CHRISTMAS MORE OR LESS

My daughter from Texas has been in town for a week now, flying home this afternoon. She made it a point to spend those days with family. The spin-off good luck that touched me was that not only did I spend time with her, I got to see more of my boys and their families than usual. Late yesterday I was informed that we were going out to eat, to a Japanese Hibachi Restaurant where you sit around the grill as the chef juggles spatulas in a routine that entertains as well as it prepares the meal. At one point (I knew it was coming) with shrimp on the grill he chops one in half, scoops a piece up on the end of his spatula, looks at my daughter with raised eyebrows, gets the nod and flips the morsel in an arc that comes down in the vicinity of her face. With mouth wide open, like fly fishing with a wooly-worm she swallowed the hook. Everybody got their turn but most of the airborne shrimp missed their mark, bounced off faces and ended up on the table or in laps. 

He had only two shrimps left, four pieces, searching around the grill for the right person to finish with. With his tall, chef hat and spatula tapping the edge of the grill like the drummer in a band, he singled out our smallest, youngest member. She had missed both morsels when it was her turn and eager to try again. She got her mouth on the first one but it got away. The second slid off her forehead but number #3 went right in the pie-hole. There was only a short second to register delight and listen to cheers as the last shrimp arched through the air. Fueled by adrenaline and confidence from her recent success, my 10 year-old granddaughter had to stand up, stretch like a giraffe and strike like a snake to make it two in a row, and she did. We cheered so loud and so long, everyone in the restaurant stopped what they were doing and joined in their approval. 

She was caught off guard, not knowing whether to take a bow or hide under the table. She figured it out, took the bow. I realized I was standing, clapping hands and didn’t remember getting up. “Out of the mouths of babes” begins a familiar, biblical passage about young innocents and their wonderful contributions; but I felt totally proper reframing the idea. “Into the mouth of a babe.“ Who better to get me on my feet, clapping and cheering? I don’t know how I will weather another year or how I’ll receive Christmas next time but this one has been a hoot. 

RUN RUN RUDOLPH

“Spring has sprung, fall has fell; winter’s here and it’s cold as hell.” Christmas was the only time when all of my uncles on my mother’s side, four of them, when our families all got together. Before the party ended, the youngest, Bill, would find an excuse to throw out the “Spring has sprung;” quip. He and the next youngest, Hank, were in a lifelong competition to out-clever the other. Bill was always the more clever and Hank pushed back with insults when his humor fell short; he pulled us boys aside and told risqué if not dirty jokes, then laughed when we didn’t get it. I liked, even remembered the Spring has sprung ditty from year to year. It was easy to understand and I liked the rhyme. It never occurred to me that it went better with “Summer’s here and hot as hell.” Since when was hell cold in winter but that went over my head as well. At some time every holiday season my uncle Bill’s ditty rolls around and I identify again with those men and with the little boy in me. 

In the last decade I’ve been drawn to Solstice as the midwinter holiday of choice. It is after all the oldest, longest observed celebration if you will, in recorded human history. Speaking for myself, Solstice is a merry making time but also a spiritual reflection of the long strand of DNA that stretches from Neolithic pilgrims, all the way to me, even me. They used allegory and metaphor to make sense of mysterious, unexplained phenomenon while I rely on several thousand years of accumulated knowledge and reliable backstory. 

For the most part my little bonfire and moon-gazing (We had a full moon) went unnoticed by others, caught up in Christmas hype. But I’ve tapped into Christmas this year also. I fashioned a green wreath in lieu of a tree, hung face down from the ceiling, decorated with tinsel, ribbons, ornaments and lights. I hosted our family celebration this year, noticeably secular, not that religious tradition is bad but I attended to spiritual business a few nights earlier. I created an I-Tune play list for Christmas, burned it to a CD. The music ranged from Chuck Berry’s “Run Run Rudolph” to Joni Mitchell’s “River”, Elvis’ “Merry Christmas Baby”, and Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”. In the weeks leading up, the upbeat, happy music pulled me into the retail frenzy, at least enough to feel good about the Winter Wonderland metaphor. 

Now it’s the day after. I have way-too much food left over in my refrigerator and I should go burn off some calories at the gym. Raised with the generation that was schooled not to waste anything, I’ll have trouble throwing good food away but I certainly can’t eat it. Then, out of the habit, I’ll struggle making myself start going to the gym again. So for all the good feeling and merriment that went down in December, January looks like all work and no play. I’ll get out of town by February with an understanding that wherever I go I need to come back in time to pay taxes in April. 

"THE PEOPLE"

“I write to understand as much as to be understood.” I allude to this Ellie Wiesel quote often, as a disclaimer. In the same vein, I understand that if you don’t want your writing to be read by others, burn it as soon as you finish. I think of it like explorers leaving tracks behind, should we need to find our way home. Likewise, should someone pass this way and read my sign, if it be useful then Godspeed: so I won’t be burning my work. It is for my benefit but in the end, if I choose, I can share it. 

I used to work for a lady at Hospice, we got along very well. Now that neither of us work for Hospice we remain friends. When it comes to religion and politics we live in different camps but value each other’s views. We can set aside our own beliefs long enough to gain better vision into the other. We agree to disagree and that is easier said than done. Years, maybe a decade back, after an election went her way she concluded her observation with, “The People have spoken.”  That seemed to be her validation. For me it begged a new question: Which people? We shook that tree for a while but without any resolution. 

If you want to learn something on the internet you must seek several sources and from the start, view each one critically. Emotionally charged or ideologically leading language indicates propaganda, even when it fits neatly with your own feelings. I’m not in the market for propaganda, only a better understanding. The phrase “The People” gained popular usage in the 1800’s along with the rise of Populism. It infers the virtue and high moral values of a class of people who feel like they have been denied something wonderful, that they deserve. “The People” historically felt cheated by another class of people who had power, the power that comes with wealth, education and, or opportunity. So “The People” were a good, moral force against the powerful “Elite”. 

Populism is, has been employed by groups, classes of people to gin up support for social, political push back against, as they see it, the powers that be. Populism has been, continues to be used by both the political right and left and by religious and ethnic communities of all stripes. If you want a revolution, even a bloodless one, you must raise the stakes, convince potential followers that their misfortune is the fault of another group and “We ain’t gonna take it anymore.” If you are sleeping with "The People" by virtue of your perceived high morals and deserving nature, your counterparts, the powerful, immoral, self obsessed "Elitists" become assailable. 

Populist leaders tend to be charismatic, convincingly easy to believe if they are selling what you think you rightly deserve. It’s not about physical attraction but in one way or another it does translate as a seductive personality. In 2016 there was DonaldTrump & Ted Cruz on the right with Bernie Sanders & Elizabeth Warren on the left. Sanders narrowly missed his party’s nomination while Trump went on to win the White House. Personalities aside, it is widely agreed that a win for Sanders would have been as troubled and difficult as Trump’s reign has been. If populist leadership does not have widespread, loyal support it is very difficult to govern. FDR did it but he had The Great Depression and World War II to keep the country galvanized. Populist leadership tends to drive opposing interests even deeper and more committed into their beliefs, seeing themselves as the latest version of  “The People.” 

