SUNRISE, SUNSET

 21 December, 2014

San Francisco

⊛Something happened today that I took note of: the sun rose. 

OK, that happens every day, right? 

Well, what if it happened TWICE in a day? 

You read right: What would you think if you saw the sun rise TWICE in the same day?? 

SUNSET

Years ago, as a very young boy, my mother used to read to me from The Little Prince. In this wonderful book, the hero of our story, the Little Prince, lived on a tiny planet far, far away.  He would sit on his chair and admire the sunset. His planet was so small that when the sun went down, he would simply move his chair around to where he could observe that same sunset once again.

“But on your tiny planet, my little prince, all you need do is move your chair a few steps. You can see the day end and the twilight falling whenever you like... "One day," you said to me, "I saw the sunset forty-four times!” -The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

"The Little Prince" is a children's book for adults, and decades passed before I began to fathom the meaning of that wonderful work. 

Like the Little Prince, I have always enjoyed sunsets. It is a time for rest, contemplation, regrets, remembrance, even atonement with the Universe before the infinite darkness spreads its inky mantle over the brilliant aura the earth wears as the day dies. 

The beauty of a sunset is a reward for a day lived. The sunset does not judge whether one had lived that day well or not; it leaves that question in the hands of a far harsher judge: ONESELF!

Since the day is dying, that golden coronet we see is also in reality a funeral shroud, which is why sunsets are sad for me as well as pleasurable. It is a pause in a journey from whence return is impossible. We move steadily forward. We only pass this way one time. It's a strange bittersweet mix: a tear and a smile. 

SUNRISE

Today, while on a flight over the Pacific from Osaka, Japan to San Francisco, I saw several people crowded around a window, watching something with great interest.

It was the SUNRISE! 

I've seen many, to be sure, but, since I am not by any means a morning person, I have seen way fewer sunrises than I have sunsets. This is a shame, for in a sunrise can be found the promise of something new, forgiveness for past mistakes, and another chance to do better. It could be the beginning of one's last day on earth. or it is an embarkation on yet another part of the journey of one's life.  It could be perhaps a new start. 

In short, a sunrise is the wrapper of a great gift - the gift of life. Above all, it is a time to be thankful for that gift. 

This particular day was the 21st of December - the Winter Solstice - the first day of a new season, winter. It was also the shortest day of the year. 

I had gotten up various times that day, having actually already been awake at the stroke of midnight in the Land of the Rising Sun - Japan! As the first feeble rays of daylight penetrated the thick rain clouds over Osaka, I was still coaxing an unwilling body to finally surrender to the fatigue I felt and go to sleep. So much of my time seems to be devoted to chasing elusive sleep. It's almost like trying to find the end of the rainbow: no sooner has one nearly attained it, when it disappears into the horizon only to reappear elsewhere in the perceived near distance. 

Fighting a cold, I lay in my bed, having at long last caught up to, and embraced deep, peaceful slumber. Sleep came in small doses, as the wee hours of the morning became day. Finally I awoke to my mid-afternoon wake up call: it was time to get ready to go to work. 

After a well-deserved café latte at Kansai Airport, I boarded my plane for San Francisco, and it took flight at about 6:30 pm local time, the craft banking eastward, swiftly climbing through the thick, darkening clouds, and Osaka quickly disappeared in the mist below.

The hours flew fast, as I busied myself with the job at hand. At some time a number of hours later, we passed the International Date Line, and it was Yesterday Once More.

This brings me to the sunrise, and those who admired it. They commented how beautiful it was, and a few even took pictures. One gentleman on the flight had just glanced at this celestial artwork, and he smiled at me. I told him:"Congratulations!"

He asked why, and I explained: "You have experienced something few people get to see: TWO sunrises in the same day!"

He looked puzzled, and I explained: "You got up this morning in Japan, and saw the morning come. Now," I continued: "We have caught up with that very same day, on the other side of the world, and you just saw it being born once again!"

We landed later, and after many hours more, the day drew to a close. From my hotel room window I later saw the daylight disappear today for the second time, and again night fell.

I attach no philosophical meaning to this phenomenon. It is entirely  man-made - artificial. The International Date Line is an invisible, arbitrary line of demarcation established only 130 years ago, and crossing it in order to catch up with the day left behind is only possible in a jet airplane or in a spacecraft - not by simply moving a chair, as the Little Prince did. 

So I take note that I am fortunate to be able to realize the uniqueness of the event. I can tell my children, and my children's children that, on the "shortest day of the year" I saw two sunrises and two sunsets in the same day. What a story for them!

SUNSET

As for the shortest day of the year, that did not apply to me, given that I was awake at 12:01am Osaka time, and went to sleep in San Francisco at 11:00pm the night of the same calendar day.

For me, the 21st of December, the 24-hour so-called "shortest day of the year" - actually lasted FORTY HOURS!

...And some people wonder why I arrive home so tired!

My Worst Day at School

Paris, 24 January, 1998



Every American alive when  President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas, TX. in 1963 remembers what he or she was doing at that particular moment.        
I know I do!!

I was a 5th grade student at Ferncrest School on Gentilly Blvd. in New Orleans. I don't recall what subject we were studying just then, but I do remember the characteristic voice of our school principal, Mrs. Louise B. Charitat, as it came over the school intercom, interrupting what was otherwise a quite normal school day:

"YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE..."

She would always preface this announcement by blowing or breathing into the microphone, and everybody would automatically stop what they were doing and the school would become as still as a tomb. All of us would be good little boys and girls, and would listen attentively to her usually pompous pontifications.

But it was different today; her normal commanding voice now was uncharacteristically strange and nervous. After this initial attention announcement, there was an ominous silence that seemed to last an eternity. Mrs. C. NEVER had to struggle for words. We all knew there was something radically wrong.

In an strange, quivering voice, this usually strong, authoritative lady announced that news had reached the office that the President of the United States, John F. Kennedy had been shot in Dallas.

My heart sank. I was a loyal American, and this was indeed a national catastrophe, and one of the First Magnitude! The pain was deeper still because I had been an avid supporter of Kennedy during the 1960 elections. In January of 1961, I even stood shivering in bitter cold on a snow-covered Pennsylvania Avenue by the Capitol the night before to participate in pre-inauguration activities, and the next day delighted to see the inauguration parade pass within a block of my apartment house. I remember being disappointed that the newly sworn-in president did not make it as far as 19th St, NW.

I did get to see him when he visited New Orleans in May of 1963. That was only six months ago, I thought. As I pondered this sad and tragic event, I was immediately shocked back to reality when I saw my schoolmates' reaction:

THE ENTIRE SCHOOL BROKE OUT IN CHEERS AND APPLAUSE!!!

It was as if we had won some championship or achieved some tremendous victory or goal.
It was just UNBELIEVABLE!! I thought I was dreaming - or better yet having a nightmare.

Of course, Mrs. Charitat and the teachers were all  devastated and horrified at this shocking outburst. She heard the school's reaction and responded immediately: "I cannot BELIEVE you are cheering the shooting of the president!" She was most upset - and so was I.

The kids were all joking around, and, ever the class clown, I tried to joke back, but my heart just was not in it. I just sat there dazed for awhile - it was all surreal.

The teacher tried, I guess, to restore some sense of normality to the class, but the second announcement, one i dreaded,  came soon enough:

"YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE..." Mrs. Charitat's voice was now cold and void of any emotion but sadness. "It is with a heavy heart that  I inform you that the President of the United States had died."

My heart sank once again.

A few half-hearted cheers and gestures quickly arose and just as quickly ceased. More than ever, I felt a sickening sadness and a personal sense of loss. All I wanted to do then was go home and watch the news - to see what happened - how such a dastardly thing could have possibly occurred.

The next few days were indeed spent watching television. All normal programming was pre-empted. Media giants of that time such as Walter Cronkite, Chet Huntley, and David Brinkley were dwarfed by the very larger-than-life story they were now telling - and these seasoned professionals were humbled by the sheer totality that the felling of our nation's leader represented.

