The Birthday Party

Some times you go to an event that effects you so emotionally that you have to write about it. That is what happened at this birthday party. I hope you will see what I mean.


The Birthday Party -

“He likes glitter”, was what my friend John had said when he invited me to his son’s 30th birthday party the day before. The sign on the Reader Board in the lobby of the hotel showed that in the “Starlight Room” there would be “Broadway Charlie’s Birthday Party”. That was all the information I had, so I did not really know what to expect. I was about a half an hour late but found that already some eighty people were there, each sporting something flashy; some glitter, a flapper dress, a superman cape, plastic winged glasses, and the music playing was Broadway show tunes of the 60’s like “Hello Dolly” and “Give my regards to Broadway”. Well, I had gambled and come with a bright red sweater, a black bowler hat and a black plastic eye-mask which was ornamented with a green feather and yes, some gold glitter. From the look of things it looked like I would fit right in.

Seeing John I walked over and he was delighted that I had come on such a short notice.

“Where’s Charlie?” I asked.
“Come over and I will introduce you?”

Charlie was dressed to make an impression. He is a tall, thin Hawaiian kid and was wearing a hair band over his straight black hair, a black loose cotton jacket with the sleeves rolled up, he had on a white shirt and black straight jeans, but over that under the jacket was a black flapper dress with long fringe to the knee. Around his neck were a couple scarves and three necklaces and on each wrist, two or three bracelets. He was standing in 2 inch heeled red pumps. He shook hands quickly, there was a positive greeting, a nod as he was constantly moving and smiling and laughing and then moved on to the next person. Those who had known him for years hugged, smiled, looked him right in the eye and were totally accepting, caring, loving, supportive, comfortable knowing his special ways. Those of us who were new to Charlie shook his hand, got his quick acknowledgement and stood without knowing what next to do or what level to go to, but he made it easy as he danced on to the next person.

Later John took the microphone from the DJ and told stories of Charlie’s and his life. He humorously said that his parents were eclectic so that Charlie had always been part of an imaginative lifestyle. He introduced a series of people who where Charlie’s caretakers. One, who had cared for him as a child, spoke of his smile, his ever positive spirit, his ability to humorously mimic others, and his love for musicals. She added that, right from the start he was always positive and radiated humor and love. There were others from the group home where he now lives and is loved by his caretakers and peers there.

As John and others spoke, Charlie posed as pictures were taken, moving quickly from one position to another, then he pulled a chair over and did seated poses. A tall, thin young blond girl, who had met him when he visited her college, had come from across the state. She wore her hair up and a Mardi Gras mask, a silver, leopard spotted, satin, tight fitting dress and a pale mink stole and long white gloves. She said knowing him had helped her through her tough college times and had in some way given her a new strength and positivism that had led her to a better place. At one point John put a soft hand on Charlie’s back to settle him a bit so that people could focus on what was being said. One of the speakers was the wife of the DJ who had worked with Charlie and had prepared two songs and a dance routine that he did. One of the songs was “Hello Rosie” which was a take-off of “Hello Dolly” changed to the name of one of his peers at the group house and done with lots of laughs and pointing to “Rosie” at one of the tables. His tap dance number was done in the red pumps. Charlie loved the attention, the audience, the picture taking,

What was truly amazing about the evening was the atmosphere in the room. There was a feeling of fun, respect, caring, It was clear that everyone enjoyed what was going on, all laughed freely, all wanted pictures to remember the event (not to capture something different) and were participating positively, knowledgeably without any judgment. There was a tremendous sense of freedom in the room, a high level of love and support. As an “outsider” I felt caught up in that great feeling. So many parties have their dull spots, their phony moments, their artificial conversations, their half true sentiments; this event was on some higher plane and when I came to leave I carried that feeling with me. There was a sense that in spite of what CNN or the media or Jerry Springer say, the world is not defined by greed and power, there are places that are just good.

It was a great party.

You don't find parties like that every day. If you like it; write about it.

Oregon Coast

I was given this magnificent card and there was time

to do a short free write. It had an almost Japanese quality and the pure

nature with no human invasions appealed.

Oregon Coast Card –

The fall winds blow in from the west, bringing waves from across the Pacific. Waves that have rolled across thousands of miles of ocean, rising and falling, building and receding, making patterns of blue, green, gray, frothed in white, unseen but steady in their path. They slide under boats, around islands then regroup and march on toward some final shore.

On this bluff here in Oregon I see them arrive, pushing against the rocks, the seaweed, the fallen branches, the sand, spreading out as if to rest then withdrawing to come again like final gasps after a long ordeal.

They bring pieces of the China shore, the coast line of Japan, the contours of the reefs on Hawaii, the gravel of the Aleutians all combined yet hidden in their form. They give the feeling of endless time, of the continuum, a sense of infinity in a way that has a calm feel today.

The weather has blessed this day with serenity; this point of land has yet to feel the influence of civilization, the molding of society. It is as it was created by the eons of geological movement, the cooling of the plasma, without a living animal to be seen. This is pure nature as it has been throughout the span of human life on Earth.

Perhaps it would be better as a poem, but I wonder what you would see in it.

The Winter Coat - a poem

We had read Pablo Neruda's "Ode to a pair of socks" and Erica Jong's "Ode to My Shoes (After Neruda, who left us his socks)" so doing something on a piece of clothing was the target of the group. This what evolved.

The Winter Coat –


Now in the attic
Hanging retired
The right pocket torn
The front garage spotted
Its usage visible, tired
Shoulder rounded
Cuff dirt creased
Zipper tag hanging bent
No place to go
At the end of its time

There was a year
When it had a place of pride
With work coats, dress coats
Style, color, warmth, shine
Surrounded by action
Visiting events, galas, friends
Hands slapping its back
Fabric brushing others
Passing thru minutes, days
With love, sex, sweat and ice
Sun and snow shielding
Rain run through to keep its luster.

It was a present
A gift to fill a need
For warmth in winter
To cast the image of newness.
A cost of consequence
An important message
To the receiver
From Father to Son
At a late phase in life
Where each had everything
But still there was thought
The father now dead, the son aging
The memory there
In the attic
Tucked away
But not thrown away
When will it fade
What will be the final move
How soon?

So pick a piece of clothing and start in and see what evolves.

Obituary

A standard exercise for writing groups is the writing of one's obit with its added chance to visit why obits and the motivations behind them - information, boasting, philosophy, accuracy, etc. Just what is "important" to be in that one day in the back pages of the newspaper. The one advantage of this writing is the chance to share the information with family and others and get feed-back. This is what I put together.

Obituary –

I wanted to personally tell you about my life so this is the deceased talking. I was very fortunate to have had an incredible life that included many amazing people and adventures. There were strong worldly parents and stepparents, two wonderful wives, three beautiful daughters, four exciting granddaughters, a significant goddaughter and two god-dogs (Daisy and Bentley) and many interesting relationships and friends along the way.

My mother was a beautiful seemingly fragile woman who led me through her complex life. She was married three times. First to my father who as an Auchincloss was part of the “400” and Social Register listed, but preferred that had the first hanger at Newark Airport and was the first to fly the mail in New York State in the 20’s; he was behind the scenes at the stock exchange as they built the ticker system, he was General MacArthur’s signal officer in the Pacific and the first to land in Japan to set up the surrender location, and later became president of Tracerlab, then of AMP, Inc. My first stepfather was president of Lockheed Corp, he helped to set up Panam Airways in South America, then was president of Cerro de Pasco Corp. of Peru. My second step father was a French diplomat and poet who received a Nobel Prize for poetry in 1960.

