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.

Autobahn

Sticker shock is beginning to have an effect on me. A McDonald’s coke costs 1,95 Euro– that is medium size. I paid 2,30 Euros for a very small cup of coffee that had to be doused with plenty of sugar. The conversion rate at the hotel was one dollar buys ,53 Euros. The real kicker is that there are very few public toilets that are free. On the Autobahn cost a flush costs ,50Euros.

This morning I could not keep my eyes open, so at our first pit stop on the highway I jumped out of the bus and headed off to the Total gas station. I think everyone else went to Burger King. Total was a bit further away but at least I would not have to wait in line with the rest of the women (maybe fifteen or so on tour). The walk did me some good too. I only had a 10 Euro bill in my pocket so I went for change after finding no change machines at the turnstile entrance. I briefly considered ducking underneath the contraption, but elected not to get arrested in Germany.

Inside I asked the young man, “Change?” waving the ten Euros bill about the size of monopoly money.

“Toiletten?”

“Ya”

He exchanged the bill for five Euros in change and a five bill. I think the fact that the money seems so fake makes it seem even for worthless and everything that much more expensive.

Back inside the Water Closet I dropped my .50 Euro coin into the turnstile and thought for a second I heard the train coming. I found four very neat and clean stalls. Each stall was a little closet with the walls and doors going from floor to ceiling and the door sealing completely shut – none of that half inch wide crack between the hinges. I saw this in The Netherlands and have decided that Europeans are very modest when it comes to bathroom privacy.

I sat down. The seat was damp and cussed the fact that I was sitting on what I assumed to be German pee. Bad enough I got to pay for the seat, it has to be damp.

Business done I flushed. I jumped back startled when the seat began to rotate. Yes, the actual seat began to change shape, sitting at a very odd angle before reshaping into a usable oval. As it turned a contraption located in the back of the toilet moved into position. If I had not been so curious I would have run. Instead I watched in awe as it sprayed a solution of disinfectant on the seat as the seat passed beneath a sponge. Hum. I almost flushed the thing again. Got to get a video of this I thought. It was an amazing piece of German engineering. Worth .50 Euro? I doubt it.

Now the good news is that the token receipt is good for a discount in the store, but I was looking for coffee and that comes out of a vending machine. A German gentleman stood ahead of me gazing at the panel board of the world’s largest coffee vending machines. Buttons everywhere. Multiple selection sizes for multiple flavors and combinations of milk choices. The gentleman stood there waiting for his coffee, but nothing came out of the spout. I pointed to the offerings indicating he should push one. In German he said he had. I think that was what he said. He pointed to his selection. I pushed it and the machine gurgled deep inside its belly. He said something else.

I grabbed another cup and put it under the other spout to be safe.

“Das ist eine gutte Idea.” I mumbled being careful enough to not over enunciate the words like a real German.

He agreed. The coffee came out and we didn’t miss a drop.

When it finished pouring I said, “Ferthig.” Having no idea where I pulled that word from.

“Danke,” the German replied.

“Bitte.”

High school German came to the rescue after thirty five years. I can’t vouch for the spelling in this story. At the same stop I asked a soccer team if I could get a photo. They were all for that, those loud and silly boys setting off a smoke bomb.

Chicken Goes to Paris

Heck, he is having fun. See the new blog, click here. Follow his exploits across Europe.

Van Gogh

The weather has sucked for the past two days. Nevertheless we have been on the move. Bus-style takes a bit of getting use to. Little groups are beginning to form, the same people meeting for dinner and breakfast. They become seating partners in the bus…those who grab the front seats and those who resign themselves to the back. Dad and I piloted the last seat in the bus and by the end of the day I felt invaded when Bill and Dan jumped protocol and joined us. By then, after visiting a diamond factory and the Van Gogh Museum with my uncle, I was ready to recline across the five seats for the hour and half ride back to the hotel. Instead I found myself engaged in conversation with Dan about his family back home in Wisconsin. No nap and no blogging.

The highlight of my day was the visit to Van Gogh’s Museum. As a kid I aspired to be an artist. Mrs.Gray, who by no means discouraged me, warned me that it was a tough way to make a living. Van Gogh certainly had a tough life choosing his profession at the age of twenty-seven. Like many young artist I studied the masters. I became acquainted with them during my high school art classes. Under the tutelage of Mr. Izzo, I won some art award at graduation for having the highest grade point average. I wasn’t headed off to college or any other place to hone my talent, if indeed I had any other than an acute insight to please the art teachers for a good grade. Mr. Izzo died my senior year of a heart attack, leaving school in his car only to pull off into the ditch and slump behind the wheel. I was shocked by the loss and art dropped off the radar as a means of self-support.

