Our Ten Dollar Date

October 31, 2016 Houston

Way back in the mid-Eighties, life was tough for us: "My new job was a hassle and the kids had the flu," as went the song "Cat's in the Cradle." It was true... Back then, we worked and worked, and worked some more. We did what we had to, struggling hard just to get by, but there always seemed to be too much month left over at the end of the money!
We mostly ate beans and rice - beans and rice - beans and rice - almost every stinking day. They were delicious, mind you: Koky was a great cook, but since we couldn't make both ends meet, we had to make them VEGETABLE! That was no joke back then.
I remember every once in awhile, on those rare occasions when we had a few extra dollars, we'd splurge on a nice piece of meat. I'll be doggone but if we didn't have lots of family over and the nice piece of meat translated to a mere morsel for each of us. Then it was back to those darned beans again for the rest of the week!

Understandably, we rarely went out then. To do so meant taking all three kids along, designing the time around them, not us, and being able to afford whatever activity we chose. Ordinarily, this was fine with us, but somehow there was never a TIME ...for US. 

One day, my Aunt Joan, my mother's sister, came down to New Orleans from Pittsburgh to visit the family. We lived in a suburb, and Aunt Joan wanted to spend some time with us and get to know the kids as well, so she came to stay the weekend.
Aunt Joan had a strange request when she arrived: she wanted to go to a supermarket. It sounded peculiar at first, but we knew to expect just about anything from her - at any time - so we complied with her request and took her to the local Winn-Dixie Supermarket. She began picking up a few random items off the shelf and placing them into the grocery basket. Every once in awhile, she'd ask:" Kenny, do you need _____?" I knew we did, but I also knew full well that we didn't have whatever it was because, well, we didn't have any money. As a matter of fact, I was wondering how the heck we would pay for all this stuff that was by now filling the shopping cart.
Sometimes I'd protest a little, but I really didn't want her to know just how bad things were, so I let her put yet another thing in, and hope I could find the money to pay for it before the check cleared the bank.
I didn't have too long to worry. We got to the checkout counter, and I began placing all these items onto the conveyor belt to be rung up and bagged. As the cashier rung up each item, i could feel the checkbook in my pocket becoming lighter and lighter. I wondered if it was going to just float away, taking me with it.
"PUT THAT THING AWAY!" said my aunt, sternly, with a peeved expression on her face. Her expression mellowed instantly, and she added: "This is MY treat!" Her eyes sparkled as a smile came across her face. I was very pleasantly surprised indeed! It wasn't what we WANTED - but it was what we NEEDED! I was very grateful for both the groceries AND the life lesson!

That evening, long about dusk, we were chatting about this and that, and she stopped and she showed us a $10.°° bill. Placing the crisp note into my hand, she smiled and said:"Now that I am here, tonight is going to be a special Mommy and Daddy's night out. I want you two to go somewhere and have a nice time, and this is a little something to get you started."

We were SO happy!!! We never used a baby sitter, and relatives, even close ones, were either unable or unwilling to watch the kids for us, ever, so this was indeed a treat! We got dressed and decided to go to a restaurant called Bennigans. We ordered the "Ultimate Nacho Plate", which was very cheap then -  with tax and tip it came to just under $7.°°. It was HUGE! So we split it, and had a great meal at a nice place.

                THE ORIGINAL BENNIGANS SIGN
                   *see photo credit and info

By the time we finished our "fine dining", it was just time for the nighttime special at the nearby Joy Panorama Theater: all tickets after 10:00pm were $1.00!! We found that by accident! 

After all was said and done, we had just over a dollar left over from our original ten, and that, of course, went for gas. 

We love our kids dearly and enjoyed doing things with them always, but it was nice for us to do something with each other this once, even if it was as innocent and simple as having a nacho platter and watching a movie.

This was one of those special moments you remember all your life. It wasn't the money we spent, or the nice place we went, or the food we ate, or the movie we saw - it was the evening together - just the two of us!!

Now and then we look back at those days. They were rough at first - the kind that either make you or break you. Those tough times, of course, did not last... but WE DID!

Sometimes we think back on that night, and the loving kindness of my Aunt Joan, and remark how we were able to make that gift money stretch, but yet to still have great time - the night we went on our Ten Dollar Date!

-----

* By Infrogmation at English Wikipedia - Photo by Infrogmation of New Orleans Transferred from en.wikipedia to Commons by SethAllen623 using CommonsHelper., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18844552

GO! SAINTS! GO!

20 September, 2016

Houston, TX

[The first Saints regular season franchise game in Tulane Stadium  49 years ago September 17, 1967 Saints vs Rams.]

It was a cool, overcast day in New Orleans. It was November 1, 1966 - All Saints Day. I was on a St. Charles streetcar heading to downtown, when the car came to a stop. There was a problem up ahead on Canal Street, so we had to get off now, on the neutral ground of Howard Avenue at Carondelet. 

With nothing to do but wait until things were cleared up, I crossed Howard and picked up a paper. The Late Edition of the States-Item newspaper screamed in huge, bold headlines: "N.O. Goes Pro!". I dropped in a dime and got my own personal copy of sports history.

Because it was All Saints Day, it was decided to name this expansion football team the "Saints." I did not like the name initially, but the deal was done, and I was happy with the Dixieland tie-in with the jazz song "When the Saints Go Marching In." This song was already well-known...and it was about to get more famous and popular.

Though we didn't have a lot of money, the Saints offered, at least back then, affordable tickets, so my mother and I purchased season tickets. I had to stand in line to get them at the new Saints office on Lee Circle.

A couple of years passed, since All Saints Day, 1966,  and finally the big day arrived. The first Saints regular season franchise game in the old Tulane Stadium, on the campus of Tulane University.

The date was September 17, 1967. Tens of thousands of football fans streamed from every direction, toward the stadium, often parking several blocks away. The stadium was built in the 1930's when few had cars, so there was virtually no parking! Buses and streetcars dropped off standing loads. This was going to be a memorable game.

