tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84171400330410097512023-11-15T22:41:39.315-08:00SPACESDwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8417140033041009751.post-71374000207905831892011-08-11T06:49:00.000-07:002011-08-11T06:51:43.151-07:00Zeke Jones<style>@font-face { font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }table.MsoNormalTable { font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style> <p class="MsoNormal"> A large black housefly crawls steadily up the porch screen. No sound but not trying to be silent; being a housefly is all. A soft breeze compromises its journey so it tightens its grip on the screen-lacing with its six hairy legs and continues its journey to nowhere for no certain time period. A colored boy looks out the screen of his family’s porch at Miss Tildalayhu smartly walking down the street on her way to church. Quite heavy in a bright yellow ankle-length dress, pink belt and pink sash on her large-brimmed yellow hat; <i>her church-goin’ hat for sure</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. The housefly walks into the line of sight of the colored boy and his young ginger eyes reverse focus on the fly.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Mornin’ Ezekial,” Miss Tildalayhu says, calling him by his given name though everyone else calls him Zeke.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>His eyes again re focus on the proud Negro woman. <i>Man, I hates people that calls me Ezekial</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, he whispers ever so lightly because if his daddy heard that kind of disrespect he’d smack the back of his head so hard fireworks would go off behind his eyes. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Mornin’ Miss Tildalayu,” he says just loud enough to be heard but not loud enough to warrant her stopping and engaging him in conversation about something stupid then saying “Jesus loves you, Ezekial. See you in Church.” But the boy is not going to church. His momma will go. Pray for the whole family. <i>Mans don’t hafta go to church. Woman’s job</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, he whispers. Below the bottom level of the screen he practices giving her the finger, holding down his first, third and fourth finger with his thumb. Zeke smiles at Miss Tildalayhu. He knows he’s bad but it makes him feel older, bigger, deserving of respect—not just a skinny little nigger boy who white people boss around.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The housefly is now walking in circles directly in front of the boy. It stops, does something with its legs. The boy squints down on the fly wondering if flys lick their butts like dogs do, like cats do; wondering if flys take craps or piss. So the boy decides to kill the fly. He rolls a newspaper and swats it, knocking it to the sill where he smacks it several times. Whack. Whack. Whack. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“What the hell’s goin’ on out there?” his daddy’s voice from the living room asks.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Just killed me a fly,” the boy answers. “A dumb ole fly that pro’bly craps and pisses all over the porch.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“You tear that screen and I’ll beat the crap and piss outa you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Yes, daddy.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Yes, SIR,” he corrected.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Yes, sir.” Zeke knows better. “Daddy? Momma goin’ to church? Seen Miss Tildalayhu on her way.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Yeah. She be along soon. We goin’ to my shoe-shine chair to meet the afternoon trains. You ready?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Yes, daddy.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Yes, SIR.”</p> Dwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8417140033041009751.post-37173794273125500792010-08-21T07:13:00.000-07:002010-08-21T07:15:11.205-07:00The SecretI am old. Pretty difficult to get along with, they say. It’s Saturday. I’m sitting on a curb in <span style="color: rgb(98, 98, 98);">the town of Felipe Carrillo Puerto in southern Quintanna Roo, Mexico.<span style=""> </span>I left my huarachis in the car because I like the feel of my bare feet touching the ground, like dancing naked with a woman. A ten foot tall bronze statue of Presidente Benito Juaréz stands prominent in the rotary <i>(glorieta)</i></span><span style="color: rgb(98, 98, 98);"> across the street. Juaréz was a Zapotec Indian who ruled Mexico during the mid to late 1800s–that would be like Geronimo becoming president of the United States. Many parts of this area have not changed since then. Juaréz is watching me because he knows my secret.<o:p></o:p></span><span style="color: rgb(98, 98, 98);"><span style=""><br /><br /> </span>I am a fly fisherman and copywriter. Sounds frivolous, doesn’t it? Fly fisherman and copywriter. I fish down here as often as I can finagle airfare and a car. (Often I sleep in the back seat, yet another advantage of a rental car). You can buy good Cuban cigars in this town and sit outside a bar with a Dos XX. And smoke and drink, oil your reels, loop your lines, remember old times, and plan your tomorrows. Especially you can look at the women. God, the women here are beautiful, the morning sun heating them and the moon sliding down their backs. And fleeting black eyes like flash bulbs in the dark.<o:p></o:p></span> <!--EndFragment-->Dwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8417140033041009751.post-53333123693426099802010-08-11T12:27:00.000-07:002010-08-11T12:32:13.448-07:00A Glimpse of Harbour IslandFrom the sky, Andros, the Eleutheras—that part of the Bahamas—looks like it was painted by a Disney animation artist: pastel pinks and greens, violets and purples; a milky, off-white pattern in the Atlantic, embracing irregular stretches of rich green land onto which slaves were imported in the fifteenth and sixteenth century to replace the thousands of Arawak Indians killed by the white man. <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>The dock at Dunmore Town is a poured concrete runway, fifty-feet long. At the end of the runway is a platform for storage, a pastel green, stucco warehouse, an empty red telephone booth. Old white-side-wall automobile tires line the outer edge of the platform and runway to which boats are tied in random order like trail horses on a tether line; some twelve-foot Whalers next to twenty-five foot water taxis, waiting to take tourists to the North Eleuthera airport. Black Children scurry from tourist to tourist helping with luggage, receiving their tip then scurrying off behind a deserted old refrigerator where they will count their fortune. <span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>Two different species of human’s here: white tourists in pastels from Abercrombie and J.Crew, and purple/black islanders in blacks and browns with bare feet like elephant hide—black with deep pores and scratches that tell stories like the rings of a tree. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>An old man with a graying, kinky beard rides a broken-down bicycle around the storage building at the end of the pier, chasing three young children from piles of lumber brought from the mainland. He warns them of the dangers of falling as he slowly weaves in and out of the piles on his bike like an old bumblebee among flowers.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span><span style="font-style: italic;">“Hey, chiles. Get-offa-dat wood fo you fall an huht yosef. Gwan now, get!”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>From this fifty-foot runway sticking into the harbor, I turn and see the town, a series of quaint, wood-frame homes, mostly white with varying pastel shades of pink or green or blue or violet. Yellow, too. That these homes were first constructed in the early 1800’s is a testament to their hardiness. “<i>You see all dose houses got the same wide siding, everone on Bay Street’s the same, they all built one fashion. The man founded the plan and everbody built the houses alike.” </i><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style=""> </span>Made of pine from the Abacos and Key West then painted every other year for a hundred and fifty years. Seventy coats of paint resist the hurricane season and bond to each other like left-handedness in a family. This tiny Bahamian community, steadfastly adhering to its New England architecture, remains committed to a sense of values that, too, are under attack from the off-shore social elements—disrespect, petty crime and greed.