Darryl Morris: Memorial Day ....

Vietnam Veterans Memorial at night

Lt. Col. Alton D. Morris, USA (Ret.), our former teacher, and a Vietnam Veteran, delivered this address on Memorial Day, May 26, 2008 before the Collingsworth County, Texas Veterans

Commander Owens, VFW Comrades, Ladies and Gentlemen:

I am sure that all who are gathered here today -- beside this memorial to the fallen heroes of Collingsworth County -- are aware that this day was once called Decoration Day. It was a day of national commemoration of the men and women who died in military service to our country. Decoration Day began first to honor soldiers who died during the American Civil War. After World War I, it was expanded to include those who died in any war or military action. In 1967, as a result of the slowly dawning realization that we should not merely decorate the graves of our honored dead but should, instead, memorialize them, the name of this observance was changed to Memorial Day. This is a fitting change -- for to memorialize means to remember -- and remember we must, lest their sacrifices be in vain.

It is said that we citizens of the United States pray for peace but prepare for war. War, as our history shows us, has been with us always; and as current events indicate, it may well be the fate of generations in the future. In the Bible's book of Matthew, Chapter 24, Verses 6 and 7, Jesus tells his disciples on the Mount of Olives that "You will be hearing of wars and rumors of wars. See that you are not frightened, for those things must take place, but that is not yet the end. For nation will rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom...." Those gathered here who remember World War II, Korea, Vietnam, the First Gulf War, the current wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, and the many conflicts in between in which we have been engaged know the truth of this prophecy. Further, knowing that we now face an implacable enemy in the terrorist who has vowed to continue the fight until our way of life is destroyed and we are forced to embrace his fanatical view of the world, we must sadly accept that our children and our children's children may be asked to assume responsibility for perpetuating those blessings God has seen fit to bestow upon this nation.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr., who served on the United States Supreme Court for 30 years and is one of the most widely quoted Supreme Court Justices, said in an 1884 Memorial Day Address: "[I]t is now the moment when by common consent we pause to become conscious of our national life and to rejoice in it, to recall what our country has done for each of us and to ask ourselves what we can do for our country in return." "And on this day when we decorate the graves of our fallen heroes," he concluded, "the dead come back and live with us."

And I would say that the dead come back to us not so much to claim the well-deserved honor we extend to them but as a reminder to the youth of this nation that what privileges and blessings they enjoy in what President Reagan called the "Shining City on a Hill" were purchased and have been defended at great price. The dead also remind us that the greatest blessing we enjoy here in the United States, and which is in short supply throughout the rest of the world, is freedom. And, as we honor those who gave up their lives in this cause, we are reminded that freedom, indeed, is not free. It is bought and paid for with the blood of men and women who did not flinch at paying the price.

When we remember our nation's conflicts, we tend to fasten our memories onto those who the world acclaims as "heroes" -- those honored veterans of combat, such as Audie Leon Murphy, from Kingston, Texas, who was the most highly decorated soldier of World War II. But this doesn't describe the majority of the people we honor today. What were they like? I think President Bush answered this question in one of his own Memorial Day addresses when he said: "We know that they all loved their lives as we love ours. We know they had a place in the world, families waiting for them, and friends they expected to see again. We know that they thought of a future, just as we do, with plans and hopes for a long and full life. And we know that they left those hopes behind when they went to war, and parted with them forever when they died." The President concluded with the unequivocal statement that we can never measure the full value of what was gained in their sacrifice. We live it every day in the comforts of peace and the gifts of freedom." In short, these were people just like those of us who are gathered here today to pay our respects.

In what is perhaps the most sincere and most often quoted memorial statement, Abraham Lincoln said, in his Gettysburg Address of 1863: "It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us -- that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion -- that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain -- and that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom -- and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth."

To Lincoln's unparalleled statement, I would only add another verse from the Bible, found in the 15th Chapter of John, Verse 13: "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." Those we honor here today are our friends who extended that greatest love to us all.

Another of our Presidents, John F. Kennedy, made this vow in his Inaugural Address: "Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty."

These people we honor today kept their faith that their service would protect this nation and guarantee our freedoms. Today, our remembrance is the small price we pay to keep our faith with them. But we owe them so much more than mere remembrance. We owe them our willingness -- no, we owe them our vow -- to pick up the burden of responsibility when that burden falls to us. It is our responsibility to bear any burden, pay any price....

And so, for those who literally gave that last full measure of devotion to this country, may God bless their truly immortal souls, and may God Bless America.

Noah's Journal: The Case of the Missing Mistress....

Wednesday May 21, 2008

....Uff, hmph ... hoof ... yawn.... Mama? Hi Mama... Time to get up and go for our walk? It's awfully dark in here.... Look out the window ... it's awfully dark out there, Mama.... Middle of the night, Mama ... my little bed is soooo snug ... rather dream about chasing those cats.... Snuffle, rhumpf, hoof ... zzzzzz....

Okay ... light outside now ... never did catch the cats .... time to go for our walk now, Mama ... time to get up, Mama ... Mama? Mama? Where are you, Mama? Gotta go see ... into the bedroom.... Snuffle, snuffle, snort, hoof.... Mama??? Mama???