That life meant that I met many famous people. At a young age I was led back to the dressing room to shake the hand of Arturo Toscanini, conductor of the NBC symphony orchestra. Around the age of 12 I was taken to Felix Frankfurter’s (supreme court judge) camp on the Potomac river and met Dean Acheson (Sec of State) and Francis Biddle (Attn General). In 1948 at Milton Academy playing with my yoyo, by mistake I bounced my yoyo off the vest of T. S. Eliot then when introduced shook his hand with the yoyo string still in place to congratulate him on receiving the Nobel Prize for literature three days earlier. Also at Milton one Sunday morning Teddy Kennedy and a friend shook me down and took the $1.25 that was all I had on me. Acting charades in 1949 in Belgium at the chateau of Baron Boel (CEO of Solvay Chemical) Henri Spaac (Belgian foreign minister) applauded our efforts. Invited to an inaugural ball for Eisenhower in 1953, I managed to get Pearl Bailey to autograph my program. I was at the ceremony when Jacques Chirac (then mayor of Paris, later President of France) presented my mother with the keys to Paris for her work for French poetry. My mother also received the Legion d’ Honneur for contributions to French poetry.

Equipped with a Harvard MBA I sold aluminum for Kaiser, then even though I had won a plaid patterned ice bucket in a sales contest I was let go for lack of funds. My great uncle arranged an interview with Thomas J. Watson, President of IBM, because of which I was hired and started a 28 year career where the industry went from punched cards, to large computers to PC’s (I travelled for them to 35 states, went to Japan three times and Europe half a dozen times). After retirement I did business as: The Great Hot Air Balloon Emporium (commercial balloonist 20 years, over 400 flights); Wind Adventures (ballooning and certified windsurfer sales, instruction and trips 10 years), Kasual Kayaks (16 years kayak sales and trips). I served at site selection manager for local Habitat for Humanity, treasurer for a local Sierra Club Chapter and the Barrett House (Dutchess Arts Council) and as Commodore for the Hudson River Board Sailors. I was a Co-founder of Neighborhood Housing (building housing with Model Cities money in Poughkeepsie) and of REAL Skills Network Inc. (Running programs and trips for students at risk in Poughkeepsie). Education has been a passion since I did five years of research into the future of education for IBM products. REAL Skills has been direct contact with learning for thousands of Poughkeepsie inner city kids and members of the community with programs and theater productions. I was very proud of what happened there.

Interested in seeing the world I traveled to more than 40 countries, spending two months in New Zealand and Australia to hike the Milford Track, dig sapphires in the outback, watch the USA win the America’s Cup near Perth, toured Tasmania, stayed in hostels. I trekked in Nepal for 22 days in the mountains (there was a revolution when I was in Kathmandu). I flew a hot air balloon as a guest at the World Championships in Saga City Japan; swam with pilot whales in the Canary Islands, windsurfed in Maui, skied in Austria, snowboarded in France and kayaked in the Galapagos and Alaska. In Peru I traveled to 16,000 feet in the Andes and toured a mine 3,000 underground. Motorcyles have been a passion since I was 16 and rode my Harley in Sweden when my father was part of the Marshall Plan there. I did 3,000 miles in woods riding competition riding enduros and trials. Still addicted in my seventies I went to rallies in Ohio and West Virginia and a special trip to Nova Scotia.

My tonsils were taken out twice, I had polio when I was nine (had to be carried from floor to floor in school, but fully recovered). Broken arm at fifteen, appendectomy in college, broken collar bone in motorcycle event in my 40’s, Later prostate removal took my cancer, a knee replacement helped, then a quintuple bypass, two valves repaired and a pacemaker kept me active. I don’t know what finally closed me down, but I hope it was quick and easy.

When you have a life such as I have had and felt such a connection to the world you wonder; just why was I so lucky. What was my responsibility to properly use that knowledge? I knew I would not do anything really great or notable, but just wanted to bring everything I had to each interaction, each person that I met. I guess my idea was that I would present a positive, thoughtful, caring effort to every connection, doing whatever I could to make that moment be the best that it could be. Sometimes it worked and some times it did not.

My motto was “Keep on Truckin’” and I can recommend that to you. If you get a chance to do something, try it; bring to it the best you have. It can lead you to remarkable places, connections with great people, adventures and perhaps satisfaction.

Well that was my choice... what would you want to write.

One more version of the poem

It is amazing how a piece can evolve given time. It can go so many ways. This is what I think will be the last version. I found the earlier versions were too vague and most did not get the idea of the shift of time. Thus, this version makes that clearer and some of the images had to be reworked to match the time frames. Change is good as long as your ego doesn't get in the way.

His AMs –


1959

He lay opened eyed with her sweat and perfume on his skin.
Soft warm breezes came through the open windows
For them early morning – for the clock 9:43 AM
,        Turquoise water lapping on white sand
.        Pure whitewashed walls and blue tile roofs
.        The slow dance of grain in a sunny field
.        Warm coffee and soft rolls
.        A long note drawn on a cello
.        A steady light in the distance
Sheets pushed off.
Their bodies in rest were nude.

1981

Dreams awakened him with muscles tense
Black of night enclosed them
The clock said 12:13 AM
.        A white carnation
.        Agenda filled time
.        Tassels moving across high school mortar boards
.        The crackle of an airport loudspeaker
.        Words moving across the screen
.        Dollar filled minds
She rolled over in her sleep.
He felt her warm knee brush his thigh.

2009

Pain pulsed in his knee; he was aware of the pacemaker steadied pulse.
Gray light, filtered through the falling snow, flowed into the room
The clock said 4:23 AM.
.        A dusting of white sand on dark macadam,
.        The sensation of running up hill,
.        At the top of the hill a silent, dark windmill,
.        Dried purple leaves and three drops of blood on an aqua background,
.        Sea foam on a winter beach,
.        The deep amber of dried marmalade on white bread
She had pulled the blanket,
He sensed the cold leaking in to his bones.

Well there it is...Like it any better than the last?

The Evolution of a Poem

This poem went through four reviews and rewrites. I think the process worked and I really like the final version. Each of those versions are shown below to show the progression and for you to judge is it ended up where it should have. I guess it just takes this type of work to get a good result. Scan through and see what you think.

Version 1

Morning –

He was aware of pain in his knee on the pillow top mattress.

Open eyed, the gray light made brighter by the new fallen snow flowed into the room and said early in the morning, the clock said 4:23.

Dozing images came of purple leaves and three drops of blood on an aqua background, the sensation of running up hill, a close-up of sand on rough Macadam, at the top of the hill a silent windmill, sea foam on a winter beach, the amber of marmalade on white bread.

She had pulled the blanket; he sensed the cold leaking in to his back.

What would she do in the new day?
What would they do in the new day?
What could he do in the new day?

Version 2 -

Mourning –


Awakened, he felt of pain in his knee and touched his wrist to be sure of the pacemaker steadied pulse rate

The gray light filtered through the falling snow flowed into the room and said early in the morning, the clock said 4:23.

Dozing - images drifted through his mind –
A dusting of white sand on dark Macadam
The sensation of running up hill,
At the top of the hill a silent, dark windmill,
Dried purple leaves and three drops of blood on an aqua background,
Sea foam on a winter beach,
The deep amber of dried marmalade.

