400

I’ve been off the computer and internet for a week. No one of any significance emailed me. I didn’t suffer from any withdrawals and no one seemed to miss me.

Hit Lake George on my first day off from pulling gates to keep “guests” off the bridal path where the horse parade to enter the track at the Saratoga Race Course. It was good to paddle from Bolton Landing to the Narrows across the deep blue waters. For the first time in a week rain wasn’t in the forecast. I docked my kayak at Glen Island and enjoyed a quiet picnic under the flag pole. Few boats cruised the lake under fluffy clouds and a light wind. Later, I struck up a conversation with the store clerk posted on the island. She reported a significant reduction in business.

The economic downturn has impacted the track too. Attendance is 25% off from last year's numbers. Granted the weather has not cooperated. Opening day and the weekend resembled a typical Microneisan afternoon downpour, except the rain last all day.

I enjoyed the rain. As a security guard less people means less problems. Good thing too. I’m contending more with my two yahoo co-workers from New York City who have a propensity to walk off the post at the most inopportune times. Quick to yell “union”, and thinkin' they are being “played” both are primed to vote for Obama, but I seriously doubt either are registered. It is this fact that may save the country yet.

My assignment is to relieve six people for their breaks. We get an hour. By the time I get everyone in, the temptations of fried Saratoga Chips and the sweet smell of cotton candy leaves me hungry and ready to put my feet up in a very quiet break room. I bring my lunch and avoid spending an hour’s wage on food.

You can tell a lot about an employer by the condition of the break rooms and employee bathrooms. I try to keep my forearms off the table and not lean on the day old newspaper strewn about the wobbly wooden table engraved with the initials of former employees and their lovers. I’ve gotten stuck and have had to peel the paper off the table a couple of times. The smell of popcorn burnt in the microwave and leftover tacos and salsa lingers in the air. Thank God, someone had the foresight not to place a garbage can in the tiny room that houses a set of mismatched chairs, an empty Coke machine and a refrigerator that I’ll never look in.

Two Weeks Later

On Saturday, I sat through a boring eight-hour class on the duties and conduct of being a security guard for the New York State Racing Association. The instructor was more interested in tell jokes and entertaining the class with state trooper war stories. I prevented myself from nodding off by watching others fall asleep. At the end of the day I score 100 on the twenty five multiple choice questions and wasn’t too surprised to be standing in roll call the next day with those who had taking naps and scored 70. I probably could have pulled at least 80 if I had not sat through class.

Yep, I am a security guard at the race track for the next six weeks. Got the badge and everything.

Material, material, material...

Break

I'm on the road to Tennessee. After two years, I'm going to take a blog break. Might not be too long. Check in later.

Ketchup

When they started to make wide-mouth ketchup jars, like mustard, didn’t you wonder why in heaven’s sake that wasn’t done years ago? But then, we would have never known what “anticipation” felt like if it wasn’t for Carly Simon. Personally, I don’t care for the stuff, but strangely, I do know that it tastes pretty good on a Gala apple. One of those experiences gained on a road trip in West-by God-Virginia.

The Neighbors put on a heck of a Fourth of July party on Friday. If not one of the best parties I’ve been to. Ketchup came in squeeze bottles and I wolfed down two hot dogs. It’s official. It’s summer and this coming week we are going into the 90’s. Yeah.

In New York it is illegal to buy, sell, transport, possess, set off or even think about fireworks. I was raised in the Empire State and fireworks were illegal back in those days too. One day a kid from Fowler Lane boarded the school bus with his hand all wrapped up. Word had already spread about what had happened. He blew part of his thumb and forefinger off fooling around with firecrackers. Although illegal, we managed to acquire them. Someone always had an older brother. The contraband came from neighboring states or Canada.

Getting a hold of a sparkler or firecracker was just as much of a summer ritual as picking berries, laying in the hay fields, hiking the ravine or tearing down the hill on your bike toward Danda’s , the mom and pop small store on Route 9 where for ten cents you bought a YooHoo before making the ascent toward home. Man, what an innocent childhood.

In the middle of that little dirt road I grew up on – safety precaution, didn’t want to burn down the house – my brother, sister and I ignited firecrackers. We got away with it because Dad was at work and Mom was deaf, and the three of us swore secret allegiances to each other.

Pop, pop, pop. The resonating explosions lingered in our ear drums. That was the extent of the experience. The acidic odor of gun powder. The lingering trail of gray smoke. Mike made sure we stayed clear of the smoke; otherwise, we’d come home smelling suspicious and what Mom lost in sound, she made up for in scent.

After living in Tennessee and Florida where any fool can find any sort of fireworks at pop-up roadside stands, fireworks seem like a harmless holiday ritual. Granted, like I said any fool…and accidents happen. But then any fool can buy a car, a bottle of Ketchup, a lawn mower or a Tickle-Me-Elmo. Last year, I sat outside my condo and watched the neighbors across the canal blow off so many fireworks it looked like a New England fog rolled in. A drive down Highway 19 treated motorist to a long display of rockets red glare.

Friday night, I sat back on the neighbor’s lawn enjoying an impressive arsenal. Under the close supervision of parent, kids stood holding their sparklers. Not since the French and English pre-revolutionary war skirmishes on the corner of Gailor and Parkhurst roads has there been that much gun powder in the vicinity. And not since Mr. Stroup entertained the neighborhood with his Canadian contraband had I seen that much explode in the sky over the hills of Kings Station.

The two guys on detail periodically paused. “Listen. Listen…what was that?” one would ask.

The other replied, “Those sirens aren’t coming up here.” And they proceeded to fire off a few more rounds to the delight of the crowd.

After one particularly long barrage the sheriff finally pulled into the driveway. He politely asked if we were done. He assured us he didn’t want to come back. The message delivered. The following night, our neighbor finished off his rounds.

Julie's Request

Fresh Rhubarb Pie

This recipe came out of a very worn, tattered and stained Betty Crocker’ Cookbook, page 353.

For the Filling:
For mild flavor, choose your rhubarb early and pink. If it is, do not peel. Cut into 1 inch pieces. For an eight inch pie cut three cuts, three cups for a nine inch. Amount of sugar for the rhubarb depends on the tartness. I don’t have a clue as to how much this might be, but after looking at other recipes I’d say about a cup. Mix coat rhubarb with sugar in bowl and set aside while preparing the crust.

Mom’s Pie Crust: (Found on an index card in her own hand)
2 Cups all purpose flour
2/3 cups shortening
¼ cup plus 2 tsp chilled water

The Technique:
Sift flour and then measure 2 cups. Cut shortening into flour using two knifes. The shortening should be about the size of peas and small lima beans (more peas than lima beans). Keep it cold so keep your fingers off. Put mixture into refrigerator to chill. By the tablespoon, add chilled water. Don’t use frozen water like I did. I dropped a few slivers of ice in the dough. It doesn’t help. Gather lightly into a ball with a fork. Keep hands off dough. Divide into two, making two balls. Okay you can use your hands at this point, but the less man-handling the more flaky the crust and that is what this is all about.