There's Daddy ... my leash ... bending down to put it on me ... gonna take me to Mama?.... Gotta see Mama ... out the door ... where's Mama's car??? Sniff around where it was when we came home from our ride yesterday ... where's Mama, Daddy? We walk and walk ... look under bushes, shrubs ... back to the house ... run to the bedroom, look in the bathroom, look in the other bathroom, the kitchen ... where's my Mama??? Whine, snuffle, scratch at the back door .... look on patio ... sniff, rhumpf, hoof.... Where's my Mama, Daddy? My Mama's not here.... Why won't you take me to Mama?

Okay ... I'll take those butterballs and that ham ... mmmmm ... you're a good Daddy ... but I still want my Mama.... Walking and trotting and chasing birds is tiring ... hoof, rhumph ... little nap ... then find Mama.... Snuffle, rhumpf ... zzzzzz....

Snort, stretch ... run to the bedroom to get Mama ...whine, hoof, snuffle, cry ... can't see Mama in the bed ... can't see the top of the bed with my little short legs ... maybe the bathroom ... other bathroom ... kitchen ... guest rooms, living room ... where's my Mama???? Daddy, why isn't Mama here??? Have you done something to my Mama??? Hoof, snuff ... Daddy, I want my Mama!!! Where is she??? What did you do??? You'd better tell me ... look me in the eye ... I am a serious doggie.... grrrrrrr....

Okay ... leash ... let's go find Mama.... Root, snuffle, ramble, sniff.... Where's Mama? Airplane???? ... Mama's on an airplane? What the woof is an airplane, and why would Mama leave me to go on one???? Makes no sense to me.... Fly??? Birds fly ... Mama doesn't fly.... Did you send her away on that airplane thing??? Where is my Mama????? You bring her back ... NOW ... I want my Mama!!!! What did you do to my Mama??? Gotta take control.... Stare at Daddy.... grrrrrr....

More butterballs ... you think I don't know there's medicine in there? I'm a smart fellow, Daddy.... Mama knows I'm smart.... Still, they taste really, really good ... eat some just to humor Daddy ... but they are really, really good ... and eat some of that food in the dish ... keep up my strength ... gotta find Mama....

Run to the bedroom ... nose under the ruffle, all around the bed under the ruffle ... Mama, are you there? Closet ... Mama's shoes ... clothes ... smell Mama ... Mama smells good ... but where is Mama? Look out the back door ... no Mama.... What's that??? The shower ... Mama takes showers ... oh Mama!!!! Run to the bathroom ... can't get over the side of the tub ... damned short legs ... waiting, waiting, dancing ... Daddy comes out ... wet, dripping ... drips on me, ick! Ewwwww! Not Mama..... Where's Mama, Daddy??? grrrrrrrr..... Want my Mama ... NOW ... take me to Mama!!!!! Look Daddy in the eye with a masterful gaze.... grrrrrrrr.......

Daddy and the leash again.... Are we gonna find Mama now??? Gettin' tired of this game ... outside, birds, cars ... silver car!!!! Mama has a silver car!!! Whine, scratch, paw, sniff ... not Mama's silver car. Little short legs ... why don't I have long, powerful legs? If I had long tall legs I might see Mama just down the street.... Look under bushes (can't see over them with these little short legs), around trees ... Mama, Mama.... Daddy, what have you done with my Mama??? Mama wouldn't leave me.... I want her ... NOW ... need to see Mama, gotta see Mama ... gotta see her ... gotta see her ... gotta see Mama....

Back in the house ... run to the bedroom, snuffle through the closet, rumple through the bathrooms ... sniff here, sniff there ... look behind the curtains, snuffle ... look at those lazy cats over there ... they won't help me look for Mama.... Don't they care that Mama's missing??? Fickle, fickle ... as long as they have their Fancy Feast, they don't seem to care who gives it to them ... harrrumph, snort.... Don't they know Mama is the food giver??? Don't they care??? Well, Toody helped look some.... Maybe my friends Murray and Bogart could help.... But Daddy ... where's my Mama??? I want to know NOW!!! BRING ME MY MAMA!!! NOW!!! Look the Master in the eye with an animal gaze.... grrrrrrrrr......

Getting dark again ... Mama, it's getting dark!!!! Ring, ring, ring ... Daddy picks up something ... talks, talks, talks ... holds thing down to me ... I hear Mama ... but where is Mama??? Mama??? Mama??? Did Daddy put you in that thing??? Bark, bark ... Mama, Mama ... I can't see you Mama....

Mama can you hear me???? Mama can you see me???? Mama are you near me, can you find me in the night??? Mama can you help me not be frightened? Streisand ... I could be a Vegas show dog if I wanted to ... sing, dance ... little short legs.... Drat!!! Mama ... please Mama, pat my head, stroke my back, tickle under my chin ... Mama can you hear me???? Please, Mama....

Daddy puts that thing down ... can't reach it ... little, stubby legs ... should have loooooong, graceful legs ... and paws with opposable thumbs to pick up that thing to see if Mama's in there.... Look in the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the closet, the dining room, look on the patio.... Dark outside.... Where's Mama? Daddy, where's Mama? What have you done with my Mama???? grrrrrrrr........

Stalk Daddy to kitchen.... grrrrrrr.... Stalk Daddy to bedroom.... grrrrrrr..... Stalk Daddy to the bathroom.... Dog him.... Make Daddy tell me.... I am a dog of substance and I will not be trifled with!!!! grrrrrrrr......

Tired ... stalking Daddy is hard work ... gotta rest ... climb into my little bed with my little short legs ... think what to do to find Mama ... think, think, think.... snort, rhumpf, hoof ... zzzzzzzzz.....

