After I retired…..I more or less lost interest in hosting foreign students. While I was still working for USD 338, it worked out well. At least, most of the time. After some convincing, I agreed to accept my first foreign exchange student in 1993. Yeah…. It was a good experience. However, I also found that high school students can be jerks. Of course, I already knew that…. just like adults! I got rid of the jerks. Why not? It was my house….and why should I be miserable living in my own home for a full school year? If I acted like a jerk, I wouldn’t realistically expect somebody to let me stay in their home for ten months. OK… If I were a teenager, maybe I would. But, I am pretty sure they would have gotten rid of me…..just like I got rid of two of the jerks who were sent to live in my home!

It all worked well back in those days when I was still employed by the school district. I had to get up and get to work every day. Taking the exchange students to school with me was no problem…..no big deal. This was also true of taking them back home. They would come to my office after school and hang out until I was ready to go back home. With one lone exception, none of them was interested in participating in high school sports. The main reason was that they had no background or experience in American football or basketball or baseball. Actually, high school sports was an entirely alien concept to them. Competitive high school athletics appears to be a wholly an American concept. Sometimes it seems that many schools in the USA exist primarily for sports….in most of the rest of the world, the main purpose of schools or public education is…. Education!

After I retired in 2003, the habit of getting out of bed at 5:30 in the morning rapidly dissipated. Yes….. It look a while, but not very long, for me to realize that getting up before the sun rose simply did not make a lot of sense. The first few morning I proceeded to wake up at 5:30 or so…..take a shower….eat a bowl of raisin bran and drink a cup of coffee….Then what was I supposed to do? Living in a rural area eight and half miles from nowhere didn’t offer a lot of opportunities or alternatives. Go drink coffee and gossip with my neighbors? Hardly. I didn’t even know the people who lived in the nearest house east of me. My neighbors to the west were at work. What else was there to do? Let’s review the options: Sit and watch TV for the entire morning….or even the day? Even today, after having been retired for almost twenty years, I rarely turn on the TV until 10:00 P.M., except to watch the news. Clean the house? Come on now…..I lived there by myself. How was the house to get dirty enough to need cleaning every day? I could read. And, I did. But, reading is not an all-day activity, at least not for me.

The point is….. There was no reason to wake up at 5:30 A, M. any longer….not even to drive an exchange student into town so he could go to school. And, even if I did, that would mean that I would also have to be at home in order to drive back into town to pick him up at 3:00. Not a good plan, to say the least. So…. It was not very difficult to make the decision not to have any more foreign exchange students. They were great while I was working at the school…..and I thoroughly enjoy sharing my home and life with them….. Well, except for the two that I got rid of….and the one they sent back home. I was not going to lock myself into a pattern just so I would be able to accommodate them. No….. Not selfish. Just that I wanted to live my own life, free of any unnecessary restraints.

I never regretted not hosting exchange students after I retired. But, I had to admit that it was lonely at times…..and the exchange students did offer companionship so I would not have to live an entirely solitary life. This is when the thought of having short term guests began to form in my mind.

There are several short-term international hospitality organizations which have been set up to accommodate both domestic and international travelers. The idea is similar to that of an exchange student: To offer your home and hospitality to travelers in need of a place to spend a night or maybe even a few days. The idea is that I will furnish a temporary home……a place for travelers to sleep and to call “home”….usually for free…..to people who are passing through the area. On the other hand, in the event that I happen to be traveling through their home territory, they will, in turn, provide a place for me to spend a night or perhaps a few nights. Not only is this a huge benefit to the traveler, but it is also an excellent opportunity to meet a large variety of people from different parts of the world, from different cultures, from different religions and customs. It is an excellent way to broaden a person’s understanding of people who come from different countries and backgrounds.

On two or three separate occasions while traveling in Germany….specifically in Berlin…. I have taken advantage of this service. I never stayed somebody’s home, but I have asked them to serve as a guide or native-speaking companion. A couple times, they took on the role of sort of a personal guide, even when one of my German exchange students was present. They, being native Berliners, were much more familiar Berlin, and they had a more intimate acquaintance with the city than any guide book could offer. They knew places that only “locals” know. They showed me attractions the guide books left out. They took me to sites that only Berliners knew. They had the time…..and they took the time…..to answer questions and give some meaning, some background, some context to our new experiences and to our surroundings.

One of our guides was a retired teacher, a member of an all-cello orchestra, who had lived in Berlin all his life. He was a history teacher….and knew more about Berlin than even we wanted to know. He was accompanied by a friend….a survivor of the Holocaust….and a bitter one, at that. Another our guides was formerly the Director of Youth Services for the former East German secret police…..the STASI. In fact, he was our guide as we toured the former headquarters of that dreaded organization. He even showed us his former office. He did it all very objectively and unemotionally…..and, I might add, un-apologetically. The other guide was a professional photographer. He showed me many of the amazing attractions of Potsdam….a suburb of Berlin….which was formerly the home of a series of German rulers from the Holy Roman Empire. His daughter also accompanied me around Berlin, pushing her infant son in a baby stroller….. Even I got into the act and took over and pushed him for a while. Yeah…. Me, pushing a baby carriage. People probably thought I was his grandfather! One night she and her husband, a PhD physicist, invited us to their apartment for dinner. All of them were gracious, intelligent and welcoming people. For some years, I kept in touch with them, especially at Christmas, but as happens all too often, we gradually lost contact with each other…..although I still remember them gratefully and fondly.

This is what makes hosting international travelers rewarding and special…..the lasting friendships and relationships that are formed. Let me hasten to say….. This has not been the case with domestic guests….those from the USA. Actually, I must say, most of them have been rather strange and creepy people….enough so that I am very hesitant and reluctant to accept domestic guests.

In the past twenty years or so, I have had guests from a variety of counties: Germany, Israel, South Korea, Tanzania, Saudi Arabia, Hong Kong, China, Italy, Poland, Ukraine…..and France.

Now…. This brings me to my latest guest. His name is Francois, and he is from France. Francois is going to learn something for the first time right now: I almost did not accept his request to be my guest. How can I put this diplomatically….politely….. but, more or less honestly? I will start by saying that like too many other people….and it not just the uneducated masses (although maybe they are more prone to do so)…. I am one of those who tend to stereotype people…. Yeah…. Sometimes some we really sophisticated and educated people……In case you are wondering…. That’s me!….. actually tend to do this! Yes…. I am building this up so I can let Francois down easy!

It is said…..although I have not found it to be particularly true…..that most of the world looks upon us citizens of the U.S.A. as “Ugly Americans”. Well… Maybe it is also true that we Americans sometimes tend to regard the French as slightly jealous of the USA and maybe just a little bit insecure or envious….

Now, I am not going to admit that I also had these stereotypical attitudes…..but I was just a shade hesitant about hosting somebody from France…..and hosting them for ten days! And…. Heaven forbid, a PhD student? And, somebody coming to a rural state like Kansas. And, somebody who would probably be snobbish and demanding about the food I eat and the wine I drink. And, somebody who might find my lifestyle somewhat…..shall we say…. eccentric. I have never been in the home of anybody who lives in France…..but I going to make what I think is a fairly correct assumption: Francois had never been in a house like mine before. But, on the other hand…..neither have an overwhelming majority of Americans! But…. That really doesn’t bother me very much. I figure that the front door serves two purposes: To walk in…..and to walk out!

However….and this is the truth…..from the moment Francois walked in my front door, I knew that he was none of these things. I immediately knew that I was going to like him. And….. I did…..I still do.

To begin with….. Unlike a lot of potential guests who would send a cryptic text at 10:00 at night saying, “I want to stay at your house tomorrow.” (And, I can assure you that all such requests were either ignored or rejected.) Francois contacted me at least two weeks in advance…..told me the exact dates he wanted to stay at my house and explained why he was coming to Kansas. I mean…. How many people from France….or anywhere….come to Kansas for the scenery….or the excitement? He was coming to do some research for his PhD dissertation. At the time, I didn’t know the subject of his PhD dissertation, but at least, I some assurance that he wasn’t a fugitive from justice…..trying to stay one step ahead of Interpol, or whatever the French national police is called.

The fact that he was a PhD student bothered me a little bit…. I know lots of PhD’s. Some of them are “normal”, and some of them are pompous stuffed-shirts. I don’t have a PhD, but I do have two….almost three…..Master’s Degrees….and I do not consider myself as anything but normal. Then I thought….Two of my former German students have PhD’s….. Two of my Arab students have doctorates… My Chinese student is a PhD….. They are all semi-normal people. So…. OK, all of them turned out to be tolerable. They never wanted to sit around and talk about Terra-hertz radiation…..or cures for Alzheimer disease….or robotic hip surgery…..or information systems controls. And, I, sure as heck, didn’t bore them with theories of testing or innovative theories of school administration, or experimental approaches to teaching special ed students….or how to organize and carry out professional development programs.

So….. I ignored the PhD stuff. Instead, I was impressed by Francois’s consideration and kindness….even in his messages. His English was outstanding. He wrote simply, but intelligently and effectively……not trying to use words that he had no idea of the meaning, like some of my foreign contacts have. He asked relevant questions. And, not even once did he ask me if I was a “Rural Kansas Right Wing Reactionary Republican Trump-Loving Hick”! I was impressed! (That may have been the first thing I would have asked, if I had been a foreigner!)

The only unusual request that he made was to ask if it was possible for us to visit the Dalton Brothers’ Museum in Coffeyville. I had heard of the Dalton Gang. At least, I knew they were a bunch of outlaws….bank robbers. I had no idea they were important enough to rate a museum, however. I looked them up on the Internet….and sure enough, there really is a Dalton Gang Museum…..in Coffeyville.,,,,a town where I had never been…..or even thought of going. But… Sure. Why not? Of course, we can go take a look at the Dalton Gang Museum. Even I am never too old to learn something new.

Francois arrived on Friday, October 14. I met him at the Kansas City International Airport. That, in itself, was an an adventure. I had not been to KCI for quite a while…..since I flew to Philadelphia in August of 2021. I had no inkling of what was in store for me. Kansas City started building a new airport some years ago. I was aware that Terminal A was closed and no longer in operation. It was cordoned off like most vacant buildings. Throughout the decades that I have been going to KCI, I never had the occasion to use Terminal A, so it never disrupted or interfered any of my trips there. Mostly I used Terminal C, for some reason or other. One reason, I suppose, was that this was the terminal for international flights. And, except for the flight to Philadelphia and a flight to Portland long ago, the only reason that I went to the airport was for the flights that I took to Germany…..and to pick up and return my international guests.

As a matter of fact, I had pretty much mastered Kansas City International Airport. Going there became a fairly routine trip over the years. KCI is not a big airport, especially when compared to airports such as Chicgo O’Hare, or Newark or even Minneapolis. It is not a small hometown airport, either…..like, maybe, Topeka or even Wichita. Let’s call it a mid-size airport. Whatever we call it, it was laid out in a plan that was fairly compact and fairly easy to understand and handle. The three terminals were well marked, as were the parking areas associated with each terminal. Depending on the time of day, the parking lots were never completely full. I always managed to find a parking spot fairly close to the terminal building.

I was not prepared for what I encountered this particular Friday. The situation had changed dramatically since I was there the last time. Instead of driving straight into the parking lot of the appropriate terminal, I was faced with a confusing maze of narrow one-way streets and a bewildering array of signs, arrows and symbols. I almost panicked. They were about as decipherable as hieroglyphics. At least twice, I had to turn around and retrace my path…..and hope that at least through a process of trial and error I would end up at the terminal. Through some stoke of good luck or clean living……and following other cars…..I eventually found myself back in semi-familiar territory.

Once inside the parking area, it became rather chaotic again. The parking lot of packed….literally. I can imagine they were packing twice as many vehicles into a space that was designed for half the cars! I told myself, “Just be patient. Pretend you are Walmart!” I slowly drove around and around. I finally found a vacant parking space. I took it…..without caring a lot where it was located. Actually, I was afraid that if I didn’t take it, I might be driving around for another day before I found one. When I got out of the car, I carefully noted some important landmarks…..or at least, I thought that I did.

Meeting Francois was the easy part! He had access to hundreds of pictures of me, if he looked at my web page. I could have shown up appearing to be anywhere from five years to eighty-five years old…..and he should have been able to identify me! He had sent me a couple pictures….both taken at a Renaissance Festival. I did not expect him to appear wearing a cape or a pointed hat or a feather in his hair. But, I knew that he had red hair. I figured that would be enough for a fairly accurate identification. How many red hair people could possibly be on that airplane? We recognized each other almost immediately. A good sign, I suppose.

What followed that was not such a good sign. At least, that is probably what Francois was thinking. We proceeded to walk across the street to the parking area. I had memorized the necessary landmarks for locating my car. However, when we arrived at the parking lot, none of them seemed to be there. It was almost like a bad dream….or a bad science fiction movie!

We walked to approximately where I remembered parking my car. However, I didn’t see it. I checked to see if the “landmarks” were still there. They seemed to be. Oh…. Maybe the car is in the next lane over. It wasn’t there, either. Oh, come on! I parked in here less than an hour ago! It has to be here. We walked up and down a couple other lanes…..like two lost sheep. Nothing! Where is my car? I can imagine that Francois may have been getting just a little nervous….maybe wondering about my mental stability! Wondering what kind of person he would be staying with. Being the nice guy that he is, is told me to just wait, and he would go look for it. I gave him a description of the car…..most notably that it has a Vietnam Veterans license plate. He was no more successful than I.

We continued to walk…..and look…. Finally, and I am not at all sure how much later, I spotted my car. It was on the opposite side of the lane than I remembered. What?! I checked the surroundings again. Apparently, in all the driving up and down the lanes looking for a parking space, I had become confused….not a difficult task for me…..and had gotten my directions mixed up. And I mean 180 degrees mixed up! I was in no mood to stop and analyze the situation. And, Francois didn’t immediately buy a ticket back to France.

The sun was hanging low in the sky as we finally departed the airport. Francois, I found, had a very good knowledge of English. It was easy to carry on a good conversation as we traveled I-70 back to Topeka. The sun had already set when we pulled into my parking space in front of my townhouse.

I showed Francois his room….where he would be sleeping for the next week and a half. After we went back downstairs, we were faced with a decision. It was still early…..maybe not even 8:00. What should be do? Sit in the front room and wait until we ran out of things to talk about…..or go to a bar…..and talk until we ran out of things to talk about…..or until the bar closed, which, in Kansas these days, is fairly early. We opted for the latter choice…..go somewhere and talk. The obvious choice was “The Shack”.

Since moving to Topeka, “The Shack” has been my bar of choice. It replaced Terry’s Bar and Grill, which for reasons I do not recall, had always been my first choice when I lived in Ozawkie. The Shack is located on 29th Street about two miles from my house. It is easy to get to; it is safe; it is a neighborhood bar; it has plentiful TV screens for watching ball games; it does not cater to the young loud, obnoxious punk, hip-hop clientele; its atmosphere is informal and non-threatening; it has a limited, but adequate…and delicious….assortment of food and drink; and it is affordable.

We sat and talked….started getting acquainted….. and drank beer and ate something until around 10:00. As the patrons started to pay their bills and drift away, we, too, called it a night and returned home to the townhouse. My fears of having accepted an arrogant French snob as a guest for the next ten days had been completely alleviated.

I figured that Francois might want some time to acclimate to his new surroundings. I am not at all sure this was necessary. I mean… There isn’t very much to acclimate to in Kansas. Nevertheless, I decided to spend Saturday showing him some of more notable sights around the area.

As fortune would have it, I had to drive to Holton to pick up my computer which I had taken there to be repaired. This wasn’t really part of the “tour”, but it worked in quite well since Holton is a typical Kansas town of about 4000 people with its downtown build around in a “square” with the country court house in the center, and also contains the traditional water tower with the town’s name emblazoned on it.

Our next stop was my home for almost….but short one year….fifty years…..Valley Falls. I figure Valley Falls is one of those mandatory destinations for anybody who really wants to “know” me. I was not born there…. Thank heavens! And, I did not grow up there…. Thank heavens! But, I did spend well over half of my life there working in the public school system…..and that is just a little bit too long to be ignored, no matter what.

If you are asking, “What is there to see in Valley Falls?” Well, don’t feel like the Lone Ranger. I also ask myself that. For all practical purposes, the short answer is, “Nothing.” But, I suppose one could say that about a lot of little towns. In Valley Falls, there is only one retail business left on Broadway, the “downtown” street where all the business are……or were. That business is an auto parts store….not a store the average person would find useful on a day to day basis. There is a Western Auto Store a block off Broadway…..and a grocery store on highway K-16, which bisects Valley Falls on the south side. On highway K-4 which by-passes the town on its southern perimeter, there is a convenience store, a liquor store, perhaps a real estate office and a used car dealership on the north side. On the south side of the highway one will find a ubiquitous Dollar General Store and some sort of farm supply store. That is essentially it insofar as “stores” are concerned.

So…. What is there to see in Valley Falls? Like most small towns, about the only things the town has going for it is its schools. For all practical purposes, the school is the town…..The Only Show in Town.

When we arrived in Valley Falls, about thirty minutes later, I proceeded to give Francois a tour of the highlights of the town. Of course, the first things I showed him was the school…..now one large, self-contained building, unlike it was when I worked there. During the thirty-eight years I was associated with the school system, there were two buildings: a grade school/junior high school building and a high school building. However, much of the facilities were shared: the gym, the library, the music and band rooms, the lunch room, the weight room…. The final year that I was associated with the school district, the board adopted a resolution to combine the two buildings, add a new gym and commons area, plus some other feathers. As a member of the school board, I was the only member to vote against it.

 

 

 

This was Saturday, and obviously, the school was closed. However, I showed him the exterior of the building…..and I pointed out my former office….. The window of my former office, at least.

After leaving the school, we were off to see the other important sights of the town. After my rather dismal appraisal of the town, you might be asking, “What sights?” Well…. There is the football field. That probably ranks second after the gym in overall importance. The football field has undergone several improvements and reincarnations since I first arrived in Valley Falls. When I arrived, it was a rather dilapidated place with a gravel track, that was virtually unusable….and on which, no other school would agree to come for a track meet. It has since been reconstructed a couple times, each time trying to get it closer to what one might call a regulation track. Additional bleacher space has been added. It doesn’t quite measure up to Texas standards…..and it is not overly impressive….. but, at least, it is the Valley Falls version of “Friday Night Lights.”

Having seen the two gyms (from the outside)….the most important attraction in Valley Falls…..and having seen the football field, it was almost mandatory to take a look at the third “Wonder” of Valley Falls: The two baseball diamonds. Like the football field, the baseball diamonds are also not located adjacent to the school. The two diamonds are located on on each side of the main street leading into downtown Valley Falls. Of course, on game days….and nights….traffic….and there have never been any traffic jams in Valley Falls….is routed around the baseball diamonds. For a person like me, who has no special interest in the games, it was an annoyance. But, “The show must go on!” And, in the spring and summer, it is definitely the only show in town. Just like football and basketball are in the fall and winter, respectively.

After these three attractions, the possibilities diminish rapidly. We took a brief look at the city park….mostly to see if the restroom was unlocked. It wasn’t. No surprise there. I am not sure when…..if at all…..it is open. I know that I have never…..not even once….found it to be unlocked. It must be a fairly exclusive place…..or maybe open by appointment only. I didn’t think to make an appointment! Nearby was an old surplus tank from Operation Rolling Thunder. That is probably the highlight or the focal point of the park. There was nobody else in the park, so we were never disturbed.

 

After taking a couple pictures, we moved on downtown to see what was going on. Nothing! As the famous line of the poem goes: “……Nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.” Downtown was dead, as you can see in the pictures. Fortunately, we did not have to make any decisions about what to do…..because there was nothing to do! Left with few, is any, alternatives for additional sightseeing, we said good-bye to Valley Falls and headed out of town.

After leaving Valley Falls, we headed out to my old house…. Well, former house, may be a better way of phrasing it. But, then again, I did live there for almost fifty years! I don’t drive up to look at my former house very often. When I do, however, it is always a rather depressing experience. To me the most depressing thing is the fact that somebody made the decision to cut down almost all of the trees that I spent so much time planting, watering, fertilizing…..just urging to grow. Some of the trees were literally as old as the house. One of my friends and myself went out into the back pasture and dug up several evergreen trees and planted them along the front of the property and along the east side of the property. Not only did they improve the appearance of the property, but they also provided a degree of privacy…..and, very important, they acted as a shield from the billowing clouds of dust stirred up by cars as they went speeding down the gravel road toward the river. Also, shortly after I moved into the house…..December 30, two days before the beginning of 1974…..Mother planted several catalpa trees. They flourished. Over the years the trunks became large and sturdy, the branches provided shade…..and for a brief period of time each spring, white blossoms proliferated those branches. The summer after I retired…..2003….I bought a dozen (probably genetically engineered) fast-growing trees to provide some beauty and privacy to the west side of my property. They flourished beyond my wildest expectations. I had a mini-forest growing in my yard, all of which grew into healthy, mature trees.

All of this was to no avail. Probably within a week or two after I moved to Topeka, the new owners inexplicably proceeded to simply cut down all the trees. I drove past one day…. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Almost all of the trees were gone…. Cut down. The house looked lonely and almost deserted. And, not only the trees were gone. They had torn down the deck which I had built across the entire front of the house. The deck where I often sat and read. The deck where I entertained guests in the summer months. Along with the deck, the shutters that I had built had also been torn down, making the house look even more plain, lonely and uncared for. The day that Francois and I drove past, we discovered that the entire yard had been covered with gravel. There was not a blade of grass to be seen. The house looks sad….certainly not like a house that had been care for…..that had been somebody’s home…..a house that had been the object of attention, hard work and pride. The front of the house, tree-less, the lawn covered with gravel….a great big parking lot…..and not a car in sight.

We proceeded on down the road toward the Delaware River. The road is a “dead end road” which ends at the river. At one time, before I lived there, a bridge spanned the river. When Perry Reservoir was opened…..a year or two before I moved to Valley Falls….apparently the decision was made to close the bridge which connected the Ferguson Road to K-4 highway. Who knows why such decisions are made? Nevertheless, the road on which I lived…..now 130th Street….ends at the Delaware River, no matter which way it is approached.

The Delaware River brings back fond memories. It was the launching point for my boat. Back in the early 1970’s, I bought a boat for $75.00….along with its trailer. Wow! I was a boat owner! I was proud of that boat. Yeah…. It was just a little twelve feet aluminum boat, but it was MY boat. My neighbors and my friends used to take that boat out every day. We would go up and down the river, usually with a cooler of beer (or pop). We would stop at regular intervals, tie the boat to a log, get out and go skinny dipping in the cool river. I had long since forgotten how to swim. And, Yes…. I did know how to swim when I was a kid…..although a lot of people solemnly swear that swimming is like riding a bicycle: Once you learn, you can ever forget! But, I will swear just as solemnly that is not true. I took swimming lessons with my younger brother when I was in grade school at the public swimming pool in Lyons. We used to go to the pool almost every day. But, in these days…..my Delaware River days…..I always had a life jacket. I would strap on my good old life jacket…..and I had no fear of the water.

There was no swimming the day that Francois and I were there. We had neither a boat nor life jackets. Just a quick, nostalgic look, a couple pictures…..and we were on our way again. Our next stop was Lawrence….the home of the University of Kansas and, of course, the Kansas Jayhawks.

 

 

 

Any trip to the campus of Kansas University must include three mandatory stops. Our first stop was probably the most important. We pulled into the parking lot diagonally from Allen Field House…..the home of the storied Kansas Jayhawks, the NCAA basketball team that has won more college basketball games than any other university since the inception of basketball. And… Why not? The first basketball coach at the University of Kansas was James Naismith, the guy who invented basketball.

Basketball wasn’t invented…..or whatever the correct word is for thinking up a new game….at K. U. It is a game made up by Dr. James Naismith back in 1891 in Springfield, MA. Naismith was a physical education instructor at a YMCA in Springfield. He needed….or at least, wanted….to develop some sort of game or physical activity that would help keep the young men in shape during the winter months when it was too cold for them to exercise outside. He hung up a peach basket and had the guys try to throw a ball into it while moving around…. Well, that is what it more or less boils down to, at least. Thus, from this came the name “basketball”. Obviously the game and the rules have changed just a little bit over the years. Of course, there was no such thing as a 3-point shot back then. And, I doubt if there were tall Black kids dunking the ball, either.

 

 

 

Naismith was the first basketball coach at K. U. from 1898 – 1907, when he was replaced by Dr. Forrest Allen…..commonly known….in fact, by most people…as “Phog” Allen. Ironically, James Naismith was the only K. U. basketball coach with a losing record! Oh well… You can’t expect him to do everything. He invented the game…. Let somebody else win games.

Before actually entering “Allen Field House” from the front, at least, one must go through the Booth Family Museum…..a monument or museum….or shrine….devoted to all the different sports played by K. U. athletes down through the years. To somebody who doesn’t know….or doesn’t care…..about K. U. athletics, it can be a little boring or tedious. There are several thousand square feet of memorabilia, exhibits, trophies, old uniforms, photographs and other minutia relating to various sports….men and women.

 

 

 

For me, personally, it is always exciting to see the national championship basketball trophies…..1952, 1998, 2008 & 2022. I was only in the 8th grade when K. U. won their first national championship. However, I do vaguely remember it, believe it or not. This was long before the days of TV, so if anything, I only listened to it on the radio. The other three championships? I remember them vividly! In fact, I still had season tickets during the 1997-1998 season. I think I even bled crimson and blue blood back in those days! However, for anybody who is not a K. U. fan…..or, like Francois….who had probably never even heard of them until his visit to Kansas….they are probably just another pretty object made of plastic and metal.

 

 

 

 

Francois and I spent maybe thirty minutes wandering about the museum, looking at the exhibits. Of course, when K. U. is mentioned, a sports fan probably automatically thinks of basketball and its legendary players….. Wilt Chamberlain, who stayed with K. U. for only two seasons because he perceived a high degree of racism toward him, even though he was the over-shadowing giant of the basketball team. He went on to become a giant in professional basketball…..and to, allegedly, by his own count…..to have sex with a few thousand women. But, on the other hand, there was Danny Manning, one of the “good guys”……and the player who probably set K. U. on its permanent course as a basketball power house.

In football? Well, homage is paid to the Great Gale Sayers…..a great athlete and a great humanitarian. And, on the flip side of the coin is John Riggins, a great football players, but more or less a jerk in real life. And, of course, Jim Ryan, who broke the college one mile record. He went on to become a right-wing, ultra-conservative
Congressman for northeast Kansas until he was defeated by Nancy Boyda….with a one-vote assist from me!

So…. For Francois this was a brief introduction to Kansas University athletics…. K. U. Athletics 101, so to speak. And, like most introductory survey courses, it may have been more confusing that instructive. However, I am going to give him an “A” for at least being attentive and pretending that he was interested!

Having crossed Allen Field House off our list, we moved on to take a cursory look at some more of the K. U. campus. We took a drive through “downtown” K. U….. that is, Jayhawk Blvd, on our way to the second….at least, co-equal….site on the campus: Memorial Stadium, home of Jayhawk football, such as it is. Usually, this stadium is only minimally occupied on a typical game Saturday. The K. U. football team has not been very successful in recent years. The 2022 season was an exception….and hopefully the beginning of a new and improved football program and tradition.

During the 2022 season, the season Francois was here, the Kansas Jayhawks won 6 games (and lost 7). They lost several games by one touchdown or less. For K. U. this was a joyous season…..a promise of great things to come. No longer were they a joke. No longer were they playing to a nearly empty stadium, sometimes with more of the opponent’s fans on the visitors’ side than people in the K. U. section. After a succession of coaches….a sort of of “musical chairs” sort of game…..maybe they finally found the right coach to lead and inspire the team. For one brief week, the Jayhawks were ranked Number 19 in the nation…..the first time they had been nationally ranked since 2009.

In any event, Memorial Stadium is a picturesque…..if not imposing…..site. The stadium seats 50,000 people…..with parking lots that have space for maybe a tenth that many people. Despite K. U.’s long established losing record, rich people continue to pour money into the program to build a series of posh facilities for the players. Parking lots have been converted into practice fields and commercial spaces. It is always about money…..and vanity….a rich person getting his name on something…..instead of the fan. “Put my name on it….and I will give.” Only time will tell if they the K. U. football team can build on the success of the 2022 season that will result in a winning….and lasting…..football tradition.

However, on this Saturday afternoon, neither Francois nor I was concerned with such thoughts. We took some pictures…..and moved on. Before leaving, we took a brief look at the K. U. Memorial Bell Tower…..the Campanile. The bell tower is a memorial to the K. U. students who died in World War 2, and it towers over Memorial Stadium….and Potter Lake, located down the hill and to the left. The bell tower chimes rings out the time each quarter hour, imitating the chimes of Big Ben….and serves as sort of the campus clock. On special occasions and at irregular intervals, special recitals are presented for the public to enjoy.

 

 

 

The afternoon was slipping by. We had already skipped lunch. It was time to head back to Topeka to satisfy our ever growing hunger. We settled on the China Pavilion for our evening meal…..the only meal of the day, in fact. The China Pavilion is a locally owned and operated buffet…..always a good choice as a place to eat. And….although this has nothing to do with the quality of food served there….. The restaurant to located adjacent to the Shawnee County Democratic Headquarters….my political party. Maybe good things tend to attract each other.

Before Francois arrived, he had asked about the possibility of visiting a place in Coffeyville called the Dalton Gang Museum. Really? There is a place in Coffeyville called the Dalton Gang Museum? I had heard of the world’s largest ball of twine….and the world’s deepest hand dug well……and the Evil Knieval Museum. But, in all my years living in Kansas….and that has been all my life…..I had never heard of any place called the Dalton Gang Museum. I had heard of the Dalton Gang. I was never sure if they were real….or if they were a fictitious figment of somebody’s imagination…..or maybe the subject of an old western movie.

The first thing I did was to check to see if there was, indeed, a place in Coffeyville by this name. There was! One point for Francois. The next step was to find out if this so-called “gang” had really existed. They had. Another point for Francois! In fact, Wikipedia had far more information about them than I was interested is reading. You can check it out sometime, if you want to.

For now, suffice it to say that they were a gang of four brothers whose notoriety was derived from the fact they were outlaws, bandits…..robbers of banks and trains….back in the very late part of the 19th century, let’s say, from 1890-1892. Why is there a museum in their “honor” in Coffeyville? One afternoon, apparently with nothing better do to, they attempted to rob a bank….or maybe it was two banks…..in Coffeyville. Two of the brother and two additional gang members were killed in the attempt. Another brother was captured and subsequently pleaded guilty to second-degree murder. Later on he claimed that he never fire a shot, however. Too late!

So, being assured that there was indeed a Dalton Gang Museum, I said, “Sure. Why not?”. This would also afford me an opportunity to expand my educational horizons….just in case anybody asked me about the Dalton Gang. In the intervening days before Francois’s actual arrival, I took an informal sample poll among some of my friends and acquaintance. I was actually surprised that of the seven or eight people I asked, three people had actually heard of them. One of them even knew there was a museum in Coffeyville. They apparently read more….or get around more…..than I do.

It I takes about three hours and forty minutes to drive from Topeka to Coffeyville, driving down US 75. Since the museum does not open until 1:00 P. M. on Sunday, there was no desperate rush to wake up early in the pre-dawn hours in order to drive there. However, to insure that we would arrive at approximately the opening time, we were in the car and on the road by 9:30. The trip to Coffeyville was uneventful. There is not much to see along the way. There is no such thing as “the scenic route”. Or, who knows? Maybe were actually taking “the scenic route”. We will never know. We drove through a series no small, forgettable towns on a 2 lane highway. The trip wasn’t bad. Francois and I spent the time talking about…..things….this and that. Fortunately, he turned out to be a very easy person to talk to. I have no recollection of what we talked about, but it must have been at least semi-interesting. The time passed by more quickly than I had expected.

 

 

 

I have been referring to the museum as the Dalton Gang Museum. Actually, its real name is “Dalton Defenders & Coffeyville History Museum”. That is a fair description of the place. Let’s face it: There was only one bank….two at the most….for the Dalton Gang to rob. I personally have never robbed a bank…..but I suspect that it is a fairly quick process. They were not crooks like….well, let’s say, Donald Trump. Now that could have filled ten such museums.

The actual space that was devoted to the Dalton Gang was significant, of course. There are relics and personal items associated with various members of the gang….guns, a saddle, bullets and shell casings, local newspaper stories…..and, of course, a lot of photographs and pictures. Probably back when the Dalton Gang was on their rampage of robbery and murder, they didn’t stop and think of what would look good in a museum a hundred years later.

Most of the museum was devoted to the history of the city of Coffeyville and the immediate surrounding area. Actually, I like to visit this type of museum. Maybe, for one thing, it makes me nostalgic. Increasingly often the items I see on display in museums are the same….or very similar…..to things that were being used in my childhood. They often make me feel that maybe I maybe that is where I belong…..in a museum! Of course, Francois is much younger than I, so he no doubt he actually thought all of the artifacts were “Old”…..that he was indeed in a museum. Someday, when he is in a museum somewhere with his children or grandchildren, he will be saying to them, “Oh, Wow. I remember that. We had one of those when I was a kid.”

 

 

 

We spent maybe an hour in the museum….and that was more that a sufficient time to look at all the exhibits. We exchanged some friendly words with the two women who were volunteering on that particular Sunday, and then left. The bank that the Dalton Gang robbed is located immediately across the street from the museum. It did not appear to be open. Even it had been open, we were feeling a little pressed for time. However, before leaving Coffeyville, we paid a quick visit to the cemetery where the two Dalton Brother who were killed in the shootout were buried, along with a third member of the gang who was not a member of the Dalton family. Actually, I was a bit surprised to find a gang of outlaws….part of them at least….buried in a public, municipal cemetery. On the other hand, it is another “tourist attraction”…..if they were thinking of such things back in those days.

Having satisfied our curiosity about the Daltons….even if not becoming experts (and I am speaking for myself)….we left the town and headed for our next destination…..Hutchinson. As I was planning this trip, Hutchinson was to be the major destination…..the highlight….of the trip. When planning a vacation, Hutchinson is certainly not one of the major “destination cities”, but it has a sentimental place in my life. It was my “big city” while I was growing up in Lyons and Sterling. And, there are enough noteworthy attractions to make it at least semi-noteworthy. Among other things, there is the Stratica, another name for the Salt Museum; there is the Cosmosphere, also known as the space museum; there is the Hutchinson Art Guild, a small, but interesting, art gallery; there is the Reno County Historical Museum, a self-explanatory name, I suppose…. And there is…. Well, I guess that is about all there is. That is enough for one day. That would keep us busy and occupy our time in a worthwhile manner.

So, we headed for Hutchinson where we planned to eat supper…..and both of us were getting hungry….. and spend the night. The sun was hanging low in the sky when we arrived in Hutchinson and checked into The Comfort Suites Hotel. Our our immediate concern was finding a place to eat. I left this up to Francois. Food is not that important to me. Just set it front of me….and I will eat it. What or where we are going to eat is never an issue with me. Francois chose a Mexican restaurant called Potrillo’s on North Main Street. It was a fully satisfactory place to eat. It is my theory that back in the kitchen of a Mexican restaurant there are maybe four or five large pans: one pan each for beans, rice, ground beef, ground chicken and some tortillas. Oh…..maybe two or three smaller pans for same sauces. No matter what a person orders, all the food is just a different variation of those foods. The food is all basically the same….. It just looks different when place on the plate in different combinations. Nevertheless, the food was good. It satisfied our hunger. And, that is main purpose of food…. Right?

Of course, the sun had already gone down…..and darkness enveloped the city. I am not good at driving in the dark, so we returned directly to the hotel.

After we had gotten back to the hotel, I decided that I had better start making a plan for the next day…..a Monday…..so we would be able to include everything on my agenda. I had already told Francois the places that we were going to visit, and he was, I think, looking forward to seeing all of them. So, I fired up the trusty old laptop to arrange the schedule.

OK…. Stop and think about the places I mentioned earlier…..and they included the entirety of what Hutchinson had to offer insofar as “tourist attractions” are concerned. First: The Stratica….Salt Mine Museum: Wow! It was closed on Monday! Really!? OK…. No really big deal. We won’t have to rush around so much. We will go to the Cosmosphere and then on to the Hutchinson Art Guild. Not a bad day….

Let me see what time the Cosmosphere is open. What? This can’t be! The Cosmosphere is also closed on Monday? Wow! Well…. That leaves the Art Guild. For what reason could it possibly be closed on Monday? I don’t know the reason…..but, it, too, was closed. With a rather defeated feeling, I next checked with the Reno County Historical Museum. OK…. I sure that you have already guessed. It was also closed on Monday.

What’s going on down there in Hutchinson? What do they have against Monday? The rest of the world has to get up and go to work. Why shouldn’t they? At that point, I was surprised that Walmart was open! Or even the hotel where we were staying. I don’t know, but I suspect that all of these places are open during the weekend…..and Monday is their day off. What else could it be? At any rate, here we were…..in Hutchinson, Kansas. Everything was closed…. That is when I started thinking about Plan B. Of course, I had no Plan B. But, we had to do something. I concluded that the best plan would be to check out the Rice County Historical Museum. It’s not a huge place, but it would be somewhere to go. No….. I am not even going to tell you. Surely, by now, you have already guessed that the Rice County Historical Museum was also closed. So…. It was a unanimous decision! Everything was closed.

If I did not have a Plan B, I certainly did not have a Plan C. I mean….. What are the odds? Everything I had planned to do was closed on Monday. This was a real education for me….. A real eye-opener. Now I know: Don’t plan to do anything in Hutchinson….or Lyons….on a Monday. It was a lesson learned the hard way.
Let’s face it. There is always something to do. It may not be what had been planned….or even what one wants to do. But, at this point in the game, as the old saying goes, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” That was our situation that Sunday evening. We could have simply moved on to Salina or Abilene… However, I had already paid for two nights at the Comfort Inn in Hutchinson. I did not want to go through the hassle of getting a refund. So….. I decided to do the only other thing I could think of: I would give Francois what I like to term as an autobiographical tour….a tour of Lyons and Sterling….and show him all of the exciting sites of my youth. Sort of a nostalgic trip down Memory Lane….for me, at least. Francois, being the super nice guy that he is, readily accepted this plan….like we had a lot of alternative options!

Monday morning we ate breakfast in hotel. As we were wrapping up breakfast and getting ready to leave, we were approached by a man and wife. “Are you Mr. Darrah?” the guy asked.

Well…. “Yes, I am,” I replied.

“Do you remember me?” he asked.

He and his wife had been sitting at a nearby table, but if he hadn’t introduced himself, I would certainly never have recognized him. In situations like this, I am rather oblivious to the people who are sitting nearby. They are all travelers….nobody I would know.

Fortunately, on this Monday morning, I looked at him closely. And, also fortunately, he is a friend of mine on Facebook. And, even more fortunately, I recognized him as being one of my former students and runners from long ago….back in his grade school days.

“Yes… Of course, you are Chad Brading!”

His daughter was in Hutchinson participating in some sort of athletic competition, and he and his wife were there to watch her. Chad was one of my favorite students, and also one of my favorite runners. By the way, I also taught his mother! If it had not been that we had been friends on Facebook and had seen present-day pictures of each other, I doubt if either of us would have ever been aware that we were in the same room. Chad must be in his mid-40’s now. That is a long stretch from being eleven or twelve years old. And, me? Oh yes…. Of course, I haven’t aged a day in the past 40 years! Lucky coincidence….. Perfect way to start the day…..

After eating breakfast, we got into the car and headed for Sterling, where I lived from eighth grade, 1951, I think, until I joined the Army in 1962….minus a few months during which I lived in Hutchinson. That’s only about ten years. However, when a person is young, ten years is a long time…..and it seemed like a long time. When somebody asks me that my “hometown” is….. I usually say Sterling. I lived in Lyons for the thirteen years prior to moving to Sterling. But, these were truly my childhood years, and my memories and recollections are much more sparse….and indistinct than the years I lived in Sterling.

Assuming you have even a cursory knowledge of geography, you still may not even heard of Sterling. And, there is no reason why you should have. It is a small Kansas town of maybe 2200 people….a population that has not changed significantly in the past seventy years. Sterling has two “major” claims to fame. Sterling College is located there. Sterling College is my alma mater, although I am not at all nostalgic about it…..nor do I have a lot, if any, fond memories of the place. (This is probably covered in another, separate blog.) The only other noteworthy attraction is Sterling Lake. The lake serves a number of purposes. It is the Sterling city park; it is the municipal “swimming pool”; it is the city’s picnic area; it is the city’s major “walking area”.

Both of these “landmarks” have changed a great deal since I last lived there back in the early 1960’s. Sterling college has increased in size somewhat, although it is still a rather small college with an enrollment of less than 700 students. But, that is a probably at least twice as many students as they they had when I graduated from there in 1960. The campus has expanded greatly, too, with probably twice as many buildings. When I graduated there were six buildings that I can recall. I haven’t actually counted the number of buildings the campus contains today…..but I am rather confident there must be twelve buildings of some sort…..including the dormitories. Thinking back, I think all of my classes were in one building….. Cooper Hall…..during the years as enrolled there. So there was never any mad rush between buildings to get to class on time! The only major walk was to Spencer Hall for the daily mandatory “chapel”, in which we had assigned seats……and attendance was taken each session…..and there were consequences for missing a session. That, I am pretty sure, has changed today. If not, I doubt if there would be very many students enrolled there! No…. We showed up….under duress….to listen to a boring speakers, mostly the dean, who deliver dull, uninspired, monotonous monologues…..and to catch on a few minutes of extra sleep. However, in the intervening years, several wealthy alumni have left money to the college, and thus the additional buildings were added.

Sterling Lake has also been improved and transformed. When I lived in Sterling, Sterling Lake was just a “lake”. The main activity centered around the swimming area…..and the occasional person fishing. I am not sure if there were….or are…. even any fish in Sterling Lake. That, of course, certainly does not mean that a person cannot go fishing there, however! Today playground apparatus has been added, along with a tennis court and a camping area. A concrete walking path now extends around the complete perimeter of the lake. I have seldom, if ever, visited Sterling Lake without seeing somebody walking on the path.

Probably the most important claim to fame for Sterling Lake is the fact that several scenes from the movie “Picnic” were filmed there back in 1955. This event probably brought more excitement to Sterling that any other single event…..before or since. Wow! William Holden, Rosalind Russell, (a young) Kim Novak, Susan Strausberg, Cliff Robertson….. The town could hardly contain its excitement. The movie stars came….and they went……but the movie and its glamorous stars were the topic of conversation for years to come.

These two venues were obviously on our agenda the day we visited Sterling. Of course, we could hardly avoid driving through downtown. The downtown area of many small towns the size of Sterling have taken a significant hit in the past few decades as Interstate highways or other major highways have been rerouted to avoid them. Although Sterling has very recently experienced this very thing, it still maintains a vibrant business district for a town its size. At least, there are stores that are still open for business, in contrast with other little towns…..Valley Falls comes to mind when I write this. And, there has been recent downtown construction. There are still cars parked on the street in front of businesses, again in contrast with a town like Valley Falls.

At the present time….2022 when we were there…..Sterling has a population of 2248 people. When I first lived there in 1952, the population was 2243. Well, if you want to add on the five members our family…. it was 2248. So, I suppose we can say that we kept the population of Sterling from decreasing! Nevertheless, I pointed out the location of the old Dillon’s store where I worked for eight years during my high school and college years. It is said to be the first Dillon’s supermarket. If this is true, it is a shame that Dillon’s did not preserve the building as a sort of monument to the organization. But, like most other profit making organizations, Dillon’s was more interested in making money than in preserving history.

Francois also knows where I graduated from high school. In fact, I was in the first class to graduate from the present day building. Back in 1956, when I graduated, it was literally only a fraction of the size it is today…..although the front facade or entrance remains basically the same. Because of today’s security precautions, we didn’t dare try to enter the building…..although if he had, I would hope that my senior picture will still be hanging somewhere in one of the hallways….with the rest of the class, of course!

We drove past the site where our house once stood. Mother owned about half of a square block where our house was located. It seems that about half of this was devoted to the always huge garden….and the remainder was grass that my younger brother and I were responsible for mowing. Today there is some sort of commercial building on the approximate spot where our house sat. The rest of it has been divided into lots and houses have been built on them. There is little or no resemblance between the past and the present. Time moves on, I suppose.

We took pictures of the two symbols of almost every small Kansas town…..and even the large ones: the local grain elevator and the water tower. Both of these structures have the name of the town written on them. Back in “those days” that was one of the main ways to identify the name of the town for people traveling through.

Yeah….. Nothing very earth-shaking; no destination sites; nothing one would find in a history book. But, Francois got to see a little of my life when I was growing up in Sterling.

We had about milked Sterling dry, so to speak, so we moved on to Lyons….my first, chronologically speaking, at least….. home town. I was born in Lyons, and lived there until moving to Sterling in 1951 when I was 13 years old. So, I think it is fair to say that Lyons was my early childhood home. I never formed the same attachment with Lyons that I had with Sterling. Why? Well… Because, as a child, unless I was at school, at church, or in town for some special reason, I was confined to mostly to home and the immediate surroundings.

For some reason, Mother had no objection to my younger brother and I exploring a wide range of rural area extending out from our home…..but, if we wanted to go into town…. Well, that was another matter entirely. Back in “those days”, kids just didn’t hang out in town the way they do today. Unless there was a reason….a good reason….to be in town, we were rarely allowed to go into town and just “hang out”.

So…. School, church, Saturday afternoon movies, maybe a visit to the home of an aunt and uncle…. On the other hand, as I said, we were only kids…..little kids. But, still I knew Lyons pretty well. We were in town enough to feel and be a part of it. We knew where everything was. We knew where all our friends lived. I mean…. Lyons wasn’t like a “forbidden city”. It’s just like we were kids. A bicycle was our major form of transportation…..or walking…. And, our mother, like all the mothers, wanted to know where we were…..generally speaking…..and what we were doing. How much trouble could we get into playing baseball or touch football, or pretending to be Gene Autry or Roy Rogers, or playing hide and seek, or tag, or “Kill the Nazis (or the Japs)”…..or even riding our bikes to a wooded area maybe a mile from our house and playing “Tarzan”?

Back in those days…..the 1940’s and early 1950’s….Lyons was a thriving little town. It was the country seat of Rice County, and the oil business was booming…..not to mention that it was still a largely agricultural community. When I lived there the population held steady around 4500 people. As the oil industry started to decline and as farms began to consolidate into large corporations and the small farms began to disappear, the population also began to decline. Today the population is somewhere around 3600 residents…..almost a thousand fewer people. Aside from being the county seat, maybe the only large industry left is the salt plant. And, even here, Lyons used to have two major salt plants….now there is only one. Probably the reason Sterling’s population has not experienced such a drastic reduction is the fact that it has Sterling College. Sterling College is Sterling’s major “industry”.

Nevertheless, Now Francois knows a little about Lyons. Again, just like Sterling, the house where I used to live is long gone. In fact, all the land we owned is now part of Lyons…..a residential area. They didn’t even put up a sign saying, “Beryl lived here”! The grade school I attended was torn down and replaced many years ago. The junior high school building burned down (!). The old movie theater is history. But, the courthouse square is still there. The Nazarene Church that we attended is still there, and looks pretty much like it did back in the day. But, Lyons just isn’t the same. It is a rather sad town…sort of left in the dust by progress. And, all of this in spite of the fact that both highway K-96 still runs north-south through the town and US 56 still runs east-west. And, even though the town last lost two of its grocery stores…. It still has a Dairy Queen!

Francois and I drove past most of the important places that were part of my childhood in Lyons: where I used to live (although the house has long since disappeared, my old schools (or a reasonable facsimile thereof), my old church, downtown….. After completing this tour, we drove few miles west of Lyons to a large granite cross that marks the spot that a Spanish Catholic priest has once visited. That cross has been there ever since I can remember…..and I am still not really sure what happened there. Probably nothing. But, it makes a good picture. Before closing out our exploration of Lyons, we drove a couple miles south of the cross to a place where Buffalo Bill once set up camp…..or supposedly set up camp. Insofar as I can remember, it has always been called Buffalo Bill’s Well. Old Buffalo Bill got around, apparently. “Buffalo Bill” landmarks are almost everywhere you go. He must have had a good public relations agent! People have told me that Buffalo Bill actually once visited (?), lived in (?), passed through (?) Valley Falls. The sad thing is…. Valley Falls doesn’t have a marker or a monument. Maybe they should erect one. Maybe that will keep them from evaporating into oblivion.

A few hundred feet from the Buffalo Bill’s Well, is an active oil well. This was a fortuitous event. This may have been the first active oil well Francois had seen….and probably even more likely the first one he had his picture taken with. Active oil wells…..mostly with the tall derricks ….were  common in Rice County back when I was a kid. They were a major source of jobs….and wealth. In recent years, the oil industry has experienced a severe decline, and the design of pumping devices has changed from the tall, impressive derricks to the low, rotary pump….which are just as effective, but less impressive.

It was approaching mid-afternoon. I had probably bored Francois enough with the tour of my childhood memories….although he is much too polite and considerate to ever admit anything like this! Nonetheless, we left Lyons and drove back to Hutchinson to finish up our nostalgic tour.

After we reached Hutchinson we more or less drove around at random. I suddenly discovered a site that I was totally unaware even existed. I had to look twice….rub my eyes….to make sure that I was not dreaming or seeing a mirage that did not exist. I have lived in Kansas all my life. I have been in Hutchinson probably thousands of times….I even worked there….. but I was not prepared for the site that appeared outside my car windshield as we drove along K-61 on the south side of Hutchinson.

There was blanket of white. At first, I thought it was snow. But it was a warm October day. We were wearing short sleeve shirts. I turned left at the next corner and slowed down to confirm my eyesight! Yes… It was a field of cotton. “Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton……” Maybe it had been there for a long time…..and I just did not know it. Whatever….. The fact is: I saw something that I had never seen before…..anywhere. Certainly not in Kansas. One of the pictures on my photography “bucket list” was a picture of a cotton field with the cotton blooming. I was planning to take a trip to a southern state for just this single purpose. Guess What? The picture was right there in Hutchinson, Kansas, just waiting to be taken.

 

 

 

After the discovery of the cotton field, it was time to slow down the pace to something more traditional and conservative. We drove a few miles east of Hutchinson to Yoder. Yoder is basically an Amish community….made up predominately of traditional Amish residents. I was hoping that maybe we would see an Amish farmer or even a family in a horse drawn buggy. But, it was not to be. In fact, I have never really seen a horse and buggy in Yoder. I know they exist….and I know they are common. Reliable people have told me that a person is most likely to see farmers riding in their horse and buggy in the morning. For me…. Going “Amish Hunting” in the morning in Yoder has never been on my famous bucket list.

We did, however, drive past the Carriage Crossing Restaurant. It it famous…if even on just a local level…..for its superior food. Everybody raves about it. “It is soooooo delicious!” “It is the best food I have ever tasted.” Statements like that. A few years ago when Fayez and I went to the State Fair in Hutchinson, we decided to drive over to Yoder to sample this out-of-the-world food. There was a long line in front of us….if was State Fair time, remember…..so they gave us one of those buzzer devices to signal when there was a table available. Some forty or fifty minutes later, we found an empty table. Girls….young women…..in dark Amish attire, complete with the little bonnet on their head….were waitresses.

We ordered something that looked like might be typically Amish….and then sat and waited for another 30 minutes for the food to arrive. The waitress with the little white bonnet finally set our food in front of us. I don’t know…. It looked pretty much like food I would order in any run-of-the-mill restaurant. And…. It also tasted like food we could have ordered from any ordinary eating establishment. We kept wondering when the Amish magic was going to kick in…..and our taste buds and our digestive system would start turning cartwheels of delight. They never did! It was just another meal…..in just another restaurant. But, I am quite sure that other people were singing superlative praises about the food. It is all in the perception, I guess. (And, I strongly suspect that the girls with long Amish dresses and the little white bonnets were high school girls from Hutchinson and were probably United Methodist or Presbyterian, just like I am!)

No doubt we drove around aimlessly while I pointed out some of Hutchinson’s other “attractions”…..the school where I once taught, Hutchinson Community College, the State Fair grounds, the Sports Arena, Carey Park…..and also probably the Cosmosphere and the Salt Museum which were supposed to be the major attractions of the day.

There was only one attraction left to show Francois. It may not be on the list of major highlights for Hutchinson, but, nevertheless, is a “one and only”….something that only Hutchinson can claim. Hutchinson is the site of the world’s longest grain elevator. As is probably the case in all superlatives, there are other cities…all in Kansas….who from time to time also claim this distinction. However, I have heard this….and believed it…..from….well, since I can remember that Hutch has the longest grain elevator in the world.

This “longest grain elevator” measures one-half mile long. Actually, it is a little longer, measuring 2573 feet long. At various times through the past decades, I, myself, have measured the length of the elevator…..in my car, of course. And, yes…. The odometer always registered the same distance…..just over one-half mile. It never got any shorter or any longer!

In any event, we stopped to take some pictures, just in case Francois wanted to brag about having seen the world’s longest grain elevator. In this unlikely event…..but, who knows?….he now has solid evidence to back up his claim.

 

 

 

This was the end of our day…. It was not the agenda I had planned….or had even wanted. Like they say, “When you are given lemons…..make lemonade.” I hope that is what we did.

Tuesday Morning: Now it was time to say good-bye to the Comfort Inn and to Hutchinson and to head back home. But, first, we stopped in Abilene for a brief sojourn. The only stop we had planned in Abilene was a visit to the Eisenhower Museum. This museum, of course, houses the memorabilia of Dwight D. Eisenhower, a transplanted Kansan who served in various capacities throughout his career. His most notable jobs were as Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in World War II, President of the United States, a brief tenure as commander of NATO forces and an even shorter term as president of Columbia University.

There a variety of opinions of Eisenhower that range from brilliant strategist and leader down to that of a rather dull intellect who was supremely ambitious and ended up in his many exalted positions, not because of his brilliance, but because he was a good “politician” who was very adept at knowing the right people and keeping the right company. I do not want to get into that discussion at this point. Let’s just say that if he were running for president in the coming election, there is no way I would vote for him….unless he was running against Trump, that is.

Over the years, I have been to the Eisenhower Museum several times….enough times that this time I was going only so Francois could see it…..not because I had any expectation of seeing or learning anything new or different. The museum had been closed for about two years as it underwent a complete renovation. This would be the first time since it re-opened that I had seen it.

As I said, the museum was constructed in Abilene because this became Eisenhower’s hometown when his family moved from Texas to Kansas. Much is made of Eisenhower’s “humble” beginnings. And, it is probably true. However, it sometimes seems (to me, at least) that he quickly forgot about these fabled humble beginnings once he left Abilene. There is no doubt that he was supremely ambitious, perhaps beyond his true capabilities. He ranked 64th in a class of 164.

 

 

 

That is all beside the point now. We know that he served in the highest capacities in the military and was elected as the 34th president of the United States. Much was made of the fact that Eisenhower surrounded himself with a “millionaire” cabinet, and seemed largely unconcerned with the “common man”. Despite his trademark smile, he was widely know by his associates and subordinates as a man with a quick and vicious temper when things did not go his way. It was not until after his death and books began to be written about him by his military and political associates that the myth behind the smile began to be made known.

Eisenhower never did own property in Kansas, and insofar as I can find, never lived in Kansas once he left to attend West Point. He certainly never returned to Kansas to live after he retired. Francois and I made at least a cursory inspection of the museum, checking out various exhibits which paid homage to the various phases of his life.

After leaving the museum, we walked to the Place of Meditation where he and his wife, Mamie, and their young son, are buried. Also located on the museum grounds are a large statue of Eisenhower, a library which houses his presidential and military papers and documents and his boyhood home. Inside the little chapel, called The Place of Meditation, the burial places are located behind a metal railing. Behind these there is a small room with stained glass windows in which are located a few rows of seating, for meditating, I suppose.

 

 

 

Eisenhower’s boyhood home is also located on the same premises. When Francois and I were there, it was closed for renovation.

Sunday, Monday and Tuesday were the days of the most intense activity. We returned to Topeka when we were finished looking at the Eisenhower Museum, and the pace of life slowed down a degree of two. The main purpose of Francois’s visit was to do some research for his PhD dissertation in the Kansas State Historical Library. Before coming to Kansas, he had previously reserved some time for research on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.

We arrived back home from Abilene in the mid-afternoon on Wednesday. After arriving home, my major desire….or interest…..was to take a nap! I was feeling beat! I am fairly certain that Francois also found something useful to do, although I was not awake long enough to determine that that might be! My naps are always accompanied by music playing in the background. Being the considerate host that I invariably am, I put on my headset, selected an eighty-minute CD…..and zonked out!

When I awoke about an hour and a half later, I had regained at least a portion of my strength and mental clarity…..and to be sure…..there wasn’t much to regain. It was dinner time, and not wanting to subject Francois to my usual…..but delicious and nutritious….diet, I had already decided that we would eat out. My friends and I have made an unbreakable rule regarding eating out: We will only eat in cafes and restaurants that are locally owned and operated. We made this decision back at the beginning of the COVID crisis when businesses were failing due to lack of customers or patrons……especially those businesses that were locally owned and did not have the vast support of national organization. In the past three years, we have faithfully stuck with our decision. However…… On this particular night, I broke the rule. Actually, I justified breaking it by rationalizing that Francois was not a party to the agreement! Yeah…. I know. That is a little lame! Anyway, we ate at the Golden Corral, which, back in the “old days” was one of our steady eating places. And, I figured that it is probably the best example of an all-you-can-eat restaurant in Topeka, something that I think is rather rare in France.

Wednesday morning, I took Francois to the Kansas State Historical Library so he could work on his research. I picked him up in time so we could eat lunch with my friend, Jason, at the Airport Cafe. The Tammy’s Airport Cafe has long been one of our “go to” eating places. When Jason and I eat, we take turns paying…..alternating every second week. When it is my turn to choose….and pay….it is simply understood that we will eat at the airport. I really do not recall exactly how we chose that place….or when we chose it. It as become an ingrained part of our routine that we simply do it without thinking. Actually, we were eating there on a regular basis long before COVID hit. The buffet is always delicious….prepared from scratch in their kitchen….and plentiful…..and predictable. There is a sufficient, but limited, rotating choice of entrees each day. The choice is not overwhelming…..like the Golden Corral, for example. But, there are enough choices to….well, give you a choice.

Tammy’s Airport Cafe can accurately be described as “neighborhood cafe”. We have been eating there long enough to certainly know the owners…..and they also know us…..and, also to recognize many, of not most, of the people who eat there on a regular basis. The restaurant, which also has a menu as well as the all-you-can-eat buffet, is an interesting place to eat. We can watch privately owned aircraft land and take off while dining. And, I must add…. The place is loud! Many of the people, as I said, know each other. They tend to be rather uninhibited in their their conversations…..and in the volume of their conversations. This is true of both the patrons….and the owners! But, that is what adds to the “charm” of the place. It may not be “fine dining”, but it is certainly comfortable and familiar dining.

Another memorable and noteworthy culinary event took place the following night…..Thursday. I had to attend a board meeting of the townhouse association that evening. While I was gone, Francois began preparation of our dinner. I really have no idea what the food he prepared is called. I am sure he told me, but remembering the name of various food is not one of my strong points. It was strictly his creation. Cooking is not one of my strong points. In fact, it is not even a point at all! When I returned from the board meeting, he was well into the process of preparing the food. I helped him the best way I know how: I stayed out of his way! The end product was delicious. I am going to unscientifically describe the food as some sort of pizza. It looked sort of like pizza. It even tasted somewhat like pizza. However, I am pretty sure it was not pizza…..but it was somewhere in that general family. Maybe a cousin of pizza? As usual, I didn’t ask a lot of questions about the food. When somebody sits food in front of me…..and especially when it looks tempting and delicious….I simply eat it. And…. I was right: It was delicious.

Francois was about to complete his research at the Kansas Historical Library. After working only in the morning on Friday, he was satisfied that he was successful in finding all the information that he was seeking. He had nothing but praise for the staff of the library. Apparently he had previously sent them an outline of the research he was doing to ascertain if the data was available. Upon his arrival, he was pleasantly surprised to find that they had already assembled a great deal of the information for which he was searching. This act of thoughtfulness and consideration left Francois with a very favorable impression of the Kansas Historical Library…..not to mention that it greatly facilitated the speed with which he could accomplish his research. Actually, it is probably not often that any governmental unit makes a good impression on anybody in Kansas.

One of the positive results of finishing early was the fact that we were left with more time to explore other activities. However, before satisfying our desire to explore, there was the matter of satisfying our hunger. Since Francois had arrived, we had already eaten Chinese food, Mexican food, American food. I had considered going to our one and only French restaurant. But, he eats that kind of food every day back home. So, I decided to take Francois to one of my regular eating establishments on my Friday rotation. We ended up at the Globe Restaurant on Tenth Street just off Kansas Avenue. I really don’t remember how this became part of our regular lunchtime agenda. I do know that it has gone through two or three reincarnations that the year, however.

When I first started eating there it was a more or less a full service all-you-can-eat buffet of delicious, albeit rather spicy, food. This format continued for several years until the COVID epidemic hit. As was the case in so many things, COVID hit restaurants rather hard. The Globe was forced to discontinue its buffet for a period of time because of health restrictions. Its regular diners more or less evaporated. It changed ownership about this time, and after closing temporarily, reopened as a modified buffet…..a one-time only buffet, only this time a server placed the food on the plates. On most Friday when we ate there, there were only a handful of people there…..and a small handful, at that. It took a while for people to start coming back again. However, today it has returned to its all-you-can-eat format…..but with a much more limited selection of food. Nevertheless, we both enjoyed the meal, which, of course, is all that counts, I suppose.

It was a beautiful day in the neighborhood, as Mr. Rogers would say. Too nice to simply go back home…. One of the few nice, quiet and scenic places to go in Topeka…..in fact, maybe the only place…… is Lake Shawnee. Lake Shawnee is located in southeast Topeka, and it covers a little more than 400 acres. There is almost literally something to do for everybody…..unless that person literally doesn’t like anything!

Personally, I go there because it is a pleasant place to walk. There is a wide, paved trail that completely encircles the lake….. a distance of some seven miles, to be specific. I have been going there to walk for around twenty years….ever since I retired. Even when I was living near Ozawkie, I would often drive down to Topeka for the sole purpose of walking at Lake Shawnee. A lot of the trail is too hilly for me, but both Sultan and Fayez have jogged there on numerous occasions, while I found a flat stretch of land suitable for my pace of walking.

The trail is shared with other walker, of course, but also with families pushing baby stroller or people walking their dog. It is also popular with bicyclists and skateboarders. It is always a good idea to keep to the right while walking…..just for safety’s sake.

For those who looking for other forms of entertainment or amusement, never fear. It is also a popular place to go fishing and for picnicking. There are several playground for children and both a baseball complex and a softball complex, which are used extensively in the summer by dozens of city league teams. Also popular in the summer is the designated swimming beach. There is also a year-round camping area for people who own camping vehicles. 

Throughout the year, it serves as the venue for several special events. One popular annual event is a two-miles drive around the lake featuring elaborate Christmas lights. It is one of the main fund raisers for a local charity organization. It is the site for the 4^th of July celebration, which attracts thousands of spectators. Other popular events are the Annual Duck Race, a fishing derby, the Polar Plunge, not to mention the dozens of weddings and social events that take place in its enclosed clubhouses.

Starting in April and continuing through the autumn months thousands of people are attracted to the Ted Ensley Gardens, an array of flower gardens named after the long-time retired Director of Shawnee County Parks and Recreation.

In fact, more than a million people visit Lake Shawnee every year to take advantage of one of these activities or attractions. Francois and I added to that number after we finished eating at the Globe Restaurant. Our visit was merely as “tourists”…..just so I could give Francois an idea of what the park looks like and observe some of the features I pointed out above. It was well into November, and most of the flowers had long since made their appearance and had disappeared for the winter. However, the trees were still green and the water was still blue. It was a Friday afternoon, and for the most part, we had the lake to ourselves….. No ball games, no picnickers, nobody swimming. There were only a few people fishing…a few people walking and jogging….and, like us, a few people relaxing and hanging out and enjoying the pleasant scenery.

At 3:00 we had arranged to meet Jason at the Blind Tiger, so our time was limited. One of Francois’s favorite rock groups is the band, “Kansas”…..a group that was popular in the 1970’s. Maybe you got a clue from their name that they got their start here in Kansas….. Topeka, to be exact. One of the places they played on a regular basis, apparently, was the Blind Tiger. I don’t think it was called the Blind Tiger back in those days, but whatever the name, it is essentially the same place…same location.

In fact, after Francois left my house, he and his parents attended a concert given by the band “Kansas”….with maybe one or two new members due to death or retirement….in Des Moines. These guys are not young any longer! I saw them in concert back in the mid-1970’s at Allen Field House in Lawrence. They were probably at the peak of their fame at that time. I am going to guess they were all in their twenties or early thirties at the time…..and that was at least forty-five years ago. Yeah…. Times goes fast when you are having fun. Other than the vaguely recalling that the packed audience went wild when they sang their signature song, “Dust in the Wind”, the only other fact that I can remember is that when the concert was over, and I was walking to my car, I was sure that I would be at least partially deaf for the remainder of my life. The volume…..or noise level…..inside Allen Field House was deafening. Surely, they must wear some sort of ear plugs when they perform….. Or, maybe they really are deaf! Anyway, Francois said that even after all those years, they still sound like “Kansas”…..still have that distinctive “Kansas” sound.

Saturday was a semi-lazy day, with little sense of urgency. Francois has completed his research, so that was no longer a concern….no need to meet any predetermined schedules or anything like that. The major item on the agenda was to tour the Kansas State Capitol Building. The Capitol is probably Topeka’s major tourist destination. And, why wouldn’t it be? Topeka is the capital of Kansas…..and that is there our governor’s office is located…..and that is where the Kansas Legislature passes all of its right-wing, conservative laws.

I have been in several state capitol buildings around the U.S.A., and. Putting aside all my prejudices and biases, I can say that Kansas has one of the most impressive capitol buildings in the nation. Of course, some of this is due to the fact that it recently underwent a $332 million renovation….all at tax payers’ expense, of course. The measure to spend that amount of money was not an entirely popular decision with taxpayers. And, please include me in that number! That is a lot of money to spend on refurbishing….well, anything.

Many people felt that spending a third of a billion dollars to remodel the Capitol Building was excessive. The renovation went far beyond merely giving the building a facelift. A new parking garage was constructed…..underground. This, as can imagine, involved extensive excavation…..not only costly, but time-consuming. A entry-level, basement visitor’s center was constructed. Much like the parking garage, this was created out of space that did not previously exist! In other words, it, too, had to be excavated. Literally, a new basement was created.

A new copper dome was also fabricated and installed to replace the old, original dome, which had long-since started to leak when it rained. A sculpture of an Indian holding a bow and pointing to the North Star was created to top off the dome. There were other improvements which are probably not so high profile: Things like new electrical and mechanical systems, additional office space and restrooms, additional (new) elevators…..and a general cleaning.

The renovation of the Capitol Building started in the year 2000 after a struggle in the legislature to get the money appropriated. It is somewhat amazing that the money was actually approved considering the fact that many more necessary and immediately important bills supporting education, mental health, and unemployment relief either failed or were severely curtailed. Well… Maybe in Kansas that is really not so amazing.

The renovation process began in 2000 and continued for what seemed to be an interminable length of time…..thirteen years, to be exact. For this thirteen year period, the building was covered with scaffolding and many parts of it were closed to the public. It was an ugly affair, with the Capitol grounds stacked with building material, blockades erected, parking curtailed….and of course, the ever-present scaffolds. Although it did not make it any more palatable, after a few years, the clutter surrounding the Capitol simply became “normal”. A lot of people…..me included….began to suspect that this “is just way it is always going to be” and suspected that the work would go on forever.

After twelve years, the building…..the entire block….all twenty acres….slowly, almost imperceptibly….began to morph back to what we all remembered so many years ago. Among the last of the final touches was the adding of the Indian sculpture on top of the Capitol. A big deal was made of the sculpture….although I think most people could not have cared less. All they wanted was to have the Capitol back….to put the ordeal in the past.

One of the major changes affecting the public is that visitors can no longer enter the Capitol Building from any door. For years….decades….I was accustomed to entering from the south entrance, after walking up a small mountain of steps. After the renovation was completed and the building was reopened, the one and only way to enter was through an entrance which has been installed on the ground level on the north side of the Capitol Building. Somehow, I suspect that this was a result of the 9/11 attacks of 2001. If gave the Capitol Police more control of who entered the building. A metal detector was also installed. To me, this seemed a little ironic, considering the fact that the Kansas Legislature passed a law that removed all restrictions on carrying a weapon…..both concealed and openly carried. The only place where the legislature prohibited the possession of a gun illegal was in a medical facility. This also was slightly ironic because a medical facility was no doubt the quickest and most competent place to treat gunshot wounds.

The single entrance for visitors on the ground floor opened into the new visitors’ center that has been carved out of the ground beneath the Capitol Building. I can only speak for myself, but the visitors’ center is only mildly interesting, at best. Mostly it contains some historical artifacts, but mostly it is only a collection of old photographs and pictures from Kansas history. Expect to find many pictures and information about notable Kansans from the past, along with a sizable pictorial history of the construction of the of the building. I suppose that it is quite interesting and informative for those people who are interested enough in Kansas history to take the time and effort to actually take the time to read and examine it.

The grandeur of the building lies on the upper floors. Take any one of the several elevators up to the main floor….and step out into a beautifully conceived and constructed great hall of gleaming Kansas limestone. Your eyes will be pulled in many directions in an attempt to absorb and assimilate the many visual wonders. For me, and no doubt countless other visitors, perhaps the most compelling attraction is the dome that towers over the building, giving an unobstructed view upward to the peak of the building.

Each of the five floors of the Capitol Building is built around the dome…..with the rotunda at the center. It is almost…..but not quite…..as spectacular to stand on one of the upper floors and look down on the rotunda below. The main floor is stunning with its gleaming limestone columns and wrap-around murals.

Francois and I spent some time looking at the exhibits in the visitor’s center on the lower level. Since Francois was doing research on a phase of Kansas history, it is possible that he found the various exhibits to be more interesting that I. One reason could have been that I have seen the exhibits numerous times. They were no longer new to me. Second…. Dwight Eisenhower, William Allen White, John Brown, Charles Curtis, Arthur Capper, Amelia Earhart…. Well, these are names that I have know all my life. At some point, they cease to be fascinating, especially when the information….and the exhibits…..never change. Of course, we are proud of all our famous sons and daughters. But, let’s face it……they can only be fascinating and intriguing for so long…..and then they are simply part of the landscape. I think that I have reached that point in the road. Nevertheless, it was all new and fresh to Francois, and I was content to stay in the background….to lean on a wall….or sit on a bench….while he looked at the displays.

The exhibits documenting the construction and subsequent renovation of the Capitol Building were not very interesting to me when I first saw them……and they are even less interesting now. They rated only a cursory walk-by before we ended our tour of the visitor’s center and began to look for an elevator to take us to the second floor rotunda of the Capitol Building.

Aside from the gleaming marble and granite columns and the sparkling mosaic floors, by the far the most eye-catching and spectacular features on the second floor rotunda are the larger than life murals. Undoubtedly the most famous of the murals is John Stuart Curry’s “Tragic Prelude”….commonly called The John Brown mural. It depicts John Brown in a defiant pose with a rifle in his right hand and a Bible in his left hand. He is standing in the midst of dead soldiers….or who will soon die. In the background are a tornado and a prairie fire. The mural was not greeted kindly. In fact, many people held it in contempt.

Another of Curry’s murals is called “Kansas Pastoral”, depicting a bucolic, rather idyllic farm scene. Seemingly an innocent representation of a Kansas farm, it too was the subject of criticism by some people who complained that the bull was the wrong color…..that it was too long…..

In another mural, one showing the Kansas prairie at night, critics said that the painting looked more like an ocean, that the woman’s dress was too short, that the oil derricks in the background looked like ships, even that the pigs’ tails were curling in the wrong direction. Curry had intended to add some pictures of Kansas industry, but instead he pained a family of skunks, his opinion of his critics…..and left the mural unsigned.

 

 

 

If I had not read about such criticisms of these murals in textbooks and other media, such nonsense would have never occurred to me……or, I can very well imagine, to almost anybody else who looks at them. I have been looking at these murals for a few decades now…..and if I hadn’t read about these unkind remarks…..I would be completely oblivious to them. Quite the opposite. I find myself saying things like, “Cool!” and “Wow…. I wonder how long it took them to paint that?” Maybe that is one disadvantage….or symptom…. of having taught Kansas history for a couple years! I think it also demonstrates that no matter when a person has lived….people basically do not change. Instead of being appreciative of the grandeur and sheer scope of the art, people choose to complain. And, I can imagine they complain and gripe and find fault….however imaginary…..for the same reason: To bring attention to themselves. For publicity. To get their name in the newspaper. To try to gain some sort of political advantage. Because they, themselves, have a poor self- concept….or because the are jealous that somebody else is getting some recognition or praise.

 

 

 

As Francois and I walked around the rotunda, neither of us expressed any negative thoughts or displeasure. The murals are truly awe-inspiring, even for those not well acquainted with Kansas and its history.

Also located on the second floor is the office of the Governor of Kansas. In 2023 when Francois and I visited the Capitol Building, the governor was Laura Kelly, a Democrat who was in the midst of her second term. Right outside the office of the governor’s office is the mural of John Brown, “The Tragic Prelude”. The office of the Lieutenant Governor is also located on the second level nearer to the “Kansas Pastoral” mural.

The third level of the rotunda is mostly occupied by the chambers of the two houses of the Kansas legislature. The House of Representative chamber is located in the western wing and the Senate is located in the chamber on the east side of the building. The door of both chambers were locked the day we were there, which I found to be rather unusual. This is the first time I remember that the doors have been not only closed, but locked. On all the other occasions that I have visited the Capitol Building…..and it has been many….visitor and tourists were free to enter each chamber. I even have pictures of several of my former exchange students and other guests standing behind the podium where individual senators or members of the house of representative stand while they address the chamber. But, not this time. We had to content ourselves by merely looking at the door and imagining what was behind it.

Before leaving the Capitol grounds, we looked briefly at some of the statues that are placed around the 40 acre complex…..statues such as Abraham Lincoln, and the “Pioneer Woman”, a replica of the Statue of Liberty, among others. There are other monuments commemorating veterans of various wars. On the sidewalks, special plaques have been implanted honoring well-known Kansans who have made important contributions to world industry, politics, arts, culture. On the northeast quarter of the Capitol grounds one will find an impressive tribute to Kansas law officers who have lost their lives in the line of duty throughout the history of the state.

It was time to move on…..and we were getting hungry. I don’t recall the process we used in deciding where we would eat lunch. Probably there was no process. More than likely it was a spur of the moment decision. We ended up at a place that I most likely would have never considered under normal circumstances. We ate our lunch in a downtown bar and grill called ‘The Iron Rail Brewing. It is a pleasant place to eat. The food was good. The décor was….well, fake rustic. They brew their own beer, which, of course, is available for sale in the restaurant…..although neither of us ordered it with our meal. I can imagine that the name was derived from the fact that Topeka was once an important railroad center. In fact, there is a railroad mural on the wall. The place was OK….the food was OK….the beer was OK…. It is not a place that I have placed on my list of favorite hangouts…..and probably will not in the future, either.

It was getting late in the afternoon. I was getting tired. We headed back to the townhouse. It was nap time for me…. We ended the day back at “The Shack”….my regular neighborhood, locally owned, familiar, comfortable all-purpose go-to evening eating (and drinking) establishment. Back at home again, Francois made a valiant effort at entertainment by playing an old guitar that has been sitting idly in my basement (and in multiple different place in the old Ozawkie place) for several years since Fayez gave it to me shortly after he arrived in the USA. The guitar is seriously….and probably permanently…..out of tune. However, Francois managed to perform a creditable, if only a little off-key, version of “Dust in the Wind”…..by “Kansas”, of course. The fact that we were drinking a bottle of native Kansas wine probably helped with situation a little. At least, it didn’t hinder it!

Sunday we journeyed back to Lawrence for lunch. We were looking forward to enjoying the Sunday buffet of Middle Eastern food at the Aladdin Restaurant on Mass Street. For the past ten years…..since Fayez first arrived in 2012…..that has been a favorite Sunday dining treat. On week days, it is “menu” only. Since I do not know the names of the foods, I seldom go there. On Sunday, however, it turns into a highly delicious selection of Middle Eastern cuisine. There was little doubt that Francois would find it to be equally tempting and appetizing.

Because of COVID, it had been a couple years since I had been there. Needless to say, I was highly anticipating the opportunity to eat there again. COVID did so many bad things to our society…..and this was one of them: Aladdin had ceased serving their Sunday buffet. It could have been because of the strict healthy regulations that were put into place…..or it could have been that the decrease in diners brought it about. Faced with the choice of leaving and finding another place to eat or stay and order from the menu, we chose to stay. I am not going to deny it….. The food was good, but it in no way compared to their (former) buffet.

Francois was doing research on some phase of Kansas history. And, it is a happy coincidence that we have an important historical site in the little village of Lecompton. Lecompton is a village….a very small town….with a population of 588 people a few miles north of Topeka. When a person has a historical landmark in his backyard, it is fairly easy to forget about it…..to take it for granted. This, I think, is the predicament that Lecompton faces to us people who live so close to it. As for me….. I drove past it for almost fifty years…..attending classes at the University of Kansas, going to K. U. basketball games or just going to Lawrence for business of pleasure. While I was on the board of directors of the Northeast Kansas Educational Service Center, I parked within only a few yards from it for four years. I really never gave it much, if any, thought. Over the years, I took a few of my guests there, mostly because of the lack of something else to do.

In the state of Kansas, Lecompton truly did play an important role in its history. The town served as the capitol of Kansas from 1855-1861. It was in a building called Constitution Hall that the fist constitution for Kansas was drafted. This constitution would have admitted Kansas to the Union as a slave state. However, the constitution failed to pass. Anti-slavery legislators won control of the Kansas Legislature, and Kansas was admitted as a free state. This legislature also chose to moved the capital to Topeka in 1862, where it has remained since.

The museum itself is located in the Lane University building. Lane University was opened in 1865 and apparently functioned until 1902 when it merged with Campbell University. At it zenith, the university had eleven faculty members and a student body totaling 178 students. It was operated by the Church of the Brethren.

The exhibits on display are moderately interesting. The Sunday afternoon that Francois and I were there, conditions were just a little chaotic. Some of the volunteer staff were preparing for their annual Christmas tree extravaganza. The friendly attendants apologized profusely for the inconvenience of the Christmas trees strewn liberally through the already small space of the museum. It was OK, though. We were still able to walk up and down the aisles and look at the artifacts that were on display. If anything, it sort of punctuated their pride in the museum and their desire to keep it as vital and inviting as possible.

On display in the museum are a rather eclectic display of memorabilia ranging from Civil War artifacts to children’s toys to period clothing to farm implements to household items to patriotic items to numerous photographs and pictures to newspapers and books of the period.

One of the major displays, of course, centers around the fact that the parents of Dwight Eisenhower were married in Lecompton while attending Lane University. In reality, the display dwells much less on Eisenhower’s parents than it does on Dwight Eisenhower and his wife Mamie…..neither of which every lived in Lecompton and probably never visited the town. In fact, neither were alive during the period that Lecompton served as the temporary capital of Kansas. But….. That is OK. “Guild by association”…..or, in this case, “Fame by association” is harmless, and serves as one of the museum’s major exhibitions.

Since the museum has no elevator, I hung out downstairs….took a few pictures and talked to one of the volunteers while Francois took a look at whatever the second floor contained.

From the museum we stopped briefly at the actual Constitution Hall, located perhaps a block, maybe two blocks, away. Constitution Hall is a much more austere building. The building is a very basic wooden building with no exterior adornments. If there were not a sign to indicate that is was once the Capitol Building, probably, without exception, people would drive past it, never for one second suspecting it was once an important building. Certainly it lacks the grandeur of the present day Capitol Building in Topeka.

 

 

 

The building still contains the original floors and a few other original artifacts of the original building. Mostly, however, the items on display are reproductions or copies of the real thing. So…. What can one expect to see inside the old Territorial Capitol Building? Really…. Not much. On the walls are a variety of pictures, graphs, charts, and maps which explain the origins of the attempt to establish Kansas as a slave state. In essence, this was one of the major factors that precipitated the beginning of the Civil War. They also document the era known as “Bleeding Kansas”….the violent struggle between the pro-slavery forces and the anti-slavery forces that resulted in many lives in the events leading up to the Civil War. Although there are not a lot of original or primary source material on display, a lot can be learned about the events of that period.

After a refreshing nap, we finished the day with another delicious meal at where else? ….. The Shack.

