Decapitated Jesus

Here is one of my favorite Christmas stories.
I was in Switzerland and Helena and I had gone to Lausanne to take in a performance of Verdi’s Nabucco. We were having dinner at a restaurant down the street from the theatre and during dinner Helena’s phone rang. It was her 9-year-old son Jeremy. He was distraught. Jeremy had some very bad news to tell his mother, but he had to be honest and he had to tell her.
“What is it, Jeremy,” Helena asked, her voice rising with concern.
I could not hear Jeremy’s side of the conversation, but what he told her was that he had been playing with his basketball in the house and the ball went into the crèche.
“Oh, no, Jeremy, what happened to the crèche?” Helena asked her son.
The ball knocked Jesus’s head off.
Oh, God, I thought, Jeremy decapitated Jesus.
I only heard Helena’s side of the conversation, in which she admonished Jeremy that he wasn’t supposed to be playing with the ball in the house and then she tried to tell Jeremy that maybe it could be fixed.
Then she said, “Jeremy it’s not good to have a Jesus without a head.”
Helena was being serious and sincere, but the comment and the way it sounded blew me away. I covered my mouth and laughed out of control and repeated soto voce, “Jeremy, it’s not good to have a Jesus without a head.”
Poor Helena was looking at me lose control and she was trying desperately to maintain her composure and was stifling a laugh. I heard her say, “No, Jeremy, I’m not crying. It’s ok. No, I’m not laughing.”
I tried. I really did.

Some Words to Consider

Some Words To Consider

As President Obama prepares to address the nation – and the world – to lay out his strategy toward Afghanistan, it would help to look back at a recent Bill Moyers show in which he looked back at Vietnam and the thought processes that President Lyndon Johnson went through at the time. The transcript of the program, which consisted almost entirely of audio tapes, is at:
http://www.pbs.org/moyers/journal/11202009/transcript1.html

But, Moyers concluded with:

Now in a different world, at a different time, and with a different president, we face the prospect of enlarging a different war. But once again we're fighting in remote provinces against an enemy who can bleed us slowly and wait us out, because he will still be there when we are gone.

Once again, we are caught between warring factions in a country where other foreign powers fail before us. Once again, every setback brings a call for more troops, although no one can say how long they will be there or what it means to win. Once again, the government we are trying to help is hopelessly corrupt and incompetent.

And once again, a President pushing for critical change at home is being pressured to stop dithering, be tough, show he's got the guts, by sending young people seven thousand miles from home to fight and die, while their own country is coming apart.

And once again, the loudest case for enlarging the war is being made by those who will not have to fight it, who will be safely in their beds while the war grinds on. And once again, a small circle of advisers debates the course of action, but one man will make the decision.

We will never know what would have happened if Lyndon Johnson had said no to more war. We know what happened because he said yes.


In a recent speech, Jim Leach, Chairman of the National Endowment for the Humanities, addressed incivility that is permeating the way members of Congress and politicians address one another and run for office. The transcript can be found at:
http://www.neh.gov/whoweare/speeches/11202009.html
But an important point he made:
Citizens of various philosophical persuasions are reflecting increased disrespect for fellow citizens and thus for modern day democratic governance. Much of the problem may flow from the fast-changing nature of our society which has so many destabilizing elements. But part falls at the feet of politicians and their supporters who use inflammatory rhetoric to divide the country. Candidates may prevail in elections by tearing down rather than uplifting, but if elected, they cannot then unite an angered citizenry. Negativity raises the temperature level of legislatures just as it dispirits the soul of society.
How timely as Switzerland votes to ban the construction of minarets. The vote came after a campaign of hate by the Swiss People’s Party. The New York Times editorialized the vote as “disgraceful” and a “vote for intolerance,” adding that if Switzerland’s “residents can succumb so easily to the propaganda of a xenophobic right-wing party, then countries with far greater Muslim populations and far more virulent strains of xenophobia best quickly start thinking about how to counter the trend. If left unchecked, xenophobia spreads fast. Already right-wingers in the Netherlands and Denmark have called for similar measures, and others are bound to be encouraged by the success of the Swiss People’s Party.”
And here we are, with hate and incivility and unexplained wars and mass murders in our own country and people standing by as a young girl is gang raped, our nation’s unemployment rate is in double digits with no relief in sight, divorces and suicides are at record levels among our military.
Isn’t it time for change?

Christmas in Berlin -- 1963

Twenty years ago, on November 9, 1989, the Wall that separated East and West Berlin was taken down, marking the reunification of East and West Germany.
Forty-six years ago, I spent Christmas on both sides of the Wall.
I had been working at the BMW factory in Munich and decided to take Christmas vacation in Berlin. I had arrived in Reutlingen, Germany, on June 27, 1963, a day after President John F. Kennedy delivered his "Ich bin ein Berliner" speech at the Berlin Wall and a day before my 20th birthday. The original plan was to work for a month in Germany and then return to the United States. But, while in Reutlingen, I had written the mayor of Munich who had arranged my job at the BMW plant in Munich.
I was working at the BMW plant when Kennedy was assassinated on November 22
-- the history of Kennedy's Berlin speech had been one reason I wanted to visit Berlin, which Kennedy referred to as "a defended island of freedom."
So, on Monday, December 23, I boarded a bus in the Munich Banhof at 5:30 a.m. for the 576 km or 358 mile journey to Berlin. The bus was freezing, with ice on the windows and in the toilet.
The trip was uneventful until we reached the first Soviet Zone at the East German border. The bus stopped and an armed brown-uniformed East German soldier boarded the bus and looked at all our passports. When he came to me, he looked at my U.S. passport and ordered me off the bus. I had a black beard and was dressed in black pants, a long black coat, a black scarf and a black woolen hat. Was there something sinister about my appearance? Or was it that I was the only American on the bus?
I followed the guard across a dirt yard to a yellow, one-story wooden structure where another guard looked at my passport, looked at me, looked back at the passport, asked for 10 deutschmarks for a visa, stamped my passport and sent me back to the bus.
At 6 p.m. we came to another checkpoint -- this time entering the West zone, where guards checked all vehicles inside and out. Once again, my passport was checked last, but this time without incident.
It was early evening when we arrived in West Berlin. I stepped off the bus and immediately felt I was someplace different. There was an atmosphere or an attitude in the air quite different from what I experienced in Munich.
Perhaps it was the "island of democracy" West Berlin surrounded by communist East Germany.
There were dramatic contrasts: brightly lit Christmas trees, apartment buildings with parts showing occupancy while other parts still showing evidence of World War II bombing, new structures adjacent to bomb ruins.
I asked my way to the Studentenheim -- a youth hostel -- where I got a room for 5 deutschmarks, equal to a little more than a dollar. Everybody in the Studentenheim spoke English.
On Christmas Eve, walking around West Berlin, I visited the famous Brandenburg Tur and checked out the Wall. At Potsdamer Platz, I climbed a platform and looked over the Wall into East Berlin. Potsdamer Platz before the war was one of the busiest and liveliest squares in Europe. Allied bombing during World War II left it in ruins, much of which remained on that day in 1963. I looked out across a no-man's land and took in a view that was perfect for the black and white film I had in my camera, since all I could see was black and white. Barbed wire and obstacles stretched across the bleak snow-covered terrain to the bombed-out buildings with gaping holes that had once been windows. Many buildings stood stark against a grey sky, entire walls missing, surrounded by rubble. The streets were empty, barren, bleak.
A sign erected high over the Wall reached out to the East Berliners: "Die Freie Berliner Press Meldet," or, "In Berlin the free press reports."
Under that was another sign wishing all, including those in East Berlin, "Frohe Weihnacht und ein besseres Neues Jahr" ("Merry Christmas and a better New Year").
There were other signs, printed in English, Russian, French and German informing people "You are leaving the American sector." I walked to Checkpoint Charlie, the scene of a dramatic standoff between American and Soviet tanks in 1961. Two armed soldiers manned the checkpoint, which displayed a picture of Kennedy, with a black sash across one top corner and "Mr. Praesident" underneath. Met a German man who said we should go to the East on Christmas Day.
On Christmas Day, I joined my new German friend and crossed into East Berlin aboard the S Banh. After going through passport check, we got separated so I was on my own.
The most people I saw all day were at the Banhof, where relatives and friends were seeing each other for the first time in years. The rest of the city was empty other than one rebuilt section. Bombed ruins were everywhere, very dirty, extremely quiet - a strange atmosphere. Everywhere I saw magazines and travel posters for Russia, Viet Nam, Korea and Hungary.
Propaganda pictures showed New York City slums, one of a man in filthy, ragged clothing slumped in a gutter. The caption said something to the effect that this is America.
Windows and doorways of buildings along the streets were bricked shut. The only sight I saw of Christmas was a small, skinny Christmas tree in a store
window.
After lunch in a small restaurant, I discovered I did not have enough East German money to pay and the waitress refused to take U.S. or West German money. But when she pointed to the pack of Marlboros in my pocket, I offered them to her and she indicated I had paid for my meal.
I saw signs, "For freedom and socialism our way is right" and "Die Republik braucht alle -- alle brauchen die Republik!" -- "The Republic needs all -- all need the Republic," referring to the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, or the German Democratic Republic.
I wandered some more, having no idea where I was or where I was headed -- just walking and taking in the atmosphere. At one point, I walked down a narrow side street when I saw a group of soldiers. I walked past them and another soldier walked toward me. He greeted me with "Guten Tag," which I returned. We passed each other and I continued down the street when I heard yelling in the distance. The soldier turned and yelled at me: "Vorsicht.
Halt. Eintritt ist verboten." "Caution. Stop. Entry is forbidden." It was then that I saw I was within less than 100 yards of the Wall. I made a hasty about-face, deciding it was time for this young man to go West, so I returned to West Berlin. I learned later that day that a youth had been shot attempting to escape into the West.
Back at the hostel, I spent the evening with students in a private party, eating, drinking, and listening to music. They surprised me by asking me to read a chapter in English from the book I had with me -- "To Kill a Mockingbird."
Surrounded by new-found friends in the warmth of the youth hostel, I was reminded of the earlier image I had of a lone woman in East Berlin walking in the middle of an otherwise empty street lined by brick-shuttered buildings on Christmas Day.

