The Hicks Place

May 9, 2012

Things began to go wrong just just after noon.  We were getting ready to take a trip to Alhambra, Ca. to celebrate Mother’s Day with Marcia’s mom, and while we were gone we were going to have the living/dining room, master bedroom and halls of our condo painted.  We had spent the last two days moving books, dishes, lamps, television, smaller pieces of furniture, etc. into the kitchen, guest room and den, and the painters had moved the larger furniture pieces into the middle of the rooms and wrapped them in plastic wrap.  We had packed that morning, Wednesday, and were on our way to the airport.  Our Southwest Airlines flight 562 to Burbank, with scheduled stops in Phoenix and Las Vegas, was scheduled to depart at 3:40 (remember this -- the sequence of stops).

Half-way to the airport we discovered that Marcia's iPhone had apparently been left behind.  We decided against turning back to retrieve it for lack of time.  We had a laptop and my simple cell phone; that would have to do.  Everything went well through check-in, security, and we had time for a sandwich before going to the gate. 

Just as we were walking into the gate area my cell phone rang.  It was an automated call from Southwest to inform me that our flight was delayed for about an hour (so we would have had plenty of time to go back for the phone!)  As we were standing there lamenting that fact, the pilot walked up.  We briefly spoke and he acknowledged that the delay was news to him as well.  About 40 minutes later my phone rang again and another message told me that our gate had been changed and the departure time was further delayed by about 15 minutes.  (remember this -- Southwest had an automated system in place which called passengers directly to explain the flight status).  Things got a little hectic again for awhile during our wait – we were fielding calls from the contractor, who had found the iPhone, and calling our friend Lynn, to ask her to overnight us the iPhone, and then in the melee, the alarm system was set off at the house and calls came in about that…. But otherwise, all was calm.

Our plane pushed back from the gate at shortly after 5pm and our flight was uneventful until just after we could see snow on mountains, likely somewhere in southeast Colorado.  Then a thick cloud cover formed just below our flying altitude, but we remained in bright sunshine.  As we started our descent into Phoenix we began to encounter some roughness which was not alarming but which increased dramatically as we continued.  A couple of announcements about turbulence were made.  It then became apparent that we were in a holding pattern over the city and it had become much darker.  I had a window seat on the left side of the plane; my view was to the south when we finally broke through the clouds.  On that side of the plane it was dark and threatening and the clouds were moving rapidly.  Although it was 6 o'clock local time, the city and vehicle traffic lights were all on.  On the other side of the plane the sun was shining and the horizon was nearly clear.  Marcia pointed and made the anxious joke, “I want to land over there!”  We made another loop to the east and then turned back west, descending now in very gusty conditions, doing a lot of bouncing around.  Finally we made a pretty sharp u-turn and straightened out for the final approach.  We were still being flipped back and forth and occasionally up and down.  Honestly, we were terrified.  As two probably 30-story or higher buildings came into view on my left, it seemed perhaps almost half as tall as our altitude.  The right wing went up sharply, we hung there for a second, and then to my relief I felt and heard the power being increased and I said to Marcia, "Thank God he is pulling up and aborting the landing!"  The cabin was briefly remarkably quiet, but then some sobbing and chatter began.  Gradually gaining altitude and proceeding northeast we flew for perhaps ten minutes before the pilot came on the intercom, acknowledged that we had had a very bad experience, apologized, and told us that we were diverting to Las Vegas to refuel and then would return to Phoenix. 

Return to Phoenix?!  No way!  It was then that I lost it.  I announced to all that I was not flying back to Phoenix.  We had just been through, as George Carlin would have said, "not a near miss, but more accurately, a near crash".  In 45 minutes we would be in Las Vegas, where we were going anyway.  Why should the Burbank passengers be subjected to returning to Phoenix!?  Surely the Las Vegas passengers would be allowed to deplane, so we decided to get off too, and take another flight to Burbank either later that night or sometime early the next day.  Marcia and I even agreed that it would be better to rent a car and drive to the L.A. area rather than be subjected to the anguish of flying back to Phoenix.