I picked up a camera, joined the army and the rest is side-tracked history.

After two days under dreary skies I appreciate what Van Gogh saw. The thick clouds release light in thin rays that highlight the most subtle of emotion. Seen from the eyes of a young man whose confidence hid deep inside a troubled mind so desperate to be released, Van Gogh sought to learn, to interrupt, to mimic and to recompose light under a sky that perpetually gathers it to its breasts.

He worked hard at his passion. And I saw his work for the first time. Unlike photos in a book, I saw the three dimensions of the works – the thickness of paint, the brush strokes the texture of canvas…tools employed by the artist to create his story. Awesome.

Van Gogh tried to do what he knew he believed he couldn’t. Constantly learning, inventing his art was one big experiment.

Some of the work I swear I could have painted, but when understood as a whole of his portfolio, I am glad I never became an artist.

Yet, there are times I yearn to pick up a brush and create.

First Impressions

Hold on to your pesos....I broke down and bought a 30 day pass to the internet through T-mobile. Now I sign on in German!! but once I get pass the sign in page, I can get English. That even happens on my blog. Okay here goes.

May 15, 2008 Amsterdam, Netherlands. A country that has tolerated differences throughout its history, opening its borders to those fleeing religious persecution and the perceived woes of homeland. Those who carried different ideas to the reclaimed lands were welcomed to live among the Dutch, to prosper, thrive, live free, and like natives from New Hampshire to die. Trouble is everyone came and this place is only one third the size of Michigan now crammed with 19 million people. It is difficult to get rid of some of the sketcher characters who have thrown away their passports and abused their welcome.

A country with open borders and no baseline values is doomed.

For the past two weeks I have been reading books on World War II. I started with Ken Burn’s War, but couldn’t manage to lift the volume in bed for night time reading. My Uncle David loaned me The Longest Winter. I thoroughly enjoyed reading about the 99th’s platoon of eighteen men who fended off the German’s initial thrust into the Bulge December 1944. Absorbed and amazed by the heroic efforts of the men and their young captain who battled wave after wave of Germans until they ran out of ammo and they had to surrender and unknowingly changed the history and outcome of the war, I ventured into another book Citizen Soldiers. I started waking up in the middle of the night in battle scenes about the same time I came down with whatever bug it was that crept into my nightmares. Wanting to read more, but not wanting the nightmares, I quit reading. Sadly, I know more about WWII because of my reading assignments than what I ever learned in school. The Americans won, the Germans lost and Hitler hated the Jews. Simple details of good guys fight bad guys doing bad things. The hows, the whys and the costs were never told. And the details of who did all the fighting—the farm boys, the college kids, the rich sons and the poor scrappers from city street to country side—was never shared.

With images of a war torn Europe jarring me awake at night, supplemented with black and white photos in the books I had been reading I expected to see a very gray country side. What hit me first about Europe was (actually the first thing that hit me was the amount of cigarette smoke hanging outside the Schiphol Airport) the color green. Neat little pastures surrounded by ditches that keep the Holsteins from wandering on to the highways. The roads paralleled by bike paths which were swallowed by clumps of trees. Canals crossed the landscape, the banks lined with houseboats. And in the highway cloverleaves, the reclamation of land showed off tiny duck filled ponds. The Netherlands look pretty much at peace.

Except for the turmoil the striking bus drivers are causing. Noon time traffic resembled evening rush hour as those who rely on the bus scrambled to drive their cars to work, burning $9.00 a gallon gas. “We don’t have many strikes,” Jan Van Helder our tour guide apologetically explained. Those of us still awake after our transatlantic flights gazed out over the roof tops of the tiny cars scooting below our hired bus windows.

Jan had arrived at the airport about twenty minutes late. About forty of us were assembled under the Meeting Place, the checker red and white sculpture sitting in the train station. It is just a public spot used as a place to gather because who is going to miss a fifteen foot high cube in the middle of a train station?

“Welcome to Europe, Dad,” I said.

“Thanks. Sure looks different than the last time”, he replied.

“Yeah, not so black and white.”

Gathering in Detroit

Gate 50. Waiting for the flight to Amsterdam. The flight will be loaded with others who are joining us on our tour.

Watch for the little chicken as she makes her way to Paris.