looking back to Germany

I was getting nostalgic and dug up the first newspaper stories I had written -- back when I was a 20-year-old floating around Germany working in restaurants and factories. I wrote my experiences for the Marin Independent Journal. Could have used some editing, for sure, but here they are:

Independent-Journal, Friday, July 19, 1963
HARD WORK
Youth Describes Life In Germany
By David Rosso
I work in a spulen and hulsen factory, which makes spools and bobbins for textiles, with Donald Light of Fairfax and Dennis Fitch of San Francisco.
The work is long and dull. We walk to the factory to begin work at 6:30 a.m. and finish at 5:30 p.m. All day we operate machines to mold, sort, cap and package spools, bobbins and flyers to be sued by textile factories around the world. The factory is bog, dark and dirty.
However, it is fascinating to work with people from all over the world. The people we work and talk with represent France, Germany, Italy, Yugoslavia, Greece, Algeria, Persia, Turkey and Egypt.
As soon as the people at the factory heard I was an American, they said, “Kennedy!” The German people love him. They describe him with one word, “prima.”
After we finish work, we head for home, or the Kolpinghaus, where students from all of Europe live. I room with a Yugoslav and two Frenchmen. We speak in German, English and a little French and Yugoslav.
One unfortunate incident has arisen. A Negro from Nigeria refuses to speak to Americans because of the American race riots. There is no communicating with him.
Before I left the United States I was told of the great German food. On a limited budget, I have failed to find any. I don’t think a day has gone by when we haven’t had noodles for a meal. Wurst, beer, bread, cheese and noodles make up a meal.
The factory employees have a taste for warm beer which I have yet to acquire. During work they soak their beer bottles in warm water.
Prices for food vary. At Kolpinghaus we pay $1.25 for 21 meals, including the continental breakfast of bread, butter, marmalade and warm milk or coffee. At the factory we have five hot lunches for a total of about 87 cents.
Milk is about eight cents a half liter and beer is 13 cents a quart. A good meal in the town costs about $2. Most desserts are expensive and very rich.
We have found a café which is frequented by the younger set for dancing. American music is very popular, as is the twist. The bossa nova has come and gone but the Madison has survived. The Germans were very anxious to learn the American version of the “tweest.”


No date
AFTER 12,000 SPUDS
Marin Youth Washes Dishes In Germany
By David Rosso
I was standing all alone in the crowded Munich railroad station about to search for a room and a job. Two weeks later I found a room, but finding a job was much easier.
I started as a potato peeler in a restaurant. Four days and 12,000 potatoes later I started washing dishes for a restaurant. Here I have a room, four meals a day and enough money to get on my feet after having had to spend it on expensive hotels while looking for a permanent room.
Nothing need be said about the work. Washing dishes is washing dishes wherever you are. But the room is very interesting. I live with two Germans in a run-down room behind the restaurant. There is no hot water, no toilet and no heat except from a small pot-bellied stove.
I will work at this job until I begin my regular job at the Bayerishe Motorwerke AG (BMW) which I got by writing to the mayor of Munich.
I saw much of Munich while looking for a room; there is too much to say about it and an amateur’s description would not do it justice. Munich never sleeps as tourists and students constantly come and go. I plan to use the entire year to see all of the many art, history and science museums.
One of the most impressive sights of the city is Munich’s Leopold Street in the Schwabing area. This is an existentialist section where the students display a nightly exhibit of their art. The sidewalks are lined with candle-illuminated paintings, copperware and pottery.
The city is much too great for casual analysis. Now I can only say that Munich is a city with much American influence, hourly bell-tolling, many cathedrals, museums and flowing beer.

Oct. 3, 1963
‘PROST’ IS WORD
Marin Youth Tells Of Fest In Germany
By David Rosso
MUNICH – For three weeks the fest will bring in people and pour out millions of liters of beer. Last year three and one half million liters of beer were consumed in the many beer halls set up at the edge of the mile-long fairgrounds.
There are numerous side shows, booths of chance and restaurants, much like any other state fair, but the beer halls are like something I have never seen before.
They are packed with persons from many nations, all celebrating as one. The magic word is “prost.”
One can always join in table-top dancing, sing German drinking songs or simply prost a perfect stranger who will at once become your close friend.
In one night I drank with Germans, talked with Frenchmen, argued the merits of the Giants with students from Los Angeles and sang with Canadians.
The parade which officially opened the fest lasted for 90 minutes. Even at the end it seemed to continue as the crowd fell in behind the marchers and choked the streets leading to the parade grounds.
The warm spirit of the fest has failed to take the edge off the cold winds which are promising a long winter in Germany. For the past week the temperatures have never climbed above 65 degrees and there has been some cold rain.
(The editor’s note did say I was describing the Octoberfest)


Nov. 25, 1963
Marin Youth Tells About Living Costs In Germany
By Dave Rosso
West Germany’s money, the Deutsche mark, is worth about 25 cents in U.S. value, and living here in Munich is very good at this rate if you are living on the American economy.
A good steak dinner costs six marks, or the equivalent of $1.50, which is well and good, except that, unfortunately, all the money I make is in marks, coming from a factory here in which I work.
The same steak, then, in my “new currency,” costs me two hours of working at drilling metal.
Too, when I received my paycheck, I discovered that 25 percent of my earnings went to the Bundes Republic. From the remainder, it cost 30 percent for rent, 10 percent for transportation, seven for food, and every other cent for whatever travel I’ve done around Europe.
However, the taxes do include free medical services for me at the factory clinic, service including most everything from pills to eye glasses.
The factory workers here are surprised to see me, an American, working in their factory. The image of the American with streets lined with gold dies hard. The only way I can answer their questions is that I’m working here “because I am a student.” This they understand.
A major tax is housing and land. Apartments are being erected everywhere and are inhabited as quickly as they are finished. Nonetheless, there exists a housing shortage here.
Laundromats, a relatively new business in Germany, cost about the same as in the U.S., but haircuts cost only about 75 cents. A turkey for Thanksgiving, however, will cost as high as $8.
I hope to have an article on Christmas in East Berlin.

looking back

Back in 1992, when United Press International looked like it was about to close its doors, Paul Hendrickson did a lengthy piece about us for The Washington Post. He interviewed me for the piece and my part went like this:

Rosso's talking. Rosso's big and beefy and bearded. He came to work today in tennis shoes and a black nylon jacket. His full name is Dave Rosso but all anyone ever seems to call him is "Rosso." Maybe his wife calls him that. He's the Washington news editor. Nice guy.
"I can read the tea leaves," he says, "but I want to stay, I want to keep the dream alive."
He's been a Unipresser for 22 years. Started out on the switchboard. Took him 17 years to get off weekends. Was in at 6 this morning. That bad day in 1970 when Merriman Smith shot himself, Rosso was just a greenhorn manning the phones. He worked double shifts. He wrote across the top of the overtime slip, "Death in the family."
"I love the process," he says. "I really do." I can't describe it beyond that. I take the stuff home to my wife. I show her what the guy reported and what I did to fix it, and both of us working like crazy, and she'll say, 'Mmmm, I kind of like that one better.' Wrong!"
Once he had Unipressers all over town phoning in stuff. Now there are two on the Hill, one at State, one at the Supreme Court, three at the White House. One guy covers Treasury, Commerce, Labor all by himself. Lonely guy.
Almost blithely: "Oh, we've been fed stories (by management) over the years: 'We need these cuts out of you now, but we will bring it back up.' It never comes back up, not all the way."
Then: "I don't know who we're feeding copy to. I don't have any idea. We're in the information business. And we're working in an information vacuum."
So you're doing your job every day --
"That's right," he cuts in. "With no (expletive) idea if anybody's reading it."
More of this. A broad-shouldered semi-profane man who's dressed like a trucker wipes a tear with his thumb. He grooves his thumb down the ridge of his nose. "Didn't know it would get to me," he says, caught between the tear and some more laughing. He goes into a story. "Over a year ago we lost a couple hundred all at once. Big pink slip orgy. I saw a message come across, 'There's going to be a big party in Dallas.' And these were names I'd dealt with over the message wire for years. I told my wife, 'We're flying to Dallas.' No way could we afford to fly to Dallas. So we flew to Dallas. There were about 50 people at this party. Names. Names. Names from the message wire. I was putting faces with names. It was like a reunion with people I'd never met."
Did you cry?
"Nope," Rosso says. "But it was a rough ride home the next day."

good ol' days journalism

Many, many years ago - don't bother asking how many - I did a story about testing of a weapon and the research drew me to a story in history that sent me to the Library of Congress and a gem that I copied and kept for the pure hysterics of how it was written. I have since forgotten the reason for the original story, but will share this from Thursday, Feb. 29, 1844, that begins with this headline:

MOST AWFUL AND MOST LAMENTABLE CATASTROPHE!

