Winning the Hearts and Minds
"Dinky Dau," Kate replied. "It's Vietnamese for 'crazy'." The lieutenant was in her mid thirties, an army nurse with a voice like a wood rasp. She had a few miles on her after eight months in country, but she was still attractive.
"They call the C.O. Colonel Dinky Dau?" asked Ellen. She was just off the plane and still had that fresh look the cherries always have. She had bright red hair, freckles, an engaging smile, and some nice curves.
"He distinguished himself again today," Doug Warren began. Doug was our court jester. He carried an extra twenty pounds and had an easy laugh. He was the internist, assigned to volunteer for this week’s medcap mission.
"Our mission is to win the hearts and minds in Hoa Loc Village. Right?" At lunch, Doug began his irreverent imitation with this description. "Colonel Crazy, chief of Neurosurgery, steps out of his air conditioned headquarters. He is a bad ass in his Special Forces camouflage with subdued insignias, a jungle hat with a plastic bottle of insect repellent in the hatband and camouflage netting securing branches and leaves. He looks like Dicky Smothers in a special forces uniform—with a web belt and canteen on the left, a forty five holster on the right, and an extra clip at each side of his chest for the M-16 in his left hand. He takes command. With a snappy salute to our protection, the platoon of grunts in the first three jeeps, he jumps in the lead jeep of our little convoy, and we're eating his dust down to the river.”
The mess hall was a dangerous place for this performance, but that’s where Doug performed and he would risk anything for the laugh.
Mike McManus, our soft spoken, thin, balding trauma surgeon from St. Louis had laughter in his pale blue eyes. "Not one of those grunts laughs at Dinky Dau. Right away, I feel safe—those are some disciplined troops." We laughed again.
"We all know Col. Dinky Dau. But what about this "winning the hearts and minds" deal. You want crazy? We pass out a few pills to the women and children. When the men come back to the village tonight, are they going to be impressed with our humanitarian effort? What do we expect? That they--what? Call in V.C. positions? Hell, maybe they are V.C. themselves. We are expecting them to change sides to the ARVN’s? "
"So. How's ‘winning the hearts and minds’ any different from this whole damned war?" Kate asked.
Nobody had the answer.
We were two docs, two nurses, the dentist, two dental assistants and the pharmacist back from our jungle medcap mission late for the usual Saturday lunch of fried rice. We were chasing it with Kool Aid, the only substance that could partially disguise the heavily chlorinated water.
"Well. Look who's coming. It's our mover and shaker, Dr. J.D. White," Mike said almost under his breath.
"This one's not crazy. He's just a jerk—also the chief of surgery," Kate murmured to Ellen, still looking after her newcomer.
"Did we get some good numbers?" J.D. asked Mike as he pulled up a chair.
"Step right up, folks. It's the Great American Medicine Show." Mike pulled some folded sheets from a pocket. He smoothed them out on the table with both hands, and read aloud. "We saw 32 patients for medical diagnoses 6 for infectious disease, 14 for surgical diagnoses, 3 minor surgeries if we count iatrogenic disease. Pharmacy dispensed 44 bottles of liniment, 240 tabs of Pen VK, 220 tabs of lomotil, two million units of IM penicillin. Jim did 5 extractions and 7 fillings, and stole the show with his shiny instruments, mirrors, and dental chair.
"I sure am glad to have the support of some numbers, J.D. Aren't you?" Doug asked irreverently. He loved to needle J.D. "It’s important that we go about this scientifically."
J.D. just shook his head. He knew what was coming. He would chuckle at the jokes, even enjoy them. But he had one main interest. That was command.
"Let's see," Doug continued. "What equals one 'heart and mind'? An extracted tooth? A lomotil tablet? Tell me. And I’m sure that we have a control group…you know, a village that has had no madcap mission. Do the generals compare these stats with body counts of the field units? You know, see how we did on the hearts and minds, see if we decreased the number of our casualties."
"If you want to find out what goes on in the field units, I can arrange that. I just hope that you saw more patients than the docs from 93rd Evac, smartass. That’s what the brass wants. It’s what I’m going to give them. They want us to count, we’re going to count." J.D. bored in.
"Oh," said Doug in mock disappointment. "You mean it's not really an experiment?" Doug couldn’t quit.
“You just volunteer and count and things will be fine, Doug,” J.D. turned to Mike, "If iatrogenic disease counts? What's that supposed to mean, Mike?"
"Physician caused disease, J.D."
"I know what the word means, smartass. What did you guys do out there this morning?
"We did you proud J.D.," Mike said, deadpan serious. "We're the only medical team to come back with a body count. We had down three when the smoke cleared. It took two cases of oranges, but it worked like a charm."
Doug laughed. Ellen burst out crying.
"You insensitive clod," Kate hissed at Mike. "She thinks it's her fault."
"I wanted to give the children a treat...some candy or...something." Ellen sobbed.
"Oh no you don't," Doug said earnestly. I want the credit. I’m in line for a bronze star. Those oranges were my idea. While you nurses were dreaming about candy; I scrounged two cases of oranges."
"I guess you got the three notches for orange crates." Mike saluted Doug with his left hand.
"You're not funny." Kate was furious.
"We wanted to give the kids something," Ellen whispered.
"Goodwill miscarried once again. It's the American way." Mike said.
“As American as apple pie and Viet Nam,” said Doug.
J.D. gave them a wry smile.
"It's all a joke to you two. You make fun of everything don’t you?" Ellen was bright red in the face angry.
"We try," Doug replied
"This is funny," Mike said softly to Ellen. "Enjoy this. Serious will come in on the choppers tonight."
"Now, children." J.D. held both hands up, palms out. Then he got serious."Stop talking in innuendo, Doug. Tell me what happened, the details."
Here's how Doug reported our mission:
They loaded us into three gun boats. The river was a half mile wide and bordered by a lush tropical jungle. Two hundred foot trees, triple canopy, with growth between the trees so dense that it was almost dark on the ground. There was all kinds of sampan traffic. Several boats passed us very close. They were filled to the gunwhales with people taking goods to market...fish, wicker cages full of ducklings, bags of fruit, and baskets of eggs. The river people were doing their activities of daily living. The war seemed remote.
We tied up at Hua Loc just upriver from the outhouse, the four holer on stilts over the river. The water beneath was boiling with jumping fish -- number one Vietnamese fish flush toilets. Some women were washing clothes on rocks 200 feet—down stream.
Our platoon did a sweep through the village and sent their interpreter to fetch us.
"Alpha Charlie Echo," he said.
I didn't get it. Then I realized it was the name that the grunts had given him.
"Ace?" I asked.
"Yes," he said with a broad smile. He was enthusiastic.
Ace was about 17 years old, with skin as smooth as a nectarine. He was dressed in the smallest possible size of camouflage fatigues. He wore the same U.S. jungle boots that I had and a canvas military style belt with a brass buckle. He spoke quickly but exactly. His English was good, and he was comfortable with us round eyes. As I talked with him, the boisterous conversation in the platoon quieted, and every soldier concentrated on Ace. When he talked, they listened. The platoon had chosen his name carefully.
"Number one platoon?" I asked.
"Yes, number one," he said.
"Are you always with them?"
He nodded once, "Yes, always."
"At night?"
"Many missions in night," he replied seriously.
I nodded.
"Hua Loc. V.C.?"
"No V.C.," he said with confidence.
"Do you live here?" I asked.
"My village …Mekong...south."
"Long way," I said.
"Gone," he said flatly.
"Gone?" I asked crossing my throat with my index finger.
He nodded yes.
"Your family?" I asked.
"Dead," he said. He maintained his control, only his eyes showed the loss.
"I'm sorry," I almost whispered.
He just looked at me, alert, waiting for my next question. God, my “sorry” was so inadequate.
"Have you translated for clinic before? You know. Words for talking to sick people?"
"Yes, many."
An old man with a wispy goatee greeted us. He was the village chief. Slowly, Ace and Chief led the procession. Mutual curiosity was silent at first. Ace broke the ice and started a few conversations for us. We broke out our Nikons, and the villagers had a good look at us…at all the stuff we hauled out there. Their houses were open, thatched roof structures. They had no windows and no doors. During the day the ducks, chickens, dogs, and pigs had free run of the village including the houses. The only villagers around were women, children, and a few frail old men. The men were hiding. If the Americans get your “hearts and minds” in the morning, the V.C. come at night and get you “by the nuts”.
The old women were in the streets. They had taken positions in front of their houses and were squatting flatfooted with their butts effortlessly suspended above the ground between their ankles. Most were grinding what looked like rice using mortar and pestle. They looked at us with a mixture of curiosity and the resolute acceptance. About half were chewing beetelnut. They smiled broadly and showed us their red stained teeth. Chewing is an old woman's sport. They are tough. No spitting—they swallow most of it.
A group of about twenty children brought up the rear following the nurses and medics who were toting the boxes of medicines, instruments, and oranges.
"The chief says after clinic...big party," Ace told me as we arrived at the community center. There were about 30 patients waiting in line.
"What do they eat?" I was worried about this party.
"Fish," Ace said. My stomach flipped as I remembered where the fishing would probably be best. And what about drinking water. I was worried about this party.
We set up clinic. Mike with Kate and Ellen with me, we kept Ace between us so that we could alternate patients. We started working on the line hawking our medical magic.
We started with a middle aged lady with deep set eyes.
"What kind of trouble is she having?"
Ace exchanged several sentences with her. "Pain. Arms and legs" he summarized.
"Have her point."
More chatter. She points to her left elbow, then right knee.
"How long?"
This question stimulated a long conversation.
“Some pains a long time from child but not bad. Very bad one month.”
"Both the knee and the elbow?"
Another long conversation. "Mostly elbow," Ace replied.
Did she ever hurt it? Has it been red or warm? Other joints involved? Each question had its conversation. I gave up sorting out degenerative joint disease, rheumatic fever, and rheumatoid arthritis using Ace's condensed history and a thermometer.
"Are we taking any samples back to the laboratory?" I asked looking over at our supervising CO.
He shook his head "No lab work."
"Follow up visits?"
The Dinky Dau shook his head, "No" again. "No hospitilization. No surgery," he said.
"Not much to do. We can only treat her symptoms. Have we got some kind of Tiger Balm--something topical? "I asked our pharmacist.
"Sure. Liniment in 8 ounce bottles." He held it up. It was a pretty blue liquid. Our patient smiled. She liked the looks of it.
"Tell her to rub it in. Right where it hurts. It will feel very warm. She should exercise the elbow, keep it moving," I told Ace and he passed it on.
She opened the bottle and rubbed a few drops on her elbow. We could all smell the oil of wintergreen. Her eyes widened with surprise of the warm skin sensation. She looked at me and bowed slightly.
My second patient was a middle aged woman who presented her arm to me and pointed to her elbow.
"How long it has been hurting?" I asked Ace. They traded several sentences of Vietnamese.
"Long time," Ace replied.
"Give her some liniment," I told Ellen.
Mike and Ace took the next patient in line who pointed to his knee. The history was briefer this time, and the end result was a bottle of the blue medicine.
Ellen had been down the line.
"The patients in the front of this line aren't sick. There are two draining abscesses at the back, and two patients that had to be carried," she said.
Our next patient was pointing to her wrist. A short sentence of translation, Vietnamese then English.
"Pain," said Ace.
I reached into the box and retrieved a blue bottle, and gave it to our patient who nodded her head with great satisfaction. Once they caught on, every patient stepped up and said “Pain”, Ace told us. “Same, Same last man”
“Do they all want colored liniment to rub on?” I asked Ace. He nodded.
"Tell him to get rid of these people who crowded into line. Let's get to the sick ones," hissed Kate.
Ace shook his head. I looked at him inquisitively.
"These first," he said, pointing to the front of the line. "Number one big shots."
"Bullshit," said Ellen with disgust.
"No bullshit," Ace stood his ground. He knew how to buy influence. The generals should put Ace in charge of the Hearts and Minds program.
Mike's next patient was pointing to her wrist.
"Blue medicine?" he asked Ace. He nodded.
Ace nodded and Kate gave her a bottle as the next patient stepped up for Ellen and me.
"Line up for blue medicine," I announced.
Ace translated. Things moved right along. I passed out a bottle of blue medicine to 26 patients, exuded good will, and examined any offered body part. There was a slight hitch when we ran out of blue medicine and had to switch to red liniment with a cinnamon scent. Red sold even better. We passed out another 18 bottles, and the cupboard was bare. It added to the prestige of those who had received liniment when some of their later and lesser neighbors came up short. Oil of wintergreen – now there is some kind of propaganda juice.
We were down to the patients who were sick. A twelve year old boy had a bamboo splinter in his elbow for about 3 weeks, an untreated joint space infection that had destroyed the radial head. We incised the joint and left a drain in, with instructions for irrigation and oral antibiotics.
We had about five of these spectacular complications from untreated infections. There were four of five patients with untreated fractures that had healed with debilitating deformities. But we couldn’t do any surgery, so the patients had to get by on liniment.
As the finale, we saw a woman with a huge ulcerating breast cancer. No magic. No one had the fortitude to offer her liniment.
The villagers took us to a clearing where they had cooked a pig on a spit. They had put it on a table surrounded with bowls of rice and fruit. The chief made a long speech. I feigned interest in the cook's carving skill to get in for a close look at the meat. It was well done.
We ate with a feeling of ceremony. The meal was delicious. The locals came out in force...to eat and to inspect us. They gave us the same curious awe that Mike had for their water buffaloes.
As things were winding down, the time seemed right for an American innovation--dessert. Ellen and Kate were giddy. They could give their gifts to the children. The corpsmen brought the two cases of oranges to the tables and opened them.
"Have the children form a single line. We will give each child an orange," Ellen told Ace.
I made a rough check. No problem. Plenty of oranges. Ace was making the public announcement and the line was forming in front of Ellen. The smaller children were eager. They were the first in line, a horde of eager cherubic faces. As Ellen began to pass out the oranges, the older children began to come forward. They were trying to say something to each kid, to present each orange. It was too slow. The older kids pressed from behind.
"Tell them to stop pushing," Ellen said to Ace.
Ace tried. Despite his efforts, excitement in the lines mounted. The small ones in front had their faces smashed up against the edge of the table. They were wedged, unable to move.
"Let's get rid of the damn things," urged one of the corpsmen as he took oranges from the box behind the table and started passing them out to the left side of the table. Another corpsman took a position on the other end of the table. The lines disintegrated. The larger children were breaking for the ends of the table. They knocked the smaller children down, ran over them, on them. Small bodies hit the ground. They made dull thuds. Sounded like a close up mike on a goal line stand at a Rose Bowl game. Heads were bouncing like melons. Sickening sounds. Mike and I started throwing oranges toward the rear of the crowd to take the pressure off of the front rows, and the larger children still overran several of the small ones in the open field.
"Dear God! Stop this!" Ellen was screaming.
Where were the parents? Standing at the periphery gathering the booty, five or six oranges cradled in folded arms. None of us had thought to ask the street value of an orange. A child would deposit an orange with a parent, and fly back into the melee undaunted by a bloody nose or a knot on the head.
I looked to one of the mothers hoping for help. She turned away in fear. She looked back over her shoulder like a raccoon stealing groceries, ready to bolt...with her arm load oranges. We began throwing the oranges near the parents to reduce the collisions. The corpsmen followed suit.
It was as fast as a prairie grass fire. Whoosh. Then it was over.
As families left, almost in flight, we surveyed the damage. Three kids were still down, semi-conscious. There were no fractures. We got off with a bloody nose and three scalp lacerations and three concussions. We did a thirty minute suture clinic. Then we packed up to leave.
Doug ended his report with: “So, J.D. They stood in line all morning for thirty eight bottles of liniment. They almost gave the lives of several children for 2 boxes of our oranges. So, the jury’s out with regard to the hearts and minds?
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Who is Carlo dalMasso
Who is Carlo dalMasso?
“Let me see,” Pinky insisted.
“None of your business,” I replied, pulling down my bike shorts.
“You said you were a little saddle sore.”
“So? We did ride 50 miles, you know.”
