Peru and family drama - Travel memoir

This is a memoir from 1947 when I was 16 and it is a "what I did last summer" type piece. Insights into the family and a wild summer for me.

Roney Plaza Hotel, Panama, Peru and polo – 1947

It was the summer of 1947 and plane reservations were still hard to get after the end of WWII, but somehow my mother and I made our way onto a flight to Miami as the first leg of out trip to Peru. My stepfather, Frank, had been brought in to be the president of Cerro De Pasco Mining whose principal operations were there. I remember him as a powerful person. He had his nose broken wrestling in college. A rugged, stock six-footer, he had a heavy beard which left a slate grey stain after shaving which he covered with 4711 after shave lotion. He was demanding; had to have special cigars, a particular blend of coffee and his old fashions made in an exact proportion. He had been at Yale, Skull and Bones, rowed at Oxford, been president of Lockheed Aviation, sat on many boards so was a man of power. He wanted me to do chin-ups. He had traveled to Peru often and we were now to join him for the summer. What I didn’t know until much later was that he was having an affair with the woman who was acting as his hostess while he was there. My mother was on her way to confront him on the situation. To me at sixteen, naively, this was only an adventure in travel with the possibilities of seeing amazing new things. I was kept shielded from the big events.

We were delayed in Miami, waiting for connections so checked into the Roney Plaza Hotel. I could tell my mother didn’t like the place, but it was what was available. There were white marble walls and gold leaf decorations with vacationers collapsed in lounge chairs around the pool. The middle class milieu was not her arena. To me it was a place to swim, sun and a beach nearby in a social climate that offered no challenges.

Two days later we flew on to Panama to another delay and another hotel. The climate was hot and humid, the rooms not airconditioned, but there were three screen doors in each of the rooms to a porch that circled the building. Under the ceiling on the outside walls of the rooms were a row of large windows that could be opened for circulation. When I traveled with my mother I noted she was concerned about people coming and taking things. She was very careful to lock and to be sure her jewelry was safe. She had a three inch square gold broach with an inch square aquamarine with four red rubies that Frank had had made at Van Cleef and Arpels. I had nicknamed it “Dumbo” for a vague resemblance to the Disney elephant. He also gave her earings each with a large blue stone surrounded by eight diamonds that I called the “Blue Fairies”. So this room was a challenge to her. I was oblivious to her stress level and her concern and enjoyed the tour of the Canal and swimming in a nearby pool.

In a few days we were off again, this time landing in Bogotá, Columbia late at night in a driving rainstorm. There was no radar, no real guidance systems at those times. The pilots had to feel their way down through the clouds onto the rolled dirt landing strip framed with rows of lights. I remember the bumpy descent, the rain pouring past the window and the lights glistening out of the fog. With relief we found a taxi, a rather basic hotel and slept immediately.

The next day we flew to Lima, Peru. The city is often covered in a low cloud layer so the pilots turn the planes out to sea then drop under the clouds, skimming the water, racing toward the coast, then lift up over the shore cliffs and drop instantly onto the air strip. Just a week before there had been a crash when a plane missed the airfield. It had been a difficult trip for my mother I am sure, but I seemed to be insulated against fear in these situations. Powerless to make a difference I tended to give into the probabilities and expect to be taken care of by some controlling force.

The next evening we attended a party. My mother and I arrived around six, as invited, to find seven elderly women waiting to play bridge. She sat down and picked up her cards and I was left to wander. In true Spanish tradition the guests were to arrive around nine for a late dinner. I did not speak a word of Spanish so was nervous that someone would find me and ask me to explain myself, but the rooms were empty. The walls were lined with elegant paintings and the furniture pieces were all antiques. I stuck my hands in my pockets and stared at the walls trying to look involved. It was clear that I was not to return to the bridge room so I continued to roam until I found the servants setting up the buffet. I watched them, sampling dishes to stave off my hunger. Some were incredibly spicy to my great surprise. By the time the other guests arrived I was bored to death and stuffed from nibbling. My stepfather arrived late and swept in surrounded by his office group. I was never close to him, felt daunted by his ego and he had large expectations of me which were a pressure.

I was told that I would be taking a polo lesson, which came as a bit of a surprise, but I always loved to ride. My mother had ridden to hunt and my great uncle had been a great polo player. I was taken to the stables and left for the lesson. Given a horse, a mallet, a ball I was shown the polo field and told to practice. With no instructor I spent an hour and a half trying strokes, returning with a fully cracked ball but no damage to the horse. I felt a link to the portrait of my great uncle who had been a 10 goal player and whose portrait hung over my bed. I loved trying out something new, the horse was very responsive and together we had worked well and had some great moments.

Back at the hotel I was told my mother had been taken to the hospital with stomach problems and a bad rash, probably a result of the stress of the flight and her marriage situation. There was a note on how to order a “Tea Completo” which I did. It came as tea and cookies, which became was my lunch. I spent a quiet afternoon standing on a chair and practicing polo strokes with my mallet while wondering how my mother was doing and what would happen next. She was still not back the next day so I was in for another polo lesson and another “Tea Completo”. Unfortunately the nice horse I had had the day before had had an accident and they had had to put her down by slitting her throat. I found the blood still in the trough on the stable floor. The impact of that and the last few days left me depressed and the zest was gone out of finding new polo skills.

But in another day my mother returned a little pale, but composed and we left Lima immediately to tour the Cerro mines. We were in a convertible as we started to climb up into the mountains, the dirt road twisting tightly through switchbacks and once even making a figure eight. Our destination was Oroyo, but we stopped along the way to tour a mine. Seeing snow beside the road as it was winter in this hemisphere but summer in New York I leapt from the car to get some. By the time I got to the front fender I was out of breath. We had climbed to 13,000 feet in a few hours and I had just learned about the thiness of the air.

As special guests we were outfitted with hard hats, lights and coveralls before stepping into the rail cars that took us into the mine and to the elevator shafts. Huddled together in the elevator we rattled down some 3,000 feet in the mine and rode in ore cars through tunnels where steam hissed from the walls. We came to a huge generator room then on to smaller tunnels where miners were working with picks and shovels. It was exciting, dramatic, amazing. It was hard to believe that the miners came here day after day to work in the dark and the heat and the danger of these conditions.

Back on the surface we drove on to Oroya, a small town with its huge smelter where all the ores were processed into iron, copper, lead, silver and gold. At 12,000 feet’ it is above the tree line and whatever vegetation there is is further stunted by the fumes from the factory. It is a landscape of rugged hills, dirt and rocks.

One day I watched as a jitney came out of the smelter above us. White smoke drifted down towards us. I asked my stepfather what it was and why the driver wore a mask. “Stay there and you will find out” was his reply. I breathed in and coughed violently. His explanation was “Arsenic fumes”. It was a tough way to learn a lesson true to his character, but I never forgot that one.

Walking the plant at night there was the roar of the furnaces, the noise of the cranes and the movement of the ore cars. The orange color of the furnace flames and the glow of pouring molten metal cast deep shadows across the floor. In one room we came to big circular pools of shiny, silvery, molten lead seven feet across. Men had the job of raking the impurities off the top. At that time I knew nothing about lead poisoning so did not even think of what this was doing to their bodies. One of the workers had tripped and fallen into one of the pools the week before. We visited him in the hospital, passing like dignitaries reviewing, discussing the case with the English-speaking doctor, marveling at how the man had not lost a single member. He made no movement as we passed, only his eyes followed through the bandages.

We took a couple of days to acclimatize and avoid the altitude sickness (soroche). There was a nine-hole golf course which was one continuous sand trap with oiled sand for “greens”. It was one of the most unusual rounds I have ever played. My mother seemed settled and we were away from the mistress’s territory. Our next step was to visit other sites. When we went short distances we went by “autocarile” which was a Bentley equipped with railroad wheels so it could run on the company railroad lines. The steering wheel was turned to the right to tighten the brakes and there was a siren to chase the llamas off the tracks. This was all high adventure to me with new images every day.

