Stepping Stones

When we were younger—not young, just younger—and you were two, maybe three weeks old, Abu (grandmother) carried you in the crook of her arm and exclaimed with delight, “She fits just like a loaf of bread!”  It was a cold December, but a warm Christmas, followed by a quiet New Year as the new millenium dawned.  I wasn’t much help during that visit.  I tried, by taking the big, white dog for walks, but if we got too far from home, she would just sit down and not budge until I turned back.

We stayed four weeks, to return in the spring when there were walks in the wooded park.  And the big, white dog would bark and strain at the leash to chase squirrels while you, bundled up, rolled along in the stroller.  We would grow to know that park well, and would return again and again on later visits.  And sometimes Uncle A would also be there.

When you started to walk, you would help push the stroller along the paths until you decided you would rather ride.  In later years you would skip ahead of us on walks, perhaps stopping to play on the equipment in that small playground.

You were shy when you first enrolled at Montessori.  Sometimes Abu and I would go with your mother to pick you up.

Later when you entered middle school, Abu and I would walk over to get you and we would stop at Jamba Juice on the way home.

There was that Christmas at a ski resort with the entire family, when I watched you dad offer support as you cautiously circled the skating rink.

Then suddenly you were graduating from high school.  The ceremony was at night in a continuous, cold rain and your parents, Uncle A, and I sat on hard bleachers, thoroughly soaked, while you and the other four hundred seniors with wet, limp gowns went up one by one to receive you diplomas.

College came that fall.  You made new friends, studied, worked jobs, shared apartments. made road trips, and grew into being yourself.  

And then, college was over. Last week was graduation, this time on a bright sunny afternoon.  Your mom, two uncles and I, with two of your friends cheered loudly when your name was called and you walked across that stage.

This fall you will be back in school all the way east in New York.  You decided to follow your heart and enroll in culinary school where you will learn the techniques and arts of the kitchen.  To slice, season, saute, stew, roast, and perhaps bake the perfect loaf of bread.

A Human Author

Welcome to Current Topics, where you will always hear electrifying talks on subjects of immediate interest.  These talks are being recorded for later access on our site.  Our speaker today is Robyn Byrd who will describe how she became a most unique best selling author.  Without further ado, Ms. Byrd.

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  Well, best selling if you can say that of an author whose output is counted in double digits.  To explain that, I’ll start at the beginning.  I was a script writer for studio productions, both television and movies.  The Writers Guild strike of 2023 was prolonged and ultimately resolved but to neither side’s satisfaction. slide—here I am on the picket line.  Studios already made extensive use of CGI or computer generated imagery in films and had even tried to do a full-length film—that was Polar Express, a Christmas movie—completely computer generated, but it met with a mixed response because the process was not mature at the time.  So given the writer’s strike, it was understandable that the studios would think about producing scripts using AI.

From the writers’ standpoint, when word of these early trials got out, it was betrayal.  A breaking of a long-held unspoken understanding with the studios.  From the studios’ standpoint it was economics.  And guess who eventually prevailed?  Right!  

But it wasn’t just the studios.  Change was occurring across society.  From bank tellers to legal assistants to the factory floor.  Automation and AI were replacing humans.  And yes, authors.  When a publishing house—I know, not many left—could order a novel with a specified number of pages in the style of, say Faulkner, with a specified era and location about a specified subject and receive a manuscript that only the dedicated Faulkner scholar could tell was a forgery, well, the barn door was wide open.  Want pseudo-Agatha Christie?  No problem.  A lost Steinbeck manuscript?  Can do that.  Of course there was still room for the truly original and gifted voice in writing.  But for the formulaic adventure story, love story, mystery, western?  AI took care of those.

Well, I knew I didn’t have one of those gifted, original voices.  And I was out of the job that I knew and loved.  I looked around and realized that almost everything was mass produced.  But there seemed to be a high end market for things that were scarce and original.  Art of all kinds was still being bought.  Hand crafted furniture—the one of a kind piece that demonstrated the owner’s status and taste.  The hand knitted sweater.  Things that bore the touch of a human mind and hand.  And who were the people who could afford these objects?  The technocrats, the money people, the creative people, the CEOs and the entrepreneurs—people who worked mostly with their minds and not their hands.

My friend, Henry Clay, is a potter—well, he calls himself a ceramicist when he talks to clients.   He’s been doing very well making one of a kind dinner services, selling at selected outlets catering to the one percenters. slide—here’s Henry at his wheel and—slide—here he is with one of his dinner services—  A light bulb went off.  Henry works with mud.  I work with words.  What if I wrote and then hand produced a limited number of works of fiction?  Like original art prints.  Would there be people who would buy them to display on their one of a kind coffee tables? 

Writing stories was no problem given my background, though they tend to be heavy on dialogue.  I already had the basic necessities.  Laptop, laser printer.  I just needed to acquire the skills and tools of book binding, the more hand crafted the better.  Found a mentor and learned the trade.  slide—John Inkstone has been binding and rebinding books for forty plus years—And acquired the tools.  You can find almost anything online, which seems ironic given what I was trying to do.  A friend who’s a printmaker agreed to make a print relating to the story for the front piece, for a small percentage of the sales.  slide—this is Jonny Tu with the print she did for my first book—Found a source of natural fabrics for the covers.  Depending on the story, I will make different covers.  For example, denim if it’s a blue collar story; tartan if it’s set in Scotland; black silk for a bodice ripper.

The initial trial run was of twelve, that I took around to galleries and interior decorators and explained what I was trying to do.  slide——And this is the first copy of that run—I was thrilled when I was able to place ten on consignment.  Then I waited.  If this didn’t work, it was back to the unemployment line.  