She had pulled the blanket;
He sensed the cold leaking in to his back.

What would she do in the new day?
What would they do in the new day?
What could he still do in the new day?

Version 3 -

Evolution in the AM –

His eyes opened and he sensed her sweat and perfume on his skin.

A soft warm breeze came and went through the open windows.
For him this was early morning – for the clock 10:16 AM.

Images floated in his head -

Turquoise water lapping on white sand

The slow dance of grain in a sunny field
Pure whitewashed walls and blue tile roofs
Warm coffee and soft rolls
A long note drawn on a cello
A steady light in the distance

They had pushed off the sheet.
Their bodies in rest were nude.

What would she do in the new day?

What would they do in the new day?

What could he do in the new day?

His dream brought him awake with his muscles tense.

The black of night enclosing them said late night –
The clock said 12:13 AM

His mind pulsed with images –
A white carnation
A small wet footprint
Tumbled sand in a sand box

The crackle of an airport loudspeaker

Words moving across the screen
Icons to be learned

She rolled over in her sleep.
He felt her warm knee brush his thigh.

What would she do in the new day?
What would they do in the new day?
What could he do in the new day?

Awakened, he felt the pain in his knee and touched his wrist to be sure of the pacemaker steadied pulse.

The gray light filtered through the falling snow flowed into the room and said early in the morning - the clock said 4:23 AM.

Dozing - images drifted before his eyes –
A dusting of white sand on dark macadam,
The sensation of running up hill,
At the top of the hill a silent, dark windmill,
Dried purple leaves and three drops of blood on an aqua background,
Sea foam on a winter beach,
The deep amber of dried marmalade on white bread.

She had pulled the blanket,
He sensed the cold leaking in to his back.

What would she do in the new day?
What would they do in the new day?
What could he do in the new day?

Version 4 - Final Version

AM –

His eyes opened and he sensed her sweat and perfume on his skin.
A soft warm breeze came and went through the open windows.
For him this was early morning – for the clock 10:16 AM.
.       Turquoise water lapping on white sand
.       The slow dance of grain in a sunny field
.        Pure whitewashed walls and blue tile roofs
.        Warm coffee and soft rolls
.        A long note drawn on a cello
.        A steady light in the distance
They had pushed off the sheet.
Their bodies in rest were nude.

His dream brought him awake with his muscles tense.
The black of night enclosing them said late night –
The clock said 12:13 AM
.        A white carnation      
.        A small wet footprint
.        Tumbled sand in a sand box
.        The crackle of an airport loudspeaker
.        Words moving across the screen
.        Icons to be learned
She rolled over in her sleep.
He felt her warm knee brush his thigh.

Awakened, he felt the pain in his knee and touched his wrist to be sure of the pacemaker steadied pulse.
The gray light, filtered through the falling snow, flowed into the room and said early in the morning - the clock said 4:23 AM.
.        A dusting of white sand on dark macadam,
.        The sensation of running up hill,
.        At the top of the hill a silent, dark windmill,
.        Dried purple leaves and three drops of blood on
.               an aqua background,
.        Sea foam on a winter beach
.        The deep amber of dried marmalade on white bread.
She had pulled the blanket,
He sensed the cold leaking in to his back.

Well, there they are. Do you think the changes were right?

A piece that works from my graddaughter, Ada

My previous post was one that did not sing for me and needed help. I got this just the other day as a first piece of writing from my 10 year old granddaughter. I love the voice and the aliveness of it. It really sings for me and I hope for you.

Ada Story - 12/8/2010


Have you ever moved? Well I have a bit of sweetness that’s carried me a long way…when I was little I lived in a different house than I do now. Back than I would always moan

‘‘Can I go on the porch?’’(The porch was actually a fire escape)

So once my mom got my sister, Emma to come along.
I would pour the sugar into a teeny tiny bowl and my sister would sort of smirk

‘‘Becareful.’’

“Be careful” I would mimic with my tongue sticking out like a snake’s.

My sister would remark‘‘Let me get that for you!’’
As I clumsily dropped some sugar on the floor but I didn’t mind. I hobbled out smiling from ear to ear because I knew I would get to taste them.

So there I was 3-year-old Ada I heard the wind whistling in my ear, my short blond hair flowing in the wind. The hot sun burning down on me, like it was my spot light, I was a regular ShirleyTemple! The swaying rusty fire escape, which was my glistening stage. (Which I called a porch)

‘’HELLO!’’

I would yell to the world! And when the show was all over I would lean my head all the way back onto the creamy milky white eggshell windowpane and munch just one more juicy fresh cold sugar coated taste bud turning strawberry.

‘‘Its so hot’’ I would cry!
‘’Its boiling’’ my sister agreed

Some days I would coo to my sister‘‘One day I’m going to travel to the sun”
And then I would gulp down one more spectacular strawberry.

And now once in awhile I dig my teeth into anther ruby colored strawberry, then I close my eyes and there I am standing next to my sister gulping down 1…2… 3… and then last but not least 4. When I come out of my amazingly sweet smelling dream I’m still next to my sister saying silly questions making weird faces and loving every moment of her and the strawberry delights! And now we even matured to strawberries with chocolate coating but that’s a whole other story.

There is a picture of the author today. Now don't you think that piece has life, feelings and aliveness. That is what I would like to have brought to my "Winter Enduro" piece. Don't you agree ?

Winter Enduro

Most of the posts here are pieces that I was content with. This memoir is just sort of a mess. I did the internet research work, passed a draft to my motorcycle friend for a technical check ("Looks good."), had my granddaughter read it ("loved the start, got bored with the rest."). read it to my writing group and it came out sort of flat. The message here is just wait till the piece sings to you before you let it go. Any ideas on how to make this better ? ?

As the buzzing of the alarm reaches through my unconsciousness I roll over and turn it and the electric blanket off in one awkward motion. It is 5:30AM and the thermometer outside the bedroom window reads 19 degrees F. I slide out of the bed trying not to wake my wife and slip into the long johns bottom and top, the wool shirt, sweater layers and jeans I had laid out the night before. In heavy wool socks I pad down the hall past the kids room and wolf down breakfast then put on my heavy motocross boots. It is a winter “enduro” day and I have an hour drive to Berkshire, NY through three inches of new snow. The motorcycle is on the trailer, hitched to the car as I slip in, twist the key, hear the motor turn over, flip on the heater and the radio and ease down the driveway.


You are probably thinking, “This guy’s got responsibilities, a family; what is he doing leaving in this god awful cold weather to ride motorcycles in the snow with some motorcycle slobs.” Well this is “me time” and it is more complicated than it appears. My Dad got me started on bikes in the ‘40’s when I was 6 and it has stuck ever since (I’m 35 now).

The “enduro” today is a 50 mile timed event through back roads, woods trails and power lines and the riders will be expected to maintain a set 18 miles per hour average measured at check points along the route (some of which I will know their location before I start, but there will be at least one unannounced check). The plan is that each rider starts with 1000 points and for each minute you get to a check point early you lose two points for each minute late you lose one point. It pays to be on schedule, but as the terrain varies from dirt roads, to log strewn paths, to stream beds and open fields that can be difficult. The route is mapped and I will be given a list of distances and direction changes for each turn on three sheets of paper that I cut into strips and tape together like an adding machine roll that will go in magnified scrolling device on my handlebars. Once I know my start time I calculate the projected arrival time at each turn which I add that to the tape. Using a clock strapped to the handlebars I will try to stay true to those times as the terrain allows. With the snow and ice today there will be some added challenges. I am running straight knobby tires with no studs or spikes.

