Rosinha Trilogy

Rosinha formed a triptych in my life and these writings; faceted with a captivating romance in Rosinha de Brasil, the mysterious loss in Rosinha and Estrangeiro Permanente, and now a resolution. Someone said, “It is better to have loved than never…
My István Zolcsák blog from May 13, 2007 dealt with my reunion in Brasil after a twenty-five year absence. An omission from that entry was the search for Rosinha. A romantic spark ignited in Finadi’s son Pascoal when I told him pieces of the old story. He insisted we could find Rosinha. I was prepared with her old address and family photos taken at a Christmas dinner long ago. We found her old house vacant but occupied by vagrants. A sign near the entrance said it was scheduled for demolition in a few months. Some adjacent residents were not helpful till we found an older gent that remembered Rosinha. He sent us up the road to another gent who sent us to a lady. She knew Rosinha’s sister that lived several blocks away but did not know the house. We continued on foot and inquired at a local bar just two doors away from the sister. Home security was essential in São Paulo nowadays. Gaining her attention through an iron date, she was not accommodating until I held out the Christmas pictures. Yet she failed to give us any direct information. We gave her Pascoal’s mobile phone number, she said that she would contact Rosinha, and have Rosa call us. Pascoal and I were pleased at our limited success and stopped back at the local bar to have a celebratory cervesa – within five minutes the sister called to say Rosa was coming to her house. We clinked our glasses and gulped the beer. The twenty minute wait left me unsure that I wanted to resolve the mystery.
Rosinha was her radiant self and obviously the wrinkles were to be expected. She was coy and I held back too waiting for her to open up. We conversed in Portuguese at her sister's house for about forty-five minutes, mostly about the family in my pictures. Rosinha drove us back to the car. A little more talk and she started using English. We left without a firm commitment to meet again – only to call the next day. I was satisfied and comfortable about our first meeting despite the lack of results. Pascoal took me to a nice pub for a Beirut sandwich and a chopp (draft beer) for a better celebration. While there, Rosa called his cell and confirmed I should call her in the morning. This made for better results. Pascoal enjoyed telling our detective story on our return to the house.On Sunday, I called Rosinha. She was surrounded by what she said were three dogs and two cats. This, I would not have expected of her. She admitted to the fear of being found by former Enco people and the Zolcsák’s and therefore would not come to a planned Finardi family outing.
Monday was an official holiday, but with a bit of a cold I lacked the ambition to do much. Odete and I took a long walk and hit the Sé supermarcado. As promised, I called Rosa and she asked to see me. With apprehension I agreed to take a taxi to Avenida Brasil and Avenida Reboucas. She picked me up there. We stopped for an ice cream and she asked about how and why I was married and divorced. She claimed her story was too complicated. She drove us to her house and the story unfolded. The awaited answers came out but little did it matter. History has its relevance but did not change the circumstance we were in that day. So long ago, when I opted to delay my return for Africa, she sought consolation from our magnanimous Mr. István (Steve) Zolscák, and their affair ensued. My eventual return left me estranged. Rosinha had a daughter Lynda through an unwedded union with Steve after his divorce. The more the details unfolded, the less I cared. I was feeling apprehensive about being there and when she asked if I wanted to rest I laid back on the couch for thirty minutes. I awoke and went to the kitchen. We embraced. I tried to explain the similarity in now and the last time we held each other at the Pampas Palace Hotel twenty-five years ago. I wanted no part of it.
She dropped me at a taxi stand and I returned to the Finardi’s. Odete asked, I said, I could not return after 25 years, she was happy with that decision.

Rosinha and the Estrangeiro Permanente

Following my heartrending departure from Rosinha and Brasil in early 1975, I was determined to return as vowed. For a year and a half, countless letters and frequent phone calls kept her from doubting my sincerity. The job offer from Enco-Zolcsak had been confirmed and my permanent visa was taking shape. Termination notice was given from the dream-job that I had held traveling the globe for five years. A large trunk was filled with things that I could not leave behind. I passed out furniture to family and friends with the notion that there was a remote possibility I could return someday on a very distant tomorrow. The Enco boss had a shopping list of American luxury items that I could bring in without duty with my emigration papers. The first of July was a target date so June 15th marked my final workday. Assignments had kept me away. The boss called me in for goodbyes but asked what it would take to keep me on. I laughed out loud till he said there was a project in Africa. No one in the world could understand my desire to see Africa but if she loved me a couple months shouldn’t matter. My phone call to Rosinha was met with all her fire and passion but in defiance. Not to be dissuaded, I committed to the Ghana assignment and felt I could always charm my way back into her arms when I returned to Brasil. How vain.
My returned to Brasil in December of 1976 as an "Estrangeiro Permanente" was met with disdain from my beloved Rosinha. She never believed I would return and my delay for Africa was enough to cause the difference. She provided one token encounter at the Pampas Palace Hotel and I was left with only her shadow. Being alone in Brasil for a young American male can be a good thing. I made the most of this exotic adventure for a year and a half. A message from home telling of young brother David’s cancer, gave me the license to return to the States gracefully and void all Brasilian obligations.

Suicide

I feel a compulsion to write about what was Aaron but have no idea where it will take me. The powerful impact of suicide is being felt in my extended family. Today most of our family lives contain ex’s. These are never ex-ed out as most are bound by early bonds of marriage, children, and family-in-laws.
Last night, an eleven o’clock call brought the tearful news from my former wife that her nephew, my daughter’s close cousin, had killed himself. A shotgun blast left the twenty-seven year old behind their house to be found by his wife and three year old son. Those most torn, are loving parents and a brother wondering where they went wrong. An aunt and uncle clutch to their children concerned for a strand of that seed in their offspring, reeling from such proximity, and deepest sympathy for the trauma of their brother and his wife. His grandmother forms another callous to allow her vigilance as a surviving matriarch.
The lack of understanding drops us to our knees, even in my distant role. Busily getting through the day at work keeps it at bay till the silence of a drive home leaves nothing but Aaron on your mind. What can possibly repudiate the beauty of living?
The will to live is so paramount in all animal species with some exceptions in ours. Years ago, I remember catching a rancid tomcat with my bare hands. He had been raiding my garbage can for some time. I felt his instinctive will to survive in the grip of my hands. What can possibly take that from Homo-sapiens?It is not within me to understand.

