Can we anticipate the end of Al Queda, of Muslim terrorism?

Ponder this: Since the source of Muslim terrorism is dissatisfaction of youths with their lot in life, i.e. economic and political repression forged by the ruling elites, what we have seen in Tunisia and now Egypt may signal a quantum leap forward for all these oppressed peoples.  This may well be the turning point for them and consequently for the rest of the world in the war against terrorism.
Now all we need is for Israel to make a deal with the Palestinians so there can be a Palestinian state;  it would eliminate that festering abscess as well.
Lynn
Comments?

Crystal Took the Sparkle From His Life

My welder told me this story today.

Jimmy's brother Ted was 45 years old, happily married, two teenage kids, lovely home.  He had a nice little hardware business that every year provided a six figure income which, in rural southern George, enabled him to make the mortgage, meet all expenses, and build up sizeable savings and stock accounts.  Ted had worked seventy-hour weeks for as long as he could remember, and had figured he always would.  But now he was slowing down, no longer eagerly jumped out of bed in the morning to meet the challenges of the day.  He found he was looking for excuses to close the shop early.  The change gnawed at him.

One day Ted was having a drink with a good friend he hadn't seen for a couple of years.  His friend asked how life was treating him, and Ted surprised himself by confessing life actually didn't feel all that great these days.  His friend commiserated with him, then said he ought to try something he'd recently found helpful, stuff called crystal meth.  The friend said he'd been using it for a few weeks, said Ted should give it a shot.

Ted bought some, took one hit, and wanted another.  And that was it:  The End.  It was the end of his stock and bank accounts, his business, his home, and his marriage.  He now lived in his mother's house. 

Oh, Ted knew he should kick the habit, get a job, get a life.  But he didn't care...didn't care.

The Baby Suffered a Rek-O-Kut

It was the fall of 1958.  Jeff, our first child, was ten months old.  His mother and I were visiting her parents.  Her father and I had been messing around with his Hi-Fi installation all morning (High Fidelity Magazine featured it on a cover, labeling it "The Clancy System").  There were pieces of equipment lying about when we sat down at a card table in the living room for a sandwich and coke.   Toddler Jeff was sitting at the table on a chair-back kitchen stool.  We adults were talking and happily munching away, when young Jeff reached for his Micky Mouse mug and fell off the chair.  The floor was carpeted, so his landing should have been relatively soft, but a Rek-O-Kut turntable was lying there, tilted at a 45 degree angle.  Jeff landed head first, his jaw striking the sharp metal edge.  We jumped to pick him up and were horrified to see that his lower lip was deeply split, forcing his mouth into a hyper-wide, grotesque grin. 

We held a clean towel to his chin to staunch the blood flow and quickly carried him to a doctor's office which we knew was located in the next building.  We burst into the reception room.  In a few moments the doctor appeared.  He was clearly taken aback by the scene of the baby screaming at the top of his lungs, his bloody gag, and two panicky parents.  We forced ourselves upon him, demanding his assistance.  Reluctantly, he backed into a treatment room where, with shaking hands, he attempted to thread a needle.  He approached the baby who howled even louder, wanting nothing to do with this stranger.  G' WAY! G' WAY! he screamed.

The doctor threw up his hands, shaking his head, and said to us, "Sorry, I'm not up to this".

Fortunately, there was a doctor who had treated my wife located only a few blocks away.  We hurried there.  He was everything the first doctor wasn't, and somehow, despite a screaming, squirming patient,  he managed to stitch the lip back together so well that Jeff hasn't a trace of a scar today.

I am happy to report Jeff never developed a dislike for high fidelity classical music.  In fact, I am sure he doesn't even recall the event.  But I certainly do, for while not scarred either, my memory surely bears the mark of that day.

Intimidation Not Permitted Here (or Wedding Rings Can be Hazardous to Your Health)

Well, Simba and I have climbed out of the deep hole we were in two months ago.  Back then we discovered Simba's hull was pockmarked with corrosion pits and even had some holes.  Holes!  Unbelievable, but true.  The boatyard owner thought it was beyond repair.  As I studied the problem and he saw I was not going to kiss my boat goodbye, he switched to telling  me about lobster boats he'd seen with bad hulls that had been encapsulated in fiberglass.  I dismissed that idea out of hand and hired a welder to close any holes and deep pits, while filling lesser pits myself with an epoxy compound used to repair steel tanks in manufacturing plants.