“Aha! I got a peek. You have baboon ass again. I saw red.”
“I’ll be fine. So let’s have a look at yours, smarty pants.”
“Not on your life, buster. Mine is fine. You didn’t rinse the soap out of your shorts last night. That’s why you’re sore. It takes three rinses”
“Tonight then. Three rinses, no more soap.”
“I can make you feel better too,” she said. “It’s right next to the toilet. I’ll run some warm water in it for you and you can just soak a little.”
“No way. I’m not sitting in that thing.”
“Nobody will know. It feels good. You’d like it if you would just try it. Come on, just have a little soak. The Italians all use them. Ask Carlo. I bet he has. I’ve used it twice.”
“I am not asking Carlo.”
Carlo was our host at La Soffita, a Bed and Breakfast in Schio, Italy. We were traveling in Italy on our bikes. I wasn’t going to ask him any kind of personal question, especially not that one.
“I’ve known him for about twenty four hours, and I’m not asking him if he sits in a douche bowl.”
So began our second night in at La Soffita. Why had we come here? The art, history, and the cuisine; we had the usual laudable reasons. Those were really the excuses for spending money. On arrival in Venice, the real purpose of our trip had been: Find a three pronged adapter for the standard European two prong plug on Pinky’s hair dryer and my battery charger. Perfect, our trip was a success within 48 hours. We could have gone home – dry haired, charged, and satisfied. But Pinky now had a new purpose for her trip: to get me into the bidet.
I had my own mission: a Reverse Amerigo Vespucci Mission -- Prove the existence of Italy. My approach was existential. I presumed that no part of Italy been discovered if I had no photographic record of it.
“I would like to burn the Venice photos onto a CD so I can start over with empty memory chips in the camera. Carlo is home now. I’m going down stairs,” I said .
“Isn’t his computer at work?” Pinky wondered.
“It is, but Federico’s coming over tonight at ten.”
Frederico was our host’s son, a computer scientist, and I hoped he would have the equipment I needed to burn the CD.”
“That Carlo is something else isn’t he?” The internet junkie had impressed her.
“He’s not playing ‘Donkey Kong’ online. He likes the cerebral stuff.”
“Who would ever download ‘Quantum Computing and Sentient Behavior’ or whatever it was, for entertainment?”
“More amazing is that he read it.”
“I’d say he might be your kind of guy, Mr. Webmaster,” she teased. “And you have other things in common with Carlo, one son with a Ph. D. in physics, and other who is a computer geek like his Federico. Plus Carlo rides a bike to work.”
“Yep. I love this guy already.”
“Who pays for the paper he prints everyday, not to mention his time?”
“I’m not sure. But, I get the idea that he may be the one asking questions at work.”
“The Boss? Nah, I bet he puts his pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us. Besides, if he’s the boss, why is he running a Bed and Breakfast?”
“I don’t know. It’s like asking a CFO at Shell Oil Company who pays for his computer paper -- when he would probably be thinking more about the merger with British Petroleum.”
“His wife works at the Care Center in Malo. He’s probably a working stiff exec.”
“Maybe. At any rate, he’s a great guy.
I recalled the pleasant introduction to Carlo. We had barely arrived, when boom – he was home from work. We chatted a little about our families, then he asked whether we needed a recommendation for dinner.
“Well, yes,” I admitted. We knew next to nothing about local restaurants.
“What type of meal do you prefer?”
“Close, for the biccicleti a notte,”
“And probably something cheap,” Carlo smiled.
Pinky had laughed about that. “Did he have you figured out or what?”
“He did,” I told her. “but I’m not alone. He put a smile on your sweet little face with the ‘Al Paiolo’.”
What a meal. The people at the restaurant had ransacked their kitchen to find a paiolo to show us how they grind polenta. They went an extra mile, in my opinion.
After dinner,they invited us into the back where they were preparing herring for their polenta festa in the village on Saturday. “Taste; e Vino, .. wine… oh, e polenta,” the owner told us, gesturing a little space between thumb and index finger; then zap, the waitress appeared with these accessories to our tasting of the herring – another meal.
When we got back to La Soffita, Carlo told me he and Marielena have never eaten there. We decided they might not eat out very much, or maybe they ate at nicer restaurants, although I don’t know how it could get much better than Al Paiolo.
After sharing an after dinner drink of Grappa with Carlo and his wife, we realized we had many things in common. We got to know them well on that first night.
Pinky had remarked that their daughter, Emma, was a cutie.
“Yes, she’s absolutely the most beautiful Chemistry major I’ve ever seen.” Emma was the one who actually met us and signed us in, passport numbers…so on, and then giving us directions to the pizza place, ‘firs-ta you go on this-a streeta to the T, turn left-a, then next a right-a, there will be a bridge-a.’, perfect English but with some ending vowels to give it a comfortable rhythm.”
“I love the accenta” Pinky experimented with her own vowel additions. We were becoming more Italian every day.
“I love it, too. Well, we have some new friends, Italian friends. And I’m going downstairs with the memory chip” I said.
“So, go,” she shooed me out of the room. Probably so she could rinse her shorts in peace.
Downstairs, Carlo told me that he spent a lot of time in front of a computer at work, and when he saw my face light up, he said he was a user, not a computer person. He said he works with recycling; explaining that he was involved in manufacturing paper from recycled paper products. He has been staying close to home for the last several years because his mother is pushing ninety, and his dad is 93. They live in the apartment, the several rooms just beyond the kitchen, totally self contained and separate but tangent, as are their lives. What a good son, I thought. It was good planning, and good luck to be able to carry it out.
We shared some of our experiences. Pinky told them about moving her parents to the nursing home in Mount Vernon, the vagaries of caring for dementia, and I told them my recent bout as executor for my mother’s estate. We talked about my latest website projects. Federico is 24 and did La Soffita’s website, but does much more sophisticated things. He is flying to Los Angeles in a couple of weeks on Microsoft’s dime and is anticipating a related employment opportunity. That is globalization of the tech industry up close and personal, our son being concerned that Sun Microsystems will have a third round of layoffs.
Marielena rolled her eyes back and moaned, “Physick. Oh no.”, as her Carlo and I launched into a discussion of the book Chaos by Gleik. She and Pinky found their own things to talk about. Pinky learned that Carlo and Marielena built the house and have been there about 15 years. Marielena works two days a week, but is off this week. Emma is 19, in her first year of university in Padova and goes on the train. Marielena is from Thiene a few miles east, and Carlo is from the tiny nearby town of Zane. They are about 10 years behind us and married for 27 years. Emma would like to do an student exchange program to the U.S., maybe for 6 months or a year, and we told them about Lewis and Clark and PLU.
Emma sat on the arm of the couch leaning on her mom while we drank grappa. Carlo was a little worried about Emma. He thought she was a little intimidated, a little uncertain after her first day at the university. But he recalled that Federico was very uncomfortable until his first college midterm exams, then told Carlo he’d figured it out just like high school, went to the top of the class where he stayed. Neither of the kids is married, and Emma was without a regular boyfriend. We told Carlo it couldn’t be long. “Hopefully without blue hair, and multiple piercings,” he begged. Blue hair and piercing…the whole world has them. When we went upstairs to bed that first night, I told Carlo that my short stories were on my website.
On our third night, Carlo had found a story which he had downloaded and read. He wanted to know how much was true.
“Cut it all in half,” Pinky told him.
He had asked me how far we usually rode in a day. He took the 50 mile number I gave him and he had several suggestions for bike rides. We went for his first offering: Marostica – Bassano – Schio loop. Marostica has a town square is laid out as a chess board and their festa every other year is a pageant with a chess game having live participants as the pieces: knights, kings, queens, bishops, etc. We used maps Carlo had printed to navigate through intervening towns to Bassano where there was the famous covered wooden beam bridge and the well regarded grappa distillery with its local outlet. We then made a detour up into the hills above near Conco and back to Schio. When we got back after dark, he was waiting. He claimed he was getting ready to call 911.
They sent us off to the Pizza place where Emma had been an employee. When we got back we had the espresso and grappa ritual, and we summarized our trip. We described our adventure getting Italian instructions at the alimentary (small grocery store) in the tiny town of Zane. The little store’s proprietress, a lady dressed to the nines, gave us each a chocolate after directing us to Schio. She would not have us go out in the dark empty handed.
“I have checked the weather,” Carlo said, “and it is supposed to be good. I think that tomorrow you should do the other trip that I told you about.”
“The bus to Lavarone and the ride back down through Asiago?” asked Pinky.
“Yes,”
“Carlo, you have a friend for life,” Pinky gushed. She loved that word “down” as it would have been a challenging climb the other direction. Our cycling buddies at home would roast us for riding the bus up and coasting down, but Pinky was not about to care.
“You can put the bikes on the bus. Folding is not needed,” he said. “And I have another map here to show you how to get to the bus station in Schio. There also is an opportunity for a bicycle trail into Schio that begins right behind the building where you had pizza tonight,” said Carlo spreading out the map.
I was able to get Carlo talking about paper manufacturing. I learned that the non-drying ink on newsprint is removed with bubbles that are stabilized by chemicals that are also solvents for the ink, and that environmental disposal of that is not too difficult. I was pretty excited to tell him that he could put a portable computer and a wireless network with a web camera in a factory with internet availability and save some traveling to make adjustments to their equipment in South America and China. Taking it a step further: that with some programming he could possibly get data from transducers inside the machinery to the wireless network. It would be more difficult because of the requirement for custom programming. He said, “Programming is not a problem. We have a many programmers.” Getting custom programming sounded like calling the janitorial staff for a spill in the cafeteria.
“Where do you work?”
“It is very close. I am able to show you in the morning,” he said. He revealed only little clues about exactly what he did, a trail of bread crumbs. Conversation shifted to hobbies and vacations. They had a Euro-wide motor home in the driveway covered with a tarp. He said that it was unused over the last several years but they used it a lot when the kids were younger. He had bought it used at a good price and fixed it up. I couldn’t tell if he was holding the wrench or had it done. He and Marielena also had a hobby of collecting videos of old American movies. Their favorite was Lucille Ball in the Long Trailer. What nostalgia! They remembered many of the details from these movies that we had seen as kids, and we laughed hard.
They were anxious for comments on their B&B service. “They say, ‘If there is something you like, tell somebody else. If there is something you don’t like, tell us,’” Carlo said smiling. “Was the breakfast is good? Is there something you would like?”
I told him it was good, and we got what we needed.
“Well, maybe a second cup of coffee. But it’s great, no other requests,” Pinky told him. And we were suddenly nodding off so we went upstairs.
As we were getting into bed, I said, “He talks and behaves like a manager, an important one. He thinks like one. If he isn’t pretty important he is going to be. But they drive one, small car.that I’dd guess is four years old. He’s just as close to a nickel as I am. I can’t tell whether he owns the place or he works in the mail room.”
“Ask,” she said. It was not an interesting problem to her.
“I’ve been trying. It’s more fun to try to figure it out, without being blunt as a pig’s nose. Ouch!” I had turned over, landing on a sore spot.
“Please,” She said rolling over, “Try it once. Don’t be so narrow-minded.”
“I’m not getting in that thing.”
As predicted, it was a bright blue sky morning –fantastic for a ride in the mountains. I got tickets to Lavarone as the bus pulled up. The driver opened the door to the bus, and I forgot every Italian word I had learned. I finally broke through and blurted out “Ho due bigletti per Lavarone arriva a undici mezza.” He looked down at us. He eyed my bike. He didn’t relish handling the bike. He gave me rapid fire Italian, listing his stops, and I recognized none of them.
“Cambiamo?” I was guessing we had to transfer.
I couldn’t understand his reply, “Asiago,” I guessed.
He shook his head. “Prossimo.” He told us it was next bus.
We missed this 11:30 bus, and left at the crack of noon by another bus to Asiago where we had a four star Italian lunch. Then we did a modest climb from Asiago to Lavarone, where we turned for home just before dark. Above Lavarone we crested the pass and marveled at the sight of the snow covered Alps, laid out before us as if planted in a cloudless sky. In the mountain towns the architecture changed, and it felt like Switzerland. The long downhill ride for home through a canyon of a river (T. Astico on the map), was spectacular. What a beautiful ride. We arrived Schio about 8, and were busted again by Carlo for late riding. Due to darkness he was about to call 118 (the Italian 911). So instead of explaining to the cops, we ate left over pizza from the night before and went straight to the espresso and Grappa with Carlo and Marielena.
We reported on our day again. Carlo began asking me about what I had done before retirement. I told him radiology and we covered the usual FAQ’s. I told him about interpreting diagnostic x-rays, ultrasounds, CT, MR, and Nuclear Medicine. I explained how I injected the patient with radioactive material and made images. I described arteriograms and interventional prodecdures. We spent quite a bit of time on MR – lots of Physick involved, so he loved it.
Meanwhile, I heard Marielena and Pinky talking about Palladio, the architect; and all the buildings he did in his native Vicenza, an hour’s train ride away.
Carlo and I began comparing our medical care delivery systems. He has been satisfied with their care, but says in some of the more populated areas it can be very difficult to get an appointment, and there are long waiting lists. Pharmacy cost and physician availability is not a problem in Schio. He didn’t know much about statistics for things like coronary surgery, transplants, marrow transplants and other high end procedures.
“Tonight is a full moon,” Carlo said, “When that occurs we often go into the mountains, and it is quite beautiful in the night. We have some things to eat and then we come home. Please, can you go also?”
“That would be wonderful,” Pinky and I said, almost in unison.
“We have to leave by about 5:30, so we must talk about your plans tomorrow.”
“I can’t believe you’re worried that we’d be late.”
He gave me a look. “I recommend to look at the map for a shorter ride. Or if you want to rest a day, Vicenza is very nice.”
“We could see all the houses Palladio did,” Pinky said. Marielena had my architect’s daughter hooked and reeled in, an hour earlier. “And there is this really cool theatre, the Olympic Theatre.”
“Sign me up” I said. We drained the Grappa and headed upstairs.
“First shower,” she said at the top of the stairs. “You could try…”
“Don’t start.” I was laughing, and the last drop of Grappa went up my nose.
I flatted on the bike path, and we were late to the station. We missed the train, but the taxi driver was standing right there and told Pinky that he could take us for 25 euro, or we could wait two hours for the next train. After some difficult negotiation…with Pinky, I handed him a 20, and showed him my open palms. He shrugged his shoulders, picked up Pinky’s backpack and we walked to the car. Vicenza was as advertised, worthwhile. The Olympic Theatre with its famous set having 5 Venice sized streets converging on center stage (so acclaimed on the opening performance in the theatre centuries ago, that it has never been taken down). It had the stone semicircular seating and the life-sized statues along its walls depicting each of the many donors who paid the bill for the original construction. On out tour of the town, the Palladio buildings were many and in his characteristic style. They look like Monticello (Tom Jefferson was a copycat).
As we waited to cross the street to the train station going home, we were recalling Carlos’ comments about cross walks, “If you stand at a cross walk in England, cars stop as soon as you appear and the cars wait. If you do that in Italy, you will be there all day.” There was an Italian lady next to us. As soon as she advanced her foot, we did too. A woman in the first arriving car stopped abruptly, and was hit from behind by a larger car. There was modest damage, and a huge and very exciting argument between the drivers. Strangely, they were not angry with us. There is nothing like a good Italian argument. The split decision went, on points, to the more verbally agile woman (Pinky voted twice as is the custom). We felt bad and causative, but we made the train.
Back in Schio, the weather gave us another great day for our hike in the mountains with Carlo and Marielena. The trail was a road which had been blocked off. In the mountains above us we could see other similar roads which had been used by both sides in World War I to defend the Italian-Austrian border. The lights were beginning to sparkle in the towns below, whose names Carlo and Marielena gave us. About half way up, we met three couples who were Marielena’s buddies coming down. They had planned to go with us, but had to return early and had to leave well before we did. They were so happy to see Marielena, and we got to meet some of her friends — very chatty and fun. The end point was a refugio. It was a nice warm building with a bar and restaurant located on a mountain trail. The moonlight dinner at ten in a remote mountain restaurant, was an adventure. We started back at 10:30. All the vegetation appeared black, and the sheer walls of the mountain were glowing white and spectacular. Everything seemed right with the world. We could see why Marielena liked it so much.
