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.