As a reward for making such a strong recovery, I bought Simba a used bow thruster.  Naturally I was going to install it myself.  I studied the owner's manual, compared the itemized part list to what I had received from the seller, and ordered any missing parts.  That was easy.  But the electrical aspects of the installation were formidable.  I have never learned much about electricity.  Oh, I forced myself to comprehend the wiring diagram of my diesel generator enough to spot a faulty element, but it didn't come easy.
 

Fortunately, my friend Phillip Landmeier, now down in Guatemala, is a whiz at things electric.  He not only reads schematic diagrams, he creates the darn things on a computer!  He reworked the original idiotic shore power setup on my boat so that it is now easy to use and never fails.  He even designed the electric installation for a large marina (and these are only the things I know about).  I asked Phil if he could help me figure out the electric installation for my thruster and he stepped right up to the plate.  He created one of those schematics, even specifying what size wire I needed for various segments.  He also told me I needed a special relay called a contactor.  The area electrical supply house people had heard of them but could not even locate one for me.  Phil found it himself, through the internet, down in Texas. 

 

Phil also told me that installing the wiring for this complicated project could be dangerous.  He told me of a man he knew who was working with powerful batteries like those I had purchased for the thruster.  The man lost a finger when he shorted wires with his wedding ring.  Yikes!
 

So here I am faced with schematics that look like hieroglyphics, gizmos the electrical supply house can't locate, and now physical danger as well!  I thought maybe this project was too much for me – that maybe I should bring in a professional electrician to do the actual installation.  Then I scolded myself.  I forced myself to remember that I didn't know a Bull from a Bear when I decided I would become a stock broker and investment advisor--and that worked out pretty well.   I decided I would at least initiate the project, take it on piece by piece.  If I hit a wall, I could always stop  and call in a pro. 

  

I had read, (probably in one of Phillips informative lengthy emails), that to get maximum power from the batteries, they had to be located close to the thruster and their connecting cables had to be short.  So I built a large shelf of strong 2x4's for them, close to the thruster tunnel, which is located deep in the bow.  Common sense told me to then box the batteries in so they wouldn't become dangerous missiles when the bow tossed about in heavy seas.

Then I mounted the contactor gizmo on a steel beam right between the batteries and the thruster.  I mounted the electronic control box on a piece of plywood at the side of the compartment.  I knew I needed to connect the batteries to a charger and first thought I should purchase a charger dedicated to them and place it near the other components.  But I realized it would be difficult to monitor charging conditions up there in the bow, under the floor boards, so I ran wires from the batteries back to the engine room where I knew my central charger had an extra port which I could connect to.

Now running cables the length of my boat is an arduous task in itself, pushing and pulling them through holes in bulkheads, removing floor sections, taking beds apart, emptying storeage lockers, and more, in order to access the bilges.  So having completed that task, it was almost child's play to run a master control cable from the pilot house console down to the bilge and up to the bow. 

 

Up to now, I obviously did the right thing by winging it on my own.  I've found success taking just one step at a time.  But now I'm entering new and possibly hazardous territory.  I have to measure up, fabricate, and then connect the control wires and thick power cables. 

No problema.  In preparation, I'm studying the schematics again and even starting to make sense of them.  I'll study them some more and if I have doubts, I'll consult with Phil again.  I'll stay at this until I get the job done correctly.  And I'm confident I'll complete the job in one piece, for I won't be wearing any wedding ring.

Three Reasons I Don't Drink

#1: "I'm Driving!"               c.1965

We drove our Ford Falcon wagon from our small center hall colonial on middle-class Mackey Avenue, to the beautiful large house in affluent Beacon Hill.  We scarcely knew a soul at the cocktail party other than the hostess, who was an acquaintance of Corrie's from Forest Hills days.  I was soon bored silly but Corrie was having a good time catching up with old friends.  Time crawled by.  With no one to talk to, I wandered about, switching between trying to appear preoccupied or blissfully content. I also made several trips to the punch bowl of delicious Manhattans.

Every few minutes I cruised by Corrie, giving her looks that became less and less subtle. Finally, she bid friends farewell and left for the car.  As we were walking, Corrie asked how many manhattans I had downed.  I pursed my lips, shrugged my shoulders, and said "I forget – just a couple."  She looked me in the eyes when we got to the car, and said, "Give me the keys; I'm driving!"  I retorted, "Oh no you're not!", grabbed the side of the roof rack, and swung myself up on top of the car.