I make it to Berkshire, NY, a sleepy town of 1,366 just south of Ithaca and pull in to the Fire Station where I can see some fifty other cars and trailers with motorcycles. I am part of the “Teddy Bears Woods Riding” team. You remember the song:

“If you go out in the woods to play you better not go alone,

It’s a lovely day in the woods today but safer to stay at home

For every bear that ever there was will gather there today because,

Today’s the day the Teddy Bears have their picnic”

Well, that is where the idea came from and the logo we have is of a Teddy Bear lying on its back in a mud puddle with a knobby tire track going right across his chest. Joe Cole came up with that one. He has a motorcycle store in Binghamton, NY that specializes in off road bikes; also in the group is his brother, John (a photographer), his father, Bill (a contractor), and Mel Saddlemeir (an electrician). Me, I’m an IBM product planner with a Harvard MBA helping to build check reader-sorters for the Federal Reserve, array processors for the seismic industry, race track systems, and other stuff. When we ride, the intensity, the adventure, the danger, the mutual support, respect and knowledge sharing sweeps all away in the focus on the moment.

The carburetor turned out to be frozen up as the bike was out over night so I wheel it into the fire house, take it apart and thaw the mixture in the float chamber. I have pulled 9:42 start time so have some time to stay warm and chat with the other riders, most who have a lot more experience than I have. I have a small Japanese bike, a 90 cc Hodaka with modified forks to give more travel and spring over the bumps and a special gear sprocket for power at low speeds to help hop over logs and maneuver tight spots. It weighs about 170 pounds which makes for easy handling and lifting if you get bogged down in a stream or a mud spot. But others are riding bigger and more powerful machines.

Four of us are lined up at the start at 9:42 and my boots crunch on the cold crisp snow, a good sound as it means traction as the edges of the flakes have not melted. My breath is steam and , I try not to fog my goggles, muscles tense, the noise of the other motorcycles surrounds me, I check my time, lean forward eyes on the flag, barely aware of the cold. When the flag drops I charge out onto the road. It will be another minute before the next set of four starts after us. The sheet says 0.6 miles to a Right turn. So we watch for the double red arrows that point into the woods, see them, make the turn and stand up on the pegs to work through the tight trail and over the rocks and trees. Every now and then you come to a place where they put up three or four down arrows to warn you of a steep down hill, tight turn, or some other danger like a drop off. Usually these are the spots where some spectators will walk in to watch the excitement, but the cold weather will keep most away today. Our adrenaline is keeping us warm now.

Out of the woods I am crossing an off camber corn field with the ends of cut off stalks sticking up through the snow. I am being a little cautious when some guy buzzes past me on the pipe (a muffler tuned for power) like I am standing still. I can see I have a lot to learn. The field ends at a stream bed, with a steep drop into a stream (now frozen to a slippery glass like sheet) but you have to carry speed across it to get up the bank on the other side to make it out onto a dirt road. I make it without dropping the bike and arrive at the first check just a minute late. Not bad.

That is the way it goes for 50 miles of concentration and strength and excitement and generally of fun. I did manage to fall twice and stalled a couple of times, but that’s not too bad. No, I didn’t have a perfect score, but I made it and the exercise sure kept me warm even though it only made it up to the mid twenties during the three hours out on the course.

Back at the firehouse, I put the bike, now covered in dirt and ice, back on the trailer, get out of my Babour suit (I had worn it over my jeans and sweaters for warmth and protection). It is made up of a heavy coated canvas set of pants and jacket with big pockets for spare parts – (you have to carry anything you might need for repair on the course as any outside help will disqualify you so, you carry spare cables, shift levers, tools, etc.) and feel the raw cold leaving my body and join everyone for, hamburgers, hot dogs, baked beans, macaroni salad, coleslaw, and pies to tell stories, learn stuff, and drag out old jokes. The Teddy Bear group came out OK, no trophies but in one piece and with some good smiles. Doing this is pretty intense so your mind stores up a lot of images from the route. You can say “Remember that crossed up log and the barbed wire at mile 23.6” and generally others will know just what you are talking about.

By mid afternoon I am back in the car on the road to Binghamton, tired, warmed up and happy, looking forward to home and kids. It sure has helped to wring out the job tensions with some “me time” in spite of it being the coldest weather I’d ever run in. Damn but it was cold.

Well there it is. It just seems sort of flat, not really defining what the cold was like, not really covering the excitement, fun and thrill of the motorcycling, not really defining why "me time" was needed. So this is an imperfect piece I should rework again. Any ideas?

When do you know you are alive -

I had posted "When do you know you are dying" and my daughter asked "Why don't you do 'When do you know you are alive". I struggled with that for a while but this is what I came up with.

When do you know you are alive…

Take yesterday for example. I woke up after nine hours of sleep (an attempt to catch up for weeks of short nights). The previous evening friends had asked me to dinner (as my wife was away) fed me Kilbasa and beans and my semi-annual beer and good conversation and before I went to bed had taken a Tylenol PM. They had worked and here I was at 7AM checking out my 79 year old body, with knees hurting, gas in my stomach and pressure in my chest (was that heart – after two major hears surgeries and a pacemaker that is one of the things on your mind or just gas). But there was my routine to follow so I stood, felt the pain leave my knees, put on my bathrobe, climbed the stairs to my office and turned on the computer and the TV to catch the news on CNN.

The emails breathed life. One daughter pleased with the picture of her in her new office that I had sent after a visit and saying how happy she was in her new job. Another daughter who shared a funny video of a very aggressive Panda in an ad for oleo. Another daughter with plans for meeting in NYC for lunch on her visit from the west coast. Another from a granddaughter pleased with the picture I sent her of her mother in her new office saying “WOW!”.

Time for breakfast, the peaches bought yesterday and hard as rocks had ripened and were perfect with some cereal and a little yogurt all mixed together. I dressed for tennis and drove to The Dutchess Raquet Club to meet up with the eleven guys who showed up. I have been playing with that group for more than 20 years and it is part tennis and lots of jokes and good conversation. It is doubles and we are all in the 60’s to 80’s range, yet the games are good and we all have our moments of greatness. My serve is on so that adds to the pleasure. After two hours we gather in the lounge for coffee and conversation ranging for body parts problems to politics to catching up for another hour.

I return to the house and try to make headway on the rewrite I am doing on the By-Laws of my Not-for-Profit, REAL Skills Network, Inc. The NY Council for Non-Profits in their assessment has said some changes were needed. I have made them and emailed them to them two weeks ago, left multiple voice messages to no response. I bypass the local office and call the head office in Albany and get up a head of steam pushing various people to get involved. Feels like I am back at IBM and making things happen.

The sun is out and the kids will be coming in to REAL Skills after 3PM so I get on the motorcycle and ride to the center of Poughkeepsie to see what is happening. I have ridden motorcycles for more than 60 years for pleasure and competition. I traded in a touring bike last year as it was getting too heavy for me and bought this Honda 750. It has great lines, handles well, throbs like a Harley, and riding it takes me back to great adventures. I still do ROMEO’s with friends (that is Retired Old Men Eating Out trips), but today it is a twenty minute ride to REAL Skills.