We passengers were admonished to stay in our seats, as the weather was still bumpy.  The cabin crew announced that they were in the dark as to what the exact procedure would be when we got to Las Vegas.  I think it was about 7:10 when we arrived.  It took awhile for a gate to become available, but after we finally parked, we were still required to remain in our seats.  We were told that a customer service agent was reviewing the passenger list and making individual arrangements for us.  We waited.  We were again asked to be patient, that momentarily we would get these instructions.  My blood pressure was rising!  A woman who was sick was allowed to get off of the plane.  Then a couple with a baby came from the back of the plane and apparently left.  That confused the flight attendants so we were asked to remain seated so a passenger count could be made.  Then the ground attendant came on the plane, took the microphone, and announced that the weather had improved in Phoenix and we had been cleared to return.  This set off an uproar, but not as loud as my cry of "Burbank", attempting to get her attention to consider the plight of the Burbank passengers.  Marcia calmed me back into my seat and proceeded to the front of the plane where she had a very direct conversation with the head of the cabin crew, who it turns out had not even heard the announcement  by the ground attendant.  She got on the microphone to reassure the passengers that the plane was not returning to Phoenix.  Marcia returned to our seat and I, feigning a need to go to the restroom, went to the front of the plane where I had my second conversation of the day with the pilot.  I told him he had done a great job and thanked him for pulling us out and coming on to Las Vegas.  I explained that we were going on to Burbank and didn't want to go back to Phoenix, we wanted off of the plane.  He said he understood.  Then, the ground attendant returned again, took the microphone, and advised everyone that they had been working on individual plans, but that their home office had just directed them to stop doing so and to send the plane back to Phoenix after all.  After some further discussion with other passengers and another cabin attendant, Marcia joined me with our carry-on bags and we started out the ramp, on the way passing the pilot again and offering him our thanks.   

Once off the plane, several things became clear.  First, the ground crew member and the cabin crew were primarily concentrating on the Phoenix passengers’ situation.  They had not been doing anything to find alternatives for the other passengers.  Secondly, this was probably because neither the flight crew nor the ground crew had any passenger lists whatsoever to work with – on paper or online.  So they not only didn’t know where we were going, they didn’t even know who we were (although wait, didn’t they call us twice on the phone to tell us of flight delays?  How did they manage that?)  Thirdly, it appeared maybe the flight attendants had not even been aware of the final destination of the plane, as they had been expecting to be replaced in Phoenix.  We insisted on getting off.  The agent took our baggage claim tickets, wrote our names on a sheet of paper, and informed us we were voluntarily terminating service but that our bags would be delivered to Burbank at some time and we could claim them there.  She advised us to call their 800 number for additional help. She herself was on a radio begging for additional help because by now, other passengers were starting to crowd the ramp behind us.  By this point, my cell phone battery was down, and my charger was in the suitcase under the plane, so Marcia and I just walked over to another Southwest gate and explained our plight to the attendant and her supervisor, who immediately booked us onto a flight leaving for Burbank in less than an hour.  Marcia went back to retrieve a lady in the jetway who had been in tears and was also bound for Burbank, and the result was that probably another dozen or so passengers followed our lead and were also on our flight to Burbank.  The plane was only about two-thirds full, so there would have been room for others.

We arrived in Burbank without luggage, too late to pick up our rental car, and so stressed out after the trauma that we decided to get a hotel room (at our own expense) and go to bed.  Thursday was a better day.  Our bags, along with many others from that flight, were in fact at the airport, our rental car agency had no vehicles left but we found a car elsewhere, and we are now enjoying our stay in sunny California with Marcia's mom.

In summary, Southwest Airlines has good pilots but their cabin and ground crews as well as their home office staff really dropped the ball on this one! 

Oh, and Phoenix is now on my list along with Chicago and Atlanta of airports to avoid if at all possible.  

