By Doug Roberts

During the first several years of my life, before my sister Debbie was born, I lived in a small apartment on Sullivant Avenue across from the Civil War cemetery, with my parents Clyde and Mary.

One big thing they had in common was that their parents, and they as children, had suffered through the great depression. Dad was the designated bread winner of the family, so in that regard, Dad was pretty thrifty with money.

He took after his father. For example it was because of my Grandpa Roberts that we had an important tradition that my father kept at Christmas time. Dad would always buy a live tree. No, not a live tree that you picked out and was cut down for you. He bought living trees from a nursery to be planted in the yard somewhere. (I have a whole story about that. See Keeping Christmas Green.)

I don`t remember us ever skimping and scraping but Dad loved a bargain — too much if you ask me.

If something could be had that was a cheaper version, that is what we bought. Steak is one example. There was only one kind of steak permitted at our house: cube steak. Period.

But one example stands out for me: His purchase of a 1963 Oldmobile Starfire convertible, all white with a light blue top. Loaded with chrome. In some ways it still does not compute.

Dad had simply shown up with it in the driveway one Saturday. He looked like a cat that had swallowed a canary. He had never purchased anything the least bit sporty as long as I had known him. And a convertible, yet! Mom couldn’t believe it either.

It would be years before I finally figured out what made Dad buy it. We knew he had received some sort of amazing deal. He loved deals more than anything. But what kind of deal? He never said.

But the answer was obvious when I learned it after considerable investigation.

In 1963 Buick released a brand new Riviera model with a futuristic looking body. It was a stunner! They were red hot sellers.

The 1963 Olds Starfire, which still looked pretty snazzy with its abundance of chrome, was not anything near the Riviera, sadly, even though it looked pretty spiffy.

Dealers could not give them away.

The 1963 Starfire convertible was the most rare. Only 4,401 were made. Today, it’s a bit of a collector’s car, but Dad practically stole his. I sure wish we still had it!

Dad The Do It Yourself Guy

If Dad could find a way to do something himself — as opposed to hiring and paying someone — he was all in for that. This was part of his thrifty nature. Sometimes that worked out well. Some times not.

The Hillbillies Moving In

It was the summer after I had finished the 5th grade and Dad announced that we were moving from Bexley, Ohio to Upper Arlington, a very upscale well to do community to the point that whenever I pronounce it, I still say Upper Arlington to disdainfully emphasize its snootiness. It has plenty of that!

Anyway, I hated the idea as I would miss all my cub scout friends and my many cousins. But it was a done deal.

The new house on 2191 Waltham Road was clearly much nicer than the one in Bexley. It was kind of a split level. The slightly lower level above the garage would be Dad`s master bedroom and bath. The upper level was three bedrooms: Mom`s, Debbie`s and mine. We had our own shared bath.

Dad had gotten a deal on it of course. But there was one thing my parents did not like: there was ugly wall paper in every room. After pricing out how much it would cost to have the horrid wall paper steamed off, there was only one solution: rent a wall paper steamer and do it ourselves.

I have to believe Dad had no idea how much work this actually involved. But, he was soon to find out.

The gas powered wall paper steamer that he rented was a monstrosity that generated a lot of heat to, you know, make scalding steam. The hot steam loosens the glue holding the wall paper on — supposedly. But you have to scrape it!

Consider this. It was summer. The wallpaper steamer was a noisy self contained furnace. And the steam it made, which was abundant, was super hot and obviously humid. The new house was not air conditioned.

Starting to get the picture?

I don`t know how many gallons of sweat Dad and I lost during the weeks long project but it was non stop sauna time in the dead of summer. Scrape and toss, scrape and toss is all I did for weeks on end always drenched to the core in my own sweat. Simply wearing a swim suit did not help much.

Mom`s job was to supply us with copious amounts of ice water. My job was help scrape the loosened wall paper and then remove it from the room by tossing it out where — why through the open windows of course!

By the end of each day huge piles of wall paper lay on the grass outside the house. When finally gathered up at the end of the day, the neighbors had no doubt gotten quite an eyeful of this activity. The new neighbors do WHAT?