That night I stayed up late watching TV: On the television, filling the screen, was the image of the White House - its flag now flying at night - at half-staff. Somber music was playing. My eyes filled with tears on seeing the building I knew so well as a child now forlorn - without its residents.
___________________________________

Somehow I missed the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald, but we knew in our heart of hearts that that there had been a conspiracy to kill the president, and we knew justice had not been done by Jack Ruby, when he shot Oswald.

Then there was the funeral. The slowly-beating muffled drums throbbing an ancient Scottish marching cadence. The band played "Eternal Father" and I will forever associate that old Naval Hymn with those sad days. The body lay in state in the rotunda of the Capitol, and then the funeral ended in Arlington Cemetery, right across the street where I had once lived. .

An Eternal Flame was lit. Programming resumed its normality. We went back to living our lives as we had done previously.

But something happened that fateful day in Dallas. Our nation changed that day. We were no longer the same. Camelot had fallen, our innocence as a nation was lost, and we desperately searched for new heroes to believe in.

Some of us found new heroes, only to see them felled in the same manner. In the late Sixties, we would watch the news as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and another Kennedy brother died. Years later  Presidents Ford and Reagan were shot at as well, but did not die. Singer John Lennon, too, was even shot and killed by some - some nobody. Even the Pope was not immune. Sadly, these seemed like reruns - we had seen this all before, live on television, from Dallas.

As for me, ever the different one, I found a new hero who believed in building bridges between cultures and nations. BRIDGES - NOT WALLS. Anwar el-Sadat of Egypt defied many of his own people and chose peace over popularity. He, too, was felled by assassins bullets, which came from the very ranks of those who were supposed to protect him.

So much for heroes.

I may have been just a "punk kid" back then - as I was often called - yeah, just a kid... but my feelings were deep, and I knew what was going on in the world. For just a few, brief days, our divided country was one.

I grew up a lot that day - - - the day the nation cried.



NOTE: My working title for this article was "The Day the Nation Cried." I only just now discovered that there was another work out there with the same title: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0244554/
It used JFK in the title as well, but inasmuch as these works predate mine, I have changed the title.
I tried "The Day our Innocence Died" but that, too was already taken.

A Saturday Morning Ride into Town

6 December, 2014

Waiting at the carstop at Broad & Canal, I'd crane my neck and squint to see if I could see a streetcar in the distance. A couple of others waiting with me did the same. The wait  was not long, and soon enough an old, green streetcar would come into sight. 

It hummed along down the tracks toward us, hissed to a stop, and the doors clattered open. 

Boarding was at the rear, and there to greet the newly-embarking passengers was a uniformed man called a conductor. He collected the fares, dealing out change from a coin dispenser he wore on his belt, ringing a bell for each fare collected.

The fares paid, we each made our way to one of the wooden bench seats, as the conductor rang another small bell twice, signaling that we were ready to go. 

Before most of the new passengers had even made it to their seats, the car lurched forward, and the low, accelerating whine of a powerful electric motor could be heard as it powered the old trolley down the right-of-way. 

As for me, I used to stand at the front vestibule window next to the motorman. 

The humid summer air became cooler as the wind breezed through the front windows. It was a grand view of the passing scenery, the traffic, and the buildings of downtown looming larger and larger. 

About a year ago a friend discovered a photo online of a CANAL car with someone who looks exactly like me! Even my wife thinks it is, and I'd like to think so.

 Even if it isn't me, it's a reminder of days gone by: streetcar rides into town, the gentle rocking as it rumbled and clanged away down the neutral ground, the special smell of electric ozone, and the chug-chug-chug of the air compressor. Such were some of my fondest memories as a kid - and it only cost a dime!

ℱerncrest - Crayons and Beyond

5 November, 2014
Houston

School memories are special for most people. They take us back to when things were bright and new. They take us back to when there was magic in the air!

These were the days of our innocence.

An old song said: "God bless little children, while they're still too young to hate."

Back then, before bombs, before gangs, drugs, before all too common school shootings, back before the so-called "real world" became preferable to an illusion of serendipity, we were sheltered, it seems, from life's troubles and sorrows.

These were days of innocence; Innocence is the purest form of honesty.

"The times, they were a-changing," and things were also also changing all around us, because we ourselves were: we didn't realize it back then, but we were growing and maturing.

Nursery rhymes turned into poetry.
Arithmetic became Modern Math.

As consequence of this maturation process we began to take notice of our classmates, and now looked upon them in a whole new light. They were different somehow. Little crushes and tales about who liked who ran rampant. The girls had truly gone "from crayons to perfume."

By the time it was all over, we had indeed gone a long way from "Run, Spot, Run!"

After Math, after Reading, after the books were all put away, I realized how innocent we all were back then. We walked outside and away from that school on the last day somewhat bedazzled by the brightness of the "real world." There was just so much of it to take in!

Childhood tales and biting nails gave way to the mysteries of life, and we would confront many a rough road ahead, roads that would require every bit of faith, courage, hope, stamina, and belief in ourselves in order to travel them and thus become ourselves.

The old school anthem was not just a song - it was a PRAYER: "Grant us the faith we need,
To carry forth the light,
Set burning in these halls
That we love best;
Confirm the hopes we hold:
That we will carry on
The lessons we have learned
Here at ℱerncrest!"

Imagine that: a PRAYER as a school song!

Somewhere between Fun with Dick & Jane, and Invictus we must have grown. Somewhere between milk-stained kindergartener's lips and "Teahouse of the August Moon" Eighth Grade plays, we gradually and by degrees developed those very qualities within ourselves that we needed to carry on those lessons. Our figurative training wheels came off of our bicycles, and we began to be able to chart our own separate courses through life.

In those days of innocence, we were told so many things which later we found to be untrue. However fictitious some turned out, it was not the things themselves, it was the BELIEVING in them that made a difference.

I believed; didn't you?

Between awkward first glances as very young children, and long, last looks as young adults leaving school for the last time, we began to believe not in fairy tales now, but in ourselves. Whether we developed this on our own, or whether we learned it in school, or a combination of the two, we did it.

Each of us walked away with different experiences, memories, and lessons learned, and each of us did our best in those years afterwards.

Those school days are far behind us, yet live inside us all. Every once in awhile it is pleasant to stroll down Memory Lane, and see ourselves as we once were, to remember those innocent times that all too quickly came and went.

This song sums it up!
I BELIEVED IT ALL
(Bergman / Hamm)

Jimmie F. Rodgers - 1967
The Sandpipers - 1967
The Pozo-Seco Singers - 1967

Mary had a little lamb
One and one make two
Candles on a birthday cake
Blow them out and your wish comes true
Does she love me does she not
Tell me daisy do

Oh to be a child again
Oaks from acorns grew
One and one make two
I believed it all
Didn't you?

I remember when every day began
Strawberry jam and laughter
And every story ended
With "happily ever after."
I remember feeling I'll never be safe
If I don't step on a crack
The days when the sun was up ahead
And the wind was at my back.

Mary had a little lamb
One and one make two
Candles on a birthday cake
Blow them out and your wish comes true
Does she love me does she not?
Tell me daisy do!

Oh to be a child again!
Oaks from acorns grew,
One and one make two,
I believed it all…

Didn't you?

ℱerncrest AfterMath

25 October 2014

Amsterdam 

                         ℱ

My old grammar school no longer stands. A vacant lot is all that is left of it. Ferncrest lives on inside me as a large jumble of memories once sleeping in the deep recesses of my mind. 

The hallowed halls of my grammar school would, if they still stood, have many a school tale to tell. For six long years I was a student at that small private school in New Orleans. My last day was May 28, 1967.

AFTERMATH - and after English,  after Reading, Music, Art, etc. there was nothing left to do than to go through a ceremony aptly called "Commencement Exercises. "

"It's the 28ᵀᴴ of May, all the books are put away, and we all sit together for the very last day" …These lines I scribbled on a sheet of loose leaf paper, as a deep, sentimental feeling came upon me. 

