PATAGONIA 4 - T.E.I.

Santiago, Chile: after 3 weeks of Spanish class I realized I was actually learning some Spanish. But going in cold with strangers on the street, that would be scary. Eric & Benjamin were ready to move on. Dee still had time to kill and I was gaining ground. It was April. Summer was turning to fall and the change in the air let me know, I need to be moving on as well. Walking to school every day I passed a high walled compound, a full city block square. I asked Olvia about it and learned it was a prestigious, high dollar, private school for children of CEO’s, diplomats and surgeons. On the arch above the main gate were the letters, T.E.I., The English Institute. From 1st grade through high school, everybody studies English.

I had been thinking about it for several days, stopping at T.E.I. to see if they might be interested in an American story teller. So I left the house late and arrived at T.E.I. after classes had begun. I told the guard at the gate what I was about and he took me to an office, sat me down and left me. A lady, Ms Hausmann, in a gray business suit came and motioned for me to follow her to her office. Her English had a slight British accent and it was perfect. We talked for quite a while about me and my story, I told her I didn’t need to be paid; “I’m a storyteller and I need to work in front of an audience.” It seemed a natural fit, they are learning English, I already know it and I frame it in an oral tradition. 

Two men in gray suits came in, Ms Hausmann introduced us and stepped out. They certainly were not English teachers. We talked about my teaching experience in the states and about oral history. They seemed satisfied, left the room and I was by my self again. Ms Hausmann came back to inform me that they were not in the market for a storyteller but they did need a long term substitute in the English program. The men who spoke to me were the Head Master and the Chair of the language department, and our chat had been a job interview. I never learned Ms Hausmann’s title but she had her own office, a secretary and she told people what to do. She offered me the job, for a month to 6 weeks. One of their English teachers was recuperating in the hospital and there was no suitable replacement available. They really liked my midwestern accent and conversational tone. If I could get my teaching credentials faxed down and if I wanted the job, it was mine.

Everyone at Terra Australis was excited for me. I could come back to school any time but this would be an unexpected adventure dropped in my lap. I stopped at T.E.I. on the way home from school; my credentials had come through in the fax. A contract, it took over 600 pesos to equal a dollar. When Ms Hausmann did my contract the amount was incomprehensible. I just signed it. She wanted me to start the next day. I begged off, needing a day to wrap things us at my school. So it was: dress code for men was suit and tie but I had neither. No problem, she said to wear the best I had and it would be fine. 

Classes were small, no more than 18-20 per class. Ages varied and I never knew what grade they were unless I asked. The youngest were probably 10 and the oldest probably 15 or 16. It was weird; some classes only ran for 30 minutes, others 45 and some for a full hour. Ms Hausmann was crystal clear: don’t allow them tp speak Spanish, follow the lesson plan as best you can but we want them listening to a native speaker. I was to talk a lot, keep them engaged; sort of like story telling. 

     All of the English curriculum in South America comes from Great Britain. Workbooks, vocabulary, tapes, videos, reading assignments, all of it. I learned that there were literally no native speaking English instructors in Chile. They are all Latinos who learned English from other Latinos. It is a life achievement to spend a summer in England. The British accent is ingrained in the curriculum. I got stuck on British anomalies, unfamiliar words and phrases and the students loved it. My excuse was, “This is English, if I were teaching American I would never make a mistake.” We got along great, kids are kids, all around the world. My laissez faire approach came across in severe contrast with the 19th century British, no nonsense, authoritarian style that other men teachers had inherited. On my second day a security guard came into the room unannounced because we were so loud. Not all that loud by my ear but he thought he was needed. I assured him that nobody was bleeding and I was in fact, in control. 

Some teachers went out of their way to make me feel welcome, to others I didn’t exist. In one class there was a 12-13 year-old girl who was really sharp. Her classmates all turned to her when they were stumped and she handled everything well. On a Friday, as they were leaving she wished me have a good weekend. I noted her English was perfect and asked how that worked. “Easy” she said, “I’m from Fort Lauderdale; my dad was transferred here last year.” In my free time I went down to the commons area, under a breezeway and sat in the shade. Kids from my class would bring their friends and introduce us. Others would walk up cold and test their English on me. There I was in jeans and a button up shirt with two weeks of beard stubble, hanging out with kids, like the pied piper of Providencia. 