The leap from Populist Leader to Demagogue is not guaranteed but certainly not uncommon. Latin and South American countries have done that dance predictably for most of the last century. Some form of socialism was supposed to eliminate poverty and bring prosperity for all. But when new leaders took power they wanted to rule rather than govern and they want to be President for life. They traded Oligarchy for a Dictatorship, the poor were still poor and the change meant kill squads and the media was controlled by the military instead of Rupert Murdoch. “The People” were the same people but the “Elite” had switched chairs. 

Adolph Hitler in Germany and Joseph McCarthy in the USA are more familiar demagogues who took an opposite path. They used national security and fear of foreigners to gain power. At the end of their stories, “The People” vs. “The Elite” was redefined to suit their personal ambitions. Certainly, considering Germany's dismal outcome of World War I, Jews were the new threat and Europe needed to be punished for Germany’s humiliation. Hitler wanted to make Germany great again but it was all contingent on him being the new God. One of, maybe the most serious problem with a democratic form of government and free, fair elections is that free people are free to elect terrible leaders; Hitler the prime example. I don’t know what that says about the USA and its political turmoil but I’m sure both camps feel like they represent “The People” and “The Elite” are the other guys. 

Now that I’ve chewed on Populism, on The People and Demagoguery I can go do something else. My politics lean left naturally and my Faith has winnowed down to a conditional devotion to gravity and the speed of light.  But I am convinced that neither Faith nor political orientation are the choices we would like to believe. Most of what we believe in is driven inherently, by DNA and/or by seeds that were planted in our experience long before we learned to read. But that’s for another day.

TWICE AS GOOD

The alarm at my bedside goes off at 6:15 but it’s purpose is not so much to wake me but to announce the time. I wake up several times beginning around 4:30, maybe later, then periodically until I rise which could  be, rarely but just the same, as late as 9:00 a.m. The onset of consciousness is unconvincing, sort of like drizzle before it rains. I can remember when raising up on my elbow and swinging my legs over the side required a command, a conscious impulse but now-days they go on autopilot. Sitting or standing there, whichever, I concede that my body has acted without permission and of necessity, we must join forces. It won’t do any more by itself and I can’t go anywhere without it. By the time I’ve completed my wake-up duties I’m on my way to the kitchen. I keep thinking I should put the coffee pot on a timer so all I have to do is pour but convenience is overrated. I like the routine of brewing my morning ration, hearing a human voice on the radio. It’s more likely there will be good weather on any particular day than good news on the radio but I listen just the same. 

This morning, after detailing both natural and political disasters the lady and a well known stand-up comic plied their humor to the dangers and pitfalls of holiday, family get togethers. Somebody thought humor would be appreciated after the news. They laughed a lot but I didn’t. In my lifetime I’m afraid humor has been rejiggered to sell air time at the audience’s expense and the audience has been rejiggered to laugh on cue. Entertainers tell their unfunny stories with sharpened timing, with a calculated pause every 12-15 seconds. Audiences know to laugh at the pause even if they don’t get it. Humor has always come at the expense of someone else, their blunders or misfortune or out of some irony that begs the imagination to go along. I suppose it’s not that different than when Rodney Dangerfield gave an example of his wife’s craziness, “Take my wife;” then a pause, “Please, take my wife.” Oh, it’s a play on words, not an example, it’s a plea: laugh-laugh. I have to admit my lack of enthusiasm is about me more than some trendy stroke of humor. 

Yesterday I helped celebrate birthday #80 for a coffee-clutch friend. We passed all the birthday cards around, many if not most alluded to body parts and their disfunction; clever but not funny. Then there was one with simple text only; no insulting caricatures or brazen snubs. You had to read it. It went, “I am twice as good with math as half the people my age and I can tell you this; you look twice as good as  half the people who are twice your age.”  I heard myself laughing before I thought about funny. I know, it says more about old age than about humor but you have to work with what you’ve got. I thought Tommy Smothers was funny; I still do. He made fun of himself. He could get a laugh just raising his eyebrows and looking foolish. When he and his straight man brother Dick made music, it was real music. When they made funny there was no pause, no prompt to  laugh. They just kept on  through the laughter with more nonsense. He is 81, still alive, laughing all the way to the bank. “But I can tell you this; You look twice as good as half the people twice your age.”

LONGEST NIGHT

I woke up early today, dozed off and on until the alarm squawked 6:00 a.m. Sometimes if sleeping soundly, I turn it off and catch up on whatever sleep deficit I’ve accumulated. But I jumped up this a.m., did all of my wake-up-get-up protocol; it’s dark outside, of course it’s dark. Today’s daylight is packaged from 7:27 a.m. to 4:56 p.m. I know it’s a clear new day, my smart phone said it would be but I’ve downed a bowl of fruit and cereal, on my second cup of coffee and at 7:10 still nor a trace of light leaking in through the blinds. The good news is that I’m up. It’s a new day and I get to spend it. I can save today’s dollar and spend it tomorrow but not so with time. If you don’t spend it in the “Now”, on the fly, it goes wasted and I have the whole day to spend, maybe judiciously, maybe with reckless abandon.

We are ten days away from one of my favorite (if not my favorite) holidays. Back before Baby Jesus, before Confucius, before Gilgamesh; back when our ancestors lived the hunter-gatherer life style in small, family clans; the closest they came to religion was expressions of gratitude and reverence for their forbearers. They knew about the longest night. There is a tendency for we (smart, modern, intelligent people) to view those old sages as primitive no-so-smarts. But to the contrary, they were as smart as we are, knew just as much stuff, just different stuff. All knowledge was by first hand experience or word of mouth and they had to know everything, absolutely everything necessary to survive in a dangerous, hostile, low tech world where an impacted tooth could kill you and starvation was an ever present possibility. They were plenty smart. The anatomy and physiology of the human brain hasn’t changed significantly in the last thirty thousand years. Those paleo-people knew all there was to be known about everything to be found, within a day’s walking distance in any direction. They all knew about the longest night. 

We call it, Winter Solstice; the day when the sun’s trajectory sinks to its lowest path across the sky, when shadows are their longest and our photoperiod (daylight hours) is its shortest. As that photoperiod got shorter, weather got colder and food, harder to come by. They knew that winter equated to hard times. Even if they couldn’t count they could measure the length of a stick’s shadow. Sort of like Noah’s rainbow, the shortest day was likewise a promise that the high arching sun would return and with it, the warm, growing season. A cold, bitter winter lay ahead but its promise always kept. Winter Solstice is without a doubt the oldest, longest celebrated holiday, if you will, that humans have ever observed. I will be celebrating Solstice in another 10 days. 

The early Roman church made a practice of highjacking pagan holidays to coincide with Christian holy days, making it easier to convert the heathens. The biblical account of Baby Jesus birth aligns with March or April but moving it to late December had pagan appeal. I have devout friends who urge me to remember the reason for the season, as if Christmas was the only reason. Don’t get me wrong, we all have our own reasons and that’s alright. I like the Peace on Earth thing and Good Will To Man as well as the idea that a small child might reconcile the hopes and fears of all the years. But my belief is anchored farther back in the long shadows of mid-winter. 