<span style=""> </span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Dwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8417140033041009751.post-88761613846305326592010-03-02T06:39:00.000-08:002010-03-03T05:39:36.533-08:00Translating in Nicaragua<b>The Alien<o:p></o:p></b> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I am ET in a group of earthlings. I must learn their ways. . .or I will surely perish. Seventy-seven humans called surgeons, nurses, internists, anesthesiologists, equipment specialists, etc. They are speaking a language of which I understand only the pronouns and conjunctions. They are warm and friendly. My earth brother is their leader. I call him Lanny. He has learned the verbs and nouns. These people fix their kind, repairing limbs with saws and hammers and screws; carpenters of sorts.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>We are gathering at the airport in Indiana headed for Managua, Nicaragua with stores of high tech medical supplies—drugs, surgical equipment, state-of-the-art prostheses. Something unpleasant is dawning on me. This: I am to translate their English words—which I don’t understand—to a person (patient) who doesn’t speak English. My Spanish is sketchy. . .faded like the lyrics of an old doo-wop song. Luckily there are several translators and, because this group travels Latin America each year, many of the medical personnel have become somewhat fluent, some have not. My brother still struggles with English.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>We fly over the Gulf of Mexico, over the Yucatan Peninsula. I can locate Quintana Roo and Ambergris Caye. Memories of stalking the shallow lagoons with a fly rod in one hand and a Dos XX in my fanny pak and such a thrill in my heart— bonefish, tarpon and permit. Los lagunas de Mahahual, siempre te ven mis ojos. The music starts<span style="color:black;">. Adventure creeps over me like a fresh, cool night sheet. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><b>The hospital<o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>Military guards in camoflauge with Uzis stand in front of closed gates to <i>Hospital Militar Escuela</i></span><span style="color:black;">. Poverty lines the streets like a heavy coat of guilt. Inside the walled refuge, the waiting rooms are full of hopeful eyes. . .faces from someone else’s yearbook. Soon they will mean something to me. I hear discussions about how many must be turned away. I am nervous. Spanish leaves my memory banks. Another translator interprets while my mind adjusts.<span style=""> </span>The orthopedic surgeon and others examine x-rays and talk with patients. Most are not mobile.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>Two are the most memorable: A little man (maybe four-and-a-half feet tall). His name is Santiago. Dwarfism has scrunched his body like an exhaled concertina, but his eyes sparkle with happiness and wisdom. And trust. The surgeon says we can fix this guy. He is scheduled. People mill about in the room. . .nurses, another doctor, a patient wanders in out of turn, one enters as scheduled. No one is flapped—except me. Santiago leaves. He smiles. I will not forget that face. Those eyes. The spirit is all around us.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>A young woman enters, early twenties. A stiff leg dangles. She carries x-rays. She is filled with excitement, anticipation, dreaming of dancing again. The way she tilts her head. The way her eyes reflect the memories. I know. Everyone examines her and the x-rays. The surgeon tells me to tell her there is nothing we can do for her. Oh my God! Nothing? I’m startled. She is too mobile, they say. We have to draw the line somewhere. Someone else wanders in with x-rays from a previous patient, then another patient. I notice the young girl is standing by herself against the wall in the corner. She is crying real hard. I know she hopes the doctor made a mistake; that he will change his mind. I put my arm around her and try to console her (I either told her how sorry I was or that the cereal is in the cupboard (?)). My heart is broken—think of her’s. The surgeon says he wishes he could have been more sensitive about her plight. Oh shit, this is not what I expected. The halls are like honeycombs. Everyone is talking and bustling.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>Next was the super bowl. Anti climactic for me. I was still remembering that young girl. Also. I think I told someone that Lanny was my husband (esposo) rather than my brother (hermano). Who won the Super Bowl, anyway? I’m a Patriots’ fan.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><b><span style=""> </span></b></span><span style="color:black;">It’s Monday. The recovery room is full. Tomasa is her name. Tomasa Tercero Romera. I asked her if she could wiggle her toes yet. She could. Any pain? Not really, she says. And for the first time I am able to carry on a conversation. Man, what a great feeling. The words were there. . . not all of them. Enough. She has been married for 39 years. Her husband is a cop. They have many children. I tell her about my family, and we talk about our differences. Kathy, an Operation Walk nurse, comes over and gives her one of Kathy’s rosaries (what a wonderful gift!). Tomasa’s eyes well with emotion. I feign a rapid glance behind me and wipe my eyes. Thank you Kathy. I take Tomasa upstairs to her room. In the hallway she holds my hand and asks if I would pray for her good health. I couldn’t wait to stumble through that first prayer. Monday, February 8, 2010. Old Dwight Ritter prays for his first patient. In Spanish. Of his life! I’m certain God wet His pants with laughter. What the hell have I been doing all my life?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>And Melida Vincenta Perez Solis began throwing up just before being wheeled into Recovery. . .on my scrubs. Jeannie stuck one of those dainty little buckets under her chin and wiped her mouth. Melida smiled a groggy smile. (Darn. I thought those barf buckets were strap-on urinals for men.) <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>Recovery was filling up fast so I began wheeling patients upstairs to the salas and trying to organize the flow of spinals ready for surgery with patients completing surgery. . .they all look the same and many were not sure if they had been operated on.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><b>The Recognition Ceremony<o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>We were late leaving the hospital. My brother announced early in the day that everyone has to be out of the hospital by 3:30 P.M. so we can change and get to a ceremony of thanks by the Nicaraguan government. Absolute! No variations! So it was 4:40 P.M. when we returned to the hotel. No time to shower. I still carried the faint gift of Melida on my shirt and smelled like an over-worked sumo wrestler. . .but so did everyone else.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>I stepped up in the world. Lanny told me to drive with him. Only because he needed someone to translate for him. The driver spoke no English. . .slightly less than Lanny. His name is Marlomena. Lanny shortened it to Marlo then Martin then Mario then Manuel then Whats-his-name. Marlomena’s theory of propelling a car is to drive so fast that no one would want to risk their life by pulling out in front of him. And he really hates stop lights. . .hates them like I hate old ladies driving large town cars at 25 m.p.h. A man washes our window while we wait, then ole Marlo guns it to 60 m.p.h. just in time for the next light to change. A smiling man washes our windows. The bus with the rest of the OW team slowly drives by like in a Roadrunner cartoon. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>We pull up to the military building, and in Nicaraguense<span style=""> </span>fashion we are casually alphabetized by first name. Having been Ritter all my life it was good to sit up front as Dwight. Lanny sat at the long ominous table with Generales y otros personas muy importante. That took over a half hour. Then there were speeches of gratitude ably translated by the two lead translators. My brother delivered a nice speech. . .without notes. He does that well. Then each person in the audience came to the front, up the four steps, received a certificate from Ortega’s number two man and filed off. As a “D” I got my certificate early and settled back into my chair just as the “M’s” started. Anything would have been entertaining to us at that point after being herded like sheep for 40 minutes. Only a nurse named Michele was smart enough to get her dress snagged in her behind. From that point on, the evening was a success. Nothing else mattered. Michele’s wedgie saved the day. Thanks to our resident linguist Marcos Dominguez, we determined wedgie was translated as “hungry butt” or culo hambriento. Soon the Asociacion de Academias del la Lingua Espanola will acknowledge Marcos’ genius.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>And that was Monday.