I grab a seat in the office of the Director, an amazing person whose ability to relate to young kids is phenomenal. We have worked together and been friends for twenty years. The organization deals with inner city kids at risk and in the winter is an after school program for ages elementary through high school and in the summer is a daytime educational initiative for elementary kids. Just sitting in that office is energizing. It looks like chaos. The Director’s desk is piled with folders and envelopes, kids interrupt to give and get hugs, the cell phone rings, neighborhood people drop in to register their kids, there are four or five conversations going, but it is all on point. There are some 40 students from local colleges working with us and today a new student is sitting in this swirl of activity. I talk with her to find she is interested in Social Work and City planning. As part of her study program she has visited Cape Town, South Africa, San Paolo, Brazil and Hanoi, Korea. She wants to work with young kids and has been in the office once before and I tell her to be patient and watch what is going on. A dozen eight year olds come in, sit at the large table and talk together like friends and grown-ups. In ten minutes five college students show up and sweep these kids off to the third floor library for a Montessori like course they have prepared. The new college student leaves with them to return in a half hours excited to have read a book to one of the great young kids. I discuss with the Director the needs for staff clearance and fingerprinting to meet the requirements of the federal grant money we are about to receive. I get some things to do, people to call which I can work on. I leave after an hour and a half as I have writers group to prepare for.

I have been in a writer’s group formed at a local college for some eight years. We meet every two weeks, share our writings and do exercised. This week I am hosting with responsibility for food, wine, and exercises. There are some eight people in the group but tonight there will only be four. There are a psychologist, and two college educators and me and this week no one has anything that they want to share so I start with a prompt and an idea. I wanted to start with the word “spiel” as it is an old fashioned word but we are surrounded by “spiels” from politicians, TV, brokers, and anyone who wants us to do something. But, that does not fly with the group so we do a free write privately, then an exercise on “When he/she/it is away”. We write for ten minutes then pass the piece to the next person on the right who uses that as a prompt and writes for another ten minutes and then we read the results. I had thought people would change voices or adopt the style of the piece on the second round, but it didn’t really work. It was just a good writing time. We did another write and read on either “Toys played with as a child” or “Possessions you have treasured” with good results.

The group left at 8PM I cleaned up the dishes and settled for some sentimental TV and into bed at 10.

All along the way there are new things to learn, new things to pique my fancy, new challenges, new experiences. Even after 79 years there are so many things in each day that bring life and aliveness.

Well, that is it. Why not try your own personal version. Pick up that pen and start in.

Visiting Prison

Have you ever been to prison? I found it challenging and wrote the following as an expression of those feelings.

I asked to join the Vassar Green Haven Prison program as I had never been inside a prison, though I had had chances and refused because of fear of the environment. I wanted to finally find out what it was really like, versus the assumptions that I had made. Professor Larry Mamiya , who had started the program in 1979, let me come along for a few sessions of their weekly discussion groups with inmates .

Green Haven Is a maximum security prison built in the 1930’s with 2016 male inmates (now at full capacity), 83% of whom were convicted of violent felonies. The median sentence is 20 years. Sixty percent of the prisoners are lifers. It housed the state’s execution facility. Its electric chair, which was never used, was replaced in 1998 when the death penalty laws were changed to a lethal injection method and that space was altered to include two cells with outdoor recreation pens, a visiting room, a viewing room for witnesses and the execution room with its gurney. This facility has never been used. In 2004 the New York Court of appeals struck down the reinstatement of capital punishment and in 2008 Governor Paterson ordered the lethal injection equipment removed.

It is considered an “honor max” prison and a prisoner’s choice for most long-term inmates. At a mere 80 miles from New York City, this Dutchess County facility is more accessible than the other northern and western New York prisons. Inmates earn their transfer here and thus continued stay is conditional on maintaining a record of good behavior. Famous inmates through the years include John Gotti, James McBratney (a convicted bank robber, member of the Gambino family who was later murdered by John Gotti), and Ronald DeFeo Jr. whose case inspired Jay Anson’s novel “The Amityville Horror”. There have been two deaths of correction officers in the line of duty: 1. Donna Payant in May of 1981 who was sexually assaulted and strangled in the chaplain’s office before her body was placed in a trash bag and thrown out with the garbage. The famous lawyer William Kunstler took over the defense but did not win the case. 2. A Correction Officer who was found dead in the one of the towers where he was on duty of a gunshot wound. This was considered a suicide.

Green Haven covers some 37 acres. The main complex is a square surrounded by a 30 feet wall with guard towers containing a dozen cell blocks, a hospital, a church, an industry building, mess halls, visitation areas, administrative areas, etc. Outside the walls they have a farm for livestock and produce. Over the years, a textile and garment manufacture was phased out and replaced by an upholstery, seating and institutional furniture shop. Annual sales of these items were in the $6 million dollar range.

The first time driving into the parking lot with 18 Vassar students I found daunting as the walls tower over you. To enter, you climb two flights of stairs to a receiving area, present your reason for the visit and then wait for the screening. It is best to leave anything metal in your car; women with metal support in their bras are strip searched. The screening is very much like that done in airports with metal detectors and wanding. When complete you are given your prison photo ID card (made after your first orientation visit) and your left hand is stamped with ultra-violet ink. Your group waits in front of a solid metal door, when it opens you enter a small room with an officer behind glass on the right and the exit gate ahead. You put your hand under a U-V light so the officer can see you have been cleared. The barred door is then opened and you cross a courtyard and enter a receiving area, present your card, sign in and are given a visitors pass to wear. The next barred door opens to a small square area with gates to multiple corridors. From here you will pass through some five more check points, walking a quarter of a mile through green painted corridors till you climb to a second floor classroom. We have been instructed to stay to the right of the yellow center line, not to talk, not to make eye contact with any prisoners, and to follow the guards’ instruction on when to move or stop. There is little sound other than the shuffle of feet, the orders of the guards and the electrical movement and clang of the barred doors. There was little to indicate the large number of people within the buildings. Sometimes groups of prisoners walking to their assignments would pass on the other side of the yellow line. They wear dark green pants and shirts and over 95 % are African-American.

When meeting the inmates we were told to not become friends, not to touch, not to give them anything or any information on where we live. We could bring one notebook, but it must not have a wire spiral binding and one pen, but it must be of the see thru variety. The correction officers are withdrawn, controlling, suspicions of our presence, and annoyed to have young, mostly feminine students confusing their normal procedures.

We are placed in two classrooms under closed circuit video watch with the standard writing arm chairs. Two inmates sit in chairs facing us; each are lifers who have served more than ten years, one said in that time he has spent 82 days in solitary. One of their advisors also sat in the class. The inmates were very bright and really controlled the more than an hour session; making sure to get participation from each student and keep the dialogue light and humorous. There was a sense of mutual respect and an overlay of a curriculum (write a poem for the next session, asking each one define their ethnic origins, each to research solitary confinement, asking that we check out websites for communication with inmates, etc.) At some points, specific parts of prison life would be covered (rules, solitary for drug offences, solitary for suicidal tendencies, friendships, language tables in the mess halls, Alternative to Violence programs, Rehabilitation through the Arts programs, the Youth Assistance program, personal cell space for books, time spent in a shop doing leather work, computer time (without internet) for writing, outside paid services for internet posts, etc). The tone was less controlling and more open in the classroom, but there were definite boundaries. Once, out of enthusiasm, I shook hands with one of he inmates. Immediately I could feel the tension, sensed that this was wrong, sensed that this threatened the delicate balance under which this program ran.