Some friends are coming over to help me celebrate. With a bonfire and a few sips of peach brandy, we will dress for the weather. When it feels right, we’ll come inside for green chili and sopapillas. Last year we played hearts, and what’s a celebration without music, I might even dance. For myself, it will be about the good company I keep and about a Stone Age legacy; thank you for the DNA, all of you who shared, who made me who I am. I will take comfort in the longest shadow and the sun’s return; not as soon as we would like but in its own good time.

BLACKBIRDS

Day after Thanksgiving, feeling a bit nuanced, a bit nostalgic, feeling peaceful, not a trace of contention. It’s kind of nice. I’ve been at odds with mankind in general for decades. At first I thought I had a mild case of Misanthropy (Hatred of Humans) but it’s not that. Think of misanthropy as a full blown case of pneumonia and I would be a simple sneeze. But I am terribly disappointed with Homo sapiens as a species. We have the capacity for incredibly high minded cooperation and pursuit of a greater good but we resort to selfish, narrow, self serving hypocrisy when it suits us. We all do it; human nature. Maybe that’s why I love nature and wild things: no pretense.

Murmuration: by definition it is a large, really large, flock of blackbirds that assemble in the fall and through winter. They go unnoticed while on the ground but perched on power lines you can’t miss them: in the air it’s mesmerizing. In the air obviously, they have a leader and thousands if not tens of thousands blackbirds follow in close formation, so dense you can hardly see though it. In dense clouds, stretching out into long bands, dipping, climbing, changing direction, swooping; it looks like some kind of digital, special effects. Experts agree they gain safety in numbers with this behavior and unmatched efficiency finding food. But when you see one it’s magical and that’s hard to beat. 

It was cloudy-gray, trying to rain on my way to the gym this morning. Pulling in I noticed, nobody there, parking lot was empty. They are taking the full holiday and I’m glad that they are but I miss my workout. The loop through the parking lot put me back at the entrance, looking out across an open field. From the left, across a backdrop of early morning gray I saw a few blackbirds, then a few more. Then it was blackbirds by the thousands, dipping, weaving, up and down, down and up, expanding, contracting, reversing course, coming back across my line of sight; my first murmuration of the season. I caught myself holding my breath, grinning like the 11-year old trapped inside my head. After several reversals, multiple passes, left to right and right to left, they descended upon the field. Many went for the power lines across the road. Like NASCAR drivers racing down pit row, blackbirds were speed parking just meters away. Within a few seconds, all three high voltage wires were shoulder to shoulder with perched starlings,( Sturnus vulgaris), not to be confused with (Quiscalus quiscula), common grackles, a sleeker, more attractive blackbird that practices the same behavior. As far as I could see in both directions they perched there as if they were watching me. With nobody behind me, streets empty, I sat there as if I had just been party to a miracle. 

My most memorable murmuration was several years back, in Dayton, Ohio. We visited a small church with stain glass windows. As the minister preached her sermon a sizable murmuration swooped low, up and over the building, their shadows blurring the windows and the compression from thousands of wing beats registered in the ears and on the chest. The distraction subsided but the birds turned, came back from the other direction. Again and again, they buzzed the church. The preacher had a dilemma, keep preaching or acknowledge nature. She stayed with her text and lost her audience; everyone was watching the windows and each other. Just when it felt like they had moved on, they made another pass. It went on for a long time. I don’t remember anything about the minister or her sermon but the murmuration is forever archived inside my head. 

Starlings are nuisance birds, vectors for disease and unacceptably aggressive with other birds at the feeder. Grackles are only slightly less offensive but in the murmuration, they make up for a bad reputation. If reincarnation is the norm after all, I hope to come back as a humming bird or a tern. But as easily as I denigrate my own kind I would probably slip in with the grackles and starlings for some tightly choreographed, close formation, murmuration-aerobatics. Birds don’t have morals or egos, no ideologies or world views. They don’t have anything to gain or lose with Making America Great Again, like we were greater when we practiced genocide on Native Americans or pillaged Viet Nam rather than appear weak to our allies. The other human paradigm is that, Make America Great Again really means, Make America White again. Even if you can’t keep people of color from gaining majority status, you can gerrymander voting districts to favor white candidates and suppress minority access to the polls. Birds don’t know, don’t care. People do the damnedest things. I’ve oversimplified to a fault. But that’s what we do. I don’t really want to be a bird, just able to fly like one. Being able to know where I came from and that I will die someday, they cancel each other out. But knowing our ultimate destination, I want squeeze all of the juice out of the time that we have and I like that. I can do math, write songs and make furniture out of dead trees and I wouldn’t want to give that up either. But I’m starting to sound preachy and neither do I want to do that. It’s the day after Thanksgiving and I’m still feeling good about my human being nature. 

HOW I WAS RAISED

Waco, Texas: Helen Keller said, “The highest result of education is tolerance.” She also said, “Life is either a great adventure or nothing.” Helen Keller is credited with many, many inspiring quotes. We can not know how she would have turned out had she been sighted but we do know how she turned out. Another quote, Orrison Madden; I have no recollection of Orrison but he made the observation, success is measured more so by struggle than by accomplishment and Hellen Keller could have easily been his model. 

While I’m at it, John Muir said, “If we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.”  Muir was no doubt, contemplating the universe at the time but it also touches on the difficulty I have staying on task. Reading, writing, making saw dust or digging in the dirt, I get distracted easily and wander off on a new adventure long before anything constructive gets done. But getting back to Helen and the connection, like three legs on the stool, education and tolerance both lean heavily on the struggle/accomplishment-adventure equation. 

So what’s the point? In Helen’s lifetime, tolerance was a high water mark for liberal thinkers. Today it’s not enough. Tolerance is still a hurdle that has to be cleared. It doesn’t accommodate the spirit she modeled. Tolerance doesn’t require growth, only turning the other cheek. I think today Helen would have accepted rather than tolerate. It doesn’t mean that you embrace as your own but it does require the courage to be wrong and an open window to change. That’s the difference between tolerance and acceptance. I can accept major religions of the world without embracing any of them. 

I hate it when people rebut a challenge with, “That’s how I was raised.” Still, I realize the part I hate is when the strategy is simply to change the subject in lieu of defending something they truly don’t understand. But I accept that the values of our ‘Growing Up’ are important and try as we like, we can’t undo their influence on us. That influence on me contributed largely to keeping a low profile. Humility was a virtue and that show-boating self promotion was as sinful as pride and thievery. That being said, considering my experience with Texas and Texans, both privatey and in public life; I’ve always been suspicious of their moral worth and let that predisposition shade my thinking. My perception has been that a healthy ego had morphed into self absorption and narcissism. So I’m letting myself stretch, accepting that Texans are just people who not only rise from a different gene pool but also another subculture and I have transcended tolerance there. I accept them and hope someday to disarm my suspicions altogether. The lessons of my upbringing are still deeply rooted but I accept that is about me, not them. I now have ‘Lone Star’ natives for friends and loved ones. Where they hang their hat and the lessons of their upbringing are acceptable and I love them. 