Before rolling ball form a small indentation with thumb into the ball of dough. Why? I am not sure, but those are mom’s instructions and you don’t mess with perfection. I think it helps rolling the dough out in round shape.

Do all this dough rolling (not rolling in the dough) on a floured cloth pastry and roll the dough in one direction from the center to the outside. Rotate the pastry cloth if needed to get a round crust 2 inches larger than the pie pan. Fold in half and lift into pan.

Temperature: 425 in a preheated oven

Time: 40-50 minutes.

Rhubarb Cheese Pie

Mom had this recipe in her box. However, I don’t remember it.

For the Filling:
1 cup sugar
3 tbsp cornstarch
4 cups rhubarb, ½ inch pieces
4 Pkgs (3 oz each) cream cheese, softened
2 eggs
Grated rind of 1 lemon
1 cup sour cream
½ cups slivered almonds

Preheat oven to 425. Roll out pie crust and place in a pie pan. In sauce pan mix ½ cup sugar and cornstarch. Add rhubarb and cook, stirring until thickened and tender. Pour into pie shell and bake for 10 minutes.

In a bowl beat the cream cheese, eggs, remaining sugar and lemon rind. Pour over the rhubarb. Reduce oven temperature to 350, return pie to oven and bake for 30 minutes until set. Remove from oven, spread with sour cream and return to oven for a final 5 minutes. Cool and sprinkle with almonds.

Eighty-two Words

Three years ago when I embarked on my marketing campaign for The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin, I started this blog. It’s about nothing in particular. And it has been more or less an exercise in writing.

I’m coming up on blog number 400. Some have been lengthy. Others nothing but snaps. If on average I have written 600 words for each blog entry that would put the writing at 240,000 words. Or three novels worth!

Now that is depressing.

Turtles and Immigrants

Good deeds come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. There are people like Earl Morse who recognizes that not all World War II vets can make it to DC to see their memorial, so he makes it possible for them to go. Then there are the little good deeds, like holding a door open for some one, or helping a person put five gallon pails of paint into a cart or picking up a dropped piece of paper for someone.

I was on my way to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get my non-drivers ID so I could work at the track, when I saw a snapping turtle trying to make its way across Route 9. The turtle was the size of a hub cap and had an attitude of a spring bear. I veered around the reptile and pulled over. The turtle caught a major break.

I trotted back to get the creature out of the path of traffic before someone got seriouly hurt. (Hit that thing and no telling what the cost of a front end alignment might be.) Suddenly, I felt a little like Steve Urwin, approaching a croc. With a car barreling down on us I took a few steps forward to pluck the thing up and it took off as fast as a turtle can take off, which was surprisingly faster than I had expected. No time to wonder just where to grab the thing. I scooped it up with a heft. It must have weighed ten pounds. Its legs retracted into the dark brown shell, but his head raised back mouth agape.

Not to panic. I stepped to the side of the road. There I stood with a huge snapping turtle in my clutches wondering what to do with the thing. I looked behind me and scanned the direction from which it came. Nothing but the Jeep dealers pavement. Normally, this would be a great opportunity to inspect the specimen. Note the sharp spiked curve of its shell, take a closer look at the mouth, flip him over to see with underside. However, he smelled awfully peculiar. In fact, the odor was nothing short of gross. I held him away from me, expecting a shower to turtle pee.

Suddenly, I wanted to get this guy across the road as quickly as possible. He probably felt the same way. And just as suddenly there was a huge wave of morning commuters. He was growing heavier and smellier by the second. One car after another zoomed by, a few drivers rubbernecking the sight of a woman standing on the side of a busy road holding a turtle.

A gap. I scurried across, thankful that the big guy had the patience of an angel. I’m sure he thought the smell sooner or later would get him released. I nestled him down in the weeds about 20 feet from the road. I made sure to face him in the direction he had been headed. He took off. All but the smell.

Fortunately, I carry wipes in the Jeep.

So that was one good deed. You know the saying one good deed follows another. Returning from the library, I saw a man standing at a bus stop hailing an oncoming bus. Except the bus blew right past him. In my rear view mirror, I saw him jump into the road waving madly at the bus that grew smaller by the second.

The short man looked like a guy someone would accuse of being an illegal alien – not that I’m stereotyping anyone or anything. Since I had just applied for a job and seemed to have gotten it without even opening my mouth and now considered myself part of America's hourly and abused workforce, I identified with my stranded fellow-coworker. And I couldn’t believe the driver never stopped.

I wasn’t going anywhere but home, and had no plans except to take the cat to the vet and pick a quart of berries. I swung the Jeep around. I cruised down the street looking for him. He was walking at a fast clip, carrying a small backpack (Does he look like a turtle?). Obviously, he was going to work and was going to be late.

How do you approach someone walking down the street while you are cruising in your car? If some guy passed me and asked if I needed a ride, I’d politely decline and think the worst.

The guy still clutched a dollar for fare money. “Hey, I saw the bus pass you. You need a ride?”

In an accent from somewhere in South America, he said yes and thank you. He had been on his way to work at a hotel on South Broadway. He wasn’t angry about the bus; he was grateful I offered him a ride.

I hit every light on Broadway green. We passed the bus and I joked, “You’re going to be early.” Before he stepped out of the Jeep he told me his name was Mario.

Today I saved a turtle and a job, or at least ,prevented a guy from being late and getting a good chewing out from his boss.

Job Interview

“We’ve got rocket scientists who work the first three weeks and figure they have made enough money to last them for a while.”

“It is only ten dollars an hour?”

“Yeah, like I said rocket scientists. Once they spend all their money in two days they'll come back, but by then... we don’t want them. They can go work for McDonald’s for all I care.”

At first I thought maybe I fell into the rocket scientist group. I was sure he was referring to my MBA from Michigan. Why would I be contented with a $10.00 job? At least I would have asked that if I was in his shoes.

Captain Campbell wasn’t the big burly security captain I expected. He had that warm wholesome fatherly face you’d see in a commercial for middle-aged men touting the benefits of Viagra. He had given his attendance speech before. Heck, I’d given it many times to hourly employees, except usually during a new hire orientation, not an interview at least not until I had sized the person up, asked him a few questions about previous employment. None of that happened.

I was ready to explain my employment gap. “Let’s see. In 2005, I sailed across the ocean and wrote a book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin. Maybe you've read it?"

"Not a reader."