The first regular season game for the Saints was now being held, and they faced off against a worthy and experienced Los Angeles Rams. 

It was a beautiful, clear day. The stadium was PACKED:  Official attendance 80, 897. 

There was music, cheerleaders, and pre-game entertainment. Then the coin-toss: Saints won the toss, and elected to receive.

We all held our breath. The suspense was unbelievable. There came the kickoff, and the ball sailed high and oh, so long. It was caught by John Gilliam, way deep into Saints' territory. But he didn't care. He ran forward, past one defender after another, until he saw daylight. He gave it the gas, and ran faster than anyone I ever saw at any football game, and gobbled up 94 yards into the End Zone for the very first regular season score for the Saints!! 

The crowd went WILD!!! The noise of jubilation was intense! It only got stronger after the point-after kick was good.

It was the best and finest part of the game. 

Halftime was spectacular, with music and the usual marching bands, etc. 

I went! I stood! I cheered!!! We ALL did!!!

We had a blast. We mostly were either standing, or when we did sit, we did so on the edge of our seats. That day, we were all one big, happy, family, enjoying the gorgeous day, and we watched with great attention as OUR team played.

Then, all too soon, the noisy stadium, once so filled with shouting and cheering, finally fell silent. The game was over. After all was said and done - the peanuts and hot dogs eaten, the soft drinks and beer gone - the crowd quietly headed home.

But just ask anyone that was there: the Saints WON!  No, not according to the scoreboard. Local sportscasters Buddy D. and Hap Glaudi told us that night on TV that 

the Rams won, 27 to 13.

But who cares? The Saints were victorious, anyway, because they won the hearts of all those who were there that beautiful Sunday afternoon - now a half-century ago.

Here was something we could be proud of, because it was our very own. 

World-famous musicians Al Hirt and Pete Fountain knew it, and they played their hearts out for us - just as much fans as we were. 

Win, place, or show, it was Go, Saints, Go ...all the way!!!

Man, it was great to be there!

  Photo from Richard Campanella.

STALLINGS - From Dairy to Playground

                                               OLIVE A. STALLINGS PLAYGROUND


31 August, 2016.     HOUSTON

Stallings Playground - A Place of Fond Childhood Memories

Back in the days of my youth, there was a place I used to visit often enough. It was a neighborhood playground, located in the 7th Ward of New Orleans, near the Fair Grounds race track, called Stallings. (We never called it that, though; we called it "Staww-linns", in the local back-o'town pronunciation of the day.)

On a midsummer afternoon, I'd leave my grandparents' house on N. Gayoso and walk around the corner to d'Abadie Street, being sure to say hi to the neighbors who were to be found in their yard or sitting on their porch. They all knew me - and I knew them -  every last one of them.

I'd get to N. Dupré and turn right, and walk the brick sidewalks under the shade of crêpe myrtle and camphor trees, past my Aunt AnnaMae and Uncle Gene's. When Blackie was around, I made sure to stop at the side gate and pet him for awhile, and say hi to the folks.

In the next block, I'd cross the street because there was this one house that had a jungle for a yard - and in the yard were huge, long-necked geese. They saw me coming, waddled toward the fence, and started honking up a storm. I'd stop a while and listen to the cacophony of raucous noise, and get a kick out of the silly faces that only a goose could make.

Soon enough I passed Onzaga St., and stopped when I got to Lapeyouse. In front of me was a high chain-link fence, and I had arrived at 2700 Lapeyrouse St, New Orleans, LA 70119. I mentioned the tall fence, but, as if a neighborhood child himself had requested it, there was, right there, a small, unofficial entrance to the playground, just big enough for a kid and his bike to get in. 

Now, I wasn't like the other kids - I never got into any of the baseball games or whatever that they enjoyed. No, not me. I went to this often busy area to seek solitude in my own thoughts. There was a swingset there, and for hours I'd swing and think and enjoy the shade of the huge trees that covered the dusty lot. 

☼While the others kids played ball in the hot sun on the baseball field, or shot hoops on the basketball court, I was lost in thought, high aloft on my swing. Way up there, swaying back and forth, I solved the world's problems, went off on adventures that Walter Mitty would have been proud of, or simply imagined myself walking hand-in-hand with some cute girl I met in school. Stuff like that. This was my alone time.

No matter how hot the day got, between the cooling shade of the huge trees overhead and the swinging, I never paid it any mind. Sometimes, though, it would suddenly get cooler, and a real strong  breeze would blow. The sky darkened and I'd hear that deep rumbling from a distance. I always loved to be outside just before a thunderstorm came up. The dust blew up from off the ground, and a few leaves and miscellaneous candy wrappers likewise got caught up in the wind. I could smell the rain in the distance!

Then, I'd feel a drop on my forehead......and then another. Another thunderclap let me know my visit was over, so I jumped off the swing and ran home - just in time to avoid the deluge!! 

Later, as an adult, I learned then that the playground was not "Stallings" - it was officially called the "Olive A. Stallings Playground." I wondered who she was, so I looked her up.

Just as Victor Anseman is known as the Father of the City Park, Olive A. Stallings is known as the “mother of playgrounds in New Orleans”. In 1906, she established the first “play center” in New Orleans, the Poydras Playground, at her own expense and continued to maintain it for two years. When the Playgrounds Commission was established in 1911, she served as its first president, a post she held continuously until her death in 1940.   At her death, she left one-fourth of her estate– $ 150,000 – to the playgrounds system, soon to become the New Orleans Recreation Department."

Stallings Playground was built in 1938 with support from Olive Stallings. It is to her that I owe a debt of thanks. The land upon which it sits was once a streetcar barn, housing a couple dozen dinky little trolley cars providing badly-needed transportation for those in the area when automobiles barely existed, and streets were paved with mud.