Monday, October 24….. This was Francois’s last day at my house. His research was complete; our excursions taken; the sightseeing concluded. We stuck around Topeka the entire day. Francois met Jason at lunch at the Airport Cafe on Wednesday, and we had made plans for Francois to meet him at his bank today. We arrived at the bank around 1:00. Jason gave Francois a brief tour of the bank. I waited in Jason’s office. You can ask Francois….. But, I think perhaps the highlight of the tour was the vault, which I have never seen since it is down a rather long set of stairs. Jason also introduced him to members of the staff who where there at the time. The interior of the bank is no doubt one of the grandest sights in downtown Topeka. The building was built almost one-hundred years ago in the grand manner one would expect of a bank built in that era. It exudes character….strength….stability…..permanence. The building has eluded major change….and the wrecking ball…..for almost a century, and has been placed on the national register of historic places.

It was well into the afternoon by the time we left the bank. Francois had not eaten breakfast, and his thoughts were turning to food…..to eating lunch. In maybe what was a sudden inspiration, it occurred to me that Hu Hot, a Mongolian restaurant, might be an interesting and unique culinary experience for his last lunch in Topeka, at least for this visit. For those of you who have not eaten in a Mongolian restaurant, it is an experience worth trying…..at least once. If you like it….you are probably hooked. If you don’t like it….you don’t have to do it again. The idea is, in general: Take a couple bowls. One for the raw vegetables, condiments and sauce. The second for the raw meat. Then take both bowls to the cook who is standing behind a super hot grill…..and wait until he grills (or fries or whatever) the ingredients to perfection. If you choose the right sauce….and the right combination of veggies and meat, you will end up with a delicious, savory, low calorie meal.

The meal at Hu Hot was the last official item on our agenda for the afternoon. We stopped by our office briefly so I could introduce Francois to our manager, Kelly. Then it was back to the townhouse to wait for Francois’s parents to arrive. They were picking him up and then had planned to do some sightseeing around the Midwest in the days before they had to leave to go back home.

His parents arrived later than evening. They are personable, outgoing, friendly, easy-to-know people. We sat and visited for a couple hours before Francois suggested that we go somewhere for a drink. On a week night in Topeka, that is somewhat easier said than done. The obvious choice was The Shack, of course. We arrived at 9:00, just as they were preparing to close. Our next choice was The Blind Tiger, which would have been great since they, too, are fans of the band “Kansas”. Sadly, but not surprising, it also closed at 9:00. Not to be deterred, we drove to our third choice, “Abigail’s”. Fortunately, it was open until midnight…..plenty of time to get a drink and something to eat. Francois’s parents were understandably tired after their long airline trip from France to Kansas City. They dropped me off at my townhouse. After saying good-bye, Francois was suddenly gone. It had been a great ten days. We had an interesting and fun time. I authentically made my first French friend…..and it was good. It changed my pre-conceived attitude toward the French….at least, one person from France. And, I learned that the terms French and doctoral student actually do form a good combination.

There is a short postscript to the story. I met up with Francois and his parents in Lawrence the following week on a chilly, rainy Monday for lunch. They had finished their road trip through some of the Midwestern states, and they were headed back to France. We met at the Aladdin Restaurant again for a pleasant meal before they departed for Kansas City International Airport…..and home again. It was sort of the “dessert” of Francois’s trip…..a good and pleasant….and making me look forward to the next time.

To accentuate and reinforce all the unique and special events that I not only enjoyed and found fascinating, but also added to my “filing cabinet” of new experiences, Francois sent me a couple of very thoughtful gifts after he returned to France:  a couple  Dalton Gang comic books, a jar of snails, and a book.  Who knows?  I may be the only person in the  USA with Dalton Gang comic books.  I have never seen them….or heard of them prior to his visit.  I will keep them among my prized collection of memorabilia and as a remembrance that it was from Francois that I first learned of the Dalton Gang.  The snails?  Well….  They are gone now!  A delicious culinary treat….much more delicious and tasty than I had ever expected them to be.  The book, “What’s the Matter with Kansas?”  Well…..  That is a story for later on.  In the meantime: This is my French Connection.

After spending about two weeks in abject misery, one week of which was spent in my room, in my bed, aching, not being able to eat or drink….wondering what I had done to deserve such punishment, the malady was finally diagnosed as hepatitis. Never once during those two weeks…..those long two weeks…..did hepatitis ever enter my mind. If, indeed, I was even in such a state that something could actually enter my mind.

I certainly am not going to say that I was relieved to learn I had contracted hepatitis. On the other hand, at least I knew what the problem was. Maybe the my “end” wasn’t as close as I had suspected it might be! The doctor didn’t show any overt alarm. In fact, he told me quite casually. “Go home, sit down or lie down and don’t do anything. Don’t eat any fried food…..and absolutely no alcohol.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Yes. You can go to the beach and lie around all day, if that is what you want to do. Just stay out of the water.”

Wow. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

I never had an opportunity to find out.

Back in those days….and I am talking about South Vietnam during the Vietnam War…. Hepatitis was a fairly common disease. It is spread predominately through… well….unsanitary conditions. And, believe me…..unsanitary conditions were never very far away in South Vietnam. Contaminated drinking water was probably near the top of the list of suspects. At our IVS house, we had a large ceramic jar with a series of filters in it. It supposedly filtered out all the contaminates in the water. We also boiled our water before we used it for anything…..drinking or cooking.

Any time we were at a restaurant or bar, we always drank bottled drinks. There was one exception…..and I suppose I didn’t think much of it at the time. Whenever we drank beer from the tap, we always asked for ice to put in the glass. Yes…. Ice…..In beer! Normally the beer was not cooled or chilled like we here in the “real world” are accustomed to drinking our beer. Nobody….at least nobody playing with all his marbles….and believe it or not, I was playing with ALL my marbles….likes to drink warm or hot beer. So….. We would put ice into our glass of beer! Maybe it never occurred to me at the time…..but the ice was probably not made with water that had been filtered or boiled. It was probably ice that was simply made with plain old water. And….also looking back….the water could well have contained all sorts of germs and bacteria and other little living creatures just waiting to create some sort of disease!

Nevertheless, when the doctor informed me that I had hepatitis, I pictured myself taking a couple weeks off from teaching….and lying on the beach with some of my Vietnamese friends….relaxing and recuperating. Before I left the USAID compound where I had met with the Air Force doctor, all the employees wished me a speedy recovery with the usual polite, “If there is anything I can do to help you, just let me know.” Knowing, of course, there was really nothing they could do. But, it was nice of them, anyway.

Just knowing what the problem was made a huge difference in my attitude and in the way I felt. I hopped back into my Jeep and drove back home, ready to face the recuperation process…..lying on the beach all day. The Vietnamese lady who took care of us…..our housekeeper and cook….was happy to see me up and moving…..hopefully thankful that I was going to survive for a while longer. She fixed me something to eat and made some coffee…..hopefully with germ-free water….and I went upstairs to go back to bed.

Sometime in the early afternoon, the head of the USAID office stopped by the house and informed me that I was being “evacuated” to Saigon to recover. His visit was totally unexpected, and, I might add, totally necessary. There was really nothing special that I could do to “recover”. Just like the doctor said: Do as little as possible; don’t eat any fried food; don’t drink any alcohol. Looking back from today’s perspective, I wish that all my physical problems were that easy to cure!

The USAID director’s words were not exactly a request. They were more of an ultimatum! Get your stuff packed. I will be back around 5:00. “Wow!”, I thought, “They commandeered an airplane just for me?”

I packed some clothing in my suitcase, and I was waiting when the USAID van arrived to pick me up. The USAID director, his wife and another USAID officer were all in the vehicle when it arrived. “Wow,” I thought. I didn’t expect this sendoff. “Maybe they are really going to miss me.”

Well, that was wishful thinking. When we arrived at Phan Rang Airbase, maybe five or six miles from the city center, the driver pulled up at the front entrance. I had my suitcase on my lap. I opened the door and got out. So did the other three Americans: the USAID director, his wife and the other guy. “Since we had to get an airplane to take you to Saigon, we figured we may as well come along.”

Oh….. Now the situation was starting to make a little more sense. The light was starting to shine a little more brightly. This trip wasn’t so much about me as it was about them getting their own transportation to Saigon. And, what better excuse could there be than to evacuate some poor sick American for medical treatment? OK…. But, I really did not want to go to Saigon! There was really no need for me to go to Saigon…. But an hour later, the airplane…..the medical evacuation plane…..landed in Saigon at Tan Son Nhut Airport. The USAID director said that he had notified the IVS office in Saigon, and that somebody would meet the plane and take me to the IVS house. I automatically assumed that they would send one of the volunteers who was sitting around doing nothing…..or one of the drivers, at the very most. Let’s face it, picking up another volunteer at the airport…..maybe a couple miles away…..probably does not come with a high priority rating.

Once I was inside the airport waiting room, I was surprised to see our Chief of Party waiting for me. After the normal greetings, I put my suitcase in the IVS Jeep, and we headed out on our short journey to the IVS house. Somewhere en route to there, he casually asked me if I would accept the position as Associate Chief of Party for Education. At first, I thought the hepatitis had affected my hearing….that maybe I was hallucinating. Surely, I had heard him wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

But…. I had heard correctly. I was almost speechless. This was something that had ever entered my mind…..not even for a second. It was totally unexpected. It was certainly nothing that I had aspired for. I wasn’t even aware that the current Chief of Education had any intention of leaving the job. Of course, I really had no idea of anything that was happening in Saigon….and I really didn’t care. It was something about which I had zero interest. I was rather content with my job and my work in Phan Rang…..the teaching schedule, the organizations I sponsored, the library project. I was making new friends. The students seemed to like me….. My goal was to finish out the two years…..and who knows? Maybe extend my contract by another year or two.

What a day that was! A day of contrasts…..from learning that I had hepatitis to learning that I was the new Associate Chief of Party for Education. Man, talk about going from bad to good in a hurry.

As it turned out, the current Chief of Education was not leaving for another two or three weeks. I really do not remember exactly, but I do recall that he would be hanging around for a while longer. So…. During that time, I was more or less suspended in a state of limbo. It actually worked to my advantage. I was under doctor’s orders to do nothing….absolutely nothing…..for the next couple weeks. And, to tell the truth, I really didn’t feel like doing anything! I was constantly worn out; always feeling a little bit nauseous; often sleepy. Even just a little bit of activity left me feeling drained of all energy. Walking from the men’s dorm….where I was staying…..to the dining room felt more like a hike to the summit of Mt. Everest.

One day after perhaps a week in Saigon, I decided to make a trip to the PX….the military Post Exchange store. When I started out I was feeling pretty well….like I was really starting to recover. When I returned to the IVS house, I felt like I had been chased down and beat up by a band of thugs. I obviously need some more recuperation.

A week later, however, either on Christmas Day or a day or two after Christmas, Bob Hope was presenting his touring Christmas show at Tan Son Nhut Airbase. I had already seen the show once before while I was stationed at Tan Son Nhut in the army. There was no way that I was going to miss his show. So, along with a few other volunteers, I sat in the hot Saigon sun and enjoyed a couple hours of nostalgic American entertainment. There were a few thousand military personnel in attendance…..and, as one might expect, they went wild, especially when stars such as Kim Novac, Jayne Mansfield or Raquel Welsh performed their intentionally provocative dances. Each show ended with the singing of Silent Night or I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas….or both. It was our little taste of Christmas and the holiday season.

 

 

 

 

 

At any rate, I returned to the IVS house feeling not so bad….at least, not in the exhausted condition as I was when I returned from the PX. This was a hopeful sign….a sign that I was on the road to recovery. A few night’s later it was New Year’s Eve. Against my better judgment….well, a little bit anyway…..but at the urging of other volunteers, I had a sip….maybe a large sip….of champagne to celebrate the start of the New Year…..1967.

1967….. The start of a new adventure. Associate Chief of Party for Education.

As I said previously, for a couple weeks I was suspended in a state of limbo. There I was, finished with my old job….the new job looming just ahead. It was sort of like being locked out of my house…..just sitting there waiting for somebody to unlock the door and let me in. There was nothing to do except wait.

The outgoing Chief of Education was helpful….as much as he could be. He gladly explained the basics of the job, and gave me an idea of what lay ahead and what I was expected to do. Unfortunately, there was not a lot of on the job training. I was still “sick”. Accompanying him to his office or traveling with him to visit volunteer teachers was out of the question. I simply did not have the strength or the energy.

Let me recount a little incident that should have alerted me to what I would not come to realize for several more months. I was young; I was inexperienced; I was excited about my new job; I was eager to get started; I was certainly naive in those days. And, I was a bit blind. It was somewhat like walking out into the bright sunlight after being inside, maybe. It takes the eyes a little while to adjust to the brightness. Or, probably more accurate, it was like walking from the bring sunlight into a dark room, and slowly adjusting to the darkened conditions. Either way, I don’t blame myself for failing to recognize the signs immediately. Hey…. I was new at this; I had a lot to learn.

Our Chief of Party asked me to write down on paper my thoughts about my impending job. What was my current assessment of the work that was being performed by our volunteers? How did I intend to approach my new job? How did I think our job performance and our service to the schools could be improved? What changes did I recommend?

This was a reasonable request. The main reservation I had was that I did not want to write anything that our current Chief of Education could or would interpret as criticism of the work he had done. I certainly would not have liked for somebody to criticize my performance….to have second-guessed me…..to have nit-picked my performance….. even if only implied or inferred and not stated directly.

I told this quite frankly to the Chief of Party. He said he totally agreed, and anything I wrote would be kept in the strictest confidence….and would be considered as a professional assessment and not construed as any sort of personal judgment or critique. So I found an empty desk in the office and set about writing my thoughts about the topics he had suggested.

The document was 13 or 14 pages long. I still have a copy of it. Even I re-read it today, I am surprised at how clearly I understood the IVS organization after only a few months as a volunteer English teacher in Phan Rang. And, I am surprised to find that the observations and suggestions I made are in large part the same observations and suggestions I would make today…..more than fifty years later…..only probably I would be somewhat more emphatic today. There was nothing personal in the document. There is nothing demeaning or derogatory in the report…..unless they are implied…… The Chief of Party, as I said, assured me that it would be held in strictest confidence….that only he and I would see it. In reality, it was really nobody else’s business.

Some days or weeks later, I receive in the mail a large envelope from the IVS headquarters on Washington, D. C. Inside the envelop was the original copy of my report with a Post-It note attached, in my boss’s handwriting, saying, “Make 8 copies.” This obviously meant that he had also shared my writing with the other Associate Chiefs….and probably the regional team leaders. So much for promises. So much for assurances. I was not pleased. Fortunately the previous Chief of Education, my predecessor, had already gone back home. I never knew if he read the report or not. If he did…. I hope….and I am fairly confident….that he understood the purpose of the report. I am not sure why the people in the headquarters in Washington did not remove the little Post It note…..or even why they returned it. For the two years that I was Chief of Education, I had an excellent working relationship with everybody on the headquarters’ staff. The Executive Director also attached a note saying, “Excellent observations. Maybe a little bit idealistic. You have our support. Keep up the good work.”

The point I am trying to make….. This breach of trust should have been a warning sign….a foreshadowing….of what to expect during the next two years.

I am not going to go into great detail about my day-to-day activities. You are going to find them to be boring…..and they are mostly irrelevant anyway. Instead I am going to give you an overview of my life in South Vietnam…..as Associate Chief of Party for Education…..and equally as important, my life and impressions of Saigon and South Vietnam in general.

 

 

 

 

 

 

First of all, let me give you a brief explanation of what the International Voluntary Services (IVS) was and explain just a bit its intended mission. The publicity generated by the organization asserted its purpose as an “Agent of Change”. It was intended to be an organization of volunteers….idealistic volunteers, I suppose…..who would give two years of their life to spend in an underdeveloped country working side by side with its people to teach them new and useful techniques and methods and to assist them in improving their own skills to bring about a better quality of life.

Admirable. In theory, at least. The volunteers, both young and old….but mostly young….would live and work with the Vietnamese people, mostly in province capitals, because that is where it was most secure. They would work with local leaders in implementing simple, but meaningful, changes and reforms which would hopefully improve the standard of living and increase productivity. Volunteers would offer their services in one of three broad areas: Education, agriculture or community development. Education and agriculture were probably the two best defined areas. Community development was perhaps a little more vague and undefined….a bit more general.

As recounted in a previous installment of this blog….. As I sat in that 5th grade classroom while I was doing student teaching to obtain certification in elementary education…..trying desperately to stay awake….. I was idly leafing through a “Redbook Magazine”. I unexpectedly came upon an article whose title was something like “Voluntary Organization Offers Service Opportunities in South Vietnam”. Well…. Maybe those were not the exact words, but they are close enough. I snapped immediately out of my drowsy coma-like state….and I bolted wide awake. The article had my undivided attention. I knew at that instant: This was going to be my avenue back to South Vietnam.

I read through the article. Wow. It sounded great….something I was qualified….even born….to do. I jotted down the address that was given…..and hid the magazine the best I could at the bottom of the stack, hoping that it would still be there the next day. I don’t recall if it was or not. Looking back…. I wish I had been just a bit more dishonest and would have taken the magazine with me. If I had, trust me…. It would be among my most valuable possessions today. Over the years, I have searched and searched for the magazine. Back in the “old days”, I looked for it in the “Readers Guide” (Don’t worry about it…. If you are younger than 50 years old, you have no idea what I am talking about!)…..but I was never able to find it. Subsequently, I have searched the Internet many time….with equally disappointing results. Nevertheless….. I had the address of the headquarters in Washington, D. C. I sat down and wrote them a letter as soon as I got home.

The concept of “Agent of Change” sounded great….something I agreed with wholeheartedly. Vietnam needed to change….it had to change…. if it was to grow and prosper as a nation. And, what better way to approach the matter than at the grassroots level, where most lasting changes usually begin…..with the people.

And….. What better person than I? I had a degree in education; I had two and a half years of teaching experience; I was already familiar with South Vietnam…. I was their man!

When I returned to South Vietnam, it never occurred to me that anybody would volunteer for such a position for any other reason than the selfless desire to help the people in an underdeveloped nation. It never occurred to me at the time that accepting a job as a volunteer had anything remotely to do with the war that was being fought. There was nothing in the mission statement that mentioned the war. In fact, I thought that it was implicit that this was one of the factors that made us stand out…..that we were there to give our assistance and our expertise as volunteers regardless of the war….in spite of the war.

The previous installment detailed my experiences as a volunteer English teacher and also my experiences building the Peter Hunting Memorial Library. Now, let me give you a brief overview of my job description as Associate Chief of Party for Education.

Well…. To summarize…. To make it brief…. There was none.

I just sort of assembled a job description as time went along….and as issues came up.

My predecessor took me to meet the Vietnamese government officials with whom I would be coordinating. The Minister of Education….the equivalent of our Secretary of Education here in the USA…. was, of course, the main guy in the Vietnamese government with whom I would be working. He was in charge of administering the education system of the country. Off hand, I don’t recall his name. It has been too long ago. I could look it up, but, you wouldn’t recognize his name anyway. And, besides that… this position changed hands a couple times while I was Chief of Education. Being a government Minister in South Vietnam back in those days was sort of like playing a game of musical chairs….if you are old enough to remember that old party game. The Minister of Education had to approve all the placements we made in the country’s public schools. As I said in a previous installment, the public high school was the “official” job of the volunteer teacher. Any other duty beyond that was at the discretion of the teacher and the other organization.

And, for some reason that I never quite figured out, the Director of Sports and Recreation (a department within the Ministry of Education) had an interest in what we were doing. There were no organized school athletic teams. The only sports that I saw kids playing were pickup games of soccer and maybe some volleyball. They were not organized games…..and certainly not sponsored by the school. The games were just a bunch of kids with time on their hands trying to have some fun.

Most of the games I observed….and most of the kids who I saw in these pickup games were boys….and were not very organized. The kids sort of made up the rules to fit the situation. There may have been other, more organized games going on somewhere, and I just didn’t see them. For sure, however, there were were no organized, sponsored city league….or intra-country leagues. If there were, they were a closely guarded secret. But, then again….. There was a war taking place in the country.

All the guys with whom I had contact….and remember I was only in my upper-20’s back them….. I really was young once upon a time….were constantly asking me questions about the rules for baseball, American football, basketball…. I tried to explain the rules of these games, but I probably confused them more than I helped them. Someday just try explaining all the detailed rules of American football to somebody who has never seen a real game! It probably sounds easy to somebody who has never tried it. You will probably be rewarded with blank stares….albeit “polite” bland stares from the Vietnamese. And, then come the questions…. “What about this?” “What about that?” “Why do they do this?” “Why do they do that?” It was sort of like I felt when I attended my first professional soccer game in Berlin! When I was kid, we played “soccer” at recess. We would kick the ball as hard as we could downfield. The other team would kick the ball back toward our goal as hard as they could. This went on until the teacher blew a whistle and herded us back inside the school building. Much later in life….I found out this is not the correct ways to play soccer! Unlike my Vietnamese friends, however, I really don’t care much about soccer….and have no desire to be an expert on the rules!

There was another Ministry that had some interest in our organization. It was called the Ministry of Social Welfare…or Public Welfare, or some such title. I was formally introduced to its Minister, too. I don’t want to forget the Ministry of Youth…..actually also a division of the Ministry of Education. Although I do not recall much about this Ministry, I do recall that the Minister’s age seemed to be somewhat less than 60 or 70. That was a good sign, I thought.

There were other government ministries….ones with which I had no direct connection, but worked with the other two divisions of our organization, such as the Ministry of Agriculture and a Ministry, whose exact name I can’t recall, that was the contact point for our volunteers who worked in Community Development. It could have been the Ministry of Labor or the Ministry of Revolutionary Development…. Something like that.

In all these Ministries, we were received politely….almost with reverence ….in their well-appointed and sometimes opulent offices. The Ministers were all smiles, cordial, urbane… They were attended by subservient aids who silently and politely served tea…..and then disappeared. The conversation was always polite, somewhat stilted…and also somewhat uncomfortable. Being absolutely new to the job, I really had no idea of what to say….or even what I was expected to say. Mostly I just answered the polite questions…..and tried to respond graciously to remarks….sort of act like I really understood what was going on…..and I tried to always keep a smile on my face. Fortunately, each meeting lasted only a few minutes…..and after a lot of shaking of hands and lot of smiling and a lot of complimentary remarks, we were gone.

The only Minister that I really had a working relationship with was the Minister of Education, of course. He…..or somebody in his office….had to approve each of our proposed placements. During my tenure in Chief of Education, I don’t recall any of our placements being denied. As a matter of fact, it was quite the opposite. The Ministry of Education was constantly pressing us for more volunteer teachers…..more than we could ever hope to supply. And, why not? We were at least a partial answer to the shortage of teachers which existed in South Vietnam.

Even back in the 1960s, in an underdeveloped, war-town country like South Vietnam, every high school student was required to study a second language…..either French or English. For many years, as you may recall, a great deal of Southeast Asia was under French control. In fact, it was a colony of France, known as French Indochina. This domination of Vietnam lasted from 1858 until May 7, 1954, when Vietnamese forces defeated France at Dien Bien Phu…..a period of almost 100 years.

French influence pervaded South Vietnam….architecture, food, street and building names, language, customs, even education, plus little things like the kind of coffee they drink, the kind of bread they eat…. For decades, French was the only foreign language that was important. However, when thousands of American military and civilian personnel began to descend on South Vietnam like swarms of locusts….and hundreds, maybe thousands, of jobs began to become available….English suddenly became the most important language to learn. Learn English… Get a job.

Almost anybody can probably teach a foreign language, in theory, at least. I studied Spanish for two years in high school from a teacher who I am reasonable sure could not have carried on an intelligent understandable conversation with a native Spanish speaking person, even if her life depended on it. I am pretty sure that she could perhaps read some Spanish…..enough to teach a bunch of first time learners in a little high school in Kansas. And, none of us really cared. This was back in the early 1950’s…..and none of us were probably ever going to have an occasion to use the language in a real life conversation. I certainly never expected to, and for that matter, I never have!

At any rate, I was in fairly constant contact with the Ministry of Education….if not visiting or consulting with the Minister, then talking or conferring with one of the deputies or department heads. As I look back today, I am amused at the strikingly different way we dressed. I am sure it reflected differences in our cultures….or maybe even status. Very few of the people who worked in the same office building where I worked dressed formally. I mean it would be a special occasion that we would even consider wearing a jacket and tie to work. For one thing…. It was simply too hot and humid. Give us some credit… We were not very much into self-inflicted torture back in those days! When the temperature is in the 90’s or even higher….when the relative humidity is hovering somewhere north of 70 or 80%…..wearing a jacket and tie may not be the smartest…or most comfortable….way to dress. Nobody wants to spend the day in a cloth sauna….walking around with sweat dripping from his clothing and constantly wiping perspiration off his face. That is just the men. Who knows what it is like for the women.

Except for very special events, men simply wore a nice buttoned shirt and dark colored trousers. Well… We also wore shoes and socks! Most of the time, at least. On special occasions, we would wear a necktie….temporarily until we could safely take it off, at least. An event had to be fairly extraordinary before we would even consider wearing a jacket. The guys who worked in the office of the Ministry of Education….and the other Ministries, also….never failed to be attired flawlessly with a dark suit and tie. Many times I was tempted to ask them if they were just a little bit warm. “Take off that jacket! It is hot in here!” I never did. And, strangely enough, they didn’t even appear to be hot. They never seemed to perspire. Their clothing never appeared to be damp! On the other hand, they were acclimated to the climate. They were accustomed to the heat and the humidity. And, they never seemed to mind that we were wearing only a tie. They were probably thinking, “Those strange Americans.” Oh well….

So, the day finally arrived. The office staff threw a going-away party of sorts for the out-going Associate Associate Chief of Party. I think he was ready to leave….to go back home to whatever was a normal life for him. He had been in South Vietnam for three years…..one year as a volunteer teacher and two years as the Chief of Education. Unfortunately, there was no paid leave….no paid-for trips back to the USA….in IVS. We could go home….and then sign up for another two years, I suppose. In fact, I am sure that a few volunteers did that. Maybe not immediately after they got back home. But, no doubt some of them got back home….found it difficult to adjust…..maybe were unemployed with no prospect of a good job…..maybe facing the prospect of being drafted into the military staring them in the face…. Who knows? But, I am pretty sure that some of the former volunteers re-volunteered to go back to South Vietnam. This guy was not one of them, however.

The next morning, I drove him to Tan Son Nhut Airport on the western outskirts of Saigon, waited with him until his flight was announced, said good-bye to him…..and watched him disappear up the ramp into the airplane.

And, then…. It hit me. I suddenly realized that I was now the Associate Chief of Party for Education. I stood and pondered that thought for a minute…..then turned and walked back to what was now MY Jeep….and drove back to the IVS compound.

Let me tell you a little bit about the IVS compound, since it was to be my home for the next two years. The compound, and I suppose that is as good a name as anything, was located on the extreme western fringe on Saigon, in very close proximity to the sprawling Tan Son Nhut Airbase. Also nearby, and probably even closer to the compound, were large military bases or facilities of the South Vietnamese army and the South Korean army. Let’s just say that if you had never seen a military vehicle before…..you would not be able to say that after living at the IVS compound. They were ubiquitous in our area of town.

This compound consisted of two main houses, a few outbuildings, which served as homes for the people IVS hired to keep the compound up and running: housekeepers, cooks, groundskeepers…..maybe even a mechanic thrown in there somewhere. If I remember correctly, all of these people were members of two different families. The compound was sitting on perhaps an acre of land. There was ample vegetation…..a lawn, for example. But, in South Vietnam, there is vegetation everywhere. You can almost stand and watch the green plants grow.

Le Van Duyet Street ran in front of the compound. It was a major thoroughfare connecting points in central Saigon with the military bases which were located in the western suburbs. Since it was a major traffic artery, it was almost constantly clogged with traffic…..both military and civilian. Across the street from our headquarters were a series of small, locally owned businesses. Shacks, actually. In typical South Vietnamese fashion, the small stores or businesses were located in front, facing the busy street, and behind the stores were the owners’ homes….where they lived. Everything was pretty much in the open air. There was very little privacy, as we know it here in the USA. The last time I was in South Vietnam was in 1968. A lot has probably changed in that rather lengthy period of time….maybe.

At any rate, this is where the IVS Headquarters for South Vietnam was located. There were two sizable buildings on the property. The smaller of the two buildings was the location of our communal dining room and the kitchen.

The dining room was a large room which was large enough to seat perhaps thirty or forty people….maybe more….if they scrunched up a little bit. It was not what one could ….or would…..call Five Star dining, but it served its purpose. There were three or four long tables which crossed the room horizontally. Actually, they were probably multiple tables pushed together. I don’t ever recall seeing them without some sort of table cloth on them…..so they could have been about anything. At any rate, probably at least six people could sit comfortably in each side of the table. Only on rare occasions were the tables all completely occupied. The number of volunteer sitting around the table at mealtime was a fairly good indication of how many volunteers were in town and were milling around Saigon at any one time. It was possible that some of the volunteers were hanging out in other places, and were not eating at the IVS House. But, since the meals were dirt cheap, most of them were probably there. (Oh, yeah! You can be sure they charged us for our meal!)

Meals were always served “family style”……with all the food on the table….and passed around the table at the beginning of the meal…..just like we were one big happy family. There was only a limited…..or finite…..amount of food. “Take it while you can get it!” By the time each dish of food had made its way around the table, there was seldom much, if any, food left in the dish or on the plate. Second helpings were rare. Even though the food may not have been overly abundant, it was well prepared. Unlike our cook in Phan Rang, who persisted in using the little charcoal burner on the back steps, the cooks at the IVS House prepared the food on a rather traditional propane stove in an actual kitchen, although I obviously did not spend much time in it. Another good thing was that the food was always “well done”. Maybe this was done simply because this is the way the Vietnamese cook…..or maybe it was done to insure that all the germs, or as many as possible, were killed in the cooking process. There were no “special orders”. What you saw was what you got. Take it or leave it. On the other hand, I don’t recall any major outbreaks of food-related illnesses or other unpleasant bacteria associated maladies.

The remainder of the building was devoted to staff-housing and to the women’s dormitory. Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity or the occasion to become acquainted with that portion of the building!

The second main building also served two main functions. First of all, it was the “Headquarters” building……the building where the Chief of Party has his office, and also the Associate Chief of Party for Administration’s office was also located there. The “headquarters” was located in one large room. The Chief of Party’s desk was tucked away in the far corner of the room. Aside from his desk and a few accompanying chairs, there was a table which was used for conferences or meetings and there was also probably a filing cabinet. Everybody has to have a filing cabinet. It was not very impressive….nothing that would indicate that he was an “executive”……or even had much of a job. And, that is probably the truth. Of all the “chiefs”……education, agriculture, community development, administration…..he probably had the least to do of any of them. I never did figure out….and I was never quite sure…..how he spent his time….exactly what he did.

Included in this large, single room were two or three additional desks. IVS employed a secretary or administrative assistant, Kim Dung (pronounced Kim Zoom), for many years. She probably knew as much about the organization as any of the American employees knew. There were a couple spare desks, too, that were used sporadically by volunteers who might need a desk while they were in Saigon. Actually, I used one of these desks during the few weeks that I was in Saigon recovering from hepatitis and waiting to take over as Associate Chief of Party for Education. Of course, my office was actually in a USAID office building downtown, but this gave me a place to sit and try to keep myself occupied while I was waiting….at least, when I finally gained the physical strength to get out of bed for a few hours at a time!

Also located in this building were the men’s dormitory and additional rooms for permanent staff members. The men’s dorm was not very elegant, to say the least. As the name suggests, it was a large room filled with rows of beds. I never counted the beds….most because the thought never occurred to me, most likely…..but I am going to go out on a limb and estimate there were somewhere around 15 beds in the room…give or take a few. Our Chief of Administration was constantly reminding the guys to keep the place in at least a minimal state of neatness…..pick up your clothes, put them in your locker, make your bed, don’t throw stuff on the floor….. The place was never “neat”, but due to the constant urging and the constant threats, it was never out of control. Maybe just the kind of place one would expect with several young men thrown together. However, compared with the Army barracks I lived in….. It was a complete mess!

Across the hall from the dormitory, was the bathroom and showers. I took a shower every morning, but I rarely recall seeing anybody else in there taking a shower. Maybe they took a shower at night before they went to bed……or maybe…. Well, who knows what their personal hygiene habits were. I know that I did not miss the dorm after I had moved upstairs to my private room. When moving day arrived…. Believe me, I was packed and ready to move…..even if was only up a flight of steps.

The second story of the building was home to the Chief of Party, to the Chief of Agriculture, and to the Chief of Education….. That’s was me! We each had a room. There was another bath room and shower room….albeit smaller…..upstairs, too. My room…..the first to be encountered….was…..well, just another room. There was a bunk bed covered with mosquito netting, a small desk, a couple straight back chairs, a chest of drawers with a mirror…. And, that was it! It was not a room from a 5-Star hotel, but it was mine! Oh yes….. I almost forgot about the closet. That is obviously where I hung my clothing…..slacks and shirts and jackets.

I am trying to think back to those days. I don’t remember owning a pair of jeans…..but surely, I did. Most of my clothing was tailor-made by a tailor in Saigon. It was cheaper to have clothing tailor-made than it was to have Mother buy it in the USA and then pay the postage to mail it to me. Consequently, I owned mostly a wardrobe of made-to-order clothing. Sounds sort elite, doesn’t it? Actually, it wasn’t. It was merely practical….and more economical.

As time went by…..and starting almost immediately…..I began to add “enhancements” to the room. For example, somewhere I came upon an old bookcase. This came in handy because I joined the a Book-of-the-Month Club. By the time I received the accept/reject slip, it was usually too late to reject any of the books. Consequently, I began to build up a small library…..mostly of unwanted books. But, still they were books. Books that I could read…..books that I could loan to volunteers as they came in from the provinces and wanted something to pass the time. Many times the volunteers borrowed the books and simply took them back to their home out in the provinces. Sometimes they remembered to return them. Sometimes….most of the time…..they didn’t. No big deal. I seldom loaned books that I had not read. And, even as it was, the bookcase was filling up much too rapidly.

It didn’t take me very long to buy one of the supreme status symbols of living in South Vietnam: a shiny new reel-to-reel tape recorder! It was a rather large, bulky, heavy machine, but I didn’t care. It was the pride in owning one that counted. It was a stereo machine, with two speakers. I picked it up on one of my trips to Hong Kong. I wish I still had the receipt…..but I don’t. I am going to go out on a limb and venture a guess: I think I paid somewhere around $250 for it. Back in those days…..1966 or 1967…..that was a small fortune….probably a large fortune…. for me…..most people, probably. But, I was young. Maybe money didn’t mean as much to me back then. Back in those days, I paid cash! I didn’t even have a credit card. In fact, I don’t ever recall being in a place where credit cards were accepted. I mean…. Come on. This was South Vietnam. In the middle of a war. Most merchants were lucky if they had an old cash register. All transactions were cash….receipts were written out by hand….

The reel-to-reel tape recorder was my main source of entertainment during the time I spent in my room. The only problem was: There was no place to buy pre-recorded reel-to-reel tapes. I doubt if they even existed. Like most problems, though…. There was a solution. The Air Force library on Tan Son Nhut Airbase that had a rather large selection of pre-recorded tapes that were available to Americans living in South Vietnam. They had a number of tape recorders set up to transfer music from one tape recorder to another. Play their tape on one machine….record the music to my blank tape on the other machine. I would buy blank reel-to-reel tapes at the PX (Post Exchange), take them to the military library and record music on to them and take them home to listen to them.

As I look backward over the more than fifty intervening years, I almost laugh at the quality of the music that I once thought was so great! Even though the reel-to-reel recorder was “stereo”, it often certainly did not sound like it. There were volume controls for both channels. Although I messed with these two little knobs constantly, trying to equalize and regulate the sound, music still often only came from one speaker. But, at least, it was music. That is more than I had before.

Sometimes on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon when I was in Saigon and had nothing better to do, I would drive over to the Tan Son Nhut library to record some music. The library had an extensive list of tapes which were available to record. The problem was, however….of me, at least….that most of the tapes was music that I didn’t want…..or had never heard of. I recorded some Beatles tapes…..some Elvis (Presley) tapes…. I really wasn’t very much into either of these artists, though.

This was back in the era when Joan Baez and Bob Dylan were hot singers….especially with the group of people whom I saw every day. Up until then, I had never been much of a Joan Baez fan. Back then….in the mid-1960’s and early 1970’s, she was primarily, if not exclusively, a folk singer…..and specialized in performing a variety of protest songs…..opposing the Vietnam was….supporting a variety social causes, including the civil rights movement. These were simply not causes or issues that I felt passionately about in those days. In fact, I was actually a committed supporter of the Vietnam War. I felt that the United States was actually in South Vietnam to wipe out communism….and free the South Vietnamese people from the threat of a communist takeover….and to insure that they would live in a free and democratic country. The fact is: I more or less regarded Joan Baez as an arrogant, misguided, publicity seeking puppet of the radical students. Let me hasten to add: Over the years, I have come to understand her much better….to understand her motives and her objectives and her commitment to freedom and equality. Today I am a major fan of hers.

As for Bob Dylan: He was….and still is……an acquired taste. In my opinion he can’t sing…..most of his lyrics are gibberish, bordering on nonsense. He sort of “narrates” his songs in a nasal monotone. I have often felt that he was high something when he wrote the lyrics……and it helps to be high on something when a person listens to them! Maybe that has been my problem. In any event, I thought back then…..and I still think to this day……that his lyrics are arrogant, self-serving and are strung together in such a manner that anybody in even a slightly altered state of mind can make them mean almost anything they want. But….. He was awarded a Nobel Prize for Literature in 2016. Go figure…..

But…. Getting back to the story….. I recorded a lot of Joan Baez music in the Air Force library….and also some Bob Dylan music. Joan Baez’s music sort of grew on me….and I ended up being one of her huge fans….even to this day.

One of our volunteer teachers who was stationed in Saigon, made a suggestion to me for which I am perpetually grateful. She suggested that I check and see if they had any music by the Mammas and Papas. I had never heard of them….and quite honestly the name didn’t sound like anything I would be remotely interested in. But…. To please her….and because I had nothing better in mind….I checked to see if they were included on the list of tapes. Actually, I didn’t expect to find them on the list! The Mammas and Papas.? Were they even real? Had anybody ever heard of them? Much to my amazement…..closer to shock…..they had a couple of their tapes! I had obviously never heard them perform, and I was blown away by their sound! I was hooked at that very moment in time. And, I still am today…… more than fifty years later.

Another artist that I “discovered” back in those days at the Air Force Library was Ray Charles. He had been around for a while…..since the mid-1950’s….but his music just didn’t hold much appeal for me…..blues, jazz, soul. Even back then, I liked a lot of different kinds of music…..just not those kinds. One of our volunteers suggested that maybe I should listen to his country/western album. Country/western album? Ray Charles has a country/Western album? “What a strange combination that must be,” I thought.

But, out of curiosity and as a courtesy to the volunteer who suggested it, I asked the librarian if he had heard of the album. “Yeah!” he replied enthusiastically. “You are going to like it.” That hardly seemed possible, but I set it up on the tape deck…..and, Wow! I did like it! It certainly was not the typical country/western album…..not by any stretch of the imagination. But…. It was good! Songs like “I Can’t Stop Loving You”, “Born to Lose”, and “You Don’t Know Me” are still among my favorite songs even today. Probably is if not been for South Vietnam, I would probably have never even given these artists a second though. Wow! What a terrible thought. One or two of these singers are on every music CD I make today…..without exception.

This is the music that we listened to at night when volunteers came to my room to hang out. They liked it; I liked it. In fact, it was the only music we had to listen to. Since I had only two chairs…..straight back chairs, at that….people would sit on the bed, on the floor….wherever there were a few square feet of vacant space. Volunteers had a habit of bringing a bottle…..of something…..to drink when they stopped by. I am talking about alcoholic beverages…..not iced tea. Since they had no other place to stash the bottles, they usually just left them in my room….saying, “We will finish it next time.” Luckily the closet in my room was fairly large….and it was lined with shelves. When I left two years later to return to the USA, there were enough half-empty bottles to start a small, well-stocked liquor store.

One of the really nice features of the building I lived in was the large, open-air patio on the second level. It was not extensively used by the volunteers when they stayed at the IVS house, maybe because many of them were not aware it was there. Except for the permanent staff, who lived on the second floor, there was really no reason for the volunteers to be wandering around the upper level…..unless they had been invited there by one of the staff members. The people who had discovered it probably all agree that it was a pleasant place to sit in the evening hours when the sun was fading in the west and was not beating down unmercifully.

There was usually a major problem, however. Mosquitoes! After the sun had begun to set, the mosquitoes woke up and took over. And, they were relentless. I swear that they are ten times more abundant and more aggressive that any mosquito I ever encountered here in Kansas. Because of their relentless attacks, we began to think that all the mosquitoes were members of the Viet Cong. Mosquito repellent helped a little, but the only sure-fire defense against them was to simply give up and go inside. Even inside the house was not a safe haven from the mosquitoes. None….as in zero….of the windows had screens on them. I always had a ready supply of mosquito spray handy. And, that is why there were mosquito nets on the beds.

The IVS house was my home, but it was not my work space. My office was downtown in a USAID office building….on Hong Tap Tu Street to be exact. (with a few diacritical markings thrown in for good measure, of course.) The large, multi-storied building was home base to a variety of USAID functions. If I recall correctly, the IVS office was on the third floor. It was a large space. In fact, it occupied a good portion of the footprint of the building. Obviously, the entire space wasn’t occupied by IVS. We only had a “staff” of 4 or 5 people at our maximum. There was I, of course. And, in addition there was my secretary. (We had two secretaries temporarily.). There was my administrative assistant/interpreter, and also my Technical Assistant for the Saigon region. She was there only when she wasn’t visiting or assisting one of the teachers in the region or teaching classes herself.

IVS shared the space with two or three or four other educational organizations who were also under contract to USAID. Teams from Ohio State University and Southern Illinois University come to mind, although I am almost certain there were one or two others. To be sure, however, IVS was the only organization that was working directly with the high schools in South Vietnam. We were the only organization who placed teachers directly in the schools…..who actually taught in the schools…..who actually came into daily contact with students and teachers. We were the only organization who actually “got our hands dirty”, so to speak. The other organizations were there in an “advisory” capacity….or were involved in “planning”. Primarily, they were working more with various divisions of the Ministry of Education…..with administration…..and not directly with students and faculty.

Let me say, just to be clear, that my job was also involved working with members of the Ministry of Education and with members of the Ministry of Youth Affairs. I also spent the major part of my time out in the provinces working and coordinating with school principals and with teachers, not to mention our volunteers. And, of course, the volunteer teachers were involved exclusively in working directly in the classrooms instructing high school students and conducting other school related educational activities…..English clubs, private or semi-private tutoring, helping faculty improve their English, etc.

Anyway, our “office”…..or office space would be a more accurate description…..was located near the elevator….off to the left just a bit. Enough to the left that people did not have to walk through our “office”, but we were certainly the first group of people they met on their way to whatever their destination was. Being that close to the elevator was never much of a problem, although probably not an hour passed without somebody stepping off the elevator, stopping….looking around….and saying, “Where is……’s office located?” In that regard, maybe it is accurate to say that we sort of functioned as the Welcoming Committee for the entire floor. This didn’t bother me very much, because I wasn’t in the direct line of fire. Neither of my secretaries minded. They literally knew everybody on that floor. The Vietnamese secretaries….and all the secretaries were Vietnamese…..all knew each other and when they were not otherwise occupied, they spent a great deal of time visiting with each other…..trading gossip, I assume. Who knows? But, they always seemed up to date on that was going on in the other offices…..and I am sure the other secretaries were kept equally informed on what I was up to.

The IVS office was the smallest “office” by far, even though we probably had more “employees” that the other combined. (Although I wouldn’t testify to this in any court.) Our employees were dispersed out into the provinces…..and not concentrated in Saigon.
Our office consisted of a collection of about five desks, with chairs, of course….a desk for each of our staff. Each desk had a typewriter, which, I think, was located in a little compartment on one of the sides of the desk. Each desk also had a telephone. We had been allotted two or three lines or extensions, so more than one person could be talking on the telephone at any one time by pressing one of the buttons on the telephone. We are talking 1960’s now…..and we were still using the dial-up telephones. There was nothing unusual or strange about that: It was the only thing we had…..the only thing we knew.

There were a couple filing cabinets….a large storage cabinet where the secretaries kept various supplies……and a copy machine which was used mostly to crank out various letters, information, lesson plans, etc. for the volunteers. This era was still a few decades before the introduction of the computer. Life was hard! It would be to today’s convenience oriented people, at least.

When we…..I, my secretaries…..anybody….typed letters, it was not possible to tap a key with “Print” written on it…..or click “Save”. We made carbon copies….multiple sheets with carbon paper in between them. If we made a mistake on the original, not only were we forced to correct the mistake on the it, but we also had to correct the mistake on all the copies, too! Believe me…. This offered a great deal of incentive to slow down, think, be accurate….and get it right the first time. Thankfully, my secretaries were extremely good typists.

So…. We used the storage cabinet and the filing cabinet as sort of “room dividers”. Even so, all of us were in very close proximity to each other.

My “staff”, such as it was…..was very talented, very hard-working…..and very loyal. The first “staff” member whom I saw each morning was my driver. He would arrive on his bicycle about twenty or thirty minutes before my normal departure time. He would make sure the Jeep had gasoline. He would clean the windows. I have no idea where he lived. But….. He was always there….five days a week, waiting by my Jeep when it was time to leave to go to the office. He was always smiling, always in a good mood, always ready to take me wherever I needed to go.

The first couple months of my new job, our conversation was very rudimentary. He had picked up some simple English, so he was able to carry on a limited conversation…..and I was still in the process of learning to speak Vietnamese. But, through sort sentences….phrases, actually….and lots of smiling and gesturing, we always managed to have a pleasant, but sometimes…..actually, usually….hectic trip through the morning Saigon traffic to my office. As my fluency in speaking Vietnamese improved, we were able to communicate better. As was the custom….or accepted practice….in dealing with most Vietnamese people….I didn’t ask him a lot of personal questions….and he didn’t ask me. Our relationship remained “professional”….although always cordial and friendly.

My Jeep did not have turn signals… Or, it did, they didn’t work. My driver and I worked as a team, however. As we weaved our way through the tangle of the morning “to work” traffic, he signaled left turns or lane changes on the driver’s side of the Jeep, and I signaled right turns or lane changes on my side….the passenger side….of the Jeep. It was sort an “every man for himself” mentality, and surprisingly, there were few accidents. There were some close calls, to be sure! Especially in relationship to bicycles, motor bikes, “cyclos”, ox carts…. I think those morning drives to work did more to strengthen my nerves and toughen up my reactions than anything I had ever done. While I sat in the passenger seat, filled with anxiety and sometimes almost ready to experience a nervous collapse, my driver calmly and serenely went about his business of delivering me safely to my office.

After safely depositing me in front of the USAID office building, I am not entirely sure what happened. I went inside the building…..and he did whatever it was that he did. While waiting, the drivers would sit on the sidewalk outside the building socializing and playing some sort of game. However, the instant I walked out of the building to go to an appointment somewhere, my driver would jump up, make the Vietnamese signal for “Wait”…..scurry off somewhere…..and shortly return with the Jeep. I never did find out where he….and I assume the other drivers…..kept the Jeep. I guess I figured that it simply was not my problem. But, in a minute or two, there he was, sitting in front of the building waiting for me, ready to take me wherever I needed to go.

One of the really useful features about my driver was that he had already worked for previous Chiefs of Education. He already knew all the places where we were likely to go. He had already been to each of them dozens…..if not hundreds….of times. He knew all the shortcuts. Many times, I would find us driving through alleys or on obscure, almost impassible little lanes. For a while, this used to alarm me. “Where is he taking me?” “Is he secretly working for the enemy?” “Is a VC going to suddenly jump out of the shadows and shoot us….or at least, shoot me?” After a few weeks….when I found myself still alive and still unharmed….it finally began to dawn on me that the guy simply had a fairly extensive knowledge of Saigon streets….both major and minor…..and he was doing his job of getting me to my destination as quickly and as expeditiously as possible. I don’t think he was ever aware of my early doubts…or fears. If he had been, I am sure he would have been highly amused….or highly insulted. Or Both.

I have no idea how much my driver was paid. Or even who paid him: IVS or USAID. It never occurred to me to ask. They probably wouldn’t have told me anyway. He was no doubt paid enough to adequately support his family…..but that is probably about all. Each month every American was issued a ration card. We were allotted a certain number of cases of beer, bottles of liquor, bottles of wine and champagne…..and of cartons of cigarettes. We were allotted six cartons of cigarettes each month.

 

I used my full allotment of all the other items. Since I did not smoke, I never used my quota of cigarettes, though. I suppose I could have given my allotment to another volunteer who did smoke. But, instead, every month, I would go to the PX and buy six cartons of cigarettes…..and give them to my driver. He was overjoyed! He happy and grateful to receive them. Not only did he smoke, but I am sure that he re-sold these cigarettes on the black-market…..and probably doubled or maybe even tripled the salary we were paying him. In fact this was what I intended for him to do when I gave them to him. Not to belabor the point….. But, I thought this was the least I could do for his loyalty and service to me. Also….. Each year at TET (the Chinese New Year), I gave him a bottle of some sort of liquor. Somehow I doubt if he sold this, however!

During my two years as Chief of Education, I had two secretaries. They could not have been more different from each other…..in almost every way. Except for one thing they both had in common: They were both excellent secretaries, and they were both unusually competent, and like my driver….almost irreplaceable.

I “inherited” my first secretary…. So Tuc (again with the inevitable diacritical markings) (and Co meaning “Miss”) She was a petite young woman…..twenty-something-ish….unmarried, although with no lack of young men who were interested in pursuing her. She had ample opportunities to meet a variety of potential boy friends…..both South Vietnamese and American. By day she was a secretary; at night she lived an entirely different life. She was a singer in one of the Saigon nightclubs…..of maybe it was a bar. In Saigon…. There was not much difference. There was a very fine line separating the two….if there was, indeed, any line at all.

Co Tuc was almost always already in the office by the time I had arrived. Co Tuc was well….. a little on the flamboyant side. Always attired in a fashionable mini-skirt, often accompanied with black boots, she possessed a very bubbling personality….always smiling, always happy, always upbeat and outgoing. Qualities that not only make a good night club singer…..but also a good secretary. Every morning when I got off the elevator, she always greeted me enthusiastically. She always made sure that my day started on a happy note.

She rather short….even for a Vietnamese girl. She had long glistening black hair that flowed down over her shoulders. She wore glasses. Not just glasses, but large horn-rimmed glasses that never failed to draw attention to her face. One might picture horn-rim glasses as being a bit unusual….if not unattractive…..on a young woman. But, this definitely was not the case with her.

When I took over the job as Associate Chief of Party for Education, I had a lot to learn. Co Tuc was one of the people that I relied most heavily on. She “knew the ropes”, so to speak. She helped me ease into the job without making very many embarrassing mistakes. She had an excellent knowledge of the English language. Of course, she studied it in high school….and possibly college. But, no doubt she perfected a lot of it simply by using it. I can only imagine that she had ample opportunity to practice speaking and increasing her vocabulary by talking to hundreds of American military personnel in her nighttime job as a night club singer. She acted as a sort of office manager…..often anticipating what needed to be done…..and then doing it….or making sure that I did it.

My other secretary, as I said, could have not been more different than Co Tuc. Her name was Co Hien…..or Miss Hien. She and Co Tuc were on opposite points on a compass. Co Hien was a seemingly demure, traditional Vietnamese young lady, who dressed and acted like a traditional Vietnamese young lady. Every morning, she arrived wearing an ao dai….pronounced sort of like “ow yi”….the traditional dress for Vietnamese women. The ao dai, for those of you who do not know….which is probably most of you….consists of long trousers, over which was a long flowing dress, split on each side at the waist with two flaps descending to the ground. Both of these styles are very appealing….one might even say they can both be rather sexy.

 

 

 

 

Co Hien was certainly more restrained….dignified, reserved, traditional, whatever the correct word is. She certainly was not the kind of young lady that I would expect to see in a night club or bar entertaining a bunch of howdy servicemen. But, as I would discover as time passed and I got to know her better, she had a highly developed sense of humor and was more “worldly” than the facade she presented to the general public.

She, too, could take charge in her own quiet and unobtrusive manner. She would normally have opened all my mail by the time I had arrived and have it sorted into different categories. A lot of the mail was simply invitations to various government events….social and official….and from both US government agencies and Vietnamese agencies. Both of these governments seemed to seize upon almost any excuse to have a ceremony or a reception or a cocktail party….or other social event.. Maybe part of this desire to entertain was that there were not a lot of things to occupy one’s time in South Vietnam other than hang out in bars and night clubs. Anyway, both of my secretaries seem to know which ones were worthwhile to attend…..maybe because they related to our work in the area of education or maybe just because there might be some important people in attendance.

Other mail usually included a constant flow of reports and studies and bulletins generated by both governments. Frequently there were requests for some sort of information relating to our work in the public schools….or reports or forms to be completed about our personnel. Whatever it was, the mail was usually in neat stacks according to categories.

Both secretaries almost always answered the telephone when it rang. For one thing, it was part of their job…..but even more important, if the call was from a Vietnamese speaking person, it just seemed more efficient and quicker and more reliable for them to take the call. It probably seemed a little more professional, too…..especially in the eyes of the status-conscious Vietnamese.

My secretaries answered a lot of the mail by themselves….after consulting me, of course……such as accepting or “regretfully” declining invitations…. Saying, “Yes…. The report (or information) will be returned shortly…. Yes, Mr. Darrah will be attending the meeting as scheduled…… Yes, Mr. Darrah will be happy to meet with you…..”

Normally, I would type first drafts of letters, etc……and then after they were proofread, my secretary would type the final draft to be signed and mailed. Yeah…. I know this seems a little bit redundant. The alternatives, however, were: a messy letter with lots or corrections or mistakes….or me writing the letter in longhand and then answering the constant question, “What does this say” (I think my handwriting is pretty good…..but many other people do not agree!)? All of my mail from IVS….either from the headquarters in Washington or from volunteers….was sent to the IVS office, and I was left to deal with most of that my myself. I had a typewriter in my room, and I answered the mail myself….or one of the secretaries in the office would type the letters for me.

In many ways, I think that Co Hien was better connected with the office…..and even within “the system” than Co Tuc was. For one thing: She was more “like them”….a little more “traditional” than Co Tuc. And, I have a feeling that her family may have been a little “better connected” within the system, also. Like I said, Co Tuc was well connected with the office, also. She spent her fair share of free time consulting, socializing or gossiping with the other Vietnamese secretaries when she wasn’t otherwise occupied. It would be impossible to choose which of them was better. They were both competent, resourceful, helpful, dedicated and loyal. And, I wouldn’t want to speculate what my life would have been like without either of them.

The other Vietnamese member of my so-called staff was Phap (high rising tone!). He was a fairly remarkable guy. I never did figure out how he pulled if all off. He was my administrative aid/interpreter; he was a medical student at Saigon University; he was a First Lieutenant in the South Vietnamese Army; and he was also married and had a young son. He, too, was an inheritance from my successor. He was a figurative dynamo…..constantly in motion…..constantly busy doing something.

He was technically a full-time employee…..but he seldom, if ever, worked a full day. This was part of his multi-tasking, something that he had apparently mastered thoroughly. Some days he would show up in the morning….already at his desk, busily engaged in translating a letter or document. Some days he would show up after lunch, eager and ready to do whatever was on the agenda. Often, he appeared nonchalantly wearing his military uniform. Sometimes he would walk in attired in the clothing he had been wearing at the hospital. In the beginning, I was rather startled at his unusual attire, but after a while, I rarely even noticed what he was wearing.

One of Phap’s main duties was to accompany me when I visited an office within the Ministry of Education. These appointments were almost scheduled in advance….and he never failed to show up on time. On these days, let me add, he was always impeccably dressed for the occasion…..most assuredly better dressed than I. When I first assumed the job as Chief of Education, Phap did almost all the speaking….in Vietnamese, that is. He had done this before, and he was an old pro at dealing with the often formality-loving, overly polite, always diplomatic South Vietnamese bureaucrats. But, keep in mind….Phap was a highly intelligent young man…..already an officer in the South Vietnamese army, studying to be a medical doctor…..and an assistant to an American USAID sponsored agency (that would be us!). He already knew their jargon. He just sort of fit in.

Back in the office, his main job was to translate the letters and documents which flowed in from various South Vietnamese ministries and agencies….whoever had sent something to the IVS Education Office. Nominally, he was also in charge of translating my letters and stuff into Vietnamese so the secretary could type it and get it mailed.

Phap was a good looking guy….very outgoing and very gregarious. He was anything but shy. He came from a “good” family, which, in general, meant that he received a very good education…..that he had never been part of the normal Vietnamese work force. I don’t think he ever had to worry….at least very much…..about money and such mundane things like that. He looked and acted like he had led a rather privileged life. And, Phap liked to have fun! Phap introduced me to some of his friends….sons of generals and government leaders. One of those people who he introduced me to was the younger brother of General Nguyen Ngoc Loan, the National Police Chief of South Vietnam…..and a close friend of the Prime Minister, Nguyen Ca Ky. This was the South Vietnamese general caught in the act of shooting a North Vietnamese prisoner in the head at close range….the photo that won a Pulitzer Prize…..and possibly was instrumental in helping to turn public opinion in the USA against the war. Anyway, the young guy….a soldier just like Phap…..seemed like a normal guy, and the subject of his brother’s notoriety never was discussed!

Phap and I rarely, if ever, hung out together. If he was not on duty at his hospital or not otherwise occupied with is military duties, he was at home with his wife and his little son. But he was always a good source of information on what was going on around Saigon. He was well “plugged in” to what was going on around town. Even Co Tuc consulted him on the Saigon nightlife scene. Of course, she was pretty much tied to the night club where she worked, but that didn’t stop her from being curious about what was going on around town. Phap always had a suggestion about some night club or bar that he thought I should visit. I rarely did…..but, I always appreciated his interest in my social welfare! He was also remarkably well informed on not only about what was happening in South Vietnam, but the entire world. I don’t know. Maybe he listened to the BBC, or maybe….probably…..he had access to Vietnamese language newspapers that I did not….or could not….read. Of course, he came into contact with a great many military and professional people each day, too. He was one of the few people…..American or South Vietnamese…..with who really seemed to know what was going on in the world.

Another valuable service he provided was as my “purchasing agent”. He told me early on in our relationship that I was being extravagantly taken advantage of every time I would buy something…..anything…..on the open Vietnamese market….the street and sidewalk vendors as well as the hundreds of stores and shops in Saigon. He suggested that when I wanted to buy something or when I needed something……just tell him, and he would buy it for….bring it to work….I could pay him….and I would be saving a lot of money. Who knows how much? Probably at least half of what they would charge me as a “rich American”. It really didn’t make much difference that I spoke Vietnamese, just the mere fact that I was an American meant that I was surely rich…surely naive….surely gullible….and surely stupid or greedy enough to pay whatever they asked. For most Americans, if they could get the vendor to lower the price even a few cents, they felt like they had scored a victory…..that they had outsmarted the Vietnamese…..that they had gotten a bargain. It can’t be to difficult to imagine why the South Vietnamese thought we were all rich, with an ample supply of money to throw around. It can’t be very difficult to imagine why the Vietnamese “liked” the Americans on the surface…..but, in general, held them in disdain in reality. And, now that I look back….. Maybe Phap was also charging me a “service fee”….. I would have never know it…..or probably have cared. But….. No, I am sure he wasn’t!
Over the intervening past five and a half decades, I have been consistently asked, “What did you do in South Vietnam for four years?” In previous blogs, I have discussed two of my jobs….Secretary to the Adjutant General, US Army Vietnam and English teacher/sometimes Library Builder….. in some detail. Let me give you a brief overview of what I did during the two years I was Associate Chief of Party for Education.

Surely there was a job description somewhere for the job. However, either I didn’t see it….or I have long forgotten what it was. I will do my best to reconstruct the highlights of the job, though. I suppose the most obviously item was that I was in charge of the education division of IVS in South Vietnam. Nominally, at least. In reality, however, I am not sure that anybody was ever in charge……or if anybody ever really knew what was going on. If somebody was in charge: It was I!

IVS never did have a flood of volunteers; it was more like a trickle. But in those cases when people applied to be a volunteer English teacher, filled out the application form, and completed the interview with somebody back in the USA, and were accepted into the organization…..and I suspect the main qualification was that they be a breathing human being…..their application form was forwarded to me for final acceptance.

The next step was placing them in a school somewhere in South Vietnam. This was never a problem. The Ministry of Education always asked for more English teachers that we could ever hope to furnish. I would consult with the Ministry to find out where….in which provinces….. they needed the teachers most. After receiving this information, I contacted the Team Leader in that province. The Team Leader would contact the high school principal and make arrangements for the teacher to work there, as well as arrange for housing for the volunteer. In many cases…..but not all…..there were already volunteers in the province, which simplified matters greatly. The new volunteer could merely move in with those volunteers. If no other volunteers were present, appropriate living arrangements would have to be made.

When the new volunteers arrived at Tan Son Nhut Airport, I was there to meet them and greet them and drive them back to the IVS headquarters where the Chief of Administration could take over and show how important she thought she was! And, believe me…. She was in her full glory at times like these!

The new volunteers spent approximately two weeks in Saigon attending orientation sessions, filling out various forms, taking additional language lessons….and just spending time becoming acclimated before going off to their individual assignments. During this two week period, most of the time was spent in additional language study, but I conducted several sessions on various topics, too. I tried to cover such topics as what to expect in a Vietnamese high school. Believe me….. Vietnamese high schools have…or had….very little in common with the high schools in the USA that they attended. I conducted some “role playing” scenarios of a typical teaching situation in a Vietnamese high school….mostly, because of logistics and overcrowded classrooms, it had to be the “repeat after me” method of teaching. Other sessions included involving students in activities such as English clubs or discussion groups, English classes for faculty members and even groups from the community who were interested in learning English. Then, there was the all-important topic of conduct within the school and the community. Almost none of the volunteers had ever been a teacher back in the good old USA. It was important that they know the kind of behavior and obligations they had to the school and to their community as teachers…..the kind of example they were expected to set and the high standards to which they would be held within the school and within the community.

After I had made arrangements with the Ministry of Education, the Regional Team Leader would usually escort the teachers to their schools, introduce them to their principal and them settled in their new home.

It was my job to “supervise” these teachers…..although this is a term that is used lightly since they were widely scattered around South Vietnam in the various province capitals. Each volunteer teacher was required to write a monthly report and submit it to me. In this report, they outlined their monthly activities, explained any problems they needed help with, made requests for teaching materials or other help they might need in their job and anything else they felt like writing about.

If a teacher needed additional teaching materials or ideas or support, I tried to supply them with whatever they needed. Sometimes I would send material with their Team Leader, if he happened to be in Saigon. Fortunately, there were courier flights going to most of the capitals on a fairly regular basis. I could always send the stuff to the USAID office, and they could pick it up there.

It didn’t happen often…..maybe only once of twice…..but, I did get unfavorable reports from school officials regarding the conduct of volunteer teachers. The ones I recall concerned a male volunteer becoming (or attempting to become) romantically….sexually….involved with a student…..and another complaint was that the volunteer consistently failed to show up for his assigned classes. In cases like this, either I would fly to his province and have a talk with the volunteer…..and whomever else was involved…..or the Team Leader would intervene. One time, I had a rather urgent complaint that one of our male volunteers had “exposed” himself to the class. This was one that I never did figure out. The guy angrily denied the claim….and the evidence was inconclusive in regards to what exactly happened. The school did not demand that he be withdrawn. So we….I, the Team Leader and the principal….. settled the matter by assigning him to a different class…..and telling him in very strong language to shape up…..and that we had better never, under any circumstance, receive such a complaint again. And, we didn’t.

I tried to make at least one trip a week…..often two trips a week….to the provinces to meet with the volunteer teachers….talk to the principal of the school….meet this the cooperating Vietnamese English teachers….and sit in on at least one class. At its peak, IVS had 72 volunteer teachers teaching in the provinces…..although the average number was lower than that, depending on end-of-tour dates compared with new recruits. Needless to say, I was able to visit each teacher a maximum of two times during my term as Chief of Education…..hopefully, once a year.

It would have been much more convenient, and it would have saved a lot of time and made my job easier, if I could have flown directly from one IVS location to the next location. It just didn’t work that way, though. I was solely dependent on the U. S. military and Air America for flights. Most of them…..almost all of them…..originated in Saigon and returned to Saigon. In some cases I was able to spend several hours before the flight returned to Saigon. In many cases, however, the flight was scheduled to return in only a few hours. Sometimes, in the smaller, less populated provinces, I had barely enough time to talk to the volunteer, meet the principal, observe a class…..and then rush back to the air base or airport for the return flight to Saigon. Who knows? In some cases, I am sure this was the way the volunteer preferred it! In the provinces with a large nearby US facility, it was much less hectic. Military or Air America aircraft were arriving and departing for Saigon on a much more regular schedule. It was possible to catch an early morning flight from Saigon…..and return on a flight in the late afternoon or early evening. In rare cases, I stayed overnight, although this was not usually the case. Usually their living quarters were rather limited in size. None of them had a real “guest room”, unfortunately. During those two years as Chief of Education, I racked up a sizable number of “frequent flier points”.

Back in Saigon, I spent a great deal of time gathering….scrounging….teaching materials of various sorts which volunteers had requested…..answering questions that volunteers asked…..making travel arrangements…..going over monthly reports and making suggestions…..filling out various requests for information from the Ministry of Education…..doing lots of “polite” public relations work….

So….. Basically, now you have the “Reader’s Digest” version of where I lived and what I did during those two years I spent in Saigon as Associate Chief of Party for Education.
As you read further in the next installment, you may begin to wonder if I am still talking about the same job. Let me assure you…… I will be. There were so many contradictions and so many exceptions and so many off the wall things that happened during those two years that sometimes even I wonder if it all really happened or whether I can really recall those those rather exciting…..but also confusing and often disillusioning….two years. But, as they say, “It is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth”…….or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

One more thing….. If you are wondering where all the pictures are….. Well, there are not very many of them. This is another little mystery. I put all 1200 pictures….slides that I had taken…..into a box….sealed it up with an over-abundance of tape…..put my mailing address in Sterling on it in a couple different places. I was assured repeatedly by the people in the IVS office that it would be mailed…. It would be taken care of….. Don’t worry about it…..

Well….. I took a two week trip through Cambodia, Thailand, down the middle of Malaysian Peninsula to Singapore….back up the eastern coastal side of Malaysia…..to Hong Kong…..to Japan to visit a friend…..and stopped in Oregon to visit another friend…..before continuing on home. I was traveling for at least three weeks. I was eagerly anticipating getting home again. Surely after three weeks the boxes that I mailed would be waiting for me.

Not only were they not waiting for me in Sterling…. They never did arrive! I never saw them again after leaving them to be mailed by the IVS office in Saigon. What happened to them? Who knows? Maybe this was my final disappointment or disillusionment of my three years in South Vietnam with IVS.

The pictures that you do see are the remnants of some slides that were on my camera when I left South Vietnam…..pictures that were developed after I returned to the USA.

For this blog….. Go ahead and use your imagination. Your mental image will no doubt turn out better than the actual picture. If so….. You are fortunate! I had to live through three years of reality!

Oh… And, I neglected to mention…. All this time I was also trying to build a library.

That is how I ended my last blog….. the one about my few months in Phan Rang. And, I think the word “try” is the key word in that sentence.

Shortly after I arrived in Phan Rang….It was probably the day I was transported there and dropped into the middle of things…..although I really can’t say for sure….I was told that one of my responsibilities would be to construct a public library.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The library would be a memorial to Peter Hunting. Peter was stationed in Phan Rang prior to my arrival. He was obviously a very knowledgeable young man, and he had become very well respected and well-liked. He was a member of the agriculture team, and in this capacity came into contact with many people during his tenure in Phan Rang. It was not at all unusual for people to ask me, “Did you know Peter Hunting? He was a good man.” In fact, it was a fairly common question during the time I spent teaching there.

Subsequent to living in Phan Rang, Peter was transferred to the southern delta region, also as a member of the agriculture team. It was in this region where he was killed….gunned down by unknown assailants….one morning while riding through the countryside in a Jeep. Of course, the people who killed him were never apprehended. If you want to read a fascinating account of his life in South Vietnam, his sister, Jill, has written a book called “Finding Peter”. It is well worth your time.

Peter’s parents contributed a sum of money to IVS to build a library in Phan Rang as a memorial to their son. The task of making the library to become a reality was passed on to me. Although this seemed to be more of a community development project, for some reason, the project became my responsibility. Maybe it was because I had already worked as a teacher for two and a half year here in Kansas…..in a real teaching job….and education and libraries are closely related. Or maybe it was because, at the time, the personnel in Phan Rang was in a state of transition. The agriculture volunteer was departing and the two new community development volunteers had yet to appear. Whatever the reason, it certainly was not because of my extensive background in construction.

Actually, I didn’t think much about the ramifications of the job I has just accepted. At the time, it seemed like an exciting challenge. And, it was. Like almost everything else that happened within the International Voluntary Services, there was little direction….few clear-cut lines of authority and decision making…..very little administrative support. This would have been fine with me….and I could have dealt with the problems which would certainly….and did….arise, and with the constant obstacles which had to be overcome on an almost daily basis.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day that I was informed that overseeing the construction of the library would be my responsibility, I felt a sense of excitement. Why wouldn’t I? I was young; I was rather naive; certainly I had no prior experience in building anything. Well…. Unless one counts the end table, the telephone stand, some shelves and the stool that I built in shop class in junior high and high school…… or all the shelves that I have build over the years.  Also on my side were the facts that I knew how to read…..and that I was a frequent patron of the libraries in both Lyons and Sterling. Aside from that, I knew very little.

Basically, there were two issues involved in building the library: First of all, a building had to be constructed; and Second, the building had to be filled with books. There are other problems, of course, but those two problems were certainly basic. So…. As I began to make plans for the construction of the library, I made a list of the components that had to be accomplished. Things like, find building material, find a means to have the material transported to the construction site, find somebody to actually build the library, find books to put on the shelves, etc…..

You have to understand that back in those days….especially in a country that was fighting a war….there were no Lowes, or Sutherland’s or Menards….. In other words, “lumber yards” were difficult to find…..and certainly out in little province towns like Phan Rang.

To begin with, I had no control over spending the money the Hunting family donated for the purpose. Oh no…. Our chief of administration down in Saigon was not about to give up her power and control of the money…..not that money….or any money….even though she had zero participation or responsibility for constructing the library or making it a reality.

More than fifty five years have passed since the library was built. Looking back at these days is much like looking through a dirty rear view mirror. Most of the events are very dim and unclear, at best. I am not going to attempt to give a chronological account of the construction of the library. The memories in this blog are those which are vivid enough to stay on in the recesses of my brain for these past decades. These recollections, I am rather certain, are true…….and will, hopefully, give at least a glimpse of some of the problems, adventures and triumphs that comprised the endeavor.

The first problem to be solved was….. Where will the library be built? I met with the Province Chief and some of his staff. Of course, the American USAID (United States Agency for International Development) advisor in the province was in attendance. USAID, as I recall, made a very minimal….if any…..contribution to the project. But, in the spirit of the times, everybody wanted to have a piece of the action…..just in case the library happened to be a success. The Province Chief offered a choice between two parcels of land. One of the tracts of land was literally adjacent to the house where I lived…..and consequently also approximately adjacent to the Catholic high school. That is the site that I chose as the location for the library.

Our Chief of Party told me excitedly that he had enticed one of South Vietnam’s leading architects to design the library…..and that he had donated his time and talent to drawing the plans.

“Wow! That is great,” I said. And, I have to admit that it was indeed a generous and thoughtful gesture. However, when I saw the plans, the library that he designed was simply a building with one big room. Four walls, a roof, some windows and a door. That was it. It appeared to be a plan that any first year high school drafting student could have easily drawn. But, no big deal. At least, we had a plan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next step was to hire a contractor to construct the building. Maybe the term “contractor” is somewhat misleading…..overstating the truth a bit. Maybe builder or carpenter would be a more suitable description. This was South Vietnam; this was a small town; this was the 1960’s; there was a war in progress. There was not much major construction taking place in Phan Rang…..non-military construction, at least.

Through some source…USAID, one of my teacher friends, or maybe somebody in the Province Chief’s office…..I located or was introduced to the man who was to become our builder. He didn’t drive up in his shiny new pickup with the logo of his company painted on the sides, nor was he wearing a shirt and cap with the name of his company embossed on them. He came riding a bicycle, dressed in overalls and a floppy hat. He spoke only the most rudimentary form of English. At the time, I spoke only the most elementary form of Vietnamese. Between his very basic English and my even less basic Vietnamese, we depended heavily on the assistance of the Vietnamese interpreter who worked for us three volunteers in Phan Rang. (This was the same guy who was with me on the frightening trip to the air base when the guy with the weapon jumped out in front of us….an incident recounted in an earlier blog.)

Out of this conversation we hammered out an agreement that he would hire workers, and that he would construct the library to our satisfaction. We would furnish all the building materials….except for the basic tools normally involved in constructing a building…..things like hammers, shovels, trowels, a cement mixer, etc. One of our Vietnamese secretaries typed a formal agreement setting forth the terms of the agreement. This agreement would come in handy later on when he wanted more money…..as we had anticipated. However, we had been warned….as if we needed any warning…..to pay nothing in advance. You work….and then we pay.

The US military….somebody at the Phan Rang Air Base…..and too much time has passed for me to remember the specific unit…..furnished a large truck load of sand and some bags of cement mix. They dumped everything in front of the spot we had chosen to build the library. Like everything else in South Vietnam, we noticed that the pile of sand was slowly becoming smaller……and we had not even begun construction on the structure. One morning, we caught a man shoveling sand into a wheelbarrow. “What are you doing? That sand doesn’t belong to you,” I said….probably shouted….at the man. “Put the sand back…… Now!”

After some discussion….arguing…..it turned out that the guy we hired to build the library had told him to help himself to the sand. He was probably selling the sand to him…..or using it for some sort of barter. We told the apparent thief that we were going to report him to the police for stealing the sand. Actually, I didn’t report him. Chances are it would have done no good, anyway. The police were at least as corrupt as the guy taking the sand.

Needless to say I told our “contractor” that we were going to deduct the cost of any missing building supplies from the amount we had agreed to pay him. He, of course, expressed great remorse and promised never to do it again. And, from what we could see…. He never did. And…..I will add: We never deducted anything from his fee.

The money that the Hunting family donated covered the cost of buying the concrete blocks that were used to build the shell of the building. Somewhere and somehow, the builder came up with the concrete blocks. I am pretty sure they were locally made….somewhere and by somebody. Nevertheless, he surprisingly bought a sufficient amount of them to construct the walls of the building.

From the funds that the Hunting family had provided, we….actually, the contractor…..bought the lumber that was needed to build the shelves which would hold the books, also tables where the patrons could sit, and other assorted supplies and equipment such as chairs and lighting and shutters.

Constructing the physical building was the least of our problems. Peter Hunting’s family had provided well for these necessary things…..with some help from USAID and the US military. The main problem in this phase of the construction was keep the guy we hired to build the library on task….to make sure he showed up for work on a regular basis, with sufficient workers…..and that he used the material properly. That is…. To build the library and not to sell stuff for personal profit…..which, I must add, was a commonly accepted, or at least a commonly practiced….mode of operation in South Vietnam during that era.

Even with all the problems and headaches, the physical construction was a relatively minor distraction compared to preparing the library for its intended use: that is to say, procuring books for the people to check out and read. And, even that does not state the problem accurately or completely. Finding “books” was a rather simply matter. All we had to do was make a trip to downtown Saigon to the JUSPAO (Joint United States Public Affairs Office) building. This was an agency set up by the United States Information Agency to manage information and, of course, propaganda, and “news” during the War from 1965-1972. Along with all the other information related activities and services, they had a huge “library” of books. Actually, it was more like a small warehouse packed with literally thousands of books……and they were all for free! Just come in and take whatever books you wanted. I was a regular visitor. I would spend an hour or two just wandering among the shelves and the boxes looking at the titles, occasionally reading a dust cover or leafing through a the pages to see what it contained. I rarely, if ever, took a book with me, though. Almost without exception, they were surplus or castoff books that publishers could no longer sell. Ninety-nine percent of them seemed to be old text books…..and college text books, at that. If they were not textbooks, they were technical books or highly specialized books. They were books that very few Americans…..including myself…..could understand. They were definitely not the kind of books that one would curl up in front of the fireplace and read…..or take with you to the beach!

 

 

 

 

 

And, of course…..and maybe most important…..they were written in English….not in Vietnamese. This really didn’t make a lot of difference to the IVS hierarchy…..which, I think only included one other person….my boss. To him these were free books….and a book was a book…..something to put on the shelves. This was the wisdom of the old, experienced expert who encouraged me to “just take the books”.

Even though I had only been in South Vietnam….in Phan Rang…..for a few months, I recognized immediately that this solution was foolish. Aside from the people who worked in the USAID and other US government offices and a handful of English teachers in the local schools, nobody spoke English….not beyond the most rudimentary elements. They certainly could not begin to read the books that JUSPAO was giving away……nor would they want to. As I said…. These were surplus books….books that somebody simply wanted to get rid of because they obviously could not sell them.

In addition to teaching in Phan Rang, I found it necessary to make several trips to Saigon in an attempt to find books….or a source of money to buy books. I think it was called “scrounging” back in those days. There was simply no money to buy books. IVS had no money to buy them; USAID apparently had no funds intended for this purpose. The military had been generous in donating some building materials, but they also were not in a position to give us any money to buy books. And, asking the Hunting family for more money was out of the question. They had already shown their generosity by donating money for the physical building.

The arrangements to build the library were made before I arrived in Phan Rang. I can’t prove it…..but I suspect that the Hunting family was assured that if they donated money to construct the library building, IVS would….and could….come up with the books. If, indeed, this was the arrangement, it had not been thought out very well. In the 1960s, it is doubtful if there were enough age appropriate and subject appropriate books written in the Vietnamese language to actually furnish a good sized library. Fortunately, our library was not a large one!

Book stores were not common in South Vietnam at in the 1960. There was no public library in Phan Rang, and none of the schools in Phan Rang had a school library. Even if there had been easy and ready access to books, the average, ordinary person did not have the money to buy books. The library we were building in Phan Rang was a unique facility. It would be a service that few, if any, other towns in the country had access to. The entire concept of building a public library was to introduce reading as a means of learning, a source of information and a form of pleasure and relaxation. And make it available for free to the residents of the town.

I was in daily contact with several teachers in the school system. They were excited about the prospect of their little town having a public library…..a place where they….and their students….could go and actually find books to read. For free! And, written in Vietnamese! None of them objected to having a few English language titles included in the library…. Sort of a “foreign language’ section….. a few English titles and even some French titles. But, this library was intended as a “Vietnamese” library.

As I mentioned previously, I made several trips to Saigon to develop contacts and to search for books or for funding to buy books. Begging for money is never a pleasant pastime….at least, not for me. This basically was what I was doing, however.

There were several non-profit charitable organizations operating in South Vietnam during the war years. Catholic Relief, Save the Children, CARE, Red Cross, Asia Foundation and a charitable arm of the Mennonite Church come to mind. This is, by no means, a complete or comprehensive list of such organizations. There were dozens, maybe even hundred, more.

Each organization basically had its own special interest, its own target demographic or group…..or mission…. that it was sent to serve. Not many of them were simply general charitable or philanthropic organizations. I clearly understood this. It didn’t make my job any easier, but I did understand it. Before each trip to Saigon, I would send a letter requesting an appointment to talk to a representative of its organization. I always stated what the purpose of the meeting would be. There was no point wasting a trip for nothing. In some cases, I received replies telling me quite frankly that they were unable to provide money for purchasing books. It was not their mission. These were dead ends. I was disappointed, but at least I knew in advance not to bother meeting with them.

However, I was able to arrange an appointment with each of the listed organizations. Some of them showed more interest than others. All of them took my proposal and promised that it would be considered. What more could I ask?

Nobody in the IVS office in Saigon displayed much interest or concern about the library. The organization had zero interest in making any contribution toward its completion. And, there was definitely no intention of offering any monetary support. The only time I can remember even a slight interest in the project were the times that the Hunting family inquired about the progress. Their inquiries were never directed or passed along to me. Actually, nobody in the Saigon office…..and this boils down to the only two IVS people who worked there….knew anything about the library. But that apparently did not deter them from giving an “authoritative” answer.

As I look back, I can see clearly that the mere fact that they were completely uninformed about any detail of the construction, progress or funding of the library was not going to prevent them from answering questions from the Hunting family…..and giving the false illusion that they were intimately involved in each detail and each step of its development. Since I had no idea of what information was being fed to the Hunting family, I really have no idea of what their feelings were toward the progress being made.