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><b>The hospital<o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>Last spring I chopped the top on a 1949 Ford business coupe. There were six of us. I made the cut. It couldn’t be too deep or we’d damage things inside. It had to be perfect. I remember how carefully we planned it, and then everything behind the skin. That’s what I thought of as I watched a surgeon examine a knee and briefly hold it before he cut. I’ve never seen a surgery before. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>Tuesday. The head Nicaraguan nurse in the Recovery Room is Esteban. At first he was suspicious of us—the volunteers; Kathy, Amy, Jeannie, Melody and me. . . especially me, but after a very short time we discovered his smile, so big his cheeks closed his eyes. You can’t be suspicious of that fearless foursome, they’re too warm-in-your-face. Then for the next three days we all kept hugging each other because it felt good, because the Nicaraguans are an affectionate people.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>Wednesday. At one point we had nine patients in recovery and were planning on three more. A nurse (Tricia) and myself began to get the patients who had been there the longest to the salas upstairs, but there was a shortage of beds upstairs and the hospital nurses were not eager to improvise and make room for others. So ole Tricia came up with a brainstorm: We’ll have the military wheel the patients into the salas. How do you turn down someone who carries an uzi? I reinforced Tricia’s speck of brilliance by telling the upstairs nurses that CEO of the hospital ordered this. It worked<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>By Wednesday we were beginning to have more confidence in what manufacturing companies call a “through put” or the total manufacturing process. How to balance a crises flow of patients from anesthesiology to surgery to recovery to upstairs rooms. By the end of Wednesday the team had done over 80 surgeries. I had gone upstairs to say good bye to Tomasa and met her daughter, Rosaria. Tomasa said the doctors were “angels from heaven.” She held out her arms and hugged me. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>In 2008 Operation Walk gave Karla Machavo a new knee. She had traveled 12 hours to get to the hospital. Wednesday, as Lanny walked out of the lunchroom he heard someone call to him by name. It was Karla, having traveled 12 hours again in intense pain in her hip. By 4:00 she was on the operating table.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>Thursday. Karla was doing beautifully. Another patient from 2008 stopped by the hospital in heels to thank the team.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span>Serving the needy is what God intended us to do. Doing it for no other reason than God’s message. Not for money. Not for fame. Not for a sneaker contract. For the glory of God.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><span style=""> </span><b>Mombacho andGranada<o:p></o:p></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color:black;"><b><span style=""> </span></b></span><span style="color:black;">Friday was wonderful. But as I sat on the porch in Mombacho, reflecting back on the number of lives this group became a part of, I was overcome with humility and gratitude. Santiago, Tomasa, Juan, Concepcion, Melida, Karla and 80 others would all agree with Tomasa that this team was made up of “angels from heaven.”<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:12pt;color:black;" ><span style=""> </span>I hope I can rejoin you all next year. </span><!--EndFragment-->Dwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8417140033041009751.post-87382580439422047672009-12-06T07:10:00.000-08:002009-12-06T07:17:14.422-08:00Different But SameEvery Monday morning I pray with a group of men. Most are retired with Vaseline parted hair and plaid cotton shirts. I’ve been praying with these guys for ten years. . .ever sense Jesus Christ got me in a hammer-lock and said, “I AM here.” Few understand that.<span style=""><br /><br /></span>We read from a daily devotional, ask for prayers for those who are sick or wayward. A couple of times a year we take on something different; to stimulate our fellowship. Once we were asked to talk about our childhood. Did we get along with our father, our mother, our siblings? These men turned from plastic flowers to earthen bleeding stems, sharp thorns, soft petals and vibrant colors.<span style=""> </span>Many struggled with their parental relationships, with their siblings. But they all—most all— ended up as engineers or process managers with big companies and stayed for big pensions. I didn’t.<span style=""> </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>I was raised in a happy family. Two brothers. My dad was a doctor, my mother was a well known concert pianist—a child prodigy who studied with Arthur Rubenstein. She was amazingly creative. Dad was quiet and philosophical with a delightful sense of humor. I never heard them argue. One of my brothers became an orthopedic surgeon. The other a carpenter. I drew cartoons and beat on mom’s piano. It was clear that I was infected with the disease <span style="font-style: italic;">creativitus stupidus</span>.<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>I was guided by a demon that led me down into a valley of clever ideas, word plays, original music, hot dances and lyrical text. This valley smelled of flowers so sweet I embraced every detail of it. I foraged in it, flew over it and watched it from a mountain top. This was heaven to me. . .a dangerous place to reside. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>I was the different one early on and the different one in our prayer group. But at 60 we were like a group facing a firing squad. . .equal as can be, all crapping in our pants, all waiting for the word, “fire.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""></span>I am the easiest to shoot. I am the different one. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Dwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8417140033041009751.post-10885283684778683852009-11-01T06:39:00.000-08:002009-11-01T06:42:26.959-08:00Strike IndicatorsJoAnn and I are at a lake in the mountains west of Loveland, Colorado. Flatiron Reservoir. Large mesas surround the lake, several hundred feet high. They appear as stripes of earthen red, ochre and green.<span style=""> </span>It is Saturday afternoon. The only other people here are Mexicans and a van load of blacks with K-Mart fishing rods. They’re Muslims. The women are wearing full Burkas, their faces covered with black whatchamacallits. The men and boys carry fishing rods and coolers down to the waters edge. A distance away a burly, very Indian man with a crew cut sits in a chair showing a classic profile. . .bent nose, high cheek bones, weak forehead.<span style=""> </span>He holds a fishing rod in one hand and a beer in the other. Sioux, I say as if I know what I am talking about. His wife has a big pot belly and skinny, short legs that hang from her shorts like drawstrings. Her hair is black and unkempt. She sits next to him and shakes her hair hard then sips her beer. She, too, is Indian but reeks of upbringing in malls and staged television reality shows that fill her mind. <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>JoAnn sets up her painting paraphernalia on a<span style=""> </span>picnic table. She paints oblivious to anyone. . .another silent silhouette.<span style=""> </span>My, how peace attracts man. The Mexicans, the Sioux fisherman, his wife and the Muslims. That’s basically it. Now other cars are showing up, everyone has a fishing rod and collapsible chair. No one is catching fish but there sure are a lot of red, floating strike indicators in the water, wandering as if interested in each other. This planet is called Earth, I think to myself. Humans relaxing while their strike indicators work. We are God. The strike indicators are us.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Here is a related thought:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Washington DC Metro Station on a cold January morning. A man hunkered near the wall with violin and tin can. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time approximately two thousand (2,000) people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After four minutes the violinist received his first dollar: a woman threw the money in the tin can and, without stopping, continued to walk.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">A few minutes later a young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again. A three-year-old boy stopped but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. He objected. She insisted. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced them to move on.