PIT STOP

Missouri: Up and down the Mississippi, all the river towns have their flood gates closed. Almost all of the green spaces and parks along river banks are under water and you need a boat to get to your boat. But I guess high water is a way of life on the big river, no less than mosquitoes on the screen and catfish on the menu. In Muscatine, Iowa we had to detour uphill and across to get into town. Nauvoo, Illinois is high and dry on the bluff, but quaint and picturesque, full of tradition and story. Mormons settled here in early 1840’s. It’s had to imagine a population of 12,000 but the Temple they completed in 1846 would be considered a mega-church today. The Mormon story reads like fiction; nothing like that could ever happen, so one would think. They literally took over the area and the locals turned hostile. Their trek west is well known and Nauvoo remains a simple, little town of just over a thousand, mostly Roman Catholic, with an RLDS shrine that could accommodate them all with room to spare. I could go on but I do have a Mormon bias and it would be unfair for me to take that liberty. 

Every place we went on the Great River Road tour was new to me except at the end. I’ve been to Hannibal, Missouri many times and I like it. The old buildings are well maintained and you don’t see darkened shops or boarded windows. It’s a busy, big town-small city. No one should have to be told that Hannibal is the boyhood home of Samuel Clemens - “Mark Twain”. There must be a dozen businesses there that bear some form of his name. There are several museums, the restored Clemens’ home, and other Twain characters homes, then gift shops, bars, restaurants, that would have no appeal if not for Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn. Twain was 43 and 49 when he published those two works. Assembling and associating quotes from letters, stories and his auto biography, one can not mistake or dismiss his complete rejection and loathing for slavery and the culture that propelled it. If he weren’t already a hero in my eyes, that would have made it so, pushing back against the culture that had shaped his character. We do have a need to belong and loyalty cements that sacrament but few ever challenge the system that nurtured them. There is something surreal about standing on the spot or tracing old, disappeared footsteps of your heroes. I stood on the levee; of course there were no levees on the Mississippi when Sam Clemens tied up his steam boat there but he was most certainly there. I was 170 years late but I was there and aware. Hero is a weighty title for ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, flawed for sure but that comes with the human condition. They don’t have to change the world, only yours. Don’t pick your heroes lightly. 

Flood gates on the levee were closed but water was seeping through. Standing up on top it was easy to see flood water, five or six feet deep against the flood gate, above the curb on the 1st Street side. That leakage was not serious but it pooled then ran down a seam to a drain in the street where it disappeared. The irony was irresistible. Billions of tons of water waiting like a predator, ready to rush through any gap and the little spill coming around the seam was going down into a drain. If the drain is several feet below the bottom of the flood gate, where does the spill go? Somewhere they had to be pumping water back over the levee. But the sight of flood water going down a drain was novel and stuff like that makes me smile if not chuckle. 

The Great River Road adventure took eleven days and now it’s history, with photos to prove we were there. I’m in the turn-around mode, doing laundry, paying bills, getting the car serviced; it’s sort of like a geriatric pit stop. I won’t smoke the tires but we will be back on the road in a couple of days. 

GREAT RIVER ROAD

La Crosse, Wisconsin: “Best laid plans of mice and men . . .” - I had a friend, a football coach; once after losing a game we were supposed to have won he soberly observed, “Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear easts you” Robert Burns didn’t waste words either, making the same observation. Lake Itasca should have required two days at most but I made reservations for five. My best laid plan anticipated inclement weather so it worked this time. I just wanted one, sunny day and that’s what we got on the last day. This time, we ate the bear. 

Bemidji, Minnesota claims the title, “1st City On The Mississippi.” Driving into town from the south, you notice the lake on the right but not the unpretentious little bridge or the placid, backwater creek below. Still, you are some thirty miles downstream on the mighty ‘Mississip’. Another fifty miles to the east is Grand Rapids, Minnesota. A paper company has backed up a reservoir with a dam there. The river on the down side of the dam had grown respectably. Their claim was to the Navigable Headwaters of the Mississippi. 

One day of sunshine was all we got. South bound again, we had bluster and drizzle again. We stayed with a couple of teachers that night in Saint Cloud. Their little B&B had us sleeping on the hide-a-bed in the living room.  They had company and charged just enough to cover our breakfast. They were interesting and fun. Breakfast was great and we would stay with them again if passing this way.

By the time you get to the Twin Cities, the Mississippi has widened and its channel accommodates barge traffic. Traffic on the freeway doesn’t allow for river gazing but then concrete and steel have a way of making everything feel mundane. It’s not until you cross over into Wisconsin at Prescott that you get a feel for “The Great River Road”. At the end of the river bridge the road goes up a long, steep hill or you can turn to the south. Freedom Park is up on the bluff. According to the literature, this is where the Great River Road begins and you have this wonderful view, up and down the river, as wide as a football field is long with woods ashore and an island midstream. That morning we spent a couple of hours at the Minneapolis Art Institute Museum. In the Minnesota Room, I noticed a large oil painting from the 1860’s of a paddle wheel steamboat on the river.The artist was from Minnesota but the view was suspiciously similar to the view from Freedom Park, in Wisconsin. After negotiating 200 miles of wetlands and tributaries, the meandering little race had grown up with still another 2,000 miles to go.

The Great River Road is the network of highways that hug the river on either side, touted by the tourism industry in river cities all the way to the bird-foot delta at the end. The little hamlets might not offer anything more than a chance to stop for fuel and a view of the river but they tell a story without trying. I wondered how many times had flood water been up the walls of those buildings and how many times had those people put the pieces back and started over.  For dinner I had a batter fried, Walleye sandwich so big it would have taken a full loaf of bread to contain the fillet. Football was on the big screen but I can’t remember even who was playing. I wouldn’t be there again and it was river culture I was soaking up. 

It will take another day or so to reach Hannibal, Missouri where our Headwaters & Great River Road adventure will wrap up. I’m sure I will have some Mark Twain influences to write about and with a little luck, a fish fry at the local Methodist Church or put on by the Knights of Columbus. 

47.21 N - 95.20 W

Bemidji, Minnesota: I can remember far back in history, my history; hearing detailed weather reports about the coldest spot in the nation that day. Fraser, Colorado natives took pride in that distinction, “Coldest Spot In The Nation” Located on U.S. 40 Highway, it used to be on the main line over the mountains but Interstate I-70 has bypassed it now. If you find yourself in Fraser it’s because you made a wrong turn or have business with one of the thousand or so residents there. If Fraser wasn’t the “Most Cold” on a particular winter day it was, most likely, Bemidji, Minnesota. No mountains there but what they lack in altitude they make up in latitude. Land locked in northern Minnesota, in the path of 30-below-polar-cold-fronts, they sell lots of long underwear in Bemidji. 