Another girl’s parents were both math teachers there at T.E.I. Her mother Amy had pretty good English skills. She wanted her other kids to meet me so she invited me to their house for Sunday brunch. The dad was stiff and formal, spoke little English but worked at being cordial. The other 2 kids were cool, spoke some English but clearly, English wasn’t spoken in the home. Then (I’ve forgotten his name) led me into the kitchen where he had set up the blender to make pisco sour. I didn’t want to shoot myself in the foot this time so I faked it. But my enthusiasm wasn’t convincing. If your host shares his fantastic, secret brew and the best you can do is a tepid smile and say, “Very good.” then he will be insulted. I was supposed to use superlatives and drink with him until it was all gone. At our house, Alberto liked pisco sour too but when I didn’t like it he offered some Pinot noir. At school the next week, Mr. Man avoided me. 

I was no longer the American oddity and it occurred to me: I had come to Santiago for the Spanish and I had been instructed to neither speak nor allow my students to speak any Spanish. I went to Ms Hausmann with my dilemma, sharing my intention regrettably to leave T.E.I. She understood. When she alluded to the signed contract and the responsibility it carried, it was laughable. We were both laughing behind somber faces. I didn’t need the money to begin with so if they void the contract and keep the money, we both come out ahead. The experience was one I could not have purchased. I suggested, they could have me deported. She assured me they were not going to have me deported or not pay me. “Come back on Monday and I’ll have a check for the time you worked.” Her smile was real, she thanked me for my contribution and I took her at her word. I finished that Thursday & Friday thinking I could disappear like the cowboy and his horse in the old westerns. But someone leaked and students knew by the end of the day. On Friday they brought cookies and chocolate, some brought cards. I brought my guitar, taught them “Auld Lang Syne” and we sang it together; “We’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for days of Auld Langs Syne.” 

PATAGONIA 3 - WE DO THE BEST WE CAN

I should not have been surprised but I was, in Chile, everybody smokes; at least almost everybody. I never saw Juan or Olvia smoke and Marcelo only once in a bar late at night. But they wouldn’t in front of students. I had requested that my Home Stay be with smokeless hosts. On the way to Cindy’s house I asked Juan about it: he smiled the reluctant smile that bodes bad news, “We do the best we can.” he said. Alberto alluded to it one day, after a big inhale & exhale he looked at me and said, “I forgot, this is your poison.” It was unusual for either Cindy or Alberto to, be without a cigarette in hand. It is presumed all children will start smoking when they reach the magic age, whatever it is; a right of passage.

As my vocabulary improved Cindy and I talked more but getting her to slow down was impossible. Her real name was Sylvia but Latin women like to take on an alias, often an English or American name. I said I like Sylvia better than Cindy: it’s a real name, not an abbreviation for something else. Her standard comeback on anything that fell outside her logic was that I was crazy. I spent more time with her than with Alberto but then the Home Stay thing was all hers. When Alberto did engage it was formal and in English. 

Their relationship was stormy with arguments and insults. One would get the last word and harmony would be restored. In Chile the church does not condone divorce and getting one is a social curse, time consuming (years) and incredibly expensive. It is a male dominant culture and married men who stray are the rule rather than the exception. Women hate it but find their own ways to cope. Having a side man was one way of dealing with a husband’s mistress. Alberto had lots of swagger and Cindy had her attitude but I had no knowledge of them in that regard. She told a friend who told me that she suspected Alberto simply because he traveled so much and after all, he was a man. He had a possessive, jealous side that surfaced over time but that is a story of its own. So I was living in a Patagonian Peyton’s Place. Marcelo’s wife caught him cheating and they had been separated for over a year. He really missed his two little girls and had no idea if or when his wife would take him back.