When we went to Golliariskisga (spelling in doubt) it was a longer trip so we had a private Pullman car added to the trains just for us. It was fully equipped with berths and a dining area for overnight stays. We stopped at the mine entrance at 16,000 feet. We dropped into the mine to follow the shaft down and through the mountain coming out the other side to find a greenhouse developed flower garden. We had rattled through the dark tunnels with our headlamps on then to burst into this radiant array of flowers. It was like leaping back into life.

One day we rode horses for four hours on a high plain to an isolated lake to have the cowboys plunge in to the cool water, forming a human weir trapping magnificent, large trout that they caught in their bare hands and offered to us for dinner. My mother rode strongly with experience from keeping up with her father who used to take large fences when riding to hunt. Frank rode adequately. I was given a Maclellan saddle, an old army saddle with hole down the middle for the horse’s backbone. It fit me badly making for a most painful day.

We returned to Lima for a short stay, then on to Miami with uneventful flights. There had been hoof and mouth disease in the Peruvian cattle that summer so they had not let us drink the milk. Landing in Miami I lunged to the restaurant and inhaled a quart of milk. Within an hour we boarded a Lockheed Constellation for our return to New York. , Designed in under Frank’s reign as president of the company, it was a four-engine propeller driven plane not equipped with oxygen so we couldn’t fly over storms. We churned through several on the way and with all that milk rolling in my belly it made for a very uncomfortable trip.

I went to my father’s then back to school. My mother went to a dude ranch in Nevada and a year later was divorced. I never was told what happened, but as Frank’s mistress’s daughter was also at my prep school I learned from her they did stay together. He and I crossed paths briefly years later when I worked in the same building and we met in the elevator. It was a very polite encounter. He invited me in to his office and gave me a tour of his boardroom demonstrating how the view screens went up and down electrically. It was all very impersonal and positive; each working on good behavior. I heard he eventually he died of cirrhosis of the liver. I ended feeling sorry for him.

It was an amazing summer with fantastic adventures. Glad I got to do it.

"Sex - (from a man's point of view)"

I know that there are groups and blogs that deal exclusively in this subject, but that is not our writing group. We tend to deal in memoirs, some fiction, stories about our animals and pets, travel and the history of the area. I was angry about the way TV and movies present male sexuality and wanted to do something that would fit with the group's sensitivities. This what came out.

Sex – (From a man’s point of view)

If you were to ask I would say that we have sex every day, but I think that needs a little explanation.

The other day we had our kayak group in to plan the next season and she joked that help and support wasn’t really what she needed from me for our trips it was only my trailer for all the supplies. They laughed. Standing in front of twenty five people I grabbed her by her small, strong shoulders, we mock tussled, her warm back pulled to my chest, she turned and we kissed for a moment, and then returned to leading the meeting.

When we watch TV at night she sits lengthways on the couch, I at the other end her bare feet inches from me. To emphasize something we say or think I will touch her foot or she will touch my hip. I can feel the electricity and connection of that.

In the mornings, when I have tennis early, I dress, check email and just before I leave return to the bedroom. She is awake and might be reading or listening to the weather. As I come to say goodbye I notice her shoulders are bare above her nightgown, I am aware of her soft breasts and skin as we kiss and I can feel something alive in my body.

We sleep in a queen sized bed, she in a short Victoria Secrets (I have given her more than thirty of them, sized small, in a wide range of colors and fabrics, a holiday and birthday tradition) and me in a short night shirt. Going to bed at night we will read until ready to sleep. Usually I am ready first so we draw together, kiss and I curl around her body to feel the warmth and softness of her skin and be aware of the soft smells. She reads and I drift off. A light sleeper I wake a couple of times each night. With night shirts and short night gowns we are often in skin to skin contact from the waist down. It is a warm, comforting, connecting feeling that calms the insomnia worries. Sometimes she will curl into a ball and if I am facing her, her foot will end up on my thigh. I have always hated my size twelve, hammer toed feet but her soft skinned size sixes are sensual to me; their touch exciting in the night. When the radio alarm starts in the morning we have a half hour to lie there, enjoy the eclectic music of WKZE, look out the full glass door to the totally private back yard, the trees of the 100 acre woodlands, the occasional deer, cardinal, squirrel, and spoon, bodies in contact.

She keeps her underwear in the drawers of the nightstand beside the bed and her current nightgown under the pillow. Her ritual each day in the morning is to stand beside the bed and take off her night gown, tuck it under the pillow, pause naked then put on her bra and underwear. Lazy in the bed I watch, enjoying her. At night she is in the same spot dropping the bra and underwear and reaching for her nightgown. I am aware.

From time to time during the day the intercom will crackle and she will say, “I am going to shower. Do you want to join me?” Ever since we have been together (now more than fifteen years) we have showered together. Seven years ago we bought our house on the hill and though the bedroom bath had a hot tub and a bidet the shower was a dark closet. With a little inspiration and $12,000 invested we installed a three foot wide by six foot long glass walled shower with dual heads and controls. There are symmetrical wash rag holders with maroon wash rags for color accents against the light gray tiles and a niche with a shelf for shampoos and razors plus our stamped glass soap dish that is a milky green sea with a 3D lighthouse on one side and a leaping dolphin on the other. The soaps we buy together on our trips. The current one is an orange scented, glycerin soap from our trip to Disney World. The windows in the shower and the bathroom look off across the valley with views of the trees and the suet feeder where the finches and squirrels compete. Showers are a time to be caressed by the warm water, to enjoy each others bodies, to talk over the day’s events and future plans, to use the poof to scrub each others backs, hug and feel together in a comfortable space.

There are times when I wander through the kitchen when she is cooking that I can stand behind her, put my arms around to cup her breasts, feel the warmth of our bodies touching, cheek against her hair, stand a moment then move on to what is next to be done. To have the feeling that this is OK, enjoyable, welcomed, a gift of acceptance, a shared, soft physical communication is very sensual.

So there is the explanation. It is not the hurried, grasping, mouth-nibbling kissing of Hollywood and TV or the pulsing, sweating, surging, lust driven sex of the X rated movie, but it is sex and one way or another it does happen every day.

So it came out more a love story than a protest. I think it would be interesting also to do a study of how couples go from their first kiss to developing a sexual platform that grew from their mutual respect and needs. How they dealt with the myths, the body image problem, needs, concessions, demands, angers, rejections, the smells, tastes, pains, serendipity or routine and were able to negotiate a loving positive platform. Hope some will try that.

When do you know your are dying?

While I am on a poetry theme; my friend in my writer's group called this piece a poem, but I didn't plan it that way. I wanted to take a shot at talking about death which is one of those areas people shy away from. This is a slightly humorous creep into the subject.

When do you know that you are dying?

Is it when –

            Puberty takes over control of your body
            You get chicken pox, scarlet fever, polio
            You have your first orgasm

            You break your first bone

            You get the first rejection in love

             People say life is a game, a set of myths; you fight but

                      then give in and agree

             You have your first auto accident

             You get the first check from an insurance company

             Your grandparents die

             The number of your doctors exceeds ten.

             You know of a child who dies

             You are fired or divorced

             Your child has an abortion

             Your alumni notes list more than five obits

             Newspaper obits are mostly about people younger than you

             You wear socks to bed every night

Is it when you stop saying death will come “sometime” or in the “distant future” and start to say “maybe in a couple of years”?

Is it when you get to the point when you feel there is nothing you can plan for the future that you would really like to do that is still within our physical or mental capabilities?

Is it when the pain is constant?

Is it when each move is thought out for its resultant effect on the body? Sleep positions, stair climbing, getting down to or up from the floor, bending over to work on something, eating before an activity, temperature…

Is it a sense of dizziness or loss of balance, the more frequent need to recover that is a mark of not being able to do certain things …making it necessary to give up something you really enjoy?

Is it where the planning and scheduling of medical appointments takes over as a major activity?

