LANGUAGE BRIDGES - МОСТЫ

31 May, 2014

San Francisco

One day on a sales call in Houston, after the business at hand was transacted, my customer mentioned he was a member of an international engineering organization called мосты (pron. MOSTI) meaning "BRIDGES." It was a group of American and Russians who desired to meet each other to discuss common interests. 

I told him that sounded fascinating, since I speak some Russian. His interest was aroused and invited me to an upcoming meeting that Friday in which some SIXTY Russian engineers were coming into Houston to discuss petroleum engineering problems and solutions. 

Friday arrived, and I showed up at the large hotel convention room where the meeting was to be held. I met quite a few of the people who came early - nearly all were Americans, and not one spoke Russian. There was one, count 'em, ONE Russian interpreter hired for some 100+ Americans to talk to some 60+ Russians, as if one guy could do it all by himself!

Then the door on the opposite side of the hall opened: the Russians are Coming! And in they came and bunched together, and they stayed in a single group on the far side, 100 yards away from us.

Ten uncomfortable minutes passed, or rather were squandered in water seeking its own level. This will never do, I thought...

So I did what had to be done: I broke away from the herd, and walked alone across that barren no-man's-land, approaching briskly an equally timid group. 

As I neared the thick of it, I smiled as one old friend greets another, with a broad smile and my hand extended in friendship. My gesture was accompanied by me greeting the group in Russian.

Not a second passed before my hand was clasped firmly by first one, then another, then yet another, and I almost felt like a politician working a crowd. 

Seeing what was happening on the Far Side, a few others came over and had me do a few introductions. It wasn't too very long after that when both groups were managing to meet, and later they even sat down together at tables, and all kinds of ideas were discussed, even if only through drawings.

That evening, much was exchanged --- even if all that was exchanged between two peoples was a handshake. Sometimes a handshake is enough.

The power of one...

LIMO LINES: chinese delegation

中华人民共和国的商业

May 28, 2014

San Francisco

In the Land of the Blind, the One-Eyed is King! - Erasmus

Americans are notorious the world over for not speaking foreign languages. Personally I feel we are getting a bad rap!

I have been on quite a number of ships from Korea and Finland in which most of the crew only spoke their own language. Although all Japanese students study basic English, it is difficult to find an English speaker in Japan if one goes off the beaten path. 

Having travelled extensively, I have found monolingual people everywhere I go in the world. The USA has no monopoly in this. In Houston, there are many people from Latin America who only speak SPANISH, and they are not native to the United States!

 I have studied many languages myself, and have always been a proponent of learning them, and heartily encouraging anyone who expresses the slightest bit of interest to begin to study in earnest. Among the modern languages I show no partiality, and feel it is never a waste of time acquiring or improving linguistic skills.

Even if you possess a very rudimentary knowledge of a given tongue, in the proper circumstance it could come in quite handy. 

I was called out one day to drive a small bus to the Mississippi Gulf Coast. A Chinese delegation was going to purchase an entire small oil refinery, disassemble it, and ship it back to China. Talk about outsourcing!

The U. S.-based company selling the plant sent two representatives plus a Chinese Interpreter. The Chinese Delegation likewise had theirs. 

On the way to Mississippi, an older Chinese man sitting behind me asked me a few questions. He was an oil company president, and was head of the delegation. He spoke no English, so I was happy to be able to speak with him in his own language, even if my Chinese left much to be desired. 

He then told me that I was the first American he ever spoke with. I replied that I could not understand how that could be so; he must meet Americans at least occasionally, and he agreed. 

"They speak to my interpreter, and I speak to theirs. You are the first American I've ever spoken to directly!" he explained.

Talk about a great feeling!! All the hours listening to recordings of Chinese language lessons, all that  hard work I put into learning it just paid off with that one conversation!

Languages can be walls that separate and divide us; they can also be bridges that can unite us. 

I learned that in Pascagoula, Mississippi with the Chinese Delegation.  

LIMO LINES: Julio Iglesias

Julio Iglesias

31 May, 2014

Osaka, Japan

FAQ: Say, as a limo driver, you must have met a lot of famous people, right?

During my stint as a chauffeur, I drove, saw, met, and interacted with a great deal more than my fair share of celebrities. This is very understandable.

One of my most memorable celebrity jobs was one I did with Galician-Spanish crooner Julio Iglesias, probably best known for his duet with Willie Nelson "All the Girls I've Loved Before."

 (I knew many other of his songs in Spanish, and my favorite is "Un Canto a Galicia," a song to Galicia,  sung in Gallego, his native language.)

At the early part of my time driving limousines, New Orleans was hosting a World's Fair in 1984. Since I spoke Spanish, it fell upon my lot to be assigned him for the day and evening, as he had a performance at the fair. What should've been a prestigious job turned out to be anything but!

I was quite happy to meet an entertainer whose music I really enjoyed, and I have always been a fan of sorts. So naturally, I was looking forward to seeing him in concert, and one would think that, as his chauffeur, I could probably get to see the show for free.   

Well, I took him to his performance at the fair that evening, but didn't get to hear him sing a single note. Sadly, conditions were that I needed to remain with my vehicle. 

Limos are conversation-starters, and some girls I knew from the Japanese Pavilion were BIG Julio fans. They went nuts when they found out I was driving him, so, in typical Japanese style, they had their picture taken - not with Julio Iglesias, but with his chauffeur and limo! I got a kick out of that, and willingly agreed to the picture.

When it was time to pick him and some friends up after the concert, he asked about dinner. Being from Galicia, on Spain's NW Atlantic Coast, I suggested seafood, to which he readily agreed. 

I told him about not the most expensive restaurant, but one of the best places to get typical Louisiana seafood. He loved the idea! So I called my dispatch and had him make reservations for a party of three at Ralph & Kackoo's Restaurant, and I took them there directly.

I was starving, but in the limo business, the client's every need comes first, and often your most basic of needs are not met.

I went into the tiny parking lot to search for a cubbyhole in which to temporarily divest myself of my block-long auto, so I could at least grab a burger or whatever, while my client enjoys the finest seafood the city of New Orleans has to offer.

Missing a meal was not the worst of my problems that night: The parking lot was cramped and very poorly lit. I made a slow curve inside the lot - but I wasn't driving my old Chevrolet - what I was driving was much longer. I heard a low  "WwOOOO" sound. 

I did not like that at ALL. I stopped the instant I heard the noise, and got out to see if I could determine the cause of it.

There was this car parked on the end, where I was making the turn. It had nice, thick, black, rubber bumpers, invisible in the dark shadows. The front bumper made a nearly two foot long crease or linear indention on the side of the car. I was beside myself!

I extricated poor Lincoln 6 from the rubber bumper, and took it out into a lit area for an inspection. It would need some minor body work, and that meant $$$$.

Many chauffeurs recommend restaurants they might get a free meal from, and often for that reason. Nothing wrong with that, necessarily: restaurants often fed us so we'd be familiar with their cuisine and would be more likely to recommend those restaurants, even if it was because we got a bite to eat on the house. Quid pro quo. Besides, we had to eat, too. Why not slip the man who's bringing you business a plate of chow? I'm sure Julio Iglesias dropped several C-notes there that night. 

