To Serve

He said, “Let’s pray about it.”

I wondered if I held my flinch. I know I flinched on the inside. Praying is not one of my talents. Yes, I pray. I start conversations with God all the time. Before I go to sleep, I read the Bible and remember certain people in my prayers. Say thanks and praise God for all my blessings and fortune. I think of at least one event or thought of the day were I connected with God. Write it down.

But when Hal suggested we pray about conducting a Financial Peace University class at the church I flinched. I went to the 9:30 service thinking, “If I wanted to pray about something, I’d pray for something I want.” Like a pony.

Of course, I volunteered to teach the class. Worked up the nerve to do so. Or maybe had enough “conversations” with God about it. Got hit in the head with a few messages from the pulpit. Decided I could give to the church this way.

Now I have to pray about it. Guess, that was what I had been doing all along, so I wondered why we had to pray some more.

Wait.

Fresh Water Jellies

Here is an interesting link to a site about fresh water jellyfish. A friend of mine told me she had them in her pond...in New York. I looked up the site and discovered they are also in Lake George. Just another reason why I swim in a pool.

Ugh

I hadn’t been to the waterfront Tarpon Springs in a couple of months. It was early Saturday morning. Since the snowbirds and tourist haven’t returned in full bloom to the tiny Greek community it is still possible to wander aimlessly back and forth across the street and not get hit by a car. I had a mission of sorts: look for a wedding present, a Halloween costume and Christmas presents. Since I am not a shopper I’d combine the task into one recon to gift shops.

I had more success finding Halloween costumes if I wanted to be a Greek fisherman, gypsy or belly dancer.My stomach flab dances quite nicely on its own so I passed on the belly dancer and opted to let Nancy cover me with the Halloween costume needed for a wedding at the end of October. Yup, a wedding. I got a few Christmas ideas but didn’t have much luck with the wedding gift. But when Tina Caros gets married in May, well I’m loaded with ideas.

The stroll up and down the street and all that poking in and out of the shops, smiling at store clerks who for the most part were disinterested in engaging in conversation or commerce left me hungry. Time for Santorini’s a Greek restaurant on the Anclote River. I had in mind a Greek salad, but when the menu came I remembered a wonderful creation call Pasa Dava, a lamb dish. however, I wasn’t that hungry so I selected the Greek grouper sandwich.

Delicious, except before I got home my stomach was under revolt and the head didn't feel none too good either. Maybe it was the tartar sauce.

As I sat on the table overlooking the water I thought a lot about my life. (How many times have I sat looking at the surface of water and lost myself in thought?)The pondering was most likely spawned by the death of Murphy Lipai. Pohnpei and Peace Corps seemed so far way. I wanted to go back there for the first time since leaving but can't cough up $2700 for the airfare.

I picked up the salt and pepper shakers—both products imported from Greece. How come Micronesia doesn’t do this? How come I don’t do it? Suddenly I was thinking like a business person again, something I haven’t done in sometime. I liked it.

Too bad David, my business partner, doesn’t read my blogs…he is going to miss the opportunity of my weakness and the chance to lure me back to the real world.

Had to be the food, the bathroom is calling. It is a good reality check. Remember my first three months in Micronesia...daily diarrhea.

Murphy Lipai

To use absolutes is often too exaggerate, but in this case there is no exaggeration. Everyone knew Murphy Lipai and Murphy Lipai knew everyone. At least on Pohnpei, an island of 30,000 in the Western Pacific in a country known as The Federated States of Micronesia. He was my Mwoakillese host father, Pahpa. This afternoon, I learned that he had a heart attack and passed away. I cried and felt so far away from my family.

Memories rush over me as I wept for a man a few years older than me, but nevertheless my father. The care he and his wife, Marianna, gave me while I was a Peace Corps Volunteer was no less than what any parent would give their own child. Mom once told me that she believed if any of her kids came to America they would be treated the same way.

Some memories were poignant, others ordinary, but each special. In January 2004, Murphy came to the Peace Corps office, looking for me. My first family could no longer host me and I wanted to stay in the Mwoakillese community on Sokehs. After a couple of weeks trying to find another family without much success, I thought I would have to move to another village. Murphy asked if I would stay with his family. I forever became part of the Lipai family.