I put my pencil down, and looked all around me at the faces of the kids in my class; people I shared good times and bad times with; individuals, many of whom, in all likelihood after today, I will see no more. 

They were all excitedly talking amongst themselves, but I was not in a talking mood. I drifted deep into thought.

Suddenly I snapped out of it. I picked a fine time to develop Stockholm Syndrome! What was I thinking? Sure I had a couple of good friends there, but for the most part, I was an outsider - never completely accepted by the group. 

To me, school was every bit as much an incarceration as it was an education. It was an experience that I tried so desperately to enjoy and profit from, so that, when at long last it would end, there would be something worth looking back upon - something salvageable from years of daily repression. 

I thought about the constant teasing, the comments, gossip, shunning, ridiculing, humiliation, and put-downs I received over the years. Sadly, and unbelievably, much of it came not from the children, but from the teachers! Those were the very people who were supposed to encourage, to lead by example…

Oh, well, it was over now. We were called to go outside, and we rose from our desks and walked down the old, winding wooden steps we had for so many years descended at dismissal. We did so as a class one last time.

Our songs were sung, I proudly marched up with the others to receive my awards: a straight 100% Spelling medal, and a Perfect Attendance medal. Though hardly gold, silver, or even bronze, at least I can say I went the distance.  

A little boy in the crowd asked his Mommie what were we marching for - and I asked myself the same question!

We made our way off the stage, away from the school that so many of them - so many of them - loved so dearly, and all I could think about was that I was FREE AT LAST!!

Back at home that afternoon, I lost no time attacking a file box which had lay in the same spot in my closet for six years - a box that once was empty, but now it was nearly full - full of test papers, homework, busywork, and the like. 

With a passion I rarely showed, I began to crumple up the first few - but then opted for a more efficient solution: I took the whole box of papers and summarily dumped them into a nearby dumpster - much to my mother's chagrin. 

It was done. It was a final ex-post-facto display of defiance. In that single act I had consigned to the dustbin six long, hard, miserable, painful years. So much effort, so much stress, so much pain was on those pages. Now I had got rid of them. When I closed the top of the dumpster, I had also shut tight the lid on that Pandora's Box of demons. I had completed another chapter of my life. 

Whereas my fellow classmates went on to attend expensive and well-known schools in the city, my family was not endowed with the financial wherewithal to send me to such erudite institutions. I had had my fill of institutions, and so I went to less-prestigious public schools from then on. 

I need to say here and now that never ever, from then on, did I experience any teasing, tattling, punishments, public humiliation, or any other bad or negative things I experienced at Frencrest.

Nevertheless, for years I looked at Ferncrest from a quasi-narcissistic viewpoint: it was always about me. 

Unlike true narcissists, however, I blamed myself for most, if not all of my bad experiences, even though common sense should have told me differently. My mea culpa auto-da-fé was also supported by many people close to me throughout the years, reinforcing this *self-blaming, and feelings of guilt I had. 

The years went by and I rarely looked back on those days. I had a life to get on with, and so I did. Every once in awhile I wondered how one or another of my classmates might have fared. I did bump into a few of them, and we were cordial with one another; only that and nothing more. 

I figured my former classmates would've gotten together for periodic class reunions, but I never got an invite. I suspected it was because I was not wanted. Funny thing, though: had I actually received an invitation, I would most assuredly not have attended - not for the first twenty years or so afterward. There was just too much pain. 

A few years ago a few former Ferncrest classmates whom I liked very much back then got in touch with me. I was surprised that they had fond memories of me - as I had had of them. We discussed funny and strange things that happened there. It was good to reminisce.

Later I corresponded with a few others, and bit-by-bit I discovered, to my complete surprise, that they, too, had had some negative experiences. It seems the old school was not all a bed of roses for them either. 

It is said that misery loves company, but I took no delight in their less-than-optimal experiences. 

However. I also felt vindicated: It turns out I was like the others after all: we were struggling, and all were afflicted with growing pains. It was a tough part of any child's development - and it seems to me that a few certain people were bound and determined to make it even harder.

One day I found a FaceBook page about Ferncrest. I was quite reluctant to make contact, but I did so anyway - mostly out of curiosity. I really was looking forward to posting funny, amusing little anecdotes and other "tales out of school" …but then those old memories came back. 

Relegated to the dark recesses of my mind, they emerged like bats from a cave - and came in a torrent I was helpless to stop. Like Pandora of old opening her box, the lid was lifted and my demons had escaped.

It was, at long last, time to confront an unhappy past that for so long I had done my utmost to forget. In order to put those years behind me, it becomes necessary to deal with the issues themselves.

In order to forget, one must first learn to forgive. This is always the most arduous of tasks. It is often quite tricky to sort out evil intent from kids just being kids, from situations I put myself into, from misunderstandings, and from things that just happen as part of growing up. The difficulty deepens when it becomes obvious that it is a combination of all those, as well as other factors.

Putting things into perspective, time heals all wounds. The converse is also true: time wounds all heels. 

In these days with commonplace violence in American schools, I guess I had it very good by comparison. Could those years have been better? Of course! Should it have been better? I believe it should have. It is all academic. 

At the time of this writing, my Ferncrest experience ended some 48 years ago. That says something as to how deeply I was impacted by it, that nearly a half-century later there is some pain. Since I am in my early sixties, the six years account for nearly 10% of my life, and when one considers they were important, formative years, it is plain to see why the impression was so great.

My hope now is to try to remember the good times there. 

The problem is, there were too few of them, I'm afraid.

I write this not to complain about real or perceived injustices there. Life is often not fair. I write this partially so that others out there who had similar experiences may feel vindicated, as I have been.  

Most of all, I write this for me.

AFTERMATH - and after English,  after Reading, Music, Art, etc., after the books closed and the school likewise ceased to be, at long last I, too, seek closure. 

I wish neither approval nor agreement from anyone. Others have their own stories. This was MY path, MY journey, MY story.

*"Self-blame is one of the most toxic forms of emotional abuse. It amplifies our perceived inadequacies, whether real or imagined, and paralyzes us before we can even begin to move forward." By Michael J. Formica, MS, MA, EdM on April 19, 2013 - Psychology Today

DUCK TAILS - Amsterdam Canal

San Francisco

22 October, 2014

"Lost in Amsterdam? No problem! Just follow this canal to the tram line, turn right, walk until you get to another canal..."
Such are directions, for it seems as though just about everything is located on or near one of those canals.

One day, many years ago, while walking along a canal in Amsterdam, I came upon a couple of discarded loaves of Turkish bread lying on the bank. I spied some ducks swimming nearby and decided to pass the time by giving the bread to them and seeing the pieces fall into the canal, they all flocked to me without my making a sound. 

I began to make a quacking noise while they were feeding, just for fun. (I am quite easily amused…)

I still had plenty bread left, so I began to stroll further along the canal, bread in hand. 

As I walked, I noticed the ducks swimming along behind me in a line, and here and there others joined the flock. I knew in my heart of hearts that it was the bread I carried with me - not my silly quacking, my charming personality nor wit that lured these creatures ever onward. 

The Leprechaun that surely is my alter ego could not resist some shenanigans - all in good fun, don't you know! 

As I strolled along leading my new-found friends, and gaining new ones all the while, I again proceeded to quack away as happy as you please! The scene was reminiscent of the Pied Piper - with a few minor changes having been made to the story.

As merrily I did gang "along the banks of the Royal Canal" I realized that I was not alone in my mirth, for as my web-footed friends sought to keep me company all on the one side, along the other, in the cobblestone street that ran along the canal, a line of cars with some mystified occupants, plus a few curious walkers and lasses on their bicycles did a;so follow along, smiling all the while.
They waved and likewise I waved back, "the day being pleasant and charming."