The carhouse was called the "Cream Cheese Barn" by local residents. Originally, in the latter part of the 19th century when the nearby Fair Grounds was a brand-new attraction in the then "suburbs," dairy farms dotted the scrub landscape, and on this spot, a dairy did business for many years. The substantial structure, located roughly on an oddly-shaped section of ground bounded by Lapeyouse, Paul Morphy, Gentilly, and LaHarpe, was taken over when first horsecar lines and then electric streetcars were run from downtown to serve the new race track. 

Directly across Gentilly Blvd. from the streetcar barn, in a newly-built shotgun house in a row of similar structures, lived a family, an acquaintance of my grandfather - whose daughter would capture the attention and hearts of America in years to come. Little Mary Leta Dorothy Slayton, known affectionately as "Dottie" would change her name to Dorothy Lamour.

Just across Grand Route St. John from Dottie's house, a movie theater was relocated and built. It featured a balcony, and was a favorite neighborhood spot to watch the latest movies - especially those of local celebrity Dorothy Lamour.

Just down Grand Route St. John from the Bell Theatre lived a young boy growing up who developed asthma. Young Pierre laFontaine was urged to take up a musical instrument to help his breathing, so he began to play the clarinet in the McDonnough 28 school band, and grew up to change his name to ♪ Pete Fountain.♪

Winds of change were blowing in the world, as they do constantly. The city did not stay just as it was. It never did! Street railway companies consolidated, and the streetcars housed in the old dairy barn were moved to another facility at Canal Street and North Gayoso. Some time later, the huge old wooden structure was demolished. 

Enter Olive Stallings Playground.

Chinese wise-man Confucius is per ported to have said: "PATIENCE: In time the grass becomes milk." With the passage of time, it seems, the milk changed into streetcars, and now it has come full-circle and become grass again! 

It's been many years since I lived in or frequented the old neighborhood, and even longer since I walked the dusty grounds of Stallings Playground. Times change, and so do we. We go on with our lives, while things made of concrete and steel tend to deteriorate, and fall into disrepair, and eventually are swept away. 

They wind up joining the swelling ranks of things that we look back upon.

A few years ago, I drove past the old place, and, to my surprise, it was more or less the same as I remember it. I am happy to say, this is one of the very few things of my youth that still stands, .....well, except that the swing where I spent so many happy hours on hot summer days. That was gone. Figures.        

NOTES: A turn-of-the-century Sanborn insurance map of the Fair Grounds and vicinity shows the Orleans Railway streetcar barn. It was nicknamed the Cream Cheese Barn by locals, because it was once a dairy. The dairy closed or relocated and the existing structures afterward became a streetcar barn, housing several lines.

Stalls that took care of cows now kept horses, because in 1865 there were no electric streetcars yet. The Fair Grounds opened in about 1872, and streetcar lines brought horse racing fans and workers to the area from downtown and elsewhere.

The streetcar lines electrified in the 1890's, and the area, still considered a suburb, began to develop. By the 1920's, street railway companies began consolidating and centralizing. Trolley cars from the Cream Cheese Barn were moved to Canal Station at Canal and N. Gayoso.

Then, in the same parcel of ground where cows were milked and later horse cars and trolley cars were housed, the land was converted to recreational use.

Fledgling NORD (New Orleans Recreation Department) began to make playgrounds.

In 1922, the Olive Stallings Playground was established in what once was a dairy. 

There was even a nice swimming pool!

The Kid and the Colt

26 JULY, 2016.     LONDON

In New Orleans, there are many interesting neighborhoods — each with its own unique character and charm. Before Katrina, these differences were even more noticeable. 

In the Seventh Ward, in an area that was once scrub and dairy farms, a very nice race track was built, opening back in 1873, when my great-grandfather was a child. 

By the mid-Sixties, nearly a century later, wooden houses and other structures had sprung up all around the track, to house and cater to those who worked there. My great-grandfather was a contractor, and during the 1920's, built a number of them. 

The neighborhood just off of Gentilly Road (now Gentilly Blvd.) was gradually populated with "race horse people" — as my grandmother often disparagingly remarked more than a few times as I grew up. 

It was true: my cousin, Billy, was a jockey - then later weighed the horses. The man across the street was a bookie, and my aunt's son was an official at the track. Miss Ethel sold racing tickets at the betting window. 

See what I mean?

Stables were nearby, and thoroughbred racehorses were housed, exercised, bred, and raced on that very oval track. Still, despite all this, I never managed to get up close and personal with a horse for my entire childhood. Today, however, that was about to change. 

One Saturday morning in about 1965, I guess, my grandfather, whom I called Paw Paw, asked me to get out my little Radio Super wagon that I had stored in the back shed. He had a project to do.

Always up for some adventure or other, I extricated my childhood toy, now languishing beneath quite a bit of junk, and we set out on the sidewalk, my little red wagon in tow, for what purpose, I knew not.

We didn't have far to go, though. Our destination was right around the corner, at the home of Mr. Edmund, an acquaintance of my grandfather, and a horse owner. 

This man was temporarily quartering a handsome young colt, bred to one day race on the circuit and earn a tidy sum for his owners. 

But all that was in the future. Right now, the young thing was trotting around the large, fenced side yard, and no doubt wishing he could, instead, tear off at breakneck speed over a vast grassland - as his ancestors had done for tens of thousands of years before. 

My grandfather's friend was in the yard, waiting for us and was watching the promising colt. He motioned for us to come on in. My grandpa didn't once hesitate, but my feet seemed to be glued to the sidewalk. I was scared to go in. 

"Come on!" my grandfather called out, beaconing me to follow. But I preferred to watch the spry cavallo from the far side of the tall chain- link fence. Animals always made me uncomfortable, and the bigger they were, the more uncomfortable I got. 

"I don't know what's got into that boy!" my grandpa told his friend. 