"Well yes. Anyway. That led to publishing and marketing the book in 2006. In 2007, I started writing a novel and this year, I’ve done absolutely nothing on the book, so that is why I’m here applying for a security job at The Track for six weeks.”

Except he didn’t ask me that either. Instead he asked, “Ever work security before," while carefully printing my name on the tab of a manila folder?

“No, sir.”

“Well then, we'll sign you up for training on July 19. 9-5, bring something to eat. Can you work the Open House on July 20?”

“Kind of get my feet wet?” I asked.

“Sure, something like that.”

Yeah, and if he ever reads this blog I'll be fired before I start.

Mulberries

The road where I grew up was once a strip of overgrown dandelions, daisies, sweet grass and other assortment of summer weeds sprouting between two muddy ruts. Rabbits grew fat on the foliage and only took cover when Dad drove the Chevy up the hill from Grey’s. Other than the milk man and the occasional delivery from the Cook Coffee Man, there wasn’t much traffic, so the road was an excellent place to learn to ride a bike, play in muddle puddles or go sledding after a good ice storm, because it would take the county a week before they got around to sanding the road. Not even the school bus nor the mailman came up the road. As a kid, if I heard a car coming up the hill I ran out to the road to see who it might be. That was country life excitement. While I don’t go running anymore, the habit of looking out the window to see who might be coming is as ingrained as a reflex. It doesn’t matter that I don’t have any idea who is passing by.

Today, traffic is heavier and neighbors are as plentiful as the mulberries on the school house tree. Even so I didn’t expect to inconvenience many when I set a ladder up in the middle of the now paved road to pick the mulberries. The dark berries littered the road, staining the underside of any car that drives through them. Less than two minutes after I climbed to the top of the wooden ladder a pickup truck came cruising by. I had nearly a quart when the UPS truck came to deliver a package. Both vehicles slowed down, and gave wide berth to the women dressed in painter’s pants with her head buried in the upper branches.

I thought about gathering the ones that had fallen on the road, but discovered road gravel made them a bit gritty. It was impossible not to step on them. Envision that I Love Lucy classic. By the time I filled my bucket the rungs were awash with swished berries, my pants were splattered with dark stains and my fingernails looked like I had been working on an old car engine for eight hours.

In my search for mulberry recipes, had read that the stems tasted awful, and the raw fruit and leaves a mildly hallucinogenic. In truth, the only thing you’d end up hallucinating is that you’re dying of a bad belly ache. Taking great care, I removed the stems without totally mutilating the fruit. Took nearly an hour of tedious snipping the stems with a fingernail cutter while sitting on the back porch swatting horse flies. It was a pain in the butt, but much of that had to do with the concrete steps. I doubted if the results was going to be worth all the trouble. With a short shelf life, it’s not hard to understand why these berries are not commercially grown.

After all the hassle of harvesting and de-stemming the berries, I wanted a simple cobbler recipe. The dessert came out perfectly. Unlike raspberries the mulberry seed cooks up soft and isn’t such a nuisance to eat. However, I forgot to rinse the darn little things and occasionally the cobbler had the same grittiness as a New England clam. Obviously the ones I did pick up out of the road I didn't throw away.

Made me think I’ll go out and get some more for the freezer.

Seasonal Changes

You could've fool me that summer would finally arrive in Upstate New York. Outside of the biting insects.
For the past several weeks, I’ve been surveying the black cap berry crop. The little clumps of pricker bushes are having a banner spring growing along the roadsides in Wilton. The wet and cooler temperatures had plumped the tiny fruit. They are just coming into season. I gathered a handful this morning coming up Gailor Road where a patch grows in a well sunned spot (Check it out on Google Earth.) and I left a half cup in a dish for dad to have with his breakfast.

The mulberry tree near the old school house holds a treasure of dark berries which are beginning to stain the road. However, I can’t figure out what to do with them. I’ve check mom’s old recipe books. I even went on line to FoodTV. Only found two recipes there and one was for Foie Gras with Caramelized Fruits. Well, if I can’t pronounce it or spell it, I sure ain’t going to eat it, let alone make it. I don’t even know where to find it in Publics. Would it be in the produce, the meat or the dairy section? Could be in the cereal aisle for all I know.

I have been exposed by my ignorance. Anyway, recipes welcomed. No wine.

One of the neighbors flagged me down as I was walking just fast enough to stay ahead of the pesky horse flies (a dead run). She asked if I wanted some rhubarb. She must have been reading my mind (not the stuff about the horse flies, I hope). I was wondering where I could snag some. I cut and bagged about twelve cups before putting it into the freezer.

Mom could make a killer pie. I rummaged through her recipes for rhubarb pie and found a few others of interest tucked away in the stained boxes above the stove. The last time the flour was used I made Christmas cookies two years ago. I decided to pick up a sack. Not thinking, I left it out on the counter. Imagine what a cat looks like after she's "inspected" the package.

Stupid cat. I don’t understand why they don't write a blog. Probably because I haven’t written a book.

Brothers and Sisters in Arms

While in Washington I had the opportunity to meet several young men and women who are currently serving their country – my country. They acted as guardians, assisting the World War II veterans in anyway possible…stowing wheelchairs, pushing them around in wheelchairs, accompanying them to the top of the Lincoln Memorial, fetching water, ice cream, brochures…anything they needed. That was my job too, but to see these current soldiers serving the past soldiers was moving.

They were touched as well.

One young man, a lieutenant, asked me when I had been in the Army. Stunned that he assumed I had been I wanted to know how he knew. “Just the way you carry yourself,” he replied. I shared with him that I had been stationed in Ft. Richardson, Alaska and that I was a photo lab technician. (With digital, do they have these labs anymore or are they all computerized with Photoshop?)He did his thesis on the Women's Army Corps.

He entered the military as an enlisted man, left the service, graduated from University of Alaska, Fairbanks and rejoined as an officer.

He wrote me an email and I want to share it with you. For his privacy, I withheld his name.
Valerie,

Thank you very kindly for the wonderful email and photograph! I cannot begin to put into words how wonderful the Honor Flight trip was for me. I was equal parts honored, awed, and emotionally charged Saturday. It humbles me to think of the sacrifices made by those extraordinary men and their generation, and it humbles me still more that they were so eager to share their experiences so openly and honestly. I am a member of an
Anonymous spiritual recovery program (aa), and I felt Saturday exemplified the principles by which I try to live-- give freely of yourself and take time to cherish those with whom you connect with.

I hope to remain in contact with you via this email address, and would even like to read your book someday! I sure am glad to have met you and your dad! I wholeheartedly agree that life is an adventure! I figure I will continue with the Army until such time as it is no longer what I want to do. Until then, I will seek the adventures and meet people who come from the same cut of cloth as I do. That's why it was apparent to me that you were prior service!