At school, our afternoon walks with Juan were good exercise and always educational. He was a treasure trove of Chilean history and a good story teller. Our walks usually began with a ride on the Metro. Santiago’s underground was a crisscrossing network of tunnels, three layers deep. Not being accustomed to subways, the descent from the street made me think of coal mines. Our adventures began at the Baquedano Station, the main portal for Providencia. Changing trains strategically, you can go almost anywhere for about a dollar. There was lots of security, brown uniforms, shiny black riding boots and sub machine guns. They never smiled, never made eye contact. It went without saying, you don’t want their attention. Still, pickpockets were working every station, all the time. One afternoon Eric wore cargo pants with big side pockets. We were on the boarding platform when he reached down to check his pocket and there was a hand in it. He grabbed, held on and yelled as the smallish teenager tried to escape. They thrashed for a few seconds before the kid broke free and ran for the stairs with a uniformed guard in pursuit. Eric didn’t lose anything and we boarded our train, not knowing the fate of the little, Chilean, Oliver Twist. Having been fore warned, I carried everything of value in a pouch around my neck, inside my shirt. 

That day we went to one of Pablo Neruda’s homes, now a museum. Neruda is Chile’s equivalent to our Mark Twain - Ernest Hemingway. He was bigger than life, built three homes in three different cities; one for his wife and the other two for his mistresses. The one in Santiago was like a sailing ship inside with bulkheads, port holes, even the pitch of the floors. There was a Gringo couple at the museum doing a self led tour. When the lady heard some English being spoken she came over to visit with Yanks. Wearing a red, Ohio State sweat shirt she confided how good it was to see us. I turned to her, tipped my “GO BLUE” baseball cap and asked her if the rivalry extended south of the equator. She struggled a bit, didn’t know what to say. I warned her;” Watch out for pickpockets in the Metro.” and we left her there. 

The Home Stay organization was independent of the schools they served. Alberto and Cindy decided to have a party at our place for other Home Stay hosts. Marcelo and our little group were allowed as I would be there anyway. With maybe 20 other adults there, Marcelo, Dee, Eric, Benjamin and I retreated the court yard, taking charge of hamburgers and lamb chops on the grill. Cindy had a girl friend, Margo, a 50-ish, blue eyed blond who saw me as an untapped resource. Cindy wanted to hook us up as she thought I needed female companionship but more so because Margo needed someone to pay her bar tab. They were all inside, taking turns at the blender, making pisco sour. It was Margo’s turn. 

With a fresh pitcher full and an empty glass in hand she came outside. They couldn’t pronounce my name. It came out with a soft (à) sound that doesn’t go well between consonants in English. It had an “ahh” sound, “Fr-aah-nk and I hated it but it was the best they could do. She called out, asked me to try her recipe. I nodded (not) and begged off. She sloshed the pitcher and asked again. Alberto was coming to my rescue, reaching for my shoulder. I was feeling a little pressure, a little impetuous in front of my friends; what to do! Before he could speak we made eye contact and I said: “I’d rather kiss a chicken’s ass.” It was softly spoken and I knew the only 5 people who could understand. It wasn’t my style and I don’t know what got into me but I thought I was safe. It would have gone unnoticed but Alberto howled with laughter, slapping his legs. Marcelo and my peers followed suit. Then all the guests wanted to know what I said. Alberto looked at ne and his eyes spoke truth, “Boy, do I have you now!” The group wouldn’t let it go so he translated his alternate version in Spanish. He told them, “He said; A toast to pisco sour, Chile’s finest.”  They all liked that. Then he had them repeat it with him, my original English version and everybody threw down a shot of Margo’s pisco sour. He got me off the hook and we laughed about it for weeks. Margo was smashed within the hour and someone poured her into a taxi and sent her home. The feast began after that and the recycle bin was soon full of Pisco bottles. The lamb chops were excellent. The next morning over coffee, Cindy asked; “el culo de un gallena?” - A chicken’s ass?  I had to struggle for the words; “Solo un poco de humor Gringo.” Just a little Gringo humor. She held back the laugh and told me; “Estas loco.” You’re crazy. I got the last word, “Pero no bebí el pisco sour.” - But I didn’t drink the pisco sour.