"Get a move on, Kenny! Edmund is waiting for us."

Cautiously I walked toward the gate and entered, I knew, at my own risk. I approached the two men,  pulling my little red wagon along as I now walked swiftly to the perceived safety of the adults. 

All this time I kept a wary eye on the horse, but he was more intent on frolicking and horsing around than paying any attention to a 13-year-old punk kid. 

I breathed easy, now. This wasn't bad at all!

The men were having a great discussion - about what I can no longer recall; It matters not. 

I took particular interest in whatever it was that they were talking about, and now and again they would include me in the conversation. It was a most pleasant day and the most fascinating of dialogues,  I must say. 

I will interject a fact here: by my own admission, I do not, nor have I ever excelled at situational awareness. My attention was focused intently on the conversation, so much so, in fact, that I failed to notice a large creature approaching me from the rear...

And, sadly, that is exactly what the horrid creature went for, and the bugger BIT me — HARD — right on the buttox!! I immediately hollered out - partly in pain, but I was also startled, taken quite unawares as I was. 

It was on, now! I immediately took off, fearing those incisors, which were never more than a few feet from my posterior. 

I ran as quickly as my legs could carry me, around the worn path that the spritely colt had taken many times before. What was oh-so-wrong with this picture was that this 13-year-old kid was trying to outrun the offspring of generations of thoroughbred racehorses!

The outcome of this bizarre corrido was never in doubt. The young buck allowed me to sprint on ahead and all too quickly closed the gap, and I jumped just in time to prevent his teeth from closing upon my rear once again.

"HELP!" I shouted, no doubt adding some mild expletives to emphasize the urgency of my appeal.   

Instead of corralling the colt, or at least trying to divert his attention away from me, the two men were killing themselves with the most jovial laughter. I was running quickly, that was certain, but my nemesis had barely kicked up his slow walk to a trot, so it became obvious, on the third go-around that I had to change my strategy. 

So I headed straight for the two men and took refuge between them. I was livid that this stupid animal had, for some reason, confused me with a bag of oats!

Laughing like two hyenas , my grandfather and Edmund both took the errant dobbin by the neck, and calmed him down immediately. 

They calmed HIM down, I say, but I was still very much both frightened and hurting. This little jaunt turned out to be, for me, quite a pain in the butt!!

With the colt's attentions elsewhere, I slyly and quietly eased over to the gate through which I entered, thus putting some mighty strong chain-link wire between the beast and myself. 

Once his source of diversion (me!) had made good his escape, the young equine entertained himself as best he could within the confines of the side yard. 

Safe and sound and out reach, I caught my breath, rubbed my poor, throbbing bum, and collected my thoughts. 

What I did not know then, is that the colt was doing all this - just for sport! In retrospect it is obvious that the colt was indeed playing, and if there had not been so many teeth in his silly grin, I would have readily joined in the game. 

As it is, hindsight is 20/20. This was, unfortunately not the case in this instance, because I certainly could have used some rear-vision when I was attacked from behind! 

The dust settled, and my grandfather then proceeded to pick up a shovel which was near at hand, and, to my surprise, began collecting the manure that was decorating the yard at frequent intervals, and loading it into the wagon.

Unbelievably, our whole purpose for going to Mr. Edmund's house was to load up on horse poo, but I for one had already had an elegant sufficiency of horse crap for that day, of that I am quite certain!! And I had a sore rear end as well.

What gets me is that PawPaw always told me that he wouldn't take any crap from anyone, but that day, he DID... and went out of his way to do so!

NO RETURN

24 July, 2016    Houston

Tuesday, January 3, 1961.

That Tuesday, my grandfather had taken shore leave from his ship, the Almeria Lykes (out of New Orleans). He had been cautioned not to go ashore, or if he did, to keep it close to the ship. But "Sparks" the Chief Electrician had a hard head. He had been to Havana a number of times before during previous years, and he knew how to act and what to do to keep himself out of harm's way. So he said "See you later" to the man on watch, and trundled down the metal gangplank that descended to the dock.

THE SS ALMERIA LYKES AS IT APPEARED AFTER A COLLISION
 NEAR KOBE, JAPAN IN NOVEMBER, 1961.

The weather was the same as it always is. In the sky, a few large, white clouds rose skyward in the distance, and a few seagulls were wheeling high overhead. The sun shone brightly and hot, and the sultry sea air blew inland from off the Gulf of Mexico. It did so just like every other day. 

But things were different today. There was tension in the air in the city, as there had been for nearly two years since Fidel Castro and his revolutionaries took over in 1959. Although far from bloodless, he made a triumphant entrance into Havana after deposing the dictator Fulgencia Batista, and promised his enthusiastic supporters that the revolution would be "as green as the palm trees." 

He vehemently and repeatedly denied that there were Communists among his olive-clad rebel band, and many a household in Havana and elsewhere soon had a portrait of the new leader. Underneath the likeness were the words:"This is your house, Fidel!"

But it was not very long after taking power that the supposedly "green" revolution began to take on a crimson hue, as the press, the banks, and American businesses were confiscated, clergy were rounded up and imprisoned, and the anti-American rhetoric began.

At first, kangaroo courts convicted and then summarily executed cronies of the old regime, and crowds, angered at the corruption that had bled them dry cried out in unison: "¡PAREDÓN! ¡PAREDÓN! ¡PAREDÓN!" — a word meaning literally "big wall" — not caring whether the person being accused was really innocent or guilty. 

Within minutes, sentence read, the newly-"convicted" we're lead to a nearby big wall, and shot to death by a firing squad. The crowd once again was satisfied. This occurred frequently, almost daily, and fear swept throughout the general population, as more and more people were being rounded up and detained, questioned, then executed.

The euphoria of the Triumph of the Revolution had worn off, and had become a witch hunt, as bands of armed marauders were cruising the streets drunk with rum and newly-found power, and now they were out for revenge against those who had fought so hard against them when they were holed up in the Sierra Maestra mountain range.