You can take the gal out of the Army, but you can't take the Army out of the gal

Sincerely,!

Is it the Fourth of July yet?

Verdun

The Battle at Verdun was the most senseless battle in World War I. The position was a useless if not awkward salient in the French line, but it was a fortress that the French believed to be the cornerstone in their country’s defense against the Germans. Unknown to the public the fort had been striped of its guns and yet when the French Western Commanders knew the Germans were planning an attack they did little to defend the position. It was a good decision for the war, but a bad one in the eyes of the Prime Minister. (This war could have been settled with fitting the politicians of the fifteen nations engage in the war with boxing gloves to punch it out with the generals who were criminally inept.) The decision was made, “No retreat at Verdun. We fight to the end.” Ironically just when one sound decision was about to be made it was overturned by another who had not intervened at any other time during the war. Such was the insanity of this war.

Trench warfare became the pallet for death. When opposing armies lost their ability to move, they dug in and only massive bombardments could dislodged them. By then the opposing side responded with reinforcements. Each side pushed, killed, retreated and settled back in. On both sides the generals without any understanding of what was transpiring stared impotently at the lines for four years.
In February 1916, two years into the war, a fourteen inch shell exploded in the Archbishop’s Palace at Verdun. It signaled the German attack and the first of the horrific stream of bombings to come over 300 days.

The battlefield became pocked with craters pocked with more craters. The sky rained mud and blood as one bombardment after another turned stubble-faced youth into old men – into the fathers of their fathers. Terror flickered in their eyes before the years their mothers gave them were snuffed out. Men in trenches became buried - dead if they were lucky, alive if not – when mud as thick as concrete flung up to trap their souls in graves.

The soldier was aware of the constant threat of death that slept beside him. He merely had to reach out to answer its call to end the misery. Somehow he resolved to ignored it. It wasn't mind over matter. Will-power could not have been enough. Each day he’d take slow crucifying steps toward his enemy, his only companion fear and anxiety. His backpack heavy with despair, yet he continued to grip his bayoneted rifle and a hopeless sense to live.

In this place where death piled up in layers of bones there was one refuge, a fountain. At the only source of water for either side a soldier met his enemy whose thirst had brought him to the same piece of heaven on earth. In misery he dared not meet the enemy’s eye, for he would see the same fading light of hope. The two would silently dip their canteens in the pool, then slip over the hillside where the smell of burnt horses and gangrene filled their throats.

“Be fruitful and multiply! Fill the earth and subdue it! Rule over the fish of the sea and the birds of the air and every creature that moves on the ground.” Then God said, “I now give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the entire earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food. And to all the animals of the earth, and to every bird of the air, and to all the creatures that move on the ground – everything that has the breath of life in it – I give every green plant for food.” It was so. (Genesis 1:28-30)

That year, man destroyed what God had given him. By the end of June 1916 Verdun looked as barren as a lunarscape. Twisted metal, shattered rock and concrete, splintered wood, all caked in mud stretched to the horizons, in a place as vast as any sea. No summer foliage whispered in a breeze, no animals either domesticated or wild grazed on the plains, no birds dared fly over the dead land and sing its song. When the fighting died 300 days after it began the French had 315,000 causalities, the Germans 281,000. In comparison, the bloodiest battle in US history was The Battle of the Bulge with 20,000 causalities. In all of WWII 400,000 Americans were lost. At Verdun, both sides fought literally for the sake of fighting.

Today forests hide the land that still wears the scars of bombardments. I was overwhelmed by the useless loss of life. The number of unidentified soldiers that share a common grave under the Ossuary is 130,000, laid to rest with their comrades and their enemies for all eternity. I would not want to find myself in this place at night under a full harvest moon. Haunting.

Tears of One

Earl Morse spent his childhood watching imaginary heroes, those soldiers of Rat Patrol and Combat, once popular TV shows and real heroes like his father and his comrades, career soldiers who served in Viet Nam. Like his dad, Earl joined the Air Force, became a pilot and served 21 years. Upon retirement he went to work in a small Veterans Affairs unit in Springfield Ohio as a Physician Assistant.

Many of Earl’s veteran patients liked to discuss the controversies surrounding the National World War II Memorial – first, the lack of one, then the design, the construction and finally the dedication. Earl asked his patients if they were going to make a trip to DC to see their Memorial. “Oh yes,” most replied. But at their six-month check ups it became apparent that many would never get to THEIR memorial. Either lacking funds, failing health, an ill spouse or busy children made it impossible to journey to Washington.

Earl realized many would never have to chance see the Memorial. He asked his father if he’d like to go to Washington to see his memorial, the Viet Nam War Memorial. They made arrangements to rent a small plane for the three hour flight to DC. Since the plane could carry four passengers, Earl decided to ask one of his WWII patients if he would like to go.

He asked Leonard Loy. Earl had expected him to say, “Gee, I don’t know. I’ll have to check with the family. I’ll get back with you.” Instead, the aging eyes began to tear up. “Oh thank you, thank you,” he said. Caught off guard by the gratitude Earl’s own “allergies” began to flair up, a unusual event for Dayton in January. Two grown men crying in the hallway, attracted the nurses. “What’s the matter?” they asked, expecting to hear familiar news that the patient only had a few more weeks to live. Later when they told other vets and got the same response.

Earl, who belonged to one of the largest flying clubs in the US at Wright Patterson Air Force Base, thought he could get some of his pilot buddies to volunteer. The one condition Earl had however was that the veteran wasn’t allowed to pay for anything. The pilots would paid for the plane rental and other expense. He got 12 volunteers. Arrangements were made and the trip was scheduled for the spring of 2005. Twelve World War II Veterans would be flown to Washington to see their memorial.

Except there was an unanticipated hurdle. The morning the six tiny planes were scheduled to take off spectacle family members showed up. “What are you going to do with my father?” “The last time someone tried to do something “nice” for Grandpa, he ended up with a set of encyclopedias.” Earl patiently answered questions and assured everyone that he wasn’t running a scam and that no one was being abducted.

With the early morning light breaking over the horizon at Wright-Patterson six small planes took off for DC. They passed from one air traffic controller to the next and made it safely to The National World War II Memorial.

The Memorial, dedicated on May 29, 2004, honors the 16 million Americans who served in World War II and the more than 400,000 who died. The veterans and pilots on the initial flight spent several emotional hours surrounded by the granite and bronze tribute. One pilot, Paul Sharp, said that he and some veterans spent many minutes crying.

Meanwhile those who had seen their veterans take off on that quiet morning went home and told other family members. They told friends and neighbors, who told more friends and neighbors. When the six planes broke over the horizon to touch down in Ohio, a small crowd of flag-waving Americans gathered to welcome home their heroes. One veteran later said that his grandkids don’t look at him in the same way.