Followed by this subhead:

INSTANTANEOUS DEATH, BY THE BURSTING OF ONE OF THE LARGE GUNS ON BOARD THE UNITED STATES SHIP PRINCETON, OF SECRETARY UPSHUR, SECRETARY GILMER, COMMODORE KENNON, & VIRGIL MAXCY, Esq.

Then the story. But, first, the fact that the president of the United States was also on board the USS Princeton is not mentioned until deep into the second graph and then he isn't named.
Here then is the text of most of the story as it was printed with its italics and caps:

In the whole course of our lives it has never fallen to our lot to announce to our readers a more shocking calamity --- shocking in all its circumstances and concomitants - than that which occurred on board the United States Ship Princeton, yesterday afternoon, whilst under way, in the river Potomac, fourteen or fifteen miles below this city.

Yesterday was a day appointed, by the courtesy and hospitality of Capt.
STOCKTON, Commander of the Princeton, for receiving as visitors to his fine ship (lying off Alexandria) a great number of guests, with their families, liberally and numerously invited to spend the day on board. The day was most favorable, and the company was large and brilliant, of both sexes; not less probably in number than four hundred, among who were the President of the United States, the Heads of the several Departments, and their families. At a proper hour, after the arrival of the expected guests, the vessel got under way and proceeded down the river, to some distance below Fort Washington. During the passage down, one of the large guns on board (carrying a ball of 225 pounds) was fired more than once, exhibiting the great power and capacity of that formidable weapon of war. The Ladies had partaken of a sumptuous repast; the gentlemen had succeeded them at the table, and some of them had left it; the vessel was on her return up the river, opposite to the fort, where Capt. STOCKTON consented to fire another shot from the same gun, around and near which, to observe its effects, many persons had gathered, though by no means so many as on similar discharges in the morning, the ladies who then thronged the deck being on this fatal occasion almost all between decks, and out of reach of harm.

The gun was fired. The explosion was followed, before the smoke cleared away so as to observe its effect, by shrieks of wo which announced a dire calamity. The gun had burst, at a point three or four feet from the breech, and scattered death and desolation around. Mr. Upshur, Secretary of State, Mr.
Gilmer, so recently placed at the head of the Navy, Commodore Kennon, one of its gallant officers... (it named a number of others) were among the slain.
Besides these, seventeen seamen were wounded, several of them badly and probably mortally.


The story continues until this:

The scene upon the deck may more easily be imagined than described. Nor can the imagination picture to itself the half of its horrors. Wives widowed in an instant by the murderous blast! Daughters smitten with the heart-rending sight of their father's lifeless corpse! The wailings of agonized females!
The piteous grief of the unhurt but heart-stricken spectators! The wounded seamen borne down below! The silent tears and quivering lips of their brave and honest comrades, who tried in vain to subdue or to conceal their feelings! What words can adequately depict a scene like this?


No word in this story about the fate of the president - still unnamed! Oh, the president? John Tyler, who married Julia Gardiner, daughter of David Gardiner, who was killed aboard the Princeton.

Poor Zero

Consider the zero. Not the oh, the zero. We say oh. We say our phone number is 555-6-oh-5-2-1. We hardly ever say 5-5-5-6-zero-5-2-1. When we learn to count, we learn one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Did we ever say zero? The only time that figure shows up is with ten and then we say ten, not, t-zero and then 20, 30, 40, on to 100. And zero never enters into it. When we learn the alphabet, it is a, b, c, d, e, f, g, h, I, j, k, l, m, n, o, p, and on. We say oh, not zero. My ZIP code is 955-oh-3. My are code is 7-OH-7. I never say 955-zero-3 or 7-zero-7.
Poor zero!

Tank

This one isn't mine but it needs to be shared and I hope the author doesn't mind my spreading it far and wide. Well, that assumes I still have readers!
THE STORY OF TANK. It's a beautiful story!

They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.

But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did. But, at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner. See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too. Maybe we were too much alike.

For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls -
he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got
tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes. I guess I
didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get
him new things once he settled in. But it became pretty clear
pretty soon that he wasn't going to.

I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew,
ones like "sit" and "stay" and "come" and "heel," and he'd
follow them - when he felt like it. He never really seemed to listen
when I called his name - sure, he'd look in my direction after
the fourth of fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to
doing whatever. When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh
and then grudgingly obey.

This just wasn't going to work. He chewed a couple shoes
and some unpacked boxes. I was a little too stern with him and
he resented it, I could tell. The friction got so bad that I
couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and, when it was, I
was in full-on search mode for my cell phone amid all of my
unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the
guest room, but I also mumbled rather cynically, that the "dog
probably hid it on me."

Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the
shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from
the shelter. I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he
snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen
since bringing him home. But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like
that? Come here and I'll give you a treat." Instead, he sort
of glanced in my direction - maybe "glared" is more accurate -
and
then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down with his back to me. Well, that's not going to do it either, I thought. And I punched the shelter phone number. But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that too. "Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice."
_________________________
To Whoever Gets My
Dog:

Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time... it's like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong, which is why I have to go to try to make it right.

So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you.

First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hoards them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he’ll bound after it, so be careful - really don't do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.
Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones - "sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals: "back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left. "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He does "down" when he feels like lying down - I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business.

I trained Reggie with small food treats. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.

Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand. He's up on his shots.

Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due. Be forewarned Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car - I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.

Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people, and me most especially.

Which means that this transition is going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new. And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you....

His name's not Reggie. I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his
name was Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine. But if someone else is reading it, well...well it means that his new owner should know his real name. It'll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.

His real name is Tank, because that is what I drive.

Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the news. I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander.
See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with...and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq, that they make one phone call the shelter...in the "event"...to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then he made good on his word.

Well, this letter is getting to be downright depressing, even though, frankly, I’m just writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family. But still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family.

And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust and come to love you the same way he loved me. That unconditional love from a dog is what I took with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who do terrible things... and to keep those people from coming over here. If I had to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He was my example of
service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.

All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at the shelter. I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first time. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.

Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home, and give him an extra kiss goodnight -every night - from me.

Thank you, Paul
Mallory
_________________________________
I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star. Flags had flown at half-mast.

I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog. "Hey, Tank," I said quietly.
The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright. "C'mere boy."

He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.

"Tank," I whispered. His tail swished. I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.

"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So what da ya say we play some ball?
His ears perked again. "Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?" Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next
room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.

This archived news story is available only for your personal, non-commercial use. Information in the story may be outdated or superseded by additional information. Reading or replaying the story in its archived form does not constitute a re-publication of the story.
http://www.wil92.com/post/18020_this_dog_story_will_touch_your_heart