In the meantime I had developed a few promising relationships with a couple non-profit charitable organizations in Saigon who were interested in providing either books written in Vietnamese or donating money to buy books written in Vietnamese. These two organizations were CARE (Cooperative for Assistance and Relief Everywhere) and the Asia Foundation. Their mission was more general than most of the others, and their money less targeted toward specific expenditures as required by their organization’s mission.

In the meantime, major changes were looming in my life.

Sometime in the fall of my first year….and only…..year of teaching in Phan Rang, I began to notice a definite change in my physical condition. Each day I began to lose energy…..to feel tired and worn out….depleted, one might say. In the beginning, I didn’t pay much attention to these feelings. I simply chalked it up to overwork and the results or aftermath of my rather over-busy schedule. I thought that I was working too hard and too much. I was trying to do too many things, and it was all catching up with me.

It seems that I just could not say “No” when a school or an organization or a friend or acquaintance asked me to teach an English class or form an English club or help them “improve” their English. At the urging of English teachers and their principals, I was teaching in all four of Phan Rang’s high schools: the public high school, which was my primary job; the semi-public school, a public supported high school, but for the second-tier students; the Catholic high school; and the Buddhist high school. In these high school, I was teaching 25 or 30 classes a week….often racing from one school to the other to maintain a rather crazy, disjointed schedule.

During this time, I also was sponsoring a couple English clubs (if one can properly call them that). At the urging of the chief of police, I formed an English class for the town’s police force….which was made up of a room full of policemen who had the maturity of special education kindergartners. I assumed my former colleague’s job of working with the National Voluntary Service….a public service organization for young men and women similar to and patterned after our own International Voluntary Service.

In addition to these teaching activities, I was also working on the library, trying to make it a reality. This meant frequent weekend trips to Saigon to meet with the contacts from the organizations I mentioned earlier. And, yes…. I even tried to maintain some sort of social life, if one wants to use the term loosely. I had a few friends among the people I worked with….especially English teachers and principals. I also had friends about my age….and, please remember that I was actually a young man then!…who worked for USAID. We spent time hanging out in our free time….especially at the beach, which was basically the only comfortable place to meet and hang out.

At first I wasn’t very concerned. I tried going to bed a little earlier at night…..getting a little more sleep….. Then, a lot earlier. This didn’t seem to help much. My usually healthy appetite began to disappear, never a good sign for me. I found myself having to lean on the podium while I was teaching….either that, or just remain sitting at my desk for the duration of the class. It was almost impossible to remain standing without some sort of support. Then came the nausea….actually it felt like I had a metal softball in the pit of my stomach. Finally, I could barely get out of bed. I just lay there, feeling miserable, feeling sick, my body hurting….with no appetite.

My two station mates were concerned. But, what could they do? Our cook/housekeeper would come up to my room….shake her head and say, “You must eat something.” But, I couldn’t. I was just too sick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Finally, after about a week….a week of lying in my bed just sleeping and doing nothing….I started to feel a little better. Well enough to rouse myself from bed, get into my Jeep and drive to the USAID compound to see a military doctor. He looked at my eyes….and then said, “Step out on the front porch. Take off your shirt. Turn around and let me see your back.” Then he said, I thought, rather casually, “You’ve got hepatitis.”

I was rather startled. That possibility had never occurred to me, but it made sense. Contracting hepatitis was sort of rite of passage in South Vietnam. Thousands of soldiers and civilians who served or worked there had suffered from it. It was fairly common. Nobody really considered it to be a big deal, especially considering the common unsanitary conditions that existed there at the time. “What should I do?” I asked the doctor.

“There is nothing you can do except go home and rest…..and do absolutely nothing,” he told me. “Don’t eat any fried food. And, don’t drink any alcohol.”

“Can I go lie on the beach?”

“You can lie on the beach all day, if you want to. Just don’t go into the water or do anything else while you are there.”

I drove back to our house and told our housekeeper. She immediately fixed me some breakfast and told me to go back to bed. I think she was relieved to know that I was going to live a little while longer. The doctor had told me not to go back to work for a few weeks. I was pretty much prepared to just sit around the house and read and talk to my station mates when they were not working…..and to spend time at the beach with friends. There were not a lot of choices….. No TV, one radio station (Armed Forces Radio). There was a theater in town, but it showed only movies in Vietnamese and Chinese. I couldn’t drink any alcohol, so hanging out in a bar didn’t make much sense.

That day while I was at the USAID office, they informed me of some good news….exciting news….that brightened my spirits and probably renewed my positive outlook on life. I received the news that one of the orgnizations was donating a sizable amount of money for us to use to purchase books for the library. I was elated…..and I almost forgot that I was sick! The news was relayed to me through the USAID office, since we had no telephone in our IVS house in Phan Rang. They were happy for me. They knew how hard I had been working…..and worrying…..to locate money to buy books. They also understood the concept of “What is a Library with No Books”!

Before returning to our house, I stopped by the office of the Deputy Province Chief for Administration….a good friend of mine…..and told him the news. He, too, was happy and excited. The completion and opening of the library in his province was also going to make him look good…..and “face” is everything in the Orient. He pulled out a bottle of bourbon and a celebratory drink, an immediate and major violation of the doctor’s orders. But… It was only a tiny sip! A major problem has been solved…at least partially. A major hurdle to opening the library had been cleared.

Later that day, the senior American in our province…..the head of the USAID office…..stopped by the house to tell me they were evacuating me to Saigon…..and that an airplane had already been reserved for the flight. This news startled me more than learning that I had hepatitis. Evacuating me to Saigon? Why? Having hepatitis was not a big deal…. Not if you followed the doctor’s orders.

Nevertheless, the evacuation information was apparently not given to me as a suggestion. It was more in the form of “Get your bags packed and be at the air base at 7:00 tonight.” On the other hand, I was rather excited and flattered that “they”…..meaning, I had no idea who made this decision…..would charter an aircraft just for me. The sense of feeling important faded when I arrived at the Phan Rang Airbase. Also waiting there were the USAID director and wife and another ranking American.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Since they are evacuating you to Saigon, we figured that we may as well ride along,” he told me. It didn’t take me long to put the pieces of this coincidence together and figure out that they wanted transportation to Saigon for themselves…..and what better excuse to commandeer an airplane than to “evacuate” a “seriously ill American”.

My boss met me at the airport, which, in itself, was a mild to moderate surprise. On our drive back to the IVS house, he casually asked me if I would like to become the next Associate Chief of Party for Education. More about this later…..

Not long after I had arrived in Saigon to “recuperate”…..and to wait for the out-going Chief of Education to leave, I was sitting at the table in our common dining area waiting for lunch to be served….talking and listening to the chatter and conversation of the other Saigon staff members and of the volunteers who had come to Saigon for some reason or other. I was still quite new in the organization, especially as an administrator. The vast amount of my time was spent in Phan Rang where I had been assigned. I really didn’t now most of the people at the table, personally at least.

Before the meal was served, our Chief of Party entered the dining room, and with a slight smirk on his face, looked at me…..but, of course, was speaking to everybody at the table, and announced in (what was to become) self-righteous voice, “Well, you can tell the (international charity organization) that we don’t want their money. Everybody knows they are working with the CIA.”

Most of the people at the table didn’t know what he was talking about. I doubt if any of them knew that I was building a library in Phan Rang. Most of them didn’t even know who I was at the time…..or what I was doing….or where I was from. But, now…. They obviously knew that I had accepted some money from the CIA! And, looking back, I am not sure why the Chief of Party chose the dining room…..and lunch….to make his announcement. Maybe to make himself look good? To sort of feed his Ego? To reinforce his anti-war, anti-Johnson feelings?

There wasn’t much of a reaction to his pronouncement….except for maybe a slight murmur. Nobody knew what he was talking about. But… I knew! I knew very well. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Naive me!  “This renowned international organization is controlled by the CIA?” (It wasn’t….and isn’t, of course!)

I immediately recognized that we had just lost the most important source of funding which was available to us….one which I no longer had the time….or the desire….to deal with any longer.

A couple days later, I used my open-ended air transportation pass to catch a flight to Phan Rang. One of the volunteers met me at the airport at the Phan Rang Airbase. I told him of the decision….or ultimatum….that had been handed down. He took me to the office of the Deputy Province Chief for Administration so I could tell him the bad news. He was at first puzzled….then angry. “Why didn’t he ask us first? It is going to be our library? We don’t care where the money comes from. We don’t care if the CIA wants to give us money. We welcome it. Where are we going to get the money?” I was embarrassed…..and I felt very badly about the situation. It was indeed a huge setback, and I had no answers.

Before catching a flight back to Saigon, I stopped by the USAID office and told them. They offered their sympathy, but there was really nothing they could do…..or probably wanted to do. It was not their problem.

I also told a few of my friends in the schools that I worked in. They were probably the most angry and upset of all. They had counted on the library. They had told many people in the town about it. People were anticipating its opening in a big way. The best answer I could offer was that the remaining volunteers would do their best to find alternative funding.

One of the strange….and ironic….twists in this affair is that probably 90% of the people I knew in Phan Rang……and even later in Saigon…..were convinced that I was working for the CIA…..and the IVS organization was merely my “front” or “cover”. Some people….teachers and students, mostly…..even asked me directly if I was working for the CIA. Come on now…. What other American would come to South Vietnam….live in a typical Vietnamese house….eat Vietnamese food….hang out with Vietnamese people….learn to speak the Vietnamese language….drive a vehicle provided by the USA government…..have free access to the Province Chief and be good friends with the Deputy Province Chief….have unlimited privileges of riding on USA aircraft….

Yes, in their mind, there was no doubt about it. When I denied it, they would just smile. “It’s OK….. I will keep your little secret.” It wasn’t until later when I had been working in Saigon as the Associate Chief of Party for Education that I would learn that some of leadership’s personal beliefs and biases took major precedence over the needs and desires of the Vietnamese people.

As I said…. This realization would….and did….come later. As for the immediate situation…..the completion of the library…. Well, there was little more that I could do. I was living in Saigon. I had a new position. I no longer had the time or the will to continue with the library. A new volunteer had arrived in Phan Rang. He did not have any assigned duties yet. This was a good project for him….to initiate him into the community….to give him something to work on.

My involvement with the library had ended. I returned to Phan Rang one or two more times to take care of some details involved with my teaching responsibilities. The schools in Phan Rang were left with no IVS English teacher….and I felt badly about it. It took a couple trips to pack and transport my belongings to Saigon. In the meantime, I had a brief relapse in the hepatitis recovery. The doctor was very emphatic: Stay at home! Period.

Yes…. The library finally opened. And, apparently there were some books on the shelves. Most of them were donated by JUSPAO. They were predominately the castoff books that the publishers wanted to get rid of. But…. They were books.

I was not able to travel to the “grand opening” of the library. The new guy was ostensibly in charge of the library now. Somehow, the Chief of Administration woman ended up being the Big Dog….making a speech, turning over the keys, presumably acting like she had build the library single handed. But, that is OK. All the people in Phan Rang knew the history of the construction. I doubt if they were fooled.

I began to receive “Thank You” messages in the mail….and even a couple telegrams….from people in Phan Rang….teachers, principals, parents, students….thanking me for the effort I had put into making the library a reality. That made me feel good.

If you are wondering what happened to the library…. I really have no idea. The following year….1968….the year of the TET Offensive….was the “beginning of the end” for South Vietnam. I heard, on good authority, although I have no real proof…..that the library was taken over by the South Vietnamese army and was being used as a barracks to house military troops. I don’t know if this is true or not. I never returned to Phan Rang again. The three volunteers who were stationed there were removed because of security concerns. A short time later, the Viet Cong overran and occupied Phan Rang. There was no reason to return.

The project started out full of hope and in anticipation of creating a lasting monument to Peter Hunting…..and to providing the town of Phan Rang with a library that would be a source of pride and opportunity for the students and people who lived there. It would, in addition, would have been a lasting gift from Peter’s family….and would have been an indication of the IVS’s mission in South Vietnam….as agents of change and peace.

I was naive back in those days. As I left the sleepy province capital and moved to Saigon, I would become wiser, and I would learn that things aren’t always as they seem, that Americans, who matter who they are, were there largely to further their own self-interests….and the line between their self-interest and the desires and welfare and desires of the Vietnamese people are not always the same.

But….. I tried; I did my best. It was the first….and last….library that I have ever built. One is enough.

PART ONE: FLYING TO PHILADELPHIA

It was the trip that was almost “the trip that never happened”……the trip to visit Fayez and his wife. Even after having gone there and after arriving back home, it still seems just a little bit surreal.

In the first place, I never expected to receive a serious, credible invitation for the visit. Sorry, Fayez…. There were the occasional little gestures, little hints of an invitation. “Why don’t you come and visit us?” These “invitations” were always abandoned at that stage, however. There was never any sense of insistence….or persistence.

Yeah, I admit, I am pretty much assimilated into the culture of the USA and our way of doing things. Saying, “Why don’t you come for a visit sometime.” or “Stop by the next time you are in town.” or “We should get together again sometime.” are really only our way of being polite. They are part of our “polite culture.” I am not going to say we really do not mean it when we say things like that. But, our culture more or less accepts that we say things like this because it is courteous. It is a form of social nicety….. Sort of like saying, “How are you?” or “How is everything going?” Come on now…. Do we really want an answer? Do we really want a detailed explanation of someone’s health? Of course not. We are just being polite. “How are you?” is almost a figure of speech. Just like, “Stop by sometime when you have time.”

If I…..or almost anybody else….wants somebody to come and visit, even if just for a drink or for lunch, we are going to say something like, “What are you doing tomorrow night?” or “What are you doing next Wednesday night?” or “Do you want to meet for lunch on Thursday?” Something specific or concrete.

Asking to visit somebody in their home is even a little more sensitive….especially if you have never been to their home before. People are busy. It is rarely….if ever….socially acceptable to simply drop in on somebody without their prior knowledge or even their approval. What if they have other guests? What if they have other plans for that night? What if they are going to bed early that night because they have to get up early the next morning? …… Or, What if they simply do not want you to come. Period!

OK…. Now…. Let’s translate that into an overnight visit….or two days……or two weeks. At this point, things start to get serious. I realize that just because I am retired and have more freedom to arrange my time as I want…..this may not…and probably is not….true of most people. I belong to a couple international hospitality organizations. I often welcome people into my home for short periods of time. Strangers….people whom I have never seen before. The vast majority of these visitors….strangers….are very interesting and appreciative people. Sure… I have had my quota of weirdos. But, even they usually appreciate the hospitality. Most of them don’t even realize they are weird! On the other hand, they probably are asking themselves, “Man, who is this weirdo that I am staying with?” At any rate, I always have the option of accepting the guests that I want….when I want…..and for as long as I want.

In that respect, the guests that I accept from the hospitality organizations are not imposing themselves on me. I have advertised for them…. and I have willingly accepted them This is a little bit different from me telling Fayez, “Hey, I am coming to visit you for a couple weeks!”

Thus….. After three or four of the general….generic….invitations, I decided to test his level of sincerity. “OK… When do you want me to come?” This was my way of giving him a way out….a semi-graceful way out, at least. He could have said something like…. “Oh, maybe sometimes when I have some free time.” (Which, translated into Fayez’s language would mean “Never”.) Or he could have said, “I will let you know.” (Which, also translated, means “Never”.)

However, instead of saying either of these things, he immediately started suggesting some possible times. Or maybe it was just one possible time. Nevertheless, a definite, concrete time was agreed upon. I would arrive on Friday, August 13 (certainly an auspicious day in our society) and would depart on Tuesday, August 17.

With those dates decided upon, I waited for a message saying, “Sorry…. Our apartment complex burned to the ground last night so we don’t have a room for you.” Or “We had an earthquake and all the transportation into and out of Philadelphia is suspended indefinitely.” Or “Our apartment complex doesn’t allow visitors from Kansas because they are so vastly superior to the people of New Jersey, and they intimidate us by making us feel inferior.”

Fortunately, none of these possibilities materialized…..and it began to appear that I was headed for New Jersey to visit Fayez and his wife.   They were living in a town called Mt. Laurel, part of Greater Philadelphia.

Most of my friends were happy that I was able to go. They know that I like to travel….and they are aware that it has been a long time since I have been able to go somewhere. The main questions that my friends here in Kansas asked were, “Will his wife be there?” And “Will you get to meet his wife?” And “Will you be able to talk to his wife?”

“I don’t know,” I told them. “Ask me when I get back.”

All I was concerned with was just getting there…..and getting back.

Anyway, getting back to the story….. I delayed buying a ticket. I was not sure that I could actually pull it off…..the trip, I mean. Back in the “old days”…..even ten years ago….. I thought nothing of flying to Germany once a year. In fact, it was an exciting adventure. Usually, however, back then somebody drove me to Kansas City International Airport….delivered me to the front door, so to speak…..and also came and picked me up and drove me back home again. After I retired, I could usually spend three weeks in Germany. Having somebody take me to the airport was more of an economic thing than a “convenience” thing…..considering it costs $7.50 a day to park in the long-term economy parking lot! Remember…. Beryl is poor! On the other hand, I have to admit, it was pretty nice to simply get my suitcase out of the trunk and walk inside.

For about a week, I vacillated back and forth, trying to consider if I wanted to face the stress of traveling by myself. A lot of you know that I have literally traveled around the world….twice! I have about twenty trips to Europe….alone. Not a problem. I didn’t even think twice about it. But… That was back when I was young(er). Back in those days, nothing frightened me. Trips like these were not daunting at all. Also….But…. Back in those days, I was stronger…. I could walk better….see better…..react faster. And, I was probably just a little bit crazy….if you know what I mean.

I wanted very much to make the trip. I was eager to see Fayez again. It was a rather scary commitment. Finally, I decided. What the heck! And, I searched online for a direct flight to….and from….Philadelphia. I figured that if I got lost in the airport or in the wrong terminal or in the wrong parking lot ….or at the wrong airport….. Well, surely somebody would find me and ship me back home. I arranged for the Indian couple who live in the townhouse next to mine to pick up my mail. I told Kelly, our manager, that I would be gone for four nights. I told my friend Jason….and Sam…. Surely, if they didn’t see me around for a couple months, somebody might start checking on my whereabouts…..maybe.

Friday about 10:00 in the morning, I put my suitcase and little carry-on bag in the car and took off for the airport. Unlike the route from Ozawkie, the trip to KC from Topeka is entirely interstate highway. Topeka is slightly further away…..but faster. I arrived at Parking Lot A…..the lot that serves American Airlines….around 11:15….plenty of time to spare, since my flight didn’t depart until 1:50. I drove up and down the rows of cars looking for a space to park. Man…. Was everybody leaving Kansas City for the weekend? There weren’t any available parking spaces. I kept searching.

Finally, I found a parking space at the far end, next to the fence….and what seemed a few miles (but only maybe a long city block) from the bus stop. I was the only person waiting at the bus stop. I was glad. It gave me some time to rest…..and to decide if I wanted to retrace my steps to the car and drive back home! Here came the Blue Bus, the bus that serves Long Term Economy Parking Lot A. I lifted my suitcase….and more importantly, myself….onto the bus and sat down in the nearest available seat. “Which airline?” the driver asked.

“OK… This sounds promising,” I thought. As the driver wound his way around the vast parking area, other passengers got on the bus.

“Oh, NO!” They were all wearing masks! I had gotten on the bus without my mask. I almost panicked. It was too late to go back to the car and get my mask…. We were already well on our way to the terminal. “Maybe I can buy a mask at the terminal,” I thought. Or, if not, I would have no other choice but to get back on a bus….go back to my car and get mine. For the entire trip from the parking lot to Terminal A, I felt that every eye on the bus was focused on me……and they probably were. I felt that I may as well have been naked! Fortunately, as I got ready to step off the bus, some wonderful, beautiful, considerate, compassionate woman suddenly approached me and asked if I needed a mask! I could have kissed her! I could have given her every cent that I have in my savings account! Thank Heavens for kind people!

“Terminal A…. American Airlines!” the driver announced as the bus came to a halt. Everybody climbed down off the bus. I looked around. “What is this? Where is American Airlines?” I asked one of the baggage handlers. He pointed back the other direction. The driver, out of laziness or out of ignorance, had stopped a quarter mile from the American Airlines ticket counter. Another long walk…. Once inside the terminal….and in the general vicinity of the ticket counter, I felt like I was home free… I should have known better. Checking in was no problem. I had taken care of all the details in advance.

“Where is my gate?” I asked the lady who checked me in.

“It’s just down there,” she said pointing the way. And…. She was right. The gate was only a short walk away. However…. The line of people waiting stretched out almost into infinity! I kept walking….and walking…..and walking…. I was almost sure I would end up back in the parking lot! There was ONE security checkpoint for TEN gates.

This was when I started thinking, “Wow, I wish I had fifty thousand dollars so I could just charter a private airplane.” I didn’t…..so, along with the other five thousand people, I inched my way slowly toward the security inspection point. The worst part of this ordeal was the fact that there was nothing to hang onto or to lean against. I briefly considered hanging onto the person in front of me…..but I did not look forward to finding myself in the hospital….or unconscious on the floor…..or in a jail cell. Sometime later….maybe a birthday or two later…..I finally reached the security checkpoint.

Going through security was a breeze. I had already checked my suitcase, and my little under-size kiddie backpack contained only a book, a seat belt extender, and all the papers I had copied with trip information. The sign said, “Passengers 70 and over do not need to remove their shoes.” ….. Just a small benefit of being a very senior citizen. I told one of the inspectors that I had a pacemaker. She directed me to a sort of bubble- shaped contraption, which hopefully did not contain any magnetic waves. Another guard performed a half-hearted “pat down” and waved me through.

Finally….. All I had to do was sit down and wait for time to board the airplane. Fortunately, the TV monitor in the waiting room was tuned to CNN….and not Fox. The USA had just pulled most of our troops out of Afghanistan, so of course, this was the one and only news story being covered….as is usual with most twenty-four hour news channels. At least, I was hearing some “news” and not right-wing, political propaganda….like Fox’s “this is the way we wish it were” news.

Considering the amount of time it took to get from the parking lot to the terminal….and the amount of time I spent in the security check line….it wasn’t very long before we boarded the flight to Philadelphia. Aboard the airplane, I began to relax a bit. The two and a half hour flight went smoothly. While in flight, we were treated to a small bag of pretzels and a tiny paper cup of “the beverage of our choice”. Their combined value was probably somewhere around twenty-five cents! I ate the pretzels as slowly as I could…..attempting to prolong the pleasure of eating the hard, starchy, salty treats. The total elapsed time was probably an astounding fifteen minutes! A young Black woman sat next to me, in the window seat. She never looked at me or spoke a word to me during the entire trip…..except to say, “Excuse me,” when she apparently went to the restroom. So much for conversation to pass the time….

We actually landed in Philadelphia a few minutes before our scheduled arrival time. What a feeling of relief when the airplane touched the runway! “Ahhh…. Now I get to see Fayez,” I thought. I disembarked the airplane. I looked around for the baggage carousels. Not a baggage carousel in sight! Really? Usually, that is the first thing a person encounters after leaving the airplane. Not in Philadelphia. I asked an employee….probably a custodian….where I could pick up my suitcase. She pointed toward a door. “Just follow the signs,” she said. I went through the door. Sure enough. There were signs. “Baggage Claim”….with an arrow pointing the way.

“Oh, OK.” I went through the door. Another sign. “Baggage Claim”. Another arrow. Another door. Another sign. Another arrow. I was starting to become a little nervous. A little apprehensive. I began to wonder if this was some sort of trick! Maybe the people of Philadelphia had a rather strange sense of humor. I was starting to think, “Oh well, if I can’t find my suitcase, maybe I can get Fayez to take me shopping, and I will just buy all new clothes.” After a while, they would surely ship my suitcase back home.

But, finally, in a land far, far away, I opened the magic door. Eureka! Success at last! I had finally located the elusive, mysterious baggage carousels. I had expected to see the carousels rotating round and round….maybe with my suitcase as the last item to be claimed. For some unknown reason, I had arrived before any of the baggage had been unloaded. There were three carousels. Now…. Just figure out which one my flight would be using. There was no indication…. No flight numbers; no nothing. The only solution was to watch all three baggage carousels….just like everybody else.

Shortly after I arrived, the baggage carousels ground into action. Nervously, my eyes began to dart from one carousel to the next. OK…. Here came the very first suitcase. It was a maroon suitcase. It had two pieces of tape on each handle….a piece of pink tape and a piece of yellow tape. I stared at it again…. Could this be my suitcase? The very first one to enter the carousel? Surely not. I have never been lucky! But… It was my suitcase. A miracle. An anomaly! A fluke of nature. I happily grabbed the suitcase and headed toward the public waiting room…..the reception area….to meet Fayez.

But…. Wait a second. I looked around for a sign to point the way to the waiting room. There was no such sign. There were signs pointing to other concourses, to restrooms, to other gates…. But, No Waiting Room. No Public Area. Again, I became just a little panicked. What is this? Some sort of a trap…..a trap to keep passengers from actually entering Philadelphia? Maybe Philadelphia thought they had enough people without admitting a bunch of “foreigners”. “Maybe I should just buy a ticket and fly back home,” I thought. “Maybe this whole thing was a bad idea.”

I spotted a rather elderly, friendly looking securing guard sitting in the hallway. “Somebody is meeting me. Where do I go to meet him?”

He pointed to a door that said “Exit”…..logical enough. “Do you have everything you need?” he asked. “When you go through that door, you can’t re-enter.”

Yes….. Now I have found it. Fayez would surely be waiting on the other side of the door. What a relief! I felt myself relaxing….and the tension fleeing my body.

I eagerly opened the door. “What is this? Where am I? What did I just do?” I was not in a waiting room. I was outside! Outside…. with a locked door behind me. I stood for a few minutes just considering the situation…. Contemplating my options.

I decided the best plan was to call Fayez and tell him that I had arrived…..and explain to the best of my ability where I was located. The truth of the matter was…. I had no idea where I was! Literally. I had fully expected to end up in a waiting area…..and Fayez would be standing there, smiling (I hoped), and eager to welcome me to Philadelphia. However, now I was standing outside a locked door wondering where in the heck I was.

I could tell that I was in a loading zone….or a pick-up zone. And, that was about all I knew. I had no sense of directions….. no way to orient myself. I saw a sign that said “American” …..and a gate number. There was a bench almost directly beneath the sign. “OK. This is my best bet…..my only option.” Surely from that information, Fayez will surely find me……someday. Either that, or he will just give up and go back home and pretend like it never happened. And, I would be left homeless, wandering the streets of Philadelphia….sleeping under bridges…..begging for food. Or…. I could just buy a ticket back to Kansas City….and with the help of some therapy and maybe some intense hypnosis, block their entire ordeal from my memory.

Sitting on that hard metal bench, not having a clue where I was, I made a solemn, but firm, promise to myself: Never again was I going to fly in an airplane on a domestic flight.

After several phone conversations with Fayez…..and after maybe forty or forty five minutes, he finally found me, with his trademark smile. I could relax and start my long anticipated visit with Fayez.

PART TWO: FINALLY PHILADELPHIA

Yeah…. Believe me, the metal grated bench I was sitting on was getting uncomfortable. Steel is not the most comfortable surface to sit on, just in case you have never tried it. My back….and other parts of my lower anatomy….were getting sore. I was already somewhat frustrated by the trip. I was pretty sure I was in Philadelphia….and at the airport. Other than that, I really did not have a clue. Fortunately, the outside loading zone was semi-underground, so it was shaded from the unmerciful sun that was beating down that Friday afternoon.

I sat and watched as hundreds of other passengers whipped out their cell phones to consult with others….presumably people who were coming to pick them up. I watched as dozens of cars pulled up to the curb and the waiting passengers were greeted happily… threw their suitcases into the trunks of cars….. and drove off into the heat of the late afternoon. I continued to sit on the metal bench which could have well been discarded from a nearby torture chamber. I was starting to become just a little apprehensive…although never frightened. I thought, “Well, if Fayez hasn’t arrived by sunset, he has probably just given up and gone back home. I can always find my way back into the airport…..and buy a ticket back home.”

Actually, I really didn’t see Fayez when he first pulled up. It had been a year and a half since I had seen his car, and I really wasn’t sure what I was looking for. As for Fayez…. Who can ever forget that face….that ray of sunshine! My eyes were constantly darting back and forth, as I watched the never-ending stream of vehicles, coming and going, stopping to pick passengers and then departing…..only to be instantly replaced by other vehicles with a similar mission. My head felt much like it was automated: Swivel left; swivel right….back and forth. On one of the right-hand swivels, I caught sight of a silver car…a compact car. It did no good to look for a Kansas license plate, which would have been almost positive identification, because Fayez hand long since changed from Kansas plates to Missouri plates to New Jersey plates.

There was no way to mistake the guy who got out of the car, though. It would take more than a year and a half to change that smiling face. Ahhh now…. I became one of those people swinging his suitcase into the back seat (actually Fayez did it) and driving away….leaving behind the hundreds of other passengers still waiting eagerly….or nervously….or desperately…..for their escape from the confusion and disorder of the Philadelphia airport.

It was good to see Fayez again. Nothing really had changed. He was still the Fayez that I knew and remembered. Same sunshine smile; same, but an ever-changing black beard. Good old Fayez. Even the gap of about a year and half seemed to evaporate away. Suddenly, the trip became worth it.

It was getting late in the afternoon when the airplane landed in Philadelphia. And, it was much later when I finally maneuvered all the intricacies of the airport. It was approaching early evening by the time Fayez found me and we actually left the airport. Before driving to the apartment where Fayez and his wife live, Fayez gave me a sort of introductory taste of the city.

Aside from Washington, D. C, of course, and maybe Boston, Philadelphia no doubt contains more of our nation’s history than any other city. If our country has a birth place….or at least a home for its first formative years before it began to stand on its own two feet and begin to take its first few faltering steps, Philadelphia is where it happened. Maybe it didn’t grow up there…..but it at least spent its childhood there.

Before I had left to travel to Philadelphia, I sent Fayez a list of sites that were on my Top Ten list of things to see: Almost all of them dealt with our nation’s early history….aside from a couple art venues. I had never been to Philadelphia prior to this visit. It is pretty well known that Philadelphia had steadily declined in population in the past fifty years. In fact, since 1950 it has lost about 25% of its population…..the number of people having dropped from a little over two million to a present day population of just over one and a half million people. However, the metro area of Philadelphia is home to a teeming excess of six million people. And, that is a lot of people! Philadelphia once was the 3rd largest city in the USA. Now it ranks 6th.

On the limited, introductory tour, I was aware that we saw only the smallest fraction of the city. However, I did immediately recognize some of the major landmarks from the research I had already done….Independence Hall, Philadelphia City Hall, Constitution Hall, the Philadelphia Museum of Art….just to name a few. We drove through a couple university districts, through a large portion of “downtown”….and other places where I had no idea where I was. The drive was entertaining…..but it also gave me an opportunity to orient myself….to get a sense of direction. And, to all of you who were born and raised in the Midwest, you know how important directions are. I never learned right from left until I was in the Army!

One thing struck me as we were driving around….. Philadelphia is a rather pretty city. At least the parts we drive through. It was an enticing prelude or preview of the closer inspection we would make the following day. This short journey also helped to dissipate some of the frustration I had experienced earlier. It helped jolt me out of any feeling of sluggishness or weariness that the flight had induced….and all the accompanying annoyances and irritations it had engendered. If nothing else, riding with Fayez is exciting. Forget that expensive visit to an amusement park. Don’t even consider seeking your thrill with a ride on a roller coaster. You only have to slide into the passenger seat of any vehicle with Fayez as the driver. You can be assured that this experience will test your nervous system to the max! It will be an adventure you will never forget….with equal amounts of danger, thrills, precariousness, and risks. If you were feeling sleepy or drowsy. This is the cure. In fact, it may be several days before you will sleep again! Actually, I kid Fayez a lot about his driving….most of it unjustified!

So…. Now that I have been introduced to Philadelphia…..and now that I am wide awake….our next destination was to the apartment where Fayez and his wife live. It is not in Philadelphia. Their apartment is located in Mt. Laurel, New Jersey….across the state line and across the Delaware River, but still well within the Philadelphia metropolitan area. They live in a large apartment complex called Ramblewood Village. Ramblewood Village is set in a rather idyllic setting of trees and lawns far removed from the noise and confusion of Philadelphia. Although in close proximity to all this noise and confusion….as well as to the amenities and necessities of comfortable living…..their apartment is quiet and serene with green lawns and an abundance of trees.

With Fayez carrying my suitcase and little backpack, I followed him to their apartment. Only about a week before I bought my ticket did he reveal a bit of information that almost ended the trip before it began. Fayez opened the door to their apartment, and before me lay an obstacle which appeared almost as challenging as Mt. Everest…… A flight of stairs. Their apartment was located on the second floor of the apartment building.

Fayez had told me they were moving to another apartment, one which would be more convenient to his job and his wife’s college. He informed me that they had found an apartment which was located on the ground floor….two bedrooms. I don’t know if they did this so I could come and visit them…. It sounded to me to be very gracious, thoughtful. His consideration was very touching. Well…. At any rate, half of this description proved to be true: Their new apartment did indeed have two bedrooms. Back when I was a classroom teacher, 50% was not an enviable score!

One evening, during one of our regular twice-weekly conversations, he somewhat sheepishly….and probably reluctantly…. told me that the apartment they had originally wanted….maybe even been promised….had already been rented to somebody else. Thus, they were forced to rent an apartment on the second floor. Believe me…. This was not good news. Because of a rather advanced state of arthritis in my right knee…..and with a large dose of old age thrown in for good measure…. I find it very difficult to climb anything: mountains, ladders, trees…..and most of all, stairs.

The effect of this bit of unexpected news was rather similar to letting the air out of a balloon. The prospect of having to climb a steep flight of stairs was not part of the scenario that I had anticipated. Anyway…. Fayez unlocked the door to the apartment….and there it was: A stairway of about fifteen steps, disappearing upward into the Heavens above. As has always been true: Life is composed entirely of a series of choices.

At this point, I was staring into the face of two diametrical choices: Should I climb the stairs and face the prospect of falling down fifteen steps to the almost certain possibility of cracking my skull and ending up paralyzed for the remainder of my life with a broken spine? Or should I simply spend the nights sleeping in at the base of the stairs? I could have sat on the steps and read my book at night. Fayez could have brought some food down to me on a paper plate. In all likelihood, we could have carried on a conversation by shouting questions and answers to each other….as long as our voices held out.

With a feeling of great fear and sacrifice, I made the decision to climb the stairs to the apartment. Fayez walked slowly behind me…. To prop me up; to push me along; and to act as a cushion if I should fall. Actually, I climbed the stairs at least once a day. There was a strong, sturdy railing that I could hang on to. And…. The good news: I managed to live to write about the experience. Anyway…. As Fayez has always told me, “You’ve already lived long enough!”

As we were driving toward Fayez’s apartment, I was also wondering about some of the same questions people asked me before I made the trip: Would Fayez’s wife actually be there? Would she speak to me? Would she stay in the same room where I was….or would she avoid me? Would Fayez let me talk to her?

Fayez’s wife’s name is Maya. Well… That is not her real name, but it is what we agreed I could….and would….call her. I really do not know her given name. It is one of those names that people of the Western world….like me, for example…..are not supposed to be able to pronounce. But… It does start with the letter “M”. And, Maya is a name that I can pronounce….and she can pronounce. It is a name that I like….and that she likes. So…. To me, her name is Maya.

After I valiantly conquered the stairs, and having regained my ability to breathe and to talk again…. Fayez introduced me to his wife.

I was pleasantly surprised….not “surprised”!….but, you know what I mean. She is a lovely, pleasant, intelligent and articulate young lady. From the minute I met her, I knew that I would enjoy the my time with them…..and there would be no problems….cultural or otherwise. Knowing this, I immediately felt that I could just relax and have a good time.

Fayez gave me a brief tour of their apartment and then left me in what was to become “my room” for the next four nights. There really wasn’t much to unpack. The most immediate things I needed were the little “tablet” that AT&T gave me as some sort of reward when Sultan and I stopped in Reno, Nevada, to ask a question about my Internet service….and the book I had brought with me, my medicine…..and my glasses. The glasses were no doubt the most important of these items. There was really no need to unpack any clothing. I would be living out of my suitcase for the next three days.

My room looked out upon the “front yard” of the apartment complex…not that I had an opportunity to sit and look out. In comparison to my townhouse, which looks out on a parking area, the view from their apartment was green lawns and trees. Unlike my townhouse, which is usually busy with children playing noisily and enthusiastically in front of their homes, the scene outside their apartment was relatively quiet and serene.

There was not a lot of time to contemplate the setting or the scenery, though. It was approaching dinner time by the time we arrived at the apartment. It was only a few minutes later that Fayez announced that dinner was ready. Fayez had already told me that Maya is a great cook….and that I would be treated to come delicious food that she would prepare. He was correct.

That evening, Maya had prepared what I had long recognized as a typical Arab meal…..lamb, accompanied by rice and vegetables, plus a super-delicious salad. My taste buds were delighted. She also served some sort of beverage, similar….but not identical to….butter milk. It, too, was delicious in its own peculiar way. I was hungry, too. Other than a bowl of raisin bran that I had eaten at home early in the morning, the only other food that I had was a little bag of pretzels which was served on the airplane. I am sure that I ate my share of the food…..more than my share. It had been several months since I had tasted Arab food…..but neither my taste buds nor my stomach had forgotten. By the end of the meal, I had already ranked Maya’s culinary talents as equal to or even surpassing the extraordinary gastronomical talents of Fayez and Sultan. In any event, it certainly beat the little bag of pretzels I ate on the airplane.

 

 

 

The first evening we just sat around and talked. I was assigned to a desk chair….mostly because it was the easiest to get out of. Finally, it was time to call it a day. My bedroom was functional: a desk, a chair, and a bed with a surprisingly good mattress. The only problem that occurred…..and would continue to occur throughout my visit…..was that the blinds which covered the window got caught on something and would not close fully. I tried to “unstick” them, I only succeeded in knocking some stuff off the desk in the process. I gave up. “What the heck!” I thought. “If people want to stand and watch me undress…. Who am I to deprive them of their entertainment? The show would be well worth their time!”

After an unexpected good night’s sleep, I woke up around 8:00, fully expecting that Fayez had already been up for an hour…..and that I was delaying breakfast. There was no light shining under my door, and the apartment was silent. Finally, around 8:45 or 8:50, I got out of bed and headed to the bathroom to take a shower. One problem…. The door to the shower was locked. No big deal. I have read in several sources that Americans take too many showers….that taking a shower every day is not necessary. I washed my face, brushed my teeth and went back to my room to check my email and Facebook page.

After a leisurely breakfast of cereal, Fayez and I left the apartment around 10:30 or so for a day of sightseeing. Maya was spending the day with some friends. Back in the planning stages of the trip, I made a list of several places that I really wanted to see. Fayez readily agreed with my choices. A few of the places were merely “photo ops”, places that I figured would take 5 or 10 minutes at the most. Other places, such as the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Constitution Center would take longer. Actually, I was concerned that maybe we were going to end up with a lot of free time on our hands at the end of the afternoon.

Philadelphia is one of the birthplaces of our nation…..if something can have more than one birthplace….ranking with equal importance with Boston and Washington…..and maybe New York City, if we want to stretch the point. The Declaration of Independence was drafted; the First and Second Continental Congresses met; our Constitution was signed. These are all cornerstones of our nation. Also consider, Pennsylvania was the foundation of true religious freedom in the USA…..not to mention that the very first Presbyterian Church (to which I belong!) was established in Philadelphia.

Free time was the least of our problems. In fact, there was no time to spare. This was my first visit to Philadelphia. There were many elements and circumstances that I had failed to factor into my advance planning…..all of them purely out of ignorance…..and innocence, I might add. First of all, we started our day a little later than I had anticipated. Also, I was not familiar with the length of time it took to drive from Fayez’s apartment to downtown Philadelphia….nor the effect the traffic would have on our trip…..nor the time it would take to locate each venue….nor the difficulty we would face in finding a place to park…..nor the time we would stand in line at some of the sites we visited.

The first attraction we visited was the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Fayez and I went to see the superior collection of art. Many…..probably most….people go there because it is the “Rocky” museum. I doubt if the vast majority of people ever go inside the building. The Philadelphia Museum of Art is the location of the iconic set of stairs where the fictitious underdog boxer trained in the movie of the same name. The movie, “Rocky” was released in 1976 and proved to be wildly popular….so popular that it developed into a series of films….all of which were greeted with poor critical reviews, but to wide acceptance from the movie-going public, who do not demand a lot of quality in their movie choices. I too admit, however, that I saw the original “Rocky” movie, although it was years later that I learned that the iconic setting for the famous staircase scenes were filmed at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Those people who made a trip to this museum only to run up the stairs or to have their picture taken with the since famous “Rocky” statue, deprived themselves of a visual and important artistic treat. While the Philadelphia Art Museum may not be quite on the same level as some of the art museums in New York City and Washington, D. C., it contains some of the most famous and rare works of art, and it is recognized as one of the major art repositories in the USA …..no doubt about that.

As much as I would have liked to, entering the museum by the iconic front steps was not an option for me. We drove around to the “back” entrance, instead. I got out of the car to wait while Fayez went in search of another rare commodity: a parking space. The “back” of the museum is almost equally as impressive as the front entrance….minus the long flight of stairs. Not quite….but not too shabby. While I was waiting for Fayez to return, I took a few pictures, and then sat on even another uncomfortable bench. There is something about those metal benches in Philadelphia. I am not sure if they are built to accommodate or strengthen….or agitate a person’s back…..and even lower parts of the anatomy. Given the choice of standing or sitting, however….. I chose to sit. Fayez soon appeared, thirty-five dollars poorer. That was the fee to park in the museum parking lot. I am not sure…..but I think this may have been more than the price of an individual ticket to the museum. But, I suppose they had to keep their priorities straight: Money before art. With these preliminary steps accomplished, we put on our masks and prepared to feast our eyes on the beauty and elegance of some world-renowned art.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Philadelphia Art Museum is huge, rivaling the size of major art museums I visited in Berlin, Paris or Vienna. I can well imagine that several football games could have been played simultaneously…..or shall we say soccer, in deference to Fayez….within its walls. The building covered four floors, not including the basement level.

The museum would be impossible to adequately cover in one day. There were too many things to see. We had to prioritize our time. This was only the first of what we hoped would be several attractions we would see that day. Fayez’s first choice was to see older European masterpieces. I was most interested in looking at contemporary or abstract art, along with work by the more recent European and American artists. Fortunately, both of our preferences were adequately represented.

 

 

 

 

I will admit, however, that there was a distinct lack of contemporary and abstract paintings. This is probably because a couple other art galleries or museums are devoted exclusively to this genre of art. Both of these venues were included on my list of places I hoped we could visit.

 

 

 

 

Fayez likes the older European masterpieces.  While I  don’t “dislike” them, I do find them to be too dark….too foreboding….too depressing….for my personal taste. I simply do not relate to them. I lived the first ten years or so of my life without electricity, without running water, without natural gas, without a telephone…. And, I lived on a farm…. I prefer “modern”. I like living today. Living in the Medieval period of European history has never been on my Top Ten List of things to do. Even the peaceful, idyllic, pastoral scenes look spooky and threatening…..like something out of a Gothic murder novel. To me they seem to foreshadow all manner of evil and intrigue. Of course, this is certainly not their intention. But, still, these are the feelings they conjure up in me!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We didn’t have to worry. Happily, here were enough paintings to satisfy both our preferences. More than enough. If we had stopped and admired and contemplated and discussed each picture…. Chances are, we would still be there walking through the myriad of rooms and hallways, admiring the paintings and saying, “Oh, that’s a nice one!”

I never bothered to keep track of the number of paintings by each artist. In the vast collection, many world renowned artists were represented, however: Monet, Renoir, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, Cezanne, Picasso, Kandinsky, Chagall, Matisse, Rubens, and…and….and…. Paintings ranged from the subtle impressionism of Claude Monet, with his skillfully blended dabs of paint and genius illusions of light….to the strange and slightly weird works by Marc Chagall with his trademark little goats and other strange objects floating in the air and in other unexpected places….to the definitely eccentric and slightly unnatural paintings of Pablo Picasso. If I didn’t know any better (and I don’t), I would assume that Picasso was definitely smoking something illegal as he sat before his easel. Either that, or he most certainly needed a new pair of glasses.

 

 

 

Maybe the biggest disappointment for me was the apparent absence of paintings by American artist Jackson Pollack. The originality of Pollack’s “splattering” painting was what first attracted me to modern or abstract art way back when I was still a kid. There could have been a painting somewhere in the museum, and, if so, in our cursory inspection we overlooked it. We were, however, treated to works of other American artists such as Edward Hopper, Andy Warhol, Andrew Wyeth and Thomas Eakins.

Let’s talk about those early European paintings that Fayez wanted to see. Sure…. As I said, many of them are dark and foreboding….suggesting that evil is lurking somewhere in the shadows. However, on the other hand, this was the period of history three or four centuries before the invention of the camera. Today, if we want a picture of something or somebody, it is as simple as the click of a camera. And, perhaps unfortunately, with a camera “What you see is what you get!” A camera only records what is there. The camera can’t tell pretty from ugly…..but an artist can.

Centuries ago when the paintings hanging in the Philadelphia Museum of Art were painted, the one and only way of recording and preserving what a person looked like was to paint a picture. With today’s modern and instant photography, a person can have dozens of pictures to chose from. And, if everybody is like me…. They are going to choose the most flattering picture. Probably the same with you, too? Right? Well….back in “those days”, I can well imagine that if a person was going to pay out a rather large sum of money to have a portrait painted….a portrait of himself, his wife (or lover) or even his family…..he wanted that portrait to present the person to the very best advantage and in the very best visual appearance possible. Heck…. I would expect that if somebody painted a portrait of me today!

It has been suggested….even confirmed in most cases…..that the portraits we see hanging in art museums undoubtedly present the subject in the very best manner possible. Maybe that is not so different from modern day photo-editing techniques that are designed to accomplish the same objective! However, in the case of painting a portrait, the editing is done during the present….in the process….and not after the fact. Also, remember…. Only the affluent people….OK….the rich people….could afford to have portraits painted. And… Are rich people vain? I wouldn’t know. I have never had the opportunity to find out.

And, what about all those nude women? And, we think we have a fascination with nude women today? Nowadays, of course, the pictures of nude women are mostly photographs….mostly sexual in nature…..some unenlightened people would even call it pornography. And, of course, some of it….a lot of it….is. Stop and think. How many times have you driven down a public highway and have seen several nude women romping around? When was the last time you visited your local park only to find it overrun with naked women? Or, on that last stroll you took through the woods on our favorite walking trail? Was it abounding with girls completely without clothing?

Wouldn’t that be nice? Probably more people would visit their local park….and more people….men, at least….would take up hiking as a hobby. Even as a college history major, I am not sure how realistic these paintings are. Was this a normal part of social behavior back in those times? Were these people just not as prudish as some members of our society are today? Were these paintings somewhat realistic…..or were they a figment of the artist’s (wishful thinking) imagination? Who knows? Who cares? And, incidentally, I am almost sure were an equal number of nude males hanging through the museum.

At any rate, the Philadelphia Museum of Art has a generous number of nude paintings by highly acclaimed artists such as Goya, Matisse, Duchamp, and Manet. Even Picasso got into the act by painting his share of nudes…..although at first glance, a person may not have been aware of it. Unless you are also under the influence of whatever he was smoking at the time.

I had to fight to drag Fayez away from the nude pictures…..but, we had other places to visit. We had done a quick, but interesting and entertaining, walk-through of the museum. It was time to move on to other equally famous….and even more historical…..venues. There were a lot more things waiting for us out there in Philadelphia-land.

Back in Fayez’s car, we turned our attention from art to history. As pointed out earlier, Philadelphia is one of the most important cities in the history of our nation. I won’t go into any illusions or analogies now…. But, let’s say that Philadelphia was no doubt the “birthplace” of our nation…..and Boston, New York City, Concord and such places were…well, you know….what happens before birth can take place.

I had a list of historical sites that I wanted to visit. However, I had grossly misjudged a couple factors: We got a late start; the Philadelphia Museum of Art took longer than was planned (although I should have known that was going to happen); fighting Saturday traffic slowed us down significantly; and finding a parking space in downtown Philadelphia was a major problem.

It was already well into the afternoon when Fayez parked his car in a parking space about a block from the Liberty Bell. Finding the parking space was itself a major stroke of luck….almost like a Divine gift or reward. And…. parking on the street is a major bargain as compared to the excessive prices required by parking lots.

From the time that I was just a little boy, the story and legends and myths surrounding the Liberty Bell have been told and retold. It is one of those symbols of our liberty….of our freedom. As school kids, I am almost certain that we were fed a series of myths….the kind of story that kids are often told because it is easy for them to understand. As Kris Kristofferson would say, “Partly truth and partly fiction.” But, it is generally accepted that the Liberty Bell once hung in what is now known as Independence Hall and was used to call law makers to meetings. The bell cracked on its first use. It was recast….cracked again some years later. Its failed state of repair is what is on display today.

For some reason, I had always imagined that the Liberty Bell was on display out in the open…. in some historic park….properly sheltered and closely guarded, of course. The pictures that I have seen always show the Liberty Bell with buildings….Independence Hall, for example…..in the background. People were always gathered around it, admiring it, taking pictures….all the things a person does when viewing a famous monument. I can imagine that a vast majority of people who have not seen it in person have the same vision in their mind

It is a pity to shatter such patriotic illusions…..especially for my right wing Republican friends who know the Liberty Bell is important, but haven’t the vaguest idea what it is or what it stands for (like almost everything else in their life!) I was surprised and a little disappointed myself. The first day I was in Philadelphia….the day that Fayez was driving me around the downtown area, giving me an introductory tour…..I kept looking for a small, glass-wall pavilion with people crowded around. That, I had assumed, would be the Liberty Bell. Of course, I saw no such place…..because no such place existed.

Even on this sunny Saturday afternoon, I still visualizing the same misconception as we were searching for the famous landmark. We knew we were in very close proximity when we saw buildings with names such as National Constitution Center, Independence Visitor’s Center. This was about the time that Fayez spotted our much coveted parking spot. He slammed on the brakes and immediately backed into the parking space. Fayez asked a vendor on the corner where the Liberty Bell was located. He pointed to the park across the street. Good luck….and maybe good fate…was on our side. We had found the right place…..and only a short distance away, too…..and parking on the street cost only a fraction of what Fayez had paid at the art museum.

As we approached the large public space, we immediately spotted Independence Hall across the street from the park, maybe a block away. But….. The Liberty Bell? There was no glass-wall pavilion surrounded by happy, emotional citizens! No…. It became apparent that it was somewhat more complicated than that. There was another ubiquitous line to stand in. So…. Again, we took our place at the end of another long line. Sometimes it seemed that Fayez and I spent more time standing lines than we did looking at whatever attraction it happened to be.

Instead of being out in the open, as I had visualized it, the Liberty Bell was located in yet another building….a museum, I suppose one could call it. There were four steps involved in the process of viewing the Liberty Bell: (1) Stand in a long line and inch our way forward. (2) Enter the museum with lots of exhibits which nobody seemed to be interested in. (3) Locate the Liberty Bell, which was at the very end of the long museum and (4) Stand briefly….very briefly…..in front of it and have our picture taken….and there was also a fifth step, I suppose: Leave the museum by another door and wonder if it was worth the effort.

Of course it was. At least, for any person seeing the Liberty Bell for the first time. There it was: Just a rather plain-looking bell with a crack in it. This in no way detracted or subtracted from its historical significance. We had just seen….and had our pictures taken standing in front of…. the bell which was made and first used before the Declaration of Independence was signed. That, in itself was rather special. We had experienced an icon of United States history. And, it was one of the very few attractions that was absolutely free….except for the time we stood in line to see it.

While standing in line to enter the museum which housed the Liberty Bell, a recorded message which played over and over, continuously, gave instructions on what to do when we entered the building: Most important of which was Always Keep Your Mask On, Even While Taking Pictures. One of the workers or museum attendants also walked up and down the line at intervals giving the same verbal instructions: Always Keep Your Mask On, Even While Taking Pictures! I don’t know…. I had no problem understanding those simple instructions. He spoke reasonably distinctly….pronounced his words clearly….didn’t stutter. Amazingly enough, however, once people positioned themselves in front of the Liberty Bell to have their picture taken…. What was the first thigh they did? Yes…. You guessed it. They took off their mask! Of course, the security guard immediately told them, “Put your mask on!” If the security guard is being paid for the number of times he repeated that command or warning…. He is probably a rich man! Let me quickly assure you: Both Fayez and I kept our masks on. We certainly cannot be counted in the legions of idiots who somehow apparently thought the warning did not apply to them. And, of course, Fayez looks much better when he is wearing a mask!

 

 

 

 

After Fayez and I each had our pictures taken in front of the Liberty Bell, there wasn’t anything else to do except leave. Mission accomplished. Maybe an hour of standing in line. Maybe five minutes….and that is being generous….in front of the Liberty Bell….and it was all over. We walked through the door…..and we were outside again.

While we were standing in line, we had ample time and opportunity to take pictures of Independence Hall. It was right across the street from the Liberty Bell. Those were straight-on camera shots, probably the most common and familiar of the pictures we see in the travel brochures. From outside the “back door” of the Liberty Bell Museum we were able to take photos of Independence Hall from a different angle. No matter which angle a picture is taken from, it is virtually impossible to capture it without city skyscrapers in the background. It is easy to forget that famous buildings such as this….buildings that once stood in undeveloped isolation….are now merely a part of the city landscape. They sometimes stand out starkly in contrast to our modern day buildings. This is true of many iconic buildings. For example, The Alamo is almost always photographed close up to hide the fact that it is also located in downtown San Antonio, surrounded by the same sort of modern high rise buildings. Even when Fayez and I visited Niagara Falls, I was somewhat amazed to find that while wild and spectacular, the falls is also surrounded by a maze of hotels, high rise apartments and commercial buildings. The old contrasting with the new…..

Time was starting to get away from us by the time Fayez retrieved his car and picked me up. Fayez again drove past Philadelphia’s famous city hall, which I think I already mentioned is the largest municipal building in the USA, encompassing almost an entire city block.

As we continued to drive, by some stroke of good fortune, we spotted the famous Philadelphia “Love Sculpture”. It was one of the attractions I had written on my list of things to see, but since it has little historical significance, it was toward the end of the list. But…. There it was! It was much smaller than I had envisioned from the pictures of it on the Internet. The fact that it was not physically imposing did not keep people from crowding around it to have their pictures taken…..a lot of them, no doubt, couples or lovers who had come to Philadelphia to see it without any thought or knowledge of the city’s great historical importance. Everybody is interested in his own thing, I suppose.

Fayez was getting tired. I could tell…. I was tired, too. But, I am accustomed to being tired….to hurting…. I could have pushed on…. It is what I always have to do. Just try to keep going…. But, he was right. We had been on our feet since 11:30, and the time was now approaching the 5:00 hour. It was time to take it easy for a while. Fayez suggested we find a place to stop for a drink…..a suggestion with which I fully concurred. After driving around a bit, Fayez muttered, “Wa-Wa”, a couple times. I wasn’t sure if he was singing a nursery rhyme….or saying something in Arabic, which he often does, maybe unconsciously. I had not heard the term before….except maybe when somebody was talking to a baby. He turned a corner, and pulled the car to a stop.
“Let’s go to “Wa-Wa’s,” he said. I was starting to think that maybe he had indeed over-exerted himself or maybe the sun was starting to affect his speech. Neither of these was the case….at least, I don’t think so. “Wa-Wa’s” is the name of a locally or regionally owned convenience store…..maybe something like Casey’s or Kwik-Shop here in Kansas. While I sat down at one of the outside tables, Fayez went inside and ordered each of us a cold drink and a muffin. I sat watching the people and the traffic. Although we were on the fringes of downtown Philadelphia, we were close enough to have a good view of the impressive city skyline. We finished our drinks and left before it dawned on me that I never took a picture of the little store that I had never heard of….the store with the amusing, unlikely name.

Before I departed on the trip, one of my friends had asked me to take a picture of the home stadium of the Philadelphia Eagles, one of his favorite professional football teams…..They are a team that I view with total indifference….unless they are play either the Kansas City Chiefs or the Denver Broncos….and then I am definitely cheering for the Chiefs or the Broncos! I agreed to take the picture if the opportunity arose. More or less refreshed by our short time out at “Wa-Wa’s”, we set off to take pictures of the final tourist destination of the day. We had driven past the stadium at least a couple time previously, since it is located just off I-95, which apparently is the highway Fayez takes each day as he drives into the city for his job. As is true with many cities with multiple professional teams, the home of all three of Philadelphia’s major professional sports teams….the 76’ers basketball team, the Phillies baseball team, the Eagles football team….. are all located adjacent to each other and share a common parking area.

Upon arriving at the stadium….Lincoln Financial Field….we discovered there was a Phillies game that evening, and there was a fee to enter the parking lot. Not wanting to pay another parking fee, especially just to take a picture, we opted to take a few pictures of the stadium from the street and other assorted nearby temporary parking locations. Personally, none of these professional sports teams excite or interest me. They are an important part of Philadelphia….and they….at least, the Eagles football team…..are important to my friend, Jason.

Our sightseeing in Philadelphia basically had come to an end. We had visited or seen five of the attractions on the list I had sent to Fayez prior to the trip. Five out of maybe twelve or fifteen sites….. That really is not so bad. The day would have to be placed in the “Win” column, to put it in sports language. First-time visits are usually interesting, and instructive and enlightening. As I was searching the Internet for things to do in Philadelphia, my fear was not finding enough worthwhile places to visit….that we would go through the list too quickly and be left with a lot of idle, unfilled time on our hands.

 

 

 

 

 

Although I should have known better, I neglected to consider such factors as heavy traffic and the endless lines. Sites which I had thought to be only quick photo ops, turned out to be major time consuming events….such as the Liberty Bell. I have spent time in several major cities and have faced the same problems and situations. How quickly I forget such circumstances. New city….new expectations…new excitement, but old results, old outcomes. Any rational person….(Is that I?)… should expect that a day in Philadelphia is only the beginning of discovering all it has to offer…..sort of like the preface to a book. The fact that I arrived on a weekend…..in the middle of August….did not work to our advantage, either. But…. If I had seen it all….done it all: There would be no need to return to continue the adventure at another time.

After finding and photographing the Philadelphia professional sports complex, Fayez said that we were going to eat in the best pizza place in the city. Well….OK….a bit of hyperbole, but I was looking forward to sampling what it had to offer. We made our way back to the center city in search of the pizza parlor. Again….just like our good fortune at the Liberty Bell….a parking space opened up directly across the street from our destination. We must have been doing something right that day.

Pizzeria Ventri is a quaint Italian-style little restaurant. Customers are seated at long communal tables instead of more traditional booths. The restaurant was doing a brisk business, but Fayez and I were able to find a mostly unoccupied table that offered a degree of privacy. The friendly waitress bought our menus and left us to consider what we would order. I was rather astonished and puzzled that this was apparently not as “Italian” as I had suspected. The menu was extensive, and they offered a wide variety of pizzas. On this lengthy menu was a myriad of Italian food, including a long list of pizza. Only one of these pizzas….only one….. contained meat. And, as our luck would have it….. That single meat was pepperoni. A pork product!

 

 

 

 

As I said, I was mildly amazed and bewildered at this situation. Italians are famous meat eaters. Is there such a thing as a vegetarian Italian? Surely, there had to be other, unlisted choices. The waitress assured us that the menu was correct: What you see is what you get! Fayez seemed to be content to order a spinach pizza. Not I. Even though I am not a big fan of pepperoni….I prefer beef….I ordered it as a last resort. And, Yes… The food was good. Our hunger was satisfied. We enjoyed our meals. All is well that ends well….. But, authentic Italian pizza with no meat?

We spent the second evening sitting on their cozy balcony, relaxing, talking and enjoying the beauty and solitude of the little forest that grows behind their apartment.

 

 

 

 

PART 3: BORDERS AND THE BEACH

After another surprisingly good night’s sleep, I woke semi-refreshed on Sunday morning. And, Fayez had remembered to unlock the door to the shower, which sort of helped kick start the morning. I awoke around 8:00….rather early for me. Again, I was the first person awake, so I messed around in my room, checking email, checking Facebook….doing all the important things without which we cannot possibly live a normal, fulfilling life….while I waited for the morning to come alive.

The three of us ate breakfast together….something delicious, but which escapes my memory at the present time. While eating, we set our goals for the day and devised a plan to achieve them. The only remaining desire….or goal….that I had was to have a picture taken of me in front of three state border signs…..Connecticut, Delaware and Maryland. Well, of course, that is besides visiting with Fayez and Maya!

“Sightseeing”, as such, had ended with the sites we had seen in Philadelphia the previous day. It was a productive day, especially considering all the unforeseen and uncontrollable factors and circumstances that I did not have enough knowledge or experience to consider. Fayez had mentioned the possibility of taking a bus tour of Philadelphia, much like the one we had taken in New York City a few years previously. This was an option, although we never really gave it much serious consideration. On a tour such as this, we would have seen many more “attractions”….but only from the outside. At best, it would have been a very superficial event.

Fayez and I opted to take our chances and see whatever we could on our own. Yes, it is true that we we only able to explore two venues with any degree of thoroughness….the Philadelphia Museum of Art and the Liberty Bell. There were also the brief encounter with Independence Hall, the quick, but adequate look at the Philadelphia sports complex and a fleeting view of Love Sculpture….but those were sufficient. Oh yes…. Let’s not forget Wa-Wa’s.

So….. Sightseeing was over. It was a new day. We were in pursuit of the two elusive state signs that we neglected to stop for during the previous trip. Although the matter was somewhat out of my control back in those days…..it does highlight an important point. Always take advantage of an opportunity when it arises. Believe me… It is so much easier….and less time consuming…..and less expensive….and less frustrating.

My philosophy of taking a trip….one by automobile…..is to enjoy it! Learn from it! Absorb it! Rejoice in the moment! Take it all in. Get lost in it… Make memories…. Why would a person even consider paying a large sum of money…..rental car, hotel rooms, food, campgrounds…..and then simply to get into a car and drive? If I wanted to do that, I can drive around Topeka for a couple weeks without stopping. To me, it makes no sense. Unless a person has a truly photographic memory….and maybe some rather strange and weird people do….the only way to capture these memories is to take pictures…..the more, the better.

Personally, I do not have anything that can be even remotely described as a photographic memory. But, I do have a camera….a digital camera. And, I can take almost an unlimited number of pictures…..of anything…..of everything. And, given this opportunity, why wouldn’t I? Why am I a thousand miles from home….driving through towering mountains or magnificent green forests or an enchanting, breathing beach. Surely I am not here just to keep my eyes on the never-ending ribbon of asphalt highway.

Anyway….. My suggestion…..goal…..for the day was to re-find and take pictures of the state signs we had neglected earlier. Today it would be Maryland and Delaware. For Fayez…. It was a trip to the beach.

The borders or state lines were not so far away, an easy drive from Fayez’s apartment. Fayez had located border crossings on state highways where we could easily and safely stop and take pictures of the state signs. Armed with Fayez’s calculations, we set off for the adventures of the day. I have no idea where we were….somewhere in New Jersey heading toward the Delaware border.

Actually, there was not a lot of see. The scenery was pretty. It was pleasant. There was more farm land than I had remembered seeing the last time I was there. The countryside we drove through looked much like eastern Kansas….maybe a few more trees, because the eastern part of the USA tends to get more rainfall than the Midwest. Overall, however, there were few, if any, authentic photo-ops along the way. Even I, who has been accused of taking too many picture, saw nothing that was really worthy of a photo. The journey did give us the time and opportunity to visit, which in itself, made the trip worthwhile….second only to talking the picture. The truth is…. I didn’t care where we were going just so long as there was a sign saying, “Welcome to Delaware” waiting for us somewhere along the way.

Our efforts were rewarded. After a while, maybe an hour later, we did indeed come upon such a sign….in New Castle County, according to the sign, if that means anything. Fayez pulled his car over on the shoulder, and we proceeded to take the long-anticipated pictures of the Delaware state sign. With that mission accomplished, we got back into the car and moved toward our next objective…..the Maryland border sign. One down….one to go.

 

 

 

 

Having successfully taken an appropriate number of pictures of the Delaware state sign, we turned our attention to Maryland, a state named after Queen Mary of England, as the song title goes. All of the details of where it was located and how to best get there were left to the capable judgment of Fayez, who was not only the official driver, but also the official navigator with is ubiquitous GPS device. Again, I have no idea of how we got there. In fact, I really don’t care. All I was interested in was getting a picture of the Maryland state sign….with me standing firmly in front of it. After perhaps another hour of driving through some very similar rural environment, our target was in sight. Again, Fayez pulled his vehicle to a graceful stop; we all got out of the car; we took the usual combination of pictures: The state sign alone, by itself; a few pictures of Fayez in front of the sign; a couple pictures of him and Maya……and most important, some pictures of me.

 

 

 

To some people, it might sounds rather frivolous to do so much driving in order to snap a few pictures of a state border sign…..maybe just a bit like “cheating”. As I may have pointed out previously, it was not simply a matter of driving to a state border, stepping over an imaginary line, taking a couple pictures and then leaving black marks on the highway on our way to the next state. Not at all…. We had driven through both of these states….from one end of the state to the other….on a previous trip, but had never stopped to take the pictures. So…. Make no mistake. We had already thoroughly visited these states.

With the snapping of the final picture of the Maryland sign, my objectives for the day had been achieved. From that point on, it was Fayez’s ball game, so to speak. Fayez wanted to go to the beach….so that is where we headed. Again, I had no idea where we were or where we were headed, although I assumed it was in an easterly direction, since being a former geography teacher, I was vaguely aware that the Atlantic Ocean forms the eastern border of the USA!

Again we drove through some pleasant idyllic rural countryside. Green trees, green fields of whatever it was they grow there, an occasional meandering stream…..some quaint small villages or towns along the way. This, as I recalled from earlier visits, was typical New England landscape. As we drove along, we had the opportunity to visit….just talk about anything that entered our minds. It was a satisfying few hours….a refreshing break from the constant and perpetual traffic from the previous day.

Our final destination was Wildwood Beach….in Wildwood, New Jersey. The drive to the beach was not much different from the other two destinations. It was another hour’s drive through more flat countryside….more lush green trees…..more verdant fields of crops….more towns and villages. As before, the landscape was pleasing, if not exciting. There was not a lot to see, not any reason to stop and take pictures….but for me, at least, it was something new…..a change….a different “feeling” than driving in Kansas, even if it was not more exciting. The conversation with Fayez and Maya continued to be engaging and satisfying, which in reality, was the reason I made the trip.

The closer we got to the town of Wildwood…..and the beach….the heavier and denser the traffic became. Fayez was maneuvering the car through the ever-increasing traffic in his usual “thrill-ride” fashion. When I ride with Fayez, there is never any reason to waste money on a roller-coaster or other carnival ride. His driving is far more breathtaking than any amusement park ride could ever be. Somewhere behind us we heard the distinct sound of two automobiles crashing into each other. Thank Heaven it wasn’t us. We kept on driving. Within almost a matter of a few second, policemen were speeding toward the accident. Nothing serious. A fender-bender…..the result of inattentive driving. She was probably texting or talking on her cell phone. Fayez kept pushing on toward our destination…..The Beach.

As we approached our destination…..the Wildwood Beach….traffic was chaotic. Wildwood Beach is not just a beach. It is a conglomeration of tourists shops, cafes, motels….and an amusement park. It was apparently a major social destination….a hang-out….an authentic tourist trap. There appeared to be something for everybody, whether one wanted to buy something, eat something or see something.

Picture the scene: It is a sunny Sunday afternoon. Hardly a cloud in the sky. The sidewalks were hustling with people. People picking their way through cheap….but not inexpensive…. souvenir shops, people eating the expensive food either at outdoor tables or walking down the sidewalk, peering into shop windows, people lounging on the sidewalks talking and laughing. Cars clogging the much too narrow street. Fayez, Maya nor myself were interested in any of the gaudy enticements. We had come to see The Beach!

Yet another parking lot…another parking fee. We found a parking space….not very near the boardwalk to the beach, but, on the other hand, not the most distant one. Maybe we were lucky to even have found a parking space. In a teeming mass of humanity like this, Beggars can’t be choosers, as they say. We got out of the car. Fayez started unpacking the trunk. Three folding chair and an umbrella. I offered to carry my chair. I want to help, but Fayez brushes me off. He will carry the chairs; Maya will carry the umbrella. It was probably for the best, though. The beach, like mountains, is always further away that it looks. Even the sidewalk to the wooden boardwalk which leads to the beach is longer than it appears.

We start the long walk down the boardwalk path leading to the ocean. The good thing: It all slopes slight downhill. I try not to think of the trip back up. About halfway down, we stop. I use the time to masquerade as a photo-op. But, we had already walked maybe a quarter mile…..and at a fairly brisk pace, although Fayez was constantly urging me to slow down…..slow down….. I do not like for people to look at me with pity or sympathy, “That poor old man!” The opportunity to rest for a minute was not wasted, though. It was a natural opportunity to take some pictures. Even old people take pictures…..maybe even more than young people. Older people recognize the importance….the value…..of pictures…. Not only in the present moment, but even more for their importance as a historical record….a nostalgic, sentimental reminder of memories made…..memories which can be shared with family and friends yet to come…..memories which might otherwise be lost to the passage of time and age. Time doesn’t stop…..or if it does, pictures may be the only way to “stop” it.

Nevertheless, I took the opportunity to take pictures of the beach and ocean in front of us, of the amusement park in the not-so-far distance, pictures of Fayez and Maya. All those things that I wanted recorded permanently….for me and for posterity.

We moved onward toward the beach. First, we opted to set up the chairs on the back fringe of the crowded beach, only to discover that our major “attractions” were an assortment of beach chairs, coolers, umbrellas…..and of course, the backsides of hundreds of other people. Surely, this is not what we came to beach to see….to experience. Soon we picked up our “equipment” and moved it to a much more favorable location. Now people could look at our beach chairs…..and at us….while we looked at the ocean.

Maya and I sat and watched Fayez as he waded out into the ocean to swim. There really were not a lot of options. It did give us a chance to talk and become a little better acquainted. Normally, when people go to the beach, their main objective is to go swimming….or to walk along the edge of the water…..or to play volleyball or some other game…..or to fly a kite, like Fayez did on our trip to the Oregon Coast. Another alternative is to merely sit on the sand or on a log that has washed upon to the shore and simply watch the ocean….the waves as they wash against the shore. This Sunday afternoon, none of those choices were available to us. So…. We just sat in our folding chairs and tried to keep our eyes on Fayez.

The beach seemed to stretch along the Atlantic Coast forever. And…..so did the mass of humanity that blanketed it. The beach was crowded….or whatever the superlative of the word crowded might be. If there was truly anything interesting about Wildwood Beach, it was the people who had come there to soak up some sun and play. It was, at the very least, a people-watcher’s paradise. Name a category of people….young, skinny, Black, Middle Eastern, tattooed, sun-tanned, families, single. There were women who could have could have been featured in Playboy. Girls who were so desirable that I could hardly take my eyes off them. And….an equal number of women who should have never even considered wearing a two piece swim suit…. The ones who should have stayed at home. The same could be said of the men, too. There were guys who obviously spent all their leisure time at the gym…..and those who thought the word “Gym” was only a man’s name. These guys should have stayed at home, too…..or at least kept clothes on. And, let’s not forget the kids…..running around, mostly unsupervised….here and here, with little regard for anything except their fun.

In general, the atmosphere might be described as controlled chaos….impersonal pleasure. The beach was a patchwork of chairs, coolers, umbrellas, backpacks, toys, blankets and towels. Maybe it is similar to dining as a very popular restaurant. There are no individual tables…..just long communal tables. You sit down wherever there may be a small empty space. You and your friends simply ignore the people sitting next to you. You go ahead and talk to each other….you eat…. You do your own thing, You pretend that the other people are not there. And, they do the same. You co-exist…openly, but yet anonymously.

There really wasn’t any way to really relax…..not with the noise, the close proximity of hundreds of people. At any rate, Maya and I sat and watched the people….tried to carry on a conversation….watched the single engine airplanes as they towed advertising banners behind them….watched the lifeguards as they blew their whistles, warning people who were venturing too far from the shore. My participation in the afternoon was all very passive….sitting, looking, taking a few pictures.

Mostly we tried to watch Fayez…..to keep an eye on him….as he drifted further and further from the shore. The lifeguards were obviously watching him, too. More than once, they blew their shrill whistles to warn him that he was venturing too far out into the ocean…..into unsafe territory…..too far from the beach. It was never clear to me if he actually heard them, although he did begin to inch his way back toward the shore. I was more than a little concerned. If anything bad had happened, there was nothing I was capable of doing that could save him or to prevent a tragedy. Only after he was close enough to the shore did I feel a sense of relief.

This scene…..this spectacle….was interesting to me. Fascinating, in fact. I took swimming lessons as a child and spent many afternoons at the swimming pool in my hometown of Lyons. At some point, I simply stopped swimming. Why? I don’t really know. Maybe it was because starting when I was in junior high school, I always had a job. I spent most of my time working. At some point in my adult life, I realized that I no longer could swim. Many people find this to be rather strange….maybe a little bit unbelievable. Trust me…. It is true!

But….I am no stranger to beaches. Back in my younger days, I spent almost every summer vacation on the Oregon Coast…..or the Northern California coast. I spent unnumbered days hanging out with friends in South Vietnam on the beaches of the South China Sea. I am no stranger to the northern German beaches of the North Sea and the Baltic Sea. I have even visited the nude beaches of the French Riviera and the college beaches of the Texas Gulf. Even though I can’t swim, the ocean fascinates me….It beckons to me. It has a mysterious, magical attraction which I can feel, but which I cannot explain.

There is no doubt that I was not prepared for what greeted us at Wildwood Beach. Yeah….I had heard about the crowded beaches; I had even seen pictures. Even those did not adequately prepare my brain for the scene at greeted us. Normally….in fact, always….the beaches I have visited has been pristine beaches, uncrowded, unencumbered by commercial enterprise….long stretches of sand, stretching uninterrupted for miles in both directions. They were ours to enjoy. We could walk, alone, without meeting another human being, enjoying the solitude broken only by the sound of the constant waves washing upon the sand….at high tide, pounding against the shore. But, yet, there was a stillness, a sort of peace that prevailed. Maybe the kind of peace that only nature can provide.

On the Oregon Coast, where I have spent the most time, there was never a thought of being interrupted or disturbed by other human being….let alone hoards of humanity seeking their day in the sun. At almost any point along the miles of clean, unblemished sand, we could spread a blanket or a towel and sit for hours undisturbed. Or we could find the shelter of a log that had washed ashore and find shelter and refuge from the constant, ever-blowing ocean breeze. There was never a danger of our space being invaded by outsiders. In fact….. They were seeking the same thing we were: solitude…to be undisturbed.

Even in the popular tourist areas such as Beverly Beach, north of Newport, Oregon, the definition of “crowd” takes on a new meaning. A “crowded” beach in Oregon could fairly accurately be described as a “semi-deserted” beach along most of the Atlantic Coast. Even in the most crowded of the north Pacific Coast beaches would be considered as empty or uninhabited along the Atlantic Coast. Part of the explanation of this phenomenon lies in the population of the two areas. Part of it….maybe a large portion of it….lies in the attitude and policies of the state governments. The Atlantic Coast is largely in the hands of private ownership. It is very commercial and profit oriented. Large, untouched stretches of beach or coastline are rare…..almost non-existent. The coastal property has been “developed”….which means it is lined with a myriad of profit-making establishments….restaurant, cafes, souvenir shops, food vendors. Plus seemingly never-ending rows of apartments, motels, condos, and rental properties.

In the Western States…..the Pacific Northwest States….California, Oregon and Washington….all coastal property is public property….readily available to the people….inviting them, enticing them….to stop and walk on the beach. Up and down the almost 1300 miles coastline, are hundreds of “pull-in” places, observation points, rest stops…..all designed for the convenience of people who want to stop and take pictures or for a relaxing picnic…..or as a starting point for a walk on the beach.

Take a look at the pictures. You can see the difference…..the contrast. Now…. Are you still going to ask why I much prefer the Oregon Coast…..or sun-bathing on the French Riviera?

The afternoon was not without its drama, though. At some point in the afternoon, the lifeguards started blowing their whistles frantically. They were motioning for everybody to get out of the water and back on the beach. I do not think it was a suggestion or an invitation. It was urgent; it was an order. We checked to make sure we could still see Fayez….that he had not disappeared from sight. He was still in the ocean….far from the shore…further than he should have been…. but, at least, we could see him. He apparently had heard the whistle and had gotten the message. He, too, began to swim toward the beach.

From watching the lifeguards, the swimmers and the people milling around the beach, we could see that the attention of the lifeguards was focused on a point further to the south of where Maya and I were sitting. The lifeguards on duty began swimming toward the point of the problem. We heard people murmuring, “Somebody is drowning….somebody can’t make is back to shore….somebody was caught in the under-tows…..” There was nothing we could do except sit and watch…..and hope that the lifeguards could reach the person in time…..that he would be rescued.

Time passed. It was obvious that people were becoming concerned….worried….. The noise level on the beach reduced dramatically and activity diminished to almost a standstill as people stood….or sat….. and watched the rescue efforts. We were relieved that it wasn’t Fayez. In a what seemed like an eternity…..but was only a few minutes, two rescue vehicles a came speeding down the beach….speeding as fast as one can when there are a few thousand people standing and walking around…..and when hundreds of small kids are running about, paying no attention or heed to what is going on….and their parents are not there to control them.

The two rescue vehicles stopped almost directly in front of Maya and me. Immediately, they unloaded a couple items which appeared to be much like surf boards. These were apparently some sort of rescue apparatus. The members of the rescue team immediately started swimming toward the victim. Activity was still at a standstill as people stood somberly and waited for the results of the rescue effort. When a signal was given that the man’s life had been saved, a cheer went up as they waited for the team to bring him back to safety……and the swimmers slowly and gradually started to reenter the ocean.

By this time, Fayez had gotten out of the water and had rejoined Maya and I. We discussed briefly our relief that a tragedy had been averted…..and that the guy was probably feeling extremely fortunate and grateful that the rescue team had reached him in time and had saved his life.

Whatever sympathy I was feeling toward the guy quickly dissipated as he walked past us laughing and joking with his apparent friends….like it was a joke….or something to be proud of. Maybe his was only laughing because of his great relief for having his life spared. I hope so. If he thought that he had done something that he could later brag about or turn into a macho ego trip event…..then the guy was not worth any of my compassion or empathy. He, in fact. Would simply be mocking the efforts of the rescue team that saved his life.

I was going to mention that he was a foreigner……but I decided not to!

The afternoon was approaching its final hours. Fayez may have gone back into the water one more time. The afternoon at the beach was essentially over. A large number of the people had already abandoned the beach by the time we folded the chairs picked up the umbrella that we never used and started the slow, arduous journey back to the car. The path to the sidewalk was uphill. Not a steep incline, but steep enough to make the effects of gravity very noticeable on my feeble body! Again we employed the old trick of “stop and take pictures” as a tactic to grab a couple minutes of rest before continuing on. The pictures I took returning to the car were in sharp contrast to the pictures I took while walking down toward the beach. By the time we left, the beach was more than half deserted. A Sunday at the beach. Tomorrow was a work day.

The sun hung low in the sky by the time we reached Fayez’s apartment. A decision was made to order some Indian food to be delivered to the apartment. This was probably a wise decision. Probably nobody was in the mood to go out and eat. I rewarded myself with a much-needed nap. By the time Fayez woke me, the food had been delivered. The evening was again spent visiting…..just casual conversation. The time was getting late. It was most definitely time to call it a day. And, it was a successful day. I got photos of the two state signs that I wanted so badly. Fayez got his trip to the beach. And, Maya? She got both of them.

Around 11:00 I retired to my room. It was still a couple hours before my bed time…..a couple hours before my brain is accustomed to shutting down, turning off its screen and going to sleep for the night. As I usually do before I go to bed, I checked the email….my Facebook page….news headlines. I read the book I had brought with me. Then, I got ready to go to bed….wondering if there was an audience outside the window with the partially open blind waiting for one last moment of entertainment and awesome pleasure to also end their day. Tomorrow was another day…..the final day of my short visit.

DAY THREE: THE FINAL OBJECTIVE….FINDING CONNECTICUT

Monday, my last full day visiting Fayez and his wife started like all the other days. I awoke around 8:00….I first, as usual. Fayez, Maya and I ate a leisurely breakfast on the balcony overlooking their own mini-forest that grows behind their apartment. The sky was clear, and the birds were singing as we sat and enjoyed the pleasant morning.

As had become the norm, the time was approaching, if not surpassing, the ten o’clock hour when Fayez backed the car out of its parking spot and pulled out into the morning traffic for our day of fun and adventure.