Rosinha de Brasil

What could have been a routine assignment for my customer service duties became a tremor that rocked my world for years to come. I was assigned to a Volkswagen engine plant in Sao Bernardo de Campo constructed by our Brasilian licensee. Enco-Zolcsak was founded by a Hungarian refugee Estivan Zolcsak.
I left for Brasil in November 1974 and returned February 1975. I will never to be the same again, because of Brasil but mostly because of Rosinha.
This adventure could go on to equal a volume of "Atlas Shrugged" but the first chapter was certainly the most enchanting. Keyed into her power from those who feared her in stories that made it back to the States about this vixen possessing the financial reins of Enco-Zolcsak Ltda, I knew the challenge was great and I wanted her before I ever saw her.
I met her cold rejection with glancing blows to overcome a barrier, as I do not think anyone ever dared meet her head to head. By the time the company Christmas party came I had earned her respect. Something happened that night that changed both of us forever. Her shield dropped for a moment and a flame started between us. I saw her compassion for others and knew we had an opportunity. I volunteered to stay over Christmas, they thought to handle the Volkswagen problems but this gave Rosinha a chance to play host during the holidays for my "sacrifice". Christmas Eve at Steve's was nice but Christmas Day at Rosinha's was a real beginning to understanding the people of Brasil and getting close to Rosinha.
Her enchantment was so overwhelming. Nightlife in Sao Paulo was ours, swapping ice cubes during a kiss was very erotic after the initial shock. In her realm of restaurants and boites, she had a charm and majesty that brought her adoration from waiters. She showed a great deal of respect for servants and the impoverished, much to the contrast of her dealings with workers at Enco. In spite of her control over me there was always the bending of her ways to accommodate me.
I was quite enchanted by her belief in her "Protector" this was definitely Brasilian. An old lady's picture was displayed in her car and my questions concerning her were ignored outside of once acknowledging her to be her protector. One day I realized I was getting very close to Rosinha when on a Saturday drive we arrived at a house and were greeted by the old lady. She was definitely what I would call a mystic with candles, deities and the like. I think the base was Catholicism with major ties to Candomblé. I expect Rosinha used her as a seer and fortuneteller with palm readings and the like. Rosinha showed her the type of admiration you gave your mother. I was honored by being formally introduced. I believe Rosinha was supporting her financially.
What could have been my last day in Brasil, marked my return. Now Roger Whittiker's “Last Farewell” recalls the passion of that night when we parted. Never before or never again will my heart beat as fast as it did that night. Within the grounds of her family abode, we lost all sense of surroundings and consciousness to encompass each other.

Tibet Will Rise

Oppression has never, anywhere,
succeeded in suppressing
the eternal desire of people
to live as free men,
free to think their own thoughts,
free to act
in their best interest and welfare
and to live as human beings
rather than robots or slaves.
The Tibetans believe that
even if the Chinese leave nothing
but ashes in their sacred
land,Tibet will rise from them
as a free country
even if it takes a lot of time
to do so.
--His Holiness the XIVth Dalai Lama

Eulogy to Mrs. Stoddard

This majestic lady spanned five generations of my family. Her influence touched my father, my daughter, and particularly me. She was my teacher in second, third, and forth grades then again in the eighth at Leonard School.
My signed copy of her book, The Leopard’s Changing Spots says, “To My Favorite Student” but I know she favored all of us. Mrs. Stoddard never had a bad student. She found the good and brought out the best in everyone. Because her expectations were high, our achievements followed.
Beyond the arts and sciences, her inspiration by example came from a total absence of prejudice. There was no gender, racial, socio-economic, or intellectual advantage that impacted her principles.Shortly after her ninetieth birthday I stopped when seeing her trying out a new push-mower around a tree at her home. Of course, she did not need my help. Her independent spirit never faded. Mrs. Stoddard provided stability throughout my life knowing I could always find her at 70 Pontiac Street. I am going to miss that.

Vinkeveen

Early calculations with a ten am flight, eight am boarding, and being five hours away from Amsterdam, any attempt at sleeping that night would be detrimental. Half way through the EMO Exhibition with my German partners and my early departure merited a party on my final day. After that evening of food and drink, two cold showers were sobering enough to get me on the road at two am. A couple short naps along the way put me an hour away at 7:05 am. Open windows, loud radio, and a large coffee made little difference at this phase of sleep deprivation. My dreary eyes focused on an exit sign for Vinkeveen. My mind rolled back to 1973 when I stopped there to visit Ad Bemelman, the European sales manager for my Kaiserslautern Germany work assignment. Ad had become a very special figure when in an earlier meeting he told me of his father’s involvement with the grandson of Theo Van Gogh, Vincent’s brother, to establish the Musee Van Gogh, soon to be opened, in Amsterdam. Hey, he was talking to a kid from Leonard where a library card was a level of sophistication. Here, Ad and his link to Vincent made him an icon. Moreover was his association with this community. He took me on a mini tour of Vinkeveen that day. First was a stop at a wooden shoemaker’s shop. Too touristy but an effort to explain the practical nature of a device intended to keep the farmer’s feet dry. The second stop was to meet eccentric but essential members of the community – The Recycle Siblings. Two brothers and a sister, who were unmarried and devoted to collecting garbage, sorted the valuables into piles of metal, paper, and plastic. I likened it to Dung Beetles in the play Insect Comedy where they were protective of their balls of shit. Ad was concerned who would be around to carry on after the aging siblings were gone. I now wonder. Last and most memorable was the Dutch vegetable auction. We took our place in the theatre of bidders built over a canal where boats loaded with fresh vegetables floated in with contents available for sale to the highest bidder. The uniqueness came from a descending clock on the wall. Each seat in the theatre had a button to stop the clock. There was no competitive bidding only a single stoke of someone’s button to stop the clock and buy contents at a Dutch Guilder per kilo figure.
That thought process on that Starry Night overcame the heavy early morning truck traffic and transpose me to Schiphol Airport in time for a dash to the gate for my flight home.

Man of La Mancha

A bubbling young lad sitting next to me on the A330 to Amsterdam glowed with the excitement of his third flight and his first to Europe. His company from Escanaba was sending him and two others to Hamburg Germany to learn about power generating windmills from the Germans. I was impressed by the young man’s enthusiasm and zest but moreover as a representative of an American kid. He was clean cut, well dressed, and had good manners. I was curious to know but would never ask, if he came from a two parent family, attended church on Sunday, and dined with the whole family most evenings.
We talked a little about alternative energy. I said he could consider himself our ‘Man of Escanaba’, as Don Quixote to meet the challenge of the windmills. He nodded with a grin but I wasn’t sure he knew the story. I loved the lunacy of the Knight of the Woeful Countenance and his plight to win the heart of the lovely Dulcinea.
Later that day I was driving to Berlin. Windmills nearly dominate the landscape in some areas. At night their blinking red lights fill the horizon. The sight may tweak the heartstrings of some environmentalists but I think it would be better to have an isolated energy plant fed from an underground source. I have heard our prized windmills near Palm Springs California have decimated the eagle population.

Kingdom Of Cambodia

It is a bit chilling when thinking about Cambodia of the sixties and seventies with Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge that led to the Killing Fields. The Khmer Rouge still has some strongholds today which have deterred Yanks like me from playing tourist. Two prior attempts to get here were a timing problem the other was misinformed Chinese agent in Guangzhou telling me there was too much unrest for Americans to travel there. The Kingdom of Cambodia today has Norodom Sihanouk, another echo of the past, in his eighties still enshrined as father of the King.
In my plight to get here, I had confirmed my plan by phone with the agent back in Bangkok. As language problems have it, my paperwork noted tour arrangements which explained the seemingly high price when all I asked for was plane fare and a hotel. So be it. Upon arrival in Siem Reap, the swarms of Japanese tourists were looking for their respective guides. I felt I would locate my Pink Rose Tour just to get to the hotel but I saw no funny pink flag waving. As I made my way to find a taxi, I spotted my misspelled name on a banner held by a concerned guide. I was his only client so this might work after all. His name was Vishnu and he was quick to say he was Buddhist not Hindu as the name might imply. He struggled to pronounce my name, so I said, “Call me Raja but I am not Hindu.” Driving from the airport I saw fields of rice being tilled by water buffalo, this was the classic sight I had sought in Vietnam in 1994. Before me was the Orient I had expected to find in prior travels. Cambodia is emerging from fifty years of war torn oppression such misfortune gives us a glimpse of their time lapse.
My Sofitel Royal Angkor was the best hotel to continue my indulgence. It’s too much of a contrast to those in the rice paddies, sorry. The appreciative staff was so good in every way. You can tell those that find gratitude in having a job – it is not servitude. The food selection and preparation put it outside its environment. I doubt the owners were seeing a return on their investment with such a minimal guest list but then it was the off-season.
The sight and feel of the ruins were, in a word, fulfilling. I may have been more enraptured with the aspect of just being there. In trekking through England several years ago, I overheard someone say “Another bloody castle and another bloody cathedral.” Not to belittle the majestic sight of such a wonder but once the awe subsided Angkor Wat, Thom, or the Leper King did not matter. Maybe when the heat and humidity are at 100, little matters. Drenched in perspiration, I took liberty to tell Vishnu that we will not change Angkor but Angkor will change us unless we succumb to vendors selling cold beer.
Princess Diana’s land mine campaign will continue in this country for years to come. A group of mine victims played music for the cause in the ruins of Bayon. Shamefully the United States never took up the cause as we were the origin of so many. Our flight from Vietnam led to Cambodia’s destruction by the Viet Cong and the ascension of Pol Pot. Time seems to have healed the wounds we left in this area. It is probably given from the nirvana of Buddhism or just a generation looking forward.