Nothing Left But Wait

The lilac’s gentle fragrance drifts on the afternoon breezes under deep hues of blue painted with wisps of mare tails. Tulips past their prime. Lawns cut at least twice. Its spring in bloom, flexing its muscles toward early summer.

A day like today can lull the unwise to falsely think, “I like to live here.” Of course, paradise would feel so different if that person ventured to a nearby wood or glen to suffer under a cloud of black flies, nasty little buggers that relentlessly attack. They can land undetected and bite in places the noisy mosquito can only dream about – the place behind the ear, in the ear, the place on the face near the eye that sits behind your glasses' lens, four inches up your shirt sleeve or pant leg or by burrowing through locks of hair the tender white surface of the scalp. The pest can cause a camper in the Adirondacks to swear off the place until the snow flies.

The last minute need to reduce luggage size sent us to Wal Mart in search of miniature size hairspray for Dad who has the least amount of hair among us. I also got an electrical adaptor so I can plug my computer into the weird European plugs. I am thinking, “Wasn’t this a Ben Franklin thing? How come electrical outlets are all different?”

I also picked up a bar of soap. I read soap is not supplied in most European hotels. Nor a wash cloth, but I rarely use one anyway.

Ah, this will be an interesting experience. While I have traveled abroad before I usually go for the trekking routes. Services are limited. After camping for weeks, sleeping on the ground and going without a shower or a clean change of underwear for days, a hotel’s amenities no matter how sparse are always appreciated. This time I am traveling via bus, sticking to the road most traveled and staying in hotels. I’ll expect more and tolerate less in the differences.

So I am packed. For the most part. Getting excited. Nothing left to do but smell the lilacs, kiss the cats on their noses and catch a plane.

Still Alive

I survived a bad intestinal bug to emerge a couple pounds lighter and having no desire for tea, the last thing I consumed before I went down. Definitely not the plan for the week prior to jumping the pond, a phrase I hate.

I could have been in Texas for Tina’s wedding and celebration but after spending my days exhausted – up one hour(usually spent in the bathroom)and then sleeping two – the weekend home with family was better. While they ate dump cake at 10:30 PM and chatted, I wrapped in my bathrobe sat in the corner my eyes squinting against the light. Not very social. But on Mother’s Day I woke with an appetite, the first in four days. Applesauce, toast and a banana. Yummy.

Two days before Dad, Uncle David and I head off to Europe on a seventeen day World War II tour of Europe.

Blame Game

The luggage carousel halts leaving one deserted bag at the far end of the belt. It isn’t yours. Such a defeated feeling.

There was plenty of time to make connections and change carriers in Los Angeles. Two hours to liesurely deplane, go to the bathroom, pick up a snack and stroll from United’s concourse to Continental. Except the arriving gate was occupied by a Virgin Atlantic. Under tow it managed to run over the tow vehicle and now sat helplessly cocked in the lane blocking gates for several departing and arriving flights. I imagined the investigation. Blame game one.

An hour passed. Passengers inside flight 56 from Kona roamed freely about the plane It didn’t look like we'd be moving anytime soon. Ninety minutes passed. Although the passengers in the back of the plane cheered when the seatbelt sign officially allowed us to collect our belongings and get off the plane, there were many who missed their connections. Swinging my backpack onto my shoulders I set off for the next concourse, in a light trot through an empty corridor. My reflection bouced along the windows that kept the LA night at bay. I made the connection to Cleveland, but my bags… who knows. Blame game two.

My two bags are probably in some little forgotten cargo wagon sitting on the tarmac in LAX. On May 5, United started charging $25.00 for a second bag, regardless of weight. And then they have the nerve to mishandle it! Blame game three.

My camera cables to the computer are in my luggage along with my cell phone charger.

Arrived in Albany, NY 9 AM, without bags, just in time for spring and the black flies.

Goat

On the way to the "other side", I stopped to take a photo of a flowering tree. The trees were behind an old lava wall so I used the telephoto lens to get draw the flowers in. Didn't get the shot I wanted and began to walk back to the car, picking my way through prickly brush, careful not to stub my toes on any rocks and cactus along the path.

And what did I find beneath a clump of dried leaves and grass?

Add another skull to the collection. I am not sure what it is. A few minutes earlier I spotted some wild goats grazing along the side of the road. The area is posted for donkeys, those wild asses that "escaped" the labor of hauling sacks of coffee beans off the mountain.

I don't think it is a donkey. Too small.

I saw a bloated dead pig after I continued down the roard toward the Saddle Road. Not a pig. Forehead not wide eough and nose is too long.