On our return, as we climbed the stairs, I said, “Another day better than the last.”
Pinky nodded her head at the top of the stairs as she stepped through the door, looked wistfully into the bathroom. “You know what would make it perfect? Let’s take a little dip, what do ya say?” I put toothpaste on my brush and declined.
I woke up early and went down stairs. Carlo had the newspaper in front of him. The headline said, “New Evidence Shows Universe is Finite Size, Comprised of 13 Galaxies”.
“It never stops,” he said.
“I’m embarrassed. All the talk about setting up wireless networks. I forgot about cell phones. For 160 dollars in the US, we could buy a cell phone that has a camera and a screen. You can talk on the phone and take a live video.”
“They will be in Italy soon.”
“We want you to come visit us in Mount Vernon.”
“I used to go to the U.S.” he said. “I haven’t been in 5 years”. He is feeling the paper between his index finger and thumb, assessing the quality of the news print.
“In my business, the U.S. is no longer competitive. They make paper. But they have lost control of the manufacturing technology.”
“There is no recovery?” I asked.
He shrugged. “The last manufacturer of the type equipment that we make was Beloit, and it went Chapter 11 last year.” He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. I had some dreams, but…” and he stopped. “You can put a man on the moon, but…it’s sad.” He was sincerely sad.
“Who is the competition?”
“Germany and the Nordic countries.”
Pinky came down the stairs and it was time to go. “Well, come visit us
if you can. Thanks for the wonderful hike last night and all of your kindness.”
“We will keep in contact by email.” We shook hands.
After breakfast, I put the bikes back in their suitcases while the neighbors watched. We each got our picture with Marielena. We watched the shepherd and his sheep crossing the field.
“Pecore,” Marielena gave us their Italian name.
“Did Carlo ride his bike today?”Pinky asked.
“Yes”
“He must have been late.”
“No, it’s close, right there,” and she pointed. It was about ¾ mile. A white building said “Comer” in blue script on the side.
“It is really nice that you could build your house so close to his work,” Pinky said.
“Oh, no,” said Marielena. “The house was first. The office moved here later,”
“Pretty nice,” Pinky smiled as the taxi pulled up.
We were in and on the way to the train station and I asked, “So the corporation just happened to move that office building to Schio next to his house?”
“I guess so.”
Our trip went on. We went by train to Florence , then by bicycle to San Siena, Assisi, and Vitiano near Arezzo. The Cathedrals and Palazzi of Venice, Florence, and Siena ran together in my mind. Art museums were many, fast, and fabulous
In Assisi waiting for the bus to Spello, we met Elena, the beautiful hard working single mom, a Ukranian artist from Kiev. She creates one or two intricate paintings per year (her total output), brings them from the Ukraine to Switzerland, banks some money, and returns to the Ukraine to do it again. We spent an afternoon and evening with her.
In Vitiano, our friends in the neighboring apartment spoke Italian and had learned that there was an olive oil bottler working on the hill up our road. I found it and enquired. They let me watch for a day and two afternoons. They told me how they did everything, how each machine worked – in Italian. In addition, Giancarlo Gianinni, the owner and il capo, gave me an Italian-sign language tour centering on the history of the plant and on his family history. The plant looked like an abandoned warehouse from the outside, with no sign, no logo. The machinery inside was breathtaking, highly automated and computerized with high speed slotted counter-rotating plates crushing the olives and seeds, huge mixing bins stir it to a homogenous, runny paste; then the goo is pumped through a 3660 rpm centrifuge extracting nuts and water, and a second set of centrifuges for final water extraction. It was bottled and labeled in the building next door. The olive oil was all exported, sold mainly in Germany and England. It was fabulous. I wished I had worked harder on my Italian.
We met a few people that made our trip, largely because we were traveling at bike-speed, poking into things looking for opportunities to get into lives of people where we stayed.
“You really liked the olive oil,” Pinky said. “but, Carlo in Schio is your main man in Italy.”
We got home, and a couple of days later I entered “Comer” in Google. Comer Industries has a website in English and Italian. They are an engineering operation. They make many things, including a division making planetary gear dirves for the Stationary industry. They have a Mechatronics Research Center and operating headquarters in Riggiolo, Italy. They reported 170 million in revenues and 5 million net profit with 924 employees with offices in Charlotte, NC; Desford, Uk; Thibaultd des Vignes, Fr; Zug, Switz; and Shanghai, China. Is my man Carlo in that 924?
“That’s it,” I said to Pinky
“That’s what?”
“The mission for my trip to Italy.”
“So…?”
“My mission is to figure out ‘Quien e Giancarlo dal Maso?”
“What?”
“Who is my friend, Carlo?”
Epilogue—
Subsequent email Carlo tells me that I had the wrong Comer website, and the correct name of his company is Comer S.p.A. (comertech.com), and that he is one of 100 employees. So he kept me from straying far from the truth, but didn’t really solve the mystery. In the subsequent year I know from his emails that 2004 was a good in that he filed for several patents, that he and Marielena have put in a garden, and that he will be “independent for vegetables by next year”. What do you think? Why is the company a stone’s throw from his house? Does he have a corner office with a window or an office in the basement? He has read the story, and he won’t tell me.
“Let me see,” Pinky insisted.
“None of your business,” I replied, pulling down my bike shorts.
“You said you were a little saddle sore.”
“So? We did ride 50 miles, you know.”
“Aha! I got a peek. You have baboon ass again. I saw red.”
“I’ll be fine. So let’s have a look at yours, smarty pants.”
“Not on your life, buster. Mine is fine. You didn’t rinse the soap out of your shorts last night. That’s why you’re sore. It takes three rinses”
“Tonight then. Three rinses, no more soap.”
“I can make you feel better too,” she said. “It’s right next to the toilet. I’ll run some warm water in it for you and you can just soak a little.”
“No way. I’m not sitting in that thing.”
“Nobody will know. It feels good. You’d like it if you would just try it. Come on, just have a little soak. The Italians all use them. Ask Carlo. I bet he has. I’ve used it twice.”
“I am not asking Carlo.”
Carlo was our host at La Soffita, a Bed and Breakfast in Schio, Italy. We were traveling in Italy on our bikes. I wasn’t going to ask him any kind of personal question, especially not that one.
“I’ve known him for about twenty four hours, and I’m not asking him if he sits in a douche bowl.”
So began our second night in at La Soffita. Why had we come here? The art, history, and the cuisine; we had the usual laudable reasons. Those were really the excuses for spending money. On arrival in Venice, the real purpose of our trip had been: Find a three pronged adapter for the standard European two prong plug on Pinky’s hair dryer and my battery charger. Perfect, our trip was a success within 48 hours. We could have gone home – dry haired, charged, and satisfied. But Pinky now had a new purpose for her trip: to get me into the bidet.
I had my own mission: a Reverse Amerigo Vespucci Mission -- Prove the existence of Italy. My approach was existential. I presumed that no part of Italy been discovered if I had no photographic record of it.
“I would like to burn the Venice photos onto a CD so I can start over with empty memory chips in the camera. Carlo is home now. I’m going down stairs,” I said .
“Isn’t his computer at work?” Pinky wondered.
“It is, but Federico’s coming over tonight at ten.”
Frederico was our host’s son, a computer scientist, and I hoped he would have the equipment I needed to burn the CD.”
“That Carlo is something else isn’t he?” The internet junkie had impressed her.
“He’s not playing ‘Donkey Kong’ online. He likes the cerebral stuff.”
“Who would ever download ‘Quantum Computing and Sentient Behavior’ or whatever it was, for entertainment?”
“More amazing is that he read it.”
“I’d say he might be your kind of guy, Mr. Webmaster,” she teased. “And you have other things in common with Carlo, one son with a Ph. D. in physics, and other who is a computer geek like his Federico. Plus Carlo rides a bike to work.”
“Yep. I love this guy already.”
“Who pays for the paper he prints everyday, not to mention his time?”
“I’m not sure. But, I get the idea that he may be the one asking questions at work.”
“The Boss? Nah, I bet he puts his pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us. Besides, if he’s the boss, why is he running a Bed and Breakfast?”
“I don’t know. It’s like asking a CFO at Shell Oil Company who pays for his computer paper -- when he would probably be thinking more about the merger with British Petroleum.”
“His wife works at the Care Center in Malo. He’s probably a working stiff exec.”
“Maybe. At any rate, he’s a great guy.
I recalled the pleasant introduction to Carlo. We had barely arrived, when boom – he was home from work. We chatted a little about our families, then he asked whether we needed a recommendation for dinner.
“Well, yes,” I admitted. We knew next to nothing about local restaurants.
“What type of meal do you prefer?”
“Close, for the biccicleti a notte,”
“And probably something cheap,” Carlo smiled.
Pinky had laughed about that. “Did he have you figured out or what?”
“He did,” I told her. “but I’m not alone. He put a smile on your sweet little face with the ‘Al Paiolo’.”
What a meal. The people at the restaurant had ransacked their kitchen to find a paiolo to show us how they grind polenta. They went an extra mile, in my opinion.
After dinner,they invited us into the back where they were preparing herring for their polenta festa in the village on Saturday. “Taste; e Vino, .. wine… oh, e polenta,” the owner told us, gesturing a little space between thumb and index finger; then zap, the waitress appeared with these accessories to our tasting of the herring – another meal.
When we got back to La Soffita, Carlo told me he and Marielena have never eaten there. We decided they might not eat out very much, or maybe they ate at nicer restaurants, although I don’t know how it could get much better than Al Paiolo.
After sharing an after dinner drink of Grappa with Carlo and his wife, we realized we had many things in common. We got to know them well on that first night.
Pinky had remarked that their daughter, Emma, was a cutie.
“Yes, she’s absolutely the most beautiful Chemistry major I’ve ever seen.” Emma was the one who actually met us and signed us in, passport numbers…so on, and then giving us directions to the pizza place, ‘firs-ta you go on this-a streeta to the T, turn left-a, then next a right-a, there will be a bridge-a.’, perfect English but with some ending vowels to give it a comfortable rhythm.”
“I love the accenta” Pinky experimented with her own vowel additions. We were becoming more Italian every day.
“I love it, too. Well, we have some new friends, Italian friends. And I’m going downstairs with the memory chip” I said.
“So, go,” she shooed me out of the room. Probably so she could rinse her shorts in peace.
Downstairs, Carlo told me that he spent a lot of time in front of a computer at work, and when he saw my face light up, he said he was a user, not a computer person. He said he works with recycling; explaining that he was involved in manufacturing paper from recycled paper products. He has been staying close to home for the last several years because his mother is pushing ninety, and his dad is 93. They live in the apartment, the several rooms just beyond the kitchen, totally self contained and separate but tangent, as are their lives. What a good son, I thought. It was good planning, and good luck to be able to carry it out.
We shared some of our experiences. Pinky told them about moving her parents to the nursing home in Mount Vernon, the vagaries of caring for dementia, and I told them my recent bout as executor for my mother’s estate. We talked about my latest website projects. Federico is 24 and did La Soffita’s website, but does much more sophisticated things. He is flying to Los Angeles in a couple of weeks on Microsoft’s dime and is anticipating a related employment opportunity. That is globalization of the tech industry up close and personal, our son being concerned that Sun Microsystems will have a third round of layoffs.
Marielena rolled her eyes back and moaned, “Physick. Oh no.”, as her Carlo and I launched into a discussion of the book Chaos by Gleik. She and Pinky found their own things to talk about. Pinky learned that Carlo and Marielena built the house and have been there about 15 years. Marielena works two days a week, but is off this week. Emma is 19, in her first year of university in Padova and goes on the train. Marielena is from Thiene a few miles east, and Carlo is from the tiny nearby town of Zane. They are about 10 years behind us and married for 27 years. Emma would like to do an student exchange program to the U.S., maybe for 6 months or a year, and we told them about Lewis and Clark and PLU.
Emma sat on the arm of the couch leaning on her mom while we drank grappa. Carlo was a little worried about Emma. He thought she was a little intimidated, a little uncertain after her first day at the university. But he recalled that Federico was very uncomfortable until his first college midterm exams, then told Carlo he’d figured it out just like high school, went to the top of the class where he stayed. Neither of the kids is married, and Emma was without a regular boyfriend. We told Carlo it couldn’t be long. “Hopefully without blue hair, and multiple piercings,” he begged. Blue hair and piercing…the whole world has them. When we went upstairs to bed that first night, I told Carlo that my short stories were on my website.
On our third night, Carlo had found a story which he had downloaded and read. He wanted to know how much was true.
“Cut it all in half,” Pinky told him.
He had asked me how far we usually rode in a day. He took the 50 mile number I gave him and he had several suggestions for bike rides. We went for his first offering: Marostica – Bassano – Schio loop. Marostica has a town square is laid out as a chess board and their festa every other year is a pageant with a chess game having live participants as the pieces: knights, kings, queens, bishops, etc. We used maps Carlo had printed to navigate through intervening towns to Bassano where there was the famous covered wooden beam bridge and the well regarded grappa distillery with its local outlet. We then made a detour up into the hills above near Conco and back to Schio. When we got back after dark, he was waiting. He claimed he was getting ready to call 911.
They sent us off to the Pizza place where Emma had been an employee. When we got back we had the espresso and grappa ritual, and we summarized our trip. We described our adventure getting Italian instructions at the alimentary (small grocery store) in the tiny town of Zane. The little store’s proprietress, a lady dressed to the nines, gave us each a chocolate after directing us to Schio. She would not have us go out in the dark empty handed.
“I have checked the weather,” Carlo said, “and it is supposed to be good. I think that tomorrow you should do the other trip that I told you about.”
“The bus to Lavarone and the ride back down through Asiago?” asked Pinky.
“Yes,”
“Carlo, you have a friend for life,” Pinky gushed. She loved that word “down” as it would have been a challenging climb the other direction. Our cycling buddies at home would roast us for riding the bus up and coasting down, but Pinky was not about to care.
“You can put the bikes on the bus. Folding is not needed,” he said. “And I have another map here to show you how to get to the bus station in Schio. There also is an opportunity for a bicycle trail into Schio that begins right behind the building where you had pizza tonight,” said Carlo spreading out the map.
I was able to get Carlo talking about paper manufacturing. I learned that the non-drying ink on newsprint is removed with bubbles that are stabilized by chemicals that are also solvents for the ink, and that environmental disposal of that is not too difficult. I was pretty excited to tell him that he could put a portable computer and a wireless network with a web camera in a factory with internet availability and save some traveling to make adjustments to their equipment in South America and China. Taking it a step further: that with some programming he could possibly get data from transducers inside the machinery to the wireless network. It would be more difficult because of the requirement for custom programming. He said, “Programming is not a problem. We have a many programmers.” Getting custom programming sounded like calling the janitorial staff for a spill in the cafeteria.
“Where do you work?”
“It is very close. I am able to show you in the morning,” he said. He revealed only little clues about exactly what he did, a trail of bread crumbs. Conversation shifted to hobbies and vacations. They had a Euro-wide motor home in the driveway covered with a tarp. He said that it was unused over the last several years but they used it a lot when the kids were younger. He had bought it used at a good price and fixed it up. I couldn’t tell if he was holding the wrench or had it done. He and Marielena also had a hobby of collecting videos of old American movies. Their favorite was Lucille Ball in the Long Trailer. What nostalgia! They remembered many of the details from these movies that we had seen as kids, and we laughed hard.
They were anxious for comments on their B&B service. “They say, ‘If there is something you like, tell somebody else. If there is something you don’t like, tell us,’” Carlo said smiling. “Was the breakfast is good? Is there something you would like?”
I told him it was good, and we got what we needed.
“Well, maybe a second cup of coffee. But it’s great, no other requests,” Pinky told him. And we were suddenly nodding off so we went upstairs.