Cam Ranh Choraleers

The following is about a very special Christmas. Why Christmas in September? One reason is I am trying to locate fellow members of the Cam Ranh Bay Choraleers and also trying to obtain copies of tapes of our performances and the Christmas tape we did for the Ed Sullivan Christmas Show December 1966.
It all started Nov. 22, 1966, from my Vietnam diary while I was stationed at Cam Ranh Air Base where I had been stationed with the United States Air Force 1966-1967. The diary notes the shock I experienced in Manila after several months in the sands of Vietnam.
I have just returned to CRB after five wonderful, relaxing days in the Philippines. … We were a great success.
We arrived late Thursday night after Sgt. Britten, our leader and organizer, went 48 hours with no sleep trying to get a plane for us. The colonel said cut your group to 38 and you can go. Sgt. Britten said all 55 go or no one goes. The colonel called back and said a plane was waiting. When we landed at Clark Air Base, the director of the Silver Wing Service Club, Miss Davis, was there on the flight line to meet us with two buses. We were taken to our quarters and let loose. On the way we couldn’t get over paved streets with lines drawn down the center, sidewalks, American cars — any car for that matter, and most of all green — real green, cool — grass. In the squadron were two Coke machines that gave bottles, not cans, of Coke.
Our mattresses were 7 inches thick. The barracks were made out of wood. During the five days I ate all of my meals in the Airman’s Club. Our A Club at Cam Ranh is a one-room barn. Clark’s A Club was fantastic. You walk past the lobby into a huge room with a stage in front. On the stage was a 12-piece band. At one end of the room is a restaurant — The Knight’s Inn. This is where I ate all my meals. Wall-to-wall carpet, tablecloths, padded pleated leather chairs, beautiful leather-bound menus and the most courteous Filipino waiters. We ate off plates, drank out of glasses, were waited on, had our cigarettes lit for us and paid very nominal fees. It took us three times to get used to the Inn.
Behind the Knight’s Inn was the Pirate’s Cove, a more secluded, more intimate nook for couples. On the other side of the main room was a barbershop that used electric razors. In another corner was a small lounge that served drinks and featured a jazz combo. There was also a game room.
In the other corner was the Stag Bar with hard wood walls, large polished tables and chairs, a TV and TV-juke box.
The first day I had a Mexican dinner followed by a ham steak, filet mignon, sirloin, waffles for breakfast with melted butter and I can't remember what else I had during those five days. I gained 10 pounds.
Friday we had a short rehearsal in the service club then we went to the hospital where we gave a short concert in the main lobby for the patients. Friday night was one of our big performances. It was one of the most important. We were on live TV for 30 minutes and we pulled through it like champs. It was near perfect.
With this under our belts Saturday was a day of rest and the Service Club arranged a special tour of Manila for us. We spent all day riding a bus from the base to Manila, about 50 miles away, and seeing all of the sights. We made stops at a beautiful Chinese cemetery, the Manila Zoo, the market area where you hide your watches and hold onto your wallets, and made a lunch stop at a shopping center that was just like home. In the center we ate at a very exclusive restaurant that served a smorgasbord for $2. I filled my plate three times. We couldn’t believe it. Chicken, veal, sausage, shrimp and rice, carrots flavored with anis, fruit salad, coffee and the best whiskey sour I have ever tasted.
At the end of the meal I put a cigarette in my mouth. Before I got my hand to my pocket for a lighter one of the five waiters around our table had lit my cigarette.
All the time we were on the bus we were singing songs from the concerts until we had lost our voices. Sgt. Britten would have loved that if he had known.
The Filipino children flocked around the bus asking for money or trying to sell black market goods. They always greeted us with, “Hey, Joe.”
Sunday was another big day but also our most disappointing. We had a big concert on the base theatre — capacity 1,200 and we were expecting a large crowd due to the reports received of our TV show. Just before the concert it started to rain and typhoon warnings were out. When the curtains were drawn we could see nothing but empty seats. We couldn’t see that eventually the seats filled after the lights dimmed. I think this had an effect on us because we didn’t sing at all well. The audience was polite and appreciative but it wasn’t the performance we knew we could give. We sang an encore — I Believe — which we slaughtered. We were all very unhappy.
This whole tour meant so much to us and we felt as though we had just blown all of Sgt. Britten’s hard work.
Monday was a different story. It was our last day of concerts and they were important. Our first appearance was not an official concert. We were the guests of the Skylarks, an all-female choral group of officers’ wives. The Skylarks included the wives of two PACAF generals. Maj. Gen. Ingelide, vice commander of Clark, was present. The ladies presented us with a very nice, yet informal, lunch after which the Choraleers presented flowers for members of the Skylarks and gifts of appreciation for Sgt. Britten and our only female member, 1st Lt. Eileen Gabehart (Gabey). There were tears because we love Gabey as much as she loves her “60 wonderful men.”…
We were asked to sing. We didn’t have our music, but you can’t refuse a request, so we sang our three favorites — “I Am Proud To Be An American,” “Happy Wanderer,” and our No. 1 song, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” We sang these songs like they were made of gold. Never had we sounded so good. We were honestly flabbergasted and when we finished Battle Hymn there were tears in the ladies’ eyes. To tell you the truth there were tears in our eyes too. The Skylarks sang a medley from Sound of Music. Then we sang together.
…
At the hospital we stopped in four wards to sing. This was interesting because we didn’t have a piano. It took about the first four words of each song before we finally got our pitch. But it turned out fine and the men in the beds were appreciative. That was all that mattered.
At 9 that night we had our final and most important concert of the tour….
We sang a 45-minute concert in the officer’s club. Most of the top brass on Clark were there along with the chief nurses. After the hectic week of singing, our voices were beginning to wear but somehow we pulled through and gave them a performance they shall remember. As we finished our last song and started to walk off stage they shouted for more and we gave them two encores. Then we left the club and boarded the bus. Just as the bus was pulling away a lieutenant from our group nearly broke his neck as he flew down the stairs to stop the bus. Sgt. Britton wanted every man back in the club. The officers had opened the bar for us. We have only five officers in our choir. The majority of the rest are lower-grade airmen with the remainder NCOs. When I arrived at the bar a full bird colonel stepped behind the bar, asked me what I wanted, and mixed it for me. He mixed quite a few drinks. We couldn’t get over it. A man one step from general mixed our drinks. We not only closed the bar, but remained an hour after the bar had closed.
As we were leaving, we were met in the lobby by Mrs. Westmoreland. She introduced herself to each member of the choir and told us that she wants her husband to hear us.
…
Nov. 24, 1966
This is going to be very short as I still have five more letters to answer from the onslaught I received after returning from Clark. But I have news for you that is the thrill of my young life. Please spread the word. I thought our trip to Clark was great. I thought that our Christmas tape to the States and our individual tapes were great. Now you are not only going to hear us, but you are going to see us. This was arranged some time ago and none of us knew about it until tonight. I just returned from choir rehearsal. Tomorrow we are to be on the flight line in work clothes to do a color TV tape for the Ed Sullivan Christmas Show. We will start and finish the show. That is all I know about it now.
Dec. 22, 1966
Christmas started last week with a Christmas tree in the squadron and stockings loaded with goodies from the Red Cross. Friday, the Choraleers had their dress rehearsal for the Christmas concert. Monday we gave the concert before a large crowd that responded with a standing ovation — a mighty good reaction form a GI audience. Tuesday we rehearsed for Billy Graham with the Army and Navy. Wednesday was the day we all had been waiting for since we knew were coming here. The Bob Hope Show — to be televised 18 Jan. by the way. Col. Agen would not let them come to the Air Force so we had to go to the Army 10 miles away. We left the base at 9 a.m. (10 of us), hitched a ride and arrived at the South Beach Amphitheatre at 9:30. It was already crowded — maybe 300 people, but we managed to get a seat on the aisle — dead center — and about 50 yards back. They were great seats until the camera crews arrived at 1 p.m. and put up scaffolds right in front of us. The biggest complaint was, “The show is for the troops, so they put a scaffold up in our way so the folks back home can see it well on TV.” It was hard to see. Most of the time all I could see of Bob Hope was from the shoulders down. However, it was still a great show — two hours long — and gripes were dismissed as soon as Bob Hope came on stage. It was such a thrill just to be there. And what a crowd!! If you get to see the Bob Hope Chrysler Hour you’ll see what I mean. The cast couldn’t be better — Phyllis Diller, Joey Heatherton, Anita Bryant, Vic Damone, The Korean Kittens, Miss World, Les Brown and his Band of Renown, and Diane Share, a baton twirler. Two solid hours of entertainment. The show started at 2:30 and ended about 4:45. …
Tomorrow we are singing for Billy Graham. Saturday the choir sings at candlelight services, then to the hospital, then caroling with the Red Cross. At midnight Christmas Eve, several members of the choir boarded jeeps and toured the outposts of the base to sing to the troops guarded us and in the mess halls preparing the meals and along the flight lines. Sunday will be a most memorable day. I signed up — along with 74 others — to escort Vietnamese orphans around the base. We will meet them at 11:15, take them to lunch where Santa Claus will hand out gifts, then to cartoon show. And that will conclude my Christmas week — one I shall never forget.

Cam Ranh Choraleers

I am going to start a search for anybody who was a member of the Cam Ranh Choraleers in Vietnam during 1966-67. We did a Christmas concert in Vietnam, taped a special for the Ed Sullivan Show and made appearances in Manila. Would love to hear from an...ybody who was a member of the choir or who heard us.

No More Screaming Masses

The insanity among the far right has taken a new low. The Republicans are helping to organize a "Keep Your Kid Home From School Day" to protest President Obama's September 8 address to schoolchildren on the importance of studying hard and getting a good education. Conservatives say he's just trying to indoctrinate them to his political beliefs.
Jim Greer, the chairman of the Florida Republican Party condemns Obama's speech as an "invasive abuse of power," and as an attempt to "indoctrinate America's children
to his socialist agenda." He says that "the idea that school children across our nation will be forced to watch the president justify his plans for government-run health care, banks, and automobile companies, increasing taxes on those who create jobs, and racking up more debt than any other president, is not only infuriating, but goes against beliefs of the majority of Americans, while bypassing American parents."
There are many things that bother me about this nonsense and some of it has to do with Democrats who complained about President Bush making a similar speech to students. The Democrats raised hell saying he was using tax money for a campaign gimmick. But this current absurdity goes way beyond that. These clowns are telling us that it is socialism for the president of the United States to use the bully pulpit to tell kids at the opening of the new school year to stay in school and work hard to learn and advance. No, their parents want them to avoid the speech and stay stupid like their parents. This has been an absolutely terrible summer. True ugliness has not only come to the surface around our country, it has erupted. Ugliness and ignorance and hate and pure stupidity and a lot of it is being orchestrated by people who are not at all stupid or ignorant, but very, very smart and they have a very harmful agenda that is not at all beneficial to our country.
All summer long we have heard people screaming Nazism, fascism, socialism, taking away our country, destroying our Constitution and now the president of the United States is trying to hurt our children by trying to encourage them to stay in school and study and work hard and learn.
It is time for all Americans with clear heads and rational minds who have a desire to find intelligent, workable solutions to the problems facing our nation, solutions that will incorporate the best ideas from a variety of sources, to shut out all the shouters, all the name-calling, all the fear-mongering and let those who engage in those tactics know that those tactics will not work and will no longer be accepted or tolerated.