My philosophy was to take care of the client: that was my job. I recommended eating establishments I thought my CLIENTS would like, and often went hungry and stood around waiting on the corner as re-payment for my trouble. That night was no different: I didn't get a free meal - not even a cup of coffee!  Worse than that, I had to pay the insurance deductible for the limo repairs, which was $300.00. 

When I finally got home, late, tired, and hungry, family, friends, and even neighbors called or came over to talk to the great Julio Iglesias' personal chauffeur for a day. The Japanese Pavillion girls even sent me a picture to remember the evening by.

I did not look at it in such a positive light: I had to work very hard for that $300.00, and so my experience on the night I drove Señor Iglesias was really nothing to croon about.

"La Vida Sigue Igual" -

(Life remains the same) 

LIMO LINES: Wrong Airport?

Jeane J. Kirkpatrick representing the U.S. at the United Nations Security Council in 1984.

27 May, 2014
Houston

Everybody makes mistakes!
To err is human... to forgive IS NOT COMPANY POLICY!

Many people have the misconception that just because you drive for a living, you must be short of brains. Did they not ever consider that it might be BECAUSE of those brains that you are entrusted with a very expensive automobile and the lives of the rich, powerful, and famous?

Its PERCEPTION!

Some people get into a lower-level position of power, and they enjoy the pleasure brought about by giving others pain. My mother called these kinds of people "straw-bosses." In the old days in the south, down on the plantation, these unhappy souls, wearing a straw hat, would sit high above the field upon a horse (a high-horse) and oversee and boss around the field workers. You had to make the boss-man happy, lest you gets a whippin'.

One day in 1984 I got to meet someone I admired very much: Jeane Kirkpatrick. At the time, she was the first American woman ever to serve as Ambassador to the United Nations. I picked her and her group up at a fancy hotel with instructions to take her to Moisant International Airport (MSY).

All went well (what COULD go wrong on an airport job?) until we arrived on the Airport Access Road off of Interstate 10. A junior member of Ms. Kirkpatrick's team said in a loud voice to me: "Oh, driver! Do you know where you're going?" (YES, to HELL if I don't pray!)

This wasn't my first airport transfer, by any means. It was just my most prestigious one up to that time.
It was quite obvious the young man intended to humiliate me, and seemed to enjoy it. Kindness and respect are two things in short supply in Washington, D.C.

"You were given clear instructions to take us to LAKEFRONT Airport... This quite obviously is MOISANT!" Guess he told ME!

Everybody in the car stopped talking immediately. All eyes were upon me, drilling holes in the back of my head. If he set out to embarrass me, he did a fantastic job. Beads of sweat began to form on my forehead, and I began to panic, breathing hard. Traffic was heavy and fast at this point, with cars and taxis jostling for position as we approached the terminal. Nevertheless, I couldn't help myself - I gave a quick, sidelong glance down at my tripsheet, lying on the empty front seat beside me.

It said clearly "Airport Transfer - MSY".

"Sir, " I replied, "I was given no such instructions. I was told to take you to Moisant." I knew I'd catch it if I caused a U.N. Delegation to be late for a flight. Leave it to me to screw up things royally!

"Call your dispatch. You are definitely wrong." he continued, in such a surly, arrogant tone as to annoy the others, who told him to calm down.

Up spoke Ms. Kirkpatrick, addressing the young twit: "Don't you READ your MEMOS? We've changed airports to Moisant!" she told him, in an almost scolding tone. I breathed a deep sigh of relief...

I pulled over to the curb of the dropoff point, and assisted the group with their luggage, handing the bags over to a skycap who had just come over.

While doing so, and to my surprise, Ms. Kirkpatrick herself came up to me and said: "I'd like to apologize for Mr. ___; he was way out of line. I'm very sorry, and thanks for the ride!" She was so kind, and her words of apology were sincere, and soothed my frayed nerves.


On December 9, 2006, I heard the sad news that Ms. Kirkpatrick had passed away the previous day. I will remember the time we met, and the kindness she showed me, when others did not.

LIMO LINES: Brookhaven Wreck!

27 May, 2014
Houston


One day I picked up a very wealthy uptown lady and my job was to drive her to Jackson, Mississippi. I had made that trip a hundred times before, so this was old hat. The house she lived in was a magnificent mansion, rivaling any other to be found in the lovely city of New Orleans.

We hardly spoke a word. A chauffeur never initiates a conversation, and speaks only when spoken to, so this was a pretty quiet ride. We headed north from La Place, onto Interstate 55.

Shortly after we got onto that newly-constructed superhighway, a slight drizzle began. I never liked driving in the rain. It turns ordinary people into mean, hateful jerks, and the mean ones - well - they just get meaner! The crazies get crazier, too, it seems. That is why I try to get out of driving in inclement weather.

Today, there was no getting out of it. I was just getting into some light rain, and there were dark, ominous clouds straight ahead. Just my luck. No doubt about it now, I'll have a heck of a cleaning job ahead of me when I take this Lincoln back to the shop, I thought. I had a lot of time for thinking on that long drive in the middle of nowhere.

We were just nearing the Louisiana-Mississsippi State Line when all Hell broke loose. There was a wild thunderstorm, showering us with a deluge of rain so thick that I could hardly see the road in front of me. My wipers were of little help. The skies turned very dark green, except when lightning struck - which was frequently. The clouds were like a seething cauldron of fire, exploding in incandescent colors of orange and green.

I slowed down below the speed limit, put on my headlights, and made sure the car was in the right-hand lane. It was a doozy of a storm! Just ahead of my limousine was another, going about the same speed as I was. I left several carlengths between he and I. There was no other car that I could see on the road, but I had no time for counting cars: mine was being buffeted now by high crosswinds. Out on the interstates, away from buildings and trees, vehicles are practically out in the open, and thus subjected to the full brunt of Nature's fury, and today it was putting on quite a show, that was for sure!

Just then a tremendous bolt of lightning hit the median, right next to the car in front of me! There was a blinding flash and a deafening roar! The car ahead began to waver, the driver no doubt having been startled by the thunderclap. Then, unable to control his car, he began to overcompensate, turning his wheel wildly, first right, then left, then right again. He began to fishtail, eventually spinning around in a wild circle, and then careened into the ditch on the right side of the highway, turning over and landing upside-down in a few inches of water.

My passenger and I watched this terrible event unfold, and I braked. Seeing what happened, I asked the lady: "Oh, Ma'am, please, I HAVE to stop to help these people!"

I don't believe it was asking permission - it was more like more stating what must be done.

"Oh, ABSOLUTELY!" came the lady's immediate assent, to my great relief.

I jumped out into the storm and pulled first the driver, a man, out of the wreckage. Then I realized he had a passenger, a lady, who was screaming for help from the other side. I grabbed her arm and she screamed in pain. She gave me her hand, and out she came through the broken window.

 The shaken man was quite worried about his wife: "She hurt, man, she hurt!"

He was right. From the looks of it, her arm was badly broken. She was screaming all the while.

I had a dilemma: I had to take this lady to the hospital right away. How will this very rich Uptown lady feel if I ask her if we could take some strange, black lady, dripping wet from the rain, to a hospital in her limo? There was only one way to find out, ASK! My fears were allayed once again, when the lady said "Of COURSE!"

Her husband preferred to stay with his vehicle until the police arrived. I told him I was heading for the hospital in Brookhaven, and the we headed north to the next exit, where I got the lady registered at the ER. It was only a broken arm, but it hurt a great deal!