Only a single objective was yet to be achieved. Find and photograph the state border sign of Connecticut. Sounds simple….but it was more time-consuming that one might suspect. A slave or servant to his GPS, Fayez headed north toward the point where the border might be located. Personally, I probably would not have taken the that route. But, on the other hand, I know how to read a map. You older people will know what I am talking about.

For the benefit of the younger generation, let me tell you a little about them. You’ve probably even seen them. Maybe you didn’t know what they are, though. Usually they come in a rather large book, sometimes called an Atlas. They have several pages with strange lines and little symbols on the pages. You can expect to find numbers on the lines. The lines normally are of a variety of colors. No…. This is not to make the page prettier. The different colors indicate the kind of highway or road…..perhaps an Interstate highway, or a US highway, or a state highway…..or maybe even a county or secondary road. All of these little lines lead somewhere! If you look closely, there are names of towns and cities…..maybe even counties or points of interest. Those are the places the lines connect. You know….. Sort of like those Connect the Dot Puzzles.

These pages, called maps, were what people used for literally hundreds of years. And, do you want to know a strange fact? People used them……and rarely ever got lost! They worked pretty well, in fact. And, they are accurate. By looking at these little lines….and following them….you were sure to arrive at your destination, and if you are really clever…..like I am, for example…..you might even save some time by following the shortest lines!

But, something happened. Somebody….actually the United States government….developed what is known as Global Positioning System or GPS for short.  This revolutionized the way we travel…..or messed it up, depending on how you want to look at it. This sunny Monday morning, I can imagine that Fayez was obeying his “Master”….his GPS…..instead of obeying the real authority: ME and my map.

It wasn’t all bad. In fact, it turned out be a rather interesting day. For me, at least. We spent most of the day on I-95, or at least I think that was the name of the highway. If we had been using a map, I would probably know for sure.

In reality, the trip to find the Connecticut border was rather interesting. Here in Kansas it is rare….no, unheard of…..to spend a day on a six or eight lane highway. Not that anybody wants to do this…..but still it is rare. For me, it was rather fascinating and novel to ride in a car for a hundred miles with a couple lanes of cars to the right….and a couple lanes to the left. Cars behind….cars ahead. In other words, cars everywhere. For people on the east coast….and on the west coast, too, for that matter…..this is normal….simply a fact of life. In fact, one might say that it is life.

For people from more rural states….and Kansas is one of them….this cacophony of cars can wear on the nerves a bit. I can imagine that it would easily turn a small town Kansas driver into a nervous wreck. And, when Fayez is driving….well, it has the same results!

No…. I am just joking. Fayez was handling the traffic in a very cool and capable manner. Young drivers tend to handle heavy traffic better than older drivers. That statement has no basis in fact. I have no statistics or research to back up that claim. I am merely judging from my own personal point of view and experience.

I have lived and driven in several large cities in the course of my lifetime. I have lived and driven in Kansas City, San Francisco, Indianapolis….even for three years in Saigon, which could be the ultimate test of a person’s diving ability, not to mention the nervous system. All of this was back when I was young. Driving in heavy traffic didn’t bother me, mostly because it never entered my brain to let is bother me. I was “here” and I had to go to “there”…..so I got into the car and “went”. Simple as that. I don’t ever remember being intimidated by heavy traffic. Maybe I just figured the other drivers had as much right to be on the highway as I did. But, most likely…. I simply never thought about it at all.

Driving has been a way of life for me. It probably is for everybody who lives in a rural, Midwest state. It is virtually the only means of transportation. If you want to go somewhere…..You Drive! On my many trips and vacations around the USA, I insisted on doing all the driving. Mostly because I trusted myself more than I did anybody else. Simply put: I was the best driver.

As I got older, my eyesight started to fail. No…. I am not going blind. My vision is not as sharp….my peripheral vision was diminishing…..night vision started to fade dangerously….my visual perception decreased. Shortly after I retired….somewhere around 2007 or 2008, I made the decision to stop driving at night. Nobody forced me; nobody even suggested it. I just knew it was time….it was the right decision…..and the safe decision, for me and for all those other people driving on the streets and highways.

By the time Fayez and Sultan had become a part of my life, I was fairly content to simply let them do most of the driving. Although I remained by far the superior driver, it was just easier and more convenient to let them drive. I stopped driving in cities….or in any strange place where I had to make instant perceptual decisions. I decided to leave those driving tasks to them. Even though they were younger and less experienced and lacked the exceptionally remarkable skills that I had developed over the years, it was not so difficult to turn over the driving to them. My nerves have suffered because of this decision…..but I am still alive to talk about it.

Now…. Getting back to the story. The story of the trip was mostly traffic. Looming in the distance was the distinctive skyline of New York City, with its impressive display of towering skyscrapers. The division of Lower Manhattan and Upper Manhattan were clearly delineated. Fayez never told me that he planned to drive through New York City….parts of it, at least. Personally, I would have chosen another, less traveled route. However, the opportunity to say that I had been in New York City….again….was appealing, I suppose, even though I had sworn that I would never return to the city again.

We drove past the vast Newark International Airport, the airport and the departure point for many of my trips to Berlin. This was a first for me. I had seen the airport from the air….and certainly from the inside….but never from a highway. From a certain perspective, the airport looks almost as impressive from the land as it does from the air. Some of the super-long runways stretch out for more than two miles parallel to the highway. Others cut a perpendicular path. As we drove past….both going and coming…..an almost steady stream of aircraft were alternately taking off and landing. Just the sight of these anonymous take of these take-offs and landings made me nostalgic for another trip to Berlin.

But, for now, our objective was to locate a Connecticut state border sign. The state of Connecticut borders New York City to the north. Fayez kept pushing northward, staying on I-95, I think. But…. Who cares? All the highways look the same. From our previous trip to New York City in 2016, I was excited to recognize the George Washington Bridge which crosses the Hudson River and connects the state of New Jersey with the borough of Manhattan. Like many major vehicle bridges, the George Washington Bridge has an upper deck and a lower deck, each of which has multiple lanes going both directions. The upper deck carries traffic on four lanes in each direction. The lower level has a total of six lanes…..three in each direction. It is reportedly the busiest vehicle bridge in the world. And, obviously one of the slowest. We didn’t experience any serious delays, but driving was slow, and the bridge was clogged with vehicles of all kinds and descriptions.

It was a relief when we had cleared the bridge, which is more than four-fifth of a mile long….. not even close to what one would consider to be a “long” bridge. Once off the bridge, going in both directions, traffic speed picked up noticeably. We drove through endless blocks of humanity, packed into into a continual, monotonous conglomeration of apartment buildings. It was interesting; it was amazing; it was enlightening. But, most all, to me, it was depressing.

Having been born and raised in rural Kansas…..but also having spent a considerable amount to time living in cities around the world…..these faceless, anonymous, impersonal stretches of apartment complexes were completely alien to my perception of a good life….and the life I had lived….or even imagined. However, I couldn’t help but think that behind these upscale walls, behind these windows, there are families living what to them is a normal life….mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, all carrying on a life that to them is familiar and comfortable. Somewhere in the city were an equal, or even larger, number of not so affluent apartments where life is not so good. There are apartments where poverty is the norm, where crime is rampant; where fear is a constant emotion. Driving through such places as this make me feel grateful that I live in Kansas.

So…. We pressed on….out of the inner city into the endless suburbs, into the less populated areas of the city. Still surrounded by the urban sprawl, we entered area of single family dwellings with a more hometown atmosphere. Our mission was to find the Connecticut border. Because of the urban nature of our surroundings, this objective was not as easy as it may sound. Had we been on an open highway….maybe a state highway…. in a less populated area, the border would have been easier to find. It would have been noticeable and accessible.

I am going to offer some pure speculation, but at this point I think our search had been reduced to trial and error. It appeared that our trials were meeting with more error than success. As for me….. I was a completely irrelevant onlooker. I had no idea where we were….not a clue. This was Fayez’s game…..to win or to lose. I am not sure what happened. Let’s call it winner’s luck. As we were preparing to back-track and try another approach….. Wonder of wonders: Standing almost directly in front of was…. Yes, a sign saying “Welcome to Connecticut”. For a brief second, we were all mildly stunned….like, we couldn’t believe our eyes. There was even a little parking area where we could stop and take pictures. Whether it was Good Luck or Clean Living, it didn’t matter. We happily took the necessary pictures….and started back to Mt. Laurel.

 

 

 

 

Fayez guided the car back to good old I-95, and we began to retrace our route back to where we started from that morning. The traffic seemed heavier on our return trip. Maybe it was because it was late in the afternoon and rush hour had begun….or maybe it was just normal traffic. The trip back to Fayez and Maya’s apartment seemed to take longer. The approach to the George Washington Bridge seemed more clogged with traffic. All six lanes of the highway were packed with unrelenting traffic, everybody doing his own thing….everybody going somewhere….everybody probably had the same goal in mind: Just Get There.

Somewhere along the way, Fayez decided to stop and eat. Was it a random choice….or was it a place he had been before? I do not know. That is irrelevant. We stopped at a place called Cava. The food was good; it was an opportunity to get out of the car for a few minutes; and it was a good restroom stop. With our basic needs satisfied, we got back on the busy highway and continued on our journey to the apartment. The basic items on my wish list had been satisfied. There was nothing left to do except go back home.

 

 

 

 

Although we only had one objective to accomplish, it consumed the greater part of the day. It was an interesting day. I was able to take the picture of the state sign; I got to experience riding on a packed urban highway; I got to visit New York City again….partially, at least; I had another opportunity to visit with Fayez and his wife. And…..and this is probably the most important: It demonstrated to me why I would never want to live in a crowded urban area. I could see very few redeeming qualities. For me, it is a good place to visit…..but not a good place to live.

Somewhere on the way home…..in Mt. Laurel, I think….we stopped at a Mediterranean restaurant and picked up some carry-out food for our supper. After the long day, I am fairly sure that nobody was in the mood to do any sort of cooking. Again, it was late in the afternoon when Fayez parked the car in the parking lot, and I again….for the final time….made the long, torturous trip up the stairs to their apartment.

DAY FOUR: FLYING HOME

My suitcase was already packed; I am always planning ahead. We sat on the balcony and ate breakfast, enjoying the waning minutes of our short time together. The time had arrived. I said good-bye to Maya, made one more unsteady trek down the staircase, put on my shoes…..and it was over.

Before I left Philadelphia, there were two more pictures that I needed to take. These were not on my original list. In fact, they won’t appear on anybody’s list….except mine! Somehow I neglected to take a photo of a sign that said “Mt. Laurel”. That is the name of the suburban town in New Jersey where Fayez and Maya live. It is one of those pictures nobody would ever think of…..until I realized that I would need it for this blog. And probably nobody who goes to Philadelphia would ever have “Wa-Wa’s” on their of must-have photo list. Tell me…. What sane person from Kansas can go back home without a picture of this strange, unique name? I will never see another of these little convenience stores until my next trip to the east coast. I needed the picture to remind me of where Fayez and I had sat after a busy day of sightseeing….and enjoyed a cup of iced-coffee and a muffin. With those two pictures duly recorded, I was ready to head for the airport.

The trip was a success….a real pleasure. I had gotten to do all the things that I had wanted to do….partially, at least. Certainly, my main objective by far was to see Fayez again…..and to meet his wife. This objective, of course, could never be adequately satisfied. But, the visit was awesome….and I am happy and delighted to be able to meet Maya, Fayez’s wife, and to now feel that she is also part of my “family”. When I talk to Fayez on Skype, I know where he is, recognize his surroundings. This makes the conversation seem more authentic or real or personal, however you want to state it. I better understand his life and his environment.

On the other hand, I have been introduced to Philadelphia and its historical significance, even if only in the a superficial manner. Now I am more informed…..more aware….more prepared for my next visit. And, fortunately, we already have seen and photographed the two sites with the longest lines. That, in itself, is an achievement. Fayez and I drove around enough that I have at least a cursory idea of the city and the local environment. I will no longer feel like a complete stranger in the city.

As I said, my dominate mission was to spend time with Fayez….and to meet and become friends with wife. Those two achievement were what made the trip a success.

Now….. There is another realization that dawned on me, too. A realization that will probably change my attitude toward travel: I am never going to fly to any domestic destination again. I have come to realize that flying is simply not worth the money or effort. The next time I visit Fayez and Maya in their home in the suburbs of Philadelphia, they will be meeting me and picking me up at a railway station.

The trip back to Kansas City was uneventful…..if one can classify standing in line for a security check….sitting in a waiting room for a couple hours…..and sitting in a cramped seat on an airplane…..arriving in Kansas City and being dropped off in the long-range parking lot a quarter mile from my car….and driving back home on I-70 during rush hour….as being uneventful.

It was a great trip. I recommend Philadelphia to you. You probably won’t get to see Fayez….but everything else is there waiting for you.

Somewhere back in the archives of this blog, I wrote about some of the goals I set for myself to accomplish. They were personal things…. No, I didn’t want to become President of the United States…although now I sort of wish I had. Surely, nothing or nobody could be worse than what we have now (Summer, 2020). And, I didn’t want to become rich. Come on…. We knew that was not going to happen. I worked in public education. And the odds of winning Mega Millions is something like 240 million to one…. Not exactly a good way to plan for retirement. No, I had no desire to be famous. Probably too many people know me already.

The things that I wanted to do were simple things…. Well, relatively speaking, anyway. They were activities that I hoped would enrich my life…make it more fun….more enjoyable…more well rounded. Let’s see if I can even recall what they were: learn to play racquetball, learn to play golf, run for a public office, become somewhat good at making stained glass, visit all fifty states..…

There were others, too. These are the ones that come to mind. Surprise, surprise…. I accomplished all of these. Sort of like….been there…done that. I mean…. Look at them. They are all rather simple. Also on the list…. I think they call it a bucket list today….was learning to play the drums. I am not talking about learning to play “a drum”. I wanted to have an entire set of drums sitting there in front me: maybe four or five snare drums, a bass drum, cymbals, a triangle…..the entire thing. And I would be sitting there behind them….really jamming out. Mr. Cool.

Also on the list was my desire to work with metal art…..to become a metal artist. Like make neat sculptures, statues, collages…. Just weld pieces of junk together….and the result would be a work of art to be admired by…. well, probably just I….but I hope….everybody.

Alas…. Unfortunately, I never accomplished these last two projects….these last two dreams….. At least, not yet! It wasn’t that I didn’t want to….or that I gave up….or that I became lazy or lost the desire. If I were still living on the Darrah Ranch in Ozawkie, you can bet that I would be doing both of them. Up there in the great outdoors, I had plenty of space. You know, like the old song says, “Give me land….lots of land… Don’t fence me in.”

Here at Darrah Tower….Space…. Proximity…. Neighbors…. Those are the problems. In Ozawkie, I had a garage and a covered patio that would have been ideal for welding. I could have welded away to my heart’s content, and probably would have never caught anything on fire….. Probably…. Maybe….. The drum set? Same thing. Well, I probably would not have put the drums outside on the patio. But the garage? Sure. The back bedroom. Why not? I could have shoved them to the side when Sultan or Fayez were there.

My front yard….and side yard….and back yard….I owned an acre and a half of land….would have been crowded with unusual and eye-catching metal sculptures. An artistic junkyard. Not only would I have welded stuff together….I would also have painted them. It would have been a colorful sight to behold….maybe even a tourist attraction. Who knows? My neighbors could have quit their jobs and set up concession and souvenir stands and made a fortune.

On the other hand…. I am not sure if Jefferson County has some sort of zoning law or junk yard law…. I could have donated my works of art to museums around the world. Surely, they would appreciate them. I could have sold them on the Internet. Just bring the money….and haul them away.

As for the drums…. Of course, I would have formed a band. I never got the chance to find out, but I can imagine that drums make better band instruments than they do solo instruments. Stop and think of the possibilities….there on my dead-end road. We could have formed all sorts of musical combinations: Beryl and The Hick-Hops; Beryl and the Redneck Band; Beryl and the Hayseeds; Beryl and the Country Bumpkins…. Well, you get the idea, don’t you? And, I hope that you noticed that I kept myself separate from the band…. I am none of those things. But, that’s the thing about playing the drums: It probably isn’t a lot of fun just sitting there banging on the drums all day long. There has to be other people around to join in.

At any rate, the point is: I could have taken up either of these hobbies had I continued to live at the Darrah Ranch. I already had found someone to teach me weld….several people, in fact. Welding machines, or whatever they are called, really don’t cost very much….if one buys a cheap one. And, you can bet I would have bought a cheap one….at least, not the most expensive. I have used soldering irons for years, so I think I already understood the basic principles. And…. I know plenty of farmers who would have gladly given me old “junk” that they would otherwise have to dispose of. In fact, some of these very people were among those who told me they would teach me to weld. And out there….. What could I burn down? Oh yes…. My house. More than likely, I would have done all the welding out on the patio, though. And, it would be rather difficult to burn the patio.

Here in Topeka at Darrah Tower, it isn’t quite that simple or uncomplicated…. I have neighbors….nice neighbors….living on both sides of me. For sure, the units are very soundproof. My neighbors never disturb me….never. And, I do not want to….and I will not….be the “bad” neighbor. Anyway, in our rather lengthy homeowners association contract, there is a clause about noise. I don’t know…. Maybe I should go ahead and buy a drum set. If I am lucky, the townhouses are soundproof enough that the sound will not be heard. Or maybe the neighbors will like my playing so much that they want to come over and join in. But…. If that is not the case: Are you in the market for a cool set of drums? Or, on the other hand, maybe I can form a “neighborhood band”….and we all get together a few times a week and make noise and annoy each other….and perhaps drown out some of the ubiquitous hip-hop, jungle noise which is the only music we seem to hear around here.

The welding and the construction of metal art? Just look in almost every high school industrial arts building. They have individual welding stations….and there is rarely, if ever, a fire. I am about 99% convinced that I can construct a welding station in the basement that will be perfectly fireproof…perfectly safe…. Well, 80% sure, at least. And, I am also 110% sure that I will be kicked out of my townhouse if the manager would ever find out!

So, for right now, at least, those two items on my “bucket list” have been moved to the bottom….down with playing the organ at the Mormon Tabernacle and touring with Willie Nelson and winning Mega Millions.

Still very much on the list is learning to make pottery…. Yeah, making things like cups, plates, bowls, vases and odd little statues. Stuff that just sits around the house on a shelf collecting dust….stuff that I can give as gifts to people “who have everything”. Yeah…. I would have no objection if some of them would some day show up in a museum or an art gallery….or find their way into a fine arts auction at Christy’s Auction House or Southeby’s…. May as well hope for the best.

Actually, believe it or not (and most people don’t, by the way), I tried it once….and it just didn’t work. That was back when I was working with stained glass….back when I would drive over to Holton High School once a week where my friend Judy Swisher taught me the basics….and then said, “Go do your thing. If you need help….just ask.” Well, I did my “thing” for ten or twelve years…and enjoyed every minute of it.

One night she asked me if maybe….perhaps….I would be interested in learning to make pottery. Sure…. Why not? Well…. OK. There was a high school kid….one of her art students….there helping a boy scout or girl scout troop make some simple pottery. She “volunteered” him to give me a lesson. Poor kid. He didn’t have a lot of choice. This guy was only a junior in high school. He didn’t even have his PhD in pottery making yet! After about 30 or 45 minutes, it became rather obvious that it was going take more than an hour for me to become a world-class potter. He said something like, “You like K.U., don’t you? Why don’t you just make the letters ‘K.U’.?” That sounded good enough to me! And, I can also imagine that he was also thinking, “….And this guy has a degree in education?”

 

 

 

But, that one failed attempt fired an interest in making pottery. The problem was….finding a place where I can make it and a teacher to teach me….a patient, long-suffering teacher. Back in the “old days” (and you may notice that everything took place in the “old days”) the Topeka-Shawnee County Parks and Recreation Commission offered a million pottery classes… Well, maybe not a million, but at least, two or three each session. I am not sure if it is due to a shortage of clay…or lack of teachers….or lack of interest. But, today they offer “zero”….that is 0….classes. However, I am going to keep looking, and with some good fortune, maybe I can move pottery making back up the list. I have even considered putting an ad on Craig’s List….or on Facebook… However, one never knows who is going to answer those ads. I am just slightly apprehensive that some weirdo will respond. I know enough weirdos without adding another one.

So…. After all these false leads….after all these disappointments…. Did I ever find a hobby? Was it just something that I had to settle on? Was it really something I wanted to do? Is it something that I am really good at? The answers are: Yes…No….Yes….and No…. “Good” is a relative term….very subjective…. rather personal. I mean…. I don’t want to brag. But, if you want to…..You are certainly welcome to do so.

Actually, I am not even sure when I became interested in abstract painting….modern art….impressionism…. Call it whatever you want. I really don’t. It has been a long time, though. Maybe it was the first time I saw a Jackson Pollock painting…or a Claude Monet….. For as long as I can remember, this has really been the only art I have really found fascinating. I remember back when I was in high school and college, one of my aunts used to buy the “painting on velvet” paintings. She used to show it to me….tell me how beautiful it was….almost with tears in her eyes. Things like flowers, sunsets, tigers…. And, she also had a thing about what were called “Praying Hands”. I certainly have nothing against praying hands. In fact, I am all for them. But….as an art form, it just doesn’t get me excited.

I had some friends….still have them…..who were so enamored with the “Precious Moments” figurines that they would actually drive down to somewhere in rural Missouri to the factory. Those trips were the highlights of their year. And, this couple were the “football captain and cheerleader” type. Again… That’s OK. Everybody likes what he likes. Oh…. By the way, he was the same person who came up to my car one day while I was listening to a Beethoven symphony and said, “How can you stand to listen to that junk?” I could have just as well replied, “It is a hundred times better than the low class, obnoxious, noise you listen to.” And maybe I should have added, “And, don’t you think Precious Moments figurines are a little bit…well, feminine….for a big tough football player?” But…. I didn’t. Everybody likes what he likes. Some people just have less respect for other people….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well…. Anyway…. I am not a landscape, portrait, flowers, sunset, cityscape type of person. I have a camera….actually more than one….and I can take pictures of all that stuff….and good pictures, too. Just check them out under another section of this web page. If I want pictures of that kind of stuff….and I often do….I can go take pictures. No….. I like the kind of art that I have to create….that I have to imagine…that I have to feel…..

I bought the acrylic paint and the brushes and the canvasses (I started out on artist’s paper, though.) at least a year before I actually even painted my first brush stroke. I kept asking myself, “How hard can it be to make an abstract painting? I mean…. I can’t really make a mistake. I can just say that it was the way I had intended it to be. And nobody will ever know….or can ever prove….otherwise.” So I ordered a set of acrylic paints from Amazon. They come in tubes….at least, the kind I use do. There were probably 8 or 10 tubes….all different colors. At that point, I had nothing in mind to paint, so I just covered all the bases…..a little of everything…..colors ranging from (no kidding) white to black….and everything in between. I was prepared to paint everything from a blizzard to “Midnight Madness.” Except I still didn’t have any idea what I was going to paint.

 

 

 

 

 

The brushes? Not a clue. I saw a collection of brushes….also on Amazon….and figured, “There are a bunch of them, so surely one of them will be right.” On the other hand, maybe I should have just used my fingers…. At that point, that is the level I was at in my knowledge of painting. Kids do it all the time. Why couldn’t….or shouldn’t….I?

Maybe the biggest concern…..biggest puzzle is a more apt description….was “what kind of material should I paint on?”. Maybe I should have worried about what kind of paint to use. I didn’t even stop and think about that. Water colors? Messy….and it looked like it would be difficult to paint over, if I made a mistake. On the other hand, like I have said before…. Who makes a mistake with abstract painting? Will anybody ever know? Oil paint? Once I saw how much oil paint costs, I scratched that from the list immediately. There was tempera. That is what kids use….and I saw too much of that when I was teaching. The paint covered hands….and face….and arms….and clothing….. Not to mention the mess that it left behind, at least with kids. Paint everywhere….except where it belongs, in some cases. And, then I would need a place to hang it up to dry…. Yeah…. That is why I chose acrylic paint….mostly out of ignorance and economy and cleanliness.

Back to what to paint on. I have been to dozens of art galleries…. Famous ones. The Louvre in Paris….twice, for example, just to drop one famous name. I knew about canvass, wood, and all that stuff. All of that seemed so permanent….so expensive, especially for an amateur…..a beginner. I wasn’t eager to invest a lot of money in that sort of stuff until (1) I found out that I liked to paint and (2) I found out if I was any good at it. Well….I can tell you that I did like it. You can answer the second question yourself. I went to one of the local arts and craft stores just to look and see what is available.

As happens frequently with me…. As I was walking up and down the aisles, looking at this, looking at that….picking up this…picking up that….and putting it back down….art paper, canvass, poster paper…A kindly middle age woman….at least, I think she was trying to be kind….asked me if I was a painter. I told her that I was thinking about starting…. Then she proceeded to educate me on her views of how I should get started. She told me that she had been painting for several year….and that she used a variety of paints: water color, acrylic, oils…. I told her that I had already bought several tubes of acrylic paints…. “Good choice,” she told me. That sort of took care of that. She then showed me some “books” of heavy artist paper. Although that kind of paper was primarily intended for water color, she said that she strongly recommended that I start with it. “It will work just as well with acrylics,” she said. Like any obedient “student”, I thanked her for her kind, but unsolicited, advice, did as she told me to do….and bought a “book” of heavy art paper. So…. I went back home with a book of artists paper….maybe each sheet being 15×12 inches or something like that.

 

 

 

 

 

I had everything I needed to start my destiny as an artist. Almost everything….everything but the motivation and ambition to start. Quite frankly, I had no idea how to start painting. I watched a couple videos on You Tube. Well…I started watching them, but not for very long. They started explaining the theory and history of painting…. That is not what I wanted to know….or needed to know. Another explained how to mix paints to achieve various colors. That didn’t seem very relevant, either, especially when there are two local craft stores that sell approximately one million different colors….at least, it seems like it. I am 99% sure that I would never in a hundred years ever come up with the exact same color if I started mixing paint together.

So, I did what I am fairly good at doing…. I put the book of painting paper on the shelf with the tubes of paint and the brushes, and decided to “do it later”.

For me, just getting started is difficult….no matter what it is. My next concern….some people might call it an excuse….was: What am I going to paint? I had already made up my mind that I was not going to simply copy something. Not that I am good at copying that kind of thing. Chances are nobody would ever suspect that I had even tried to copy….even with the two paintings lying side by side. I am sure that I have less talent for copying than I have for simply painting something from my imagination. No…. My paintings were going to be original. That didn’t stop me from looking through dozens….maybe even hundreds…..of abstract paintings that have been posted online. And, of course, I thought about the countless paintings that Sebastian and I had seen while we were wandering through art galleries in Berlin and Munich.

 

 

 

 

 

You know, everybody jokes about abstract painting….how everybody and anybody can do it….how it looks like something a first grader painted. I certainly have heard….and probably made….such comments. Maybe to some extent it is true. However, when I sat down to paint, it wasn’t like that. Of course, I could have just slapped some paint on the paper or on the canvass, but that is not painting. I wanted my paintings to have some sort of cohesion…some sort of unifying factor….some sort of sense that it was actually a painting. And, for me, that is difficult. And, I know I have not achieved that level yet. I am still working on it. I think the hardest part of the painting is just getting started….where to start….what colors to use….what the first brush stroke is going to be….

I always have a “concept”. But, I think I am correct in saying that none of my paintings have ever…never….turned out the way I originally envisioned them. I inevitably ended up making major alterations. However, that doesn’t bother me at all. What was important is just getting started. Once the painting is started…..even, once the painting is completed…. I had a much clearer vision of what I wanted. Maybe it is sort of like writing a first draft of a story or an essay. Once something was been written on paper, the changes….the improvements…..the refinements….become easier and more obvious. After I have finished the “first draft” of a painting, I just leave it lying on the dining room table….my painting station. Every time I walk past it, I glance at it….or even stop and look at it….contemplate it. Or sometimes, I will go ahead and hang it on the wall in a place where I can see it. If I sit back and say, “Wow…. That’s not so bad.” I just leave it alone. But, usually, a time comes when I look at it, and suddenly I think, “Ah, ha. Now I know what I want to do.”

That is one of the advantages I have of not knowing anything about painting! I can just keep changing it until I come up with something I like. I never feel defeated….or discouraged…. I know I can just keep messing with the painting….experimenting….fiddling around with it….until I come up with something that I at least halfway like. I don’t have anybody to please except myself. In fact, right now there are three paintings hanging on a wall that I am going to change. I haven’t decided how. But, I am going to change them….. And, when I finish, not only will a person never recognize them….but they are going to look better. Some people may say this is cheating. I say it is making them look better…. Who can say when a painting is really finished?

It is not like a photograph. Once it is taken, that is it. It’s taken. Yeah…. One can Photoshop it….adjust the colors….crop it. Now…. That, I think, is more like cheating! Changing something that “is” to something that “isn’t”. A photograph is a definite thing. Take a pictures of building. There it is. It is real. It is a definite thing….a certain size, color, shape… at that point in time. You can’t change that. Somebody can come along later and paint it….tear it down….make it larger….. But, at that exact time… That is the way the building looks. That is reality.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now…. My imagination. It changes constantly. That is sort of what imagination is all about. And, that is what my paintings are all about…. They evolve… It seems to take forever to come up with a “concept”. It is sort of like getting into my car and trying to decide, “Where do I want to go?” or at least, “What direction to I want to head?” I have done this a lot during this coronavirus disease we are going through now. With so many places closed, I just get in my car and drive around….somewhere. Usually, the trip ends up with a purpose or a destination, but I often do not know what the purpose or destination is until I am well into the trip. Most of the time, it is an adventure, and I am satisfied with my afternoon excursion. I usually see things I have never seen before….go places where I would not ordinarily go…. I have never gotten lost…. I have always made it back home. Interesting…. This is most often also a description of the way I paint.

 

 

 

 

 

Before I started painting…..such as it is….I looked up all sorts of information on the Internet about mixing colors. That was pretty much a waste of time. Yeah…. I know, Bob Ross spent a lot of time mixing paint: a little of this….a little of that….. Bob Ross, however, was an artist. He knew what he was doing. On the other hand, I am just a painter! And, to me, at least, there is a big difference. Probably anybody with a tube of paint and a brush can be a “painter”. I think it takes something more special….like talent….to be an “artist”. You can bet that nobody will ever accuse me of being an “artist”. There would certainly never be enough evidence of convince a jury of that. Anyway, as I said, there are a million different colors of paint to choose from. I am not going to waste my time and effort mixing paint.

Finally, that fateful, momentous night arrived. I double folded a sheet of butcher paper and put it on the dining room table. I got a glass of hot water to rinse the brushes. I laid the tubes of paint in front of me. I put the brushes in a glass so I could have ready access to them. I tore a sheet from the tablet of artist’s paper. I took a deep breath. And, I made the first brush stroke. I had begun to paint.

I squeezed out a little bit of paint onto a makeshift pallet…actually a piece of an old book shelf. My first paintings were strictly the placement of colors on the sheet of artist’s paper. Actually, the very first painting featured the initials of a friend of mine, Fayez. As you will readily see, it is not very memorable…not very “professional”…..actually, not very good. It was a start. Now I knew what I was up against. All of those “anybody can do it paintings” became a myth to me. I found out in a hurry that it was more difficult that I had expected…..or imagined. Yes, anybody can “do” it if the only intention is to slash paint onto a canvass…..or in my case….a sheet of artist’s paper.

 

 

 

Now, I have been painting for more than a year. Do I still like it? Yes. Have I gotten any better at it? Well….. In my own opinion, the answer is “Yes”. And, I suppose that is the only opinion that matters. I don’t really know what other people think…..nor do I really care. This is “My” hobby. I do it for myself….not for others. I am the only critic that I listen to. Now that I think about it, nobody has told me that they do not like my paintings. They are probably too polite…..and do not want to hurt my fragile ego! Or maybe they are afraid that I will hit them over their head with one of the paintings. Who knows? Who cares?

 

As time as progressed and as I have become more comfortable painting, I have made some changes in my approach and method of painting. As I indicated, in the beginning, I squeezed a small amount of paint onto a makeshift pallet, and then took the paint from the pallet. This worked….and still works. Using this method, however, produces a “flat” or one dimensional painting. There is nothing wrong with this. In fact, it may be the most common way of painting. I have ever taken a survey or even paid a lot of attention to it. Certainly it is the most common method with water colors…..probably the only possible method.

Somehow, in a moment of inspiration or madness, one night I asked myself, “I wonder what would happen if I would just squeeze the paint directly onto the canvass?” I tried it….and guess what? I liked it. Applying the paint directly to the canvass creates a three-dimensional effect. There is more of a textured quality to the painting. Since acrylic paint can have more than one layer, this makes it easy paint over. Normally, now I lay down the basic colors first by applying the paint directly to the canvass, making sure that there is enough paint to create the three dimensional textured effect. Applying layers of paint on top of the bottom or basic layer does not diminish that effect.

After I have applied the initial basic layer of paint….or paints….to the canvass, I leave it to dry. Normally, I paint at night, so this usually means that the canvass simply lies on the table until the following night. I suppose I could sit there and wait for it to dry….. But, watching paint dry is not high on the list of most exciting….or useful….things to do. Mostly when I apply the “basic coat” of paint, it is green (for a field) or blue (for a sky) or some other basic element of the painting. Speaking for myself, it is much easier, less time consuming, and more practical to paint the large, more pervasive areas first. Since it is fairly easy to add multiple layers to acrylic, it makes more sense to me to paint the large, basic area of color first. After all, the ground is covered with grass….and the flowers grow out of the grass. The sky is blue; the gray clouds are below the sky. As for trees, well….the grow out of the ground and tower against the blue sky. It doesn’t make a lot of sense to paint the flowers….or the trees….or the clouds….first and then try to fill in the sky or the grass around them. At least, in my hopefully sane mind it doesn’t.

 

 

 

 

There is a problem with painting multiple layers, however…..one that I was not aware of and that I had never even thought of. Actually, it took me a while….and I am talking two or three paintings….to realize or understand. Well… I still don’t understand it, but at least, I am aware of it.

Always when I start painting a new picture, I use bright colors….happy colors….nice blue, green, yellow, red, orange…. I like bright, colorful, upbeat pictures. I like pictures that are pleasant to look at….uplifting, and maybe even inspiring. Never mind that my paintings are abstract. They can still be cheerful and satisfying.

A lot of people ask, “What is that supposed to be?”
“I don’t know? What do you want it to be?”

 

 

 

Actually, it isn’t supposed to be anything! It is just a painting. It isn’t my job to tell you what “it is”. I am content to let it be anything you want it to be. When I start an abstract painting, I don’t say stuff like, “I am going to paint this….or paint that…..” What would be the use? The painting rarely, if ever, turns out the way it started anyway. In my case, I would probably tell myself, “OK, today I am going to paint “A joyous day at the beach.” Believe me…. By the time I finish the painting, it would look more like “A night in a spooky forest!”

Getting back to my original point….. Like the sun suddenly breaking through the clouds, it dawned on me that the more layers I use…..even layers of bright, cheerful colors….the darker the painting becomes. It doesn’t seem to matter how sunny or cheery the colors are….. The more of them that are layered on top of each other, the darker the painting is going to become. It took a while for this to finally sink into my brain, but once it did crack my cranium, it proved to be a useful lesson. I also found that the colors become darker when the paint is applied directly to the canvass…..as opposed brushing them on from a pallet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When you look at the examples of my paintings, please take this into consideration! No…. I was not angry at the world. No…. I was not in a bad mood….. No….. I was not subconsciously expressing any dark hostile feelings! I simply kept putting too many layers of paint, one on top of another. In some cases, I was probably trying to “lighten up” the painting. Instead, I kept making it darker. I suppose this sort of supports the old saying, “Too much a good thing is often not so good.” Or something like that. I think part of the problem is that sometimes, I simply do not know when to quit….to let well enough alone.

There is another lesson I learned purely by accident. Yellow is by far the most difficult color to wash out of a brush. Yellow brightens up almost any picture. Why shouldn’t it? We color the sun yellow. We color flowers yellow…..and autumn leaves…..and ribbons…..even baby chickens. For that matter, we often refer to cowards as being “Yellow”, although I have not painted anything like this yet. Yes…. Yellow can be a very useful color. As I painted more and more pictures, I got to the point where even though yellow is a “friendly” color, it rapidly became my enemy….or at least, a color with which I was not on very friendly terms. It is much like one of those people who always smiles at you, always seems friendly to your face….but you later find has been spreading gossip behind your back.

 

 

 

My first paintings were very primitive. Yeah…. I suppose one could say even child-like. I had no idea what I was doing….probably still don’t….so I just sort of randomly put paint on paper, so to speak. A little bit of red here…. Some blue there….a bit of orange over here….maybe a dash of black…. As painting became more “familiar” I became more comfortable. I didn’t say I became better…..just more comfortable. I tried to arrange colors in a semi-pleasing manner….pleasing to me, at least….but still always in a more or less random manner. Some of them looked pretty good….some not so good. I have never thrown away a painting. I have painted over some of them….these are probably the ones that look so dark!

 

 

 

After a while, I made the audaciously bold choice to paint some rather abstract semi-landscapes. I really didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t let that stop me, though…. With a lot of experimentation….and a lot of over-painting….I finally was sort of like Brigham Young when he said: “This is the painting!” I actually gave a couple of them away… No, I did not have to pay somebody to take them. They actually asked for them. Of course, I am not sure they actually realized they were paintings of landscapes, however. It is OK with me that both of them are probably being used to frighten away strangers….or mice. At least, they are being put to a good use.

One day I thought, “Ahhhh… I wonder if I can paint some abstract flowers?” Everybody likes flowers. Even I like flowers…. I like them in nature, but not in paintings. I have a camera. I can take pictures of flowers, if I want to…..and I do not! But, abstract flowers? Sure. Why not? Abstract flowers do not grow in nature. I can sort of make them any kind of flower I want. Which, translated, means: They probably really aren’t flowers at all. Even better. Then nobody can tell me they have never seen that kind of flower before. Of course not, stupid! They are “abstract” flowers. I was reasonably pleased with the results. And, remember: I am the only audience I have to please.

 

 

 

I am not about to sit around all day and paint flowers. A couple paintings was enough of that.

Maybe you can see that I was getting a little bored. I wanted to branch out….maybe combine a little bit of realism with the abstract. I started thinking. What else am I capable of drawing. It has to be something simple, something very basic. The truth of the matter is, as the old saying goes: I can’t even draw flies! “You know,” I thought, “Maybe I can paint a picture with sailboats. How hard can it be to draw a simple little sailboat?” The results weren’t half bad….and again, I am speaking as an audience of one. In fact, I was encouraged. Maybe I will make a career of painting little sailboats. Sailboats in the ocean; sailboats in a lake; sailboats in a pond; sailboats in a river…. The possibilities are endless.

Another of my misguided ideas was to paint pictures of barns….or old houses. Same difference, except for a couple windows and a door…..and maybe a chimney. Actually I tried this. My mistake was that I got overconfident. I was starting to think that maybe I could actually draw a real picture! I gave the first barn picture to a friend for Christmas. I hope he knows it is a barn…. He looked rather puzzled when I gave it to him. I began to think: I can do better than that. So, I painted another “barn” picture in which I was going to correct all the “mistakes” I made in the first one. But, the old urge took over again. I simply could not let well enough alone! I added a little paint here….a little there…. I added a field…..and some flowers….and a path….and a little of this…..and a little of that….just to cheer it up, make it a little “happier”.

Yeah…. You are right. The more I added, the darker and gloomier the picture became. Actually, the finished product looks like it could be an illustration in some horror movie….or an Edgar Allen Poe story…..or maybe a dark Gothic novel…. I had intended it to be a pleasant, bucolic picture….a picture of rural tranquility and bliss. Instead, it has a dark, even sinister quality. This is one of the paintings that is probably a candidate for “repainting”. Or maybe I will simply add a couple werewolves or wild animals in the background and let it be.

One would think that I would just give up on the barns and move on to something else. But, No. Not me. “I am going to get this right even if I have to paint a dozen of these.” People have sometimes said that I am stubborn. I prefer to think of it as determination or perseverance. Those words sound better. Nevertheless, I started painting another barn picture. This time I took all the colors that I thought could possibly be interpreted as “dark colors”, put them into a box and put them away….out of sight. I was left with only pastel colors to work with. This painting, I was firmly determined, was not going to be another sinister Gothic-type painting.

And, I am pleased to say, it wasn’t. But, on the other hand, it looks very much like it could have been painted by a fourth or fifth grade student during recess on a rainy day. I was tempted to go find the darker paint….and touch it up….obscure it a little bit….make it look less like a “picture”. But, I didn’t. I hung it on the wall. This picture is also an excellent….and likely….candidate to eventually be painted over…..or at the very least, I might try to “abstract” it a little bit. In the meantime, if people ask about it, I will tell them that my ten year old great-great nephew painted it…gave it to his parents…..they didn’t want it…..so they gave it to good old Uncle Beryl!

Even though I was not ecstatic with the results of the paintings, the effort that I spent with the barns and the flowers and the ships was a valuable lesson. The lesson? Don’t waste time trying to do things that I already know I had no talent or aptitude for. I think I got a little over-confident….or maybe a better word would be arrogant….and just assumed that the talent or the ability to actually paint “things” would somehow magically appear. If this was the case, I certainly proved it to be a false assumption. I can throw a football. But can I become an NFL quarterback? I can put a bandage on a cut. Does that make ma a doctor? I can build a bookcase. Maybe I can become a construction engineer? No…. All of these are rather far fetched assumptions. Believe me…. None of them will ever happen.

That’s OK. I am going back to my “roots”, so to speak. I only “planted” the idea about painting two years ago. It is one of those fast-growing “plants”. I told you in one of these chapters that while I was in South Vietnam, a plant or little tree might be a twelve inches tall one day….and the next day is might be a couple feet tall. I don’t know if this illustration entirely fits….. Probably not. But I am going to use this analogy for my painting. It is also true that if you plant a rose bush, it is going to always be a rose bush…..and it is not miraculously going to turn into an oak tree. So, I don’t know why I thought that all of a sudden I could start drawing “pictures”. It just didn’t happen. From now on I am going to stick pretty close to painting abstract stuff….or expressionism….. or modern art….of whatever one wants to call it. When I want a picture of something, I will take it with my camera.

There are a couple things that I need to do if I am going to continue painting. One is to get another, more suitable, place to paint. Right now the painting supplies and assorted paraphernalia have invaded and occupied the dining room table. It is a good thing I only use the table for one meal a year….Thanksgiving dinner. I am hoping that someday I can remedy this by moving the painting operation to the basement. First, however, I have to vastly improve the lighting in the basement. Currently the amount of light in the basement closely resembles that of a medieval dungeon. Adding some additional lights….and some electrical sockets…. Would make the basement a suitable art studio…..just in case anybody ever happens to call me an artist. Plus, a sink with running hot water will also be necessary. With some good fortune, both of these improvements could happen.

As it is, there is a double layer of butcher paper on the table to protect it…..and a table cloth, of course, which is stained with paint. There is paint on the chairs, too. With some hard work and a good cleaning product, chances are good that the paint can be removed from the table and chairs. Sandpaper can always be used as a desperate last resort. I can’t say the same thing for my clothing, however. Back in the beginning, it never occurred to me that I might get paint on my clothes. It was something that I never considered. Painting a picture is not exactly the same as painting a house. But, I was wrong. My black t-shirt has several colorful reminders of my carelessness on it. “The paint will probably wash out when I do the laundry,” I thought. That was wishful thinking for sure! Acrylic paint may be water soluble when it is still wet….on a hard surface. Take it from me: It is not water soluble when it is painted on cloth. I learned that the hard way. No big deal. I will simply use this t-shirt as my “painting shirt”. Yes…. That was a rather resourceful idea. A resourceful idea only if I can remember to wear that shirt when I paint. But, sometimes, I didn’t. Absent mindedly, I would sit down at the table and start painting only to look down a few minutes later to see that I had gotten paint on the shirt I happen to be wearing. I would silently….or sometimes out loud….say a few choice words. But, the damage had been done. Guess what? Now I have another “painting shirt”! After accumulating three “painting shirts”….paint splattered shirts…. and a few more that have almost become painting shirts, my brain has finally awakened sufficiently to remind me to change shirts …..or condemn myself to constantly looking like some sort of dirty old man who doesn’t own any clean shirts. Another alternative, I suppose, would be to hang the shirts on the wall and make them part of the art work….and believe me, some of them look almost as good.

There isn’t a lot more to say. For as long as I enjoy doing it, I will keep painting. It is an interesting and enjoyable activity….and there is a tangible result. I may not like the result, but nevertheless I have a product to account for my efforts. As I have explained, if I am not happy with a painting, there is always a second….or even a third….opportunity to alter it and hopefully transform it into a form that does satisfy me. You have heard the old saying, “If once you don’t succeed, try, try again.” In this case, it really works.

One unforeseen problem….other than ruining shirts….has sort of cropped up. Maybe it really isn’t a “problem” in a negative sense. It is still a matter that I had not anticipated in advance. Do the math….something that I neglected to do: Let’s just suppose that I were able and willing to paint one picture a day. That would man I would paint 365 (and 1/4, if we want to be technical!) pictures each year! Can you imagine that? I can….but I don’t want to. Or, to scale it down a bit, let’s suppose I would paint one pictures each week. That is well within a reasonable possibility. I would be producing 52 paintings each year. That is still a lot of paintings. In fact, it is still too many paintings. As you can imagine, there is no way that I can deal with 365 paintings. Fifty-two paintings? That is only theoretically one seventh of that total. Still…. I would have to own a mansion to display all those pictures. No…. I would have to own a large gymnasium with no windows…..or a building with almost endless hallways. If you passed sixth grade math, you are already starting to see the problem. Consequently, I have had to scale down on the number of paintings. Since I plan to live about twenty more years, I could potentially have more than enough paintings to supply a good sized art gallery.

Back when I was still living in Ozawkie, my vision was rather small. I bought one book of artist’s paper, ten or twelve tubes of paint and a few brushes. I had no idea it would mushroom in the conglomeration of painting supplies that I have today. I have never taken the time to count, but I estimate that I have somewhere around seventy-five or eighty tubes of paint. I buy canvasses in packs of 5, mostly because they are cheaper. At the time I am writing this, I have a reserve of three packages of canvasses….. fifteen total. Brushes…. I have no idea. Maybe twenty-five or thirty. On the other hand, there is nothing like being prepared.

When I speak of canvasses, of course, I am referring to pre-stretched, already framed canvass. I don’t buy a big roll of tent canvass or anything like that. So far, I have only used 16×20 inches canvass. These seem to be manageable, and maybe most of all, they are available…..and they are relatively inexpensive. Someday, if I get really brave….and motivated….I may move up to the next size. And, I have no idea what that size will be. Of course, that adds to the problem I mentioned earlier. If having too many 16×20 canvasses is a problem…. What would I do with even larger ones?

But, I am optimistic. We know that artist, Grandma Moses was in her seventies or eighties when she started painting and gained fame as an artist. In fact, for several years, her paintings were a hot commodity. Owning a “Grandma Moses” was a much sought after status symbol. For you younger readers….or for you uncivilized art non-lovers….check it out. You’ll see. Of course, Grandma Moses painted folk art. That’s OK… No big deal.

I am hopeful that maybe someday, maybe I will become the “Uncle Beryl”……of abstract art. Yes, I know that I said that the only person I try to please with my paintings is myself. That is true….and will always be true. But, surely it is true that if I like them….. other people will like them, too. I am a fairly typical person….maybe a little more discerning or sophisticated than some people. So, if, by chance, you happen to be walking through an art gallery or art museum….let’s say in New York City or Paris or London….or even Kansas City….it is possible that you may stop suddenly and exclaim, “I have seen that painting before! That is an ‘Uncle Beryl’!”

Then you can turn to the person next to you and say, with an air of superiority, “I know that guy!”

If you happen to be one of those fortunate, chosen people who have already received a painting as a gift, my advice is: Hold on to it….at least until you are ready to retire. Then you can sell it and live in luxury during your senior citizen years.

Until that time arrives, however, I will continue to press on, turning out abstract paintings. Until I can find a good pottery class, at least.

Yes…. For a kid who vehemently did not want to go to South Vietnam…. And, let’s face it, back then I was a kid, even at the age of 23…..things surely did take a drastic, 180 degree spin in the gravel….or jungle, might be a little more accurate description. As you may have read in the previous post, going to South Vietnam was not at the top of my list when it came to my favorite dreams. I missed an opportunity for one of the medical officers to “enhance” my health records; I was turned down for a well-intentioned, but ill-conceived, effort on the part of my superiors at Ft. Benjamin Harrison to get me a direct commission as an officer in the Adjutant General Corps. Yeah…. Miracles happen. But, these schemes were probably beyond the limits of miracles.

After the harrowing, amusement park like landing at Tan Son Nhut Airport, I stepped out into a world that I felt I had been looking for all my life. It was sort of like meeting my best friend….whom I had never met before. Or….. To put it in the words of John Denver, “Coming home to a place I’ve never been before…..”

As the end of my military enlistment stealthily crept up on me, I was looking forward to simply getting out of the army and going back home. Of course, I had never intended to make a career in the military. Under ideal circumstances back in 1962, I would never have enlisted in the army. In fact, I probably didn’t have any intentions of ever leaving Rice County…..unless it was to move to Hutchinson! Sadly, back in those days, my career goals….not to mention my long-range personal goals…..were not very ambitious. I started out teaching in a two room school house. The move to a four room school was a big step upward in my eyes. And…. To land a job in the Hutchinson school system would have probably seemed like the pinnacle of success. Oh…. I don’t know. Maybe in time the desire to become a principal might have become the crowning achievement of my life.

On the other hand, while I was working for Dillons back during my high school and college days, my fondest ambition was to become the manager of a Dillon store. I was perfectly content working there: working at the cash register, stocking shelves, trimming produce, marking groceries…. I liked the people I was working with; I liked meeting and talking with all the customers….. I just liked the job, in general. Once I got the hang of things….and, let’s face it, it didn’t require a PhD or anything like that….I was good at it. There was a kind of satisfaction knowing that I was a valued employee….that I was doing my part in running the store efficiently….in making money for the Dillon family, who owned the corporation at the time.

I would go to work after school or on Saturday, do my job, and leave. That was it. No fuss; no muss. The only time I had to work overtime was when we did the quarterly inventory on a Saturday night after regular store hours. And… Counting all those cans and boxes….all those thousands of cans and boxes and packages….. Man… That was fun! Maybe I just liked to count! Or maybe I was not too bright back in those days! We would start counting as soon as we closed the doors and locked them…. And, we counted (and counted….and counted….) until probably 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning….

I am not sure why we didn’t start earlier. I mean…. What difference was it going to make if we sold a few cans of corn or a couple boxes of soap in the meantime? Actually, I am still not sure exactly why we even took inventory. They still do it, I guess, so it must serve some sort of useful purpose. As for me….. We got paid for doing it…. Time and a half…. Overtime, I think it is called. Wow…. A fortune. When I started working at Dillons in 1952, I made 60 cents an hour. For those six hour or so that I took inventory, I was making 90 cents an hour. Move over Bill Gates….

My boss’s name was Chet Dobyns. He was sort of a dour guy….short, just a little on the rotund side. At first he was a little bit intimidating. But, I found that he was actually a pretty funny man, when he wanted to be. After a while, when I got to know him….or when I got accustomed to him….I actually liked him. And…. He liked me, too. But, as I think (and hope) I have done all my life, I did a really good job for him.

I nagged him for months to change my title from…. Well, now that I think about it, I didn’t really have a title. Anyway, I wanted him to grant me the title of “Assistant to the Manager”. Now…. Come on. That is benign enough. Probably back then, I thought it had a few (desirable) attributes of prestige and grandeur. Everybody who worked in the store knew each other intimately. Our jobs were all pretty much chiseled into stone. There were only about a dozen employees total. And…. We all knew….understood quite well…..that Chet’s wife, Velma, really ran the store. And, she didn’t even work there. But, she always showed up around closing time, after she got off work at her job…..which was bookkeeper at a local ice cream manufacturing plant, I think. She would descend on the store…..and take charge of counting the money, balancing all the stuff…..and trying to make a good impression on the district supervisors, if they happened to show up. When Velma was around, everybody was on his best behavior.

I am digressing, though. One afternoon, I showed up at work, and Chet said, “Come over here. I have something for you.” Joy and excitement leaped into my heart! Oh….My wish had come true. He gathered all the employees who were free….and then….He handed me a Dillon ID pin that said, “Beryl Darrah, General Assistant.” Thanks for nothing. But, on the other hand, I am sure that it could just as well have said “General Pain in the Ass.”

But…. As said in another blog: Dillons did not give me college scholarships so I could waste it working for them. I moved on to my next dream…..to be a teacher. The army sort of put an end to that dream, for a few years, at least……with a free, all expenses paid trip to Saigon.

As my days in the army began to dwindle down, I began to give some thought to my future…..what I would do when I got back home. I had already told my sergeant-major that I did not want to reenlist. And, I didn’t. My old boss from back at Ft. Benjamin Harrison had become the military attache to Turkey. He sent a message telling me that he would like for me to be his NCO aide-de-camp. I was flattered that he wanted me to come and work for him. This was an enviable job….a job that most career soldiers would have given their left arm for. Just think of all the important people I could meet. All the important meetings and receptions I would accompany him to. And, my living quarters? I doubt if I would have been living in a dark, musty army barracks.

But… Turkey? This was back in 1965. Turkey? That did not have the exotic tourist appeal that it has today. I thought of it as more of a violent, lawless third world country….a place where I didn’t particularly want to go. Certainly not a place worth reenlisting for three more years. I turned down the offer. This, of course, was one of the things for which I would kick myself and berate myself for years to come. Oh well….

I arrived back home in Sterling sometime during the second week in September. I had already enrolled for the fall semester at Sterling College….through the mail. There was little….probably none at all….down time after I arrived home. College was starting immediately after I arrived. This was back in the “good old days” when colleges did not start until the middle of September….vastly different from most colleges today.

My plan….the grand plan for my life….was to return to college and become certified as an elementary teacher. I was already certified as a secondary teacher in American history, US Government, English…..and social studies…..sort of a catch-all certification that covered a wide variety of subjects….probably including brain surgery, if they had needed such a teacher! But, remember…. This was back in the days when there was a severe teacher shortage, for some reason. Upon completion of this certification, my job options would increase dramatically. Yeah…. I would be all set (as we said back then), ready for a bright future…..ready for the rest of my life.

Excited and eager to learn, I became a college student again. I enrolled in 15 credit hours of course work: Elementary Methods; Art for Elementary Teachers; Arithmetic for Elementary Teachers; Play Activities; and Elementary Student Teaching.

I am not sure what I was expecting. But…Man, these classes were boring! Not only boring, but irrelevant. Not only irrelevant, but worthless. When I look back on this semester, I think that I had simply grown and matured far beyond the man I was in 1960, when I received my bachelor’s degree. I think that back then….right after I had graduated from high school…..I had no concept of college…..what is was supposed to be like, what to expect from it. I had never been to college before. What did I know about it? I lived at home. My high school friends were still my “friends”. I had very little interaction with the other college students other than those who had graduated from Sterling High School Most of them were studying to go into some form of Christian ministry. And, there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, it was admirable.

After I graduated from college, I got a job teaching…..eventually two jobs, in fact. So I had already had two and a half years experience as an elementary teacher. It wasn’t like I had just crawled out from beneath a rock. I had stood in front of a class, taught them, planned the lessons, graded the papers….everything that a teacher does. All of what I was “learning” in these courses was pretty Mickey Mouse stuff….freshman stuff….. It took me less than a week to figure out that I actually knew more about teaching that any of my instructors knew. For one thing: I had actually taught school; they had not.

The head of the education department….the department was composed of two professors, neither with an earned doctorate…..was still there. Probably the last time she actually taught in a classroom was back in the early part of the century. Oh yes…. She was a good woman; she meant well; she tried. But, she just didn’t know what was going on inside a real classroom. She was sort of like the spinster school marm back in “The Little House on the Prairie” days. And….. She taught the elementary methods class.

Art for Elementary Teachers was a night class. I honestly thought the professor was gay. I was just a little nervous around him. It turned out that he wasn’t gay…..At least, he got married and had a child. But, he was also living….and teaching…..in the dark ages. He had one idea of art…..and to him, that was it. His way….or… Well, you get the idea. Creativity had no place in his classroom. Everybody did the same thing….and in the same way: His way. Oh, come on…. How many elementary teachers are artists? How many elementary students are artists….or even want to become artists. The point of elementary art is to teach and to foster and encourage creativity at an early age….not to train artists of the future. But…. Not in his classroom.

The class in Math for Elementary Teachers? Oh, wow. What can I say? Apparently something had happened in the three years that I had been out of the classroom. Two and two were no longer four. Ten times ten were no longer one hundred. For that matter….it seems that a five was no longer a five….or thirty was no longer three tens or two fifteens….. In fact, I really have no idea what they were. I struggled through the class…..base 10, sets, sub-sets…. I got a B….. Ask me how: I have no idea. Probably cheated! Were they actually teaching this bull in elementary classrooms? Who came up with the idea? My theory was that it was the textbook publishers. “Let’s come up with some crap that nobody understands. We can change all the textbooks….and make a fortune.” Fortunately, by the time I got back into classroom teaching four years later, it had been long forgotten.

That brings us to Play Activities. It was supposed to be a new “fun”, non-competitive, self-expression form of physical education. It was taught by some female kid….she had to have just graduated from high school…. No, more likely she had just graduated from Sterling College; this was her very first job; she was working for a salary of an indentured servant (like most of the professors were); and she was probably screwing one of the deans! Anyway, she is the only one of my college teachers that I actually clashed with. What she was teaching was so unrealistic, so utterly ridiculous, far fetched that it bordered on something from the Twilight Zone. And…. I told her so. I had already taught for two and a half years in an elementary school. I told her that no kid….boy or girl….who was halfway normal…..was going to fall for any of it. Why would a kid be interested in doing through all sorts of weird gyrations when he or she could be playing flag football or running a race or playing on the swings or shooting baskets on the outdoor court? That was no doubt a mistake. She never liked me from that point on. Oh well….. I didn’t like her either.

Ahhhh….. That brings us to student teaching. My neighbor girl’s (and remember, I was living in Sterling) boy friend had gotten a job teaching 6^th grade in Nickerson, a small town about ten miles from Sterling. He agreed that I could be a student teacher in his classroom…. Bless his heart. He had less teaching experience than I had.

So…. There I was. “Practicing” what I had already been paid to do for two and half years. My supervising teacher….the boy friend of my neighbor girl….. wasn’t, in my opinion, the most inspiring teacher in the world. After all….. He was teaching 6^th grade. How inspiring can that be….even under the best of circumstances. I doubt if very many…..if any….students were ever inspired by my rousing lectures to my 6^th grade classes, either. In general, the typical 6^th grade lesson does not fit into a category that can be called inspirational. 9 X 9 = 81. Use an auxiliary verb with the participle. The heart is the organ that pumps the blood through the body. The capital of France is Paris. Yeah…. That kind of stuff will never be made into a movie.

Since I spent a lot of time “observing”, that meant I had to spend a lot of time just trying to stay awake. I spent a lot of time just looking at my wristwatch! I spent a lot of time just trying to amuse myself…..trying not to fall asleep and falling out of my chair. No….really. The guy was not a bad teacher. He was a friend of mine. But, come on…. He wasn’t doing circus tricks or telling funny jokes or shooting half-court shots with a basketball.

No….. I think the entire thing was my fault. I was realizing that I probably knew from the very minute I stepped off the airplane in Wichita: I missed South Vietnam, and I wanted to go back. I didn’t miss the military; I missed the country….the people…..the laid back culture. I started searching for ways to go back to South Vietnam…..without reenlisting in the army, which I also came to realize was maybe what I really should have done.

This was a few decades before this thing known as the Internet came along. Finding a job in South Vietnam was obviously going to be a challenge. Quite frankly I doubted if it was even possible. Where did I even begin? There were no “job boards” back in those days. There were no advertisements in the Hutchinson News seeking civilians who wanted to go to South Vietnam. Certainly the Sterling College Placement Bureau didn’t have anything like that.

My only hope was to look up the addresses of all the non-government organizations, write letters to them asking about job opportunities….and then sit back and wait for a reply. Like I said, this was back when the Internet was only perhaps a wild fantasy in some science fiction story. There was, however, a publication called “The Readers’ Guide to Periodical Literature” which was an index of articles appearing in the most popular and important periodicals. It was found in virtually all libraries…..and still is, insofar as I know. I had to look up articles by their published date…..then search for them in the “magazine stacks”…..usually located in a poorly lighted, dark, basement with no windows. This was cumbersome and time consuming. Not to mention sending out a letter of inquiry….waiting for the reply…..filling out application forms….waiting even longer for a reply….. The chances of landing a job by this method was probably somewhere between zero and nothing.

But…. I think I must have been living a good life. Luck….good fortune….or something….was on my side.

I was sitting in the classroom….”observing”…..trying to stay awake. I was leafing through a magazine….”Redbook Magazine”, to be exact….as a distraction. I have no idea what Redbook Magazine was doing in a 6^th grade classroom. Maybe these kids were more advanced that I had assumed they were….or certainly a little more sophisticated. At any rate, I was sitting there leafing through the pages of the magazine….trying to be as subtle and unobtrusive as possible….when all of a sudden it hit me. If that magazine would have had fists, it would have smashed me in the nose.

Suddenly, I was wide awake. There in front of me was an article about an organization that I had never heard of. It was exactly what I had been looking for….even though I didn’t even know it existed. I knew the instant that I saw the title of the article that this was going to be my ticket back to South Vietnam. According to the article, there was an organization called The International Voluntary Services (IVS) that was composed of idealistic volunteers. They were working in the fields of education, agriculture and community development. The word that jumped out at me was “education”. And….the article went on to say they were always looking for “volunteers”.

I knew then….deep in my heart…..that I would be going back to South Vietnam…..with the International Voluntary Services. However, I didn’t tell anybody about my plan. I decided to wait until it was really THE plan. I copied the address of the International Voluntary Services from the magazine article. I “hid” the magazine somewhere (and I don’t remember the exact place) where I was pretty sure nobody would take the magazine. It never occurred to me to simply ask if I could take the magazine with me….and I was too honest to simply take the magazine without asking (bragging… Yes, I was an honest person, even back then!)

That evening I sat down at my ancient old typewriter and wrote a letter asking for an application form. In about a week, I received the application form in the mail….remember, this was long before there was even a hint of the Internet. I filled out the application immediately and mailed it back…..and waited hopefully….and eagerly….and expectantly…. In another week or ten days, a letter came from John Hughes, the personnel director of IVS. I ripped the envelop open….probably fortunate that I didn’t tear the letter apart in the process. Of course, if this would be happening today, chances are the entire process would have been accomplished in a couple days….instead of almost three weeks.

IVS was interested. An interview appointment was arranged in McPherson the following week. McPherson is about 40 miles from Sterling. I was super excited….but also super nervous. I had very little background or knowledge of this organization. For all I knew, all the volunteers had PhD’s or were “experts” in their fields. Maybe they were all experienced foreign service officers…. I was pretty young and naive back then. After all…. All the people who were applying were volunteers. Why would a person volunteer for a job they could get paid to do? I was still pretty confident….and I still “knew” that I would be going back to South Vietnam.

What should I wear to the interview? The only interviews I had had were….well, my job at Dillons. And, that wasn’t exactly what one would call an “interview”. My only other interviews were for the teaching positions. In all of these jobs….including the one later in Valley Falls….they were selling the job to me! That was how severe the teacher shortage was. Nevertheless, I did the only thing I knew to do. I put on a suit and tie…and hoped for the best.

I don’t remember who interviewed me. I am guessing that he was a former volunteer who lived in McPherson or close by.  And, I don’t recall where the interview was held. Probably a local cafe. I do remember that the guy who showed up to interview me was not much older than I was. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt with some sort of logo on it. So much for professional standards! Fashion was certainly wasn’t going to be a factor in getting this position. He obviously was not a professional interviewer. We talked for a while….not about anything in particular. I asked him more questions that he asked me. I left the “interview” knowing that I would be teaching English somewhere in a provincial school….somewhere out in the boondocks. I was surprised to find that we would actually be given a “living allowance”. All I had expected was a place to live and maybe a few bananas….lots of rice and lots of tea! And…. The latter two things definitely came true.

As the interview….the meeting….came to a close, he told me that he was definitely going to recommend that I be accepted….and he thought my chances were excellent. (Actually, I think everybody’s chances were excellent!) As I drove back home, I was a happy camper. Sure enough, in about another week, I received a letter telling me that I had indeed been accepted. Hey….. High Five! I am going back to South Vietnam. And…. You said I couldn’t do it!

I decided that maybe it was time to start letting people know. Some people, of course, reacted with shock. Why would anybody want to go to South Vietnam voluntarily? Especially somebody who had already been there…. They probably thought I had gone crazy….probably suffered some sort of “war injury” while I was there…. (Just fighting off the women!) Maybe I was eligible for some sort of psychiatric treatment. (People have always thought that!) I had the feeling that some of my friends were probably talking behind my back: “Poor Beryl. There must be something wrong with him.” (No…. Not really.) A couple of my friends asked, “What’s the deal? Do you have a woman there?” (Well…. Not yet, anyway.)

Actually, my family was less surprised. They all knew that I had liked South Vietnam….and wanted to go back. I think they were rather astounded that it happened so quickly. None of them tried to talk me out of it…..other than saying things like, “Why don’t you just get a job teaching here in the USA?” or “It’s dangerous over there. Are you sure you want to go back there?”

Next came the process of preparing to leave. First there was the passport. I had never had one before. But, I got one. Then there were all those shots….the immunizations and inoculations…. I felt like a human pin cushion. I had been through all this before having received dozens of shots while I was still in the Army….and the old needle holes were still there.

My recollections of a lot of details have faded from my memory. I really have no idea how I got to Washington, D. C. None, whatsoever. The only thing I recall for certain is that for some reason, I landed in Baltimore. I didn’t even think that was unusual. That is how little I knew about what was going on. Somehow I got from Baltimore to Washington, D. C. And, somehow I found my way to the IVS headquarters.

You know….back in those days, nothing seemed to bother me. I just did stuff….and somehow everything seemed to work out. As I look back on those “Sterling” days, I often marvel that I am still around to tell about it. I did a lot of stupid things. Not bad things…..just stupid things. I took a lot of chances….did too many things without stopping to think of the consequences. I acted impulsively….spontaneously. I wasn’t insane or anything like that. I didn’t jump out in front of cars….or rob banks….or even wrestle alligators. I just “did” things….especially if it sounded or looked like fun. Maybe it never occurred to me that I was risking my health or well being. And, even back then, I looked upon myself as being sort of a coward. Maybe being so naive….such a country hick….that I didn’t recognize the potential results of some of the things I did…. Who knows? Maybe it was good, in a rather perverse way. At least, I didn’t expend a lot of energy worrying about things….

Yes…. You are right, if you are thinking that something rather drastic happened somewhere along the way……between the years when I was a (very) young man…..and now. I doubt if there are many people that I know who would ever accuse me of being spontaneous or doing things on the spur of the moment. If someone would file a charge of “spontaneousness” against me in court, there would never be enough evidence for a guilty verdict in any court in the world.

Nevertheless, somehow I made it to Washington, D. C. Somehow I found the IVS offices. Details….details…… The personnel director greeted me profusely….and soon I found myself being shuttled off to a hotel somewhere in close proximity of the World Health Organization. I remember, because this was one of the only things I could see from my window. This was no doubt a good location for the hotel, too. The place was so run down and dirty that I suspect there were diseases hiding all over the place….and probably few right in the open where we could see them, if we knew what to look for. If we got sick….. Well, the World Health Organization was right next door! At this point in my young life, I was hadn’t had a lot of experience staying in hotels….unless an army barracks passes for a hotel. And, believe me…. It doesn’t. But, even I knew that we were staying in a cheap, sub-standard, run-down building where IVS was probably renting rooms by the month at a fairly insignificant fee.

My roommate’s name was Robert Walker. I really don’t remember much about him. He was assigned to the agriculture team. I do remember, however, that we would lie on our beds, talk….and listen to Nancy Sinatra sing “These Boots Are Made for Walking”…..still one of my favorite songs. We rapidly drifted apart….especially after we arrived in South Vietnam and were dispersed to our various stations. In fact, once we got to South Vietnam, none of us rarely saw each other again. Our paths never seemed to cross. I would try to find Robert….except, I am not sure he is still alive. If he is….well, let’s face it: He is a rather elderly gentleman now. Plus….and this is the main reason: Do you have any idea how many Robert Walkers there are in the USA today? If not….just look in one of the online telephone directories.

Nevertheless, Robert and I got along well. We went got up, met the rest of our group, caught a bus to a large drug store, ate breakfast….and went to our language school. You are probably asking…. Ate breakfast in a drug store? Oh yes…. This was very common back in those days. Almost every large drug store had a “lunch counter” that served simple meals. These were popular places to eat for the morning rush hour crowd….and the lunch hour, too, for that matter. Yeah…..good old Walgreens is not what it used to be.

We spent the remainder of the day…..five days a week…..in school. We studied “Teaching English as a Foreign Language” at George Washington University in the morning. The afternoons were devoted to learning the Vietnamese language at the Foreign Service Institute.

The purpose of the course we attended at George Washington University was to instruct us the principles and methods of teaching English as a foreign language….more specifically to the Vietnamese students we would soon encounter. To be more specific, the class was offered to those of us who were destined to be English teachers in Vietnamese schools. The agriculture and community service volunteers went their separate ways to learn something that might be useful to them during their stay in South Vietnam.

This was the one….and only….class I ever took in this skill, so I am not really very qualified to give an enlightened appraisal of the course. I can only imagine that it followed accepted techniques…or best practices….in the field at the time. After all it was being conducted by George Washington University…..a university of considerable prestige and respect. Basically, the method we were taught was the “repeat after me” system. And…. It is exactly what it says…..rather like teaching a parrot to talk. The teacher says a word….or a phrase…..and then the students repeat it. “Model it” is the professional term, I think.

I was the only person in my group….a rather small group after the ag and CD people had been separated from us…..who had ever taught school before. I caught on to what was happening almost immediately. I mean…. Come on. How difficult can it be to say, “My name is Beryl” over and over the or twelve times? Or “Where do you live?” Or, “Duck…. Somebody is shooting at you.” (“Get down” would probably be a better term to use. To a Vietnamese, “duck” is something that quacks.)

But….. We spent six weeks….four hours a day….learning how to do it. Oh, I am sure there were some other things thrown in along the way just to make it a little more interesting and to make us feel we were getting our money’s worth. But, to summarize it in one sentence….. That is what we did. And…..I know you are not to believe this….a couple of the guys had problems with learning it. Since we didn’t have any foreign students to work with, we did a lot of play acting: We and the instructors were the “class”. Yeah…. It did get a little boring, for me, at least. But, I was a “good student”…..the star of the class, in fact! (See illustration.) And, the “teacher’s pet” too, I might modestly add.

In the afternoon, after we had eaten lunch…..probably at the same drug store….we all assembled at the Foreign Service Institute for our classes in the Vietnamese language. Actually, these classes were not a lot of fun. They were necessary…..and we understood that….but they were not something any of us looked forward to.

Vietnamese is not the easiest language to learn. It is a tonal language with five distinct tones. Let me see if I can remember all of them: There is the even tone with no intonation; there is the low rising tone….the low falling tone….the high rising tone and the high falling tone. That’s five, isn’t it? If you have ever wondered why languages like Chinese or Vietnamese sound so “sing-song”…. Well, wonder no longer. And the multiple tones are the reason why. But, don’t ask me why most Orientals speak in what seems like a nasal voice. I have no idea. That is a mystery for somebody else to figure out. I am pretty sure that none of us Americans spoke in a nasal, sing-song voice.

All words in the Vietnamese language have only one syllable. Strange…. Stop and consider: one syllable, one word…and five separate tones. And, I think I am correct in saying that many of their “words” are actually short “phrases” in the Vietnamese language. At any rate, it is a tricky language to learn. If you are not accustomed to the five tones….and what American is, unless they are an opera singer…..everything becomes very confusing in a hurry. Before I started studying Vietnamese, I don’t think I ever thought about it. I guess it never occurred to me about the “tones”. I suppose I just thought “that is the way they talk”. We found out in a hurry that there is a reason for that “sing-song” language they spoke.

In case you are wondering how to know which tone to make or how to pronounce a word….. There are little marks over the vowel that indicates the sound. Maybe you don’t think it makes any difference which tone to use. Well…. Let me tell you. It does! The same one syllable word can….and does….have five different meanings, depending on the tone. Let’s just say that the Vietnamese language is not a “natural” language for an English speaking person to learn to speak. And….. We haven’t even talked about the sentence structure, the verb tenses, the masculine and feminine noun and pronoun forms….. And, I am certainly not going into that here. Find a linguist, if you want to know that badly.

Just like we teachers were learning in the mornings at George Washington University, the method of teaching was the “repeat after me” system. I don’t know…. Maybe that is the only efficient way to teach pronunciation of a foreign language. We call it “modeling”. One thing that I am sure of, however, sitting for four hours “modeling” the Vietnamese language was pretty boring…..if not mind numbing. There were times when I…..and I am sure most of our little group….found it difficult to stay awake. I always wondered if it would have been better to start out the day learning Vietnamese, when our brains were still awake…..when they were still functioning in a semi-alert mode.

Like I said, the Vietnamese language classes were conducted at the Foreign Service Institute….a highly reputable institution. The actual teaching of Vietnamese was done by native Vietnamese. Vietnamese women, to be more exact. We were told….by somebody….they were wives of Vietnamese diplomats who were serving in Washington, D. C. at that time. These women knew what they were doing. I suspect that some of them may have been teachers back in South Vietnam….maybe on the university level. And, like most Vietnamese…. They were really nice women. Probably too nice for their own good. I think they found it difficult to use the word “No”. or “That’s wrong.” or “You guys are terrible!” or “You guys are never going to learn to speak Vietnamese.” Instead…. They just smiled at us and said, “Let’s says it again.” And again….and again….and again…..

There were two American ladies who were obviously in charge of the language classes. I wouldn’t swear to it under oath, but I doubt if either one of them spoke a word of Vietnamese. They were probably linguists of some sort. They did their best to explain the intricacies of the grammar…of the verb tenses….of the sentence structure….. Details that pretty much overwhelmed us.

Just like our morning session in “Teaching English as a Foreign Language”, we had nobody to practice on or with. So, just like we did then, we practiced on each other. Talk about the blind leading the blind. Yeah…. And, for the sake of honesty and full disclosure….. We also practiced with the instructors. In order to compensate for the lack of opportunities to practice, we were encouraged to go over to the State Department building and practice in their language lab at night. The State Department was within easy walking distance of our hotel. Perhaps three nights a week….and I am almost sure it was no more than that….my room mate and I would walk over there and spend some time.

In the basement of this sprawling building there was a huge language laboratory. I am assuming that this is where all U.S. personnel who were headed to an overseas assignment came to study or practice the language of their individual countries. And, in general, it was a very busy….if not popular….place, with people of all descriptions sitting behind tape players with their headphones on, practicing their language….just like we were. I have pretty much forgotten the details. Remember, this was back in 1966. But, the format on the tapes were much the same as we had been taught. A voice on the tape player said a word…. We repeated the word…. It said it again. We repeated it…. Etc….. Of course, there was no positive or negative feedback, but it did give up the opportunity to hear the word pronounced correctly, and it gave us the opportunity to “model” the word. Of course, we could go back and repeat words as often as we wanted.

Let me make it clear…. This was not our preferred way to spend an evening. But, on the other hand, it was useful in hearing and modeling words in setting that we could control….and without any interruptions….and we could proceed at our individual pace. Another advantage of spending these evenings in the State Department basement studying Vietnamese was that by the time we got back to our hotel….. Believe me, we were probably already half asleep and ready for a good night’s sleep. No need for anybody to sing us a lullaby.

For me….and I think it would probably be a unanimous opinion among our group….language training was not my favorite memory. We all knew that it was necessary if we wanted to survive our South Vietnam experience. Even with eight weeks of intense language training, we were miles away from any hint of fluency. But….a start is a start. “What is your name” “How much does that cost?” “Where do you live?” “What in the heck am I doing here?” ……or maybe, even more important, “Are you a VC?”

One guy who started out in our group never made it. In fact, he dropped out after less than a week. Poor guy. We were all pulling for him….trying to encourage him….trying to help him. I don’t remember his name. He was from Texas. We couldn’t help but like him. He was outgoing, friendly, funny. He was a cowboy….and he looked like a cowboy. He showed up wearing cowboy boots, a western style hat, blue jeans and a western cut shirt. The only thing he didn’t have was a six-shooter strapped around his waist. The Vietnamese would have loved him. He looked like he came straight off the ranch….and I am sure he probably had.

There was a problem though. He also talked like a cowboy! His Texas drawl was straight out of Hollywood. It was cool. The first day of language class it was apparent that he had a problem. He simply could not handle the five tones of the Vietnamese language. He just couldn’t….no matter hard he tried. Yes…. The Vietnamese would have love him….but there was no way they would be able to understand him. He talked with a southern Texas drawl. There was absolutely nothing sing-song about his voice! For a couple nights, we tried to help him, but to no avail. His voice just wasn’t suited to learning a language like Vietnamese. The guy understood this. Rather than prolong his frustration, which I am sure he probably thought of as failure…. He just packed up and went back home. We missed him, but we all understood quite well why he decided to quit. I am sure he was super successful helping people in another way, however.

To be sure, most of my day was devoted to the classroom….studying how to teach English as a foreign language and to learning the Vietnamese language. And, some evenings were devoted to study and practice in the language lab in the basement of the State Department building.

Despite these mandatory obligations, we still had plenty of time for ourselves…..in the evenings and on weekends. The rooms in the hotel where we stayed did not have a TV set in them. Actually, I am surprised they even had a bed. I mean, this was a cheap hotel. Maybe they were trying to toughen us up for our life in South Vietnam. No…. I am sure IVS was just cheap! So, obviously, we did not sit around in the evening watching TV at night. Sometimes, but not very often, we had some “homework”. Mostly, I think we just sat around and read or talked to each other. And, I can imagine that we went to bed quite early.

Once or twice a week, we used money from our “living allowance” to eat out…..always walking, I might add….or taking a bus. As I look back…. Maybe sometimes it is good to be young and naive and totally unaware of what was going on. Washington, D. C., at that time and probably still is, one of the most dangerous and crime ridden cities in the USA. And, here we were…. Out walking the streets at night like, probably thinking Washington, D. C. was one of the safest cities around. After all, it was the nation’s capital. Surely that meant it was safe. Nevertheless, we were completely not aware that Washington, D. C. was a dangerous city….especially at night. I am sure….positive….that I would not be walking the streets of Washington these days. Wow…. I would never consider walking the streets of Topeka at night….anywhere….

Nevertheless, nothing bad ever happened to us….not even a scary situation. Maybe there is safety in numbers. When we ventured out at night, there were always five or six of us. Perhaps we looked so tough that people thought we were a gang! At any rate, one of two times a week, we “went out” to eat.

Somehow…and it had to be a lucky accident or coincidence….we came across a steak house that looked pretty high class, at least from the outside. It was called  “The Black Angus”…..or something like that. With a name like that, it would have to be pretty good, wouldn’t it? “Yeah, let’s go in and check out this place.”

Well, indeed, it must have been a pretty exclusive place. We didn’t even make it in the front door. A superior-acting waiter or maitre d’ or somebody stopped us at the door and politely, but icily, informed us that in order to enter, men must wear a jacket and tie! Ohhhhh…. This was more high class than we had suspected. This was a place for the upper class of society…..not for us poor peasants just off the farm. We were embarrassed….at least, I was. I had never been refused entrance to a restaurant….or anywhere, for that matter….unless it as that one time I got thrown out of the girls’ locker room! Just kidding. We were dressed presentably….slacks and buttoned shirt and a jacket. What’s wrong with that? I guess we could call it my initiation into the world of “fine dining”. That night we had to settle for something a little more ordinary. Maybe we went back to the drug store. Who knows? Anyway, we didn’t let a little thing like this discourage us. Just to show them that we were “high class”, we all returned the following night, dressed like diplomats and spies. They didn’t bat an eye. They led us to a table….just like we may have been senators or congressmen. Hey…. This is fun. Sort of like Halloween. We got dressed up on our “costume”….and they fell for it. Actually, we went to this restaurant probably once a week for as long as we were in Washington, D. C. I don’t think we ever saw any important people. If we did…. We didn’t know it. And…. Who knows? Maybe we were the most important people there.