My choice is a goat. Pretty cool. It will go well in my office.

Five - Zip

The quickest way to make a stock go down or have the favorite horse place instead of win is to let me have a piece of the action. No I didn't place a bet in the Derby and I haven't invested in Apple, so don't worry. But sure enough if I did, the stock and the jockey will tumble and I swear every one is looking at me, mouths agape in disbelief. Shrug.

Over the years I have also noticed that anytime I move some place I am plagued with the “worst ever” syndrome. That runs from “We haven’t had this much rain since…” or “I’ve lived here all my life and I ain’t never seen locust this bad before.” Or my favorite, “It never snows here.” I have the same power over wind when on a sail boat (it dies) or volcanic eruptions (it changes course). I’ve been to Kilauea five times now and have yet to see lava pour into the ocean, all due the the power of my presence.

Just last month this lava crossed the road,” the county employee explained. “See, here.” She pointed to recent photos sitting on the back of her pickup truck, parked near a pile of solid rock that looked like left over residue dumped from a road paver. A bit skeptical, I looked at the once fire breathing rocks oozing across the asphalt.

I examined the crystal like surface. Fragile and sharp, black ground glass. A chicken clucked underneath the county worker’s truck. Give credit to the foul that knew enough to stay out of the way when the lava decided to cross the road.

Sundown was a couple hours away. At least I could wait to see the glow and shower of cinders that are seen in the Hawaiian night. I grabbed a spot near the yellow caution tape to wait for darkness to come crawling out of the sea and settle around the gathering crowd.

We waited. I listened to the bits conversations. Nebraskans conversing with a Japanese family about how to get to Oklahoma. Locals explaining recent volcanic activity to visiting friends and relatives. Honeymoon couples discussing what time the plane leaves tomorrow night. I recalled my trek around Villarico, an active volcano in Chile. One night camped below the summit, we watched the caldera’s lava cast an orange glow on the underbellies of the clouds.

Steam billowed from the spot where lava plunged into the water. Lava was not visible. (Of course) A scene from the Wizard of Oz came to mind…don’t pay attention to the man behind the curtain.

As the last bit of daylight retreated over the shoulder of Kilaeua, the eerie glow of the lava and lava splatter reflected in the clouds of steam. Winds blew the white plumes away from viewing area. The night grew darker and the glow brighter. The crowd ooh’ed and ah’ed, the appreciative sounds heard at a good fireworks display. Then in the middle of the spectators a young woman choked up a startled gasp, unsynchronized with any natural display happening on the distant lava flow. I couldn’t interpret the sound, for it wasn’t of joy, or pleasure, yet it wasn’t one of alarm or distress. The sound was so misplaced, the crowd fell silent. She offered an explanation. "A mouse. It went down that hole."
We exploded in laughter.

Mayday, Mayday, Mayday

I’ve been prowling around all day skipping from thing to another, accomplishing nothing, and feeling my frustration level growing. It's felt like one big rising anxiety attack signaling an oncoming hot flash of major temperatures. By noon time, I told myself to settle down. I did a small load of laundry and hung it out to dry, saving on electricity, the cost of which is rising faster than a plume of volcanic ash from Kilauea.

The cause? Hard to say. Chalk it up to having four days left on the Big Island before heading back to New York. For the past two days the talk on the island is about the expected price increases of everything. Seems Hawaii has been plunged into the dark ages because Aloha’s air cargo division decided to shut down when two potential buyers back away. The defunct cargo delivery workhorse for the Hawaiian Islands leaves everyone wondering how not so fresh strawberries from California , Sony TV’s for the shelves at Costco and letters from the mainland will make it to paradise.

After test riding a kick-around-town bike at a local shop, I asked the shop associate about receiving bikes from the mainland. The chubby handle-barred employee, looked like he belonged in a pair of Lederhosen, rolled his eyes and said, "It has been messed up for weeks.” Apparently the hand writing has been on the wall for some time, despite rumors to the contrary. Brief talk buzzed about the Governor's call for the National Guard. This follows the big stink the residence on the east side of the Big Island raised about low flying military planes. As a result that ain’t happening any more.

Maybe the National Guard needs to storm the palace in downtown Honolulu instead. There, a native Hawaiian group that advocates sovereignty locked the gates of a historic palace saying it would “carry out the business” of what it considers the legitimate government of the islands. Oh brother. They will be gone when it is time to stand in line for food stamps.

Ouch, you see the mood? I think I’ll go back to watching my laundry dry. I got to shoo the geckos way to be sure they don't poop on it.