As we were getting into bed, I said, “He talks and behaves like a manager, an important one. He thinks like one. If he isn’t pretty important he is going to be. But they drive one, small car.that I’dd guess is four years old. He’s just as close to a nickel as I am. I can’t tell whether he owns the place or he works in the mail room.”
“Ask,” she said. It was not an interesting problem to her.
“I’ve been trying. It’s more fun to try to figure it out, without being blunt as a pig’s nose. Ouch!” I had turned over, landing on a sore spot.
“Please,” She said rolling over, “Try it once. Don’t be so narrow-minded.”
“I’m not getting in that thing.”
As predicted, it was a bright blue sky morning –fantastic for a ride in the mountains. I got tickets to Lavarone as the bus pulled up. The driver opened the door to the bus, and I forgot every Italian word I had learned. I finally broke through and blurted out “Ho due bigletti per Lavarone arriva a undici mezza.” He looked down at us. He eyed my bike. He didn’t relish handling the bike. He gave me rapid fire Italian, listing his stops, and I recognized none of them.
“Cambiamo?” I was guessing we had to transfer.
I couldn’t understand his reply, “Asiago,” I guessed.
He shook his head. “Prossimo.” He told us it was next bus.
We missed this 11:30 bus, and left at the crack of noon by another bus to Asiago where we had a four star Italian lunch. Then we did a modest climb from Asiago to Lavarone, where we turned for home just before dark. Above Lavarone we crested the pass and marveled at the sight of the snow covered Alps, laid out before us as if planted in a cloudless sky. In the mountain towns the architecture changed, and it felt like Switzerland. The long downhill ride for home through a canyon of a river (T. Astico on the map), was spectacular. What a beautiful ride. We arrived Schio about 8, and were busted again by Carlo for late riding. Due to darkness he was about to call 118 (the Italian 911). So instead of explaining to the cops, we ate left over pizza from the night before and went straight to the espresso and Grappa with Carlo and Marielena.
We reported on our day again. Carlo began asking me about what I had done before retirement. I told him radiology and we covered the usual FAQ’s. I told him about interpreting diagnostic x-rays, ultrasounds, CT, MR, and Nuclear Medicine. I explained how I injected the patient with radioactive material and made images. I described arteriograms and interventional prodecdures. We spent quite a bit of time on MR – lots of Physick involved, so he loved it.
Meanwhile, I heard Marielena and Pinky talking about Palladio, the architect; and all the buildings he did in his native Vicenza, an hour’s train ride away.
Carlo and I began comparing our medical care delivery systems. He has been satisfied with their care, but says in some of the more populated areas it can be very difficult to get an appointment, and there are long waiting lists. Pharmacy cost and physician availability is not a problem in Schio. He didn’t know much about statistics for things like coronary surgery, transplants, marrow transplants and other high end procedures.
“Tonight is a full moon,” Carlo said, “When that occurs we often go into the mountains, and it is quite beautiful in the night. We have some things to eat and then we come home. Please, can you go also?”
“That would be wonderful,” Pinky and I said, almost in unison.
“We have to leave by about 5:30, so we must talk about your plans tomorrow.”
“I can’t believe you’re worried that we’d be late.”
He gave me a look. “I recommend to look at the map for a shorter ride. Or if you want to rest a day, Vicenza is very nice.”
“We could see all the houses Palladio did,” Pinky said. Marielena had my architect’s daughter hooked and reeled in, an hour earlier. “And there is this really cool theatre, the Olympic Theatre.”
“Sign me up” I said. We drained the Grappa and headed upstairs.
“First shower,” she said at the top of the stairs. “You could try…”
“Don’t start.” I was laughing, and the last drop of Grappa went up my nose.
I flatted on the bike path, and we were late to the station. We missed the train, but the taxi driver was standing right there and told Pinky that he could take us for 25 euro, or we could wait two hours for the next train. After some difficult negotiation…with Pinky, I handed him a 20, and showed him my open palms. He shrugged his shoulders, picked up Pinky’s backpack and we walked to the car. Vicenza was as advertised, worthwhile. The Olympic Theatre with its famous set having 5 Venice sized streets converging on center stage (so acclaimed on the opening performance in the theatre centuries ago, that it has never been taken down). It had the stone semicircular seating and the life-sized statues along its walls depicting each of the many donors who paid the bill for the original construction. On out tour of the town, the Palladio buildings were many and in his characteristic style. They look like Monticello (Tom Jefferson was a copycat).
As we waited to cross the street to the train station going home, we were recalling Carlos’ comments about cross walks, “If you stand at a cross walk in England, cars stop as soon as you appear and the cars wait. If you do that in Italy, you will be there all day.” There was an Italian lady next to us. As soon as she advanced her foot, we did too. A woman in the first arriving car stopped abruptly, and was hit from behind by a larger car. There was modest damage, and a huge and very exciting argument between the drivers. Strangely, they were not angry with us. There is nothing like a good Italian argument. The split decision went, on points, to the more verbally agile woman (Pinky voted twice as is the custom). We felt bad and causative, but we made the train.
Back in Schio, the weather gave us another great day for our hike in the mountains with Carlo and Marielena. The trail was a road which had been blocked off. In the mountains above us we could see other similar roads which had been used by both sides in World War I to defend the Italian-Austrian border. The lights were beginning to sparkle in the towns below, whose names Carlo and Marielena gave us. About half way up, we met three couples who were Marielena’s buddies coming down. They had planned to go with us, but had to return early and had to leave well before we did. They were so happy to see Marielena, and we got to meet some of her friends — very chatty and fun. The end point was a refugio. It was a nice warm building with a bar and restaurant located on a mountain trail. The moonlight dinner at ten in a remote mountain restaurant, was an adventure. We started back at 10:30. All the vegetation appeared black, and the sheer walls of the mountain were glowing white and spectacular. Everything seemed right with the world. We could see why Marielena liked it so much.
On our return, as we climbed the stairs, I said, “Another day better than the last.”
Pinky nodded her head at the top of the stairs as she stepped through the door, looked wistfully into the bathroom. “You know what would make it perfect? Let’s take a little dip, what do ya say?” I put toothpaste on my brush and declined.
I woke up early and went down stairs. Carlo had the newspaper in front of him. The headline said, “New Evidence Shows Universe is Finite Size, Comprised of 13 Galaxies”.
“It never stops,” he said.
“I’m embarrassed. All the talk about setting up wireless networks. I forgot about cell phones. For 160 dollars in the US, we could buy a cell phone that has a camera and a screen. You can talk on the phone and take a live video.”
“They will be in Italy soon.”
“We want you to come visit us in Mount Vernon.”
“I used to go to the U.S.” he said. “I haven’t been in 5 years”. He is feeling the paper between his index finger and thumb, assessing the quality of the news print.
“In my business, the U.S. is no longer competitive. They make paper. But they have lost control of the manufacturing technology.”
“There is no recovery?” I asked.
He shrugged. “The last manufacturer of the type equipment that we make was Beloit, and it went Chapter 11 last year.” He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. I had some dreams, but…” and he stopped. “You can put a man on the moon, but…it’s sad.” He was sincerely sad.
“Who is the competition?”
“Germany and the Nordic countries.”
Pinky came down the stairs and it was time to go. “Well, come visit us
if you can. Thanks for the wonderful hike last night and all of your kindness.”
“We will keep in contact by email.” We shook hands.
After breakfast, I put the bikes back in their suitcases while the neighbors watched. We each got our picture with Marielena. We watched the shepherd and his sheep crossing the field.
“Pecore,” Marielena gave us their Italian name.
“Did Carlo ride his bike today?”Pinky asked.
“Yes”
“He must have been late.”
“No, it’s close, right there,” and she pointed. It was about ¾ mile. A white building said “Comer” in blue script on the side.
“It is really nice that you could build your house so close to his work,” Pinky said.
“Oh, no,” said Marielena. “The house was first. The office moved here later,”
“Pretty nice,” Pinky smiled as the taxi pulled up.
We were in and on the way to the train station and I asked, “So the corporation just happened to move that office building to Schio next to his house?”
“I guess so.”
Our trip went on. We went by train to Florence , then by bicycle to San Siena, Assisi, and Vitiano near Arezzo. The Cathedrals and Palazzi of Venice, Florence, and Siena ran together in my mind. Art museums were many, fast, and fabulous
In Assisi waiting for the bus to Spello, we met Elena, the beautiful hard working single mom, a Ukranian artist from Kiev. She creates one or two intricate paintings per year (her total output), brings them from the Ukraine to Switzerland, banks some money, and returns to the Ukraine to do it again. We spent an afternoon and evening with her.
In Vitiano, our friends in the neighboring apartment spoke Italian and had learned that there was an olive oil bottler working on the hill up our road. I found it and enquired. They let me watch for a day and two afternoons. They told me how they did everything, how each machine worked – in Italian. In addition, Giancarlo Gianinni, the owner and il capo, gave me an Italian-sign language tour centering on the history of the plant and on his family history. The plant looked like an abandoned warehouse from the outside, with no sign, no logo. The machinery inside was breathtaking, highly automated and computerized with high speed slotted counter-rotating plates crushing the olives and seeds, huge mixing bins stir it to a homogenous, runny paste; then the goo is pumped through a 3660 rpm centrifuge extracting nuts and water, and a second set of centrifuges for final water extraction. It was bottled and labeled in the building next door. The olive oil was all exported, sold mainly in Germany and England. It was fabulous. I wished I had worked harder on my Italian.
We met a few people that made our trip, largely because we were traveling at bike-speed, poking into things looking for opportunities to get into lives of people where we stayed.
“You really liked the olive oil,” Pinky said. “but, Carlo in Schio is your main man in Italy.”
We got home, and a couple of days later I entered “Comer” in Google. Comer Industries has a website in English and Italian. They are an engineering operation. They make many things, including a division making planetary gear dirves for the Stationary industry. They have a Mechatronics Research Center and operating headquarters in Riggiolo, Italy. They reported 170 million in revenues and 5 million net profit with 924 employees with offices in Charlotte, NC; Desford, Uk; Thibaultd des Vignes, Fr; Zug, Switz; and Shanghai, China. Is my man Carlo in that 924?
“That’s it,” I said to Pinky
“That’s what?”
“The mission for my trip to Italy.”
“So…?”
“My mission is to figure out ‘Quien e Giancarlo dal Maso?”
“What?”
“Who is my friend, Carlo?”
Epilogue—
Subsequent email Carlo tells me that I had the wrong Comer website, and the correct name of his company is Comer S.p.A. (comertech.com), and that he is one of 100 employees. So he kept me from straying far from the truth, but didn’t really solve the mystery. In the subsequent year I know from his emails that 2004 was a good in that he filed for several patents, that he and Marielena have put in a garden, and that he will be “independent for vegetables by next year”. What do you think? Why is the company a stone’s throw from his house? Does he have a corner office with a window or an office in the basement? He has read the story, and he won’t tell me.
Vapor Barrier Attire
Vapor Barrier Attire
We were two thirds through the ride. “Walker, it’s really raining now,” he said. Halsey is my friend, my only friend willing to begin a bike ride in the rain with me—on purpose.
“It’s getting dark and cold too. Let’s pull into this Haggen’s and get a coffee maybe a bite to eat,” I suggested. We had about ten miles to go back to the car.
Like a shot he swerved into the parking lot. We entered urgently, taking off dripping raingear, helmets, gloves, glasses, and the outer layer, a fleece in my case. Haagen’s was the first upscale grocery store in Bellingham. It had a nice eating area, a dining room really, with an associated deli, hot sandwiches, soup bar, hot pizza counter, salad bar, and Chinese hot table.
We chose a table for four and were setting up our laundry line on the two extra chairs. “We’re dripping wet,” I said.
“Yeah. It’s the rain gear paradox. Wear it and you’ll be wet. Its true function is to keep you warm while your wet. So I don’t put it on unless I anticipate getting cold…like when I stop.
“Agreed,” I say putting on my raincoat.
“Thanks for stopping. My body heat is good, no complaint on the rain gear and tights,” he said. “but my feet are really cold.”
“My feet are still pretty good. I’m using that vapor barrier system you told me about,” I said.
“I told you? When?”
“You were telling me about climbing boots with gortex vapor barrier between the foot and an insulated soc,”. I recalled.
“Right. It’s pricey though, twenty five bucks for the socks and thirty five for the liners,” he recalled.
“It is supposed to keep perspiration from wetting the top insulating liner, right?”
“Yep. But I’ve never seen them for bike shoes. So, where did you get them?”
“Right here, at Haggens…actually the Mount Vernon Haggens, at the check stand,” I said.
He looked at me quizzically. Then he grinned. “Plastic bags,” he said. “So that’s the crunchy sound you’re making…and the fat ankles.” He was looking at a little white plastic sticking barely visible above my left sock.
“Right,” I said. We sat down and started on our soup.
“The price is right,” he said and paused pensively. “So you put the bag right next to your skin and a thick sock on top?”
“I don’t like the plastic next no my skin, and I think a toenail would likely puncture the bag. So I put the bags over socks.”
“Then you put a thicker sock,” he said almost to himself. “But that can’t work today. We’re riding in the rain, so that outer sock gets wet every time you ride through a puddle.”
“I add a second bag…on the outside of the insulation layer to ward off the street water.”
He got up. “Do you want coffee?” he asked.
“Sure. I’ll come with you. I don’t speak Starbuck. You can interpret for me,” I said. He ordered a grande latte with an extra shot, hazelnut , added the nutmeg and cinnamon himself and an Americano for me.
“Those look like your same old bike shoes to me.” He said walking from the coffee stand to the check stand he got four plastic sacks from the grocery bagger.
“They are,” I said.
“Well, time out a second. Your outer layer is a sock. I can see it.”
I nod yes.
“That means you have three socks and two plastic bags. How can you get all that in a shoe?
“I use magic black socks – thin dress socks for both layers. One hundred percent nylon, or any kind of ‘—lon’. They thin. They wear like iron.”
“For the insulation layer too?”
“My theory is that if the insulation layer is dry a micro layer of air in a thin sock is enough.”
“We’re not mountain climbing, and it’s not even freezing outside,” he said. “I’ll try anything at this point.” He had taken off his shoes and socks and was wringing out the socks.
“Let’s put them on the hand dryer in the bathroom,” I said and he was off, barefooted.
When he returned with nearly dry socks, I said, “I have a sock that I use as a stuff sack for a raingear stuff sack. You can use it if you want.”
“Perfect. I can do the experiment. I’ll put just a dry sock on the right foot. On the left, I’ll put a bag next to skin, a dry sock, another bag, and your extra black sock.”
“Science in action,” I said as he got his shoes back on.
“You are out here with seven black dress socks. Tomorrow will you show up for work wearing your white sweat socks?”
“No, I’ve got a big stash of black dress socks,” I said as we left the store. I use the same system for skiing and hiking. Easy removal of neoprene is an added benefit for scuba and kayaking
Outside it was still raining and dusk. We were sharing the streets with a moderate amount of traffic going through the city of Bellingham, so we had to ride single file and it was too noisy to talk. About half way back to the car, Halsey pulled into a parking lot at Thrifty Foods.
“Just wait here a second. I’ll be right back,” he said.
In a couple of minutes he returned, “You guys with hair don’t understand. You lose 20% of your body heat from an uncovered head.” He had rolled down the edges of a plastic grocery sack and had put it on his head followed the thin nylon skull cap he wore under his helmet.
“I guess your right foot got cold.”
“Yep. There is no doubt. The “bagging” works.
“So your head is next,” I replied.
“Yep, I’m a head bagger now,” he said.
“I think you are on to something here. Stick a little gortex in it. It’ll sell.”
We just got in the car and drove, having removed only raingear and helmets. When we pulled up at my house, I said, “Come on in, I have to give you those photos that Jane needs.”
Pinky opened the door as we came up the steps. Halsey took of his cap. He had forgotten about the plastic sack, which had tilted slightly.
Pinky laughed. “I love what you’ve done with your hair.” She paused. “Oh, no. He’s got you wearing grocery bags – everywhere.” she continued. “You’re both walking around in grocery bags, ‘snap, crackle and pop’ ” She handed him a folder of photographs. “This is for Jane. She just called.”