I had hoped that early October would be fresh and crisp with great fall color but rain is on the menu. Rainy-gray mist and low clouds spoil the view surely as frost on the windowpane. After several days we’ve kept to our schedule. Even with poor visibility our reason to be here hasn’t changed. Down the road about half an hour, fresh lake water spills over an unimpressive, man made riffle on its way down stream. Lake Itaska is the source, the birthplace of the Mississippi River. Water spilling over and between those stones level out in a shallow, sandy bottom stream, inches deep, maybe 30 ft. wide. Headwater to over 2,500 miles of river with all of its meandering, we have made it special. Humans do that. 

We’ve built a monument and a state park to celebrate that new beginning. People come by the thousands to have their photos taken by the post, tiptoe across the stones or wade across the Mississippi, pant-legs rolled up and shutters tripping. A different explorer, another year; they could have chosen the Ohio River or the Missouri to be the mother of this great river system. It might have been in Pittsburg, PA or Brower’s Springs, MT but it’s not; it’s here in the bush, just southwest of Bemidji, Minnesota. It’s here because someone decided it should be here. The nature of glacial lakes and beaver ponds, of watersheds in particular is predictable and consistent with natural laws. The way people determine what is special and what is not is neither predictable nor consistent. But I drove all the way to see something special and I’ve decided, after looking at the lake and its modest contribution, that it is special. Down stream at the other end, along with input from thousands of other tributaries, at New Orleans the river’s flow rate is well over half a million cubic feet per second. From my perspective, it’s not just about this trickle but it represents the idea; things begin small, combine and interact. If it changes the world, the humble beginning and unfathomable resolution certainly does make it special. 

Yesterday we drove east for an hour, to Grand Rapids, Minnesota. We crossed the Mississippi River several times as it bends and twists its way down hill. Folks around here take advantage of the tourism dollars but otherwise, it’s just a stream. They know where it goes but most have never driven across the Crescent City Bridge in New Orleans. If they had, then Lake Itaska and its little seep take on new significance. Imagine a Red Maple leaf like the one I saw yesterday, floating downstream, under the bridge where I was taking photos: no bigger than a cookie, all of its chlorophyl leached out so only xanthophyll was left, the yellow pigment made it burst against the dark water like a neon light. Even though unlikely, that little leaf has a ticket to New Orleans. If it could avoid decomposing, swirling eddies and a maze off stagnant back-waters, it might float under the Crescent City Bridge someday. What a story that would make. The average Minnesotan would have to reflect on all the miles and such volume; hard to imagine. But they might think about the transition and the scope of such a river system and it is special, whichever end you start with.

It snowed last night. Probably not a record, it can show here anytime after Labor Day. It was 28 degrees when the dawn grayed up, no record there either. We had hoped for better weather, at least some sunshine which is forecast for tomorrow. So, a good chance for bright lit photos tomorrow and a four day journey, down stream on the Great River Road. The plan is to be in Hannibal, Missouri on Tuesday.  

AIRBNB

“Seeing things that I may never see again; and I can’t wait to be on the road again.” Willie Nelson. So here I am, early in the a.m., my companion is sleeping in, I’m writing in my journal, on my second cup of coffee. This is a first, staying with ordinary folks who I never knew before last night, at Airbnb. Fey & Mike are fifty-ish with three cats and more bedrooms in the downstairs than they need. We are in Minneapolis, Minnesota, on our way to Bemidji, MN, Lake Itaska and the headwater of the great Mississippi River. We have photographs of the spillway at the lake, a chain of stepping stones across the 20 ft. wide, sandy bottom, river in the making. Even though it’s been flowing for so long it needs rebirth, every minute, every day. In the next few days we’ll step, stone by stone across the Mississippi like so many tourists before us. My intent is to go barefoot with pants rolled up, wading the great river just a few feet downstream from its source. 

Yesterday was a rainy, rainy, dismal day to drive. Trucks on the interstate kept the air full of swirling mist and water. I guess it makes sense; speeding into the unknown after taillights, beacons at best that will disappear if you don’t keep speed, trusting that someone ahead can actually see the road. But you suspect they are following another set of taillights just a few car lengths ahead of them. Then I question just how smart we high functioning monkeys really are. But we reached our destination unscathed, no dents or scratches before it turned dark. Fey & Mike welcomed us like newly discovered, long lost relatives. We shared experiences and interests for over an hour. Tom Bodett has been telling us for years that they will keep the light on for us at Motel 6 but I’ve been there and nobody there is interested in where you were that morning or let their cats dance between and around our feet. 

I was up when they left for work. It’s on us to turn off the lights and lock the door behind us. I see gray sky out the window and the forecast last night called for more rain so we’ll see what the day brings. It’s only a few hours drive to Bemidji and our Airbnb reservation there. My sleepy-head sweetheart is finally up. I hear the shower and sense she will require coffee shortly. I really like this time of morning which seems a mysterious anomaly to her but it’s like our coffee; she takes cream and sweetener while I like mine black. 

PATAGONIA 35 - LENNON DRANK BEER

Santiago, Chile: The day before I left for Patagonia I was focused on my preparation. The big leap would have to wait for the next day. I remember when I was 10 I wished I was 12, then at 12 I wished I was 16, My mom shared the same advice every time; “Don’t wish your life away.” So the day before I left Patagonia, on my way home, I was focused on finishing strong. I had people to see, work to do and more than anything else, I wanted to feel good at the end of the day. There would be plenty of time on the plane to reflect. I told the Sisters I would see them that night, walked to Terra Australis and had coffee with Juan and Olvia. I had no reason to go through my suitcase, it had been organized and packed before I left on my walk-about. Everything else had to fit in my duffle bag and backpack. Juan called, confirmed my flight the next day. Students arrived and the day began just like every other day. I sat in on class with Olvia and the British guys. Sometimes I helped when she wanted them to listen to us talk. The review was good for me as well. 

I made sure I was early at Library For The Blind. Alone in the audio lab, I took the guitar out and was practicing as my blind students began to arrive. Some were new to me. My three star pupils were right on time, Claudia, Javier and Ruth. We retold the stories on both songs and did some singing. Jet Plane was our best song. Claudia thought it should sound more sad so we put in a “Boo hoo” after the “Oh babe, I hate to go.” At the end, they all thanked me in both Spanish and English. Ruth was the last to go. She was more dressed up than usual. I asked what was up and she had a date. I asked if he was a “Novio” , a sweetheart, and she laughed. She said she didn’t need one, just someone who could pay for their own whiskey. She said she liked Cutty Sark Scotch Whiskey but without ice and that Lennon only got to drink beer. I stopped to see the Librarian, the lady who interviewed me. She said the students liked my lessons, that I was welcomed to come back any time. 

On the short walk back to Terra Australis it occurred to me; I’ve done everything I could squeeze in. There was no walk-about field trip that day; students got a free afternoon. I asked Juan if he and Olvia would like pizza for an early dinner; picked up two large pizzas and we shared a pleasant supper. They both had work to do at school so it was dark when we closed up. I was going to take a taxi with the guitar and suitcase but hey insisted they drive me back to Sisters B&B. I would’t see them again; my flight was early and I would take a taxi to the air port. 