When all the wall paper was finally removed, Mom put her foot down. No more doing this ourselves!!

The new wall paper would be applied by professionals. Exhausted as we all were even Dad was ready to surrender his hard earned dollars.

My sister Debbie and I were ecstatic. Mom was relieved. We let Dad be the hero. But had Dad learned his do it yourself lesson? Not hardly.

Taking Down the Mulberry Tree

On the back edge of the property was a huge mulberry tree. It produced an abundance of mulberries, but that was the problem. It was messy. With the grass thick with mulberries, they could stain your tennis shoes when you mowed the grass.

Dad decided it had to go.

The only problem was some of its branches were super close to the power lines leading to our house and the two adjoining neighbors` houses. Taking it down would require the expertise of professionals.

Dad quickly learned a tricky job like that was going to cost him PLENTY. It looked for a while like we would just have to live with the mulberry messes, which was fine with me. I liked mulberries.

But every time Dad mowed the grass or did any yard work, he would always be eyeing that tree. I could tell his wheels were turning and knew what was coming. We all did.

“Seriously Clyde? You want take down the mulberry tree yourself? And what if you take out the wires? Have you thought of that? You want the neighbors down on you when you take out their power?” Mom`s rants against it went on and on. But to no avail.

I have to believe Mom thought Dad had lost his freakin` mind. And so did Debbie and I. But Dad was undeterred. He had a plan he said. Of course he did. He always did.

Dad said he was going to need rope, lots and lots of rope. He was really going to do it! Mom was incredulous! What were Debbie and I going to tell our friends? We were already embarrassed and he had not even started.

But hey! It was going to save us big bucks. What was more important than that? NOTHING!

I accompanied Dad to the local hardware store where he found just the heavy duty rope he was looking for. He purchased two huge spools of it. I said nothing but I just inwardly shook my head in disbelief.

Dad was in CAN DO mode and there was no stopping him now. Next purchase: a large ax and a large hand saw. No chain saw needed he said. Armstrong power to get the job done. Right Dad.

We got home and carried the equipment to the offending mulberry tree which grew at the top of the upward sloping yard at the back of the lot. I went inside to confer with Mom. “Is he really going to do this?”

I told Mom to have emergency numbers handy. She said it was a capitol idea. And I headed back outside to find Dad standing on the stone wall that went along the back of the lot. Mighty swing after swing the ax was slowly making a dent in the trunk.

Mr. Meeks, who owned the house and lot on the other side of the back stone wall came out to see what Dad was doing. Dad was flailing away at the trunk, but finally stopped.

I could tell Mr. Meeks could not believe it either when Dad explained what he was doing. The neighborhood hillbillies strike again!

I was so embarrassed I wanted to crawl in a hole and we still had not come to my part in Dad`s plan, which involved the rope and me pulling on it.

After Dad had got a pretty sizeable notch in the tree trunk he fetched the extension ladder from the garage. This was my cue. He carefully placed the ladder on the stone wall and leaned it against the tree trunk.

“Ok son, now climb up the ladder, scoot your butt out on that branch and I`ll throw you a line of rope.” I hoped Mom was not watching. Dad threw me the rope and after several tries it did fall over the branch and I could feed the line down to the ground so Dad could take it further out on the branch.

He yelled up at me. “Doug, the way I have this figured is this: once I get the notch big enough we can pull out on the rope and pull the tree toward us to bring it down into our yard.”

So this was the plan? Yeah Dad, sure.

Just then I looked up to see Mr. Meeks walking toward us with a camera. He got closer and was grinning. “Say Clyde, don`t you think you should be cutting on the down hill side of the tree?”

Apparently this was quite a revelation to Dad. Cutting on Mr. Meek`s side of tree would have it fall right into the wires. Duh!

“Yeah, I was just about to do that, Jack.” Dad eyed the camera suspiciously.

I`m thinking like hell he was. Thank you Mr. Meeks! You just saved everyone`s power!