PATAGONIA - 2 PISCO

Providencia, Santiago, Chile: with nearly 7 million souls in residence, Santiago is a big city. It’s divided into communities or regions, a dozen or more of which Providencia is not only safe but affluent by Chilean standards and easy to get around. Many if not most Americans preferred it. The Spanish language school, Terra Australis; was owned and operated by Juan & Olvia Barrios. Their son Marcelo, early 30’s, filled in nights as our social director. 

When the other students were done for the day, Juan and Marcelo loaded me and my belongings into their Subaru. It took 15 minutes to reach 2993 El Aguilucho Ave. Alberto & Cindy met us at the door. Alberto was a mining engineer, spoke perfect English; Cindy was an Artist and a mother. Her English vocabulary consisted of “yes, no and hello.” In their 40’s with two teenage boys, I was comfortable. Engineer doesn’t mean the same in Chile as in the USA. He was a glorified mining equipment salesman and She, as I came to appreciate, did whatever she felt like doing. They had a modest, two story row house with no front yard at all but a small, walled courtyard in the back. The two boys shared a room while I was there. Cindy took on the Home Share business for the money. That way she had her own source of income, didn’t have to go to Alberto.

The next morning she drove me to school, detailing our route, when and where to turn, in Spanish of course. I was making my own mental notes and would soon have my own street map. Spanish class was fluid, with people dropping in and out, day to day. However much time you had and whatever you needed, they would do their best to meet your need. I didn’t get to know the ones who were ready to move on but by the end of the week there were four of us who became a group. Eric, in his late 20’s was an I.T. guy from Washington D.C., worked for the V.A. Fed up with his job, he came south for very much the same reasons as me. Benjamin was 19, fluent in English, from northern Germany. He was between his 2nd & 3rd year at university in Munich. It is not uncommon there for students to take a year off and travel. Deirdra (Dee) was a daring, attractive, 24 year-old chemist from Cork, Ireland by way of Australia. She had a month to kill, to learn the language before her fiancé arrived. They would travel South America for 6 months then return to Ireland and marry.

Our first big trip was set for Easter weekend. We were to catch the bus late Thursday night, north to LaSerena on the coast, ultimately to the little mountain town Pisco Elqui, famous for its vineyards. On Thursday before Good Friday, I woke up with a tender tooth. By afternoon it was a toothache and by evening I knew I had to have it looked at. It was Easter weekend in a Roman Catholic country. Chances of seeing a dentist seemed bleak. Alberto took me to a public clinic in Providencia, acted as my interpreter. The bad news was, I needed a root canal and a crown. All the doctor could do was to drill out the infection, pack it with an antibiotic, give me meds and have me come back on Monday. The good news was, I got to go to Pisco Elqui with my friends. 

Pisco is a brandy-like liquor, Chile’s national drink. It is Peru’s national drink as well and between the two, they insult and argue at the drop of a hat; maybe a harmless way to wage national pride. They dilute it with large amounts of crushed ice, lemon, sugar and any number of spices to make Pisco Sour. I didn’t like Pisco, any way they fixed it. Natives want visitors to love everything about their country, especially Pisco. If you don’t like their Pisco then something is wrong with you. I bruised some egos but in the long run nobody really cared. The Elqui valley is where the best grapes come from. A long time ago they named the town Pisco just to spite Peru.

It was daylight when our bus reached LaSerena. We ate breakfast, rented two cars and were off to see the local sights. Pisco Elqui was only about 100 Km but it took us all day to get there. Scenery was awesome with vineyards tucked into every little patch of soil and steep rocky mountainsides reaching up from there. Our hotel had a balcony that overlooked the main street and a clear view of the Andes. I had forgotten about youth and alcohol. My amigos had some serious drinking to do before dinner at 11:00 p.m. The guys wanted to get Dee drunk but she drank them all under the table. I nursed a glass of Carmenere for a couple of hours. It was clear that Dee could take care of herself, I was tired and turned in. 