#2: Manhattan Marinade              c.1968

It was a sunny afternoon in June, perfect for a drive to Twilight.  I didn't have the kids that weekend, so a lady friend and I stopped on the way up for cocktails and dinner at friends of hers in Kingston.  The host greeted us warmly and showed us two steaks we would have for dinner.  I had never seen such steaks!  They were a foot and a half in diameter and had to be 2-3 inches thick.  Amazing!

He put the steaks on the grill, located out of sight in the garden, and offered us drinks.  He boasted that he made a hell of a Manhattan.  He held up a silver shaker, said he and wife had already sampled this batch, and found it superb.  So the four of us sat to enjoy the view of the Hudson, and sipped the cocktails.  They were sooo good.  We had another round and our already sparkling conversation, became brilliant. 

Later on, I or my friend mentioned the steaks.  The steaks!  We quickly rose as one and hurried down to the grill.  Our host lifted the cover.  Black smoke and toxic fumes spewed out.   When it cleared, we saw that the two giant-sized sirloins were reduced to mere lumps of coal.  Victims of manhattan magic.

#3: Swaying Down the Expressway     c.1975

In Huntington, I loaded the Honda 70 minibike into the rear of the light station wagon.  On the way out of town, I stopped to attend a cocktail party at friends of Carol and Buz'.  The host made delicious Manhattans and I downed a couple while chatting with people.  I then departed for New York. 

On the Long Island Expressway, I found the rear end of the wagon wanted to sway from side to side.  I figured out that the weight of the minibike, located so far back in the car, was the cause of the problem, and was able to moderate the motion by counter steering, but could not eliminate it.  A half hour later I was pulled over by a police car.  After studying my license and registration, the officers asked if I had been drinking.  I told them I had downed a couple earlier in the afternoon.  The cops scratched a 20 foot line in the dirt and said "Walk it."  Although I could feel a light buz from the booze, I knew I could do it, unless I choked under the pressure.  Crunch time!   

I slowly walked over to the line, carefully turned, took a deep breath, and paced its length without faltering.   When I returned to the car and continued on my way, I vowed to never again carry the motorbike so far back in the car.  I also recognized that a third manhattan would have been my comeuppance; I never drank another.

Allergic to Iodine? Dec. 22, 2010 St. Marys

An attractive, smiling African American nurse I had seen there before, took me back to the exam room where the Urologist was going to perform my endescopy.  She said "Take off your pants", tossed a paper towel on the examining bench, and said "Cover with this" as she walked out.  She surprised me by quickly returning before I had my pants all the way off, but I took some comfort from the fact my flannel shirt sort of hid me as I tossed my garments on a chair.  I reclined on the bench back rest and my shirt pulled up.  I grabbed for the towel that now seemed to have shrunk to the size of a postage stamp.  Yikes!

 Moving about with her back toward me, she asked if I was allergic to iodine.  As I started to answer, she turned and, pushing the towel aside, proceeded to pick up my prized family jewel as if it were a discarded pickle.  I coughed to cover my embarrassment but then strove to prove I was oblivious to her stretching and twisting it as she dabbed with a wet sponge.  I said "Why I remember, when a child, that iodine stung and was replaced with mercurochrome."  She joined my game, saying she didn't know mercurochrome. but was sure it was okay.

As I inanely rambled on, she dropped my gem to retrieve something from the shelf behind her, then picked it up again like a dentist's tool and swabbed the head with bright red iodine.   I lay back, determined to somehow accept this new set of modesty rules.  However, I couldn't acquiesce completely and, as she finished her preparations, I asked her if any patients had ever objected to her ministrations.  She paused a beat, then answered, "Why, no."  But as she left the room, she said over her shoulder, "And I sure hope there won't be a first time!

911 Call to Action

I was walking south along New York's Second Avenue, traffic moving quickly in the same direction.  Suddenly horns blared ahead and traffic slowed to a crawl, with cars trying to get into the right hand lanes.

I wondered what was blocking the left lanes, then saw there was a car coming north, going against the traffic!  It was weaving back and forth in the left lanes, forcing oncoming vehicles to swerve to the right to avoid a collision.

Then traffic lights turned red.  I knew something had to be done quickly before there was a serious collision.  I ran diagonally across the avenue toward the momentarily halted car,  now less than a block away.  Shouting "Hey!" and waving my arms to get his attention, I ran up to the driver's open window.  He was staring blankly ahead with mouth agape.    I cried  Hey, you", but got no response.  Cars were moving again, coming  right at the car and me. 