Faced with a 6 AM flight out of Bangkok, I had chosen the last flight from Siem Reap at 8 PM. Of course, I wanted the most time in Cambodia there was no way I could get a hotel with 10 hours transit time. At 10 PM, a sign on the Northwest desk said check in would begin at three AM. I rolled my luggage into a baby changing stall and got into some fresh traveling clothes. A floor above the departure counters was the nice Sky Lounge Restaurant that fit my situation. Once I staked my claim with a grilled salmon dinner and a bottle of red wine in a setting made for six, I sipped Perrier for three hours with my laptop. Call me ‘the Bobble-Head on the Balcony”. Who needs a first class lounge?

Kingdom of Siam

It took the usual thirteen hours from Detroit to Narita in Japan to get me in striking distance to most anywhere in the Orient. This time it is six hours to Bangkok Thailand for installation of a Labtap System. Thanks to my Gold Elite status Northwest upgraded me to Business Class but this breached my consumption moderation outlook. I had to partake of their good offerings of French Bordeaux with Japanese prepared salmon and who could resist a little cognac. My midnight arrival made for easy passage to a potential sales representative’s recommendation of SC Park Hotel. Now, slipping a day, it was Tuesday and an afternoon meeting with their staff. The orientation went well but pointless as their entrance to my customer was denied. That evening I had a nice dinner with the owner, her husband, and daughter. I had picked up small Harley biker shirts at the airport as gifts for people unknown. Having adopted the thought of Chinese women being so small, this is not the case with affluent Thai people. The shirts found a home with the daughter and another sister.
Wednesday at 8 am I was picked up by my customer for an hour and a half drive to their R&D lab. Truly an impressive facility fitting of a petroleum company with a government owned majority. Machine setup and general introduction to the system with the crew was plenty for the first day. Lunch and dinner were hosted at local restaurants by managers and crew. Both meals held similarity to Vietnam’s Tan Hiep Pot as a soup dish with a variety of other foods fired by charcoal on your table. My quarters were at the company hotel within their compound. It was a stately room in the manner of hospital construction with teak furnishings and marble bath. I was probably the only guest. I was handicapped without the Internet or cable television but I did get some productive work and writing done.
To generate some background noise I had the TV on. Their language was not comprehendible and in no time became nauseating. A State dinner was on all of the eleven channels. The King and Queen must have felt it was important for all to witness. Silence was better for me. I would not say in Thailand there was any resemblance to portrait presence in the days of Chairman Mao or Saddam Hussein but you got know the Royal Family in hotel lobbies and the King extended blessings all along the highways. My host company wore uniforms of yellow in respect to the King. They call this a constitutional monarchy. And yes, the King is definitely a Figure Head.
The second day with classes for four or five chemists left me a bit unsure of where they would be a month from now but I gave it my best. My last dinner was the best. The young lad from the lab and a lady chemist hosted me. At the local town of Saraburi, we ate at Fuku Garden Restaurant which had much the same food but it just tasted better.
My work was complete. As anticipated, I had two days and three nights before my return home. Now I was free to carry out an awaited option. With a little help I was able to secure flight and hotel in Cambodia for a 40 hour trip to Angkor Wat.

Cheng Jing

Anna was an art student who approached me on my way to Tiananmen Square in 2005. She asked if she could speak English with me. She turned out to be my guide and interpreter for three days. Since, she was married, had a baby boy last year, and is a working mom.
My 'Chinese daughter' came to the hotel for lunch then we went for a walk. She asked some locals if there was a park where we could walk without dodging traffic. We grabbed a cab to get a local "zoo". My God what a disgusting, ill-kept place that was. I had never seen so many ignored species. Well, something to forget. On our return to the hotel, we sat poolside for more relaxed conversation. I queried again about her personal life previously ignored. I asked if her husband was the student friend I had met before and what work did he do. Embarrassed, she said her husband was thirty-five, without any skills, and cared for the baby while she worked. At that, I was quick to change the subject. There was nothing I could offer after such a turn of events. Two years ago, she was a bubbly, energetic university art student looking for a merited future. The energy is there to get through her days selling medicine for very little income. She says her English skills are dwindling too much to be competitive for advancing job markets. It was good to see Anna again but she seems to have taken her place with the masses in this overpopulated country. Her Chinese name is Cheng Jing. I hope her warm smile remains.

DTW-NRT-PEK

On the final three of an eighteen hour journey to Beijing, I have been upgraded to NWA’s World Business Class. I am not one to pay for added comfort as I go comatose during air travel and look to the destination. My Gold Elite status normally gets an upgrade in the States. I made Gold after 103,000 air miles last year. At thirty-six thousand feet above the Sea of Japan, I think of Leonard, where I spent the first eighteen years of my life. The dandy in the row ahead would never have come from a Midwest town of 391. His Gucci shoes and glasses border a matching green with silver stripped shirt and pants outfit. The silver coordinates with the bouffant curls of his charcoal hairdo. He probably earned every sawbuck it took to don his overweight frame.
The airline food was quite good. On board from Tokyo, the skewered beef and egg rolls of rice paper had the presentation factor given with Japanese cuisine. In business class you get real utensils. Years ago I would have hidden the stainless and added to my hors d’oeuvre collection at home. I haven’t matured but just have enough.
At least I am free from the screaming Japanese kids that traumatized the area around row twenty-seven from Detroit to Tokyo. I am not into in-flight movies but to seek sanction from the tirades of the four year old behind me, I put on the headset to seal my ears. “Freedom Writers” was showing. It may have been a bit melodramatic but it sure gave light to the plight of inner-city kids. I was emotionally drained but inspired to find miracles within us.

Looks like there may be some censorship in China - not sure if this will post..