Is it when driving your car means difficult positions to see properly, images less clearly seen and reaction speed that you don’t really want tested?
Is it where certain foods or drink will be more obviously hurtful and therefore are necessary to give up?
Is it when people constantly ask “How are you doing?” or “You look great!” and you are tired of lying in your answers?
Is it when the way you look matters less than how you feel; where you drop appearance for comfort?
Is it when things start to compound and it is obvious that your body’s natural recovery mechanism no longer fixes thing as fast or at all?
Is it when doctors make mistakes that make the situation worse so you lose confidence and hope that they can help?
Is it when you have to ask others to slow their pace so you can catch up when you have always been able to lead?
Is it when you have four major surgeries and are planning another?
Is it when you know more about cancer, joint replacement and heart disease than most GP’s?
Is it when you think before making love as it would lower your metabolism and take eight hours to recover from?
Is it when you resist telling all that worries or pains you as it may be a burden to others or seem just moaning self pity?
Is it when others don’t really want to hear or may be afraid to hear the reality of what you are saying is going on?
Is it when you notice how easy it is to disappear and not be noticed?
Is it when solitude is more valuable than sharing?
Is it when you pass denial and anger and enter bargaining and depression on the Kubler-Ross scale?

Or is it just when you start to ask the question: “When do I know when I am going to die?”

Yes, that is me on the guerney after my first open heart operation two years ago. Check out "The Gift" for the full story about that. My friend Tom says that all of us seniors are "Circling the drain". As long as we keep circling we are still in the game. So I stick to my motto. "Keep on Truckin'".

"They grip down and begin to awaken" - Poetry from poetry

Last night at Writing group we read a poem "Spring and All" by William Carlos Williams. We underlined particular words and phrases that hit us. The last line was what called me: "they grip down and begin to awaken". The poem was about Spring and the earth and flowers coming to life. What came to me was something about the Haiti situation. Interesting how a phrase can stimulate something totally different.

 “They grip down and begin to awaken”

Ground trembling, walls shattering,
 falling, screams of death, dust, blackened sky
surrounding, enveloping, they gasp, struggle for freedom,
 move, thirst, breath, search for reasons, family, the sky,

 the streets, a sense of direction, but the chaos continues,
 more movement, upheaval, no order but alive they look at
 their lives, wonder at being chosen, resort to instincts,

search, clutch, grab what is left, pulled back to their instincts
 they hunker down, protect, eyes scan, urgent, aware
of needs, their view widens to survival, senses start to
form new directions, new objectives, new cares,
 new answer, new lives, new connections,

new ethics, new protections and
new dreams

There were four of us and each developed a different idea. That is what makes the group great; stimulating our minds and then giving us the freedom and confidence to go in whatever direction that takes us.

South Africa - travel in rap

Another way to write travel was when I tried to write a rap song of a trip to South Africa.

SA Rap – ATOK (And That’s OK)
By DaddyB with apologies to BRabbit

“DJ play that shit”

(Heavy beat rap music starts)

(Say) Yo!
(Bend your knees, bob up and down)
(Say) Yo!
(Bend your knees, bob up and down)

(Pause – music continues)

Friends at the tennis club say I’m insane
To fly a full day in an airplane,
But I gotta see my daughter in SA
Got a granddaughter too growin’ every day.
So I step in the plane and what do you know
Soon I’m flyin’ away from the cold and the snow.

Soon I feel the plane comin’ down
Sure enough there’s the lights of Cape Town
There’s Brooke waitin’ nice with a smile
Makes the whole damn trip worthwhile.

We go to the house Gusti teach me about Legetti
I kinda think that I’m gonna get he
But Noncorrow and his musical abstraction
I’m just getting an allergic reaction.

Luci’s there with eyes bright and sassy
She’s grown a foot, likes pink, ain’t that fancy
She’s got this deck of cards, fairies, animals and plants
She brings it out at every chance.
Her favorite fairy she’s ridin’ on a snail
If you try to get her, you’re goin’ to fail
She’ll hide, grab it, take it on the sly
You may fool her once but there’s no second try.

Went to Life festival to hear Gusti’s band
We got in didn’t spend a Rand
Everythin’ was there for the life holistic
Card readers, healers, angels and mystics
The crowd listened to sounds and words
To Gusti’s drum beats and glottal chords
Their Diggery Do sounded weird and looked phallic
The Temptress held the Do and chanted in Greek
Everything everyone seemed to like
Next time we’ll find another mike.


Brooke planned adventures, foot massage and Kahuna
Drums at night and her kinesthesiologist at noona
Needed disappointments I’d kept on the shelf
My major ones were all with myself
So he added a montra for me to say
“And that’s OK” Yo! “And that’s OK”

We went to Pater Noster, it’s way up North
Beautiful and by the water so Brooke bought of course
Now the town board is acting like the devil
The architects workin’ to keep them on the level
The builder’s gone bankrupt and upped the price
So their lookin’ for someone else who’ll do it nice

Brooke rents us a real nice home away from home
White on the outside and named Shalom.
We walk the beach and fly a kite
Winds howling keep the strings tight
It’s wonderful being by the sea
Specially with the good company.

Yo! Hey!
ATOK!
Yo! Hey!
ATOK!

Back in CT get to see Brooke shoot
Model pregnant and looks real cute
Enjoy the action and Olga’s make-up,
But soon its time for the Luci pick up.

We drive to the airport in plenty of time
Hugs and goodbyes and I’m standin’ in line.
I get a shoeshine and time goes fast
Somehow they give me a seat in Business Class

The airline got boxes they serve the food in
The pilots fuckin’ with the oxygen.
They never tell you when you fly so high
How come it makes your mouth so dry.
I’m settling in when what do I see
But on top of the list is the “Incredibles” movie
Somethin’ about the flight this way
Takes forever to get to the USA.

We know that Brooke’s been depressed
Whole bunch of things had her stressed
Hope that the time that we spent
The memories of all the incidents
Will come up in her head for a while
Let her know she’s loved and make her smile!

Yo! Hey!
ATOK!

Yo! Hey!
ATOK!

DaddyB sendin’ LOVE from 845

I had just seen Eminem's movie "8 Mile" and was adicted to the new venue. Enjoyed doing this on the airplane coming home and by family's reaction. Try it.

This time it is Nepal - travel

This is straight narrative about travelling to Nepal. The location and the events make it interesting rather than style. Wish I had written more of this great adventure.

This time it was Nepal – 1990

Still searching for new images and the quest to find some overall consciousness and understanding of the world I traveled to Nepal. As the plane touched down late in the day in Kathmandu I learned that the airport had been closed the previous couple of days because of the revolution. There were soldiers standing around with automatic weapons as we picked up the luggage, but no one searched us or our bags. We had just flown in from the US, all eleven of us members of the Sierra Club and eager to do a 22 day trek, but somehow no one had told us about the revolution. Our guide was there and three sherpas. No one seemed particularly upset about the political situation so we threw our things into our bus and headed to town. Along the way we did notice a few soldiers lazily walking on the roads as further signs that things not quite settled. It was getting dark, there were few streetlights and the streets got narrower as we came into town. No one was out walking which made me think there was a curfew. It was a challenge to get the bus around some of the corners and we came on some tire fires set in the streets.