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The violinist continued. After 45 minutes only 6 people had stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace.<span style=""> </span>He collected $32. After an hour, he finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Here is what no one knew:</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>This is a real story.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>In a common place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize talent in an unexpected context?<span style=""> </span>If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments . . .How many other things are we missing? Do we seek God similarly, ignoring His essence because we focus on the distraction. . . the strike indicators?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Here at Flatiron, only JoAnn Ritter attempts to capture the true reality. It is obvious to her. She does not dwell on details. They are distractions that clutter the beauty of the whole. Impressionists are that way. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Dwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8417140033041009751.post-52963432483783492472009-10-28T04:36:00.000-07:002009-10-28T04:38:22.964-07:00InterviewCheck out Carole Brown's interview with me today. Find it at http;//sunnebnkwrtr.blogspot.comDwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8417140033041009751.post-43822371972255844812009-10-27T14:41:00.000-07:002009-10-27T14:43:00.145-07:00The DapThe dap. It’s been around since the 1960’s.<span style=""> </span>Thirty-nine million Americans dap daily. I don’t—daily, anyway. This is an awareness issue. If you still have a shred of racism in your blood and your intolerance of things un-white<span style=""> </span>is set on high (though you would never admit it<span style=""> </span>because “one of your best friends is an African American”), you<span style=""> </span>cringe to believe that something “inherently black” has been embraced by the “inherently white.” The dap. <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>It’s the handshake. That convoluted meandering of hands that ends in an embrace. . .a hand embrace. . . followed, sometimes, by a variety of chest bumps. There is creativity to a dap. It’s an expression of friendship.<span style=""> </span>A white handshake is an expression of acknowledgement. Giving dap is beautiful (actually dap in Vietnamese means <i>beautiful</i><span style="font-style: normal;">). It’s remarkable.<span style=""> </span>It’s as American as apple pie, hot rods or baseball. However since its inception—the first time two blacks decided to do more than greet each other like whites—it’s been kept “in the closet” . . .something blacks do.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I spoke to an all black school district in Washington D.C. in 1974 about an elementary school curriculum I had authored. Afterward, a very engaging man came up to me and introduced himself. We shook hands. We talked about teaching black children. We talked about our families. We bonded. I flew to Washington a month later. He met me at the airport. I held out my hand and he shook<span style=""> </span>my hand sideways. . .sort of vertically in a hand <i>hold</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> rather than a hand </span><i>shake</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. He smiled, showed me a continuation; a finger snap, an “explosion,” a “wipe,” a “knuckle bump.” Cool. He said that this is the way friends shake hands in his neighborhood. I was a friend. He didn’t call it “giving dap” back then. We were just special friends, sharing a symbolic bond. I felt particularly welcomed. Later I learned some people think it stands for </span><i>dignity and pride</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I’m alright with that.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Little did I know that that gesture could become a national symbol of solidarity in this country. That the wife of our president would dap her husband (Can you imagine Eleanor Roosevelt dapping Franklin?). That today white politicians would be falling over themselves to give dap to a constituent. . .maybe even the president.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Our world is changing, it always is. Those that resist it or demean the change help us to more carefully define it, and defining change is a prerequisite to acceptance. My dad hated Rock and Roll. Said it wouldn’t last. He thought the Beatles didn’t know how to sing and they were just a fad. . .that Viet Nam would teach those Commies a lesson. And the dap? Isn’t that the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen? he said. He passed away<span style=""> </span>in 1990 with nary a knuckle bump to his name.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Dwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8417140033041009751.post-61067922354201330482009-10-25T15:12:00.000-07:002009-10-26T12:44:45.922-07:00Second Installment - Western Trip<meta name="Title" content=""> <meta name="Keywords" content=""> <meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"> <meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"> <!--[if !mso]> <style> v\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} o\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} w\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);} .shape {behavior:url(#default#VML);} </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <o:documentproperties> <o:template>Normal</o:Template> <o:revision>0</o:Revision> <o:totaltime>0</o:TotalTime> <o:pages>1</o:Pages> <o:words>2528</o:Words> <o:characters>14411</o:Characters> <o:lines>120</o:Lines> <o:paragraphs>28</o:Paragraphs> <o:characterswithspaces>17697</o:CharactersWithSpaces> <o:version>11.1282</o:Version> </o:DocumentProperties> <o:officedocumentsettings> <o:allowpng/> </o:OfficeDocumentSettings> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:displayhorizontaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery> <w:displayverticaldrawinggridevery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery> <w:usemarginsfordrawinggridorigin/> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Times New Roman"; panose-1:0 2 2 6 3 5 4 5 2 3; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:50331648 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-parent:""; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style> <!--StartFragment-->Saturday, July 26. Today it seems we drove from one end of the flat planet earth to the other. It seems. Actually (get out your maps, children) we drove from Munising, Michigan in the eastern upper peninsula of Michigan to just south of Duluth, Minnesota. But it has rained every day. . .everyday day for the past five days, except Thursday afternoon when we visited Mackinaw Island. <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Now, back to the back story. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Here’s a picture that made me laugh. I took it near Mackinaw City. Since then, we’ve seen many such signs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" spt="75" preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:formulas> <v:path extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" connecttype="rect"> <o:lock ext="edit" aspectratio="t"> </v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:184pt;"> <v:imagedata src="file://localhost/Users/dwightritter/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_image001.jpg" title="pasties 1"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeEm784rZoVbe4GCuD2zpD5xbjtPlQaIFdR9ZNjlz7sbPwAYMJCCzZfYLClGo2hX6CPYEFNhjso8KG-4FuCbxAXn2dNGqitnDj0Uf5SNmB3R52Pc4hsUeK_RGRkL6NqWMUFMDOgDXhnwxB/s1600-h/pasties+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeEm784rZoVbe4GCuD2zpD5xbjtPlQaIFdR9ZNjlz7sbPwAYMJCCzZfYLClGo2hX6CPYEFNhjso8KG-4FuCbxAXn2dNGqitnDj0Uf5SNmB3R52Pc4hsUeK_RGRkL6NqWMUFMDOgDXhnwxB/s320/pasties+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396665112155792466" border="0" /></a><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Pasties. I wonder if others giggle. Pasties. I was raised in Indianapolis. My dad was the doctor for the local burlesque theater—the Fox Burlesque. That was back in the days when the “Burlesque Queens”—they were called—never appeared nude – er - naked. The lovely women—dancers they were—always ended up their dance in a G-string and pasties, those silver dollar-sized white adhesives that theaters required they wear on their nipples. Pasties. So here JoAnn and I are in the upper Michigan peninsula seeing many stores advertising “Pasties.” Think of it; an entire peninsula of frustrated burlesque queens, and JoAnn and I are fortunate enough to be driving through. . .yet we never saw Mrs. Muldoon’s.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><i>And on the stage the dancers came.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><i>The way they dressed it was a shame.