Honor Flight was born. And Earl Morse is a true angel in my eyes. This year, Honor Flight's goal is to fly 5000 vets to see the World War II Memorial. In 2009, they are shooting for 12,000.
To learn more about Honor Flight and how you can enable a WWII vet to see the Memorial visit Honor Flight.

Generations

If you visit the World War II Memorial in Washington DC, you might be lucky to see a veteran from the war there. 16,000,000 served. But that was 64 years ago. These heroes are leaving us at a rate of 1200 a day. There will come a day when there are no more. On that day silent wind will blow across the Mall and sweep away the last whisper of the men and women who fought for the freedom of the world. Shall we forget?

Because of Honor Flight, veterans who might not otherwise be able to visit their memorial are able to immerse themselves in a day of remembrances. Memories of their enlistments, the battles, the screw-ups, of friends and comrades who never came home, and of those, like them, who did. It is a special place to honor the fallen, but it also speaks to those who are still with us and their accomplishments in the years that came afterwards in the country they protected.

If you need to know what patriotism is, ask a World War II veteran. These are the guys who know first hand. They know how to honor the flag and their country. They know when to stand during a parade or the National Anthem. These are the guys who remove their hats and place their right hand over their hearts and actually watch the flag. They know how to be "one great nation under God" and can not comprehend how that concept could offend anyone. If you can’t respect the symbols of freedom, how can you have it?

The World War II veteran is humble, stoic, appreciative. Out of the Great Depression they came to pick up arms. Off to war they went. A war marked with signifignace of its own - the largest surrender in American military history (Baatan), largest seaborne invasion (Normandy Invasion) and the battle that became the bloodiest incorporating more troops and engaging more enemy troops than any other conflict (Battle of the Bulge). And when they came home after they had literally saved the world they humbly said they were not heroes, just survivors. Never did they ask for a memorial.

I had the honor to be with 60-70 World War II veterans last weekend when Dad and I traveled to see his Memorial, compliments of Honor Flight. I watched total strangers come up to Dad and thank him for his service.

On Saturday afternoon we sat at a table near a concession stand when four young very buff men approached us. They circled the table. I was shocked when they shook his hand and the hand of a few other veterans who were with us.

“You fellas in the service?” Dad asked.

“Yes sir," they said in unison. It was a polite response, without bravado.

Marines, dressed in civilian attire. Full of themselves. Full of tomorrow, yet experienced in combat. Two tours in Iraq. Yet humble enough, respectful enough to recognize those that came before. I saw the connection between yesterday and today. That “one nation under God” thing bonding Americans, spanning generation. We shall not forget.

Porch Money

He sat in a wheelchair, slowly eating dinner. The meal wasn't fancy, just chicken and mash potatoes with gravy and a side dish of corn. With one hand in his lap he quietly ate while his son-in-law and I engaged the dinner time conversation of two people have who just met—where are you from and what do you do. Tom and his father-in-law, William, were from Tennessee. We talked about UT football.

Not until the peach cobbler and ice cream was finished and the waitress had collected the dishes that William began to speak, in a voice that barely carried over the other conversations in the busy restaurant. I was glued to every word.

“My lieutenant asked me how much wire I had laid out. I told him about seven miles. He wanted me to go back in the jeep. So me and a couple other guys…we did. The previous night the Germans had been shelling our positions. We took some hits. That night the shelling started again. Came in close and we took cover as soon as it started. I bailed out of the jeep. Landed in the snow and just laid there waiting for it to stop. It was cold, but I could feel my arm. It was warm. Hot. I didn’t know why. There I was in the snow and my arm was hot. I got up and saw it had been torn to pieces.

"The guy I was with wasn’t much help. He was running around not knowing what to do. But they had trained us so I knew I needed to apply pressure here." The hand that I assumed had been politely sitting in his lap came to the table, except it was hard plastic and metal. He pointed to a place between his wrist and elbow.

“I kept the pressure on my arm and stumbled back to the road. Another vehicle came by and took me to the aide station. From there I was evacuated to Paris to a hospital with fifty other wounded. There was only one nurse and two girls to take care of us. Everyone was in pretty ad shape. One guy was blind. The nurse asked me and this other guy to help feed him. We did."

William described the amputation. “They cut it off and did something with it”. He flicked his right hand as if he tossed away his own hand and wrist. This seemed like an odd thing to say, "did something with it." What else would they have done with it? Put it into the soup, maybe?

I asked him if he was scared. As casually as if I had asked him if he wanted some more peach cobbler and ice cream he said yes. Six months later with his new prosthesis and some training where he learned to tie his shoes he was discharged with 300 dollars of porch money. "That's what we called it. Go home and sit on the porch in a rocking chair."

Except William came home, went to work for the Veterans Administration and like so many others of his generation left behind the Battle for Bastonge.

I spent my weekend listening to stories of young men who saved my country and the world from tyrants and their tyranny. Young men who parachuted out of burning planes only to be captured by the Germans, young men who shot planes out of the sky, who trudged through snow and darkness to find buddies bloodied and killed. Young men who shot up outhouses. Young men saw friends disappear, held dying comrades. Young men who were on ships headed for Japan, knowing that a landing there was nothing but a suicide mission. Young men who were asked to draw fire so that others could take cover. Young men who got up every day to take an island and once done, went off to take the next leaving 90 percent of their buddies on the beaches. Young men who once it was all said and done came home and quietly went back to their homes, their farms, their families, their jobs to resume a life that could not have ever been the same, but somehow they pretended it could be.

Stoic heroes. Men who served in World War II and never asked for a memorial.

Cold Blooded Suckers

In less than an hour I had 1033 words written, not including the words I cut. Great morning, so I strolled over to Higher Ground Caffee located in the Saratoga Springs Library and got a Green Mountain Coffee. Hazelnut decaf. Then decided to write this crap.

I can’t get out of bed in the morning to go run when it is 52 degrees. There is little incentive to douse myself with Deet (nothing else works and still the hardiest of deer flies persistently buzz me looking for a vunerable piece of flesh), and trot down the road knowing that the first sip of coffee is going to shatter my teeth when hot meets cold. “I’ll just eat a little less”, I tell Diablo who’s been snoozing under the covers in the little pocket of warmth between my arm and torso.

Of course I am being a wimp about the cold and the bugs. Two weeks ago when we had four days of summer the deer flies emerged. Those son-of-a-bitches.

Fighting the biting insects in Upstate New York is like battling a prolonged and coordinated offense. Spring arrives and black fly swarms chase anything that moves. As kids, My sister and I would lie on our backs on the front porch with our feet raised in the air. The stupid pests would hover around our red Buster Browns and white ankle socks looking for an easy meal. Unbeknown to them we’d snap our baseball gloves, the leather webbing pocketing a half dozen menaces quicker than Willie Mayes could run down a fly ball.