 

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Sorry I Haven't Written

A lot has happened since my last post in November.  We bought a condo, sold our house and moved, all of it happening between Thanksgiving and Valentine's day.   Our objective was to "simplify our lives", which essentially means "downsizing", so deciding what we didn't need and selling several items including furniture on Craig's list and a garage sale on the coldest Saturday in January were also involved.  We did have Two Men and a Truck help Marcia with the packing and move us, and luckily our moving day was a sunny, April-like day in early February.

Meanwhile, in little spurts before falling asleep each night I was reading, and one of the books was Tom Brokaw's "The Time of Our Lives".   In it he advocates among other things that Americans consume less, learn to live in smaller houses, drive smaller cars, use less energy etc., which helped confirm that we had made the right decision.  We certainly have never been big consumers or measured success by the size of our house, cars or televisions, but like most middle class Americans our possessions far exceeded our actual needs.  Marcia is a master at selling (and buying) stuff on the internet, so the proceeds from her sales paid for the cost of the move.  

I also made several trips to Goodwill and the Habitat Store with charitable items, both before and after the move.  One of the items I took to Habitat was an old reel-type push lawn mower that had belonged to my mother's parents.  It had been in the corner of the garage for many years and I only tried to use it a couple of times.  Hopefully some family with a small inner-city lot will find it meets their needs perfectly.

It now occurs to me that my life could be defined in terms of lawn mowers.  My father used to tell about the jobs he had as a young man taking care of small cemeteries near Barnard, Indiana.  Rotary mowers were of course unheard of, so a good, smooth working reel mower was to him a necessity.  We had a good one with hard rubber tires when we lived on the Hicks Place.  We had a fairly large yard, sloping down some distance from the two-story white house to the gravel road.  In the yard  were a cherry tree (under which unfortunately was the sand box we kids played in), a large oak tree down near the road, and two beechnut trees west of the house planted so a hammock could be hung between them, though we never had one.  Beside the house were a couple of cedar trees, which my dad took turns topping for Christmas trees each year.

As soon as I was tall enough so that my chin was level with the handle, one of my chores was to help dad cut the grass.  It never got very tall under those beech trees so there it was easy enough for me to push the mower, but the beechnuts scattered on the ground presented a life threatening hazard.  Invariably one of those nuts would suddenly get caught between the reel and the blade of the mower, sending me chin first into the handle.  I don't recall ever losing a tooth or suffering serious injury, but that is probably where I learned to use one of dad's favorite, not cuss words, but a good substitute.

As the oldest of three sons, mowing the lawn seemed always to be my job.  We moved from the Hicks place when I was ten when the folks bought their own farm.  It had an even bigger lawn.  I fondly remember cutting the grass there on many autumn Saturday afternoons listening to either IU or Purdue football games.  I don't think dad got a gas powered rotary mower until after I went off to college. 

For four years there and two more while I was in service I had no lawn to mow.  Then, with a family, I moved to the northeast side of Indianapolis, began my work career, and bought the lawn mower required of today's homeowner.  Really I always enjoyed cutting the grass, especially in the spring when it smells fresh, the weather is cool and one is just happy to be outside again. 

When my sons were 11 and 9, their mother and I divorced and for two or three years I was without a yard to cut. But most of the time since I can remember there has been a lawn mower in my life, my most recent ones of the Lawnboy variety.  In January, on that cold day when we had the garage sale, my last mower went out of my life.  I'm sure come April there will be a day or two when I will miss it, but I will still be able to sit on the patio or deck, hear the nearby hum of one, and smell the fresh cuttings.  I've passed another mile stone, but I look forward to other pleasant ways to spend my Saturday afternoons.  

Voices In Song

Tonight the Prairie Home Companion show originated from the campus of St. Olaf College and featured the exceptional musical talent for which it is noted.  The orchestra and the a cappella choir were exceptionally impressive, and the harmony of the voices of the latter sent my spirit soaring.  Nothing soothes and nourishes my soul and mood like the sound of beautiful voices in harmonizing song!  I particularly enjoy Garrison's show when he occasionally gets the audience to join in on a hymn or old classic, the voices of hundreds of people united in song is extremely touching to me.  Another very pleasing moment in tonight's show was a rendition of Sting's  Fields of Gold .    