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><i>It almost spoiled my vision evermore.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><i>The leading lady blushing fat<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><i>For all she wore was just her hat<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><i>That barely hid her prizes from my stare.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><i>Etc. etc.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I didn’t go to church today. I spent the day frustrated. I got an email from a fellow writer. . .a pastor named John Snyder (he’s reading Emerson The Magnificent). The New Hope Presbyterian Church meets every Sunday at 9:30 A.M. at the Holiday Inn Express in Elk Grove, California. John is the preacher. His daughters Sarah (vocals and guitar) and Stephanie (vocals and drums) and wife Shirin (bass guitar--electric) lead the worship team. They've also led worship for some of John’s conferences. Sarah and Stephanie have just added their band Deer Park Avenue to Myspace. They are really good. Google them. God’s calling.<span style=""> </span>I won’t miss another Sunday. I must learn to work around His schedule, not ask that He work around mine.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>There was a wonderful book written in the late 90s called <u>Blue Highways</u> by William Least Heatmoon. He traveled around the United States on back roads, called blue highways. Red roads are major highways. JoAnn and I often travel the blue highways because we see more and meet more interesting people.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The upper peninsula of Michigan, in many parts, looks just like Cape Cod. . . dunes, eel grass and scrub pines. Otherwise it is green and deciduous like Massachusetts, but no mountains or big hills. Minnesota, too, is green and deciduous but with many lakes whose shores are lined with tents, pop-up trailers and rvs. Sailboats, jet skis and kayaks. Just like Massachusetts. So rv-ing–as it is called—is not so much about enjoying the sights as it is about the journey. . .the struggle. It is a part of life; perhaps not as sedentary as many of our friends’ lives, but we don’t do it 24/7. Momentary high levels of decision making, strenuous exercise and planning. . .all while sitting two feet from your spouse. Now that is insanity. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>We found a campsite outside of Duluth, MN. Tomorrow we will head diagonally across the state on a blue highway (MN rte 23).</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Tuesday. Sioux Falls, South Dakota. We have discovered one of the trailer tires has worn excessively (not sure what caused it). I’m not sure we will make it to the Badlands on the western end of the state. I still haven’t resolved the dilemma of our hot water heater. I need a new right rear stabilizing strut. I think I’ll buy a tire this morning, have the dealer mount it and balance it and I will jack up the trailer and replace it, or face a minimum service fee of $105. JoAnn will fret and remind me that I am nearing seventy. She forgets: Insanity has no age limits nor retrospect.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>We both look forward to the Badlands. Sounds like someplace I belong. No scrub pines, dunes or jet skis. Four hundred miles away. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Got on the road a little after 10:00 A.M. Bought two tires and the mounting fee was just eight dollars. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Interstate 90, sun on my back. It was good to see the early morning brightness casting long shadows across the Dakota plains where rolls of hay dot the prairie like forgotten toys. It’s as flat out here as a worn door mat. Occasional spurts of cottonwood trees grow for no apparent reason and random herds of angus gather to spice up the monotony of the landscape. JoAnn sleeps. I wish I could join her. My mind drifts as the sameness of the scenery passes. When 20 angus gather in an informal circle, noses to the center, do they communicate? I have read that many species of plains’ grasses (Buffalo Grass) grow as high as a horserider’s head. The young warriors of the Lakota Sioux used to sit high on the backs of their ponies racing through fields playing a kind of tag. Think of that visual; all you could see was the chest and head of two Indians racing across the tops of the grasses.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Pierre, South Dakota. Exit 78. I awake momentarily. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I recall an article I read about the 100<sup>th</sup> Meridian; the isohedryl line of demarcation which delineates the western boundary of the normal reach of moist air in the Gulf of Mexico from the eastern boundary of mostly arid, difficult-to-grow-crops. . .a line true westerners claim as the psychological and environmental entrance to their land—<i>the land of the cowboys</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. In South Dakota the line is just west of Pierre, the state’s capital. It heads south through Cozad, Nebraska where JoAnn and I stopped on an hysterical impromptu visit three years ago, because it is also the birthplace of the founder of the Ash Can School of Art—Robert Henri. I wrote about that on our first trip west, no sense bothering many of you again. However, there is a sign across U.S. Highway 30 in Cozad, Nebraska that prominently marks the precise place where the meridian intersects the routes of the Oregon Trail, the Pony Express Trail, the transcontinental railroad, and the Lincoln Highway. The 100<sup>th</sup> meridian continues straight south, dividing Oklahoma and Texas at the panhandle, through San Antonio and to Mexico—ahh, Mexico (</span><i>Siempre te recuerden mis ojos, pais de mis días marinos)</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. I bored you, right?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>We stopped for lunch just past Pierre at a good cowboy diner, Hutches Café—not Hutch’s Café. Knotty pine walls with many black and white photos of cowboys and cowgirls (should I have said <i>cowpersons</i><span style="font-style: normal;">? Oh me), tables of good ole boys in stiff-fronted baseball hats emblazoned with Hybrid Corn, Rodeo Nationals, 4-H, NRA, etc. Now wait a minute: one table away is an old boy with stained red suspenders talking to a most interesting woman. She is beautiful. No-make-up beautiful. Early fifties, sun-browned skin like a well-worn baseball glove. She has a deep voice, not female sounding. It is a bold voice. She speaks to a cowboy who walks in and sits at the counter.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Hey, Danny, you can sit with us. I don’t bite. . .not on days that end in “Y.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>He laughs and joins them at the table. She stands and heads for the women’s room. “Be right back. My teeth are floatin’”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Man, is she striking. Dirty blue jeans, boots and a t-shirt. She has long blonde hair tied in a braided pig-tail, dusty from the outdoors. Blue eyes. Tall and thin but very powerful. A gait like a thoroughbred.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>JoAnn agrees. . . with one eyebrow raised.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Hutches is owned by two women in their late sixties. I think they’re twins. I name them Patsy and Fatsy. JoAnn spits water from her nose, trying not to laugh. Fatsy takes our order. She has a light blue, tight perm and double arms like an over and under shotgun. She won’t smile. All business this woman. We order two BLTs. JoAnn says no fries, so I try and turn it into a joke. Fatsy doesn’t get it. Only her pen (and the bottom of her arm) moves.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>We love places like this. JoAnn wishes she could paint these people. I’m luckier, I have a laptop. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Back on the road. JoAnn says she will drive. Conditions are right. Interstate 90 to the Bad Lands. Four lane major interstate highway with one lane shoulders, straight as a rifle barrel, light traffic. Perfect. I’ll enjoy the scenery.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>She adjusts the seat, the mirrors, gives the steering wheel a stern shake (to show it who’s boss) then slowly pulls out of the parking lot and onto U.S. 90, merging, focusing, frowning.<span style=""> </span> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>This is what I observe: She sits in the driver’s seat squeezing the steering wheel like a major life line, a hose through which no blood may pass, leaning so far forward her chest (breasts) are in contact with the steering wheel, then leaning her head almost over the top. Soon she notices a double Wal*Mart semi, 24-wheel, merging onto the highway</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Oh my God, he’s going to pull onto the road!