“Am I in trouble yet?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so. When she asks if you had fun, tell her you just got wet and cold. Everything will be fine.”
“With those black socks and plastic bags, we saved a hundred and twenty bucks today,” Halsey said.
“Right,” Pinky replied. “Everywhere we go he buys black socks. He keeps half the stuff he owns in a black sock. She turned and trotted back to the bedroom and came back with a black sock in each hand.
“This one has batteries, and this one has film and camera accessories. He has a sock for everything that goes in his fanny pack when we tour. He has a sock to keep his rain coat in the water bottle cage of his bike.”
“I tried it for my head at sundown,” said Halsey.
“Well I guess you two make a pair. Except that he is too lazy to select socks. He wants every sock in the drawer to match, ready to wear for: work, dress up, storage container, or play.”
“Lose a sock in the wash. No problem,” said Halsey.
“You’re as bad as he is,” she replied.
“Now he thinks it is some kind of contrarian’s fashion statement. It’s cool to look like you live under a bridge, I guess.”
“Well fashion is important.”
“And your theory breaks down. It turns out that black socks come in endless shades and patterns. Half of the time his socks don’t match, and it drives me nuts.”
“I see him almost every day at work, and I’ve never noticed.”
“I changed my mind. You’re going to be in trouble with Jane if you don’t get home right away,” she said.
“The World Famous Vapor Barrier Sports Cap was born today. You can say you were there,” he said starting his car.
We were two thirds through the ride. “Walker, it’s really raining now,” he said. Halsey is my friend, my only friend willing to begin a bike ride in the rain with me—on purpose.
“It’s getting dark and cold too. Let’s pull into this Haggen’s and get a coffee maybe a bite to eat,” I suggested. We had about ten miles to go back to the car.
Like a shot he swerved into the parking lot. We entered urgently, taking off dripping raingear, helmets, gloves, glasses, and the outer layer, a fleece in my case. Haagen’s was the first upscale grocery store in Bellingham. It had a nice eating area, a dining room really, with an associated deli, hot sandwiches, soup bar, hot pizza counter, salad bar, and Chinese hot table.
We chose a table for four and were setting up our laundry line on the two extra chairs. “We’re dripping wet,” I said.
“Yeah. It’s the rain gear paradox. Wear it and you’ll be wet. Its true function is to keep you warm while your wet. So I don’t put it on unless I anticipate getting cold…like when I stop.
“Agreed,” I say putting on my raincoat.
“Thanks for stopping. My body heat is good, no complaint on the rain gear and tights,” he said. “but my feet are really cold.”
“My feet are still pretty good. I’m using that vapor barrier system you told me about,” I said.
“I told you? When?”
“You were telling me about climbing boots with gortex vapor barrier between the foot and an insulated soc,”. I recalled.
“Right. It’s pricey though, twenty five bucks for the socks and thirty five for the liners,” he recalled.
“It is supposed to keep perspiration from wetting the top insulating liner, right?”
“Yep. But I’ve never seen them for bike shoes. So, where did you get them?”
“Right here, at Haggens…actually the Mount Vernon Haggens, at the check stand,” I said.
He looked at me quizzically. Then he grinned. “Plastic bags,” he said. “So that’s the crunchy sound you’re making…and the fat ankles.” He was looking at a little white plastic sticking barely visible above my left sock.
“Right,” I said. We sat down and started on our soup.
“The price is right,” he said and paused pensively. “So you put the bag right next to your skin and a thick sock on top?”
“I don’t like the plastic next no my skin, and I think a toenail would likely puncture the bag. So I put the bags over socks.”
“Then you put a thicker sock,” he said almost to himself. “But that can’t work today. We’re riding in the rain, so that outer sock gets wet every time you ride through a puddle.”
“I add a second bag…on the outside of the insulation layer to ward off the street water.”
He got up. “Do you want coffee?” he asked.
“Sure. I’ll come with you. I don’t speak Starbuck. You can interpret for me,” I said. He ordered a grande latte with an extra shot, hazelnut , added the nutmeg and cinnamon himself and an Americano for me.
“Those look like your same old bike shoes to me.” He said walking from the coffee stand to the check stand he got four plastic sacks from the grocery bagger.
“They are,” I said.
“Well, time out a second. Your outer layer is a sock. I can see it.”
I nod yes.
“That means you have three socks and two plastic bags. How can you get all that in a shoe?
“I use magic black socks – thin dress socks for both layers. One hundred percent nylon, or any kind of ‘—lon’. They thin. They wear like iron.”
“For the insulation layer too?”
“My theory is that if the insulation layer is dry a micro layer of air in a thin sock is enough.”
“We’re not mountain climbing, and it’s not even freezing outside,” he said. “I’ll try anything at this point.” He had taken off his shoes and socks and was wringing out the socks.
“Let’s put them on the hand dryer in the bathroom,” I said and he was off, barefooted.
When he returned with nearly dry socks, I said, “I have a sock that I use as a stuff sack for a raingear stuff sack. You can use it if you want.”
“Perfect. I can do the experiment. I’ll put just a dry sock on the right foot. On the left, I’ll put a bag next to skin, a dry sock, another bag, and your extra black sock.”
“Science in action,” I said as he got his shoes back on.
“You are out here with seven black dress socks. Tomorrow will you show up for work wearing your white sweat socks?”
“No, I’ve got a big stash of black dress socks,” I said as we left the store. I use the same system for skiing and hiking. Easy removal of neoprene is an added benefit for scuba and kayaking
Outside it was still raining and dusk. We were sharing the streets with a moderate amount of traffic going through the city of Bellingham, so we had to ride single file and it was too noisy to talk. About half way back to the car, Halsey pulled into a parking lot at Thrifty Foods.
“Just wait here a second. I’ll be right back,” he said.
In a couple of minutes he returned, “You guys with hair don’t understand. You lose 20% of your body heat from an uncovered head.” He had rolled down the edges of a plastic grocery sack and had put it on his head followed the thin nylon skull cap he wore under his helmet.
“I guess your right foot got cold.”
“Yep. There is no doubt. The “bagging” works.
“So your head is next,” I replied.
“Yep, I’m a head bagger now,” he said.
“I think you are on to something here. Stick a little gortex in it. It’ll sell.”
We just got in the car and drove, having removed only raingear and helmets. When we pulled up at my house, I said, “Come on in, I have to give you those photos that Jane needs.”
Pinky opened the door as we came up the steps. Halsey took of his cap. He had forgotten about the plastic sack, which had tilted slightly.
Pinky laughed. “I love what you’ve done with your hair.” She paused. “Oh, no. He’s got you wearing grocery bags – everywhere.” she continued. “You’re both walking around in grocery bags, ‘snap, crackle and pop’ ” She handed him a folder of photographs. “This is for Jane. She just called.”
“Am I in trouble yet?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so. When she asks if you had fun, tell her you just got wet and cold. Everything will be fine.”
“With those black socks and plastic bags, we saved a hundred and twenty bucks today,” Halsey said.
“Right,” Pinky replied. “Everywhere we go he buys black socks. He keeps half the stuff he owns in a black sock. She turned and trotted back to the bedroom and came back with a black sock in each hand.
“This one has batteries, and this one has film and camera accessories. He has a sock for everything that goes in his fanny pack when we tour. He has a sock to keep his rain coat in the water bottle cage of his bike.”
“I tried it for my head at sundown,” said Halsey.
“Well I guess you two make a pair. Except that he is too lazy to select socks. He wants every sock in the drawer to match, ready to wear for: work, dress up, storage container, or play.”
“Lose a sock in the wash. No problem,” said Halsey.
“You’re as bad as he is,” she replied.
“Now he thinks it is some kind of contrarian’s fashion statement. It’s cool to look like you live under a bridge, I guess.”
“Well fashion is important.”
“And your theory breaks down. It turns out that black socks come in endless shades and patterns. Half of the time his socks don’t match, and it drives me nuts.”
“I see him almost every day at work, and I’ve never noticed.”
“I changed my mind. You’re going to be in trouble with Jane if you don’t get home right away,” she said.
“The World Famous Vapor Barrier Sports Cap was born today. You can say you were there,” he said starting his car.
Trains, Bread, Wine, Toilets, and Dogs
Trains, Bread, Wine, Toilets, and Dogs,
A Travelogue
We arrived at Charles De Gaule, and proceeded to the Gare Mont Parnasse, where we boarded the "bullet" for Bordeaux.
The TGV is magical--110 mph (record speeds up to 288 km/h), with banked turns, two cars rolling on each set of wheels with no sound and no expansion gaps on the tracks. Streamlined and lightweight, they are, above all, on time. Schedule is king. Trains are comfortable. They are French.
We traveled in style Paris to Bordeaux in about 4 hours on our Eurail pass. You handle all your own baggage, and it works well with the limited stopping times to keep passengers traveling light. We had more than most -- right hand to a suitcase on wheels filled with the fold up bike, a duffel bag on the back, containing camping gear and clothes, and a carry-on in the left hand. For boarding we learned to find the labels on the cars: 2nd Class, the car number, and the seat number. We could move to other seats or cars if there was room, but near big cities the train gets crowded and you must claim on your seat. Get situated, buy a sandwich in the dining car, look out the picture windows at the passing countryside, crops, buildings, and towns, the miles of mostly flat bicycle country that make up southern France. Zip zap you're there. Next day we caught the slower electric from Bordeaux to Bergerac ostensible home of Cyrano and the center of French tobacco farming. We needed to cut a day off of the trip. In the bike guidebook, Pinky noticed "a killer hill" described between Bordeaux and Bergerac, and opted for the train ride. It was Sunday and, on our arrival, we had the train station in Bergerac to ourselves. So we put the bikes together in the waiting room.
We had a cheese sandwich on the train, with fancy soft caloric French cheese. The cheese was fabulous but the fresh baguette and that wonderful crust. There are bakeries everywhere, every few blocks, in the smallest village or the biggest city. Fresh French bread, baguettes by the basket full are available every morning throughout the country. They eat only fresh bread, every single day…hence croutons and French toast to use yesterday’s unconsumed bread. The bread makes even street food gourmet. A foot long hot dog begins as a fresh baguette impaled on a red hot poker. The dog is deposited in the center hole with a squirt of Dijon mustard. They are spectacular. We met a French couple returning from a visit to their son to Germany. They were ecstatic to be returning home…the bread was terrible. They need daily fresh baguettes, they are French.
A civilized lunch hour is a birth right—and two hours in length. There is a national strike from noon to two. Everything stops. The French choose a meal with the care that Americans reserve for choosing a new car or even a house. What a boon to the touring cyclist, are the spectacular meals acceptably are priced in the smallest towns throughout the country. We ate at a truck stop near Carcasonne. I was expecting that truck driving culture would be similar to our own. Twenty eighteen wheelers in the parking lot, a rough looking crowd of rowdy men, condom dispensers in the bathrooms, and the dirty magazines were all there, but the meal was serious business. It was a two hour meal, table cloths, flowers, and ornate chargers that served as platforms for the standard plates for each of the five courses (appetizer, soup, one of the five entrees, cheese, and dessert) plus Vin du Pays (the local house wine of the region). I had the Lapin Moutarde, and the rabbit was pretty nicely attired in a fancy Poupon mustard sauce. We had white cloth napkins. It's no wonder that their medical community is at the forefront in cardiac medicine.
We had an afternoon and night between train trips to explore Bordeaux, the heart of the famous wine country. Our wine discovery was Vin du Pays (van do payee - wine of the region) which was amazingly good. bottled in plastic 5 litre screw cap jugs. It is the daily fare in the countryside. Show up with your four liter plastic jug, and they fill it from large two chambered stainless steel tank, the red hose(red wine) or the green hose(white wine). The price and quality met the same high standard as fresh baguettes. What a startling discovery. Vin du pays is made by every community cooperative; growing succulent grapes on acres of small yellow stones hardly believable as soil were it not for the plants visible in the rocky till. Vin du Pays is sold in the smallest grocery store in the smallest village from a vat larger than a family car. "Garden hose" wine may have been our greatest discovery. Suck eggs, Robert Parker. These wines—they are French.
In this country fixated on food and drink, logic dictates the next concern: toilets. French toiletry is as impressive.. First is the astounding variety. The French never destroy a toilet, and they always adopt new technology. . An early development was two-foot plates straddling a hole, all crafted from porcelain; a strange sight to us sitting ducks. At one of the campgrounds our first pass through the bathhouse produced an argument.
"Is that a shower. Where is the shower head?"
"Don't let anyone see you standing in that with a bar of soap."
I pointed to the foot spaces on each side.
Pinky, realized what it was, and said, "Not for me."
The water closet came across the channel, and moved the action indoors because it had the U shaped pipe in the sewer connection so that water remaining in the U prevented sewer gas from coming into the house. Some of the first water closets constructed remain in use, often for the usual two franc charge.
More recently it seems popular to conceal the flush handle. A chain out of sight overhead, a button on the wall sometimes remote from the bowl, one or the tiles above the bowl may be a button, a small rod sticking up through the top of the tank is a pull handle. They must chuckle at anxious American tourists searching desperately for the flusher. Their penchant to hide this key part, has been further extended and there has been modern fascination with high tech toilets--they now hide the entire toilet. The standard public toilet is a two franc kiosk cylinder with an electronic door that has a star wars sound. Security electric doors that suggest secret service clearance might be required…look at the lens to present your retinal pattern for entrance. Once inside the sink and toilet look freshly sterilized. My first use was with some urgency. Relief was immense. Standing there, a three coil steamer in the stainless steel bowl, I began a search for the flusher. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but even with prior experience, I was unable to find it. I pushed everything in that small building that had any distinguishing feature regardless of its location. No flusher. Clock is ticking; things are desperate now; I can't let anyone else come in here. I need language assistance to solve this problem; I have to open the door and get Pinky to come help. I am able to open the electronic door, but it doesn't like being held open, and a loud buzzer sounds. Pinky sees my desperate face and begins laughing. She is purposely slow to help. There are faces in the now impressively long line that are as desperate as mine. The first man in line understands immediately. He is waving his hand like a windshield wiper and he is urgently telling me: "Automatique, automatique." Relieved to hear that, I step out. The electronic door closes behind me and the whole inside of the building was washed, sterilized, and dried in about 15 seconds. It was ready for the long line.
Our evening meal at a restaurant had another twist on toilet technology. Pinky came back to the table, " Your turn," she said. Then as I got up "Bonne Chance." (good luck). In the restroom, again there were all kinds of electronic noises with mechanical events. I found the flush button, inconspicuously placed as a little plaque on the wall above the toilet. I pushed and instead of a flush, there was another electronic whine as the entire toilet disappeared into the wall. Gone, gone, gone. Thirty seconds later it returned; flushed, cleaned, and under bright blue ultraviolet light. I stood waiting and watching. When the ultraviolet light went off, I softly applauded. When I returned to the table, Pinky was smirking.
I have been trained at home by a beagle, and was well prepared for France where le chien is pretty much in the cat bird seat. The dogs are their constant companions. Dogs are riding around in cars, grocery carts, and purses. They are under tables, at the feet of about a fifth of the patrons in restaurants. They are carried in little wicker baskets; with, maybe even a second head protruding from the basket carrier's purse. They are fed and groomed in every imaginable way. Dog extravagance is closely associated with a French stubbornness. They insist on canine company everywhere. It's the land of the portable pooch. For the places that do not cater to the dogs, it is a most unpleasant job to tell a patron "no dogs allowed", and I never saw it on a sign. There will be "no smoking" in France before there is "no dogs". Dogs go every where. Walking the dog is a major social activity, better than having a baby, if you want to chat. I didn't need much French to make a friend talking about my Beagle (baygla). And if you want help or directions, make friends with the dog, and the master draw you a map. The big problem is the fecal debris especially in Paris. They have dog poop patrols, utilizing various levels of scooper and blower technology, bags and shovels to miniature street sweepers; and somehow the job gets done.