On weekends we mainly went sightseeing. We would just hop on a bus and ride to a central spot. Then we would get off…..and walk….and walk….and walk…. We saw a lot of important buildings….. We saw history…. Aside from the regular museums, we visited the Capitol Building more than once. Back in those days….early 1966….we were pretty much free to roam wherever we wanted. At least, nobody stopped us. We wandered through the halls and corridors of the nation’s capital freely. And, not just us….everybody did. I am sure we saw places in the Capitol Building that nobody can ever see today….except for the senators and representatives and their staffs. Those were the good old days….before our nation was gripped by the fear of terrorism. There were always armed guards walking around, but they seemed more protective than threatening.

One of my favorite buildings was the National Archives Building. Wow…. The original Declaration of Independence….and the Constitution….and the Emancipation Proclamation…. This was heavy stuff…..exciting and sobering. We walked leisurely through more museums that I can remember…..just looking….just passing time…. There was so much to see…. It was sensory and intellectual overload. And, don’t forget the monuments and memorials: The Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, The Jefferson Memorial…. And all those government headquarters buildings, such as the Pentagon, the Supreme Court Building, the US Treasury Building, the Department of Justice (once Bobby Kennedy’s domain), the FBI (still under the tight control of J. Edgar Hoover)…..and, of course, The White House. We never got to go inside the White House, but walking past it was routine. We saw everything….. Arlington National Cemetery, Georgetown, the National Mall, Union Station…..

Yes…. We saw it all. Leisurely….no hassle…..no concrete barriers….no body searches….. It was more like, “Come on in and look. You are an American citizen. This all belongs to you!” What a sharp and vivid contrast from today’s world.

But…. Alas. Nobody in my group had a camera. I have no idea why. As for me…. This was long before I had developed an intense interest…an almost obsession….to take a picture of everything I see. Maybe you also noticed that nowhere in the list of sites and attractions that I listed will you see the word “art”. Wow…. Does this tell you something? I was a different person back in those days.

Today….. Well, since somewhere around the time I moved to Valley Falls….I have taken somewhere around 40,000 pictures. Admittedly, some of these pictures are duplicates….being saved in more than one folder. That, I think, is still a lot of pictures. Thank you… Thank you, digital photography. The truth is, however….. I had no pictures….zero….nada….pictures of anything I did in Washington, D. C. Eight weeks of sightseeing….eight weeks of wandering all around Washington, D. C…..and not a single picture. I guess this must be the “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” story of my life when it comes to taking pictures…. Now, I am definitely “Mr. Hyde”. Wasn’t he the good one?

And art? Why didn’t I go to art galleries? Don’t even bother to ask me. I have no idea why. Really. Back in those days, I had absolutely no interest in art. I probably didn’t even know it existed. I am sure I was never exposed to it….and that may explain a lot.  As they say, “You don’t think about stuff you have never heard of.” I think I first started to become interested in art while I was living in Saigon. But, more about that later on.

Needless to say, I wish I would have had a camera while I was in Washington, D. C. I didn’t. And, there is no point of worrying about something that cannot be changed. Although, according to one of Einstein’s theories, isn’t it at least theoretically possible to go back in time? Someday when I get bored, maybe I will give it a try.

To say the least, the time I spent in Washington, D. C. was basically not wasted. I didn’t lie in my bed and sleep….or sit in a bar and drink…..or go to a pool hall and play pool and games all day.

Usually on Sunday, I would go to church. From the late fifties through the early sixties, I attended the United Presbyterian Church….mostly because one of my good friend’s dad was the pastor of the church in Sterling…..and probably for no other reason. I continued that habit while I was in Washington, D. C. I chose to attend the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church….the church that Peter Marshall made famous. The church was a considerable distance from my hotel…..probably a good thirty or forty minute walk. The route I took to church took me down Pennsylvania Avenue, directly in front of the White House. This was a walk that I never got tired of. I would walk the couple city block, stopping often to gaze through the iron rail fence that separated the White House grounds from the sidewalk. There were always other tourists there also looking though the railing….except they were usually taking pictures. Everything was peaceful. There were a few armed policemen standing or walking around. They, quite frankly, looked like they were bored. There were no confrontations with the police. There was no shouting, “Stand back” or “Don’t take pictures.” or “Get away from the fence.” And….. There were certainly no concrete barriers or barbed wire or armored vehicles blocking streets or the view.

One Sunday I was walking to church. I was walking on the sidewalk past the White House. I was walking toward the east, so my head was turned to the south so I could see the White House as I walked along. For some reason I happened to look up, and there walking the opposite direction, toward the west, was one of my old college professors. We saw each other at almost exactly the same instant. I am not sure who was more shocked…..him or me? Both of did sort of a double take….like we were not really sure what we were seeing….and if it were really true. After hesitating for just a second, I smiled and said, “Hello, Dr. Jones. What are you doing here?” And, I am sure he probably said the same thing to me…..although he probably didn’t call me Dr. Jones. He was in Washington, D. C. attending sort of conference…..and was on his way to a different church. It was sort of a happy coincidence, I suppose. It is not very often that two people from Sterling, Kansas, meet each other…..anywhere outside of Sterling, that is….certainly not in Washington, D. C.

The eight weeks in Washington, D. C. was either pretty exciting….or it was pretty boring….depending on what we were doing. I hate to say it, but the time we spent “learning” was pretty boring. Yeah…. It would have taken a rather extraordinary teacher to make something like teaching English as a foreign language exiting….and an even more fantastic teacher to make learning Vietnamese exciting. So…. There is nothing unusual about that opinion. I don’t think either of those subjects were even meant to be exciting.

The hotel was completely unremarkable….and unmemorable….. No TV in the rooms, no bar or dining room or game room…. It was a place to sleep and take a shower….and nothing else. What made the time I spent in Washington, D. C. interesting were the “extracurricular” activities….those things we did in our free time: all the public buildings and monuments….the museums….the parks….the endless walks we took… The places we were able to eat. We took in some movies. We looked through book stores….large department stores…. We even went to Ringling Brothers’, Barnum and Bailey Circus….. The Greatest Show on Earth. I fell asleep about five minutes after the show started…..but at least, I can say I was there.

The truth was….. I was eager to get back to South Vietnam. Language training finally came to an end. IVS had about a week of “cultural” and “educational” activities planned for us. I had already satisfied my appetite for culture. I wanted to go to South Vietnam.

They looked at me with shock and horror when I asked if I could skip the week activities and fly straight to Saigon. Poor John Hughes, the personnel director at the time, practically sputtered with astonishment and amazement. Maybe nobody had done this before. Nobody had ever wanted to do this before. It just wasn’t done that way. We innocent, naive, inexperienced people just could not do this by ourselves. I mean….the war…the violence….the shooting….the mean streets of Saigon….the VC…..the VD….

After I managed to convince him that I had already spent a year in Saigon, that I knew city well….that I was familiar with the taxis, the cylos….that I was able to take care of myself…. And, after I sort of stretched the truth a little bit and told him that I had friends that I wanted to visit….that I wanted to visit my old army boss….. All of which was true, except I didn’t get around to doing any of it….. He finally agreed to buy my ticket and send me on my way. Oh yes…. He also had some things he wanted to send along with me…. You know… As long as I was going that way and was in the neighborhood.

So, a few days later, I happily landed at Tan Son Nhut Airport…..good old Tan Son Nhut…. Oh, how I missed you.

I checked into a hotel in downtown Saigon and spent a couple days just enjoying being there again…..walking around downtown….taking a taxi here….riding in a cyclo there… I really didn’t know anybody. I missed hanging out with my friend Ursel. Somehow it just didn’t seem the same. I considered going to see my old boss at Tan Son Nhut, but I figured that getting on the airbase would be more of a problem than it was actually worth. Strange, random civilians just didn’t show up at the front gate very often…..Tan Son Nhut was not a tourist attraction back then.

On the third day in Saigon, I decided that I had better pay a visit to the IVS office, if for no other reason than to deliver the two or three large envelops that I had been asked to give to them. I flagged down a taxi….showed him the address that I had written down. The driver muttered something to himself…and away we went….on my way to another adventure in South Vietnam.

Of course, I had never been to the IVS offices before, and I had no idea where they were located. In my mind, however, I had them pictured somewhere near downtown in a rather nice office building. After all, the organization was being fully funded by the United States government through USAID….the United States Agency for International Development. No wonder the driver was muttering to himself. We took off from the hotel, which was located in the center of downtown and headed west….and we kept driving west. When Horace Mann said, “Go West, young man. Go West.” I don’t think this was exactly what he had in mind. I was a little concerned that the driver had no idea where the place was located and maybe he was lost. Or that he was really a VC agent, and I was being kidnapped and would certainly be held for ransom.

After what seemed like an interminable drive, the driver finally smiled triumphantly as he pulled into the driveway. I said one of the few Vietnamese phrases that I knew at that time….and which seemed appropriate, “Cam on, ong.” (Thank you, sir.) I asked him how much…. “Bao nieu?” He said something in Vietnamese….something which I did not understand. He could probably tell by my blank look that I had no idea what he said, so he held up some fingers. I have him some money….which I knew was too much. But, what the heck? He was obviously pleased. At least, he didn’t try to hold me up for more money. He smiled, said good-bye….and drove away.

There I was standing front of the IVS headquarters….somewhere in Saigon. Somewhere I did not expect to be. But the logo on the old green Jeep sitting in the driveway said, “International Voluntary Services”. Who was I to argue with that? So, I walked to the door…..and went in.

I am not kidding! It was like the world just stopped spinning on its axis. Just like the picture had frozen on the TV set. Just like the batteries suddenly went dead! I walked in….and it looked like everybody simply stopped what they were doing in mid-motion….and looked at me. I am going to take a wild guest that not very many Americans….although I could have been English, Canadian, French….or even South African….just walked into the office randomly. Everybody just….well, stared at me. I finally walked up to one of the desks and said something like, “I am a new volunteer. I just came to say Hello to you.”

Something very similar to bedlam broke out….. On a small scale, of course. There were only about 5 or 6 people in the office. Again….and I am not exaggerating…. I was bombarded with questions: “Who are you?” “How did you get there”? “Where did you come from?” “You can’t volunteer here in Vietnam.” “You have to volunteer in the USA, and then they make the decision.”

I wanted to shout, “Just shut up and listen!” But, of course, I didn’t. Nobody had bothered to tell them that I was coming early. Or maybe they did, and the word simply had not gotten to them yet. It took mail about two weeks to get from the USA to Saigon back in those day. And, maybe using the telephone was too expensive…. I don’t know.

Anyway, I explained to them that our training in Washington D. C. was finished, and I had asked if I could come over early. That, of course, started a new round of questions…..most of them beginning with the word “Why?” “Why did you want to….?” “Why would you want to?” “Why did they let you?” “How did you get here?” “When did you get here?” “Where are you staying?”

Somehow I was getting the idea that these may not be the people that I would want to have answering 9-1-1 calls… Or maybe I would. They certainly asked enough questions. I was surprised by all the confusion that I caused…..and a little embarrassed…..and a little bit annoyed.

I handed the envelops that I had been entrusted with to one of the guys…. The only women were apparently the secretaries….sitting behind one of the desks. He turned out to be the Chief of Administration. At least, when he saw the envelops, he calmed down a bit. Obviously, the people in Washington, D.C. knew who I was.

Then the concern…..and confusion…. turned to where I was staying. “Oh, you shouldn’t stay in a hotel. It is not safe. You don’t know your way around. You might get (take your choice)…. Lost, kidnapped, killed, swindled….”

“Where are eating? What are you doing for money?”

“You must stay here where it is safe….where the food is safe….where the water is safe….”

“Why didn’t you call from the airport, and somebody would have come to pick you up?”

Call from the airport? Give me a break. I had no idea what their telephone number was. As a matter of fact…..I really had no idea where I was….really. It is a good thing that I had an honest taxi driver.

I told them that part of the deal I had discussed in Washington, D. C. was that I would come here and not bother anybody….or cause any unnecessary problems or inconvenience. I would just stay in a hotel until the arrival date of the rest of the volunteers. Really, all I wanted to do was deliver the envelops to them….and meet them….and then get out of their way.

They were amazed when I told them I had already spent a year in South Vietnam. And, even more shocked when I told them that I had just been discharged from the Army. This organization was not famous for attracting ex-military personnel….in fact, as I was to learn very quickly, it was the exact opposite.

They….and when I say “they” I am talking about the people at IVS, whom I had met only a few minutes earlier….insisted that I should come and stay at the IVS house. Well…. They were sort of my “boss” now. I agreed to go get my suitcase and move in. They even dispatched a driver to take me to the hotel. I am not sure if they were just being “nice”, or whether they wanted to make sure I would return.

So…. Now I was back in South Vietnam….and I was “officially” part of The International Voluntary Service.

Far from being located in an office building in downtown Saigon, the IVS headquarters was located on the outskirts of Saigon on Le Van Duyet Street (sorry there are no diacritical markings.) not so far from Tan Son Nhut Airbase. Also in the immediate vicinity were a South Korean military base, a South Vietnamese military base…..and the Saigon horse racing track. Le Van Duyet Street was a major thoroughfare basically lined with small shops, stores, assorted businesses, and markets. Similar to the downtown area…..if it was for sale, you could probably buy it somewhere along Le Van Duyet Street. Just a huge Walmart….only out on the sidewalk. Only, I am pretty sure there were things for sale on the sidewalk and the little kiosks and the market places that you would never find at a Walmart.

Many of the owners of these various businesses lived in their stores….in the back, upstairs…. For many, I am sure it was a life of mere subsistence….with multiple generations crowded into small rooms….no personal space, few, if any luxuries, except maybe for a TV set. It seems that somehow a surprising number of people were able to come up with a TV.

Just like the rest of Saigon, it was a busy street, full of all the interesting collections of vehicles that I had become accustomed to seeing in Saigon…. Automobiles, motor scooters (not motor cycles), cyclos, both with and without motors, bicycles, buses, military vehicles…Jeeps, two and a half ton trucks….even tanks, and the ubiquitous taxis. There was even an occasional ox cart, thrown in for good measure. And, we can’t forget the walkers, the strollers…. The streets and the traffic had the appearance of chaos, but yet somehow it worked. It is all a matter of perspective, I suppose.

The IVS headquarters was located on the north side of the street. There were two large buildings: The “main” building, the building that actually housed the headquarters and the men’s dorm, and another building which contained the dining room, the kitchen and the women’s dorm. The two buildings were connected by a covered walkway. This covered walkway was useful during the frequent rains. On the second level of the headquarters/men’s dorm building were living quarters (translations: private room) for each of the permanent male staff. Although I never checked, I am assuming there was a similar arrangement for the women on the upper story of the dining room/women’s dorm. I am just assuming this….and reporting “hear-say”. Because in the two years I lived there, nobody ever invited me to “inspect” it. On the second level of the men’s dorm was a large open-air terrace or patio….or whatever the correct name is. It was a pleasant place to sit at night…. Or it would have been, had it not been for the mosquitoes….the ever present, ever hungry mosquitoes…

So….. As I was saying, a driver took me to the hotel where I was staying, I collected my belongings….and moved to the IVS house. I really do not recall long I was there. The remainder of the volunteers showed up….. We had more language training….. I am sure there were indoctrination sessions….of some sort…..but most of that has long been filed in a subconscious “inactive” file somewhere in the basement of my brain.

After about two weeks, I suppose…..because, like I said, that short period of my life has been blocked from my memory…..and it really isn’t important anyway….we were called in….somewhere…..and told what our assignment would be. Although there is no picture in my mind of the event, I am assuming that the current Associate Chief of Party for Education would have been the logical person who told me.

While I was attending Vietnamese language training in Washington, one of the Vietnamese instructors kept urging me to try to be assigned to Ca Mau, in the very southern part of South Vietnam…..way down in the delta region not far from the South China Sea. She extolled the beauty of the land, the kindness of the people, the productive rice paddies….. What she failed to “extol” was the fact that this was one of the most dangerous regions in South Vietnam. I am not sure…..but maybe she didn’t like me as much as I thought she did! Perhaps this was her way of getting revenge for some secret grudge she was holding against me.

At any rate, Ca Mau was not in my future…..then or ever. If I could have chosen my own work station, it would have been in Saigon. But, that assignment, I would gradually become aware, was an assignment which was exclusively awarded to females…..maybe because it was considered a relatively secure place to work. We did have one guy who was stationed in Saigon…. Sam Delap, who would later become one of my best and long-lasting friends. He was a science instructor….the only one employed by IVS. He operated a mobile science unit that sort of rotated around some high schools in the Saigon area. My assignment was in Phan Rang, the capital of Ninh Tuan Province, located on the central coast of the South China Sea, about halfway up the Vietnam peninsula.

One day I packed my belongings, which had probably never been unpacked…..and said a sad good-bye to Saigon. I was accompanied by the Region II Director for IVS, Gene Stolftfuz, as I made the journey to my new home and work station in Phan Rang. This was the first time I had been anywhere in South Vietnam outside of Saigon. And, believe me, Toto, “We are not in Kansas any longer.”

I was looking forward to arriving in Phan Rang, a place that I had never heard of…..a place that I couldn’t even visualize in my brain…. Having never been outside of Saigon, my vision of South Vietnam fell into one of two categories: primitive villages in the mountains which were constantly being attacked by the VC…..or primitive villages in the delta which were constantly being attacked by the VC.

My knowledge of South Vietnam mostly came from watching the news on TV….even while I was stationed in Saigon in the Army. Yeah…. Watching the occasional TV program….and also reading the coverage of the fighting and other hostile activities in “Stars and Stripes”, the military newspaper. And dealing with reports and updates that appeared daily in our office while I was the secretary to the Adjutant General. As I said somewhere in a previous blog, in the early days of the war, I drafted letters to each of the parents of soldiers who had lost their lives in some sort of military related action. And, there were, of course, the stories told by soldiers who were stationed in remote outposts in the Highlands…..and also in the Delta region. Most of these stories were probably slightly exaggerated, but still, they didn’t exactly encourage me to take out a government loan and build a house in either of these regions.

Both of the visions seemed exciting; both of these visions seemed dangerous. Both of these visions turned out to be wrong.

Up to this point in my life, the only type of aircraft on which I had flown were commercial passenger planes. Now that I think about it, not only were they passenger planes, but they were all jet airliners. All other types of aircraft only existed in movies, on TV and in magazines. Keep in mind that I was basically a “country boy” from Sterling, Kansas.

We boarded an Air America plane…. A two-engine propeller driven aircraft. Instead of heading straight for the South China Sea like we did when I was entering and leaving South Vietnam during my Army days, we headed north over a South Vietnam that I had never seen before. No reason was ever given….maybe because I never thought to ask….why there was no immediate steep ascent into the sky. It could have been that the aircraft in which we were flying was not capable….powerful….enough to accomplish such a feat. Or, more likely, that was a military maneuver….and we were now in a civilian aircraft.

Once aloft, it occurred to me that we were flying at a remarkably low altitude, and again I am comparing to the only other flight I had taken in South Vietnam. I am sure we were well beyond the range of any small weapon fire….like a rifle, for example. Yet, on this first flight, I was apprehensive about my very immediate future! Gene kept telling me to relax. I tried my best to follow his advice. It didn’t help matters that a couple times he tapped me on the shoulder and pointed out the window. “See the helicopters over there? They are firing down into the jungle at something.” Sure enough, two or three Army helicopters were circling a target somewhere down in the jungle and appeared to be firing a massive amount of ammunition upon it. Maybe this was not the most favorable thing to see on my first flight. But, our Air America plane was flying at a much higher altitude than the helicopters, so we had a good bird’s eye of the action. It was interesting and exciting, I suppose, but I kept a close watch for any shells or bullets that might happen to come through the floor of our aircraft.

We landed at the Phan Rang Air Base, home of the 101^st Airborne Division. Somebody must have picked us up. At least, I do not remember hitchhiking the five or six miles into town…..or walking, which would have been even more memorable, probably. I think I would tend to remember getting shot at!

It is sort of strange how little, but important, details such as this can be blocked out of my memory. But, I have no recollection….not even a fuzzy inkling…..of my arrival in Phan Rang. One would logically think that this would be crystal clear in my mind. After all, for me, it was the beginning of a new and very different life.

In all probability, we were met at the air base by my new station mate, Robert Hargreaves. I do remember Robert….Bob….quite well, though. He had a very distinctive mustache…..that was a feature one could not miss. He was medium height, was a thin guy; he had a shock of dark hair and wore glasses. He made me feel welcome immediately, which I appreciated.

After depositing my suitcase at my new home, Gene lost no time in taking me to meet the principal of the public high school, which would be my primary assignment. I don’t remember his name, but he was a rather diminutive fellow….probably only middle age, although he appeared to be older, perhaps because of the horn rimmed glasses he was wearing. He appeared to be delighted to meet me…. Yeah…. Why not? A free teacher? Who is going to turn that down? I don’t think there had been an IVS English teacher in Phan Rang prior to my arrival. If there was, it was before this principal’s tenure. He was rather tentative about my teaching schedule, but said to come back, and he would have everything arranged.

Also that day, Gene took me to the USAID (United States Agency for International Development) compound to introduce me to the senior American representative, who incidentally, was a former volunteer for IVS. After than introduction, Gene took me back to the IVS house. Bob and I gave him a ride back to Tan Son Nhut Airbase where he would catch the plane to where ever he was headed.

On our ride back to our house….my new home….I got to know a little bit about Bob. I found that he was from California and had a degree from the University of California in poultry science. He was nearing the end of his two year commitment to IVS and planned to return to the USA. Before joining IVS, he had been active in the civil rights movement, having participated in various marches and protests in the South.

Back at the IVS house, he did his best to make me feel welcome. I really have no idea where the house was located. If somebody would guarantee me a million dollars to go find it today… I would be a poor man. For one thing: When Gene and I got off the airplane at the airbase, I had no idea where I was. I had no sense of direction….and it stayed that way for the duration of my time in Phan Rang. In fact, in this strange environment, my directions were 180 degrees wrong! The sun came up in the west….and it set in the east! For weeks it drove me crazy; I mean absolutely bonkers. But, nothing that I tried ever changed it. Finally, I just resigned myself to it and accepted it as normal. I mean…. Does it really make any difference where the sun rises?

For me….and I do not know about other people….the way I see…or perceive…. something the first time is the way it stays forever. And, unfortunately, that first day in Phan Rang, getting my sense of directions straight just didn’t occur to me. A big mistake on my part. Actually the same thing has happened in Berlin. On my first trip there in 1995, the exchange student that I was with seemed very nervous about riding city buses. He always preferred to ride the subway. I am not sure why. Maybe he thought buses were dangerous so soon as the reunification; maybe he thought they were too slow; maybe he just liked riding in the subway.

One afternoon…..a rainy afternoon with no sunlight….we took the subway to Check Point Charlie….a major historical tourist attraction in Berlin. Like it usually happens, after I ride in a subway, when I got out and walked up the steps to the sidewalk, I had no idea where I was. But…. There in front of us was Check Point Charlie. Success! I have been back to Check Point Charlie many times in the intervening years. We always take a bus….I insist on it. Everything is fine during the bus ride. I know my directions. Everything looks familiar. All is well with the world…… Until…. We reach Check Point Charlie. Then, instantly, in a split second, everything reverts back to that fateful day in 1995 when I walked up the steps from the subway. I had no idea where I was on that day….and (if I didn’t know better), I wouldn’t know where I was now. After I get back on a bus….and have ridden for only perhaps a half block….everything falls back into place again.

It is rather strange how the mind works…..my mind, at least. I was born and raised in central Kansas. The land is laid out in squares….sections of land. At every mile, for all practical purposes, there is an intersection. It is all logical. And…. The sun rises in the east and it sets in the west. We know and experience this from the time we are born. So….It is only logical for us to say things like, “OK. Go two miles east….a mile north…and then a mile west.”

Anyway, one day….and I am not really sure how long I had been there….it suddenly struck me that my directions were turned around 180 degrees. And, from the time I arrived in Phan Rang until I was transferred to Saigon, the sun came up in the west and went down in the east! Yeah….. That is a long way to go to explain why I really have no idea where I lived in Phan Rang!

Getting back to the story, though….. Maybe the most important thing, he showed me my bed….where I would sleep. Again, I do not have even a dim recollection of the rest of the house. I know that it was a two story house….quite small and rather disheveled….and dimly lit. Of course, it had electricity and running water (at least, I am pretty sure it did). It seems to me that we spent a great deal of our time sitting in the kitchen. Fortunately, I had brought some books with me…although I am not sure why. Maybe I had a premonition that this might be my only leisure time activity.

Of course, there was no such thing as a TV set…..not even a small one. This was a Vietnam long before there was TV in the provinces. Even if we might had had a TV, the all the programs would have been in the Vietnamese language. I do not recall if the Armed Forces TV Network had been established or not. Even if had…..why would they be furnishing it to the residents of Phan Rang? Maybe to the Phan Rang Air Base….but certainly not the town.

I did, however, have my trusty transistor radio…..my only real luxury. The only problem was: I couldn’t receive any English language stations….not even Armed Forces Radio. Again, I can imagine that the signal came in loud and clear on the air base…..but not in town. And…. Why should we? Fortunately, my little battery powered transistor radio had a one or two short wave bands on it. On a good night, I could pull in the Voice of America from the Philippines. However, the only justification I can think of for listening to the VOA would be if I were suffering from insomnia and trying to fall asleep. It was largely what today we would call “Talk Radio”….and then its programs were definitely tailored to its audience…..propaganda intended for the Filipino people. One thing is was not: A rock and roll station. Or a country music station. Or a classical music station. Not by any means. It was just boring commentary. The same was true of the BBC World Service….only it was more boring that the VOA….and with a British accent.

Late at night….never in the daytime….there were a few English language stations lingering out there on the short wave bands. They tended to fade in and out. What else could I expect with a little radio powered by a couple 2-A batteries? I was really never sure where the stations were located? I mean…. Who speaks English in Southeast Asia? Or… Were they even coming from Southeast Asia? I am not sure. At any rate, it was comforting to hear somebody speaking English on the radio. The music they played? It was strange music….music that I had never heard before or have never heard since. Except for the English language…and even the language was not being spoken by native Americans….everything about these stations was strange. But, yet, I would turn on my radio at night, pull out the little antenna…..move it around until I got the best reception possible.

One very vivid recollection I have of that rather dismal house occurred one night only a day or so after my arrival. There were two small bedrooms upstairs: one for Bob and one for me. Bob consistently went to bed earlier than I….and was apparently slept rather soundly. I would sit on my bed, pillows behind my back and a lamp with a dim bulb shining over my shoulder. I would often review the lessons that I would present the following day…..or just sit there and listen to the strange programs on the radio. One night, shortly after I had turned off the lamp to go to sleep, there was an explosion. It almost propelled me from my bed. Then it was followed by another equally earth-shaking explosion…..and another…. “Oh, Wow!” I thought, not knowing whether to grab my clothes and run….to get under the bed….or hide in the closet. Or just to go outside and surrender….and become a prisoner of war.

I waited for the next round of explosions….but they never came. I fully expected Bob to coming running to my room, shouting something like, “We’ve got to take cover. Grab your stuff, and let’s get out of here.” But…. Nothing. I didn’t even hear him turn over in his bed. Surely, he had to have heard it. It was an explosion…. You know? I am not talking about a gunshot…. I am talking an explosion that would have easily destroyed our house. I sat on the edge of my bed for what must have been several minutes….expecting to hear sirens….jeeps and tanks rumbling through town….return gunfire. Instead, I heard….. Nothing. Silence.

The following morning, you can better believe that the first topic of conversation when I went downstairs was, “Didn’t you hear those explosions last night? What’s going on? Weren’t you scared? Where did they come from? Were we being attacked? Bob sort of chuckled, “I didn’t hear them….but were there three of them?”

“Yes….and they sounded very close.”

“Oh, almost every night around midnight, the local militia fires three or four artillery round off into the distance…..just as a sort of warning to the VC (Viet Cong). I don’t think anybody is really out there, but it is just sort of a way of saying, ‘We are here waiting for you…..so keep away.’ I don’t even hear them any more.”

It was always rumored….and who am I to argue?….that our province, Ninh Tuan Province was perhaps the safest province in South Vietnam. It was the birthplace….the ancestral home….of President Thieu…..and also his brother, who was reported to be a top general for the North Vietnamese army….theoretically his arch enemy. So, there was a sort of “gentlemen’s agreement” to simply leave it alone. Neither of the generals wanted to harm their ancestors, their graves or their common home. Lucky us. I have no way of knowing if this was true, although I know that the Ninh Tuan Province was scarcely touched by enemy activity until the TET Offensive.

This helped allay some of my fears of these regular midnight artillery incidents….but it took me a few weeks to simply fall asleep and ignore then, like Bob did.

My main source of news in those months I spent teaching in Phan Rang came from the “Stars and Stripes” newspaper, which always seemed to be available at the USAID headquarters. Mother would send me newspapers occasionally, but that was only for local gossip, not national or international news. I suppose one could say that I took at least one-third of Timothy Leary’s advice to “Turn on, tune in, drop out.” During the time I spent in Phan Rang, I just sort of “dropped out”…. But, that decision was made for me. It didn’t require any conscious effort on my part!

I still kept up a rather active correspondence with family and friends….sort of my lifeline to the outside world. I wrote letters to Mother, to high school friends, to relatives….even to friends that I had made while in the Army. Believe it or not….. They actually wrote back, at least from time to time. To my family and relatives….and even to most of my old high school friends….I was somewhat of an anomaly. Sort of that creature to be pitied….and humored….and, no doubt, to say, “Thank Heavens, it is him and not me.” Most of these people felt sorry for me what I went to South Vietnam in the military. When I returned to South Vietnam voluntarily…. They thought I was crazy!

I woke up the next morning….my second day in Phan Rang….and Bob said, “Come on. Let’s go eat breakfast.” Bob had made a deal with a little cafe for a meal plan. It was probably a standard thing. I don’t know. We paid a fixed fee, and we could go there and eat the standard “meal of the day”. It really was a pretty good arrangement, insofar as I was guaranteed of three meals a day. This certainly was not a three or four star restaurant….and it was not listed in the Michelin Guide. In fact, if it were, it would have had zero stars…..maybe Minus Zero stars. However, the food was sufficient….always rice, of course. Rice for every meal, including breakfast. Also some sort of meat….of some sort. Don’t ask; don’t tell. Chicken or pork, in all likelihood. A vegetable. Some bread….French bread, always. And, that was it. For a fixed monthly or weekly price. No…. It was not “all you can eat”. A waiter brought the food to you. When it was gone…. It was gone. But, it was sufficient. Bob always said that they gave the foreigners a little more food because we are bigger people. However, as long as I ate there, I didn’t have to worry about going on a diet! And, maybe that is why I continued to weigh l45 pounds during my tenure in Phan Rang.

There came a day when I thought if I ever saw another grain of rice, I would go bananas…. Stark raving crazy…. Even looking at rice could bring on a feeling of nausea. However, there was nothing else to eat. Even if I had chosen to prepare my own food at the IVS house…..Yeah, like that was ever going to happen……about the only thing on the market was rice. So, out of an instinct for survival, I had no choice but to continue to eat rice. And….Life has a strange way of dealing with things. When I came back home to live three years later…. What did I miss the most? You guessed it: Rice. Ironic, isn’t it?

I have no recollection of ever eating a meal in the house where Robert and I lived. Why would we? We had a pretty good deal at the little cafe. It was so much easier….and probably cheaper….than preparing meals at home. We didn’t have to bother with the daily chore of buying food, for one thing. We had no refrigerator that I can recall. There would have been no way of preserving the food, so it would have indeed been necessary to go out and buy food on a daily basis. Neither do I recall any sort of cook stove….or a stove whatsoever, for that matter. If we did have a stove (that I have forgotten about), it would have been a bottled gas stove, and I would have surely remember taking the portable tanks to have the refilled. We would have no doubt have cooked our food like everybody else did…..In the back yard or back porch on a charcoal cooker. Neither of us had time to do that.

Insofar as I can remember, Phan Rang did not have a Walmart store….or a Dillons….or a Quick Shop! In fact, there was nothing that resembled what we think of as a grocery store. Instead there were a series of open air markets and food stalls and kiosks, usually specializing in one food product or at least one type of food product. For example, there were vegetable markets, meat markets, fruit markets….. These markets could have been impromptu markets, part of a larger “farmers’ market” sort of set up spontaneously. Or in many cases, they were semi-established wooden stalls or kiosks, owned and operated as family businesses…..and many times in set up in front of their living quarters.

Of course, too, there were the necessary bread vendors….almost always French bread. Remember, South Vietnam was a colony of France for many years, and the French influence lingered long after the French were expelled. During my entire three years with IVS, I do not recall ever coming into contact with sliced bread….the kind of sliced bread that is a staple food of our lives here in the USA. One thing about the bread: It was always advisable to buy bread first thing in the morning. The bread vendors opened up their little stand early, and when the last loaf of bread was sold…. Well, Tough luck. It was gone.

On many occasions, either Bob or I would buy a loaf of bread and take it home to eat. Those long loaves of bread were beyond delicious. They would have been a meal in themselves. Hard and crusty on the outside, melt in your mouth texture on the inside. At least, while they were fresh. Along with the ubiquitous rice, bread may have ranked second as a staple food of South Vietnam.

There is only one time that stands out in my memory of eating meals….at least evening meals….in the house where Bob and I lived. As I recall, Bob was gone for a few days. He had no doubt made a trip down to Saigon for some reason. He could have gone down to pick some baby chicks….or some seed…..or medicine that farmers needed….. Anyway, he wasn’t there.

On my daily visit to the USAID office, somebody told me that somebody from the Phan Rang Air Base was trying to get hold of somebody from IVS….and it was very important. They gave me a telephone number…. And, Yes… We did have telephones! I called the number and was connected with a colonel who was obviously somehow in charge of food service….or maintenance…..or health and sanitation…. He said that he had heard that the International Voluntary Services had good relations with the farmers in the province.

“OK…..”

He would really appreciate it if we could use our contacts and influence to help the Air Force Base…..

“OK….”

They were accumulating a large amount of garbage from the mess halls (dining halls), and it was becoming a genuine problem. Could I possibly help him out….

“OK…..”

Could I please drive over the air base and meet with him? He would explain the problem to me….

I told him that I had a two hour period the following day that I had no classes. Yes… I would drive over and meet with him at 2:00 in the afternoon…. Sorry, I mean 1400 hours!

He thanked me several times and told me how much he appreciated it.

The following afternoon I got into my Jeep….the old World War II surplus Jeep assigned to me….and made the five or seven miles trip over to the air base. I managed to find his office in the obstacle course of buildings. Wow…. He was the commander of one of the air wings at the base. Must be important, I thought to myself as I walked into the office and identified myself. I must say, it was sort of novel for me….walking into a commander’s office to be greeted by a guy that used to be “ME”….back when I was in the Army.

Anyway, I told him my name and that I had an appointment with the colonel. The poor guy was confused and maybe embarrassed. Nobody had told him of any appointment. “Are you sure you have the right office?”

I assured him that I had talked to the colonel on the telephone the previous day and we had agreed to meet at this time. “He’s out flying right now. I am sure he will be back soon, though,” the guy said. (I call him” the guy” because I do not know his official title.) “Why don’t you sit and wait for him?”

I kept looking at my wristwatch nervously. I was scheduled to teach a class at 3:30. I had to be there. At about 3:00, I told “the guy” that I had to leave….that I had another appointment. He was not happy…. Now it was his turn to be nervous. He probably was not used to people walking out on a colonel….a commander.

Personally, I think fifteen or twenty minutes is long enough to wait for a person….anybody….especially when both people have previously agreed to a definite time. I didn’t leave out any sense of disrespect or arrogance. I left because I had a commitment to teach a class at 3:30….and if I didn’t show up, there would be nobody there to teach them. How many times did you walk into your English class….and find that the teacher simply had not shown up?

I stopped by the USAID office later that day after the class had finished. The colonel had left an urgent message for me to contact him. I called him. I told him that I had to leave because I was obligated to teach. He was very apologetic, somewhat sheepish….and I think I detected a trace of panic in his voice. I agreed to meet him the following day. He assured me….strongly assured me….that he would be in his office ready to meet with me.

It turned out that the mess halls (dining halls) at the airbase were accumulating an alarming amount of discarded food….food thrown away or not eaten by the airmen. I don’t know what his says about the quality of food they were serving…..although I always found that the food in the Air Force mess halls was consistently higher quality than that in the Army. (What does that say about the quality of food served by the Army?) Anyway, disposing of the food was becoming a major problem for the Air Force. The amount of food, combined with the consistently hot temperatures, were ideal conditions for attracting various rodents in large numbers….not to mention the millions of mosquitoes, flies and other insects. And….. The food was also producing an odor that seemed to waft over the Air Force base.

The colonel….the commander of something….said he had been advised that the International Voluntary Services worked with local farmers. Would it be possible that they might be interested in using the food to feed their animals….especially their pigs? If so, they were free to come and get it…..as much as they wanted…..as much as they could carry…..and take it away. For free! All they had to do was come and get it…. Just Come on Down!

I told him and I would check around and see what I could find out. I mentioned it to a couple of my Vietnamese contacts….who in turned mentioned it to some farmers he knew…. Wow. Were they interested! This was a virtual gold mine for them. Free food for their livestock. And…. Who knows? Maybe for their families, too! I never saw the colonel again. However, about a week later, an Air Force Jeep dropped off a couple large boxes for me at the USAID compound. Each box contained 24 boxes of C-Rations….the well-preserved, already prepared, ready to eat food that military personnel carry with them to eat when no other food is available.

Surely you have heard the jokes about C-Rations….. Or maybe not. Anyway, many military personnel do find them to be of the same quality as a hot, home cooked meal….. Not the kind of food that their mothers served them. As for me? I was delighted! I had a month of free food! And, for those of you who know me are well aware that I don’t make much of a distinction between food. Any food that I do not have to prepare…..or buy….is good food. Just set it in front me me….. And, I am happy. And…. Those are the only days that I actually ate meals in the IVS House that Bob and I lived in.

My primary placement in Phan Rang was the public high school. However, only a couple days after I arrived in Phan Rang, Bob (and also the people at the USAID office) to me that other high schools in the city were also interested in having my services as a teacher. This was fine with me. I was only assigned two or three classes a day at the public high school, hardly enough to keep me busy….or even justify my presence in Phan Rang.

There were at least three other high schools in the town, aside from the public high school. There was a so-called semi-public high school, a Buddhist high school and a Roman Catholic high school. They were all interested….if not eager….to have me teach in their school.

Although sometimes it was difficult to decipher the rules and precise reason things happen in Phan Rang, supposedly the public high school was open to those students who among the higher academic achievers. There was, at some point, a qualifying exam which students took, and the results of that exam determined who was admitted. I have no doubt that this is true. But, on the other hand, I also strongly suspect that the position that the student’s parents occupied in the community….both financially and politically….may have been of equal importance in the admittance process. Of course, I have no way of actually proving that assumption, but, South Vietnam, being what it was at the time, this would be a logical conclusion to draw.

I can also imagine that the public high school was probably assigned the better teachers, too….although saying that is probably an oxymoron.

The semi-public high school was the home of what I can assume was the “second tier” students…..both in the terms of the entrance test scores….and the social and economic and political status of their parents.

I am not sure where the students in the Buddhist high school came from. They must have been seriously off the charts….and I mean dropping off the bottom…. no matter how one looked at it. They were what was left over at the bottom of the barrel.

The students at the Catholic high school were obviously children of members of the Roman Catholic Church. Students at the Catholic high school paid a fee or tuition to attend the school, so I am going to go out on a limb and say that almost anybody who had the money to pay the tuition may have been accepted into the school. Although, again, I am not going to swear to that under oath.

As I said earlier, I met the principal of the public high school the first day I arrived in Phan Rang. He was a slightly built man….and by slight, I mean very thin and rather short, even by Vietnamese standards. He was middle aged, although it is often difficult to judge a person’s age once they reach a certain point in life. He wore thick, horn-rimmed glassed….and appeared to be very intellectual. And, like almost all Vietnamese, he wore sort of a perpetual smile. I saw him the first day of school when he introduced me to the other English teachers….the Vietnamese “English teachers”. After that, I do not recall ever seeing him again. We obviously did not become best buddies.

The principal of the semi-public high school was a much younger guy….maybe somewhere around my age, if not a couple years older. He was a personable, friendly man, and spoke quite good English. His family owned a store in “downtown” Phan Rang. I would stop on occasions to visit him. Like most other store owners, he lived in the back of his store. His wife and other family members operated the store while he performed his duties as principal. He is the only principal that I would call a “friend”. He and his family were always appeared to be happy to see me when I could stop to see them. They would rush to find a chair and to serve me tea. His wife also spoke passable English, so I was able to carry on a conversation with them. I normally only stayed for a few minutes. They asked me far more questions about my life and the USA than I asked of them. They longed to go to the USA some day. I hope their wish came true.

The principal of the Buddhist high school and a young-ish guy, too. But, I never got to know him very well.

The principal of the Catholic high school was a priest…. Probably no surprise there. He was a friendly, intelligent man….and very supportive of my teaching efforts. He spoke quite good English, too. He had other duties, too, aside from being the principal of the school…..like being a priest, for example. Our paths never crossed outside of the school. In fact, I doubt if he ever left the school/church compound very often.

Of course, I agreed to teach English classes in each of the four high schools. And, it did not take me very long to give each of the schools….the public high school, the semi-public high school, the Buddhist high school….a rating or grade. Here they are, in the order which they are listed: Near chaos; chaos; and beyond chaos. The Catholic high school was in a class of its own. It was actually a fairly well run school with a focused faculty and orderly, purposeful classes.

The discipline in the public high school was acceptable. A trip to the principal’s office could potentially result in some dire consequences….including suspension or expulsion. There would be no problem replacing a student who had been suspended. And, the “shame” and embarrassment that would result from such an expulsion would have been a difficult pill to swallow for the parents and family…..and also for the student. In general, it was not a huge problem to maintain control in these classes. I had the impression that expulsions were few and far between, however.

The semi-public high school. Well….we are on a downhill slope here. As I said before, these students were the “almosts”, the “not quites”…..maybe what in basketball terms we would call the “bench warmers”. It was more difficult to maintain their attention.

The Buddhist high school. Oh, wow! Sometimes I wondered why they were even there….or how they got there. Most of them, it seemed, had very little interest in getting an education…..much less learning to speak English.

The classes in all three of these high schools were vastly overcrowded. Here in Kansas, a class of 25 or 30 is considered to be an unreasonably huge class. In the first place, the classrooms simply are not constructed that large, which means that the students are packed into an abnormally small space. As most teachers know, there is no way that a teacher can give adequate individual attention….or hardly any attention at all….to thirty students. Stop and think: If a class period of 50 minutes long, that means an average of one minute per students. And…. What if I decide to teach? Where is the time for actual teaching? For instructional time? Yes…. Thirty students are simply too many to teach with any sort of positive results. And, I haven’t even talked about discipline, grading papers and all that good stuff.

In all of my classes in Phan Rang, in the three high schools that I referenced, thirty kids would have been on the low end of the spectrum. I taught a couple classes with upward of fifty…even sixty students…..and they were packed into the room, literally standing room only.

Never did I have the feeling that the chaos in the classrooms was aimed at me. In fact, some of the biggest “trouble makers”….and I do not use that word in a mean sort of way…..were the kids….mostly, if not exclusively boys…. who were the friendliest to me outside of class….who went out of their way to smile and wave when they saw me outside of the classroom…..downtown or while riding their bicycles…. No, I think the problem was a more generic or universal problem. They did not like school; they saw no purpose in school; they did not want or like to study English….they saw no need or reason for it. In other words, they were being forced to do something they did not want to do. They saw no future benefits from it. Is this so different from kids anywhere?

Another problem was the lack of textbooks and the lack of teaching tools. I am not certain about the other classes, but insofar as the English classes were concerned, we….and I mean IVS….and ultimately USAID or JUSPAO (Joint United States Public Affairs Office) provided the English books. There were not enough books for each student. Each English classroom has given a certain number of books. The books stayed in the classroom. They had to. They were used by the next class. Consequently, students were not permitted to take the book home to study. If the class happened to have more students than the number of books that were provided, two students had to share one book. It was not an ideal situation. As one might expect, books gradually disappeared as the weeks went on. Who know what happened to them? Carried out of the classroom by mistake? Stolen? Fortunately, however, we were sometimes able to replace the books….so the process could start all over again.

Let me give you a brief glance into one of my typical classroom sessions. We used the “repeat after me” method of teaching. This was the same method that was used in Washington when we were learning to speak Vietnamese. Basically, it was the only technique I was familiar with. And, I was one of the very, very few “teachers” in the organization who had a degree in education or who had actually taught in a classroom prior to arriving in South Vietnam. The other people who were members of the education team had never stood in front of their own class and taught their own students.

Why were they there…..teaching English in a Vietnamese high school? Remember, this was back in the 1960’s. They were volunteers; they were not salaried. It was before it was considered proper or mandatory to have a degree or certificate in teaching English as a foreign language. I had a degree in education and I had already taught for two and a half years, but I was not certified in TEFL. These young people were idealistic; they were eager and willing to serve; they were cheap. In fact, none of the positions or jobs in the International Voluntary Services really required any special education or training.

Getting back to a typical day…. I would show up at the assigned time and to directly to the classroom(s) that had been assigned to me for the particular class. I was dressed casually….certainly a jacket and tie were not necessary. Shortly before the final bell rang, the students began to file into the classroom…. Well, most of them showed up on time. Before the sat down….assuming there were enough seats…..they would take a book from the stack on my desk. When it appeared that all….or most….of the students had arrived, I would welcome them by saying something creative like, “Good Morning, Class.” Or “Good Afternoon, Class.” In unison, they would reply, “Good Morning, Teacher.” And…. Then, we were off to the races.

I would ask them to turn to the page the day’s lesson started on. And…. I wrote it on the chalkboard behind me. At that time, my grasp of the Vietnamese language was not very good, to say the least. Fortunately, their books (and my teacher’s edition, also) was written in both English and Vietnamese. For the remainder of the class period, we did the “repeat after me” thing. And, let me add, these lessons were generally “fill in the blank” type lessons.

Some days the lesson might concentrate names of things…. of nouns containing the name of an item of furniture: “This is a(n) ___________.” a chair; a table; a lamp; a bed; sink…. Other days we would learn names of animals: “This is a(n) _____________.” a dog; a cat; a cow; a horse; elephant.

Other times the lesson taught verbs. “The boy and girl are ______________.” playing, walking, running, swimming, talking, eating.

We also introduced prepositional phrases. “The dog is ____________. under the table; on the chair; in the yard.

Well, you get the idea. Maybe you also get the idea that I was never able to carry on a deep or meaningful discussion with any of my classes. Their grasp of English and their skill level was simply not developed sufficiently to exchange anything except the most basic ideas. I can imagine that there were a few students who were advanced enough to express rather complex ideas….but this was certainly the exception.

You are probably wondering why I have not mentioned the Catholic high school. To me, the Catholic high school sort of stands in a class of its own. In my opinion, it was the only high school in town that truly offered an “education”. From the beginning, I recognized they had a sense of purpose. One of the first things I noticed was that the school had a structure to their classes….to their method of teaching…..to their discipline….to the dedication….and maybe even the education…..of their teaching staff. It was certainly more “business like” than any of the other high schools where I taught. From the very beginning, I could tell there were firm expectations….not only of the students, but also of the staff.

Since this was a private school, they could be more selective in who attended. I am not sure that all the students were Roman Catholic. It just never occurred to me to pose such a question. Although I never asked, I can imagine that the students paid a tuition to attend the school. I can also imagine that the school required a rather rigorous entry test. It also seems reasonable to assume that if parents are paying a great deal of money…..tuition…..for their child to attend the high school, they would expect equivalent academic results. If this were true, the school and its administration probably had the full support of the parents. On the other hand, since the Catholic high school was clearly the most “elite” of the town’s schools, most parents were probably eager to do anything they could to make sure their child or children stayed enrolled. And, the two major points of consideration in his regard would have been to maintain an acceptable grade point average…..and to stay out of trouble…. and not risk the consequence of being kicked out of the school. Again, I have no actual proof, but I suspect that many….if not most…. of the students came from the more affluent families of Phan Rang.

The time I spent teaching in the Catholic high school was a joy compared to the hours I spent in any of the other three schools. Classes were not overcrowded. Nobody ever had to stand in the back of a classroom. There were sufficient books so each student had one. The classrooms were always clean. The students were polite.

Shortly after I arrived in Phan Rang….in fact, within a couple months….Robert’s two years came to a close, and he left to return to the USA. However, upon his departure, two new volunteers were assigned to Phan Rang. This necessitated finding a new, more spacious place to live…..a house large enough to comfortably house three people. Through my contacts with the USAID office, I located a newly built, larger house, which, in fact, was located adjacent to the Catholic high school. So, for all practical purposes, the Catholic high school was located almost in our front yard.

As a matter of fact, I could have walked to my classes at the Catholic high school. But, I am almost sure that I didn’t. Probably because I had other commitments, things to do and places to go immediately after my classes.

I remember quite clearly the first day I taught at the Catholic high school. The principal introduced me to the other faculty members and then took me to what would become my classroom. The students were already sitting at their desks waiting for my arrival. The principal greeted the students, and they….in unison….returned the greeting. Then he introduced me….going into a rather lengthy discourse, most of which I did not understand. I am pretty sure he was talking about me, though. The students kept glancing at me….more or less in unison….at regular intervals. I couldn’t help thinking that he was threatening them with some very dire consequences….including serious bodily harm or even worse…. if they didn’t behave themselves….

As for me…. I just stood there rather helplessly, but trying to look serious, stern….yet friendly, helpful and “teacherly”, all at the same time. When he finished talking, the students all stood up, clapped their hands and said what I hope was, “Good Morning, Teacher.” I smiled at them. The principal sat down at the back of the classroom….and I said something like, “I am glad to be your teacher. My name is Mr. Darrah,” turning around to write my name on the chalkboard behind me. “I am looking forward to a good year. If you need extra help. Please ask me. Now, open your books to page one,” turning around and writing “Page 1” on the chalkboard.

“Now…. Repeat after me……”

After about five minutes the principal got up and walked quietly out of the classroom, leaving me alone.

At the end of the class….and I don’t think I was assigned to teach the first class of the day….there was a short break or recess. Most of the faculty members headed toward the teacher lounge. Just the fact that the school had a lounge….more of a room with a large table surrounded by chairs, plus a refrigerator and a couple storage cabinets…. says something about the school, I think. Most faculty members approached me, smiling, and introduced themselves to me. After all the formalities were over, we all sat down. One of the teachers….and they were about equally divided between teachers dressed as priests and “civilians”, men and women, although there were probably slightly more men than women….opened the door of one of the cabinets and produced a bottle of bourbon. I was shocked, to tell the truth. Never before….and never again since teaching in that Catholic high school….have I ever seen a bottle of liquor in a teacher’s lounge. Each teacher….priests, men and women….poured a bit into a paper cup. When the bottle reached me….I was not sure what I was supposed to do. I didn’t have a lot of time to stop and consider the situation. The next teacher was eagerly waiting for the bottle to be passed on. So…. In the interest of harmony and good will, I poured a sip into my cup….and passed it…..just like it was something I did everyday in my former school in the USA. Man…. This was a custom that I could get used to in a hurry. I couldn’t help but think that it may have been the faculties of the other three high schools that really needed it even more, though! Who knows? Maybe this might be a good custom to adopt in the schools here in the USA. It might be a step in developing more relaxed and calm teachers.

Another custom that I learned to like was each morning, a student brought me a cup of water…. You thought I was going to say bourbon, didn’t you?…..and set it on my desk. I was never sure if they did this for all the teachers or not. I hope so. For one thing, all of them deserved it. And second, I certainly did not want to receive any special treatment, even though I was not Vietnamese.

Compared to the other three high schools where I taught, discipline in the Catholic high school was great. Just the fact they had some discipline was noteworthy in itself. Maybe one of the contributing factors was the fact that the fact that the classroom was not overcrowded. Each student had his own seat….and his or her own book. One of the major factors in discipline problems in the other schools….other than apathy and the fact they probably didn’t want to be there….can be attributed to the fact that in some cases the students were packed into the classroom like sardines. I am (again) not certain, but I had a feeling that perhaps many of the other classes….the non-English classes…. were not so packed with students….that they were packed into my classroom simply because I was the only native speaking English teacher available. If this was true, the administration was not doing the students a favor…..nor me. I can imagine that very little learning took place in those jam-packed classrooms.

At the Catholic high school, however, my discipline problems were minimal…. And, ask my former students: I am rather strict when it comes to goofing around in class or not paying attention. A sharp look….a raised eyebrow….or a slight negative shake of my head was usually all it took to get the offending students’ attention and get them back on the straight and narrow path. I do not want to imply that I conducted my classes like a prison guard. Kids are kids. And, interaction between them is bound to occur. As the old saying goes: “Choose your battles carefully.” If minor stuff was going on….and it was not disturbing the class….often I simply chose to ignore it. I mean…. These were not “bad” kids. And, as one would maybe logically expect, 99% of the time is was the boys who were “misbehaving”.

However, on more than one occasion, the principal would suddenly swoop into the classroom, seemingly out of nowhere, grab a boy….or two….by the back of his neck and practically drag him out to the parking lot…..a parking lot covered by thick gravel….and order then to kneel in the gravel. Often he would leave them there, kneeling on their bare knees on the gravel in the blazing sun until I began to wonder if I should go rescue them.

Let me briefly describe what happened. In most South Vietnamese schools….all that I worked in, at least….the rooms open directly to the outside. Schools were built in an “L” shape or a “U” shape. Because of the heat and the lack of ventilation, I assume, there were no interior hallways. All the rooms were entered from the outside. A rather wide sidewalk served as the “hallway”…..an exterior hallway. A sloping roof extended out over the sidewalk, shielding the classrooms from the sun….and the rain. And, it provided the needed air-flow to keep the classrooms bearable. There was no such thing as air-conditioning in those days…..not in South Vietnam, at least.

The principal, who, as I indicated, was a priest….maybe even the chief priest, I am not sure…..was a mid-size middle age man with ever so slightly buck teeth. He always wore a dark color flowing garment, probably an indication of his rank or official position. His jet black hair was always slicked back. He, like most Vietnamese, seemed to wear a perpetual smile. As you have no doubt been warned: Don’t be fooled or misled by the smile on an Oriental’ face. It often conveys nothing…..

During irregular intervals, the principal would walk up and down the sidewalk that ran the entire distance of the classrooms, sometimes stopping to peer in briefly, but most of the time just seemingly passing by. On occasion, however….out of nowhere….he would strike! Before I hardly knew what was happening, he would suddenly appear in the classroom with absolutely no warning. Apparently, while walking past, he had observed some kid (and, by kid, I am talking about high school age boys) misbehaving or not paying attention. Woe be unto them! I mean…. He sometimes scared me half to death, so I can’t imagine the fear he must have inflicted on the unsuspecting boys.

No…. He never beat them or anything like that. But, stop and think. Put yourself in the position of the boys. Here you are, wearing shorts with your knees exposed. You find yourself kneeling in a gravel driveway….gravel, crushed rock….in the hot sun and 15 or 30 minutes. Come on, now. I don’t even like to get down on my knees to change a tire or look under the car. The point is: The students knew they were expected to behave in class, to show respect to the teacher and give their attention to learning. Set standards, enforce those standards consistently and uniformly….and the students will obey and meet the standards.

As I said, after Bob’s term had expired, and he left the organization, we gained two volunteers…..Jay and Charles. Both of them were members of the Community Development Team. The house where Bob and I lived was totally inadequate to house three people. Actually, it was probably in adequate to house any human life. Although I do not recall any exact details of the house, I certainly remember it well! To me….in my convoluted sense of directions….it was located as the southeast edge of Phan Rang. In reality, it could have been located almost anywhere….such was my sense of directions at that time and place.

I can recall Bob sitting somewhere….probably at the kitchen table….smoking is ubiquitous pipe and reading a magazine called “Commonweal”. It is a magazine….and I think it is still being published….published by the Roman Catholic Church….and leans toward the liberal side of issues. It was apparently his favorite magazine. I have no problem believing this. Bob, himself, seemed to lean a little to the “left” on most issues. He sometimes would entertain me with stories of his experiences following various civil rights marches and demonstrations back in the USA before he joined IVS.

His specialty was poultry science…..chickens. In fact, I think his degree….or at least the emphasis of his degree…..was in poultry science. He worked with area farmers to demonstrate the value of raising chickens, and he was constantly ordering various medicines for the chickens to keep them healthy and disease-free. I was never able to accompany him as he made trips into the nearby countryside to help farmers, but he talked about his work a lot. It was easy to see that he was well-known and respected by the local farmers. We could scarcely enter our little restaurant without being approached by a farmer, either for a serious discussion….or just a friendly chat.

As we walked around the town, it was obvious that for the most part, chickens simply ran free…. No packing chickens into little pens in that part of the country! I was never sure how the owners of the chickens could identify their chickens from the others. But…. That was not my problem. It seemed that no matter where we went, there were chickens. To me they were sort of a nuisance….stepping over them or around them…..or the mess they left on the sidewalks. Yes, to me a “chicken” was simply a “chicken”. But…. Not to Bob. A “chicken” was a “CHICKEN”! Chickens meant something to him. This explains why he was known around the area as “The Chicken Doctor”. He could pick up a chicken and tell me things about that chicken that I would have never thought possible. Probably more than I really wanted to know! No matter how many times I looked at a chicken….any chicken….I could never empathize with a chicken to the degree that Bob did…..if any at all.

After Bob left and I had two new station mates, we moved into a larger, new house. As I indicated earlier, this house was located adjacent to the Catholic high school, a rather short walk from the main street of Phan Rang…..not that I ever remember walking from our house to the main street, though. Who is going to walk when you can drive?

I am pretty sure that I found the house through come contacts at USAID. The house was considerable larger than the house that Bob and I occupied. It was a two story house. The downstairs, as I recall, had a kitchen/dining room, plus a living room. Upstairs were the bedrooms. Chuck and I shared one of the bedrooms, and Jay’s bedroom was on the other side of the upstairs, along with the room for the cook/maid whom IVS employed. It was a rather strange architectural design. Although Jay’s bedroom was just beyond a wall, there was no access to it from the upstairs. If we wanted to visit his room, it was necessary to go downstairs, through the kitchen into the opposite side of the house and then walk up a separate stairway. I suspect that the house was built as a duplex, probably intended for two different families. Although…. Who knows? Maybe not. Maybe the architect simply forgot to add a door connecting the two rooms upstairs. But… Why did he add a door downstairs to connect the rooms? Or maybe whoever built the house simply misread the plans (assuming there were some plans) and failed to add a door when the house was constructed. It will remain one of those great unsolved mysteries of life, I suppose.

Nevertheless, the house was new and it was brighter and lighter and more spacious than the house where I have lived previously. Another stroke of luck was in the form of a lady whom IVS hired as a cook/maid to work for us. I have no idea where she came from. I suspect she simply came with the house. In my recollection (and you have already seen how reliable and extensive that is!), she was….well, just always there. She was an older lady. I have no idea how old she was….and I do not even want to venture a guess. She had worked in a similar position as a maid and cook for a…or some?….Catholic priests. So, in that regard, she came to us highly regarded and qualified. She was invaluable to us! She prepared our meals, cleaned the house (although it ever got to the point where it was “dirty”), did our laundry, and probably took care of all sorts of little jobs that we were not aware of. I shudder to think what our life would have been like without her.

She was paid directly by IVS….not by us volunteers, thank Heavens. The money was sent to us by courier through USAID channels or the mail….or some such means. This was certainly long before Internet banking, money transfers, debit cards….and all the financial resources we have today. I simply handed her a sealed envelop containing the money. And… That was that. However, it was our responsibility….we three guys….to buy our food from the living allowance that we were given each month. Each of us contributed an equal amount of money each month which she used to buy our food.

Her method of preparing meals was “traditional”, to say the least. There were some food items our cook could buy, and they would “keep” for a period of time without spoiling or molding, or any of the other things that can happen to food in a hot, humid climate. But, primarily, she would go to the market every day….often twice a day….and buy the food she would prepare.

Almost everything was prepared on our back porch…..more of a concrete slab right outside the backdoor. There was a table in the kitchen/dining room area….even a kitchen counter. But, this was not the way she had traditionally done it. Old habits are difficult to change…..some even impossible. Why change to something new when the old way works just as well? If it ain’t broken….don’t fix it. Or…. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. She sort of proved all of these old sayings. Our meals were consistently delicious. Maybe not delicious in the American definition….but they were always tasty and nutritious and satisfying. We all survived…..and thrived.

One of our volunteers somehow arranged for an electric refrigerator and a propane stove to be installed in our house. No doubt he used his USAID or perhaps military contacts to procure these appliances. These are two highly desirable and sought after appliances….normally found only in the homes of upper class families…..a real status symbol. All three of us guys thought our cook’s face would light up….that maybe she would even physically embrace us….and then run out to tell all her friends of her good fortune. All of her friends would crowd into the kitchen, touching and admiring the two sleek modern conveniences.

But….No. It wasn’t exactly like that. Yes, she smiled. Yes, she thanked us profusely. Yes, she listened intently as we explained their usefulness and how to use them….although with a perplexed and rather bewildered look on her face. But…. No…. She rarely used them. In fact, I don’t recall her ever using the propane stove. She much preferred to cook and fry and bake and simmer and stew the food on her little charcoal stove on the back steps….and that is what she did. We probably asked her a couple times why she didn’t use the modern stove. She probably just smiled….and went about doing things her way.

I think she did learn to use the refrigerator, however. To a limited extent, at least. Maybe we convinced her that it was the practical thing to do. Maybe she realized that some of the modern appliances can be useful…..maybe make her life easier and more pleasant. Surely, it was more convenient and less work to be able to put left over meat and vegetables…..along with other food…. in the refrigerator and use them later. I think she started to understand the value, the usefulness…and perhaps the “magic”….of being able to store perishable food. I can sort of understand her reluctance or hesitation….if not outright refusal…..to use the propane stove. I would have probably been the same way! Besides, we volunteers would have had to buy the propane, so maybe she was doing us a favor.

Water was always a problem….no matter what we used it for: drinking, cooking, bathing, washing. Clearly, the water supply in South Vietnam was not safe….anywhere! At our house in Phan Rang, we had “running water”. We had a sink and a faucet that water spilled out of. (How’s that for ending a sentence with two prepositions?) The only problem was: The water was contaminated. I mean…. If one were to drink it as it came out of the faucet, some sort of very unpleasant…and potentially dangerous….. sickness was almost sure to follow.

For our drinking water, we solved the problem by (1) boiling our drinking water and then (2) filtering it. We had a large container. I am not sure how to describe it. I do not have a very scientific mind, and I just sort of trust that things will work out OK. Apparently they did. However, I think it looks somewhat similar to the picture shown here. And, again, I am not sure…..but I think we boiled the water even before we put it into the filter. Or, maybe my mind and imagination are doing some wishful thinking. Anyway, for thing is for sure, we did not drink water straight from the faucet. Even our ice cubes were made with the filtered water. Believe me…. Freezing water does not kill germs or bacteria! Maybe this is the reason we drank so much pop…and beer….and other bottled or canned products while we were in South Vietnam.

Our housekeeper/cook was a real gem. She took care of us willingly and with great devotion. We sort of adopted her….and she sort of adopted us. We left the operation and details of the house to her. She cooked our meals, cleaned the house, did our laundry, and did the shopping. We more or less just lived there! Her dedication and efficiency enabled us to do our respective jobs and not be burdened or preoccupied with all the domestic details.

One little semi-amusing detail that I remember: Jay, one my housemates, had a rather droll sense of humor. He tried….in vain, I might add….to teach our cook to call out, “Eat it!” when it was time to eat. Neither Chuck nor myself had the nerve to intervene in his amusing, but devious, little scheme. Fortunately, she suspected that what he was trying to teach her was not an appropriate….and certainly not the normal….way to call people to the dinner table. She never did adopt his suggestion….much to her credit. Poor Jay…

Our “bathroom” was in a separate little building….right outside our back door. Our shower consisted of a large concrete “tank” and a bucket to scoop up water to we could pour it over our body. And, let me add that the water was constantly covered with hundreds, if not thousands, of mosquitoes. What else could we expect in a constant tropical climate?

Speaking of tropical climate…. You may think I am exaggerating or joking, but one could almost see plants grow! A plant or tree that was five inches tall one day could well be a foot tall the following day. It was actually sort of spooky. I spent far too much time checking out the growth of various plants we had growing around our house. But, if you are from Kansas, so would you. Plants simply do not grow that fast around here. It is not very difficult to understand why a jungle can simply swallow up anything in its path, if not controlled.

You know….. Now that I think about it, I have no idea who was in charge of mowing the grass and stuff like that. It wasn’t any of us. It must have been whoever owned the house. We didn’t have a “lawn” in the sense of what we think of here in the USA. Plants just grew. It was inevitable.

As I said, there were three of us guys who worked in Phan Rang and lived in the same house. Two of them were on the agriculture team, and I was on the education team. I really have no idea what they did. We rarely, if ever, talked about our work. There were too many other things to talk about. We never brought our work home with us, so to speak. Since I had been around the longest, I was appointed….or anointed….to be senior person in our household. This didn’t consist of much, actually. No crown; no throne; no bodyguard….. My main responsibility was that I got to pay the housekeeper/cook. And…. I got to drive the Jeep. The other two guys had Vespa motor scooters. Actually, the motor scooters were much more practical and most of the time, they were more maneuverable. Their motor scooters were brand new; my Jeep was some sort of surplus left over from some previous war…..and even though we always won our wars. I think the Jeep “lost”!

A typical day for me in Phan Rang went something like this: Wake up….Take shower….Eat breakfast…..Go teach (somebody, somewhere)…..Come home….Talk to my station mates…..Go to bed. If that sounds pretty routine…. You are right. That is pretty much what I did. There was no outside entertainment in Phan Rang that I was ever aware of. Schools in Vietnam did not typically provide a variety of entertainment for the community like American schools do…. Things like ball games, concerts, school plays…. Schools in South Vietnam were a place where a student went to learn….and that was it. Any idea that the school existed to provide entertainment for the public was unheard of. There were no athletic teams. Even today, this is largely an American concept. There was no school orchestra or band or chorus. There was no drama class.

Neither my team mates nor I spent any time in the local bars at night. In the months that I spent in Phan Rang, I never even went inside a bar. If we wanted to drink, we simply bought some beer, took it back to our house and drank it. As I think back, I never recall anybody even suggesting or inviting me to go to a bar. The streets of Phan Rang were mostly deserted after the sun went down. Of course, we had no TV. Even if we had been lucky enough to have had one…. What would we watch? A bunch of poorly made Vietnamese programs? Or equally bad Chinese or Japanese movies (with subtitles)?

When I finally got home from work in the late afternoon, I was usually so tired that I didn’t feel like doing much. As the days and weeks went by, I gradually began to take on other “jobs” outside of the schools. The local police force asked me if I would teach them English one or two nights a week. Of course, I agreed. It always helps to be friends of the police in an underdeveloped country. I did this for a few weeks. Let me tell you something. Even my worst….most unruly….students at the Buddhist high school were model students compared to most of the policemen in that class. I am not sure what you would expect of a class of policemen…..but I somehow expected them to be disciplined, mature, serious, eager students. Find an antonym or opposite for each of those words, and you will have a pretty good description of the class.

Teaching….or trying to teach….this group of policemen gave me an eye-opening insight to the state of public servants in South Vietnam. From the very beginning, there was nothing but chaos. To be sure….and to be fair….a few of the policemen…..and they were packed like sardines into one of the high school classrooms….were serious students. They sincerely wanted to learn to speak….or to improve their English language abilities….speaking, writing, reading, understanding. These serious students….these policemen…..were in a distinct and small minority, unfortunately. Most of the men….and, of course, they were all men….came to socialize, to have fun, to talk to their fellow policemen….to clown around. For me, at least, observing this level of behavior….not only observing, but experiencing it first hand….did not do a lot to enhance my opinion of their professionalism.

After a few weeks, I gave up and dropped the class. It was really no big deal. I simply found that I did not have enough time in my schedule to accommodate them. Most of them probably didn’t care or maybe ever realize that the classes had ended. Or maybe they though the classes had ended because they had become proficient in speaking and understanding English. At any rate, for the remainder of my time in Phan Rang, policemen continued to smile and wave happily to me when we happened to meet.

Another incident also stands out in my mind after all these years. IVS furnished an interpreter for each team….every team that wanted one, at least. Our team in Phan Rang had at least a couple different interpreters while I was there. The first one, of course, had worked almost exclusively with Bob as he went about his responsibilities of meeting and helping the farmers of the area. He quit shortly before Bob’s term was up. I am not sure what happened to him. When Jay and Chuck joined me, we hired another guy who was to be our interpreter. Chances are he was referred to us through the USAID office, who came into contact with a lot more people that we did.

He was a rather unpleasant young man….and I don’t think I will get any disagreement from Jay or Chuck…..but he spoke English quite well. Neither Jay nor Chuck liked him very well. I think that he got off on the wrong foot, so to speak, in the very beginning. For some reason, he seemed to be under the impression that he was hired to work for me…..not them. I am not sure how he got this idea. Actually, for the most part, I really had little use for him. It was Jay and Chuck who worked with people from the general public a lot more than I did. And, that meant they were working with people who probably did not speak very fluent English…..if, indeed, they spoke English at all. We soon got that misunderstanding taken care of…..although the damage had probably already been done.

One day he happened to be with me, however. We were on our way somewhere….no doubt doing something in connection with the library that we were building. We were driving on the road that connects Phan Rang with the air base. It is a narrow road. I wouldn’t exactly call it a highway, although it probably was. As one will find everywhere in South Vietnam, vegetation….trees, bushes, tall grass….lined both sides of the road. Vegetation is almost inescapable in South Vietnam.

I was driving the Jeep, when all of a sudden a Vietnamese soldier jumped from the tall vegetation maybe fifty feet in front of us. He was standing in the middle of the road, brandishing a rifle. Actually, he was pointing the rifle straight at us. He was covered with blood. Not only was he shouting at us…… I didn’t understand a word he was saying, although I was pretty sure he was not inviting us to eat dinner with him….he started walking toward us….the rifle still pointed directly at us.

Never before in my life….and never since….had I had a loaded weapon pointed at me. Several thoughts raced through my mind, chief of which was, “Well, this is it. I wonder what it feels like to be shot?” The second thought….maybe more of an instinct than a thought….was to push on the accelerator and run him down….or at least, get out of there. Actually, my heart was racing so fast that I probably didn’t know what I was thinking. I pretty much knew that flooring the Jeep….pushing down on the accelerator and trying to make an escape was not going to work….not with a surplus Jeep from the Korean War or maybe even World War II. There was certainly no way I could outrun him…..or his rifle.

To be sure, I was terrorized. I had no idea who the soldier was….whose side he was on….what he was saying….what had happened….what he was going to do. Of course, my first thought was that he was a VC (Viet Cong). I mean…. They all looked alike. And, why would a friendly soldier being pointing a rifle at me….an American who was basically fighting the war for the country?

So….. I slowed down to a crawl. He came along side the Jeep, still pointing the weapon, and began to say something….gesturing….pointing…. All I could do was sit there and fear for my life….and wonder what it would feel like when the bullet first entered my body….or if I would feel anything. My interpreter sat beside me rather calmly….maybe too calmly, I thought…..and listened to him. After a couple minutes, he turned to me and said something like, “It’s OK. Let’s go.”

“It’s OK???” “Let’s go???” What’s going on here? As I slowly….or maybe it was rather quickly….drove off, I asked what was happening. What did the guy say? What did he want? It turned out that the poor soldier….and he was a South Vietnamese soldier….had wrecked his motorbike….and it was lying somewhere back in the bushes. He wanted….needed….a ride to the hospital back in Phan Rang. Our interpreter told him that we were busy….just to wait….an army vehicle would be coming along sometime.

I was furious! I had just been frightened half to death…I think my hands were still shaking a half hour later….and now we were refusing to take a wounded soldier to get medical treatment. Wow! This was my entire purpose for being in the country…..to help them. And, that certainly was a very real and tangible way that I could have helped. Obviously my interpreter didn’t feel much obligation toward his fellow citizens, though. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I told Jay and Chuck about it. The guy was gone the next day! On the bright side, though: When somebody asks, “What was the scariest moment in your life?” I have a ready answer.

It would be difficult to place a value on the friends I made during the few months I lived in Phan Rang. It is difficult to be dropped off in a strange place….a place where I didn’t know anybody….a place where I was just starting to learn a new language….a place where nothing was familiar….a place where I had nowhere to turn for companionship or advice. Of course, I knew my team mates, but they were basically in the same situation as I when they first arrived. The first few days…..or even weeks….can be rather lonely. And little things can seem much bigger than they really are. All I could look forward to was doing my job….and then going back to a rather dark, uncomfortable house….a house with no radio, no TV, no American newspapers or magazines; no telephone….. I don’t want to over dramatize it, but in the beginning, it was somewhat lonely and uncertain, even being surrounded by scores of kids, teachers, USAID employees, team mates….and other assorted people.

Fortunately, I started making friends soon. South Vietnam….and Phan Rang…..was full of friendly, welcoming and accepting people. Maybe a person might think it is strange that my best friends were not teachers. And, to be honest, I think it somewhat strange, too. One might think that these people would be a ready-made group of friends. A person might think: He spends all day with these people….these teachers….so these would, of course, be his best friends. In reality, I did not spend all day with these teachers. They were there at the school; I was there at the school. However, our paths did not cross that often. They were in their classroom; I was in my classroom. My schedule was sporadic. A class here; a class there. I came and went. I was never there all day, some times not even for a few hours. Except for the Catholic high school, there were no teacher lounges. When I arrived at the school, I would check in at the office, just so they knew I was there, and then went directly to my assigned classroom. When I finished teaching, I left and went to my next teaching assignment. I never spent the entire day in the same school.

I did have a few friends who were teachers…..not close friends….buddies…..but friendly enough that we talked to each other frequently. The only close “teacher” friend that I had was the principal of the semi-public high school. As I said before, his family owned a business in downtown Phan Rang. He told me where their business was located, and invited me to stop by. I don’t even remember what they sold. I did stop and see them….fairly often. I got to know him and his wife and his kids and some other assorted relatives quite well.

When I was in their home….located behind their business…. invariably the first thing that happened was that a cup of tea appeared almost like magic, along with perhaps a Vietnamese pastry of some sort. Both the principal…..his name was Choung (sorry I can’t include the diacritical markings)…..and his wife spoke very passable English, so we were able to communicate fairly easily. I suspect that part of the reason they like for me stop and see them so often was each time I went to their home, they received a free English lesson. That’s seems fair. I got a free cup of tea and a pastry.

The assistant province chief also became a good friend. The actual province chief was in military officer, of course. He was a colonel in the South Vietnamese army. I knew him and saw him regularly…..mostly at the USAID office, although there were a few times when I had a reason to go to his office. He spoke English….but he was far from fluent. It was always a good idea to have my interpreter….or a South Vietnamese USAID employee….with me when I had an occasion to meet him on an official basis. Like most Vietnamese, he smiled a lot. Actually, I have no idea where he lived. But, wherever it was, I am sure it was a fairly nice place…. And, I am sure it was well protected.

Getting back to the assistant province chief. He was a civilian, probably in his 30’s. He also spoke English quite fluently. He had spent some time in the USA. Maybe we became friends because he was very curious about the USA. He wanted to know all about the latest news in the USA….. the movies, the sports teams, the music…..and also he was curious about the growing protests against the Vietnam War. He told me stories about his brief visits to the USA. Sometimes, I think it was his dream to come here and live…..and I hope this was the case.

The assistant province chief took care of most of the “minor” public relations obligations in the province…..especially anything having to do with education. Many times when he was visiting schools out in the province….distributing supplies, presenting awards, dedicating buildings, etc…..he would invite me to go with him. We always traveled by helicopter, of course. We would make the trip. He would present whatever he had to present, sometimes he would introduce me, and then we would get back into the helicopter and fly back to Phan Rang. At the time, I felt like a minor celebrity, but looking back, I can imagine that I was sort of a symbol….maybe a token American….a reminder that the USA was supporting the war effort. Whatever…. I was always glad to accompany him.

As long as I was in South Vietnam, I was pretty much willing to go along with anything…. Try anything…. Do anything…. One time, however, I drew the line! The assistant province chief decided to throw a surprise birthday party for me. It was either my 27^th or 28^th birthday. And, it really was a surprise! I totally did not expect it. I was lured to the provincial headquarters under some pretense. That was not difficult at all, because, as I said, I was accustomed to working rather closely with the office. I walked into the office to find a rather large group of people assembled….people from USAID and people from the schools and the province office.

“What are all these people doing here?” I wondered. Then they began to sing “Happy Birthday”. To tell the truth, I was probably not even aware that it was my birthday. Those days sort of went by without any sort of fanfare……except maybe a couple birthday cards that would arrive either a week early…..or a couple weeks late. There was a birthday cake….from somewhere…..and a couple gifts….and lots of congratulations. “Ahhh…. This is pretty nice,” I thought. Then we sat down to eat a mini-banquet that had been prepared for the occasion. There were toasts…. I gave a little speech…. Then the meal was served! That is when I drew the line! The main entree….or at least one of them…..was some pickled, unborn baby chickens! They were considered a very desirable delicacy in South Vietnam. But, they were not for me. Just looking at the dead baby chicks almost made me sick. There was no way I was going to eat them….or even taste them. I mean….. Little baby chickens….unborn….with little feathers on them….. The assistant province chief was very disappointed. Maybe I had created an “international incident”……a serious breach of protocol….. But, I didn’t care. I graciously let somebody else eat mine. It was probably the assistant province chief!

The assistant province chief was a good guy. I enjoyed his friendship. We remained friends until I left Phan Rang and moved to Saigon. After that, as usually happens, we sort of lost touch with each other. If I had been older….more mature….I would have probably made more of an effort to stay in touch. But….. I was young. I moved to Saigon. Phan Rang sort of became a thing of the past.

My best friends…..my real friends….while I was living in Phan Rang were just ordinary people….not teachers or government official from whom I could potentially profit. No…. They were mostly just guys that worked for the USAID office and members of a South Vietnamese voluntary organization which happened to be patterned after IVS. The friendships I formed with the guys who worked at the USAID office were fairly natural, easy to come by friends. I saw them almost every day of the week….and making friends with them came pretty easily. The guys from the South Vietnamese National Voluntary Service came a little later….but just as easily. My former station mate, Bob, had worked closely with them while he was the agriculture representative in Phan Rang. Not only had he been working with them to improve agricultural techniques in South Vietnam to bring about changes that would make production more profitable and prosperous, he had been giving them English lessons for quite some time. When he left, they were obviously left without an English teacher. They came to me and asked if I would consider taking up where Bob had left off and become their English teacher. I stepped in and filled the vacuum. They were making good progress….and they were very happy and grateful that I agreed to continue the lessons.

From the beginning, they were aware that I had little or no expertise in agriculture….nothing that would benefit them, at least. I had been raised on a farm, but I had not yet achieved the level of “expert” when we moved into Sterling when I turned 13 years old. The fact that I was not able to assist or advise them…..or even work with them….in the area of agriculture or community development was not important to them. They were all eager to improve their English language skills. There were eight or ten of them….including a couple girls, if I recall correctly. I liked them immediately…..and it was one of the better choices I made.

All of these guys….both from USAID and the NVS….were just regular guys. The association with my friends from both of these groups made life in Phan Rang much more pleasant and enjoyable. Not to mention, I am sure we both learned from each other. All of these guys were speaking at least at a low conversational level…..some were better than other, though. All of them certainly spoke English at a much higher level than I spoke Vietnamese! One might say that our friendships were all mutually beneficial, insofar as learning a new language was concerned. At all times, each of us carried a little pocket English-Vietnamese….or Vietnamese-English….dictionary with us. These little dictionaries got us through a lot of rough spots….and they were invaluable to us in our communication with each other. This was decades before cell phones and automatic translators. We learned our language “the old fashioned way” to paraphrase an old commercial. I was rarely, if ever, without my little dictionary. In fact, I still have it….two or three of them, in fact.

All of us were in our twenties at the time. And, there are certain things that all guys in their twenties are interested in….and talk about. We were no different. Of course, we both asked a lot of questions about each other’s respective country….its customs, it laws, its people, its government, the war…. But, it didn’t take long to find that we also had common interests that all young men seem to have…. Sports, cars, movies, popular music….and, of course, women and sex. You didn’t think I would leave those two out, did you? If you are wondering why we didn’t sit around all day and play video games…. This was decades before anybody had ever heard of a video game. And, I am pretty sure we were all better off because of that fact.

Unfortunately, South Vietnam was at war, so our choice of activities was limited….very limited. As a product of small town America, I was used to driving to Hutchinson for an “exciting” time. Yes…. When you live in a town like Sterling, Hutchinson was a pretty exciting place to go…..even if all we did was drive up and down Main Street and stop at McDonalds for a Big Mac, some fries and a coke…..all of which cost somewhere less than 50 cents. In Phan Rang, I suppose Nha Trang would have been our “Hutchinson”. The distance between Phan Rang and Nha Trang is about 60 miles. That is enough distance to be shot at….oh, let’s say…..5 times! Obviously, there was no way we were going to drive to Nha Trang.

