The Lambeth Literary Journal Issue No. 5

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Table of Contents Page Bert Cowdrey: Red and Black: Moscow, 1990

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Charlotte Travieso: One More Time

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Aggie Richards: A Dead Pig, a Hyped-Up Horse, and James Michener

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Antonio C. Quiroz: The Garrison Commandant and Katie

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Ellen Conway Bellone: Brighton Beach in Winter

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Elaine Coffin: So High in Their Sky

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Allain C. Andry III: Essential Urban Survival Skills

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Ken Kneipp: “You Never Told Me …”

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Julie McCollam: Dialogue with Robert Browning

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Helen Wisdom: Into Africa

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Bob Sakakeeny: C’était Juste des Affaires (A Dying Declaration)

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Russ M. Herman: A Moment with Andrew Herman

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Dorien Mahoney: Heavenly Humor

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Ted Martin: A Mother’s Dilemma

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Topper Thompson: “Thin Moments”

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Sam Rosamond: Visit My Niece

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Anonymous: Reciprocate

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Charlotte Travieso: Slow and Steady

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Bert Cowdrey: In the Old Country

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Russ M. Herman: Brass Ring

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Elaine Coffin: A Simple Question

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Bill Penick: PB&Js on Pluto?

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Ellen Conway Bellone: Life’s Journeys

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Charlotte Travieso: South Africa Haikus

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Elliotte Harold: Murder at Lambeth

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Janie Soslow: It’s Only Just a Name

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Elaine Coffin: Fran and Reg

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RED AND BLACK: MOSCOW, 1990

by Bert Cowdrey

Great year, thought everybody in the Pentagon. The Berlin Wall had already fallen, and now the Soviet Union was coming apart. Chunks of the Evil Empire were declaring their independence every week, or so it seemed.

In Russia the slogan of the moment was Glaznost, meaning openness. Russians were talking about replacing the command economy with a market economy, traditional tyranny with some sort of democracy. Was Lenin’s mummified carcass revolving in his mausoleum?

Had somebody hammered a stake into the reptilian organ that Stalin once used for a heart?

The year was also the hundredth anniversary of Eisenhower’s birth. The Pentagon was preparing to celebrate, when reformers inside the Soviet government decided to throw a party of their own. After all, we’d been allies in World War II, hadn’t we? The reformers invited guests to Moscow for the shindig, including Ike’s granddaughter Susan, his biographer Steve Ambrose, and a raft of former bigwigs from his administration. My bosses at the Puzzle Palace sent me to represent the U.S. Army.

November in Moscow wasn’t terribly cold – just gray skies, with the penetrating damp chill that precedes snow. Vnukovo was grungier than most American airports, but no less impersonal and tedious. At the October Hotel, I received my room key, tried to open the lock, and the damn key twisted in half. Suddenly, I was standing in a Russian hotel on Sunday night in a city whose language I did not speak, with half a key in my hand.

Down at the desk, I waved the stump at the guy in charge, and he shrugged. The keys were made of Soviet metal, so what could you expect? A workman used a gadget like a lockpick to remove the piece that was stuck in the lock, and presented me with a fresh key. Lesson One in Russian life: nothing works the way it’s supposed to, but not to worry. Everybody expects it won’t work, and if they’re not bothered by it, why should you be?

Other lessons followed. My bathroom had toilet paper, which meant the roll I’d been advised to bring with me was unnecessary – in the hotel. But I kept it for use in public facilities, because of Lesson Two: Russia led the world into space, but when it came to more fundamental needs, you couldn’t count on anything, including the official exchange rate, an absurd six dollars to the ruble. But, once again, not to worry: right outside the Kremlin walls, young hucksters were offering ten rubles to the dollar, plus Red Army hats and watches, for whatever the traffic would bear. So we move on to Lesson Three: in Russia, private enterprise was illegal, except for thieves and con artists – a lesson driven home when I wandered into an encampment of the homeless, where gypsy children clutched my hands while their mothers tried to pick my pocket.

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Meals at the hotel were eaten collectively by the American guests. The food was the best then available in Moscow, being edible. By contrast, the company was four-star. My fellow diners weren’t the really big guys of Ike’s cabinet – thirty years had passed, so the seniors were all gone – but the ones I met were solid, second-rank people, who’d known at first hand things I’d only read about. That first evening, I was listening to them relive the past when I noticed a retired CIA man rubbing the stiff linen tablecloth with the palm of his hand. I did the same, and felt a wire under the cloth. Lesson Four: Glaznost or not, Russia was still Russia.

Next day Ambrose and I wandered outside. A feathery light snow was falling. We crossed the Moskva River, and for the first time I saw the crenellated walls of the Kremlin. Around them swirled the dynamism of a great city. Moscow traffic featured small cars driven pedal to the metal. Buses lurched along, belching monoxide like buses everywhere. A Metro station we looked into featured bright mosaics, hurtling trains, and speedy escalators. The sidewalks were thronged with chunky people who shouldered one another aside in a way that made New Yorkers look polite by comparison. But like New York, the city had some wonderful scenes for visitors to admire. Red Square was beautiful under a light autumn snow, and Saint Basil’s Cathedral hovered amid the drifting flakes like a junkie’s dream.

Young people wearing long woolly scarves hastened past, and old women peddled fruit, their cheeks as red as their apples.

Chaotic, beautiful, charming – Moscow had a lot to show. At the KGB headquarters on Dzerzhinsky Square, mourners had piled up an impromptu memorial of flowers for victims of the Gulag – the slave empire over which the Secret Police still presided. There we felt at first hand the brutality of Russian history, and the comfortless sorrow of its victims.

Russia’s rulers bore much of responsibility for their land’s long misery, but so did its many invaders. If America had been invaded by Genghis Khan, Napoleon, and Hitler, would we, too, be willing to give power to any sleazy tyrant who promised to protect us?

Meetings began with our hosts, and it soon turned out that Americans had come for a scholarly conference about Ike while the Russians were there to denounce Stalin and lament the current state of affairs in their country. They declared bluntly that the economic system was collapsing; orders from the Kremlin used to be fulfilled by 30 percent, but now were not fulfilled at all. No honest statistics were being collected – Stalin had made sure of that back in the Thirties, by executing statisticians who told him anything he didn’t want to hear. The central bank couldn’t control or even monitor the money supply. There was no insurance industry; the KGB headquarters building had belonged to an insurance firm before being repurposed for torture, execution, and other necessary political duties.

“The West thinks we’re Upper Volta with rockets,” mourned a brilliant young Russian historian who today occupies a chair at the London School of Economics. He meant the smallest and poorest of the African republics, and from what I could see, the West had it just about right.

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But if things were so bad, how could the people defend their land so bravely? It was no secret to historians that Russia had lost 25 million dead in the war against Hitler, or that the Red Army had killed nine out of every ten Axis soldiers who died in the war. Or that – by the most brutal of ironies – the Russian people, in saving their country, had not only preserved Stalin’s tyranny at home but imposed it on eastern Europe as well.

Veterans of the Great Patriotic War were still around, and I met some of them. They remembered having to survive not only the invaders, but their own government. “When my father was arrested,” said one, “we found out what good friends we had, for we had nothing to eat.” Said another, “I was lucky to be drafted, because otherwise I would have starved.”

An old Communist told me, “My children tell me to quit the Party. But I joined during the war at the front, when the only privilege it brought me was the privilege of being shot if I was captured. I’m an old man, so why should I change my coat now?”

And violence was again in the air. The Red Army’s chief of staff warned that the army would “act to defend the achievements of socialism,” and everyone at the conference, Russian and American, instantly assumed that a military coup was in the works. I’d gotten to know Ike’s granddaughter, Susan Eisenhower; she was married to a Russian academic, and the couple lived half the year in Washington and half in Moscow. Susan told me about the fears of her Russian in-laws, and her own feeling that the city might soon become too dangerous to visit. “When these people shoot,” she said soberly, “they use real bullets.”

None of these undercurrents seemed to affect the young Russians I met. When I mentioned Ivan the Terrible to my assigned interpreter – let’s call him Andrei – he countered by calling Stalin “Joseph the Terrible.” Showing me through the huge G.U.M. department store across Red Square from the Kremlin, he commented, “It is very big, but it is very empty.”

The same seemed to be true of Communism’s reputation among the young people. Andrei and his pals had rented a dacha for a few weeks during the summer, and he told me how, over vodka, they read each other speeches by the party bosses while rolling on the floor with laughter. His generation looked to me like the hope of Russia’s future. When I got back home, I sent Andrei a dictionary of American slang he’d asked for, and his thank-you note began, “I am on Cloud Nine.”

He wasn’t the only one. Signs of hope were everywhere. Again, as in the distant past, church bells rang throughout Moscow. Stalin had killed more Christians than all the Roman emperors put together, but when we visited the Cathedral of the Assumption in the Kremlin, the choir was tuning up, and their voices seemed to distill in midair among the glowing icons of angels and saints. Everywhere, youth promised new possibilities. On the Kremlin grounds, a handsome young couple were celebrating their marriage with champagne; in the Moscow Circus, the bears got star billing but the real charmers were the children, who watched the show awed and wide-eyed, with none of the wiseacre poses of American kids.

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Yet the dark past hung over all. Our hosts at the conference kept talking grimly about the danger of “Russian fascism.” Surely not, I thought. Surely the nation wouldn’t stumble from a red tyranny to a black one? The very next year – August, 1991 – any chance of a new dictatorship seemed to disappear for good. The expected military coup materialized.

Kremlin diehards sent in tanks to crush the people, only to have the tankers refuse to open fire! On TV the whole world watched Boris Yeltsin defy the armor, while girls tucked flowers into the muzzles of the guns and the soldiers grinned and waved. The chief of staff who’d ordered the coup shot himself, and – poof! just like that – the Soviet Union vanished into what Trotsky had called the dustbin of history. Like Andrei, I was on Cloud Nine. A new and nearly bloodless revolution had reversed the Communist coup of 1917, and Russia had joined the Free World.

Only not, as things turned out, for very long. Unknown, unseen, invisible in the ranks of the KGB, Vladimir Putin was waiting in the wings. I ought to have listened to the pessimists.

Only ten years later, Russian Fascism emerged from hiding, to shoot down reformers gangland-style under the very walls of the Kremlin, to poison the president of Ukraine and slip nerve gas to Putin’s enemies eating in London restaurants. And suddenly, like a bad dream, the atrocious past returned to live again.

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ONE MORE TIME

by Charlotte Travieso

And we have come here From the time before, From the risen kingdom Of the father mother God, Up the old high roads Of inexhaustible light, Through the brilliant tunnels Of incandescent song, Stopping by the sparkling gardens To eat of the stone Flowers’ diamond fire fruit, To set free a captive prince.

Something old and tyrannical Is burning here.

Not like the warming company Of the cold-blooded, Nor a wood fire Which is not the end Of the great tree friends, But something of blazing darkness, Power, majesty, and completion, To fire the blackness Into warming forms of life, And heat, And love.

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A DEAD PIG, A HYPED-UP HORSE, and JAMES MICHENER

by Aggie Richards

On an unusually quiet day at WYES-TV several decades ago, one of the senior cameramen with lots of connections walked into my office and asked if I would like to field-produce a James Michener special. He couldn’t do it and my production was in “the can,” so he knew I had less on my calendar than he did, but still a lot was going on. The station was always great about giving us time off to do things that brought credit to our local PBS affiliate, where at the time I was an associate producer, so of course I jumped at the opportunity.

The producer of the Michener production, Karin Dorset, flew in from Miami, we met and hit it off. She gave me the script and that left me a few weeks to research, then scout the locations, set up the shoots, organize and communicate the itineraries, but then attend a long-planned National Association of Educational Broadcasters meeting in Chicago and a FIPSE (Fund for the Improvement of Post- Secondary Education) meeting, mandatory for all of their grant holders, at Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. Had I been honest, I didn’t have the time to take on this free-lance job. But, it was too sweet to pass up. My long-distance bills were huge, but with lots of luck, a lot of help, and little sleep, things began to fall into place.

After the travel and phoning whirlwind, I was just about ready. Our crew along with Karin consisted of a cameraman, audio man, and gaffer from Brooklyn. We covered the usual Crescent City scenes of the Garden District, St Charles Avenue, Audubon Park, Tulane, the river, and of course all over the French Quarter with jazz clubs and fabulous food eateries.

All of which was “B” roll. No interviews were needed, the voice-over by James Michener would be done in a post-production studio in New York. New Orleans was the easy shoot.

Then it was time to go west to Cajun country. Fortunately, valuable contacts from Baton Rouge had warned me before cold-calling to contact a retired Congressman, James Domengeaux. Sure enough, he wanted to be certain we were not going to Acadiana to show Cajuns in a bad light. After reviewing the draft script, he was comfortable that, if anything, “James Michener’s America” would be a real plus for the area. Apparently a movie with Walter Matthau had ridiculed Cajuns and incensed some influential leaders who wanted to check out any more projects before being so hospitable again. Doors everywhere opened for us after that. Extraordinary help came from the Tourist Center Coordinator, Connie Arceneaux. After meeting, we followed most of Connie’s creative suggestions for the rest of the shoot.

We filmed the Triangle Club where we had authentic Cajun music and all ages joyfully dancing together. The next day we filmed a CODIFIL (Council for the Development of French in Louisiana) classroom. The Prairie Elementary School children were so adorable sing-songing in French and trying not to look at the camera. Later that day we shot scenes 7

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of trapping crayfish, then cooking and eating the delectable tails. On Sunday we drove on to Broussard’s Race Track in Carencro.

It was a whole new world to me. This Cajun horse race track was not like Acadian Downs or The Fairgrounds with their large oval tracks and grandstands. Instead, the two tracks were side-by-side and straight for a quarter mile with a simple white fence dividing the racers. Described as a colorful “bush” track, there was a small white clapboard house on the grounds. Behind it was a cockfighting pit and inside you could place your bets and buy beer, as well as a bourré (card game) room for more gambling. We watched the races like all the other spectators with our elbows on the fence as our cameraman lay under the fence separating the speeding competitors to get his unbelievable shots.

Obviously not thinking like a grownup, after the race I took a dare to ride the winner, a tall chestnut quarter horse. The trainer and owner were too obliging. The trembling beast took off immediately, running and twisting in every direction, unwilling to whoa. My young life was flashing before my eyes when my tormentor began to tire. It was a terrifying experience of loss of control and embarrassment for being so unprofessional. When I finally got off the animal with precious little dignity left, his laughing trainer owned up about the many “enhancements” they had given him “to do his best.” Apparently drug testing wasn’t part of their routine to do because they were unsanctioned and unlicensed. Someone later told me the Matthau movie had been shot there. It was then I gave up taking crazy dares.

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In my first conversation with Connie, I had asked her if there was any chance she knew how we could film a pig roast. She smiled and said her family holds a boucherie every year in the Fall and they were holding one the weekend we would be there with the camera crew.

What luck! A boucherie is a traditional Cajun pig roast. These neighborly gatherings started long before refrigeration. Friends and families would get together to butcher, process, and cook and/or smoke the pig, sharing in both the work and proceeds. We soon learned Cajuns know how to make work a lot of fun.