Pisco Elqui is also a destination for Chilenos campers with campgrounds, you can even rent the tent. They have a dude ranch as well. On Saturday we signed on for a horseback ride, up on the mountain side above the town. Our host was an old vaquero who could have been Mel Gibson’s twin. With 7 of us in the party for a half day ride, he invited us to sample his own personal Pisco Sour. We spent over an hour toasting and shooting Pisco shots. I don’t remember how I got out of drinking mine but he was paying more attention to Deirdra than to my bad behavior and let it go. The ride was great. I couldn’t help but think what awesome athletes those horses were. Just out of town, steep got even steeper on narrow switchbacks and steep drop offs. The horses were spirited, anxious to get to the top. We didn’t notice so much going up but coming down was like looking down the barrel of a gun. No trees, just big rocks and a long way down. My horse was a real hero. 

We split up in small groups, walked the streets and spent some coins. Dark ‘O clock meant drinking time again. You need to be well lubricated, well before dinner. Marcelo had great stories and it was fun. He had a degree in agronomy, worked for Lider, a big grocery chain. His goal for me was to get me educated when it came to vino. Reds with heavy tannin were awful. So I learned to stay away from the Cabernet Savion and go with Carmenere, it was light and it popped in the front of your mouth and that was good. Early dinner at 10:00 and I gave up for the night. 

I don’t know how late they stayed up but I was up early. I walked, did some exploring; it was Easter, a sunny fall morning and the town was quiet. The hotel had a covered, outdoor dining room in the courtyard in the back. I was there, writing in my journal when Marcelo sat down beside me. He knew I’d be up while the others slept in and didn’t want me to feel left out. So we walked up hill, cobblestone streets with simple homes, only tree and rooftops visible behind stout security walls. As we climbed, we walked under pomegranate limbs that over reached the walls, ripe with fruit. With a little help and a leg up, we had enough for breakfast and lunch. On the upper boundary where houses gave way to vineyards, a steep hillside had been stripped of vines except for a few volunteers that grew along an irrigation ditch. The grapes had ripened and begun to shrivel up, dehydrating into natural raisins. They were so sweet you needed something to wash them down. With food in hand, the quaint town below and the Andes above, the view was remarkable. I asked him “Requerdas de hoy es Pascua?” Did he remember that it was Easter. He nodded that indeed, he did. In English I asked, “Would you like to take communion with me?” I held up the raisins and a water bottle. He thought it was a great idea. I concocted a make shift ritual that was more pagan than Christian and we blessed it with a high five. It took the rest of the day getting back to LaSerena and a long night on the bus to Santiago. 

My Spanish was coming but that’s classroom Spanish. On paper you have time to figure it out. Conversational Spanish comes at you like bullets. We were conjugating irregular verbs in class which was difficult enough. When you’re face to face and the other person doesn’t know that you don’t know, you can’t fake it. Out of need, one of the first sentences I learned was, “Hablas demasiado ràpido y yo escucho lento.” You talk too fast and I listen slow. Then I had to follow that up with, “Por favor, una vez mas.” Please, one more time. It’s not like building a brick wall, one brick after another, one tier on top of the last. It’s like total darkness giving way to day. The sky starts to gray and you don’t notice you can make out shadows. After a while you see shapes but it still feels like dark. I was creating a base and it takes time. It would be a while before the words started coming out without me translating them first. 

Olvia was not happy about me going to the clinic so Juan made an appointment for me with their dentist. His office was as sheik and up scale as the clinic was plain. They worked me in between other patients and, after 6 visits, I had my new tooth. Before I left home, I took out a travelers medical insurance policy. It cost $400. You had to pay the provider up front and submit a claim form with the receipt, after the fact. All of my dental work, the bill was exactly $400. 

2005 PATAGONIA - 1 WILD HORSES

February, 2005; after retiring from a 30+ years career, you have to reinvent yourself or you dry up and nobody notices. I became a StoryTeller, with a guitar, 3 chords, 2 sing along songs and half a dozen stories. Before I retired, an already retired friend told me, “If you have any big plans don’t put them off; you never know.” I remembered that. It took a couple of years to come up with the big plan. My first priority was to get out of town, get out of the country, off the continent. I wanted to go to a Spanish speaking country, learn enough Español to survive, work on the guitar, tell stories and meet interesting people. It needed to be a safe place for Americans, a place where they didn’t speak much English, where I could get good mileage out of American dollars. I wanted to stay away long enough to feel at home there. I made a list of Spanish speaking countries and started eliminating places that didn’t measure up or that I just didn’t want to go. When two were left and I crossed one off, Patagonia was my choice. I was going to southern South America; Chile and Argentina. 