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“He’s allowed to,” I say.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“What will I do?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Let him.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>CONSTRUCTION ZONE AHEAD, the sign says. The road changes from four lanes with one-lane shoulders to two lanes and no shoulders. . .two narrow lanes. Orange pipes in the center of the road. A sign that says no passing. “Are you kidding?” The other side of the highway has been scraped down to dirt. Workers hover near the edge of the highway with shovels. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“There’s not enough room for us to fit,” she says.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I’m worried but don’t want her to know I’m worried. So I just sit there.<span style=""> </span>In the distance we see a dust storm coming. No. It’s a huge truck carrying dirt to another location. It is traveling on the dirt side of the highway. . . real fast. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“I’m not going to be able to see! What will I do? Can I pull over?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Are you crazy. Just stay in line. Relax.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Relax? I thought I was going to drive on a nice straight four lane interstate, not this.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>A large grader comes at us, pushing smoke in a billowing storm.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>And for the next hour JoAnn becomes the iron maiden of the highway, teeth clenched, giant hands like war clubs squeezing the life out of the steering wheel the way we mortals squeeze toothpaste from a tube. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Finally, “My hands!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“What about your hands?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“They’re numb.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>“Try loosening your grip on the steering wheel.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The scenery has changed dramatically.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The Badlands, called that by some pioneers in the early 1800’s—“Bad lands to travel across” they said. The Teton Sioux in the early 1700s called it “Land Bad.” I never realized what the Badlands were . . . just a name for an area of South Dakota. But it is 244,000 acres of the most shocking, dramatic change of scenery I have seen. From flat grasslands (the Land of the Burning Thigh) to this. Totally unexpected. The Badlands is an archeologist’s paradise. . . the land where much of our geological history has been uncovered. Giant pinnacles and saw-tooth ridges of sea sediments and volcanic ash reveal minarets like ancient temples all uniquely carved from millions of years of water, wind and frost. Many different people have tried to live here but, frustrated by the weather and landscape, have given up, heading anywhere but here. Now tourists crawl over the landscape; the hardiest of inhabitors appearing in sporty cars, suvs, rvs and a variety of mobile homes. Not long ago I Google Earthed Nag Hammadi and Qumran where biblical artifacts were discovered. That land along the Nile and in the Holy Lands looks very much like the Badlands. No one lives there, either.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Wednesday. Packed up and headed seventy miles west. This time it will be the Black Hills, Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse. . . and the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Where did the Black Hills get its name? From a distance the mountains in this area appear black because they are covered with a dark, dense coniferous forest under which the sun doesn’t shine. The stronger the sunlight, the darker the forest floor. “The hills of darkness” the Indians called it. Lush and mystical. Indian holy men hear voices in the deep of the forest. Supplementing the heavily wooded area are immense natural meadows with wildflowers dotting the vistas and herds of bison roaming through the undulating hills. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>We drove through the Custer National Park, winding and twisting our way through switchbacks hauling the Larvae, its wheels tracing the edges of the road and the cliff edges. We heard there was a herd of over 1000 buffalo on a gravel road off the main drag. The only way to cross it was to leave the Larvae on the side of the road on a pull-out, unhook, put blocks and chucks under its wheels and leave. The pull out was on a downgrade. JoAnn was nervous, leaving the trailer on a downgrade. “What if we get back and the trailer has slid down the road?” I didn’t have a good answer, but we both wanted to be in the middle of a large herd of wild buffalo to hear them grunt and breathe, watch their surly eyes follow you then through ennui forget you exist. We sit in the safety of my pickup truck like tourists in the Serengeti. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>The center of Custer, North Dakota is pretty hectic today. I am sitting with a cop in front of Cabs Cowboy and Hunting Supplies. His name is Derrick. Doesn’t sound like a cop’s name from Custer, South Dakota. Derrick sounds like a vegetarian from P-Town. Today bikers are everywhere in black leather and chrome, oozing that special I-don’t-give-shit attitude that supposedly defines their culture. It’s all show. . .maybe not all show. Many have been a part of it for so long, they become what they thought they stood for. But now they’re old and can’t remember what that was. Kinda like me.<span style=""> </span>Their bikes have been allowed refuge in a special center lane through the town, all kickstanded and leaning. High handle bars and cantilevered front tires, old World War II issues with side cars, 1947 Indian Chiefs with front skirts, basic Harleys, Hondas, BMWs, a few Indians, customs and Triumphs. Their bikes give them their identity which they can store in the garage when they go to work on Monday. . .totally change who they are, wear a new costume, speak a different language. The noise of a bike is a growl. . .different growls for different bikes. Unfettered at 3000 R.P.M. They sit gleaming in the afternoon sun. Oiled leather saddlebags with fringe and chrome bullets. In two days there will be over 450,000 bikes in southwest South Dakota, mostly converging in Sturgis the largest motorcycle rally in the world.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Six hundred thousand people in silk head rags of American flags, skull and crossbones, black t-shirts with Greatful Dead, Riders For Jesus, Old Riders of America. A lot of big, swollen bellies with sweaty black hair hanging from beneath too short t-shirts. And tattoos galore, the best are faded from WW II. . .good ole U.S. Marine tattoos, an era of quiet pride before we lost our sense of decorum in blatant hyperbole. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1026" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:112pt;height:84pt'"> <v:imagedata src="file://localhost/Users/dwightritter/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_image003.jpg" title="IMG_6838"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYLOqnFhDRfONFiN9_b1AAjtNHlvRLskD0ymFiflCpPtU3xm-OMf8H63A5FHzWNp_TQJs2qm6MnAWkjpCId_vTepdS5AA7PZ_yXW3X402Mh4nLRvEqiGkVPPtitVpizu5DVgpg3M0i5AyN/s1600-h/IMG_6838.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 102px; height: 77px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYLOqnFhDRfONFiN9_b1AAjtNHlvRLskD0ymFiflCpPtU3xm-OMf8H63A5FHzWNp_TQJs2qm6MnAWkjpCId_vTepdS5AA7PZ_yXW3X402Mh4nLRvEqiGkVPPtitVpizu5DVgpg3M0i5AyN/s200/IMG_6838.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396667195778978434" border="0" /></a><!--[endif]--><span style=""> </span><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1027" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:108pt;height:81pt'"> <v:imagedata src="file://localhost/Users/dwightritter/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_image005.jpg" title="IMG_6837"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAwUF-sxDgg2ErGrc0rWqFFkSuuO0pzvzW9VsJJn06CGehqtLK82snnPQCIRQ-MTKgeVC7ej-7PrrpWyhP97a6h3_HlcyLJFefYaAsH0bxnlJad7VdjoWJ5oS_mvaaGLk_Ah142thkA94/s1600-h/IMG_6833.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 109px; height: 82px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkAwUF-sxDgg2ErGrc0rWqFFkSuuO0pzvzW9VsJJn06CGehqtLK82snnPQCIRQ-MTKgeVC7ej-7PrrpWyhP97a6h3_HlcyLJFefYaAsH0bxnlJad7VdjoWJ5oS_mvaaGLk_Ah142thkA94/s200/IMG_6833.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396666386111586034" border="0" /></a><!