We arrived at the Arceneaux’s in Scott early in the morning just before the swine of the day arrived in the back of a pickup truck. It was the biggest pig I had ever seen, all white and seemingly unconcerned about his fate, which happened so fast I had no time to flinch as the pop sounded and the smoking gun was quickly put away. A boucherie “boss” was never evident but everyone went to work as the musicians set up. Throughout the day we were entertained by accordion and guitar players as well as fiddlers of all ages. Sometimes we heard singers at the microphone, but more often the singers were making boudin, hogs head cheese or sausage. Some helpers were butchering pig parts and preparing some to smoke. We were well fed with jambalaya and tried to avoid the free-flowing keg beer. The Cajun patois mixed with the thick “French” accents made it hard for us to understand the conversations, and especially so for my Brooklyn cohorts. But often we joined in laughter, the universal language.

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When the time came to leave, one of my New York colleagues offered a roll of cash to our host in thanks for the welcome and generosity in letting us shoot at his farm all day. Mr. Arceneaux stepped back and with gentlemanly charm refused to take it, explaining we were his guests. Fortunately, I had bought a wine cooler and wrapped it for them, which they happily accepted. My crew was stunned because that had never happened to them before. For the rest of our time together, the crew could not stop talking with reverence about the Cajun hospitality, and the fact that our hosts had turned down a wad of money.

On my way home, passing the smoking sugar cane fields, a yearly occurrence in Acadiana as part of the Fall harvest, I remember wishing for some more “unusually quiet” days.

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THE GARRISON COMMANDANT AND KATIE

by Antonio C. Quiroz, MD

Katie Arimura greeted us enthusiastically in her usual warm way, when my wife, Nellie, and I visited Lambeth House. We hadn’t seen Katie or her husband in well over 20 years.

Earlier that year, I retired from the practice of cardiology in Memphis, and we decided to go back home to New Orleans. We wanted to be close to our children, who grew up in the Crescent City, and are now raising their own families.

Katie had lost her husband a couple of years earlier, and her children had moved to other cities. So, she decided to move to Lambeth House. For us, the sight of a familiar face was very reassuring. We did not know what to expect in a retirement community. We wondered how a community of older people related to each other, and how we would be received by the community. It became obvious that Katie had made a lot of friends and was contributing positively to the many activities that kept the residents busy, adding life to their years, if not years to their lives. We decided to make the move.

Back in 1957, after medical school and Internal Medicine training in the Philippines, I went to Baylor in Dallas to start my training in cardiology. I then moved to Tulane Medical School in New Orleans, which is where I first met Katie and Dr. Akira Arimura. Dr. Tsunekazu Takashina, a cardiology fellow, introduced me to Akira, who was doing research in endocrinology, and where Katie also worked as a medical research technician. Although I perceived that I was dealing with highly-educated people, I kept my distance. Something about Japanese nationals, whose soldiers ravaged my country and people during World War II, kept me from wanting to be close friends with them.

I was almost nine years old when the Pacific War broke out with the bombing of Pearl Harbor on Sunday, December 7, 1941. President Franklin Roosevelt called it a “day that would live in infamy.” It was Monday, December 8, in the Philippines.

I went to school that morning, and instead of the usual flag ceremony, we were told to go home. My initial reaction was elation: Wow! No more school! But this soon turned into terror, as we heard the boom of the anti-aircraft guns, and saw low-flying Japanese airplanes drop their bombs in the distance. We saw the smoke of burning homes and fuel depots not too far away. Filipino and American soldiers were running up and down the street telling us to seek shelter. By New Year’s Eve 1942, we were told to evacuate the area and go away from military objectives such as the main highway. We joined the multitude marching out of my town to remote rural villages to live there until the end of the fighting. Little did we know that it would be months before we would see our house again. The Filipino and American soldiers fought valiantly against the invading Japanese in the mountains of Bataan and the fortress Corregidor, but had to surrender when they ran out of food, medicines, 11

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and ammunition. Many of the soldiers suffered from malaria and dysentery and would die in that brutal march from Bataan to the prisoner of war camps. This would go down in history as the Bataan Death March.

The United States had acquired possession of the Philippines from Spain at the Treaty of Paris that ended the Spanish-American War at the start of the 20th century. Now the Japanese appeared victorious in this war and occupied the Philippines.

The Japanese occupation of the Philippines started with a benign conqueror trying to convince the Filipinos that Japan had liberated the Philippines from the yoke of American Colonialism, and that Japan triumphant would lead the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere. It degenerated into a tyrannical, brutal regime as the war in the Pacific dragged on for the next three years, and as Filipino and American guerrillas actively harassed the Japanese. Very often we learned that somebody we knew was picked up by Japanese soldiers on suspicion of being guerrillas. We were conditioned not to expect them back.

Some events in the Japanese occupation still haunted me, although I later felt that these were watershed moments that helped shape my character and approach to life.

When we came back from evacuation after the surrender of Corregidor, we found our house was being used by Japanese officers as their quarters. They recognized my father from the pictures that were hanging on the walls, and they correctly surmised that he was a teacher. They promised to move out, but they asked my father to let the soldiers who were garrisoned across the street in the schoolhouse to use our artesian well for the soldiers to take a bath. We soon became “friends” with the soldiers, and they gave my father cigarettes and soap in gratitude. The officers continued to visit with my father in the evenings and teach us Japanese as they strived to learn English. I learned a few Japanese words and phrases. (I would continue to learn Japanese, sing some songs, and write in the Japanese alphabet Katakana when school re-opened.) We would watch the Japanese soldiers do their calisthenics every morning, some still in their diapers! For a while it looked like we would be able to live with our Japanese conquerors.

I was probably ten years old when I witnessed torture done by Japanese soldiers in the garrison. Guerrillas had shot the Japanese-appointed town mayor, a Filipino, who was brought to the garrison for medical assistance. He accused two of his political enemies. The soldiers picked up the suspects and brought them to the garrison. The Japanese soldiers took turns in slapping them during the interrogation. A Filipino collaborator acted as interpreter. My parents closed all the doors and windows and forbade us from watching what was going on across the street. My room was in the front of the house, and I peeked through the cracks in the wall and saw the soldiers force the prisoners to look up directly at the bright midday sun with a bayonet under the chin. The suspects were slapped or hit with a closed fist if they closed their eyes. That evening they were hog-tied and brought under the school building 12

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where they were beaten up. The Japanese soldiers, who took turns in beating them up with wooden planks, drowned the cries of the poor prisoners with a lot of yelling and chatter.

This went on deep into the night.

The next day, as the commandant of the garrison passed by, we bowed low as we were taught to do and as we always did. He acknowledged us with a bow and a smile. We had known him as a kind man who showed his respect to my parents when he found out they were teachers. He always addressed them as “sensei” meaning teacher. Because my family knew the prisoners who were both ex-mayors of the town, my father asked me to approach the commandant and tell him that we knew both prisoners who were good people and ask him if we could bring them some food. I did. The commandant became very serious, straightened himself up, looked me straight in the eye for a long time with a frightening gaze, said “iye” meaning no, and went on his way. There was no beating that day. That night the commandant came to our house and talked to my father. He brought his usual gifts of soap and cigarettes. They talked in very low voices and, to this day, I do not know what they talked about, but the next morning the families of the prisoners came over and were allowed to visit and bring some food. A few days later the prisoners were released.

The commandant remained friendly but did not come to our house again until they closed the garrison. He came to say goodbye the night before and brought his usual gifts. He told us they were being sent to where there was fighting. My parents wished him well and said a silent prayer for him.

The stern cold gaze of the commandant is what I would remember of him, which is unfair, but to a little boy trying hard not to be afraid, this left a lasting impression. I often wondered how the commandant met his fate. I now realize that he was a soldier at war, and that allowed him to be cruel to his perceived enemies. He did show his human side after very serious discussions with my father about his victims. That is the culture of war.

The war ended with the surrender of Japan, after the US dropped atomic bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, but only after Manila was reduced to rubble with wanton killing of civilians, women, and children carried out by the beleaguered Japanese soldiers who fought to the last man. Manila was one of the most war-torn Allied capital cities in World War II, second only to Warsaw. On July 4, 1946, the US granted full independence to the Philippines.

After the war I went back to school and on to study medicine. As the years went by, fading memories of the cruel Japanese soldiers and their atrocities gradually softened my heart.

But it was Katie who showed me that Japanese people can be warm and sincere. So did Akira and Takashina. They proved to be scholars and gentlemen.

Takashina returned to Japan after his training and established a very successful practice of cardiology. Akira and Katie returned to Tulane after their obligatory two years in Japan. It was this time when we became very good friends. Their children went to the same school

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as my children. Their son Jerome Arimura went to Tulane Medical School, and I am proud to be one of his mentors. Akira set up the Tulane-Japan Research Laboratory with a multimillion-dollar grant and lead a team of scientists in identifying brain hormones. The Nobel Prize was awarded to others, but Akira deserved it too.

Katie showed Nellie and me what Lambeth House was all about. She was friends with everybody and included us in every gathering or occasion. That vivacious personality and that ready smile overwhelmed all the residual negative feelings I had for the Japanese. In her own way she reminded me that we are all members of this family we call humanity, and that war brings out the worst in people. Although we expected it, it was still a blow when we learned that she had passed away.

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BRIGHTON BEACH in WINTER

by Ellen Conway Bellone

As the snow and wind stir the sand, Waves, alive, begin to move and rise.

Alive, they are swelling and roaring.

After crashing and breaking from great height, They now begin a slow journey to shore.

This now docile flow sucks back To gather its primordial force In the turning and churning Center of being, Edge of becoming Evermore!

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SO HIGH IN THEIR SKY

by Elaine Coffin

A persimmon tree stood tall in the yard Giving much joy to a little girl and boy When pumping hard to go so high To grab a persimmon from the sky.

To get a taste of that strange fruit Puckering lips again They pumped high.

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ESSENTIAL URBAN SURVIVAL SKILLS

by Allain C. Andry III

Youngsters born and raised on farms learn at an early age the necessary skills to help them and their families survive: milking cows, feeding chickens, weeding the garden. Of course children raised in New Orleans acquire different coping skills: how to say “Throw me something, Mister;” how to avoid being run over by mule wagons in the French Quarter; how to blow Beignet powdered sugar on unsuspecting friends. As New Orleans children grow older, new coping methods have to be acquired, often at a moment’s notice. I want to share with you an early college urban learning experience.

In 1953, during Rush Week at the beginning of my sophomore year at Tulane, my fraternity, DKE, was having a successful rush, with many freshmen men indicating a wish to pledge with us. One evening, after a rush party at the DKE house, which by university rule was required to shut down much too early, we decided that all of the guys would gather at Pat O’Brien’s in the French Quarter. That turned into a great party until our revelry rose to a level unacceptable to the management, who had the ill grace to call the New Orleans Police Department. The police, with a paddy wagon waiting outside, commenced to sweep the premises and arrest anyone who looked like a frat boy. As most of us were dressed in khaki pants, white button down shirts with fraternity pin prominently displayed, and saddle oxfords or soiled white bucks, we were easily recognized.

Being streetwise New Orleans kids, my buddy and I headed for Pat O’Brien’s large rear patio, hoping for some foliage to hide behind. As the roundup moved slowly toward the patio, he and I ended up at the brick back wall, having found no hiding places. Just as the police made their entrance, we decided that scaling the wall and dropping into whatever was on the other side was preferable to staying put and facing arrest. We somehow got over that wall (desperation aids agility!) and dropped into the adjacent large patio, which we quickly recognized to be The Court of the Two Sisters. A hasty search confirmed that both the Bourbon and Royal Street exits were sealed with locked, wooden floor-to-ceiling doors and metal gates. As we were thinking “What now?,” an elderly and most pleasant night watchman appeared and inquired what we were doing there. We explained the whole story and pleaded to be let out. After much searching of his pockets, he proclaimed he couldn’t quite remember where the key was. We quickly understood the message that his search would be successfully concluded if he received a tip. Another urban lesson. My friend and I without much hope frantically searched all of our pockets resulting in finding the grand sum of $4.83 between the two of us. The night watchman being satisfied that there was nothing more, accepted the $4.83, removed the keys from his jacket pocket, and unlocked the Royal Street gate. Freed back on to the French Quarter streets, we strolled around the corner and casually stood by, smirking, as our less urban-adept buddies were shoved into the paddy wagon.

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Several attorneys, composed of fathers and older brothers, all of whom were DKE alumni, arrived at the police station very late that night, had the fines reduced and paid, and all of the hardened criminals and threats to society were released into the custody of their saviors and taken home.

Needless to say, all involved made certain that everyone on campus, especially the Newcomb coeds, were told of their harrowing adventure, which resulted in a most successful rush.

Even today, upon entering an unfamiliar bar, restaurant, or cocktail lounge, I, by habit, immediately look for an alternate escape route that can be used if necessary. Fortunately, Judy and I are at the age where we seldom need these escape routes. But if the situation arose, I would certainly use my essential urban skills to get us safely away, provided we did not have to scale a high brick wall.

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“YOU NEVER TOLD ME . . .”

by Ken Kneipp

. . . that it was going to be so cold up here,” she said to me one morning about six months after we arrived in Minnesota. “I don’t recall that you ever asked me,” I replied. “Besides, this is my first winter up here, too.”

1971 was a year that brought lots of changes – and a few challenges, too. Sandy and I had been married in February of that year. I completed a five-year graduate program at LSU in early May and we moved to Minnesota later that same month. After finding an apartment and moving everything we owned into it (from the trunk of our car), in early June I embarked on a career at 3M Company’s Saint Paul headquarters. That kept us in Minnesota for the next 37 years.

As we began this new adventure, everything seemed picture perfect. At the age of almost 27, I was happy to finally be starting my “post-graduate” life. Receiving an employment offer from 3M, a premier technical and commercial firm and my first choice of possible employment destinations, was exactly what we had hoped for. Sandy and I were newlyweds, totally enthralled with each other, and anxious to begin our life together as an independent couple in this completely new environment.

The upper Midwest when we arrived in the middle of that year seemed idyllic – like April or late October in South Louisiana. There were warm pleasant days, cool comfortable evenings, and just enough rain to keep everything lush and green. It was like that from the time we arrived in May through October and into early November. Of course, we knew that sooner or later the seasons would change . . . though neither of us at that point understood exactly what that would mean. My new colleagues at work had tried to prepare me.

“Put snow tires on the rear wheels of your car,” they advised. “Get a snowbrush and ice scraper for your windshield. And, put a few big bags of sand in your trunk. Oh, and don’t forget to put a shovel and a couple of old blankets in there, too.” We had taken all of their advice in preparation for something we still couldn’t quite imagine.

Then, early on the Tuesday morning of Thanksgiving week, everything suddenly snapped into sharp focus. I was preparing for work as usual, and had tuned in to WCCO radio (the WWL equivalent in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area) for the weather update . . . “Temperatures will be steady today, and we are expecting two to four more inches of snow in the Twin Cities.”

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Two to four MORE inches of snow? A quick glance out the window confirmed that a light blanket of snow had fallen overnight. And so, our real introduction to life in Minnesota, and especially to Minnesota’s winter weather, had begun.

I can’t deny that as Louisiana natives, we were both a bit intimidated at first. Sandy had never experienced snow before, and the only snow I had ever seen was a few flurries from the window of my 8th grade classroom at McMain Junior High School. What we saw on that November morning was decidedly different. Snow was everywhere, including on the roads. And, with the temperature in the mid-20s, we knew that snow wouldn’t be melting.

As the days continued to shorten in December, the snow deepened and the temperature kept falling. Everything around us confirmed that the South Louisiana world we knew before our arrival here had been left far behind.