We were staying at the Tibetan Guesthouse, which was set back from the main street about 50 yards. We were told that we should stay in the Guesthouse and not walk in the streets at night and to keep our lights off after dark. There was a small square about a half a block up the main street and this was the rallying point for the revolutionary groups. We went up on the roof of the guesthouse where there were tables and chairs and the walls were painted with fake palm trees. From this fifth floor vantage point we could see over the city. It was about nine at night when sound started to come from the square about a half a block the main street. “Democrasie! Democrasie!”. It seems that the rallying point for the revolution there and things were getting started. We stood and wondered what would happen next; would they come into the alley, were we in danger? After a while the mob moved down the street and looking down the alley I could see a light in a house across the street. The mob, chanted, moved, picked up stones and smashed the lighted window and moved on ignoring our alley. By ten PM it appeared the worst was over for our area so we went down to our rooms and settled into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning all was quiet with just a few tire fires still burning. My room had two full walls of windows and Kathmandu was all that I had ever imagined it to be and more. I set out to walk to the monkey temple (Swayambhunath Temple). The streets were incredibly full of people, bicycles, rickshaws, street merchants. No one approached us, but I was overwhelmed by the strong images, faces colors, smells, two men each holding the horn of a decapitated cow’s head, “tiger baum” merchants, bright scarlet colors, saris, children with no underpants, sandals, bare feet, women nursing on the curb, smells of seasonings, dust, urine, etc. Came to Durbar Square and was swept by views of 50 temples, towers, vegetable markets, merchants selling bracelets, knives, guides, hashish, erotic wood carvings, soldiers sleeping on the temple steps, brass balance scales in the stores, animal sacrifice areas with carcasses and blood smears. Walked on by the river, which had dried to a 15-foot wide stream and found pigs feeding, naked kids making a weir to catch fish, ducks, a man emptying his bowels, a dead water buffalo left from the flood period a month ago. Turning the corner I came upon a burning ghat with the body half charred. The body was wrapped in a black robe; head, arms, legs, hair still fairly intact on a fire of geometrically stacked 2” by 2”’s. Three men were tending the fire insuring a full cremation. People streamed by not paying any special attention, old, men sitting in the sun, talking, and smoking. Two tourists stood with pained expressions staring, hand over their mouths. Leaving I walked through the smoke of the fire noticing nothing special. One has a tendency to remember the sensational, but there was also an incredible beauty and an amazing difference from anything else that I had ever experienced that gave the feeling of new expanded horizons and understanding for me. It was a very powerful feeling.

Continuing on over the river, then a mile up a slowly riding dirt road through a neighborhood of houses and shops – wool merchants, weavers, Coke bottles in the window, a video rental store, small vegetable stores. A woman stepped out of a doorway with a plastic basin holding four large ox hooves. We came to the foot of the steps that led to the Monkey Temple. They climbed steeply for a quarter of a mile; enough to make me stop a couple of times to catch my breath. Beggars lined the way; a nine-year-old girl holding a crying baby, an old man selling hash. I passed old gentlemen coming down chanting with yellow flower garlands around their necks. There were monkeys in the trees and on the steps and large brightly painted (white, green, red) lions on each.

At the top, was the temple, like a large Hershey kiss painted white on which were painted an outlined pair of eyes (some fifteen feet across). A thunderstorm was threatening and the white domed temple against the darkening sky was magnificent. There were prayer wheels, monkeys, incense, shrines, and clusters of people sitting and chanting and reading. It was very intense imagery just filling up my mind with new senses.

Just then the skies opened and the lightning and the rains started in a real downpour started. There was a small shop just off the temple square that sold meditative finger cymbals and singing bowls. Rubbing the rim of the bowl produced a deep reverberating hum that slowly faded over several seconds. There was just the shopkeeper and me and with the rain and thunder outside we sat for a half hour trying out maybe thirty bowls. There were many different tones to the brass and I learned of a musical group that performed with these bowl touring in the US. The sound was mesmerizing; sitting there isolated by the storm in that small store with all those magical sounds was a wonderful moment. I bought a medium sized bowl and rubbing it now brings back those times.

The storm ended, I walked out passed the temple down the steps, back across the river and hailed a rickshaw to go back to the hotel. It was pretty rickety with wobbly wheels and the street was rough so I wondered if it would make it. I started to notice that people were running by then someone who spoke English leaned in and said that I should get out and run. During the night’s revolution a policeman had been killed. It turned out that the police were coming to the area where I was to search for the people involved and violence was expected. I got out of the rickshaw and ran two or three blocks until the crowd settled and there seemed no more danger. The rest of the ride to the hotel was uneventful. New images were flooding in.

This was the beginning of a 22 day trek into the mountains which carried us through many small villages, across five avalanche shutes, on narrow trails with steep drop-offs, tiger tracks, with 22 sherpas carrying huge loads of food and our packs, sleeping in tents with magnificent views. This is one to definately put on your bucket list.

The Restaurant - Fast Fiction

Well, earlier I spoke of my favorite "Free Write". It is real short, only 92 words, but I feel it caught a certain feeling in that short time. Anyway I loved the way it came out. Enjoy.

The Restaurant – (92 Words)

The restaurant is still, only subdued conversations, the occasional scrape of a fork or knife on a plate or spoon on a cup and the soft thud of the kitchen door as the waiters come and go, then the child starts to cry. Is it tired, ill, being asked to eat something it does not like, confused, bored, ignored? The crying crescendos to sobbing. A layer of irritation and expectation settles as all expect something should be done. Through the sobbing, a child’s voice: “I’m sorry” and then the wrenching sobs continue.


This is not the best picture for this story, but it does show a vulnerable small child (in this case me in 1934). I know this story is sort of melodramatic and trite, but I like it and had fun writing it. Think the next post will be a travel piece.

The Gift - medical memoir

Here is my description of the way my heart bypass operation went. Written from a distance rather than a personal experience log. One way to do it you might chose another.


The Gift -

It was 11:30 PM and he was sitting in his car reviewing his day that had started at 9AM. There has been one simple open heart operation and then a second that was more challenging with seven partial blockages in the arteries requiring four vein bypasses and one arterial bypass to rework the amount of blood that would nourish each side of the heart. He had turned the engine of the BMW on and sat comfortably in its steady hum. Things were going well in his life, a beautiful wife, one son and one daughter, the new house. He had graduated from the University of Bombay, interned at Mount Sinai and then left when this local hospital had offered him a million dollars to help build their new heart center. Now settled into the community, the heart center had grown and had one of the best survival ratios in the country. But right at that moment he was going back over the last five hours and something did not quite seem right, he had some instinct that made him uneasy. In spite of the hour and long day, he turned off the engine, opened the door and made his way back to the Cardiac Thorasic Intensive Care Unit recovery area. There atmosphere was not calm, the patient was bleeding more than expected, his instinct was confirmed and he ordered them to return the patient to the operating room. The patient’s chest had been shut the sternum replaced and wired in; now all that had to be undone adding trauma. The problem was found and fixed, but the patient went into ventricular cardiac arrest with his heart stopping. This had not been expected and the heart lung machine was not ready so he plunged his hand in to the chest cavity and massaged the heart for ten minutes while that could be hooked up to the patient. He was concerned that the blood supply might not have been enough during this period and the brain might have been affected. The patient was now stabilized but not conscious when he went to inform the family what happened.

It was now 4AM (the original operation had begun at 3:45PM) and the patient’s wife and daughter had waited all that time and were distressed. The daughter wanted to see the patient so he took her to the operating room where she stroked her father’s forehead and hands and told him she loved him. Together they called to him to wake and after a bit the eyes fluttered and opened. With breathing tubes and drain and IV’s in place eye movement was the only form of communication. Eye movement showed recognition and acknowledgement. The patient
had been cooled for the operation but soon he warmed and color started to return and he was moved to the CTStepDown unit.


So now this patient had the gift of an extension to his life all because of that doctor’s instinct, that sense that something was out of balance. What is it that makes that happen? Was it the bond that had formed between the doctor and the daughter? He even had said that his patients are his family. Was it fate, the spirits, God nudging the universe? But why just now with this cast of characters? Was it a series of collected images that the doctor held from his university in Bombay, to Mount Sinai and through his 20 plus years of his career that set a model for what should be? Whatever it was the patient now was alive and struggling with the pains of recovery almost unaware of the gift. Sometime the best and most important gifts are the ones that we are not fully conscious of or that we take for granted; the steady love and support of family, or the effect of a sense of right or wrong that governs others who are part of our lives if only for a short time.

The Nature of the Sea - memoir from 1954

This is about my time in the Navy cruising the Atlantic on a destroyer. I loved it; adventure, the sea, a huge toy to play with, travel to Europe and the Caribean, no serious situations. Hope this catches the flavor.