I was afraid that time would drag but I was wrong. I napped down stairs, fully dressed, with my travel alarm set in my pocket. It went off at 1:00 a.m., my hosts called a taxi and I was checked in, ticket in hand, through security and at my gate by 2:30. It went so smooth I forgot to change my pesos back into American dollars. Still going on cash I had left over from my credit card fiasco in Bariloche, I didn’t want to bring it back in pesos but I didn’t want to get stuck outside the security gate either. Boarding was easy, they let my guitar go in the overhead and my back pack under the seat. My flight home was direct, no stops on the way so I was able to sleep. 

The International Terminal at Miami International is a far, long walk from everywhere. I walked past the gate where I had seen the flight attendants and crew, boarding on the night I left the USA. There were several check points where everyone had to funnel through, look at passports, get permission to keep going. I had time to make my next flight but none to waste. Food could wait. There was a point where it occurred to me that I might be waling back to Kansas City. At the end of every long tunnel was a turn into another tunnel where I couldn’t see the end. Then another turn and another long tunnel. Finally, there was a zig and zag where all you could see was the security officer at his kiosk. The people ahead of me made it through with no difficulty. The officer wasn’t in the blue TSA uniform, his was tan and his badge was different. He was Latino, in his 40’s with a thin mustache, looked like an actor on a movie set. He shined his light on my photo, thumbed back to see where I was coming from, where I had been. He gave me two short glances and then a long third look, handed my passport back and nodded his head for me to move along. I was several steps toward the zag in the zig-zag when he called me by name, “Frank.” I stopped and turned his way. We made eye contact but his expression didn’t tell me anything. “Welcome home,” he said, and he said it again, “Welcome home.” 

I didn’t know, I hadn’t thought about how I wanted my journey to end. But there should have been a moment when I sensed, that story was over and a new one soon to begin. I made my flight, changed planes in Atlanta and it was still daylight in K.C. when I collected my baggage. I’m not particularly patriotic, being an American has as many drawbacks and down sides as it does privileges. When someone asks me where I’m from I tell them, “I try not to be from:” But making that long walk, feeling in limbo and being welcomed home the way I was, in my own tongue, seriously, twice by the same officer: I couldn’t have written a post script that would have pleased me more. It made me feel so good then, and still does every time I reboot that memory. 

It was full summer in Missouri, hot by any measure. I had three days before I needed to be in Oklahoma City for a Story Telling Conference. It was a little strange to hear so much English, with no accent. I found myself automatically translating what I was hearing into Spanish. But that door was closing and a new one would open when I woke up the next day. 

RIGHT & WRONG

Back in 2006 or 2007, I went to a National Story Telling Conference in St. Louis, Missouri. Story tellers take longer to confer than ordinary people so the conference took 5 or 6 days. Every day after the lunch break we had a general assembly with a keynote speaker. Toward the end of the week our speaker was not a story teller, not a writer, had no obvious connection with us. By his introduction he had some affiliation with the University of Missouri, selling the glory of Missouri and St. Louis in particular. His ice breaker was supposed to be humorous but it came off heavy handed with a scathing putdown on people who pronounce the state’s name with the “uh” ending rather than “ie”. He sprinkled words like ‘stupid’ and ‘uneducated’ into his rant and concluded, “Say what you will but ‘Missour-UH’ is just WRONG, WRONG, WRONG.” That really rubbed me the wrong way. Exactly why, I didn’t know but getting up and leaving felt like the right thing to do. Sure, when I’m not self editing as I speak, and sometimes even when I do, I speak ‘Missour-uh’. Monkey see, monkey do; and growing up, my people spoke ‘Missour-uh’. I can swing from either side, it is trivial and it should not have been an issue. 

Recently at my coffee klatch, someone’s friend of a friend came in and sat down with us. Being cordial, everybody gave him an ear and he liked the sound of his own voice. Being judgmental is one thing, connecting dots is another and I try not to judge. In either case I didn’t care much for him; nothing negative so much as nothing positive. Next thing I know, he was knee deep into the Missour-ie - Missour-uh  squabble with pointed insults and condescending distain for Missouri-uh speakers.  I kept my mouth shut for as long as I could, maybe 2 minutes. Then I offered an observation that language is dynamic, evolving, ever changing and its function is good communication. Then I embellished that view; When I say ‘Missour-uh’, nobody thinks I meant Minnesota or Montana. They get it. It begs the question; why is it so important that you belittle others for using at worst, a simple colloquialism? The man squirmed a little but took the last word, adding with a presumption of authority, “It’s just wrong.” 

The word ‘Epiphany’ when used in other than a religious context means, an illuminating discovery. The man’s little retort had dealt me an epiphany. I’m old but I never stopped reading, never stopped asking questions, never stopped studying. I wasn't any smarter than before but my education never stopped and I was better armed, better informed than a decade earlier with the St. Louis bigot. 

Everyone has a moral construct. The matrix for morality evolved along with our ability to do math and write poetry. Morality is about the perception of Right & Wrong. Morals vary from person to person but the neural network and the process of acquisition are universal. The 1st category of morality is 'Belonging' and 'In-group Loyalty'. It’s older than tribalism, it's where the highest order of belonging was the family clan. Survival depended on clan loyalty and belonging was the key. Moral #1, Be true to your family, it’s the Right thing to do. By nature of our emotions and the language we use, being Wrong about anything carries with it a moral caveat. So it’s not only ‘Who’s your mama?’ but it’s also, ‘Where are you from?’ If you are a neighbor, if we know you at all, that works to your benefit. Strangers are dangerous, most likely an enemy. It is so deeply rooted we don't think about our roots but we want to know where people are from.

Even though we’ve come a long way baby, our emotional set is essentially the same as our Stone Age ancestors. What we believe about ourselves doesn’t have to be true, it just has to work to our satisfaction. If someone knowingly mispronounces your name, there is every reason to believe it’s an expression of disrespect. That sense of identity goes hand & glove with group loyalty. When it happens, we feel a need to push back. If you truly identify, loyal to the core with your state, it can feel like an insult that has to be answered. If the offended person doesn’t understand the moral implication it doesn’t change the feeling. So ‘Missour-uh’ isn’t just incorrect, it’s Wrong; not Right, but Wrong. Incorrect can be corrected but being Wrong is a moral failure. Being ‘Right’ is just as potent. Being Right validates us. Even if the feeling is predicated on bias and flawed information, that righteous feeling satisfies a moral need. Civilization has given us technology and sky scrapers but human nature is still in a cave. It doesn’t have to be true, it just has to work for us. 

The fact that I understand this scenario does not make me immune to it. Humans are inherently beset with human nature. It is hard wired into the brain. Even if we believe we can overcome human nature with discipline and logic, we can not. In those cases we perceive an objective attitude but view the reality with a subjective eye. 