And there were some remarkable experiences that might make you wonder why we stayed: We learned that in Minnesota, unlike many other northern locations, the first snow to fall in autumn is going to be the last snow to melt the following April . . . or maybe May. You could easily identify the individual snowfalls simply by glancing at the bank along your driveway – the layers were all there, just like those of a Doberge cake.

I discovered that changing a flat tire could indeed be done at 20 below zero, but that it couldn’t be done with mittens on. And, that it was something you would likely try only once in your life.

We learned a lot about cars. We saw the value of having a head bolt heater installed, confirmed that car batteries really are a lot less efficient when the temperature plunges, and we eventually conceded the wisdom of the workday tradition of venturing outside at noon just to warm up your car on those especially frigid days.

When it came to some of the other operational details, we found that a car’s transmission may not shift out of low gear on the most brutal days and learned that frequently you will reach your destination before any hint of warm air comes out of those dashboard vents. We were amazed at how the car’s seats felt more like park benches on the coldest days. And, did you know that there is something called “black ice” that is wafer thin and virtually invisible but can form on road surfaces just from a vehicle’s frozen exhaust? It’s just as slippery as any other ice.

However, while making these interesting observations, we were also noticing how fearlessly people who were accustomed to such harsh winters approached everyday life. Yes, there were a few muffled groans when the first really cold blast arrived, but for the most

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part, life just went on as usual. No one canceled appointments or changed commitments because of frigid temperatures or deep snow. It might take a little longer than normal to get places, but you could always tune in to those WCCO radio broadcasts to learn what special precautions, if any, were needed. Even on the worst days, it would rarely amount to much more than the routine announcement “buses and schools are two hours late.”

The locals’ staunch refusal to bow to the whims of the weather was laudable. And the resourcefulness employed to prevent weather-caused civic disruption was truly impressive.

If you had to go to either of the two downtown areas (Minneapolis or St. Paul), once you parked your car in a heated underground garage, without ever stepping outside you could go anywhere you wanted for blocks in any direction using the interconnected “skyway” system of enclosed elevated pedestrian bridges. And, since winter was not just an occasional short-lived event, snow removal procedures had been developed with remarkable thought and precision: even in the more remote suburban areas, major thoroughfares (“Snow Emergency Routes”) would be plowed curb-to-curb, often beginning while the snow was still falling. And, plowing continued around-the-clock until all the streets were clear.

Ordinary citizens also did what was necessary at home to insure that weather- caused isolation would be both a rare and an inconsequential event. Almost everyone owned a snowblower. I was a slower convert than I should have been, but I finally gave in and bought one after back-to-back 17 and 19 inch snowfalls buried us one weekend. And, the steps taken to prevent major airport delays during the winter were among the most amazing things of all – a phalanx of dump trucks as wide as the runway with enormous rotating augers mounted in front that can gobble up and blow snow hundreds of feet is an impressive sight! The result of all the preparation, planning, and investment was predictable – flights in and out of Minneapolis-St. Paul were rarely canceled due to weather. And, in over three decades of driving to and from work, deep snow stranded me on only one occasion. Winter be damned!

Like the hardy Midwesterners who surrounded us, Sandy and I were equally determined not to be cowed into submission even by Minnesota’s most challenging winter offerings.

And, we gradually discovered that there were a lot of things more important than the weather. One of them, of course, was corporate life, but on balance we also saw that there were lots of other positive attributes to the world around us. We bought the clothes we needed, kept the car in top condition and the snowblower tuned up and full of gas, shrugged off fear and negative thoughts, and began to focus on some of these positive things. Life became a grand adventure filled with exciting possibilities – it was made for participation, not simply observation!

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When our two daughters were young, an annual tradition was trudging through the snow with them to pick out the “perfect” Christmas tree. The one they wanted was always too big, but we’d eventually cut down a smaller one to take home to decorate!

And, few simple pleasures equaled sitting in a cozy shop with two cherry-cheeked little girls drinking hot cocoa after sledding – almost to the point of exhaustion – down a snow-covered hill.

Imagine standing quietly in a wintry city park during the annual Saint Paul Winter Carnival watching artists carve incredibly ornate sculptures from crystal clear blocks of ice!

Or, try meandering through a huge illuminated outdoor “castle” made of massive ice blocks that had been cut from one of the city’s frozen lakes.

We were amazed to discover that we could actually work up a sweat by going cross-country skiing when it was 10 below zero – and that we would have to unzip our jackets to cool off!

We went to sled dog races, rode on horse-drawn sleighs, were so close to racing ice skaters that we could feel the blast of cold air as they whizzed by, and fearlessly drove our car out to the middle of a frozen lake. As our lives in Minnesota unfolded, we saw that there were untold adventures to be discovered, experiences to be savored, and life-long friendships and memories to be made! I suspect that’s true of just about any other place you care to name.

Over my years in the workplace I saw many young professionals journey north from places like southern California, Texas, or Florida only to turn and run after their first taste of Minnesota’s winter. Incredibly, our life together in what they considered to be a frozen wasteland lasted for almost four decades. In some respects I suppose we were “survivors.”

But along the way, we had learned an undeniable truth – while the changes we face in life often come with unexpected challenges, rising to meet those challenges can provide some of life’s richest rewards. Refusing to adapt is almost always a losing strategy.

Ultimately we decided to move back to New Orleans following retirement, but neither of us would have traded those earlier years for anything. Sandy and I had each lived more than half our lives in this initially unfamiliar place. We had raised our children there, established deep roots in the community, and formed countless close friendships with neighbors and colleagues. This place had indeed become home!

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We had proven to ourselves that happiness in life can be found and can flourish in unfamiliar, even seemingly hostile and forbidding places. Sometimes such happiness can seem elusive – but perhaps that is more the result of a hesitancy to search for it and to keep an open mind about accepting . . . no, embracing . . . new and unfamiliar things.

PHOTOS BELOW: 1 – Ice Carving, Rice Park, St. Paul, Minnesota (St. Paul Winter Carnival, 2005) 2 – Ice Palace, St. Paul, Minnesota (St. Paul Winter Carnival, 2004)

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DIALOGUE WITH ROBERT BROWNING

by Julie McCollam

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be, The last of life For which the first is made From Browning’s “Rabbi Ben Ezra”

Really…How about: Grow old along with me!

The worst is yet to be, The last of life For which we’re unprepared The dissolution of the flesh, for instance: What speckled reptilian gout of flesh Has attached itself to my shoulder as I slept, Crept aboard slowly, and transformed the arm That used to be so comely?

This withered sack of melting meat Can’t possibly belong to me.

I see it has something like a hand attached A gnarly mottled claw or paw, Skeletoid, and devoid of grace.

And then there is the face…

But then…the improbable can lie in wait: My sweet love, bring on your tender touch.

Banish the demons of day and night.

Ring up the curtain of delight.

And in that brief eternity before we part Lay your cheek upon my heart.

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INTO AFRICA

by Helen Wisdom

I felt akin to John Denver when he sang “I’ve come home to a place I’ve never been before” the moment I stepped onto African soil. I wasn’t anxious to go. But my sister-in-law, Betty, talked me into traveling with her and six of her friends to Kenya, several years after her brother Bill (my late husband) died.

We camped on the shores of the Wasanero River, private, beautiful, filled with bird song and lush greenery. The river was yellow brown and carried along many unseen dangers as well as crocs and birds. It was a grand beginning. Up at 4 am with coffee in hand, we drove in an old Range Rover following unseen trails to find lions and other cats, but we stopped for storks and lilac-breasted rollers – tiny, beautiful birds. Also, sociable weavers making hanging nests in trees to attract mates, and animals I had never seen before. We used to have a hippopotamus in our zoo at home in a glassed wall tank, poor sad hippo. The ones here in Africa sleep all day in ponds and graze at night. One must never get between a hippo and his pond.

We saw snake birds, known as anhinga, cormorants, pelicans, hamerkops, ostriches, hornbills, hawks, secretary birds…the list is endless. My favorite was the Helmeted Guinea Fowl, who was so busy it was quite hard to photograph.

We saw Wildebeests, Elephants, Zebras, Giraffes, Dick-dicks, Leopards, Cheetahs, Waterbucks, Oryx, Bushbucks, Rhinos, Hippos, Lions, Bongos, Hyenas, Kudu, Eland, Warthogs, Rock Hyrax, Impalas, Baboons and Vervet Monkeys.

Their lives consist of finding enough to eat, water to drink, reproducing, and sleeping with an eye open to dangers.

Lions are kings in Africa; they can even sleep on their backs, arms and legs akimbo, and not worry at all. When a lion makes a kill, hyenas and vultures and other meat eaters appear to join in the feast. Leopards drag their kill up into the trees and don’t share. The ungulates have a system: giraffes get the top leaves of a tree or bush, and the height of the other antelopes determines which part of the bush is theirs. The grazers eat grass and different low plants and vegetation; they also reinforce one another within their system by specializing in certain plants. It is a system that works (if cattle aren’t present). Usually, the antelopes keep watch for lions, cheetahs, and leopards, and warn each other by signals. For example, if an impala gets stiff and still and his tail wags, it means he sensed danger that an enemy is nearby.

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On safari, it is important to have an informed guide who will point out and expand on the wildlife and the vegetation, plus how the system works. It is wonderful to hear their stories about life in Africa. In the last part of the day, the guides find a perfect place to stop and

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watch, often by a lake, as the sun recedes, with “Sundowners” (usually Tusker African beer and sodas) in hand now. Then back to the bush and the river. Returning, lights are on in the tents, dinner is cooking. After that, seated in a circle around the fire telling stories with the guides, the river sliding by and the birds speaking in the trees; it is a magic time. Finally, a delicious dinner cooked by natives and on to one’s tent and bed. It is primitive but wonderful. And many more of such days to come, which is truly joyous.

At the end of the safari part of the trip, we went to Nairobi to the Norfolk Hotel where the great white hunters stayed and often met at the bar. We also had a dinner at the famous Muthaiga Club. The day before leaving, as I wandered around the city, a native shaman pointed at me and yelled very scary things. Women aren’t supposed to wear pants which I found out the hard way, because they caused a big scene.

This trip was quite a highpoint in my life. I forgot to mention that I took hundreds of pictures, usually seated on the top of the Range Rover if we weren’t in a protected Park where there were rules about such things. It felt like being a child again – on many wonderful levels! I knew I had to return to Africa… it calls to me still, even after four more trips.

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C’ÉTAIT JUSTE DES AFFAIRES A DYING DECLARATION

by Bob Sakakeeny

So the beginning. The second time I took English 101, Dr. Gladys Ford, my first ever Black teacher, asked me to stay after class just before the winter break for “counseling.” She stated the obvious. Sending this story to you will end my life in some fashion. Not sure they use guns anymore, and I hope it isn’t some poison. Perhaps a head-on with a semi.

Regardless, better than the self-drowning from COPD the doc says will slowly do me in.

It’s my father reaching out from the grave to grab me by the lungs and squeeze until I’m gone. It’s why I killed him before it killed him.

“You’re a good writer but a terrible student. You have a great analytical mind, but no discipline. Wonderful imagination, but no grounding. I suggest you leave Colby and find a place where you can get your act together.”

So, what does a kid with no sense of direction do? Starts reading Ian Fleming of course.

Spent a lot of time with my friends at the Arlington library. They knew me, knew that I was a slow but intense reader, so let me sit there all day by myself. What wonderful stories Mr. Fleming wrote. Closer to science fiction given all the fantastical things Mr. Bond did without getting killed.

As I was bundling up to leave one evening, one of the book ladies asked me if I was going to be a spy when I grew up, just like my hero Bond? I told her I was going to be a spy but was too unsophisticated to be like Bond. “I’ll be my type of spy, but not sure yet what type that will be.”

Her question stuck with me. I had finally told my parents that I had been bounced from school. My mother just looked hurt but didn’t say anything. Dear old dad did his usual cowardly burst of anger – he had stopped hitting me years ago after I told him I would kick his ass if he touched me again.

“You’re going to start at the Grille Monday morning and stay there until you figure out how you are going to make a living. You can work with the other dead-beats cleaning and cooking.”

Monday he had me take the mail to the post office, where I noticed the military recruiters all had offices in the basement. I started with the Army guy. “Why do you want to join the Army?” The wise-ass in me replied – I want to be a spy. “We don’t have room for crazies here – get out.” Moved down the hall to the Navy and Marines, and got similar rejections.

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The Air Force guy was the last in line, and I got the same question. Gave him the same answer. He just stared at me for a few moments, put a form in his typewriter, and typed my answers to his profound questions: name, DOB, address…

Gave me the form and told me to go to the testing site in Boston and return on Friday to learn the results.

Very surprisingly I aced the tests. As he reviewed the results, he kept sighing. He made a call to a superior, then turned to me. “Spy school is all booked, how about becoming a meteorologist?” Nope, I want to be a spy. “OK, but the first opening is in July, so we have to do a delayed enlistment. Can you wait that long?”

My high-school sweetheart wanted to give me a good-bye treat but I refused. Still regret it, but I was terrified of getting her pregnant. A former babysitter got pregnant and her parents forced her to get an abortion. She freaked out and as a good Catholic in the 50s killed herself instead.

Last day was a blur. Went to Boston for the swearing-in, was taken to Logan in my civvies, and flew to Chicago then San Antonio.

Eight weeks later I finished basic training and was waiting for transport to Goodfellow AFB for spy training – technically Radio Intercept Analysis, or signals intelligence. Had to fill out this massive form where I listed everything I had done all my life, who I knew, and what problems I had from birth on. In those days the FBI and the OSI agents did the interviews and investigation to qualify us for a security clearance, and I found out later that family and friends thought they were after me for some major crime.

Sixteen weeks later my 12 classmates and I were finishing the first, unclassified, section of spy school. We had to wait before starting the second session while it was determined if we were cleared.

During that time two things happened which I didn’t pay attention to, but should have.

First, I was in a typical barracks but had my own room. Unheard of. Second, a small group of us were taken to an old Marine training site and went through some light combat training. One night we got the classic order to “take that hill.” While running up the hill we were confronted with a barrier of rolled barbwire.

Without thinking, I jumped on the barbwire and had the other guys use me as a ramp. They took the hill while I was pulled off the barbwire and taken to the medics. Our gungho 2nd lou started throwing up when he saw me. Uniform shredded, face, and chest bleeding and bleeding.

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We also had to take the Marine firing range tests. I scored modestly well on the hand-gun test and qualified as a marksman with the long gun. The hand-gun was a 1911 model .45 colt while the rifle was an old M-1.

My security clearance interview happened shortly after the fun with the barbwire, so the cuts on my face were at the scab stage. The two OSI agents looked at me without a twitch, while the shrink got a little bug-eyed.

After a brief hello and here’s why we’re here, the two agents started to review their findings while the shrink took notes. Did I remember going to a football game in 9th grade? Yes. Tell us why you stole that coke. Jesus, I don’t remember – it was just there.

Are you close to Betsy’s father? No, we don’t get along all that well. We need to know you are not susceptible to blackmail. Ok. So what happens if someone says do me a favor or we’ll tell Betsy she has a half-brother from her father’s affair with a woman in New Hampshire? We’d both be surprised by that, but why should we care?

Ok. So why did you kill that kid from Southie? Now I’m toast. Four people knew about that. The dead kid, two of his buddies, and me. How did they find out? I was watching the shrink, and he was watching me. I realized the worst I could do was lie or become defensive, so I told them the story.