I continued on my interrupted journey. taking this rich Uptown lady to her destination in an affluent neighborhood of Jackson. I offered to take the time spent with the accident off her bill, but she would hear none of it, and handed me an extra cash tip for my trouble.

This was a lesson learned: don't prejudge people. A crisis will bring out either the best in people --- or the worst. Prepare for the worst, and hope for the best. People just may surprize you!

LIMO LINES: A Smashing Time!

27 May, 2014
Houston

Limousines and proms mix better than anything I can imagine. When I started driving, I had no idea that parents would actually hire out a stretch Lincoln limousine for some young kids to go to a High School prom. When I first heard that idea, I thought it was preposterous! The idea! Wasting all that money; flashing it around just because you have it.

It was just another reason for me to not like rich people. It is easy to dislike someone when you don't know them, particularly when they have more than you'll ever have in your lifetime. That kind of dislike is another form of prejudice, and is, in reality - ENVY - in disguise!

I started to learn about the rich and famous when I began to drive a limousine. When you get behind the wheel and are working for someone, you cater to the slightest needs of that person, while often your most basic needs go unmet. The movie "Driving Miss Daisy presented the feeling I had very well, although it was done from a black vs white point of view. Sadly, when race is injected into the equasion, all other points usually become somehow marginalized.

Meeting rich, powerful, famous people became a way of life with me for awhile. Strange as it may seem, I began to see what makes them tick, and I believe I learned several lessons in the process.

Just as things are not always as they appear, likewise people are not not always as stereotypes portray them to be. Take, for instance, the prom-night limo riders. On my first prom job, I show up at a (surprise!) beautiful lakefront house, and did so on-time (15 minutes early!) My doorbell ring was not answered by some stuffed-shirt, snooty butler named Jeeves, but by the lady of the house, who warmly welcomed me in.

I was introduced to the young adults I was to drive. They made a cute couple, indeed. It was quite clear from the interaction between parents and offspring that there was a lot of love in that house. They just happened to have earned more money than most folks.

As I left, I pulled Mom & Dad aside and assured them: "I have children. The smartest thing you ever did was to sent them to the prom with ME! They will be well looked-after!"

And they WERE, and had a marvellous time. I couldn't control what they did inside the dance hall, etc., but when they were with me, there was no "foolishness." The kids behaved themselves and their parents were very proud of them when we got back, on time, if not under budget.

But what price is a loved one's safety? Or a parent's peace of mind?

Things don't always go as we would like them, however. One particular night, I was driving a minibus full of younsters to and from prom and around the city a little for good measure. There was a lot of noise and commotion on the bus, and I took it all in stride, They were having a blast.

Suddendly, and without warning, one of the young men stood up and screamed something unintelligible very loudly and then PUNCHED the side window, with a force so strong he actually shattered the plate glass!! It exploded into a thousand pieces, as it was designed to do to prevent serious injury, but only from flying glass. This young man had broken his hand in several places.

I stopped the bus and there was quite a bit of screaming and shouting. I commanded and got instant silence as I examined his lacerated hand. It was bleeding profusely.

After I carefully picked out a few stray pieces of glass, I got a clean handkerchief and some other cloths from the other kids, and instructed a boy closest to him to hold the cloth around the wounded hand. I then instructed everyone to hold on, there'd be a rough ride ahead. I radioed base and advised them of the situation, and gave the name and phone number of the injured boy's parents to the dispatcher so he could notify them.

Then I sat in the driver's seat and floored it! I headed straight to the closest emergency room, which was Hôtel-Dieu, where my children were born. We pulled into the place and got the young fellow seen immediately. Out dispatcher had also called ahead to let them know what type of injury to expect, so the ER staff was waiting for us.

We stayed at the scene. Nobody from the group even thought of leaving. We could hear the cries of pain and anguish coming from the hapless lad. The girls - and some of the guys, too, were in tears. His parents arrived within minutes, frantic. I explained what happened, but that wasn't as important as how their son was going to be.

As it turned out, someone in the group had smuggled aboard something that they shouldn't have, and this young student behaved irresponsibly and paid the price. It had an adverse, psychotic reaction.

The parents, not even for a moment, held me responsible, and actually commended me for my quick thinking and actions. I was very upset - and was more concerned that there'd be permanent damage to the hand. It really looked bad.

A few days later, I was in the back lot, cleaning a vehicle. I was interrupted by the very young man who had the fit on my bus. He was somber, and looked quite embarrassed. His hand was in a large bandage.

"I came to apologize to you for the other night, Sir."  he said, in probably the most contrite tone of voice I had ever heard from anyone. "I behaved very foolishly!!"

"Yes, you did son, " I agreed, "But I hope you have learned a valuable lesson from this."

"Indeed I have, Sir."

"It takes a big man to admit his mistakes, though" I told him, and shook his hand - the other hand.

LIMO LINES: Wrong GAS!

29 May, 2014

Osaka, Japan

There was a time when the limousine company I was working for got a contract to do minibus shuttles between various locations of Loyola University and a huge parking area behind Audubon Park. 

I did my share, and it helped pay the bills when limo jobs were slow. Just like the other vehicles we drove, each driver was responsible for leaving his assigned car or bus clean inside and out, and gassed up ready for the next use. Most of the minivans we ran were gasoline, but a couple were Diesel. 

One day, at a chauffeur's meeting, 

our company president brought up a situation that occurred a few days before: someone had put the wrong fuel into one of the buses.

I had had some time already with the company and we had quite a few new hires. Most of the new recruits were hired specifically to drive for the Loyola Shuttle.

When I heard of the fuel mixup, I laughed out loud. It was hysterical, I thought, that anyone could have made that kind of mistake. 

After making the announcement about the fuel problem, the Pres. asked who it was that did it.

Nobody answered. Complete silence was all that was heard. The

meeting was adjourned, and we began the weekly ritual of picking up our weekly pay checks. This ritual always involved a brief, usually cursory meeting with el presidente.

When it was my turn, he asked me: "Hey, by the way, do you have any idea who mixed up the diesel and the gas on that minibus?"

Again I laughed. "Yeah," I answered, "I sure do! It HAD to be one of the newbies. Whoever it was is probably too embarrassed to fess up at a meeting. He'll probably tell you in private when he comes in here. Go easy on him, will you?"

"So you really DON'T know, do you?" he asked, smiling.

"Haven't a clue!" I told him. "Just see who was assigned that bus, and that's who most likely made the mess-up."

"What if I told you it was YOU who put in the wrong fuel?" he queried.

I suddenly got very serious. 

"ME?" I challenged, "Wait, I'll tell you exactly what I was driving that day."

I looked up the date and job, and to my chagrin and acute embarrassment, there, in my trip log, was the very vehicle in question...and I was the last person to drive it.😱

"I knew you would have spoken up if you knew it was you," he said, "but when I saw your spontaneous laugh at the meeting, I knew you hadn't the foggiest idea who the culprit was!"

That stupid little blunder cost me a few hundred dollars to fix, but I learned to be a bit more careful. And when it comes time to address a big mistake, I should never rule out anyone - even myself!!

LIMO LINES: Trapped Limo

LIMO LINES: Limousine Diet

31 May, 2014

San Francisco

Japan has always fascinated me! Its language, customs, history, food, even the land itself seem to be an enigma.

