of the Pennsylvania German Society,
16/19. Birdsboro, PA: The
Pennsylvania German Society. Vol. 1:
The Northern Kraichgau. 1983. 461p.,
page 341.
Shown in Passenger and
Immigration Lists
Index, 1500s-1900s at
Ancestry.com
(Johann) Jacob = son of
Wyerich
Seltzer (1661 Michelfeld, Amberg-Sulzbach, Byern,
Gemany - 1742 Michelfeld, Amberg-Sulzbach, Byern, Germany)
md. 1683 Michelfeld, Ostalbkris, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany Anna
Catherina Neff (1666
Michelfeld, Ostalbkreis, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany - 1759 Michelfeld, Heidelberg,
Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany) The
Neff Family
Wyerich = son of
Erasmus Seltzer (1640, Michelfeld, Amberg-Sulzbach, Bayern,
Germany - 1703, Michelfeld,
Germany) md. 1658 Michelfeld, Amberg-Sulzbach, Bayern,
Germany
Margaretha Donner (Dec.
27, 1638 Sundgau, Germany - June 26, 1667 Michelfeld, Amberg-Sulzbach,
Bayern, Germany)
Erasmus = son of
Georg Seltzer (1604
Michelfeld, Amberg-Sulzbach, Bayern, Germany -
Nov. 22, 1669, Michelfled, Amberg-Sulzbach, Bayern,
Germany) md. 1662 Michelfeld, Germany Anna Baur (1605
Germany - 1654 Laimen, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany)
Georg = son of
Ulrich Seltzer (1572 Michelfeld, Amberg-Sulzbach, Bayern, Germany - 1607
Michelfeld, Heidelberg,
Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany) md. 1600 Michelfeld,
Amberg-Sulzbach, Bayern, Germany
Margaretha (1576 - )
DALY GENEALOGY
Lillian Leona Daly (Oct.
6, 1890 - April 15, 1973 md.
June 19, 1918 Warren Ray Seltzer
(April 20, 1891 Washington, DC - April 13, 1978, Washington,
DC) architect
her siblings =
John Milton (6) Daly died at 94
years old
Mabel May (6) Daly b. 18 January 1888, d. August 1947; md. Wood
Harry Wesley (6) Daly
b. 29 September 1883,
d. 27 June 1959
William
Washington (6) Daly, Jr. (6) b. 7
September 1884, d. 10 July 1938
Edwin Earl (6) Daly b. 1889, d. 1973
Adolph A. (6) Daly b. 29
January 1895, d. 1 March 1973
Margaret Adele (6) Daly b. 20 January 1897, d.
27 May 1995 (98 years);
md. Miller
Amy A. (6) Daly b.
6 October 1885, d. 14 April 1888
Edna E. (6) Daly
b. 17 November 1886, d. 8 July 1888
children of
William Washington
Daly, Sr. md. Margaret
Matilda Thour.
son of
John Michael
Daly b. 23
May 1830 in Dublin, Ireland, d. 4
February 1904 in Norfolk, VA; md. (1) Amanda Baker of Philadelphia (b. 20 October 1835 in Philadelphia, d. 1884) daughter of
Thomas Baker and ___ Lauderbach,
granddaughter of Mary Lauderbach md.
(2) Mary Quinen.
his siblings =
John died young
James b.
21 September 1826 in Dublin
Alice b. 28 October 1828
in Kilbeggan
Jane b. 5 October 1833
in Kilbeggan
Agnes b. 7 June
1835 in Dublin
William b. April 3 (year?) died young
Thomas b.
18 September
1839 in Philadelphia md.
Sept. 19, 1860 Carolline M.
Wilson,
children = Harry,
Athalia,
Kerfoot; granddaughter
Mary Violet Daly
MacFarland (1904-2002),
her
daughter = Mrs. Bruce
Wilson
Mary
Jane died young
Margaret died young
William
Hudson b. 11
July
1842
in Indiana
County
Patrick
died young
Mary
Ellen b. 29
June
1848 in Wilmington, Delaware
children of
Thomas Daly (Feb.
20, 1792 - 1858) at the Gibsonton distillery near Charleroi,
PA md. 18 June 1822 in St. Paul's
Catholic Church, Arran Quay,
Dublin, by Rev. Gormley, Mary Maher.
his siblings =
Catharine Daly b. 7 March 1791, died young
Thomas Daly b. 20
February 1792,
Jane Daly b. 24 July
1793,
James Daly b. 3
December 1794, died young
Alice Daly b. 16
December 1797, d. September 1811.
children
of
John Daly d. 22 May
1806; md. Alice Wheeler 25 June 1789.
son of
Patrick (1) Daly, b.
13 May 1724, Athlone, Ireland
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