On our Bike Friday fold up bikes we look like performing circus bikes. So, we keep an eye out for other cyclists and what they are riding. There is a particularly large array of bikes in France, in large part because they are maintained and used over long periods, and because everyone wants something different from a bike. Some need a truck, some a racing machine, a show machine, a mountain climber, trick bike for jumping and gymnastic tricks by the rider, a bike especially for bicycle broom ball, a stable three wheeler, a unicycle juggling and showmanship, a bike with motor assist, a bike to pull a trailer, a velocipede as a historical artifact, or a bike that folds for travel. There is a panoply of bikes in France. Old men on old bikes are the most fun. The most memorable was a wizened old fellow in a beret who gave us directions, then followed us at a one block distance to correct our incompetent attempts to follow those instructions. Using facial expressions of painful tolerance and hand signals, he came into view pointing to correct each error he knew that we would make, all the while mounted on his sixty-year old bike, motor assisted. It was tricked out with leather saddle bags and a putt putt motor hinged on the front handlebar so its small drive wheel rested on the front tire to turn it at bike speed of 12 miles per hour. The cars give us wide birth and impeccable courtesy compared to the USA. In a bicycle-car accident, the driver of the car is presumed to be at fault. Now there is a novel attitude. It is French.
A Travelogue
We arrived at Charles De Gaule, and proceeded to the Gare Mont Parnasse, where we boarded the "bullet" for Bordeaux.
The TGV is magical--110 mph (record speeds up to 288 km/h), with banked turns, two cars rolling on each set of wheels with no sound and no expansion gaps on the tracks. Streamlined and lightweight, they are, above all, on time. Schedule is king. Trains are comfortable. They are French.
We traveled in style Paris to Bordeaux in about 4 hours on our Eurail pass. You handle all your own baggage, and it works well with the limited stopping times to keep passengers traveling light. We had more than most -- right hand to a suitcase on wheels filled with the fold up bike, a duffel bag on the back, containing camping gear and clothes, and a carry-on in the left hand. For boarding we learned to find the labels on the cars: 2nd Class, the car number, and the seat number. We could move to other seats or cars if there was room, but near big cities the train gets crowded and you must claim on your seat. Get situated, buy a sandwich in the dining car, look out the picture windows at the passing countryside, crops, buildings, and towns, the miles of mostly flat bicycle country that make up southern France. Zip zap you're there. Next day we caught the slower electric from Bordeaux to Bergerac ostensible home of Cyrano and the center of French tobacco farming. We needed to cut a day off of the trip. In the bike guidebook, Pinky noticed "a killer hill" described between Bordeaux and Bergerac, and opted for the train ride. It was Sunday and, on our arrival, we had the train station in Bergerac to ourselves. So we put the bikes together in the waiting room.
We had a cheese sandwich on the train, with fancy soft caloric French cheese. The cheese was fabulous but the fresh baguette and that wonderful crust. There are bakeries everywhere, every few blocks, in the smallest village or the biggest city. Fresh French bread, baguettes by the basket full are available every morning throughout the country. They eat only fresh bread, every single day…hence croutons and French toast to use yesterday’s unconsumed bread. The bread makes even street food gourmet. A foot long hot dog begins as a fresh baguette impaled on a red hot poker. The dog is deposited in the center hole with a squirt of Dijon mustard. They are spectacular. We met a French couple returning from a visit to their son to Germany. They were ecstatic to be returning home…the bread was terrible. They need daily fresh baguettes, they are French.
A civilized lunch hour is a birth right—and two hours in length. There is a national strike from noon to two. Everything stops. The French choose a meal with the care that Americans reserve for choosing a new car or even a house. What a boon to the touring cyclist, are the spectacular meals acceptably are priced in the smallest towns throughout the country. We ate at a truck stop near Carcasonne. I was expecting that truck driving culture would be similar to our own. Twenty eighteen wheelers in the parking lot, a rough looking crowd of rowdy men, condom dispensers in the bathrooms, and the dirty magazines were all there, but the meal was serious business. It was a two hour meal, table cloths, flowers, and ornate chargers that served as platforms for the standard plates for each of the five courses (appetizer, soup, one of the five entrees, cheese, and dessert) plus Vin du Pays (the local house wine of the region). I had the Lapin Moutarde, and the rabbit was pretty nicely attired in a fancy Poupon mustard sauce. We had white cloth napkins. It's no wonder that their medical community is at the forefront in cardiac medicine.
We had an afternoon and night between train trips to explore Bordeaux, the heart of the famous wine country. Our wine discovery was Vin du Pays (van do payee - wine of the region) which was amazingly good. bottled in plastic 5 litre screw cap jugs. It is the daily fare in the countryside. Show up with your four liter plastic jug, and they fill it from large two chambered stainless steel tank, the red hose(red wine) or the green hose(white wine). The price and quality met the same high standard as fresh baguettes. What a startling discovery. Vin du pays is made by every community cooperative; growing succulent grapes on acres of small yellow stones hardly believable as soil were it not for the plants visible in the rocky till. Vin du Pays is sold in the smallest grocery store in the smallest village from a vat larger than a family car. "Garden hose" wine may have been our greatest discovery. Suck eggs, Robert Parker. These wines—they are French.
In this country fixated on food and drink, logic dictates the next concern: toilets. French toiletry is as impressive.. First is the astounding variety. The French never destroy a toilet, and they always adopt new technology. . An early development was two-foot plates straddling a hole, all crafted from porcelain; a strange sight to us sitting ducks. At one of the campgrounds our first pass through the bathhouse produced an argument.
"Is that a shower. Where is the shower head?"
"Don't let anyone see you standing in that with a bar of soap."
I pointed to the foot spaces on each side.
Pinky, realized what it was, and said, "Not for me."
The water closet came across the channel, and moved the action indoors because it had the U shaped pipe in the sewer connection so that water remaining in the U prevented sewer gas from coming into the house. Some of the first water closets constructed remain in use, often for the usual two franc charge.
More recently it seems popular to conceal the flush handle. A chain out of sight overhead, a button on the wall sometimes remote from the bowl, one or the tiles above the bowl may be a button, a small rod sticking up through the top of the tank is a pull handle. They must chuckle at anxious American tourists searching desperately for the flusher. Their penchant to hide this key part, has been further extended and there has been modern fascination with high tech toilets--they now hide the entire toilet. The standard public toilet is a two franc kiosk cylinder with an electronic door that has a star wars sound. Security electric doors that suggest secret service clearance might be required…look at the lens to present your retinal pattern for entrance. Once inside the sink and toilet look freshly sterilized. My first use was with some urgency. Relief was immense. Standing there, a three coil steamer in the stainless steel bowl, I began a search for the flusher. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but even with prior experience, I was unable to find it. I pushed everything in that small building that had any distinguishing feature regardless of its location. No flusher. Clock is ticking; things are desperate now; I can't let anyone else come in here. I need language assistance to solve this problem; I have to open the door and get Pinky to come help. I am able to open the electronic door, but it doesn't like being held open, and a loud buzzer sounds. Pinky sees my desperate face and begins laughing. She is purposely slow to help. There are faces in the now impressively long line that are as desperate as mine. The first man in line understands immediately. He is waving his hand like a windshield wiper and he is urgently telling me: "Automatique, automatique." Relieved to hear that, I step out. The electronic door closes behind me and the whole inside of the building was washed, sterilized, and dried in about 15 seconds. It was ready for the long line.
Our evening meal at a restaurant had another twist on toilet technology. Pinky came back to the table, " Your turn," she said. Then as I got up "Bonne Chance." (good luck). In the restroom, again there were all kinds of electronic noises with mechanical events. I found the flush button, inconspicuously placed as a little plaque on the wall above the toilet. I pushed and instead of a flush, there was another electronic whine as the entire toilet disappeared into the wall. Gone, gone, gone. Thirty seconds later it returned; flushed, cleaned, and under bright blue ultraviolet light. I stood waiting and watching. When the ultraviolet light went off, I softly applauded. When I returned to the table, Pinky was smirking.
I have been trained at home by a beagle, and was well prepared for France where le chien is pretty much in the cat bird seat. The dogs are their constant companions. Dogs are riding around in cars, grocery carts, and purses. They are under tables, at the feet of about a fifth of the patrons in restaurants. They are carried in little wicker baskets; with, maybe even a second head protruding from the basket carrier's purse. They are fed and groomed in every imaginable way. Dog extravagance is closely associated with a French stubbornness. They insist on canine company everywhere. It's the land of the portable pooch. For the places that do not cater to the dogs, it is a most unpleasant job to tell a patron "no dogs allowed", and I never saw it on a sign. There will be "no smoking" in France before there is "no dogs". Dogs go every where. Walking the dog is a major social activity, better than having a baby, if you want to chat. I didn't need much French to make a friend talking about my Beagle (baygla). And if you want help or directions, make friends with the dog, and the master draw you a map. The big problem is the fecal debris especially in Paris. They have dog poop patrols, utilizing various levels of scooper and blower technology, bags and shovels to miniature street sweepers; and somehow the job gets done.
On our Bike Friday fold up bikes we look like performing circus bikes. So, we keep an eye out for other cyclists and what they are riding. There is a particularly large array of bikes in France, in large part because they are maintained and used over long periods, and because everyone wants something different from a bike. Some need a truck, some a racing machine, a show machine, a mountain climber, trick bike for jumping and gymnastic tricks by the rider, a bike especially for bicycle broom ball, a stable three wheeler, a unicycle juggling and showmanship, a bike with motor assist, a bike to pull a trailer, a velocipede as a historical artifact, or a bike that folds for travel. There is a panoply of bikes in France. Old men on old bikes are the most fun. The most memorable was a wizened old fellow in a beret who gave us directions, then followed us at a one block distance to correct our incompetent attempts to follow those instructions. Using facial expressions of painful tolerance and hand signals, he came into view pointing to correct each error he knew that we would make, all the while mounted on his sixty-year old bike, motor assisted. It was tricked out with leather saddle bags and a putt putt motor hinged on the front handlebar so its small drive wheel rested on the front tire to turn it at bike speed of 12 miles per hour. The cars give us wide birth and impeccable courtesy compared to the USA. In a bicycle-car accident, the driver of the car is presumed to be at fault. Now there is a novel attitude. It is French.
The Tilt-a-Whirl
The Tilt-a-Whirl
The end of the day had finally come. I was parking my pick-up at the fairground parking lot. I loosened my tie, my first step in winding down from another Friday afternoon's work in the pressure cooker at the hospital. I took a deep breath, blew it out, and willfully brightened in contemplation of the Fairbanks fair.
Exploiting the Alaskan summer days, the fair bustled for all the daylight hours with the feel of a never-ending party. There’s plenty of time. Relax.
This fair was for participants, not observers. My neighbors...husbands, wives, children...all had something to display; from their garden, from their kitchen, from their shop, or from Four H Club: artwork, scout projects, pets, and science projects. I was wishing that I had entered the ladder that I had made for the loft in our house. I loved this about Fairbanks: it made you want to get off your butt and join in.
I had the paper scrap. "Your wife will meet you at the rides near the entrance by the Texaco station," it said. I was starting to relax a little as I headed for the midway where the dancing lights of the rides struggled to flash in the midnight sun. I strolled leisurely past the Ferris wheel, bumper cars, merry-go-round, the hammer, and a milk toast roller coaster ride.
I saw my boys. Their backs almost to me, they were looking up in wonder at the operator of the tilt a whirl, talking to him, I thought. He was a tall tough looking guy with thoroughly tattooed arms, a stringy mustache and a dirty ponytail. Low slung levis just barely clung to his hips and a black leather vest partially covered the almost black tanned skin of his torso. Pinky was behind them. She had a red ticket in her hand. When she looked up, her face was glowing with affectionate recognition. She leaned down to the boys, and pointed toward me. When her head came back up, she looked relieved; relieved, I guessed, because I had gotten free of the hospital and hadn't disappointed the boys.
Their faces just lit up. In unison they hollered, "Dad!" Their hair blew back in the wind as they ran, showing their excited smiles as they covered the 40 yards between us. It was the warmest reception I had received from my boys, probably ever, and the moment still remains a tender memory. As they reached me, one boy went to each arm and I hugged them both. They each grabbed a hand and pulled me toward Pinky. She was smiling, almost laughing. No troubles for me, I was on top of the world.
"Take a ride with the boys. I got you a ticket," she said.
The Tilt-a-Whirl is an undulating surface mounted on a large disc which is at a 30 degree angle. On each undulating segment there is a small car, like a round restaurant booth, which is free to careen on its own circular track as the larger disc rotates on its inclined plane. A benign looking ride, but if that's what they wanted, "Sure, let's take a ride." I thought. I gave the man my ticket.
"The boys are riding free," Pinky said.
The boys selected a car and took care to get me between them. I was flattered that they both wanted to be next to me. The operator pulled the shoulder high lever back to the first notch, his weight suspended from its handle, and the disc began to slowly rotate. It was pretty much what I had expected. Our little booth would rotate part of a circle as we were on the downhill side of the disc and came to a standstill on the uphill side. Two revolutions and he pulled the lever to the second notch. We could feel the effects of the centrifugal force now and it began to press us back into the seat. The boys were looking at each other and beginning to grin. This time around our booth made a full revolution on its little track, and that added a new dimension. It was my first inkling that there were some real possibilities for excitement. Another revolution and he pulled the lever to the third notch. Our booth began doing several revolutions each time the disc went around. As the nausea hit, I noticed that our little booth was the most active on the disc. We passed Pinky. It looked to me like she was laughing--uncontrollable side splitting type laughter. Big trouble. It was not fun. I was going to be sick if I didn't get off. I yelled, but everyone else was yelling too. I tried to get up and couldn't move because of the centrifugal force. The operator grasped the handle. Oh, relief. He had seen me. I could hardly wait for the world to stop spinning as he applied the brakes. Instead he swung down with his full weight, pulling the lever to the fourth notch. The little booth careened wildly, suddenly stopped, reversed directions and spun. I closed my eyes, spread my feet, and pushed back into the seat no longer conscious of what was going on around me. I was preparing for embarrassment, trying to hang on to the end. I suddenly had a mouthful of gastric juice. Mercifully I was able to swallow. The ride was beginning to slow. Our booth's violent accelerations moderated. When we came to a stop, I had difficulty standing. Pinky came out to help me as I walked with a broad-based gait to the exit. The world around me was still slowly rotating, and I was still in danger of tossing my cookies. Standing still with my eyes closed and my hands on slightly flexed knees like a football player in a huddle, I took several minutes to recover enough to notice my surroundings. The boys were ecstatic. They were jumping up and down, begging Pinky to go with them.
Pinky couldn't answer. She was just killing herself laughing.
"I watched your face the whole time," she said, pausing to laugh, then to breathe. "You tried to get up, didn't you?"
"I couldn't move."
"You turned absolutely green," she paused for more laughter.
"I still feel pretty green."
"I'm sorry, but it really is funny," she apologized. "I've been standing here long enough to become an expert. And I have to tell you that no one has whirled around on that thing like you guys did."
"I think that I can walk now," I said hopefully.
"Before you got here, the boys chose that ride. They rode by themselves the first time. The platform went around but the little car seemed to be stuck and didn't turn at all. They were really disappointed," she said finally controlling her laughter.
Still a little unsteady, I was walking and burping to try alleviating the sensation of pressure in my stomach.
"The operator was really nice to the boys. He told them that they could try again for free and that what they needed was some weight in the car," she said.
"They were so disappointed. I was going ride with them. I even bought a ticket. But then...I saw you," she said.
"You gave me your ticket. Didn't you?" I asked.
"I leaned down and said, 'Look who's here guys.' They saw you, and their little faces just lit up," she said. She was again laughing uncontrollably.
The heart felt greeting was the timely end of a search by my grade school hedonists for a larger guileless companion.
"Yeah," I said. "I thought it was filial devotion." I said.
"I know," she said. "I could see it on your face when they ran to get you. And they do love you that much. So don't feel sorry for yourself." She paused.
"Was I ever relieved to see you," she said opening her eyes wide. "It was everything that I could do to hand you that ticket with a straight face." She laughed and clapped her hands together.