During my youth, I watched TV programs about Japan, and read books and pamphlets about the country. I even visited the Japanese Consulate-General enough times to be recognized by the staff!

 By age 7, I could count to ten and knew a few other words. I would copy Japanese kana characters from the instructions of toys my grandfather sent me from his visits to Kobe and Yokohama. 

When I became a chauffeur, given my interest and very basic conversational ability in the language, I was routinely assigned Japanese clients. 

I was the favored driver for guests of the Japanese Pavilion of the 1984 Louisiana World Exposition. It was not unusual for me to transport members of the Japanese Diet, their Congress. (日本国の国会)

On Japan Night, I was in charge of six Diet Members, ranging from obviously junior to relatively high-ranking. They invited me to observe the ceremonies of turning over the World's Fair flag to Japan, host of a 1990 World's Fair. 

When the ceremonies were drawing to a close, I broke away and hustled down to get the car and bring it around to pick the gentlemen up. I got there and got a bad SURPRIZE: I was blocked in completely by two parked trucks.

I surveyed the scene, and there was not even an inch leeway to gradually see-saw out of the spot. The trucker didn't even leave me a CAN-OPENER to pry the car loose.

Honesty is always the best policy. I headed off the group and explained them the situation in my best lousy Japanese. 

We all walked to where the poor stretch-Lincoln was entombed. The guys they did something amazing: they looked all around to make absolutely sure that nobody was looking, and then pealed off their suit jackets, rolled up their sleeves, and like college fraternity brothers, assumed cardinal positions on the car.... and LIFTED THE LIMOUSINE and unblocked it. 

They were carrying on just like college boys might have done under the same circumstances. It was a decided departure from the conventional. 

The job done, smiles quickly vanished as the shirts were tucked, sleeves rolled down, and suit coats donned once again. The drastic breech of protocol was no more, and the pecking order was reestablished. 

It was a fascinating glimpse into Japanese hierarchy and protocol, and how necessity can allow them to briefly put all those cultural trappings aside for the overall good. 

Thus I saw a living example of the Japanese ethic known as Gamberu to do one's utmost always. 

LIMO LINES - A Clandestine Assignment

May 26, 2014
Houston


I have had many jobs during my lifetime. I did what I could to pay the bills and to provide for my family. One of these jobs was the unlikely one of chauffeur. I was "between opportunities" at the time, and the opportunity presented itself.

The job was interesting enough, and few jobs were what one could call "routine." That was fine by me. I was never a person who relished routine or predictablity.

The most interesting job I did, however, brought interesting to an entirely new level. I was called in one afternoon to speak in private with the president of the limousine company, I walked into his office, sat down, and the door was closed behind me, and locked.

In the room were two representatives from the German Consulate-General, that was located in New Orleans at the time. I was introduced to them, and told they were looking for a driver to head a team for a special assignment. The rest of the interview was in German. I am intentionally omiting some of the details of that meeting.

Suffice it to say, I was briefed on a job which involved the transporting of a medical team. They were accompanying a person who had come from Germany for medical treatment. There was, I was told, a worldwide convention of blood specialists taking place in the city of New Orleans, and the objective of the trip here was so that the person who was about to arrive could be seen by as many blood specialists as possible, in order to obtain a diagnosis of his malady. It seemed like an act of desperation to me.

"There's something in the blood..." one of them remarked, then fell silent.

I led a team of five other chauffeurs in our finest stretch-Lincoln limousines. In single-file we made our way quickly to Moisant International Airport, where we met up with uniformed police, as well as some plainclothes gentlemen. We were escorted by the police into a special area of the airport where only special aircraft are ordinarily parked. Air Force One is parked there on visits. I even remembered the visit of French President Valéry Giscard d'Estaing's visit a decade earlier, in the Concorde. That magnifiscent supersonic transport plane had been parked on that very spot. Everywhere there were police and airport security, as well as others.

Our convoy approached a large aircraft, bathed in lights. It was a DC-10, with German registration and flag, but apart from that, there were no other markings or insignia of any kind. Next to the DC-10 was a smaller business jet, and its occupants joined the ones emerging from the DC-10.

Then an ambulance pulled in front of our parked convoy. Its door opened, and I was close enough to see that it had a vast array of technical medical equipment. We watched as a side door of the DC-10 opened to reveal that the plane was crammed with every sort of piece of medical technology known to modern medicine.

A lift truck then appeared, and its platform was hoisted up to allow a gurney to be rolled onto it.

My fellow chauffeurs were nervous and apprehensive. All at once they walked straight toward me, and one of them asked: "What's going on here?? What's this all about? It's pretty heavy duty!"

They were intimidated by the large amount of security and all the secrecy, and I was honor-bound and under express instructions to not divulge any unnecessary information to them. So I did what I do best: I turned to humor - albeit sub-rosa.

"Men, " I began, straight-faced and serious, "This is a very important assignment we are on. I must swear you all to secrecy." (Andy Griffith's TV deputy, Barney Fife would have been proud of me!)

The men all nodded.

"Yesterday there was a coup d'etat in the country of Buganda. The man you see about to be lowered down is the deposed leader, the Kabaka of Buganda. He was shot trying to flee the country. Now, nobody knows where he is - except US! (I paused for effect.)   Men, if word gets back as to his whereabouts, it could mean war, and millions of lives are in the balance! You can't tell a living SOUL about what you see and do here tonight!"

They agreed, turned, and stood beside their cars at mute attention - looking just as good as any military men at parade dress. It was a magnificent sight to behold; something out of a Jason Bourne suspense movie, only this was for real!

We completed the assignment, returned to base, cleaned our cars, and went home.

___________________________________

A few years had passed. I was no longer driving cars for a living.  I had just come back to town after a week-pong business trip to find that my older son was in Intensive Care at a local hospital. He had met with an unfortunate accident, and had lost a great deal of blood. I met my wife at the hospital, and she briefed me. She told me that the doctor had advised her that, unless he was in danger of dying, to not allow them to give my son a blood transfusion.

"There's something in the blood..." she said, a serious look on her face.

That made my hair stand on end. That's just what the doctor at the HOSPITAL said a few years ago!

Happily, my son pulled through, and the danger passed. He never needed a blood transfusion. The year was 1986.

To this day I wonder about what happened to that German man with the mystery illness back in 1983...
Back then, few people knew about AIDS!

LIMO LINES - The Pope's Wife

May 26, 2014
Houston


Limousine drivers are a strange breed. I know: I used to be one. I never actually called myself that, because I preferred the French word chauffeur. Semantics? Snobbery? No, I say, neither. The reason I preferred the word chauffeur is because a "limousine driver" often drives an airport minibus. Also, a limousine could actually be a bus.

Drivers, even limousine drivers, are often confused with, or are even called glorified taxi drivers. Probably the greatest reason of all for my not wishing to be called a driver is that driving is only what someone DOES, not what he IS.

The exact reason we use the word chauffeur is somewhat obscure. In the 1800's, coal- and wood-burning steam engines were becomming more and more common since their invention and development during the 1700's. An engine - er, or engineer, was a person designated to run the engine. Since the machinery needed a constant supply of fuel, another person, or persons, were assigned to ensure the engine or engines were stoked. The word for that job became "stoker," as in Frankenstein's author, Bram Stoker.