When word came of the first sale, I was ecstatic.  The other nine sold within a month.  I felt that I was on to something.  The next run and all subsequent ones was of forty.  I had no trouble placing them. And they sell.  And that’s my story.  In a world flooded with machine-made objects, there is a desire, a need, to possess something made by another human being.

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We do have some time for questions.  

Yes.  The woman in back in a purple blouse.  Why a run of forty?  I didn’t want the series to be too large, like say a hundred.  That would detract from the idea that this is a limited edition.  Oh, and I number the books on the title page like prints.  I also include a pair of white cotton gloves with each copy to reinforce the idea that what the reader holds is of value and should be handled with care and respect.

The man with a beard in front.  Did I consider setting type rather than using a laser printer?  No.  I don’t have the skills and that would frankly be just too much work.  But an acquaintance is handwriting his books on handmade paper.  Needless to say, his calligraphy is beautiful and his truly one of a kind books are priced at ten times or more than mine.  Yes, much like what the monk scribes did.

The woman on the aisle in yellow.  How do I determine my price?  I talked to gallery owners to see what limited edition prints were selling for.  And then set a median figure.

Why not in bookstores?  Because I’m selling these as original handcraft or artwork and they would be out of place among the best sellers and popular books.

The man in front in the Hawaiian shirt.  Do I still use and compensate my artist friend?  Yes.  Jonny silkscreens forty prints that relate to the story, numbers and signs them, and I pay her five percent of the net sales.

Sorry, but I’m being signaled that that’s all the time we have.  Thank you for your interest and your questions.   I’ll be happy to stay around afterwards and talk. 

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On Memorial Day, this is for the classes of 1950 and 1954 and 1958. My classes sequentially in Honolulu and Cambridge and Boston.

Where Have All The Flowers Gone

(adapted from Pete Seeger)

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright in the morning sun,

Long time ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Faded, scattered every one.

When will they ever learn, when will they ever learn?

————-

Where have all the young maids gone?

Long time passing.

Strong and graceful, without fear,

Long time ago.

Where have all the young maids gone?

Grown grey and tired, long in years.

When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?

————-

Where have all the young men gone?

Long time passing.

Swift and certain of their dreams.

Long time ago.

Some are gone and some remain,

Moving slow with aches and canes.

When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?

————-

And where have all the children gone?

Long time passing.

Full of wonder, spirits free.

Long time ago.

Where have all the children gone?

They’ve grown to be like you and me.

When will we ever learn, when will we ever learn?

————-

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright—in the morning sun,

So long ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Faded, scattered every one.

What did we ever learn, what did we ever know?

What did we ever know?

Hero Hunt

He crouched, head down, clutching his sword, hoping to blend into the bushes around him as he heard the hunter tracking along the trail above.  The hunter moved past and he waited a long time before cautiously raising his head, lest the hunter had doubled back in the hopes of luring him out of hiding and ambushing him.

Song was to die for treason.  He dared to speak out publicly and to write that the regime was wrong to spend so much on weapons and so little to improve the lot of the people.  That the Supreme Leader, Defender of the Realm, should change his priorities and place the welfare of the common people first.  And so he was sentenced to die by slow hanging.  His cell was filthy, meals less than meager, and frequent physical abuse by the guards a given. 

Two days before his sentence was to be carried out, he was taken from his cell to a small barren room where a black suited man was seated behind a dingy table.  The guard stood by the door while the man spoke, “You do not deserve this, but I am offering you a chance to avoid hanging for your treasonous actions and live, if you participate in the Hero Hunt.”

Song’s mind raced.  A chance to live?  A hero hunt?  “What…,” he finally said.

“Rich capitalists pay the state for the privilege of hunting down and killing condemned vermin such as you.  If you can avoid being killed for three days, then your life will be spared and you will be expelled to another nation.”

“And if I don’t accept this offer?”

“Why then you will be hanged in disgrace as scheduled.”

“I have no choice, it seems.”

“Good, you will participate in the next hunt.  You will be moved to a cleaner cell and be given a better diet until the hunt.  The filthy rich capitalists want to get their money’s worth by having a good hunt against a worthy quarry which means someone who is strong and physically healthy.”

The guard opened the door for the man in black and, as he rose to leave, Song asked, ”How many have survived the hunt?”

The man smiled thinly, “I shouldn’t answer your impertinent question, but I will.  None.  But  there is always the chance that you may be the first.”

Curry had inquired out of curiosity.  A skilled hunter, he had participated in several Combat Hunts involving armed androids, but the novelty and challenge had worn thin.  Then he heard of “Hero Hunts.”  It sounded too outlandish to be true.  A hunt to the death involving real persons?

He was scheduled for an orientation video conference to learn more.  His contact was a beautiful woman, age about thirty, who spoke accented but fluent english.  “Yes Mr. Curry, that is correct.  The hunt does involve humans.  They are prisoners, usually male, who have already been sentenced to death for the most heinous crimes.  Murder, rape, rape-murders, vicious assaults.  The scum of the earth.  They volunteer to participate in the Hunt as a means of redressing their debt to society.  As the hunter, you would be doing no more than bringing them to justice.  And if you are a good marksman, as I assume you are, then you would be granting the prisoner a quick and relatively painless death rather than one by hanging,  From your inquiry questionnaire, I see that you are a veteran of the android combat hunt where the quarry is armed with a handgun.  The quarry in our hunts is also armed, with a traditional three foot short sword.  So there is some element of danger to you since the prisoner is highly motivated to survive the three day duration of the hunt.”

“What happens if he does survive?” Curry asked.

  “If he does, his life is spared and he is exiled to another country.  Also, there is no refund of the entry fee if that happens and the hunter does not score a kill.  Any other questions?  No?  Then I will check back with you in two days about your decision.”