Dark .. late ... no Mama.... More butterballs??? Dude, they're good, but you're not gettin' the big picture here.... My Mama's missing... she's gone ... you're not helping me find her ... you must know something I don't know. What have you done to my Mama???? You know where Mama is, don't you??? Take me to her NOW, Dude ... before I have to ruff you up!!! Mama, Mama ... bedroom, closet, shoes, bathrooms, kitchen ... cat box ... yech!!!! Gross!!!

Okay, Daddy ... Tried to be nice about this ... only growled at you just a little bit ,,, just to show you ... make my point.... But here I am ...seriously ... look into my eyes ... deeply.... I'm doggedly determined, Dude!!!! No more messin' around here.... I want my Mama. Want her NOW!!! grrrrrr ... stalk ... grrrrr ... stalk ... grrrrrr..... This room's not big enough for both of us without Mama in it.... grrrrrrrr..... stalk....

Humph??? The door??? Mama???? Mama???? MAMA!!!!! Yip, woof, hoot, roll, rhumpf ... MAMA!!!!! You're here!!!! You're home!!!! Scratch my tummy, Mama ... ruffle my ears Mama ... MAMA!!!!! I FOUND YOU!!! I FOUND YOU MAMA!!!!! I'm a goooood doggie.... Snuggle, snuffle ... hoof ... Mama's lap ... zzzzzzzz....

)O(

'Cat Tracks: The Road to Bali ... Sensory Overload ... and Lunch With Made....

Reception Area, Four Seaons Jimbaran Bay, Bali 2004I

In 1952, when I was six years old, I saw the movie The Road to Bali, starring Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, the sixth of their seven Road pictures. It was wonderfully funny, in the style of the times, employing puns and parody, singing and slapstick, thoroughly entertaining the audience. I watched the film at the old Palace Theater, a place inextricably entwined with good memories of Childress and childhood, and felt an immediate "pull" toward Bali and the beginnings of a lifelong conviction that one day, some day, I had to go there. Fifty-two years later, I did. And it was everything ... and so much more ... than I had dreamed.

In October 2004 we left San Francisco on an overnight flight to Hong Kong, where we spent six nights before flying on to Bali. After landing at Ngurah Rai Airport in Denpasar, we were met by a car sent by our hotel, the Four Seasons Jimbaran Bay. Fortified with cold water and chilled face cloths, we settled in to observe this new place, fascinated and utterly charmed by the sometimes incongruous but delightful blending of East and West.

After registering in the lobby, open to the air on all sides and appearing magically suspended between earth and sky, we were assigned our own small villa, the standard Four Seasons Jimbaran accommodation. It was an enclosed compound with high walls, entered through an outer wooden gate painted in colorful Balinese style, leading to a courtyard, an open-air sitting pavilion (where we took most of our meals at the hotel), a picturesque terrace and a bungalow containing sleeping and bathroom facilities. Our villa overlooked the beach and the bay, and we loved the private plunge pool, whimsically accented by a Balinese stonework representation of a frog spitting water into the pool. (Despite how it may sound, it was serenely beautiful.) A luxurious bath had been drawn while we were checking in, the tub filled with floating pink and white frangipani. Just outside the dressing area there was an outdoor shower protected from view, surrounded by vines and flowers, and we enjoyed it a la Balinese (meaning au natural) every morning we were there.

Villa plunge pool overlooking Jimbaran Beach and Bay, Bali 2004

We spent the rest of that day walking the lush grounds of the property, imbibing to sensory intoxication the almost unreal beauty, growing comfortable with the intense feeling of spirituality which permeates the island's atmosphere. In our bungalow that evening, while looking through the hotel's information booklet, we learned that all of the landscaping and selection and placing of the stone representations of Balinese gods and animals had been the inspiration of a "gone native" Australian originally named Michael White, now a citizen of Bali known as Made Wijaya (MAH-day WEE-ji-ah).

White had been an architecture student in the summer of 1973, crewing on yacht sailing the fabled South China Sea and the Indian Ocean. When the yacht called at Bali, White was so charmed by the place that he literally jumped ship, swam ashore and found an Indonesian family who would shelter him and teach him the language in return for his giving English and tennis lessons to their children. We commented on what an interesting fellow he must be, and then fell asleep with the waxing moon outside our French doors marking a shimmering, ghostly path across the bay to the lights of Denpasar.



Tanah Lot at low tide, Bali 2004

Just before dawn the next morning, our driver Sundara (who would be with us throughout the trip, and with whom we had many conversations about Balinese lore and religion) was waiting to take us to Sanur, where we watched the sun rise in shades of pink and cerulean and gold over a a breakfast picnic (including mimosas) on the beach. Later we spent time at Nusa Dua, totally mesmerized by the crystal clear turquoise waters, lulled into somnolence by the sussurous lapping of small waves upon the white sand. Then we drove to Tanah Lot temple, watching as the temple, glowing spectrally and backlit by the setting sun, was totally cut off from land at high tide.


Yahn and Friends at Tanah Lot

On the morning of our third day, I set out for whitewater rafting on the gorgeous Ayung River. Yahn had chosen to pass on this particular adventure since there was (according to the hotel) a slight walk into and out of the river gorge. So, leaving Yahn and the driver, and outfitted with crash helmet (!) and paddle, I set off with the group. The "slight walk" turned out to be (seriously!) 600 steps down ... steep steps in some places. About halfway on the descent to the river, I began having second thoughts and asked our guide just how much farther it was to the pontoon boats. He assured me it was only a few more steps ... which is accurate, I suppose, if one counts a few as a few hundred. The trip on the River itself was spectacular, under the canopy of the luxuriant tropical rain forest, running the entire spectrum of shades of green and interspersed with bursts of brightly hued tropical flowers ... wild orchids, birds of paradise, roses, jasmine, marigolds, lotus, hibiscus, torch ginger....