The French had a similar word, stocker, pron. "stow-kay", which meant to stock or store. This is not what was happening here. The action described produced quite a bit of heat. Chaud (pron. show) is the French word for heat, in the general sense. Chaleur means heat, as the humid heat of the day. Chauffer (sho-FAY) is the verb to heat up, as to heat up an object. A person who carries out this action is a chauffeur, literally a "heater-upper."

As man and machine progressed, so did the terms used for the things man invented, and the way he goes about using those inventions. An engine-er became engineer, and a person who was an engineer was then a person who operated or "drove" a train, along with his trusty stoker, now called a fireman, who tended the fire.

With the development of the motor vehicle, the self-moving (auto - mobile), the people who piloted them, ie, DRIVERS (without horses or cattle to actually drive) were also known as motorists - a more logical term. The French, too, saw the need for a name to call the person who operated this noisy, smelly, outlandish conveyance, and, early profanity notwithstanding, eventually called him for what he DID: he stoked or tended a fire-powered carriage. Therefore, he became a heater-upper, or chauffeur.

As the upper classes saw the need for speedy conveyances, some individuals declined to operate those dangerous, horseless contraptions themselves, and instead hired out someone to do the operating of the vehicle for them. The word chauffeur thus was applied to the hired help in this instance.

In the United States, drivers were also hired to pilot the automobile owned by another individual, but
they called themselves drivers. The French word crossed the Atlantic presumably when a few French immigrant drivers were sometime used, and these gentlemen also performed some customary valet or butler services as well.

The term driver is currently used for anyone who drives a vehicle - a bus, taxi, private car, etc. A chauffeur, in common present-day connotation, is expected to go beyond this simple operation and be knowlegeable of the city and environs, and also to assist where needed in a hundred ways or more, depending upon the situation.

Don't expect a cabbie or city bus driver to bring along a chilled bottle of champagne, much less to open it for you. A streetcar motorman or subway conductor won't make reservations for you at the theatre or restaurant. A chauffeur does these and many other duties as part of his daily routine, and is always up to the task when called upon to do the extraordinary.

Above all, a TRUE chauffeur is discreet and ensures the utmost privacy for the people he drives. If a chauffeur is privvy to personal, private information, this remains with the man, undivulged, until his death. So, in this sence, he is driver, butler, valet, personal assistant, and CONFIDANT.

This brings me to the title of this story.

One day I was driving some clients. They were having a night on the town, seeing the sights of New Orleans' fabulous French Quarter. Professional appearance and demeanor are important, even when the client is not around. I was standing near my stretch-Lincoln limousine on St. Peter St., right by the famous Pat O'Brien's, wearing my chauffeur's cap.

I enjoyed the funny comments coming from passers-by, such as: "Stay right here, I'll be back in ten minutes," or "Home, James!" I heard them all hundreds of times, but every time I did I'd smile as if this was my very first time. I often was asked who my client was, and always I respectfully declined to answer. I maintained this iron-clad policy of client-chauffeur privelege without ever divulging who it was that I had in my limo that night - or day.

On this particular evening, two good ol' boys, young guys about 18 or 19 years old came walking down the sidewalk. They eyeballed that long car - it was like something they never had seen down on the farm. If I wasn't convinced that these fellows were from some rural area, and this was their first taste of the big city, as soon as they opened up their mouths and said: "Gaw-leeee, lookee thaar!" it was a dead giveaway.

"Say, man," one of them walked up to me and asked: "So who ya GOT in that long car of yours, huh?"

This was just too much. I had to say something, so I did. I lowered my voice, putting a little twang into my voice, and said: "Can y'all boys keep a secret?"

That was it; they got really serious and drew near, looking around to make sure nobody else was listening.

"I got the Pope's wife in there!" I confided, whereupon I placed my index finger to my lips and went "Shhhhhhh!"

The dude who asked me the question initially, screwed up his face, as if something wasn't making any sense. He stood there, perplexed! He then replied: "Hey, look... I mean, I thought the Pope... I mean I thought the Pope..."

FLAP! went his buddy's John Deere cap, right on top of the first dude's head. "Come on. Clem! Less go! Jes' cain't take you nowher'!" The two walked off, arguing something or other about the Pope.

Limo Lines - Visitors from Down Under

26 May, 2014
Houston



Driving a limousine is a unique job. It allows one to see the world from a totally different perspective - being neither a participant in an event nor a spectator. Things can be seen from WITHIN, while safely wearing a Tolkein Cloak of Invisibility!

If one is a professional chauffeur, conversations with clients (when there IS a conversation!) are initiated by the client, not the driver. A true chauffeur never takes part in whatever activity is taking place, even though he might be caught up in the thick of it!

As with everything else, there are exceptions. This is where life gets interesting.

I was not only a chauffeur, but also a licensed tourguide for the City of New Orleans. As such, I was in demand by the concièrges at the city's finest hotels. Showing their clients a good time means repeat business for them, and it came back to me in the form of requests for services - a quid pro quo arrangement.

One day I got a request from one of the city's leading concièrges. There were these two elderly ladies from Australia, who wanted to see not only the city but the outlying areas, including the old plantation homes upriver from the city. They particularly wanted someone familiar with the area and its interesting history.

I picked them up from their exclusive hotel and found in them the most delightful people I ever had the pleasure of driving. There was not a touch of "Home, James!" arrogance about them. They were proper yet with a sense of humour and a joie de vivre we all should be blessed with!

The city tour behind us, we headed out I-10 West towards the area where some of the South's most beautiful and pictoresque plantation homes could be found. As we passed over a long bridge, the ladies delighted in seeing a swamp for the first time. This was a typical Louisiana nature scene, and they were drinking it in like fine champagne.

I explained that several million years ago the whole area looked like this, and that the swamp they saw here was once part of the Everglades - the very same that still exists in south Florida. At that moment, dozens of beautiful white birds flew overhead and came to rest in an area of marsh. They immediately asked me what they were, and I explained that they were Egrets, also alled "cow-birds" by the locals for their penchant for perching on or near those gentile animals. I furthermore explained that this area was a rookery or nesting area for the egrets, somewhat like San Juan de Capistrano is for the swallows. (I was referring to their visit earlier to Capistrano.)

I then told them that Frank Sinatra had made these birds famous with a major hit song. Tried as they may, they could not think of the song I was citing, so they asked me, and I explained: "Oh, surely you've heard this song - and sang it thusly: "Egrets, I've had a few... but then again, too few to mention..." The car was filled with hearty laughter as they showed their appreciation for my cornball joke.

I pointed past the swamp and told them that I was familiar with the area since I lived just on the other side. Both of them immediately asked if they might stop by and visit my home and family. I had never had such a request before, but coming from them, it was both genuine, and quite unexpected.

Even though it might be a breach of protocol, I agreed, but not before first clearing it with my dispatch. Fraternizing with clients was strictly verboten. To my surprize, the president of the company came on the radio giving me not only his permission but his encouragement.

One can only imagine the surprize my wife and children had when I drove up unnanounced (we didn't have cellphones in those days!) in my beautiful, stretch Lincoln limousine! I invited the ladies to come inside and we had tea and a delightful visit. My wife found them intelligent and very sweet.