As the damp spring ground becomes saturated, muddy puddles birth the mosquito. These blood thirsty beasts are so large they leave drool on the screen door. My older brother showed me how we could tempt the mosquito to push its proboscis through the mesh in search of meal. With patience and the warped mind of a delinquent, we’d pinch the sticker with our little fingers. Sick, but in a strange way, justifiable. I still ask God what that creation was all about.

Once the warm weather tumbles over the mountains to settle into the Hudson Valley the nasty biting deer and horse flies are unleashed on every warm blooded creature this side of hell. The bite is painful and its side effects last nearly a week after the wound has been inflicted. During last week’s heat wave, I got nailed in the back on the neck, near the shoulder. People mistook me for Quasimodo the welt was so large. And itch… The best way to eradicate the deer fly is to snag them out of the air, crush them in your hand and then stomp on the remains. Or just stay inside.

Don’t get me started on chiggers. Never seen one. Those little buggers are from the deep cold voids of outer space. It would explain this weather!

Small Miracles

Booter had a two week check up to see how she was responding to the blood pressure medication and to have her eyes checked. Blood pressure was in the normal range, about 165. The sight has returned to the left eye, the retina reattached and unbelievably the center of the right eye had also attached. The vet was amazed. I knew Booter had been seeing better. She had been jumping up into the window at night to scan the woods for owls, weasels and red fox. Or maybe just watch the moths flutter up with screens.

Two weeks ago when she was first diagnosed with hypertensive retinopathy, reattachment in the right eye seemed very unlikely. While her “menace” reflex is slow, she has tracking movement. As explained by the ophthalmologist, the menace reflex is one indication of how well the eyes are focusing. Since cats don’t read eye charts throwing a quick hand up in their face and watching the cat’s flinch response is one way of determining if the cat needs glasses. The good news is that Booter needs glasses, but not a white tipped cane.

Three Daughters

Father's Day in Worcester. Dad and I drove out to Jennifer and Darryl's for a picnic under cold and threatening skies. Rain held off while we ate steaks and potato salad, but the cold temperatures chased us inside for dessert - homemade frozen peanut butter pie. Seems like everytime I go to Jen's it is freezing either inside or out. Today, it was a bit warmer inside. But that toilet seat was still ice cold.

Happy Father's Day

My dad, Manuel L. Perez and my Uncle David Henry Sr. Here's to both of you guys.

Photo Log

Not a Parade Until…

There was a Flag Day parade down Broadway in Saratoga. The Air Force started the assemblage of red white and blue not with the thundering formation of jets but with the lumbering rumble of a cargo plane. It buzzed the thin crowd that lined the street from North Broadway to the terminus in Congress Park. The plane scared the police horse enough to dismount his rider, to the restrained amusement of his partner who was mindful enough to grab the reigns of the wild horse.
Seemed like this might be a good parade after all.

I unfolded a chair in front of Coldstone Ice Cream Shoppe. Major mistake. Resisting the tempting flavors mixed on a slab of marble was futile. Heck, it was a celebration decked out in American flags, and colorful helium balloons. Enjoy. The street staged baggy pant clowns and soldiers from current and past wars. Elks in tight uniforms. Scots wearing kilts. Boy Scouts draped in merit badges and pretty girls in dressed in dreams. Patriotic tunes marched between the spectators who waved flags while keeping an eye out for candy treats tossed from fire trucks and floats.

And it wasn’t over until Elvis left the building.

Dachau

I had been in Europe for a week and had yet to see the sun. The weather was exactly the way I predicted - cold, dreary and unforgiving. I tired of taking pictures through rain soaked windows as we whiz by the country side.

Dachau. The weather matched the somber air of the museum and camp. There is no way to describe the place. The atrocities sit hard on the heart. Numbs the imagination, crushes everything you think you are as a person, as a part of humanity, this piece of humanity, as cruel and wicked as the Roman Soldier who rammed the sword into Jesus’ side.

Just outside the medieval town center of Dachau, a Memorial Site stands on the grounds of the former concentration camp. This was the 'parent' camp. Dachau was the 'Academy of Terror', the originator, role-model and training ground for the vast order of brutality that spread over half of Europe in the wake of the armies of the Third Reich, and which ultimately culminated in history's greatest crime, the Final Solution.


While each camp was responsible for its own particular form of barbarism, what distinguished Dachau is that almost everything that happened in the system as a whole happened at some level there. Almost every category of victim passed through its infamous Arbeit macht frei (Freedom through Work) gate, German dissidents, outspoken clergymen, Jehovah's Witnesses, homosexuals, Jews, Polish civilians, all in all the citizens of some 34 nations.

Today's Memorial Site combines the historical authenticity of the original environment and its many surviving buildings with the function of a modern exhibition center. It is a place of memory, of pilgrimage and of education. (viator.com)

Two incredible pieces of art work – one in the court yard - express the bleak condition of the human beings who lost their property, their professions and their dignity, yet somehow survived the torture, the starvation, the cruel work and the determined decision to wipe them off the face of the earth. What remained was a human song, the soul and spirit created by one God, so strong it defied those who held in their hands. What could not be erased was a bare thread of human connectivity to self and others. Compassion. It saved many from death. It was that will, that stood in solidarity and strength that humbled me in this dreadful place.

In 1985, I stood in line at a bank in Cleveland, Ohio and I noticed the woman waiting ahead of me. The woman had a number tattooed on the inside of her lower arm. I had never seen this before, and yet, I knew exactly what it was. I shivered. I never spoke to her. I wasn't able to even greet her or look her in the eye. She never knew I was there. She was the only person I ever saw with such a mark.

Forty years later she stood next to me again in a place where there was no food for the hungry, no pity for the sick, no aid for the dying, no burial for the dead.

Connected? By a bare thread.

When I was living in Louisiana (1977), I met a young German girl who had married a GI. She flat out told me that this never happened. Disconnected? Incredible.

Ahmadinejad?

Brighten Up Your Day

Writing

Sometimes I’m set adrift to come ashore in a place totally unexpected, if not unaccepted. I just got to resolve to make the most of it, because there is truly a purpose in why things happen. Sometimes I have a tendency not to hang around to hear what the rest of the story might be.

I resolved to write again. Inspirations come from unlikely shores. I sat on a low stool in Border’s. The high shelves towered over me like the skyscrapers in New York City. I didn’t dare look up, fearing I’d tip over trying to see the titles on the top shelf. Instead, I noticed the carpet, a mottled collection of specs that hid pieces of soiled humanity trudged in from the street. The thought left me scrambling for the information desk to grab a piece of paper and pen and scribble my thoughts down before they could be swept away with a wave of depression.