Although I went to a very small high school, I was fortunate to have had a good music teacher.  We were too small at the time to have a band but Mrs. Johnson developed many of our voices into what, I believe, was a reasonably good choir.  We of course sang at various school functions, but she also took us to the county choral festival every Spring, and also brought some of us to Indianapolis to be part of a state-wide choir that performed at the State Teacher's Institute at the Cadle Tabernacle .  I was also fortunate to have been the youngest member in a quartet in my church when I was a teen.  I was the baritone, my father sang bass, and the two Wyatt brothers, Isaac and Dave sang lead and tenor.  We were good enough to be asked to sing at several funerals.  And, my dad and I did a magnificent rendition of the Silver Dollar song (A Man without a Woman), but the only place we performed that was behind the barn about dusk while we were waiting for the cows to come in from the pasture.

Spent the late afternoon installing a new router for our home wi-fi network.  The old one quit Thursday night, but I drove for Red Cross on Friday so couldn't get a replacement until today.  I should be able to waste time surfing the net a lot faster now.  It wasn't a good day for Indiana football anyway, but then there seldom have been lately.  

 

My Day.

This morning I finished the book In the Garden of Beasts by Erik Larson, which covers the U S Ambassador William Dodd's career in Berlin from his appointment in 1933 through 1938.  Dodd's diplomatic efforts with various Nazi authorities including Hitler, as well as his adult daughter Martha's social life with prominent persons in Berlin society at the time are reported in considerable detail.  While Dodd had Roosevelt's support, the State Department mostly looked upon his actions and efforts with disfavor and even ridicule.   Early on, many prominent officials in the German government were opposed to Hitler and kept believing his regime would collapse, but as time passed and foreign governments failed to denounce publicly Nazi atrocities and sway world wide opinion against Hitler's regime, (the primary objective of the U S State department was to appease Germany in hopes of obtaining payment for German bonds held by large U S Banks) Hitler broadened and strengthened his control.  Dodd's early requests for sanctions and public disapproval of the Nazi actions went unheeded and he soon saw the inevitable outcome would be war.  I found the book very interesting and enlightening.

I had lunch today with Jeff Rasley, who annually takes a group of trekkers into the mountains of Nepal, and has made a project of improving living conditions in the town of Basa, where many of the Rai people live who are porters for his trips. He has written a book about his experiences in Nepal, Bringing Progress to Paradise.  During his latest trip, from which he just returned a few weeks ago, a "green" toilet was installed on the school grounds in Basa.  It essentially is a septic system, the building having two rooms, one for students and one for the staff at the school.  The eighty villagers have no toilets, they relieve themselves in the nearby woods or in their fields.  If you want to now more about Jeff and his Basa project go to Basa, Nepal .

This afternoon I went to the Jordan Y for a workout.  One of the greatest features of my Medicare Advantage health insurance is called "Silver Sneakers", which is membership in a local health fitness center.  Since I started going almost two years ago, I have not had any significant problems with the osteoarthritis in my back.  I am convinced that preventative health care is most important, and specifically exercise, in keeping one healthy.  It certainly is better and cheaper than medications and seeing a physical therapist, which would be necessary for me if I just sat around.

So that was my day, plus of course taking time to write this little post telling you about it.  Thanks to my wife, Marcia, who pointed out some errors in my initial post.

What I've been reading

I've been negligent in updating the list of books I've read on this web site, so today it was necessary to add 4, all of which deserve some attention.  I just finished Winesburg Ohio by Sherwood Anderson, stories about small town Ohio a century ago.  This book is on Modern Library's list of the 100 best Novels of the last century.  I have passed by it several times when searching for something to read next, but finally selected it because it was available as a free e-book.  While it may not appeal to younger, sophisticated readers, it was right down my alley with its descriptions of small town/rural life in a simpler time.  It made me wish I could have walked under the trees on a warm summer night in that small town as so many of Anderson's characters did.  