The Nature of the Sea -

The door knob to my cabin turns, it is 3AM and it is my call to watch. I hold on to the guard rail of my bunk as the ship rolls 45 degrees and then snaps back. I dress, climb the four decks to the bridge, touching the cool, steel plate sides of the ship for balance, sensing the cold Atlantic beyond. It is fall and we are off Greenland, a person in that water will last but a few minutes.

On the bridge the helmsman stares at the red and green glowing compass wheel and grips the wheel firmly as the ship surges. In the blackness of the early dawn I can see the bow plunging down in to the valley of the wave. The wind blows off the top, spray pelting us. We are tipped forward to the trough, sliding down the face; the propellers momentarily flail in the air and then bite in the wave as it passes. The waves are facing us, black onyx faces with spider webs of spray, constantly changing, moving, with relentless power mindless of our presence. They have come driven by wind from hundreds of miles across the ocean gaining strength as it has been through the ages.

A few days back, we had left Norfolk, VA. harbor, headed for a twenty two day NATO operation combining British, French, Italian, Canadian ships in a simulated battle. We were on the USS Cony, DDE 508, which was 2200 tons of steel plate and armament, 375 feet long and with 200 crew aboard. Half the crew were seasoned sailors the other half were fresh out of high school drawn from states like Minnesota, Ohio and Virginia new to the Navy, ships, the sea, and responsibility. I had just graduated from college then Reserve Officers Candidate School and rushed to start my tour of duty. I was responsible for the Quartermasters who were helmsmen and signal men who worked to ship’s bridge. Chief Petty Officer Flat with 24 years toward retirement was to lead and guide me. He carried 230 pounds on his five foot five frame and was seldom without a cigar stuck in his mouth. Our office was a five foot by five foot chart room where we would work our calculations to plot the ship’s position. Chief Flat had served in World War II on both the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean, had been a tug boat captain and was ready to retire. His ultimate weapon to keep me in line was to close the chart room door as we worked on the heavy sea days and light the cigar. I learned the stars and crossed the Atlantic four times with skills he passed on.

The Cony upright, steady, grey steel against dark sapphire water, pushed the water aside, leaving a small V wake behind as we left the land behind to meet the ocean swells and to take our position with thirty other ships and in the flotilla.

The weather worsened as we moved northeast up the east coast. The balance of power shifted to the wind and the waves as the ship moved, rolled and surged to react. The radar antenna on the mast 80 feet above the water, rotated, scanned, probed the distance and began to swing synchronized to the sea. Walking on deck, legs, arms, hands, reacted, took on the motion. Senses dulled by solid land awoke, complained, and settled into new but remembered rhythms. The sea was speaking, disturbing, asserting, impersonally to us who were joining its presence.

Navigating was my job, a mixture of the new electronic world of radar, sonar, loran and radio reports with the classic tools of the sextant, clocks, the sun, the stars and books of mathematical tables. On good days, the still hours of sunrise and sunset were time for reading the longitude and latitude from the skies. Of setting the mirrors and filters of the sextant to draw pinpoint star and sun images in arcs tangential to the horizon as the sky shifted colors painting full murals for our view. On the bad days, the rotating scan of the radar and the measured green lines on the loran cathode ray tube located us.

One night we refueled from a larger aircraft carrier still massive enough to ride smoothly on the intensifying sea. We surged and bucked along side by side, waves breaking on our bows, water wildly turbulent in the 100 foot gap between the ships. Water and oil greased the decks as the crew passed lines and hoses across the gap and held on against the pull of the motion and sea.

At the helm was Cotter, Seaman First Class, a twelve year veteran, 6’2” of anger and strength. I had seen him promoted and demoted and the year before had been at a Norfolk bar for a celebration when he wed an ex-prostitute. Now he was fully focused on keeping the two ships on parallel courses, drawn by the responsibility and the danger. His eyes scanned the water ahead, he watched the compass quiver between each degree, felt the bow pushed by the wave, the stern slide drawn by the vacuum of the water passing through the narrow opening between the ships. His hands anticipated, moved surely, instinctively. Now the sea had us swaying so strongly the radar antenna at the end of its arc was dipping close to the carrier on each swing. By contrast, the solid carrier was pushing the waves aside and through the open hatch I could see, bathed in the red night light, the Marine band practicing their marches. We finished, dropped lines and moved off to a safer distance.

The power of the storm rose and in the dark grey of the afternoon the siren call came from the ship ahead. It signaled “Man overboard”. Looking down for a moment we saw head and shoulders silent on the surging sea and then gone aft out of sight. It takes hundreds of yards and many minutes to turn 2200 tons of ship. When we got to what we thought was the spot, search lights probed the dark, a hundred pairs of eyes hoped, but there was nothing but the broil of the dark sea reminding us of what we were challenging. Entries were made in the ship’s log and we returned to the formation.

At 3AM, the storm was at its worst. We had come between Greenland and Iceland to intercept a British Cruiser and an Italian frigate who were simulating and attack of the main fleet to the south. The seas had thrown them together with significant damage ending the game. We were told to rejoin at 18 knots, but the sea was pounding the ship to death. Rolling close to our limits from side to side, snapping back more slowly we were at a critical point. Four destroyers had been lost in a typhoon in the Pacific when a second wave had caught them heeled 47 degrees and pushed them over. In the wave trough now, as we were standing on the bridge, we were fifty feet above the water and looking thirty feet up to the top of the wave. We were in the grips of great power and tiptoeing on the edge of danger. We radioed for permission to slow and then cut our speed to match what the sea would allow us.

The next day again we came to the mat and wrestled with nature. The skies opened enough to let us put planes in the air for exercises then closed. They flew in clear air above the clouds, while we were surrounded by rain, wind, flying spray and skies that darkened steadily. When it was time to land the planes there was no way to get them down though the overcast. We traced the path of the planes with fluorescent crayons on the radar screens and they “square danced” waiting out with their remaining fuel for a pause in the storm. The orders came to line up a dozen ships, the planes would drop in the cold sea, pilots ejecting and parachuting to be picked out of the water. In the Caribbean months before, we had practiced this using an orange crate floating on calm water. When it was a hundred feet away it was hidden behind the waves, difficult to spot. In this weather it would be ten times as difficult. But this time we won the lottery with the elements as small hole opened in the clouds and the planes ducked back to safety on the carrier.

The seas quieted and there were days when we were free to do as we wished. The tests were now of our own making. Finally we steamed into Plymouth, England under clear blue skies. It was almost hard to remember when the sea had humbled us and brought us to our knees; reminding us of the limits of our independence in the natural world.

A great experience on my first job.

"Squirt" a children's story

Sometimes trying another voice can be a fun challenge. One way to do that is to write a children's story and try to pick up that voice. Here is a children's story I wrote which had me try a child's voice with spark and energy.

“Squirt” –

My name is Dorothy Ann, but most people call me “Squirt”. You know when you are growing up and parents call you personal names that just sort of pop up out of their heads like “Pumpkin, Pussy Cat, Cutie, Hummer, Weasel or Tiger”. Well, my father called me “Squirt”. It was a sort of coded message from him that said, “You are small, wiry, full of energy, with great spirit and I just love what you are!” There are some people that you know love you without saying it right out; you can see it in their eyes. Then, I have found, that there are others that say it to you everyday and you just never quite can believe it.

My father had a CB radio in his car to talk with his friends while he was commuting. He added a loud speaker behind the grill so he could joke with people. One day he dropped me off at school and thru the loud speaker came “Have a good one, Squirt”. Embarrassing! I could have killed him. The other kids picked up on it and it was “Squirt” this and “Squirt” that. I knew some of them were just getting on my case, but I carried it proud and soon the mean ones got bored and my friends started to say it like something special. So “Squirt” I became and “Squirt” I am.

We live in Ridgeway. It’s a small town in Connecticut where most of the houses have gardeners and multiple car garages. My Dad had some sort of fancy job, but one day the light kind of went out of his eyes. His walk changed and his shoulders rounded so we moved to this house which has a carport and I do the lawn. He seemed to have less and less to say so he’d give me hugs rather that conversation. It was sort of like looking at a big lighthouse where they had turned off the light. He started to work for the town and my Mom did real estate and their friends changed.