--[endif]--><span style=""> </span><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1028" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:101pt;height:77pt'"> <v:imagedata src="file://localhost/Users/dwightritter/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_image007.jpg" title="IMG_6833"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmImeYb2BG6yWrTgqkS9x-tBc9kBcjWYQq8c7lvvnfZaQ6WuCBZQpVFXq20NrIaCe_oNN83Pug1-IhgEXLr-y3USOxG77dLXZJUn3r0ASUTMReWYbZKFe5sR1K82nIXhkFIX3hks5ROHFH/s1600-h/IMG_6837.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 109px; height: 82px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmImeYb2BG6yWrTgqkS9x-tBc9kBcjWYQq8c7lvvnfZaQ6WuCBZQpVFXq20NrIaCe_oNN83Pug1-IhgEXLr-y3USOxG77dLXZJUn3r0ASUTMReWYbZKFe5sR1K82nIXhkFIX3hks5ROHFH/s200/IMG_6837.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396666848495364402" border="0" /></a><!--[endif]--><span style=""> </span><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1029" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:35pt;height:84pt'"> <v:imagedata src="file://localhost/Users/dwightritter/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip1/01/clip_image009.jpg" title="biker3"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZ4q6MrzGcCRkYaXk4ktmmMgcDL9Z0-o5X8b2w39qQMI9xt2JhpCBK-nyux42ttf3Qzkxln9CvJQPvEHSCELeJRJ4UghOQlBDvmZKIh41mCAJ_p_wbtzFTj0UYKuY-DkJVCjDsO_LuIU3/s1600-h/biker3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 34px; height: 81px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZ4q6MrzGcCRkYaXk4ktmmMgcDL9Z0-o5X8b2w39qQMI9xt2JhpCBK-nyux42ttf3Qzkxln9CvJQPvEHSCELeJRJ4UghOQlBDvmZKIh41mCAJ_p_wbtzFTj0UYKuY-DkJVCjDsO_LuIU3/s200/biker3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396665968204939202" border="0" /></a><!--[endif]--></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>JoAnn walked through the streets taking many photographs for paintings. I talked to bikers about their bikes and learned a lot. Ninety percent of these people are the salt of the earth, kind, considerate, eager to share their lives with you. There is a 10% rowdy group that stays up all night and gets blasted, driving the local law enforcement community nuts. Poor Derrick. I hope he changes his name.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>JoAnn bought a head rag and a t-shirt. I already look the part. . .have these past 68 years.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>JoAnn and I felt a certain closeness to the Black Hills, a feeling of comfort and home. There are a million paintings here that JoAnn hasn’t painted. We stopped for a couple of hours while she did a study. Instinctively we looked for churches. In this area are most are Lutheran.<span style=""> </span>But there are still Evangelicals and Baptists—I call them the Expressives. . .versus The Frozen Chosen. Yeah we really liked the Black Hills. I’m certain we will return here.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Thursday. Time to go see the children in Berthoud, Colorado. We’ll go west on a blue highway into Wyoming and then south on U.S. 25 into Colorado. We stop for lunch in Lusk, Wyoming. Our waitress is from Utica, New York. She has lived in L.A., Santa Fe, Florida, Denver, Sioux Falls and now Paradise Point, Wyoming—population 8. She’s early 50s with an engaging smile and a friendliness that is spiritual. I asked her why she lived in so many places. She said, “Just followin’ men. Fallin’ in love, goin’ where they want to go until they took up with someone else. I’m smarter now. I only follow my heart.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>We drove alongside the Laramie mountain range, past Fort Laramie where my great grandfather and his two best friends (Lou Bertsell and Joe Lane) spent a week in 1860 before crossing the mountains and heading west on the Overland Trail. At the fort, some soldiers told them of a rarely used pass through the mountains that would cut a week off their trip. Grandfather’s diary records how their horses were stolen on the third night deep into the mountains by mountain men and they had to walk across the entire state of Wyoming, mostly at night to avoid Indians, through snow storms and drought, finally loosing Joe Lane to a ruptured appendix in a cave near Rock Springs. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>It was so good to turn right on County Road 42 and see Aguilla Ranch off in the distance, backed by the Rocky Mountains. There our kids live. . .Serena (Heidi), Scott and Sami. Time to be grandparents and to thank the Lord for our many blessings.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>Here Scott and I will do necessarily farming and maintenance stuff, practice casting into their pond and work on my 1940 Ford pick up which resides in Scott’s barm on the far side of their property.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span>I’ll write later when we head north to Jackson Hole then Bozman.</p> <!--EndFragment--> Dwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8417140033041009751.post-24176290180280454632009-10-18T06:19:00.000-07:002009-10-21T14:51:58.141-07:00On The Road Again<div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"><a href="http://thedwightritter.com">Larvae maximus. The giant wingless immature worm-shaped<br /><br />form of many insects that develops into a pupa or chrysalis<br /><br />before becoming an adult recreational vehicle, sprouting<br /><br />wings and flying into outer space.<br /></a></div><a href="http://thedwightritter.com"><br />Once again I stare out my office window at the scourge of our neighborhood. . . Thirty-feet long, hump-backed, four skinny legs and several large zits across its back. Three years ago I named this hideous creature “The Larvae” because it looks like a large grub. In fact it is our fifth wheel trailer. The manufacturer calls it a Wildcat which it bears no resemblance to. Every year just before JoAnn and I leave for parts unknown I park it in my driveway. My driveway is 30 feet long. So is the Larvae. It is 11 feet tall. The electrical wires along our street are just under 12 feet.<br /><br />It is Wednesday. We leave on Friday. JoAnn and I are not speaking to each other. Something about if you can’t say anything nice then don’t say anything at all. We’re renting our house while we’re gone. . .something about money. The task of getting our house ready for tenants has become a test of our marital sanityif there is such a thing.<br /><br />“All we gotta do is get in the trailer and leave,” I have said, repeatedly.<br /><br />“What?!?!” she screeches. “The windows need to be washed, the house needs to be vacuumed, paintings put away, our good silver hidden along with good dishes, the trim on the house needs painting, we need a new mattress pad in our bedroom, we’ll lock up my studio with our valuables. . .”<br /><br />“What about toilet paper?” I ask facetiously.<br /><br />“We must go to Cosco. Let’s see, bulk toilet paper, paper towels. We have to have the septic tank pumped. Oh my God, we need an umbrella on the porch.”<br /><br />“But we’ve never had an umbrella on the porch.”<br /><br />“Exactly. We’ve never rented our house either.”<br /><br />“Umbrella on the porch,” I mumble, certain I won’t come up with anymore ideas.<br /><br />Now we’re not talking to each other. The house looks beautiful.<br /><br />“The piano needs tuning.”<br /><br />Today is Wednesday. We’re loading the trailer. I can’t get the air conditioner to work. The RV tech installed a new condenser and everything works. Looks like we’re ready for an early Friday morning take off. We’ll have dinner with friends tonight at the Sesuit Café.<br /><br />Thursday. Can’t get the @#%$&!@#$ air conditioner to work. Thought it was fixed. Called the RV tech. His name is Jim Bearse. One of the nicer gentlemen on this planet. He suggested I take the trailer over to Sweetwater Campground and hook it up to a 30 amp service. That might kick it over. So JoAnn and I hook up the truck, bring in the stairs, the living room slider and the front and rear struts and drive to Sweetwater.<br /><br />!#@$#%$& again. The condenser kicks in but the fan doesn’t. Called Jim and he said he would come right over.<br /><br />!#@$#%$@#$% again. Jim’s on the roof of the Larvae working on the largest zit (also referred to as the air conditioner). It looks like we need a new air conditioner. $800. Jim says we can get one at Camping World in Amsterdam, NY just a couple of hours east of Syracuse. JoAnn begins to pray. I begin to !#$@$#%$@# and @$#%!@#.<br /><br />So I call Camping World. The service tech tells me I will need to remove the cover on the unit and get the model number then call him back. !#@$#%#@. I crawl up the ladder to the roof with screwdrivers and bits. All the wrong size. !#@$#%$#. I crawl down the ladder and get more bits, then crawl back up and remove the air conditioner cover. Uhmm, I wonder looking at the unit. What’s this? I give the fan a spin. The unit starts. It really starts. “Oh my God, the air conditioner is working!” But don’t get excited, I caution. The fan might work but not the air conditioner itself.