Murphy Lipai was a patriarch in every sense of the word. He gave respect and rightly earned it in return. A community leader he was involved in the local government on Pohnpei, in his community and on his native island of Mwoakil. He spoke often of his concern for the future of the large youth population that were at risk of losing their traditions and language, and had limited educational and employment opportunities. He envisioned a future, but saw the youth without focus, lost and bored. He expressed a concern for the corruption of traditional, elected and business leaders, yet he worked with all parties, believing it would yield a better life for all Micronesians. He was a minister. He delivered sermons in the local language I could never understand, but like a little kid I was so proud of my father standing behind the pulpit. Unlike many Micronesians he had a job and went to work, yet he gathered food from his land. He’d carry home papaya and bananas in one hand and a machete in the other. In the back yard he grew yams. But unlike many, he didn’t raise pigs.

Each morning he would wipe the dust and grime off the hood of his new Ford pickup. The meticulous care for the car was unusual, in a country that couldn’t seem to sustain anything on its own. But Murphy was like that—different than most. Murphy drove me to work most mornings and we talked about politics, religion, his family and his plans.

A tall skinny man (the whole family was skinny), he realized the importance of education even in a country where subsistence living was the way of life. His sons and daughters went to college or joined the US Army. At his passing only he and his wife remained in Micronesia, the rest had come to America.

He planned to retire in a couple of years, build a new house and start his own business. He and his wife would visit America, but he was a man of the land that sits in the middle of the ocean, a Micronesian who gave tomorrow to his family while he stayed on his land and kept the traditions.

There is a forty day funeral in Micronesia I wish I could attend.

Not Volkswagens

Finally, something worth writing about. I wasn’t going to waste anytime on them, but I couldn’t resist.

I had left the Jeep windows open (nothing to steal inside and once a thief saw the odometer reading over 320,000 miles, he wouldn’t steal the Jeep either) when I stopped at Publix for a quart of milk and a loaf of bread. Not really.

I must have been distracted by the Hispanic man who thought I was going to run over him or maybe it was the young guy wearing shorts and work boots while sitting on the curb in the handicap zone smoking a cigarette. Either reason, I didn’t notice. But I wasn’t distracted when I came out of the store with my bananas apples, milk and cream.

It was hard not to notice them. They were definitely back, but I would swear they only appear in the spring to splatter the front grille of cars from Daytona to Tarpon with their bodies.

Love Bugs, flying insects consisting of wings and sex organs. They are seen only when copulating. And they fly when they copulate landing indiscriminately on your head, your arms, your pants…

I carried six couples into the Jeep as I frantically jammed the key into the ignition to roll up the power windows. They were on the inside of the windshield, the front seat, the back seat and I didn’t look, but I bet they were in the back cargo area. I dared not yell in frustration for fear one would be sucked down the esophagus.

Feeling itchy? Yeah, me too.

Don't Forget

The initial numbers are indelible: 8:46 a.m. and 9:02 a.m. Time the burning towers stood: 56 minutes and 102 minutes. Time they took to fall: 12 seconds.

Total number killed in attacks (official figure as of 9/5/02): 2,819

Number of firefighters and paramedics killed: 343

Number of NYPD officers: 23

Number of Port Authority police officers: 37

Number of WTC companies that lost people: 60

Number of employees who died in Tower One: 1,402

Number of employees who died in Tower Two: 614

Number of employees lost at Cantor Fitzgerald: 658


Number of nations whose citizens were killed in attacks: 115

Ratio of men to women who died: 3:1

Age of the greatest number who died: between 35 and 39

Bodies found "intact": 289

Body parts found: 19,858

Number of families who got no remains: 1,717

Estimated units of blood donated to the New York Blood Center: 36,000

Total units of donated blood actually used: 258

Number of people who lost a spouse or partner in the attacks: 1,609

Estimated number of children who lost a parent: 3,051

Percentage of Americans who knew someone hurt or killed in the attacks: 20

FDNY retirements, January–July 2001: 274

FDNY retirements, January–July 2002: 661

Number of firefighters on leave for respiratory problems by January 2002: 300

Number of funerals attended by Rudy Giuliani in 2001: 200

Number of FDNY vehicles destroyed: 98

Tons of debris removed from site: 1,506,124

Days fires continued to burn after the attack: 99

Jobs lost in New York owing to the attacks: 146,100

Days the New York Stock Exchange was closed: 6

Point drop in the Dow Jones industrial average when the NYSE reopened: 684.81

Percentage increase in Peace Corps applications from 2001 to 2002: 40

Percentage increase in CIA applications from 2001 to 2002: 50

Estimated number of New Yorkers suffering from post-traumatic-stress disorder as a result of 9/11: 422,000

Tuesday

Do not forget. It is not over.