Dad started chopping on the down hill side of the tree, trying to ignore Mr. Meeks` picture taking.
At least the pending disaster would be well documented! Hillbilly pics for all the neighbors!

After about 15 more minutes of chopping and me pulling on the rope, there was an audible crack. Dad dropped the ax and ran to me so he could pull too. There was another crack but the tree was still not coming down. I continued pulling on the rope and just as Dad got to the tree there was slow c-r-a-c-k-i-n-g.

Mom, who had been watching, screamed. “Run Clyde. Run!”

I let go of the rope and ran down the hill through the garden and jumped into the sunken patio just as the tree loudly crashed into the yard. I turned around to see broken branches everywhere. But where was Dad? Had he made it to safety? Nowhere in the mess.

Oh there he was. He was standing on the rock wall that ran along the side of the property. He was shouting. “I did it! I did it! Nobody believed me! But I did it!”

I heard Mr. Meeks shouting. “Hey Clyde! I`ve got a bunch of great shots. I`ll be sure and make copies for you too!” He was grinning ear to ear. If Dad was embarrassed he did not show it. Me? I was mortified!

Dad The Clean Freak

My father, was just like Grandpa Roberts in that they both were clean freaks.

Grandpa Roberts was just the opposite of Grandpa Miller (who was infamously the town drunk of Bexley, Ohio.)

For Clyde Roberts, it was like father like son: the last thing you ever wanted to have happen was for either Clyde or Grandpa Roberts to find a stray hair in their food — especially at a restaurant!

So you can imagine how Dad was about bird droppings on the piano, on the drapes, on his favorite chair, etc, etc.

That brings me to our beloved childhood pet parakeet, Bebe.

I confess we took a lot of liberties with that parakeet and it would eventually catch up with us.

Bebe loved the butter and egg man, Jim Bob, and we used his visits to let Bebe out of his cage. Bebe loved Jim-Bob’s attentions and would excitedly flit around the cage jabbering up a storm.

This was the moment my sister Debbie and I eagerly anticipated. I think Bebe anticipated it too.

On the breakfast table was a long rectangular planter box in which Mother grew philodendron. I don’t recall why, but it was simply filled with water and no dirt.

One of us kids would open the bird cage and bring Bebe out perched on our finger. We’d talk to it, let it peck our teeth, pet it and then offer it to Jim-Bob. Jim-Bob would start in with his bird talk and Bebe would talk back in parakeet language. I swear Jim Bob would have elaborate conversations with that bird!.

Jim-Bob would get the bird so excited that eventually Bebe would hop off his finger and fly to the philodendron box.

Bebe would position himself at one end, open his wings and jump in the water, wetting down his turquoise blue breast. Hopping across on the plant stems, he’d flap and spray water all over the kitchen table until he reached the other end of the planter. At that point he’d turn around and go back the other way. Water would be everywhere! This was hilariously funny, even to my mother.

Sometimes, often really, Debbie and I would conveniently ‘forget’ to put Bebe back in his cage right away. His droppings seemed to end up right in the very places my father would look, even though Debbie and I, at Mother’s urging, would try to find the bird’s droppings before Dad got home.

And if Dad found some, those were not be happy scenes, compounded by the fact that no family member much liked cleaning up bird poop. That was actually Nancy the cleaning lady`s job we kids thought. No, it was our job Dad thought, and he let us know it. He was right of course.

I never heard Mom and Dad fight about this one, but at some point Dad laid down his iron law and said the bird would have to go. He gave Bebe away to someone he knew would love and take care of it: Jim-Bob. Bye bye Bebe!

There was a sea of tears. Even Mother cried with us. Our hearts were broken and Debbie and I hated our father for weeks after that. I guess we finally got over it, but it seemed like it took forever. We missed that bird!

When things finally settled down, I don’t know about Debbie, but I came to mostly hate myself for being so lax in my clean up duties when I knew better.

Dad`s Radio Time

At our house radio listening was strictly an early morning ritual. Not a light would be on in the house but at 6:15 every morning without fail, you could hear the radio on the nightstand in his bedroom.

