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!

The Damned Can Plant

14 January, 2016.    Buenos Aires, Argentina

NOTE: All photos courtesy EARL W. HAMPTON, JR.

Ever had friends that you see only occasionally, but when you do, you pick up right where you left off? 

Years ago I was friends with just such a person: a man named John Karas, who lived in the faraway village of Stevensville, Michigan. Like most people I know, associate with, or like, John didn't fit any known mould. He sported a 1910-style handlebar mustache, passionately loved streetcars - and the City of New Orleans, and he rode a Harley Davidson motorcycle with an FM radio (at a time when all that was played on FM was Easy-Listening "elevator" music!)

He was soft-spoken, puffed occasionally on a pipe, listened intently to whomever he came into contact with, and when he himself spoke, he had the knowledge and demeanor of a college professor. Hands down, he was one of the most interesting conversationalists I have ever met in my life.

One day, early on in our friendship, I asked him what he did for a living. His answer surprised me. He told me that he worked at a can manufacturing plant in the greater Chicago area. His specific job — the one he did for many years — was to operate a machine that sprayed the inside of tin cans! 

That just blew all my assumptions out the window! He had a mundane, repetitive job, yet he was in every sense of the word, an intellectual. John would do shift work, and then, when he got his vacations and days off,  he would get into his 1965 Chevelle, and head down the road to trace old trolley rights-of-way, and when he could, he would take a jaunt down to New Orleans. There he would visit "the Shrine of Trolley" as he jokingly put it. 

His car was no thing of beauty. It was, by his own admission, and in his own words, a "rolling mass of Bondo." It was minimalist transportation, that was all. He saw no sense investing good, hard-earned money in quality body work on a mere automobile. It had four wheels, a motor, and it ran.

Being a trolley fan, John installed a real, honest-to-goodness streetcar gong under the hood of his Chevelle. He delighted in pacing alongside antique New Orleans streetcars and CLANG! - CLANG! - CLANG! his bell to the bewilderment of motormen and passengers alike! Some time later, not content with just one, he soon afterwards hooked up a second trolley bell, and with both, he could play the first bar or two of "Way Down Yonder in New Orleans." When one adds to that a real, old fashion police siren installed previously, his automobile was was also a rolling eight-cylinder band!

All I needed was a quick call from my best friend, Earl, letting me know that Karas was back in town, and I'd jump in my car and head for Earl's place. We'd sit on the porch to await John's arrival, and we knew he was approaching by the horn honking, the siren wailing, and the bells clanging!! It was always a sonorous event, a ringing performance put on for our benefit!

As I said, my friends just did not fit any mould known to Man!

One thing that struck me as odd, though, (trolley bells and sirens notwithstanding!) was that, in referring to his place of employment, way up in chilly Michigan, he would always refer to it as the "Damned Can Plant." Now, an intellectual with a Keystone Cops sense of humor would just naturally be bored and suffer from an acute lack of mental stimulation working in a blue-collar assembly-line type of repetitive, almost menial job. I got that. So I asked him point blank one day why he wouldn't quit that awful job at the "Damned Can Plant," and look for something that would feed his mind, or at least would give   him something to do that he actually enjoyed.                 

He replied that he was well-paid at his hum-drum job, earning union wages, and it would be impossible to duplicate his high salary elsewhere. Although the task in and of itself indeed was boring and greatly unfulfilling, he took nothing of it home with him when he knocked off at the end of his shift. Moreover, his job gave him the money to buy and to do the things he liked, such as purchasing books on streetcars, or a getting a tuneup for his motorcycle. His job also paid for his jaunts way down yonder to New Orleans.

I suggested that he could simply move to New Orleans and get a job there; in that way he would be in a city that he loved all year round and would not have to pay a dime to get there. He could ride those wonderful old streetcars to his hearts content, too! He liked the idea, but he had too many years invested at the "Damned Can Plant" to just up and quit.

I thought how sad it was that John gave up so much of his life doing what he despised so he could spend some of his remaining time doing what he enjoyed. I thought of a Beatles' song that went: *"For a man must break his back to earn his day of leisure..."

Life, after all, is a trade off.

John taught me a lesson here: whatever job you have, make it as enjoyable as you can.

In this way, when you complete your work for the day, it will not be merely a day of work done. Some sort of pleasure could be gleaned from the blood, sweat, and tears that jobs quite often are.

My father-in-law often said: "Work is just that: WORK. That is why it is called 'WORK!' If it would be fun, they would call it 'FUN' instead." Seems logical, but it is obvious that between the skull-dragging of earning a living and the frivolity of vacation time, there must be a middle ground in which a job itself can be remunerative, and the worker can derive pleasure directly from that work itself, not merely enjoying what wages can provide.

THAT IS THE KEY!! If one can change one's ATTITUDE on the job to a more positive, less uptight one, some actual enjoyment may just issue forth, and one's stress level will be lowered in the bargain. In the case of the "Damned Can Plant," perhaps alternate employment in a better location would have worked out for John. I will never know.