I thought about how political movements had, from time to time during our history, arisen from one person having an idea, others following blindly not because of the idea, but for what each could get out of it. And still others blindly followed along behind them simply for the amusement and pleasure of the association. 

All you need is one person who thinks he understands life - or says he does - and others will quickly follow - yet they know not nor care why.

By the time I arrived at my hotel, I found I had but the smallest crumb left, which I tossed to my web-footed friends as a token of parting. There being no more bread and the journey across the city completed, I left the ducks where I found them, the traffic of onlookers disbursed, and the lovely Dutch girls on their bicycles likewise pressed on, no doubt amused at the spectacle. 

The stroll along the canal that day could have been just a mere walk, and I would have arrived at my destination just as quickly, but I chose - I chose to make it an event - bizarre though it may have been.

If by doing so two pieces of bio-degradable litter got recycled, some ducks got fed, and I brought a smile to a few of the townspeople with my frivolity, then so be it. If I left that fair city for just a few brief moments an ever so slightly happier place than when first I found it, then that makes me all the gladder I came.   

Remember, it's not the destination… it's the journey! 

Pointe d'Eglise Stopover

October 16, 2014
Houston, TX


Nearly forty years ago, I had a job which required me to make sales calls throughout the entire state of Louisiana, as well as Southern Mississippi.

I began to work in my territory, getting to know the state one small town at a time. My first few weeks I worked in what is known as "Cajun Country." This consists of a number of counties - called Parishes, whose predominant ethnic group consists of people who claim ancestry in a faraway place called Acadie, in present-day Nova Scotia, Canada.

I was excited to get acquainted with these folks, whom I had only read about in books. I knew they spoke French, and so did I, so I figured we'd get along just fine. I'd show up at a lumber company early in the morning, and sit and have a cup of nice, hot, strong coffee and listen to those old guys speak a dialect of French that hasn't been heard in its mother country in nearly 300 years! It was a pleasure to hear it. However, by the time 9am rolled around, these men were gone off to work, and it was English-only for the rest of the day. The city of Lafayette had become a predominantly English-speaking city.

One day much later, I ventured deeper into the area, and went to a place called Church Point, also known by locals as Pointe d'Eglise. I called on a company called Evangeline Brokerage.  Everybody there spoke French, but the man I needed to see, a Mr. Brouillette, was not there. So I sat down and wrote him a note, IN FRENCH, saying I was sorry to have missed him, and if he didn't mind, I'd be passing that way in a few weeks and I'd like to see him.

Well, I was true to my word, and when I walked in, the ladies all remembered me. They smiled and one of them got up. She returned a few minutes later with an older, well-dressed gentleman, who came up to me, and with a smile on his face as big as Texas, extended his hand and gave me a firm, honest handshake - the kind I rarely got out in the business world. We exchanged pleasantries, and he stopped and excused himself for a moment, then returned with a piece of paper in his hand; it was my note.

That mile-wide smile came across his face once again, and he asked: "Before we continue, could you tell me what you wrote here?"

I was stymied. "Well, just what it says." I replied, matter-of-factly.

"Would you mind reading it to me?"

I agreed, and did so.

"Ah, HAH!" he exclaimed, chuckling a bit.

"I don't understand..." I commented, as I saw a look of great satisfaction come across the gentleman's face.

"You know," he explained, "my mother tongue is French. But, " he added, "we were never taught to read or write it. We were only taught to read and write English. So when I saw this note, well, I just didn't know what to make of it! I had no idea what it was all about until you read it to me just now."

We had a nice conversation, that old gentleman and I. He told me that when he was a boy, it used to take a whole day to get from where the Interstate Highway runs to where his place of business stands. That trip took me only ten minutes. To hear him talk, well, it was just like being there in those long-ago days.

The business concluded, it was time for me to go, and that was the last time I was ever in that town.
I don't know - or remember the man's first name, but I do have some very pleasant memories of a man whose smile was wide, whose handshake was firm, and whose character as honest as can be found anywhere.

They don't make people like that any more.

Moonrise Over San Francisco

San Francisco

8 October, 2014

"Au Clair de la lune… 

…je suis dans mon lit..."

Dark came over San Francisco, or at least the dark of night, but the lights of the buildings, streets, and cars all fight back, and together produce an incandescent glow that is reflected by nearby clouds.

The TV was blaring - droning on and on. Tiring of the same things being said over and over, I glanced out of my hotel window onto the city as it spread before me. 

     But tonight I noticed a light coming from amid the skyscrapers - a light that was not there before. 

I watched as it grew in size and intensity, and at the same time moving out from among the concrete and glass towers to finally reveal itself: it was the full moon rising!

The perfect roundness of the huge orange disk was a sight to behold. 

I wasted no time. I quickly turned off the television and lamps in the room, and watched this nighttime spectacle unfold.

Then, from over the waters nearby, a thick fog formed a blanket slowly covering the moon - until the bright orb disappeared from view. It reappeared, then just as quickly disappeared again. 

For a few brief seconds, the clouds began to swirl, forming a ring around the moon - like some giant eye in the sky, gazing down on the earth. 

The restless clouds continued to grow thicker and thicker, eventually enveloping parts of the city. 

All this I saw while I lay down on my bed, tired from a long flight. 

I tried to take a picture of this magnificent sight, but, alas, what came out was just a blur. 

So this is my word-picture of a moonrise over San Francisco.

Girl

San Francisco

23 September, 2014

It was almost 2 in the afternoon in San Francisco. I had just finished a  heavy meal. I had had an "elegant sufficiency," as my Aunt Anna would have said. 

It was a beautiful day! The skies were clear, it was 70°, and a light breeze was blowing from off the bay. 

 The sun was high in the sky, bathing the Victorian buildings in a yellow-white glow.

I was tired, but I needed to walk a bit, and it being so fine outside, I decided to go up and down the streets of the neighborhood. Here and there I'd see a building that particularly struck my fancy, and I took several pictures. 

Fatigue and a lack of sleep was catching up with me, so I headed back to my hotel. I was very happy. 

I was not prepared for what I saw next: in an alcove just off the sidewalk, I caught sight of a homeless person. 

Now, in San Francisco this is unfortunately an all too common sight. If you can walk three blocks in certain areas if this city without being panhandled at LEAST once, I'd say you won.

It was different this time. This was

not some old junkie or wino sleeping it off or trying to bum a cigarette or a dollar for more wine. 

My eyes beheld a young woman - in her twenties. A girl. 

She was ragged as any homeless person out there. She was sitting and not begging. Perhaps she was beyond that. 

She had a young face, yet the face of someone who was more than defeated. She held her head in her hands, and I could not tell if she was sleeping, resting, thinking, or, God forbid, she was dead!!

She sat there on a blanket, surrounded by junk and filth. Next to her was a large dog, who, quite obviously was her only friend. 

A feeling of anguish overcame me. She could have been my daughter!! She certainly was SOMEONE's daughter…

What was her story? Why was she there, in that condition? What horrible set of circumstances led her to sit in rags on the sidewalk - covering her eyes on a beautiful day like today??

I wanted to do something to help her, but there were so very many reasons why that wasn't such a good idea. So I walked on, and she remained sitting there, alone - except for one final faithful companion who would be true to her until the end. Dogs are not quick to judge.

Seeing the flotsam and jetsam of our society as often as I do, it is easy to take them for part of the scenery. It is hard to help someone when you don't what each one needs. 

Maybe they are beyond help. Maybe they just don't want hope. Maybe they don't know how to help themselves. 

Maybe they just want to be left alone. 

I feel so powerless. What would I do if this were MY daughter? 

She's SOMEBODY's daughter!

Yet there she languishes, alone with her pain, while countless people pass her by and don't even see her, and while I go back to my warm bed to sleep. 

A Silly Argument

21 September, 2014

Houston, TX

"...when I'm out with my Honey on a moonlit night, in my brand-new AUTOMOBILE!!" - Barbershop Quartet song

One day I was looking out the front door just in time to see the mailman make his rounds and deposit a number of items into our nondescript metal box or can. I walked down the walk, returned with a copious amount of what my grandfather would have facetiously called "valuable mail." It was anything but!