Getting to Miami was easy enough but I had a long lay over between flights.  My bags checked, I walked what seemed like miles with my back pack and guitar. Mid afternoon at the International terminal; I was the only one at the gate. We wouldn’t fly until after midnight. Eventually, people began to show up, speaking Spanish, I would be the only Gringo. As the hour neared, more people arrived. They slept or read their papers, babies napped, woke up and cried. It got late, people dozed, some snored and I took it all in. 

From far down a darkened corridor, the sound of women walking in high heels. Then you could hear their voices and suit case wheels rattling along. They came around the corner into view, walking briskly, chatting and laughing like coeds on their way to a sorority party. It took a double take but it didn’t take long. They were absolutely gorgeous. Eight Latin knockouts, dressed in the navy blue and crimson of LAN, Chile’s national air line. They were perfect. Not a break in their chatter, eyes straight ahead, past potted palm trees, through the doors and down the ramp. They were there and then they were gone. Just enough time to breathe in and out, timed perfectly; more rattling of carry on bags and muffled voices. Five or six men turned the corner, surveying the sleeping passengers they made their way at a relaxed pace, only small talk, nothing to laugh about. Dressed in navy blue with gold braid on sleeves and shoulders, the crew was all business. Behind them a few steps, looming a full head taller came, obviously the Captain. Imagine a 6’6” composite of Anthony Quinn & Antonio Banderas. For a moment all there was, was machismo. It seemed natural to want his autograph. He had so much gold braid on the bill of his hat you couldn’t see the LAN logo behind it. In just a few seconds, we were all alone again. It struck me; wild horses. The young fillies prancing out front, showing off enough to be noticed. How could you not notice? They were followed by the young bucks, knowing their place in the pecking order. Bringing up the rear you anticipate the stud stallion, in control of everything, and there he was. Ten minutes later the agent showed up and we boarded.

In the wee hours of the morning, my eyes closed but not asleep: I felt a touch on my shoulder. I opened my eyes to the most beautiful face I had ever seen and she was smiling. I had given it some thought and was ready for the España, Qué la gustaría beber - what would you like to drink? But she surprised me with perfect Ingles, “Would you like some coffee, Pepsi or maybe water?” Thought I might answer in Spanish but all I could muster was, “Water, thank you.” So I nursed my water bottle for a while and fell asleep. Should anyone ever ask, for any reason, if I were asked to imagine the most beautiful lady on the planet, the hostess on that LAN flight who blessed me with a smile and a bottle water would come to mind; unforgettable. We changed planes in Lima, Peru. I nodded off at the gate and nearly missed my flight but then if you’re on board before they close the door you were right on time. We landed. Off loading must be the same everywhere. Clearing customs I had to pay a $200 fee for the privilege of landing in Santiago. Following the crowd toward the baggage claim, I felt someone walking close up on my right. “You must be Frank,” he said.  Juan, a tall, slender, retired homicide detective turned out to be a cool guy with a wry sense of humor. He told me they do that to all foreigners. If you don’t want to pay the $200 you can fly to Mendoza, Argentina, just over the mountain and take a bus to Santiago. But it kills another day and Mendoza is a smaller market, flights are more expensive, add on the bus ticket and it costs the same; but you can do it. Welcome to Santiago.

I would begin my Spanish classes the next day. The school was a 3 bedroom apartment on the ground floor of a high rise condo. The living room was a reception area and office, bedrooms were classrooms, the dining room a break room and a small, galley kitchen set up for preparing snacks or meals. Juan’s wife Olvia met us at the door. He was tall and thin, she was short and plump. I couldn’t help but think of the nursery rhyme, ‘Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. . .’ both of them in their 60’s. Olvia was a sweet lady from the first ‘Hola’, a retired language professor. Her career had been teaching Chileans to speak English. In her next life she was teaching gringos to speak Spanish. Juan supervised field trips and ran the office. They had 2 other teachers, young ladies who were called in like relief pitchers when the number and skill levels of students required. 