For me it was kind of like watching a show on TV and someone was making everything run slower and a bit darker. I got out of middle school. Yeah, I was always pretty smart and found learning stuff interesting. Figuring things out and hearing about other countries just upped my curiosity. I got the right sized breasts and boys started saying I was “cute”, but they still called me “Squirt”.

My Dad got quieter and quieter and the lines around his eyes grew deeper. There just wasn’t much any of us could do. It was sad for me as each day we lost touch just a little bit more. There was nothing there to blame. There was just a growing sense of loss. There came a day when my father just wasn’t there. He had gradually faded as a person, but each day there had been some glimpse of what had been, a head nod, a smell, a magazine, keys where he always dropped them and then there was nothing. Mom said, “He went to Hawaii” and I didn’t know what that meant. My friend’s parents went to Hawaii to play golf, to get a suntan, to go to luaus, to wear leis and then they came back. But my Dad never came back. There was not even a tacky Hula girl postcard, no credit card bills just silence. We coped. Mom seemed resigned, perhaps she knew more of the whys, but we fell into acceptance and the edges of our feelings softened.

Life went on and the regular things happened. I made the honor roll, ran for class president and almost won, but Sally Anderson from the two car garage set edged me out on dazzle. I made the cheerleading team. Now you can stick your nose up about that if you like, but we were really good. Took all state three times and being “Squirt” paid off. I was top of the stack, the light one for all the big tricks and point for the big ending. I had lots of good friends, worked hard, we had a good coach and we were all together on this.

It had been five years after he left when we heard that the cheerleading team was invited to be in some big event at the convention center at the Marriott in Kauai. It took a while but when the details got worked out, well, the team would be going to Kauai, Hawaii.

I knew there were a couple of islands, but my Mom had no idea where Dad was or even if he might have moved. I am pretty good at the internet and had put his name in “Search” a couple of times, but nothing came up. I couldn’t think of anything more I could do, but I was still hoping (yes I was!) for something.

It was exciting and my first trip out of the US of A. The team got new uniforms with “Ridgeway High” on the front. On the back I put, “Hey! I’m Squirt. Yeah, it’s me!” Well, amongst the cheerleading crowd I am pretty well known. But, I even put my name on the college applications as “Dorothy Ann ‘Squirt’ Williamson”. The bus took us to the airport and we flew forever, stopping in LA. Yeah, I kept imagining movie stars everywhere, but we never saw a single one. Then on to Lihue on Kauai where another bus took us to the Marriott.

I mean it was different from Connecticut. Palm trees, orchids, water the brightest blue in the world and warm sun. We put on the bikinis, slathered in sun tan stuff and lay around the pool. We ate papaya, guava, ahi and ono (I think those are some kind of tuna). We even walked around the golf course to see what the parents had been up to. At night there were hula dancers. They kept their feet pretty flat on the ground but their knees and hips went crazy. We got up and tried, but found out it was tough.

The competition went OK. We came in third behind Iowa and Montana. Everyone was happy with that. The next day we went to see the Kilauea Lighthouse and Nature Preserve. Frigate birds soared overhead, boobies (weird name for a bird) nested like snowflakes on the hill, monk seals slept on the rocks. It was amazing. Someone said there were albatrosses you could see through a telescope so I went over to take a look.

“Is that you, Squirt?” I was wearing my shirt, but I knew that voice in a heartbeat. He was standing there in a blue shirt that said “National Park Guide” with a name tab with “Bob Meyers” in black letters. I didn’t know what to do so I just let instinct take over and stepped over and gave him a hug. It felt right. When I looked up, I could see the light was back in his eyes, skin tanned and pride back in his body.

“Meyers” had been his mother’s name and I guessed it was his way of starting over. We had a lot to talk about. It was clear how good we felt about the moment; how we both had grown, were connected to our new lives, and still could see that the warm connection was there. We found some time to sit and talk and a big hole seemed to fill in in my life. We would stay in touch. He wanted to know what I was going to do next. OK!

With the team back on the plane I could feel the change, how somehow things were a bit bigger, a bit more complete. I felt myself growing up. You can see now that I am not really a “Dorothy” or an “Ann”. Next year, when I’m eighteen I think that I will change my first name officially. I have been trying out “Brittany”, “Celine” “Crystal”, “Melissa”, but the one that I think I like the best is “Courtenay”. My Mom said “Dorothy” came from the “Wizard of Oz “ which she liked a lot and “Ann” from some relative of her mother’s so now she is saying “Go for It”.

Well, I’ve got to go now.
Been nice talking with you.
In a couple of years you might Google “Courtenay Williamson” and find something interesting.
See yah!
Bye, bye for now!




That's it. Why not give it a try.

His Uncle - free write process

One of the best ways to shake off "Writer's Block", to get rid of the Watcher, the inner voice that says you can't is to do a free write to just splay something on paper. At one of our meetings a member brought in three pictures.

I chose the picture at the top and then spent around ten minutes free writing. This is what I came up with.
His Uncle -

This had once been my uncle’s place. He had passed and I had come to look, to reminisce, and to recover from the ordeal of the funeral. I just wanted to get away so had driven north from Burlington through the lush fall colors. I could remember his love of Vermont, of the earth, of things quiet and settled. He had moved here in his 60’s to read and have a small vegetable garden after years in New York City as a playwright. His play “Ten Miles to Eternity” drafted when he was at Bowdoin College had captured audiences in Portland, ME, Boston and off Broadway in NYC. In it four people, two men and two women, had received golden dated passes to Eternity. They discussed, argued and joked about what they would do with the time left, what the after life would be and how they would prepare for it. It established him as a thoughtful writer with a humorous side. The move had seemed such a change to us all and we had tried to stop him.

“You’ll get bored.” “There will be no one you can have a civil conversation with.”

But it made no difference and one day he was in New York and the next he was gone.

As a family we visited in shifts, parked our cars on his lawn, brought food, and paraded his grand nieces and nephews. He watched us all with quiet pride and wonder at his growing family. We played in the hay in the barn, swam in the muddy pond and taught our children how to drive his tractor.

When it was time for us to leave he would have words for each of us from his readings or his thoughts and would stand on the porch and wave us out of sight.

Somehow those images have stayed in our heads and when we have a quiet moment from our busy lives in the city, the pictures of the fields, the pond, the porch, and the vegetable patch come to mind and give us balance.

Now as I had just driven my car up onto the overgrown lawn, seen the door to the barn with its peeling paint and broken boards I really knew that he was gone and things would be different. I walked to the barn, put my hands on the peeling paint of the door, feeling the heat from the setting sun and the grain of the wood and the slight movement as it swung on its hinges. There still was some life there, like feeling a slowed pulse or a steady rhythm of life. I said my “Good Byes” to his spirit, thought of what he had been, what I would remember and carry with me, then turned, opened the door to my car, climbed in, started the engine and backed slowly down the drive.
It is your turn.. just pick one of the pictures and have a go at it.

"Routines" - about rowing

A couple of years ago at 73 I decided to take up a new sport, rowing. I bought an open water rowing scull, The Echo (For details see their website) and joined a club to learn. Rowing is a perfection sport where there are lots of articles about how to do each element of the stroke to get the best performance. In trying to capture that I chose to do a fictional piece rather than just log what I do. "Routines" tries to give the feeling and satisfaction of rowing.

Routines –

The light green numbers clicked to 6:12, the soft gray early morning light came through the bathroom window, the trees unmoving. It would be another eighteen minutes till the alarm radio would switch on. He turned and looked at her sleeping soundly, one leg out of the covers, Victoria Secret pattern against the cotton sheet, short blond hair on the pillow; he didn’t want to bother her. Two feet on the floor he put on his glasses, his watch and got ready to stand up. He would switch off the alarm then start his routine for the proper clothes, lowering his scull onto the car top, remembering the oars, driving to the river. He savored these routines and found comfort in their fluid order and measured sense of achievement.