The end of the day had finally come. I was parking my pick-up at the fairground parking lot. I loosened my tie, my first step in winding down from another Friday afternoon's work in the pressure cooker at the hospital. I took a deep breath, blew it out, and willfully brightened in contemplation of the Fairbanks fair.
Exploiting the Alaskan summer days, the fair bustled for all the daylight hours with the feel of a never-ending party. There’s plenty of time. Relax.
This fair was for participants, not observers. My neighbors...husbands, wives, children...all had something to display; from their garden, from their kitchen, from their shop, or from Four H Club: artwork, scout projects, pets, and science projects. I was wishing that I had entered the ladder that I had made for the loft in our house. I loved this about Fairbanks: it made you want to get off your butt and join in.
I had the paper scrap. "Your wife will meet you at the rides near the entrance by the Texaco station," it said. I was starting to relax a little as I headed for the midway where the dancing lights of the rides struggled to flash in the midnight sun. I strolled leisurely past the Ferris wheel, bumper cars, merry-go-round, the hammer, and a milk toast roller coaster ride.
I saw my boys. Their backs almost to me, they were looking up in wonder at the operator of the tilt a whirl, talking to him, I thought. He was a tall tough looking guy with thoroughly tattooed arms, a stringy mustache and a dirty ponytail. Low slung levis just barely clung to his hips and a black leather vest partially covered the almost black tanned skin of his torso. Pinky was behind them. She had a red ticket in her hand. When she looked up, her face was glowing with affectionate recognition. She leaned down to the boys, and pointed toward me. When her head came back up, she looked relieved; relieved, I guessed, because I had gotten free of the hospital and hadn't disappointed the boys.
Their faces just lit up. In unison they hollered, "Dad!" Their hair blew back in the wind as they ran, showing their excited smiles as they covered the 40 yards between us. It was the warmest reception I had received from my boys, probably ever, and the moment still remains a tender memory. As they reached me, one boy went to each arm and I hugged them both. They each grabbed a hand and pulled me toward Pinky. She was smiling, almost laughing. No troubles for me, I was on top of the world.
"Take a ride with the boys. I got you a ticket," she said.
The Tilt-a-Whirl is an undulating surface mounted on a large disc which is at a 30 degree angle. On each undulating segment there is a small car, like a round restaurant booth, which is free to careen on its own circular track as the larger disc rotates on its inclined plane. A benign looking ride, but if that's what they wanted, "Sure, let's take a ride." I thought. I gave the man my ticket.
"The boys are riding free," Pinky said.
The boys selected a car and took care to get me between them. I was flattered that they both wanted to be next to me. The operator pulled the shoulder high lever back to the first notch, his weight suspended from its handle, and the disc began to slowly rotate. It was pretty much what I had expected. Our little booth would rotate part of a circle as we were on the downhill side of the disc and came to a standstill on the uphill side. Two revolutions and he pulled the lever to the second notch. We could feel the effects of the centrifugal force now and it began to press us back into the seat. The boys were looking at each other and beginning to grin. This time around our booth made a full revolution on its little track, and that added a new dimension. It was my first inkling that there were some real possibilities for excitement. Another revolution and he pulled the lever to the third notch. Our booth began doing several revolutions each time the disc went around. As the nausea hit, I noticed that our little booth was the most active on the disc. We passed Pinky. It looked to me like she was laughing--uncontrollable side splitting type laughter. Big trouble. It was not fun. I was going to be sick if I didn't get off. I yelled, but everyone else was yelling too. I tried to get up and couldn't move because of the centrifugal force. The operator grasped the handle. Oh, relief. He had seen me. I could hardly wait for the world to stop spinning as he applied the brakes. Instead he swung down with his full weight, pulling the lever to the fourth notch. The little booth careened wildly, suddenly stopped, reversed directions and spun. I closed my eyes, spread my feet, and pushed back into the seat no longer conscious of what was going on around me. I was preparing for embarrassment, trying to hang on to the end. I suddenly had a mouthful of gastric juice. Mercifully I was able to swallow. The ride was beginning to slow. Our booth's violent accelerations moderated. When we came to a stop, I had difficulty standing. Pinky came out to help me as I walked with a broad-based gait to the exit. The world around me was still slowly rotating, and I was still in danger of tossing my cookies. Standing still with my eyes closed and my hands on slightly flexed knees like a football player in a huddle, I took several minutes to recover enough to notice my surroundings. The boys were ecstatic. They were jumping up and down, begging Pinky to go with them.
Pinky couldn't answer. She was just killing herself laughing.
"I watched your face the whole time," she said, pausing to laugh, then to breathe. "You tried to get up, didn't you?"
"I couldn't move."
"You turned absolutely green," she paused for more laughter.
"I still feel pretty green."
"I'm sorry, but it really is funny," she apologized. "I've been standing here long enough to become an expert. And I have to tell you that no one has whirled around on that thing like you guys did."
"I think that I can walk now," I said hopefully.
"Before you got here, the boys chose that ride. They rode by themselves the first time. The platform went around but the little car seemed to be stuck and didn't turn at all. They were really disappointed," she said finally controlling her laughter.
Still a little unsteady, I was walking and burping to try alleviating the sensation of pressure in my stomach.
"The operator was really nice to the boys. He told them that they could try again for free and that what they needed was some weight in the car," she said.
"They were so disappointed. I was going ride with them. I even bought a ticket. But then...I saw you," she said.
"You gave me your ticket. Didn't you?" I asked.
"I leaned down and said, 'Look who's here guys.' They saw you, and their little faces just lit up," she said. She was again laughing uncontrollably.
The heart felt greeting was the timely end of a search by my grade school hedonists for a larger guileless companion.
"Yeah," I said. "I thought it was filial devotion." I said.
"I know," she said. "I could see it on your face when they ran to get you. And they do love you that much. So don't feel sorry for yourself." She paused.
"Was I ever relieved to see you," she said opening her eyes wide. "It was everything that I could do to hand you that ticket with a straight face." She laughed and clapped her hands together.
The Perfect Woman
The Perfect Woman
With great display, I marked my place and put my book on the bedside table. I turned out my light.
"My eyes are tired," I said sleepily.
I rolled over and looked at him. He was squeaky clean from his bath and had settled in to read his book. I felt warm inside.
He saw me in his peripheral vision, and replied, "Uh Huh."
He put his left arm around my neck, and with his left hand under my left shoulder rolled me toward him; and I snuggled up against his side. He inclined his head slightly and kissed me lightly on the lips. It was warm but perfunctory.
He went right back to reading his book. I pressed more fully against his mostly bare skin with a slow motion wiggle. He squeezed me a little tighter but continued reading. I put my hand on the soft line of hair above his navel. He put his right hand on mine, anticipating that I might rub the hair up against the grain.
"Let me finish this page," he mumbled.
"How long is that going to be?" I asked as I moved my hand down just a little. Just the slightest hint.
"Okay, just a couple more minutes," he said.
"Diane looked nice, dressed for success in her velvet dress. Didn't she?" I asked.
"She did, but what I really liked was the hat with the feathers," he replied smiling.
"You say nice things about Diane easily enough," I say softly. "Why can't you ever say nice things about me?" I continued… "I bet you wish you were married to Diane." Now he’s got to mount some kind of defense.
"Oh no," he was groaning. He put the open book face down on his chest, rolled his eyes back then gave me a look as close to patience as he could get.
"He still isn't catching on," I thought to my self.
"At least talk. What did you do at work today?" I said, all ears.
"I don't want to relive my work day, and you don't want to hear it," he said.
"I guess not...if you don't want to tell it."
"Well what then?" he asked, still pragmatic but softening slightly.
He is playing dense.
"I want to chat," I said. I gave him my smug smile and a squeeze.
"What do you want to chat about?" he said.
"Say something about me, something nice," I cooed.
He took that in and his eyes began to twinkle in anticipation.
"Oh no you don't," I said. "If you tell me, 'For a fat girl, you don't sweat much', I am going to put my cold feet on you, and I promise that you won't be able to read in bed tonight or for the rest of the week."
His eyes were still sparkling.
"He's going to pay the price," I told myself.
He changed his expression. He was more serious, but gentle.
"I love you," he said.
It was nice. I liked it. But he still wasn't catching on.
"That's nice. I know you do, and I love you too," I said. "But I had in mind for you to say some things about me."
"You want me to say a bunch of mush, right," he said. "The aphrodisiac lies."
"Give it a try. ," I said.
Taken a little aback, he thought a few seconds and said, "Would you like semi-truthful stuff or shall I go straight for the lies?"
"Either would be better than what we're doing right now," I replied. I looked at his face. It was hard on him but he was composing something.
"If I tell out loud what I'm thinking, I'll laugh. And you'll get mad," he said
"Try it," I wheedled.
"You give me an example of something you might be expecting me to say."
"Your own words are best, especially if you're anticipating sex," I said. "But I can get you started."
"How are you going to do that?" he asked
"I want you to think of the perfect woman," I said.
He was thinking. His face was inscrutable. After about ten seconds, he rolled toward me.
"Describe her," I told him gently.
"Small but not petite....small to me.....just right."
"Go on," I said.
"She's a looker. Cute little butt."
"Um, Hm," I say. The line in his forehead is deep. He's thinking.
"Loving big brown eyes. Always alert. Ready for fun, sometimes even mischievous. When you look into her eyes, sometimes the devil is in them. They say “Come with me. Let’s go."
"That's nice," Two sentences. He is on a roll now.
"She always wants you close, makes you feel like you're the center of the universe."
"See. It's not so hard," I am saying.
"Hates to miss any fun, and gets sad if she's left out. When you come in the door she lights up like sunshine itself," he says, and it seems to flow easier now.
"Yes. Keep going." I say to myself.
"And?" I encourage him.
"She doesn't expect much. And she gets so excited with the simplest things."
"Something a little more personal," I coach.
His forehead line deepens again. "She never gets angry. She is guided by a delicate sense...," he says wistfully.
"Sensitivity, sensibility...what?"
"Not too young. A few spots on her skin … that would cover nicely in a fur coat," he is saying. The impish twinkle is back in his eye.
" A white tip on the tail?" I asked. It's our beagle that he has been describing. I attacked him. With cold feet and tickling I have him writhing. I am able to grab his book and throw it on the floor. The bed covers were all off from his thrashing efforts to protect himself from my attack. I was about to push him off the bed.
"I don't think so," he said, after I had pushed him a few inches with my feet and I was almost off the other side from the effort. His counter attack was under way. It got quite personal...and nice.
Then, we were resting dreamily, holding hands.
Still, I was jealous of that damn dog now.
"What was it you said? Center of the universe? Excited with the simplest things? Would cover nicely in a fur coat?" I repeated to him.
“Oh no you don’t,” he anticipated
I raise my closed fist in victory, "Yes! You did say fur coat."
With great display, I marked my place and put my book on the bedside table. I turned out my light.
"My eyes are tired," I said sleepily.
I rolled over and looked at him. He was squeaky clean from his bath and had settled in to read his book. I felt warm inside.
He saw me in his peripheral vision, and replied, "Uh Huh."
He put his left arm around my neck, and with his left hand under my left shoulder rolled me toward him; and I snuggled up against his side. He inclined his head slightly and kissed me lightly on the lips. It was warm but perfunctory.
He went right back to reading his book. I pressed more fully against his mostly bare skin with a slow motion wiggle. He squeezed me a little tighter but continued reading. I put my hand on the soft line of hair above his navel. He put his right hand on mine, anticipating that I might rub the hair up against the grain.
"Let me finish this page," he mumbled.
"How long is that going to be?" I asked as I moved my hand down just a little. Just the slightest hint.
"Okay, just a couple more minutes," he said.
"Diane looked nice, dressed for success in her velvet dress. Didn't she?" I asked.
"She did, but what I really liked was the hat with the feathers," he replied smiling.
"You say nice things about Diane easily enough," I say softly. "Why can't you ever say nice things about me?" I continued… "I bet you wish you were married to Diane." Now he’s got to mount some kind of defense.
"Oh no," he was groaning. He put the open book face down on his chest, rolled his eyes back then gave me a look as close to patience as he could get.
"He still isn't catching on," I thought to my self.
"At least talk. What did you do at work today?" I said, all ears.
"I don't want to relive my work day, and you don't want to hear it," he said.
"I guess not...if you don't want to tell it."
"Well what then?" he asked, still pragmatic but softening slightly.
He is playing dense.
"I want to chat," I said. I gave him my smug smile and a squeeze.
"What do you want to chat about?" he said.
"Say something about me, something nice," I cooed.
He took that in and his eyes began to twinkle in anticipation.
"Oh no you don't," I said. "If you tell me, 'For a fat girl, you don't sweat much', I am going to put my cold feet on you, and I promise that you won't be able to read in bed tonight or for the rest of the week."
His eyes were still sparkling.
"He's going to pay the price," I told myself.
He changed his expression. He was more serious, but gentle.
"I love you," he said.
It was nice. I liked it. But he still wasn't catching on.
"That's nice. I know you do, and I love you too," I said. "But I had in mind for you to say some things about me."
"You want me to say a bunch of mush, right," he said. "The aphrodisiac lies."
"Give it a try. ," I said.
Taken a little aback, he thought a few seconds and said, "Would you like semi-truthful stuff or shall I go straight for the lies?"
"Either would be better than what we're doing right now," I replied. I looked at his face. It was hard on him but he was composing something.
"If I tell out loud what I'm thinking, I'll laugh. And you'll get mad," he said
"Try it," I wheedled.
"You give me an example of something you might be expecting me to say."
"Your own words are best, especially if you're anticipating sex," I said. "But I can get you started."
"How are you going to do that?" he asked
"I want you to think of the perfect woman," I said.
He was thinking. His face was inscrutable. After about ten seconds, he rolled toward me.
"Describe her," I told him gently.
"Small but not petite....small to me.....just right."
"Go on," I said.
"She's a looker. Cute little butt."
"Um, Hm," I say. The line in his forehead is deep. He's thinking.
"Loving big brown eyes. Always alert. Ready for fun, sometimes even mischievous. When you look into her eyes, sometimes the devil is in them. They say “Come with me. Let’s go."
"That's nice," Two sentences. He is on a roll now.
"She always wants you close, makes you feel like you're the center of the universe."
"See. It's not so hard," I am saying.
"Hates to miss any fun, and gets sad if she's left out. When you come in the door she lights up like sunshine itself," he says, and it seems to flow easier now.
"Yes. Keep going." I say to myself.
"And?" I encourage him.
"She doesn't expect much. And she gets so excited with the simplest things."
"Something a little more personal," I coach.
His forehead line deepens again. "She never gets angry. She is guided by a delicate sense...," he says wistfully.
"Sensitivity, sensibility...what?"
"Not too young. A few spots on her skin … that would cover nicely in a fur coat," he is saying. The impish twinkle is back in his eye.
" A white tip on the tail?" I asked. It's our beagle that he has been describing. I attacked him. With cold feet and tickling I have him writhing. I am able to grab his book and throw it on the floor. The bed covers were all off from his thrashing efforts to protect himself from my attack. I was about to push him off the bed.
"I don't think so," he said, after I had pushed him a few inches with my feet and I was almost off the other side from the effort. His counter attack was under way. It got quite personal...and nice.
Then, we were resting dreamily, holding hands.
Still, I was jealous of that damn dog now.
"What was it you said? Center of the universe? Excited with the simplest things? Would cover nicely in a fur coat?" I repeated to him.
“Oh no you don’t,” he anticipated
I raise my closed fist in victory, "Yes! You did say fur coat."
The Kitty
The Kitty
I was at the crest of the hill on my right foot, left leg resting on the bike's crossbar, turning back to look down the hill behind. What could they possibly be doing? Kirk stood below at the roadside talking to his mother...not the least interested in pedaling. It has been a while. I whistled. When they looked up, I gave them the “Wagons Ho” arm signal. I had made two mistakes. They beckoned to me.
Pinky was leaning down by the back wheel of her bike. Red faced angry, she stood and shouted through cupped hands, "Dammit, come back down here."