At the end of the river run, I disembarked the raft and looked up with a sinking (!) feeling as I contemplated the 600 looooong steps that would take me back to Yahn and Sundara. Still, with no choice other than taking up residence under one of the massive banyan trees, which the Balinese believe represent immortality, I set out and eventually found myself back at my starting point. By the time we returned to our hotel, I was almost immobilized, the muscles in my legs knotted and swelling. The staff was most solicitous, and so sweetly apologetic that they had not told us just how difficult the climb might be. We had not been in our villa for more than an hour when the hotel manager dispatched a skilled masseur with healing oils, along with a bottle of champagne and a huge assortment of hors d'oeuvres, all gratis ... such a thoughtful and much appreciated gesture.

The next day we stayed on the grounds of the hotel, basking in the sun and enjoying the hydrotherapy of the plunge pool. We had dinner at sunset on a promontory overlooking the water and the half moon necklace of flickering lights outlining the contours of the bay, with gamelan musicians playing in the background and flaming torches punctuating the spaces between carelessly scattered diamonds in an indigo velvet sky.



View from the terrace, Four Seasons Jimbaran Bay, Bali 2004

Sundara came for us the following morning and we drove to Ubud, the thriving, vibrant artists' colony in the interior of the island. The route took us through terraced green rice paddies attended by workers in conical straw hats, lending an ancient patina to the surreal landscape. At one point, we saw one of the rice workers, stripped to the skin (really ... all of his skin), cooling himself by pouring buckets of water over his head down the length of his body. He was a gorgeous man, a living bronze sculpture, totally unaffected and unselfconscious in his nudity ... and it was one of the most beautiful, natural sights I have ever seen. We reached for the camera, but the moment was already past. On reflection I believe that was just as well, because it would have been invasive and almost indecent to have captured him in such an unguarded moment. Some things are so intimate, even without intended intimacy, that the mind is the only appropriate keep for their repose.

In Ubud, we toured an art school, and Yahn enjoyed talking with and observing the students and instructors. Later, we bought an intricate wood carving done by Master Carver Sudana. (See Garuda..., published in the Short Notes linked blog on April 20, 2008.) Returning to the hotel that afternoon, we spotted a shop identified as Made Wijaya's gallery, and Yahn asked Sundara to stop the car. Yahn went into the shop and after several minutes returned, accompanied by a stunning Javanese man who formally extended an invitation to us to have lunch with Made the next day. As Yahn explained when we drove away, he had asked the Javanese if there was any possibility that Made might be in the gallery at some time during our stay so that we could meet him ... whereupon the Javanese picked up the phone and placed a call, spoke for a bit in Balinese, and then handed the phone to Yahn ... who found himself speaking directly with Made about art and aesthetics, leading to the invitation.

At noon on the next day, we arrived at Made's compound and were helped from the car by armed guards who escorted us inside the walls. In addition to his living quarters, the compound contains Made's several businesses and work space for his proteges and affiliated artists. Not surprisingly, Made has many wonderful stories to tell of his life and interests ... and we were thoroughly enchanted during the leisurely lunch of Ayam Bali (Balinese chicken) with rice, finished with homemade coconut ice cream. At Made's urging, we made immediate plans to attend the twice-yearly Full Moon Ceremony that evening. It is worth noting that unlike the rest of Indonesia, which has the largest Muslim population in the world, the people of Bali (including Made, since taking residence) are mostly Hindu, with large dollops of ancient Balinese animism, which attributes souls and sentience to animals, plants and other entities.

That Full Moon Ceremony ... Purnama ... is an extraordinarily soulful and significant festival for the Balinese. Among its rituals and beliefs it is thought that bathing in water perfumed by frangipani flowers under the light of the full moon will wash away your sins, with the bonus of guaranteeing that you will remain physically attractive for another year. Purnama is also considered an auspicious day for planting to secure a good harvest.

The celebration proved to be one of our most unforgettable experiences ever ... singing, chanting, graceful and sometimes startlingly animated dancing, all performed by the almost generically beautiful Balinese ... the languid gesture of a finger, the delicate point of a toe, the quizzical but promising lift of an eyebrow and a flaring of the eyes, astonishing grimaces sliding into Mona Lisa smiles, displaying a range of emotion from seething outrage to cool serenity ... all illuminated and accentuated by the glow of torches, fires and the huge full moon ... exotic music, fragrant incense carried on the breeze, the offerings of flowers and fruit and water to Bali's gods.... We felt absolutely wrapped in sheer sensation through each successive performance and obeisance, full of wonder and tenable knowledge of our connection to the universe.

The ceremonies went on into the night, and later we sat up for a long time talking quietly about the things we had seen and felt. It was, simply, one of the most incredible, moving, deeply spiritual experiences of my life ... and if it did not inspire new beliefs from those I had already begun to hold, it did crystallize with almost Damascene clarity a vision of this world and worlds to come ... the perfect embodiment of an ancient dream manifest in living dreamscape.