Loss of Innocence

I recently had some time to talk with my ex-brother-in-law Johnny, whom I made reference to in The Amish from the blog of April 20. As with most of my writings – it was a moment in time. Johnny had a small business selling nineteenth-century farm equipment to the Amish in the seventies. “It’s gone,” he says. “Gosh, the price of milk is the same today as it was in ‘73. There ain’t no way a family of fifteen can survive with such a market. How is an ole Dutchman gonna have a quarter-million bucks to buy land for his offspring to start a farm? Why the ole man has to do carpentry work away from home jus’ to feed the kids. Then he’s not there to tend his children. Oh, those that are hangin’ on the ole ways are doomed.”
I am quick to acknowledge ‘nothing remains the same’ but love to behold the innocence of our past. These writings are a chance to pay homage to what I respect. I mostly perceive primitive peoples and children of the world to be in possession of our souls.
In 2002, I returned to Brazil after twenty-five years to spend time with my then best friend Finardi’s family. Now his widow and their three beautiful children are adults and more magnificent than ever. After all of my absence, a wild search uncovered the seemingly ‘love of my life,’ Rosinha – which is deserving of a future blog in itself.
Last November, I met a man from Ghana who told me of my African nation is devastated by -----. I could not retain such truth. I hope to return to Ghana this year or next, find Armahfio and his family.
This Friday, I will be returning to Beijing for a little business. Two years ago, a young college student came up to me and asked if she could speak English with me. Ana will now have a husband and child for me to meet next week.
I have never been one to ‘go back.’ Whether it is some cosmic mist that made the magic of a first encounter, I am learning that there may be more to life than the past. There is a new reality for me to address.

The Sea God

The most memorable moments during my four months in Ghana began with my friend Armahfio and his awareness of local events. Along a remote ten kilometer stretch of Atlantic Ocean beachfront, there were many small and primitive fishing villages. One August morning I pulled my Datsun pickup into his village of Otrokper and Armahfio ran up to say, “The seas are rough and the fish don’t come so they make Ju Ju to the Sea God.” Again my friend captured my interest. Always knowing events that may be commonplace for them was excitement for me. He hopped in and we drove off. Along the way, I broke into my box lunch and offered him half a tuna salad sandwich. He took a sniff, shuttered, and set it down on the seat. Soon we drove by some friends he knew, he grabbed the sandwich while hanging out the window, pretending to eat as he waved to his friends.
He directed me to turn off the sand road towards the ocean. To avoid getting stuck in the loose sand, I parked the truck and we walked towards the domain of the Sea God. We soon came to a thatch-roofed hut. The remains of a sacrificial chicken lay nearby. Inside laid the bones of the Sea God which to me was the skeleton of a whale. Ju Ju pots and other offerings around their God bore witness to the sacred event that took place. The blood of the beheaded chicken adorned the bones. Pathways led the way between the ocean and the home of the Sea God. Along the way, another spirited dwelling contained additional offerings.
The intensity of such Ju Ju happenings, command respect for their beliefs. I would expect a shaman of long ago had interpreted the whale remains to some fishing omen. Their faith in its function must lead to good results.

Career Builders

I finished high school at seventeen with good grades and a keen interest in math, history, art, English, and Latin. Perhaps because of our small town, blue-collar image, college was going to have to wait. I inherited a good work ethic that played out from the time I was eleven with paper routes, hauling hay, delivering milk, and working the local harness racehorse farms. After graduation, it seemed that real professions stemmed from a city job. Working at a bakery was better than mucking stalls so I signed on for seventy-five cents an hour, ten hours a day, six days a week. Starting at six in the morning was easy for a farmhand. The bakers started at four! The owner was too attentive in monitoring my three-quarter leverage of the custard and cream filler for sweet rolls. His concern over excess left me prone to fill each roll to the max in his absence. The highlight of my day was driving the sweet cargo in the delivery truck to his other store. On Wednesday and Friday, I was left awestruck with donut deliveries to the local Girl Scout Camp. This was every teenager’s fantasy. My final hour of the day was to scrape the sugary deposits off the wooden floor on my hands and knees. This is when the boss’s daughter would find time to stand over me in consolation. After two months into this routine, the boss called me aside and explained that with due diligence – I too could find success and become a baker. By this time, I wanted to say I was looking forward to towering above his daughter but left to say I would think about it. The thought of starting at four in the morning caused me to flee. I never went back for my last paycheck and he never pursued to pay me. Following my sticky pastry situation, I decided to follow my buddy Rich and join the Navy. From an initial interview, I learned of a ‘kiddy cruise’ which meant I could join before I was eighteen and get out the day before I was twenty-one. For maximum benefit with minimal effort, I decided to hold off till the day before I was eighteen and standby at home for a few more months.
Our recent migrant worker situation brought all of this to mind. I needed to buy some time and work out a form of survival until it was time to go Navy. Nearby Imlay City has peat and black dirt deposit that yields great vegetables and harvest time brought migrant workers to the fields. At dawn, I assembled with the Mexicans at the Farm Bureau. The muck farmers would drive up in their pickups, point with discrimination to the chosen day-workers, and we would climb into the bed of their truck. Vintage Mexican workers carried their own machete for harvest, a razor-sharp sword to sever roots from lettuce or cabbage, and a barb on the end that plucked a potato or other root veggies from the ground. On our second day, my two friends and I were selected again by the same potato harvester and told we could get ten cents above the normal dollar an hour by just coming directly to his farm. Our task was to load the sixty-pound crates of potatoes on to the wagon in the field then stack them in the barn. It became very obvious our youthful exhilaration was outwitted by the macho gaucho barbing the spuds in the field. They resided in shanty-towns unseen from the main road where wives and children emerged to lend a hand. They never broke a sweat in the ninety-degree heatwave, whereas, the dust bonded to every portion of my body. I will never forget the pride on the face of the old Dutchman when he exclaimed the barn was full from such a bountiful harvest but with a little effort, we could add two more levels to the top of our heap. This meant holding the sixty-pound crate close to your chest with four feet of clearance, tracking over the upper level of crates, in a barn 120 feet deep by 40 feet wide, and if it was ninety outside it was one hundred and ten inside.

Carrying of the Chiefs

One of my most spectacular sights in the world to witness was the Carrying of the Chiefs in and around the village of Ada Foah Ghana in 1976. The regional Ada people were one of many ethnic groups to maintain their heritage since colonial times in West Africa. This event was paramount to what I would guess to have been twenty-five area Chiefs. The initial day of arrival seemed to be timed that each group converged in a vast open field, segmented as in a territorial ground, as drums beat incessantly throughout the day. The formality of shielding the Chief from the sun had umbrellas marking the throne in each group. Part of each entourage would be a Ju Ju priest or witch doctor, multiple wives of the Chief, and confidantes unbeknown to me. Many a ‘Stool’ was carried. One Stool per chiefdom was sacred as it is said to possess the Soul of its people. Gold ornamentation adorned the Chiefs with rings, bracelets, and a few with crowns, giving acclaim to the colonial name of Ghana as Gold Coast. The royal robes of most Chiefs were Kente Cloth. In colorful geometric patterns, the hand-woven four-inch wide strips of Kente Cloth are sewn together for a majestic gown.
The second day had the Chiefs atop a litter on the shoulders of cohorts for a grand parade. One held a human skull; some toted rifles, and most had a solemn look commanding respect. Their assembly of followers in their finest dress made a unified effort to represent their leader. Culminating at a parade ground equivalent to a football field, the Chiefs had their separate ‘executive suite’ areas. The drums played to the groups of women in matching outfits who marching around the field. There was some form of competition that I did not fathom but it went on for hours.
My somewhat dubious honor of being the only white man around left me open to the suspicions of an old Ju Ju priest, in particular. On the first day, he gave me a pointed stare-down. At the parade ground, he placed a spirited doll in front of me and proceeded to chant and dance with some intent to send evil forces my way. In my life since then, I have not succumbed to an apparition, at least from what I can tell.
My comprehension of what took place during those festive days is very limited. I saw many splinter groups in separate gatherings but felt it was best to avoid intrusion.