Curry was a decent man and he wrestled with the idea of hunting down another human and killing him.  It was true that the person he would pursue had already been sentenced to death for some terrible crime.  He deserved to die.  So as the hunter, he would only be carrying out a death sentence that would be done without him, he rationalized, and in a more merciful way.  Even so, could he really be an executioner, really shoot another person?  He’d heard the phrase somewhere that man is the most dangerous game.  Now there was a chance to find out.  His inner hunter won out over his inner humanist.

The woman called back and the contract was signed.  “Don’t worry about not speaking our language.  You will be equipped with a bilingual translating collar that will do simultaneous translation.”

“Will the quarry also be equipped with one?” asked Curry.

“Yes.  In fact that will be your hunt trophy.  After the kill, his collar will be mounted for you to display.  And you will be celebrated as a Hero of the Nation.  We will arrange for your transportation and hotel so you need not do anything further except to pack and decide on your weapon of choice.”

Early one morning, Song was brought to the same room where he elected to be a quarry.  The Hunt Master waited.  “Song, the hunt begins tomorrow.  You will be taken to the hunting preserve immediately so that you can familiarize yourself with the terrain ahead of the hunt.  We do not want the guest hunter to find the hunt too easy.  Otherwise they would leave disappointed by the lack of challenge and tell others which would be bad for future business.  We have ready for you a grey jump suit, a pack with rice balls for your meals, a translator collar that will be locked in place around your neck, and a short sword that you can use to defend yourself.   Should you kill the hunter, you will not be punished.  Now go and make the hunt interesting tomorrow for our guest.”

He was immediately locked into the back of a prison van and, accompanied by two heavily armed guards, driven into forested rocky hills.  “Do not try to escape, one of the guards said.  The perimeter of the hunt area is marked by a highly electrified fence and under observation at all times.  Also, if you should somehow get past the fence or gate, an explosive charge in your neck collar will explode.”  The guards unlocked the gate, pushed him through, relocked the gate and left.

After the sound of the van faded, Song was struck by the quiet.  Only sounds of nature.  Wind ruffling tree branches, bird calls.  “Hello, he shouted but there was not even the hint of an echo.  Well, I’d better get started exploring, he thought.  The preserve was a rough square, 1.5 kilometers to a side.  There were a few deer trails and others that looked less permanent, remnants of past hunts perhaps.  He didn’t dwell on that thought too long.  The perimeter fence was painted bright red and Song followed it along two sides before realizing that he also needed to explore the interior.  The preserve was dominated by one high point, a rocky hill bare at the top overlooking the rest of the area that was mostly forest.  From the top Song noted several open areas below to be avoided.  He found two small caves.  Too obvious, not suitable for hide outs.  The underbrush had leafed out, this being early summer, and Song realized that not only did that make movement through it slower and noisier, but that he would leave a trail that would be obvious to a skilled hunter.  Wait, Song thought, perhaps I can turn that to my advantage.  What if I tramp out some trails like a sort of maze coming off the main trail?   That may confuse the hunter and buy some time—I need to stay alive for three days.  I’d better get to work while there’s still day light.  Song laid out some trails that ended blindly and others that doubled back on themselves, working until it was twilight.  He ate two rice balls and drank from the canteen that he’d filled from the stream running through the area.  The hunter may watch along the stream for me to come for water.  Now better sleep while I can.  But sleep did not come easily.  

He picked a spot for the night on a small rise off aways from the gate area but where he could still hear an arriving vehicle.  An hour after sunrise, he heard a Land Rover pull up to the gate.  He heard the Hunt Master say before driving off, “Good hunting, Mr. Curry,” and his heart rate increased and his palms felt clammy.   

Now it begins, he thought, as he watched Curry start up the trail to the top of the hill.  He’s getting the lay of the land.  I need to stay well hidden and motionless while he’s up there.  Song had decided that his best chance was to carefully follow behind, since the hunter would be looking forward most of the time.  He saw Curry stop to look at one of the false trails he’d laid the previous day, and then move on.  Not going to waste time on an old trail.  

Curry set up his shelter at the top of the hill and sat down with binoculars to first methodically scan the entire preserve.  He placed a perimeter alarm so that his quarry could not sneak up on him at night.  Song watched from below and was getting a cramp from lying motionless when he saw Curry stand up, pick up his carbine and start down the hill.  Looks like he is going to search the terrain on foot.  I’ll follow him quietly.  Curry stopped suddenly from time to time to listen and Song had to stay alert to stop moving whenever he did.  Song remained undetected for the first day.  

The second day began with Curry again surveying the area from the top after sunrise.  Later he found where Song had slept and had also relieved himself.  I think he’s on to what I did yesterday.  I’ll try going in the opposite direction from him.  He almost ran into Curry but heard him coming in time to duck into cover.  With luck he was undetected but it was a close call.

On the third morning, Song was up before sunrise.  So was Curry with his binoculars to visually sweep the preserve.  The sun was rising when he saw Curry pause his scanning and look back in his direction.  Curry stood and started down from his camp.  Could he have spotted me?  Did my glasses reflect the sun?  Why didn’t I sleep on the east side?  He felt the icy sweat of fear and began to move as quickly and with as little noise as he could.  This time Curry had no trouble finding and following his passage through the brush until he finally saw a figure dressed in grey moving ahead of him.  As Song began to cross one of the clearings, Curry called out, “You might as well stop and end this chase.  I have you in my sights.”

Song turned, breathing hard, clutching his sword.  He saw that Curry had his carbine trained on him and briefly wondered about charging him.  To go down fighting.  Curry wondered the same and kept his finger ready to pull the trigger.  But Song decided, I’ll not die like a desperate cornered rat.  He stood up as straight as he could and flung the sword aside.  “If I am to die, I’ll do it like a man.  Go ahead and shoot if you must.  Aim well.”  