I recently read a non-fiction account of the travels in Nepal of the author, Jeff Rasley, in his book Bringing Progress to Paradise.  His experiences taking tourists on treks in the Himilayan foothills and efforts to provide needed school supplies for the children of Basa were made even more interesting for me because he lives in Indianapolis and we recently became acquainted. 

I have also read over the summer two other books from Modern Library's 100 Best Novels list, Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham, and Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald.  The first is set in England in the late 19th century and about Phillip, who at the age of 9 must be raised by his uncle, a cleric, after the death of his mother.  His father, a physician had died previously.  His life is filled with bondage; his young years to the oppressive uncle and the church which bring Phillip into young adulthood without much self respect or confidence in what he wants to be or do.  He then falls victim to friends and lovers, always unable to assert his own will, yet always striving to become a doctor like his father.  His life is primarily determined by events, not will.  

Finally, Fitzgerald writes about a psychiatrist studying in Europe who meets a rich young woman who has suffered a mental trauma from being abused by her father.  While she is in treatment they fall in love and are married.  They lead a rich life with friends in Europe during the 1920's before the woman has a relapse.  Fitzgerald gained his knowledge of psychiatry from experience with his real life wife who had mental problems. 

I enjoyed each of these books and recommend any or all of them to my readers.  There is so much to be learned from reading both fiction and non-fiction, it is only too bad that in the hectic pace of work life when we are between our high school or college years and retirement it is hard to find the time.  Retired now, I'm learning late what might have been useful earlier in life.  

Old Folks Need Children

In my opinion older folks have a more positive outlook if they can spend some time around small children.  Grandparents often say that they enjoy their grandkids so much because they love the time they spend with them, but then their (the grandkids) parents take them home.  Small children, especially from the time they are babies until adolescence can be very entertaining.  Many of us remember Art Linkletter’s show and how funny were some of his interviews with children.  I am often amazed at things small children say and do, and wonder at what must be going on in those young minds.  To watch them change from about 9 months to age two is marvelous in that in such a short time their physical and mental skills develop, their awareness of themselves and the world around them develops, and they form their own personality.  Then they learn to talk and you never know what they will say next.  It is amusing to say the least.

I was married at an early age and my sons were born when I was intent upon establishing a career.  Then my first grandchild came along just after I turned 40, and his parents moved 1,000 miles away, so I didn’t get to see them except during holidays and brief vacations.  I envy grandparents who are older and have more time or live very close to their grandkids and get to spend more time with them. 

Now I have great grandchildren, but they also do not live close.  Because I divorced and married a younger wife we have grandchildren that are younger than school age, but they also live hundreds of miles away.

So, in the absence of nearby grandchildren, it is no wonder that we became very attached to the young couple starting a family who moved next door to us 4 years ago.  Krista was a new mom, and she and Andy were still in their twenties.  The day they moved in, we invited them and Andy’s parents, who were helping with the move, to share lunch with us on our back patio.  Later that day, Andy’s dad asked us to “watch out for our kids”. 

So, we watched little Eli grow his long blond hair and eyelashes, learn to walk, start playing with little cars and draw chalk figures in our shared driveway, start calling me “Mr. Don” and asking “where’s Marsher”, my wife Marcia.  I learned about “Lightening McQueen” from him and our grandson Nathan who is just 6 months older than Eli.  I got used to having Eli come down the driveway in the evening and find me on the front patio, and having him come up and tell me something about what he had done that day, or say “I’m thirsty”, his way of asking for juice which he knew I soon learned to keep in the fridge mostly just for him.  There was a while when he was about 3 that he liked to use the newspaper box hanging by our front door as a place to hide his cars.  We’d be sitting in the family room reading or watching TV and hear him out there opening and closing the lid.  Then he had “Woody” and again he and our Nathan acquainted me with “Toy Story”. 