We made do with what Phan Rang offered, instead. We sat in the little pho (there is a diacritical mark above the “o”) stands and eat the traditional Vietnamese snack and drink a beer. Most likely, however, we went to the beach. The South China sea was only a short drive…..and a relatively safe drive….from Phan Rang. We would take our transistor radios and some food along with something to drink. Maybe the beach wasn’t as clean as we (at least, I) would have liked it to be, but there were trees close to the beach. It was an ideal place to spread out some towels…..sit and talk and listen to music….and occasionally walk the short distance to the water.

Immediately adjacent to the public beach was a beach for the 101^st Airborne Division….separated by rolls of razor sharp concertina wire…..and complete with armed guards. Back in those days, the military wasn’t very inclusive! But, at least, just the mere proximity made us feel a little safer. It was here, to a large extent, that I started to “extend” my proficiency in the Vietnamese language. Unlike some other nationalities with whom I have dealt….Germans come to mind….they never laughed at my mistakes. They just kept urging me to repeat a word until I finally got it right. Of course, they were expanding their English speaking ability, too. All of this….and we also spent a relaxing time just chilling….and talking.

With my friends from the National Voluntary Services particularly, we often spent time exploring the Cham temples….ruins from past centuries. Many times they also invited me to their compound….located somewhere a few miles outside Phan Rang….to eat dinner with them. I was always impressed….and amazed….how their entire team pitched in to create a simple, but very delicious, meal. And, I remember, most of these people were young men, except for or three girls. Whenever I could, I always brought some food with me….even though they always protested that I was their “guest”. That worked the first couple times, but after that, I more or less felt like I was part of their group.

On a few occasions, time sort of got away from us. Darkness quietly, and unexpectedly, crept in. I certainly was not brave enough to drive back to Phan Rang by myself….even after a few beers. I may have been young and impulsive back then….but not crazy. On the nights when this happened, what other choice did I have? I spent the night in their compound. It took two or three times before I was able to get a good night’s sleep. This compound was sort of out in the boondocks, so to speak. I lay awake, waiting for a VC to barge in and either shoot me….or take me prisoner. They laughed at my fear. But being four or five miles from nowhere….no streetlights, or lights of any kind…..just pitch darkness….and an eerie silence out there…. Any slight sound brought me to full alertness… I guess I just had an instinct for self-survival. Here I am though…. We can assume that all my fears were for nothing.

The nights that I spend at the NVS compound, we made enough noise talking and laughing and clowning around that our presence was no secret. If there were any VC out there lurking in the darkness, they must have decided that we were not worth their time and effort. At some point, someone or two or three of the group were bound to get out a guitar and start singing….sometimes even songs that I knew.

I am going to take a wild guess and say that my friends from the National Voluntary Service were probably better educated than my friends who worked for USAID. Most of the NVS volunteers were college students…..maybe even a few graduates….and my friends from USAID were not. On the other hand, the USAID friends spoke better and more fluent English because they spent the day working with Americans, if for no other reason. No matter what, I liked them all, and they, together, made my months in Phan Rang much more pleasant and happy and meaningful.

Of course, my only reason for being in Phan Rang was to teach English. And, believe me….. I did teach English. In the four high schools, I was solidly booked for the entire day. I was teaching about 35 hours a week between all of the schools. I met with the National Voluntary Service a couple times a week for probably a total of four to six hours total. I sponsored a couple English clubs in the schools…..a couple hours each week for each club. As I mentioned earlier, I taught a class of unruly policemen a couple nights a week. No doubt there were other classes, too, that have been forgotten or misplaced in my memory.

If all the hours were totaled, the number of hours spent teaching of some sort would probably total up to around 50 hours a week. It is very difficult to say “Yes” to one group….and then say “No” to another group. Generally speaking, if somebody asked me to teach English…..I simply said “Yes”. Although it is true that most of these classes were simply “Repeat after me” type instruction, there was still a great deal of planning that was required. There was homework to be read and (gently) corrected. Plus, just keeping track of each class’s progress was at times complicated. “Should we go back and review this section?” “Do they need additional instruction on this?” “Why aren’t they learning this as quickly as I think they should?” All of these kinds of questions required time to figure out.

The end of the first semester was coming to an end. I was starting to feel the effects of all the long hours. What were all the other teachers doing? Were they working so many hours? I had no way of knowing what others were doing. I had no yardstick to measure by?

More and more I looked forward to free time that I could spend at the beach….or climbing among the ancient ruins of the ancient Cham temples.

One day I noticed that I was feeling sick….rather nauseous….I was simply worn out. I could hardly force myself to get out of bed. Going to school and standing in front of a class took all the resolve and energy that I could find. I found myself leaning against the chalkboard, clinging to my podium….even sitting at my desk barely able to stir.

“I’m working too many hours,” I told myself. “I am going to have to cut back.” But, before I could put that wish into reality, I woke up one morning. I felt terrible; every muscle in my body ached. It felt like I had something the size and weight of a small cannon ball in the middle of my stomach. I was simply not able to get out of bed. I asked my station mate if he would stop by the school and tell them that I would not be at school that day.

“A day of rest is all I need,” I assured myself, “and then everything will be OK again.” It wasn’t, though. I continued to lie in bed the next day….and the next…. Our cook would come upstairs and say things like, “You must eat something.” I couldn’t eat anything. Looking at food of any sort almost made me sicker. “You must go to the doctor,” she would urge. She would shake her head and look at me pleading that I do something. I simply could not. I struggled downstairs to go to the bathroom….and take an occasional drink of water. But, food? No way….

On about what must have been the fourth day, I determined to find out the problem and so something about it. By that time I had started to realize that the problem was something more serious than overwork. Give me some credit for having a few brains. I struggled out of bed….I was starting to feel a little better….took a shower in our mosquito infested makeshift shower….drank a cup of coffee….ate a piece of toast. I got into my Jeep and drove to the USAID compound to see the Air Force doctor.

Oh… And, I neglected to mention…. All this time I was also trying to build a library.

It is funny….or maybe strange….or unexpected….how life can turn out. Youthful dreams and fantasies are usually just that: Dreams and fantasies….. Never to be fulfilled or realized….and probably not even pursued. They tend to evaporate as maturity overtakes youth….as sheltered reveries transition into realities…. Much like the sun burns away the morning mist converting the day into its present reality.

This is OK. Youthful dreams are good. They give hope…. They give promise…. They give solace…. They offer security….. They hatch ideas….. They form visions…..

Every boy is not going to grow up to become a professional football player…..or a teenage idol…..or an astronaut….. Every little girl is not going to become a nurse…..or a dancer….. or a movie star…. A young child may never even be a doctor….or a famous lawyer….or banker….

But… They are going to grow up. They will become something. And, no doubt ninety-nine percent of the time what they become will become something their young minds never anticipated. They will find themselves in a place where they ever expected to be.

When I was a little boy Roy Rogers and Gene Autry were my two biggest heroes. My aspiration was to be a cowboy….just like them. Yeah…. Ride a horse all day long out on some untamed wasteland, constantly being shot at. Sure! Then I went through the “highway patrolman” phase. Man, that looked exciting. Sure…. Sit behind the steering wheel of a car….drive it at dangerous speeds….give people tickets all day, just to satisfy being bullied as a child? Fortunately, I wasn’t bullied as a child. Next, I pictured myself as a baseball player…..hitting home run after home run….the crowd cheering for me. Right. With my unprecedented talent and coordination, I know you are already laughing about that one. But…. When I was young, ALL of them seemed possible….to me! I had dreams. Big dreams. Goals. Big goals.

As I grew older, I became more mature. I started to grow up. My visions and my ambitions and my targets started to shift. My fascination slowly embraced the desire to become a teacher…. And, I did.

One thing that never entered my mind…..not even once….not even remotely…..not as a dream, not as a nightmare…..was ending up spending four years in South Vietnam. Well…. If I had thought of it at the time, believe me, it would have been a nightmare!

 

To move along with the story. Yes. I got my B. S. degree in education. Yes. I taught for two and a half years. That part of my dream came true. Then came one of those little forks in the road. Due to unforeseen circumstances….something like the inevitable threat of being drafted….I enlisted in the U. S. Army. Because I did well in basic training…..because I did well in my advanced MOS (military occupation specialty) training…..and….I think, because I had a college degree and had taught school for two and a half years……I was selected to work in the office of the Commander of Troops at Ft. Benjamin Harrison, Indiana. After a few months, I became his Administrative Assistant….another name for secretary.

I loved my job. I was good at it. I had good organizational skills….and I developed even better ones….ones that have stayed with me, even this very day. I wrote all his correspondence….on a manual typewriter and not a word processor. I was good at it….and my boss thought I was good at it. I kept track of all sorts of statistics for him…and without the aid of a computer or calculator. I was good at that, too…..and my boss thought I was good at it. I answered the telephone. I was the first person you would meet as you came into the office. I was the official “greeter”. I loved it when majors and colonels would ask me, “What kind of mood is the general in today?” or “Do you know what he wants to see me about?” I was good at making coffee…..and running errands (in his Mercedes automobile). I was good at entertaining him with idle conversation when everything slowed down at the end of the afternoon.

My immediate boss…..the command sergeant-major…..also liked me…..probably more than the general did. Actually, I worked for two different sergeant-majors during that year and a half. Both of them liked me….and trusted me….and gave me responsibility. The major objective of the first sergeant-major was to get me to date his daughter! I did…..but nothing came of it. She, of course, was what we call an “Army Brat”. That girl had been around the block a few time…. Indeed, she had been around the world a few times. Maybe she was too much for a country boy like me to handle. The second sergeant-major? Well…..I learned to sit and listen as he talked of his home, his wife….and how he looked forward to retiring from the Army. He was a tall Texan. He never lost his Texas twang when he talked. He was getting close to retiring…..and I had the feeling that he would leave the Army with a sign of relief….and a shout of joy.

I was the youngest guy working in the office….and of course, the lowest rank. My best friend worked in the logistics (supply) section. His room has next to mine….upstairs in the same building as the headquarters. We did most stuff together. I can imagine that he was also the youngest soldier in his department, also. Most of the soldiers our age were working in the personnel office or the finance office, which incidentally is what I was initially trained for, but Thanks Heavens, never had to work there. I can imagine that it was boring work….doing the same thing over and over each day, day after day after day. One advantage they had, though: They were mostly working with other soldiers who were about the same age. They had somebody their age to talk to. And…. They lived in a different barrack where they saw each other day and night.

I can’t say that I was lonely. I was too busy. I had too many things to do. There were too many people coming in and out of my office….all of them a higher rank than I. And, almost all of the of them were officers. There were other people assigned to the command office, too. The Executive Officer, the Operations Officer and sergeant; the Training Officer and NCO (I think that is what they were called.) And, from time to time, there were clerks who seemed to come and go.

Basically, though. I was a “kid” 24 years old working with officers and NCOs in their 30’s and 40’s. All of them were married. None of them lived on the post. So, I was happy to have a friend my age whom I could hang with. His name was Charles (Chuck) Reardon. Over the years, I have tried to locate him. I have tried almost every resource the Internet offers. But, I have not been successful. I am assuming that he is no longer alive….which is too bad. Just think how many nights we could sit in a bar or coffee shop and reminisce and tell old stories.

In the Army….at least back then….we got an hour of PT (physical training) each day, five days a week, and we also got one hour for lunch. Both Chuck and I were college graduates. We were not dumb. We took our hour of PT at 11:00; and we took our lunch hour at 12:00. So…. We had a relaxing two hour break in the middle of each day to do essentially what we wanted to do. Physical Training (PT) was largely unsupervised. We were basically free to go do whatever we pleased. Like I said… We were not stupid. We followed the rules. We always did some sort of PT.

Through some magic or slight-of-hand, we each obtained a tennis racket, and we also came up with a complete set of golf clubs. I still have the tennis racket….even after almost sixty years. Actually, I never did learn to play tennis. Chuck and I would go to the tennis court and hit the ball back and forth to each other. Mostly, we spent our time chasing and retrieving balls, but it was still fun. We were still getting some physical activity. A couple times we took the golf clubs to an open space and tried to hit a few balls. Because we didn’t know what we were doing, this was not one of our favorite things to do, however.

Mostly at 11:00, we would grab our “PT clothes” and go to the post gym….change our clothes….and spend our time lifting weights or playing racquetball….the kind using an actual racket and a ball. Neither one of us was any good….and we didn’t much care. We just hit the ball back and forth….frantically chasing it. But, it was good exercise! Often, especially when the weather was nice, we would go running. Just go running, with no special destination in mind. On an Army base, there are usually plenty of open spaces to run. Actually, it more accurately could be called jogging, since we always ran slowly enough that we could talk while running. It was just fun to get out of the office for a while, no matter what we did.

Sometimes, however, we were not so fortunate….especially me! My boss was a handball player…..the kind where you use your hand, and not a racket! That kind of handball is not fun. Take my word for it. Sometimes he couldn’t find a partner….another officer….to play with him. Maybe they just didn’t want to play. Maybe they were hiding. On those occasions, you can probably guess who he chose as the lucky person to be his opponent. “Come on, Darrah,” he would call. In the Army everybody is called by their last name….unless they are a friend. I mean, I would never have even considered calling my superiors….or anybody with a higher rank….by their first name. In fact, not only did I call them by their last name, but by their last name AND their rank.

Anyway…. “Come on, Darrah, let’s go play racquetball.” I hated to hear those dreaded words. If I could have predicted what days he would say them, believe me, I would have made myself scarce. I would have evaporated into thin air for a while. I would have been on an “important errand”. But… When there was nothing else to do except to go to the gym with him…..and pretend to enjoy what I was doing…..and pretend that I was actually trying to give him some competition. I never beat him…..not even once. I never even came close.

Now the kind of handball he played was not the kind where an actual racket is used. No…. We hit the ball with our hand. Our hand, protected only by a thin glove. If we had been using a real racket, I would probably have whipped his ass. No…. Even I was smart enough not to do that! The net result of these sporadic torture sessions was that I had a swollen hand for the next couple days. Keep in mind that typing was one of my major duties….and this was long before the days of word processors. Even electric typewriters were still a thing of the future. What did my friend Chuck do on these days? Mostly went ahead and lifted weights and shot baskets…..and come over and watch occasionally and grin at me.

Anyway, Chuck and I would finish our workout, take a shower, and head out for lunch….sometimes a little early. We didn’t have to be back at work until 1:00, and often I was able to squeeze in a (very) short nap before returning to the office.

I was appointed to the board of director of the Indianapolis Serviceman’s Center….the Indianapolis version of the USO. I was the representative of “soldiers”, and my major duty seemed to be to show up at board meetings that usually no more than three of four people attended. I was never sure how many people were on the board or if even a quorum showed up. But, that never seemed to be an issue. I really do not recall any major decisions ever being made in one of these meetings. We had an Executive Director who ran the place. I wish I could remember her name…..but I can’t. At any rate, she immediately liked me. No…no. She was easily old enough to be my mother….and maybe even my grandmother. But, she was easy to work with, needless to say. One of the “community representatives” was a young lady about my age. The executive director lost no time in making sure we had met each other…and that we were assigned to the same committees. Sometimes, I suspect she and I were the only members of some committees. And, who knows? Maybe they were not even real committees.

But the executive director (If anybody knows her name…. Please, let me know. Although I am sure she is no longer around.) made sure that there were always “decisions” to be made. We began to spend a lot of time together….making decisions, of course. Eventually, we became a couple. I am sure she saw us getting married. And, I came close…. dangerously close…. to marrying her. But, that is another story for another time.

I, of course, had my own room. I bought a TV. It had a 21 inch screen….the standard “big screen” back in those days. It was black and white, of course. Color TV was still over the horizon. I installed a pair of “rabbit ears” antenna, and it could pull in all five or six TV stations in Indianapolis. My room became a favorite place for other soldiers to hang out. Not because of me…..but because of my TV….although “permanent party” were not encouraged to fraternize with the trainees….the students.

Down in the basement of our block-long office/dormitory building, there was a recreation room for us permanent party who lived in the building. Since Chuck and I were the only two who fit this classification, for all practical purposes, it was our own personal recreation room. Sometimes at night we would go down and play pool. And, sometimes on weekends I would go down by myself and shoot some pool. For some lucky reason or coincidence, Chuck’s parents lived only twenty or thirty miles from Indianapolis, and normally he spent weekends at home.

On the very top floor of the building, there was an indoor firing range….for pistols and…. .22 rifles only, of course. No machine guns allowed. Many weekend afternoons, especially during cold weather, that is where I spent my time. My friend Chuck was home for the weekend; it was too early to go into town; I didn’t feel like playing pool by myself…. So, I could check out a rifle and a box of ammo, go upstairs, and spend the afternoon shooting targets.

If you are wondering how I came by the rifle and the ammo so easily…. Well, this was certainly another benefit of working in the central command office. I knew our training officer very well…..and my best friend, Chuck, worked in the department that had custody and control of this sort of stuff. Although ammo and weapons were certainly not available to the average, run of the mill soldier or student under any circumstance, it was actually no big deal getting them. I signed a form….sort of a roster-like paper….and Poof! They handed them to me! Remember…. This was was long before the days we worried about terrorists….about crazy mass-killings…. I was rarely the only person up there shooting.. It was not at all unusual for there to be other guys up there target practicing, too. Mostly single NCOs and officers who, like me, had nothing better to do. I do not want to brag…. Yes, I guess maybe I do…..but I was really a pretty good target shooter. It was a good way to spend an afternoon, especially since I did not have a car….and, even then, I was not a cold weather person.

Earlier I mentioned that, like all permanently assigned personnel, I had my own private room. The room, in itself, was nothing special…..just a standard, drab room…..one of dozens that lined a long hallway in the almost block long building. Within limits, the post let us make our rooms more comfortable. Like I said, I bought a TV set. I also added a cheap desk and a semi-comfortable chair to sit in. I mean, I think they would have drawn the line at fancy curtains….and I know I would have landed in trouble if I had even thought of painting the room. I had to walk down the hallway to take a shower. But, all things considered….and this, after all was the Army…..it was a semi-pleasant place to live.

It was in this room that my life took a body slam that almost knocked the breath out of me. It was in this pleasant room….the room that I thought would be my home until the end of my three year enlistment…. that I first heard the news that would change my life forever.

In addition to having Saturday afternoon off, I also had another half day free. Mostly I just stayed in my room and read or watched TV or slept or caught up on writing letters. Sometimes I would hop on the city bus and go into downtown Indianapolis and mess around with Chuck or other friends who worked in the headquarters and also had the afternoon off. Mostly, however, it was just a half day to do nothing….to get caught up….

On this particular afternoon….a Thursday afternoon as I recall….I was in my room. Actually, I was cleaning my room. I was standing on a chair cleaning the top of my locker that served as my closet. My door may have been open. If not, it was not locked. Yes…. There I was, standing on a chair. I looked up….or down, in this case…. and saw my sergeant-major walk in. He was my immediate boss. This was not unusual. He often wandered about the hallways, checking things out, looking into rooms, inspecting the building.

Actually, I didn’t see anything unusual about it at all. He had stopped by my room before, glanced about, made jokes about how I may as well be living in a luxury apartment (Yeah….right.) ….engaged in a few minutes of small talk….and then moved on.

On this day, however, there was no small talk. He looked around for a few seconds, and then in his normal, Texas drawl, conversational voice, said, “How would you like to go to South Vietnam?” Of course, when he said it, I thought he was just passing the time of day….just a bit of idle chit-chat before moving on.

“No…. I think I will pass this time,” I said, expecting him to smile and move on. But…. He did not smile. He did not move on.

“Well, we just got orders for you. You are being reassigned to South Vietnam.”

I was stunned. I felt almost like somebody had punched the air out of my lungs. There was no way that I had suspected this would happen. For a minute I was speechless. I probably opened my mouth….but nothing came out of it. I just stood there. What was I supposed to say?

This was 1964. The Vietnam War was in its infancy. Like most people, I had heard of it. I knew that there was a war going on there. I wasn’t even sure where South Vietnam was located. I knew there were jungles….and that Americans were being killed. Not very many….but they were being killed. I knew that our government, apparently with the approval of President Kennedy, had supported, if not engineered, the violent overthrow of the South Vietnamese government, in which both the South Vietnamese president and his all-powerful brother had been brutally murdered. I knew that the country was going through a cruel period of repression, especially against the Buddhist population. The vast majority of the citizens practiced the Buddhist religion….or variations thereof. The ruling family, those who held the power, were Christians….Roman Catholics. Buddhist monks had set themselves on fire in the middle of busy intersections in Saigon. The wife of the President’s brother, Madame Nhu, had derisively….and publicly…..called them “barbecued monks”.

I was also vaguely aware that despite of all this, the government of the USA continued to support, if not covertly encourage, the repressive government. We looked up on them as being one of “our” dictatorships. And, that seems to make all the difference in the world.

But….. South Vietnam? What had I done to deserve this?

Actually, it didn’t make any difference. The orders had been issued. It apparently was a done deal. Needless to say, the remainder of my pleasant, relaxing afternoon off was no longer so pleasant. I am not sure I was scared or not…. Yes, I was probably scared. Back in those days…..and I am talking 1964…..nobody knew anything about Vietnam. We knew that it was “our” war….the only one we had at the time. And, as you no doubt know…. The United States always has to have a war somewhere. That is just the way it is.

Since I knew most of the guys who worked in the personnel office….and they knew me…..the news spread fast…..like an uncontrolled wildfire. As I have already told you, the headquarters building was a long….about one block long…..building, three or four stories high…..a couple corridors in width. Everything happened under that one rather large roof. And, the “fire”…the news….spread from one end of the building to the far end in record time. I think I am correct in saying that I was the first “permanent party” in the building to be shipped off to South Vietnam.

I don’t want to mislead you. Fort Benjamin Harrison was an advanced training school. Its mission was to train pay specialists, records specialists, company clerks….jobs like that. Actually, now that I think of it, that was the name of the base: The Adjutant General School. Duh…. It’s been a long time ago. Give me a break. As the administrative assistant to the Commander of Troops, one of my regular responsibilities was to insure that all the paperwork had been accomplished before sending the freshly minted soldiers to their next…..and “permanent” assignment…..permanent for at least for twelve months. They would go out as payroll specialists, company clerks….things like that. They would be assigned to various army bases around the world….including South Vietnam.

At this time, I suppose most of these bases were in province capitals. And, each post probably had only a handful of American “advisors” assigned to it. For example, when I was working for the Commander of Troops at Ft. Benjamin Harrison in 1963, the USA had somewhat more than 16,000 troops stationed there. When I arrived there in 1964, there was somewhere around 23,000 troops stationed in the country. By the time I left South Vietnam at the end of my Army career in 1965, the number of US troops had escalated to more than 184,00 troops. If this sounds like a lot….and I suppose it was…..at the height of the USA involvement in South Vietnam in 1968, the year I left South Vietnam permanently….there was an overpowering presence of more than 536,000 USA military personnel in South Vietnam. And, this….just so you do not misunderstand, did not include the American civilian population….which later included me.

Back to the story….. One of the major steps in getting soldiers prepared to go to South Vietnam was to ensure they had all of the required immunizations. On a regular basis, I sent entire classes of students to the base hospital….or medical facility…..for these shots. I was on the telephone at least weekly….and usually more often…..setting up appointments for these mass immunizations. For this entire time, I dealt with the same lieutenant and the same NCO. Unfortunately, I do not recall the name of either one of these guys. But, on the other hand, I doubt if they remember me, either. Anyway, now the tables were turned. I was setting up an appointment for myself. Sort of ironic…right?

I showed up at the base hospital to start getting my shots. The sergeant…the one whose name I can’t remember….said to me, “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?”

“Whaaaaat…….?” I sputtered back to him.

“Why are you volunteering to go to South Vietnam?” he asked, rather incredulously….undoubtedly questioning my sanity and thinking that maybe he should be referring me for a mental evaluation.

“I didn’t volunteer,” I said. “I don’t want to go. I got orders.”

“Then, why didn’t you tell me before? I could have doctored your medical records, and there would have been no way they would take you!”

Now he tells me! The thought ever entered my mind. I had never considered it to be an option. But, for the next few weeks, I kicked myself regularly for not telling him sooner. It just never occurred to me that he would be able to help. I don’t know. Maybe I just thought he already knew. Everybody else did!

My friends in the personnel and finance sections began to sympathize with me almost immediately. I think they felt genuinely sorry for me…..if not a little bit frightened and worried about my ultimate fate. At almost every encounter….at work, in the dining hall, in the hallways of the “barracks”, in the shower….at almost every chance meeting….they would tell me how sorry they were that I was going to South Vietnam and wish me well. When we talked, they almost always avoided looking me in the eyes, usually looking down. Even though I knew they were sincere…. I could never help believing they were thinking, “I am sorry you are going. But…. I am glad it is you and not me.” And…. Who can blame them? I am sure I would have thought the same thing.

That brings up a question, I think. Is it better to head off into a world about which we know totally nothing….into the unknown…..a place shrouded in sinister mystery….intriguing, but unfounded rumors….. a place where we have heard is not a good place to go. Or…. Is it better to head off to a place that we know is positively dangerous….a place where for the first time in history a war is being fought on TV every night on the six o’clock news? A place where we know could be a place of no return.

No matter what….. I seemed to be one of the very first permanent party to receive an offer than I could not refuse. Wasn’t that a famous line from some movie?

Like I said, my boss liked me…..and he wasn’t ready to give up on keeping me. Not quite yet, at least. He checked somewhere…..maybe the Pentagon?…..to find out if he could declare that I was “essential personnel” at Ft. Benjamin Harrison and in the command office. As I look back, I have to chuckle. This was sort of like saying that a person could not take a cup of sand from the Sahara Desert because it might disrupt or destroy the desert! Come on….. I was stationed at the Adjutant General School. This is the school that churns out hundreds of clerks, administrative specialists and other similar flunkies every year. No…. As much as I appreciated it, that ploy didn’t work. And, of course, I am sure that my boss knew it would not work. Nice gesture…. Nice try….. It is nice to be wanted!

There was still one more shell in the rifle, though…..one more arrow to aim at the target. Somebody decided that I should apply for a “direct commission”. This is a process in which I would by-pass all of the conventional channels and requirements and become an officer. No ROTC (Reserve Officers Training Corps), no OCS (Officers Candidate School)…..or, my favorite…. Graduating from West Point. These are the only means that I know of to become a military officer. And, I am thinking that getting a direct commission in the Adjutant General Corps is probably more rare and difficult than being appointed to….and graduating from….West Point.

Anything was worth a try, though. Who knows? Maybe I would become that historic example that would inspire generations of other clerks and administrative specialists to seek a direct appointment to the elite officers corps. My picture would hang in the lobby of every office of every military installation in the world….along side other great military heroes. I was new to this game. I more or less just stood aside as the wheels were set spinning in an attempt….a futile attempt….to make me an instant Army officer…..and save me from falling into the unknown abyss of South Vietnam.

It was all somewhat flattering. Lots of people wrote nice letter about me. They said what an excellent job I was doing….and that my training, my dedication, my grasp of the “mission” were exceptional. That I was a “natural leader”…. That I was well liked and respected by not only the officers and NCOs I worked with, but I was admired and valued by my peers….. They looked up to me and followed by example.

Yeah…. It was all pretty over-the-top. I thought maybe they would build a statue in front of the office, too…. Or maybe declare a holiday in my honor…. I appreciated it. I was grateful to my superiors for their faith in me and for their desire to help me. The papers….an entire folder of them….was shipped off to somewhere….wherever these decisions are made….for their final consideration. In the meantime, it did buy me more time. The orders were put on hold pending the decision on the request. The “sentence” was not commuted, nor was it abandoned. I merely received a “stay”…..the “sentence” was only postponed.

Ultimately, whoever reviewed my request for a direct commission as an Army officer didn’t buy it. Really, I don’t think anybody, including myself, ever thought they would. I was doomed. I was heading for South Vietnam.

The Army flew us to South Vietnam on a commercial airplane. It was filled with soldiers, but still…. It was a real airplane and not some sort of troop carrier. After a rather lengthy delay somewhere in Alaska…..I am guessing Fairbanks….due to bad weather, our next stop was Tan Son Nhut Airbase, Saigon, South Vietnam. My pre-introduction to Saigon was a rather unnerving and unconventional landing. The guy flying the airplane must have been a stunt pilot back in his younger days.

We were flying high above Saigon….well out of range of anything the Viet Cong had to fire at us. Suddenly and unexpectedly, we took a nosedive. “Wow! Have we been shot down already?” I wondered. “Well, my tour of service in South Vietnam was pretty short.” But, at least, I could always say that I was shot down in South Vietnam. Just the sort of thing my mother would like to hear, I am sure!

I mean, we were heading toward Earth fast. This was not a normal or traditional landing. For once, those seat belts came in handy. Everybody was hanging on to their seats. All the talking and laughing stopped. The guys who were sleeping woke up with a start. I don’t recall that anybody threw up……but there were plenty of startled and frightened expressions on the faces of these brave soldiers.

“Maybe the pilot is a Viet Cong,” somebody said. “We have been captured before we even land.” I have never heard of a Viet Cong Kamikaze….but if such a person had existed, he would have fit this profile. All of the airline staff….and all of the airline personnel….pilots, stewardesses, etc….were civilian. And, none of them seemed the least bit alarmed or concerned. The sharp and sudden landing approaches were designed….and necessary….to make the aircraft less of a target while landing. Maybe you can visualize all the dire possibilities of an airplane that gradually and leisurely descends on the runway…. Giving what? Fifteen minutes of opportunity for someone to take aim at it with a rocket….or two or three….and shoot it down. Even an enemy with the poorest aim would have plenty of time and freedom to shoot us out of the sky. We would be like sitting ducks….or at least, like slow, low flying ducks. So, pilots maintained high altitude until the last possible minute to make their descent.

We did land safely, obviously….or I would not be writing this.

I stepped out of the airplane at Ton Son Nhut Airbase on the outskirts of northwest Saigon. I stepped into a different world. My farm boy, rural mentality had in no way prepared me for my entrance into the world of South Vietnam. I was hit with a wave of heat from a tropical furnace….heat that could melt a candle almost on contact….heat that can rival any sauna….heat that felt like a giant, smothering electric blanket….

It was not only the heat. Everything looked different…. Certainly like nothing I had ever seen or even imagined. “You aren’t in Kansas any more, Beryl!” (Another line from a famous movie.)

We piled onto a bus that would take us to the section of the huge airbase where the headquarters of the US Army was located. The bus was my third shock of the hour! First the Kamikaze landing; second the blast furnace we stepped out into; and third…..the bus. The bus appeared to be an old converted school bus….or the type of bus that we would call a school bus. The windows were covered with layers of heavy mesh wire…..almost like sections of chain link fence. This window dressing was obviously designed to prevent dangerous toys…. like grenades…. from being tossed inside the bus. Wow…. This was my second wakeup call that somebody out there might be a threat to my health and well-being. How dare they! Surely, they wanted me to at least sample their hospitality before sending me to an early grave.

Apparently we could not go directly to the Army Headquarters from the airport. Tan San Nhut was not only a military installation, but the airport terminal was actually the Saigon civilian airport….open to the public more or less. So, here we went….a bus load of maybe fifty apprehensive South Vietnam rookies….to begin a new life in a new and very strange country. We pulled out of the airport gate into a perplexing, if not mystifying, world. At least, they certainly were for me. Like I said, “Beryl, you are not in Kansas….”

The sights and sounds and smells that greeted me were different from anything I had experienced before. I had nothing to which they could be compared….no reference points….no rubric to grade them. Gone were the vast fields of wheat, replaced by lush vegetation….jungles, plants…rice paddies…. green, green, green…. Gone were the orderly streets of Sterling and Lyons….and even Indianapolis. In their place were a jumble of narrow streets filled with makeshift houses and shacks….populated by a somewhat rag tag mass of humanity that had not existed in any of my previous worlds. It seemed that we drove through a never ending collection of primitive storefronts….where most of the merchandise was sold from the sidewalk. Kids, kids, kids….. Kids, everywhere….many of them very young either half dressed, poorly dressed….or naked….and dirty! Wow…. This was something I had never seen back in good old Sterling.

We soldiers looked with awe and wonder….and maybe a bit uneasily…..as the kids approached the semi-barricaded windows of the bus…..hands outstretched. We, of course, had nothing to give to them. We just stared at them…. Maybe smiled at them; maybe told them to go away; but, most likely….just stared at them. The bus moved slowly along, inching its way through the maze of disorganized traffic. It was my first introduction to a confusing and perplexing maze of traffic. One which seemed to be an every-man-for-himself system. I was happy that I was not driving that day!

How did I feel making that short….but, oh, so long, drive into Tan Son Nhut Air Base? I wasn’t scared. No… That would not be correct. Nervous? Yes. Apprehensive? Yes. Heightened awareness? Definitely. Wondering what to come next? Probably more than anything.

We arrived at the Headquarters, US Army, Vietnam. I had been expecting something a little more grand…. A little more in keeping with the names “US Army” and “Headquarters”. As we drove through the front gate, all I saw was a bunch of squat, tent-like structures, surrounded by sandbags. They were not exactly tents…..but more like low, wooden structures that rose maybe three feet off the ground, surrounded by screen….wrap around windows, so to speak. The roof extended far out over the edges, to keep the rain from getting inside I learned later. Actually, it was difficult to tell which were the offices and which were the barracks, except that the offices had names on them, and they were congregated together, just as the barracks where I would live were congregated together.

Like everybody else on the bus, I stepped out into a world that was completely foreign to anything I had ever seen before…..into an environment that I had not imagined, because I had experienced nothing on which to base such a reality. Looking back from a distance of some fifty-five years, I don’t remember exactly what I did those first couple days. Somebody escorted us to an empty “barracks”…of those long makeshift huts….and told us to find a bunk. Somebody showed us the “dining hall”…..another of the long makeshift huts….. Somebody showed us the showers…..another of the long makeshift huts, only more open, for ventilation, I suppose.

There were formations….just to make sure nobody had gone AWOL. Where a person would go is a mystery, though. Into the jungle to live with the monkeys and snakes?

I found a bunk….a lower bunk….and claimed it as mine. There was a locker beside it. Whether they each had a padlock or a combination has evaporated from my memory. Mostly, though, we just shoved our duffle bags into the lockers. These were only temporary lockers, at best. Everybody….or almost everybody…. would be reassigned. This was just a jumping off point. Of course, I didn’t know anybody. Nobody knew anybody. As there usually is with a bunch of nervous, apprehensive strangers, there was meaningless conversation….uneasy, uptight, maybe a bit fearful. Soldiers, I think, try to put a good front…mask their fear and uncertainty with lots of loud, fake bravado….lots of laughing….lots of pretension. The bottom line, however, was that most of them were scared.

The first night in the barracks was not my best night of sleep. It was the first night that I had ever slept with mosquito netting surrounding my bed. This was good, though. I could hear the mosquitoes buzzing around…eager for a late night snack. The mosquito net was the only barrier between me and their blood sucking little beaks. Later on, I learned to keep a can of aerosol spray handy…..as insurance, just in case one of the little critters found its way around or through or under the protective curtain. You can bet that the can of aerosol was kept under lock and key during the day. It was a valuable and much wanted commodity around the barracks. Why go buy a can when it can just as easily be stolen?

There were at least a couple other things that made those first few nights unnerving. Those screen “windows”, maybe just a foot above my head. “Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of men?” (“The Shadow….1940’s radio show) A thin layer of screen is not a lot of protection from a lot of things….like bullets, mortar shells, snipers, etc. What was to keep a VC (Viet Cong) from coming up to the “window” and doing away with me?

Another of the unnerving occurrences that I definitely had not counted on was the South Korean Air Force base directly adjacent to the barracks. The first blast of the after-burners on the F-4 Phantom jet about sent me through the top of my bunk. Not only was I not expecting it, but I didn’t even know the South Koreans has a facility just over the fence. The first time….that first night…..we heard a jet preparing for takeoff, I think almost every guy in the barracks thought we were under attack! I am not an aviation expert….and I find it sort of difficult to put the sound into words. It is a deafening sound as the jets are either inhaling or exhaling air. Or, who knows? Maybe it is doing both. It is sort of like revving up a car…..but in this case, it was jet airplane.

The first few nights, the sound was almost unbearable. But, you know what? It didn’t take long before my mind and body and senses got used to it…..and I never even heard it. I slept right through it….all night long. At least, I had the comfort of knowing that it was a “friendly” jet….out-going, not in-coming.

Those early days in the Army in South Vietnam provided educational experiences and opportunities that I never knew existed. If I had not been sent off to South Vietnam, who knows how long it would have taken me to learn these lessons….or maybe I never have learned them.

One of the first lesson I learned in South Vietnam was sort of like what President Franklin Roosevelt told us back during the Second World War. “The only things we have to fear is fear itself.” Before I left to go to South Vietnam, I was often almost paralyzed with fear….fear of the unknown. Yes, it was irrational. I had no concrete evidence, no first hand…or even second hand…experiences, no threats against my life….nobody telling me about certain dangers or treachery that awaited me. I had nothing more to base my fear on than ignorance…..or maybe lack of information or lack of understanding would be a better way of putting it. We all know that Beryl is not ignorant!

Yes, there was the steep descent into Tan Son Nhut Airport; there was the heavy gauge wire on the windows of the bus; there were reports that an occasional American was killed or that a helicopter pilot had been shot down or crashed. Yes, there were coups against the government….or within the government is more accurate. But, mostly my fear was simply of “fear itself”. Come on now…..I was just a naive farm boy….from Sterling, Kansas. What did I know about all this stuff? This was new….and uncharted territory….for me. I have a feeling that this was the situation of most young men being shipped off to South Vietnam.

After those first three or four….and probably no more than that….sleepless nights wondering if a Viet Cong was going to sneak up to the screen just outside my bed and shoot me; after those first few days of waiting for a mortar shell to drop into our compound; after the first few nights of adjusting to the annoying after burners of the South Korean jets….. I began to settle down and relax a bit.

The day after we arrived, we were told that we would get our orders for a permanent assignment soon. Actually, I was hoping for an assignment in one of the coastal town along the South China Sea….in the southern Vietnam Delta. The gossip….the constant gossip….said this was a “good assignment”. If you think women have a tight monopoly on gossip….well, you should be in the Army. Everybody knows something….or has heard something…. Soldiers put old women to shame in the gossip competition.

I did not get an assignment in the Delta. In fact, I have no idea where my first set of orders would have sent me. Later, I came to realize that the southern Delta region was one of the most insecure areas of South Vietnam. The Mekong River delta, as one might expect, was a patchwork quilt of rice paddies…..a hotbed for producing the staple food of the Vietnamese people….and also a hotbed for Viet Cong guerrillas who easily blend in with the peasant workers.

Of course, I have no way of knowing if this is where I would have been assigned. Quite frankly, it never once occurred to me to ask. In all probability I could have easily found the information. I was too new….to confused….to apprehensive….to have ever thought of inquiring about it. As a matter of fact, maybe this is the first time I have ever thought about it…. I mean…. Right now.

After a day or so, the tension started to build among the soldiers in my group. Boredom was setting in. And with boredom came restlessness. And with the restlessness came increased worry and apprehension. “Where am I going?” “Will I be stuck in the jungle?” “Will there be showers….electricity….running water…?” “What kind of job will I have?” “What kind of food will I be eating?” “Are there VC running rampant in the jungles?” “Am I going to have my throat slit by a VC the first night I am there?”

Yeah…. I was probably one of those soldiers! There is an old saying in the Army, “Hurry up and wait.” Believe it. It is basically true. The Army is rarely ahead of the situation. I am not sure why it took the better part of two days to issue assignments. They had the roster with the name of each soldier on the airplane….along with their MOS (Military Occupational Specialty)….days (I assume) before we arrived. Surely the military is not in the habit of sending airplane loads of troops to random location with no advance warning. Well… On the other hand…. Who knows?

It was on the third full day after I arrived at Tan Son Nhut Airbase that somebody from one of the offices walked into my “barracks” and announced in a loud voice…. In other words, shouted…. “I need Specialist Darrah.” He probably didn’t pronounce my name right….but nobody does. And, at that point in time, I was not about to correct him. Specialist Four was my rank at the time. Whatever name is chose to call me was close enough.

“You are supposed to report to the Adjutant General’s office,” he said. “Come with me.”

Oh, Wow. This could go either way…. Good or bad. At the time, I did not associate the “invitation” …..the order….to anything job-related. The thing that came to my mind almost immediately was, “What did I do wrong?” And, in the Army….believe me….lots of things can go wrong.

Silently and with some degree of trepidation, I followed the guy as he led me over the funky sidewalk made of wooden planks to the office….the makeshift structure which looked very similar to my “barracks”….of the Adjutant General of the US Army in Vietnam.

First, I was introduced to the sergeant-major. Sergeant-major Walker. I noticed that he had my military records on his desk. “Oh, I see you worked for the Commander of Troops at Fort Benjamin Harrison.” “Oh, I see you have a college degree.” “Oh, I see that you have taught school for two and a half year.” “Oh, I see you were awarded an Army Commendation Medal.” “Oh, I see you applied for a direct commission. Yeah….those are pretty hard to get in the Adjutant General’s Corps. Only in the Infantry and Artillery.”

Yes. This was looking pretty good…..

He was a friendly guy. Maybe he didn’t fit my stereotype of a “sergeant-major….especially in the office of the Adjutant General….in South Vietnam….in war time…. I was much too nervous to worry about details like that, though. Now I understood that I was being considered for a job in the Adjutant General’s office. Actually, it took me about a minute…..no, probably less….to realize that this was maybe one of the best jobs the Army had to offer in South Vietnam. Oh yeah…. They could have interviewed me for a job in the Commanding General’s office. But, as I was to find out shortly, he already had “somebody”….another guy about my age….and that he was very good at his job!

After maybe fifteen minutes of conversation…. He was asking the questions. Me saying intelligent and witty things like, “Yes, sir.”, he suggested that I meet the real boss, the Adjutant-General. Actually, he had been sitting at his desk about ten or twelve feet from us…..and I am sure he heard every word we said. I got up and took the few steps to his desk. He looked up, smiling, while the Sergeant-Major introduced me to him. Me….being the good soldier that I was….saluted him. I guess this was the correct thing to do. He gave me sort of a quizzical look and returned a rather halfhearted salute. That was probably the last time I ever saluted him.

Adjutant-General Durand was a nice guy. I liked him immediately….and, I think he also liked me. He said something like, “Welcome aboard,”…..and just like that, I was “hired”.

Again….just like my good fortune of being selected as the administrative assistant to the Commander of Troops at Fort Benjamin Harrison, I think the fact that I had a college degree….had taught for two and a half years…..and that I had been successful at my previous job….made all the difference in the world. Still, here I was in a strange world….still somewhat disoriented….still rather confused….still with no real idea of what my role would be in my new job.

“Report here tomorrow at 0800,” was about the only information or advice that I was given.

And, report, I did. I walked into the office…..or the glorified tents we called offices back in those days. I wasn’t exactly sure to do when I walked in, though. Wow….I really had no idea what to do, is putting it more truthfully. I stood for a minute….probably looking like I was lost or had wandered into the place by mistake. I walked over to the sergeant-major’s desk. He glanced up….and thankfully, he recognized me. He showed me what was to be my desk for the next year….. The very first desk that a person encountered in our spacious, just-one-step-up-from-camping-out luxurious headquarters.

Just like Ft. Benjamin Harrison, I was going to be the “gatekeeper”, the official greeter, the “What do you want?” and “Who are you here to see?” person. That was OK with me. But, I had a steep learning/memory curve ahead of me. I had a lot of faces and a lot of names to learn and recognize. Who was whom? Who did what? And, later on…. Who could be useful to me? But, also, just like Ft. Benjamin Harrison, I found that I could also be useful to NCO’s and officers who greatly outranked me. Me? I had nothing to lose. I was in the Army for three years….and then, “Bye-bye. See you. It was nice knowing you.” Career military people always seem nervous and insecure when dealing with their superiors…especially when they do not know them. This part of my job was familiar…. I could….and did….definitely handle it.

The other parts of my job I sort of grew into gradually. “Gradually” was a little bit faster in South Vietnam than the rest of the world, probably. In most jobs….or a lot of them….there is a transition period. Normally, I would have worked with my predecessor for a few days….or at least, a few hours! Guess what? There wasn’t any predecessor around. If he was there, I certainly didn’t see him. Actually, nobody, that I can recall, ever mentioned the person who worked there before I did….or if there even was such a person. Surely. Somebody was there. There weren’t any pictures….no welcoming note….no instructions…..no little personal items left behind by mistake. I think I just sort of “invented” my job.

Looking back through old records and personnel rosters….and staffing charts… that I brought home with me….. Don’t worry. They were my copies…. I am not a spy. I didn’t steal any secrets…..it appears that I went through a series of titles while worked for the Adjutant-General. I was first an administrative clerk….then a Congressional Correspondence Specialist…..then an administrative assistant…..and finally, my exalted title of Secretary to the Adjutant-General, US Army Vietnam.

You know…. It has been more than 50 years now. I have very little recollection of how I learned my job…..or if I ever had anybody who really showed me what I was to do. I suspect that I just did it. You know, like Nike’s slogan, “Just Do It.”

It probably goes without saying that a war time operation would be somewhat different in nature than the same operation in normal circumstances. For one thing, what we were doing was real! It was not a “what if” kind of thing…. It was not training or simulation….. It was not simply busy-work, preparing for the “real thing.” What we were doing was the “real thing”. Our job was not theoretical….somebody’s idea of what “it might be like”. No…. Here we were….and, it was not just fun and games….. Not a rehearsal.

Almost immediately, as I recall, I started to do my job….my “real” job. I was responsible for getting the command Daily Bulletin published. This was my first major job each morning. Various offices would submit items they wanted to include in the Daily Bulletin. Some of them had already been pre-written. Some of them were just facts and figures jotted down and handed to me. Depending on where the item….or story….came from….and who had actually written it….I would write, or re-write, the item to be included. Obviously, if the Commanding General or the Chief of Staff had written something for publication, I was smart enough….or coward enough…..to leave it alone and print it as it was written….or the changes I made were cosmetic and technical….corrections that probably wouldn’t be detected anyway.

When the deadline for submitting material for the Daily Bulletin has passed, I would set about preparing everything for distribution. And…. Let me be clear: I did not set the time. My boss did! Now, also let me be clear: All of this happened back in around 1964. I did not have an electric typewriter! Word processors were still the figment of Bill Gates’ imagination…..if he was even alive then. No…. All the typing was done on a rather ancient….even by 1964 standards….typewriter. I typed the Daily Bulletin on some sort of blue gel-like sheet which was used on a duplicating machine of some sort. If I made a mistake….Who? Me?…..I covered it up with some sort of thick liquid, let it dry, typed over it….and continued. I set the “TABS” on the typewriter and made two columns. Pretty neat….yeah? Obviously there were no pictures or graphics or cute memes. “Headlines” were written in all CAPS….the stories written in….well, you know….the regular type. It was all pretty basic…..but, it got the job done.

After I had written and typed the Daily Bulletin, it was handed off to somebody whom I can’t recall. It was reproduced….or copied….and distributed around the Headquarters compound….posted on some bulletin boards….thrown into waste baskets! If I knew that I would be writing this blog now, I would have saved some of them. But, like they say, “Hindsight is better than foresight.” It was just something I did five days a week for a year….part of my job….

The Daily Bulletin was the least of my worries. Thirty minutes….and it was over. Except for the people who worked in my office, I doubt if anybody really knew….or cared…. who wrote it. It certainly did not say, “Beryl Darrah, Editor-in-Chief. Somehow I doubt if anybody really appreciated my superior writing style….or realized that six decades later I would be writing a blog about it. At any rate, the Daily Bulletin was just sort of a warm-up for the rest of the day…..like stretching before running a marathon, or at least, a 10K run.

The rest of the day, I did what all good secretaries did….or at least, what I imagine them doing. Of course, most secretaries are women, or that is the stereotype, at least. Aside from my Army experience, I have never been a secretary….or ever had any desire or ambition to be one. I have had two or three secretaries. I can only wish they were as good as I was.

So…. What did I do all day? Just as at Fort Benjamin Harrison, I was the first line of defense when people entered our office. I saw everybody who entered….and basically, I greeted everybody who entered. I saw a lot of people….and I got to “know”, or at least recognize, a lot of people. Most of these people were officers or higher ranking NCOs (non-commissioned officers). I am in no way implying that I became buddies…or “bros”, as some people may say today….with any of them. Officers did not hang out with us non-commissioned peasants. The high ranking NCOs were probably old enough to be my father. I have to admit, however, that “knowing” people of higher ranks does have some advantages. If my boss (either of them) was busy, usually the visiting individual would sit down and wait….on a chair directly in front of my desk. How could I escape making at least some sort of small talk or “social conversation” …….but, almost always, started by the “guest”. You know little things like, “Looks like it is going to be a hot day.” (It is always a hot day in South Vietnam.) or “How many VC did you kill today?” or “I saw you with a cute Vietnamese chick in a bar last night. Cheating on your wife….ehh?” Are you kidding? I had a pretty strong instinct for self-preservation…and a low tolerance for pain! Anyway, there was sort of an understanding, “What happens in Vietnam, stays in Vietnam.”

Of course, if the telephone rang….. Guess who answered it? And, the telephone rang constantly, it seemed. And, also guess what? It was rarely for me!

A lot of the day was taken up writing letters. All sorts of letters….letters to everybody. After all, the Adjutant-General is responsible for most of the “paperwork” that is generated by the Army. Some general scenarios might be: Parents writing to check on their son (or, in rare cases, daughter); a Congressman writing to check on an inquiry from a parent; a (brave) soldier writing to file a complaint or ask about something (that should have been taken care of in his unit);  somebody in the Pentagon….Congress….etc…inquiring about something….anything….everything…..wanting information, clarification….amplification….or just being nosy. It was rather amazing….and curiously entertaining, in a way…..how many people write to their Congressmen, or to the President, or to the Pentagon…. To anybody…. Thinking that something miraculous is going to happen.

Actually, some of the letters were touching, and people were genuinely concerned. For example: We haven’t heard from our son for more than two months. Is he OK? Our son has (you name the jungle disease). We want to know if he is being cared for. Our son is planning on marrying a Vietnamese girl. We do not want him to. Please stop him. We have mailed packages to our son, but he hasn’t received them. Why? But, some of them were….well: You can make up your mind. Is my son taking his vitamins? Are the mosquitoes going to give him yellow fever? Is he changing his underwear regularly? Is he eating a good breakfast? Etc. etc. etc…..

Basically, it was part of my job to answer these letters….at least, the ones that came to the Headquarters. Most of this stuff, we had no idea about….and, for the most part, didn’t care! But, in the military when somebody writes a letter, it is always a good idea to answer. You know little things like….military appropriations, Congressmen getting reelected, Congressmen covering their ass…. Campaign contributions….sometimes probably big contributions!

A usual reply went something like this: To a Parent: “Thanks for your message. We appreciate your concern. The welfare of your son is most important to us. We are forwarding your letter to his immediate commander for his attention and action.”

To a Congressman: “We appreciate your concern for (whomever his constituent may be). We are eager to be of service in resolving this matter. Therefore, we have forwarded your letter on to his field commander. We assure you that the matter will be investigated and resolved satisfactorily. We had asked his commander to reply within (X number days).

Those were standard replies. Maybe you are wondering what we could have LIKED to have said: “Dear Parent: Why did you raise such a wuss? Maybe at some point you should let him grow up a little bit and become a man. By the way, does he still need our help in changing his diapers?”

Or…. Dear Congressman: Don’t you have anything better to do than make stupid inquiries from parents who are probably as immature as their son? How do you think he think he got that way? By the way…. Are you aware that we are trying to fight a war here? You know….the kind where people are shooting at us and doing all sorts of other impolite things?”

No…. We always went with the first examples. I could spin these letters out in record time. Hopefully the parents felt reassured that we were indeed watching out for the welfare of their sons…..and we were! And, hopefully, they communicated this to their sons. And…. The Congressmen? I am sure they really couldn’t care less. All they wanted was to tell their constituent they had “made an inquiry”….and that “action was being taken”. Now, just send me your campaign contribution….the bigger, the better!

Usually my boss, the Adjutant-General, would simply sign the letters as I had written them….or he would make a very minor change. Of course, if he made any change at all, I would have retype the entire letter.

There were some sadder, more serious, jobs that had to be done, too. Back in 1964 when I first went to South Vietnam, we had a policy that mandated that a letter be sent to the parents of every soldier who was killed in action. As the chief administrative officer of the Army, this task usually was delegated to the Adjutant-General. He, in turn, usually delegated the job to me, especially after he found that I actually knew how to write a coherent sentence in English…..one that had at least a subject and a verb.

In 1964 there were just over 200 combat deaths in South Vietnam. I am not sure what the break down was according to service…. Army, Air Force, Navy….but I am sure that at least 100 of these deaths were Army personnel. In a normal letter, we would write the expected condolences and sympathy one would expect in any letter like this. But, we would also try to contact this guy’s company commander and include at least one….if not more….personal fact about the soldier. This was sometimes difficult to do, given the rural nature of some of the Army bases….and the poor communication equipment. But, we were usually able to say something nice about each of the soldiers that made the letter sound more personal and familiar and appreciative….and not just “another letter”….something we were required to do.

Letters like the ones I described are probably part of a family’s “treasures” in many homes today, as relatives and friends look back on the lives lost. They can…and I am sure, do….look at these letters and show them to others, as they fondly remember their loved one who lost his life in South Vietnam. There was, also, a “letter” from the President of the United States….although it was probably a pre-written form letter. Sadly, 1964 was probably the final year that the personally written letters were ever sent. In 1964, the year I served there in the US Army, the troop strength was around 23,300. The following year, 1965, the year I returned to the USA, the number of troops rose to more than 184,000, and there were 1863 deaths. And, as we all know, both numbers accelerated each each year at a rather dramatic rate.

Again, I have no samples or copies of any of the letters I wrote. I am not sure if a copy was put into each soldier’s personnel file. If so…. They should still be there. On the other hand, a fire at the warehouse….or repository…..of military personnel records in St. Louis in 1973 destroyed the vast majority of the archive’s records.

You can be sure that if I was using a word processor back in those days….. Man, legal or not, I would probably have kept a copy of each and everything I had ever written. For those of you that know me…. This is just the way I am! I may still be in federal prison….but I would have a copy of all my “work”.

I remember one letter that I wrote that just about got me into a pile of trouble. Even as I think about it today, I both shudder…..and chuckle.

A soldier somewhere in South Vietnam had been arrested and was being detained for some crime he was accused of committing. I do not recall precisely what the crime was, but I do know that it was serious enough that he was being held in a military prison….an American military prison…..in South Vietnam and was waiting for his trial. I have no idea if the guy was innocent….or if he was guilty. His parents obviously believed he was innocent, of course. In fact, they were so sure that they had written to the Adjutant-General laying out what they believed were the facts in the case. And, they demanded that we “investigate the matter” and “get to the bottom of the situation.” (A common phrase back in the day….)

I am not sure why they sent us such a letter. We had nothing to do with any judicial matters. We didn’t “investigate” anything. In fact, we really had no idea what was going on. This was not in our realm of jurisdiction; thus, we really didn’t care.

But, my boss, being the professional solider….and diplomat….that he was (and I am sure taking great care to cover his ass), turned the matter over to the JAG (Judge Advocate General) Office…..the military justice part of the Army…. As sort of an after thought, he gave me a copy of the letter and said, “Write and tell the parents that we are taking care of it….” So….I did.

Using my best military double talk language….super polite and proper….I informed that the parents that we had indeed turned the matter over to the proper authorities….the Judge Advocate General’s Office….for their consideration. Then…..I went ahead to add that I was sure that they would investigate the matter, that he would have a fair and impartial trial….. (And, I just couldn’t shut up!)….. And…. And…. That he would be given a fair sentence as set forth in the Uniform Code of Military Justice!

I finished the letter and gave it to my boss. A couple minutes later, he came rushing, almost running…..to my desk. It could only be my imagination, but it appeared that he was white….and could have a heart attack at any second. “NO, NO!” he said. (Well, maybe a little louder than simply “said”) “You have already found the guy to be guilty and have already sentenced him…..and there hasn’t even been a trial yet!”

“OHHHHH…..,” I managed to say. “Maybe I should write the letter again.”  Man, for a minute there, it looked like I had a lot of power….. Maybe the Army would send ALL their cases to me. I handled that one pretty fast!

For a minute, also, it looked like I might be the one behind bars myself….pleading for my life! Needless to say, it was a good lesson. “Stop and Think, Idiot!” (and I am talking about myself!) That was my first and last experience as a lawyer, jury and judge.

What else did I do? For a while, the Adjutant-General’s Office kept track of casualties….. I mean my office. But, as time went on and casualties mounted, a separate division was set up to handle this…. There had to be. It became a full time job.

And… Again…. There were all those Congressmen….all those Pentagon official…. They were constantly wanting “information”….about something….anything…. They all wanted to look important. We supplied tons of facts and figures….not that we had a choice. I can well imagine that after we sent the information…the data….most Congressmen had not a clue what it meant. The dangerous thing about giving data and figures and information to somebody is the unknown factor of how all this data will be used. Facts and figures can be used honestly and truthfully….after all they are FACTS. Or they can be twisted and turned and manipulated to serve whatever purpose a person wants. But…. I had been granted a Top Secret security clearance. My job was only to gather them…give them to my boss….and forget about it.

Again, I want to remind you readers: All of this happened long ago and far away, in another galaxy. (Where did that come from? “Star Wars”?) There were absolutely no computers…. None, zero, zip, nada….nothing…. Everything was done manually….by hand…..

Another of my major tasks…and who knows, it has been so long ago….was to maintain an up-to-date set of Army Regulations….AR’s, as they were called. At least, all the regulations that pertained to us. I can imagine that every major division kept a set of AR’s that were relevant to their own offices. These Army Regulations were a pain in the behind. They were kept in heavy-covered volumes….loose leaf volumes. The old regulation had to be removed and the new regulation inserted to replace it. Nobody wanted to quote an old regulation. I can imagine that citing an old Army Regulation in some important matter would not be good for some commander….or an Adjutant-General…..or ME, for that matter!

Our day ended around 5:00. As the afternoon wore on, and as we sort of caught up with our work, everybody in the office became sort of lethargic…. All that activity and all that adrenaline….. things began to mellow out….and we would spend the last few minutes just talking…. It is during these times what I would realize that my superiors….even though they wore stars or eagles on their shoulder….were just “people”. All my superiors…..from the Adjutant-General on down….were married….and away from home. They were lonely…. They missed their families….They missed their kids….. They missed their normal routines….

It was during these times that we could talk as relative equals… I mean they all still outranked me by light years, but they were still human beings. They were all fascinated that I had already taught school for two and a half year. The constant question was, “Why are you here? Aren’t teachers exempt from military service?” Good question. Probably so…. Unless the son of the local draft board’s clerk is also eligible for the draft! Then guess who gets to stay at home?

One day my sergeant-major stopped at my desk, rather embarrassed. “I already know what your answer is, but I am required by law to ask you anyway,” he said. Then he proceeded to give me a very (very) abridged version of the “re-up” speech. The speech where the military tries to entice soldiers to stay in for another three years. Of course, he already knew the answer, and he even told me, off the record, of course, that there is no way he would reenlist if he had another career to follow. So…. With that, he had fulfilled his duty…..followed the letter of the law…. As for me? Well, of course, I told him that I did not plan to reenlist for three years. A decision I am sure I agreed with a the time….but later kicked myself regularly for making! Maybe…. More on that later…. Maybe.

Well…. I hope you get an idea of what my job was like….my “mission” (as they like to say in the military). Yeah…. Maybe it does not sound very exciting…or even very interesting. But, for me, it sure beat being stationed somewhere out in the jungle…with people shooting at me.

It seems to that our office hours were just like regular office hours…. 8:00 – 5:00, with an hour off for lunch. I am relatively certain that we worked on Saturday morning, too. We all did our jobs, of course. But, there were always other things going on. One of the “big” things that stands out in my memory….and even it was not so “big” after a while….was a series of “coups” and attempted coups that took during the year I was stationed in South Vietnam.

You may be asking, “What is a coup?” (It is a French word, short for “coup d’etat” and it is pronounced something like “coo de ta”.) Well, my friends, a coup is a sort of revolution from the inside, in which members of a rival group or party within the same country mounts an armed attack which overthrows or attempts of overthrow the existing government. And, man, the South Vietnamese were good at this… Maybe not “good”…but it was not from a lack of practice.

Somehow I doubt if South Vietnam ever had a stable government which was run by competent, qualified leaders. The entire time I spent in South Vietnam….and this includes the year in the Army and also the three years as a civilian….the government was always under control by a general of some sort.

Well…. One day, early on in my year in South Vietnam, I was sitting at my desk, diligently doing my job….probably keeping an eye on the clock in anticipation of quitting time. All of a sudden there was a thunderous noise. I looked out to see a line of tanks….Yes….big Army tanks….rolling down the little alley-like road behind our office. These were followed by several two and a half ton military trucks, all filled with Vietnamese soldiers, their rifles pointed…well, somewhere. The air raid sirens began to blast…..and there was the sound of military police sirens….

“Oh, my gosh! We are under attack,” I thought. It all happened suddenly, with no warning….just like the movies when the enemy moves in, unsuspected, and captures an enemy stronghold…..killing everybody in sight. My first instinct was to dive underneath my desk….to seek protection.

“Where is my rifle?” was maybe my second thought…..or maybe my third thought, right after, “We are all going to die!”

“Oh yes. We are desk soldier…. We don’t carry rifles!” “Oh well…. Maybe I can throw my typewriter at them!”

Utter confusion was taking place right outside our office…..our glorified tent-office. Tanks rolling down the streets, truckloads of soldier with rifles drawn…..lots of noise…..

I looked around. Nobody seemed concerned. A few people were peering out the window. I mean, the entire sides of our tent were windows so it wasn’t difficult to peer out! You are always looking out the “window”…. Basically, everybody just went on with what they were doing….other than a few chuckles and some raised eyebrows and some shaking of heads.

“What the heck is going on?” I asked. And…. No, I did not dive on the floor under my desk.

“Oh…. It is probably just another coup attempt,” somebody said. “They happen…..”

I was still rather shaken up, though…..that first time….my first “class”….I suppose we could call it “Introduction to Attempting to Overthrow the Government – 101” The sub-title could have been, “How Selfish, Immature Little South Vietnamese Generals Play Little Selfish, Immature Games.”

I rather doubt if any general in the South Vietnamese Army or Air Force was the least bit qualified for the job. Here in the USA we think of generals as being the most experienced, the best educated, the most battle tested soldiers we have available. They have graduated from West Point or another reputable military school. Or they have undergone training in ROTC in college (Well…. That may be stretching it a bit!)…. Or they have graduated from a “go through Hell” OCS (Officer’s Candidate School) training program. In any event, nobody in the USA Army just “becomes” a general. They work their way up the ranks, proving themselves through experience, training, education and testing….. They are supposedly “The Cream of the Crop”. Who knows if this is actually the case. But, one thing is for sure: They don’t just “become” generals.

This, however, was not the case, for the most part, in South Vietnam. This was not the usual way that somebody became a general.

Most generals…..probably almost all of the higher ranking officers…..came from wealthy, socially and politically connected families. WHO they knew was infinitely more important than WHAT they knew. A vast majority of these generals were educated abroad, most notable in the United States and in France; they spoke almost perfect English or French. Most of them had really never served in a regular army. Well, actually, they did, but not in an army that was involved in any sort of military operations. I can imagine that being a “general” was more of a social position….or a position that either they or their family had purchased in one form or another….You know….Down at the “General Market”….. It couldn’t have been from Amazon, because it didn’t even exist back them.

But, the point is…. They certainly were not military officers as we here in the USA would think of them. Most of them had no idea of how to fight and win a battle….much less, a war. But… Why should they? This is what they had US military advisors for. On the other hand….. Why just settle for being a general? Why not Prime Minister? The pay…and the opportunity for graft, pay offs, corruption, extortion, all sorts of illegal activity…..was much better. Yeah…. Go Big….or Go Home!

It was one of these fun and games coup attempts that was taking place on this peaceful afternoon right outside our office. I have no idea what the final result was. I am sure that there was no change in the government, though. Actually, I do not recall any shots being fired….except maybe into the air.

We heard later that there were also some tanks rolling through downtown Saigon, too…..toward the Presidential Palace, no doubt. Whether the US Command knew about these unsuccessful attempts….or whether the US Embassy knew…. Who knows? Any group that might….in their wildest dreams….succeed in overthrowing the government would almost certainly have to have the support of the USA. There is absolutely no way it could exist and function without this support.

One of the strange things was: I never heard of any consequence of these sporadic coup attempts. I am relatively certain that there was no substantial repercussions, though. Maybe somebody was temporarily relieved of his command….or transferred to another Vietnamese army post somewhere in the jungle for a while. Looking back, I often think they are a lot like the insecure rednecks with their expensive, souped-up, gas-guzzling, loud pickups who go roaring around the streets…..passing other cars, cutting people off in their lanes, revving their engines, making a lot of noise…..just being obnoxious, in general. “See…..I have a short dick….and I want everybody to know it…..and this is supposed to make up for it!” But, now that I think about it….. All Vietnamese men have short dicks.

Yeah….. That was my “introductory coup attempt”…… but not the last one.

Somewhere along the way, I picked up sort of a partner-in-crime….or maybe it was like a Tonto to the Lone Ranger…..or maybe even a Laurel…..you know, like Laurel and Hardy….or an Abbott….Remember Abbott and Costello!

Trying remember where….and how….we first met is lost in a sort of fog of my distant memory. Maybe it was in the dining hall….Sorry…the Mess Hall (more true than you think!)…..or maybe it was waiting at the front gate to hail a taxi to go downtown….or maybe it was downtown in a bar….. Or who knows? Maybe it was in the shower. Don’t laugh. You meet a lot of people while taking a shower…. You are sort of trapped there….

Anyway, somehow we met….and somehow we became best friends….or best buddies, as we said back in those days. However and whenever it was…. Not so important….and unless I am hypnotized, it certainly is not going to simply pop back into my memory….. The point is: He became by best friend for the rest of the time I was in South Vietnam.

His name was Ursel Cline. Yeah…..Ursel. Sort of like having a name like….Beryl. Maybe the somewhat unusual names are what attracted us. No…. I doubt it. It was some sort of strange chemistry…. We both liked to have fun…. Neither of wanted to spend a single minute on the Army base, if we didn’t have to…. We both wanted adventure. Not “bad” adventure. We never, ever, got into any sort of trouble….even when other guys probably were! I mean…. I am not going to deny that we engaged in some youthful follies….that we didn’t “push the envelope” just a bit at times….that either of us could have applied for sainthood. But we were after the kind of adventure that says, “Let’s go have some fun. Let’s go see what is out there. Let’s see what Saigon is all about…..” And, within limits…. We did! Beyond this point…. You will have to use your own imagination and write your own blog….and fill in the blanks….

There was one incident that stands out in my mind that was real….not make believe or an idle joke. It was scary…and sobering….. It was a wake-up call for me, in a way….. Like: “Good Morning, Vietnam!” Or in this case Good Afternoon…

It did not take me very long to figure out that there was very little do on the army base after regular “business hours”…..whether at night or on the weekend. I really wasn’t interested in hanging out in the enlisted men’s club….another way of describing a bar….on the base. They were basically loud, and quite frankly they did not attract the cultured, sophisticated, college educated men…..like me, for example. If a person was too dumb or stupid or lazy or unmotivated to get into a taxi and go downtown…..then that is probably where they spent their evenings….in the EM club….drinking. Yes…. There was a theater on base….maybe more than one. There was actually a library. And, maybe it even had a few books in it. The last choice was probably to just stay in the barracks. Spending the evening in the barracks. Man, what a sad thought. The lighting was so dim that you may as well be sitting in a cave. And, there was no place to sit, except on your bunk. And, if your bunk was on the bottom….like mine….there was practically no light at all. The logical choice was to walk to the front gate and catch a cab or a “cyclo” into town.

It took me an eternity to fall in love with Saigon….. Yeah…Like ….Maybe an hour or two! Man, I loved Saigon. It was exciting…..exotic….different….intriguing…..mysterious. It was vibrant and alive. On almost any given evening, the streets and the sidewalks were packed with people…..a colorful salad of people: Vietnamese, Americans, soldiers, foreigners from every point of the globe, old people, young lovers, kids…kids dressed like little aristocrats….kids that were running around naked….teen aged “pick pockets”….beggars….prostitutes. It was a cross section of humanity…. Spilling from the overflowing, packed sidewalks out onto the street.

And, Oh, Man….. It was so colorful. Hundreds of vendors displaying their products….on the sidewalks, on little portable tables, in little stalls…. And, for those rich enough, in store windows….. If you wanted buy something, I am reasonably certain that it was on display somewhere in the confused….but yet orderly….maze of street and sidewalk vendors. Some vendors called out, beseeching people to notice them. Others sat silently, sometimes sullenly, waiting to make a sale. There was the constant tug on your sleeve or on your pants….someone wanting to sell you something ….or to take you to their store….

The sights and sounds….and smells….were almost a sensory overload. But….I will come back to all this later on…..

My friend, Ursel Cline, and I were weaving our way slowly through the crowded jungle of people….walking along the sidewalk….going nowhere in particular…..taking in all the street carnival atmosphere around us….stopping at times to look at all the stuff for sale….wondering where they got all of it….trying to stay together. At times it felt like we were driving the wrong way on a busy 4 Lane highway….

It was Thursday, December 24, Christmas Eve…..of more accurately, Christmas Eve afternoon….around 4:30 or 5:00. Nobody was working…..everybody was off work and doing what people in Saigon liked to do: go walking….strolling, as they like to say. The mood was festive; people were celebrating; they were happy. It made no difference that 85% of them were Buddhist. Christmas was a big deal.

In South Vietnam, the December weather was, as usual, hot and balmy. No White Christmas here! No sleigh bells….no reindeer…. No chestnuts roasting on an open fire….. Saigon was decorated for Christmas, however…..mostly in red….lots of stars….lots of tinsel….sometimes, little mangers with the Baby Jesus and some sheep and donkeys …..and Joseph and Mary….

Ursel and I were part of the celebration. How could a person not get caught up in the excitement….and happiness…..the sheer joy…..of the moment? We were content to just be pulled along with the crowd….taking our time….looking in to store windows….

We were downtown….in the middle of downtown. We could not have been “more downtown”. Right on one of Saigon’s main streets….and most famous streets….one of our favorite places to be. We were just wiling away time until it was time to eat….at which time we would go to our favorite bar for the rest of the evening.

Suddenly….with no warning….just out of nowhere….. BOOM! KA-BOOM! An explosion….one louder than anything I had ever heard before rocked downtown Saigon.

The sidewalks shook. Glass broke. A plume of smoke rose into the sky. For an instant….for a second…..time just sort of stood still. We were stunned. It seemed that people…..the entire mass of humanity….simply stopped in their tracks…almost like stopping a video….. It was like we could almost see a giant question mark appear in the sky…. What had just happened?

Then it was pandemonium. Panic. Confusion. Near hysteria. People began to run. Ursel and I looked at each other…. And almost in unison, we dived into a jewelry store which was in front of us…..and ducked below one of the display cases. It was only later that we realized that the display case was made entirely from glass. We, like the rest of the masses of people, were reacting almost by instinct…a very human sense of self-preservation….of survival…..

Almost instantly, the streets were filled with sirens, police cars, armed troops….  This is when Ursel and I decided not to stick around……

A BOQ (Bachelor Officers’ Quarters) a couple blocks from where we were walking had been blown up…..by few tons of dynamite. Somehow….and in Vietnam, nobody ever knows anything very exactly…..the VC (Viet Cong….South Vietnamese communists) had been able to drive a truck loaded with explosives into an underground loading area….apparently undetected (somehow), set a timer, and calmly leave the area.

Two American army officers were killed, tragically…..and 72 other officers were injured. The building….probably 5 or 6 stories high…..was destroyed….demolished.

Man….. Talking about bringing a celebration to an end! The once busy festive sidewalks, crowded with holiday fun seekers and revelers suddenly became deserted and eerie. It was spooky….how quickly the sidewalk vendors packed their merchandise and disappeared. And…. What happened to those thousands of people….so suddenly? Here one minute….gone the next.

Ursel and I walked on down to the nightclub where we had intended to spend the evening. The streets and sidewalks were virtually deserted by this time. A shroud of uncertainty and fear had settled over the city. We could almost feel the fear….and an almost impending sense of doom. Saigon was pretty much considered “safe” or at least “invincible”….and by a sort of “gentleman’s agreement”, off limits to the enemy. It looks like somebody broke that agreement.

We were both nervous, apprehensive, and paranoid by the time we had reached the night club. Somehow, the owners of the club already knew that a 10:00 curfew had been imposed for the city. We ordered a quick meal…..and then went out to try our luck at finding a ride back to Tan Son Nhut Army Base. By some stroke of luck….or good karma….we located one and headed back “home”. The driver muttered to himself the entire trip. He was probably muttering to us…but we didn’t understand Vietnamese. But, it was rather transparent that he was shook up….probably a little frightened to be driving on the streets of Saigon after dark….after a terrorist attack. And…. I suspect some of it was a “pity act”, too…. “Streets very dangerous. VC very bad. Maybe come and kill us.” Yeah…. Ursel and I both knew that he expected to be paid more than the usual rate. Yeah… We understood that was simply the reality of the situation. So… We paid more than we normally paid a taxi driver. But, that is OK. Just call it “hazardous duty pay”. It probably wasn’t as much as he wanted…. But, as they said, “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

When we arrived back at Tan Son Nhut….without any sort of incident, I may add….the front gate was an authentic fortress! Barriers had been hastily erected.   Additional sandbags had been stacked up as barriers. There were enough troops to fight World War II. They were shutting the army base down….

We arrived before the curfew began, showed our IDs. No problem. As we walked back to our barracks area, we passed an outside Christmas Eve service, which was already in progress….chair set up around a make-shift alter. There were armed soldiers completely surrounding the area. We chose not to stop.

We proceeded on to our individual barracks. For once, the place was quiet….no boisterous displays of male testosterone….no horseplay or messing around…. It was a good night for sleeping…. But….I wonder exactly how many of the soldiers actually got a good night’s sleep that night.

Christmas Day? Funny that you should ask. I don’t have a clue what happened that day! I am pretty sure that Santa Claus did not make a visit, though. I am sure we were confined to base. Ursel and I probably hung out….doing something….maybe at the EM (Enlisted Men) Club…..or we may have gone to the library….although that is probably stretching it a bit.

Chances are we went to a movie. That would have been the most logical thing to do. Believe it or not…. The Army actually did get some pretty good movies for us to watch. We didn’t watch them in a luxury theater with reclining seats, carpeted aisles, and uniformed ushers….or any ushers at all, for that matter. But, the Army was good at providing fairly current movies. I am not all sure of the chronology, but I did see quite a few movies in South Vietnam, among which were “Manchurian Candidate” (tense, but good), “Dr. Zhivago” (great music), and two or three (real) James Bond films….”Dr. Strangelove” (strange, indeed)…. “Cleopatra” (boring)…. “How the West Was Won” (already forgotten it)…. When there was nothing else to do…..or when it was raining, which was often at certain times of the year….. What else was there to do? Go to the movies. They were cheap entertainment….and they kept us out of the dismal barracks.

The day after Christmas, the Bob Hope Show came to town! Bob Hope was treated as almost some sort of minor deity. He was an institution….a tradition….an event…..a happening. Every Christmas, he and the troop of performers he had assembled set out for whatever war we happened to be fighting at the moment to entertain the troops. These performances probably dated back to World War II. They were wildly anticipated. They were a touch of “home”….an opportunity to laugh…..a chance to forget about the war for a couple hours. And, of course…. They were free!

Bob Hope assembled a cast of entertainers…..musicians, comedians and dancers, mainly….. and set up a stage somewhere….hopefully in a secure area…..and went through the motions of performing their show all over Vietnam. Mainly, they performed at the major airbases, large aircraft carriers….. But, they were also known to have performed in some less secure areas.

So….. in the afternoon, the day after Christmas, Ursel and I climbed aboard a military bus that took us to a “safe” tarmac somewhere on Ton San Nhut Air Base….somewhere that we had never been before. There on makeshift bleachers, we sat in the broiling South Vietnamese sun, surrounded by hundreds of security guards, and watched and laughed as the troop of entertainers performed their show.

In 1964, the year that we saw the show, I am thinking that, among others, Ann-Margaret performed. She was “hot”, as they say, back in those days. And, as I recall, Jerry Colona (the spelling may be wrong) was there, too, with his bushy trademark mustache and busy eyebrows. Of course, as ever, Les Brown and His Band of Renown furnished the music. There were others, too….dancers, singers, etc…..comedians…. Of course, all the girls were wearing as little as possible…as little as was legal and socially acceptable back in those days sixty years ago.

There were literally a few thousand troops there…. Army and Air Force, mainly….and they were, as might be expected, 99.9% male. So…. The show was geared to entertaining them….and making them feel happy for an hour or two….. This was not the New York Philharmonic….or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir…. The entire two hours was devoted to the kind of entertainment that young males….young males who were lonesome and homesick and missed their girlfriends….would enjoy.

The show was filled with applause, whistles, cat calls, whooping and yelling….as Ann-Margaret danced and gyrated about the stage…..along with the other female dancers. Bob Hope’s shows were always “interactive”. Soldiers and airmen from the vast crowd were always enticed upon the stage to “dance” and clown around with Bob….and his female star. As you can imagine, this always brought thunderous applause from the crowd, as they awkwardly went through the motions of interacting with the female star….in our case, Ann-Margaret.

I was never sure if these guys were “pre-selected”….. or whether it was indeed spontaneous. It was no doubt spontaneous. In any case, neither Ursel nor I were chosen…. As for me….. I certainly did not want to be dragged up on the stage….only to make a fool of myself (which was the entire purpose, of course). Ursel…. I am not so sure. I think he had a little more “dare devil blood” in his body than I did. He may have done it willingly. We didn’t have to worry, though. Neither of us were chosen. We just sat back and laughed at….and enjoyed….and got a sunburn….watching the others make fools of themselves. I don’t know…. But, I suspect that if either Ursel or I had been selected, we would have had no choice…. I am pretty sure that neither of us wanted to look like wusses in front of our fellow soldiers. It would have been better to be laughed at….than to be ridiculed. Right?

Life in the Army in Saigon continued….. The bombing of the Brinks BOQ soon faded into the background. It had served as a warning….a reminder….and wake-up call….that Saigon could be….and was….vulnerable to a terrorist attack. And, after all, this was exactly what it was. As you can quickly deduce…. These kind of terrorists were the most elusive…the most difficult to detect or to prevent. The enemy….and our friends…..our allies….all looked alike. They were all Vietnamese. It was not a war where half of the people wore beards…..or were a different color….or a different race….or a different height….. No… They all looked the same….looked alike. We….the Americans, the Australians, the Canadians…. We were the ones who looked different.

There were other incidents….on a much smaller scale….throughout the year. Most bars….especially bars that were popular with military personnel….had guards. Not that these guards could done anything about preventing a terrorist attack. Fortunately, another major terrorist event did not take place during my tenure in Army in South Vietnam. However, a couple days after I was discharged from the military….and I was back in the USA by then….the Metropole Hotel, a bachelor enlisted men’s quarters (BEQ) was bombed. This bombing….another terrorist event….also killed or wounded many servicemen….both American and South Vietnamese.

In general, however, life took on a facade of normalcy. Usually, every day at lunch and again at supper, Ursel and I would meet to eat lunch along with a bunch of our fellow soldiers. Our conversation rarely centered on our work or “war strategy”. Usually, we talked about what we had done the previous night. We talked of sports back in the USA, just like semi-normal people talk about. We talked about cars. We talked about movies. We talked about….well, usually, just “normal” stuff. Of course, we talked about Army life….the food….

I was never one of those people who complained about Army food. I think somewhere in my early childhood….living on the farm, my mother must have hypnotized me, saying something like, “Beryl…. You are getting sleepy. (All hypnotists say this, don’t they?) When you wake up, you are going to like all foods….everything….even liver and sardines….for the rest of your life.”…..all the time swinging a little pocket watch in front my eyes! (The way hypnotists always do.) To me…..food….all food….is good…..

Lots of soldiers spent half their time griping about the food in the mess hall….the dining room, for those of who have not been in the military. Tastes terrible….under-cooked, over-cooked….wouldn’t feed it to my dog….. As for me? Actually, I thought it was pretty good….and it was plentiful. We could go back for as many “seconds” as we wanted….no questions asked…. There was always meat….normally beef or chicken or fish. There were always vegetables. There was always bread. There was fruit. Plenty of milk, tea and water….and coffee. There was always desert. Come on….. What more could you ask for? Back then…. I ate, and ate, and ate…..and I never could seem to gain weight. Man, I wish I had that food today!