Uh Oh! Broken spoke, maybe a flat. They must need the tools. When I reached them I saw the towel lined cardboard box with the tire marks, one corner crushed. A few feet away was a dead brown calico kitten. Kirk was holding the loudly meowing 3 ounce brother in his left hand. He was an orange brown calico kitty. He was reaching out desperately with his forepaws. He was skinny but surprisingly vigorous. His green eyes were huge. He had a loud husky voice. Everything about him was cute, from his tiny perfect pink nose down to his miniature bung. Kirk tucked the kitty under his chin. He quieted. Cat and boy closed their eyes. The kitty was covered with hungry red ants that had already been working on his brother. Pinky and Kirk meticulously pinched the ants out of his fur one by one.
"Poor baby. Who could do this to you?" Pinky asked the hungry kitten.
"Looks like a drive by toss out," Kirk added in disgust.
"I guess it’s cheaper than getting a cat fixed." I said. "It's hard to kill babies and easier to dump them. Finders keepers, finders weepers."
"How can we get him home?" Pinky asked.
"You can save the kitty. But don't bring it home." I said.
She ignored me.
I had to dig my feet on this one. I didn’t want another cat. I knew I could not let the cat in the house or it would stay forever.
There are no limits for Pinky. All things turn out well, for lucky Pink. Buy more. Do more. Go more. Save more. Well, that is mostly for me, the worry wart. Her answer is always, "Yes." Trip to France--sign us up. A dog for Kirk--what every boy needs. New house--we need something new in our lives. Retire--no worries, go ahead on it. Another kitty--sure. Somebody will take care everything. I want the responsibilities and time limits up front.
"He's a survivor," she said. "Look at this little guy screaming at us. We can't leave him."
"How do we carry him," Kirk asked.
"Diane will take him for the barn. Dennis and Dimity like cats. Maybe Pam would take him. Somebody will."
"Bring a stray cat to a friend. Diane might love you. But she won't like that."
"He is cute," said Kirk.
"We can keep him while I find him a home," Pinky said, partly bravado partly pleading.
"Oh no."
"We might as well kill him," Kirk mumbled.
"It might be better than being eaten alive by red ants," I said.
"I'm not leaving him here," Pinky said.
"If you take him home, he's not coming in the house." I was adamant. "He can stay in the truck. If he doesn't have a home by Monday, I'll take him to the shelter."
"Just one more cat. What's it going to hurt? "
"No more kitties." I said emphatically.
"You ladle out another cup of food in the morning. How hard is that?
"Blackjack and Kecia would just as soon not have company."
"So you love each kitty. And after two, that love is all used up? Does it come in packages or something...Give this kitty one package and there won't be enough love for Blackjack and Kecia? Come on."
"And when do we stop? We have more than enough cats. They shredded the chair in the bedroom. They bring in dead animals. You were ready to get rid of Blackjack because he sheds."
"Responsibility. Hooey. You whining. You'll fall in love with the Kitty, just like you did in Fairbanks." Then she thought...and continued, "That's it. Isn't it? What you're really worried about is that you'll care."
"In Fairbanks, the neighbors' dogs killed my kitty," I nodded. "I should be able to choose...choose if I'm going to be this kitty's daddy."
"Here we go. A right to life discussion." Kirk rolled his eyes back.
"Right," she said to Kirk. Then she muttered to herself, "Get a grip. Its just a cat. We have to do something."
"There's a house right there. Looks like they're gone." I pointed to the top of the hill where I had been waiting. “Pass it on, no pass back.”
"We could get a box at the Day Creek Store."
"It's about eight miles up the road."
"We could leave him on that porch."
"Not too different than dumping him on the road," said Kirk.
"Right. We could come back with a box and if he's still here we'll take him home and figure something out."
"Three days in the truck then the pound." I would not be ignored.
"At the pound they get three days. Then they suck em...a vacuum chamber" Kirk was petting his new kitty.
"Kill him or keep him, or dump him, are the only solutions. The dump is easiest."
Pinky was on her way up the drive way with a plan. No answer came for the doorbell. She put the kitty down on the porch, and ran back to the bikes. Step one was in place.
Then it was bike trip as usual, to Day Creek where there was one cinder block store, no bar, and a white one room church with a gray shake roof. At the Day Creek Grocery, we bought red licorice and Hawaiian punch. And there was a box of pears on the picnic table out in front with a sign saying "Free, Take One". They sat in the sun, sweated, ate, and drank. We watched pickups roll up to the gas pump and disgorge dirty tired loggers wearing broad red suspenders buttoned into high-water levis , zipper-neck shirts with tiny vertical black and white stripes, and cork boots only partly covered by shredded midcalf pant legs. The trucks ran on gas, the men on beer...about the same mileage, judging by the cases they carried out of the store. We watched Billy, the owner’s son, put his new BMX Rockhopper two through its paces.
“Hi, “ Pinky said.
“I’m five,” he said.
“I’ll bet he would like a kitty,” I said.
“No Kitty,” his mother said from behind the cash register. She was the cash cow at her house I think.
“My sister is in school. She is in first grade.”
“Do you have a small cardboard box we can have to carry the kitty we found on the road?”
Kirk asked.
“I think so, check just outside that back door,” the mom said.
Kirk went followed the instructions and came back with a box.
Billy had ridden several times around the gas pumps circling the fueling pickups.
“She takes her lunch,” he continued his report on his sister.
We got the box fixed to the rack with a bungie cord and were mounting our bikes. “Thanks for the box,” we called to mom, who waved.
As we started back, Billy closed with: “I’m five, and I go to school next year.”
When we passed the yellow house going back, the kitty was exactly where Pinky had left him an hour before, on the porch, nobody home. He recognized us, with desperation in his eyes and forepaws outstretched. Kirk picked him up. We tried to give him water from a cupped hand. No. So into the box he went, and strapped to the rack. The box rattled vigorously, amplifying the vibration of Kirk's bike. The back seat driver complained stridently and continuously. .
"I'll meet you guys back home," Kirk said. "I'm going to push a little harder this last fifteen miles."
Kirk was training for his upcoming triathlon.
"Go for it. Introduce him to Blackjack and Kecia," Pinky said.
"Put him in the truck." I said.
Pinky and I leisurely cruised back. We made one stop to put on rain gear for a light shower. Rain was dripping from the helmets into our eyes and into our cold squishy shoes. We ate one of our free pears. Then Pinky found satisfactory cover, went in to the bushes, and returned relieved. The sun reappeared.
As we pushed our bikes to the road, Pinky asked, "What do you think he'll do?"
"What do you mean?"
"About his dilemma."
"Dilemma?"
"I want him to take the kitty in... keep the cat. You want him to put the kitty in the truck...take him to the pound. Which will Kirk do?"
"I told him to leave the kitty outside."
"Right.” That’s the old bull trumpeting to the herd. “The kitty will be inside."
"Better not be," I huffed, falling for the bait
"Oh, relax. It will be fine," she dismissed me –smiling her disbelief.
We arrived home, a little stiff, and began putting their bicycles away. Kirk was conspicuously absent.
"Shouldn't he be here?" Pinky asked.
"I would have thought."
There was nothing to do but go into the house. Pinky went in. I rolled up the hose while we waited for Kirk. Pinky was at the front door when he rode up the driveway.
"Where is the kitty?" Pinky asked anxiously.
"That's why I'm late. I took care of the kitty," Kirk said.
"Good for you," Duff said, relieved.
"Where's my kitty?" Pinky intervened.
"Taken care of," Kirk said.
"Did you turn him loose?"
Kirk smiled at his mom.
"What happened?"
"Solved" He said enigmatically.
"What did you do?" she asked anxiously.
"Oh, relax. It will be fine." Kirk repeated her earlier taunting reassurance to me. Teenagers pick right up on the buttons to push.
"Kirk!" Pinky yelled smiling.
Were there limited resources for cats, or were the limits as boundless as love?
"Pinky. I don't think he's going to tell."
I was at the crest of the hill on my right foot, left leg resting on the bike's crossbar, turning back to look down the hill behind. What could they possibly be doing? Kirk stood below at the roadside talking to his mother...not the least interested in pedaling. It has been a while. I whistled. When they looked up, I gave them the “Wagons Ho” arm signal. I had made two mistakes. They beckoned to me.
Pinky was leaning down by the back wheel of her bike. Red faced angry, she stood and shouted through cupped hands, "Dammit, come back down here."
Uh Oh! Broken spoke, maybe a flat. They must need the tools. When I reached them I saw the towel lined cardboard box with the tire marks, one corner crushed. A few feet away was a dead brown calico kitten. Kirk was holding the loudly meowing 3 ounce brother in his left hand. He was an orange brown calico kitty. He was reaching out desperately with his forepaws. He was skinny but surprisingly vigorous. His green eyes were huge. He had a loud husky voice. Everything about him was cute, from his tiny perfect pink nose down to his miniature bung. Kirk tucked the kitty under his chin. He quieted. Cat and boy closed their eyes. The kitty was covered with hungry red ants that had already been working on his brother. Pinky and Kirk meticulously pinched the ants out of his fur one by one.
"Poor baby. Who could do this to you?" Pinky asked the hungry kitten.
"Looks like a drive by toss out," Kirk added in disgust.
"I guess it’s cheaper than getting a cat fixed." I said. "It's hard to kill babies and easier to dump them. Finders keepers, finders weepers."
"How can we get him home?" Pinky asked.
"You can save the kitty. But don't bring it home." I said.
She ignored me.
I had to dig my feet on this one. I didn’t want another cat. I knew I could not let the cat in the house or it would stay forever.
There are no limits for Pinky. All things turn out well, for lucky Pink. Buy more. Do more. Go more. Save more. Well, that is mostly for me, the worry wart. Her answer is always, "Yes." Trip to France--sign us up. A dog for Kirk--what every boy needs. New house--we need something new in our lives. Retire--no worries, go ahead on it. Another kitty--sure. Somebody will take care everything. I want the responsibilities and time limits up front.
"He's a survivor," she said. "Look at this little guy screaming at us. We can't leave him."
"How do we carry him," Kirk asked.
"Diane will take him for the barn. Dennis and Dimity like cats. Maybe Pam would take him. Somebody will."
"Bring a stray cat to a friend. Diane might love you. But she won't like that."
"He is cute," said Kirk.
"We can keep him while I find him a home," Pinky said, partly bravado partly pleading.
"Oh no."
"We might as well kill him," Kirk mumbled.
"It might be better than being eaten alive by red ants," I said.
"I'm not leaving him here," Pinky said.
"If you take him home, he's not coming in the house." I was adamant. "He can stay in the truck. If he doesn't have a home by Monday, I'll take him to the shelter."
"Just one more cat. What's it going to hurt? "
"No more kitties." I said emphatically.
"You ladle out another cup of food in the morning. How hard is that?
"Blackjack and Kecia would just as soon not have company."
"So you love each kitty. And after two, that love is all used up? Does it come in packages or something...Give this kitty one package and there won't be enough love for Blackjack and Kecia? Come on."
"And when do we stop? We have more than enough cats. They shredded the chair in the bedroom. They bring in dead animals. You were ready to get rid of Blackjack because he sheds."
"Responsibility. Hooey. You whining. You'll fall in love with the Kitty, just like you did in Fairbanks." Then she thought...and continued, "That's it. Isn't it? What you're really worried about is that you'll care."
"In Fairbanks, the neighbors' dogs killed my kitty," I nodded. "I should be able to choose...choose if I'm going to be this kitty's daddy."
"Here we go. A right to life discussion." Kirk rolled his eyes back.
"Right," she said to Kirk. Then she muttered to herself, "Get a grip. Its just a cat. We have to do something."
"There's a house right there. Looks like they're gone." I pointed to the top of the hill where I had been waiting. “Pass it on, no pass back.”
"We could get a box at the Day Creek Store."
"It's about eight miles up the road."
"We could leave him on that porch."
"Not too different than dumping him on the road," said Kirk.
"Right. We could come back with a box and if he's still here we'll take him home and figure something out."
"Three days in the truck then the pound." I would not be ignored.
"At the pound they get three days. Then they suck em...a vacuum chamber" Kirk was petting his new kitty.
"Kill him or keep him, or dump him, are the only solutions. The dump is easiest."
Pinky was on her way up the drive way with a plan. No answer came for the doorbell. She put the kitty down on the porch, and ran back to the bikes. Step one was in place.
Then it was bike trip as usual, to Day Creek where there was one cinder block store, no bar, and a white one room church with a gray shake roof. At the Day Creek Grocery, we bought red licorice and Hawaiian punch. And there was a box of pears on the picnic table out in front with a sign saying "Free, Take One". They sat in the sun, sweated, ate, and drank. We watched pickups roll up to the gas pump and disgorge dirty tired loggers wearing broad red suspenders buttoned into high-water levis , zipper-neck shirts with tiny vertical black and white stripes, and cork boots only partly covered by shredded midcalf pant legs. The trucks ran on gas, the men on beer...about the same mileage, judging by the cases they carried out of the store. We watched Billy, the owner’s son, put his new BMX Rockhopper two through its paces.
“Hi, “ Pinky said.
“I’m five,” he said.
“I’ll bet he would like a kitty,” I said.
“No Kitty,” his mother said from behind the cash register. She was the cash cow at her house I think.
“My sister is in school. She is in first grade.”
“Do you have a small cardboard box we can have to carry the kitty we found on the road?”
Kirk asked.
“I think so, check just outside that back door,” the mom said.
Kirk went followed the instructions and came back with a box.
Billy had ridden several times around the gas pumps circling the fueling pickups.
“She takes her lunch,” he continued his report on his sister.
We got the box fixed to the rack with a bungie cord and were mounting our bikes. “Thanks for the box,” we called to mom, who waved.
As we started back, Billy closed with: “I’m five, and I go to school next year.”
When we passed the yellow house going back, the kitty was exactly where Pinky had left him an hour before, on the porch, nobody home. He recognized us, with desperation in his eyes and forepaws outstretched. Kirk picked him up. We tried to give him water from a cupped hand. No. So into the box he went, and strapped to the rack. The box rattled vigorously, amplifying the vibration of Kirk's bike. The back seat driver complained stridently and continuously. .
"I'll meet you guys back home," Kirk said. "I'm going to push a little harder this last fifteen miles."
Kirk was training for his upcoming triathlon.
"Go for it. Introduce him to Blackjack and Kecia," Pinky said.
"Put him in the truck." I said.
Pinky and I leisurely cruised back. We made one stop to put on rain gear for a light shower. Rain was dripping from the helmets into our eyes and into our cold squishy shoes. We ate one of our free pears. Then Pinky found satisfactory cover, went in to the bushes, and returned relieved. The sun reappeared.
As we pushed our bikes to the road, Pinky asked, "What do you think he'll do?"
"What do you mean?"
"About his dilemma."
"Dilemma?"
"I want him to take the kitty in... keep the cat. You want him to put the kitty in the truck...take him to the pound. Which will Kirk do?"
"I told him to leave the kitty outside."
"Right.” That’s the old bull trumpeting to the herd. “The kitty will be inside."
"Better not be," I huffed, falling for the bait
"Oh, relax. It will be fine," she dismissed me –smiling her disbelief.
We arrived home, a little stiff, and began putting their bicycles away. Kirk was conspicuously absent.
"Shouldn't he be here?" Pinky asked.
"I would have thought."
There was nothing to do but go into the house. Pinky went in. I rolled up the hose while we waited for Kirk. Pinky was at the front door when he rode up the driveway.
"Where is the kitty?" Pinky asked anxiously.
"That's why I'm late. I took care of the kitty," Kirk said.
"Good for you," Duff said, relieved.
"Where's my kitty?" Pinky intervened.
"Taken care of," Kirk said.
"Did you turn him loose?"
Kirk smiled at his mom.
"What happened?"
"Solved" He said enigmatically.
"What did you do?" she asked anxiously.
"Oh, relax. It will be fine." Kirk repeated her earlier taunting reassurance to me. Teenagers pick right up on the buttons to push.
"Kirk!" Pinky yelled smiling.
Were there limited resources for cats, or were the limits as boundless as love?
"Pinky. I don't think he's going to tell."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)