I didn’t really realize how much having little Eli around meant to me until this morning.  His grandmother had taken he and his little brother Beckett (almost a year old) off to her house Sunday, but Andy and Krista were still here finishing packing for the move and cleaning out the house.  But this morning the house stood vacant, and as I drank my first cup of coffee and read the paper I began to realize that I wouldn’t be seeing Eli in the drive today.  Today, it finally hit both Marcia and me just how much we are going to miss Eli, Beckett, Krista and Andy, because they had become to us so much like family, like our own children and grandchildren whom we didn’t get to see as much. 

But there is another factor at play here too.  As we get older we finally have to come face to face with our own mortality.  The realization of our aging is better not dwelt upon.  If we have the opportunity to be around younger people, to keep seeing and hearing their ideas, it helps us feel younger too.  It gives us things to look forward to and think about.  It gives us the joy of seeing young life, growing, in awe of the learning of new things all around and always wondering what tomorrow will bring.   

I have often told Marcia that I would like a regular group of guys to have breakfast with every morning and talk with about the world’s current woes.  But if I did have a group of friends like that, all we would do is complain about how bad things are now as compared to the way they used to be.

No, what I’d really rather have is young Eli, or Nathan or Claire or Ben or Beckett, or some other little guy not yet in school but full of new experiences and new thoughts to come down the driveway and ask for “Marsher”; climb up in the chair beside me, and say, “I’m thirsty”.  “Do you have any Oreos”?

Summer of 1936

I was 9 months old in July, 1936, which was the hottest month of the 1936 North American heat wave .  In the midst of the decade of the depression and dust bowl, it was the hottest summer of the 20th century.  Notably, it came on the heels of a record cold winter, the 1936 North American cold wave which set cold and snow records in the upper mid-west and resulted then in record Spring flooding.  If all of this sounds familiar, it should, but the summer of 2011 cannot match the summer of 1936. 

A recent article in the Indianapolis Star, Aug. 5th, entitled Hard Times in Raging Heat  describes the 1936 summer as follows:  "That summer residents withstood temperatures of at least 100 degrees a record 12 times, including a 9 day streak.  There was a separate 14 day 90-and-above heat wave earlier in the summer -- the fourth-longest on record. And Collegeville hit 116 degrees on July 14 of that year, the highest temperature ever recorded in the state.The summer of 1936 is the benchmark for heat waves in Indiana, said Ken Scheeringa, an associate state climatologist from the Indiana State Climate Office."

Yesterday we broke the 19 day long streak of 90 or above temperatures set in Indianapolis, also that summer of 1936.  Now the record is 20 days, we had a cooler 87 degrees today, but 90's are promised again tomorrow.  This July set a record as the driest ever officially in Indianapolis; only .47 inches of precipitation for the month.

That summer of 1936 I lived with my parents in a little house on my granddad Page's farm, often referred to as the "weaning pen", because each of my grandfather's three children "set up housekeeping" there when they married.  I never heard my parents complain about that hot summer of 1936, but it must have been unbearable as of course they had no air conditioning, and my father and grandfather had to work in the hay and wheat fields without the help of modern farm equipment.   In 1937, my dad rented a nearby farm and we moved to what my parents often referred to as "the Hicks Place ".  Not because we were hicks but because that was the name of a previous owner.  We lived there until 1946 and my two younger brothers were born there.

Two weeks ago we spent 3 days visiting friends near Baldwin City, Kansas, and needless to say it wasn't any cooler there.  They took us to the National WW I museum in Kansas City, which exhibits many pieces of equipment including tanks, mortars, artillery guns, rifles, gas masks, uniforms and planes as well as facsimiles of trenches and other graphics showing the tremendous loss of lives during that stalemate.  It is one of the best historical museums I know of and is a "must see" if you are in the Kansas City area.  Due to the heat, we spent a lot of time indoors but saw a couple of great movies I also recommend; Get Low and True Grit (2010) .  These are the kind of movies I really enjoy, no stupid fast car chases, gratuitous violence or ridiculous action sequences.