Lytha Curry

Be it bold or intrusive, I tend to lack a great deal of protocol in times of curiosity. While enjoying a peaceful ride through the hills of Tennessee, I came across a home emitting smoke from the front entrance. I knew there was not a crisis requiring emergency services, but I stopped to see what was wrong. In an area where coal exuded from most every crevasse, the locals collected this free fuel. Such was the case here where an elderly lady’s cookstove lacked proper ventilation and the smoke-filled the house till it found its way to the front door. I drove into the yard, she bolted out in alarm at a visitor in this remote area, and I inquired of her safety. She scoffed at my concern but was embarrassed to lack presence for a visitor. Her name was Lytha Curry, uncertain of my purpose, but not one to show any lack of hospitality. I expressed an interest in how she survived with a few chickens and a pig. She was quick to point out her brother came by often to bring other essentials. My anxiety to put this moment on film violated her privacy. I was amazed at her conveyance of home with the simplicity of a wildflower in a Pepsi bottle and a newspaper image of Jesus pinned to the wall. Perhaps I should have spent more time in conversation to build a better bond of comfort. As it was, her pleasure was probably in her own realm.

Cape of Good Hope

I have had a real sense of departure while traveling to such places as Kathmandu, Tasmania, and Borneo. When I sighted a penguin on a beach near Cape Town, I knew I was far away from home. On the flight from Atlanta, the pilot said this was the longest commercial flight pattern on the planet. There were no icebergs in view and I later found that the Jackass penguins are native to South Africa. February is summertime in the Southern Hemisphere and true to form, these creatures were having fun.
My stopover on the way to Tanzania had a few objectives. The Cape of Good Hope is a sailor’s landmark and a must-see for me. There is turbulence at the extremities of continents that needs to be felt.
The source for Pinotage wine was close at hand and an area vineyard had great lodging on their estate. In my notes for the trip was the phone number for the uncle of my favored employee, a former South African who married a Peace Corp worker and now lived in USA. Our timing was good and the uncle was able to meet me at the vineyard restaurant for dinner that evening. I was no stranger to machinery but when this retired miner started talking about the equipment it takes to get to diamonds, I could only smile and shake my head. The specifics escape me now but he ran the rock cutting machinery that bored caverns miles underground. The magnitude of such endeavors is commensurate with the price of diamonds and gold. One of his many points given about extremes in this field was that there is a limit at which a cable can lower an elevator. To reach miles below the surface – the strength of the cable is determined by its diameter – the larger the diameter the more weight is added to the elevator load – any fixed diameter cable has a threshold – when it is reached or a point of no return where it is the weight of the cable, not the elevator that is the factor. Into our second bottle of wine, I felt as though we had mathematically disproved infinity.

Duel Strong

I started researching my family history eighteen years ago and have four thousand names connected in a very extensive tree. As might be expected, some bad seeds can be found. I did not have to go back very far to dig up too much information about my Great-grandfather Duel Strong. My dad’s maternal grandfather left some scars in the linage of the Strong family’s fourteen generations coming from England in 1634.
Duel died at eighty-six when I was ten. I remembered him as a crotchety old beekeeper wearing a cowboy hat but when dad refused to go to his funeral, I knew there was something wrong.
Duel’s first wife Emma left him after raising a son and six daughters. The children and others bore the hardship or just bad luck of living in that household. Perry was the oldest. His wild reputation I have found in newspaper clippings of the day including draft dodging to Canada and ‘suspicious’ behavior with the fifteen-year-old daughter of his father’s ‘housekeeper’ when he was twenty-three. Dad told of Perry’s Model T body that was rebuilt of wood after a crash. Zilla lost an eye in a sledding accident and died at twelve from appendicitis. Leona and Meda found decent husbands and raised normal families. Clara became a flamboyant socialite after leaving home. Three of her husbands are known and estimates say there were probably seven. I interviewed her in 1990 for some family information or as she called it ‘trying to dig up a little dirt.’ She resented me as a grandson of Jay that stole her sister Mina at seventeen when he was thirty years old. My grandmother died at thirty-four due to medical practice of using x-rays to burn off moles but resulted in cancer. My dad was ten at the time.
Freda also married young to escape a turbulent household. At eighteen she married Jake Morin then thirty-seven. They soon had a daughter Bessie. Jake’s drinking and failed work ethic left them estranged after three years so Freda took Bessie to live with her mother then remarried in the town of Holly. On June 11, 1927, Perry came to visit and took Freda and Bessie to the moving picture show. Jake laid waiting in the bushes by the railroad tracks with a stolen gun. One shot killed Perry and several shots left Freda dying while running to her mother’s house. Perry was thirty-two and Freda twenty-six. A posse quickly formed and went after Jake down the tracks. He was captured after his gun jammed trying to shoot a deputy in pursuit. My dad remembered riding to Holly in the middle of the night and seeing the blood-soaked bodies at the house of Grandmother Emma. Dad was six. Clara told me that Jake was released from prison when he was eighty and went to live with his daughter Bessie.
Duel’s second wife Amanda made the newspapers too when she poisoned herself and her two daughters fourteen and seven. Stemming from a ‘domestic dispute’ the distraught lady survived to leave the old bastard but the youngest daughter died from consuming the bichloride of mercury tablets.
Not all Memorial Day sightings are fond.

BVI Bare Boat Cruise

Just as a perspective on how to put together a vacation, ya gotta hear about this one. This was probably the third ‘vacation’ of my life, as everything else had been work-related or a quest. Jeanie, my dearest, sweetest, special friend in the whole world, put together a group of people two years ago. As a member of the local Detroit Yacht Club, she Shanghaied Captain John and first mate Dave to command a forty-six-foot catamaran out of Tortola in the British Virgin Islands.
The “Ana Luna” slept eight for two weeks under sail with gas, food, and grog; the cost per week came to $750.00 per mate. Jeanie’s good friend Rena is a gourmet cook and planned our menu. The aforementioned did the full two weeks while Patricia, my brother, sister-in-law, and I made up the crew for the second week.
The BVI consists of a dozen islands in the Caribbean east of Puerto Rico. Four are large enough for settlement but most are open diving and exploration. Mooring buoys allow tying your vessel off for the night or a moment. The unique element of such an excursion is the freedom to choose. Captain John left each day open to a whim of consensus since any destination was no more than an hour and a half away by sail. I had taken scuba lessons earlier in the year with my brother and his wife so we rendezvoused with a dive company to get our certification in these pristine waters. Snorkeling was great everywhere and a sunken vessel added to the thrill.
The pirate theme was in vogue everywhere. Particularly so, at a pub on Jost Van Dyke, where a naughty-cal entertainer, one-man-band, kept us laughing with a play on the pirate phonic ‘aahhrr’. In a Pusser’s Rum promotion, shots were awarded to us fools that stood up to sing a sailor’s song. Of course, I was a week into a new beard so I mimicked Barnacle Bill the Sailor greeting his wench to sing, “If it scratches ye’r face, it’ll tickle ye’r arse.”
As a Navy man, my favorite toast was, “The wind that blows, The ship that goes, And the lass that loved a sailor.”