I thrust my arm in the window and grabbed the keys from the ignition.  I ran into a nearby bar and called 911 from a pay phone.  When a police car arrived in a couple of minutes, I turned over the keys, breathed a sigh of relief, and started running again  -- Now I was late to work!

A Church of My Own

I must have been about twelve.  Carol, Phyllis Waterbury and I were down on hardscrabble Maryland Avenue, in front of Louise Brueninger's and George Krell's houses, playing some game.  I caught a glimpse of  Reverend Christman's car turning the corner.  I bolted from the group, ran to Wizi's fully-leafed maple tree, and climbed up out of sight.  The reverend greeted the other kids with that righteous voice I disliked, and launched into the recruitment spiel I knew was coming.

I never joined the Armonk Methodist Church, or any other.  When meeting with the Forest Hills minister to discuss the upcoming wedding ceremony in 1957, he asked in which church I had been baptized.  I couldn't answer, and after a phone call to my mother, I learned my brow had never before been sprinkled with holy water.

I didn't "find religion" back then on Maryland Avenue, and I still don't "go to church" on Sundays.  But I guess I do have a religion.  I find it out doors and all around me.  When riding my bike on a Brunswick city street, through a mixed neighborhood or wherever, I experience a warm glow when a sad face lights up at my smile, and my warm "Hi" or "Buenos Dias".  Sometimes, if the change in the person's demeanor is dramatic, I even think that perhaps I have turned that person's day around, maybe lightened their step and given them hope that things will get better.

I have had acquaintances marvel at my riding my bike through Black and Hispanic neighborhoods.  "Q Street! - Why I don't even drive my car through there!  That's dangerous" they've said.  But to me, the real "danger" is to ride through life only on the perimeter.
 

I marvel at the love my sister and Buz, and their friends, show every day.  Oh they're Catholics, but I have come to understand that all faiths apparently practice reaching out to those less fortunate.  In Carol's case, what she and her friends have done is remarkable, going back to the days they traveled into the city to renovate tenements.  They also "adopted", in a sense, inner-city youths and, with unfettered love, welcomed them into their homes to offer them succor and show them a new path.  Even now, they join numerous other churches to provide food and shelter for the homeless.  They all are pro-active.  They don't just ride on the perimeter of life.

And I guess I did find a brick and morter church, of sorts, in the little LARC building in Brunswick where I assisted Hispanics and taught English and computer literacy.  There, I earned a modest ordinary income, but I came to understand I was actually highly paid by the emotional return I received from helping people.  I now know that wherever I finally settle, I will find one, or "build", a church of my own.

Would You Trust this Doctor With the Family Jewels? Dec 21, 2010

I handed the nurse the customary urine sample, required at every appointment.

The doctor began to take a look at my urinary tract with an endescope.  After he had inserted  it a bit and was evidently peering  around, he said:  "Ah..ah...have you ever had ah..ah.. surgery  before here?"   There was a worried tone to his voice.  I replied in the negative and said: "Why do you ask? -- Do you see scar tissue?"

Ignoring my first question, he said "No" to the second and quickly went on to tell me the prostate was very large.  Now this was not news to either of us as he had digitally examined me months ago and reported it was large.  He also knew from the ultrasound that his nurse had performed on three prior visits, that I experienced a high amount of retention of urine after voiding.  He had told me this was caused by the enlarged prostate encroaching upon the bladder.

He finished the scope exam and left.  When he returned he sat down, turned to me with finality,  and said it was now time for invasive action rather than drugs.  I knew he was about to talk about two procedures involving laser and radio frequency treatments  as he had given me slick brochures and a DVD to take home at the last appointment.  So I told him I had asked a relative, who was a urologist, about those procedures and that he recommended a combination drug treatment instead.  He said my symptoms were not severe enough to warrant such invasive procedures which could be problematic.  The doctor paused for several beats, and said "Well, he hasn't just seen what I have."

The doc was obviously disappointed I was not at this time electing either of those hi-tech treatments.   He changed course to now say, "I make my recommendations based upon my patients' level of discomfort."  I found this interesting as I had never said I was fed up with my two nocturnal trips to the bathroom.  I had only come to him originally because I was concerned about attacks of urgent urination caused by an infection which he had successfully treated with an antibiotic prescription.

He then launched into a rapid, mumbling monologue about several drugs, saying nothing especially positive about any of them.  He ended up by giving me prescriptions for the drugs my relative had suggested and said to see him in four months.  In parting, he was more abrupt than usual and showed no interest in further conversation.  His customary smile was missing. 