<br /><br />I crawl down the ladder (Keep in mind, I’m a 68 year old gentleman who swears a lot. This is my fifth or sixth time up and down this !#@$#@ ladder.). Inside the Larvae I turn off the air conditioner and wait for a minute, then turn it on. Voila! It works again. I turn it off then turn it on. It works again. I leave it on. JoAnn is thrilled. She thanks God for answering her prayers. I’m dumfounded. . .not at answered prayer, but that God would get involved with an air conditioner on a travel trailer. On second thought I’m not dumfoundedjust dumb.<br /><br />We launched this morning (Friday). All systems were go. The trip was smooth. We arrived in Syracuse at 6:10 P.M. JoAnn will spend quality time with her mother. We will leave here on Tuesday and stop in on the return trip sometime late August. I tried the air conditioner. It responded.<br /><br />Sunday. Attended the Eastern Hills Bible Church in Manlius. Started in 1996 with six families, it now has just over 1000 members and is housed in a beautiful and terribly functional building that feels like a church but with all the trappings of fellowship and contemporary comfort. . .coffee, pastries, buffet lunch following the 10:30 service and a one million two hundred thousand dollar mortgage. Guests are given a guest packet and are briefly welcomed by one of the five pastors prior to the service. Prayer partners are the pastors. Wonderful music, entertaining children’s segment (The congregation simulates rain by tapping their knees with their handstwo hundred people tapping their knees sounds exactly like rain.). Big time video but not as tastefully doneor user friendlyas Kevin is able to do. I left a copy of Emerson The Magnificent with Doug Bullock, the senior pastor, feeling a lot like one of those infomercial pitchmen. A blonde Billy Mays. “Endorse this book tomorrow and we’ll send you redemption at no extra cost! Endorse it now and your sins will be doubly forgiven!”<br /><br />JoAnn struggles in this town. There is something about an aging and ailing parent that nags one’s inner being, especially when they are 400 miles away. . .especially when that relationship has been painfully volatile. JoAnn’s mother sits in her bed, a far away look on her face, hair that needs attention, a faint image of her former self. . .vulnerable, perplexingpassing on her anger, pain and confusion to her children.<br /><br />Other than that Mrs. Lincoln, how was the theatre?<br /><br />How did human’s survive without GPS? It is so important yet only three letters. Like God, except GPS is three capitalized letters. God’s Pointing System. We have a woman’s voice. Her name is Evelyn. Those of you who read our logs from other trips know her well. Only JoAnn can make her cry.<br /><br />Today is Wednesday. . .I think. I say “I think” because age is catching up to my brain like a long tracking wolf wears down his prey. JoAnn is stalked by the same wolf. If I anthropomorphize this wolf perhaps I can trick him into leaving me alone. I’ll give him a name. Franklin. . .as in Delano. JoAnn and I now have lists and notes, yet we can’t remember where we put them. Franklin giggles. They appear like magic in unlikely places. . .under the dog’s seat in the car, stuck to the handle of my power screwdriver, on the wall in the toilet of the trailer (not at eye levelankle level. I forgot I put it there so I wouldn’t forget). Also we have assigned places for things like keys, purses, wallets and tools. Yesterday we stopped at a Subway restaurant for lunch. After we left and were two miles down the highway, JoAnn said, “Honey, where did you put my purse?” So here we are 42 feet longfrom rear bumper of the trailer to the front bumper of the truckroaring North on a major highway. JoAnn is crawling into the back seat looking for her purse. Our dog, Blue, is perplexed. Is this a game mother is playing? “I think I left it at the restaurant,” She says. “Turn around!”<br /><br />Now Franklin is loping along next to the trailer, laughing. He loves this. This is what it’s all about.<br /><br />“Turn around?” I question.<br /><br />“Yes. Hurry.”<br /><br />An exit ramp appears and I slow down to exit.<br /><br />“Left. No, right,” she says.<br /><br />I do a jack-knife u-turn in the middle of a country road, look for a sign for south bound traffic and get back on the highway heading for the Subway. (Our GPS is totally whacked, screaming, “Re calculating. Re calculating.) As we pull up to the restaurant (mind you, our rig is taller and longer than the restaurant) we see a man exiting the establishment, carrying a purse. My mind moves slowly. Man carrying purse. Okay by me. JoAnn’s moves quicker. “That son-of-a-bitch has my purse!” she shrieks. “Get him, Dwight.”<br /><br />Franklin is now lying on his back laughing. He can hardly catch his breath.<br /><br />“It’s your purse,” I say bravely.<br /><br />“Hey you!” she screams, standing on the running board, door open, truck rolling toward a very surprised man. (I have decided to run him down, rather than have a fist fight.) JoAnn races toward him. “That’s my purse.”<br /><br />“I thought it was her’s,” he said pointing to a woman getting in her car.<br /><br />“No. It’s mine.” JoAnn says, grabbing the purse. “I left it in there.”<br /><br />“No problem,” the man says, graciously. He wears a Subway shirt with “Manager” written on it. Glad I didn’t run him down.<br /><br />Back on the road. Have to pick up a prescription for JoAnn’s eyes then to the campsite. 397 miles my speedometer says. Tomorrow we go to Mackinac Island for the day. We will take a boat, no motorized vehicles on the island. Should be fun. Perhaps Franklin will stay on shore also.<br /><br />Thursday. Mackinac Island. Near Mackinaw City. Somehow and Indian version was spelled Millickinaw. But it is always pronounced Mack-e-naw, no matter how it’s spelled. Lake Michigan on one side. Like Huron on the other. We went over on the ferry and took a delightful 2-hour horse-drawn tour. No motorized vehicles on the island. This place closes down in the winter. Often there is an ice bridge to the mainline by January. Two kids in the graduating high school class last year. One a boy and the other a girl. It was good. None of that competitive stuff about who would be the prom king and who would be the prom queen. No one cuts in during the graduation dance. No cars so no one got drunk and hit a tree at eighty.<br /><br />The horses are fascinating here; the ones that provide the motor for everything to heavy to carry from place to place. Horse taxis, carriages, and delivery wagons. . .one horse, two horse and three horse teams. You never hear a motor or a beep, just clops from hard rubber shoes. For the most part they are large draft horses. Here the horses are special. They are pampered and spoken to with respect. They work hard here, carrying 30 people in a carriage on an island tour up and down hills, hauling large wagons of supplies to the restaurants and stores. Their schedule is four hours of work followed by 24 hours of rest. Veterinarians are important and plentiful, serving the islands main power supply. I found it interesting watching two horses pull a wagon load of propane tanks (probably 50 or so). I never thought about a truck pulling fifty horses before. In the winter they are taken to the mainland to rest.<br /><br />All the horses have names and they are introduced to the passengers before each trip. Some are impatient, some are wise (you can see it in their eyes. . .large ginger colored thinking eyes with long lashes), some are humorous. Just as we passed a Congregational Church and our driver called it a congressional church, one of our horses released a deep fart. I only wish my farts could be as respected.<br /><br />The horses are loved here. Really.<br /><br />And there’s lot’s of history here. First there were Indians who trapped and fished, then sold the island to the white man, who figured out how to steal his money back from the murderous red-skins and keep them off his island. A familiar story. Wars prompted forts. Peace prompted tourism. All pretty much the same as anywhere. It’s the horses that make this island special. I been around the block a few times and specialness rings a bell in these old bones.<br /><br />Today is Friday. It is JoAnn’s birthday. I look at her sitting on a crowded ferry and marvel at her beauty. In every bouquet of roses there seems to be one that is special. That rose is my wife. She is the glue that holds this fragile family together.<br /><br />We will cross the Mackinaw bridge and head across the northern Michigan peninsula, camping somewhere along the way.<br /><br />I think I’ll blog this as Week 1.</a>Dwighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00375736741937893279noreply@blogger.com0