As I was talking the shrink was busy taking notes. I talked fast, he wrote fast, I slowed down and he looked up realizing I was pacing the story for his benefit. They continued grilling me about the knife fight with this kid who had attacked me because he had lost face.

Dear old dad was a 1st generation Arab-American kid with a high-school education. He worked hard at becoming White; even joining the Episcopal church. He bought our house in a pure neighborhood the same year he bought the bar and grille. One was to move up, the other to pay for the move. Mom was the dutiful Arab wife, cooking and cleaning and raising the three kids. When she moved into the neighborhood, she invited each of the neighbors in for tea. Only one ever reciprocated.

The bar was near the Tufts campus and got its share of faculty and students in for the cheap lunches and generous pours. One regular was a mousey little English professor who lived in neighboring Winchester, an awful town which didn’t allow Blacks or Jews in until the late 60s.

Herr Doctor Professor got a little looped one afternoon and tearfully told my dad that his little girl had taken up with a bad group in South Boston, and he was afraid of “losing” her to that element. Dad said he would take care of it, came home, and said son take care of it.

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The next day I went to Winchester High and picked up Betsy, and asked her to point out the rebel girl. Betsy introduced me to this little sex-pot, and I asked her about her boyfriend from Southie. Jenna bragged about him, told me where they hung out, and how great it was to be with his gang. She was not in the least curious about why I was asking all these questions, mostly because my being with Betsy meant I had to be ok crazy.

The next week I asked my buddy Phil to drive me into Southie, and we parked in front of where the gang was. I asked Phil to stay in the car with the engine running while I went in for Jenna. While I always carried a knife, for this trip I had borrowed a .32 for show.

I walked into the room, walked up to Jenna, grabbed her arm, and started dragging her out before anyone could react. One guy, the boyfriend, started to make a move toward me. I flashed the gun, and he backed off. Into Phil’s car, and off to Jenna’s home. I told her, and then her dad, that I wasn’t going to do perils of Pauline rescue again, and they had to work out their issue on their own.

Two weeks later I was going home after dropping Betsy off when I got cut off. It was the boyfriend, and he had a switchblade in his hand. I got my knife out of my boot and then got out of my car. He had a good stance with his legs spread, but held his knife with the blade pointed up. To attack me he would have to bring his arm down, then up.

I had my knife in my fist as well, but the blade was parallel to the ground. I could sweep it back and forth in an S motion. I had been in enough fights against bigger opponents to know I had to move first and fast. One sweep moving right cut him in the stomach and the return sweep finished the job. I got in the car and drove off before the other two could fully react.

As I finished the story, the shrink finally spoke. “Thank you for telling us the truth. You can go now.”

The next day we were told that our class had gotten our clearances and the classified section of our courses started the next Monday. Over the next 16 weeks of training, there were a few interesting events that shaped the next three years of my life.

First was stumbling across a test site for a new form of signal intercept. The majority of the signals used for communication in those days were analog – Morse code and voice the most prominent. The newest forms were digital – faster cheaper and more precise. For instance: a Soviet radar operator tracking an American bomber would sit in front of a scope and have to transmit what he was seeing to command central via Morse. Using digital comms, the signal the radar operator was watching could just be transmitted directly to the command post.

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Second was a report of a voice intercept from “somewhere South.” The only place somewhere South was Mexico. The report noted a threat against the President emanating from an embassy in Mexico City in March 1963.

Third was the post-training assignment. None of the graduates would stay in the lower 48 States; all would receive overseas assignments. I ended up in a prime spot – England for three years.

Before heading to England I went home on leave. The time spent with Betsy was troubling.

She had dropped out of school and became an acolyte to Tim Leary, and was continually stoned. Her mother, DAR member and Mayflower descendant, begged me to intervene but it was too late and I had no incentive or time to do so.

My parents were still disappointed in my choice of the Air Force and just ignored me. So when it came time for the long flight I was anxious to go.

I don’t remember the details of the flight. Four engine prop and two refueling stops. Landed in London and followed the instructions to the right bus. Several hours in a bus right out of an old WWII movie. Lots of road construction going on, with laborers wearing a tie and wool jacket in the middle of the summer.

Taken to a new barracks and a room with two beds. Had a roommate until he committed suicide.

Next day I was on casual status, which means doing to be done. The whole whatever crap needed to be done. The whole security operation was moving from very old Quonset huts to a new underground bunker up the hill. So I spent a few days loading and unloading furniture and file cabinets. I finally woke up enough to notice this massive antenna array next to the bunker. The array consisted of three concentric rings of antenna elements, with the outer ring some 1100 feet in diameter.

Sitting in the bunker some 35 miles outside of London, I could tune in to WBZ radio in Boston and listen to the Boston news and weather. The operators I worked with could pinpoint the location of a transmitter to within a few feet.

The intercept operators, linguists, and analysts worked four shifts, or tricks. One trick worked 8 AM to 4 PM, the next from 4 PM to midnight, and one from midnight to 8 AM. The fourth was on break. A fifth, mine, worked days only. While officers had chain-of-command authority, the real bosses were all enlisted NCOs.

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Further complicating the operation, the Air Force controlled everything but the mission.

The mission was directed by the National Security Agency. The NSA did the final analysis of the information collected at the bases around the world. While Air Force monitored the

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Soviet and other enemy air forces, the Navy and Army had similar operations for monitoring enemies’ navy and army. A massive information vacuum covering the earth.

For those of you with MBAs, real matrix management.

Just as the CIA is the more well-known US spy agency, Britan’s MI6 (home to my man Bond) and the Soviet’s KGB were the CIA’s counterparts. My target was the GRU. No, you do not know about the GRU, the killers then and now. You want to drink martinis, go with the KBG. The GRU was vodka shots or straight from the bottle.

I spent the summer learning my job and finding the best pubs in the area. I had a small team of operators, linguists, and analysts on each shift and I spent 12 hours a day reviewing the data and determining what should be sent up the chain.

I forget where the quote came from, but a shift was hours of boredom followed by moments of terror. For instance. Like SAC, the Soviets kept their bombers in the air pretty much 24 x 7. They would fly routes, sometimes heading for the North Pole, but always turning around before radar contact was lost. We pretty much knew they are practice runs because the radar tracking continued and the radio chatter continued.

Occasionally, Ivan would shut down all communications, and the bombers would fly north until they disappeared from radar coverage. Was this the real thing, were they going to kill us all, or just another bluff to see what our response would be. All hands on deck terrified.

The summer and fall were spent learning the job, and I was either working in the bunker or at a pub drinking. I fell in love with the warm British ale and began tasting Scotch. Busy and exhausting, but life was good.

6:30 PM on November 22, 1963. I was on a bus traveling to spend some quality time in a pub after a long week in the bunker. It was a bit of a surprise to have the air police stop the bus and order the airmen into their jeep, but the three of us went quietly.

Back underground, after heavier than usual security checks, we heard that we were on alert and I was told to go to the main intercept console used to brief the brass when things were hot. I was given a headset and mike and told to report what I was learning. I had manned the console before when showing how the new intercept method compared to the old.

Kennedy had been shot at 12:30 Central Standard Time, and around 1:30 pm CST, I learned and reported that he was dead. We had to intercept UPI and AP signals to learn this, while our operators were doing the usual intercepts to see what the Soviet air force was up to. All reported that the Soviet bases were told to stand-down and not to do anything to trigger any reaction from the Americans.

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Our partners at GCHQ and Five Eyes around the world picked up the same – and we heard mostly nothing for many hours. Aside from one US Air Force command, which seemed confused, none of our missiles or bombers went on alert.

While none around me were crying, most were in shock – we were trained to defend against external forces, not internal.

I always had trouble emoting so no one worried about me expressing my feelings. Not for nothing, my code name was Torquemada.

We all watched the aftermath of the assassination. The assassin caught and assassin assassinated. Johnson the new President. The Warren Commission created.

I remembered the intercept from Mexico, but when I went through the archives I couldn’t find a record of it.

In late December I was told that I had to requalify on the firing range. Grumbling about the weather didn’t help so I showed up one morning in the cold and wet. Again, I attained marksman level with the rifle, this time an M16, but not with the handgun. The instructor told me I was fingering the trigger wrong. My trigger finger was at an angle rather than flat, so I was pulling the gun slightly to the left. When I corrected that and reshot, I finally made marksman with the .45. I had to go back to the barracks to warm up and change my soaked clothes.

Xmas was on a Wednesday that year, and I volunteered to cover a few shifts for those married with children. The supposed atheists behind the iron curtain were off most of the week as well, so I was given Saturday off. Given the crazy hours pubs were allowed to be open I went to a pub for lunch and was going to the library when the pub closed for the afternoon and then back to the pub for the evening.

As I was finishing my first pint a guy walks into the pub and sits down next to me. Curious since the place was fairly empty. I signaled to the landlord that I would take my food and 2nd pint in the snug on the other side. Just as I started my ploughman’s lunch the stranger came into the snug and sat next to me again.

“Don’t mean to be rude, buddy, but what do you want?” He nodded and said he was there to give me an assignment. “If you want to avoid a chat with MI5 you had best identify your self or get out of here.”

He laughed and said good un. Took out his wallet and slid it open so I could see his warrant card. Sure enough, he was MI5.

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“Your American bosses have a job for you, based on your skills and history, and I’m just here to deliver the message. Everything you need to know is in this package. Take it home, go through it carefully, and begin following the instructions. I’ll be here this time next week if there are any issues.”

He got up, left a guinea on the bar, and walked out.

Back at the dorm, the packet spread on my bed, what I saw and read was instructions for preparing to go to Germany in late January. I was going to fly from Lakenheath to Frankfurt and make my way to the Frankfurt train station nearby. There I would be fully briefed on my actual assignment and given the necessary material to complete that assignment.

Most surprising was a packet of cash (£500 – huge money for me) with a note to go to Burton the Tailor and buy a suit and winter coat hat and umbrella etc. etc. so I looked like a middle-class university student.

I took some comp time on Monday and spent an afternoon at Burton’s. They were used to having guys from the base come for bespoke outfits, but my salesman was surprised at the extent of what I wanted.

I went back on Saturday for final fittings. Wasn’t Bond quality, but was the best clothing I had ever had.

I then walked over to the pub to meet with my new best friend from MI5. Aside from some minor information about travel logistics he couldn’t or wouldn’t answer any questions about the assignment.

Given how we operated my Chief wasn’t surprised or curious about the travel orders I got.

He just had admin create the appropriate paperwork. He did want a favor. Since I wasn’t going through customs he wanted me to carry a package and give it to his buddy in Frankfurt. I later found out the package was a bag of gold coins that were illegal to trade in those days.

On travel day I took a taxi to the airbase and was taken directly to the aircraft. If you are ever offered a ride on a C-130 no one will be upset if you politely decline. First ordered by the airforce in the mid-1950s, this four-prop craft is still flying today. The one I was on was converted for SIGINT operations, so there were operator consoles on each side of the fuselage, and there was a locked metal door between the flight crew and the intelligence operators and linguists. This craft was scheduled to do a night flight out of Frankfurt, but for this flight, I was the only passenger on board.

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We didn’t fly into Rhein-Main Air Base as much as bumped and slid in. It was cold and wet when we left the UK, it was cold, and wet, and bumpy in the air, and it was even colder and wetter in Frankfurt.

I was able to dress into my Burton stuff and change some British Pounds into German Marks with the help of my Chief’s friend. He was overjoyed to help given the package of gold coins. He secured a taxi for me, and I took the longish trip to the Frankfurt train station.

At the train station, I was met by my buddy from MI5. As the kids say today, WTF. He had the decency to apologize for the game being played, but his bosses and my bosses wanted “plausible deniability” in case anything went wrong with the mission. I told him I knew enough about life to have figured out that I was expendable, but since I knew zip about this so-called mission any number of things could go wrong.

So here is the Reader’s Digest version of what he told me. A rogue element of the Cuban government and a segment of the US mafia who had lost bazillions because of Kennedy had decided to cooperate to take out Kennedy. Their hope was they would be able to reestablish the old power structure in Cuba once their evil enemy was eliminated.

They used Oswald as a convenient stooge but had two Cuban shooters as back up. When the various bosses figured out what had happened they worked together on cleanup in aisle 2.

One of the Cuban shooters was trying to make his way to the safety of Moscow. My job was to take him out while making it look like random street crime.

Frankfurt was chosen because it had a direct train to Poland. MI5 gave me a picture of the target and information on where to find the target. He also gave me a package with a clean .45 and a hunting knife. I put the gun in my beautiful suit jacket pocket but decided to use the knife.

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A MOMENT WITH ANDREW HERMAN

by Russ M Herman

I once fell off Einstein’s infinite curve of time And in a single moment, clinging like a vine, Held Andrew close.

I held my grandson Andrew when he was two Against my breast, Heart to heart, beat to beat.

In syncopated love, Andrew (Harry), Grandfather Jacob’s great-great grandson.

And in the reverie of progeny Love to love, spirit to spirit For a moment so unique, A joinder of being created a separate universe Where memory and time reverse And the tick and tock of the clock is timeless, brings a certain permanent joy To a grandfather and a boy.

In a place where stars do not twinkle, and oceans do not flow, Where memory and time become a single notion, A shared moment between Paw-Paw and a two-year old beau.

And even now when Andrew is grown, A man in his own right, A young man with his own light, I am captive of a moment years ago, And know indeed he is seed of my seed.

August 25, 2017 Dear Andrew, I suppose that it’s unusual for a grandfather to write a poem to a grandson but there was a moment years ago that was so special to me, because of you. And I thought that I just wanted to communicate to you how wonderful and special you are to me.

No matter how near or far away you are, know that I love you very much and I will always see you in my mind’s eye and feel you in my heart.

Love, Paw-Paw

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HEAVENLY HUMOR

by Dorien Mahoney

This really happened.

I couldn’t help grumbling in December as I drove to Metairie for a doctor’s visit.

It was during the pandemic; the hoops to jump through were myriad. The holiday traffic was crazy. I knew from previous visits that the parking garage was under construction. And for sure there would be at least two hours of my squirming in various waiting rooms.

As predicted, construction forced me to park quite a distance from the doctor’s office door. At the front desk the receptionist reminded me to put on my face mask, which was required. Alas, my mask was in the car. She refused when I asked if they had a mask I could have. I was directed to the hospital next door. “They may have some....” I walked out with a sigh, preparing to return to my car.

As I stepped outdoors onto the sidewalk, I felt a gentle warm breeze caressing my face. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a light blue face mask floating down in front of me, wafting slowly back and forth as if in a dream. It appeared to be unused, the pleats perfectly folded.

A decision needed to be made! I picked it up, put it on, turned around, and walked back into the office. My heart was warmed! When I left my (not so tiresome) appointment, I took off the mask, set it lightly on the sidewalk, and smiled. The garage exit was free of construction and my attitude toward the traffic going home was much improved. It made an interesting but incongruous story to tell later.

As I typed up this encounter after a few weeks, I had a lot of questions: 1–

I thought God sent Angels for purely serious happenings, like announcing Jesus’ birth or protecting someone in a bad accident or helping a person deal with cancer.

Obviously, life-threatening human events would take precedence over the use of an Angel’s time and energy, right? Procuring a face mask for me was hardly an emergency.

2–

Where is the spiritual and physical interface that would give an Angel access to a face mask? Is there an Angel commissary? Or did the Angel find a wayward face mask, put two and two together, and come up with an interesting solution?