My father would awake to Irwin Johnson’s immensely popular radio show, The Early Worm, which opened and closed with The Song of India.

He played a lot of great music. There was big band, old standards, and even fun songs for the kids. He’d intersperse the tunes with news items and witty commentary. We all liked it, but that was Dad’s show.

Dad`s discipline of waking up every morning did rub off on me and I try to set a routine that I follow. I am 75 now and my discipline these days is walking my three legged dog Banjo to exercise my crappy lungs and to keep Banjo’s weight down.

Lunches at MCL

After Mom passed at the age of 62, Dad and I would meet for lunch every Thursday at the MCL Cafeteria. Though our politics were different, we both had a common passion for alternative health care.

I had taken a non-traditional career path as a licensed massage therapist working for a chiropractor. It never ceased to amaze me that Dad supported me in that.

I learned from him that Grandpa Roberts had been a great believer in chiropractic and Dad would often tell me how proud Grandpa would have been.

During those lunches we would often discuss the latest article in Prevention Magazine or the touted benefits of a popular supplement. It was during those lunches that I learned why Grandpa died of stomach cancer.

The chiropractor he went to talked him into trying the newest revolutionary healing tool: the Pathoclast machine. Apparently it was all the rage in some circles. Guaranteed to cure anything! Even cancer.

Except it didn`t. The machine was totally bogus, made and sold by quacks. I wonder to this day if Grandpa ever figured that out.

Anyway, after our lunches we would head back to the condominium and feast on a desert of Fig Newtons and cold milk. Sometimes we would devour the whole package, only because by that time Mom was no longer around to stop us.

Dad`s Notable Sayings:

“All work and no play make Jack.” Curiously, Dad had no hobbies so he did live that one.

“The older they get the dumber they get.” Usually exclaimed when either Debbie and I were in big trouble.” Debbie and I were like: “Hey, you`re a lot older than we are!”

His One Amazing Ability

To end on a high note I want to mention this one tremendous ability he had. He could whistle. In my estimation he was a total professional. Maybe he had a hobby after all. His whistling was symphonic quality and he whistled a lot.

He could do this thing where the whistling was like a yodel. It had something to do with his cheeks as they would flutter in and out.

He should have been hired by record companies he was that good. I have never heard anyone else who was even close to his ability and I can certainly hear him in my head as I write this. Dad, how did you do that?

I have written a bit about Aunt Jean in my little piece about her daughter, my dear cousin Annie. See Trilingual Annie. This is a tiny short story about how Uncle Jack and Aunt Jean met and is based on conversations with Annie. I have been wanting to tell this for decades.

Sergeant Jack Miller scanned his check list of the medical supplies. His company, in spite of heavy Nazi fire, had managed to procure the life saving equipment to the 64th General Hospital where he served as its medical supply sergeant.

The convoy of delivery trucks had encountered heavy shelling by enemy forces of the ruthless fascist government overrunning the city of Oren, Algeria. Two service men had lost their lives. One truck did not make it, exploding when it hit a mine.

But all the essential items for surgical teams were there and most all the first aid items they were expected to need until another shipment arrived at Oren`s beleaguered north African sea port seven days later. Jack hoped no unexpected emergencies would come up and use the supplies too fast.

“Sargent Miller, I got the shipment unboxed and logged in. I’ll be taking my lunch break now if I may, sir.”

Jack looked up from his check list and smiled. “Youve worked hard all morning Timmons. You need a break. I do too for that matter. I would walk over to the mess to chow down with you but I’m behind on my letter writing. My sister Mary has probably been hearing about the heavy bombing weve been facing and is no doubt worried sick. But you go on.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Timmons, one more thing. Just call me Jack. Everyone else does.”

“Yes sir. Uh, yes Jack. Thank you.”

Jack watched him walk away thinking how much easier his job was going to be with young Private Timmons as his assistant. The kid was kung ho to work. He wondered how long that would last. He sat down at his desk and opened the middle drawer and pulled out several sheets of plain stationary.