I've said many times on the blog that I've been privileged and blessed ... fortunately I have also been determined, for sometimes we must be the authors of our own blessings ... to have seen many beautiful places in this world, to have had the opportunity to observe and come to know many diverse people ... but without a doubt, the most lovely, supernaturally gorgeous and quintessentially otherwordly place I have seen in this lifetime is Bali. It is truly deserving of the appellation "heaven on earth" ... and perhaps a "Preview of Coming Attractions"?

Sitting pavilion, villa at Four Seasons Jimbaran Bay, Bali 2004

)O(

Catastrophes ... Clarity ... and Joss....

Chiara Smith, Amber Johnston, Zheng Mei and Yahn Smith, Forbidden City, Beijing, China June 1986

This week has been a microcosm of life itself ... up, down, good, bad ... fortunately nothing personally catastrophic for me ... and yet news from around the world leads me to reflect on the nature of fortune ... luck ... in a world where good planning and good intentions don't always ensure success. The terrible cyclone in Myanmar, the (literal) upheaval and unsparing destruction of thousands of lives in the earthquake in China, the tornadoes in the mid-section of the United States ... swift, dreadful things that suddenly end time and hope, brutally truncating what might once have been "the remainder of days" for people who imagined and planned for a future that didn't exist. I cannot help but think of how quickly, how irrevocably things can change ... not only in such huge calamities, but within the slender space of a heart-stopping moment, in the proverbial blink of an eye ... outside our power to change or ameliorate. Again, I find myself feeling grateful to the universe for the time and the times I have been given, for all the "good days" and for so much luck in my life....

I have felt the eerie, frightening power of an earthquake. The first time was in Denver, before I married Yahn. I woke up one morning, stretching slowly and sleepily, contemplating the day ahead ... and then without warning my bed (and the house around it) began to sway, then rock.... My first thought was an approximation of "What'na hell?" ... followed almost immediately by the certain, sobering knowledge of what was in fact happening. As I sat there, somewhat desperately and uselessly gripping the sides of my bed, I had a vivid mental picture of the house splitting in two, with me and the bed plunging from the second story to the concrete floor of the basement. Almost as quickly as they had begun, the temblors ceased ... but those were among the longest seconds of my life, still vividly recalled more than 40 years later.

I was in another earthquake, along with Yahn and our daughter Chiara and our niece Amber, at Lake Hakone in Japan in 1986, on our first trip to Asia. We had earlier seen the Great Buddha at Kamakura (a dream of mine since the age of nine) and had stopped for lunch at a little inn with a breathtaking view of serene Japanese gardens and the lake and Mt. Fujiyama in the distance. We had just been served when a large group of tourists was ushered into the dining room ... and the floor began to undulate nauseatingly. My first, confused notion was that there were so many "tourists" (not us! ... grin) in the group that they were causing the floor to buckle ... then again, on the heels of the first thought, I recognized the shaking for what it was ... an earthquake ... and we all looked at each other, flashing silent questions of "What do we do?" "Where do we go?" Yahn told me later that he was on the verge of picking up a chair and throwing it through a window to try to get us outside before the building collapsed, but just then ... the quake stopped, almost perfunctorily. It started, then it stopped. It was over.

After lunch, we continued our sightseeing in the area as if nothing untoward had happened ... still, when we caught the bullet train to return to Tokyo, I could not avoid some grim speculation about what might happen if there were another earthquake, or severe aftershocks, while we were on the high-speed train. I wasn't particularly frightened by the prospect ... my thoughts were more just curious ruminations about the possibility of having to escape (if we could escape) from twisted, smoldering metal if the train derailed. But then I was distracted by a group of Japanese schoolboys who were absolutely fascinated by Chiara's blond hair. They massed around her, pointing their cameras, wanting to take her photo. She looked at us uncertainly and said "What should I do?" I told her to strike a pose, grinning as I said, "They think you're Christie Brinkley." We got, and still get, a laugh out of that ... with Chiara's children loving the story of their mother's 15 minutes of "fame". And life went on....



Yahn, Chiara and Amber visiting the Great Buddha at Kamakura, Japan June 1986

For some reason, I've never been prone to panic in potentially hazardous situations. I remember a particularly bad car wreck in 1973, when I had to be cut out of the car, and being perfectly cognizant and calm ... albeit somehow detached, like I was floating above the scene ... while observing everything that transpired. Perhaps I've been fortunate that none of the "close calls" I've experienced actually rose to the level of "catastrophe". Or perhaps I have a fatalistic bent ... or at the very least, some innate sense that in some situations, I have little or no control over what will happen ... and panic is likely counter-productive.

Perhaps growing up in Tornado Alley, watching dark, black-bordered green clouds for signs of "wispy tails" stoked a respect for the power of Nature and other uncontrollable occurrences. I've been near (very near) where tornadoes touched down ... in Childress County and in Dallas and Houston certainly, once in Denver where I watched from a high rise office building as a tornado connected with earth and tore up Colorado Boulevard, only a few blocks away ... and once in Vernon, in 1983, traveling from Houston back to Denver. On that occasion, Yahn and I had just cleared Wichita Falls when we saw the dark, roiling skies ahead and knew we were in for something violent and potentially dangerous. As we were coming into Vernon, rain and wind and hail hit with a vengeance, buffeting our little car and rocking it from side to side. We talked briefly about whether we should forge ahead to Childress, but decided it might be prudent to stop and eat dinner there and wait out the storm indoors, so we selected a pizza place just off the highway ... a little A-frame building that we had passed many times when it had been home to various other restaurants.