"We're touring the country," one of the ladies explained, in that lilting accent which is unique to their land down under.

"You have a lovely family!" said the other, watching my children at play in the living room. "We're going to see the plantation homes near here; we would like for your wife and, of course, the children to join us!"

What a kind invite, and it was from the heart. So my wife and children joined the two ladies, and we went to see some plantation homes, but most especially enjoyed each other's company. I must say that I was one happy man! In the back seat of the limo was my family, and they were having a wonderful time, and I was getting paid all the while!

Clearly, seeing buildings and tourist attractions was not what they wanted, really. They very much wanted to include us in on their vacation, and that was the human element so often forgotten when one travels abroad. Were that every vacation could include time spent with others.

Throughout my many years of work at a variety of jobs, there are things that I hold dear in my memory. This is one of the dearest.

Summers of My Youth

18 July, 1988
New Orleans

Published on Blog 6/2/2014 Houston


In the days of my youth, my favorite time of year was SUMMER! I remember those hot, humid New Orleans Saturdays when I'd go to the movies; and I recall the cool dark of the old BELL theatre, the smell of popcorn, and the giggling and quick footsteps of the neighborhood kids scurrying to the soda fountain.

I remember having to go to the barbershop. (ALWAYS too often!) It was muggy outside -----stifling! Especially after a brisk walk... but inside Yetta's Barbershop it was so cool! And there was that smell that only a barbershop had: a sort of aftershave/talcum fragrance. There was the hum of the shaver, and the snip-snip of the scissors.

In the corner, under a chair, there awaited every young visitor an immense box of COMIC BOOKS!
I remember actually being disappointed if I didn't have to wait. The longer the wait, the more comic books I could read. Then, Mr. Yetta would call me and I'd have my turn in the barber chair. After I paid him he'd realize I was not quite through reading, so he'd let me take home one or two comics.
(I always thanked him, but I wonder if he knew how much I appreciated what he did?"

I'd leave Mr. Yetta's like a shorn sheep, and again the 95° + heat would burn my face as I headed down towards Broad Street. At the corner of d'Abadie and N. Broad, on the uptown lake corner, across from the Coney Island Bar, was Hurley's Pharmacy. It was a typical, small, independent drug-store, where the pharmacist, Mr. Hurley, was the owner. A decal on the door read: "Come in, it's KOOL inside!" and a green penguin blew a smoke ring.

I remember the Brown's Velvet Ice Cream sign just over the door. It foretold of the cool, refreshing treat of a chocolate ice cream cup that I'd buy inside! I'd check out the comic book rack and probably invest my very last quarter in the lastet SUPERMAN or BATMAN issue. Then I'd go back to my grandparents' house, where there was always something good to eat. 

There were many things I enjoyed about the old neighborhood. Most of the buildings, houses, and trees remain much as they were back then. But the BELL Theatre is gone forever. Mr. Yetta's Barbershop is now a vacant Soul Fashion Salon. Hurley's Pharmacy and the cool ice cream cups are but a pleasant memory.

Every time I go to the old neighborhood, my mind goes back to a different year and a different time that has all too quickly come and gone. It is written that "nothing is constant but change." This being so, I must gracefully surrender the things of youth and accept my rightful place in adulthood.

But I woudn't mind at all if I could go back to that barbershop... run in just one more time, and say: "Mr. Yetta, thanks for the comic books... and thanks for the memories!!"
___________________________________________
2014

The above story was written in the Summer of 1988. Twenty-six years have passed since I wrote that little piece for no-one in particular. Consider it a snapshot of how I felt back then. 

Since then, my children have grown up, with little ones of their own. As for the old neighborhood, well there have been many, many changes. The tastes, smells, sights, and sounds of the place are not the same, now. Nearly everybody that I ever knew there has passed away. Those sweet, happy old faces of the neighbors will smile at me no more. 

After the flood waters of a devastating hurricane called Katrina, many of the old houses are either rebuilt or just vacant lots. The fact is, most of the things I have fond memories of just aren't there anymore. 

Living a new life in Houston, I remember one day seeing a video of things I remember about New Orleans, done to a funny song: "It Aint' Dere No More!" As I watched the video, instead of laughing, I found a deep sadness welling up inside, as I realized that the place I called home just is not there any more. 

The truth is - I am an exile: I can't go back home, now. As one song laments: "Home ain't home anymore..."

An old jazz song asks the question: "Do you know what it means, to miss New Orleans...?"  I know I do! I miss it each night and day. But more than the houses and the parks, and the trees, there was all of my family, who walk with me now in memory. 

They are what I miss most about New Orleans.


This used to be Hurley's Pharmacy.


This used to be Yetta's Barbershop - d"Abadie at Paul Morphy

The old BELL Theatre used to be here.
It ain't dere no more.

UNHUMAN SOUNDS!

14 Dec. 2013
LAGOS, Nigeria

UNHUMAN SOUNDS! This morning I re-read a short story called "The Sound Machine" by Roald Dahl. It is human nature to delve into the unknown. We often speculate and explore the unseen; this story deals with someone who seeks to explore the unheard. 

It was a scary tale, and where the story ended was a bookmark - a bus transfer dated March 25, 1963, left there as I finished reading. So it was over fifty years since I read this quirky tale about a man who discovered to his horror that plants make sounds, and even express pain. Since then, scientific research has shown that many living things - besides animals - do indeed produce sounds intentionally. We haven't realized that until recently, because these sounds are outside of our range of hearing. 

I recall when the first eerie sounds of humpback wales were released. Who knew that wales communicated with each other??? Later I heard sounds made by the Universe itself - radio waves left over from the Big Bang. The radio waves
were converted to numbers, and then into audible sounds. 

The other day I heard what sounds like a women's chorus - an angelic choir singing in a major key - with chord changes. It was a haunting yet oddly familiar air. But it wasn't human - it was the chirping of hundreds of crickets in a summer field! The sounds were altered - slowed down to a human time frame - and the result is astounding! It seems as though the peculiar man in the story I read was really on to something after all!!! 

It goes to show you never can tell!!


Organic News: Slowed Down Recording of Crickets Sounds Like Humans Singing!

isupportorganic.blogspot.com

This is VERY CREEPY, yet beautiful, and the melody is strangely familiar!?!? This reminds me of a Twilight Zone-ish story I read 50 years ago about a man who developed a machine capable of translating inaudible sounds into audible ones. He went insane when he discovered that all living things cry out in pain.

THE POWER OF ONE

"The light of one candle cannot be extinguished by all the darkness of the universe!"



THE POWER OF ONE. It is a shame that sometimes just one person's meanness can eclipse the happiness, peace, and goodwill of two hundred others. The malevolence or mean-spiritedness of just one person can ruin an otherwise beautiful day for many.

Then I realize that the moon - a tiny rock, dead, void of color, of life, of energy, or any light of its own, can eclipse even the sun. This happens every so often, and we notice, for we cannot help but see - and then go on with our lives as we always have. 

I rejoice that the converse is true as well - the light from a single candle cannot be extinguished by all the darkness of of the universe. So if I can, in the time that remains, I would rather be a candle than a rock.