“Before I execute you, tell me what terrible crime you committed to receive a death sentence. Murder, rape, assault?” Curry asked.  

“I was sentence to death for treason by publicly saying that our Glorious Leader should put the needs of the people first instead of the army.”

“Wait,” said Curry, “ Say that again.  You aren’t a violent criminal?”

Song repeated what he had said, then asked, “Is that what they told you?”  

“Yes.  That I would be carrying out a just sentence by executing you for violent crimes.”

“Well if you believe that go ahead and do it without further questions.  You will be called a hero, for ridding the realm of me and my ideas.”

Curry lowered his carbine, “I can’t kill a man because of his thoughts.”  He walked warily towards Song still holding his gun at the ready.  He bent and picked up the sword.  “Tell me about yourself.  What’s your name?”

The next morning the Land Rover returned with the Hunt Master.  As he got out he saw Song and Curry standing side by side waiting.  He frowned, “You are a poor hunter, Mr. Curry.  There is no refund for an unsuccessful hunt and there will be no Hero Certificate or trophy.”

“Oh I think the hunt was quite successful,” said Curry.  “And I think I found my trophy.”

“And I met a hero,” said Song. 

Fable

You want to hear a story to kill time while we wait?  Might as well.  We got nothing else to do.  

Okay. The story starts with a man walking on a beach, late in the afternoon an hour before sunset.  Where was the beach?  It really doesn’t matter as far as the rest of the story goes.  What was the man doing there?  Maybe he was getting in some exercise to build up his appetite for dinner or maybe he was just looking for shells or pretty beach glass or maybe he just wanted to set his mind at ease—I don’t know; he was just there.  What was his name?  I guess we could call him John if you like.  

So John—happy now?—was walking along the water’s edge, but not in the water, scuffing up sand as he went, when he spied a long barnacle incrusted green glass bottle, newly washed ashore.  How did he know it had just washed up?  Because it was still wet.  Oh. 

That’s been in the water a long time John thought as he stooped to picked it up, planning to pitch into a beach recycling container.  Huh, he observed, it’s still stoppered in spite of all the time it’s been in the sea, and with a bright gold stopper at that.  Could it really be gold, he wondered?  Why did he wonder that?  

Well he thought that it might be gold because gold doesn’t corrode in salt water.  So to go on with the story, Jim—Wait, wasn’t his name John?—oh yeah, thanks—John gave the stopper a little tug, but it was really stuck.  He didn’t want to break the bottle so he worked very carefully, giving the stopper little tugs and twists until finally he felt it start to turn and then it came loose and he held it in the palm of his left hand.  It’s pretty heavy—I bet it’s really gold he thought excitedly.  

John was so focused on the stopper that he didn’t see a gray mist rising from the bottle and beginning to form a shape in the air above him.  He was so startled when he finally did notice it that he almost dropped the bottle.  Instead he quickly set the bottle down in the sand and retreated ten feet away.  The mist solidified into a human shape, dressed in a flowing white robe like you see Arabs wear..  A genie?  And dressed in a robe?  The genie in ‘Aladdin’ didn’t wear a robe.  Yes, it was a genie and I realize that in “Aladdin,” the genie is dressed very differently but that’s just how Disney thought genies should look,  The one in this story  had a different tailor.  Humph.

You know what come next in these genie stories.  After stretching—after all it had been bottled up for many hundreds of years—the genie smiled at John..  Why had it been bottled up?  Was it a bad genie?  No, I don’t know why it had been bottled up.  It’s just part of the story.  Anyway, the genie bowed low, then smiled at John and said in a deep bass voice, “You have my eternal gratitude for freeing me from cruel confinement.  By the rules of genie-hood, I am allowed to grant you three wishes as a sincere token of my thanks.  There are only two stipulations.  First, all wishes granted are irrevocable.  Second, all wishes will be fulfilled literally.  And third, one of the wishes cannot be to force me back into the bottle or any other container.”  Wait, you said two stipulations earlier.  Did I say two stipulations?  Sorry, my mistake, I meant to say three.

“Consider your choices carefully,” continued the genie, “For example you cannot simply wish for ‘untold wealth.’  You need to state an actual figure and in a specific currency or some other valuable commodity such as gold or rubies.  And after I have granted all your wishes, I will return to you and you must say, ‘Now I free you.’”

Did you go to genie law school? John asked while thinking, this is a really weird dream. Wonder if  I’ll remember it when I wake up.

As if it could read his mind, the genie said, “This is not a dream.  Any wish you make will have real results or consequences.  So take your time to decide because this is really happening.”

Now John was an idealist and so he sat down in the sand and began to think about what he could wish for, if indeed this was real, that would do the most good for the most people. 

Finally he said, “My first wish is for all of mankind, all humans in the world, from this day forward, to never again make war or any other conflict against each other.”

“I shall grant your wish,” said the genie.  “And I admire your idealism, but wishing for a ton of gold would be easier for me to fulfill..”

“My second wish,” said John, ignoring the genie’s comment, “Is that mankind stop polluting the planet so that the warming of our planet will be reversed.”

“That too I can grant,” said the genie.

“And my third wish is that the first two wishes shall be completed during my lifetime which will be the usual human one of seventy to one hundred years.”

“That too shall be granted,” said the genie.  “You also must have gone to law school.”

“When will you start?” asked John.

“Immediately,” said the genie.  “But it may take some time at first.  Just go about your life and say nothing to anyone about this.  I will appear before you when your first two wishes are completed.”

John put the gold stopper into a shorts pocket and dropped the bottle into a recycling bin on his way home.  Kind of a nothing start to your story.  Where’s the action?   Wait, I’ll get there.

John waited impatiently thinking that some event would soon appear in the news,  But there was nothing for a month.  