It's A Boy

Randy, my son, celebrates a birthday this month. On the occasion of his birth, I wrote the following:

Saturday, Sept. 15, 1973
At 10:59 A.M. EDT, September 14, 1973, a joyous cry pierced the delivery room on the third floor of Sibley Memorial Hospital in the nation's Capital: "It's a boy!"
It was the last thing Cyndy remembered hearing for a while and it was a theme that repeated itself and is still echoing in my mind and on my lips -- it is indeed a boy. And he has a proud daddy. Hot dog, it's a BOY!
Someday, I'll understand what magic the arrival of a son holds for a father. Until then, I'll bask. As I write this, my son is in the hospital with his mother getting a grip on life and, I am told, sleeping a great deal. He was with the woman, my wife, who brought him into this world. She worked damn hard to do it. She did it well and is now feeling well -- and glad it is all over so she can now hold her son in her arms rather than her stomach. (I know it wasn't in her stomach, but this isn't a medical lecture).
Richard Randolph Rosso (Randy) is now in the world. He entered the world at 7 pounds, 9 1/2 ounces, 20 1/2 inches and redheaded. I have a feeling that he'll be 6-foot-something before I'm ready for him to tower above me.
Cyndy and I now start the process of training and educating Randy. But his best teacher will probably be his big sister. I hope, and feel confident that we have, given her the proper ideals to pass on. At this writing she is a bit confused, although well primed. She knows and appears to understand that Mommy is in the hospital with the doctors. She knows Mommy is bringing home the baby she has been watching and feeling the past few months. And she knows that "the baby's name is boy." (We're working on that). She knows Mommy will be home soon. There is much she does not know. There is much Cyndy and I don't know. There are now four of us working together to learn what needs to be known.
Join us in our joy: it is boundless.

Paragliding over the Alps

Paragliding over the Alps
It was late summer 2000 when I returned to Switzerland. The trees in the orchards were heavy with apples, the vineyards rich with large bunches of deep purple and green grapes, and everywhere windows and streets were bordered in brightly colored flowers.
I arrived in Geneva Aug. 30 and spent the day resting. On Thursday, Aug. 31, we took buses to the United Nations where I had two interviews -- one with the World Health Organization and one with the International Trade Center. On Sept. 1, I traveled to Bern for a lengthy interview at Swiss Radio International. Swiss radio said they'd let me know. WHO said the budget has not been approved for the project I was being considered to head. The Trade Center gig has yet to be completed so I can’t start editing it -- a CD-ROM training manual.
I spent the rest of my stay with follow-up phone calls, e-mails and more resume distributions, but also enjoying this beautiful country. And what better way to enjoy Switzerland than from on high? Helena had taken a balloon ride over the Alps with Jacques Piccard, the Swiss oceanographer and engineer who flew his balloon around the world. The second part of that assignment was to paraglide. I went along on this trip and took pictures. (I was told to keep my day job, but I wasn't sure what that was.) We drove up to a mountain (we are speaking relatively here) and met our crew. Under Swiss law, you could not fly solo until you had had a certain number of hours with a pilot, so Helena was being strapped to a harness with her pilot and as she was being prepared they looked at me and said I really couldn't take pictures from the ground and would I like to go up too.
Well, of course, I said, and before the words had settled and before I had even given a thought to what I had agreed to, I was being strapped into a harness with my pilot strapped snuggly behind me.
And just as quickly, my pilot was telling me that when he said go, we would start running down the hill and actually, the word “go” that had just left his lips was the word “go” that he had meant and he was pushing me and we were running down the hill and his dog was yapping at our feet and suddenly there was no hill at my feet or dog at my heels and we were airborne and that is how fast and very smooth it was.
There wasn't any time to think about it. Before I knew it, I was waaaay up there, floating peacefully over a hamlet, mountains around me, Lake Geneva off in the distance. Just as I rose I looked down and saw a fox under my feet. Then there were houses, about the size the fox had been.
The pilot maneuvered the many ropes that were attached to the wings that held us suspended 3,000 feet in the air. He would pull one or more and we would turn or dip or rise. I put my trust entirely in his hands. What choice did I have?
Helena was soaring above me and then in front of me and behind me. She was always running circles around me. It was very peaceful and quiet, the wind in my face. It was cool. We stayed up about an hour. It was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life.
Then it was time to come back to earth. The pilot directed me to a large smiling face on the ground. Well, it didn’t start large, but it got large quickly. He said that when he gave the command I was to start running and just as quickly I was running and I was on the ground on the smiling face and the wings that had held us up were on top of us and our adventure was over.
Another day had been spent taking a boat from Lausanne to Montreux. Once in Montreux, we took a small train to Les Avants, high into the mountains and far above Lake Geneva. From Les Avants, we took a cable car on a track that looked as though it were going straight up. It was a magnificent view from the top. We then took the train from Montreux to Lausanne.
One pleasant surprise was a three-day La Schubertiade, part of which was held in a large tent in the park in Lausanne with speakers outside the tent, allowing crowds of people to listen to the music of choral groups, chamber orchestras, string orchestras, trios and quartettes and quintets. This was shortly after I had arrived and the temperature had dipped into the 50s and 60s.

Flying Lesson

In 1992 I flew a plane and a helicopter. Actually had the controls in my hands. It was a gift from my wife at the time. This was my recollection after the event. Tomorrow, I will dig up my recollection of paragliding over the Alps.

FLYING LESSON

Jan. 22, 1992
Well, I did it. I flew. No, I didn’t go see Peter Pan and run down the center aisle yelling, “I’m flying, I’m flying!” No, I really did fly. I soared up into the sky and conversed with the clouds.
I climbed, with some difficulty, I must add, into the cockpit of a Cessna and settled into the pilot’s seat with a very brave instructor in the passenger seat.
After showing me all the instruments, dials, levers and whatevers, he handed me the keys and said, “Turn it on.”
I did and that began a half hour of an incredible experience — the simultaneous feelings of fear and exhilaration.
Then the plane began to taxi toward the runway.
Actually, my instructor — Bob — took the plane to the runway, demonstrated how to steer by using his feet, revved the engine up to its pre-flight foreplay and then positioned it on Our Runway — 34 something or other. He then told me how to increase speed and showed me what to look for on one of the dials and we started moving down the runway with both my hands on the wheel, watching until the speedometer reached that magic number and then I pulled back on the wheel and that sucker started to leave the comfortable confines of Earth, well, lower-cased earth. I mean, we’re not that advanced yet.
What a thrill to actually have that plane in my hands and the nose heading up into the sky. (Thank God for small favors, eh) and watching the altimeter climb.
I was satisfied at 1,000 feet, but Bob said we would level off at 2,000 so we kept climbing and I looked down and my stomach was talking to me, but only slightly because I was concentrating on everything Bob was telling me.
We finally hit 2,000 and Bob talked me through leveling and then we did some gentle banks and I saw the Blue Ridge Mountains in front of us and a setting sun through scattered clouds and I was really enjoying myself.
Well, I was really enjoying myself until, as I was doing a gentle bank to the left, we hit turbulence, the wings shot perpendicular to earth and I thought we were going belly-up and my stomach was in my feet while a million little needles shot through my entire body.
But WE got the plane settled in and level again and I was so glad Bob had great survival instincts.
We flew around in very large circles for a while and Bob talked me into climbing some more and I pulled back on the wheel and the nose went up and I couldn’t see the horizon anymore and there is something just a little scary about not seeing the earth anymore so I leveled again and then Bob said, OK, descend for a bit and I pushed the wheel in and we nosed down and picked up speed, which was exactly what Bob wanted me to experience. And that was a little scary.
And he showed me and I did steer the plane with the foot pedals to yaw instead of banking. And then he convinced me to take my right hand off the wheel, using my left hand to steer and my right hand to work the throttle and increase and decrease speed.
Now, I gotta tell ya, sitting up there with little houses 2,000 feet below me, with one hand on the wheel and one on the throttle and doing all those wonderful things can really do something to your psyche and it did. But not enough to get cocky because we still had that turbulence up there and it didn’t take any convincing at all to hug that wheel with both hands again.
Then we had to go home and, funny thing, I could not see the damn airport. Fortunately, Bob knew the area pretty well from up there and he guided me in as I banked and descended, but when it was time to really slow down for the landing, it was time to stop playing pilot and give that puppy back to Bob, who brought us in all the time showing me how to lower the flaps for the drag and come in for a perfect landing.
The first thing I thought when I got out of the plane? I want to go up again. Soon.

I haven't been up again. I did return for a lesson in a helicopter. Again, we went up 2,000 feet. Now, talk about scary. I was sitting in a seat surrounded by a glass bubble. It was as though there was nothing between me and the outside. Then there was the mechanics of it -- working both hands and both feet, the big blades over my head and the blades behind us and moving forward and stopping and hovering and turning. Bob had me bring the chopper down and then rise and hover about ten feet above the ground. Now, you can't do that in a plane.

I have been up in two hot air balloons and parasailing in the Bahamas, but never wrote about those experiences. In one ballooning trip, we were the only ones up. It is amazing to be up so high in a gondola that only comes up to your waist. When it was time to descend, the pilot thought he had a place to land, but it turned out to be a golf course and he had to bring it up quickly and the gondola brushed the top of a tree giving us a bit of a bounce. Then he brought us down near a road and when the follow truck arrived, he blasted the jet and lifted the balloon up into the bed of the truck. Now, that's piloting!
Tomorrow, sailing 3,000 feet over the Alps strapped to a sail.

car talk

OK, I love Car Talk. But I also loved to watch CSPAN. Go figger. Today’s show had some terrible puns. That’s why I am going to share them. If you want to hear them yourselves:
http://www.cartalk.com/piplayer/cartalkplayer.html?play=07smil.xml

1. A guy had his entire left side cut off. He’s all right now
2. An invisible man married an invisible woman. Their kids are nothing to look at either
3. I had dinner with Kasparov, the international chess champion. The table had a checkered table cloth. It took him two hours to pass the salt
4. A kid was in the hospital after swallowing a bunch of coins. His grandmother called to check on him and the nurse said, “No change yet.”
5. I was wondering why a baseball was getting bigger. Then it hit me.
OK, that explains my conditioning.