Just as we entered the small haven, to use an old but totally descriptive line, all hell broke loose. The wind began furiously whipping the rain and hail against the windows, sending electrical lines into collision and throwing showers of sparks into the parking lot ... an amazing, literally electrifying sight ... so close. We sat down at a table and just after the waitress took our order, the owner came to tell us that he had heard on the radio that there was a tornado on the ground close by, and that we should watch him carefully over the next minutes. If a tornado was indeed headed for us, he would wave and we should then run to the back of the restaurant and go with him and his employees into the large freezer at the back, which he felt would protect us.

And so we watched him, but there was no signal. Just as the waitress delivered our pizza, we heard a tremendous roaring and a rumble ... followed immediately by the half of the A-frame roof on the other side of us peeling back and flying away in huge pieces. Within two feet of us, the rain was now pouring into what had been the other half of the restaurant, while we sat open-mouthed but dry in our booth. After sitting in stunned silence for what seemed like several minutes, we got up and walked toward the front of the restaurant ... where we saw the owner shaking his head, looking absolutely stricken and apparently incapable of speech. He motioned with his hand ... and then we saw that the freezer he had thought to use as refuge had been totally ripped from the restaurant, our putative safe haven utterly destroyed ... as we would have been, had we sought shelter there. And then quickly ... so quickly, like turning off a faucet ... the rain and hail and wind stopped, the setting sun cast a rosy, benevolent glow over everything ... and we saw our little car, sitting there in the parking lot as we had left it, totally undisturbed, not even pocked by the hailstones.

We sat down again to collect ourselves in the dry half of the restaurant, and ate some of the pizza mechanically (our appetites were pretty much gone by then) ... although I recall that it seemed at the time to be the best pizza I had ever eaten ... and then we left to try to make Childress before dark. All along the road from Vernon to Quanah, there were semi-trucks and cars overturned, and people standing around looking dazed. We would have stopped to see if we could help anyone, but the police and emergency workers were waving everyone through, not wanting those who were clearly all right to add to the confusion by stopping and milling about. We could not help but note that had we not stopped when we did, we would have been on that stretch of road when the storm hit. From Quanah on into Childress, there was no indication that there had been a storm of any kind ... no melting swaths of hail along the roadside, no rain puddles, no trees or limbs or trucks down ... just the peaceful, flat red-dirt countryside of that part of the Texas Panhandle.



Yahn, Chiara and Amber at Beijing Airport, June 1986


During the 20 years we lived in Houston, we experienced several tropical storms, and a couple of minor hurricanes, but nothing like the "big one" that climatologists and meteorologists have said is long overdue for the Houston area. I shudder to think what will happen when that occurs. The neighborhood we lived in, Montrose, close to downtown and higher in elevation than some parts of the city, had never flooded during storms as did many other parts of Harris County ... until Tropical Storm Allison in June 2001, which parked itself over Houston for days, causing terrible flooding, floating semis like toy trucks on the interstates, leaving 30,000 homeless and killing some 23 people in Texas ... including one woman who bizarrely drowned in an elevator as she attempted to enter the underground parking lot of her downtown office building to reach her car and get home to safety. On the worst night of the storm, when we did get about 3-4 inches of water in our living room, Yahn looked out the front windows and saw two guys going down the street in a canoe. But we were lucky ... a lot of people weren't.

I've never entertained the theory that I've been spared catastrophe for any reason other than luck ... "joss" as it's sometimes called in Asia. I have never thought that I am somehow more worthy of saving grace than that poor woman in the elevator, or the family just down the street whose house collapsed in the heavy rain and flooding.... "Stuff" happens ... without reason, without preamble, without appeal. Sometimes we are given warning ... sometimes not.

In the face of such uncertainties, we continue to dream our dreams, and construct our realities. If we are inclined to introspection and metaphysics, we often silently acknowledge that realities are frequently born ... and borne ... in dreams. If we seek to know and understand, we question the dream within the dream, examine the wheels within wheels, and contemplate the meaning and the trajectory of our lives in this world and the next. We comprehend that luck is a gift ... or karma ... but not a judgment....

This week has added light and shadow to the larger mosaic of my life; its chiaroscuro brings clarity to my mind, peace to my soul and serenity to my heart. And life is good....




Chiara and Amber at Jumbo floating restaurant, Aberdeen Harbor, Hong Kong, June 1986

May you have long life ... a questing mind ... and good joss....

)O(

Know When to Hold 'Em ... Know When to Fold 'Em ... and Plan "B"....

One thing (of many) I've learned in the 45 years since our graduation from CHS is that sometimes in order to achieve a particular result, one must change the means employed to effect the desired end. It is always wise to have a Plan "B" ... and so we have now come to Plan "B" with regard to our proposed 45th Class Reunion, which was scheduled in Las Vegas, Nevada October 17-19.

When Nicki and I began planning the reunion last October, we talked with several classmates who believed (as we did) that Las Vegas would be a grand place ... truly out of the ordinary ... to mark such a momentous milestone in our lives. Although we knew from the first that not all of our classmates would travel to Las Vegas, we felt there were a number of us who would find the LV Strip an extra added attraction. We also knew and acknowledged that unfortunately there are some of us who will not attend any class reunion, no matter where it is held.