The first news report on CNN was that a severe pneumonic illness had appeared in the Australian  Outback, apparently with a 100% mortality rate.  But then it spread with such rapidity that there was no time to even characterize the causative agent because medical personal and laboratory workers who were exposed to it immediately died.  The swirling global wind currents carried the agent—be it viral or bacterial—everywhere, even to the most remote islands and Polar regions.  Within two months, earth had been de-peopled with the sole exception of John.  WTF! Where the hell did that come from?

You wanted action so here it is.  Huh!  Wait, there’s more.  With the people gone, factories stopped, there were no more cars, the burning of fossil fuels ended, there was no more plastic pollution.  And levels of carbon dioxide and methane began to fall and the atmosphere began to clear.  Of course there were a few nuclear plants that melted down, but in the long view, those accidents too would heal.

As John wandered in a daze as the sole human survivor, a lone Adam with no Eve, the genie appeared before him again.  “Your three wishes have been delivered, and now you must release me.”

“But I didn’t want them to be granted like this,” John wailed, falling to his knees.  “Please.  Can’t I take them back?”

“I told you they would be irrevocable,” said the genie.

“But by killing everybody?”

“You know the history of mankind.  There was always war happening somewhere on the planet.  This was the only way to insure that man would never again make war against himself, which is what your wish stated.  And without man, the pollution stopped.  I have faithfully carried out your wishes.  Now you must release me.”

“Go, just go.  You’ve done enough.  You are free, but please kill me too before you go.”

“Sorry, you were allowed just three wishes,” and with that the genie disappeared into a wisp of smoke.  And that’s it?  That’s it?  Everybody dead?  What a shitty ending. 

“You wanted a happier ending than peace on earth?”  

Valentine’s Day is past, but we’re still in the same month. So it’s not to late for a love song, melody based on an old Country-Western song.

DREAMS

Melody “When I Dream” by Sandy Mason.  

Sung by Crystal Gayle, Willy Nelson and others

Once I dreamt of someone, whose face I could not see,

Hoping that a girl somewhere was waiting there for me.

For I was oh so young then, and yes so very green,

To think that I could meet someone whose face I’d never seen.

But when I dreamed it was of you,

Hoping someday that dream would come true.

When we met that summer, at first there were no sparks,

The kisses that we first exchanged, seemed no more than a lark.

But friendship grew, so that—by summers end,

It seemed we could be turning into, something more than friends.

Now when I dreamed I saw your face,

All my dreams had found their place.

But gifts that youth bestows upon us, age can take away,

The bright, blue skies of springtime, became December grey.

I loved you in the spring and summer and on into the fall,

That will never change, even as snow begins to fall.

Yet—when I dream it’s still of you,

You made my dreams, our whole life come true.

Yes when I dream it’s still of you,

You made my dreams, our whole life come true.

December came and went like a flash and I never did get around to even thinking about what to post what with family home for the first time in a year and all the Holiday activities.  And now it is January 2023,  the Year of the Rabbit by the Asian zodiac.  So no story but a series of happenings.

Insert Foot in Mouth and Bite Once Before Removing

On The Ground

“Well, why don’t you just look before you sit?” I said in response to my wife’s complaint after she sat down on the cold toilet bowl rim.  I leave it to your imagination about the “conversation” that followed, but thereafter, I always put the seat down after using the toilet.

I bought a car battery at the auto shop at Penney’s Kahala Mall.  (Yes, there once was a Penney’s where the theaters now are.)  Shortly afterwards, setting off to go to work and to take the kids to school, there was an immediate loud BOOM from the Karmann Ghia’s engine compartment when I turned on the ignition.  The battery had exploded.  

In the meantime Penney’s had closed their auto shop in the Kahala store.  So I drove out to their Pearlridge store the following Saturday and walked into the auto shop carrying the shattered battery in a cardboard box and plopped it on the counter.  The two girls silently looked at it as I explained what had happened.  One of the girls took it through a door to the back.  We heard a man exclaim, “Holy shit, annada one!”  The remaining girl looked off into space.  I took the replacement battery that the other girl brought out and left.

I was checking out at Longs when the young cashier said, handing me my receipt, “You have beautiful white hair.” I was startled.  No one had complemented me on my hair before, so I thanked her.  But then she went on to say, “But I guess I’ll have to wait sixty years for mine.”

“You’ve got that right,” I replied.

You have to know when you’ve said enough. 

In The Air

It was a UAL redeye to San Francisco, with an ETA of 0540.  There must have been a really strong tailwind and towards the end of the flight, the lead cabin attendant announced that we would be arriving thirty-five minutes early.  This meant that I would have a forty minute wait at the airport until my scheduled shuttle ride to Palo Alto arrived and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one with a pickup or transfer wait in an empty airport.  Instead of just stopping after making the announcement, the attendant went on to conclude, “So the next time you fly United and there’s a delay, just consider it a wash.”  

You have to know when you’ve said enough.

We were landing at Dresden in a Lufthansa Boeing 737.  It had been an uneventful flight, and I could see the runway coming up to meet us as we set down.  The engines suddenly roared and the plane lunged forward and began to climb rapidly until we leveled off again.  The pilot came on the intercom and gave a lengthy explanation in German.  He then said in English, “We had to go around again.”  Clearly something was lost in translation.