At the river he found others, but this morning ignored them and continued changing shoes, finding the water bottle and cap; locking the car, moving the oars to the low dock then settling the boat into the water. It was eighteen feet long and 21 inches wide, needlelike with a sliding seat and outriggers that held the nine foot oars now placed at 90 degrees to the hull. He had seen it in a magazine, talked with the designer, loved the lines of it and passion bought it never having rowed before. An Aquarian, his whole life he had found peace and alignment on the water. Now he paused to look up at the virgin river, empty now, black mirror smooth, the gentle tide running south to north, with its dark green treed sides and topped by the cool gray sky. A soft, light haze floated over the surface. He was ready to begin.

Stepping precisely in the center of the scull, one hand holding the overlapping oar grips he eased onto the sliding seat, placed his feet in the stretcher, tightened the foot straps and pushed lightly away from the dock. The scull moved slowly sideways with a smooth momentum until the long oars were clear and flat on the water in the most stable position. A quick look over his shoulder showed a clear path down the river to the bridge a mile away. Balance set he pushed the oars away straight armed, compressed his knees, sliding the seat aft, then rotated the blades to vertical and dropped them in the water, pushing with his legs then pulling with his back then his arms, releasing the blades from the water rotating them and moving the handles back for the second stroke. The scull slow at the start, gathered speed and slid smoothly over the water leaving a thin line on the water framed by pairs of black swirls where the oars had taken their bite.

He concentrated on balance, the straightness of the wake, the angle of the blades, the resistance of the water, movement of the scull on the water. A surge ahead then a glide, then the next surge. All his senses were focused. He could feel the pressure on the bottom of his feet with each stroke, the muscles of his legs timed to give power, his hips moving on the sliding seat, his back setting the right angle, his arms pulling, releasing, pushing, his head held even for balance. The river matched his rhythm, supporting, parting, soothing, cool in partnership. Surge, glide, surge, relax; he added a little pace, his heart rhythm responding, sweat starting, lungs filling, and stronger body sensations. It went on this way with all other thought banished, a mind and body cleansing, the effort gently pushing the body to its best, a peak of ecstasy in harmony with the river, the flow of the tides, the sky.

Then the shadow of the bridge swept over him and he became again aware of the surroundings; the bridge, houses, boats moored, the train station, pulled back to the moment. Reaching for his water bottle he drank the cool water and slowly took it all in. A train ran down the track on the far side of the river, others were rowing, a tug came pulling a barge bound for Albany, commuters cars hustled across the bridge, a few people walked in the park near the city. Senses sharpened, he was more aware as he turned and rowed slowly back by the eastern shore past industry, feeder streams, trees and shrubs spilling over the banks, marinas, shallows. There seemed to be space and time to enfold it all. More time to enjoy the movement of the scull, the growing movements of the river and wind, the warmth of the early morning sun, the rich colors.

An hour later, he brought the scull gently to the dock and stepped back into the routine. Oars and boat to the car, shoes changed, drive home, hang the scull in the garage. When he stepped into the house she was having breakfast and asked;

“How was your row?”
“It was a beautiful morning on the river” he said.

Then he opened the cupboard and started his breakfast routine.

A day with my granddaughter

Now is the time for a memoir. This is about family and my granddaughter handling Cystic Fibrosis. I think some of the emotions show through as they should. She is a marvelous person and we want her around forever, but we will have to see.

"A Day with My Granddaughter"

It has been a two and a half hour drive to New Jersey and it is 10:30AM when I pull up to the parking garage. The uniformed Kinney guard asks “What is your business?” “To visit my granddaughter” I say. As I park jack hammers pound the floor above with noise thundering around me, the elevator door closes to silence then opens to black marble floors and floor to ceiling two story glass walls. I am in the Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital and blue jacketed guides direct me to the main lobby with its grand player piano that plays soft pop music, then past the Surgical Waiting Room, Administration, Anesthesia, the Perioperative Material Management Office (your guess is as good as mine) and the Soiled Utility Room (don’t go there) to a glass corridor with children’s sculptures; one is made as an interactive Tic Tack Toe game, one a string less harp and one a speaking scale. Somehow kids never make it here, I only see contract workers using it for a lunch area. At the end is the Bristol Meyers, Squibb Children’s Hospital (are these drug companies giving back or adding market?).

I wait for my granddaughter, 4 ½ years old, 40 inches tall, weighing 33 pounds who sparkles with shy energy. She is a runner, a dancer (does well to James Brown), a quick study and a definite individual with delicate skin, soft hair and blue eyes. Two years ago she was diagnosed with Cystic Fibrosis.

CF is an inherited genetic disease that causes secreting glands to not function normally. Instead of producing thin,slippery secretions such as sweat, mucus, tears, saliva and digestive juices it makes thick sticky secretions that become plugs that can interfere with breathing and digestion. It used to be fatal in the first ten years, now lifespan can run 30 – 50 years.


She bounces across the lobby ahead of her parents shouting “GranBob”, my particular name. She is here for a “tune up”, a two week long heavy IV dosage of antibiotics and specialized drugs. Her new doctor saw a darkening on the left side of her lung in her x-rays last week and ordered this.

Her normal day includes three 10 minute nebulizers and an inhaler for special drugs. She gets enzyme pills at each meal for food digestion. Insurance covers the $3,000 monthly cost. This is followed morning and night with half hour sessions of chest physical therapy (PT) (left, right, front and back chest pounding to dislodge the sticky substance from the five chambers of the lungs so that it can be coughed up). It is this physical almost medieval, cupped hand, chest thumping on her small delicate body and her submission of it that affects me more than the IV’s, drugs, PICC lines and Xrays. It amplifies the intensity of our fight against this disease and fear, anger, injustice and empathy make me want to bolt from the room each time I see it. Ada watches cartoons with measured acceptance.

Nancy greets us with paperwork, a thirteen year veteran in her job, she is personable and efficient. She passes us to Sophia in light blue scrubs who is confused as to where we should go. After fifteen minutes we are delivered to the fifth floor children’s area with its special Children’s Media Center and Amber takes us to room 5016. My granddaughter walks quietly taking it in. She did this at another hospital a year and a half ago. 5016 has an entry door, a pantry, then a second door to the actual room. As CF patients have a lower resistance level, she will be under “Contact Isolation” rules which means she can’t visit the Media Center and all hospital personnel must stop in the pantry and put on a plastic gown and rubber gloves before entering her room. Diane (nurse) and Ali (student nurse) come to meet her and listen to her chest “crackles” (air passages sticking and unsticking with each breath – I borrowed the stethoscope and couldn’t hear a thing. It definitely takes training). Halley comes to take blood pressure and temp. Michelle comes to get phone contact numbers, Maria and Kosmul, doctors assistants listen to her chest and review her history.

Between visits we spread out toys and decorate the room with paper chains and colorful plastic flower pattern pieces that are stuck to the window and cause colored outlines on the bed. She is into her art work and tolerates the interruptions stoically.

Louise comes from housekeeping, Jenn from the Media Center, Heidi the social worker visits. Deborah does 45 minutes of PT (this will be done four times a day here). Around 2PM my graddsughter is wheeled to the “Procedure Room” where the temporary IV is put in her arm. The student nurse tries twice with the needle missing the vein, the day nurse needs two tries to get it right. Ada returns unhappy and subdued, but soon is back at her art work.

The doctor’s assistant Lee Ann visits with great information on CF care, the doctor visits (a great improvement in manner from their previous doctor at another location who is a national expert but aloof and abrupt and difficult to get answers from). Another technician, Mary Lynne gets blood pressure and temp. Deanne, a wonderful person who communicates at her level physically and quickly and compassionately covers for my daughter all aspects of the procedure schedule then does PT.

It is now about 4PM and I realize that so far sixteen people have passed through 5016 in four hours. she has had to absorb, evaluate, work with, include and accept them all. I marvel at her sense of self, at her ability to handle complexity, to acknowledge, to read people, to accept and work to understand.