But, as I said, "Sparks" had a hard head. He was bound and determined to go walking - his usual activity whenever his ship docked anywhere, and maybe get a lunch at a neighborhood eatery. And, by God, today would be no exception. He walked down to the waterfront by the Pilot's Bar, which already had several of his shipmates as customers. He did not stop for a drink today, but continued walking briskly until he had gone a couple of miles into the city.

At the same time, a dark-eyed handsome man who had been dispatched from Washington came to visit the U.S. Embassy in Havana. A meeting was called of the few remaining embassy personnel. They numbered about a dozen. All became quiet as the staff was notified that the embassy was to be closed immediately, and that all American Citizens there were to be transported to the airport to evacuate the country.

As for the dark-eyed man from Washington, D.C.. he was my Uncle Johnny. Having worked previously with Tropical Radio in New Orleans, then served manning the control tower of the Panamá City, Panamá airport, he was lately traveling throughout Africa and Latin America to visit U.S. Embassies. He was a communications expert. His job here was to dismantle and to remove all radio antennae from the roof and exterior of the embassy building, and depart Cuba on an American ship waiting in Havana harbor. 

This he did post-haste. He had neither time nor desire to interact with any locals, nor to do any sightseeing. This was not the time, and certainly not the place. There was work to be done, so up to the rooftop John McCallum went. In the distance, he could hear occasional gunshots, and there were several Cuban military vehicles standing guard just outside the embassy compound.

About a hundred or so Cuban citizens seeking asylum were standing in line, hoping to get a visa to get out of Cuba. These people had a desperate look on their faces. This was their last chance.

Some distance away, "Sparks" had finished up a light lunch, and was headed back to his ship when a pickup truck stopped nearby. A man at the wheel, a local who recognized my grandfather from previous visits, called to him and asked him where he was going, and did he need a lift. My grandfather smiled, shook his hand, and thanked him, saying politely that he enjoyed his walks, and he had planned to go back to his ship by foot.

"But you don't understand," insisted the man, "Things are not safe here now — even for us locals! Let me at least take you part of the way..." 

Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by the noise of gunfire, as several men in a military vehicle a short distance away were firing indiscriminately as their pickup truck careened through the narrow streets of the old city. The noise was getting louder. They were less than a block away! There was a screeching of tires as the truck fortunately turned the corner into a side street.

"Come on, let's go!! ¡VAMOS!" cried the man in the pickup.

As quick as thought, "Sparks" jumped into the pickup, and the truck sped off toward the dock. He thanked the man as he got off just past the now-deserted "Pilot's Bar", and quickly climbed the gangplank into the black and red cargo ship that was tied up at the dock. It was not too very long after that that — in just a couple of hours, in fact. that the Almeria Lykes set sail for the last time from Havana for the States.

In the next dock over, there still remained one U.S. Flag vessel, and it, too, was painted black and red, and the words "LYKES LINES" proudly proclaimed the company for which she sailed. They, too, were ready to depart, and had all their papers in order. The captain was getting impatient. But there was one more person who needed to come aboard, and that was the dark-eyed man from Washington, John McCallum. 

Soon enough, a car pulled up under escort by Cuban military jeeps, and a truck of equipment was part of the convoy. Stevedores were dispatched to load boxes of equipment onto the deck of the ship. 

Then, the ship's horn blew loudly and low, mooring lines were removed from the capstans, splashed into the pristine gulf waters, and hauled aboard the ship.

 The ship's propellers began to turn, and the giant craft began to move through the water.

Thus is was that the very last American ship had sailed out of Havana harbor, nevermore to return.

EPILOGUE

Some five years later, in 1966, as a way to earn spending money, I used to walk around the neighborhood picking up empty soda bottles and redeeming them for their 2¢ deposit. It was one way a 14-year-old could earn some spending money. One day, I looked under my grandfather's house just in case there might be any discarded old bottles to be found there, and, happily, I found a nearly-new Coca-Cola bottle.

It was not unusual to find a bottle — rather the surprise came when I discovered that the writings on the outside of it were in Spanish. I turned the bottle upside-down, and, on the bottom was the word "CUBA" in raised letters.                                

Asking my grandfather, now retired and living at home, about my find, he told me that he had gotten it on his last visit to Cuba, and related to me some of the story I have just written. It was not too very long after that, on a visit to my Uncle Johnny McCallum — now also recently retired, I  heard his account of the last American Ships to leave Havana harbor. Both my grandfather and my uncle had been on the very last two ships to sail from Cuba, on the very same day. That day was January 3, 1961.

I picked up the bottle initially for the 2¢ deposit —  instead, I decided to keep it. Fifty-five years later, that very bottle still sits on my bookshelf.  It is a returnable bottle —exiled forever from a land it will never, and can never return to. 

It is, like me, an exile in time and place.

SOLAR POWER - A Bright Idea?

15 JUNE, 2016. Houston

I LOVE the idea of solar power!!! I always have.

Here is why I don't have it now, and may NEVER get it:

Just like everything else, nothing is simple.

It really IS simple, but it is made intergalactic by the people who sell it!  (Yes, it's an accusation.)

Why is this so? What you see in the picture may LOOK like a solar electric panel, but what it is to the people who want to sell it to you, it's a SEPARATOR. 

A WHAT?   

A separator, whose sole task is to separate you from as much of your money as quickly as possible while giving you as little as possible in return.

Basic economics.

Things are made convoluted deliberately to mask the prohibitive initial cost in solar panels.

Don't believe me? 

Just try this: go to one of those companies and ask: So how much is one of those units, just like the one in the picture?

You won't get an answer to that question.

What will happen is that they will tell you something like:"Well, the price varies."

Note: whenever somebody tells you the price "varies", what they are really telling you is "Let's see how gullible this Bozo is so we can see how much money we can get out of him!"