I spread all of this mass of cellulose out onto the dining room table until only about ¼ of the original usable space remained. That area I left clear for sorting out this newly-arrived batch of correspondence. 

I remarked to myself that it has been many years since I last got a real, honest-to-goodness letter from anybody. That is mainly because people who used to write letters are all deceased. I did, however, have several items in the pile worth mentioning.

There was a mis-delivered water bill for someone living in the next block, several bills, as well as one or two miscellaneous items.

I got the seventeenth bill for that hospital stay I had six months ago. Not only did I get a bill for the hospital itself, and for the attending physician, but also I have gotten bills for radiology, a pharmacy bill, lab work, a vet bill for the head-nurse's dog, and bills for two physicians that the AMA has no record of. I think one other doctor sent me a bill for just driving by the hospital. 

The remaining 85% was - you guessed it - advertising. One was stamped "OFFICIAL URGENT CORRESPONDENCE! OPEN IMMEDIATELY!" I knew it was junk mail the minute I saw "URGENT" stamped all over it. So I put it aside to be opened last. That'll show 'em!

I brought a waste-paper basket close to the table, and gave each piece of paper a cursory glance before consigning it to the round filing cabinet on the floor.

There were a few envelopes full of coupons, but they never seemed to be for anything I wanted to buy!! Besides, every time I did see a coupon I thought I could use, I'd duly put it aside with numerous others, tucked safely away until three or four days after it expires, when I'd take it down to whatever department store sent it to me, in vain hopes of getting a bargain on vacuum-cleaner bags or socks. 

Once again the minimum-wage clerk who can't even make change without an intergalactic computerized register to direct her quickly locates the microdots onto which the expiration date has been printed, and takes great delight in informing me that none of the SIXTEEN coupons I brought with me today are valid.

So much for that. I am just not a coupon kinda guy.

 

Back to the mail-opening. 

I finally got down to the very last piece of mail - the one marked Urgent! Open Immediately!

It was, just as I unsuspected, advertising. It was from a nationally-known company announcing a SWEEPSTAKES!!

(I wonder if there is anybody in the world who has ever won one of those things?!)

"Enter today and you could be the winner of a brand-new Porsche automobile!!" the ad began. 

About this time, my wife came into the dining room, and saw I had manage to make chaos out if confusion once again. She saw the ad, and chuckled, asking:"So tell me - what would you do if you entered this contest and won that Porsche?"

I answered, quick as thought: "I'd KEEP it, of course!" Hey, a guy can DREAM, can't he?

"What?" She asked, in shock and disbelief. "Do you have any idea how much insurance would be on that thing?? And besides," she continued,"a Porsche costs more brand-new than this house is worth. If I had my way, I'd SELL it the day we got it."

"Aww, that's a TERRIBLE thing to do. It's a PORSCHE, for goodness sake. We could drive it for six months or so, and then sell it," I answered in typical guy fashion.

"What? Are you crazy?" She kept up, but by now she had stopped smiling. "Money doesn't grow on trees. We have more use for that money than for an expensive toy you can use to impress your buddies!"

I have to admit, I was getting just the slightest bit peeved at the way she reacted to the mere possibility of winning an automobile most people can't afford to dream of owning. I was adamant. I would stick to my guns, by golly!

"I say we're KEEPING it!" I insisted.

"And I say we SELL it!!" my

wife retorted. 

During this last bit of conversation, out teenage daughter, Eileen, walks in. "What are you guys arguing about?" she queried innocently.

"I want to KEEP the Porsche, and your mother wants to SELL it!!" I said, just slightly miffed.

"WE WON A PORCHE!!!!????" She squealed with glee, jumping up and down as she asked that perfectly understandable question.

"No, of COURSE not," came my reply. "There's this sweepstakes, and the main prize is a Porsche. I hadn't planned on entering it, though. I'll only get more junk mail." 

"WHAT?? You guys are arguing about keeping or selling a car that you don't even HAVE??!! I swear I have a CRAZY FAMILY!" She said, throwing her arms up in the air and leaving the den for the kitchen.

My wife and I looked at each other for a second, then we broke out in gales of laughter. 

"I swear I have one crazy family!" came our daughter's voice from the kitchen.

"I guess she's right!" I told my wife, as I watched the last piece of junk mail tumble into the waste paper basket.

Oreo Mouse

September 20, 2014

Houston, TX

"Mejor solo que mal acompañado." - Spanish proverb 

There's a difference between being alone, and being lonely. 

Some people feel alone in a crowd, while feeling perfectly content all by themselves.

We humans are by nature gregarious beings, by and large. 

We seek out the company of our mate, family members, friends, or often complete strangers. 

When we lack human interaction, we often turn to substitutes, such as the TV or radio. 

When we are alone, as night spreads over the land, sometimes our minds wander, play tricks on us, or even deceive us into thinking we are not really alone. 

Sometimes we think we are alone, when in fact we are not. 

I like Oreo cookies. I like them, I believe, much more than the average Joe. I was out of town - my usual status, considering I've spent much of my time with a packed suitcase and the open road. 

Sitting alone in my motel room, I had returned from a light dinner, and was "improving my

mind", as my grandfather would have said, watching a few silly, inane programs on TV. 

Unnoticed by me, the sun had gone down, and the lights of the small town I was in had come on. The neon sign above the motel office flickered intermittently. 

There were no cars in the parking lot except mine and a big rig. The traffic on the street had greatly subsided, and outdoors all was quiet.

It was about 8:30, and I was at a break in my viewing, when I got a hankering for some Oreo cookies. I was never one for self-indulgence, but tonight I decided by-golly I'd go out and buy a pack! 

And so I did.

I returned shortly with my prize, devoured probably ½ dozen of the little black cookies when I decided enough was enough - it is time to go to bed. 

I slept soundly that night - I say soundly, but all of a sudden I awoke with a start! It must have been the wee hours of the morning .

I had no explanation as to just why

I awoke so abruptly. I strained to listen for any sounds, but all was quiet. The room was quite dark. I stared out into the gloom, which for all I knew that night, it stretched out to infinity.

Obviously there was

nothing amiss. I settled down to my peaceful slumber, and had just drifted off when I sat up again. 

Something WAS wrong. Sleep had left my eyes and I was now quite awake. I got this funny notion that I was not alone in my room!

I turned on the lamp at my bedside and gazed intently all around the room, in search of - well, I really had no idea. I felt like little boy fearing a boogeyman under his bed.

Nothing seemed out if place, and I began to chuckle to myself for being so silly. I turned out the light, and turned over. 

Then it happened. 

"TICK!" It was the ever so slight yet distinct sound of cellophane crinkling. There was no doubt about it.

Again I sat up. My heart pounded. It was now clear I was not alone --- and the sound I heard was not human. I turned on the light, but saw nothing, as before. 

So I turned out the light again, but this time I kept my hand on the light switch, ready to instantly turn the lamp back on in the event that I heard another sound. 

I didn't have long to wait.

"TICK!" came again. THE INSTANT I heard the crinkle, I turned the switch, illuminating the entire room, the pack of Oreos, …and the CULPRIT!!!

It was a tiny mouse. It had been caught in the act pilfering my Oreos. 

Strange as it may seem, I was actually relieved that there wasn't something more sinister wandering my room. Nevertheless, I needed my sleep, and I had no desire to share my precious Oreos with anyone - or any thing.

I picked up my phone and called the front desk:

C: Front Desk!

M: Hi! This is Ken Hall in room #225. Say, do you have me down as a single-occupancy room?

C: Yes, Sir.

M: Well, I'm not by myself.

C: That's fine, sir, I'll just make a note on your folio.

M: There's only one problem: I don't know the other guest.

SILENCE on the line.

C: Uh, sir, I'm afraid I don't understand…

M: Well, it seems as though I have a mouse staying with me, but he didn't come with me.