My daughter moves the IV stand to the right side of the bed and gets a long line so my graddaughter can bounce off the bed to the chair, and to the window. she is up and about twirling to keep the line clear, careful at its limit but free within its scope.

She tells jokes:
“Why does the chicken cross the road?”
“To get to the other side.” She gives a small laugh, then again –
“Why does the chicken cross the road?”
“To get back home.” She throws her head back and sprays giggles all over
the room as she made that one up.

She produces scenarios:
“You say this, I’ll say this, then…. “
If you get the words or the tone wrong you are gently corrected.

It is dinner time now and this hospital lets you order from a menu at a time of your choice. She orders chicken fingers and mashed potatoes (her personal favorite) with lots of butter (CF kids need lots of fat and sometimes she will eat butter right from the stick and we all are delighted).

I leave for the motel at 9:30PM and know that tomorrow I’ll be back to see her handle no food for 24 hours, a PICC line (long term IV line) insertion under anesthetic, four more PT sessions, 20 plus contacts with doctors, nurses, etc. still with her integrity and character shining through.

It is special for me to be with her. I admire her and love her so much and feel the frustration of not being able to solve this. I worry as well about my daughter and her husband who manage with the complexity and drain of this each day. Her zest for life helps me refuel my aging pursuit of adventure. She reminds me of the health I take for granted, of the extent of personal options available to me, and the wealth of past good times.

It has been a good day with my grand daughter.

If you'd like to learn more about cystic fibrosis click here to contact the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation on the web.

Audacity

Audacity –

It takes a certain audacity to start a Blog about writing.

I do love that word, “audacity”. It implies a certain verve a certain risk taking, a certain pushing of the limits. Of course if pushed to the limit or coming from prejudice or anger it can be destructive, but I like its energy. It would make a great writing prompt: List the last three times that you felt that you were being “audacious”. Pick one and write about how it worked out. Was it successful or disastrous? How did you end up feeling? How did it change people’s feelings toward you? Was it worth it?

Anyway, last night I was reading a great book on writing, “Discovering the Writer Within – 40 days to more imaginative writing” written by Bruce Ballenger and Barry Lane and published by Writer’s Digest Books in 1989. It has a great easy to read voice and offers a series of great exercises to kick-start one’s writing. Looking through it I wondered how I could add anything to that or the many other excellent books on memoirs or writing in general.
So it takes a certain audacity to start this blog, but I have started and we will just have to see where it will lead. There is the hope that others out there will come along for the ride.

Hate to do a post without another piece of writing so here is not “Fast Fiction” but a sort of “Fast Editorial” about how society or corporations or lawyers can possibly over protect us.

The new car – (267 Words)

The soft thud of the door seals out the cold and noise of the garage. Turning the key, twenty seven icons light up on the dashboard saying everything is OK. A few like the “Vehicle Dynamics Control” light are a mystery. There were fifty nine pages in the manual for “Instruments and Controls” yet to be studied, but it is good to see all are OK. The seatbelt warning beeped for six seconds and stopped (info on that takes sixty one pages in the manual). Trying out the “Multi-information display” I found there were a clock, odometers, and indicators for driving range on remaining fuel, journey time, outside temperature, fuel and average fuel consumption and trip meters. I had managed to turn the key without the advantage of thirty one pages on “Keys and Doors”. There wasn’t a heater, but a “Climate Control System” (thirteen pages), but a little fiddling and it seemed to work. There was a fifty page section on “Starting and Operating” covering things like “Child restraint systems” and “Head restraint adjustment” and “Tired and sleepy”, but I had decided to just go for it. I started to back out of the garage and there was a thump. I leap out to find I had run over a package left by FEDEX, a birthday present for my daughter. But that was not mentioned by the nineteen pages on “In Case of Emergency”. The SOB’s, I thought they had everything covered. They even Fabreezed out the new car smell. Those control freaks. Back in the car the seat belt warning is beeping again. Those bastards!

OK, so that is one person’s point of view, feel free to comment with yours.

Fast Fiction

So my "Getting Started" piece was fairly long, I'm going to try to keep these to 1000 words in the future. There was a time in our group when we tried to write "Fast Fiction". For us that meant trying to get a story or idea over in less than 500 words. I did three and one is below (I'm going to save my best one for later). Have you ever tried this? Why now give it a try? Sometimes what comes out is magical. Here is mine:

Good and Plenty – (174 words)

Linda studied the young girl slumped in the seat across the train aisle, her IPOD ear buds in place, staring straight ahead as she steadily ate her way through a box of Good and Plenty candies which she then dropped on the floor.

The conductor came and stood impatiently as the girl searched her bag for her ticket then looked up panicked to say, “I can’t find it.”

“Well you’ll have to find it, buy a new ticket or get off at the next station. I’ll be back.’

Linda took her time then leaned across the aisle and said, “You might check that box you dropped.”

The girl looked and it was there. Bright eyed, alert she looked at Linda, “Gee thanks. How did you know?”

“I was watching you and saw you put it there. Not a smart idea.”

The light dimmed in the girl’s eyes, she turned back, and sat slumped in her seat, staring straight forward, ear buds in her ears with her ticket clutched in her hand.

That's it. Sort of a low key picture of a train ride interactions on the train to NYC. Try one and let me know how it went.

Getting started

Just to get things started here I have added here a short story piece of fiction written as a story for kids.. Let me know if you like it.

Cagney -

Cagney was a small dog with black eyes, a black nose, white shaggy fur and very short legs. He had fallen on tough times a while back and so he had found himself in the dog pound where he'd spent months in a small cage with newspaper shavings in the bottom. It was when he was let out in the yard to play for half an hour each day that he met bigger dogs with long legs who could run fast and could jump high that he realized that he had very, very short legs.

Bill and Carmen came to the pound one Wednesday and took Cagney home with them. They were recently married and had a nice apartment in which he was free to wander. They put a special door in their door so he could walk out to the backyard anytime. They found a soft pillow bed made of blue fabric with little tiny flowers which he could sleep on. Cagney loved his new home. They all went out walking in the neighborhood and he could check out all the bushes and walk in all the yards. Though he was on the leash, he really enjoyed these long walks. There were times when they went out in the country would let him loose to run and run in the fields and as they began to trust that he would not run away, they would use the leash less and less.

One day they decided to go to the local fair. Cagney felt there was a lot of noise and a lot of things going on there. Many people were running around, going to stands to get food, jumping on ferris wheels, riding in small cars and shouting and yelling. It was very exciting for him. But with all of the people around him he still felt pretty small and sometimes he had a hurry to keep up because of his short legs. As he was walking he came to a thing that looked like a big red box. There was glass around the top and he could see there was a doll inside and above the top of the window were the letters: “F O R T U N E S”.

Well, Cagney was a pretty smart dog and he had learned to read a little bit so he thought that this meant music would come out of the box. He found a coin lying on the ground and he picked it up in his teeth and he put it in the slot in the front of the box. Instead of music, the doll in the box started to move and pretty soon it picked up a small piece of paper and dropped it a down a chute. The piece of paper came out from a slot in the front of the box. On the paper it's said "If you stand tall you will be tall". Well that sounded good to him but he didn't really know what it meant.

Just then there was a commotion and Cagney saw a boy running with a purse in his hand. Somebody was screaming, “He stole my purse”. Without even thinking Cagney chased after the boy. He managed to get close enough so that he could bite the boys leg and hold onto his pants. He held on for dear life. They bumped and scraped along till others caught up and grabbed the thief. There was a lot of commotion and flying dust as they held the boy down and got the purse back.

Someone said, “Whose dog is this? Why this dog is a hero, a life saver, a valiant warrior.” Bill and Carmen stepped forward and said, “That’s Cagney our dog.” They were all amazed at how so small a dog with such short legs could do such a fine thing. So there was a ceremony with flowers, ribbons, speeches and a special new bowl with Cagney’s name engraved on it. Cagney now felt that he knew what meant when the fortune teller’s paper had said. “If you stand tall you will be tall.”

That's it... hope you enjoyed it.