3–

Was it a slow afternoon in heaven, with Angels sitting (flitting?) around trying to figure out creative ways to spend their time?

4–

Were there jokester Angels who would seek out human situations to tweak for their own amusement?

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All I know is that this experience reinforced an Advent lecture taught by a friend of mine in which Angels and Angel Bible studies predominated. She asked our group, “Has anyone had an experience with an Angel?” Up to that point, I had truly not thought of this experience as the work of an Angel. Now I’m a Believer! Now I feel privileged to have left my face mask in the car. Maybe it gave an opportunistic Angel a chance to play a helpful joke, laugh, and take a break. It gave me an optimistic memory to cherish and a heartfelt feeling of being cared for, whatever the reason. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A MOTHER’S DILEMMA

by Ted Martin

This happened many years ago, when my children were young and we were living in a big house on Coliseum Street. Early on a balmy Saturday afternoon, some of us went outside to have lunch on our shady patio at the back of the house. From the patio to the street lay a garden perhaps 15 feet wide that separated the house from our neighbor’s fence. A crepe myrtle tree next to our house overlooked the patio. In the tree was a squirrel. Upon our arrival the squirrel decided to return to the safety of the other side of the fence. It easily made the acrobatic jump from our tree to the tall bushes growing on the other side. But then it jumped back. And we noticed that in our tree was a smaller squirrel. The larger squirrel, let’s call her Mother, had returned to remind Junior how to make the jump. Mother jumped again, but Junior failed to follow. She came back again, fussed at Junior, and once again showed him how to do it. He again failed to follow her lead, cowering in dismay. She came back, fussed some more, and then did something amazing: she grabbed Junior by the neck with her teeth, and jumped again. Despite the load, she cleared the fence safely and they were gone.

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“THIN MOMENTS”

by Topper Thompson

Thin moments have been described as moments in our experience when we are able to see through the veil enclosing the natural or material world to view the spiritual world. Thin moments are essentially those experiences when we feel our soul is part of something much larger than what our everyday thought processes see. I describe each of my last three viewings of a Peregrine Falcon, moments which were distinctly associated with the death of my father and then my mother, as “THIN MOMENTS,” when I was able to see beyond our material world to the manifestation of my father’s soul – within a separate dimension – as a separate creature. I begin my analysis of the meaning of my thin moments with a short story of the life of my father. This will prepare the way for my examination of the “thin moments” I experienced at the times of the death of my father and later of my mother.

My Dad spent his first few years as a Marine Officer commanding gun batteries embedded in bunkers on a tiny island in the Midway Chain in the middle of the Pacific during World War II. While on Midway, Dad passed the time by sketching the “gooney birds” which he found a constant source of amusement, and annoyance when the birds dove into the Marine Corps’ anti-aircraft bunkers. Dad loved birds, especially the Peregrine Falcon, able to fly more than 186 miles per hour – making it not only the world’s fastest bird but also the world’s fastest animal. It is also a strong, courageous, and glorious bird, revered not only as the national animal of the United Arab Emirates and as the Warrior God in Egypt, but also as a symbol of “aerial (celestial) power” among Native Americans of the Mississippian culture.

Dad organized his drawings of the Birds of Midway into a plywood bound book of 30 drawings.

Drawing of Peregrine On December 7, 1941, at 6:30am Midway Time, when the news reached Midway of Japan’s sneak attack on the American fleet at Pearl Harbor, Horace knew that the attack on Pearl Harbor had hit downhill from where his wife Ethel was living in their officer’s bungalow on Mount Tantalus in Hawaii. Because of the breakdown of radio communications between Hawaii and Midway, it was several days before Horace and Ethel could communicate across the 1300 miles separating them to confirm the other was alright. Yet Horace said he knew that Ethel was well after the attack on Pearl Harbor, simply because he had communicated with Ethel via mental telepathy.

Dad was separated from me, his new son, for several years while he fought on Midway.

When I was a two-year-old toddler, in 1944, Dad first met me when he was summoned to return to Quantico, Virginia, to attend Marine Corps Command and Staff School, and my mother and I joined him for his training, after which he was sent back to the Philippines to become the senior USMC adjutant to General Douglas MacArthur. Dad’s assignment was 38

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to plan the amphibious landings during the anticipated invasion of Japan – as the war in the Pacific neared its end.

After the war, Horace built a house, with a pool and tennis court in Waveland, Mississippi, to which he flew from New Orleans in one of his five consecutive private planes. He would circle the Waveland house in his plane (just like the Peregrine Falcon) to let us know that he had arrived and could be picked up at the grass airfield in Waveland.

Susan and I viewed a rare Peregrine Falcon only four times in our lives. The first time was 1984, when we saw two nesting Peregrine Falcons on the side of Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina, reportedly sighted for the first time in the Eastern United States after nearly going extinct. I recall vividly my dad’s description of the Peregrine Falcon, when in 1984 I reported to him that Susan and I had seen the nesting pair. He told us the Peregrine Falcon symbolized ambition and aspiration, superiority and dominance, freedom and victory, not just because of their foremost speed and strength, but also because of their sharp eyesight, lethal nature, and deadly hunting skills. He told us the bird represented to him his own fight against fear on Midway Island and on McArthur’s staff, as well as a metaphor for his clear vision when flying his own private plane.

Twenty-five years later, our second sighting of a Peregrine Falcon (following our first sighting on Grandfather Mountain) occurred during my dad’s memorial reception at the Penthouse on the roof of Lambeth House. The Peregrine’s appearance struck me as a mysterious occurrence. The Peregrine Falcon is known to land on roof tops to hunt piPhoto by Dr Michael Ellis geons. But they avoid humans, and there were twenty or more family and friends standing near the Peregrine Falcon when it attended Dad’s reception. Every one of our guests watched the bird stare at my mom through the glass wall of the Penthouse for forty-five minutes. My sister Carolyn noted the Peregrine is the God in Egyptian lore who carries the warrior king to the afterlife. The Egyptians revere the Peregrine, HOR-USS is his name. HOR-USS stayed on our balcony for an hour staring at my mother, not looking for pigeons to catch. My friend Mike Ellis went to the balcony to take a photo. The Peregrine calmly stared at him and did not choose to go.

After the reception, our son Clark called to tell us that just a few minutes ago, as he dropped his kids off for school several blocks away, a Peregrine Falcon twice circled his car, then followed him down the street. When my mother was told this story by her grandson Clark, she said: “It’s just HORACE, saying ‘I’m O K.’”

Photo in D C

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Susan and I left the next day to return to my judicial assignment in Washington D. C. As we exited the Metro Blue Line which transported us from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport to the street on which our apartment was located, we walked under the Jefferson Davis Highway overpass. Under the overpass, we encountered a Peregrine Falcon aground,

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staring our way! We were stunned. Peregrines are never seen on the ground, especially not under an overpass. Concerned that the falcon had been hit by a car, Susan approached the bird ready to scoop him up with her jacket and take him to a vet. He stared at her and then vigorously flew away.

This third sighting strengthened both Susan’s and my sense that my dad’s soul was communicating to us through his favorite natural creature, the Peregrine Falcon. There could be no other rational explanation for our two consecutive sightings of the Peregrine Falcon – 1000 miles apart (a full day of flight). We wondered what Dad’s message was. But when Susan and I were circled by the Peregrine Falcon in our car as we left my parents’ Waveland home shortly after my mother’s death, it became clear to us that Horace’s soul had crossed the spiritual veil between material life and spiritual life to assure us that he would accompany Ethel’s soul to a safe place on the other side of life. We realized then that the string of sightings since Dad’s death were not coincidental. They were Dad’s way of assuring us that all is well, just as Mother had exclaimed: “It’s just Horace, saying ‘I’m OK.’” As my brother Bruce had said in response to the sighting of the Peregrine Falcon at Dad’s funeral, “Angels appear in many forms.”

I told Aggie Richards this tale about the peregrine falcon sightings associated with my dad’s passing away. Six years passed when Aggie called to tell me, “Come see an amazing sight.” Her 1014 apartment was under Mom’s 1114 Lambeth home. A Peregrine on the levee had been staring at my mother’s apartment for quite a while. I told Aggie that the date, January 14, would have been Dad’s 100th birthday.

My mother left Lambeth House in the few months before she died to live in her home in Waveland, to sit in her easy chair in the custody of her youngest daughter Susan Louise, in order to watch the interesting array of birds which regularly visited the feeder under the Oak Tree beside her glass wall. In March 2020, at the start of the pandemic, she became ill in Waveland, just before her own 100th birthday. Susan and I drove from New Orleans to see her, but she had already passed away and Susan Louise had arranged for her cremation by the time we arrived in Waveland. We visited with family and planned a burial ceremony for Ethel when the pandemic eased. Then Susan and I left Mom and Dad’s summer home to drive back to Lambeth House in New Orleans. As we left Waveland, I photographed a Peregrine Falcon as it landed in a tree after it circled our car.

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“Many religions affirm that there is an aspect of the human person that lives on after the physical life has ended.” (World Scripture: A Comparative Anthology of Sacred Texts, Andrew Wilson, editor, 1995, p. 225). To focus my research on modern Christianity, I read each of the theology books written by the eminent Episcopalian theologian Marcus Borg, which led me to accept the philosophical concept of the immortality and transportability of the human soul. Although Borg described this concept of the soul’s immortality as a part of modern Christianity, he identified that concept as having been introduced by Thomas Aqui-

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nas. Aquinas asserted that a spirit needs nothing other than itself to exercise existence after its creation by God, the Prime Cause. Aquinas argued a spiritual soul cannot be corrupted, since it possesses no matter; it cannot be disintegrated, since it has no parts of substance; it cannot lose its internal energy, since it contains within itself the source of its energies. I also read Plato’s statement in the Phaedo that the essence of the soul is life, from which he concluded that the soul is essentially living independently from the body. Genesis 35:18 describes the death of Rachel, Jacob’s wife, saying she named her son “as her soul was departing.” After reviewing this Biblical statement about the soul leaving the body after death, I embarked on further research. I was fascinated by the statement of theology writer George MacDonald: “You don’t have a soul. You are a Soul. Your soul has a body. Every human being who has ever lived is an individual soul, and all those souls are in existence somewhere.”

After extensive study I came to agree with Jacques Maritain, a French Roman Catholic theologian who has taught philosophy at Chicago, Columbia, Yale and Princeton Universities: “The immortality of the human soul is an immediate corollary of its spirituality….

Once it exists, it cannot disappear; it will necessarily exist forever, endure without end.”

Dad had steered his eternal spirit to enter a Peregrine Falcon, the creature he loved as a parallel to his love of flight, and as a symbol of his ambition for superiority and dominance leading to freedom and victory. All of these were his aspirations he demonstrated during his military service on Midway Island and as the senior Marine on McArthur’s staff in World War II. The sequence and connection of our sightings demonstrate the potential that our thin moments were not purely coincidental. Moreover, our experiences are not entirely unique. In 1992, a Gallup survey indicated that approximately 8 million adults in the United States had had a near-death experience, experiencing accurate visual and auditory perceptions, encountering other beings which physically their near-death body would have been unable to see or to hear. Tamara Norten Smith, President of Clinical Research Team from 1999-present, relates extensive reports of Near-Death Experiences recorded by patients or medical staff members that detail visitation to the afterlife. When I searched her descriptions of Near-Death Experiences (NDE), I found extensive details, including commonalities such as seeing a bright light, being in a tunnel. seeing family or friends, entering another human or a well-loved animal, being peaceful, seeing their life moments played back, etc. The scientific aspect of the existence of life after death is discussed by Roger Penrose in his “Search for the Missing Science of Consciousness” reported in his treatise, Shadows of the Mind. The New York Times reported that “in this profound work, Penrose provides power-

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ful arguments to support his conclusion that there is something in the conscious activity of the brain [which] will find no explanation in terms of present-day science.” The Wall Street Journal concluded, as I do now, “One certainly comes away from [Penrose’s] book exhilarated by new metaphysical vistas.” Such metaphysical vistas appear after reaching an understanding there are numerous destinations outside of the physical world into which a soul might enter upon death of the body, planes of existence our naked eye cannot perceive.

I suggest a person’s most intense desire forms the vibration or impression the soul takes after death. In Dad’s case, he desired the flight, the ambition and aspiration, the superiority and dominance, and the goal of freedom and victory – of a Peregrine Falcon.

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VISIT MY NIECE

by Sam Rosamond

As a sheltered, naïve early teen in the fifties, I did not know anything about the female anatomy. Playboy had not then been published, and the internet was a long way off. The authoritative document for the study of the female anatomy was the Lingerie Section of the Sears and Roebuck Catalog.

In the fifties and at least into the mid-sixties, when my sons were born, new fathers at Baptist Hospital, where they were born, were not allowed to touch the baby until the bill was paid and you were heading out the front door. How things have changed. Now fathers are helping in the delivery room and cutting umbilical cords. I am so happy that was not the practice when my sons were born. Then the babies were kept in a nursery behind a wall that was half glass at the top. The babies were only brought out for the mothers to feed them at designated times and fathers and visitors were required to vacate the Maternity Ward. How the babies knew that they were to eat at that time mystifies me because that practice did not keep up when they were brought home. The babies in the hospital were kept in bassinets with wheels. During visiting hours, if you wanted to see your baby up close, you would hold a sign up against the glass wall with the baby’s last name on it. When the nurses in the Nursery had time, they would rearrange the bassinets and bring your baby to the glass wall.

My sister, who was several years older than I, delivered her first baby at Baptist Hospital in the fifties. My mother took me to the Maternity Ward to see my new niece. We put the required last-name sign on the window and after some time my sister’s daughter was brought right up to the window. Upon arrival the nurse immediately began to change her diaper. I looked on and started to cry. My mother said that it was OK to cry, the birth of a baby brought on all sorts of emotions. I told her that I was not crying for that reason, but because the baby was deformed – she had no penis.

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RECIPROCATE

by Anonymous

You studly dudes who stride our halls, Does it never occur to you to make some calls?

To occasionally pick up the phone And call some gals who’re all alone.

You could host sometimes without distress, Not always be the grateful guest.

No fancy plans should cloud your brain; No quick clean up to cause you pain.

Just think of the word “reciprocate,” And never fear, it’s not a date.

You’d earn some points, as you’d soon see, And think how happy your mother would be. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

SLOW AND STEADY

by Charlotte Travieso

Even though He won the race, No one covered the turtle With glory, Or picked up On his passion

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IN THE OLD COUNTRY

by Bert Cowdrey

All Americans have an Old Country someplace in their background. Probably several of them – we’re all wanderers. Even Native Americans originally came from someplace else.

They just got a head start of, oh, say fifteen thousand years on the rest of us.

All my places of origin were in Western Europe, and my first chance to get a look at them came in the Fifties, when I was in basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia. The news that the Third Division was headed overseas got mixed reviews from the salad bowl of blacks, hillbillies, and city slickers who filled our disheveled ranks.

“What the f---’s in Europe? I never lost nuthin’ there,” was a frequent reaction.

Personally, I thought the news was great. I don’t remember exactly what “Europe” meant to me back then – probably a mélange of cathedrals, castles, ancient breweries, and recent battlefields. But going there meant I wouldn’t spend the next two years in Fort Benning, and for me, that was sufficient.