The end of the same trip.  We were returning to the States in a UAL Boeing 777, taking off from Heathrow.  At that time you could listen to the communications between pilot and tower on the seat audio system, and I often did so out of curiosity.  We were steadily climbing; below I could see the rooftops of London homes when there was a loud BOOM, the plane lurched to the left, and a whiff of smoke came into the cabin.  The lead cabin attendant was German and she immediately came on to say “Don’t worry, the captain has everything under control.”  But I could hear the pilot talking to the flight controllers, and while he wasn’t panicked, there was an urgency to his voice as he requested an immediate emergency return to the airport, explaining that the left engine had exploded.  This was granted, the runway designated.  We had now leveled off, and began a slow turn to return.  The captain came on the intercom, now sounding calm, and explained in the easy drawl that pilots sometimes affect, that the plane had an engine problem and he had shut down the left engine but the plane could easily fly on just one engine.  And by the way, that mist that we could see streaming past our windows wasn’t smoke, but fuel that was being dumped (over London!) to lighten the plane before landing.  There were very loud cheers as we touched down.

In the Office.

The man looked to be in his seventies when he brought a young boy in for a routine check.  They were new patients.  After I introduced myself and took a history, I complimented the man on being such a caring grandfather that he brought his grandson to the doctor.  “I’m his father,” the man said.  (Guess you could see that coming.)  “Oh, uh, well let’s go on with his exam.”

I had not seen her for a year when she brought her child in for an exam.  “Your son is so lucky to have a new brother or sister soon,” I commented.  “I’m not pregnant,” his mother replied.  I think I just went on with the exam—how do you get your foot out of your mouth after something like that?  Say sorry?  That could be interpreted as I’m sorry you’re not pregnant, or I’m sorry you’ve gained so much weight, or  I’m sorry I’m an ass for saying that.

And the diagnosis is Foot in Mouth Disease.

November—fall’s end and winter’s entry.  And some years, election month.  It’s been particularly hard recently to remember that we are not the Blue-and-Red States of America, but the UNITED States of America.

Seasons

The hills are green again,

After summer’s dry brown brittleness.

Rain soaks deep to the roots

Of dormant shrubs and grasses.

Roots swell, the grass sprouts green,

Sap flows upwards in trees, 

Pushing out tender new leaves on koa and keawe.

Winter in Hawaii.

In the Washington Cascades,

Green leaves turned yellow, then brown.

And fell away

From dark skeletal branches 

Bristling upward against a low gray sky.

The somber winter tones

Await their covering of white snow.

Only the warm touch of distant spring 

Will waken their color.

The same month– 

Yet in one place life quickens, 

While in the other it slows.

If a season can have several meanings

Can’t it be so with other things?

Sand Crabs

I’ve never seen a live one there.

Just holes they dig along the watermark.

Big holes with high heaps of sand piled seaward,

And small ones with sand out spread fan-shaped and low.

Do small hole-diggers ever get to pile up heaps?

And did the big ones ever spread their sand?

Why the different styles of digging?

It’s the same beach.

The Old Man and the Van

Marco and BB first noticed the ancient blue Pontiac minivan parked by the vacant lot on their quiet street in mid-August.  Despite its age and dents, it was clean and seemed well maintained.  On some days the old man who owned it would drive off, but then would always come back to the same spot later in the day where it would remain parked through the night.  On other days he would unload an old black bicycle from the back of the van and leave it parked while he rode off on the bike, to return before dark. 

After a week, Marco and BB decided that the old man must be sleeping in the van.  Marco’s actual name was Marcus, but BB began to call him Marco after a game of Marco Polo, and the nickname stuck.  And BB’s name?  On the playground in fourth grade, Johnson called out to BB, real name Boswell Butte, ‘Hey Butte, you got a big butt,’ which got a big laugh.  But that also stuck, and although it was later shortened to BB, everyone knew what it stood for.  

Marco convinced BB to tell his dad of their suspicions since the Buttes lived on the street and Marco’s home was a street over.  The boys didn’t want the old man to be chased away; they were just curious about him, but were too shy to speak to him themselves.  So on a Friday after work, Mr. Butte walked over to the car, keeping a smile on his face as he approached it.  After all, these days with all the guns floating around and so many of the homeless—if indeed that was the case for the old man—with some sort of psychological problem, Mr. Butte did not want to come across as threatening.  The old man looked up as BB’s dad approached while BB watched from his front steps, but he could not hear what was being said.  After a while, the man got out of the van and stood leaning against it as they continued to talk; then they shook hands and BB’s dad waved goodbye as he walked home.

BB was all ears as his dad filled in BB’s mom and him about what he’d learned.  Yes, the old man—Carl Herman—was living in the van.  He’d lost his wife and then his home, had no immediate family, and was living on social security. He was 84 and no, he did not appear dangerous.  He seemed quite sane, just down on his luck.  Yes, the van, from what he could see, was pretty neat, Carl’s clothes looked clean, and no, he did not smell.  BB’s dad was for leaving him alone and letting him park there.  After all, he had to live somewhere and this street was a lot safer for an old guy then many other places.  And besides, he was quiet, wasn’t bothering anyone and wasn’t being a nuisance.  BB’s mom was dubious at first, but came around after BB’s dad said that he would talk to the other neighbors and let them know about Carl.  BB felt a little thrilled, to have an actual homeless person on their street.  Wait till I tell Marco.

The boys began to wave at Carl when they passed on their bikes and he waved back and, after a few days, BB felt bold enough to add hello to which Carl replied.  Carl was happy that the boys were curious and friendly.  He felt that it was a sign that he was at least tolerated on the street and that he most likely would not be reported to the police as a vagrant.  BB’s mom did caution the boys not to get too friendly with Mr. Herman and certainly not to get in his van if he offered them a ride, or to accept any food or drink from him. 

BB thought that living in a car must be kind of like camping out in a tent.  It must be fun in a way.  You could just go set up anywhere you wanted to.  He told Marco and Marco said why don’t we just ask him what it’s like.  They stopped by after school and found Carl sitting on a folding camp stool, the curb side of the van in the shade, peeling an apple.  No he said, he lived in the van because he had to.  He would much rather still be living in the small house that he used to have, but he’d lost it and the van was all he had left.  You just do what you have to do.  Carl offered them a slice of the apple and while BB, mindful of his mother’s words politely declined, Marco accepted.   The old man told them he was glad they stopped by to talk and to feel free to do so any time he was in.  He didn’t have too many social contacts and was happy that the boys felt comfortable with him, since he had no grandchildren or children of his own.