Peruvian Andes

In traveling more remote regions the world, I marvel at how people have adapted to their environment over time. I am not referring to citizens in the deserts of Arizona draining the Colorado River to have green lawns. The indigenous Inca of Peru are a hearty lot conditioned for centuries in harsh surroundings. Cuzco is a large city in the midst of this ancient Empire at over 11,000 feet. I hired a driver to venture into the surrounding area. Between my Portuguese and his Spanish, we managed to get by quite well. He spoke the local Quechua language as a bonus. We visited some rather remote villages where terrace farming went on as always. Most children were barefoot in a very cool forty degrees. They looked quite healthy in this a thin atmosphere – plump to ward off the cold. We came upon a village thrashing wheat, first with donkeys running over straw than all the people separating the grain. I commented to my driver that it was good to see all the villagers working together to make bread. He laughed and said no, that this was to make beer.
Machu Picchu is a citadel to what embodies the depth of their civilization. I was only in Cuzco for four days so I did a one-day train trip. I have a couple friends that made the four-day, three-night Inca Trail walk. Either way, the spirits have survived at 8,000 feet and you will be consumed. Liken it to the Taj Mahal or the Pyramids but nothing compares.

Free Hugs

Free Hugs

Trabalhador (Brazilian worker)

My work experience in Brazil two years prior to my return in 1976 on a permanent visa had been somewhat predisposed with two-hour lunches, translators, and the best hotels and restaurants. My new project was near Belo Horizonte in the interior. This was far from the coastal cities and shantytowns surrounding them. A small-town guy could appreciate a place like this. The Brazilian government dictated the industrial location and foreign companies could build production plants if 60% of their production was for export. How else could you cure a trade imbalance?
My assignment was a conveyor installation at a new Fiat plant. After a brief introduction, I was in charge of thirty electricians and mechanics and the translator just walked away. Three weeks later, I had not heard a word of English above my own mumblings. I was speaking Portuguese at a level that provided a deeper understanding of those around me.
Contagem was the name given to this industrial area. An expressway was built from Belo and the airport to accommodate freight and people like me. I knew the right-of-way was afforded to vehicles. Pedestrians had to take their chances. With a six to six (dawn to dusk) workday, God helps those workers that crossed the expressway. I soon realized the people lying along the highway, sometimes covered, sometimes not) were workers who did not make it. With such menial jobs paying a few dollars a day, the people needed to walk many hours in the dark to get to work. Bus fare was not an option at the poverty level. One body lying there was more than enough to understand their strife.
An overhead conveyor system will run twenty feet above a plant floor and there we had three levels in places. Six feet below the trolley was a suspended access walkway of steel fencing material. In the States there would be side-rails but not here. Roberto de Piero and I were comparing notes at the end of the day. I saw a shadow from above then a pathetic thud. A short distance away was our trabalhador who simply walked off the edge. He was bleeding so profusely from his head I could not look but Roberto cuddled him like a baby. Medical help was an hour in coming. Insurance did not exist and disability had no compensation. We should not have allowed him to be up there. Delirium would set in after such a long workday, especially if he was one whose two-hour walk to work created a sixteen-hour day. Roberto was one of a very few supervisory people that held affection for the struggling working class from whence he came.
There was an attitude for workers to excel at all cost. We were without basic equipment. A hacksaw blade was a primary tool. With only a blade, a good mechanic could cut through a two inch I-beam in an hour, sometimes less, but hands bleeding. Everyday there was a line of people waiting to replace a fallen comrade.
I have forgotten, but I will guess his name to be Itimal. A good electrician, I took as an understudy. A code reading system for carrier routing required an intelligent guy like him. I had returned from lunch which by now was a fifteen minute snack of rice and beans, to see Itimal trying to repair a code reader with the conveyor running. His back was to an approaching carrier; I dove for the emergency stop but too late to save his ring finger. I saw him six months later doing well without the digit.
Maybe I too was under duress from the Fiat people pushing the project. Italians were not redeemed until a recent trip to Northern Italy.

István Zolcsák

Enco-Zolcsák was the Brazilian licensee of the American company I had worked for in the seventies. Enco was a major mechanical contractor for automobile factories throughout Brazil. I was assigned to Enco for three months in 1974 to assist with the Volkswagen engine project at São Bernardo do Campo.
István Zolcsák founded his enterprise ten years earlier. A Hungarian dissident of the Russian takeover and a big player in the Hungarian Revolution in 1956, his political prominence caused his imprisonment. Supporters were able to free him from jail and smuggle him off to Brazil in 1957. Since most of his revenue and effort had been to free family and friends for a safe haven in Brazil. He founded the Transylvanian World Federation in Brazil.
Steve was a magnanimous figure with charm, generosity, and power. He was also surrounded by people beholding to him for his benevolence. The family was first. Key to his organization was nephew Walter, second in command. Most sacred were his two children. Georgina, his loving daughter of fifteen, was charming and poised, with whom I enjoyed many conversations for her desire to know about life in the USA. His son, Pedro was a very young thirteen years of age but perched on a pedestal and poised by his father. I opted to remain in Brazil over the Christmas holidays and partook in festivities at Enco and Steve’s home. With our close association, Steve invited me to emigrate to Brazil and work directly for him. My growing love for his chief financial officer, Rosinha, gave merit to such an idea. I returned in 1976 to manage electrical engineering and conveyor installations. I received word that my young brother had terminal cancer so I cut short my commitment and returned to the USA in July of 1977.
I always felt the greatness of my Brazilian adventure was absolute. My fondness for that life and those people was conclusive. 

The road home

My success at the Philadelphia trade show kept exhilaration embodied through tear down, loading my SUV, and finding an Interstate routing to get me to my next stop at Bellefonte. Left behind, was visiting my nephew’s new daughter in NYC and a distant cousin in NJ to workout some genealogy questions. Looking ahead was a loaded highway of semis leading the way through construction buoys. My grip on the wheel eased as I reached Harrisburg then followed the Susquehanna River on a less-traveled route. This time of year was special to witness Spring in various phases depending on the altitude. At an elevation of two thousand feet, deciduous trees were bare where the valleys were filled blooms and new life.
I had been in Bellefonte a couple years before in search of information at the library on a distant relative who was born there in 1810. The town was rich from history and embodied with stately homes. I was in awe at the lack of fast–food joints and major retail shopping areas. My Dashboard Debbie was working wonders. It has a points-of-interest selection and without any visible hotels I GPS'd for help. The nearest hotel was ten miles away but many a bed and breakfast. I picked a place called the Reynolds Mansion. With twelve rooms, I opted for one with a steam shower. It was a bit prissy with pink towels and a four-poster bed. There was too much faux-shit on the walls and I keep sniffing because of the scented fufu stuff in baskets. It would have been damn romantic if I wasn't alone. Charlotte said breakfast would be at nine but that was my scheduled appointment. She said she would put a serving of ham and cheese quiche in the refrigerator for my breakfast. Okay, so now I am feeling very limp-wristed. I went off to the Gamble Mill Tavern for a very manly steak.