The students who were also were very intelligent were following the lead of the inmates with whom they had met with over 15 sessions, responding and asking a few questions. There was a sense that this was a valued learning experience for them, different from college work, but also a break for the inmates. No one seemed to want to alter the mood set by the inmates or to press hard for specific facts, still each session included new insights.

There had been a “Lock Down” a few days before one of our visit ands when we arrived one of the inmates was not there. His friend did not know what had happened to him. It turned out that during the Lock Down his cell had been searched and his legal files taken. When the Superintendent did a walk through he, knowing the rules, asked him directly to get the files back. The inmate was amused that the Super stuttered, obviously not knowing of the situation. He was later “called down” to the Super’s office, went, expressed his rights, and eventually the files were returned. He came late to class amused that while in the office he had messed with some new correctional officers, within his rights but beyond their knowledge of the rights, thus getting them to show confusion. He considered this incident had gone well and was pleased with how he had made the system work for him. They said there usually were some three or four “Lock Downs” a year and did not know the reason for this last one. They could tell when a “Lock Down” was happening as the water to their cells would be turned off to keep them from flushing things down the toilet. One of the inmates said he always kept a bucket of water in his cell so that he could drink and use the toilet during those situations. Knowing the rules is a major issue. The major rules are: no gambling, no homosexuality, and no drugs. Then, there were other rights that they had to make sure they got, like their clothing allowance: two pairs of underwear, one shirt, one pair of pants each year, a coat every three years, etc.

The four times I was with this group I learned much about the prison environment, but only scratched the surface. The last visit involved an assignment where the students wrote what they had gained from the sessions and the inmates gave their evaluations of their time and insights on each student. Their comments reflect the more open, less controlled quality of the classroom.

One inmate wrote:

“You all had your preconceptions about what prison life was like, mostly based on television, family, media, and the government. I am certain you never really stopped to question the validity of these preconceptions. This is a perfect example how you should not trust what you hear, read, or see. DO YOUR OWN RESEARCH ! ! This class is rewarding for its meeting of minds and dispelling of myths. “

“Am I your “lab animal”? At times, this is how I feel. Nevertheless, I understand my purpose is greater. This is my reason for being a facilitation encouraging others. Remember prison is not about rehabilitation, it is up to the individual (personal).”

“To read and evaluate the many writing from you all. I have become overwhelmed with emotion knowing I could have been someone greater. You all insure me to push on; to encourage others that ‘we can make it!’ I do not want to die in here, but if I do, at least I did it knowing it was a reality and I tried to help others. That will be my ‘dash’! So, I enjoyed my visits with my new peers.”

One of his student evaluations went like “XX student: you may have met people that have been incarcerated already and may not have even known it. It was a joy to connect with you and I did learn from you. I am amazed that we think along the same lines ‘we are all human beings living on the same planet; we are all family living in the same home’. I thank you my brother, peace.”



The other inmate hand wrote the following:

One of his student evaluations read: “XX student: French poems and ‘Hopping Thursdays’, your ecstatic attitude was a delight to see every Friday, which always put a smile on my face no matter what mood I was in.”

There were strong connections made here and kept at a high positive level yet with open discussions of personal feelings on many subjects even such as homosexuality, religion, relationships, and goals. Nothing was suggestive and all generally supportive.

To mark the end of the session a guard would appear, rap three or four times on the door frame with his night stick and call “Ten minutes, ten minutes.” This started the mood to crescendo back to one of control and the impersonal. Shortly, we stood, filed quietly out and started the return trek, walking the long corridors, returning the visitors pass, signing out, having our hands with the U-V mark scanned, and then returning to the parking lot. The prison is surrounded by farm land with open fields and the contrast to the inside is immense. Then breathing in the clear air, getting in the car and driving away meant moving to such a different world. I could feel the weight of control lifting. Looking back, the prison just seemed like a black dot in the rear view mirror, sort out of tune with its surroundings.

When I talk about this with my friends it is interesting to see how little they know and how little they are interested. There was sort of a feeling from them: “Well why would you want to go there?” The visits knocked down some of my assumptions about prison life, actually making it feel more palatable. I would have liked to ask specific question about the daily schedule, programs, optional times, privileged times, visitation, legal action pursued by inmates, the layout and usage of the various buildings, the role of religion, relationships with the correctional officers, etc., but what I did learn has made a large and lasting impression.

There are so many thoughts that go through your head in an experience like this, but it is a good idea to try to capture them so that the memory stays clear and you can pass them on.

Rhinebeck, New York

Sometimes it is fun to rewrite history. Lots of my freinds live in Rhinebeck and they are students of its history. I have heard lots of their stories so I decided to write one of my own. It is a blend of history and fiction that fooled some of them at the time. Try this for fun.

Rhinebeck, NY

In the late 1600’s immigrants came to the area and formed a settlement, pushing aside the Indians of the gentle Sepasco tribe, but it was not till 1834 that the village was incorporated. Life was rough as they carved their farms from the forest and planted their fields. It was like a new frontier and the first crime came in 1836 when Carl VanMusen set fire to the barn of his neighbor John Reilly after Reilly had poisoned four of his sheep. John Reilly died as he rushed into the burning building trying to free his livestock and was struck by a falling beam. The rumor was that VanMusen was sleeping with Reilly’s beautiful red headed wife. Carl VanMusen was pilloried in the town for four days and then sent away for four years for arson. When released he returned to the area and took Reilly’s widow for his wife. Together they raised three fine red headed sons who became highly successful farmers developing many new and profitable concepts of farming. It is said that the village of Red Hook was named after Randy “Red” VanMusen who had a crippled left hand from a haying accident and for his lifetime of community service in the area.

As the Robber Barons moved up the Hudson building their mansions many of the sons and daughters of the early farmers were drawn into their employ. Working in the kitchens, living spaces and fields they learned of a totally different style of life from their own. They met European craftsmen, artists, furniture dealers, and were taught the social patterns of the rich and famous. A small tavern in the village of Rhinebeck “The Workman’s Arms“ became a gathering point for all the workers on these grand estates. This was the start of the cosmopolitanization of the area, a character that remains strongly a part of the town to this day.

In the thirties a lay poet wrote a poem about Rhinebeck. Emily Russell was a beautiful secretary who worked in a liquor warehouse in Hoboken, NJ. A friend of the Genovese family she was invited many times to their 100 acre estate in the area. She watched them turn the rich soil as they planted flowers over their old enemies and learned to love the simple scenic beauty of the area as she frolicked naked in the fields with their guests. Her piece was a lyrical ode to the bucolic nature of the village. It was originally written with each line on a separate Cuban cigar wrapper that were arranged on a green velvet background in a daisy pattern around a china plate with a Hudson River scene and placed under glass in a gold brushed wooden Rococo frame andt was presented to Bufano Genovese (uncle of “Fat Tony” Salerno) as a gift. By some stroke of luck, influence and kindness the “New Yorker” published her piece bringing much attention to the area. A picture of the original appeared in Life magazine after proper vetting. Emily Russell was not included in the picture.

In the middle 40’s Helen Turner, the Rhinebeck librarian started a book reading group called the “Page Turners”. They began to focus on the architecture of the area and were not pleased by the look of their village. As a couple of the elders had invested wisely from tips they heard around the tables at the estates as they did their jobs, they had money they wanted to give for the purpose of improving the village. They hired the renowned architect Charles Beekman. A highly arrogant man and a poseur he refused to sit at the table with the elders, but paced the room as he spoke. He demanded that “The Workman Arms” be sold to him for one dollar and that it was to be destroyed and replaced by a magnificent inn that he would own. He went on to proclaim a set of standards for store fronts and house renovation and demanded that they comply “No matter the cost.” The elders were stunned by the amounts of money necessary to do the job and the size of the commission he demanded. Totally swayed by his authority and reputation they agreed and the village was shaped into the beautiful image that we see today.