The boys began to stop by regularly when they didn’t have other things to do; baseball practice didn’t start till after the new year.  They were curious about his life and Carl was quite happy to answer their questions.  It felt good that some people actually wanted to hear about him.  Had he been in the Great War that they were studying in history class?  No he was too young for that war, but he’d been in the Korean War but never actually fought because he was in the quartermasters, which he had to explain.  After the war he worked in mostly sales jobs, the last being with a Pontiac dealer (he had to explain about Pontiacs) until the company went out of business and no one would hire him because he was too old.  Yes, he and his wife wanted children, but couldn’t.  And then she died and then he lost their house when the landlord raised the rent.  And so now he was their neighbor.  Carl was quite open to questions such as about his meals—some prepared at the beach park, some fast foods; about where he bathed—at the beach showers, and he used restrooms that were open to the public.  All this information BB and Marco repeated to their families.  BB’s mom became less concerned about Carl and perhaps even began to worry a little about him.  She began to send BB over with left overs on paper plates after dinner sometimes.

When October arrived, BB told Carl that the houses on the street usually decorated for Halloween and excitedly described what decorations the Buttes were planning.  Carl thought about what he should do.  He didn’t want to be empty handed if any trick or treaters knocked on his windshield—after all, he didn’t need any tricks played on him.  So he bought a bag of miniature candies just in case.  And a light-up plastic jack o’lantern that he thought would look fitting on his roof.  On Halloween, he watched the parents with younger children go by without approaching his van.  Guess the parents are being careful about me, he thought, feeling a bit sad that he was still not totally trusted.  But later as the evening got darker, the older kids began making their rounds.  BB and Marco had told their friends about Mr. Herman, and so some of them approached yelling trick or treat.  He had his bag of candy ready to dole out.  They said they liked his jack o’ lantern.  He recognized BB and Marco because they had mentioned how they would be costumed.  “Wait,” he said, “I’ve saved these for you” and he handed them each a supersized candy bar.  Big score!

At Thanksgiving, BB’s mom gave BB a paper tray of turkey, stuffing, yams, and a slice of pumpkin pie to bring to Carl before they sat down to their own dinner.  Carl was touched to the point of tears when BB said he couldn’t stay and talk because they hadn’t had their dinner yet.  He wasn’t getting leftovers, he was being given the first serving!  

To show his gratitude for their kindness, Carl bought a small pot of poinsettias for Christmas and walked over and left it on the Butte’s steps with a note of thanks.  Later, BB’s father walked back with BB and thanked Carl for his thoughtfulness but assured him that he really didn’t need to do that, that they were happy to share what they had with him.  After all, though he didn’t say it to avoid embarrassing Carl, social security payments were not that generous.

It was in January that Carl rode off on his bicycle one morning but did not return.  Nor did he return the next day.  BB pressed his father to find out what had happened to him.  But calls to the police produced no information because BB’s father was not a relative.  There was a short item in the paper that an elderly man on a bicycle had been struck by a car and taken in serious condition to the county hospital.  But again, hospital policy prevented the release of any information except to relatives.  Finally there was short news item weeks later that the old man, now identified as Carl Herman had died of his injuries and efforts were being made to contact any relatives.  BB and Marco were saddened when Mr. Butte told them the news.  They asked what would happen to him because he didn’t have any relatives.  None that we know of replied Mr. Butte, but maybe they will be able to find one he didn’t tell you about.  But what will they do if they don’t find anyone?  Then the city will bury his ashes in a field where there are other unclaimed bodies.  That made BB feel even worse.

The van sat in its usual spot getting more dusty until one afternoon a tow truck arrived to take it away.  The boys asked where the truck was going.  The city holds auto auctions for abandoned cars and if no one buys them  then they are sold for scrap metal.  That seemed the final sad finale.

Baseball season arrived and the boys got busy with that but still remembered their elderly lost friend.  He told us he’d come to our games, BB said to Marco wistfully.  Summer was followed by fall and October.  Marco told BB that he wasn’t going to trick-or-treat on Halloween this year.  That they were now teens—though barely—and it was time to drop the kid stuff.  Why don’t we just make this our last year, replied BB.  Marco agreed.  Okay, one last time.  But we won’t really costume up—just a mask or bandana with regular shirts.

On Halloween night, they began their rounds as they usually did in the more distant areas of their neighborhood, to finish at BB’s home where they would sort their loot.  More than one household commented on their lack of costume effort and implied that they were just big kids cashing in on free candy.  True.

Later that night when they arrived back at BB’s, the boys were startled to see a Pontiac SUV parked in Mr. Herman’s spot.  It was hard to tell the color in the dark.  “You told me he died,” said Marco.  “And we saw his car towed away.”

“That’s why my dad said he saw in the news.  Maybe the van was bought by someone who brought it here,” replied BB.  “Just a coincidence.”

“Look, it even has a jack o’ lantern on its roof just like Carl had,” Marco pointed out.  “You wanna go see?”

“Sure,” said BB with more confidence than he felt.

The boys could see a figure behind the steering wheel, but couldn’t make out its face and they slowed up, then stopped.  A familiar voice softly called out, “Happy Halloween, BB and Marco.  Come on over.”  They were ready to bolt, but Carl said again, “Don’t be scared, I’m quite harmless.  Come over.”

Scared?  No they weren’t scared, so they slowly approached and then were overjoyed to see that it was Carl in the car.  “Carl, we heard you were dead,” BB exclaimed.