I soon found out we weren’t headed for any of my personal Old Countries. My ancestry is mostly an Irish stew with some British fish-and-chips, a French crouton, and a spoonful of Scotch haggis thrown in for added texture. But I would see only a chunk of London and a soupçon of Paris, both of them on my own time and dollar, because none of my ancestral lands were on the front line of the Cold War. Instead, I got to see a considerable patch of Germany, which in those days was practically all front line, divided between East and West with the Iron Curtain running down its middle, like an angry scar sutured with barbed wire.

History there was up close and personal, with NATO forces and the massed tanks of the Warsaw Pact facing each other across the minefields. A lost war was the reason for the division, and Germany’s tragic past still lay close, sometimes closer than I realized. In Bamberg, the Bavarian town where we settled into barracks, the favorite after-duty haunt of American soldiers was a Gasthaus run by a toadlike individual named – well, nobody knew what his real name was. We called him Boris, and he presided at a corner table among a blowsy bevy of professional ladies. Boris often expressed his deep love for Americans, and I was not too young to understand that if we’d been in the Russian Zone, he would have loved Russians just as much – would have joked with them, for he spoke all known languages; would have pimped for them too, because his real business wasn’t beer and entertainment, it was survival by any means necessary.

Boris obviously wasn’t German, so one night when we were having a beer, I asked about his personal history. Turned out he’d been born in Ukraine and spent the whole of World War II “in the East.” With the German army? I asked. Well, actually, with the Einsatzgrup45

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pen. I’d won a master’s in history before I got drafted, so unlike my comrades, I knew what the Einsatzgruppen had been –murder squads sent in behind the Wehrmacht to exterminate Jews, Communists, and anybody else Hitler didn’t care to have around. The Nazis had often hired locals to do their dirty work for them, including Ukrainians, so that part of Boris’ story was believable, too. I was having a beer with a mass murderer – no wonder they say that travel is broadening.

Young Germans were the most likely to have shrugged off the shackles of the past. Being an urban animal, I took leave in Nuremberg or Munich whenever possible, finding both heavily-bombed cities in a frenzy of postwar reconstruction, filled with jerry-built housing, half-repaired monuments, and a strangulating traffic of tiny cars and swooping bicycles.

I gravitated to the students in Munich’s university district, having recently been one myself, and found them much given to beer and laughter. Their preferred barroom was a joint called the Zigeunerkeller or Gypsy Cellar, though it was actually Gypsy-less because nearly all of that despised race had been killed in the Holocaust.

Except for the weather and the language, our get-togethers felt like old times at Tulane and Johns Hopkins. We drank, sang songs, and practiced German and English on one another, and I felt I’d found a serviceable sort of Old Country, especially when a crowd of us went staggering out of the Cellar at four in the morning, headed for an all-night eatery in search of spicy oxtail soup – the local hangover preventive. Falling into snowbanks during the gusty Bavarian winter was head-clearing and refreshing, and nothing messed up my cheerful mood except seeing gangs of poor old women sweeping the icy streets with twig brooms, in anticipation of the morning rush.

Like the old women, rural Bavaria seemed to belong to the nineteenth, if not the thirteenth, century. Most farm work was done by hand, and I once saw a farmer guiding a plow pulled by a cow and his wife, both of them in harness. The men were actually peasants, substantial guys with medieval minds and rubicund Bruegel faces like root vegetables. They fueled their long workdays with beer – our town had fourteen breweries, roughly one for every thousand people – and fertilized their fields with dung. Seeing the Third Division’s atomic cannon held up on a narrow road by a horse-drawn honey wagon gave me a feeling of vertigo. Had I fallen into a time warp, or what?

When my time of service ended, I was shipped home and got on with my life. Thirty years passed; I published a forgettable novel, got a PhD, and made a career for myself as an official historian working for (guess who?) the Army. It was the Eighties when I heard from an old friend who’d moved to Munich with her family; her husband was working for NATO and her daughter was engaged to a young German architect. She invited me to visit, so I did, and found myself in a country changed almost beyond recognition.

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In my absence, the peasants had turned into American-style farmers. Tractors had replaced wives and cows as motive power. City streets were cleaned by growling machinery.

Comprehensive health care provided free accommodations for the elderly poor – no more street-sweeping for a pittance to survive on. Rebuilt Munich throbbed with industry; the trains made American railroads look like the Toonerville Trolley. The new Germany embraced eccentricity, as we learned when our picnics on the River Main were interrupted by strolling nudists. The language was full of Americanisms: in the Fifties, youngsters praised what they liked by saying it was prima, meaning first-rate, but their children said it was kuhl, pronounced cool, meaning exactly what the kids at home meant by it.

Bavaria with its Alpine vistas had become a tourist destination, like Miami. Mad King Ludwig’s fairy-tale castles were thronged with foreigners. Enriching the tourist industry was a concentration camp – the infamous Dachau – now beautifully maintained by the Federal Republic of Germany and littered with informative signs that told with devastating candor who had been held there, and what had happened to them. The Germans I talked to were not in denial about the Nazis; they seemed to face the truth of their past as I wished Americans might embrace the whole truth of ours. I still had no personal roots in the country, unless you wanted to go back to the Anglo-Saxons. But this was where I’d seen history actually happen – and that’s the real secret of origins, isn’t it? Finding a place where the past speaks to you, and tells you things you need to know.

One day shortly before I left for home, I was sitting outside a restaurant by Lake Constance, having a beer and watching a mini-Niagara called the Rheinfall thunder down and launch the great Rhine River on its long journey to the North Sea. Kids, possibly the grandchildren of the young Germans I’d met when I was young myself, squealed and shuddered happily in the flying spray. Others in my party arrived and we all went in to dinner, which was simple and good, featuring Spargel mit Schinken und Kӓse, fresh asparagus with thinsliced ham and cheese. Pretty soon we were toasting each other and talking like a cage of toucans, Germans and Americans together, all of us fellow citizens of a common Old Country whose name is Time.

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BRASS RING

by Russ M. Herman

The dreams of children are varied as the menagerie of jeweled creations on the carousel as it goes round and round.

Most ride horses, lions, elephants, and such and reach for golden rings, tall above their heads while piped organ music sets a tune.

On the carousel they hold tight to poles as if holding tight to dreams.

The master of tickets permitted their entry to another “round and round you go.”

And other children wait in queues, impatient for a turn on a lion, a tiger, or perhaps a camel.

When the organ grinder is silent, they step from jewel-bedecked white steeds.

It is more difficult for some, who stumble and still others jump, fumble And repair to the end of the queue to dream, Impatient to ride astride and dream again.

Age brings recognition of Life’s Carousel as it goes round and round and round.

Where dreams of youth are recalled in distant memories.

Still others are put aside, nostalgia, but still seek a ride on a steed, Fast or slow through difficulties Which brings loss or success.

When did I first learn that the gold ring was brass?

Each new day, me seeking to manage dreams or realities, still extending a hand for the ring, yet dismount with dignity, no matter how blessed or difficult the ups and downs of the ride.

When did I learn that the ring was a trinket, and conclude – Better to be a pole rider on the Carousel of Life than never to have dreamed.

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A SIMPLE QUESTION

by Elaine Coffin

Should poetry rhyme?

Some say so Yet other ways to go Be the Bard In blank verse Counting beats in fives Free verse an option No rhyme, nor rhythm Structured images without caution Walt Whitman indulged William Carlos Williams favored e e cummings reveled Go on with other ways to go Celebrate the word Be a poet.

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PB&Js ON PLUTO?

by Bill Penick

It was a dark and stormy night … when it hit me like a hammer that PB&J, although a true historical icon and not just another object of animal desire like chocolate and Dr. Pepper, has never received the official adulation it so richly deserves. Like 99.99% of the world’s population, you probably don’t know that the humble PB&J changed the course of human history. (Any reader who does not know what PB&J means was obviously deprived of a sublime childhood joy and brain enhancer by evil parents and should probably stop reading right now for the sake of his/her own sanity.) To demonstrate just how badly we supposedly-adult humans (as opposed our much wiser children) have treated PB&J requires us to go back in time.

Official histories, for what they’re worth, trace PB&J all the way back to … 1901. How insanely stupid! It’s a known fact that peanut butter existed at least 7600 years ago in tropical and sub-tropical areas of the globe. As for jelly, that was invented by Marcus Gavius Apicius of Rome during the first century AD reign of the Emperor Tiberius, if the Chinese didn’t beat him to it centuries earlier. However, assuming the brilliant Roman actually deserved his historical footnote, that means peanut butter and jelly both existed at least by 100 AD. Do you really think it took the entire and curious human race another 1800 years (100 to 1901) to try putting those two ingredients together and see what happened? Not possible. Even an accidental mixing of the two would have revealed a heavenly result that could not have been ignored, like the creation of Reese’s Pieces.

So let’s now switch to the true history of PB&J. After years of research on my very favorite subject, here’s what really happened: PB&J was invented by a master Flemish chef named Wout Balthazar Antoon Daiglemeyer on June 22, 1499. It was an instant success that spread rapidly across Europe (except Scandinavia, for some strange reason), then Asia, and eventually the entire world. Riots occurred in Europe when the price of peanut butter and bread rose some 200%. Fearing a revolution, the Flemish ruler banned PB&J as seditious and the Catholic Church condemned it as a work of the Devil, which is really what prompted Martin Luther to nail his famous 95 Theses to a church door in 1517 and start the Protestant Reformation (historians blithely gloss over the fact that PB&J as something divinely-inspired is the subject of Luther’s Thesis #14).

And he got that idea from Leonardo da Vinci’s immortal painting of the “Mona Lisa,” which so beautifully captured the heavenly bliss of a young woman just after finishing her very first PB&J sandwich (given to her by the painter, of course).

The changes that occurred in the wake of PB&Js appearance were monumental. Not all of them were good: the peanut futures market went crazy and a new black market created chaos among the central banks. On the other hand, birth rates climbed rapidly and 50

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childhood mortality fell rapidly (except in Scandinavia, not surprisingly). But most of important of all, the Age of Reason, otherwise known as the European Enlightenment, started on June 22, 1529, exactly one generation to the day after the invention of PB&J. There are still a few skeptics who think that was nothing more than a timing accident, but the vast majority of scientists and historians know there’s a definite causal connection between the two events because the steady consumption of PB&J over those 30 years by children especially had fertilized their young brains and enhanced their mental powers to the point of making the Enlightenment inevitable.

That in turn generated exponential progress in science, medicine, agriculture, cosmology, and other fields. Take Isaac Newton, for example. He was an undistinguished college student with few prospects when he discovered PB&Js and started eating one every day. His “Eureka” moment occurred two years later when he discovered gravity – not because an apple fell on his head (a charming myth originated by opportunistic apple growers) but because of a half-eaten PB&J sandwich that fell down instead of up when a crow stole it and then dropped it while flying away. Rumor also has it that Newton the alchemist focused on trying to turn many substances into PB&J rather than gold. And you may not know that Albert Einstein had just consumed not one but two PB&J sandwiches in record time when his grateful brain cells came up with the famous formula of E = mc squared.

Given what PB&J has done for mankind, we should be celebrating it with a national (if not global) PB&J Day, but we’re doing just the opposite, to our everlasting shame. Today the PB&J has been relegated to kitchens in private homes where it’s used to appease cranky children. It’s not considered legitimate adult food, except by a few mavericks like me. Think about it. When was the last time you saw a so-called grown-up eat a PB&J openly, i. e., without trying to hide it? Have you ever seen PB&J on a menu in a nice restaurant? Even those avant garde restaurants that now serve lowly burgers and glopped-up French fries as fancy entrees do not deign to offer PB&Js except as fodder for kids.* PB&Js shocking fall from grace shows up in other ways too. Soap, for example, consists in different forms of everything under the sun, except PB&J. What about picture-painting? Artists employ all sorts of weird things like blood, urine, and mud to achieve a unique effect, but not PB&J. It is fast disappearing from our public lives, which is no doubt why peanut farmers all over the world are desperately trying to concoct some kind of peanut-based ethanol.

The human race has made many catastrophic mistakes over the course of its existence, but to forsake such a worthy friend as PB&J so callously is one of our biggest blunders ever. We’re very good at making excuses for our actions, but even the lamest of excuses cannot justify what we’re doing. After all, PB&J is divinely delicious. (The ancient Greek gods loved PB&J even more than nectar, as shown by their decision to share nectar but not PB&J with their human subjects.) It’s nutritious and digestible. It 51

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requires no cooking and little clean-up. Nor does it require teeth to eat. It comes in an infinite variety of flavors. And it goes splendidly with any wine, red, white, or rose (a fact unknown to us but well-known to Zeus and his gang). Best of all, a PB&J sandwich is a cinch to make. Even I, who look upon all kitchens as the ultimate black holes, can make one, along with frozen pizzas (after years of practice with a microwave) and an occasional bowl of cereal (although those boxes are getting harder to open), which is all I need to survive food-wise. (Yes, this is a plug for the simple life.) In summary, PB&J is THE PERFECT FOOD. As I know from personal experience. I grew up in a house a block away from Commanders Palace, New Orleans’ finest restaurant then and now. When my physician-father had to miss dinner at home, my mother sometimes treated me, a little kid, to “dinner” at Commanders, which for me always consisted of a PB&J, never a menu item but delicious enough to keep me quiet.

Then why did we consign it to the dustbin of history? That’s still something of a mystery, but more and more of the evidence is pointing to those devious Scandinavians as the source of this treachery. Despite years of trying to grow a single peanut anywhere in their frozen countries in order to capitalize on the PB&J boom, they finally gave up and, acting out of pure jealousy, decided to try the different strategy of undermining the boom itself. So around the middle of the 19th century, under cover of all the European political chaos in 1848, they stealthily spread the word around the world that peanut butter might cause syphilis in adults who dared to eat it. That turned out to be the death knell of PB&J in the coming Victorian Age. By the end of that century, the consumption of PB&J had dropped by 92%. Most adults wouldn’t touch the stuff, although they continued to use it to bribe their unsuspecting children. It may help you to understand PB&Js’ cruel fate to recall that Dorothy would have starved to death in the Land of Oz had she not brought a basket full of PB&J sandwiches with her, but the moguls in all their “wisdom” left that part out of the movie because it was too “controversial.”

The consequences of PB&Js near-demise were utterly catastrophic. Lacking a key brain stimulant, the vast majority of adult humans went into withdrawal and the entire world (except Scandinavia) went berserk. If you have any doubts about that, just look at our 20th century, which was a real mess: aside from a few grand accomplishments like the moon landing and civil rights movement, it was 100 years of war, revolution, genocide, economic disaster, exploding crime rates, nuclear weapons, global warming, terrorism, and other forms of suffering. There were of course additional causes, such as the misguided Prohibition in our country, but the damage done to the mature adult brain by the absence of PB&J was the one universal factor. Because of that, we simply lost the ability to think straight and got exactly what we deserved. If only the children with their PB&J-bathed brains had been running the world, things would have been very different, but alas, that ridiculous myth of adult superiority won the day and here we are.

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However, there is some hope left. If we act quickly and sensibly for once, we adults still have time to redeem ourselves and save our stricken world from the chaos we created.

All we have to do is disprove the syphilis connection and restore PB&J to its rightful place atop the human food chain. Sounds simple, but the absence of PB&J for some 170 years has taken a dreadful toll on our once-awesome intelligence (as shown by what is happening right now, 7/19, in our poor old USA), so we’re working with a short deck, but I’m told that even the Scandinavians are contrite and now ready to do their part, which is encouraging. If we’re lucky, one of those true Herculean heroes who has been secretly nourishing his mind with daily PB&Js will step forward at just the right moment. Whatever the efforts and costs it takes to reverse the anti-PB&J tide, the rewards will be monumental.