My impatience with both the St. Louis bigot and the coffee shop bore are driven by my own moral sense of Rightness. I’m sure I’m Right but then, truth be known, I would be the last to know. Like Pit Bulls, when we feel moral high ground beneath out feet, we bite down on the bone even harder. The next time someone belittles us ‘Missour-uh’ speakers, I should just tell them to go suck a lemon, or its 4-letter, vernacular equivalent. But that would corrupt me in a different moral category; Fairness & Reciprocity. For me to feel morally Right, I need to afford others the same courtesy and tolerance I would expect from them: Do unto others. But on the Right & Wrong thing, I think I am both Right and correct. 

PATAGONIA 34 - ISLA NEGRA

Santiago, Chile: Two days and a wake-up, that’s how long before I would fly home. I didn’t have to be at Library For The Blind until noon and I didn’t want to be underfoot at Terra Australis. So I took the black, canvas gig bag that El Peregrino traveled in, all around Patagonia, back to the store where I bought it. I struggled with my Spanish, asking the man if I could return it. I knew he wasn’t going to give me any money but I had nothing better to do. Trying to engage a native stranger would be good practice. He was adamant that he could not, would not take it. When I asked why not, he said it was worn and damaged, he refused to make a refund. I tried to tell him that someone could use it, it was too good to throw away. The man had stopped listening. My vocabulary lacked important words and I wasn’t making much sense, I knew that but kept trying. He just repeated, “No, no, no” he couldn’t give me a refund and he wouldn’t take it back. I needed to get his attention again so I waited, got eye contact and tried something different. “No quiero tu Dios maltido dinero.” I had forgotten I knew that one; “I don’t want your God damn money.” It got his attention. I knew the verb “dar”, to give and “regalo” a gift. I repeated them several times and added, “a alguien.” to someone. He got it. In a flash of insight, we became allies instead of adversaries. He took the bag and thanked me. Just enough time for pineapple empanadas from the bakery across the street, to pick up El Peregrino at Terra Australis and be at the Library on time. 

I was a few minutes early but the room was full. Besides Ruth, there were seven. Two men and a teenage girl were new to me but Ruth said they were regulars. Introductions took a few minutes and I moved on to some new questions in English and Spanish. Once we had the question answered in Spanish we translated it into English. “I have one brother.” “I like to sing.” Everybody got to do a couple of “I have” and “I like” problems. Even if they already knew, it was good repetition. When I asked Ruth what she liked she surprised me. She liked Baltimore, Maryland. She had been there four years earlier; it’s where she got her dog, Lennon. Over the three days we had several good conversations after all, she was the only one who actually had some fluency. She stayed in Maryland for three months, training with her new dog, Lennon. I knew she was a big Beatles fan, did the math and made the connection. John Lennon? “Oh yes! He is my favorite. What else could I name her?” I asked what it would have been if the dog were male. She said it could have been John Lennon but as it was, Lennon worked either way. The next day I learned that her e-mail address was  (sergeantpepper@). 

I asked Claudia if she could tell me any of the “Jet Plane” story in English. She struggled with it, got help on tough words; soon it was a group effort, everyone getting a word in. We were going to do a different song. “La cancion para hoy” I said, “es el espacial de medianoche.” The song for today is, The Midnight Special. It took a few minutes and some help to get my story into Spanglish but they were a great audience. When a man in prison looks out his window, he can see the train station. When a train comes in the middle of the night, its light shine across the platform with all the people getting on and getting off the train. The verses are about life in prison while the chorus is about his dream of having the train’s light shine on him. For that to happen he would have to be on the platform, a free man. 

None of them were familiar with the song but all liked the story. It’s simple and it repeats. “Let the midnight special, shine a light on me.” Deja que el especial medianoche, me ilumine. They got the subtle melody shift between lines and we sang all four lines of the chorus. I don’t remember how we handled the 4th line with its “Ever-loving light,” but it worked. The verses took more time but that’s where the story took us. Everyone thought it was great that Miss Lucy came so far to see the warden, to negotiate her man’s pardon. “Yonder comes Miss Lucy, piece of paper in her hand.” They listened for the chord change into the chorus and everyone came in together. “Let the midnight special, shine a light on me.”  Time flies when you’re having fun and we were having fun. We agreed to do it again the next day, same time and place. I noticed, thought it glum; just in the standing up and putting on coats, the creative spark and happy spirit that had raised us up, it went away. The sweethearts sat together. I watched them smile and squeeze hands but they couldn’t see each other and it didn’t seem fair. Out the window, up the sidewalk, two of the others were feeling their way behind white canes. I put El Peregrino in his case and made my way back to Terra Australis. The suitcase I left there during my walk-about was still stored in the bathtub. I put the guitar case with it, out of sight behind the curtain and waited for Marcelo. 

Our plan was to drive an hour west to the coastal town of Isla Negra, a popular tourist destination, one of those places defined by famous people who once lived there. Hannibal, Missouri with Mark Twain and Key West had Ernest Hemingway; Isla Negra had Pablo Neruda, Chile’s equivalent to Hemingway and Mark Twain. Neruda died in the 1970’s during the reign of dictator, Augusto Pinochet. They were political enemies and there is still plenty of conspiracy theory over Neruda’s untimely death. History has treated the poet-philosopher much better than the dictator. One of Neruda’s homes was in Isla Negra, now a museum and the town was a favorite hangout for college students when Marcelo was at University.

I didn’t have to wait long, Marcelo didn’t even turn off the motor. Olvia said I would love the sea shore, that it was both scenic and historic. He said I would love it too but his recollection was from spontaneous combustion, alcohol and testosterone, a decade earlier. The drive was pleasant but uneventful, talking about our college days. I was 30 years plus, ahead of him on the learning curve, he like monkeys on the tire swing at the zoo, me like patrons of the zoo, both thinking the fence was to save us from the other. It was mid afternoon, mid week, winter time on the sea shore; not a lot going on. The museum was preserved as it was when he lived there, not much emphasis on plaques or displays. I didn’t need a docent, I had Marcelo and he knew the story by heart. Isla Negra; it’s not an island as the name suggests but the Negra part is self evident. Rock outcroppings along the beach and out into the surf are gray granite with black bands of intrusive basalt that made Mother Nature the original advocate of abstract, surreal art. Blue water, white foam and red kelp all swashed ashore and back out. If it were not so cold it would have invited bare feet onto the wet sand. All the while, my amigo was caught up with nostalgia, reliving his college memories. 

We had a great fish dinner at a small restaurant. They had Escudo in bottles which made me happy. I didn’t finish mine but what I drank was just right with the coarse, heavy bread, avocados, mangos and of course, the fish. It was dark when we got in the car but Marcelo still wanted to show me his favorite places like criminals returning to the scene of the crime. There was the little cove where they skinny-dipped, where his girl friend, future mother of his daughters; they slept there on the beach. We drove to a place where there were no street lights, where they rode bicycles between houses to elude the police, some things never change. At the end of the story, on our way back to Santiago he reminded me that they never got caught and he had graduated with honors. 

The sisters were happy that I was happy. They had their own stories from Isla Negra, from when they were young. Pablo Neruda had been a hero for them and his little town was almost sacred as the church. I would go back to Library For The Blind the next day and after that I had no plan, just wait for the night to unfold. It would be my last full day on the continent. 