On the road

I have been out of touch recently. On Sunday, I spent ten hours driving to Philadelphia to work a trade show at the Marriott. It was interesting to see spring blooming in various stages along the way. Pressed to reach my destination, I had no time to stop and smell the blossoms.
Downtown Philly is a big city with all the contamination and craziness. During the lunch break, I walked down to see the Liberty Bell. Other than the exercise of eight blocks down and back I tripped over winos, dodged those looking for handouts, and escaped from a prostitute. While standing in the security line with a bunch of waist-high school kids, one little ~ eight-year-old called out, "Ya know the Bell is made of gold." None of the other kids objected. I wanted to say it was made of pennies but kept quiet – gold is a better concept for youth. The Bell was so much smaller than expected. The funniest sight was a bag-lady with a staked claim at a bus stop. She had a wig that looked like a twisted mop. I couldn't help but stand aside and watch her directing passengers -- no one gave her a second glance but I am sure that she thought she controlled the world. Funny too was a character dressed and looking very much like Ben Franklin. He mingled with the convention crowd here at the hotel and many posed for pictures. He was having the time of his life.
I want to take some time on the return trip. To follow an older US highway route is the most fun. I will need to set up “Dashboard Debbie” aka TomTom GPS for non-Interstate navigation. Highway US 20 is a great route through New York State plus I have picked up sections through Indiana and Illinois. US 12 works well from Detroit to Chicago. Most of the old mom ‘n’ pop motels along the way are shuttered. Now and then you will see a red barn still standing with “Mail Pouch” or “Red Man” chewing tobacco ad painted on the end. Route 66 is a classic and in New Mexico last fall I had difficulty trying to discern what was old and what was new near Albuquerque. Maybe I need to get beyond all that.

Masks

Being a major collector of art and artifacts of the world, my condo is starved for wall space. A mix of primitive and modern paintings, prints, and sculptures have a place on my walls and a growing number of earlier collectibles get stacked in the basement looking for another moment in the sun. One place on the main level is the ‘little room’ which gets little sun but many moons. How appropriate to place my collection of masks on this limited wall area. I found a little humor with so many eyes in a private place. No one had ever picked up on the theme until last week. My personal trainer and her friend were over for a drink after dinner. When nature called her friend into the little room, she came out suspicious of video surveillance but appreciated the artifacts. Three theatrical masks from Java are good temple pieces. Another from Korea and one from the Floating Market of Thailand add variety. The fertility goddess from Ghana is a wooden carving seated on the tank.

Java Phase 1

My first volunteer work took me to Java in 1991. There were no hidden altruistic goals. I had not traveled in five years; my daughter was now in kindergarten; I went through several years of Chapter 11 business reorganization, and it was just time to get away. Central Java was as far as one could go without a space shuttle. Not being one to go on ‘vacation’, I was hoping this newly found volunteer group would catalyze travel into an adventure that I had known before when I worked and lived in faraway places.
I recently found a very basic journal of events from that trip. My present recall of events is limited. As sometimes happens, consciousness can be revived in writing.
There was something about flying from LAX to the Isle of Bali on Garuda Airlines following a layover in Biak, Irian Jaya that says Michigan is very far away. Beyond there was a flight to Yogjakarta where our converging troop of ten volunteers receives some orientation. A short trip to the great Buddhist temple of Borobudur brought my amazement at the magnitude of this belief. How can such a creation happen from these monastic beings? Vans took us to Cilacap and our school project at the village of Jeruklege. Our accommodations were old teacher dorms, simple and clean. The traditional bath called Mandi was quite acceptable as the daily heat of 92 cooled to 82 at night. Mandi was a concrete vat of rainwater in a small chamber where one soaped down and wetted as required dipping and dripping the cold water over yourself. It was a take-your-breath-away experience two or three times a day. We tried a thermal shower (a rubber bladder of water heated by the sun) but in this atmosphere it was always scalding hot.
I soon found our western presence was a major bone of contention with the local authorities. Freedom was anarchy here. We were in daily contact with the police, an uneducated lot, threatened by our foreign language. This was a Muslim nation and we were considered part of a Catholic sponsored school. More so we kindled a friendship with a local theatre troupe. Here I derived that through costumes or puppets they were able to express descent. It was the puppet doing the talking not the man behind the image. The theatre was a major political referendum.
A legendary priest named Charlie became a major part of our attraction for this project. Father Charlie spent an evening with us. He said he was a cross between St. Vincent de Paul and the Godfather, in reference to getting his work done for the people. He was annexed to Australia after being ordained because of foul language then permanently put in Java in 1973. His philosophic views of helping people did not meet with what convention had of priests. One “Charlie” concept was to give a needy student a pair of goats which can provide a living income for a family. A year after graduation the system is repaid with two goats. Few jobs are assured because of higher education because of the masses but the thought process is started for opposing their feudal system and with thinking comes an independent spirit. I gathered that Charlie’s cause did not garnish full support from the church. His several schools in Indonesia were without nuns or places of worship. His Godfather reference probably had something to do with fund raising and securing volunteers like us. Our task was renovation of classrooms with paint and repair. Charlie’s persuasion and the smiling children kept us inspired.

Vietnamese Teachers

In February 1995, the thirty-year American trade embargo with Vietnam was lifted. In July, Clinton announced full diplomatic relations saying, “Whatever divided us before let us consign it to the past.” I arrived in October to a country in transition from communism to capitalism. Volunteer work was my way to get there, but my goal was for a deeper understanding of communism, their people, and the effects of the war. I rolled this into an independent study program in the course of International Studies at Oakland University. The following are formal interviews performed under the guise of that study.
A teacher of English in Tan Hiep, Nguyen Thi Phuong Chi, had positive feelings toward her father’s bee cooperative. He was assigned as Bee Master in 1983 to the Ho Chi Minh Bee Company. It was since separated into a ‘private’ company with the government owning fifty percent. I asked Ms. Chi if they want the help of the government, she said they need it. I would say they need it. Honey is made for export, and the government controls all exports. She was secure with the situation, and an older brother was in the process of creating a new hive to expand the business to another area.
This family of six lived in a masonry house on the main road. Ms. Chi, at twenty-three, taught school twelve hours a day, six days a week. She also managed two girls in a cottage industry of finishing conical work hats purchased in bulk from Saigon. Her young brother, Tam, age twenty-five, had a concession stand selling goods by the road. A retarded sister with another stayed in the kitchen with two more hired help cooking food for another commercial venture. The older brother was forty-six and had long since taken over the bee mastering from her sixty-six-year-old father. Father, who appeared a little feeble, was busy planting seedlings for another cash crop. The mother had been dead for ten years.
I would say this family is very exceptional but typical for this area in the Mekong Delta. Teachers in Vietnam are motivated by a passion for the work, not money. I think wages are amongst the lowest for any University profession.
Another teacher in Tan Hiep, Mr. Tien, told me of his struggle. He was from the North. His family was part of the dispersion of Catholics from North Vietnam. In 1954 and 1955, eight hundred thousand Catholics went south after the fall of the French. Mr. Tien’s father, who served with the French, was killed, and his family joined the exodus. These refugees fled the Viet Minh under Ho Chi Minh and were able to settle in the South thanks to the Ngo Dinh Diem regime. This opened another struggle that consumed the nation with a Buddhist-Catholic rivalry. The wrath of South Vietnamese Buddhists destroyed the Diem regime and lead to the civil war with the North.
Mr. Tien’s mother worked on a successful farm and sent her two sons to the University. His brother, an officer, was killed during the American war while the younger Mr. Tien worked the farm for his mother. After the war, in 1975, Mr. Tien saw the corrupt leadership consuming the government and decided he had to try to make a difference. With disgust for the system and people in it, he gave up the farm and became a teacher. He said it was necessary to start building a new Vietnam with its children.
There was a privilege afforded me to hear the stories of these teachers.
Pardon me, but I had never thought of Vietnam and intellectuals in the same context -- wrong. I met a teacher in Vietnamese literature. In my ignorance, I said, “Huh?” She quickly gave me a dissertation on a lot of people that were important to her and Vietnam. My apology was for stupidity in not relating their substance of character with a base of intelligentsia and history.