With pen in hand he took a deep breath and started his letter.

My Dearest Mary,

I am so sorry to not be writing you everyday as I promised but we literally do not know from one minute to the next what our fate is to become. We`ve just now managed to get the 64th Hospital up and running here in Oren, Algeria. But Rommel is making our lives a living hell.

I have just today been blessed with a new assistant who should relieve me of some of my burden and my letters should be more regular.

Jack heard a male voice clearing his throat and looked up. He dropped his pen, embarrassed. Lt. Colonel Jacoby stood in front of him and by his side a beautiful young woman dressed in a simple long skirt and long sleeve blouse. She looked to be a local. He gave her a puzzled look and then turned to Jacoby.

“Sorry to interrupt your lunch break Jack but we have a new arrival I need you to meet. The woman gave a hint of a smile but said nothing. Her dark eyes were penetrating as though taking him all in. He felt like she was scanning him, because she was.

“She`s going to be working with the nurses in the hospital and I need you to give her anything she asks for, no matter what it is. Is that clear?”

This startled Jack. His head snapped back and looked the young woman up and down, scrutinizing her. “Yes. Of course. I did not realize we were hiring Algerian nationals to work in the hospital.”

Lt. Colonel Jacoby said nothing, but offered a wry smile and turned to walk away.

“So, miss, what is it that you will be needing from me today? And I didn`t catch your name.”

“It`s Jean. Sorry to interrupt the letter to your…beloved.”

“Just a letter to my sister. But you got the beloved part right.” Jack felt his face flush as he grabbed the letter and slid it into his desk drawer.

“Being able to write a letter is a luxury. We may not have time for that soon. Oui? We are all in great danger here. I assume you know that.”

Her accent sound decidedly French. It was most pleasing to his ears. She handed him a printed list and he looked it over.

“Yes, we know that only too well. The casualties are mounting faster than we can handle. Hmm. Working as a nurse they did not issue you a nurses uniform?”

“I never said I was a nurse. Don`t be quick to assume.”

Jack furrowed his brow. “I see. Everything appears to be in order here. I just need you to sign for them at the bottom of the requisition sheet.” He handed her a pen she took it and looked down.

“They didn`t tell me I had to sign for this.”

“It`s Army procedure. I have to follow it.”

“Very well.” With a quick flourish she handed the sheet back with her signature on it.”

Jack scowled. “You just wrote Jean. You have a last name, don`t you?”

“Its just Jean. Thats all you need to know.”

“So you show up needing a nurses uniform but you are not a nurse and the only name you can give me is Jean.”

“Correct.”

“I`ll need to speak to my superior officer about this. This is highly irregular.”

“I’m sure it is. But thats all you need to know about me.”

Jack cleared his throat. “So, miss-not-a -nurse, your name probably isn`t really Jean is it?”

She smiled demurely. “When may I pick up my uniform?”

“My guess is you`re in the French Resistance. I hear they are really active around here. Am I right?”

She did not react but simply repeated. “When may I pick it up?”

Jack sighed. “Come by later this afternoon after 13:00 hours.”

She gave him a little salute and slowly turned and walked off. He watched the gentle sway of her hips until she turned out of his view.

Jack`s mind started racing. For such a vision of dark feminine beauty she sure was intense. And what was the French Resistance doing working in our hospital? But he had a more pressing matter to attend to. Jack returned to his letter.

“Sis, I just had the strangest encounter with the most beautiful woman. I dont know quite what to make of it. She needed a nurses uniform, but I know she’s not a nurse. Quite a woman of mystery, a local for certain. I know damn well we don`t hire locals. Just one more of the many bizarre things that happen in this crazy war. One thing for sure, I will be finding out who hired her and to do what.”

Jack finished the letter and put it in with the outgoing mail and said a little prayer hoping it would arrive in Bexley, Ohio safe.

The next morning after chow Jack went straight to his desk to look over which of the recently shipped supplies need to be unpacked first. He looked up to see her moving toward him. She was dressed her new nurses uniform.