PATAGONIA 33 - ON A JET PLANE

Santiago, Chile: People of privilege and means know their doctor’s name and where to find their office. We take it for granted but Los Pobres, the poor, they do not. When we see people in hard times, whose very appearance bears out that undoing; denial is such an easy, painless path. “Not my business,” or “Too bad,” then be on our way. I am guilty as anyone. At Library For The Blind, the blind people were for the most part Los Pobres. For most of them, blindness would have been preventable had they been born in a hospital or been diagnosed and treated early. 

I was on my own in a room with five blind people and I had something they wanted. I started with greetings and simple exchanges, coaxed at least a “Hello” from everyone. Ruth, my student-helper, was good at knowing when someone needed help, me included. They knew my name was Frank and I was an American story teller and I would help them with English, that’s all. We got started with questions but they had to be in English, I did my best to answer in Spanish. So between Ruth and myself, we framed new vocabulary to fit the questions. Lots of personal stuff, family, likes and dislikes. Music worked its way into the mix and I asked each one about their favorite songs. For Javier and Claudia it was fun, they were ready but we had to coax the two beginners. With a little help they agreed, anything by the Beetles. Javier knew which Beetles song he liked, “Yellow Submarine”. I asked, “Puedes cantarlo?” if he could sing a little bit. With some prodding, mostly from Claudia, he mouthed the redundant chorus several times. She had been leaning against him, holding hands. When he straightened up to sing, she gave him space. So when I asked about her favorite song she didn’t bother to tell us anything. Claudia raised her face, squared her shoulders and began singing; “I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh, Babe, I hate to go.” She didn’t miss a word and the melody was in there. We cheered and clapped hands.

Then I learned, most of the popular music in South America comes from the USA or Great Britain. If they don’t understand English it doesn’t keep them from learning the lines and singing along. It was an “Ah-Ha” moment. This would be how we teach English to the blind. Jet Plane was in my song book; I could make a story in Español to explain the lyrics. “I’m leaving” is (Me dejando) and “on a jet plane.” En un avion” is (on a jet plane.) We said the words and then sang it. With Ruth’s help, I paraphrased it in Spanglish. One of the lovers has to leave, doesn’t know when they will be back, already so lonesome they cry. Claudia was so disappointed she almost cried. “Tan hermosa y tan triste.” So beautiful and so sad. I guided the melody with chord changes on the guitar. ‘Tell me you’ll wait for me, hold me like you’ll never let me go.” . . . abrazame  como si nunca me dejaras ir.” In two hours we got through the song twice and it was time to go.

One of the first things I do in the morning is stare into the mirror. I notice if my eyebrows are just bushy or really bushy. Without giving it much thought, body language tells us a great deal. It’s a natural expression of feelings that may be as important as the words. My new friends didn’t get that benefit of either. They couldn’t look in the mirror or see each other. Their motions and gestures were often exaggerated. Revelation for me; they have no idea what they look like. What I saw was unfiltered emotion from body swaying to facial expressions. When singing, my subtle little head movements paled in comparison. One line at a time, we put lyrics into story, in Español, then sang it in English and the singing was fantastic. Shuffling around, ready to leave, Ruth called out,, “Mañana mismo tiempo?”  Tomorrow, same time? Everybody concurred. My job would be to work up another song. Four months earlier, in the dentist’s office in Santiago I thought it strange that music in the waiting room and elevators was all in English, Lionel Ritchie, Linda Ronstadt, The Beetles; why no Latino music? I guess I had my answer. Javier and Claudia sat together on a bench in the hallway, holding hands, talking just like one would expect of sweethearts.  

Back at Terra Australis, Juan and the students were on their daily, walk-about field trip. Olvia was delighted that my time with the blind folks had gone so well. We used English only to correct and expedite my Spanish. It was slow going but she was patient. Their son Marcelo’s day job was with Lider Supermercado, the largest grocery chain in Chile where he was an IT-computer specialist. Time flew; Juan got back and Marcelo arrived almost together. The students headed back to their residences without coming inside. We shut down the office, Juan and Olvia headed home while Marcelo and I got pizza at a sidewalk bistro and talked about travels. He said there was a night club/bar down by Baquedano Station that had advertised a story telling fest every night that week, asked if I would go with him. Parking is a challenge in Santiago and it wasn’t that far to the club so we walked. 

The place reminded me of the 1980’s sitcom, Cheers; with stairs down from the street and the sign over the door at sidewalk level. I’m totally comfortable in bars and I can nurse a beer a very long time. Barmaids stop smiling when I sit at one of their tables and don’t run up a tab. But my purpose has never been to consume alcohol. Sharing food and drink is a bond that friends depend on and I go there. I will need something to wash down chips or pretzels and juice or tea serve me just as well. I can have a great time, anywhere without alcohol. But we were in a bar and my friend was drinking beer. He ordered an Escudo, I would have an Escudo too. Marcelo finished his and was flagging down a waiter while I was still savoring my first swallow. I hadn’t thought about it but then and there it crossed my mind: I don’t like drinking from aluminum cans and all the beer there was in cans. I asked if they had beer in bottles and the waiter said no. I felt a little sorry for my amigo. A few beers and he began fantasizing over women at the bar or lamenting his plight: his estranged wife had their daughters who he didn’t get to see very often. We went through two bags of pretzels and I was about to finish my Escudo thinking, ‘do I really want more beer from a can?’ 

         The story telling fest turned out to be more of an open mic for stand up comics. They did about 15 minutes and changed comics. People talk fast in Chile making it difficult to follow. The first complete 

sentence I learned when I got there was, “Lo siento, hablas demasiado rapido, de nuevo por favor lentemente.” I’m sorry, you talk too fast, again please, slowly. The story tellers were even faster, sounded like an old 33 record playing at 45 speed. I was picking up about 10-15% of the story which isn’t enough to appreciate. One guy told a story about how his day had gone but he followed a pattern. His story went from one little vignette to another; him doing things, other people involved. One little problem after another and the resolution to every situation was, the finger; el dedo, and he held up the appropriate finger, the same one every time just from a different view. He flipped us off straight up, behind the back, over his head, under his arm, between legs and every time it was the solution to his predicament. I missed most of his story but I got it, the solution was always the same, El dedo. Once it was stuck in a bottle, then he was pointing at something, then tied it up in his shoe string. He was funny, I laughed a lot.

They were still going strong when we left. The club was as close to the Sisters B&B as Terra Australis so we walked opposite directions. I think that’s why Marcelo wanted to walk; he knew he would drink too much. He could sleep at the school and be sober in the morning. There was a place he wanted to take me the next day, said he would get off early and we would drive down the coast. I would help with fuel and we would find a place to eat. Both sisters came to the door to let me in, asked about my guitar. They were nibbling cheese and sipping vino, interested in my day. So I summarized the day, said I would go back to Biblioteca De Los Ciegos again, sing in English and visit with my friends. They thought that was a good plan, went back to the television and I went to bed.