He didn't make the sale.  From what he said and his behavior, I gotta feel this guy makes big money from those hi-tech procedures.  His every action seems to point the patient toward that goal.   Probably the one drug he prescribed for me does work for some men, but when it did nothing for me, why didn't he prescribe others?

 And get this: In the bathroom which all male patients must use at every visit to produce pointless urine samples, there is an advertisement for Prostiva Radio Frequency therapy.  It is the only thing on the four walls, and is located right over the toilet!  It contains phrases like "Aren't you fed up making all those trips at night to the bathroom...or" Tired of dribbling after you thought you were finished?".  "Use Prostiva therapy and your problems are over".  The advertisement is right there staring you in the face at every appointment while you fill the required cup.  The doc has a captive audience; this is real point-of-sale advertising!

Well, I get the real point, and he will get no more of my business.

Wake Up Call Maine Turnpike

It was mid-August, 2007.  I was headed down Maine’s I-95 on the way back to the boat down in coastal Georgia.  The traffic was fairly heavy but moving.  As I drove I was a bit distracted as I attempted to gobble my tuna salad hogie without having most of it fall in my lap.  Something flashing in the rear view mirror caught my attention: Damn! a police car was riding my bumper!

I pulled off the highway and stopped, dreading what was coming next.  I rushed to prepare for my visitor:  I slid the window down; pulled my license out of the wallet which was tucked away in my purse which was inside the console which was under the sandwich. I found the registration inside the owner’s manual in the glove compartment.  I then tried to push the hogie, its messy wrapping paper and a bunch of napkins out of sight.  Still bent over, distracted, I heard a sound like someone clearing his throat, right over my left shoulder.  I rose, turned my head, and at the sight of the bulky uniformed body filling the window, I confess I exclaimed something quite undignified like “oops!” or “yikes”!

The cop was certainly wide and short enough to stick his head half inside window. He had a round, normally cherubic face, which it certainly wasn't now.  He put his fists on his hips.  With almost visible effort, he screwed his face into his idea of a threatening scowl and said,

“Do you know the speed limit?” (pause)  I said I believed it was 65.

“Do you know how fast you were going?” (pause)  I took a guess at 75.

He took a deep breath, then said in a voice more plaintive than accusatory, “Why you were doing 80 - - you passed ME!

 

Dead silence.  I guiltily shrank back in the seat and awaited the coup-de-grace of a monster fine.

He pursed his lips, furrowed his brow and said forcefully, “So…..WAKE…..UP!”

With that he about-faced and marched back toward his car.  I was dumbstruck for a moment, astonished at my good fortune, then poked my head out the window and, in a venting of emotion blurted, “Th-thank you, officer!”

Trapped! New York City Nov. 9, 1965

I was waiting impatiently in front of the elevators on the 41^st floor of New York's  Pan Am Building.  I glanced at my watch again.  It was 5:15.  If I was lucky I might still make the 5:40 for Port Washington.   A bell dinged and the doors opened.  Four of us stepped in and the doors closed.  I felt my heels briefly leave the floor as the express car accelerated downward.  Suddenly the lights flickered, then went out.  The car came to a stop so fast my weight was slammed toward the floor, causing my knees to flex.

Dead silence.  A dim light behind an overhead translucent panel came on.  Our faces reflected concern, even fear and dismay.  When after a minute or two it appeared the car would not fall, that it was under control, we looked at each other with relief.  Then a speaker on the control panel clicked and a voice asked, "Hey, anyone there?"  After a beat, we chorused, " YES!" .   "Okay," from the speaker.  "We got a power failure here.  But there's battery backup.  You're gonna be all right.  Just sit tight.  Click."

And so we sat, or stood, for over five hours .  We were pretty cool, exchanging names, home locations,  family information, etc.  We even tried word games but couldn't seem to concentrate very well.  The speaker clicked a few times and a voice assured us help was on the way and that medical assistance would be provided if needed.   We continued to cope.

Then we heard faint shouts somewhere outside.  Suddenly an irregular thumping and smashing began nearby.  The speaker clicked: "Okay, you up there, we got men opening the wall to get you.  We got EMT's on your floor too 'case anybody needs medical attention."  In a half hour or so the noise ended, the car doors opened and men stretched out arms to help us step up onto what we learned was the 33^rd floor -- a new and unplanned local stop for this express car . 