Iron workers

My first exposure to the iron and steel industry was at a Kelsey-Hayes plant in Detroit. I worked as an electrician when I got out of the Navy. We had built controls at our shop in Pontiac. One project was for a shaker conveyor to separate iron brake drums from the sand castings. My boss wanted me to come along for startup, should there be any problems. I was awe struck by heavy industry. There were so many people, so much machinery and equipment functioning in the biggest building I had ever been in, to produce iron castings. A huge cantilever dumped the mold pallets of sand and red hot castings on to our system intended to separate the two. The shaker conveyor was not breaking things up as planned so they summoned a big black dude with a twenty pound sludge hammer to strike the stubborn pieces. This was long before OSHA and our only safety gear was a hard hat. The dust made breathing a challenge while the noise battered you senseless. To speak with someone you plugged his ear with your thumb and screamed out the words two inches away. Most of the Kelsey people were black because the high pay compensated for the hazardous environment or so they thought. After one day there, it took two weeks for my sinus mucus to clear.
During my eight year tenure as a customer service rep for the material handling company, I had several steel mill and foundry projects. My first was at the Ford Flat Rock foundry. Ten years since the Kelsey episode, this modern facility lessened the dangers to man, I thought. A Roll-abrattor machine with an enclosed chamber propelled steel balls to clean castings inside. Somehow it got turned on while a man was inside.
A rolling mill is where steel rod is made. Beginning with a red hot ingot, rollers gradually form small rod from an ingot three feet in diameter. As the diameter decreases, the speed of the rod increases. The red glowing rod becomes propelled through this mile long building at over sixty miles per hour. Out of the hundreds made in a day, at least one would escape the rollers and become a twisted mess atop the mills. At the end of the line, the rod was coiled onto a bobbin forming a six foot spool weighing a ton. Our project was to convey the spool to a compactor-bander, making a form so that it could be shipped. There is no way that I can explain to the reader my predicament and near-miss. I had only a bruised hand instead of losing my forearm to a ton of steel inside the compactor-bander. I consciously gripped my forearm for several years thankful it was there.
One cool two weeks in May, I was assigned to a foundry project for Kohler in Wisconsin. Rather than bunk at a local motel, I took my tent and lived at a State park on Lake Michigan, a great way to clear cast iron dust from your lungs.
Iron workers are a unique breed. Hardy, hard working, and heavy drinkers they were always good for a laugh or head-shaking grin. Typically they partied late into the night, always got to work on time; were blurry-eyed all morning. They saved the tough work for the afternoon when a shot and a beer at lunch got them back on an even keel. The supervisor on a project in Pennsylvania promised to show a new iron worker a good time in town that night. The next morning the new recruit was holding his chest and all laughed at his misadventure. He had kept drinking with the boss at the bar till midnight. Then the boss looked over and he was gone. He bellowed, “Where is that light-weight?” After finishing his beer, he jumped off his bar stool and landed both feet on the recruit’s chest that had fallen to the floor.
At a steel plant in Lackawanna New York, one tough iron man was nursing a swollen jaw, not from brawling but his abscessed tooth. Whiskey was the only painkiller he knew. I doubt if he lived very long in that condition.
On my first day at a small casting plant in Connecticut, I asked an old maintenance guy where I could get a sandwich for lunch. He said to follow him. He walked with a bad limp. By the street where we walked were signs of a canal that drove paddle wheels extending into industrial buildings to drive machinery before electric motors existed. A block away was a dingy basement pub where I ate a beef of rye and he had a beer. I asked of his limp. He knocked on his hollow wooden leg and smiled. He said, “You will see a large dairy farm on the north end of town? My brother runs that now. When I was four years old my mother sent me to fetch my father for supper who was scything wheat in the field. I ran through the tall wheat. Sure enough the scythe took off my right leg. I go the farm on weekends and tinker but I was never able to work the farm.”

France for Katrina

The pursuit of excellence has always been an attribute of my daughter Katrina. With as challenging a curriculum available to her in high school, she graduated second out of 495 students. Rewards befall those that excel. It was only fitting that my reward be to take her to France as a graduation present. The destination had much to do with her six years of French language study. Places and history are a large part of lesson plans. Katrina’s Paris agenda began formulating with French 101. Trip preparation began with testing her use of French by phone to hotels from a guide of small places to stay.
Jet-lag had no effect when we arrived in Paris. The Metro station near our quaint hotel gave access to the wonders we sought. This was my forth visit but being with someone who did her homework made it seem like the first time. Along the Seine to savor Notre Dame and Palais du Justice, Katrina was able to find clothing boutiques en route for those all important very European outfits and accents. Her street-side glace cacao (chocolate ice cream) will go down in her memory as did my peche melba (peaches and ice cream) on my first trip to Paris. The following day the wonders continued with Sacrê Coeur, L’Opéra, Place de la Concorde with L’Obelisk, the Louvre, Mussée D’Orsey, and then we climbed to the top of L’Arc de Triomphe and Tour Eiffel before walking down Champs-Élysées. A late evening taxi to the Moulin Rouge made the sights complete.
Maybe I should not have been so anxious to leave Paris. I later found in her journal, “Did I mention how much I love Paris? It’s more beautiful, more welcoming than I imagined. I’m so incredibly happy I’m here. I’m on the verge of tears. I could stay here for ever… awe, I can only hope.”
We rented a cute lime green Peugeot convertible and headed for the Loire Valley. At Pontlevoy we stayed at the most darling L’Hôtel de l’école. Their restaurant rivaled our best meals in Paris. This is Châteaux country with Chambord, Amboise, and Chenonceau. The surrounds were as adorable as you would ever desire.
Who am I to know that a young lady would not appreciate the burgundy wine country of Dijon? We got there by way of sun flower laden country roads but the vineyards and wine tasting was for dad. The next test of her resilience was a thirteen hour drive to Germany. In addition to calling this a business trip for the IRS, I wanted Katrina to know there was more to Europe than France. The Swiss Alps differ from the Rockies; bratwurst is just as fattening as filet au beurre; and mad Ludwig’s Neuschwanstein is as opulent as anything Louis XIV ever did. It was probably not until we booked a suite at my favorite Hotel Hachinger Hof outside of Munich that Katrina readied for our new experience. My good friend and business partner Klaus was able to show Katrina the merits of Bavaria and Munich.
Next our arrival in Strasburg gave solace to our quest and the village of Krumeich allowed her to parlé vous again. It was renowned for ceramics and we found gifts for those back home.
Our final point of interest was the Champagne region of Reims. Our stay in a four room addition to buildings at the vineyards of Guy Delong near St. Euphraise et Lairiyet could not have been better. Guy proudly gave us a tour and insight into the work of his great-grandparents farm. With his help we were able get reservations to the four star restaurant L’Assiette de Champonaise. The best champagne and six courses of the finest food and most lavish service our money could buy was a great way to end our ten day pursuit of excellence.