GOP scare tactics is their only game

AP story in today’s local newspaper, the Times-Standard here in Eureka, CA, says the Republicans now have a new scare tactic. They are saying that the Democrats would deny Republicans health care. According to the AP, the Republican Party has mailed a fund-raising appeal with a questionnaire that says the government could check voting registration records, "prompting fears that GOP voters might be discriminated against for medical treatment in a Democrat-imposed health care rationing system." Katie Wright, a spokeswoman for the Republican National Committee, said the question was "inartfully worded," but she said people should worry because government officials would have access to personal financial and medical data. She said the RNC “doesn't try to scare people. We're just trying to get the facts out on health care. And that's what we do every day."

Well, it isn't "inartfully worded;" it is flat-out wrong. Instead of trying to work up a health reform package that will benefit all Americans, these people spend all their time yelling, screaming, name-calling and throwing around totally misleading information. The scarier part is there are people out there who believe them.

Good Night

How many ways are there to express love? Fires are lit at the moment and years later you may want to smile or grimace, but there it is.

Good Night
By Henry David Rosso

It is cold and raining.
I even got the comforter out of the closet and put it on the bed.
It is time to go to bed.
But I don't want to even though I want to.
I want you here with me.
I want you under the comforter with me.
I want your body up against me.
I want to spoon you and feel your tight American ass up against me
and my arms around you and my hands cupping your breasts
and my lips on your neck.
I was watching television
-- the end of Law and Order, one of my favorites –
and the Olympics
and a real live ER docudrama
and a special on NASCAR
and the original British version of "Whose Line is it Anyway?"
Normally, any one of them would have kept my attention.
But nothing did tonight.
And now I am in front of the computer
our link to each other in times of separation
listening to Saint Saens organ symphony, one of my favorites.
I have the windows open in my room
so I can listen to the rain and the cool air will come into the room
and I can escape under the comforter.
I want you here to talk to -- with.
I heated up leftovers for dinner and had a salad.
I always ate salad when I was with you.
That's healthy.
You are healthy for me.
I'm really missing you
(as opposed to not really missing me or pretending to miss me?)
your ring is around my neck and I like it there.
It feels like it belongs there.
although I don't think I have ever worn anything around my neck
except for dog tags during Vietnam.
I like working and getting e-mails from you.
It's almost like you are here
with me and we are both doing our things
and looking over each other's shoulders
and saying hi to each other as we work.
I'd rather be in the same room at different computers,
looking up at each other occasionally.
Now we talk to each other from 4,100 miles apart.
And there is always the time difference.
I'm up for breakfast and you are going out for lunch;
I am taping Judge Judy and you are getting ready for bed.
I am wrapping up a day of work and you are having drinks
with an ex lover and a current would-be lover.
And I am wondering how the evening is going for you.
And then you get an e-mail from a wet-behind-the-ears whippersnapper
who wants to tell you he is having wet dreams over you.
And I am waiting for the time we are together again
and I can hold you very close and feel you hold me very close
and I love you and miss you
and wish you were here
and life is good with you even when I am without you.
Now maybe I will go to bed and sleep.
I love you,
Must I tell you everything?

Autographs

I wrote this after flipping through my autograph book, wondering why I was flipping through it.

AUTOGRAPHS
By Henry David Rosso
Autographs.
They tell a story
A collection of friends
A collection of memories
As you pass through life,
Give thought always to the
Good friends you make along the way.
Cherish them,
Because they will always
Be your prized possessions
Daddy, Dec. 1954

Syracuse Nationals basketball team – 1954
To David my pal,
(Whom they have never met before tonight)
Can't read their writing this many years later.
Al Ceri? Bill Gabor?
Red Rocha? Paul Seymour?
Dick Farley, George Bing, John Kerr
Wally Ostroika, Dolph Schayes

Where are those school chums from so many years ago.

When your married and have twins,
Don't come running to me for bobby pins.
Al Cody.
Hi, Al. Where are you?

Best wishes to you, David
Can't read the first name, but remember the last
Turner. Father of my friend Gary.
Where's Gary? How are you, Gary?

Dear David: When evening draws the curtain back,
And pins it with a star,
Remember that you still have friends,
Although they may be far. Best of luck, David!
That was Marguerite Turner, Gary's mother.
Nothing from Gary.
How are you Gary?
Gary was not well, but he was my neighbor and friend.

To Dave, The best of everything, Sincerely, Bill Nelson.
I know I should remember Bill Nelson.
That's what these books are for -- memories,
Friends we'll never forget. Sorry, Bill. I've forgotten.

Dear David
Be true to your teeth
Or they'll be false to you,
Your dentist, Verdi F. Carets.

Dear David, Best of luck, David,
For a whole future filled with happiness.
Sincerely, V. Gene Clark.
I don't remember, but thanks.

To Dave,
All my best wishes for a useful
And worthwhile life.
Dewitt, our preacher.

We have had a lot of fun together
In Catalina, Pat Hanlon
My cousin's friend whom I had just met.
Thanks for the memories, Pat.

Never kiss by the garden gate,
Love is blind, but the neighbors ain't.
Good luck at Manlius,
Judy Friedenberg
Ahh, I loved Judy Friedenberg, I thought.
Why did she add:
2 good + 2 be = 4 gotten
2 young + 2 drink = 4 roses.

To David Rosso – 1954
Always remember that David
Was the greatest giant killer of all
Be good - Joe Cumminsky.

My teacher: Good luck always
Vida J. Lyke.
How many do they write in a year?
How many do they remember?

School chums
Have fun at Manlius-Dave Stillman
2 in a car + 2 little kisses = 4 days later
Mr. and Mrs. - Robert Kessler
When your in the kitchen sipping tea
Burn your guts and think of me
Only kidding - Steve Herr
Glad he was only kidding

To kiss a miss is very simple
To miss a kiss is simply awful
Kisses spread germs, so it’s stated
So kiss her kid, she's vaccinated.
That was Marlene
And she wasn't finished:
When you get old and live in a tree
Send me a coconut C.O.D.

To my pal, Dave Rosso
Best wishes always, Carmen Basilio
Just before the end for the fighter.
Go get 'em. You brutal tiger. I saw you at ringside.

And sitting so lonely on pages by themselves
No "best pal," no "best wishes,"
Just the names, scrawled in a hurry:
Roddy McDowell, Pat Boone, Leslie Caron
On another page is a picture of Jim Brown
The Syracuse University star - hero to us Pop Warner players
He came to our awards dinner in 1955
And his signature is above Otto Graham's

Scrawls on pages in books, slips of paper
High school yearbooks.
Great thought goes into some,
No thoughts in others.
They say, Remember me,
Or get out of my face and leave me alone.

Leslie Caron had no pen, neither did I
Her publicist said shove off.
She told him to give her a pen.
I'll always remember that.

I sat across the aisle from Andrew Lloyd Webber and didn't ask.
I sat at the next table from Martha Ray in Vietnam and didn't ask.
I sat at a cafeteria table across from Billie Jean King and didn't ask.
They need their privacy. I know I saw them. Don't need anything else.

William Golding signed my/his Lord of the Flies

My UPI colleagues Bill Mead, Arnie Sawislak and Helen Thomas
Signed their books.
One of them got my name wrong; thought I was somebody else.

I signed books - other people's yearbooks.
Will they remember me?
Parts of our lives are in those books
Best wishes for them, high hopes for us?
Something we can share in our later years.
Something we can use to prod our memory
Something we can use as justification
Something we can stick on a shelf, in a box, to be forgotten.

Ted Kennedy

Ted Kennedy is gone. He has joined his brothers -- Joe, John and Bobby -- in the history books. Joseph Kennedy died in a plane crash during World War II in 1944. I was one year old. John Kennedy was assassinated in 1963. I was 20 years old in Munich, Germany. Bobby Kennedy was assassinated in Los Angeles while campaigning for president in 1968. I was 25 years old serving my final year in the Air Force in Michigan. Now Edward M. Kennedy is dead. They were all in my lifespan and they all contributed in some way to my life as it is today.
Obviously, I was unaware of Joe Kennedy. John Kennedy was my awakening to politics and the world around me. I read Theodore White's Making of the President 1960. I visited the Berlin Wall where he made his Ich bin ein Berliner speech, I mourned his assassination while living in a foreign country and read Theodore Sorenson's Thousand Days about the all-too-short Kennedy presidency. I saw Bobby as the new JFK. I had such hopes for him as president. He was the last person I truly believed in as a potential president until Obama. I thought Ted Kennedy would have been a great president, but Chappaquiddick destroyed his chances.
But, while Ted Kennedy never made it to the White House, his stature and work in the Senate accomplished as much as if he had been president.
His absence in the Senate has been felt as Congress works on the health reform legislation. He truly knew how to reach across the aisle. He truly knew how to work for what was right for the country and average Americans. He knew how to pull all the forces together to reach the goal.
Now is the time for all Democrats and all Republicans who want to do right for this country to pull together and engage in intelligent, thoughtful, dedicated debate free of animosity, free of screaming, free of name-calling and scare tactics and draft and pass a meaningful health reform bill. Do it for America and do it because it is right.

wars we don't need to fight

I wrote my poem Iraqnam a few years ago. We are still in Iraq and Americans are being killed in increasing numbers in Afghanistan. In today's New York Times, Bob Herbert questions the futility of these wars and especially of the one in Afghanistan, which is now in its ninth year.
In his column (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/25/opinion/25herbert.html?_r=1&ref=opinion&pagewanted=print) he makes a couple of points that should (must) awaken Americans.