The guy continues: "It depends on where you live, how many square feet in your home, number of people in your household, what your roof is made out of, how much sunshine you get, the price of silicon on the open market, and many, many other factors, including - but not limited to...

the amount of argon emissions, soil susbidance, BS BS BS."

You sit there listening politely to people speaking your own language and not understanding but maybe 10%...... and boy do you feel stupid!

Making the potential customer feel stupid is a tactic used on a daily basis everywhere by time-share condo salesmen, roofing, air-conditioning, and other contractors, used car salesmen, and many, many others. It's an information game: they have the information and you do not. Information is power, and power is money.

You sit there confused, frustrated, and bewildered. This is just the moment they have been waiting for!

"Tell you what," the guy says, showing you that he's definitely on your side and is going all out to help you, so he puts his arm over your shoulder in a reassuring way - the way a funeral director does to comfort you on the passing of the dearly-beloved, and says:"Let's do this: why don't we make an appointment so our people (who don't know squat about the subject, nor do they care - but they have been highly-trained in manipulative selling techniques!) can go over our plan..." 

NOTE: If it needs a plan and three people to show it to you, rest assured there are many, many zeros attached to the bottom-line cost.

They want you to make that appointment.

Heaven help you if you agree. It's like a fly inviting a spider I to his flat. He may be on your turf, but you are in his snare already, and you don't even know it! To be sure, the idea is good, but it's not THAT good. By the time the flim-flam artists get finished with their intergalactic charts, diagrams, pie charts, algorithms, trigonometry, logarithmic tables, and titration tables, with circles and arrows and graphs and illustrations galore, your eyes water, your ears begin to hurt, and everything sounds so good to you that you begin to believe that the sun sets in the east. You are weary and worn-down now, and you want to sign on the dotted line just to get rid of them.

If you do, you regret that decision the instant they walk out of your home.

But the damage has been done.

Bottom line: IF solar energy were so doggone good, and a feasible proposition for the average homeowner, most people would have it already in their homes, and we wouldn't be using so much fossil fuels.

Drive around your neighborhood and see how many people have solar panels. Not so many, right? 

Petroleum companies and the bog electric power companies are most likely the culprits in the suppression of solar power. Only fringe members of society, that small, eclectic group that has cash to spend on this sort of thing, can really switch over to what is — or SHOULD be - a viable alternative to standard fossil-fuel-generated electricity.

Are you ready to spend upwards of $30,000 to save maybe $5,000? It makes no sense whatsoever to me, but then again, math was never my best subject.

Do I paint a clear picture......   Or do I exaggerate? 

THE STRONGEST VERB

24 April, 2016

Narita, Japan

Darkness is not real - it does not exist.

It is merely the absence of light.

Cold is not real - it does not exist.

It is merely the absence of heat.

Loneliness is not real - it does not exist.

It is merely the absence of love.

Regrets are not real - they do not exist.

They are merely lamentations of one's inactions.

And inactions themselves are not real.

We despise the singing of a mosquito around our ear in the middle of a sultry summer night. 

Is it the eventual sting that bothers us, or that we know the mosquito's INTENT,  and the possibility of the sting that vexes us to the core?

We dwell on past actions, mistakes, and perceived mistakes, yet it is not as much those mistakes that trouble us, as what we might have been able to do at one tiny instant in time, that bothers us. It is not so much the actions that we took, as it is the infinite number of choices in a lifetime we would have made, that we look back upon in the folly known as "regret."

Every language is filled with strong and weak verbs - verbs of movement, of intent, of promise, of love, and of hate - and ten thousand other actions large and small, subtile and obvious.

But I say now, that the strongest verb of all the verbs in all the languages —

is not a verb at all....

It is the word "NOT". 

Errors made, poor choices, accidental happenings, and circumstances change our universe constantly,

and our fate and our lives in the twinkling of an instant, leaving us with a future of consequences, of contentment, pride, wonder, and happiness, and regret, if the outcome of ten quintillion of the seemingly infinite possibilities led to something that later turned out to be not to our liking.

We will remember the things we said today.

Will we ever be able to know the things we did NOT say?

Will we ever be able to know where those other roads not taken would have led to?

What if …? Had we only…?  And the mosquito sings around our ear at night with a single, tiny hum that takes away our strongest of sleep!

"NOT" is the strongest verb, yet it is not real — it doesn't exit.

But, tell me this: Isn't it better to be a "has-been" — than a "never-was"?

"NOT" is the word that, in one tiny instant in time, can send us in a completely different direction in life.

All the actions in the world add up to a finite number - incalculable though that number be.

But "NOT" is infinite, and thus infinitely more powerful.

NOT  cannot be controlled, modified, changed, coaxed back to… 

Nor can NOT be erased — ever!

I should have….  I would have.… I could have.… but I did NOT!

And the mosquito still sings around our ear at night with a single, tiny hum that takes away our strongest of sleep!

In the end, though, each of us walks upon an ever-lengthening, ever-changing series of paths that becomes our very own unique way through life. The important thing is to realize that perhaps some of the best things to happen to us — are the things that did NOT happen to us.

In the end, it is not the end itself that matters at all. The end is merely a period at the final point of a sentence.  What makes up the words of that sentence, is LIFE!

Life is a candle in the darkness.

All the darkness in the universe cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.

And it is also true that life is YOUR candle, so let it burn.

Tend it, and let it shine, with no regrets on what cannot ever be changed.

To be — or NOT to be… the question is at last answered!

NOT may be the strongest of verbs, yet all the "NOT" in the universe will never be able to extinguish even a flicker of your light…

Because you chose LIFE… over "NOT."

Falling Leaves

8 May, 2016 Houston

Our journey through life is one that continuously conducts us forward in time and place —

for that, as far as we are able to tell, is the very nature of time:

Time cannot be halted, or coaxed to stay however briefly. It keeps on moving.