C: I see…

M: And he's eating my Oreos!

C: Would you like another room?

M: Yes, but can you arrange for it to be one without a mouse?

C: I believe we can accommodate you, sir.

So I went to the desk and picked up my room key, and vacated the room without leaving a forwarding address. 

I finally and eventually dozed back to sleep. This time I stayed asleep until I hear a knocking at my door. It's the maid. I forgot to put the "DO NOT DISTURB" sign onto my doorknob! 

Really? I thought I'd sleep in and begin the day a bit later…

I waved her off, and began to get ready. I put the TV on, but it didn't work. Probably depressing news, anyway, I thought. 

I took a shower, then afterwards I began to shave, etc. When I turned on the water, "GUSH!!!" A pipe burst beneath the lavatory, and when I investigated the noise, I was drenched with a deluge that would rival old faithful, thoroughly soaking me. 

I called the front desk.

C: FRONT DESK!

M: Good morning! I'm Ken Hall in Room #230 - formerly of Room #228. Uh, I have a little problem…

C: Aren't you the guy with the mouse?

M: That would be me! Uh, yeah, I have another issue. I just had a pipe explode under my lavatory, and it's really gushing out. In fact, it's beginning to flood the room.

C: I'll get someone there right away.

M: Have him come in a rowboat, OK!

So I dry myself off for the second time, got dressed, threw my soggy belongings into my suitcase,  and put the stuff into the trunk of my car.

I got into my car, inserted the key into the ignition, and turned the key. 

Nothing

I had a dead battery. Am I on Candid Camera? This stuff just can't be happening!

I had the car towed down to a nearby dealership and found out, to my utter delight, that the battery's guarantee expired LAST WEEK! Really??

So I had to pay quite a bit for another battery, and wait my turn until, about an hour later, my car was ready. 

At the counter was an older man. He had that worn, haggard look - the look of a person who has been there and done that. He was a man who, at one time or another in his long life, has sold just about everything there was to sell in just about every market. 

He wore an old, weatherbeaten suit and a hat. One shoulder was slightly lower than the other from carrying a sales bag full of samples and catalogues for forty long years.

He could see I was having a bad week. I was. My sales were down, my quota was raised, I got gypped out of some commission by a salesman from another territory, and my kids were sick, again.

"Rough week, eh, kid?" He asked sympathetically.

"Yeah," I told him. I related the story of the mouse, the burst pipe, and the bad battery. "Every time I work this town, something crazy happens!"

"Yeah, I know what you mean," he said. His eyes were tired, and his face was sad. "I got one o'them, too."

"One what?" I asked.

"Nemesis city. Every salesman has one. It's a place that you go where things always go wrong."

"Yeah, that's what this is, all right!" I replied. We talked for the better part of an hour. He shared with me his triumphs and his tragedies. 

He told me:"You won't win 'em all, no matter how good you are."

Then the man's car was ready. We shook hands, and he gave me a reassuring touch on the shoulder.  I watched him walk out to an older car - a car that was as worn out and as tired as its owner.

I felt sad. He was a tired old man in a tired old car, doing his best to keep his customers satisfied, and the bills paid. 

He waved to me as he drove off. I gave him the thumbs up, and away his car chugged - smoke billowing from the exhaust. 

I thought of the play "Death of a Salesman." I recalled his face, and prayed to God this would not be me in thirty years. There must be more to life than this…

My car was ready, now. I jumped in, and it started right up. I pulled out onto the Interstate, and drove home without stopping.

I turned on the radio as I sped away. A Johnny Rodriguez song was playing on a faraway country music station: 

"This old highway seems so lonesome when you're going where you've been,

And a lonesome song can make you cry time and time again…"

Songs of traveling and the open road - yeah - guess I know 'em all by heart. 

But I pulled into my driveway just as my kids were coming home from school. 

"DADDY!!" They all shouted, and rushed up to hug me. My wife, surprised at my early arrival, came out to greet me, too. 

I was home with the ones I love. And that is the point of it all, isn't it?

An Intoxicating Experience

20 September, 2014

Houston, TX 

One afternoon I began to feel ill, and before too long, I was having trouble breathing. I went to our bed to lie down, and a minute later my wife came in and found me struggling to breathe.

"What's wrong? What's the matter!?" She asked, with a very worried look on her face.

"Don't know…" I replied, gasping for air. "Gotta go to the hospital!" I said. Far from a hypochondriac, my usual response to any sickness was to put some Dr. Tichenor's antiseptic on it, and wait and see if I get better by tomorrow. So my wanting to go immediately to a HOSPITAL was an indication that something was indeed amiss. 

We drove to the Emergency Room of the small, local hospital that was just a step or two up from a large clinic. It was, however, despite its size, a very good facility.

We walked in to the Emergency Room, and my wife, nervously told the attending nurse that I was "intoxicated." 

Intoxicado, in Spanish, means poisoned, and the adjective has nothing to do with being inebriated.

Miriam Webster's dictionary states:

"1 :  an abnormal state that is essentially a poisoning (carbon monoxide intoxication)

 2 a :  the condition of being drunk"

However, the male nurse picked up on the second definition, rather than on the first, and promptly asked her how much I'd had to drink.

My wife answered: "He doesn't drink; he's intoxicated!"

The nurse smiled and walked away for a few minutes. I asked my wife why she used the word "intoxicated." She told me that she had used the right medical term for my condition, and why trained medical personnel don't understand correct terminology was beyond her.

The nurse's name was another matter. It was Coulon - a name found mostly in Louisiana's Cajun country, and is of Canadian-French origin. But it's meaning in Spanish is "big-butt," and is really not a nice-sounding word in that language. 

I languished on this gurney for several minutes, my wife musing over the nurse's surname, and me still struggling for each breath. 

The nurse returned with a lady in a white coat, a stethoscope around her neck. She spoke to an ER assistant nearby, who had a clipboard in her hand: "Put down for doctor Payment," she requested.

"Hey, man!" I spoke up, "You haven't even SEEN me, and you want your MONEY already??"

"Oh, you don't understand," said the nurse, chuckling a bit: "The doctor's name is 'Payment'."

"So exactly how much have you had to drink?" Dr. Payment asked.

"Nothing!" I replied, annoyed. "I ate something I'm allergic to; that's all!"

Unbelievably, several others asked how much alcohol I had consumed! It took a few minutes of rigorous explanation before they came to the conclusion that in fact I had drank no alcohol. Thank goodness that was finally out of the way!

I could have died of anaphylaxis trying to explain to these folks that I was intoxicated, but not drunk. 

Lesson learned here is that, although the MEANING of a word might be one thing, the connotation might be something totally different!

I wonder had I gone to the hospital while drunk, and said I was intoxicated, would they have thought I was poisoned?

A FAIR GUESS?

     THE NEW ORLEANS FAIR GROUNDS - EST. 1972 - GENTILLY RD. 
                                                            NEW ORLEANS, LA.
                                                       POST CARD DATED 1917.


It was a pretty Spring day in New Orleans. The year was 1917. Winter was at last over. Being a Saturday, there ws no school, so Charlie had the day for himself - and there was "big doings" today! It was 8:00 in the morning, and already he had dressed himself and was in the process of oiling and slicking back his hair - looking at himself in the mirror to make sure he looked just right. He was a sturdy lad of just 11 summers, if you didn't count the one that was soon to come.

                                          MY GRANDFATHER, HIS MOTHER ROSA, AND BROTHER EUGENE

"Bonjour! Et qu'est-ce que tu fais debout si tôt?" asked his mother, Rosa. "What are you doing up so early?"
Rosa Meilleur was a New Orleans Créole lady of French ancestry who still spoke French. Charlie's father was fourth generation German and spoke no French. In fact, few people in the neighborhood spoke the language nowadays. The overwhelming majority of the city's population was no longer French-speaking, and the language by this time was dying out, even among the  staunchest of  French families. Charlie, however, loved to converse in it with his mother, who spoke "proper" French, and not the "Cajun" patois they used in the country.
"Je vais aller à la foire!" he answered, meaning " I'm going to go to the fair!"