It was lunch time. I met 5 or 6 students who took me to an outdoor bistro a few blocks away. Their job was to speak as much Español as possible outside the classroom. I was able to throw in “Gracias” and “No comprendo,” They tried to include me but all I got out of it was lunch. When they did default back to their native tongue, two of the guys were German which didn’t help and one young woman was Irish with a thick brogue. At least I ate well, chicken soup which consisted of a bowl of broth with a drum stick in it and a leafy green, spring salad. Afternoon had me signing papers and getting acquainted. At the end of the day, 3:00, they would all go out for a walk (field trip) to work on vocabulary. That’s when my ‘Home Stay’ mom and dad would come to pick me up. Home stay puts you with a local family where at least one adult speaks English. You get a room of your own and they feed you, provide some cultural support and hopefully, both learn from each other. I would be 25 years older than my new mom and dad, my two new little brothers, teenagers. I really didn’t know what to expect. 

EGGS BENEDICT

Writers, people like me who write primarily out of their own need to process ideas and likewise document that process; we are keenly aware that someone else may and probably will read what we write. Someone famous, a writer, gave good advice when she said, “If you don’t want anyone to read it, don’t write it.” I wish I could remember who it was. So you write with that in mind, shaping language, framing not only what it is but also, even if only by inference, what it means. My target audience; I know two people, writers themselves who play with words and all the while, read with a critical eye. I write to their sensibility when I put it down on the page. It’s not only what you have to say but how you say it. I try to edit as I go but that’s essentially, reviewing your own work. If you think it would be better some other way it would already be that way. Line to paragraph,I reconsider, “Would so-and-so go with me on this?” 

If you’re not a writer, reading this would be like exercising on a treadmill; spending the effort but going nowhere. But it is how it works. I would like to think it’s like enjoying Eggs Benedict for brunch without giving a thought to where the egg came from. 

THERMODYNAMICS

When there’s nothing else to write about, as a last resort you can fall back on the weather. I’ve observed weather ‘round the clock, everywhere I’ve been, all my life. But people do love to talk about it. With weather there is no controversy, no arguments other than maybe who got the most rain or whose tongue it was that froze to the pole. You are stuck with what you get. You can go somewhere else but then you’re stuck with the weather there. I like the way weather works. It’s just air and moisture and energy from the sun. I went to summer school in 1991, 4 week - 6 credit Geology/Meteorology program for science teachers. It was in the Missouri Ozarks where canoeing and fishing were great and we had weather every day. Most of what we did was hands-on field trips and laboratory exercises but the meteorology syllabus included 4 sessions in the classroom with an old, impatient, no nonsense professor who would bring us up to speed on thermodynamics. 

I saw a movie where the protagonist (John Travolta) had to get a Portuguese dictionary, drive 5 miles, studying as he drove and speak fluent Portuguese when he arrived; and he got it right the first try. His ability to do that was the heart of the plot but the idea is about as absurd as learning thermodynamics in 4 hours. Several of us went to Dr. Elifrits, the Program Director saying, “If our grade hangs on this test we might as well go home now.” He laughed, reassured us, “This is jumping through hoops to satisfy National Science Foundation grant requirements.” I got 30% on the exam. With the curve that came out an A-. If you want to be the weather man on TV, it usually requires a degree in meteorology. If a meteorology major washes out it’s usually thermodynamics that kicks him under the bus; some really serious math and physics. Afterward, eating at the local Cracker Barrel, Dr. Elifrits rationalized, “You couldn’t survive that thrashing and not learn something that will serve you well.” I did learn a lot of meteorology and I appreciate thermodynamics. I have the principle down pat but the math is still over my head and the physics is just an excuse to do more math. 