Time cannot be rushed, and it pays no heed whatsoever to our own haste.

Time cannot be coaxed or bribed to go back — to return to any point in its past.

It is a constant, in a universe where everything else is fluid and ever-changing.

As we travel our own paths through time, there is a wind that blows in our faces, and sweeps away whatever we experience, see, do, or say almost the instant we have done it. It blows our life away as an autumn wind whisks away falling leaves from the trees. The leaves that for so long clutched with tenacity onto the branches of mighty trees, and drew their nourishment from those arbors, now, at last, release their grasp from those very branches and let themselves fall free.  

Yes, the leaves drift downward, to be blown away by the gusts into the oblivion that is the past, to return nevermore to the place where they soaked up the warming light of their first morning sun.

This is as it should be. This is the way of the world.

The leaves whirl above our heads, spiraling in rustling eddies, and then they quickly settle to earth, as we trudge ever-onward in our journey. Here and there, a leaf or two may fall upon us, or we may grasp a single falling one in our hand, and examine it, as if it were different from all other of the tens of thousands of leaves that are falling, are or yet to fall in our path.

One day, we find an old box in the recesses of a rarely-used closet, and, in curiosity, open the box. To our delight and surprise, it contains some old photographs, souvenirs, and letters. These things, too, are as fallen leaves - tiny lost pieces of our lives, and of the lives of our loved ones. We hold a picture or letter in our hand and examine it, as if it were different from all other of the tens of thousands of photographs and letters that exist or will exist in our lifetime.

We cherish each object, because of what these things represent. They take us through the mists of time to one specific, nearly-forgotten hour of a nearly-forgotten day that we lived so long ago. Looking at them reminds us of who we were, where we were, and what were doing then, as well as bringing to mind good times that came and went all to quickly — in truth, in the blink of an eye.

Then, the time comes for us to move on, and so we close the box, and that moment, too, is gone. We continue on our journey into our future, as the falling leaves of the past keep drifting by all around us, and now, seeing them fall, we smile.

⚜Day is Done⚜

⚜Taps on Bayou Liberty

 Houston, April 16, 2016

He stood there all alone, motionless, beside the still waters, his form silhouetted against the dusky midsummer sky. After a last long, hot, sultry day full of camping, hiking, and a hundred other things a boy wanted to do in the great outdoors, the day was finally done. The canoes were put on the racks, dinner was already eaten, and the troop messkits were hanging out to dry.

A gentle breeze blew across the placid water of Bayou Liberty, shooing away the pesky mosquitoes and as it did, cooled all who were there - and many present that night.  There was a crude amphitheater close to the bayou's shore. Between it and the water's edge, was a flagpole, flanked by two more Scouts. Atop the pole was the flag, fluttering in the wind.

Moss hung from the trees as if someone had intentionally hung tinsel, giving an eerie aspect to an ever-darkening day.

Some hundred Boy Scouts sat on the log seats, laughing, joking, shoving, and singing songs. The whole place was noisy and filled with the voices of kids just being kids.

There was lots to be said, as strangers had become friends, and this was the last night of camp.

A scoutmaster soon appeared and raised his right hand in the Scout sign, and within mere seconds, everyone there rose, and all hands were raised in that very same salute. All became quiet and still.

Darkness began to settle over the woods all around, and the lone scout was now illuminated by the orange brilliance of the roaring campfire. The command "To!" was shouted, and all hands were lowered. Not a further word was spoken. 

The lone scout stood straight and tall, quickly put a bugle to his lips, and began to play.

The haunting notes of a century-old bugle call, "Taps", issued forth, and was played as well as anyone could have played it.

Not a boy so much as moved, laughed, or spoke. Not then, for that moment, the flag was lowered slowly as the call echoed over the bayou and off of the tall trees on the other side. The sound was surreal.

This campground was located on ancestral land, and before that, it belonged to those who walked this earth before us. Under that soil their bodies still lie, and along the bayou's murky, muddy shores their ghosts have been said to still walk. Even the ghost of Marie Laveau, the Créole witch from old New Orleans, they say, lays in wait to seize and carry off any wayward boys who were foolish to disrespect this sacred land.

But even Marie Laveau held her peace tonight, as every boy there walked away from their weeks at the camp with new love and respect for the land, and for those whose moccasined footprints have long ago faded into the silt of the cypress swamp.

The bugle call was over; the flag had been lowered and carefully folded into a tight triangle and retired. The once roaring campfire that earlier formed the backdrop for so many skits, stunts, and song now flickered lower - it's embers rising ever upward into the inky night to join a million stars.

Day was done.⚜

UNCLE LEON

17 March, 2016

Houston

Pvt. Léon Yuratich, my great uncle, just as he left for Europe and the Great War.

Which war, you might ask? Well, sadly, it was a war so great and obscene that they called it "The War to End All Wars." 

But it didn't. "It's all happened again, and again, and again, and again."

There's a song in my head called "No Man's Land." It is about someone who sits by the graveside of a 19-year-old boy who died in the war. Part of it goes:

"But here in this graveyard, it's still "No Man's Land":

The countless white crosses in mute witness stand,

To man's blind indifference to his fellow man...

And a whole generation that were butchered and damned!"

But to the dapper young man you see in the fading photograph, it was not the story you might think. This lad, the son of a Dalmatian oysterman and a French Créole farmwoman, indeed went to France, but since his native language was FRENCH, he had a valuable asset the military could put to good use. 

So Léon became an interpreter, and spent the entire war in Paris, driving the American generals all around, and interpreting for them. This talent, his by accident of birth, spared him the horrors of No Man's Land. He does not lie in Flanders Field, beneath an endless row of white crosses. He did not return maimed, or blind, or crippled, or insane. Not Pvt. Yuratich. 

Instead, he returned to the warm, tear-filled embraces of his mother and sisters. He lived to raise a family and live a good, long life. 