"Scrosh-PRIE, huh, Mamma?" Charlie's little brother Babe chimed in. Now little Eugene did not speak or understand a single word of French, but whenever he would hear his big brother speak it, he'd make up a word or two. It was gibberish, but it was his way of including himself in on the conversation.

There was a race track nearby on Gentilly Boulevard. It was called the "Fair Grounds" and it was appropriately named today. Racing season ran for several months during the late Fall and wintertime, but come Spring, the races had been run, and the huge grounds were deserted - except
for the occasional special event.

He was ready at last! Before leaving, Rosa gave her son a dollar bill so he could have a good time there. Then she kissed him good bye. Charlie bid au revoir to his Mamma and little brother, and happily joined a few other neighborhood boys who were walking briskly down North Gayoso street toward Gentilly Boulevard and the main entrance of the race track.

There was a carnival, or county fair going on. There were bands, typical carnival games of skill and chance, and there was even a circus balloon tethered to the ground, giving fair-goers a chance to see the world from aloft. There were eats aplenty, and special shows were in the offing.

A FAIR GUESS
KENNETH E. HALL               18 September, 2014                 Houston TX
                                                                                                                                                              Once inside the grounds themselves, there was lots to do - like throwing baseballs at stacks of lead bottles to try to knock them down. One can imagine that, taking place in New Orleans, the birthplace of JAZZ, music was playing everywhere.

There was a large tent - the kind used in the South for religious revivals. But there was nothing religious taking place inside this canopy today. The boys went in, and stood in the aisle toward the back, jostling each other while straining to hear what was being said.

On stage was a huckster - the "Great Whodatunkit" (not his real name!) - knower of one - knower of all - seer of all things large and small - or so the sign outside the tent probably said. As the boys listened, they heard the man call out to various people in the audience, apparently at random, and telling them specific details about each one. The boys giggled and guffawed every time the crowd gasped in awe, for the man seemed to be correct on EVERY guess.

The lads were not buying this: Lucky guesses? No, it just couldn't be. There's trickery afoot! The man up on stage just had to be in cohoots with a few planted members of the audience, and that's how the trick is played, they thought.

The old adage goes: "A fool and his money are quickly parted." Circus mogul P.T. Barnum is quoted as saying: "There's a SUCKER born every minute." Clearly, these neighborhood urchins were not that gullible. After awhile of this tomfoolery, and goaded on by his pals, Charlie hollered out from the crowd: " Hey, Mista! You're just a huckster and a fraud and a phoney! It's nuttin' but BUNK, I tell ya!" Kids of New Orleans spoke with an accent closely resembling that of Brooklyn, NY!

The crowd glared at the boys - especially at little Charlie, who towered over his companions by at least a foot, and also spoke the loudest. They didn't like the show being interrupted by a few neighborhood punk kids. In fact, a few ushers moved toward the raucous boys, with the intent to throw them out on their ears, but the Great Whodatunkit was a good sport about the whole thing. Unphased by the heckling from the excited youths, he continued with his act.

Just before the ushers got to Charlie and the gang, another challenge to the authenticity of his performance was hurled from - who else!? Charlie, whereupon the man stopped where he was and bade the ushers to leave the lad alone.

"The young fellow whose voice we all have heard - almost as much as MINE - has raised a valid point." He paused for effect.

The crowd simmered down to listen.

"Ah, young man," said the Great Whodatunkit - his speech now being directed at Charlie.
He then addressed the crowd thusly: "The seeds of doubt have been sown; the young lad has so loudly called me a 'fraud' and a 'huckster.' HOWEVER..." he continued, in a oration that would have impressed the comedian W. C. Fields in its grandiose and bombastic tone: "If the young lad who stands before you there would kindly check his right pocket, he would find the dollar bill his mother gave him this morning - just before he left for this very fair!"

There was a hush in the crowd, and all eyes were once again fixed on Charlie, as he produced the greenback. But Charlie was no quitter, and would not let himself be shown up so easily, so he shouts back: "Well, what of it?! Lots o'kids got money..."

"Ahh, yes, my lad, so they do - so they do." but he continued: "but if the young lad would examine his dollar bill - take a look at it, my dear boy, take a good look and tell me - is the serial number on the note T65475953A ?"

All eyes now were on Charlie; he removed the bill from his pocket and  stared wide-eyed at the dollar bill in utter disbelief: the numbers that the man shouted out corresponded EXACTLY with the serial numbers of the note! Outside of the tent, there was quite a bit of carnival noise, but inside the tent, you could hear a pin drop. The boy for once in his life, was totally speechless - his facial expressions betrayed his total amazement and shock at what had just happened.

For once in his life, the lad was beaten by a huckster. He just kept staring at that bill in wonder. His buddies, a minute ago so raucous and talkative, suddenly now fell silent, and just stood there, staring at the number on the note in their friend's hand.

They went outside and continued with the carnival - playing games and taking in the sights, and then they went home. However, Charlie never did spend that dollar, and he kept it among his souvenirs and personal belongings until the day he died.


------------
And this was the story that Charlie later told to his beloved 25-year-old grandson, nearly SIXTY YEARS later. Every detail came back clearly, as if it had been only yesterday.

"You know, " Charlie commented, after telling this strange story, "I never believed in fortune tellers or psychics. It's all the bunk! But to this day I never could explain how that man told me those numbers!"

"Before you were born," he continued, "just as a joke, one day I went in to see a fortune-teller. She told me quite a bit that was true about my life and so forth, but she also told me that I had three children - two girls and a little boy. I told her that she was sadly mistaken, that I had but two girls."

"All the same," she said as I was leaving, "All the same... I see a little boy." His eyes misted up as he told me this. "Now I understand," he finished: "the little boy she saw... was YOU!"

NOTE: The above story is true; I relate it just as my grandfather told it to me so many years ago.

OF SPOONS

5 September, 2014

Houston

"He was a most peculiar man…"- Simon & Garfunkel song

No matter who you are or where you live, no doubt you know someone who is a "collector" of something. Maybe that person collects more than one kind of thing. More than likely you know more than one collector. 

A "collector" is not a hoarder, not by any means - at least not in the regular sense. There is a specific reason why a person will collect dolls, old records, or vintage wine. Often items of a kind are amassed for purely monetary value. Others because certain items remind that person of a time gone by. Sometimes it is to show off to others that they have whatever object. Sometimes it is possession for the sake of possession.

Perhaps the urge to collect is an primeval instinct - leftover from the prehistoric days when our ancestors were supposedly rat-like mammals, literally squirreling away nuts for the winter. Their very survival indeed depended upon how much food was collected and stored.

Nowadays, collecting is not only prevalent, it is actually encouraged. There are stamp, coin, banknote, bottle, beer can, shot glass, and hundreds of other collections - the list is endless. 

1963

When I lived in Parkchester apartments in New Orleans, we had a downstairs neighbor who collected spoons. I could relate: I used to buy a little souvenir spoon from most of the many different places I went, until I just tired of it.

Mr M. was a representative of a meat company, and quite reminded me of a comics character named Jiggs - a short, bald, meek little man who shrunk whenever his wife spoke, and said: "Yes, Dear…" whenever he was ordered to do something. Other than that, I thought him a most peculiar man.

Mr. & Mrs. M lived in the apartment just beneath ours. When they moved in, I took great delight in the fact that they had a little Dachund. After Mrs. M. invited me, I sometimes would go downstairs to play, and did so only when the dog wasn't under the bed. When she was there, I learned quickly, not to mess with her. If I did, she would show her teeth and growl at me. This was her way of saying: "Go away! Don't bother me!" Later in life I had all too many of those moments, as well.

On one visit, Mrs. M was sorting a few dozen antique spoons, which she kept in a wooden chest. It was her spoon collection, and she took great delight when I asked her about it. 