The Cold, Dark Room

The Cold, Dark Room

                                                       ©KENNETH E. HALL            24 May, 2014              Houston

It was a typically hot, humid summer day in New Orleans. Beads of sweat already covered my chest and forehead as I entered my Aunt Anna's  side yard. I walked past the huge garage/shed where my Uncle Frank kept his old Packard car, and went into the shop where I'd play race-car driver - using a huge vise as a pretend steering wheel. I guess everyone has his, er, vice. 

It was a Saturday, and I was off from school. I'd usually spend Saturdays at my grandparents, but my aunt, who lived around the corner told me to come on over anytime.

I enjoyed the visits, and even played "Battle" card games with Grandma, my Great-Grandmother. Other things I liked about going there were watching TV -  they had a TV set (black & white in those days), and that my aunt fixed me hot dogs (my favorite) for lunch. Those things are important to a nine-year-old! Back in the early 1960's, there were only a few programs for children on Saturday mornings, and after about 11:30, there wasn't much for a kid to see on the tube at all. Phooey!!

Amazingly enough, I found other things to do to entertain myself that did not involve sedentary electronic non-interaction, and also, and most importantly, I did something that would not get me into trouble!

There were old bricks to stack, tools in the garage, and so many other activities. I would even enjoy seeing my aunt's old, green glass "demijohn" a bottle of water that was kept in many houses of New Orleans long ago to be used to put out fires. I could also kill fire ants - the BANE of my existence - using chlordane dust to get my revenge for numerous painful attacks. There were even many stepping stones to overturn - to see what crawls beneath, and I found many a creepy-crawly that would make any neighborhood little girl shriek in fear.

Needless to say, I was never bored.

Sometimes I'd go into the other, smaller shed - the one in the back of the house. It was substantial and well-built; perhaps it should not be called a shed at all. It could have easily been used as a small apartment. It was divided into two areas. The first was where the door opened into from the outside and the other part further inside I knew nothing about at all. 

I would come in from the bright summer sunlight and into this room, and look around. As my eyes became accustomed to the diminished light, I could see the plethora of mundane objects stacked all about. Nothing unusual. (I say this only because I wish to emphasize that there was nothing extraordinary about this back building that would attract or occupy the interest of a nine-year-old boy for more than a few minutes at a time.)  

I then saw a doorway that led into the adjoining room - the one I had not yet explored. Unlike everything else, this second part of the shed seemed dark, sinister, and foreboding. There were cobwebs on the corners of the doorway - not a welcoming sign to a budding arachnophobe like me. 

Just looking at that doorway gave me the creeps! Even so, I approached the doorway and got a greater feeling of dread the closer I got. Something inside me warned not to come any closer, so I decided to continue my exploration the following week. 

Next Saturday, I felt the call of curiosity - or of the place itself, and after lunch I went there once again. As my eyes got used to the light, I saw that same doorway, eerily inviting as before. I cautiously turned the porcelain knob and the door opened at my push with a "squeeeeee!" 

I saw the gossamer cobwebs bow out slightly now as a current of cold air hit me. This did not bode well. Nevertheless, I was determined to go inside, as if there was someone - or something calling me. 

Curiosity overcame fear, and I found myself actually stepping into the room,  but only a pace or two, for I dared go no further!. I stayed perfectly still for a few minutes - riveted to the floor - half in fear of the unknown,  half because I could not see well in the near total darkness.

Cobwebs, chilly air, and squeaking doors! Stuff like this is where they get the ideas for ghost movies, and Halloween Haunted Houses, I thought.

A minute or two passed, and once again my eyes adjusted to the greatly-diminished illumination that filtered in from the next room. I began to become more aware that there was something in this room - something that was pulling me inward - something that wanted me there. My heart started to beat faster. I decided to press on, and I did so as if guided by something unseen and unknown. 

My gaze, for some strange reason,  was drawn to a row of wooden cabinets. Focusing upon them, I started to stare at one of them, and one in particular. It became crystal clear to me that this room contained some mysterious thing - or being - and whatever secret this hidden room held was inside this very cabinet!!

I bit my lip, and I was shaking from both the coldness of the room and from a terror which had gripped me ever since my eyes fell onto that cabinet door.  My mind went wild with macabre imaginings! There was something inside, something sinister, something horrible...

Whatever it was that I feared, it was waiting for me behind that cabinet door!!

_____________

My throat and lips were dry. I swallowed hard, and against my own better judgement, grabbed the cabinet latch - and opened the door very slowly. "Sqeeeeeeeee!!" went the rusty hinges as I gradually opened the cabinet door. I peered inside and saw a vast nothingness inside, a blackness blacker than dark itself!!  It seemed to penetrate deep to the lowest recesses of the earth! 

At first I could see nothing, as I said, not a solitary thing but that ink-black obscurity. My heart was now racing - I could actually hear it pounding within my chest. There was still time to reconsider, I realized - still time to run, and run fast and furiously - time yet there was to escape whatever awaited me... but something held me there in place. What was that force? Call it morbid curiosity, blind stupidity, or an attraction from the Great Beyond...Call it what you like. But there I stood, the cabinet door before me was opened wide unto a vast void descending into the bowels of Hell itself, for all I knew - and for all I feared!

Again my eyes adjusted to the near total darkness - and I began to make out a shape:

Inside the cabinet, staring me right in the face,  was a HUMAN HEAD!!!!

Frightened beyond screaming, I fled the room and the shed itself in abject TERROR!!! I ran like I never ran before - or since. The midsummer's sunlight dazzled me, bathing me in a shower of heat, in stark contrast to the bone-chilling cold of that horrible place. Once outside in the perceived safety of the mid-afternoon daylight, I caught my breath, collected my thoughts, and it hit me: Aunt Anna was married years ago to Uncle Frank. Whatever happened to him?  Nobody ever told me what happened to him!!  He just disappeared!! He was gone...And now I've found him!

I ran inside quickly, nervous and upset after such a gruesome discovery, but I had to tell Aunt Anna that I finally found Uncle Frank - or what was LEFT of him...I barged into the dining room and blurted out that I had just found ...Uncle Frank's head!!

Now, Aunt Anna was a tough old lady, but she was very much taken aback by my bolting in all excited, blurting out crazy stuff about finding Uncle Frank.

"What's the matter, Chèr?" She asked, "What's all this about?"

I told her about the spooky old room out in the back shed, and about the creepy cabinet - and especially about the man's HEAD!!

She walked out back with me - I stayed a little behind her, just in case. She went into the shed alone, as I held my breath. After what seemed an eternity, Aunt Anna came out with that gory thing that scared me so much. I covered my eyes with my hands and gasped in fear. She took it and put it in a bench by the door, and, I removed my hands from my face. I just stood there - eyes wide-opened in terror, and before me I beheld...   

......a terra cotta Chia Pet head!!

It took me a few minutes to realize that this was only a clay head - a gag object onto which one would plant little grass seeds. Aunt Anna explained this to me, as I stood riveted in fear even now. She told me that someone had given that to her long ago as a funny gift. I did NOT think it was funny at all. And if that was not Uncle Frank, then where WAS he, anyway???

She explained to me that her husband has passed away several years ago, while I was living in Washington, D.C., and thought I had heard about his death. She had a good laugh, but I still eyed that clay head thing with suspicion.

Most of our deepest fears are brought about or increased when we delve into the unknown. Our minds can often play tricks on us, and our imagination takes over, sometimes leading us to wrong conclusions. When the light is low and details get blurry, our brain sometimes fills in those dark places with details of its own. Things change quite a bit when brought into the light of day. 