To you he's a "stranger without even a name 

Forever enshrined behind some old glass pane

In an old photograph, torn and tattered, and stained

And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame."

But to me, he will always be that jovial old man with his funny stories of a now-forgotten time in a faraway land. 

DEATH OF LANGUAGE!

28 FEBRUARY, 2016

Rio de Janeiro

DEATH OF LANGUAGE!  - George Orwell, in his classic shock novel "1984" predicted long ago that in the future, we would develop a new language, called "NewSpeak." When mastered, we would only communicate the most necessary things, and if done correctly, the language would sound something like quacking.

I say that George Orwell's dreary and pessimistic prediction of our future linguistic interaction was far short of the disaster that it is today, and the vast wasteland that it is becoming.

Instead of quacking, we communicate by "tweeting" - putting all our ideas and thoughts into brief, instantaneous bursts of 140 characters - or less. 

Our spelling has degraded to third-grade level, we have ceased to teach cursive writing, and books - once guardians and storehouses of our knowledge and culture - have been relegated to curio shops and museums.

We no longer see value in the written or spoken word, nor in the listening to, or telling of a tale. 

We live in an era of sound bites and 4-second news clips. Anything "in depth" is dumbed-down to a least common intelligence level, and, though much is still being communicated through emails and text messages, very, very LITTLE is actually being said!

LOL! LMAO, BFF and other abbreviations have replaced words, and emoticons are rapidly replacing the abbreviations.

WE ARE QUICKLY BECOMING NON-LINGUAL!!

We have no patience for storytellers, have distain for poets, and classic novels are now relegated to Cliff notes. 

Just the facts, Ma'am.

Yes, it's a Brave, New Millennium.... But it is a time period in which, regretfully for me, I must live. Every day I speak to people who do not listen; they merely point or gesture — avoiding use of words wherever possible.

To illustrate my point, I will now rewrite the novel "A Night to Remember," which dealt with the sinking of the Titanic:

"The ship sunk."

...and with it, our culture, our history, our knowlege, our intelligence, and our HUMANITY are also sinking into an abyss of ignorance. 

Our new motto is "The dumber, the better."

Dumb people are easily controlled and subjugated.

There's much to be said for dumbing-down of our oral and written skills. Much, indeed, ..and I hope that it is said in time!

THE THIRD ARRIVAL

25 January, 2016.   Houston

One Long Journey Ends — Another Begins

It was a long, long journey, lasting nearly a year, starting we know not where, and ending in yet another strange, new place. The dim reddish glow that illuminated the here-and-now since the beginning of time began to change, and change quickly. There now shone forth a light which grew brighter and brighter, until it seemed that the whole world was bathed in it. Sounds that were heard before in low, muffled tones now became loud and shrill. Then came a wave of freezing cold air that set the body to tremble. There was also a strange, unpleasant sensation that would later be called pain. And now he lay there on his back, on a table top - alone in the bright, loud, new world he had just entered minutes before.

Baby David had just been born!

Meanwhile, In the Waiting Room…

Early one mid-Spring morning, a young man walked into the waiting room of a local hospital. He looked around, and then sat down noisily. He then got out a deck of cards and spread them out, and began to play solitaire on a coffee table in the center of the room. He fidgeted in his seat, looking frequently at the door, and at the clock overhead, and back at the door, and then glanced at his watch. His knee bounced up and down.

Also in the room in a chair opposite was another young man. Unlike the new arrival, this man was the epitome of coolness. He had a calm demeanor, and was slowly paging through the sports section of a two-day old newspaper. It was just something to read. He was, in his mind, "Mister Cool." His persona alluded to confidence... Or was it apathy?

The nervous young fellow looked around again, shuffled the cards a few times, and seeing "Mr. Cool," told him hello, his voice shaking noticeably. 

Mr. Cool couldn't help himself, and asked:"Your first, right??"

"Oh, no!" Mr. Nervous replied, "Not at all. This will be our third child!"

"Mine, too!" came a ready agreement. "But, if you don't mind me saying so." He continued,"you seem a bit nervous."

"Yep! Sure am! I, I can hardly wait!" 

"Wow!"said Mr. Cool, smirking slightly in a sort of disbelieving way. "And you're STILL antsy? Why?"

"Well," the young man explained, "It's like this: We all have relatives who for one reason or another go away and we don't see for a long time. When they come back, even for a short visit, it's a big affair, right? I mean, we're all so very happy to see them and we make a big deal over it and all. Well, this is just about the same thing. See, this little one I'm waiting for is a family member — my own flesh and blood — that we have NEVER met; if we are delighted when relatives return after a long trip, how much happier the occasion is it when we meet for the very FIRST time?!"

"We are waiting for a MIRACLE... For a new LIFE... For our child. There is nothing routine or mundane about this. It's one of the major events in our lives, and certainly of paramount importance in his. I take NOTHING for granted in life... Not even the sunrise.

The world owes me nothing, and I am about to be entrusted with the love, care, education, and protection of the greatest miracle of all... the miracle of a child! The very thought of meeting someone of my own flesh and blood for the very first time makes me happy beyond words!"

Mr. Cool suddenly changed: his face showed a pathos remarkable for one who was just a few seconds ago so blasé. It was clear he was thinking about his own pending arrival.There was complete quiet now in the room as the two regarded each other. The silence was abruptly broken by the arrival of the nervous young man's mother and some half-dozen in-laws. There was quite a bit of talking and laughing, and the somber mood of the room lightened as a field lights up with the sun at daybreak. The mother broke out a camera, and began taking pictures to her heart's content.

Soon enough, though, the group simmered down, as much as such people could simmer down. The solitaire game continued unhindered until, at last, the door burst open, a figure in green emerged, and a familiar, happy face smiled forth from beneath a surgical mask. The mask came down, the surgical gloves came off, and a hand was extended in congratulations. The nervous, young man just became a father for the third time...

It was a son!