What we could accomplish with PB&J-infused brains is mind-boggling. The slogan of “a PB&J a day keeps the doctor away” may sound a little silly, but the combination of PB&J and modern medicine really could eliminate all diseases, including syphilis.

And think of what “a PB&J a day” would do for our minds! We’d eventually become super-intelligent beings who could solve all the problems of poverty, illiteracy, crime, war, and environmental degradation. No longer would it be so utterly imperative to create some form of AI (artificial intelligence) smarter than ourselves to save us from ourselves. Nothing in our immense Universe would be beyond our eventual reach. If we set our minds to it (and fed them with a daily dose of PB&J), we could be masters of the entire Solar System in the next 50 years. I can even imagine my teenage grandson Aubrey (whose favorite food, by the way, is … you guessed it – and whose favorite topic of conversation is space travel) sitting by his red-water pool on the ex-planet Pluto and eating a homegrown PB&J sandwich while writing the definitive history of its role in our space program. And if he should be visited by a little green person from outer space, I’m sure the first thing he would do to win his or her friendship is to offer his visitor a PB&J sandwich (on wheat toast). And that, dear reader, is exactly what we should be prepared to do when our first such visitor shows up here, i. e., have your PB&Js ready.

PS: After waxing historic for so long, I’ll end on a poetic note. In his justly-famous poem “If” (written, incidentally, in 1895), Rudyard Kipling composed these inspiring lines: “If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it ….”

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Given the horrors of the 20th century that followed so shortly thereafter, he might have inspired us to do better had he had written this instead: “If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and all the PB&J in it ….”

PB&J NEWS FLASH! Well, well! It seems that a few enlightened souls out there are finally realizing the intrinsic value of PB&J as brain food essential to the survival of the human race. Four months after writing the expose above, I opened the morning newspaper to find a gratifying little article relegated to some unread back page instead of the front page where it should have been, with a banner headline, no less. Apparently the University of Alaska, in all of its obvious wisdom, is now accepting PB&J as payment of illegal parking fines, for the sublime purpose of combatting student hunger by distributing the collected bounty to students in need. What incredible insight! Instead of picking some tasty but mundane delicacy like Alaskan King crabs, the University chose the healthiest food on the planet, for good reason: If its campus police are even half as efficient as are the New Orleans “meter maids” in handing out parking tickets, the University will soon start graduating the best and brightest students of any in the country.

Let’s hear it for parking tickets! The more, the better.

[This story is dedicated to my grandson Aubrey, the PB&J champ of the world.]

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LIFE’S JOURNEYS

by Ellen Conway Bellone

The charter flight on Eastern Airways left JFK Airport approximately five hours late. The exhausted bridal couple flopped down in the generous seats and did not stir until the propjet landed in Newfoundland. Upon landing, they discovered that three of their co-educators did not possess the requisite vaccination documents to land in Paris on June 29, 1960.

While the jet was being refueled for the last leg of a twelve-hour flight, a local doctor vaccinated the unapologetic threesome.

“Are you going directly into Paris?” Joe, a brand-new friend, asked the bridal couple. Joe’s wife stood aside, letting her husband take over.

“Absolutely!” Ellen and Jules replied in unison. Having luggage to last ten whole weeks, Ellen asked if there would be enough room left for four passengers in a French taxi. Joe, seemingly well-traveled and confident, assured them it was doable. “We don’t have much, a week’s worth,” he said. His exhausted wife Sheila, who hadn’t stopped talking for twelve hours, was mute – at last.

As the foursome approached the outskirts of Paris at nightfall, the taxi driver wanted to know where he should drop them. Jules, sounding quite sophisticated, said, “The Sorbonne area will be fine. A pension.” This translated in 1960s parlance to “cheap.”

The sight of the lights of Paris, its bridges, and spires, electrified the couple, even in their semi-comatose state. The glory of Paris, their long-awaited dream, became a scintillating reality, made especially poignant in the darkness of the night.

The little hotel, to which the couples were literally led by the taxi driver, had an iron spiral staircase that rose above the courtyard and reception area. Their assigned room was cavernous. A little balcony overlooked the courtyard, which was crowded with plants, tables and chairs, and blowing laundry – all very Parisian. “What’s this?” asked Ellen. Neither she nor Jules had ever seen anything like the bidet that was next to the toilet and sink in a separate corner of the room.

Jules, hugging Ellen, exclaimed, “Married on Monday! Paris on Wednesday!” The couple, giddy with exhaustion, anticipation, and love, collapsed on the huge, lumpy, but French bed. The low nightlight glamorized every aspect of their room and the courtyard. It is Paris!

There hadn’t been much romancing on the twelve-hour flight. Jules and Ellen held each other closely, making up for the abstinence of the flight, and fell asleep like two spoons.

Jules, who had purchased a brand new little Renault 4CV through his father’s generous loan, awoke to plan with Ellen the pickup of their new car by mid-day. “Whatever they do 56

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to their coffee certainly makes it delicious,” announced Ellen, as they sat at a courtyard table. She gave half of her croissant, another new taste, to Jules. The hotel offered a pot of coffee and a pitcher of warm milk to them while they planned the pickup route.

“The dealer is right here,” said Jules, as he carefully circled a spot on the map.

Ellen, armed with three years of Sister Mary Dulcida’s high-school French, asked the friendly old desk clerk how to get to the dealership by public transportation. Having been born and bred in New York City, Ellen was confident taking public buses anywhere. They both wanted all the knots of getting to the dealership untangled before leaving their new nest.

In the lobby outside the courtyard, the bright morning sun’s revelation of worn furniture coverings, pervasive dust, and several cats wandering about, scratching at the vine-covered courtyard pillars, made the price they were paying suddenly seem high. The literature on the end tables advertised the hotel as a residence for students. Ellen laughed, “I bet all the students are on vacation! They certainly aren’t here!” Jules agreed. The taxi driver had figured out just the kind of place for them in the Sorbonne area. Fortunately, they were charmed by the rough edges. The place was truly wonderful.

Jules needed to spend time with the dealer to examine the car’s features because he had purchased it sight-unseen. It and they were about to embark on a ten-week journey across Europe before the car was finally shipped from Southampton to Philadelphia as cargo. The $800 for the car and the shipping fee of $150 seemed like a great deal to both Jules and his generous father. Ellen had implicit faith in Jules’s judgment about everything, including the choice of this car. The dealer spoke good-to-excellent broken English. He and Jules reviewed every detail in the instructions for operation and maintenance, as Ellen entertained herself with her Paris guidebook. “The sky is as clear and blue as our new car,” she thought.

It took about two hours to review the car, the required license plate, the driving license, the insurance cards, and the final shipping document. As they left, the dealer wished them bon voyage and gave them a voucher entitling them to a 600-mile checkup at any garage.

The long-planned purchase had at last been completed, and their journey could begin in earnest. Jules confidently slid behind the wheel beside his bride. He was the driver; Ellen, a city girl, did not drive, but was armed with maps and ready to serve as map-reader.

Jules cautiously moved the car from the showroom driveway into the chaotic traffic. They parked the car to review every detail of their trip back to the Sorbonne area and their hotel.

“Glad that’s over,” said Ellen.

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“Wow, I love this little car. It makes Parisian driving easy,” said Jules, enthusiastically.

“What’s the name of our hotel, Ellen?” he yawned.

“I don’t know, but it’s around here some place,” Ellen said confidently, as they approached the area with the Sorbonne in clear view.

“Do you remember the name of the street, Jules?” asked Ellen.

“No!” Jules said nervously.

“He’s beginning to look unhinged,” thought Ellen.

They were forgiving themselves; after all, they had arrived in the pitch black of night, and bone weary. But driving up and down street upon street, without success, left them out of ideas and out of patience.

Jules decided to park the car and continue the hunt by foot. As they walked up and down more streets in the Sorbonne area, he began to worry about the parked car. They walked back toward it, and as they came closer, Ellen excitedly exclaimed, “There it is!”

“Yes!” There stood the Hotel Montaigne on the rue des Ecoles, not far away. Squealing in delight, the couple hurried to rescue the car. Calmly, happily, they drove the few streets to the hotel.

“Everything go well?” asked the hotel desk clerk who had helped them in the morning.

“Oh, yes. Everything is fine! Thanks for asking,” said Jules, as they ascended the iron steps to their room.

“Everything is fine!”

From then on, whenever they have been in Paris, Ellen and Jules laugh heartily as they walk along the rue des Ecoles.

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SOUTH AFRICA HAIKUS

by Charlotte Travieso

The petite server With the flashing eyes brings chairs For those left standing Thunder in the hills The road runs muddy water Where does that gate go God, we do believe We will be free but why must The cost be so high We have no arms but We have boxes of matches And we have small stones Game drive number five Big rain on the green ponchos Leopard tortoise hide What would it be like To sit all day with your wares Waiting for a bus

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MURDER AT LAMBETH “A SPOOF”

by Elliotte Harold

HENRY GENSER (LAMBETH HOUSE RESIDENT) HEIRONYMUS (HARRY) BOSCH (LAPD) LUCAS DAVENPORT (MINESOTA BUREAU OF CRIMINAL APPREHENSION, LATER A U.S. MARSHAL) ALEX CROSS (D.C. P.D.) ARCHIE GOODWIN (NERO WOLFE’S FACTOTUM) COTTON MALLONE (THE MAGELLAN PROJECT)) JOE GRAY (RICH COP GROUPIE WHO ALWAYS SEEMED TO SHOW UP AT MAJOR CRIME INVESTIGATIONS) The lawmen listed above are well-known to mystery readers. Each has appeared in many, many New York Times best seller series and have readers all over the world.

Their authors continue to crank out book after book starring their favorite sleuth.

Try one, you’ll be hooked.

Anyone who is accustomed to enjoy mystery novels or police procedurals knows that no matter the author, at least one character will opine that there is no such thing as a coincidence. Not so! This writer can attest from personal experience to at least two almost unbelievable coincidences. So, it was a coincidence that six famous characters – FIVE FORMER LAWMEN AND ONE HANGER-ON – wound up living at Lambeth House, an upscale retirement community in the sleepy town of New Orleans.

Harry had retired for the third time and followed his daughter to the Crescent City where she was in her senior year at Tulane Law School and had accepted a job at a personal injury firm whose ads were seen almost hourly on the local TV stations touting the immensity of their awards.

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Lucas, after an acrimonious departure from the MBCA and a stint with the U.S. Marshalls Service, agreed that his wife Weather should accept an offer to become Head of Surgery at a large New Orleans hospital. He was independently wealthy from the sale of a computer simulation company he had founded as a young St. Paul police officer. They bought a palatial St. Charles Avenue mansion but also maintained an apartment at Lambeth House for “future use” and an occasional meal. Weather wanted their two youngest children, Sam and Gabrielle, to attend Isidore Newman Schoo but Lucas, a lapsed Catholic with a lingering fondness for his parochial school training, insisted on Christian Brothers. Time hung heavy on Lucas’s hands and, although he started to get reinvolved in the computer business, he missed the excitement of police work and found himself spending more and more time with the other former peace officers – lunch, bar hopping, a few hands of poker but most of all shooting the bull, discussing things that the doctors, lawyers, business magnates, and professors who were the majority of the Lambeth House residents could not understand much less imagine.

After his grandmother died at the age of 103 and his children were gone, Alex came back to his Southern roots for a quieter life than that offered in D.C. Archie had never saved much money but with the proceeds from the sale of the New York brownstone bequeathed to him by his longtime boss, he could retire. Nero’s renowned orchid collection brought some more cash when it was sold in the first-ever flora auction at Sotheby’s. Unfortunately, he could not afford to keep Wolfe’s chef Fritz who had provided him three gourmet meals a day. He could afford to move to New Orleans and eat in a different exceptional restaurant daily while also dining daily at Lambeth House. After a few months of no work or exercise, he was well on his way to one day matching Wolfe’s 1/7th of a ton.

After many years of hair-raising assignments and close calls with death, Cotton Malone retired from the super-secret U.S. Magellan Project and moved to Copenhagen where he established a used rare-book business. He was content until someone sent a rocket into his shop which was also his home. After finding and dealing with the culprit in his usual permanent way and with no business left to operate, he moved back to the States. He had long been fascinated by the rich literary history of New Orleans, so it was an easy decision to settle there.

Joe had met and kept up with some of the others on trips to feed his passion of being near real-life investigations. He was always asking questions and his puppy-dog enthusiasm led him to being treated almost as a mascot. Usually, reticent lawmen 61

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tended to open up to him. When he heard of the group at Lambeth House, he bought an apartment. Although not a fulltime resident, he showed up often enough to be accepted as one of the gang and was included in all of their activities.

There was another fairly young man who had moved in a few months after Joe by the name of Henry Genser. His biographical sheet showed that he had traveled the Midwest as a sales representative for an industrial equipment supplier until his parents died and left him 640 acres of prime farmland in Iowa. Not wanting anything that involved getting his hands dirty, he quickly turned the farm into a subdivision and another swath of semi-rural land bit the dust.

The men were good citizens like all the residents. Like all the residents, they followed all the rules – for the most part. Like a lot of residents, they did not think that all of the rules applied to them. Who has not visited another apartment for drinks or a couple of rubbers of bridge during the pandemic shutdown? Without naming names, the author has seen a few plastic bags leaving the dining room with a few tasty morsels lodged therein. Those smart enough to see what was coming managed to tuck away their stocks of steaks and goodies before the infamous Lambeth House food raid. The rule that the Fuzz felt could not possibly apply to them and therefore could be ignored was the ban on firearms. The premises appeared safe enough but you never know. Their motto was “Better safe than sorry.” A couple of the fellows would each have rather given up their wife (if they had one) rather than their sidearms.

The fellows in our group got along with other singles and couples but more often than not seemed to be found with each other. Mr. Genser was another story. The Welcoming Committee and neighbors were not too successful in efforts to have him become one of the crowd. He was pleasant enough and did accept an occasional invitation to dinner or even to drinks in someone’s apartment but, for the most part, stuck mostly to himself. After their many years of snooping into other people’s business, the Fuzz did not like unexplained mysteries. They often discussed the seeming shyness of a man who had made his living as a salesman. Whoever heard of a successful shy salesman? It gnawed at them like a dog with a bone. Finally, it hit them right between the eyes. Genser was no salesman; he was a COP! At last, no more reliving former glory! They all were back in harness. There was a mystery to solve and who better to solve it than the Fuzz. Decades of training and experience were gathered in one spot and it was time to go to work. Phones started to ring all over the country and emails went out by the dozens as contacts were made

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with former colleagues trying to discover the real purpose of Henry Genser’s move to Lambeth House. Not only did no one in the law enforcement community know why Henry Genser was there, none had ever heard of him. Nothing galls a cop more than a puzzle with no clues to follow – no thread to pull on hoping to unravel the sweater.

Frustration rose until some weeks later when an unobtrusive sign appeared on the reception desk announcing the unexpected death of Henry Genser. One day he was there, the next day he was gone. No funeral or memorial service was announced.

This did not deter the Fuzz. They were more determined than ever to find out who he was and what his business was at Lambeth House. They even went so far as to hire a newspaper clipping service to scour all the papers in the country for information.