It's all a matter of perspective!

For years, that head sat on the bench, right where my Aunt Anna put it when she removed it from its dark cabinet. But I never again ventured into the back shed.... I was still convinced that there was something waiting for me to find. Perhaps when it comes to things of that sort, the unknown is best left as just that - UNKNOWN!

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If you enjoyed this story, you might find this interesting also:http://kennyduke.blogspot.com/2014/04/a-night-in-graveyard.html
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This is the WELCOME PAGE of my blog. It will tell you how I got started writing, and what the aims of this blog are:   http://kennyduke.blogspot.com/p/welcome.html   
WELCOME PAGE

LIMO LINES: An UnLucky Dog

LIMO LINES:  An Un-Lucky Dog

                                                                                  KENNETH E. HALL -  24 May, 2014    Houston

Limousines are usually seen as symbols of power, wealth, and prestige. They are by design ostentatious vehicles, but they are not always used for that purpose. 

It's PERCEPTION!! Sometimes what we perceive is correct, but often the opposite is true. 

I had returned to the university to finally get my degree. To pay the tuition and to support my family, I got a job driving for a leading limousine company. It was a great job - very enjoyable - and the dispatcher worked around my schedule. 

Sure, we had rich and powerful clients. We also had businessmen, wedding parties, prom kids, tourists, entertainers, and many other customers. There were also the good-timers out to do the town. My company offered opulence by the hour. 

I drove a beautiful, stretch Lincoln limousine, complete with wet bar, TV, telephone - the works. I wore a suit, tie, and hat. 

I was not a driver... I was in every sense of the word, a chauffeur.

I remember a particular job I did. I picked up an elderly lady at the Pontalba Apartments on Jackson Square. It was a beautiful day, and the place was bustling with tourists, taking in the sights of old New Orleans.

The lady I was to pick up was just going to the airport. She asked me if I could help her with her luggage, and I happily obliged. I brought the suitcases downstairs and took them to the limo.

New Orleans' French Quarter is a fascinating, eclectic place. The food there is unbeatable. On the streets of the Quarter, there is another more mundane fare: the Lucky Dog.

Lucky Dog vendors are ubiquitous in the Vieux Carré, and they make no claim that their hot dogs are French, Creole, or even Cajun.

Approaching my clean, gleaming limousine, I saw, much to my chagrin, a Lucky Dog. It had been smashed malevolently right there, smack-dab in the middle of the hood of the car, oozing mustard from the bun.

I was beside myself!!! It took me quite a bit of work to get that fine machine in tip top shape to drive whoever, wherever. Now some sorry, sad son-of-a-gun who hates the world had shown massive disrespect!

I jumped up on the bumper, and began to address the passers-by thusly:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, can I get your attention for a moment, please?!" I began.

In a minute, a crowd of nearly a hundred folks gathered to hear what I had to say.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I'd like to direct your attention to the hood of my limousine! What you see there is what remains of a New Orleans institution known as the Lucky Dog. Available everywhere on the streets of the city, Lucky Dogs can be a somewhat wholesome meal."

"But somebody among you, or somebody in the immediate vicinity, apparently doesn't appreciate a good Lucky Dog, and decided to get rid if the uneaten portion by smashing it on the hood of my car!"

I made a sweeping gesture - pointing to the francture Frankfurter atop my car hood.

"Now whoever did this," I continued, "no doubt thought he was sticking it to "the MAN", figuring  this limo belonged to some rich Fat Cat."

"Well the only one that got stuck was me! This is not MY car; but I am responsible for its upkeep. Now, I have to take it back to the shop and wash it by hand, and towel-dry it, and HOPE the mustard didn't ruin the paint, 'cause if it did, I'LL be the one paying for it."

"Now anytime you don't want to eat all your Lucky Dog," I advised, "the city of New Orleans has  thoughtfully provided trash receptacles everywhere for your convenience. Just be nice and please don't smash them on car hoods, OK?"

I got applause for my speech, took the lady to the airport, and then went back to clean up the mess. Mustard can damage paint, but happily, after a bit of soap and elbow-grease, tall remnants of the leftover Lucky Dog had disappeared.

I didn't really think of it as a "hate crime" at the time, but looking back on it, I suppose it was.

I hope that the perpetrator, whoever he (or she) was, heard my diatribe and thought about appearances and perceptions. A stone thrown can hit someone other than it's intended target.
  

That same year, I did a job for free once - it was for the Make-a-Wish Foundation. That day I played a very small part in making a dying little boy's wish come true. How incredibly SAD it would have been if the act of hate, jealousy, and spite I received at the Pontalba Building would have occurred on that job! Glad I didn't tell that dying child that somebody smashed a hot dog on his limo.

Perhaps it's better to be kind - and to not throw stones, or hot dogs...
you never know who you might hit!

Things Are Not ALWAYS What They Seem

Things Are Not ALWAYS What They Seem

24 May, 2014
Houston

Colonoscopies are never fun. They are a necessary evil in our never -ending war with cancer. Years ago my doctor sent me to have one, so I took off from work.   

We had just moved to the town of Lafayette, LA. from New Orleans. 
An avid reader, during this period I was into WWII history. Anticipating a lengthy wait at the doctor's, I brought along my current book, walked in, filled out the required forms, and had a seat in the waiting room.

Situational awareness is not my long suit. It took me some time to become acquainted with the fact that I was the only white person in the room. This did not bother me at all; I just happened to notice it, and returned to my book. 

A few minutes later I looked up and saw the doctor I had an appointment with, talking to his staff. The doctor, too, it turned out, was black. I had never had an African-American doctor attend me before, so this was a first for me. 

I resumed my heavy reading. The minutes passed slowly, as time often does when awaiting and anticipating an unpleasant medical procedure. 

As I said, I am not situationally aware. I am, however, more perceptive than the average person, and I indeed perceived something.

There was a general discomfort in the room that I couldn't account for. I took it at first to perhaps to be my own insecurity, being totally surrounded by persons of a different race. I dismissed this immediately, but the feeling persisted. 

I looked up from my book, and glanced casually at the people in the room around me. They were uncomfortable, and would give me suspicious glances from time-to-time. Nobody spoke a word.

What's the story here? This can't be the first time these people have seen a white man, I thought. I went back to WWII.

My name was called, and I went through the ordeal, unpleasant as it was, even passing out once during the procedure. Then I went home. 

Still, I wondered what it was about me that made those folks so uncomfortable. Sitting in my armchair, recuperating from the colonoscopy, I reached for the book I was reading. It was on top of a coffee table nearby, as was the answer to my question about what happened back at that doctor's office.

MY BOOK!!  It was the cover of the BOOK I was reading that made those people uncomfortable:  The cover featured a prominent 卐 SWASTIKA in a white field, on a solid black background. These people must have taken me for a neo-Nazi!

In hindsight, perhaps I could have covered the book to avoid offending somebody ....or maybe they could have looked closer, at the title: "Rise and Fall of the Third Reich." 

I wondered how much pain comes from a simple misunderstanding, and how hard feelings can come from that pain. Hard feelings in turn become hate, hate into action, and somebody's body is lying face-down on a sidewalk, lined in chalk. 

PERCEPTIONS