Normally, I’d avoid book stores. Coming face to face with the volumes of new books from the competition hits my gut as hard as a burrito at ten PM. Leaves me depressed. But on Saturday I sat in the Christian section, a small collection of books compared to the numbers in the entire store. I considered both sides of the situation. A good thing. An opportunity with limited competition. Or a bad thing. Limited market for Christian books. If I discounted the various Bibles and “daily readers” the market looked a lot smaller. Lord, there is no way to make a living offering up tales of Christianity unless I have a platform – like speaking from the pulpit. No Lord, I ain’t asking for that.

Writing on Saturday wasn’t expected. Normally, I take the weekends off from my grueling schedule of drifting through the days, hacking away at a couple of lame blogs, cropping monster mega-pixel photos into small, but still uninspiring snapshots, pilling an old cat and cleaning the litter box.

Fortunately, I got the coolest public library in Saratoga Springs. I can talk on the cell phone, use free wi-fi, eat donuts and drink coffee and spread my shit all over a four-person table and nobody says peep to me. The hours are convenient opening by 9 am six days a week. I’ve found a table that has become a good place to write, off in a corner, but not so secluded that I can’t observe other patrons or overhear some interesting conversations that people really should be whispering in lower tones.

“I knew this was going got happen. Jeff can be so unpredictable. I was just being nice and then this happens…”

Expect I can’t take more than three hours of sitting. I need to break the writing time with a inside view of a refrigerator, a quick check of the news on Fox, a short stroll outside or even a conversation with Phoenix and Diablo. That is the advantage of writing at home. Here I muster a walk to the restroom and pray nobody steals my laptop.

“It doesn’t matter. The damage has already been done. The line has been crossed.” Listen to those clichés! “Respect him? Is he going to dictate my life? Why is his radio still on?”

Focus, Valerie, focus.

I am trying to make the most of living at home with Dad this summer. I’ve gone back to writing something worth some significance, even if it is not my novel…at least at this time.

“How can he do that? I’ve never done anything like that.”

As it comes along, I’ll share. I’ll have to, but for now, let me write. For now…focus, focus, focus.

“I haven’t seen Jeff for years. You see what I’m saying? For me to get into this….”

Oh boy. Don’t you wonder what Jeff did? Sorry, I’m not hanging around to hear the rest of this story.

It's My Birthday

You hope someone notices. But without parties, cakes and presents the day just comes and goes like the other 364 days throughout the year. What you don’t want anyone to notice is the extra gray hair, the few more lines that can no longer be called crows feet – more like hawk claws – around the eyes, the slack skin under the arms, the saggy folds gathering around the elbows and knees, and the hood over the belly button. Jiminy Crickets! Are those age spots on the back of your hand?

Who is looking that closely? If you don’t want to be overwhelmed with one wave after another of depression you don't look. But like an ugly car crash, you can't help but stare. Shivers.

The cure isn’t to go to a new church and get invited to a baby shower and meet the mother of the mother-to-be and notice that she looks about ten years younger than you. And when the gifts are opened and everyone is oohing and aahing you sit there wondering just what the hell is that thing they are going ga-ga over? To have a baby these days involves a complicated collection of gadgets and devices that do everything from stimulate and educate to eliminate the diaper odor.

But the people were friendly. And when they cut the cake to celebrate the soon to be new mom, I pretended it was my birthday cake.

Sixty-four Years Later

Highway signs leading to Normandy Beaches: Sword, Gold, Juno, Omaha and Utah.
Overlooking the monument at The Pointe du Hoc
Standing on Utah Beach after 64 years. "The first time I never got my feet wet."
Monument at Utah.
At le Roosevelt cafe and museum Dad is asked to sign the bar, littered with signatures of other WWII Vets who participated in the landings at Normandy.
Zero kilometers. Marks the beginning of the 4th Infantry Division's Liberty Highway across France and Holland as far as the German border. There is a marker every kilometer.
Behind closed doors at the D. Day Museum Dad, Paul and Bruce were presented with medals of recognition by the sea side village of Arromanches.

D. Day

Normandy Beaches

War's a game called capture the flag. On asummer's eve when the days were the longest and warmest, the neighborhood kids divided into two teams. Dressed in dark sweatshirts and blue jeans we assembled in the field across the road. Each team brought a rag tied to a stick, the flag. The objective – steal the opposing team’s flag.

The old hay field was divided into two sections along the foot path that cut east to west between waves of dried prickly hay and berry briars. Hagadorn’s Mountain gathered the last rays of daylight behind its broad top and soon the field transformed into a textured pattern of blue and black shadows.

Once flags were hidden we scattered in search of the other team’s flag. Anyone captured was expected to surrender, no struggle. Escape was impossible unless a team member risked breaking into the enemy’s jail. There were no heroes. Captivity equated to a night of boredom and no one would risk that hell. The fun was in taking cover, not being found and lying beneath a star-filled sky until the war was over. By 10 pm.

Then the troops trudged home accusing the other side of hiding a flag out of bounds. Our wounds, the scraps of a stubborn pricker bush that refused to release a pant leg, or a swollen mosquito bite over an eyebrow, were tended to by our mothers while with our berry stained fingers we poked at the marshmallows floating in the froth of our hot chocolate. That was a special night.

What do I know about war? Nothing. It is just as easily a product of my imagination as a summation of another’s reality of long ago.

War is not hell. Hell is hell, created by the One who created all. War is the doing of men, the loss of youth, scripted in the blood of tomorrow's promises.

Blind Cat

When I arrived home after 17 days in Europe I was happy to see Phoenix and Diablo. They circled my legs like two little sharks investigating the new smells and wondering if there was anything good to eat. Croissants maybe? But the Booter Cat was no where to be found. She didn’t come when called and food sat in her dish.

After two cruises through the basement, searching every nook and cranny I found her stumbling out from beneath the sewing machine. Her eyes were dilated and smoky. I immediately knew something was wrong. I carried her upstairs and determined that her vision was severely compromised. The seventeen year old cat couldn’t see much of anything. She stood gazing up at the ceiling lights, noticing the motion of someone walking between her and the light. Things were not good.

She howled the next two nights, disoriented and confused. Jennifer suspected high blood pressure had detached the retinas and on Tuesday this was confirmed by an ophthalmologist in Latham, New York.

She has been on thyroid medication for years. Hyper. The vet prescribed medication to lower the blood pressure, but did not promise that the eyesight would return. The right eye’s retina had completely detached. Some promise was offered for the left eye as it had only blistered.

Booter seems to be adjusting to the limited vision. Just two days on the medication, I have noticed a slight improvement in her vision as this afternoon she followed the comb I used on her coat.

She continues to eat well, enjoying nothing but canned cat food. Phoenix and Diablo mill about her bowl waiting for me to slip up and forget to pick it up once Booter finishes.