We were escorted down thirty-three flights of stairs by fire fighters and other emergency personnel to exit the building.  Outside I was greeted with another extraordinary scene.   There were no street lights, no lit office windows, no traffic lights.  And there were no automobile lights or horns.  Yet I could see very well...oh, it's the moon, how wonderful --- the city was bathed in the soft luminescent glow of a full moon!  I stepped off the curb and strode up Park Avenue with growing confidence, to join countless others doing the same.  Some, like me, walked alone.  Others in pairs or small groups.  There was almost a festive air, sort of a holiday atmosphere.  You could hear people chatting as they walked along, some holding hands.  But no one shouted, and there was an overarching hush, as if all knew we had to treasure this remarkable experience, treat it with great respect.  Perhaps this explains why there were no muggings and the number of all reported crimes was far lower than normal throughout the city, on this special night.

Texting While Driving - Is it Worth It?

 So you text while driving?

                                                 What's the problem? 

                                                                                                Well, read this message:

Prominent local couple perish in 2-car crash

Pensacola News Journal - Pensacola, Fla.

Date: Jan 19, 2008

Kerrigan, a cheerleader at Catholic High School in Pensacola, was westbound on Gulf Beach Highway about 9 p.m. when, according to the Florida Highway Patrol, she crossed into the eastbound lane, crashing head-on into the Herrings' Chevy Tahoe.

So two people killed.  Read another headline message:

Girl who lost arm in fatal crash fights ticket

Date:	Jul 12, 2008

So she lost her left arm, and was ticketed.

And no doubt the next headline will be about the millions of dollars in legal suits she faces.

So maybe texting is a big deal.  Maybe you better stop before it's too late.

                        TEXTING -- Is it worth it?

Three Words Never Spoken Before August 24, 2007 Port Jefferson,NY

On his birthday, I took Richard to IHOP, his favorite special-treat eatery.  We slowly worked our way to the last booth at the back where I faced Rich toward the kitchen, hoping his loud voice wouldn’t annoy other eaters.

While waiting for service I noticed a young couple we had passed seated two booths away on the other side of the aisle.  She was attractive with medium length black hair, dark eyes and pale skin, wearing light sweater and skirt.  He sat across from her with his back to me but I could see he wore a brown T-shirt, had a short haircut and glasses.  His shoulders hinted he was in good shape.  I wondered if they were married as she seemed very comfortable with him and kept constant eye contact.  I never saw her look our way.

Not much more than a year ago Rich finally got a new hearing aid through Medicaid.  He only needed one as his right ear is not functional.  Unfortunately he recently left his aid in a baggie on the lunch room table and it was thrown away by the help.  If you shout into his good ear he can sometimes hear you.  Realizing vocal conversation would be difficult at IHOP, I brought along a small pad on which I attempted to write out my side of a conversation.  Unfortunately, Rich had not brought his reading glasses with him so he had to peer at my writing and query various entries.  I soon ran out of energy and we mostly devoted full attention to eating.

Richard had his favorite: a stack of hotcakes with fried egg and bacon on the side.  Richard had problems eating his fried egg.  He apparently couldn't cut the white part all the way through, so when he poked the tines of his fork into a piece to lift it to his mouth, it would remain attached to the yoke and slip back off his fork.  After a number of failures, I distracted Richard with some question and quickly sawed his egg into manageable pieces before he could notice my action.

I finished my three pancakes at a moderate pace; they were surprisingly good.  Richard stopped frequently to add butter and syrup to his mound of cakes.  He worked away at his bacon and egg.  This was a major destruction project, to be relished.  When I finished, I gestured to our waitress that I wanted our check and she nodded her comprehension as she strode by bearing a tray.

While Rich worked away at the remainder of his task, I saw the waitress stop at the young couples' table, tear off their check from her pad and hand it to the girl.  The girl beckoned the waitress closer and whispered in her ear for a few moments.  I wondered what it could be that she apparently didn’t want someone, presumably her dining partner, to hear. The waitress tore a second check off her pad and handed it to the girl.

Rich and I launched into some conversation and it was a few minutes before I realized I hadn’t received the bill.  I stopped the waitress as she walked by.  She appeared a bit embarrassed and mumbled something about the girl in the other booth picking up our tab.