After years on the line, John eventually retired, slinging that millstone around his neck into the trash can, cashed in his retirement, finally got married, and spent a few years doing exactly what he wanted to do. If, in his final days, John were to have been asked if it was worth it, slaving away unappreciated and under-qualified for so long at the Damned Can Plant, what might he have answered?

I once read somewhere that a microscopic bit of DNA rubs off onto us whenever we shake hands, and thus that person becomes part of us. I also heard once that each and every human being is, in a way, the sum of every person that we have ever known or met, however briefly.

So it is that we need to be mindful of how that interaction might effect others, when we come into contact with them. We take from others, as well as leave behind something of ourselves.

Though John had his flaws and imperfections, as have we all, I can truly say that I am a better man for having crossed paths with the one named John Karas, on that "Road Less Taken."

*"Girl" - Lyrics by John Lennon

Was she told when she was young that pain
Would lead to pleasure?
Did she understand it when they said
That a man must break his back to earn
His day of leisure?
Will she still believe it when he's dead?
_________________________________________________________________________

                      BELOW: Earl W. Hampton, Jr. Photo - used by kind permission.

                

                ABOVE: John Karas with friend Byron Pulley in car #453, once on display in the French 
                     Market in Old New Orleans.   Somehow,   I think John would most like to be remembered 
                     doing what he loved best,  in the CITY he loved best   ..... and at the "Shrine of Trolley!"

UBERLICHTENPLATZSTRAßE

 3 January, 2016.            Buenos Aires, Argentina

In late July of 1973, I had just finished my second semester of German at UNO's summer school program in the beautiful city of Munich. The classes over, instead of coming back home to New Orleans for the rest of a long, hot summer, I continued my Grand Tour of Europe for 6½ more months.  

I had been traveling by train the better part of that day, and my next stop was the Alsatian city of Strasbourg, on the French/German border. I was sleepy and tired, and it was now nighttime when I emerged from the train station. 

It was a beautiful smaller city, but sightseeing would have to wait until tomorrow.

Now I needed to find lodging, and had an address of the local youth hostel. It bore a long name of "Uberlichtenplatzstraße!" 

Say that three times!

I did, in fact, repeat it aloud to myself over an over while I was still on the train, so as to be intelligible to whomever I was to ask directions, but aside from a few locals quickly and silently walking on the dimly-lit sidewalks in the distance, I was alone in the plaza. Ahead of me were the lights of a single tram, stopped and awaiting passengers, so I was happy because I believed I could get good directions to the place from the motorman. 

I boarded the tram through the open door and asked the driver about this place, and, for once, this gentleman, whose job it is is to get people to their destinations in the city, was stumped. He repeated the name back to me, just as I had said it, and I nodded, showing him the address as it appeared in my hostel guide.

He shook his head and told me he had never heard of the place — or the Platz, as it was in this case. A young couple in their mid-twenties, I'd say, was sitting in one of the front seats of the tram and, seeing my situation, the young man and lady tried to help as well, but they, too, had no idea where this could be. Hostels are notorious for being in obscure, out-of-the-way side streets. A flurry of discussions erupted on the tram, as a few others there kibitzed in the strange-sounding blend of French and German that is called "Strasbourgeoise."

Suddenly, this young man smiled and arose, and exited the tram, bidding me to accompany him. He walked me to a taxi that was waiting nearby, and asked the driver had he heard of this place, and he had. Unbelievably, the young fellow gave the driver some money and instructed him to take me there!!! 

I was dumbfounded!! I thanked him profusely, and we proceeded to the street of the Overlight Plaza, which is what that daunting, long German word meant. We soon arrived at the youth hostel, and, as I got out, the hostel manager came up to greet me. ———After all, it's not every day that youth hostel guests arrive in a cab!

As we walked inside, he looked at me suspiciously and asked me, in good English with a thick German accent: "Zo, you are staying in youth hostel, yet you come by TAXI??"

 

I smiled and replied: "If I told you, you wouldn't believe me!" 

Over coffee, I related the story, and the man smiled broadly, justifiably proud that someone from his city would do such a kindness. 

It is experiences like this that greatly effected my Weltanschauung.

(Weltanschauung is a German word that often is translated as “worldview” or “world outlook” but just as frequently is treated as a calque or left untranslated. A Weltanschauung is a comprehensive conception or theory of the world and the place of humanity within it.)

YOU ATE ALL OVER ME!

YOU ATE ALL OVER ME!
                                                                                   KENNETH E. HALL      8 January, 2016.      Houston

上を向いて歩こう

It was a hot, blustery summer day in New Orleans. It was 1963. Hardly a breeze rustled the leaves, so there was no relief to the sweltering heat. I was 11 years old and happily engaged in playing with plastic toy soldiers on my grandparents' front porch. In those days there were no PC's or laptops to monopolize kids' attention. They actually played outside!

On the porch it was shady, at least, and I concentrated on an epic battle taking place on a far distant planet, so I didn't even notice the heat. The air was filled with music, coming from my grandfather's Sony radio he brought back from Japan a few years ago.