I finally watered the flower beds today, figuring that is likely the only thing I can do to get it to rain.  This year we truly can say "It don't rain in Indianapolis in the summertime".

Summer Time

Summer time is usually my favorite time because I feel best when the sun is shinning and when it is warm, but this year it has been really too hot to enjoy being out of doors.  Of course it was hot when i was young and we had no air conditioning and haymaking and thrashing on the farm were hard, sweaty work.  I wonder now how the older men endured it, but they were used to it and knew the work had to be done.

Last Sunday was our family reunion, and my cousins and I are now the oldest living generation.  I am fortunate to remember well all of my grandparents who were still living when I graduated from college.  They were farming families who came from farming backgrounds, and all of my aunts and uncles lived on the farm except Ada Mae, and her husband Landon worked mostly on a farm.  We all lived within a 30 mile radius so we saw each other often, and had large family reunions almost every summer.  Now our families are spread out, particularly the next generation, so it is likely that when we cousins are gone, the annual reunion will probably become a thing of the past.  We used to have our reunions at parks or at someones farm house, but now we have it in an air conditioned VFW hall, and that was a good thing this year!  

Attendance by the younger generations was sparse, although I was very pleased that my grandson and great granddaughters were there.  Of course we older ones remenisce with each other about fond memories and probe each others minds for answers to questions we now wish we had asked our parents while they were living.  There are a lot of experiences we could share with our children about what it was like growing up in rural Indiana during the 1940's, but our lifestyle then does not much interest most of them until they reach 50, and then our times together are occupied mostly with entertaining grand children and we want to know what is happening in their lives.  Our mortality really doesn't sink in until we near retirement, and it is not particulary healthy to look back too much.  Whatever the purpose of life is, it is to be lived, and the more active we are the fuller and happier our life experience will be.

So, yesterday Marcia and I went to the Indianapolis International Film Festival at the Indianapolis Museum of Art which is not far from where we live.  We saw Summer Pasture , a documentary about nomadic life in the highlands of Tibet.  At least there they are not concerned with the heat, but their livelihood depends upon the milk from their Yak herds, and the dung from them is their source of heat.  At 15,000 ft. it is a harsh environment except in summer.  Recently these nomads have found a new source of income, Caterpillar Fungus , which is in great demand for use in medicines.  This is a poignant film, depicting the nomadic life and the particular hardships of the female who is expected to do most of the work.  It is no wonder that these nomadic groups are disintegrating as more and more of the younger ones leave for life in the remote towns.  I was touched by the young mother's experience and her endurance, and I strongly recommend seeing this film.  It will make you appreciate that life is difficult around the world, but more difficult in some places than others. 

I continue to read, having recently finished F. Scot Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night, and currently slogging through W. Somerset Maugham's Of Human Bondage.  Fitgerald's book is interesting both for its description of affluent life in France in the 1920's and the treatment of mental disorders by the self-centered psychiatrist who is the main character.  His wife is a patient, and he himself is flawed, as of course we all are.  Maugham's book is about the life of a physically handicapped man, his search for love and an occupation, and struggles to overcome his feelings of inadequacy.  Thrown into both books are passages regarding the author's views on life, religion and politics of the day.  Just the stuff I love to read for its historical insight.

I find myself now taking little time with the newspaper and television news reports.  Most of the news is not encouraging.  Sure I care about what life may hold for my children and grand children, but most of the people who are in a position to influence the future of our country are really more concerned about the next election than they are about doing what is best for the U. S. of A., and the World!  I vote; I abhor the money spent on elections.  Just think what good could be accomplished if that money were spent "for the good of the people"!  There isn't much I can do at my age to influence the future.  All I can do really is to encourage young people to seek knowledge, beware of slogans and sound bites, be tolerant but do not abide fools!  Read!       