However, as time has passed, even some of those who previously committed to come to Las Vegas have had to rethink their priorities as far as time, travel, health and expense are concerned. So, after consulting with all of those who had signed up, and making sure no one would be out any unrecoverable expenses, we have reluctantly decided to pull the plug on Las Vegas as a reunion destination.

We have not taken this decision lightly or hastily, and we are sorry that some have been disappointed by this outcome. Nevertheless, since the real purpose of having a class reunion is to get as many of our classmates as possible together again, we now believe that the desired end may be better attained by coordinating a reunion for our class with the plans for the All School Reunion to be held in Childress October 3-5.

In conjunction with the All School Reunion, we still want to do something special just for our class, and so we have arranged with Marilyn Baker Havens to have dinner at K-Bob's Steakhouse at 7:00 p.m. Friday, October 3. Before anyone asks ... another class has already reserved K-Bob's for lunch on Saturday, and it is not available for our group at any other time ... so we feel fortunate that Marilyn is able to accommodate us on Friday. Ordering will be from K-Bob's menu, with separate checks.

Over the next weeks we will be looking into what options may be available for visiting after our dinner, or after the All School dinner on Saturday night. We certainly welcome your suggestions for such activities.

We do need to get a head count to Marilyn as soon as possible, so would appreciate your letting us know if you plan to attend the Class of 1963 dinner on Friday. If you want to receive more information about the plans for the All School Reunion itself, its website is:

http://biz.childresstexas.net/allschoolreunion/

Although a reminder may seem unnecessary since we all are familiar with the limited facilities in Childress, I do suggest that if you live elsewhere, and don't have family or friends that you can "touch" for a room, you might want to make hotel reservations as soon as possible. Yahn and I and a couple of others are planning to stay at the Quality Inn (formerly the Holiday Inn Express), just west of town on Avenue F (Hwy. 287).

Nicki and I sincerely thank everyone who made plans to come to Las Vegas for their interest and support, and we hope to see all of you in Childress October 3-5. We are also hopeful that this change in plans means that we will be seeing more of you who expressed interest in attending, but could not make the trip to Vegas.

)O(

Gifts ... Synchronicities ... and Tea ....

I recently read a wonderful book, The Gift of Rain, the first novel by author Tan Twan Eng (oddly, and rarely at least in my experience, a lawyer with a lyrical soul and a metaphysical bent). For me, the book was a true "find" ... a "gift" itself.... I ordered the book "cold" ... without a recommendation from anyone, and certainly not because I knew the author or his work, but simply because I stumbled upon a brief mention of it somewhere, and the title somehow caught and "called" to me. When the book arrived, I opened it in great anticipation and read Tan's first paragraphs:

I was born with the gift of rain, an ancient soothsayer in an even more ancient temple once told me.

This was back in a time when I did not believe in fortunetellers, when the world was not filled with wonder and mystery. I cannot recall her appearance now, the woman who read my face and touched the lines on my palms. She said what she was put into this world to say, to those for whom her prophecies were meant, and then, like every one of us, she left.

I know her words had truth in them, for it always seemed to be raining in my youth. ... the one impression that remains now is of rain, falling from a bank of low floating clouds, smearing the landscape into a Chinese brush painting. Sometimes it rained so often I wondered why the colors around me never faded, were never washed away, leaving the world in moldy hues.

I was a goner from the first line. And so once again I abandoned myself to the remarkable poetry which may be found in the juxtaposition of elegant, often startling prose and trenchant thought. I found myself awed by the "wonder and mystery" conjured by the book, caught up in one of those "magical" experiences that sometimes come to us at random times of our lives ... unexpected occurrences which may open doors or shed illumination into the recesses of the mind, which continue to resonate in the fastness of the soul. In some places Tan's prose left me just absolutely breathless ... words, you know ... but it also proved to be a book of seemingly inexplicable synchronicities that upon later reflection turn out to be totally explicable, ultimately serendipitous and life-affirming.

Toward the end of the book, Tan's protagonist Philip Hutton explained "the gift of rain" in these words:

The fortune-teller, long since dead, said I was born with the gift of rain. I know now what she meant. Her words had not been a curse, nor had they been words of blessing. Like the rain, I had brought tragedy into many people's lives but, more often than not, rain also brings relief, clarity and renewal. It washes away our pain and prepares us for another day, and even another life. Now that I am old, I find that the rains follow me and give me comfort, like the spirits of all the people I have ever known and loved. ...

We [all are] beings capable of love and memory. These capabilities are the greatest gifts given to us.... And that is the point of life itself, I whisper into the night....

When I finished the book, I turned back to the first and read it again ... which I am also prone to do with books that move me, or impart something of great interest. In doing so, I put off moving on to a few other books I'd been eagerly looking forward to reading ... but sometimes one must linger for a while in lovely, soul-stirring places.

Buddhist temple in the mountains, 11th Century, ink on silk

Even after my second reading, I found it difficult to stop thinking of the themes and the imagery of Tan's book. I loved his description of rain "smearing the landscape into a Chinese brush painting." Growing up in a small, dusty corner of the Texas Panhandle, my metaphor would likely have run to sand storms thick with grit carried on wild, howling winds that sometimes literally blackened the sun, causing the street lamps to feebly flicker at noon, while cars crept slowly past preceded by spectral headlights. Still, I could not help but recall how often the farmers and other citizens of Childress County were thankful for the literal gift of rain, when it came on time and in the proper amounts to make the red dirt surrounding that town fertile and sustaining for another year. If the rains were late, or too early, or filled with hail, the longed for and much-needed gift could and did take the form of a nightmare, destroying fields and seeds and hopes for the future.