I was suddenly energized, sensing something weird going on.  I think I knew exactly what had happened but didn’t want it to stop there, didn't want the good deed unrewarded.  The other booth was now vacant.  I walked down the aisle into the main body of the restaurant with the waitress virtually in tow.  Do you see them, I queried her.  "No sir, they must have left”.  I hurried to the entrance and looked down the parking lot for two people.  A car nearby on the left pulled out with three occupants; one on the right had only a single driver.  Far down the lot I saw a man getting into a driver’s seat.  The car was parked with its rear toward me.  I thought the man was wearing a tan shirt.  I jogged down the lot toward the car, all the while thinking if they’re watching me through the rear window they must think I’m nuts.  I tried to peer into the still parked car's driver's window from a few feet away but the window was tinted.  I decided to call it a day and turned away.  Just then the window rolled down and it was they.  I slowly approached the window, crouched down and addressed her: “Do I know you…or do you know us?”  She answered, “No.”  I said “Well, then why did you pay our tab?”  Leaning forward in the seat and turning to directly face me, she said “You showed such love for him.”

I was not surprised by her words because somehow I had expected something like this all along. Nevertheless, still crouched there, I was rendered speechless. I choked with emotion; I couldn’t express myself.  I finally rose, reached over to put my hand on his shoulder while looking at her, “You two are very special people…you have to know that”.  I started to walk away, I knew what had occurred really required no more words to explain.  But I didn’t want to end our encounter so abruptly.  I turned back to blurt three words I had never spoken before:  “God bless you”.

Feeling as though I had undergone some sort of mystical experience, almost in a daze, I walked back to the restaurant.  As I pulled the door open I turned to look back down the parking lot and confirmed what I already knew: their car had yet to move.

I Had to Stop c. 1965

It was close to midnight and East River Drive traffic was light as we passed the 23^rd Street exit.  I saw a stopped car ahead near the next exit ramp. Its lights were on and I could see it was occupied. I slowed.  Karen cried, "Don't stop!"  I slowed down even more and, as we passed the car, I saw two figures slumped over.  I jammed on the brakes and pulled over.  Karen shouted, "Lynn! Don't!"  I looked at her hard and said, "I have to!" I jogged back to the car.  It had run head on into a concrete abutment.  A man and woman held their faces in their hands, blood running between their fingers.  I cried, "Hey, let me help you!" They looked up.  They had identical wounds: mutilated lips, smashed noses, lacerated foreheads.  Dazed, they stared at me blankly.  I shouted, "Listen to me!  I'm taking you to the hospital.  Let's go!"

I found the ER at Bellevue and helped them in.

Magical Grey Girl Dec 23, 2010

Last summer I fell in love with a girl -- well actually a girl's bike.  I like to ride for exercise wherever I am.  I brought a racing style bike up with me from Georgia, but found its skinny tires punctured too readily on Rhode Island and Huntington roads.  In Georgia I rode Chris' old hybrid and its tires stood up pretty well, but I left it behind 'cause it's showing its age.

At Drew's in Rowayton, CT, I continued to have to patch or replace tubes.  Then one day my eyes lit on Leslie's big Specialized CrossCountry bike that was in the very rear of the garage.  I pulled it out for a look.  I was impressed with its obviously sturdy grey aluminum frame.  And the tires were beefy -- not sissy fat cruiser tires, but medium sized with a strong tread.  Gee, I bet this baby can handle these roads, I mused.  But wait, that's a GIRLS bike.  Darn! I couldn't ride a GIRLS bike! 

One more flat tire on my racing bike and I swallowed my pride and gave the silver lady a whirl.  Wow, what a bike!  Great gearing, tracked well, and boy did she smooth out those normally painful bumps, thanks to the shock absorbing front fork and seat support (let's keep them a secret!  I even sat upright instead of hunched over, so I could ride for hours without getting that crick in the neck the racing bike gave me.

I christened her Grey Girl and rode her for the rest of the summer without a single flat!  I dreaded the day I would have to leave her behind.  I decided I would offer to buy her, make a generous bid.  Would you believe I was turned down?!  Leslie up and GAVE her to me.  Unbelievable!  How generous!  Love her!

Oh one other thing, but this you can't talk about or they'll think I'm bonkers.  You remember how I got so fed up changing all those flat tires?  Well, I can say truthfully that Grey Girl has magical tires, swear to god.  Let me tell you how I know.  Riding Grey Girl back in Georgia, I was returning from Wal-Mart when I suddenly saw broken glass in front of me.  As usual the bike basket and my knapsack were overloaded with groceries so I couldn't swerve or brake in time to avoid running over some shards.  With heart in throat, I peddled on, expecting any moment to hear that dreaded hissing sound.  But no, Grey Girl wouldn't let me down, literally, especially with such a heavy cargo.  She carried me on three more miles 'till I was close to the marina.  There, I felt the front tire softening, but Grey Girl girlfully rolled on right down to the boat.