 

 

The Bullet Ride

In the book Under The Volcano by Malcolm Lowry, (number 11 on the Modern Library's 100 Best Novels of the 20th century), "The Consul" has an encounter with the Bullet ride as he wanders intoxicated through the Fiesta in the plaza of his town, Quauhnahuac.  His ex-wife Yvonne, who has just returned to him early that same morning, is with his brother Hugh somewhere in the plaza, and within the hour he is to rendezvous with them and catch the 2:30 bus to Tomalin. 

The British Consul is being trailed by a crowd of local children begging for money when he spots the "Wild attraction.  The huge looping-the-loop machine, empty, but going full blast over his head ...suggesting some huge evil spirit, screaming in its lonely hell, its limbs writhing, smiting the air like flails of paddlewheels."  To escape the children he boards the "monster." 

For the next page and a half, Lowry gives a most accurate and entertaining description of the the drunken Consul's experience of riding

"ah my God!  Everything was falling out of his pockets, was being wrested from him, torn away, a fresh article at each whirling, sickening, plunging, retreating, unspeakable circuit..".

Upon reading this passage I suddenly remembered that I had had such an experience once with the "Bullet".  Only I wasn't drunk; I was maybe fourteen.  Our neighbor, Bert Perkins, who was my grandfather's age, drove me one evening to what then was likely the annual Waveland street fair.  It was probably 1949 or '50 and back then a lot of small towns had these carnivals put on by the Lions Club or some other group as a fund raiser and to help the local merchants. 

Just Bert and I went in his Ford. I must have been nearing driving age, because on the way over Bert was giving me driving tips.  I remember distinctly his warning not to drive faster at night than a speed that would allow me to stop within the distance I could see by my headlights.  Bert and his wife Ethel were my parent's favorite neighbors.

When we got to the fair, Bert let me go my way and we agreed to meet later at a certain place and time.  I didn't go to school in Waveland, but my family went to the Freedom Church where a lot of Waveland kids my age did.  So I wandered down the main street which was blocked off and filled with several vendor booths and rides.  I don't remember anything I did that night except that when I got to the Bullet, a girl I knew and was fond of was standing there with some friends.  I was scared to death of that ride, but to impress her I suggested we ride together. 

You can't do anything romantic in the Bullet, like hold hands or even say anything special to the girl.  All you can do is hold on to the bar with both hands, try to catch your breath and keep from throwing up, and listen to the change and comb you had in your pockets fall out and rattle around the cage.  That was my only time to ride the Bullet, and when it was over the girl went her way, and I went back to find Bert. 

I Won't Always Be Here!

Last night I attended the annual alumni banquet of my high school.  It was the 58th since my graduation.  I may have written here before about how small my school was, there being only 8 in my graduating class and that 4 of those, all girls, joined us in our senior year having consolidated from a neighboring small school just across the county line.  Now, only 3 of the 8 remain and only Richard and I were at the banquet.  Of course since we graduated a subsequent consolidation took place and now there is no school in that community; the students living in the township now are bused to a consolidation with 4 other schools and ride nearly 20 miles as  opposed to the 5 miles of my time. 

I now live 60 plus miles away from that small farming community and there is a huge void between our lives as schoolmates and our present situations, except that then we were all full of life's expectancies and now we all experience its decline.  For one evening it gives us comfort to catch up on where we now live, what our children are doing, how we feel and what maladies we suffer, but more than anything we just enjoy remembering our times together as youth.  Not all of those experiences were wonderful and pleasant at the time but most of our memories are of the exciting and happy times.  For an evening, together we are young again.   

During the night there was a strong thunderstorm with the strong wind lashing rain at the windows.  In our neighborhood a large tree limb was blown onto the roof of a nearby house.  This evening it is pleasant and cooler, an enjoyable time to be out of doors enjoying the songs of the birds and the beauty of our surroundings.  The earth endures.  One day it is a frightening and destructive place, the next it is beautiful and tranquil.

I am thankful for these evenings, for being able to see, hear, smell and taste all that is so wonderful around me.  At dusk I seem to be more aware and appreciate the beauty of this earth.  More than ever it is then that I realize I won't always be here.