Like Philip Hutton and his creator, I know we are given many gifts in our lives, although sometimes they don't come at the right time, or in the right way, or we don't recognize them or their worth when they are tendered to us. Of course not all gifts are good; more likely, as Hutton articulated, many of our gifts are neither blessings nor curses ... frequently they are "good" or "bad" only when defined by the ways in which we use them.

Some gifts are loud, exuberant and splashy ... others are quiet and reflective, appearing slender and insubstantial, but forged with the strength of a tempered blade ... still others, like the gift of the apple to Snow White, are insidiously poisonous ... some are consumed quickly and greedily, burned to ash or dissipated by profligate use ... and some are carefully guarded and nurtured to provide illumination and sustain us for all our lives ... "until time and times are done" as my old "friend" W.B. Yeats magically wrote.

Some gifts inure to our benefit, others prove detrimental to us and to those around us. One of my greatest gifts (although sometimes a decidedly mixed blessing) which Yahn and I (and others) have mentioned on the blog, is my "infernal" memory. While I am sure that my memory can on occasion cause discomfort to some, or incredulity in others, it has been a saving gift of grace to me more than once in this life. I am also blessed in the gift of time I have been given ... approximately at this point 22,500 days, and counting (I hope)....

These conjoined gifts of memory and time have helped me retrieve one gift I casually devalued and attempted to discard when I was younger and less appreciative ... I speak here of the gift of once living in a particular town, in a particular place and time. Growing up in Childress ... like life itself ... was not without pain and consequences; we are often called upon to "pay" for our gifts in one way or another. Nevertheless, the ability to remember the past, and the time and maturity to put my memories in context and analyze them as they relate to my life today ... to learn the lessons I need to learn in this life for the times to come ... are indeed priceless.

Which leads me to reflect on another priceless gift ... Nicki's "gift" of this blog to all of us ... and the treasured gift to me when she asked me to be her partner in this effort. Over the past several months, we have been warmed, amazed, gratified and nurtured by all of you who read the blog, who have shared your thoughts and your memories of a time we all experienced together. We've loved hearing the stories of your families and the people you have become in the years since graduation. Like Rashomon, however, referred to in my recent post L'Affaire des Mots ... Wishin' and Hopin' ... and It's Only Words... (published April 20, 2008) ... memories are frequently subjective and dependent on the mindset and agenda of the narrator. It is only by weaving our memories together, taking cognizance of the differences and the similarities, that we may begin to apprehend a semblance of the way things really were once upon a long time ago.

Nicki and I have also reveled in the knowledge that as time has passed, there are more and more of you reading the blog, and we are always looking for ways to bring more of your "voices" to this forum. In recent conversations, we have speculated that some wonderful memories and life experiences were shared in the earlier days of the blog ... thoughts which might stimulate comments and stories from those who have only joined us in the past few days or months. We have also acknowledged that because of the way the blog has grown, some of you may find the thought of reading it in its entirety daunting ... or if you have taken the time to read, you may have failed to leave comments because you thought no one would notice them on some early topic post. Perhaps you read the posts when they were published, but were not yet comfortable in sharing your voices "in public". Or maybe you left a comment then and thought of something else later, but didn't go back.

Calligraphy and painting by Zhao Mengfu

And so we have decided to periodically rerun certain topic posts from 2007, along with the comments that accrued to them, even as the blog continues with new posts on its (and our) journey into the future. As ever, we hope you will enjoy all these posts, whether you are a first-time visitor or an old friend, and that you find comfort, humor, reverie, insight and understanding in them. Look for them under the "Oldies But Goodies" heading, starting early next week.

Coincidentally (?) with these ruminations on The Gift of Rain, a story of the relationship between a student and his teacher, the first post published on the blog deals with memories of some of our teachers at CHS, and we urge you all to share new comments on this "old" post.

In his book Messages from the Masters, Brian L. Weiss, M.D., refers to the Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hahn, who likened life to a cup of tea, saying that one "must be in the present moment, mindful and aware, to enjoy the tea.... If you are [always] ruminating about past events or worrying about future ones, the tea will be gone. You drank it but you do not remember, because you were not aware." But I believe it is inarguable that our memory of drinking that tea, of the moments that we held and savored it, experienced the warmth and the aroma and the taste, increases our awareness and contributes immeasurably to the sum of our personal and unique lives. Socrates said that the unexamined life is not worth living. Sometimes in the rush of daily life, we may forget to reflect and examine. The blog can be our key ... to yesterday, today and tomorrow ... if we accept and utilize the gift.

The Sakyamuni Buddha, by Zhang Shenwen, Song Dynasty (1173-1176 C.E.)


Yahn is fond of posing the question: "Who is the 'I' who knows that I have changed?" Or as Tan Twan Eng wrote:

There were times when I wondered whether it really all happened or whether everything was a dream, like the [philosopher Matsuo Basho's] dream of the butterflies.... Does the philosopher dream of the butterfly, or is he merely the butterfly's dream?

Without introspection and examination, life consists of wandering from one event to another, without awareness, knowledge and growth. It is the difference between "existing" and truly living. I think the blog reminds us that there are other layers and levels of this life, and may help us recognize forgotten goals and dreams to which we may yet aspire.

Each of us who "owns" the blog, every one of us whether a contributor or a reader, is interested ... we are listening ... and we want to hear ....

)O(