Welcome Home Committee

A few months ago, Diablo got a hold of the sizeable black snake that had been slithering outside, occasionally stopping on the concrete walk beneath the two cats' noses, but safely on the opposite side of the screened porch. Diablo’s reaction to this languid teasing was to drop into the hunting position while Phoenix, always the wiser of the two felines, flattened her ears and took more of a defensive posture.

One afternoon I let Diablo out for a supervised gecko patrol. Lounging beside the dock while she snooped under the bushes looking for GEICO representatives, my attention to her hunt relaxed until she took off after something. I figured it was a fat lizard. It turned out to be the black snake hell bent on escaping the fanged tabby’s pursuit.

She managed to yank its tail before I could snag the leash she wore. When I pulled her out of the bush, she brought the serpent with her. Fortunately, she dropped it and it coiled up into a tight ball of scales. I’ll this fieriness from a cat who is scared to death of Dad’s garden hose.

As I unloaded the Jeep I met the snake on the front sidewalk. He struck a pose as quickly as I did. I suggested he turn tail which he finally did after I faked a “shoo” at him. But when I returned with baggage in hand piled to my chin, I caught him making his way through the grass on his originally intended course. Bold.

Sixty laps in the pool under the Florida sun. Meeting with Tarpon Springs Writers Group. Lunch at Danny K's...life is coming back. And the good news was I only gain half a pound.

Phase II

“What’s in the refrigerator?” I asked. I opened the door to find a half a bottle of fruit punch Powerade. In the nearly empty refrigerator the red drink appeared as bright as a South Boston tavern’s neon light advertising Budweiser. In a thin jar five Calamata olives gently floated in the dark brown liquid as I inspected the contents. I wondered if they were still good. What had I used them in? And remembered a lime chicken dish I prepare for an Italian themed neighborhood picnic. How many ago months was that? I wrinkled up my nose and tighten the lid as a precaution. Mental note:toss them out. But for now I returned the jar to the shelf.

Next to the olives was a container of raw hemp protein, a left over from one of my recent health kick projects. I’ll experiment with just about anything to remedy hot flashes. The powdery substance tasted nutty, but the green color had been hardly visually appealing when mixed with yogurt or sprinkled on cantaloupe. Beyond the usual staples of mustard, mayo, a tub of butter and a couple packets of ketchup there wasn’t much else.

The items reminded me of a life I had six weeks ago, but it seemed a lot longer than that. Time and distance seemed a little warped after my three day drive south from New York.

I was reentering my Florida life. The next six months. Looking around the condo, nothing had changed. Nothing seemed different in the neighborhood either, but I had not given it a close inspection. I had been focused on driving as safely as I could with two cats sensing something was up. After 1500 miles and three days in the car, they were smart enough to know that the last fifteen minutes of driving was more herky-jerky, and slower as I thread the Jeep through traffic lights, right and left turns and over speed bumps. Both were alert and on the prowl. By the time I pulled in front of the condo, Diablo was on my lap head down into the doorwell trying to push the door open with her head and ready to leap out.

I carried her to the condo door, and tossed her into the hall way asking, “Look familiar?” She jumped when she saw her reflection in the hallway mirror and I remembered her first experience in the condo six months ago. I had carried her into the bedroom and put her on the bed. When I returned with Phoenix she was frozen, staring at the intimidating tabby cat she saw in the full length mirror on the closet door. “Diablo it is you,” I explained stepping between her and her image to make the other cat disappear.

The place smelled like new carpet, just as it had back in February, a smell that became so familiar I couldn't detect it any longer. Now it was fresh again, but filled with memories of a simple life I left...writing, kaykaing, running and swimming. It comforted me and the cats. I settled them in with their litter box, food bowls and water dish. I’m back to what I left behind six weeks ago. I pulled out my computer and began to write.