Anyway…. When lunch was over, we obviously went back to work. When supper was over…. That presented a problem. It presented a problem to everybody who did not want to spend “another night” on the Army base. Oh, to be sure…. Some of the guys were quite content to stay in the confines of the same compound day after day, night after night….. A lot of them were…. How do I say this politely? OK…..I got it. They were Losers!

I swear…. I am not narrow minded….I am not a red neck….. I am not an ignorant yay-hoo….. Yeah, I know… People who deny things like that…. Well, they usually are. But….. I am not. Trust me.

Back in the early sixties, I was a young man….literally almost “straight off the farm”. For Heaven’s sake…. I lived in rural Kansas. I had never been around anybody except other small down people. Chances are, we were all probably pretty dull people. I lived in towns where I literally knew almost everybody….and I recognized almost everybody’s car….and knew what dog belonged to whom….knew who was sleeping with whom….

Even the worst behaved boy in our high school would probably be considered a model young man by today’s standards. You can believe it. I was just an innocent, naive young man caught up in a world I had never dreamed of.

My days in the Army in South Vietnam…..especially those first weeks….were an eye-opener for me. And, I am sure I formed some basic opinions about people that have stayed with me until today…. Not about people! About behavior! Not about economic status. About behavior.

I can remember those nights when some of the trash would assemble outside our tent-barracks. Normally they were drunk….loud….obnoxious….disrespectful of other people….vulgar. Guys inside the barracks would shout at them, telling them to shut up….keep the noise down….go somewhere else…. This would sometimes lead to altercations. Sometimes the MP’s (military police) were called to break up fights.

There were those….probably the same people…..who often (usually) drank too much… I can well suspect that they were none too bright to begin with… They got their kicks….their ego boost….by getting tame monkeys that would sometimes hang around the barracks area drunk. They would give them alcohol, in itself illegal, to the unsuspecting animals…..they laugh uproariously as the monkeys would lose their balance and coordination.

Then there were the guys…..the same guys…..who would play their transistor radios full blast right outside the barracks….either oblivious or not aware or not caring that they were disturbing a great many other guys who had worked hard and wanted peace and quiet so they could write letters, talk or sleep. And…. Except for shortwave stations, there was only ONE English language station in South Vietnam….and that one was operated by the military.

After a while, I am pleased to say, these guys were dealt with by the military police….and consequently…..their company commander. Some were shipped to other posts. They had no place in a headquarters company. Let me say that I never called the MP’s or anybody else… I was probably too scared to! But, it was during this period of my life that I formed some probably negative feelings and opinions about people and their behavior. Maybe this is stereotyping….but that is just the way it is. Attitudes and opinions and feelings are usually formed at a young age…..and are often difficult to overcome. I did not like abusive, vulgar, inconsiderate behavior back then…..and I do not like it today.

Most of the soldiers were good, law-abiding, descent, considerate guys. They….just like I….were away from home, in a place where they did not want to be. They were lonely; they missed their families; their girl-friends. They just wanted to get it over with and go back home….just like everybody else.

Bear with me….. This is all leading to a point. Oftentimes, soldiers tend to withdraw into themselves…..not trusting anybody…..not really liking anybody….having no real friends. Man…. That is sad. I have seen it happen, though…..many times. The problems is….other than being perpetually lonely….that they sometimes begin to develop an attitude of resentment…of distrust….of suspicion…. I am sure,  just by reading and watching news media, that many soldiers….even soldiers who were stationed in Saigon….went home disillusioned and somewhat bitter.

So…. I was lucky. I was one of the fortunate guys. I found….or we probably found each other….a friend. And, believe me…. It only takes one friend to make a world of difference in your life.

While many soldiers were sitting in the barracks depressed and unhappy…. While many soldiers were getting drunk at the EM (enlisted men) Club….depressed and unhappy… Ursel and I were out doing things, going places, exploring the city, encountering new experiences. We were far from depressed, in fact, most of the time we were actually happy….although, to offer full and honest exposure of the facts….. We sometimes did have a little too much to drink!

At 5:00…..usually on the dot….I walked out the door of our office and headed straight for my barracks to change clothes and get ready to go eat supper. A rather strange and continuing incident took place most of that year. I was never able to explain it…..nor did I ever hear an explanation. After I got back to my barracks, which was a block or less down the sidewalk….more of a boardwalk….from our office, I immediately changed clothes…..got out of my army uniform and put on civilian clothes….and sat on my bunk waiting for time to go eat supper.

I had a little handheld transistor radio…..like most of the soldiers. I turned on the little radio almost the instant I walked into the barracks….as did most other soldiers. Remember…. There was only one English language radio station in South Vietnam. That was AFRN….Armed Forces Radio Network. When all of us soldiers turned on our radios, obviously we turned all of them on to the same station…..sort of built in stereo, even before the days of stereo. At 5:15… Let’s make that 1715, just to sound more military…. every week day, AFRN played a song called “Cast Your Fate to the Wind” with the Vince Guaraldi Trio. You could count on it. You could set your watch by it. I mean it played every weekday…five days a week. I think some of the guys saw something sinister in this. Maybe it was some sort of code….a prearranged signal…. More than likely the D.J. who was working that shift liked the song….and he just played it. Yeah…. Maybe it was a little spooky. But, I liked the song and actually found something rather comforting about it. Actually, I think almost everybody in the barracks liked the song….except maybe for the Rednecks and the Blacks. It just wasn’t “their kind of music.” .

 

 

At 5:30 supper was served. Actually, we served ourselves, but you get the idea. Ursel and I would meet and eat supper together. By this time we were wearing normal civilian clothes. I think that we, like most other soldiers with an ounce of intelligence, couldn’t wait to get out of the uniform that we wore all day. Another reason: The military strongly discouraged us from wearing our uniforms when we left Tan Son Nhut to go into town. We stood out enough just in our civilian clothes. Our presence would have been magnified many times over if we had all gone walking around downtown with our military uniforms. “The American are coming. The American are coming!” …..to paraphrase a famous historical quotation. Believe me…. The Vietnamese already knew we were there. So, why write it in bold type and put quotation marks around it? Also, the guys who made these decisions probably thought….and correctly…..that an American wearing a uniform made a much better target than one in civilian clothing. I mean….Most of us could have been Australian or Canadian or even French…and they certainly did not like the French, their former colonial masters.

Before leaving the wall-in headquarters compound, we had to first sign out at an office by the gate to the compound….just sign our name on a roster….no big deal…. And… We were required to pick up at least one condom….they suggested two….and take them with us before we were allowed to leave. Man… I wonder what they thought we were going to do with those? It probably doesn’t take a large stretch of the imagination to suspect that most of the soldiers, at lot of them, at least, did not come back on post with the condoms still in their pocket. Wow… It has been so long ago that I don’t recall if Ursel and I had ours when we returned to the compound later that night. But, I don’t suppose you would expect us to return with them every night….would you? I mean…. Maybe they got lost somewhere.

We headed for the front gate….hailed down a taxi or a “cyclo” It wasn’t very difficult. There were dozens of them just waiting for customers…..and headed into town. It was probably 8 miles or so from Tan Son Nhut to downtown Saigon. Taking a taxi was obviously much quicker. But taking a “cyclo” was cheaper….and much more scenic…..and “interactive” For those of you who do not know what a “Cyclo” is… Well, it is a sort of motorized, open-air motor scooter. There is a seat for a couple riders in front….and the driver is on a sort of bicycle seat behind the passengers…..driving. Some of the “cyclos” back when we were stationed there were motorized….but some were also powered by a poor guy pumping along….just like on a bicycle. We preferred the motorized type. They were faster, of course, and they were probably safer.

No matter which kind we chose, the ride into town was always exciting. The street from the air base to downtown was always crowded, teeming with traffic. For most of the trip, we could actually reach out and touch the vehicle next to us….that is how close we were to the other vehicles. For the first few times, these rides into town were rather unnerving. There was always a question in our minds if we would be fortunate enough make it into downtown. After a couple weeks, these rides became an adventure…..and within a couple months, we were completely oblivious to the traffic. A person tends to acclimate quickly in Saigon. As I think back, I don’t remember ever seeing a real “accident”…..and certainly not while we were in one of the open-air vehicles. Those “cyclo” drivers have nerves of steel….not to mention ice water in their veins….and the quick reactions of somebody who just touched a hot stove.

Once in downtown Saigon, we had the driver drop us off in front of the old Saigon Opera House….maybe one of the most central landmarks in the city. By the time we had gotten downtown, the city was alive with people; the sidewalks were crowded, as usual; the street and sidewalk vendors were hard at work tying to hawk their products; people were strolling leisurely along the wide avenues….friends, families, lovers, off duty military, students….along with the normal quota of prostitutes and probably Viet Cong spies and drug dealers. Everybody just sort of blends in….

Normally there was still daylight when we stepped out of the taxi or “cyclo”. Saigon is fairly close to the equator and the days are long. There was no hurry to be anywhere; no deadlines; no appointments…..no urgency. And, while I think about it, let me tell you: There was absolutely no reason to be in a hurry in Saigon, and probably nowhere in South Vietnam, for that matter. Time was relative; people were rarely in a hurry…..to do anything. So, we simply took our time. Went with the flow. Absorbed and enjoyed the atmosphere as we snaked our way to one of the night clubs where we spent our time.

There were three night clubs. After all these years, I can remember the name of only one of them. Quite frankly, I am sure that I could not find any of them again….even if there was a ten million dollar prize…..and the promise of five beautiful women. In fact, I don’t even remember how we found these night clubs…. Chances are, we didn’t “find” them. More than likely we just wandered in, liked them….and kept going back. I mean…. How or Why would you want to “find” a bar in Saigon? There were literally thousands of them. We certainly didn’t have to “look” for one. Bars in Saigon were ubiquitous. I wonder if we could have even found a street in Saigon that did not have a bar….or two….or three. Now…. That would been a challenge. Fortunately, we did not have to worry about facing that challenge, though.

It was probably more than a coincidence that three night clubs….and these were really more “night clubs” than “bars”…..had one things in common. All of them had at least one outstanding musician who performed there. Yeah…. They were good enough that we wanted to go back night after night to hear them. I don’t remember exactly what Ursel’s taste in music was. I am going to take a wild guess and say Country Music. And… Yes, of course, I liked country music. I grew up listening to the Grand Old Opry. But, I had spent ten years in band in junior high school, high school and college playing classical music, too….so my musical diet may have been a little more eclectic.

All of the three musicians could not have been further from country music, though. This was the early sixties. Had South Vietnam even heard of country music yet? Or was country music still an obsession of the rural American redneck social class? No…. Don’t get excited. I was a member of this class! Back in those days, I no doubt fit into this genre quite comfortably! So…. If Ursel was a member of this group…. Great. He was my comrade.

These guys…..these musicians….were…. Well…. Good! They were outstanding. They were talented. It took only one song for us to figure that out. It didn’t make any difference what “kind” of music we liked. We just knew that they were something special…..each of them on his own instrument.

At one of the nightclubs, there was a drummer who I am sure could have played with the best jazz….or rock….or pop group…. in the world. In one of the clubs, there was a clarinet player who could have easily performed with the Saigon Philharmonic…..if they had even heard of one in Saigon back then. The third nightclub featured a guitar player whose fingers could move faster than the speed of sound.

It wasn’t these musicians who attracted us to the clubs….or drew us in in the beginning. But, Wow…. It was they who kept us coming back night after night.

I can only remember the name of one of the night clubs: The Dai Nam. (There were some diacritical markings in there somewhere, too.) It was located on the east side of a traffic circle….a market circle….somewhere just to the south of downtown. It was on the second floor of the building. This was the club with the fantastic drummer. One of the clubs….the one with the guitarist who played as well as Les Paul…. was located just to northeast of downtown, near the Saigon River. The third club was located….well….somewhere not so far from the first club. This is where we sat and listened to the fabulous clarinet player….and, Man, he was good.

Yeah…. You are right. It took more than just one musician to keep us going back steadily for almost a year. I mean…. We would have not gone there if the place was dirty….or unsafe…..or unfriendly…..or very expensive. And….Most Important…. We would have not continued to go to these places if they had been hangout for soldiers….any kind of soldier…..any kind of military…..no matter how good the music was. Neither Ursel nor I had any desire to contend with the by-products of a “military bar”…. Constant fights, high prices, overpowering noise, constant solicitation by prostitutes, dirty surroundings, ever-present threat of terrorist attacks….

If we had wanted constant fights….we could have stayed at the barracks. If we had wanted overpowering noise…..we could have stayed at the barracks. As for the prostitutes: If we had wanted one, they were everywhere….just like Japanese in a national park in the summer. And… They always wanted soldiers to buy them some “Saigon Tea”. I never did figure out exactly what “Saigon Tea” was. Maybe it was really Tea….or a watered-down drink…. Whatever it was, it was expensive! And the girls nagged constantly trying to get soldiers to buy it for them. These girls, no doubt hired by the bars….and probably “working girls”…..were a constant nuisance. They would slither up to a guy….in what I am sure they thought was a very sexy, provocative manner….sling their arms around him….and purr (again, in what they thought was a very sexy voice), “You buy me Saigon Tea?” In the first place, it is very difficult….probably impossible…..for any Vietnamese to talk in a “sexy” voice, considering their 5 tone, sing-song, nasal language. Oh, without a doubt, many soldiers did find this to be a turn-on. Of course, they had their minds on other opportunities, though.

I think that both Ursel and I were fully capable of managing our “social life” without the necessity of paying an exorbitant price for mysterious drinks. On the other hand, with unemployment rampant in South Vietnam, this proved to be a steady and dependable means of employment for hundreds of otherwise unemployed Vietnamese women. We all had to help out in our own way…..

The clientele of these three night clubs ….our night clubs….was definitely geared toward the more….well, cultured, or refined, or sophisticated class of people. And, of course, Ursel and I, being cultured, refined and sophisticated rednecks fell into this category. Maybe one-fourth of the people we saw in these clubs were foreigners….i.e. Americans, Australians, French, etc. By far, though, most of them were Vietnamese who had come to spend an evening socializing with friends in a quiet and secure atmosphere. The loudest sound we heard was the drums. We could actually sit and talk….carry on a conversation.

The Dai Nam was probably our “Number One” venue. I don’t have any actual proof, but I can imagine we spent at least 300 evenings there! In fact, we were such regular customers that we had our own reserved table. I mean…. A table reserved just for us….. During their breaks, members of the little band or orchestra would come sit our table and talk for a few minutes. Ursel and I got to know several of them…..not very personally, of course…..but enough that they would talk about their families….the war….the state of security…. They would always ask about our welfare….our families….about the USA. And…. Oh…. How they hoped they could go there some day!

There was also an American singer who performed there almost nightly. For a while, it always puzzled us. Who was she? Was she famous? Was she married to a Vietnamese guy? Was she working for the CIA? Was she the ambassador’s wife? She wasn’t really so bad looking. Not what we could call a “babe”….but not so bad looking, either. She was a “healthy” girl, if you catch what I mean. She had a good clear, loud voice…..and a super, outgoing personality. Almost every night we were there….almost without exception…..she sang “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” and “House of the Rising Sun”. We fully understood “I Left My Heart in San Francisco”. That was sort of an unofficial anthem of American soldiers in South Vietnam. But… “House of the Rising Sun”? That song is about a brothel in New Orleans. OK…. Yes, I suppose that was appropriate, too. Anyway, this, at the time, was a fairly new Bob Dylan song…..and she probably just liked it. And, I seriously doubt if most of the people sitting there had any idea what the words meant…..certainly not the Vietnamese. Anyway, she eventually also became one of our circle of friends….acquaintances is more accurate, for we never saw her outside the nightclub. She told that she worked for the U. S. A. Embassy as a high level secretary. She had also stumbled onto the nightclub by accident. One night she got up and sang a couple songs…..and the owners kept asking her to come back until one night she just became a “regular”. One those lucky twists of fate….for both her and the people she sang for. You know….. I am thinking. Maybe Ursel and I should have asked if we could sing a couple songs. Yeah…..and be kicked out and banned from the club permanently!

Occasionally, we would exchange a few words with other people whom we saw at the Dai Nam often. But, these were only polite encounters. We….or at least I….never saw any of the people in any other setting. Most of the Americans worked for the Embassy or USAID (United States Agency for International Development) or USIA (Unites Sated Information Agency). They were in a strata or level far above us….two lowly enlisted men.

We did make one good American friend, though. And, let me tell you…. He was somewhat paranoid about our friendship. It was comical, really. He was a First Lieutenant…..and was the Special Services Officer for Headquarters, US Army Vietnam…..the same headquarters as Ursel and I. If you may not be familiar with military customs and protocol…. Well, enlisted men and officers simply did not mix. Sort of like water and oil, for example. Officers were the elite….the leaders….the executives….the chosen ones….at least one, if not more, notches above enlisted men. Now…. This is what the military thought and wanted others to believe. In my humble opinion…. Most officers I met were about as competent at their jobs as I would be at bull riding. But….that is another story. (And maybe it has changed by now.) Anyway, this guy always came to the club alone….always sat by himself…. One night he stopped at our table, just to say “Hi”, I guess. We invited him to sit down and join us. He did. He asked as what our jobs were. (Remember, we were in civilian clothes.) Maybe he thought we were the US Ambassadors or something…. Anyway, we told him that we were soldiers….and where we worked…..and what we did. We asked him about himself. This is when we found out that he was an officer….working in the Headquarters, just like us…. Except, that he was an officer! He said that his superiors disapproved of him making friends with….or hanging around with….enlisted men. We were all in civilian clothes, which would have made it difficult for anybody to know. But, he was constantly glancing around, checking people out….hoping that he didn’t see anybody else that he knew. He almost always faced away from the door….toward the wall. Poor guy…. He was just a kid, really. Probably younger than either Ursel or I. He was lonely…..and just like us, he did not want to spend any more time on the army base that was absolutely necessary. He lived with officers…..and he didn’t even like them! He was a good guy….and he fit well into our “group”. Anyway…. If somebody he knew walked in, Ursel and I would have simply introduced ourselves as General Darrah and General Cline.

It was at the Dai Nam nightclub that I became a great fan of gin and tonic. I am not at all sure how this became my nightly drink. It was probably Ursel…but I can’t say that with any certainty. At any rate, it was a step up from what I usually drank. Being from a small town…and from a rural area….my normal alcoholic drink was beer. (It was only a couple years ago in 2018 that my hometown finally voted to start selling “liquor”.) I became hooked on gin and tonic, and just like magic, a gin and tonic would turn up at our table shortly after we arrived. This was about the only mixed drink I knew for the remainder of that year.

We would usually end the night at one of the other clubs….predominately at he club with the clarinet player. He usually didn’t start playing until later in the evening, so it worked out perfectly. We were “famous” there, too. All the waiters, waitresses….and the band….knew us. And, I must say, they treated us more or less like part of the family. Just like the Dai Nam, we had our own table….ready and waiting when we walked in. Maybe an hour there, sipping on a gin and tonic, listening to the super-talented clarinet player…..and it was time to head back to the our home away from home….before the midnight curfew.

As I probably lamented about in an earlier blog…. None of the pictures I took in South Vietnam ever reached me at home. I am not sure what happened…. Who knows in a war zone? I was devastated…..but after fifty-five years, I have stopped expecting them. Outwardly, on the surface, to most people, all bars and nightclubs probably look the same. But…take my word for it: They are not. And when one is able to share the experiences with a loyal, trusted friend….. Well, that is what makes it all so special and memorable.

Meanwhile…..back at good old Tan Son Nhut Air Base….

A couple additional incidents come to mind from back in those days.

For some reason that I will never, ever understand, in the few months immediately after I arrived in South Vietnam, the guards for the various sensitive areas of the base were drawn from the various offices around the base. On the surface, the idea is pure idiocy. And, up on further examination…. It is even purer lunacy. Someone….and I am not sure who that “someone” was….just grabbed a roster of personnel and started pointing at names, it appears. They were taking soldiers….and I am not sure about the airmen….out of offices and assigning them to a night of what was called “guard duty”.

Yes….. For sure, I had been through eight weeks of Basic Training. Of course, I could fire a rifle. That was my only qualification for being a “guard”, though. Even that training was two years old by this time. We never performed this guard duty back in our basic training days. Even they knew we didn’t have the training or experience for this kind of job. Quite frankly, I had no idea what do to….and after I was transported to site I was to guard, it was even more vague.

The night I had been assigned to guard duty, I, along with several other office workers, was transported to a place that was called the POL dump. Nice name, isn’t it? POL was another name for “petroleum, oil, and lubricants” It was located somewhere out on the perimeter of the air base….somewhere, hopefully away from the runways and airplane hangars. I was only there that one time….and I had no idea where we were.

Once we got there….and this was somewhere around sundown….we were given rifles with a clip of ammo. I had not been issued any sort of weapon….and YES, we called them weapons or rifles…..not GUNS….since my last day of basic training back a couple years previously. There were an even number of us. We would “walk our post” for two hours and then have four hours off. We were issued some sort of instructions that we were to challenge any “intruder” by saying, “Halt! Who goes there?” And….no, I am not making them up. I am not sure what we were to do after that point. Shoot them, maybe? Officially, we were supposed to “Challenge” them. If the term “challenge” was ever explained to us, I do not recall what the explanation was.

It was a long night….and a rather uncomfortable night. For one thing, all of us “pretend soldiers” were nervous….somewhat paranoid….unsure of what to do and even why we were there (and I am still wondering). Actually, there wasn’t much there…..just a bunch of large storage tanks and barrels, which I am assuming contained some kind of petroleum, oil or lubricant. There were probably 4….maybe six….of us guards on duty on our two hour shifts. Of course…. We were going to be heroic and protect the place from an enemy attack. And….then they would probably make a movies about our “brave, patriotic mission”. Anyway…. We would walk around for a few minutes, then meet and talk….and discuss why we were there and what we were supposed to do….and then go walk around for another few minutes. Once during that two hour period, the “Officer of the Guard” came out to check on us. I am pretty sure he also worked in one of the offices somewhere on the airbase. And… He is probably lucky that one of us didn’t shoot him!

As I said, this POL storage area was located somewhere on the perimeter of the giant airbase/airport. It was surrounded, like everything else that had anything vaguely to do with the military, with rows and stacks of concertina wire. This basically was the only fortification present. Giant flood lights where placed at irregular intervals around the outside border….casting a light perhaps ten or twenty yards out into the inky darkness. Of course, there were the ubiquitous flares, which cast their ghostly light on the landscape. Yeah…. It was dark outside. Anybody dressed in any color except maybe white or an iridescent hunter’s yellow or orange could move around pretty much undetected. We guards… I guess we were the lucky ones. The POL compound was lighted like a movie set. We could have sat in an easy chair and had plenty of light to read

comfortably. We were, as they say, “sitting ducks”…. Human targets.

It was a long night, indeed. Getting any sort of quality sleep lying on an army cot in a strange building with all the lights on was out of the question. When our twelve hour shift had ended, we were loaded into the back of a two and half ton truck and taken back to the front gate….. our rifles were collected, along with the unused ammo (all of it) and we were instructed to go take a shower and go to our barracks and sleep until noon. Which we did.

By the time I got to our office, my boss, the Adjutant-General, had already found why I had not showed up in the morning at the regular time. Oh let me add…. Nobody had bothered to tell him that I had been assigned to “guard duty”. He was not a happy camper. In fact, he was rather angry. He picked up the telephone and called somebody….and I wasn’t about to ask him who it was. I could hear him talking, however…..as could everybody else in the office. “Who gave you the authority to take a man from my office without my permission?” Pause…..for the answer that I never heard…. “Well, from now on, you are not to take anybody from my office for any reason without my permission. Do you understand that?” Apparently, they did. He hung up the telephone, looked at me….and smiled. That was the end of my career as a guard.

You might remember that I said that I had not been issued a rifle….a weapon….since I completed basic training right after I entered the army. That is true. But, I had fired them….and fairly regularly. We worked on Saturday morning…. Well, sort of. Normally, on Saturday morning, most members of the Adjutant-General’s office would load into the back of the standard two and half ton truck….the work horse of the Army, insofar as I am concerned….and drive over to a firing range.

We unloaded ourselves….and then began a time of pure fun. We fired rifles, pistols….even machine guns….for an hour or two before piling back into the truck for the trip back to the office. I loved those Saturday mornings. These sessions were called “Weapon’s Familiarization Sessions”…..and I took full advantage of the time. I fired as many weapons as I could. There were normal, paper targets posted on make-shift walls and on “clothesline”-type things, strung from post to post. These were the targets that we usually used for rifle or pistol practice. I think I did pretty well at hitting these targets. Obviously, I did not walk out there and take a close look though. Or I would have certainly become the target….and that was not part of my job description.

The neat thing ……or crazy thing….was, however: There was another part of the firing range that did not contain formal targets, like we did back in basic training. Strewn around this large, vacant (obviously) field were just stuff….actually junk. These were the “targets” we shot at, primarily with a machine gun. Even from today’s perspective….. Firing those machine guns was fun. There is no other way to put it. Maybe if I had been in an infantry unit, they would not have seemed so much fun. But, for an office soldier….they were something I looked forward to on Saturday with great anticipation.

As you read this short account of my life in South Vietnam during the Vietnam War, it probably sounds like a stark contrast to the stories that thousands of other soldiers have told. And… It is. I fully…and sometimes painfully….realize that the year that I spent in South Vietnam was charmed. I was one of the fortunate ones. I was able to come home and talk about my experiences in a positive manner. I have mostly good memories of the year I spent there.

Why? Well…. First of all, I was there in the “toddler stage” of the war….when the war was still a child….just before it began to grow….just before the war escalated and burgeoned into the catastrophe it ultimately proved to be. Second: I will always believe that the fact that I had a college degree and had taught school for two and a half years prior to joining the Army was a huge factor. I think it gave my commanders and superiors the confidence that I could handle the jobs that I had. And, as I said: I think I was good at what I did. Third: I was a conscientious soldier. From basic training through my final day in the Army, I tried to always do my best, to always make my superiors look good, never to cause trouble or to slack off. It paid off. This is the kind of soldier that most high level officers were looking for. Fourth: I never, ever, caused trouble or got into trouble. I mean… Why do soldiers do that? They are never going to win, and it is always going to result in punishment and unhappiness for them. Fourth: In each of my permanent assignments, I found a good and loyal and trusted friend. I never felt that I was alone. I had somebody to share with, somebody to talk to, somebody to relax with….to hang out with, somebody who was going through the same circumstances as I. Fifth: I am sure, also, as Bob Dylan wrote in his rather cynical song, I had “God on my side.”

The time I spent as Secretary to the Adjutant-General of US Army Vietnam was a significant period of my life. It was probably the time of my life when I discovered that I could function on my own….away from family, familiar surroundings, the support of a close community of friends and relatives. I found that I could be part of an important team, too. The Adjutant-General is an officer who is in many ways the “face” of the Army. Tons of correspondence was generated to diverse audiences: Parents, law makers, military leaders, the press, the military personnel serving in South Vietnam. I found that I could contribute to this mission, that what I did was important, that people depended on me to “hold up my end of the deal”. I learned, maybe really for the first time, the value of making a plan, meeting deadlines, planning ahead, keeping my word. I understood that only by working together we could achieve our goals and contribute to accomplishing our overall objectives. Yes….. I think I did a good job. In fact, I know I did. And, I enjoyed it. There is something satisfying about being part of a well-oiled machine….with each part of that machine doing its part.

So…. That brings me to the end of just a brief sample of my year in South Vietnam. I did not keep a diary or anything like that. These are just random memories….and I hope….and believe…..that most of them are correct. For a young soldier who was filled with dread and fear when he first learned that he had been assigned to a mysterious, unknown, dangerous jungle country….to a “war” that people knew very little about at the time….. Well, things turned out pretty well, I think.

After all these years, I tried to contact my friend Ursel….something that I should have done many years earlier. I was too late. His daughter wrote and told me that her dad….my friend….died in 2013. I was very sad. I really felt like a part of me had died, too…..an important piece of my past. But, nobody can take away the memories, the good times, the bond that was formed and the adventures we shared.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 31 – February 3. It was a “super” weekend. Super weather…. Super good time….. Super Bowl Sunday…..Super Groundhog Day…..and spent with a Super friend. Yes, an almost super perfect weekend.

Fayez is living in Kansas City now. Yes…. After seven years, he has both his B. S. and M. S. degrees. He has finished that “artificial” student life and has suddenly been tossed into the “real” world. Sink or swim. He has been pushed off the mountain top. Now he will either soar with the wind beneath his sails….or he will plummet to the ground! Believe me: He will soar with the wind…..be lifted to great heights….. It is his destiny.

All that is good….and true. The best part though is that he is only an hour from my house….maybe even less, if he drives as fast as I do. Compare this with the two or two and a half hour drive from Wichita…..and the constant complaint of, “It’s so far to drive.” That old excuse is no longer valid. The result: Fayez has spent a couple weekends at Darrah Tower in the past month. This past weekend…. Super Bowl Weekend….was the latest. “Come early and eat lunch with Sam and me,” I told him.

“I can’t be there until around 4:00.”

“OK. I will leave the door unlocked, just in case I am taking a nap.” Any time I sit down in my recliner, you can bet that I am going to fall asleep….or Take a Nap, as I like to diplomatically describe it.

I ate lunch with my friend, Sam, as we always do on Friday….at the Airport Cafe this week. The cafe closes at 2:00, although if we are sitting there eating, they certainly are not going to kick us out. We have been going there for years, so we are not strangers. In fact, one could probably say we are “regulars”…..especially since this has become a regular lunch rendezvous for Jason and me, too.

Finish lunch at 2:00….briefly stop at my insurance agent’s office….pick up a gallon of wine….stop and buy a few items at Walmart. Yeah…. I can do all that and still be home by 3:00, plenty of time to sit down in my recliner and take the proverbial nap until Fayez arrived.

As usual, things did not go like clockwork. A little late leaving the cafe….the insurance business took a little longer than I had anticipated…. Buying the wine went pretty smoothly. But Walmart? How does one ever get in there and get out in a timely manner? There was no problem picking up the few items that I needed. I have the geography of that store perfected. I make a list starting from the back of the store, working my way forward….milk, sliced meat, bottled water, cereal, coffee, bananas…. And then to the check out lane. Getting checked out? Oh, man. What system do they use to hire their checkers? I am convinced they start from the bottom…..Lowest score first….and then move on up the list….. And the customers? I am not even going to go there….except to say that some of them are not functional enough to even be out in public. I stand in line….reading the outlandish covers of the “yellow journalism” magazines, checking my cell phone, contemplating whether to buy an overpriced candy bar or a 4 ounce bag of beef jerky that costs a month’s salary….all the time trying to anticipate if the person in front of me is going to back up into my cart or the person behind me is going to seriously damage my ankles with his cart…..

At any rate, it was getting “late” when I finally arrive back at the townhouse. “OK. If I hurry I can go upstairs and check my email and Facebook and still get back down to my recliner for just a short nap.”

It didn’t work that way. As I was working diligently to read my way through the email, I looked out the window to the parking lot below….and there he was. It was only about 3:40. But, there he was….getting out of his car….. No nap this afternoon. Fayez had arrived…..and Early. This, in itself, was a momentous occasion! It could honestly be classified as one of those “Firsts” we always hear about…. A moment to be preserved in the history books.

Fayez never does anything early. In that respect, he is consistent and predictable. Normally, I just leave the door unlocked so he can come on in when he arrives…. And, that was what I was going to do when I went back downstairs to take my brief nap. But…. There he was….already out of his car and heading toward the townhouse. I called to him out of my office window…..immediately boarded my lift chair and started the snail-pace journey downstairs.

Earlier in the day, while I was eating lunch, I predicted to Sam, “I know the first thing Fayez will want to do after he arrives…… Take a nap.”

Man, I am so good at predicting things like this! But…. I have had seven years’ of practice, too! So, I don’t want to sound all that clairvoyant. Anyway, after Fayez had sat down for a few minutes, I said, “Well, what do you want to do?”

I have already told you…. So, all together now: “Let’s take a nap.”

I certainly have nothing against taking naps. In fact, that is where I was heading when he unexpectedly arrived early. “OK with me,” I said. “Do you want me to put on my headset?” I always listen to music when I take a nap.

“Yes. I can still hear the music softly when you wear the headset,” he said. Fayez claims he can hear the music even when I am wearing my rather soundproof headset. Maybe he can; maybe he can’t. Maybe he has super-sensitive ears! They look like they could be super-sensitive. At any rate, I settled in for my normal 80 minute nap. “Eighty minutes?” you may ask. Yes. All of my CD’s contain eighty minutes of music. I rarely stay awake even to the end of the first song. The last song is always a Willie Nelson song. That song sends signals to my brain that the nap is over….and it is time to wake up. And, nine times out of ten, my brain responds. It hears Willie Nelson singing, and it wakes up. I mean…. What brain wouldn’t wake up when it hears Willie singing?

Before Fayez settled down for his nap, he said, “I am cold.”

“Cold? The temperature is 72 degrees in here!”

“I am still cold.” So up the stairs he went. When he returned, he was carrying every blanket, every quilt, every bedspread that he could find. I thought that perhaps he was going to sleep out in the front yard….or maybe in the refrigerator! Fayez gets cold easier….much easier….that I do….than most people do. After he got himself tucked in…..still wearing all his clothing….and covered with practically every blanket in the house…..he proceeded to take a nap. I turned on my music…..wearing shorts and a t-shirt….and promptly fell asleep.

He was awake before I was, as always…..looking at his laptop….as always…..

“Where do you want to eat?” I asked.

“I’ve already eaten. Let’s go to the coffee shop,” he replied.

That was OK with me. I, too, had eaten a large lunch and eating another meal was not high on my agenda of things to do. Topeka has several coffee shops. Most of them are open for only a few hours during the daylight hours, though. Who knows why? Maybe it is because coffee keeps people awake, and they just don’t like to drink coffee after 3:00 or 5:00 P.M. Maybe the people of Topeka would rather drink alcohol at night….to forget that they even live in Topeka. I don’t know the reason. However, what I do know is that there are only three coffee shops that are open at night….and one of them closes at 8:00, hardly a place to hang out after the sun goes down.

It is rather strange how all coffee shops seemed to be arranged. Normally….in a store, in a bar….in a restaurant….a person walks in and the first thing one sees or encounters is the cashier….the check out stand….the cash register….the place where you pay….the place where one is greeted. And, it is the last thing a person passes on the way out. This serves at least two purposes: A waitress or host is waiting to either lead you to your table or your booth. In a buffet, they take your money and take your drink order. If you do not pay at your table, you stop at the cashier’s stand on your way out and pay the bill. It is all very utilitarian….it all serves it purpose. It gives the business a means of controlling the activity….of making the customers feel welcome….not to mention making sure they pay the bill on the way out. Quite frankly, I like it this way. I don’t know…. It gives me a sense of security to know that I have been recognized. If the joint is full, there is somebody to say, “You are going to have to wait for a few minutes.” If the place is crowded, there is somebody to search for an empty table or booth.

In coffee shops, however, for some reason, the clerk is always located in the back of the establishment. Man, I do not like that arrangement. It seems to take forever to walk through all the tables, past all the customers….hoping that I do not bump into either them or their table…..hoping they do not have their feet in the aisle for me to trip over…and probably fall into their lap. Although, I suppose this is one way to become acquainted in a hurry. Even worse is trying to find a table….while balancing a cup of boiling hot coffee in one hand and some sort of carbohydrate treat in the other hand. If I would trip and fall into somebody’s lap…..I doubt if I am going to make many friends in the manner.

That is probably part of the “charm” of a coffee shop, though. Its eccentricities, its unique character that appeals to those people who have nothing better to do than sit in a coffee shop….. Like Fayez and me, for example! On the other hand…. Isn’t this where the “cool” intellectual people hang out?

Fayez and I have been to two coffee houses here in Topeka. One is the Classic Bean in the Gage Shopping Center and the other is called Blackbird Espresso…or something very similar to that, at least. A few weeks ago, we went to the Blackbird Espresso place in the Fairlawn Plaza Shopping Center. There is nothing wrong with it. Actually, it is rather pleasant and comfortable with reasonable prices. The selection of food is not very satisfying. But… Have you ever been to a coffee house with a good variety of food to eat? Maybe that is why they are called “coffee houses”. Like most coffee houses, the Blackbird Espresso place has free Wi-Fi so people can bring their laptops and hang out there. Let’s face it, coffee houses are commonly….often….places populated by lonely people whose best friend is their laptop.

A couple weeks ago when Fayez was here, we went to the Blackbird Espresso coffee shop to…. Well, hang out. It was on a Friday night. Not being one who hangs out in coffee shops at night…..or anywhere else for that matter….I had sort of forgotten that weekends are always “Amateur Hour” for local musicians who want to showcase their “talent”…..maybe hoping that a big time music agent may be visiting an aunt or grandmother in Topeka, Kansas, and will just happen to be in the audience that night. Or maybe they are uninhibited people who are not easily embarrassed in public. And, why not? I doubt if they are paid for their services. They put some sort of container….maybe a jar or a small bucket or a bowl….. on the stage….and hope that all the grateful people will come up and drop money in it. And, they do. Fayez did! Sometimes they even pass around a container openly soliciting cash from the audience.

Well…. We went to the Blackbird Espresso place unaware of what we were getting ourselves into. We walked in….the place was virtually full of people….some (or a lot) of whom seemed to be related to….or friends of….the band that was performing. We found an empty table in the front of the coffee shop….and to the right side of the stage. The “act” consisted of a female singer and three backup musicians. One of these seemed to be her husband….or at least, somebody very close to her.

She was convinced that she was a good singer…..thoroughly convinced! She belted out an endless series of songs….some of which were even somewhat recognizable. Between songs she kept up what she deemed to be a witty chatter, complete with inside jokes and other rambling, but “knowing”, chitchat. And, to make sure that she could be heard, the sound volume was set on the highest level possible! The sound system would have probably been very adequate for Allen Field House or the Chiefs’ stadium. Except we were not in Allen Field House. We were in a little coffee house that seated a hundred people, at the most.

Oh, I am sure that some of the people thought she was another Joan Baez or Whitney Houston. They chuckled at her little jokes and her attempt at humor. I suspect that most of these people were family members….or deaf. Others had their attention focused on their laptops, and a tornado probably couldn’t have gotten their attention. But us? We went there to talk….to have a conversation….and there was no chance that was going to happen. I considered taking a quick course in sign language. You know…..like deaf people use to “talk” to each other. Or maybe somebody should have suggested to the singer she consider singing in sign language. I wonder how that would work.

“Surely, she is going to take a break sometime,” I kept thinking. But, she obviously had a good set of lungs….and an even stronger bladder. Finally, the noise got to us. We couldn’t take any more.

“Let’s go to The Shack,” Fayez suggested. He didn’t have to ask twice. I was ready to leave. Fayez still insists that I am the one who suggested what we leave….but I am sure that it was he. No matter…. We were both ready to get out of there. While we were driving to The Shack, I told Fayez that he and I should put together a little act. He can play the guitar and I can sing. We could make the rounds of the coffee houses and entertain the masses. And, I am pretty sure we can make a lot of money, too. Instead of paying to hear us perform, they will pay us to Stop Performing….to shut up and sit down. All of you guys are invited to come and hear us. Bring plenty of money!

Around 9:00 we arrived at The Shack. The Shack is a neighborhood bar and grill located a few hundred feet off 29^th Street, far enough from the street to make it semi-secluded. It is a friendly place, patronized mainly by residents of the Lake Shawnee area. Most of the people seem to know each other. They come for supper and to talk….and go back home. A few of the hard core customers tend to congregate in the center of the building around the bar, leaving the area with tables free for relaxed conversation. It is small enough for a hint of intimacy, but large enough that we can talk in relative privacy. Anyway, in a bar everybody is tuned into his own friends and their own conversations. Nobody is interested in eve dropping on other conversations. In fact, it is virtually impossible to even get the attention of a waitress.

The Shack is primarily a sports bar with eight or ten large screen TVs mounted around the large bar-dining area. Except for important sporting events, the TVs are usually showing two or three different games of some sort. You can bet that if either K. U. or K State is playing, they will get top priority. Normally, the volume on the TV sets is turned off…..with just the picture. Can you imagine what it would be like for there to be three competing games, all with the volume cranked up? That would be almost as bad as listening to “amateur hour” in the coffee shop.

Since I have lived in Topeka, this has been our bar of choice. Sultan and I spend many evenings there when he is here during the summer. Since we normally arrived late….late as being 9:00 or so….many times we had the dining area all to ourselves, which suited us very well. We are not the type to get loud and obnoxious. Sitting there those many nights, we discovered something rather strange. We would be sitting….talking….with Sultan never taking his eyes off the TV set…. Well, unless it is to look at his cell phone. He is much like Fayez in that respect. The volume on the game showing on the TV sets is muted….just the picture. Suddenly a song….usually a country music song….starts playing on the speaker. Not loud….just playing. Now, one would normally think that somebody had put on a CD or turned on Spotify or something. But…. The song finishes….and that’s it. Silence….no more songs. OK…. Then, almost exactly twenty minutes later, another song starts to play…. This becomes a sort of pattern: One song every twenty minutes. We know…. We timed them….. Yeah, we wondered why, but we never asked. You know: Don’t ask; don’t tell. The songs were never annoying. They were always played at a normal volume….and only sporadically.

The night that Fayez and I went there…. Wow… The music was cranked up to the highest volume, and the songs just kept coming, one after the other. Unfortunately, the speaker….and it must have been a good one….was mounted in the corner just above the table where we were sitting. At that time, sign language would really have come in handy! I do not have a piercing voice like some people….and neither does Fayez. Talking to each other as virtually impossible. Maybe Fayez found this desirable…..but not I. At the end of every song, we thought, “OK. Maybe this will be the last one.” But….No such luck. Sort of like the Energizer Bunny. The noise just kept going…and going….and going.

The noise was annoying. A lot of the reason was that we were sitting almost under the speaker. The other people were congregated up by the bar, and I don’t think the music was as loud there. Anyway, all of them had loud voices….loud enough to easily talk over the blaring music. “OK,” we thought, “We will move further away from the music, and everything will be fine.” We got up and started looking for a more suitable….more tranquil….spot to sit. What we were doing must have been rather obvious. One of the waitresses immediately asked us if the music was too loud. “Duh…… Yes, it is.” She turned the volume down to a much more reasonable level. Nobody was listening to the music anyway. She could just as well have turned it completely off.

We spent the rest of the night in relative auditory comfort…..me drinking a Bud Lite and Fayez drinking a glass of water. And, for the moment, I abandoned the urge to learn sign language.

Getting back to the present….. On this Friday night, we made a wiser choice. We had learned our lesson. They say that experience is the best teacher. That is true…..but only if one chooses to learn from it. And, take it from me….. We learned our lesson well!

This Friday night we went to the Classic Bean in the Gage Shopping Center. One might argue that the Classic Bean is not as “lively” as the Blackbird place. However, nobody is going to argue or even suggest that it not a more peaceful and conversation friendly coffee shop. We could….and did…..actually talk to each other. Talk….not shout! There was no ear-splitting music…or noise….assaulting the ears and brain. There was no contest to set a new decibel level. There were no smug, wanna-be folk singers trying to satisfy their egos….with delusions of “making the big time”.

No…. We ordered our drinks….coffee for me and tea for Fayez….some overpriced pastry….and sat down to enjoy a pleasant conversation. Of course, we still had to walk to the back of the coffee shop to place our order. But, I think there must be some “coffee shop” law about that….written into some mythical “coffee house” constitution. But, that is OK. Neither of us stumbled over anybody’s outstretched legs or spilled out drink. Nobody bothered us. It was a pleasant evening.

Saturday morning awakened to a bright, sunny day…..the temperature destined to rise into the mid-50’s. The sun was already shining into my office window when I got up around 9:00. After checking my morning e-mail and Facebook page, I went downstairs and made a cup of coffee and ate a bowl of raisin bran. As I sat waiting for Fayez to wake up and come downstairs, I finished drinking the coffee and eating the raisin bran….straightened up the front room a bit…..glanced briefly at the book I was reading, but reading in the morning makes me sleepy, so I didn’t spend much time with it. I turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. Saturday morning is not the best time to watch TV, but I settled on watching a program called “Aerial America”, an educational program on the Smithsonian Channel that I often watch. Saturday morning they were showing a program about the state of Oregon, a state close to my heart. I had seen it before. I normally don’t sit and watch TV during the daytime. What else was I going to do? The program ended. It was 11:00. I turned off the TV and sat in my recliner….probably falling asleep, at least briefly. Sometime after 11:00, but before Noon, I heard Fayez moving around upstairs. By this time, the sun was high in the sky, and the temperature had already begun to warm up.

After Fayez had made himself a cup of coffee and a sandwich consisting of peanut butter, apply butter, sliced turkey and sliced cheese, he came into the front room and sat on the couch. When Fayez comes downstairs, he is instant joy…wide awake….all ready for a session with his beloved cell phone, which makes the instant joy a little bit unnecessary. At least, he was awake, though.

Now it off to Lake Shawnee for a morning run. When it comes to running, Fayez is just like a camel in the desert. In other words…. He likes to run. And, it was a great day for running. The sun was shining brightly; there was just a hint of a breeze. Unfortunately, there was no sand to blow in our eyes, although the water on Lake Shawnee was shimmering brightly, disturbed by a slight breeze from the south. Not quite like a desert sand storm…..but close enough that the conditions for running were nearly ideal. So, we took off. Me….walking. Fayez….running. It was sort of like the story of the turtle and the rabbit. I will let you guess which was which.

Lake Shawnee is my preferred place to walk. It is a beautiful setting; there are usually other people walking or running or biking, so it is safe; there are stretches of level ground to walk on (for me); there are convenient parking lots strategically place around the lake; and there are markers every quarter mile which makes it easy to keep track of distance. Normally I go walking around 3:00 in the afternoon. That is the time when the National Public Radio news program “All Things Considered” is on. It serves a double service: I can keep caught up on the news in a fairly objective, non biased manner, and the listening to the news keeps me suitable distracted from the fact that I am walking! I am not really sure what Fayez listens to…..maybe some of the plaintive, whiny Arab music that he likes….or maybe he is listening to a TED talk. Whatever he is listening to, I am pretty sure that he does not need the distraction as much as I do.

After about 20 minutes, I gave up and sat on a bench waiting for him to return. About twenty minutes later, I see him looming in the distance. I get up and get my camera ready to snap several pictures as he run down the bridge toward me. We are both happy. I am happy simply because it is over. Fayez is happy because he has run three miles….and has improved his time.

Later we head to El Chilar, the Corn Field, a Mexican cafe down the street from my townhouse at 25^th and California. This is our adopted neighborhood cafe…..sort of like The Shack is our designated neighborhood bar. Actually El Chilar is a good place to eat. The food is delicious….prepared from scratch….served in abundant portions….and reasonably priced.

El Chilar is a friendly, welcoming little cafe. The owner, a guy named Victor, is a friendly, outgoing person. It is rather neat that he not only owns the cafe, but he also runs it…..hands-on, in person. Maybe he even cooks, too. It would not surprise me. He is actually from the Dominican Republic. But, I can imagine that it just easier to call the place a Mexican restaurant. They probably eat the same things anyway. For me, I have more or less permanently settled on his beef soup as my favorite meal. If that doesn’t sound very impressive…. Well, it is a deceptively generous amount of food: nachos (or course), rice, tortillas….and, of course, the delicious beef soup.

A visit to El Chilar is always an entertaining experience. It is sufficient just to talk a few seconds with Victor….and his outgoing personality is contagious. But, be prepared for some rousing Mexican music…..videos, in fact. They are playing all day long on a big screen TV. The good thing about the music here is that it is not overpowering. Far from it. The volume is always set at audible level, but not loud enough to warrant a visit to an audiologist when the meal is finished. Yeah…. I know that music videos are not a patented product of El Chilar. Go to a Chinese restaurant and there is mournful, nasal music playing….same-same the Indian restaurant and the Japanese place. Somehow, though, the music at El Chilar is actually entertaining…..and not just designed to mask the babble of obnoxious loud talking customers. And…. It is certainly not comparable to the ear-piercing noise that bombards the ears in most bars. If you do not like the music, maybe you will like the constantly changing display of stunning photography that is displayed on another large screen TV. The constantly changing array of pictures is a visual feast in itself. A word of warning: Do not go to El Chilar to watch your favorite sports team. Not going to happen. This is a place for enjoying delicious Mexican food…. A place where you can leisurely cheer for the food….to yourself, of course…..and not be distracted by external forces.

After satisfying our appetite at El Chilar….and I think that both Fayez and I were both satisfied and a few pounds heavier….we proceeded with the rest of our afternoon activities. My plan for the remainder of the afternoon was to visit some surplus, discount stores….and maybe come away from them with some super bargains. Bargains on stuff that I don’t need….but still interesting, nice stuff. Personally, I love these stores. They are stores without the pressure of looking for something specific….free of pressure to buy something. The main pressure on me is NOT to buy something.

The content of these stores is constantly changing, depending, I suppose, on what kind of surplus merchandise warehouses are trying to get rid of. It could be electronic equipment, kitchen wares, clothing, hardware, tools…. Who knows? That is why they are so much fun. I have to be careful when I go into places like this. I almost always walk out with stuff I do not need…..but stuff “that might come in handy some day.” That is, in part, perhaps how I accumulated so much stuff….some called it junk…..at the Ozawkie house. Of course, I vigorously disagree with those people……but still….

On this Saturday afternoon, however, Fayez and I were unlucky. Or, maybe we were lucky…. At any rate, our afternoon was not very productive. We found one discount store….one just off 37^th Street. We looked at it rather carefully. But, most of the stuff there really WAS junk….or we could have bought most of it for less at WalMart. We searched for two other places that I found listed online in the Yellow Pages. One of them was closed…..and one looked like it had disappeared sometime back in the Middle Ages. This is another testimony for the accuracy….or lack thereof…. of the Internet….and only supports my conclusion that most of what is seen on the Internet is 99.9% pure junk. Oh well…. A penny saved is a penny saved. Or something like that.

After going back to the townhouse and taking a glorious eighty minute nap, we were refreshed and ready to embark on the evening’s adventure. As it was, it did not turn out to be much of an adventure. But…. Nothing “ventured” nothing gained. Right?

In our rather obsessive quest to try out all the coffee shops in Topeka….at least, all those that are open after the sun goes down and the people of Topeka disappear into their houses like birds to their nests….we headed to the only other one that was left on our list. And, our list only had three places! The coffee house is located on 17^th Street, right across the street from Washburn University. That should make it easy to find….right? Except that Washburn stretches for several blocks along 17^th Street.

We drove into the parking lot of what we thought was the coffee shop. It looked a little strange. Lots of people. Lots of people, sitting in booths. Lots of people sitting in booths eating Mexican food. Nobody had a laptop. Nobody was singing self-centered “folk song”….. Oh well…. Maybe it was just a popular Mexican coffee house. But, why were all these Mexican beer advertisements hanging on the wall? What is with all these pictures of tacos and burritos? Let’s face it: We had gone into a Mexican restaurant. At first, we thought maybe they had recently changed the place from a coffee house to a Mexican restaurant. But….No. We were simply at the wrong place.

What the heck? While we were there, we figured we may as well go ahead and eat our supper. So…. We took advantage the pictures on the wall….the beer….the tacos….and ordered something to eat. No coffee, though. Do Mexicans even drink coffee? I suppose they do….and I bet it is strong coffee, too. You don’t suppose they have a Corona coffee…..or a Modelo coffee?

A couple days later, after Fayez had gone back to Kansas City, I drove down 17^th Street again. We had driven right past the coffee shop. It was dark outside….so at least we have an excuse for missing it….even though it may be a rather lame excuse.

“Let’s go home and paint,” Fayez said.

Yeah, I guess that is OK. Fayez is always telling me how to paint….how I should plan the painting….how I should execute the painting….how I should name the painting….how I should choose the colors….although he had never painted a picture in his entire life. Nothing like getting a little bit of experience at what you are already an expert at. Just joking, Fayez. But…. On the other hand, the idea of him getting a little bit of experience turned out to be a good one. He actually enjoyed it.

I started painting about a year ago, so I am an old pro at it…..a real Monet or a Jackson Pollack….and maybe even a Michelangelo, except that I do not lie on my back and paint on the ceiling. I have often thought of calling myself “Grandpa Darrah”…… You know: Grandma Moses started painting in her 70’s and became famous for her primitive art. No…. I am an amateur….and I always will be. Actually, I can’t even draw flies (an old joke). That is why all of my painting are abstract art. There is probably no such thing as a mistake in abstract act. The truth is: When I start on a painting, I have no idea what it will look like when I finish…..not a clue. I just keep messing with it until I am either satisfied….or so discouraged that I just pronounce it to be “finished”. And, I paint only for myself. I am not interested in what other people think. What they think is their problem. Can I help it if they have poor taste….and do not appreciate the masterpieces that I produce?

So….. Fayez sat down and was initiated into the world of abstract painting on that momentous Saturday night. But, as he found out, a person does not just sit down and paint. First he had to get a glass full of hot water to wash his brush; he had to get some wet paper towel to clean his brush; he had to get some dry paper towel to clean the brush….. He had to choose the brush he wanted to use….a rather tricky task for somebody who has never painted before. Then he had to sit and think, “Now, what do I do?”

Yes… What do I do now? I don’t know if Fayez had a plan….or whether he just started putting paint on the canvas, hoping that an idea would come to him. Sometimes it is easier that way. But Fayez? He sat for a while, staring at the canvas….trying to form a vision….trying to visualize a plan….maybe trying to see the finished product. Even with a vision, it is infinitely more difficult to transfer that vision from the brain to the canvas. I don’t know….but maybe this was the barrier that he was facing at that moment. It sounds so easy….but it can be Oh So Difficult.

Fayez settled on a basic black painting. I was a little bit surprised. He has often told me that my paintings look “angry”. And, I very intentionally avoid using black in my paintings. Even using blue and red and violet, paintings can look dark. All of these colors, used alone, are bright and happy colors. Sometimes in combination, however, they can project a dark and angry mood. Anyway, he seemed happy with his efforts, stopping now and then to survey, and perhaps to contemplate, his work. He seemed satisfied….adding a touch of red here and a dash of green there and just a hint of blue. Unlike me, Fayez chose not to have a solid color background, simply leaving the white canvas background exposed, free of paint.

In the end, he was satisfied. After maybe an hour or an hour and a half, he pronounced the painting “Finished”. And, and in act of generosity, he presented the painting to me. Well…. I think he was being kind and generous. Maybe he just didn’t want the painting and pawned if off on me. No…. He was proud of his very first effort at abstract painting. He proudly signed it….always the final touch on a painting….and presented it to me.

Fayez is always telling me that I should “Name” all my pictures….even write a sentence or two explaining them. “What is the name of your painting?” I asked him.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“I thought you told me that I should name all of my paintings,” I said. “Aren’t you going to give yours a name?”

“I just told you. Its name is ‘I Don’t Know’,” he said.

Oh…. Maybe a good name for the first painting. However, I think he can only name ONE of his paintings “I Don’t Know”….or people may start to become suspicious. At any rate, “I Don’t Know” is hanging in a place of prominence in my living room….directly in front of my recliner….where I can not avoid seeing it….where it will remain. When people come to visit and ask me, “What is that painting supposed to represent?” I can honestly answer, “I don’t know.”

Ahhh….. Sunday morning dawned…..another beautiful day…. a Super Day. In fact, it was Super Bowl Day. By the time I had gotten out of bed on this sunny Sunday morning, the day was already shaping up to be an awesome, almost summer-like day. And, by the time Fayez finally made his initial appearance sometime in the late morning….but before noon….there was no doubt: The weather forecast had finally gotten it right for a change. We were destined for a record-tying high temperature. Hang up the jacket. Put away the gloves. This was a day for short sleeves and shorts.

The coverage of the Super Bowl had already begun on TV. In fact, it probably started long before either of us woke up. And, sadly, there were probably millions of people who woke up, sat in their recliners, a beer in their hand….but nothing in their brain….and watched it from the beginning. I don know…. Can you imagine sitting and watching self centered, grown men….who like to call themselves commentators…. sitting in front of a TV camera talking about something they have absolutely no control over….just babbling….thrilled to hear the sound of their own voices….and probably awe-struck by their own phony wisdom… And, then further consider…. This is the sole contribution these spoiled, overpaid, men-children make to our society. This pseudo, artificial mindless chatter that has nothing to do with anything. And…. Then consider those people in TVland sitting for hours watching this mindless drivel, probably not even remotely aware they are being fed a diet of narcissistic nonsense. Is it any wonder that a mentally and intellectually challenged orange clown is president of the country?

Oh well…. Enough of that…. Needless to say, we did not watch any of it.

Instead, we chose to do something a bit more constructive. We went to Lake Shawnee (again). Fayez ran. I walked. It was a glorious day to be outside. Apparently a lot of other people shared our opinion. People of all ages, sizes and shapes were spending their midday strolling, jogging, walking their dogs, pushing baby carriages, riding their bicycles. Just enjoying the fresh air and the abundant sunshine and the beauty and serenity of the lake and enjoying each other’s companionship. Yes…. Probably a lot of them would watch the Super Bowl….but not until the game actually started….until the first kickoff…. when the only people who mattered were on the field playing the game.

It is not going to come as a surprise to many people that I finished walking a little while before Fayez finished running….. In this case, “a little while” can be defined as about thirty minutes. No big deal. This is normal. Fayez is in just a little better shape than I. A “little bit” being another way of saying “a lot”. Fayez is also a couple years younger than I. A “couple years” meaning two or three generations. I have no aspirations of running in races any longer. Those days have long passed. But, I have high expectations that Fayez will be back to his old habit of winning races….and bringing home the medals. I think both of us are trying to shed a couple pounds, though.

So…. I sat on a bench and waited for Fayez to appear in the distance….passing my time listening to NPR on my little radio. The time went by quickly, though. People walked past or jogged past or rode past. Sometimes they spoke or nodded their head; sometimes they just passed by without even recognizing that I am sitting there….perhaps invisible….or a dangerous old man to be avoided. Or maybe they are too absorbed in their own thoughts or conversations. That is OK. I am the same way. Sometimes I speak to people; sometimes I don’t. I don’t know them; they don’t know me. Maybe they are just as dangerous as I am….and people who know me know that I am a pretty vicious person!

In any event, I saw Fayez looming out of the distant mist. It was time to go into action. Get the camera ready. Figure out which way is up (I never get it right.). Start shooting pictures. He got nearer and nearer. He slowed down to a walk. He looked a little tired….but happy. He didn’t seem to be breathing too hard. “How was your run?” I ask.

“Good,” he says.

We got into the car and headed back to the townhouse.

Fayez headed upstairs to take a shower. I sat in my recliner. I learned long ago that when Fayez goes into the bathroom….for anything….it is difficult to predict when he may appear again. So…..for five minutes or fifty minutes, I may as well relax….watch TV, read, take a nap, clean the house….take a short vacation…. Get a part time job…. In this case, he was not gone long….relatively speaking.

The next decision of the day: Where to eat lunch. I had heard of a Japanese restaurant….and all-you-can-eat place….that I had been wanting to try out. For some reason, I simply had never done it. I had driven to it….just to make sure it was there….but I had never gone inside. Quite frankly, I am surprised that Sultan and I didn’t go there last summer. We were always looking for new and interesting places to eat. This Sunday afternoon seemed like an ideal time to give it a try.

The name of the restaurant is Mizu Sushi. It is located across town at Wanamaker and Huntoon. We drove into the parking lot, only to find that there were no other cars there. In fact, it gave every appearance of being closed. I was prepared to leave and go to the Chinese buffet that Fayez likes so much. As we approached the building, we were pleased to see a neon sign proclaiming the restaurant to be “Open”. We entered with a slight sense of trepidation….at least, I did. Was this a good omen? A restaurant where we were the only customers? At least, we were pretty sure that we had not gone to McDonalds by mistake.

We were greeted warmly by two young Japanese….a girl and a boy. Maybe brother and sister, although I have no way of knowing this. The boy….and I should probably be referring to him as a young man….led us to our booth. There were no tables, or I would have asked for one. I have some difficulty getting into and out of booths. He left and soon reappeared carrying a menu with a single sheet of paper.

We looked around trying to locate the buffet. There did not appear to be one….at least, not where human eyes could see it. “We want the buffet,” we explained to him. In his gentle manner….and in his rather rudimentary English….he attempted to explain to us how the procedure worked. This was indeed different than any other all-you-can eat buffet that I have experienced.

The sheet he handed us contained all the food we could order….all the food that would ordinarily be found on the buffet line, in other words….and there was lots of it. We marked the food we wanted with an “x”…..and he brought it to us….set it in front of us at our booth. When we were getting close to successfully devouring that food, the young man appeared again, presenting us with another sheet of paper….actually the same sheet. Again, we marked the food that we wanted. He disappeared only to materialize a short time later to present the food to us.

The food was well prepared. In fact, it was delicious. The portions were generous. After ordering a couple times….and we shared the food that we ordered….our appetites were satisfied. Yeah…. I have never seen a place like this before. But, I like it. These people have a sound concept….a good plan….. And, I think it works. A person, indeed, does get all the food he can handle. We only ordered twice, I think. We declined the third offer. There is no doubt in my mind that they would have kept bringing a sheet to us to mark the food we wanted for as long as our appetites could tolerate it. And, until we had to make a trip to Walmart down the street to buy some bigger clothes. It was always service with a smile….along with their barely understandable English. In fact, they seemed to be urging us on….

We enjoyed all of this…. The food was delicious…. Yes, we could have gotten the same thing at the Chinese buffet. Of course, it would have been called Chinese food there. Here it is called Japanese food. I am not sure if I really know, or can tell, the difference. In fact, I wonder if they can. Nevertheless, the food was first rate, according to our taste buds…..and I am sure we will delight them again with more visits in the future.

You know…. These people have the got it right. And, more all-you-can eat buffets need to learn from them. They need to go there and eat….and take notes while they are there. First of all, marking the food and having it served is a novel, but excellent, idea. The old saying, “The eyes are bigger than the stomach.” has some truth to it. Greedy, low-class, ignorant people…..and may I add Overweight People….will make second, even third trips through the buffet line….while leaving mounds of uneaten food on their plate. It disturbs me greatly to see people get up and walk out of a buffet restaurant with a full plate of untouched food. It is wasteful and arrogant….not mention greedy and selfish. Literally, millions of tons of food are wasted each year here in the USA. Wasted by thoughtless, unthinking, uncaring people who do not stop to think of the tens of thousands of less fortunate people who would weep tears of joy to have only a small share of the wasted food.

But…. Like I said, the people at the Japanese all-you-can-eat place have gotten it right. At the top of the menu, and in capital letters, I think, is clearly states that a surcharge….a fee in addition to the regular price….will be levied on uneaten, wasted food. Good for them! They got it right. Others should follow their example. This, alone, is an excellent reason to go back there and eat.

Now…. It was back to the townhouse again. Time for the ubiquitous, all important nap. Me….wearing my trusty headset….Fayez with his full set of covers to shelter him from the extreme cold of the 72 degrees temperature in the front room. Before I started my nap….before turning on the CD….I reminded Fayez that the nap will last eighty minutes. I do this because I will not wake up until 5:50….and the Super Bowl kicked off at 5:30.

Subconsciously I think we both expect to watch the Super Bowl from the comfort of our living room. When I woke up….Fayez is already awake. I washed my face, changed clothes….and we headed out for The Shack where we hoped we could find an empty table or booth.

As we turned into the long winding driveway to The Shack, we could see that the parking lot was crowded. Quite frankly, it didn’t look very encouraging. It was sort of like trying to find a parking space at Old Faithful in August. We were lucky. We pulled into a vacant parking space. Judging by the number of cars, I was fully expecting to simply go back home and watch the game.

“Let’s take a look before we go in,” I said. To me it is awkward to go inside a bar, walk around looking for an empty table only to find they are all occupied. I do not like to share a table or a booth. I know that Fayez doesn’t like this, either. And, I am pretty sure the people who would have to share their space do not like it either….unless they are super drunk….or some sort of lonely, over-zealous social misfits.

“Ahhh…. There is an empty table,” I said. We walked into the bar. Not only was there an empty table, but also an empty booth. We elected to sit in the booth….although I am not fond of sitting in booths because they are difficult to get in and out of. On the other hand, in a booth, I have the luxury of having a wall to lean on…..and a long seat to rest my legs on. So, it all balances out. Anyway…. The bar was crowded. There were more people there than I had ever seen there before. But, it was not packed; it was not filled to its capacity.

Often times our conversation is inhibited because of the fear that somebody will be listening to us talk. This is just a little bit irrational. Nobody goes to a bar to listen to….or eve drop….on other people’s conversations. Not unless you are a Russian spy…..or a member of the Trump administration trying to dig up dirt on an opponent. But….back to The Shack. We were happy to have found our own space. The waitress came to take our order. We had actually already eaten quite enough at the Japanese place. But… Come on. You can’t just go into a bar or a restaurant and sit without ordering something. These are businesses…. They are profit making institutions. This is how they make their living. Actually, they can tell you to leave….legally. (Just a hint or a word of advice to anybody who thinks these are just big public waiting rooms that happen to serve food!) So, I ordered a large Bud Lite and some nachos. Fayez reluctantly ordered a Diet Coke.

We settled down to watch the Super Bowl, which was already well in progress. Just for the record: The Kansas City Chiefs were playing the San Francisco 49ers. I am certainly not one of those people who is going to recount the game, play by play. I will leave that to people who have nothing better to do….people who basically do not have a life of their own. (And, I know a few of them!) However, the 49ers took the lead and from all practical appearances, they seemed to be in control of the game. In the third quarter, some people actually got up and left the bar, apparently discouraged by their perceived outcome of the game. I don’t know…. Maybe they just haven’t watched the Chiefs play many games during the season. All season, the Chiefs have had the remarkable ability to come back from what appeared to be certain defeat and win games. They are sort of a come-from-behind team.

The bar became noticeably more quiet. We could feel a sense of nervousness descending over the crowd….maybe even a feeling of despair or hopelessness. The two old ladies who had been screaming so vigorously….waving their arms with a sense of youth and enthusiasm they had not known for probably sixty years….became subdued….reverting back to the normality of old age. (Like me.) Yeah…. It didn’t look so good. I told Fayez, “All they need is one big play, and they will win the game.” Yes…me. The ultimate authority on football games actually said that! Fayez, of course, just looked at me. I mean…. What else could he do? (Although I am sure that deep in his heart, he knows that football is really “my thing”.)

As we sat, watching the game unfold, I kept noticing that people were walking past us….and then returning with plates of food. “Ummmm.. This is interesting,” I thought. “Where is that food coming from?” I then diverted my attention to discover the answer to this mystery. I noticed they were going to a table that apparently contained a variety of food. My first thought was, “Oh, Wow! We have crashed a private party. We don’t belong here.” I stopped a waitress and asked her what the deal was. “Is there a cover charge or something?”

“Oh, no,” she replied brightly. “The food is all free. Go help yourself!”

“Now I find out,” I thought. Free food! Who passes up free food? But, here we sat….a large plate of cheese nachos is front of me (although Fayez refused to eat any of them)….just a few hours from a stomach-filling Japanese meal. What rotten luck. If the game was not depressing….. The news of free food….free food that I could not take advantage of….certainly did not help. On the other hand, I am pretty sure that all of the free food contained pork. And, I would have felt rather guilty stuffing my stomach while Fayez had to sit and watch me.

Well….. Sure enough! Midway through the fourth quarter, Patrick Mahomes threw a long pass. The pass was caught. The Chiefs scored. The crowd in the bar went wild…. Fayez and I included…. The atmosphere became electric…. The people in the bar began their celebration…. The party started again…. The Chiefs could not be stopped…. Another touchdown….. Another field goal…..

Fayez had never seen a Super Bowl game before. What a game to start with! I think we can say that Fayez was super excited watching his first Super Bowl game. Fayez described the game as being “Tense”. And, that it was! It was tense….and maybe uncertain….until that big play….the long pass that broke open the game….in the 4^th quarter. Now Fayez is living in Kansas City. This was perhaps the best possible game to catapult him on his path to becoming a Chiefs fan. Nothing like starting at the top! Maybe we can say that it took a Super Bowl to make a “super” Chiefs fan out of Fayez.

And, again, just for the record: The Chiefs became the 2020 Super Bowl Champions by defeating the San Francisco 49er by a score of 31 – 20. A day with super awesome weather, a super football game, some super Japanese food, spent with a super friend.

But…. The story doesn’t end here. We left The Shack as winners in another way, too. Each of us was given a ticket to a drawing….all for free. Throughout the evening, numbers were drawn. If the number on our ticket matched the number that was drawn, then we won a prize. We got there a little too late for the initial drawings….and I strongly suspect the best drawings. Before we received our tickets….and I think it was probably just a lucky accident that the waitress finally realized that we did not have tickets….the prizes were almost entirely Chiefs shirts. Man, I would have loved to have won a Chiefs shirt.

Fayez told me he was going to buy me a shirt from a street vendor and bring it to me. Wow… I was excited. It has been years since I have owned a Chiefs shirt. In fact, I probably still have it….packed away in a plastic storage box….now three sizes too small for me to wear. But, as fate would have it….and as is usually my poor fortune….Fayez forgot to buy the shirt. So, I am still without a Chiefs shirt to wear. And, since I exist just above the poverty level, I am not going to pay $30 or $40 for a shirt that should sell for $10 or $15. Call me cheap….or call me smart….

We were winners, though. Both of us. I won a Patrick Mahomes tote bag. Fayez won a Chiefs lanyard for his keys and ID. Maybe not quite as desirable as shirts. But, as they say, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” So…. Like Happy Campers, we drove back home. And, as William Shakespeare said, “All is well that ends well.” And, that is a good description of our day.

“Monday, Monday, So Good to me….” The weekend was over. A great weekend. Now it was time for Fayez to go back to Kansas City. Before he left, we had one more task to accomplish. Fayez needed somebody, actually almost anybody….somebody who had a job and was not retired…. to sign a form assuring that he actually Fayez…and that the work permit that was issued by the government was indeed in the right hands of the right person. After considering the possibilities available to us….and remember, I was not eligible because I am happily retired and no longer work…. we agreed that probably the manager of the townhouse complex would be the most logical and the most convenient person to ask…..and especially since she is also a notary public. She was quite willing to help Fayez, and she also seemed to be somewhat familiar with task.

So…. As we walked out the door of the townhouse office, Fayez was “legal”; he was legitimate; he was ready to start paying his share of taxes. He was also ready to pay his share of my social security. In other words, he is now going to be paying my “salary”. Thanks, Peasant!

With that, the weekend was over. Fayez got into his car….and drove off into the sunrise…. Yes, I got that right…. He was heading east, back to Kansas City….the home of the Kansas City Chiefs…. And, now…. Home of Fayez.

For about sixty-five years, I coasted along through life with barely an excuse to ever walk inside a doctor’s office….let alone ever go to a hospital, except maybe to visit somebody. Even then, that was not very often.

I rarely….if ever….had a “physical”. The only ones I can truly recall having were connected with either the army or with searching for a job. The physical examination I had for the army…. I actually had a couple of them…..was basically a joke. I was breathing, and I could remember my name. That was good enough for them. The only job-related physical that I had was connected with a potential teaching position in Chicago. It was the first time in my life that I had ever seen a woman doctor…..the first one who played with my testicles…..and got paid for it. I passed the physical exam; they offered me a job, but I turned it down. I was not ready or willing to work in an inner-city school in Chicago.

Now…. Let us fast-forward to a spring morning in 2001….and take off on a Medical Mystery Tour. Hold on….. We are not using a GPS, so this trip is capable of some odd routes, some unexpected twists and turns in the road….not to mention a few blind curves along the way.

That was the year I had a German exchange student named Matthias. As I had done for the past couple decades or so, I got up at 5:30 A.M., took a shower, made a cup of coffee and ate a bowl of raisin bran for breakfast. I was feeling unusually tired…. But, what is new about that? About 6:30, I woke up Matthias. We would have to leave for school around 7:10 or 7:20. While he was taking a shower, I sat in my recliner, barely able to stay awake. Barely able to focus my eyes on Matthias as he poured himself a cup of coffee and also ate a bowl of raisin bran. I felt disoriented, and I had a some problems talking to him. But I didn’t think about it much. I simply had not gotten enough sleep. The coffee would soon kick in…..and everything would be back to normal.

As we drove into town to school, my vision was still blurry. I was SO tired. We didn’t talk much. I was just too tired to talk plainly….to get the words out of my mouth. “Man…. I have to wake up,” I told myself. I figured that once I got inside the school and started moving around and getting involved with my regular routine and went about performing my regular duties, I would snap out of it. I just had to get my blood flowing again.

Matthias left my office and went to class. I tried to get involved with my daily responsibilities. But…. My vision was still blurry; speech was still difficult; when I walked, it looked like I had been drinking too much; I was still slightly disoriented; I couldn’t think straight….and I felt like I could barely stay awake. I tried to work…..but I was accomplishing nothing.

I starting to get apprehensive. This was not normal. I had never felt like this before. Something was obviously wrong. I found our principal and told him that something unusual was happening…..that I was not feeling well…..that I didn’t know what was going on. He looked at me and said, “You don’t look very well, either. Maybe you should go home for the rest of the day.”

Luckily, I think, I did not simply go back home. I asked our secretary if she knew a doctor that I could call. Yeah…. I didn’t even know a doctor. Except for the doctor in town….and who knew how long I would have to sit in the office waiting to see him. I had already had some negative experiences in his office. Luckily, this was the day that our school nurse was in our building. She recommended a doctor in Meriden, whom I never heard of. Our secretary called his office and told them basically that there was an “emergency”…..which may or may not have been the case. But, I am glad she did.

While all of this was taking place in her office, I was still in my office…..just sitting and wondering that was the heck was happening…..and when I was going to start feeling better. I tried to do some work, but that seemed to be out of the question. Mostly I was just trying to stay awake….and to focus….focus….focus…..

Finally, she came into my office and told me that she had made an appointment….as soon as I could get there. She had called the high school office, and they were sending Matthias over to drive me to Meriden. He arrived….perplexed and sort of disoriented himself…..wondering what was happening….and possibly wondering if I was going to live until he got me there. Poor kid….. He hadn’t planned on being an ambulance driver that morning. But, I am surely glad he was there to drive for me.

Once I arrived at the clinic in Meriden, they immediately took me to an examining room and took my temperature. After that…. All “Heck” broke loose. Everybody became excited. They lay me down on the examining table, put an IV in my arm, loaded me up with some sort of drug….. And then left me lying there! For maybe 30 or more minutes. Occasionally, a nurse…..probably the only nurse….. would stick her head in and say, “How are you doing?”

“Well…. I don’t know. That is what I came here to find out.” Finally after what seemed like a week….although it was probably more like an hour….the doctor came in to talk to me. He said that my blood pressure was maybe the highest blood pressure he had ever seen. Wow…. Does that get me a discount? They proceeded to attach wires to my chest….my head…..and probably some other body parts, too. He concluded that MAYBE I had a small stroke.

That was the beginning of my intense adventure with the American medical system. Welcome Aboard….. And, to an eventual three stents….and one pacemaker….and lots of medicine!

But…. That was only the beginning.

Let me tell you the story of my first hospital visit. That, in itself, was rather bizarre. Back in those days….the “Good Old Days”, as we say….the only time I had been in a hospital was to visit other people…..and even then, not very often. Being in the hospital was not on my Top Ten List of things to do. In fact, it was probably on my Top Ten List of things what I wanted to avoid at almost all cost. Chalk this up, I suppose, to fear of the “unknown”. From what I had observed from infrequent visits, hospitals definitely were not the place for me.

Back in the “Good Old Days”, it was the custom of my brothers in Topeka to prepare a meal….actually, it was more like a banquet….on Saturday evening, and they would invite me down to eat with them. These were sumptuous meals….meals that I always looked forward to. Actually, that was probably the only real meal I ate each week. I have never been renowned for my cooking! These meals did nothing for my weight….except increase it. And, they probably did nothing for my arteries….except clog them. But none of that mattered. The Saturday evening meals were something I looked forward to and rarely missed.

In their house, just as in my house, everybody had his “assigned” seat. My place to sit was in a rather comfortable over-stuffed chair with a matching ottoman. I would go in, sit down in “my” chair, put my feet up on the ottoman…..and immediately Katy Sue, their little white dog, would come running and jump onto my lap and greet me with multiple “kisses”. She would then jump off, make a circuit around the perimeter of the downstairs….and then repeat the process over again, jumping into my lap and shower me with more of her affection. She and I were buddies….and she liked me.

I am getting away from the story, though. This particular Saturday night when I arrived at their house, my back was hurting. Nothing new about that. My back hurt a great deal of the time. When dinner was ready, I pulled myself up out of my chair, went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. I am sure the meal was beyond delicious….and I probably ate too much, as I usually did. But, that is OK. As I said, it was the only decent meal I ate during the entire week. All was going well. We sat and talked, nobody was in a big hurry to do anything else.

But, it was starting to get late….and I do not like to drive after it gets dark. So, I reluctantly decided that it was time to depart and go back home. Except…. There was one problem: I could not stand up! Yeah! That’s right….. My back was hurting so badly that I could not stand up. I don’t know all the technical terms, but the muscles were so tight…or so contracted…..or so something…. that they simply were not going to respond.

So, there I was….. Sitting at the table in my brother’s kitchen….not able to move. I made several attempts to get up….slowly. Just ease myself up…..out of the chair. But, my back was having none of that. It had made up its mind. It was not going to cooperate. I was NOT going to be able to stand up. And…. By now, my back was getting even worse….hurting even worse…. My brothers were beginning to get nervous, maybe even a little frightened. And, me? Well, I was not feeling so good myself.

There was only one question being asked: “What are we going to do?”

Yes…. Indeed. What were we going to do? Indeed. What were the choices?

I could continue to sit there. Maybe spend the night sitting in the chair…..a straight back, wooden chair. Maybe I could even spend the rest of my life sitting there. I was getting concerned…. I hate to say scared, but maybe that entered my mind just a bit! Everybody just sort of kept looking at each other saying, “What shall we do?” ….sort of like we were rehearsing a line for a play.

The only obvious decision was to call somebody for help. The only logical people to call were the 9-1-1 rescue team. And, that led to only one logical conclusion: I was going to the hospital. I had never been in the hospital. This was my first time. At this point, I am not sure what was worse: Not being able to move because of my back….. OR… having to go to the hospital. I do not remember exactly, but, at this point, I am thinking that going to the hospital may have won that contest.

OK…. Somebody called 9-1-1. It wasn’t very long….maybe 10 minutes or so….when a rescue unit pulled up in front of the house. Three young, healthy-looking paramedics came into the house carrying a stretcher. “Get onto the stretcher,” they said.

“Oh, come on now.” If I could get onto the stretcher, obviously I could get into my car and go home!

“No problem. We will simply lift you up and put your onto the stretcher.” Well…. That was a fantasy. The three people….and at least one of them was a young lady….were being very optimistic if they thought they could lift me from a sitting position onto the stretcher. Every time they touched me….every little movement that I made….sent excruciatingly pain throughout my body. Plan One was obviously not going to work. It was an utter failure, in fact. I am still sitting in the straight back, wooden kitchen chair, consumed with pain.

Plan Two: They called for backups! About ten minutes later, it seemed like an entire fire department company came filing into the house. They manhandled me…..No, I am sure they were being as “gentle” and as careful as they knew how….onto the stretcher. And…. Away we went. My very first trip to the hospital, in an ambulance, no less.

After an interminable amount of time in the Emergency Room, they finally transferred me to a private room. As I was lying there in great pain, a nurse came into my room.

“Oh, Mr. Darrah! Do you remember me?” She was one of my former students….now a nurse. And, she was obviously very happy to see me again. Maybe she thought I had arranged all of this back problem just as an excuse so I could drop by and see her!

I weakly acknowledged that, Yes, I did indeed remember her. She was bubbling over with excitement. She left the room, and soon came back with what seemed to be the entire nursing staff. “This is Mr. Darrah, my old sixth grade teacher,” she told them excitedly….and I hope proudly. Now I was the center of a dog and pony show. Each of them greeted me cheerfully. I think they halfway expected me to jump out of bed and party with them.

Needless to say, I did get good care that night, with nurses looking in on me at very regular intervals…..asking how I felt….if I needed anything….

Anyway…… After a night of lying in bed with an assortment of tubes sticking out of many parts of my body…..after two bottles of morpheme (because the first one had absolutely no effect)…..and after a series of pills….heat pads….cold pads….. Sometime the next day, my back was pretty much back to normal….and I was released to go back home.

This…..in short form….was my introduction to the “hospital system”…..one of the many tentacles of the “medical system”.