I was darn impressed with her courage. What a girl! But I also had to make a short ride down to the library before it closed. I quickly unloaded my goods and pumped up that tire extra hard so I could get down there and back.  I got down there fine, but after selecting some DVD's and books, when I went outside I found that tire shapeless, dead, totally FLAT!.  I wheeled Grey Girl home.  Next day I yanked the tube out, pumped some air into it, and submerged it in the kitchen sink to find the puncture and patch it.  I waited for the escaping air bubbles to appear.  Where are they?! I couldn't see any. Darn!  Not enough air pressure, I figured.  I pumped it up again 'till it was now half inflated, put on my reading glasses, and stuck my nose almost in the water while  I focused my eyes on each square millimeter passing by as I slowly rotated it inch by inch.  No joy! --  What the heck??

Now I had no hole I could patch.  And no other tube!  I had no choice but to put the tube back inside the tire and mount it on the wheel again.  Clearly this was a fool's errand 'cause it was sure to go flat again, and soon, but what else could I do?

Well, against all odds it turns out it didn't go flat again soon, or even later.  It's now been months, and magically, that tire, and that Girl, rolls on.   This bike has set, for me at least, a new standard in durability, in reliability.  As a reward, I decided to give her a new name -- my Magical Grey Girl!  Oh, I know that sounds a bit pretentious, so I just call her Maggie, for short.

“I Missing You” Brunswick Oct. 2010

I usually ride in the morning, but late yesterday afternoon I unpacked Maggie (Magical Grey Girl, the "girls" bike Leslie gave me) from the car and set off down route 341.  In a few minutes I began to pass the public housing project where I recalled Celina, son Carlos and her husband lived.  Celina was among my first and best ESL students and I had a special warm relationship with her and Carlos, whom she had occasionally brought to class.  As I passed the last street in the project I heard someone cry out “teacher!”.   Glancing back, I saw several figures around a parked car, so braked hard and turned.  In a moment I saw it was Celina and family.  I rode back and exchanged hugs with the three.  When asked when I had returned to the city, I said it was just the day before, and explained where I had spent the summer.  Shyly, Celina lowered her head and looked up to say “I miss…I missing you.” My day was made!

Background note: Celina had a miscarriage two years ago so I was concerned to see she was pregnant again.  I had met her husband only once or twice before, but he did not hesitate to give me a warm abrazo.  A year or so ago Celina got swept up in the Seventh Day Adventists.  When I got her a good housekeeping job two years ago, Celina’s class attendance suffered, but she would stop by my office every few weeks to ask my advice on rearing Carlos and other matters.  I had her and Carlos on the boat and have some memorable photos of Carlos at the wheel.

I have often thought of Celina almost as a daughter.  She would not be out of place, for another Mexican, forty year-old Candelario Pina, considers the financial assistance and emotional support I have given him to be worthy of a parent, and calls me “Daddy”.

              A tear runs down my cheek as I write this. 

Xmas Assault

 

It was the holiday season in December, 1990.  A lady friend took me to a party at a home in Pelham, NY.  The house was warmly decorated for the season and full of happy people, for the most part.  I was having a ball in the living room singing carols in a group accompanied by flute and piano.  I reluctantly broke away to refill my glass, and entered the kitchen.  My friend introduced me to two men talking by the sink, "Hi, John Smith and Bill Dakin, I'd like you to meet my friend, Lynn Hall."  "Lynn Hall!, Dakin exclaimed.  "Why you stole my girl!".  With that, he stepped forward and swung his fist at my midriff.

Explanatory note: Bill Dakin was a classmate at Pleasantville High.  I wasn't a close friend, but we sat near each other in the orchestra, he playing the clarinet and I the flute.  Out of the blue one day in June, he invited me to spend a week at his family's cabin in the Thousand Islands, on the St. Lawrence River.  It sounded wonderful; I accepted.

I had a wonderful time up there, swimming, fishing from outboards, making new friends. One was Happy Anthony, from Syracuse.  We met the first day and quickly developed a mutual crush.  We were together at every opportunity, sharing all the daytime activities, dancing and more, at night.  It was heaven!

Although I was staying with him and his family at their rustic cabin, I don't recall seeing Bill Dakin again after the first day. 

Addendum: About a year after the Xmas party, I picked up a copy of Sail Magazine.  On the cover was a picture of a sailboat and underneath the caption: Bill Dakin and his Nonesuch on Long Island Sound.