Phase two begins.

Tifton, Georgia

I’ve left behind the cooler temperatures of the North East and have driven south to slide under a hot heavy damp blanket of South Georgia. Tifton. The size of the phone book suggests a town of one horse, a boiled peanut stand and a factory outlet for towels and sheets. But at Exit 62 the double-laned road choked with tractor trailers and pick ups, lined with cheap chain hotels, gas stations, Americana fast food and the ubiquitous Wal-Mart, sprawls as an oasis of commerce for those who are just passing through. Could anyone live here?

This is day two of my long road trip to Florida. Traveling with cats is like getting your sea legs...a three day process. On day one the cats are shocked, and silently huddle in any little crack or crevasse, they can squeeze their little bodies into. On day two, they protest, wandering about, gazing out the windows, piling on my lap and for Phoenix yelling her head off. On day three, they settle in bored with watching telephone poles and white dotted line whiz by.

I've been juicing Phoenix up. Not an easy task.

Labor Day

It took me most of the morning to clean up all my project messes around the house, basement and garage. Rats, or something picked up the small bird skull and bill that I had left on the sill in the garage. Unbelievable. When I asked Dad if he had moved the skull, he said no, but he had found a dead chipmunk in the garage. No, he didn’t save the head for me. Well, one less thing to pack.

I cleaned paint brushes and dirt from a couple of pieces of wood I found interesting in shape. I packed up my books, some new and some old. Assembled an assortment of cat toys littered about the living room. Tossed a pile of dirty clothes in the washer. And wondered if I could get it all back into the Jeep.

Before going into town for some Vanilla Coke Zero and Saratoga Water for the trip, I snuck up on Phoenix, sleeping on Mom’s bed and injected her with 150 mil of solution. Pats on the back for the cat and for me. I hope I am so lucky at 4 AM when we launch for the voyage south. First day we hope to cover 825 miles to Bean Station. Yes, fourteen hours.
This afternoon, Dad and I hefted the kayak onto the car and headed to Moreau for a trial float around the lake. The boat appeared tight and sea worthy. We ended up ferrying two kids across the strait on the east shore when their adult companions were hell bent on crossing. I allowed one to paddle with Dad (not very often one gets to paddle a 70 year old boat) while I scoured the shore for driftwood. Found a huge spider. Huge.

This evening, I sat outside on the back steps and husked four ears of corn. Listened to a blue jay squabble in the bush. Heard the crickets chirp under the hedge. And watched a whisper of wind carry the day away to where the sun fell into the spruce, elm and butternut before dipping behind Hagadorn’s Mountain. Summer is over. Pool closed. Back to School.

Mt Joe

"Let's go to Mt. Joe," he said. And so we did, although I was a bit skeptical that Dad could make it up the 713 foot climb over .9 miles. Yes, not really a huge mountain, a mountain surrounded by the high peaks of the Adirondacks. Mt. Marcy a mere six miles away.
Nevertheless, on a crispy morning, we set off for the trailhead.

Unfortunately, so did a few hundred others, from US and Canada. Both countries are celebrating Labor Day and the parking lots were full. In order to begin a short hike, one had to take a long walk from the roadside about a mile down a hill...the only available parking, unless you were willing to wait for departing early bird hikers. We opted for this and twenty minutes later we were ready to begin the hike.

I let Dad set the pace. Drawing on my Outward Bound experience, I patiently fell in behind and took snaps. Many hikers, including a two year old "K-becker" passed us.
And the words of wisdom Dad offered, "You climb a mountain one step at a time," applied to every one who hoofed it to the summit.

Buck Mountain

After putting another coat of paint on the kayak, I headed up to Lake George's east shore and climbed Buck Mountain. A 2200 foot gain over 3.3 miles, it isn't a hard climb. Kept the pace for 1.5 hours to the summit. Beneath the canpoy of hardwoods and pines, it felt like fall. Tonight, the mercury is dipping to the forties. Flurries will be flying soon in the Big North Country. Time to head south.


Ra, I attempted to go down route 9 and ran into the same traffic problem we hit last weekend. After a U-turn, I had a chance to take a snap of MightMouse. I thought elephants were scared of mice.