The Number One hit song of the day was, of course, 

上を向いて歩こう  What? ....Don't remember it?

Maybe if I write it in English: "Ue o Muite Arukō".
Still don't recall? Oh, that's right, they never told us the REAL name of the song. They just told us it was called "Sukiyaki." Admittedly a strange name for a hit song, Sukiyaki is a popular dish in Japan, and yummy, too, I might add.

Another funny thing about the song was, it was sung in JAPANESE!! It had a catchy melody, one could sing along to. For some reason, it got lots of airplay, and I quickly picked up the tune. As for the words, well, that was a different matter entirely. I had not the slightest idea what the song was about, save that it was most probably about eating Japanese food. Yep, that must be it. It didn't matter — it was a great song.

I made up silly words to the music, and tried to mimic what I heard in Japanese. My spurious lyrics 

were:

"You ate all over me!

I've been to Tokyo.

You ate me not - over there - maccaroni! ...."

You get the idea. Soon enough, my grandfather came to the front room to call me to dinner, which we ate promptly at 11:30am. As he appeared in the doorway, he heard me singing my gibberish version, and was not impressed with my linguistic prowess.

"Oh, that's very nice!" He complained, "You ate all over me!"

I went into hysterics! He had no slight idea what I was singing about. 

Years later I did some research into the history of the song. It was by a Japanese guy, Rokosuke Ei, who wrote the lyrics while walking home from a Japanese student demonstration protesting continued US Army presence, expressing his frustration at the failed efforts. "Ue o Muite Arukō" means "I look up as I walk."

Sukiyaki is Japanese-language song that was performed by Japanese crooner Kyu Sakamoto (坂本 九), and the song became a Number One hit in the United States, the only Japanese language song ever to do so. It is ironic that something written to express sorrow at failure to oust U.S. troops from Japan was so fondly embraced by the very nation that sent those troops in the first place.

Sadly, Sakamoto died on August 12, 1985, in the crash of Japan Airlines Flight 123, at the time the deadliest single-aircraft accident in history.

I really like his song! in fact, every time I hear it, I recall that particular summer day in 1963. One day, many, many years later, while walking through a deserted tunnel at a Narita, Japan railway station, I whistled Sukiyaki loudly, and with great emotion. The whistling echoed on the tile-lined tunnel walls, and sounded great! This was one of my first trips to that faraway land, and I was so very excited to be walking the streets there. It was always my dream to go to Japan, and now I had finally made it!!! 

As I emerged from the tunnel, to my great surprise, there was a tremendous crowd of Japanese just outside the tunnel exit, as well as lined atop a pedestrian bridge xrossing overhead All had stopped bheir bustling about and stood there and stared into the tunnel - - curious to see the source of this whistling. They all broke out in spontaneous applause when they saw me!

One of my favorite songs had provided me with a warm, entheusiastic welsome to a land I had longed to visit.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C35DrtPlUbc

Below are JAPANESE, Romaji, and ENGLISH lyrics.

上を向いて歩う

涙がこぼれないように

思い出す 春の日

一人ぽっちの夜

上を向いて歩こう

にじんだ星をかぞえて

思い出す 夏の日

一人ぽっちの夜

幸せは 雲の上に

幸せは 空の上に

上を向いて歩こう

涙がこぼれないように

泣きながら 歩<

一人ぽっちの夜

(口笛…)

思い出す 秋の日

一人ぽっちの夜

悲しみは星のかげに

悲しみは月のかげに

上を向いて歩こう

涙がこぼれないように

泣きながら 歩く

一人ぽっちの夜

一人ぽっちの夜

Ue o muite arukou

Namida ga kobore naiyouni

Omoidasu harunohi

Hitoribotchi no yoru

Ue o muite arukou

Nijinda hosi o kazoete

Omoidasu natsunohi

Hitoribotchi no yoru

Shiawase wa kumo no ueni

Shiawase wa sora no ueni

Ue o muite arukou

Namida ga kobore naiyouni

Nakinagara aruku

Hitoribotchi no yoru

(Whistling)

Omoidasu akinohi

Hitoribotchi no yoru

Kanashimi wa hosino kageni

Kanashimi wa tsukino kageni

Ue o muite arukou

Namida ga kobore naiyouni

Nakinagara aruku

Hitoribotchi no yoru!

I look up when I walk

So the tears won't fall

Remembering those happy spring days

But tonight I'm all alone!

I look up when I walk

Counting the stars with tearful eyes

Remembering those happy summer days

But tonight I'm all alone 

Happiness lies beyond the clouds

Happiness lies above the sky 

I look up when I walk

So the tears won't fall

Though my heart is filled with sorrow *

For tonight I'm all alone 

(Whistling)

Remembering those happy autumn days

But tonight I'm all alone 

Sadness hides in the shadow of the stars

Sadness lurks in the shadow of the moon 

I look up when I walk

So the tears won't fall

Though my heart is filled with sorrow *

For tonight I'm all alone