“As you can see, here I am,” Carl replied.  “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“And your car was towed away,” Marco added.

“And yet, here we both are,” Carl replied with a large smile.  “How have you boys been?”

“Me and Marco are fine, but are you okay now?”

“Never felt better.  But tell me about yourselves.”

So they did.  It was getting late and finally they told Carl that they had to go in since tomorrow was a school day; that they were so happy that he wasn’t dead and had come back.

“Here boys, it was great to see you again,” and he handed them each a super-sized candy bar.  “Happy Halloween.”

They went into BB’s home to sort the candy as they usually did, and excitedly told his parents that Mr. Herman was back.  Mr. Butte went to the front door to see for himself.  “The van’s gone,” he said on returning.

“He probably went somewhere else,” said BB, still going through his candy.  BB’s father and mother looked at each other.  After Marco left, BB put the sack of candy on his dresser, washed, then brushed his teeth, and changed for bed.  In the morning he checked his candies again before going to school.  But the super-sized candy bar was gone.

It’s Just A Job

The crowd mingled and chatted or stood around quietly while waiting.

“You got your next assignment?’ asked the fireman, the one with a yellow, walrus mustache, to the sailor standing next to him.

“Yeah,” replied the sailor, dressed in a white tee shirt with an oil stain in front and faded cut-off jeans, “Just a short one, crewing a yacht in a hurricane.  You?”

“Pretty standard fire rescue.  One curve ball though, it switches from a house fire to a forest fire before it’s done.  Gets pretty intense.”

“Hey guys,” said the hooker, coming up to join them, ”How’s it going?  Know where you’ll be tonight?”

“Well, we know where you’ll be,” said the sailor, smiling and eyeing her black micro dress, red high, high heels, and billowing red hair.

“Yeah, just the street corners and the johns change,” she replied.  “You lucky guys get all the variety.  And here comes the machete guy.  What’s up, slasher?”

The slasher, face hidden by a smiling Halloween clown mask and holding a blood-stained machete, said, “Getting lots of work this week.  Three, sometimes four jobs a night.  The calls pick up every time a dice-em-up movie comes out.”

“Kids mostly?” asked the fireman.  “And girls?”

“Yeah, but you’d be surprised by how many guys in their twenties too.”

The woman pedestrian one stood by and was joined by the old subway rider ten, holding a folded newspaper.  Indian eleven and posse rider four stood in the back of the group along with GIs fourteen and seventy.  They waited patiently not bothering to converse. 

The storm troopers one through eight waited in their own little cluster.  Not getting that much work now, between sequels, and when they did work, were usually quickly eliminated.

“AARRGH,” roared the huge, deep red boogie monster by way of a greeting, baring its green tinged fangs, as it shambled up to the waiting group.

“Hello boog,” said the fireman, reaching out to rub its head.  The monster wagged its naked forked tail in pleasure.

“I’m curious.  Everybody here got night work this shift?”  asked the fireman, pausing his petting.

“Nah,” said the sailor in disgust.  “I got a day one.  That’s why mine is so short.  Power nap.”

“Yeah, the worst,” agreed the slasher.  “Lucky there are less day jobs compared to night work.”

“Okay everybody, listen up,” Dispatcher shouted, from the stage. “You all got your assignments so let’s get to them.  Make it a good one and see you back here after you’re done.  We’ve got to clear this place out now so the next shift can come in.

Do you ever wonder where the people in your dreams come from?  Not the family and friends that show up at the familiar locations that you know well, but the people that you don’t know, have never seen before, who you meet and talk to in your dreams and then cannot remember what they looked or sounded like after you wake up?  The “extras” in your nightly dramas.  Do they leak out of your id, come from the Sandman, of Gaiman’s modern mythology for the millennial generations, or….?

Now some people will tell you that they never dream, but they do–they just don’t remember after waking, because almost everyone undergoes REM sleep which is when dreams occur.   

Well, this is how it happens. 

August is my wife’s birth month.  We met as students working one summer long-ago in the dining room of a small Jewish hotel in the Catskills, when the Catskills was a prime resort area for Jews from New York City, before travel to Florida became easy.  Chinese  at a Jewish resort?  Soy sauce with your gefilte fish?  And so, two songs for her birthday. 

That Summer

(Song—“The Rose” by Amanda McBroom)

sung by Bette Midler and others

—————

Our lives were joined before I knew you, by the bonds of fate unseen.

I could not know when I first saw you, what you would come to mean.

One quiet girl who waited table, working hard beside the guys.

I did not see what stood before me, for I was slow, not very wise.

—————

But when we talked, I heard your stories, of the burdens that you bore,

Lost your mother, then a sister, had to flee a civil war.

Sixteen alone—you sailed from Asia, for a far and foreign place.

Such strength, such courage and persistence, facing life with grit and grace.

—————

September came, it was the season for us to go our separate ways.

But that kiss, you gave at parting, mystifies me still today.

For in that instant you claimed and bound me. This would be no last goodbye.

From that moment I was certain, that we would meet another day.

Refections

(Song—“Once Upon A Time” by Charles Strouse and Lee Adams) 

sung by Frank Sinatra and others

—————        

Once upon a time, when the world was bright and new.

We kissed beside the shore, beneath a starry sky.

But that was once upon a time, when our years were just a few.

—————

Once upon a time, New York was all aglow.

You answered all my dreams,  when you said you loved me too.

But that was once upon a time, many Christmases ago.

—————

When we were young, the highway had no end,

We thought that there was something new, waiting ‘round each bend.

There was work to do, a family to raise,

How could we know—that—

—————

Journeys have an end.  That the piper wants his fee.

That even love cannot—change our destiny.

But all our once upon a times, live on in memory (x2)