Bits and Pieces

1. Dutch sayings include "struck by a mill" which means crazy. To say someone is "small mill" means he is small-minded and if someone says "great for mills" that means he likes it.


2. In the 1800's there were 10,000 windmills in the Netherlands. Today only 900 of these old mills are 900.


3. The Rhine River is rising as is the sea level. This part of Europe is also sinking. And Global warming...well you put the pieces together.


4. A bike gets stolen in Amsterdam every 40 seconds.


5. Amsterdam has 2400 houseboats, a regulated number.


6. 2000 bridges....could use a few more.


7. 50% tax rate for earnings over 40,000. Don't know if that is Euros or dollars. The result: good roads, no universal health care and everyone who works gets a pension at 65.

bike garage

The Netherlands

We know it as Holland because when this tiny country sent her ships all over the world they were from the providence of Holland. Of course here in New York we have many Dutch names left over from the 17th century. Amsterdam, New Amsterdam, and my tiny hometown village of Gansevoort are just a few places.

You got to give a lot of credit to a country that decides to acquire more land and instead of wielding a sword and overrunning a neighbor they decide to build a dam around a hunk of sea, erect a wind mill and pump the water out. Today, if the dams broke ½ of the Netherlands would be submerged. That is an area of half the state of Michigan. This makes New Orleans look like small potatoes. But even this country suffers its sea disasters. In 1953 a northwesterly North Sea storm and a high spring tide causes extensive flooding. 1835 people drown in the southwest providence of Zeeland. And to prevent the Allied forces from landing in the Netherlands the Germans broke many dikes along the coast.

The Dutch public broadcasting foundation has made numerous documentaries featuring the North Sea flood of 1953. They have also made two English versions of what where originally Dutch documentaries. The titles of these documentaries are The Greatest Storm and 1953, The Year of the Beast. I have not had time to find these on the internet, but here is a video of the flood. http://www.deltawerken.com/89

PHOTO: D. HENRY I’d go back to the Netherlands in a heartbeat. I found the country clean, neat as a pin, congenial. Thatched roof houses line streets so narrow I mistook several as pathways. Tiny canals serve as fences to keep cows confined to square meadows often lines with trees. Each yard is landscaped as if it was vying for the cover photo of Homes and Gardens. Some of the canals (ditches with character) have been incorporated into ponds, often times with the pond’s edge abutting the foundation of the house. Think English Garden meets Japanese koi pond. Lush, green, quaint, serene. No wasted space. I suspect even the garbage dumps were tidy.

Unfortunately, the day I was experiencing all this great landscaping it poured and I could not get a photo from the bus. This was the day we began our WWII Tour by visiting a drop sight for the Operation Market Garden and the taking of the bridges (The Bridge Too Far, Arnhem) on the Rhine September 1944. Exhausted with jet lag I kept falling asleep on the bus.

First night dinner concluded with a small fireworks display. We ate with Matilda and her husband Neil, a vet from the Occupying US Army serving in Germany; Garry an Australian who gained the reputation for getting lost, falling behind and wandering through the lingerie departments in Paris; and Bill and Don, two middle class hardworking retired tradesmen from the Midwest who were World War II buff. Dad and Neil began a nightly ritual of buying the other a glass of red wine which they then rates on a scale of 1 to 3. I don’t think any glass throughout the trip beat the taste of the very first night.

Slept like a log.

Just An Observation

The French and their particular stereotypical attitudes can be explained by one simple cause. If I had to use a door handle similar in design to the ones I found in Paris, it would give an an attitude too. (Look at this thing. Can anyone explain what that notch is all about?) Guess how many times I tried to get myself out of the bathroom in the middle of the night?

In defense of the French, throughout Europe I found the door handles lacking in practicality and functionality. I consider myself a rather intelligent individual, one who has managed to figure out how to change a windshield wiper (come on, who hasn’t struggled with that?). However, I’d admit I was somewhat challenged as I tried to open the doors to my hotel rooms. It started in Amsterdam where the door handle wasn’t even used. To unlock the room it took a little round metal do-hickie-kind-of-looking-thing, similar to an ear bug. It was placed in a small hole located on the wall near the door. It activated the lock and all you had to do was push the door open. Without that critical piece of information you stood outside trying to turn a door handle which didn’t turn, thus never opening the door.

On more than one occasion when I said my nightly prayers I asked God to protect me from the hotel burning down in the middle of the night. God knows I would have never been able to get out in case of an emergency.

Contagious Bus Tour

So much for a quiet hour of writing. Before 6 AM. Booter, Dad’s cat, is yelling her head off and Dad is shuffling around the kitchen, putting away the supper dishes stacked in the drainer. I’d go for a walk, but the damn mosquitoes are gathered on the other side of the screen door, the vultures anticipating a pre-dawn meal the minute I step onto the front porch.

My head is about to bust, a throbbing headache caused by a lack of a good night’s sleep and the remnants of a head cold caught on the tour bus. It’s my souvenir. That and a package of Ricola purchased at a Total gas station on the German Autobahn.

Foul weather hung over the European continent for all but two days of our seventeen day trip. I swear there is no sky in Europe. So when a deluge released on the Detroit airport and thunderstorms chased the ground crews inside leaving our plane stranded just beyond the gate 72, it seemed a fit end to the journey. The delay nearly an hour, another hour extra sleep we would have had if we got home at midnight instead of 1 AM.

1 AM – that would have been breakfast time back in Paris.

There is something about arriving back in your own country. It can’t be the signage in the airports that makes everything comfortably familiar. If one half isn’t in Spanish the other half is Japanese (if you are in Detroit), leaving one half for English. Maybe it is the sign with the little arrow that says US Citizens this way and knowing I have every God-given-right to be in that line. My passport says so anyway. It’s that secure feeling. This place is mine. I not only belong here and live here, but I have the rights to do so freely. I am no foreigner, no alien, no stranger.

Now I have to catch up on the trip. Once I came to terms that the internet wasn’t readily available I began taking notes on where I was and what I was doing. The hotels, the towns and the museums blurred into a confused collage of short term memories. Places were lost. Days misplaced. I didn’t have to remember the details as long as I had a brochure and a tour guide. There were no worries except to have my luggage sitting in the hallway by 7:30 in the morning and juggling bathroom time with Dad and my Uncle David.

With my new camera I learned just how many bad shots I can take of a back lighted statue—it’s seven—and that a grey sky will never make a remarkable photograph no matter what the subject. And taking shots through a wet bus window - well with pure luck can a decent one be had. There are a lot of unremarkable photos to cull through. (See posted example.)

So in June I’ll figure out where I was and let you know because there were some great times with Dad as he journeyed through his WWII experiences.