April, the month we usually get severe weather was pretty tame but you know Murphy’s 2nd Law: Pay me now or pay me later, but later costs more. The price for a warm, sunny day in January is two cold, stormy days in May. I expect plenty of flash and boom in May. Last nigh we dodged a bullet. A line of severe weather came shooting up through Oklahoma and Kansas with Kansas City in the crosshairs. I followed it on my cell phone, radar ap. From my front step, far off in the southwest I saw lightning flashes and felt delayed, rumbling thunder. The red band on the radar, rushing toward us made me think of the Tokyo Express. In WW2, during the battles for the Solomon Islands the Japanese sent supplies and reinforcements in by night on fast, heavily armed ships. American forces called it the Tokyo Express, with guns flashing and rumbling. Our fighters and bombers couldn’t fly at night so we were left with a meager array of submarines, torpedo boats and destroyers to get in their way. We won the war but never could stop the Tokyo Express. There were high winds last night and a few isolated funnels but I only got half an inch of rain. 

Today is a new day and down south, another line of storms is headed this way. In an hour or so we should get more flash and rumble but the daytime stuff isn’t so dramatic. The radar image is just as grim but power outage in daylight isn’t so disarming. My generator really does the job and I have a long extension cord. So we dodged one bullet. Today is still unfolding and the forecast is for another line,(Tokyo Express) on the way for later tonight and tomorrow. If it’s a test, I’m ready as I can be. The short answer is, PV = k “Thermodynamics.”

CASTING OUT

Fred Phelps: his name came up over the weekend, otherwise I would not have thought about him. But Fred and his family made lots of news and got more than their share of notoriety with their Gay bashing protests. A lawyer and Baptist minister, he founded the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas. He and his congregation, made up largely of his extended family, traveled far and wide, protesting at LGBT and military funerals against Gays and D.O.D policy. I don’t think I need to elaborate on their hateful showboating. Before his passing in 2014, he could have been the most despised man in the United States.

When he died, his daughter, a lawyer as well, took over leadership and continues the Westboro crusade, if you will, as God’s agent against queers and fagots. There are two parts to this story. First, I was surprised at the time to learn that most of their income was from settlements and penalties from litigation against cities that violated their constitutional rights. That part of the story fleshed out years ago. Even if the government tried to follow the law, people, friends of the survivors, local organizations; they counter demonstrated against Fred’s faithful. Counter protesters physically kept them away from space they were entitled to and posed a physical threat to their safety. Phelps sued city after city for either denying their rights or for not protecting them from hostile counter demonstrators. The law practice of Phelps & Phelps got really good at provoking hostile reaction and profiting from the push back. In recent years the Phelps phenomenon has lost traction, notably, towns figured out what to expect and how to  circumvent law suits. But it was a money making machine for a long while. 

Humor in the other story is, if not dark then at least shaded, but humor none the less. I heard it just the other day. Several years before his demise, Fred’s mother I’m told, was exorcised by a satanic cult. There is nothing new about Pagan religion. From what I can gather, Satanic worship falls in that category with well defined dogma and practice. Several high ranking Satanic priests convened a council to create a new ritual, paralleling the Catholic tradition of  exorcism, casting out evil spirits from sinners who had been possessed. They also formalized a ceremony (Pink Mass) that would transform straight people into Gays and Lesbians. Then, on a moonlit night, when the astronomical alignment was really strong they took their pitchforks and went to the grave of Fred Phelps’ mother. There, they exorcised her heterosexual orientation. Then they performed the Pink Mass, propelling her back into the afterlife as a Lesbian. 

I heard the story last week while sharing food with some atheists I know. I don’t know if there’s any truth to the story, don’t know them well enough to call them my friends but I am comfortable in their company. They are pleasant folks, well educated, well behaved, spanning a couple of generations. I will probably hang with them again sometime. Understand: I don’t worship Satan so it’s not about me. There is probably a little “Satan” in everyone, not something I would deify. But it is a reoccurring source of smile and smirk; Fred on the other side with his mom. She’s wearing a rainbow banner and placard that reads, “God Loves Homos”. Then, in disbelief he asks her how she could do this and she tells him, “The Lord moves in mysterious ways.” I don’t know who would have been privy to that celestial conversation but I loved the story; didn’t laugh but my lip did move against my teeth.