The most important lesson I learned from this latter experience was that my fear of hospitals was more or less irrational….based on nothing more than fear of the unknown…some invention of my runaway imagination….and faulty decisions I had made based on my perception and not on facts. I still have no desire to pack up my belongings and make a hospital my permanent home. But, on the other hand, I no longer become paralyzed with terror or panic.

Over the intervening years, I have been in and out of the hospital….always the Stormont-Vail Health Center in Topeka….several times, probably as many as ten or twelve times. Each these stays in the hospital has been for a short duration….and has been for a necessary and legitimate purpose: back problems….to have stents installed….or a pacemaker….for uncontrolled nose bleeds….a couple times for sleep analysis….for an unsuccessful attempt to install a device into my heart….and a couple visits to the emergency room.

It has been said…..and with some truth and justification….that learning something first hand is not always the best way to acquire knowledge. You know…. You don’t have to touch a hot stove…..You do not have to pet a rattlesnake….. However, I have come to believe that perhaps spending time in the hospital does have some extra added value when attempting to understand the mysteries of the medical industry. After multiple stays in the hospital and after literally hundreds of visits to various doctors’ offices over the past almost twenty years, I have become sort of an expert on recognizing the “mysteries” ….. but I am really no closer to figuring them out.

During my early stays in the hospital, never in a million years would it have entered my mind to question what the doctors were doing to me…..or why. They were DOCTORS! And doctors obviously know what they are doing; they are beyond question. I am not complaining about the care I received. The nurses and also the doctors took good care of me. I mean…. I went back home every time, didn’t I?

They “cured” my back problem….at least, for a period of time. They installed the stents….and I felt an immediate positive effect. After they installed the pacemaker, my heart beat at a steady, constant rate of 60 beats per minute.

Probably I should say a thing or two about the doctors I see at the hospital. These guys are really doctors; they all have a medical degree (of some sort)! For the most part….and there was probably one or two exceptions….maybe, I did not see “my” doctors, the ones I normally see when “I go to the doctor”. Instead, I see doctors who are called “hospitalists”…..doctors who are assigned specifically and permanently to the hospital. These are the doctors who actually see and treat the patients on a daily basis….at least, the routine stuff.

Yes…. This seemed to be a good arrangement. Everything seemed to go OK….. Actually, things went well for a few years. Then I started to have problems….feeling “light-headed” (again)….experiencing some minor nausea…. Stuff like that. I mentioned it to my doctors….and a lot of times to Physician’s Assistants, because I could not get an appointment with my regular doctor. It was not at all uncommon for the doctor….or the Physician’s Assistant….to take a look at the medicines I am taking and ask, “Why are you taking this medicine?” What am I supposed to say? “Because a doctor told me to.”

Or perhaps one of my regular doctors would say, “You have been taking this medicine for five (or six or four or eight….) years. You should only take it for a few months.” Again, what should I reply? Nobody told me to stop. They kept authorizing refills….so I kept taking it. The problem boils down to the fact that doctors do not seem to confer or coordinate with each other. They all seem to prescribe medicine in a sort of vacuum. Nobody questions anybody. Maybe that is policy. Maybe they do not have the time to check what drugs have already been prescribed. Maybe they are afraid of offending one of their fellow doctors. Drug interactions is surely a topic that doctors have some knowledge of…. I hope. Nothing really serious has happened to me yet as a result of negative interaction between opposing medicine. But, there is always a very real potential that this could happen.

All of this was true in my case until a year or so ago. Then my new cardiologists about had a heart attack himself when he looked at my list of medicines. “You should not be taking half this stuff. Stop taking them, and throw them away,” he said. He said that there could possibly have been some very harmful conflicts or negative interactions with some of the drugs. He told me stop taking them immediately. That guys has guts! That…. And, he was about to retire….so maybe he felt that he had nothing to lose.

So…. Not only did I stop taking medicine that I did not need…or that may have actually been harmful…..I also immediately started saving money!

The point that I want to make, however, is that all these various drugs….or medicines….were no doubt prescribed in the hospital…by a specific doctor…or hospitalist…for an immediate specific purpose. Once it was prescribed, it was never changed. Apparently nobody ever bothered to look at the list and ask: “Is this medicine still necessary?” and “Is this medicine subject to a negative interaction with another medicine?”

Over the years, I have observed that doctors do not like to contradict another doctor….especially a doctor who works within the same medical group. And….. Another things I have noticed is that doctors are very “territorial”…..and they do not like to intrude on another doctor’s territory or domain….. Nor do they like for other doctors to invade their own territory. And, here again…. I think it is even more pronounced when doctors all work for, or are a part of, a “medical group”.

You know…. I tend to think that perhaps that not all this “compartmentalization” can be attributed to professional jealousy, though. I suspect that the matter of money may also play a role in this arrangement. Stop and think. These medical groups are profit making organizations. Most doctors are greedy. Why else do you think they chose to be doctors? Oh, come on now…. Be honest. Anyway, the more doctors that a patient sees, more money is going to flow into their organization. So, the patient sees more doctors, more nurses, more technicians. The patient has more tests, more lab work, more interpreting lab results. Let’s be realistic: Nobody is going to see a doctor or a hospital and not escape without a battery of tests, x-rays, lab work. All of this means more money flowing into their treasury.

Yeah, I know that all of this sounds cynical. On the other hand, these are first hand conclusions that I have drawn after almost twenty years of experience.

At regular intervals, I, like everybody else, receives an itemized account of charges from my insurance company. And…let me say: All of my medical costs have been paid in full by insurance. And, I have excellent insurance. I have never received a bill from a doctor or a hospital. However, when I look at the list of services which the insurance company has paid for….. Wow! It is not only mystifying, it is a little mind boggling. “What is this?” “What is this charge for?” “When did this happen?” “Who is this doctor?”

Maybe I shouldn’t care. The insurance took care of it. They didn’t question it. It is already paid for. Nevertheless, it is baffling. There I was….lying on the hospital bed….awake (for the most part) and conscious…aware of what is going on around me. Why can’t I remember these things? Why don’t I know what happened to me? Were they doing things to me that I wasn’t even aware of?

I took the time and effort to download the dictionary of medical and insurance codes, thinking that this would help me to understand the various charges on the insurance statement. It was a waste of time. The insurance codes are not listed….only the name of the doctor, the medical facility or some technician.

Quite frankly, I think that hospitals, doctors’ offices, laboratories….any sort of medical facility….should be required to be more transparent in explaining or representing the services they charge their patients….even though it is done through an insurance company. Yeah, yeah, I know: Most people simply don’t care about this kind of stuff….as long as their insurance company pays it. I can imagine it would be quite another matter if they had to pay for it out of their own pocket.

OK….. Let’s skip ahead for a few years….up to the summer of 2017. As I wrote in a previous blog, this could well have been the worst summer I spent in my entire lifetime. It is not a time that I like to even recall. For some reason I had a series of unexplained nosebleeds. If you read the blog, you already know that these were not just “nosebleeds”….the kind that a lot of people get for various reasons. These were serious nosebleeds. On each incident, my nose would start bleeding around 10:30 at night…. Just start bleeding.

Sultan, as usual, was staying with me that summer. The nosebleeds always started just as he was getting ready to go to bed, and I was going to settle down in my office for awhile. The first time was the most frightening. No matter what we did….we could not stop the bleeding. The blood just kept flowing out of my nose. Sultan was great! I honestly don’t know I would have done if he had not been there. I am sure that he was scared…very scared. But, he never showed it as we tried everything we could think of to stop the bleeding. It was Sultan who suggested….. Maybe “insisted” would be a more accurate word….that we go to the emergency room.

We grabbed a roll of paper towels and a box of tissue….and took off. I learned at least one lesson that night: Blood gets the attention of doctors and nurses very quickly. After four or five hours, the people in the emergency room finally succeeded in stopping the bleeding. This happened on three different occasions. On none of these stays in the emergency room did anybody ever suggest a cause….or even attempt to. It appeared that this was not their job. Their job was to treat the immediate symptoms….and get me out of there as quickly as they could…… To make room for the next person….somebody whom they felt was more serious than I.

I had appointments with a bunch of doctors….and quasi-doctors….none of whom had any idea of what was happening. And, I suspect they really didn’t think it was a serious problem….. “Just a nosebleed.” Maybe we should have punched one of them in the nose…..and let it bleed for five or six hours. No…. That would have been too easy. Even they could have figured that one out.

So…. Appointments were made with my general practitioner, his physician’s assistant and with the ear and nose doctor. He was a joke….. He obviously did not have a clue. Next came the respiratory doctor…. Each of them prescribed an assortment of nose drops, sprays….even gels to put in my nose. I was instructed never to touch my nose…never to blow my nose…. Just act like I was a freak who had no nose. Who “knows” why??!

I lived in constant fear that all of this was going to happen again after Sultan had to leave and go back home. The point is: Nobody….none of the doctors….coordinated or consulted with each other to diagnose the problem.

Again…. It was my good old cardiologist who recognized the problem. I never knew that cardiologists specialized in nosebleeds. He had apparently read my medical history…something of a surprise in itself….and asked me about the situation. I described the nosebleeds briefly. He already knew about them… And, then, he looked again at my medical records. He is a very soft spoken man, but I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was not pleased. “I see that are taking Plavix AND a full strength aspirin every day. Is that right?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“You should have taken the Plavix for only six weeks after your last stent was installed,” he said, shaking his head. “I want you to stop taking the Plavix immediately. And, as for the aspirin…. Why are you also taking it?”

“I don’t know,” I answered ignorantly, but honestly. “Because the doctor told me to.”

“All you need to take is a low dose aspirin every morning. Throw all the other stuff away.”

I took his advice. There were no more nosebleeds. And, as an added benefit or reward, all the bruises started to disappear. I no longer bled for hours when I scratched myself or when I had an entanglement with a bramble bush or a locust tree. I no longer had to carry a towel with me when I mowed the grass. I was left with the lingering question: Why didn’t one of my doctors warn me about this long ago? Why was I permitted to take a drug that was actually doing more harm than good?

These questions would arise later…..

Now, let’s fast forward to another learning incident. You know…. Maybe it is somewhat ironic that being active in the education profession for 40 years that it is I who seems to have always been the student. It is I who was on the “learning” end of things….especially when it involved the medical industry. Probably, just like some of my students, it took a while to finally learn the lessons….and sometimes the hard way.

I am not at all sure that the public trusts teachers like it trusts doctors. Maybe they used to….at a time long ago and far away. A teacher’s word was “the law”. Teachers were among the most trusted and respected of all people. Back in those days of yester-years, the teacher was always right. If a kid got into trouble at school, it was a sure bet that he was in trouble as soon as he got home. I am not sure what happened…. I suspect attitudes began to change during the turbulent Sixties….the civil rights movement, the Vietnam War protests….and it probably took an even more firm hold in the early Seventies with the Watergate scandal and the looming impeachment of President Nixon and his subsequent resignation.

Maybe this was the period when many established and revered professions and institutions began to slowly crumble. I am not sure…..and that is a subject better left to a later blog.

One profession that was not touched by this radical questioning of institutions seemed to be the medical profession. A doctor’s word….his opinion….his pronouncements….were still held to be inviolate….the law….beyond question. As time goes by, I think that a change in attitude or mindset is evolving…..slowly, but surely. Again, I am not going to delve in to anything sort of public opinion analysis.

I know at this point in my life…..and I am jumping ahead in my story from 2001 to somewhere approximately around spring 2019….I have begun to receive quite an extensive first hand education in the mechanics and the mysteries of the medical industry. When Matthias drove me to Meriden to the clinic that fateful day back in 2001, I was in the “kindergarten” of my medical education. Now going on twenty years later, I am sure that I have acquired at least a “Master’s Degree”….and I am going for a “PhD”.

On that visit to the doctor in Meriden (who, by the way, is no longer my doctor….by my choice), I was apprehensive and nervous and timid. It was one of the few times that I had actually “gone to a doctor” in my entire life. When I got there, it was a strange environment. I was not familiar with all the stuff….checking in, filling out a dozen forms, the waiting room with strange, supposedly sick, people sitting around. Because our secretary had called previously and told them it was sort of an emergency, I was whisked to an examining room immediately. OK…. I have already gone over this story.

I was rather frightened…. I wish there was another word….a word that conveys a meaning of a lesser degree or a step under “frightened”….. But, at that point, I was willing to do anything and everything I was told. I accepted every word the doctor and the nurses told me….. I willingly took every pill they offered to me…… I hung on their every word…. And, truthfully, I had no reason not to. They handled the situation in a very efficient, caring and professional manner. But…. The point is: Back then, I was a rookie to the medical industry.

Now…. Let’s get to 2019, like I promised. Actually, it was spring break 2019. Fayez had come up from Wichita to visit for a few days. By and large, it was a relaxing time. Fayez went running a couple times as he normally does. When I lived in the Ozawkie house, his favorite running venue was the good old Ferguson Road. Yeah…. It really was the “good old Ferguson Road”. That was the first place Fayez ran back in 2012, the first time he came to stay with me. And, that was basically the only place he ever ran. Oh…. There were probably a few time he ran at Paradise Point, but not very many. Generally speaking, it was always the Ferguson Road.

After I moved to Topeka, the running scene shifted to Lake Shawnee. At least a couple times, we drove the two or three miles to the lake. Fayez ran….and I, of course, took pictures….and told him what a great job he had done! That was MY job. And, he always did a great job. He wasn’t training for any sort of competition, so his running was solely recreational and to simply keep in shape.

It was during that visit, Spring Break of 2019, that Fayez helped me stabilize a table that I had built down in the basement of my townhouse. The purpose of the table was to have a place to fold laundry. I build the table by myself…. No problem. The problem was, however, that the table was so wobbly that it was in danger of collapsing….even if merely walked near it. Fayez agreed to help me reinforce it…to make it stronger and less likely to topple over.

Now, let me be honest. Fayez is almost always willing to help me with whatever project I need assistance. But…. Fayez has one goal in mind: To get it done! As fast as possible. Quality means little to him…. (Yeah, Fayez….. Don’t argue with me.) Just get it done….and get out of there. Well…. We got the project done. It is not a work of art. It is not going to appear in some woodworking magazine as the perfect example of craftsmanship. But…. I can definitely say that I can now fold clothing on it….and I do not worry about it falling to the floor in little pieces…..and that is what counts.

Fayez also made some Arab dessert or delicacy….called……….

For the most part, we simply ate out. It was the easiest thing to do. This was true of Sunday, too. Fayez and I went to eat at our favorite Chinese buffet. It was delicious, as always. After sitting and talking for an hour…probably a little longer than that….it was time to leave. Any time I have been sitting for a while and get up to walk, I become very wary.

I told Fayez, “Go slowly.”

Of course, he had heard me say that dozens of times. I stood up….slowly and holding onto the table….and started walking toward the door of the restaurant. I always try to look nonchalant….trying to smile at the Chinese family who owns the place as I walk out….trying to walk in a straight line…..hoping that I will not fall on my face….hoping that everything looks “normal”. Fayez stayed close in front of me….just in case I had to take hold of him. I made it out of the restaurant, and then I had to stop and lean against Fayez. I knew if I took another step, I would surely find myself lying in a heap on the asphalt parking lot. My head was spinning….. My vision was, in the best analysis, blurry…. It was all I could do to simply maintain consciousness….

“I have to stop for a minute,” I told Fayez.

Fayez had heard me say this before, too…..maybe not as many times as Sultan had heard it, but he had heard it. We stopped. I held on to something….as casually as I could….probably the cover or canopy to the door of the restaurant. I wanted it to appear that Fayez and I were simply standing there talking to each other. After a minute or so, we continued walking to the car. I was feeling better….like I ways did. Just a brief rest….and then continue on.

“You need to go to the Emergency Room,” Fayez said. That seemed a little bit extreme, I thought. Episodes like this happen often….they are common….they come and they go.

“No. I don’t think that is necessary,” I said. “I will be fine. Everything is OK now.” And, really….. Nothing unusual had happened. As I said, this happened a lot. In fact, I had expected it to happen. It had been happening for a long time. Chances are, I would have been somewhat puzzled if it had not happened.

Fayez kept insisting….and I kept protesting. “I don’t want to go to the Emergency Room….and look like an idiot.” Hypochondriac….is no doubt a better word. I was pretty sure that they would find nothing wrong…..and I would simply be taking up a bed that could be put to better use…..and taking time from another patient who needed attention worse than I.

Fayez kept insisting. “OK,” I finally relented. “Let’s go.”

I was very sure that visit was not necessary. But…. What the heck? We had nothing better to do. Why not go there….let them take my blood pressure, do an EKG….make a little bit of money….and then politely send me on my way. I have excellent insurance. It would cover any and all tests they might want to do. So…. “OK… Let’s go.”

To this day, I still have not figured it out….. But, when I got to the emergency room, they seemed to take my symptoms rather seriously. Immediately they began to order all sorts of tests, and it soon became apparent that I would not be going home that night, after all.

Poor Fayez! I don’t think he saw this coming! I rather suspect that he… along with me…figured that they would take a look at me….do a couple simple tests to justify making a few bucks for their time….make an appointment with my cardiologist….and point toward the door.

Poor Fayez! He had to go back to Wichita (At least, he said he did.) because he had class the next day. And, I am pretty sure he was thinking, “What have I gotten myself into now?” Or maybe he was thinking, “I wish I had kept my mouth closed!” I could tell that he was getting anxious….in the true sense of the word. Here I was…. In the hospital. I was not going to be released. They had (or were scheduling) multiple tests. I was going to be transferred to regular room. And…. I am sure he was thinking: “This is fine mess I have gotten into… What am I going to do? I have class tomorrow…..”

So…. It was, “Well…. Good-bye…. Good luck…. You are on your own…. I am out of here…..”

Maybe not exactly like that…. But, I could tell that he was getting nervous and was eager to leave and get back to Wichita. There was nothing I could do. I was stuck in the hospital….something neither of us had expected. He had to go back to college the next day. It was sort of a Catch 22. “OK….”, like there was anything else that I could say.

Well…. There were a couple things. First of all, we were driving my car. His car was at our townhouse. And, of course, he had to go back to the townhouse to get all his stuff.

“I will be back,” he said. In the meantime, I was probably wheeled off for another test or two. Never a dull moment….

Fayez returned, said Good-bye, and was off. In the meantime, I had been transferred to a regular room somewhere in the cardiac wing. I think they had given up testing for the night. A couple hours later, my cell phone rang. It was Fayez…. And, I have to say: It was probably the most apologetic voice I had ever heard him use.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I forgot to leave your keys with you,” he said. And, by keys, we are talking about not only the keys to my car…..but also the keys to the townhouse!

“Where are they?” I asked….temporarily forgetting that there was no way he could have locked them inside the townhouse. It can only be locked from the outside. I was hoping beyond hope that he was going to say, “I left them on the coffee table….or kitchen counter….”

“They are in my pocket,” he said.

“Where are you now?” Again, in a foolish state of false hope, I was hoping he was going to say, “I am still in the parking lot.” But, even Fayez wouldn’t sit in the parking lot for two hours!

“I am almost back to Wichita,” he said.

Well…. There was no point in getting angry. The poor guy didn’t take them on purpose. And….. Could I (or he) help that he was so eager to get back to Wichita and to is beloved laboratory? He promised to send them by priority mail the next day. In the meantime, I had no idea how many more days I would be in the hospital.

As it turned out, I spent all day Tuesday in the hospital….plus most of Wednesday. When I got back to the townhouse, the first thing I did was check with the office to see if the keys had arrived. Of course, they hadn’t. I was afraid that I was going to have to pay $10.00 for the maintenance guy to let me back into my house. But, I didn’t. They were happy to open the door for me. And…. True to his word, the keys arrived by priority mail the next day.

But…. Back to the hospital.

By this time I had been delivered by a personal valet to my luxurious private suite on the eighth floor…lying in my plush single bed onto which guard rails had been thoughtfully attached….just in case the partying got too wild, and I rolled out of bed. We certainly would not want that to happen. Oh yes…. They were so eager for my presence that they placed a sensor in my bed. I guess that was so they could all come and say good-bye in case I decided I couldn’t take any more excitement….and leave.

To serve my every need, the hospital assigned me a real babe for a nurse. She weighed somewhere in the range of 300 lbs…..and had the personality of a chainsaw. No… Here I am trying to be funny and a bit sarcastic. Yes…. She was a very “healthy” woman….and I don’t think there is any danger you will see her as a centerfold in a men’s magazine. But, she proved to be quite a nice woman, once I became accustomed to her rather abrupt manner. I rather resented the sensor they put in my bed, but that was not her fault, I suppose. I am still trying to figure it out…. And, the sensor was STILL there even when I checked out a couple days later.

The following day I felt like a dog and pony show. A parade of doctors….the hospitalist (the doctor assigned to the hospital), a cardiologist, a neurologist, a gastrointestinal doctor…..and, who knows? …. probably a psychiatrist ….stopped in to take a look at me. No doubt, the hospitalist was just doing his normal job. He really didn’t take a lot of interest in me. All the others….without exception….seemed to be pushing something. Some product….or procedure….or some cause.

Not all of what they had to say….or offer….or advocate….or sell….was bad. The thing that annoyed me the most was that my current condition….the reason that I was lying there in that bed…..the reason that had brought me there in the first place…..the reason they performed every test in their repertoire…..even the reason they thought it was necessary to put a movement sensor in my bed!….were mostly ignored and left undiscussed. I still have no real understanding of what happened to me while I was there.

One doctor…. I think it could have been the neurologist, although I am not sure….spent his time pushing the blood thinner Eliquis…..and for reasons that were never quite clear to me. I explained to him the problems I had had while using a blood thinner in earlier years. How I had ended up in the emergency room three times….how even the smallest cut or scratch would bleed for hours. I explained to him that I was so very fortunate that Sultan was staying with me the summer of the nosebleeds. I told him that since I live by myself, I am not comfortable or eager to encounter these problems again.

Basically, he said, “Well… Take your choice. Die of a stroke….or bleed to death. Which do you want?” I more or less wrote him off….and tuned him out. He did not appear to be a Happy Camper…..nor was I. Doctors apparently do not like to have their opinions doubted.

Another of the doctors pushed compression stockings. Up until that point, nobody had ever suggested that I wear compression stockings. I was mildly skeptical about wearing them….especially since none of my regular doctors had ever talked about them previously. Lying there, helpless in bed, I offered an observation that I thought was rather amusing. “Oh, Wow! Those are going to make me look like an old man!” All of my regular doctors would have laughed appreciatively, and used it as an invitation to segue into their medical reasoning. But…. Not this doctor. I suspect he felt his authority or his “medical superiority” was being challenged.

“Well,” he said. “You can be fashionable….or your can have a stroke.”

This guy obviously flunked the class on doctor-patient relations….or bedside manners.

Man…. What is it about this having a stroke stuff? I started to get just a little bit nervous that maybe one of them would actually try to induce one….just to prove his point.

Later on I brought up this subject with Dr. Thomas, my general practitioner….and I also repeated my hilarious observation! After he chuckled appreciatively….and sympathized with me…. it was he who explained that I probably (now more or less confirmed) have a condition called orthostatic hypo tension. When I am sitting down gravity pulls the blood into the lower extremities….the legs and feet. When I stand up again, it takes a period of time for the blood to be forced or pumped back to the upper part of the body….specifically the brain. That is the reason that I (and others) have a feeling of dizziness or light-headedness when they stand up from a sitting or prone position.

The compression stockings help force the blood back to the upper part of the body….the brain, most importantly, I suppose. Yes. That makes sense. And, if the doctor in the Emergency Room would have had any sense, he could have easily told me this.

So, as end result, this turned out to be a good suggestion. Dr. Thomas wrote me a prescription for some compression stockings. Really? I had to have a prescription for a pair of compression stockings? Oh well….. At least, he was trying to be helpful….and not a jerk.

I took the “prescription” to a medical supply store. Actually, they didn’t seem at all surprised or even amused when I handed them the prescription. The clerk showed me the stockings they had available. The number and variety of stockings was much less than I had imagined. But, on the other hand, this was not a clothing store….or a “fashion store” as the emergency room doctor would have put it.

The real shocker came when I asked the price of the stockings! They ranged in price from $87.00 per pair (!) up to….??? I really don’t recall what the most expensive pair cost. My brain was still trying to recover from the idea that a pair of socks could cost $87.00. But, naive me…. I didn’t know any better. This was the fist time I had ever encountered compression stockings. So…., I said, “Great. I will take a dozen pairs.” Right! If you believe that, you probably also believe that the Pope is a United Methodist and that Trump is actually sane! No….. I bought one pair, thinking, “Well, I can wash them every night and I wear the same pair every day.”

Before I left, the clerk asked me if I had ever worn a pair of compression stockings. She then gave me an 8 x 11 inch sheet of paper (regular typing paper or copy paper) which was filled with instructions on how to put them on. She also asked if I had somebody who could help me put them on. By this time, I was becoming (or already had become) disillusioned. $87.00 per pair…. An 8 x 11 sheet of instructions…..Somebody to help me put them on? No….. This was not going to work out.

The pair I bought at the medical supply store is still lying around the townhouse somewhere….still in the box….untouched. I looked on Amazon.com. And, like most things, I was relived that I could by compression stockings for a fraction of what I had just paid for them. In fact, I could by a set of three….let’s make that closer to six pairs… for less that I could buy one pair at the medical supply store. And….I also found that they sell compression stockings that zip up on the side! They do not come with any instructions. You just put them on…..and zip them up.

So…. To bring this little story to an end: I now wear zip-up compression stockings. And…. Most importantly: They seem to work. (That is probably the most shocking thing.) I put on the stockings the first thing in the morning and wear them until I get ready to go to bed. There has been a noticeable difference in how I feel. For the most part….. I can stand up and no longer feel that I am about to pass out.

While I was at the hospital, I asked if I could make an appointment with my new cardiologist. First of all..I wanted to know if he was aware that I had been in the hospital, and if not, to make him aware of the fact…..and to ask his opinion of the situation. Second…. I wanted to find out is he was aware of the fact that I had tried a procedure that he recommended…..and that it had failed.

Not long after my first appointment with him, I got a call from his nurse. She told me that he was strongly recommending that I consult with another cardiologist. This guy specialized in a procedure called “The Watchman Device”. Yes…. I was willing to meet with him and hear what he had to say. He patiently…and thoroughly….and clearly….explained that the “Watchman Device” is a partition that is inserted into the left atrium of the heart and blocks it off so no blood can enter it. The left atrium is apparently a small pouch-like cavity where blood often gets trapped….solidifies or clots. There is always a danger that at some point the blood clot will work its way free and will block an artery in the brain and cause a stroke. In fact, if I can believe this doctor, this is the major place in the body where blood clots are formed. If they could isolate this little chamber, he said, chances of having a stroke are reduced drastically.

It all sounded good to me. They tried to install the little device…..but they failed. My heart was too big….and the device was too small to enclose the little chamber. There is no defect in my heart. I simply have a bigger heart than most people…. But… Don’t we all know that?

Apparently while I was in the emergency room, another discussion was taking place which focused on alternative methods they could employee to close or block off the cavity….and perhaps make a little bit of money on the side. A couple days after I returned home, I received a telephone call from my cardiologist’s nurse. She told me there was another procedure that I might want to consider. Of course, she didn’t have any details…. Nurses never do. It sounded somewhat promising, so I told her to go ahead and set up an appointment with the surgeon who who would be performing the surgery. Actually, I was rather excited about the prospect, and I was looking forward to meeting the doctor.

On the appointed day and time, I arrived at his office….in a rather small office building, compared to most of the buildings where doctors have their offices. He was a German guy, and I later found out that he was only a surgeon, and did not treat patients on an assembly line basis. I met with both him and his physician’s assistant….a nice lady. They thoroughly laid out the plan.

The objectives of what the procedure would accomplish sounded great….exactly what the Watchman Device could accomplish…… In a different way and using a different method…..but achieving the same end result.

From that point, everything started to head downhill. Down a gradual grade at first….but it picked up speed as it went. He…the surgeon…. started talking about things that could “go wrong”. And, if things went “wrong”…. he kept repeating…. at that point, it would….or could….turn into open heart surgery.

I tried to pin him down with questions like, “What are the odds that this will happen?” “On a scale of one to ten, where would you place that possibility?” “Has this ever happened to you before?”

He kept artfully evading my questions….refusing to be pinned down to a definite answer….or any sort of answer. He was never hostile….not was I….but, on the other hand, he was not at all forthcoming with any positive assurances. Yeah, I realize that he was simply trying to cover his rear end. Yeah…I may have done the same thing. Yeah… I know that he had malpractice insurance to worry about. (And, Yeah… I would probably have considered some sort of legal action, if it had failed…..or at least, I hope the executor my estate would have!)

The discussion lasted somewhere around one hour….something that would be unreal and unheard of in most conversations with doctors. As time went by, I became more and more disillusioned. I wanted this surgery….the closure of the left atrial appendage…. done badly, because it has demonstrated it worthiness. It has been effective in preventing strokes. But, the doctor’s reluctance….even refusal….to give any assurances….or any hope of a success rate….was not enough to convince me to go forward with the surgery.

In the coming weeks, I was again deluged via my insurance statements of a staggering array of medical costs that had accumulated as a result of those three days in the hospital. As I had done previously, I looked at them….and shook my head in amazement. There was no point in even wondering what all the charges were paid for. I was never going to know. It was just another stop over in the Medical Mystery Tour. If the insurance company….in this case Medicare and Blue Cross….were satisfied, I was beyond worrying about them. And… Nobody was billing me directly for any of the services….so much the better.

As long as we are on this mysterious….and sometimes confusing, if not sinister….little medical journey…. Why stop now? Let’s just keep going for a while…..

After doing some research on the Internet….the good old Internet….we….mostly Sultan and I…. determined that another similar procedure was being performed at Via Christi Hospital in Wichita. Fayez called the hospital for me and was able to get a telephone number for me to call. In the meantime, I had called my cardiologist’s office and asked if they had any objections about me getting into contact with Via Christi. I really did not need any sort of permission….but I think it is always a good idea to keep my doctors informed of what I am doing….if not as a sign of courtesy, then certainly considering my own well-being. As I had expected, my cardiologist’s nurse called back after a couple days and said, “OK. The doctor has looked into the procedure, and he thinks it is OK for you go ahead and look into it.”

The stage was now set. The curtain was about to go up on this act of the little drama. The name of the medical procedure, by the way, is the Lariat Procedure….just in remote case you are wondering….or even care.

I called the number that Fayez had provided. I was taken by surprise when the nurse answered the telephone. She already knew who I was….and said she had been expecting my call. I was impressed.

We immediately got down to business. I reminded her again that they had tried to install the Watchman Device and that it has not been successful. She seemingly already knew that….from Fayez, I assume. I also told her that another cardiologist had proposed using another method, but that I had declined because of the apparent risks involved and of their reluctance…..if not refusal….to give me any assurances of its success. That, I told her, was why I interested in the Lariat Procedure…..and I was very much hoping that it could be arranged…..and that was why I was calling upon them.

She seemed to understand and agree…..and asked me if I could have my medical records forwarded to her so they could review my medical history and background. Of course, I was willing to do this. And, that very day, I called the Heart Clinic and requested that the records be sent to Via Christi Hospital. Ah, ha! Mission accomplished. I was feeling quite hopeful that soon the Lariat Procedure would be accomplished…..and I could feel more confident about my future….that my odds of having a stroke would be greatly diminished. The nurse said she would contact me as soon as they had looked at my medical records.

About a couple weeks had passed without any contact with Via Christi. I was starting to get a little impatient….and concerned….so I called the nurse again to ask what progress was being made. “Oh, I am glad you called,” she said. “Have you asked your cardiologist to forward your medical records? We have not received them yet.”

“Oh, great,” I thought. “I hope there isn’t some sort of problem.” I called the Heart Clinic and told them that Via Christi had not received my records. “Oh, really?” she….whomever I was talking to….said. “We sent that request to the medical records office a week ago. Hold on for a minute, and I will check.”

I probably played a game of solitaire and wrote a dozen email messages….but finally “she” reappeared and said happily, “She is getting them ready to send right now.” It is a good thing I called….or “right now” could have been in a couple more weeks.

A few days later, the nurse at Via Christi called and told me they had indeed received the medical file…..and that the cardiologist had agreed to talk to me about “the procedure”. She would set up a time and give me a call.

OK…. That sounds good.

In the meantime, there were other calls between us….Medicare policy number, Blue Cross-Blue Shield number. Let me make sure I have your address. We would like for a family member to accompany you. (OK… That would be Fayez….close enough.) Do you have somebody who can drive for you after the surgery? (That would be Fayez, again….) We were already making assumptions and plans that some sort of surgery was going to take place…..

Finally, another call sometime in the middle of August…. “How will Tuesday, September 3 work for you? This will only be for consultation, though.”

September 3 was the day after Labor Day. That sounded OK for me. I mean, almost any day would have been fine for me. My schedule is rather flexible. The appointment was scheduled for 8:30 A.M…..a little early, but that was OK. The nurse had assured me that I should be out of the office by 10:30. Unless….. Unless something unforeseen arose. Like…. What? Like, maybe the doctor was called into emergency surgery. (Didn’t seem very likely to me….but who knows?) Or…. Another consultation ran seriously over time…. Again, unlikely. It has always seemed to me that doctors spend as little time as possible with a patient….no matter what. Or…. Maybe he was running late playing golf….and just didn’t make it back in time. Much more likely!

Fayez had to go to class at 12:30 and needed to drive me back to my hotel and get back to the university. But….Never fear. She told me that their waiting rooms are comfortable….there are an abundance of vending machines for drinks and (junk) food nearby….that there are magazines to read….and TV (with Fox News as its only option, I assume)….. I was welcome to just hang out in the waiting area until Fayez could return.

OK…. It was settled. I was looking forward to going to Wichita, setting up an appointment….and finally having the cardiac procedure taken care of…..and experiencing the feeling of relief and reassurance that my chances of having a stroke were at a minimum.

Monday afternoon…. Labor Day afternoon….I put my suitcase and my laptop into the car and took off for Wichita…..and to yet a different hotel. This would be the fourth hotel I had reserved in Wichita. I was still looking for a comfortable place to stay. I had already tried Aloft, La Qunita and Motel 6. And, now I was about to try another motel.

Is there really such a thing? A good, comfortable hotel in Wichita? I mean…without paying a couple hundred dollars a night? Well…. Before you go out and try them all, let me tell you the answer: NO. I don’t know what it is about hotels in Wichita. What is so difficult about putting a comfortable chair in the room? I am starting to think they do not want people to stay for more than one night…..and this must be their way of making sure they don’t. It is such a simple thing…..a comfortable chair to sit in. This time I had chosen a Quality Inn. The pictures on the Internet looked nice….and there was a chair sitting in the corner….a nice, comfortable-looking chair.

I checked in, I was eager to get to the room and check out the nice, comfortable chair. Maybe I had found MY hotel…the place where I would always go to stay when I was in Wichita. Checking in was simple. I had already paid online. The desk clerk was friendly. There was an elevator….and they served breakfast. Now…. I couldn’t wait to see the chair.

OK… Let’s vote? Raise your hand if you think there was a nice, comfortable chair sitting in the corner….just like in the picture on the Internet. OK… I will even give you a clue: The answer is either Yes or No. If you get it wrong, you can even vote again. And…. The correct answer is: NO! Oh well… It was only for one night….and Fayez and I would be gone most of the evening. I had not found the ideal hotel…but it really doesn’t matter.

Fayez arrived on time about 5:00. As I already expected….from long experience….the first thing he suggested we do was to take a nap! Naps are good. An hour sleeping is certainly not wasted time. So, we took a nap.

Fayez had already planned to prepare dinner at his apartment. Good choice. Fayez is a good cook. We drove to his apartment. I waited while Fayez concocted a meal of some sort of pasta, chicken and some vegetables. As usual, it was delicious. Not to detract from his delightful meal, but almost any sort of food is delicious to me! Just set it in front of me….and I will gladly eat it….and enjoy it…. No questions asked.

After we finished eating, the plan was to go find a nice, safe bar so we could sit and talk for the remainder of the evening, before going back to the motel. Just knowing Fayez, I doubt if his list of bars is very extensive or inclusive. We did, however, drive all over the city of Wichita looking for a bar. Wow…. A city of around 390,000 people….four or five colleges and universities….a military base….. One would think there would be a lot of excitement happening after the sun goes down. We put a lot of miles on Fayez’s car. Every bar we checked out was closed…. Even the noisy Pump House Bar where had paid a five dollar cover charge on a previous visit. It was Labor Day…. And, apparently they take their holidays seriously. And….seriously (!), the city was dead. We may as well have been in Valley Falls. In Topeka, I am almost certain that every bar in the city would have been open…. Not only open….but, probably full of people celebrating their day off. But…. Don’t forget, like I said, I can imagine that Fayez’s list of bars may have been somewhat on the limited side.

We had an evening ahead of us…..and nothing to do and nowhere to go. And, who wants to go to bed before the sun goes down? Fayez suggested that we go back to his apartment and sit on the balcony. So… That sounded OK to me. That is what we did. I bought a six-pack of beer…for myself….and we sat on the balcony of Fayez’s apartment and talked until around 10:30 or 11:00…..and then drove back to the motel….the one without a comfortable chair to sit in.

I woke up around 6:30 the next morning. I was tempted to turn over and go back to sleep for “10 more minutes”…. But, there were good betting odds that 10 minutes would turn into an hour….or more. Anyway, I was eager to go see the cardiologist and set up a time for the surgery.

Sure enough, they were expecting us. But, just because they were expecting us didn’t mean we were immediately ushered into the doctor’s office to find him waiting for us. No…. Just like any other doctor’s office, it was, “OK. Go have a seat, and somebody will call you.” That is what we did…..found a couple seats in a very large, but also almost filled to capacity waiting area. Fayez, of course, looked at his cell phone. I watched the other patients for a while…..a strange assortment of humanity….and then closed my eyes. After some minutes….and I really do not know how many…..a nurse appeared and called my name.

We were ushered into an examining room where we were met by the nurse with whom I had spoken on the telephone. She asked the usual questions….the same ones that were on the medical forms they had received already. She left. Shortly another doctor appears…..actually a physician’s assistant. He asked some questions…basically the same questions the nurse had asked. He left. And…. Then the cardiologist made his grand entrance, accompanied by three young men whom I am assuming where medical students or beginning doctors….or something. Maybe they were body guards. I am not sure….except they were all dressed in white….just like real doctors (except I am sure they were not.)

The good old cardiologist. Actually, I liked him immediately. He was not a native American….probably from somewhere in the Middle East. He spoke perfect English, so he was probably born in the USA….or had lived here for a large number of years.

He didn’t waste any time with preliminary conversation. He apparently didn’t believe in beating around the bush, so to speak. As I recall, he initiated the conversation by asking directly what I wanted done. Of course, he already knew full well what I wanted…..maybe he was secretly recording the show! I told him that I was interested in the Lariat Procedure, and that I had heard that he would be able to perform the surgery.

He countered with such questions and remarks like: Why do you want this done? What do you think you are going to gain from it? How did you know about this procedure.

At some point while answering all his questions, I told him that I sort of wanted to live until I was one hundred years old. He immediately retorted, “You’re not going to live to be one hundred!”

One of the young medical students….or whoever they were….involuntarily gasped and put his hand to his mouth. Fayez glanced at me. The cardiologist realized almost instantly that what he said was perhaps not appropriate. He tried to make a joke of it. “Not with a face like that,” he said in his attempt to smooth things over. I am sure the remark was meant as a “lighthearted” comment…..but, Yes, I agree, it was not a remark I would expect to hear coming from a doctor’s mouth…..under ordinary circumstances, at least. (Unless he knows something I don’t know. And…I don’t think he does!)

He then said, “How old are you?”

“Eighty-one,” I told him.

“Have you ever had a stroke? What makes you think you are going to have stroke?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “My cardiologists have always told me that I need to be taking a blood thinner. But, I don’t want to. Then they told me I should have this heart procedure done.”

“You know,” he said, “I think that somebody is trying to scare you. You are eighty-one years old. You have never had a stroke. Your cholesterol level is good. Your blood pressure is good. Your heart looks like it is in pretty good condition. You have some atrial fibrillation, but only sporadically. It is not constant….and not severe. If I were you, I would go back home….live your life….take care of yourself….and not worry about it.”

Well…. What was I supposed to say?

“So, do you think it will be useful and helpful to have the Lariat Procedure done?” was all I could think of to say.

“We stopped doing the Lariat Procedure two and a half years ago,” he said. He went ahead and explained the reason they stopped doing it. I have pretty much forgotten his reasons now. But, I do remember him saying, “We thought that continuing to do it was unethical. So we stopped.”

I was shocked. So much for that! I must have looked disappointed…..or something.

In reality, I was thinking, “Why did you guys lure me down here. I told you exactly what I wanted. Fayez told the nurse what I wanted. Why didn’t somebody just tell us that the procedure had been discontinued…..two and a half years ago?”

“If you really want me to, I can do the Watchman Device. I can use two of them and overlap them.” he said. “I don’t like to do that. There is some risk involved. It is not a simple operation, but I can do that.”

He went on to explain that the risks of having the Watchman Procedure done…using overlapping devices to fully block off the cavity…. far outweighed the advantages. In fact, he repeated this two or three different ways….just in case I missed it the first time, I suppose.

Then he changed to his “lighthearted” mood again. “Yeah! I love money! If you want me to do it, that just means I am going to make a lot of money!” Then he added, “I will probably benefit more from it than you will.” He was laughing when he said this….outwardly, at least.

I sat there in a state of shock. Not because I was not going to have either the Watchman Procedure or the Lariat Procedure done…… But, because I had just talked to an honest doctor! I am thinking of writing an article for the American Medical Journal or maybe even Nature Magazine….and tell the world of my discovery.

And, also, because I had made the trip to Wichita unnecessarily….and had spent a night with no comfortable chair! Oh well….. I got to see Fayez.

Anyway, he said as he was preparing to leave, “I think you are going to be OK. Don’t let people scare you into doing things.” And, by people, I am pretty sure he meant to say “doctors”.

Well…. That was that. It was not yet 10:30. As usual, Fayez couldn’t wait to get to class. He took me back to the motel. I got into my car and drove back home….. Thus ending this segment of the Medical Mystery Tour.

Again this year, I celebrated my birthday with Fayez. Fayez is probably very lucky to even be here to celebrate with me. A couple years ago, he narrowly….and miraculously….escaped an almost catastrophic injury. And, possibly even worse than that. He is aware….just as I am aware…..exactly how fortunate he is to be in any condition to be walking without the assistance of a wheel chair, a walker….or even artificial limbs.

There is very little doubt that all these thoughts were heavy on his mind…..and that he approached the celebration of my birthday with both a cautious and thankful attitude …..grateful that he had been spared the great harm that could well have consumed him. Fayez also realized that his near fate was of his own design….that it was he alone who had to bear the responsibility for the danger he brought to his life. Realizing this liability…..or perhaps even out of a sense of guilt….and certainly, we can assume….out of a sense of fear, we can be almost certain that he was eager not to repeat his prior mistake this year. And, the mistake was without a doubt avoidable. Fear can be a powerful motivator: either toward extreme discretion and prudence. Or it can it can activate acts of carelessness and foolhardiness. Fayez realized that the dire situation from two years ago was not necessary; that is was needless; and that it could easily be averted. So, in this case….. Fear motivated him toward the correct path.

I was also wary. It was….and is….I who holds the power and the potential to inflict….or to suppress or deny….any catastrophic consequences or results.

OK….. Let me explain.

This all dates back to my birthday in 2016. It started off well intentioned. My birthday is on July 28. This is when it occurs almost every year, in fact! In 2016, July 28 fell on Thursday. Fayez was coming to the Darrah Ranch to celebrate my birthday. He was employed by Wichita State University….and was also a student there….so we postponed his visit until Friday, July 29. No big deal. I was just happy that he was able to come up for the occasion….as I always am.

When Fayez comes to visit, the time he tells me he will arrive is….. Well, relative. Give a couple minutes here….a couple hours there. Usually, the only thing I can be relatively sure of is that he will probably show up…..eventually, because he has to drive up from Wichita after work. He always arrives late in the afternoon or early evening. That rather precisely coincides with my nap time. I rather neatly solved the problem by proceeding with my nap…..and leaving the door unlocked. Whenever Fayez arrived, he could simply open the door and walk in. Normally, the sound of the door opening is more than enough to wake me up. There have been a couple times that he had to tickle my foot or do something similar to get my attention.

Fayez arrived in the late afternoon of Friday, July 29th……the day after my birthday…..carrying a cake from Dairy Queen…..my favorite kind. His, too. Even though he had it in an insulated cooler, the cake was starting to show signs of deterioration. In other words…. It was starting to melt. After a few obligatory photos to record the moment for history, he proceeded immediately to cut each of us a piece of the cake….which we proceeded immediately to eat. Good cake….. The rest of the cake….and that was most of the cake…..we could put into the freezer and eat it leisurely later on.

This was the point when things took a bizarre… surreal…. turn. Sitting in my recliner….caught completely unaware of what was happening, Fayez got up, started walking to the kitchen, to put the cake in the freezer, I assumed. Then he stopped, leaned over toward me…..and smashed the cake into my face. There was a moment complete shock…. For a few seconds, I didn’t even realize that had happened. My brain was acting sort of like a computer…. Trying to calculate what had just happened. Trying to fit the little pieces together; trying to come up with a solution….a scenario….trying to compute…..

Fayez burst out laughing. He thought it was funny….something really hilarious.

Beryl? Well….. Let’s say that he did not find it to be funny. He did not find it to be clever. He did not find it to be a brilliant prank. Beryl was not amused. Beryl was not laughing.

My face….and my shirt….were covered with ice cream. Ice cream from my own birthday cake.

For a few seconds, my mind went blank….. Fayez stood and laughed and said such things as, “Wasn’t that funny?” “You’re not mad, are you?” “It was a joke.” “It is something to remember your birthday.”

So…… It was at this moment that crucial decisions about Fayez’s life were made. I could have just killed him…..and buried him in the back yard. I doubt if anybody would have missed him. And, even if they did, I am sure he had told absolutely nobody where he was going. Nobody in Wichita was even aware that he knew me….indeed that I even existed….much less have a clue that he was spending the weekend at my house.

I could have inflicted great bodily harm on him….broken arms or legs….or skull. Well….I know people who would have done it for me. I know people!

I could have done something bad to him….or his property. I could have let the air out of his tires….or broken the headlights…..or even worse, hid his cell phone! Now that would have been ultimate punishment.

But….No! I took the high road. I did not seek revenge. I suppressed all my ulterior and uncharitable thoughts and desires (no matter how justifiable they may have been.) I changed my shirt; I washed my face. And…. That, my friends, is why Fayez is still alive and was able to help me celebrate my 81^st birthday. And….. You want to know something else about that birthday fateful birthday when there was almost one less Fayez to occupy the world? He didn’t even bring me a gift!

For the past several years….maybe since 2013…. I have spent my birthdays with either Fayez….or his younger brother, Sultan. Sometimes we have been at home, either at the former Ozawkie residence or here in Topeka at the townhouse….Darrah Tower…and sometimes we have been on the road…..traveling somewhere in the USA. No matter where we are, it has developed into a pleasant tradition.

This year my birthday fell on Sunday. Fayez and I had planned to meet in Hutchinson for the weekend to celebrate the auspicious day. Commemorate or acknowledge would probably be more descriptive words. Although, I suppose when a person reaches the age of 81, there is a legitimate reason to celebrate. In any case, we had planned on meeting in Hutchinson on the weekend of July 27-28. I began to search for a motel in Hutchinson. “Search” is a pretty strong word. I grew up in the Hutchinson area….and have virtually lived there in one form or another all my life. Maybe not physically in the city….but with enough trips there that I am certainly not a stranger to the town.

Hutchinson is not blessed with an over-abundance of good hotels. The hotels generally fall into one of two categories: Expensive or cheap. The nice, comfortable, well-appointed hotels are Expensive. The others are “Cheap”. Another problem, especially for me, is the matter of stairs. Most, if not all….and I suspect it is all….of the cheap hotels have stairs…..No Elevators. And, I cannot climb stairs easily. Most of these cheap hotels are probably as old as I am….and most of them are located in the downtown area. I suspect that some of them are actually not bad….that they are probably adequately comfortable….if it were not for the fact that I would have to climb one or more flights of stairs to the room.

Until my younger brother died about a year ago, I usually stayed in Lyons at the Celebration Inn. The Celebration Inn is my idea of a good hotel. Comfortable bed, always a comfortable chair to sit in, a comfortable chair at the computer desk, a small refrigerator and microwave oven….plus a coffee maker. And…. It has an elevator. It has all of this….. And, it is affordable. It was almost my home away from home, since I made the trip to Lyons to see my brother on a regular basis. I was on a first name basis with the hotel staff. They even recognized my voice on the telephone before I had a chance to identify myself. Is it any wonder that I looked forward to staying there when I traveled to Lyons? The Celebration Inn became the hotel by which I judge all other hotels….big or small, in cities or towns.

Rooms in the Celebration Inn cost $70.00 per night….including all the amenities I listed, plus a good breakfast. Nothing can compare to this in Hutchinson. A room comparable to this in one of the name-brand, chain hotels can…and will….easily cost upward to $150.00 a night. Out of my price range. For my past several visits to Hutchinson, I have stayed in the Atrium Hotel. The Atrium Hotel is a “convention center”…. A rather large, sprawling place, at least for Hutchinson. It does not have an elevator, but I have always been fortunate to be able to book a room on the ground floor.

Yeah….. The Atrium Hotel has similar amenities to the Celebration Inn….except it is dark and dismal. Most of the rooms have no outside windows….they face inward toward the swimming pool or meeting area. There are long, dimly lighted, rather spooky corridors. The rooms are positively dark! I can barely make out where the bed is…..let alone do any reading. I always carry at least two 100 watt bulbs with me with I stay there: One for the desk lamp and one for the lamp beside the reading chair. I don’t know…. Maybe these rooms were constructed for blind people….or bats.

I would change motels in Hutchinson…..but the “better” motels are too expensive, and the “cheap” motels do not have elevators…. So, when I stay in Hutch, I am more or less sentenced to stay at the Atrium Hotel.

Another looming problem showed its puzzling, if not ugly, face. What were Fayez and I going to do for two days in Hutchinson? We had already been to the Salt Museum; we had already been to the Cosmosphere….the space museum. And, the Kansas State Fair only takes place in September. Those, basically, are the three “attractions” in Hutchinson. When you have seen them…. You have seen Hutch.

We could have stayed in our motel room and slept all day…..both days….only to wake up and go out and eat. I am thinking that Fayez would have probably found that to be desirable…..a perfect plan. But, not I. It had been a long time since Fayez and I had actually had fun together. I mean really had fun….done something….gone somewhere. I wanted to do something….see something….have fun…. Take pictures! And, obviously, that was not going to happen if we stayed in Hutchinson.

I logged on to the Internet….. I checked the event calendars for every small town within thirty miles of Hutchinson. Surely there was a 4-H Fair….or an antique car show….or a parade of old tractors somewhere. Any other weekend would have been bustling with small town activities….the sort of things I would never consider doing under normal circumstances. Red neck things…. Rural things….. But, of course….wouldn’t you know? This particular weekend: Nothing! Hicksville was closed down for a week. The red necks were taking the week off. Come on, guys. Here I am….a progressive former farm boy. Normally, I would not consider attending your kind of fun. But…. Come on! This weekend I am willing to join you in your kind of “fun”. I am begging you. Are you going to desert me? Who knows? Maybe you can even convert me. (No… You can’t. That will probably never happen. But, it sounds good when I am begging!)

So….. I unilaterally made the decision that Fayez and I would meet in Wichita….not Hutchinson. Oh…. Please don’t think that I was being arrogant or self-centered! Fayez was overjoyed! He really didn’t want to drive to Hutchinson anyway. Going to Hutchinson was, for him, infinitely more favorable that driving to Topeka: Forty five minutes versus two hours! He had already won the “travel sweepstakes”! Getting to stay in Wichita while I did all the driving? Wow… That was like winning the lottery. No….. Believe me. There was no argument from him.

There were two decisions that had to be made…..that I had to make. First… Where would I stay? On my last trip to Wichita for the 4^th of July, I selected a hotel in the northeast part of the city….a fairly easy drive from the Kansas Turnpike exit. I looked at a dozen hotels….probably more. I systematically ruled out each one of them: Too expensive, too difficult to get to, no elevator, no comfortable chair in the room…. On the other hand, I also ruled out the cheap hotels, too…. Normally, you get what you pay for .

I settled for the La Quinta Hotel. It looked attractive from

the outside….fairly new and modern. It cost a little more than I wanted to pay….but it had breakfast, an elevator….and a comfortable chair in the room. Fayez and I both saw the pictures of the room. Yes…. Right there, as clear as could be, was a comfortable chair. This is the Place! (Thank you, Brigham Young.) Well…..to make a long story short: Yes, they served breakfast; yes, there was an elevator; NO….there was NOT a chair in the room. So…. Yet another hotel struck from potential places to stay.

Fayez asked me later on if “a chair” was how I choose a hotel room. The answer is basically, “YES!” If I am going to stay in a hotel room for two or three nights…..I want to be comfortable. I want a comfortable chair so I can sit and read….or watch TV.

All the hotels in northeast Wichita had basically been ruled out for one of the qualifying reasons. I concentrated my search on north Wichita. North Wichita would be easier to get to. I would travel the Kansas Turnpike to Emporia…..go west on US 50 to Newton….and then take I-135 south. Not a bad route.

So….. I logged onto the computer and started searching. Expedia.com…Booking.com….Hotel.com….. All of the usual places. I have a “cast in stone” rule: Never stay at a Motel 6. Yes…. They are usually less expensive, but they are also “cheaper”. Normally, I find them just one step above staying in a KOA Kabin, and usually about the same price! The usual furniture is nothing but a bed and a straight back chair.

As I was looking through the hotel listings for north Wichita….actually Park City and Valley Center, since they are in reality suburban north Wichita….I found five or six hotels listed. One of the hotels was a Motel 6. I didn’t even bother to look at it the first two or three times. Then, out of curiosity, I clicked on it to take a brief glance. Wow! I had to look twice….three times….. There in plain sight was a nice comfortable chair! Sitting there beside the bed….. Yes! I was sober! Wide awake. I excitedly decided to book a motel room…..in a Motel 6.

The next problem? I bet you never dreamed there could be so many problems just getting ready to spend two days with Fayez….did you? The next problem….or maybe next task would be a better way to say it….was to decide what we would…or could…do in Wichita. Never mind the fact that Fayez had lived in Wichita for seven years. Seven minutes…..seven days….seven years…. He still had no clue what was available to occupy our time.

Back when I was growing up in Sterling….and that was a long time ago….I and my friends went to Wichita quite often. No… We didn’t drive down there every day….or even every week. But, Wichita was high on our list of places within a reasonable driving time. Things were different back then. In more ways than one. Wichita was still the largest city in Kansas….but not nearly as big as it is today. Back in those days, Wichita was a much more manageable city. This was before the days of the Interstate Highway System….before the Kansas Turnpike….before the urban sprawl and urban crush that has even taken over Wichita. In fact, the very first four-lane highway I ever drove on…or even saw…was the highway between Newton and Wichita. And, it was not I-135! I thought that four-lane highway was wonderful….amazing. I felt like a big dog even driving on it.

When I was in high school and college, driving to Wichita was nothing. And, driving IN Wichita was nothing. We drove all over town; we knew all the major streets: Kellogg, Douglas, Market, Rock Road, Oliver, Hydraulic…. We knew all of the “important” places. Places like Cow Town, Joy Land Amusement Park, Kiddie Land, the Lassen Hotel, Riverside Park, the Riverside Zoo….. We would drive to Wichita to the Cinerama Theater every time the movie changed. Cinerama was awesome…absorbing the viewer right into the movie itself (or so we thought). Many times on Sunday, a friend of mine and I would drive to Wichita to attend either the First Presbyterian Church or the First Baptist Church….both huge, magnificent churches with huge, magnificent pipe organs. Wichita was our regional airport. That is where, on those rare, but special occasions, we would go to catch a plane to go somewhere…..or to meet somebody coming to visit.

Yeah…. Back in the “old days”, I thought nothing of getting into my car…..and going to Wichita. But, today is different. Maturity….some call it old age….has crept up on me. I no longer trust myself to drive in large cities. My eyesight is no longer as good as it once was. My perception is not as quick. My reactions have slowed down. The sad truth is: Driving in strange places not only makes me a danger to myself….but most certainly to all the other drivers as well.

I guess the point is: When I stay in Wichita, I need to find a hotel that is easily accessible. I park my car…..and then it is up to Fayez to play taxi driver. Which he does very well.

Now…. Back to “What to do?” Since neither Fayez nor I had done anything in Wichita, the field was wide open….the options were limitless, within the limits of what Wichita has to offer. And, it turned out…. More than I suspected.

My utmost criteria in finding interesting things to do in Wichita was: What would Fayez enjoy doing? What were some activities we could engage in that both of us would enjoy…that would be interesting….that would hopefully be educational….and that we would remember. After searching through several web sites, I narrowed the options to five possibilities: The Wichita Art Museum, Treasures of the World, the Segwick County Historical Museum, the Botanical Gardens and Cow Town. Each of these venues offered attractive possibilities or something that fun and interesting. One of the major drawback of each one of these places was that each of them did not open until Noon on Sunday…..and each of them closed at 5:00. Depending on how much time we would spend at each venue, five hours is not a huge amount of time….especially when we added in travel time. At least, it was a starting point.

Fayez and I had arranged to meet at my motel at 2:30 on Saturday afternoon, July 27. In this particular case…..the Motel 6 in Park City, just north of Wichita. Armed with my suitcase and two days of clothing and the printouts of the five places we might visit, I started my journey about 11:00. I stopped and filled up with gasoline and bought a small bag of party mix to eat along the way. Eating helps me stay awake. As I picked up the turnpike ticket, I was more than a little apprehensive. For some reason, the ABS…anti-lock braking system…. light had come on in my car. It had been on at least a couple days. I was ninety percent certain that there was nothing wrong with the brakes. But, nevertheless, I harbored the fear in the back of my brain that something bad might happen.

Since I was staying in north Wichita, I got off the Kansas Turnpike at Emporia and headed west on US 50. US 50 is a pleasant seventy-five mile drive to Newton, where I picked up I-135. No doubt somewhere back in history I have driven US 50 through Strong City, Peabody, Florence…. But, if so, it was much too long ago to have any sort of recollection. The scenery was pretty…..maybe not as pretty as I had expected….but still the green hills and lush prairies were enough to keep my attention…. along with the party mix. I passed by the entrance to the National Flint Hills Grasslands, a place I have always intended to go, but never have. Also, I drove past the famous Strong City rodeo grounds…..famous to them, at least. US 50 is a two-lane highway, speed limit 65 mph, but traffic moves along at a fairly steady pace. First of all, there is not a lot of traffic. Second of all, there are passing lanes every few miles, so if I did got behind a slow car, at least there was an eventual opportunity to pass. But…. In almost every little town I passed by….not passed through….the city cop was sitting (what he thought to be) inconspicuously off on the side of the highway, trying to add a little money to the city’s general fund, I suppose. Either that, or he had nothing better to do….or he was fulfilling a life long dream of being powerful. Whatever it was, to me it was simply low-class. On the Saturday early afternoon that I was driving, the traffic was sparse. There few, if any, businesses along the highway. I do not remember seeing a single pedestrian along the entire highway. Fortunately, I saw each cop in time….and slowed down.

 

 

 

 

It was around 2:00 when I pulled into the parking lot of the Motel 6, just off I-135 in Park City. It looked very similar to the motel in the pictures. The motel was not a typical Motel 6. It is probably a motel they acquired from another hotel chain for a bargain price. Encouraging. There was nobody at the front desk…..and no bell to ring. I ask one of the housekeeping staff if there was a clerk around. She scurried off to find him. I had already paid the bill in advance, so checking in was quick and to the point.

“Where do we eat breakfast?” I asked?

“Oh…. Motel 6 doesn’t serve breakfast. That is one way they keep rental prices down,” the clerk said.

Uh, Oh….. I should have noticed that….but every motel serves breakfast. Well…. Except Motel 6, it appears.

“OK. We will just make a cup of coffee with the coffee machine in the room,” I said.

Some shuffling of the feet… “Oh….Motel 6 doesn’t have coffee makers in the room. That is another way they keep costs down.”

“Oh?” I said. “Where do we eat breakfast?”

“Oh, there are lots of places on down the highway.”

Now…. I was starting to remember why I never stay in a Motel 6.

I took the key cards and proceeded to the room. They did have an elevator! I opened the door…..and Yes, there was the chair I wanted….sitting right by the bed…..just like the picture. Great….. They got that right, at least.

I wanted to wash my hands and face. Where was the soap? And, for that matter…. Where were the little bottles of shampoo for the next morning?

Later I asked the girl at the front desk for some soap. She rummaged around in the room behind the desk and came up with a couple little bars. “Could I also have a little bottle of shampoo?”

You are already probably ahead of me by now….. “Oh, we don’t have any bottles of shampoo. That is another way Motel 6 keeps its costs down.”

I proceeded to wash my face…. Yes, they did have running water…… I reached for a towel. There were two of them…. They were no bigger than the towels I use to dry my dishes at home. No…. I didn’t even bother to ask for more towels.

I was in the bathroom when Fayez arrived. I was startled when somebody walked into the room. How did they get in? And… Who was it? I turned around to see Fayez standing there. “How did you get in here?” I asked.

“The door was open,” he replied. So…. Even the door didn’t close automatically. I wondered what else would…and could….go wrong. I made sure the door was closed….and locked

It was just about 2:30…..just about the time he said he would be there. At least, that was going right. He came, bringing a birthday cake….an ice cream cake from Dairy Queen, my favorite. The ice cream cake was beginning to morph into a giant mike shake. Without a lot of ceremony, we began to eat the cake. Fayez had thoughtfully brought a plate…one plate….from his apartment. I ended up eating cake off the plate. It was my birthday, after all. He ate his cake directly from the box. That meant he had the bigger piece! What can I say about a Dairy Queen cake? Dairy Queen ice cream is just plain good! I quickly finished my piece.

“Do you want another piece?” Fayez asked. Funny guy! Of course, I wanted another piece! (And, so did he.) I could have sat there and eaten the entire cake! But, I didn’t.

Fayez and I had a brief discussion on what to do with the cake that was left over….and it was more than half the cake. Fayez tried in vain to stuff it into the miniature, under-size freezer of the refrigerator. The freezer was too little….. Not only for the cake, but probably for anything else that might need to be frozen. We were left with two alternatives: Throw the cake away. (But where?) Or, leave it in the lower part of the refrigerator, and hope that it wouldn’t melt into a giant mess before the next day. Actually, there was a third choice. We could have eaten the rest of the cake….finished it off. Fayez turned up (what he hoped was) the thermostat of the refrigerator, and put it there.

Next came the birthday gift. Yes… I know you are surprised. He actually brought me a birthday gift. He presented me with a Wichita State University t-shirt. It is one size too small….but now I have an incentive to lose enough weight to wear it. So…. Two gifts in one! And, as always, my philosophy is: It is not the gift….but the thought behind the gift. I was pleased.

“What do you want to do now?” I asked. It was a rhetorical question. I was just being polite. I already knew the answer.

“Let’s take a nap,” was Fayez’s reply.

By this time it was approaching 3:30. Actually, a nap didn’t sound so bad. “What time do you want to wake up?” I asked.

“Five o’clock.”

“OK.” Sounded reasonable to me. When I opened my eyes again, it was almost 5:30. Now, that was a good nap.

“I’m hungry,” Fayez said. “Let’s go eat.”

We drove into town and wound our way through the streets of Wichita. I have no idea where we went. I did recognize, however, that we had arrived at the same restaurant where we went on the 4^th of July…..but on that day, it was closed.

The name of the restaurant was The Green Olive…..not to be confused with the popular restaurant chain, The Olive Garden, that makes a fortune from serving fake Italian food. Fayez told me this restaurant was owned by an Iraqi family. We were the only customers eating there at the time. The owner was obviously baby sitting his four young children that afternoon.

I ordered the meal that Fayez suggested….the same one he ordered. While we waited for the food to arrive at our table, we watched the little kids playing…alternately running around the restaurant and coloring or drawing pictures and laughing and talking. They were well behaved…..just active and obviously happy kids. A couple times one of the little girls came back to where we were sitting, the table closest to the door…. There was a door immediately to the side and a little bit behind me. She went into the room….came back out and said, “You can’t go in there.” I am not sure why she would think we would even want to. I wanted to ask her if that was where they kept their weapons stored…. But, I restrained myself. She probably would not have understood anyway.

 

 

 

 

Later in the evening, around sunset, we drove back into town….looking for a place where we could sit and relax and talk. This was a Saturday night….and all the popular night time hangouts were starting to fill up. It was a perfect evening for sitting outside…and apparently most people were thinking the same thing as we were. Fayez knows most of the popular places around Wichita. After finding that most of these places were filled to capacity, I was ready to settle for a place that maybe wasn’t quite as hip….a more out of the way place….somewhere less patronized by the younger, college-age crowd. Sometimes, the mere fact that there are lots of people does not necessarily mean that the quality is equal to its popularity.

A lot of people, and I think it is true especially of young people, go to bars to be “seen”, because other people go there, because it happens to be one of the “in” places at that particular time. Maybe this was true of the place we finally ended up choosing….. The Pump House Bar and Grill, located in the Old Town section of Wichita. It had a large outside sitting area….located on a corner, which made it seem even larger. As we approached the door, we were confronted by two security kids….maybe they were bouncers. Whoever they were, they demanded to see our identity cards…..and hand over a $5.00 cover fee.

You know….. I think this is the first time I have ever paid a cover charge to get into a bar. At least, I can’t recall another time. Why did I do it this time? I am not sure. Maybe if I had turned around and asked Fayez, we might had just shrugged our shoulders and left. We should have…. I will have to consider very seriously before I ever pay another cover charge. We paid for nothing…..

This bar…. The Pump House Bar and Grill….was nothing special. But… It was loud! Deafeningly loud. Normally, Fayez and I would have sat across from each other. There is no way this would have worked in this bar. Even sitting almost side by side, we could not hear each other talk over the din and noise of the loud voices assaulting us from all sides….except the sidewalk. Fortunately we were sitting next to the side walk. But…. That was almost as bad. Loud cars….loud motorcycles…. All driven by guys who felt they had something to prove….all needing some sort of attention….all trying to assert their non-existent masculinity.

Unfortunately my voice is not a piercing voice….and neither is Fayez’s voice. Our voices do not cut through the cacophony of sound like a knife cutting hot butter. The opposite was true of some of the females at a couple adjoining tables….as they strived to out-do each other in their inane, shallow and phony conversation….obviously designed to impress the no doubt equally shallow males who were with them…..and probably with the intention of getting a shot at some cheap sex later on in the evening.

Nevertheless, Fayez and I sat and attempted to carry on a conversation…. He drinking ice tea and I drinking beer. It was a valiant attempt on our part….but it was also a losing battle. After about an hour of shouting at each other….and then re-shouting the same questions in response to the blank looks we gave each other….we gave up on drove back to the Motel 6. At least, the Motel 6 was quiet…. Uncomfortable….but quiet.

I woke several times in the night. The first couple times I was not sure why. But, it finally dawned on me that I was getting uncomfortably warm. Before I went to bed, I had set the thermostat at 70 degrees…..or maybe 68. Fayez had objected strenuously, but I told him to simply put more covers on his bed. He would be OK…. He would survive. Even in my state of sleepiness, I realized that Fayez had gotten up during the night….and had turned up the temperature….to a degree just below the level of a hot sauna. I was much too sleepy to get out of bed…. So I merely threw off some covers….at the same time Fayez was adding some covers. Rather strange, don’t you think?

After waking up on Sunday morning, there was a slight problem. No breakfast. No coffee maker. Our choice: Skip breakfast. Yeah… Like that was ever going to happen. Or….. Go out for breakfast. Fayez wanted to eat breakfast at I-Hop. I couldn’t care less where we ate. After so eating so much food the previous evening, more food was not a high priority for me. I-Hop was fine…. It would probably be almost as good as the breakfast we would have had in the motel….if they served breakfast. Time was starting to creep by…..and it was already approaching late morning. Our meal at I-Hop would serve as both breakfast and lunch.

What is it about I-Hop? My theory is that people are simply sucked in by the advertising….by the name….by peer pressure. Every time I go to Hutchinson and visit my niece and nephew, I-Hop is always their choice….and their only choice….as a breakfast destination. I certainly have nothing against the restaurant. The food is good. But, the food….in my opinion….and for me, that is what counts….is no better or no worse than any other cafe or restaurant which serves breakfast. Maybe just a little more expensive! But….I was not going to argue. It just is not worth it. An egg is an egg. Toast is toast. Bacon is bacon. Coffee is coffee….. Let’s just go eat…..somewhere!

After we finished our delicious breakfast at I-Hop, it was time for the day’s entertainment….or education, depending on a person’s point of view. And…. Out of sheer necessity and practical reality….. That was my dominion. As I mentioned earlier, I had done some previous research and had selected five possible choices where we could spend our afternoon. You can go back and look at them, if you want to…..

Our first destination was the Wichita Art Museum. The museum is located near the Arkansas River. On an other occasion when we were sitting on a bench on the bank of the river watching it flow peacefully by, Fayez had pointed out the building that houses the Wichita Art Museum. It was an attractive building of modern design….not at all like an old, classic structure that I might have expected.

In inside what not exactly what we expected, either. The Wichita Art Museum is a sparkling new place with a surprisingly large volume and variety of art. The museum was founded in 1915 (according to another source, the museum was founded in 1935), and it has accumulated approximately 8000 individual art objects….paintings, pottery, furniture, sewing art, sculpture. The emphasis is heavily slanted toward American art….and traditional art, at that.

There are a few abstract paintings available for view. I was not surprised to find that there was a lack of abstract art. This seems to be true of almost every gallery or art museum we have visited in Kansas City, Lawrence….indeed around the entire Midwest. For some reason, the people who live in this area of the country are not enamored with the love of abstract art. The love of….or the appreciation of….abstract art has not found its way to the middle part of the nation. I have my own theories about why this may be true….but that best postponed until another time and blog.

 

 

 

 

 

The art which is on display is certainly top quality art. This is not a shabby place. Many of the artists are well known regional artists. On the other hand, there are paintings and sculptures by Edward Hopper, Charles Russell, Arthur Dove, John Singleton Copley and Georgia O’Keeffe. These are all artists whose art is displayed in the top art museums all around the world.

The painting…..and the artist….that I found to be most intriguing was “The Sunflowers” painted by John Stuart Curry. Curry is, for all practical purposes a “local artist”. He was born and lived in Dunavant, Kansas, an almost non-existent community which is about 5 or 6 miles straight east of my former home in Ozawkie. A local boy makes good, I suppose we could say. We can’t say as much for Dunavant, though. It has bit the dust, evaporated into the rear view mirror of history. There is not even a ghost town to carry on its memory. Just a few houses of what once was.

 

 

 

 

We had been walking and standing and looking for the better part of two hours before Fayez and I finished our tour of the art gallery. Two hours may seem like a long time, but in reality, we gave the museum only a cursory inspection. We could have easily spent a couple more hours there…and spent our time profitably. There was an entire sculpture garden that we didn’t even bother to look at. We were starting to get tired. We sat down in what appeared to be a lobby area….or perhaps a meeting area….for a brief rest. Hanging from the ceiling in front of us was a unique, colorful, multi-faceted sculpture that could have only been constructed by an artist of other unmistakable sculptures that Sultan and I had seen in a gallery somewhere in the southeast part of the USA on the trip we took in 2018. It could have been Charleston…but, on the other hand, it could have been in Asheville. But…. There was no mistake. I had seen works by the artist previously. And, I was pleasantly surprised to come across another one in Wichita, Kansas.

Both Fayez and I had enjoyed the time we spent at the Wichita Art Museum. We probably saw every painting that was on display….even if for only a few brief seconds or even a casual glance. We stopped and studied a few of them in greater detail…the ones we found captured interest or grabbed our attention. Fayez had his favorite paintings; I had mine. It was a good way to spend a couple hours…..and now it was time to move on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our next destination was a museum called Treasures of the World. As I was searching for places to visit in Wichita, I came across this museum. It was not one of my first choices. From the brief description I read online, I pictured it as a small….and maybe a somewhat insignificant…. museum….all located on one floor. It appeared to have some interesting exhibits, however. And, its exhibits were mostly of a more contemporary nature. By contemporary I mean events which have taken place in the last 100 years or so. Personally, I am not much interested in dinosaurs, old pottery, old bones….things like that. Yeah…. I know that some people really get into that kind of stuff… But, not I. I prefer something more recent….something I can more easily relate to. Treasures of the World seemed to be this kind of museum.

Fayez and had coincidentally driven past the museum on Saturday. So… We at least knew that it existed….and we knew approximately where it was located. The plan ….that is to say MY plan….was to look at the museum rather quickly and then move on to the Botanical Gardens. Like I said before, after looking at the museum’s web page, I was under the impression that it only covered one floor….and even that floor didn’t look very large.

Inside the museum was an entirely different world. The place was very large… Maybe not huge in the sense of the Smithsonian or something like that. But, it was infinitely larger than I had imagined it to be. It covered three entire floors. The advertisement I saw was no doubt just a sample of the first floor…..without mentioning the other two equally large floors.

Just like most other museums, Treasures of the World started its exhibits with the skeletons of some dinosaurs. I am not sure why museums feel almost obligated to do this. It just seems to be standard procedure. I am surprised that the art museum didn’t have a couple dinosaurs to greet us as we walked in….artfully arranged, of course. I don’t know….but I suspect it is to grab the attention of little kids at the first possible instant…..and hopefully, keep it for the remainder of the tour. As I said above, I am not a big fan….in fact, I am not a fan at all….of dinosaurs. I really couldn’t care less about them. This is probably the reason I did not even bother to take a picture of them. I should have. But, in lieu of a picture, just try to visualize your standard, run-of-the-mill dinosaur…and that is all you really need to do.

Fayez asked one of the museum employees if the bones were really real….if they were really authentic. She assured us that everything in the museum is the real thing….unless it is clearly marked as a copy or a representation. That was good information to know as we made our way through the museum exhibits.

There was a rather impressive exhibit of Buddhas…all of them the fat kind… And, Yes, there are skinny Buddhas. In fact, they probably existed even before the fat variety. On the first floor, the other exhibit that I was curious about…and eager to see….was a section of the Berlin Wall. Fayez wondered if it was authentic. I have no doubt that it is the real thing. Once the Berlin Wall began to come down back in 1989, sections of it were given to museums all over the world. The sections of the Berlin wall were in great demand, as would probably be expected. A section of the Berlin Wall is an artifact of important modern history….much coveted by museums large and small.

Even though I knew that the Berlin Wall display would only be a small segment of the wall, I was still a little disappointed. On almost every trip I have made to Berlin, a visit to the Berlin Wall is a priority. When the people of both East and West Berlin started demolishing the Berlin Wall, it came down quickly. First there were the eager beavers who chipped away at the solid concrete wall with hammers, chisels….whatever was available to “tear down this wall.” Later big construction machinery was brought in to expedite the process. The Wall was build in sections….and the machinery tore it down in sections. It was easier and more efficient to do it that way. It is these sections that are on display in museums and public places around the world.

 

 

 

 

When it was finished, the Berlin wall was 91 miles long….completely surrounding the city of Berlin and cutting it off from the rest of the Germany…..indeed from the rest of the world. So…..obviously there was a lot of wall to be given away. Most of the wall was probably just destroyed, however.

There are still a few sections of the Berlin Wall standing today. Fortunately, somebody in the West German government had the wisdom and the foresight to preserve a section of the Wall as a memorial. The national memorial, called the East Side Gallery, is a kilometer….a little over a half mile….of wall that still stands and is being maintained as a reminder of the horrors and the heartache of the wall’s existence.

 

 

 

 

Much of the museum’s exhibits relate to war in some manner. Perhaps this may be because artifacts from wars are relatively plentiful, having taken place in the comparatively recent past…..and are easier to obtain.

I was disappointed with the exhibition on the Vietnam War. This is one of our more recent “wars”, and I had expected just the opposite…..that the museum would be top heavy with artifacts and relics from the twenty or twenty-five years that the Unites States maintained a strong military presence there. There were a few items on display, but not enough to make it one of the significant attractions…..or even enough to warrant a photograph. Maybe they think is a war that is simply best forgotten. Who knows? Since this was the only war in which I was actively involved, I would have found it to be interesting and relevant…..and it would have given me something to pass on to Fayez.

Their emphasis was primarily on the First and Second World Wars. Yes, these are the two “great wars” of recent history….especially the World War II, which no doubt determined the course and direction of modern history. And…. These were also the two wars that we actually won. On display were displays of military uniforms used in each of the wars. Several examples of the weapons used in each of the wars were also exhibited. Interspersed among the uniforms and the weapons were a variety of documents from each of the periods: photos, maps, diaries, letters, examples of government propaganda. Although it was not exactly what one would call a comprehensive exposition….certainly not approaching the huge exhibits at the Eisenhower Museum or the Truman Museum….or ever the Kansas State Historical Museum….it did offer a slight glimpse into each of the wars….and hopefully remind today’s citizens what happens when people blindly follow ignorant and bigoted leaders who are themselves wanna-be dictators….and would slowly “charm” people into surrendering their rights as citizens. I hope it reminds them that as in Nazi Germany, every time the government takes a right away from one person or group of people, they are taking it away from everybody….even the people who may ignorantly and blindly support such action.

The other display that I found to be particularly interesting was a small, but impressive, selection of Nazi relics and paraphernalia. I often think that people look at such symbols of Hitler’s Nazi regime and have no idea of the cruelty and inhumanity associated with it. They do not stop and think….or maybe never even realized…..that this is a supreme example of people willingly surrendering their rights as citizens to a charismatic leader who turned out to be one of history’s most infamous dictators and who reigned over one of the darkest and bloodiest periods of world history. We study history so that we will not repeat history. These Nazi symbols could….and should….serve as a warning to all who look at them.

Probably the exhibit that I enjoyed the most was one that many others may have passed with hardly a glance…..because there were no statues, no bones, no art objects seized from tombs….and nothing dug up from graves or ancient civilizations. In fact, I am not sure that Fayez saw it. During some minutes when he was wandering ahead of me…..probably impatient to get out of there, I stopped to look at a collection of pictures of all the former presidents of the U.S.A. Each president has a picture, a short biography….and also some sort of token artifact containing a signature. Maybe a signed letter, a cartoon, or an invitation, or a menu…. Not much. But, being interested in politics, I found this to be one of the most interesting of all the exhibits. I can hardly wait to see what kind of relic they display for Trump….. Probably a signed copy of one of his lies. Maybe even more than one of them. There are more than enough to go around!

 

 

 

 

As we came to the end of our tour of the Treasures of the World Museum, I was ready to move on to the Botanical Gardens for a leisurely and peaceful walk. Fayez, however, was getting tired….and wanted to simply quite and call it a day I think that possibly I could have prevailed….except that it was approaching five o’clock. The Botanical Gardens and every other public building lock their doors at 5:00. That seems to be the magic hour when activity comes to a screeching halt, at least to any sort of publicly supported institution.

So…. Fayez won the battle by default. Our day of “sightseeing” and come to an end. Fayez could rest his weary feet. It had been almost six hours since we had eaten at I-Hop. Fayez was getting hungry…..and no doubt eager to get back to his laboratory or wherever his work was located. We began to look for a place to eat. Fayez wanted a place where we could sit outside. Yeah… That would be nice. But… Let’s not go back to the place we were so happy to leave last night.

We drove back to Old Town. Fayez decided we would eat at a place called Sabor Latin Bar and Grill. In contrast to the previous Saturday night, Old Town was virtually deserted….and peaceful, in contrast. The waitress seated us outside on the sidewalk, where we could sit and relax….and watch the sparse traffic drive by….and look at the occasional pedestrians out for a late afternoon stroll. The menu was rather conventional and nondescript….but at least, it was food. That was the important consideration. I ordered something…. I don’t even remember what it was. For an appetizer, we ordered plantain chips. Don’t worry, they are just an off-beat variety of bananas. They were good, though. It was a pleasant hour of relaxation….. The food was good, but forgettable….. I had a couple beers…. Not a bad way to end the day. Not a bad way….. Until the waitress laid the check on the table: $54.00!! Wow…. We should have gone to Golden Corral. But…. This is Wichita… This is Old Town…. This is the place to be…. So now…. Been there; Done that. It was time to come back home.

 

 

 

 

Fayez took me back to the motel. He posted a couple pictures on Facebook for me….and a short Thank You message for the birthday wishes I had received throughout my birthday. We finished off the birthday cake….which was remarkably well preserved in the refrigerator. Fayez gathered his stuff, such as it was, and headed back to his apartment. As for me….. I was another year old…. And, this year, I didn’t get a birthday cake smashed in my face

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