In the fifties Jerome Depew, a Vassar Geology professor, wrote a paper on the geology of the Hudson Valley. The paper was picked up by the National Graphic and then abstracted in the New York Times. It reinvestigated work by Prof. Chadwick in the early 1900’s which showed New York on the edge of an old quake line, “Logan’s Line” and predicted the possibility of further quakes along the Hudson River. The line was named after Sir William E. Logan, Director of the Canadian Geological Survey, and was applied to a belt of old earthquake activity that ran through the lower St. Lawrence Valley to Central Alabama by way of the Champlain and middle Hudson Valleys. It ran through Rhinebeck’s current position. The geology of the area was defined as: “The land to the east of the Hudson River steadily rises to the highlands of the Taconic Mountains, a region noted for its great decollements (allochthonous masses of rock associated with great thrust faults formed during the Taconic Orogeny, and later reactivated during the Acadian Orogeny. Outcrops along the New York Thruway provide many tantalizing views of folded Paleozoic formations which, unfortunately like all interstate road cuts, are off limits for casual examination”. This report caused quite a stir and brought many tourists to the area.

All the changes made to the village pressed the coffers and many who had made their money from overheard stock tips had died off so their funds were no longer available. In need of funds they considered building a fairground on the outskirts of the village. The possible advent of the fairground was fought by the elders for years for fear that it was plebian and would lower the real estate values, but the presentations made for the concept so glowingly described the revenue that it would provide that they were soon swayed. The first few years were difficult and they decried the traffic and noise that filled the middle of summer, but as the treasury filled they came to love this annual invasion. This is proof that even in the most enlightened communities concepts and ethics can be adjusted to meet practical needs.

And thus this small village has grown to be a golden medallion on the landscape of the state of New York. It is well thought of throughout the country and around the world. This is truly a highly successful story of city planning and architectural standards!


Editor’s note:

This article, originally printed in the Gazette-Advertiser of Rhinebeck, was picked up by “Architectural Digest” and then made into a brochure by Urban Insights Press that can be found in the Library of Congress under the ISBN of: 0-941580-20-X. Nominated for the history division of the Pulitzer in 2008 it came in behind a collection of erudite essays collected from members of “Writing is Our Nature”.

I must repeat this is largely fiction including the Editor's note so take it as tongue in cheek and go along for the ride. I enjoyed it.

Rowing poem

This was a piece I did after a trip where I joined some kayakers off the north shore of Long Island. It was something to give the feeling of the wonderful day on the water.

From the shore, mirror smooth water

lies velvet flat in the early day.

Settling my scull down sends a ripple

expanding concentrically across the bay.

It is early so the air is cool and clear, noises
dampened by the remoteness of this space
I ease the riggers and oars down,
slide the seat back and settle myself in place.

Sandals off, feet secured now I move
for balance with oars at rest on the water
I breathe the pure air; relax my hands,
arms, my mind clears of all other matter.

It is time to start, knees bent, arms straight,
the oar blades twisted ready for a first bite
Legs straightening I feel the water resist,
the movement starts, balance to keep the pull right.

Now back for the second stroke, less resistance,
the boat rising on a plane, increases speed
Glassy water below, images sliding by,

sand, shells, the cool green of seaweed.

The continuous flow, body, oars, scull,

soft water sounds make a water dance

Concentration focused on the purity of the motion ending in an encompassing trance.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see a solitary

light house, cormorants balancing on a fishing weir

The flat blue of the water stretches

on for a mile, the view open, clear.

But I am with friends in their kayaks

who are moving behind at a slower pace

Drawn back, I am now aware of their image,

bright color, water bottle, paddle, a face.

Now we move as a body, past the weir,

the lighthouse, into the Sound,

Enjoying the massage of the waves,

conversation, letting nature surround.

We pull off the water after a while,

breaking the trance when we touch the beach

Comfortable on the sand we eat our lunch

with the water still within our reach.

Water is in my genes.

When I ride with it, it fills my soul

I move with it, I respect its strength,

power, the alignment is whole.

It was a beautiful day and this brings back good memories. Keep writing.

Beginning - poem

This is early morning musings that came out in a random form, almost poetry.

Beginning –

Burgeoning consciousness

Senses unfolding

Bright dots, lines on the back of closed lids

Rustling fabric, breath, birds, wind sounds mix

Contact on cotton, creases, warmth, cooling

Muscle signals, pain, inactivity, extending, contracting

Movement, rolling, compressing, lengthening

Expanding awareness

Ideas invading silence, flashes of thoughts

The instinctive moving to the planned

Needs rising, commitments, guilts, desires

Reaction to intents, resistance, action

Still without formed direction, retreat or advance

Curtains being drawn away, opening the inner cave

Life floods in to fill the center, the soul compressed.

The pull of time, the requirement to accept control

How to generate impulses to start the body in motion

Remembering, steps, sequences, form, balance

Reflexes happen, delays, then activity to the vertical

The radio is on,” Good morning. I’m Christine Zoro and this is the news”

The day is launched.

This is how it goes as I sweep out the cobwebs in the morning and the body restarts . Always an early riser I do like the dawn; probably left over from my Navy time when each day I would rise to catch the stars as the sun rose and the horizon became clear. Loved those sunrises.

Five Bucks - fiction

This a fictional piece which is like the movie "La Ronde" in its circular path. Another interesting approach to try.

“Five bucks”

The alarm buzzed on at 5:45 in the dank still dark room, stale with smells of cigarettes, old beer and piles of yesterday’s clothes. The dog stirred when he rolled to slap the radio quiet. His head throbbed from the night with the guys at that new place, “Bandits”, Two college football games and a dozen beers had sent his body into revolt and the four hours sleep hadn’t been enough for the repair. Somewhere through the haze he flashed back to a few images: Larry stuffing his wallet with bills from his perfect picks and that looker of a waitress who had not just a body but a mouth. She told some stupid joke about a monkey and a giraffe that blew the guys away. Her name was Kay or Kristy or something like that. He had gotten her phone number and written it somewhere. Just then he couldn’t remember where. By now the damn digital read 6:04 and he had to be downtown at 6:45 to meet Larry to head out to that apartment complex and the job they had just booked.

He pushed “Drifter” off the bed, pulled himself into yesterday’s clothes, picked his wallet, his keys and then a wad of loose bills off the bureau. One of the crumpled bills, a fiver, had “K 695-0684” written in his handwriting. What a break; maybe he’d call her later.

He’d gotten “Drifter” at the pound four years ago after he split from Sally. A moth eaten golden with a loyal, easy going temperament, they became a team. He took him each day to whatever site and everybody knew “Drifter”. They made it to the pick-up with Drifter in the passenger seat, eyes scanning the road, the passing cars, clearly the most alert of the two of them.

First stop, Dunkin Doughnuts for black coffee and a couple of doughnuts. He stood in line, got out enough words for the order, slapped some bills on the counter and made it back to the pick-up. It was only then he realized he’d used that damn five with the phone number. “Damn”, he thought, “but I know she’ll be at Bandit’s. No sweat.”