He noted Obama told the Veterans of Foreign Wars that less than 1 percent of this country's 300 million citizens wear the uniform.

"If we had a draft — or merely the threat of a draft — we would not be in Iraq or Afghanistan. But we don’t have a draft so it’s safe for most of the nation to be mindless about waging war. Other people’s children are going to the slaughter."

Quoting President Obama as saying that the war in Afghanistan is "fundamental to the defense of our people," Herbert asks:
"Well, if this war, now approaching its ninth year, is so fundamental, we should all be pitching in. We shouldn’t be leaving the entire monumental burden to a tiny portion of the population, sending them into combat again, and again, and again, and again ..."

We really are slow learners.

A Tender Letter to an Unborn Child

This is a combination entry. Louis Cassels was the religion editor for United Press International for many years. He was also a wonderful man and a friend. When my wife and I were expecting our first child, I wrote my thoughts and showed them to Lou. He wrote the following. Unfortunately, his lead has one big error: Cyndy and I did not know each other until after I returned from Vietnam. I wrote me letter 39 years ago and Heather was my first born.

A Tender Letter To an Unborn Child
By Louis Cassels
WASHINGTON (UPI) – David is 27. Cyndy is 22.
They were married after David came home from his year in Vietnam—the longest year in Cyndy’s life.
They live in a one-bedroom apartment in Rosslyn, Va., just across the Potomac River from the downtown section of Washington.
As is often the case in today’s young marriages, both David and Cyndy work. But Cyndy will be retiring from business in a few months to take up another career. Her baby is due in January.
Because David and Cyndy are thoughtful and sensitive people, and David is a writer, it was natural for them to try to articulate the feelings they experienced when the doctor told Cyndy the big news.
So David composed “A Letter to My Unborn Child.” He did not think of it as something to be published, but simply as a private communication, which might or might not be shown some day to the addressee.
But his tenderly written letter expresses so perfectly the mixed emotions of a young couple about bringing a child into today’s world that a friend prevailed upon David to share it with a larger audience.
Here is David’s letter to his future son or daughter:
“Now, you are hardly discernible as a form of life as we on the outside know it. The doctor says you have formed some kind of a shape about 2 inches long. I’m 6-foot-1 now.
“According to the doctor, you should struggle from the womb next year during January. Your mother and I have reserved a place for you. I’m afraid you’ll have to share the same room with us for a while, but there is ample room. You won’t be too big for a while.
“I have spent and shall spend many more moments planning for you, at least until you are able to plan for yourself. What do we do between now and then? Now, don’t get me wrong. Your mother and I are looking forward to seeing you with a love that we have never had the opportunity to feel before. Your mother will do all the work and I’ll do all the worrying, but the three of us will get through it all and we’ll be mighty proud.
“But every once in a while, when I look out the window or walk down the street, I sense an apology in the recesses of my mind when I think of you.
“When I stand at a bus stop in a cloud of exhaust that lingers around me so I smell of the city when I go home or try to shield my eyes against the flying debris that litters the streets I wonder how your eyes and lungs will react to it. When I think of showing you this land of ours, I think of trash-lined highways, littered beaches and no-fishing signs warning of polluted waters. When I think of your mother taking you for a stroll n the fresh air, I wonder how far she will have to go to find that fresh air. How long will you be able to sleep with the jets overhead and the trucks below?
“And if you should survive the earth, sea and sky, will you survive your fellow man? I must apologize for what the past generation has left and what the present generation is creating.
“It is a selfish love that welcomes a newborn child into the world. We hope you don't suffer because of it.”

A Letter To No One In Particular

A Letter To No One In Particular

By Henry David Rosso

Dear in particular,
How are you?
I really don't care, but then that is how all letters are commenced. So answer me even though you don't care if I know.
Now I am supposed to tell you about my family.
You could care less about my family, but all letters are written that way.
So answer me even though you don't care and then you can tell me about your family.
I know you don't care if I know about your family, but letters are written that way.
So don't be square. Follow the pattern.
Now I am supposed to tell you what I have been doing all these months since I last wrote.
I haven't been doing a thing but I must write and tell you so.
You don't care what I have been doing and you don't care at all if I haven't been doing anything.
But then that is how letters are written so follow along and write me and tell me how little you have been doing.
Of course, we will now go on for almost two pages telling each other how much of nothing we have been doing.
This is great fun and we must do it more often.
Now the body of the letter is finished and we must close.
We find a handy excuse to end this nonsense.
You tell me you have to go back to class when I know you never went to school a day in your life.
No, you must go back to work although you never worked a day in your life.
The truth of the matter is that you have just come to the end of the page.
Actually, you just started writing larger to take up more room.
But then the letter is finished and you must add a salutation.
Love, sincerely yours, always, your friend, be good.
These are pretty good and always seem to serve the purpose of ending the letter so we choose one and attach it to the end of the letter.
But we aren't finished yet.
Now we have to have at least one p.s. to add to the letter.
These come in the form of attractive news items that are interesting to neither of us.
They also start another page and we must close the letter again.
Oh, yes, we must remind each other to write again although we don't care if we write again.
But then this is how letters are written.
Well, I must go now.
I have an appointment and must run.
Do write when you get the chance and tell me how your family is and say hello to them for me.
Sincerely,
No one in particular
P.S., I almost forgot.
I hate to write letters

guns

This is common sense that needs to be spread far and wide

Leave The Guns At Home

By E.J. Dionne Jr.
Thursday, August 20, 2009

Try a thought experiment: What would conservatives have said if a group of loud, scruffy leftists had brought guns to the public events of Ronald Reagan or George W. Bush?

How would our friends on the right have reacted to someone at a Reagan or a Bush speech carrying a sign that read: "It is time to water the tree of liberty"? That would be a reference to Thomas Jefferson's declaration that the tree "must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants."

Pardon me, but I don't think conservatives would have spoken out in defense of the right of every American Marxist to bear arms or to shed the blood of tyrants.

In fact, the Bush folks didn't like any dissent at all. Recall the 2004 incident in which a distraught mother whose son was killed in Iraq was arrested for protesting at a rally in New Jersey for first lady Laura Bush. The detained woman wasn't even armed. Maybe if she had been carrying, the gun lobby would have defended her.

The Obama White House purports to be open to the idea of guns outside the president's appearances. "There are laws that govern firearms that are done state or locally," Robert Gibbs, the White House spokesman, said on Tuesday. "Those laws don't change when the president comes to your state or locality."

Gibbs made you think of the old line about the liberal who is so open-minded he can't even take his own side in an argument.

What needs to be addressed is not the legal question but the message that the gun-toters are sending.

This is not about the politics of populism. It's about the politics of the jackboot. It's not about an opposition that has every right to free expression. It's about an angry minority engaging in intimidation backed by the threat of violence.

There is a philosophical issue here that gets buried under the fear that so many politicians and media-types have of seeming to be out of touch with the so-called American heartland.

The simple fact is that an armed citizenry is not the basis for our freedoms. Our freedoms rest on a moral consensus, enshrined in law, that in a democratic republic we work out our differences through reasoned, and sometimes raucous, argument. Free elections and open debate are not rooted in violence or the threat of violence. They are precisely the alternative to violence, and guns have no place in them.

On the contrary, violence and the threat of violence have always been used by those who wanted to bypass democratic procedures and the rule of law. Lynching was the act of those who refused to let the legal system do its work. Guns were used on election days in the Deep South during and after Reconstruction to intimidate black voters and take control of state governments.

Yes, I have raised the racial issue, and it is profoundly troubling that firearms should begin to appear with some frequency at a president's public events only now, when the president is black. Race is not the only thing at stake here, and I have no knowledge of the personal motivations of those carrying the weapons. But our country has a tortured history on these questions, and we need to be honest about it. Those with the guns should know what memories they are stirring.

And will someone please tell the armed demonstrators how foolish and lawless they make our country look in the eyes of so much of the world? Are we not the country that urges other nations to see the merits of the ballot over the bullet?

All this is taking place as the country debates the president's health-care proposal. There is much that is disturbing in that discussion. Shouting down speakers is never a good thing, and many lies are being told about the contents of the health-care bills. The lies should be confronted, but freedom involves a lot of commotion and an open contest of ideas, even when some of the parties say things that aren't true and act in less than civil ways.

Yet if we can't draw the line at the threat of violence, democracy begins to disintegrate. Power, not reason, becomes the stuff of political life. Will some group of responsible conservatives, preferably life members of the NRA, have the decency to urge their followers to leave their guns at home when they go out to protest the president? Is that too much to ask?

ejdionne@washpost.com

Scraps

I wrote this one day after rummaging through a lot of pieces of paper sitting in a drawer. Now that I read it again, I think I am watching "60 Minutes" and listening to Andy Rooney. OMG!