All remained a mystery until a few days after the death when two large men in black suits and sunglasses appeared, followed by a “cleaning” crew that all the Fuzz recognized as a crime scene unit. With their usual disdain for local police and private investigators, the “Feebs” ignored the Fuzz. The techs were not as closed-mouth.

They let slip that the autopsy showed the death was not due to natural causes but to a long needle inserted into the brain through an ear. Were it not for a smear of blood in the ear canal, the murder might very well have gone unnoticed.

The techs also did not think it necessary to keep secret the fact that there was no DNA found other than that of the victim and the maid. No other trace evidence was uncovered. The homicide detective who had gathered all of Genser’s effects into evidence bags told them that they had been taken by the FBI agents. The detective had as much respect for the agents as they had for him, having told him to back off and “leave everything to the pros.”

Our retired heroes were not impressed and were not about to “leave everything to the pros.” As far as they were concerned, they were the pros and the agents were a couple of wet-behind-the-ears neophytes with a little book-learning but not nearly enough time on the streets. The Fuzz later learned that they were very experienced agents. However, be that as it may, they never uncovered a clue.

As our heroes groused over the agents’ curt refusal to accept help, the Fuzz started throwing around ways they could “help” solve the murder on their own. Except for Lucas’s Diet Coke, bourbon and scotch flowed freely as they hatched plan after plan, each more fanciful than the other. Lucas finally broke the meeting up by saying “let’s all get a night’s sleep and reconvene in the morning.” They grumbled but fi-

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nally agreed to break up the meeting. “Leave the bottles at home,” suggested Lucas, which caused more grumbling, but finally they all tottered off.

The next evening, they all gathered again, a couple of them having ignored Lucas’s admonition to leave their bottles at home. All of them had different ideas as to how to proceed. “We need to know more about the victim,” said one. “No,” said another, “we need to find a motive.” “Motive Schmotive,” said a third. “Money or sex are the usual motives,” pitched in Harry, “and I don’t see either one fitting this crime.”

“How about a paid murder?” chipped in Joe. “That’s just a subset of the money motive” said in Alex.

Soon they were all jabbering at once, holding forth with their individual ideas.

“Enough,” shouted Cotton, “this is getting us nowhere. Without clues we’re pretty well stymied. Let’s go back to the beginning. How did the murderer get into Lambeth?”

This elicited another barrage of speculations. “He had a key.” “He came in on a drone.” “Couldn’t have been a drone but a parachute might have worked.” “What about one of the old tunnels described in that article about the Lambert House mole?”

When all of the suggestions had been roundly pooh-poohed by those who could not come up with any other ideas, plausible or not, they decided it must have been an inside job, but with no clues they were unable to produce any suspects.

Lucas Davenport, the most cerebral of the group, mused “Was it Sherlock Holmes who said something about when you have eliminated all the possibilities, then the impossible must be the answer? Let’s let it simmer for a few days and see what you all come up with. We’ll reconvene in a week and see if anyone comes up with the impossible answer.”

In a week, only Alex Cross offered an answer. He said, “The authorities have vetted everyone here so the only answer I can come up with is that the murderer is one of us.” “Bingo!” said Lucas. “So, who is it?” A chorus of denials broke out. It sounded like the Last Supper when Jesus told the Apostles that one of them would betray him.

“We have to let this sink in,” said Cotton. “Let’s do a lot of thinking and retrace our steps and see if anything comes out. The slightest hint or memory of something out of kilter might be all we need.”

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given up. Then Archie called everyone together as his boss had done so many times when he was ready to reveal the solution to a case. Everyone gathered with the addition of the two burley FBI agents with bulges under their jackets and smirks on their faces. Archie explained that their theory was right. “You will recall,” he said, “that there was no DNA found on the corpse or anywhere in the victim’s room. Not having DNA to match to anyone at Lambeth, the authorities abandoned that line of inquiry and so no one here was tested. After our last meeting, I gathered all of the glasses we had used and was able to get big enough samples to let Ancestry.com do its magic.

The results were interesting and I will let all of you have your reports. One of you has a touch of Chinese. Alex will get a surprise but the most interesting result is that one of us has 73% Middle Eastern ancestry. Does that seem like a clue to anyone?”

A strong hand clamped down on Joe Gray’s wrist as he reached inside his coat. The wrist that was withdrawn was holding a Glock Model G45. The gun was forcefully wrested from Joe Gray’s hand and handcuffs were clamped onto his wrists.

As the villain was led from the room, Archie suggested that a drink was in order.

Harry, who had been unceremoniously retired by the LAPD on two occasions until called back when his talents were needed, added, “I guess we Old Farts still have it.”

“Hear, hear,” echoed the others. “Let’s lift a glass to Archie,” suggested someone, which they all did – more than once. It was a good thing that no one needed to drive home, even Lucas, having decided to use his apartment.

Epilogue: Some months later, our intrepid sleuths were asked to visit the FBI offices on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain. On arrival, they were ushered into a plush conference room and offered coffee and King Cake by an attractive young lady with a suspicious bulge under suit jacket. Shortly, they were joined by a short, squat man in an ill-fitting off-the-rack suit. They stifled a giggle at his crooked toupee.

He shook hands all around and introduced himself as Special Agent in Charge of the New Orleans office of the FBI, Frank James. “Gentlemen, thank you for joining me this morning. I have some information to share with you. First, though, I must ask you each to sign a non-disclosure agreement which, if violated, subjects you to prosecution under the appropriate federal laws. Under normal circumstances, we would not be disclosing this information to civilians; but this is not a usual situation. Your backgrounds convinced us to break the rule. Any one of you not willing to sign is free to leave.” All signed.

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“Thank you, gentlemen”, said the SAC. First, I am pleased to tell you that by order of the President you are each going to receive the newly created ‘Civilian Medal of Honor’ for service in a matter of grave importance to the security of the United States. While there will be a White House ceremony and some publicity, the citations will be framed in general terms. You will not be allowed to disclose the nature of your services. This condition is subject to the confidentiality agreement you just signed. Is that clear?” Our stunned friends could only nod their agreement.

“Fine. This is the background. You are probably aware of the ability of the NSA to listen in on transmissions all over the world. What you know or suspect, however, doesn’t scratch the surface of those capabilities. Some time ago, some Chatter was picked up that caused the analysts to suspect there were plans in the works for terrorist attacks on industries between New Orleans and Baton Rouge. Unfortunately, the NSA’s capabilities are not good enough to pinpoint the exact location of the Chatter. The closest they could come was within a mile or so off of a point in New Orleans near the Mississippi. A surreptitious survey of the area caused us to home in on Lambeth House as a likely location of the transmission. It was by no means a sure thing but an undercover agent you knew as Henry Genser was inserted as a resident at Lambeth. When he was killed without turning up any hard information, we knew that Lambeth House had to be the source of what was going on. We were sure the murderer lived at Lambeth, but all of our efforts to locate him were fruitless. It was your work that broke the case.

“Because you are bound to secrecy, I can give you some of the details. Fortunately, Joe Gray was easy to crack. He had been recruited by an offshoot of the Taliban because of his almost perfect English. He was not a fanatic but was in the game for the money and the ability to live well in the United States rather than in some hovel in the desert. He was to travel and try to ingratiate himself into as many law organizations as he could to learn all he could about their methods and procedures.

“It did not take long for the CIA’s interrogation team to get a confession to the murder by taking the death penalty off the table. However, he was closed-mouth about the terrorist plots. He isn’t the smartest spy to come down the tracks. Then he was told that the death penalty still applied to terrorist acts. That bit of information caused him to start coughing up everything he knew like a dog disgorging a piece of rancid meat he found in a garbage can.

“Once again, he swapped a potential death sentence for information about details of the planned sabotage. (It probably did not hurt that the lawyer we furnished him was fresh out of law school where he finished near the bottom of his class.)

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“Now he is safely behind the walls of Leavenworth Prison in solitary confinement serving a life sentence with no possibility of parole. Naturally, the information he gave us led to the arrest of all his co-conspirators who are now awaiting a military trial. Turns out almost every one of them was a scholarship student at an American university. Is there any country as naïve as the U.S.?

“Gentlemen, you will shortly be hearing from the Office of the President. I add my personal thanks and congratulations. You saved your country from a catastrophe that would have dwarfed Nine Eleven.”

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IT’S ONLY JUST A NAME

by Janie Soslow

Wednesday morning at 10 am, Mrs. Kreisman received a phone call.

“Mrs. Kirschman? This is Dr. Johnson’s office. We’ve made an appointment for you next Monday with Dr. Calkwood in Ophthalmology at 4 pm. Will you be able to make it?”

“I’m Mrs. Kreisman. Thank you. I can. Is Ophthalmology on the fourth floor?” asked Mrs. Kreisman.

“Yes. Goodbye, Mrs. Kirshman.”

On the following Monday, Mrs. Kreisman called the ophthalmology department.

“This is Mrs. Kreisman. I’d like to confirm my appointment with Dr. Calkwood for today at 4 pm.”

“We do not have a Dr. Calkwood on staff here. I think he’s at another clinic. Yes, he’s in Neurology. ” “Thank you.” Mrs. Kreisman was confused. Why would Dr. Johnson refer her to Neurology? Well, maybe he was a neuro-ophthalmologist?

“Have a good day Mrs. Kirshman.” Click.

Looking up Dr. Calkwood in the telephone directory, she called right away. Where should she go for her appointment?

A very pleasant woman answered the phone.

“Good morning, how can I help you?” asked the woman.

“My name is Mrs. Kreisman. I’d like to confirm my appointment with Dr. Calkwood for today at 4 pm, please. It seems I also need to confirm your address.”

“Dr. Calkwood has no patients scheduled today, Mrs. Curlman. I’m looking at his schedule.”

“This is Mrs. Kreisman, K-r-e-i-s-m-a-n. Dr. Johnson referred me to Dr Calkwood. Could you check again, please?”

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After a long pause, the receptionist sighed. “Mrs. Riseman, we do not have you listed here for today. Let me check if you are supposed to be here on another day.” There was a long pause and the clicking of computer keys. “No, I don’t even see a Riseman in our patient list.”

“I thought I was being referred to Ophthalmology. I am so very confused,” replied Mrs. Kreisman with a very audible sigh.

“Here’s the number for Ophthalmology. I suggest you call there again.” Click.

After too many long rings, someone answered the phone.

“Is this the ophthalmology department?”

“Yes. This is Mary.”

Mrs. Kreisman told her she was transferred from Neurology and was trying to confirm an appointment with Dr. Calkwood.

“I’m sorry. Let me check for a clinic number here, Mrs. Gooseman.”

“Excuse me, it’s Kreisman, K R E I S M A N.” “Okay. Mrs. Kiseman. There’s no need to get upset.”

“It’s K-R- E- I- S- M- A- N.” “Well, we don’t have you listed for an appointment at our clinic at all today. In fact, I can’t seem to find you in our list of patients at this clinic with any of our doctors. And we don’t have a Dr. Calkwood here, Mrs. Kiteman.”

“Thank you, I will check with my primary care doctor to see to whom she referred me.”

“Good morning, my name is Mrs. Kreisman. I’m confused about an appointment. Is Dr. Johnson in today so I can ask her to whom she referred me?”

“Well, Mrs. Ritelan, she is not in the office today and will be out for the next two weeks.

I don’t think someone from here called you last week. Let me check with the other receptionist. Natalie, did you call a Mrs. Ritelan last week about a referral?”

“Ritin? No, I didn’t.”

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“It’s Kreisman, not Ritelan.”

“So, sorry, Mrs. Rimsan. Apparently you are mistaken about the referral.” And she hung up.

Not sure what to do, Mrs. Kreisman finally decided to just stay home.

At about 1:15pm, the phone rang. “Hello, this is Holly Kreisman.”

“Good afternoon. This is the receptionist in Ophthalmology. I am calling to confirm that you have an appointment with Dr. Caldwell at 4 pm today. Our address is 2389 R Street.

Do you know how to get here? We are on the fourth floor.”

“Thank you. I will be there.”

“See you later, Mrs. Kleismin. Have a good day.”

So, the only one sure that Dr. Caldwell would see Mrs. Holly Kreisman that day was Holly Kreisman.

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FRAN AND REG

by Elaine Coffin

Frances Novak and Ruth Grauet, more familiarly known as Fran and Reg, owned and operated Camp Bearnstow near Mt.Vernon, Maine. Actually, although Fran acted like the owner, Reg was the one who possessed the considerable funds to purchase the land on Parker Pond in order to launch a summer camp for ages five to eighteen. The camp was advertised as a summer camp for the arts and offered music, drawing, painting, dance, and swimming.

The last offering was a nod to Parker Pond, a lovely body of water fantastic for swimming.

Lest you think Parker was a round pond in someone’s farmyard, that pond was very large.

Even larger was Great Pond near Belgrade, Maine, nearby. That pond was so large that at some points on its shore, a viewer could not see the other side! At first, I thought these names were Maine understatement; however, I learned over time that the nomenclature was determined by depth rather than size. Lakes were deeper, sometimes very deep. Our house was across the road from Lake Minnehonk, a sometimes-treacherous body of water because Flying Pond fed into it and created a murderous cross-flow.

Back to the camp, Fran taught dancing authoritatively. She had been a Broadway chorus girl in her youth. Reg managed and taught everything else. Reg had been a lighting and set designer for various theaters in New York and was very much in demand as I was told.

They lived in a large and beautiful apartment in New York City and arrived at Bearnstow in early May to set up the camp for the new season, beginning in June and staying through September.

Watching the swimmers with racing suits and wearing white bathing caps march down the hill to class was like watching a military procession. Fran was yelling out left, right in precision. One little boy yelled in desperation, “I’m com..mi..ng!” Fran marched back and retrieved the tardy youngster with a drill-sergeant smile. Class began and was taught by Reg with a teenage assistant. Seeing the white caps bobbing, one could be pleased that the students were, indeed, learning to swim in natural water.

Fran’s dance class was a daily event of considerable drama. Imagine a less-than-five foot tall woman, her gray-blond hair escaping from the bun atop her head.

“Ladies! I want your complete attention!”

The eight to ten-year olds stood at whatever attention they could muster, suspiciously wondering what edict would flow.

“I consider it my sacred duty as your teacher to teach you to land after a fall. Because you will fall sometimes during you dancing careers.”

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Even more suspicious, the fledgling ballerinas seriously thought about their dancing careers.

“It is absolutely imperative that you land in a perfectly-formed swastika position!”

At this point the young dancers were thoroughly confused, not knowing a swastika position, although they heard a rumor that a high school boy drew such a thing on the blackboard and got suspended.

“I will demonstrate!” Fran lowered herself somewhat in the shape of two crosses entwined.

When their teacher’s demonstration concluded, the girls were suitably impressed and so glad this part of their lesson was over.

Some parents withdrew their offspring from Bearnstow, thinking that the experience was too stressful. Those who stuck it out recognized that Fran and Reg genuinely cared for each camper and were truly devoted to excellence in arts education. At the conclusion of each season on Labor Day, Bearnstow held a program to celebrate the summer to be held in the main clubhouse. Wooden chairs were formed in a u-shaped audience configuration. Select artwork was placed on easels near the door. Windows were covered, and Reg arranged lighting to enhance the musical offerings. One especially adept piano student played a classical piece. The finale was a dancing program danced enthusiastically, even at times beautifully.

And no dancer fell.

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