The girl at the counter dropped the bills into the register and watched him walk out. She sized him up as cute, good job, nice dog and thought: “Why can’t I find someone like that.” Since high school she’d had one lousy job after another. This was such a slow morning so far, she was bored and just wanted out of there. “Yes, Ma’am, What can I get for you?” It was that nurse who worked at the nursing home and came in every morning before her shift. Nice person, but that seemed like an even more depressing job than this one. She gave her her order, took her twenty and gave her the guy’s five and more change and a polite “Have a nice day.”

“Oh yeah, you too” said the nurse, but her mind was on the day ahead and the day behind. It had been a tough week, one of the long term patients had died, a new admission had dementia and was a real handful and one of her ward patients had taken a turn for the worse which had left her weak and depressed. Though she’d been an LPN for ten years it still was an emotional coaster ride. She couldn’t help but get attached. Single, with the type of family background you’d see on the Jerry Springer show and a series of unstable relationships (she always seemed to pick losers) so her patients were her family.

Today she had Lydia on her mind. Lydia had been on her ward for four and a half years, weak and in her eighties, with her only living relative her sister who was five states away in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. She had bonded with her, heard her stories from her flapper period, her married years, of her travels and her losses. She wondered what she could do for her and thought that a present might work. She parked her car at the card shop, walked in and cruised the aisles waiting for inspiration. There it was in the shape of a small plaster rabbit with floppy ears, a silly grin and “Have a nice day” written on a heart shaped card hanging around its neck. “Perfect”, she thought so and pulled a five and a ten out of her purse for the sales clerk. She had it wrapped in colored tissue and bought one of those gift bags with daisys on it to add to it. “That ought to bring a smile” was her thought.

It was slow in the shop but the early hours of the day were always quiet. The sales clerk sort of liked it that way as it gave her time to straighten things up and dust a bit for she was the type that liked order. Things out of place made her uneasy. In her home everything had its place and she had taught her husband how it was to be. The smaller magazines on top of the bigger ones, edges parallel, lower left corners aligned, then placed in the center of the left side of the coffee table. On the right on a doily, a small fine china plate of non-pareilles. There was comfort in this. The store door bell jingled as a teen came in and started looking around. The clerk was irritated at having been interrupted at what was sure to be a small sale and continued arranging the bills in the register by denomination, president’s face up, heads to the right.

The young girl was looking for a birthday present for her younger sister. Their Mom was a working Mom and didn’t always remember important dates. Through the years she had learned to fill in for her, to keep the calendar and bring up gentle reminders. This was a sort of extra responsibility that she really didn’t mind as it generally made things easier and her Mom didn’t seem to mind or even notice. When she found a little Scottish doll with a tartan skirt and flowers in her hair it just felt like the right choice. She picked it up and looked at all sides of it, took it over to the clerk and put it on the counter with a twenty dollar bill saying that this was to be a birthday present. She had come here as the store offered gift wrapping for free. The clerk made a face but neatly cut and folded the paper to just cover the doll and tied a perfect bows with each loop the same and the ribbon ends cut at forty five degrees. In the change was a five dollar bill which she decided to put in her drawer at home to start saving for a blue top she had seen at the Gap.

Later that day, the mother was putting away laundry and saw a fiver that had fallen on the floor by her daughter’s bureau and wondered how that had gotten there. Was it hers or her daughters? If it was her daughters, what was she being so secretive about? She thought back to her teen years and damn, but she had given her parent’s fits. It had been a wild part of her life and she sure didn’t want her daughter to go down that path. She was around most days, but worked the cocktail hour and nights for the tips. Things were tight raising two teen daughters alone without alimony. She hadn’t been able to get a cent out of that bastard, but that was another sad story. But what’s with this. They always talked over what clothes she bought and she knew just what her allowance was. “I don’t know and I’m not taking any chances.” She said to herself as she put the five bucks in her pocket and left for work.

At work she eyed the tables to see if the regulars were there, “Yeah, the usual.” But she wondered about that new guy who had been in last night. “Bet he doesn’t realize I’ve got two grown kids.” She walked over to the bar to buy a pack of Kents. When she pulled out the five she noticed the “K 695-0684”. “That son of a bitch”, were the words that came to her. She had seen him write it and thought he might call, but she had been through that before. This was less than 24 hours and he sure had blown this one. Pissed, she took the bill back, paid with another and kept it as a reminder. She went back to working the tables and the tips were going good tonight.

It was around seven when he got to Bandits. It had been a long day and they had had a lot of heavy stuff to do. Drifter looked beat so he rolled down the window and let him stretch out in the pick-up. He was planning to have a drink and then head home to the showers.

She saw him take a seat at the bar and pretended not to notice, but her peripheral vision was good enough to see he was scoping her. “OK, what’s next?” she thought. Was she pissed or was she interested? She knew she was holding a wild card in her hand. How would she play it? She liked that feeling of excitement, challenge. This could lead to fun or disaster. It would be a good ride either way, she was ready.

This was a great deal of fun to write as I wove in some local locations, but all the people were totally make up.

Pacemaker

This a medical description of the effect of a pacemaker on my health as an apology to my writing group for not making the next meeting. An informational piece:

Pacemaker -

Sorry, I can’t make the group meeting this Thursday as last Thursday I got a pacemaker implanted and they won’t let me drive for a while.

They tucked the pacemaker, about the size of half a yoyo, under my skin under my left collarbone. A wire (yes, this is a one wire unit; there are two and three wire units as well) was run through a vein into the right atrium of my heart, through the tricuspid valve into the right ventricle. The end of the wire was threaded and so it was rotated to screw in into the muscle wall of the heart. The 3.5 volt battery in the pacemaker sends a signal through the wire to pulse the heart every second. That produces a heart rate of 60 beats a minute. As I had a slow heart rate (44 bpm average – called bradycardia) stepping it up to 60 bpm makes a huge difference. Imagine 50% more oxygenated blood circulating through joints, intestines, muscles, the brain and think what that would mean in energy. You go into the operation feeling one way and come out at a totally different level. It is like an instant cure.

In the afternoon after the operation the representative from St. Jude (one of the four suppliers of pacemakers) came with his PC to check the unit out. A long wire led from the PC to a sponge rubber covered receptor he put over the place where the pacemaker was implanted. Then he could monitor the unit and even change the programming. “I am going to change your heart rate now.” He said. As incorrect cardiac pacing was the cause for my heart stopping in an earlier operation this was a little disturbing, but I just felt it roll and then he restored it. He measured the amount of voltage necessary to make my heart beat. My heart having been at 44 bpm for so long needed the full 3.5 volts which means that the battery like of the unit will be about 6 years. They would then have to remove the unit and change the battery. This level will be checked in three months and if the voltage needed could be reduced the battery life could be as much as 10 years. This reprogramming can even be done by placing a phone over the pacemaker and with signals sent remotely from the doctor’s office.

You can’t lift your left arm above the shoulder for 8 weeks or risk the wire separating from the muscle wall or the pacemaker. It takes time for the body to envelope it. You can’t drive for a week.

This unit is also a “rate adaptive” unit which means that it can sense one’s movement and kick up the rate as needed to as high as 120 bpm. As prior to the operation my peak rate possible during exercise was 70, this is an awesome difference.

So sorry I can’t make the meeting, but I can climb stairs, take walks as I want, do repair work all without taking breaks to deep breath to recover energy. See you next meeting.

That is it for medical stuff for a while..it was such a momentus change that it was worth adding.