She patiently showed them to me with great pride, as if introducing me one-by-one to members of her family, saving the most precious ones for the end. She told me that she indeed was saving the best for last, and built up for a big surprise.

When all but one of the spoons had been taken from the chest, there remained just one final utensil. 

She picked it up carefully, and examined it with great awe and reverence. 

It was an antique silver soup spoon that was well-worn. It was neither beautiful nor ornate as all of the others previously shown me had been, yet it was plain to see Mrs. M held this particular spoon as her most prized of possessions. 

She then held the spoon aloft, almost as a priest would hold a chalice up before worshipers at a Catholic Mass. Then she told me, an an almost melodramatic manner:

"This is the spoon…"

(She paused for effect.)

"This is the spoon..." She repeated, building up suspense.

I replied: "That's the spoon?"

(I was mocking her, without her knowing it. I was 11 years old at the time.)

"This is the spoon..." She said for the third time, paused again, and continued in a most Southern of Southern drawls: " that was owned... by Jeffasan ...Davis's  ... SISTA!"

Now, Jefferson Davis was the only president of the Confederate States of America - that much I knew, and two years later I toured his mansion in Biloxi, Mississippi. I never heard that he had a sister, nor did I see any spoons similar to the one shown me. But I most assuredly remembered that spoon as I admired the antique items on display in Beauvoir. 

Later in in life, when troubles got to me, I would try to get out of the general flow of things and just abide in peace - even if it was for a few minutes, only to have somebody come out of the blue and mess with me - just because. I thought about that solace-seeking dachshund and wish I could just bare my teeth and growl, and people would leave me be for awhile. After all, it works for dogs.

Whenever I'd read the comic strip Jiggs in the Sunday newspaper, I thought about poor, meek Mr. M and how he'd give his battleaxe wife a wide berth. I've seen others like him here and there, and always felt sorry for them. 

In future years, every once in awhile in my travels, I'd come across some special spoon - one that was different in some way from all the others. When I would, I'd recall that most peculiar woman who singled out a worn, nondescript, piece of silverwear belonging to a long-deceased sister of an ex-Confederate president, and dramatically made it special.

When Mrs. M passed away, as by now most surely she has, as all this happened over fifty years ago, no doubt her belongings will have been donated to charity, and the worn silver spoon will no longer have its story. It will no longer be special. Devoid of the claim to fame it once had, it will just be a worn-out old silver spoon, and perhaps will be melted down to be used for some other, more modern and no-doubt less celebrated purpose.

Yet for a brief moment in time, it gave a peculiar lady an immense amount of pleasure by merely being in her possession, and nothing more, except, perhaps to show it off to an occasional guest - even to an 11-year-old boy.

One man's trash is another man's treasure. 

_______________________________

After publishing this to my blog, I did a Google search and found the following comment, made by someone who identifies himself only as "Old Redneck."

I quote:

"The son of one of Jeff Davis's cousins married my great-grandmother's sister and I own a single sterling silver spoon that was a wedding gift to them.  Family legend says the spoon once belonged to Ol' Jeff Davis himself, though I have found several family legends to be less than accurate."

NOTES: Jefferson Davis indeed had a sister, Anna Elizabeth Smith. 

Silver spoons were highly prized in earlier times, and passed down as heirlooms to family members.

To this day, every once in awhile I will come across a strange or curious spoon, and will, just for fun, repeat the sacred pronouncement that peculiar lady made so many years ago: "This is the spoon... this is the spoon... This is the spoon... that was owned...by Jeffason...Davis's... SISTA!" 

The Fire!

"Ladybird, Ladybird,

Fly away home;

You house is on fire,

And your children will burn!" - nursery rhyme

Childhood should be a NeverLand - a time for ice cream and cake, playing games and singing nursery rhymes. It should be a time to be safe, happy, and loved. Memories from this time of life should all be happy ones, and indeed they are… I'm a perfect world.

The truth is, not all memories are happy, pleasant ones. Among the "Swelling Ranks of Things That We Look Back Upon" are some dark, sad, unpleasant times that children should not have to go through - but all to often do. 

I was but a toddler at the time. The year was 1956, and I was only 4 1/2 years old. We lived in Washington, DC at the time, in an apartment in the 1700 block of Pennsylvania Ave., NW, across the street and one block from the White House. 

I came down with the measles in the last days of May. I was still sick in the first days of June, on the day it happened.

My eyes were sensitive to the light, so my mother, in an effort to cut down on the light, put a towel over the lamp on my bedroom. 

She went out for a short while, either to the grocery or the drug store - or maybe both, leaving me alone and unattended. It was just going to be for a short while.

I was playing in the kitchen, entertaining myself with whatever toys I might have had. I heard a strange knocking sound: "rat-a-tat--tat----tat!" The sound pattern repeated itself, as if tapping out a coded message. 

(I imagined a black-haired boy hitting on the wall with a Ping-pong or Fly-Back paddle, trying to warn me.)

I walked to my room to see what it was, and I was shocked to see my room on fire!! The lamp an my bed were burning. I gasped, then immediately ran out of our third story apartment.

I fled down the seemingly endless flights of stairs in abject terror! I ran past Cullin Photo Studio on the second floor down to the first floor and up to the heavy metal and glass doors of the main entrance. 

I tried to open the door, but it would not budge! I was trapped! This was a desperate situation I was in. In anguish I watched helplessly as patrons walked past the glass of the door and filed into the Blue Ribbon restaurant downstairs. 

I cried out, banged on the thick glass, and desperately pleaded with them to open the door for me, but my plaintive and tearful cries for help went unneeded, and they just walked past.

I fumbled with the lock mechanism, nearly out of my reach, hoping it would budge.  (It seemed to me back then that it took a very long time.)

Finally, the latch opened!! I was free! I ran into the restaurant and up to the manager whom I knew from eating breakfast there in the mornings.

"Our apartment is on fire!" I shouted. 

"We know," came a matter-of-fact reply. The whole thing was surreal: There's a fire in the building upstairs, a 4-year-old toddler runs in screaming "FIRE!" and everybody in the place is just sitting around nonchalantly eating instead of evacuating, going outside to gawk at the fire, or to show any concern for the little boy. 

It was just then when my mother returns from her errand. I meet her at the entrance, and she suddenly decides to play fireman! She said something about a fire-extinguisher in the ceiling, and that she was going to go out the fire out. She wanted to save our belongings. I knew at that tender age that those things could be replaced, but she could not. 

I blocked her path and desperately begged for her to not go. I told her that the firemen were on their way, and for her to let them do their job. That they had ladders and fire hoses with lots if water.

I knew in my heart that if she did, she would never return. She finally agreed, and to this day I feel I did the right thing and am happy I was so adamant.

Soon enough the firemen arrived. I remember sitting well within the interior of the dining room. The only memory I have of the firefighting was when they pumped the firehose onto the large plate-glass windows which fronted on Pennsylvania Ave. 

The restaurant owner gave me his coat, and we left the restaurant with the clothes on our backs, and headed for the airport. We took the next plane for New Orleans and stayed with my grandparents. 

Later I saw a film of the charred remains of our apartment and our things. My mother returned was able to retrieve a few paltry items, but basically we had nothing.

It was time to start over. A new chapter in our life had begun.  

EPILOGUE:

My grandfather said it was all Kismet: what will be will be, nor can all the powers that be alter or change it. 

I started school in New Orleans, living with my grandparents, and my mother stayed in DC. 

I got my little record player back - it was not in its original condition, but rather it was all taped up. However, it still worked. 

I remember looking at a magazine article. It had different activities for different months. For the month of June, there was an illustration of a boy hitting on a wall with a paddle! It was the VERY IMAGE I had in my mind of the person who alerted me to the danger. My hair stood on edge as I beheld the boy who saved my life!

Just why he tapped out that exact code onto the wall remains a

mystery to me. Why not just bang on the wall?