Scraps

By Henry David Rosso

Her number's on a piece of paper
Somewhere
I know I wrote it down
Had her name on it too
Somewhere
Remember the lyrics to that song we liked?
I wrote them down
Somewhere
I had the address of that movie we wanted to see
I scribbled it on a piece of paper so I wouldn't forget
Somewhere
I finally got the whole family's birthdays so I'd always have them
I wrote them on a piece of paper
Somewhere
Maybe this is it
No, remember this?
It's the address we saw on TV for the 26 original '50's hits
There's a phone number here too.
No idea what it's for.
Wonder why I'm keeping it.
Wonder what would happen if I dialed it?
If a man answers, hang up.
Maybe someone has my phone number written on a piece of paper
Somewhere
Maybe they'll call me.
I'd get their number and
Write it on a piece of paper
Somewhere.

Beauty

This is the first poem I ever wrote. Some may think it should have been my last. I was a young teen at the time. Don't have a specific date.

Beauty

By Henry David Rosso

Shades of beauty
Beauty?
Beauty is life
Beauty is death
Beauty is.
Beauty
The elegance of the prow of a ship.
A full-rigged yacht in mid-ocean
A lone fishing boat at sea before dawn
Beauty
The Lincoln Memorial, silent in subdued light
Steel gracefully arched in a bridge
A lonely lighthouse on a fog-bound peninsula
Beauty
The melodic blends of violins of a symphony orchestra
The mellowness of a well-played viola
The combined efforts of an entire orchestra producing tranquility in sound
Beauty
Evening chimes piercing the silence of a small town
An undisturbed blanket of snow on a country field
Towering redwoods flirting with rays of sunshine
Beauty
A Catholic Church with its solemn peacefulness
The story of the crucifixion of Christ
The understanding in, "forgive them, father, for they know not what they do."
Beauty
Children telling their dreams,
Laughing, playing, singing, praying
A child hopelessly crushed by a car told that he would go to god, replying,
"I don't want to go dead and be with god, I want to play."
Beauty
The words of the dying Tiger Flowers, colored boxer,
As he said, "Now I lay me down to sleep."
The acceptance of death by elderly people --
Quiet, resigned surrendering of life
Beauty?
A state of mind

sharing my work

The other day I told my wife that I had posted my short story about military school boys learning to light farts. She was aghast, questioning my sensibilities and maturity. So far, I have posted 16 items, including the chapter from my three years at Manlius Military Academy outside of Syracuse, New York. All the others are poems I have written with two exceptions -- a piece that had been sent to me that I wanted to share and a chapter of my life that had tremendous effects on me. Putting out pieces of literature is always hazardous. I like what I have written -- some more than others. Some I think could still use more work and some I may always feel they need more work. I had fun wit the school bit. It actually happened. It was a Tom Brown's School Days, but personal. It was boys being boys in an all-boys environment. We were 12 to 17 or so and we had the new boys and the old boys and the uniforms and the shined shoes and the inspections and the cadet officers and getting away with things in our own very clever ways and marching in the snow and sneaking across the street to attend the fair. The poems have been sitting in folders and floppies and now on DVDs. The first was written when I was a teenager. They are about things I saw and heard and experienced. And they were/are my way of expressing myself, my feelings and my experiences. Are they good? Only the reader can tell. I enjoyed putting them on paper and now I am enjoying getting them out of hiding and putting them out for anybody to read. Can they all be read in my cousin's third grade class. Absolutely not. Some can. Others are for very select audiences. I do not censor. My Friendly Neighborhood Bar tries to capture the life and language that I observed in the bars. I don't think anybody there ever said, "Gee whiz!" So, here they are. And I have more to add. I'd love to hear from you -- whether you like them, were disgusted by them, thought they needed more work.

Bells, With Apologies to Ed Poe

I have many, many wonderful memories of Switzerland, one of which struck me very early during my experience there. It was bells. I lived in Morges, a small village between Geneva and Lausanne, and my first room was located across the street from the Catholic Church and down the street from the Presbyterian Church. They both tolled the hours -- and the quarter hours with bells 24 hours a day.

BELLS, WITH APOLOGIES TO ED POE
By Henry David Rosso
In the clear, crisp, cool air of a Swiss night
A church bell peals the hour
Four A.M.
Bong Bong Bong Bong

Bells in towns and villages nearby
Take up the tolling
Some overlapping
BoBong BoBong BoBongBoBong

The more distant churches
Squeeze into the night air
Their bells strong at home, but thinned by space
Bing Bing Bing Bing

In the center of Morges
Resting on the shores of Lac Leman
The bells of the Catholic and Presbyterian churches
Vie for attention, one followed quickly by the other.

The big city churches sound every quarter hour
Two quick peals — bongbong -- for each quarter
At 4 A.M. they announce bongbong bongbong bongbong bongbong
Bong Bong Bong Bong

Bells sing praises
Cry in mourning,
Dance with happiness
Ring in new years

Announce victories
Celebrate weddings
Count cadence at funerals
Signal naval watches

The same bells that lift spirits
Pain hearts
Signal alarms
Wear heavy on souls

A tiny bell on an altar
Tinkles through incensed smoke
Bringing parishioners to their knees
To pray for whatever purpose

Bells beckon servants to service
Signal classes to change
Open the stock market
Sound warnings at train crossings

A tall, thin woman dressed in black leans far over
She speaks to the young boy
He raises his hand to salute
While a grieving nation watches
Bong
Bong
Bong
Bong

And the caissons go rolling
Carrying the flag-draped coffin
As bells that cry for joy
Now stir a nation to tears

Ma Bell, Taco Bell, Carol of the Bells
Jingle Bells, Liberty Bell
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Saved by the Bell

Alexander Graham Bell
Catherine Bell
Tinker Bell
Christmas bells
Hells Bells

Thomas Paine didn’t like bells
In 1797 he condemned them as a public nuisance
The noise of bells, he said
Increase the distress of the sick

Cows, sheep and horses
Display no distress
Munching and lolling
Bells clanging around their necks

Cows don’t eat around the Salvation Army
Merry Christmas jinglejinglejingle
JinglejinglejingleQUIET
Jingle

The Dart Game

This is the second of the bar poems. I spent many hours playing darts and hope I have captured some of the intensity. You need to know the language of the game

The Dart Game

By Henry David Rosso

Challenge the board!
You're on.
The slick, slim shaft, barrel and point are withdrawn
From the leather case with care.
The feather-light flights are attached.
The shaft is tightened against the barrel.
The point is sharpened with a small square of sandpaper.
The challenge is met.
Cricket?
Cricket.
Points?
Of course.
Cork.
The first shot of the game, to determine who goes first.
The silver steel and plastic tail head toward the center
Hoping for a dead center.
Close.
But not too close.
Nothing to do but watch your opponent.
She lets fly and hits dead center.
She can hit cork.
It's bad news.
She goes first.
Toe on the line
Eyeball the target
Cock the arm
Feel the balance
Adjust
Don't rush
Stroke toward the goal
Pull back
Stroke again
Fire
Twenty-four grams of steel and plastic
Fly silently and swiftly toward the board
The point finds its mark with a dull thunk.
Two more times the process is repeated.
Cold steel hitting compressed paper under the glare
For all to see
The point kisses the outer ring
Almost as a teaser
Each shot that misses its mark is like foreplay
It's your turn
She intimidated you with the first shot.
But she bolstered your confidence with the next two.
Now you get to stroke and probe
Hoping to reach the ultimate goal.
Anticipation.
Fingers close around the tiny steel shaft
Flights twirl in readiness
The steel flies.
Close. So close.
Adjust
Shoot
There, it's in
Do it again.
Cock
Aim
Shoot.
It's there again.
Back and forth the game progresses
Arms cocked
Eyes squint
Heart stops
Steel parts air and strikes with a thud
Concentration mounts
Careless shots
Followed by more disciplined shots
This time it will be true
This time it will hit the mark
This time you will go ahead
Hold the lead
Watch your opponent
She's staying close
Keen eye travels down the arm
The wrist
The fingers
Across the space to the target bathed in light
Arm back, cocked
Fingers tighten
Forward, let it fly
Steel flies through the air to the target
Thud.
It's there.
Make another mark.
A slash
An X
A circle
Spectators gather to watch
The match is close
A challenge to the board
Sides are chosen.
The steel splits the air again
A cry of ecstasy.
The mark has been made
Another turn
Spectators eye the players
Players eye the board
Steel flies.
Thud
Point
Good dart
Smile momentarily replaces frown of concentration
Steel flies
A gasp
The game is at its determining point
Smile fades
Replaced with frown of concentration
Arm cocks
Eye travels down arm
To wrist
To fingers
To target across the space
Dart arm rocks back and forth
Body leans across the line
Arm cocks back and lets go
Steel flies across the air
Thud.
Cork!
The game is won.
Smiles replace frowns
But only for a short while
The board has been challenged.
The game starts anew
The victory is a thing of the past
New game
Set the rules
Cricket?
Cricket
Points?
Of course
Shoot cork
The victory only counted for one game
It only mattered for a moment
Memory can never repeat the thrill of the moment
It is time for new thrills
New victories
New challenges
Steel flies through the air
Thud.
A miss.
Your turn.
We can only try.

the friendly neighborhood bar

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