He looked her up and down, taking in her trim figure. The uniform fit her perfectly. “Bonjour, Jean! You have a busy morning?”

She smiled demurely. “I`m just getting off duty.”

“Oh. A night duty nurse.” Now Jack was really puzzled.

“There is something I am going to need from you. I hope you can get it.”

“And what would that be?”

Jean cleared her throat. “Vials of sodium Pentothal. And syringes. A dozen of each should do it.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “And just who will be doing the injecting?”

“Moi.” She grinned at him knowing what his reaction would be.

“You`re not a nurse. But you plan on injecting powerful barbiturates into whom, exactly?”

“I am trained for this. It is part of my assignment. You have Nazi officers in the prisoner of war tent.”

“And that is who you were sitting with last night.”

“I sit with them and keep them comfortable. I talk to them.”

“I think I am beginning to get the picture. An undercover “nurse.”

“Something like that. If you have a cigarette, I can tell you a story.”

Jack opened his desk drawer and reached for this open pack. “Lucky Strikes? I am not a big smoker but sometimes the nicotine calms my nerves like nothing else does.”

Jeans eyes widened and smiled. “Luckies! Theyre toasted you know!” She gave him a wink and took a cigarette from the pack and let Jack flick his lighter for her. Jean took a long drag and exhaled.

“I cant talk about my assignment. But this is a story about me. How I got into this line of work.” She smiled and waited for Jacks reaction.

Jack`s eyes widened. “All right. I am all ears.”

Satisfied, she took another drag and gathered her thoughts. “I lived in a little village on the edge of Sidi bel Abbes. My father works for the railroad in the heart of the city, but like everyone we grow what we can and own some livestock.

“When the Nazis invaded they overran the town and word spread like wildfire through the village the Nazis were on their way and confiscating food and anything of value. We were all in a panic, but had prepared for this. Produce was hidden and prime livestock was sent to the foothills.

“When the Nazis arrived they were livid that we could offer them nothing. They threatened to arrest and shoot all of us. But I had a plan. I whispered to my mother that we offer a bit of produce and an old male boar the village used for breeding. I would do the talking. I was 13 at the time.”

Jack blinked hard, eager to hear more.

Jean took another drag and held it for a second. “Trying to act as flirtatious as possible I told the Nazi officer in charge that our family would be happy to offer the little that we had and would even sacrifice our prize pig which would make quite a feast for all his men. He seemed intrigued.

“I took him to the pen and showed him the boar which weighed several hundred pounds. By the way he grinned, I could tell he was pleased with my offer. He snapped a command at a subordinate who with a couple of others pulled out the boar with a rope.

“I went on and on about what a banquet the pig was going to make. The officer seemed satisfied. It was not until all the Nazis had left that we started laughing at the success of our ruse.”

Jack furrowed his brow. “It was a ruse? How?”

Jean took a final drag and snuffed out the butt before offering a sly smile. “A city boy, I see. The ruse is that in uncastrated boars flesh acquires a nasty odor and taste. Its called boar taint. It is totally not edible. He was an old boar and pretty much beyond breeding age, so he was not much of a loss.”

Jack grinned. “And you charmed the officer into thinking you gave him a banquet on the hoof. That took a lot of courage.”

“And feminine wiles.” Jean gave Jack a flirtatious smile.

He took in her beauty, pondering how easily a man might be beguiled by such loveliness. “I think I`m starting to get the picture. You engage the prisoners and get them to trust you and open up to you. At a certain point you inject them with truth serum and keep them talking. Right?”

Jean looked down and smiled. “You understand, I`m not allowed to divulge exactly what I do. But you are most perceptive.”

“A spy for The French Resistance!”

Jean gave him a deadpan look. “We use the term operative.”

“I stand corrected. So I need to see if we have any sodium Pentothal, or something similar. I`m sure we do. How soon do you need it?”

“My shift starts at midnight. Can I have it by then?”

“I will leave it in a package here on my desk.”

“Merci. I`ll see you in the morning.”

“I look forward to it.”

~

Finished with her night shift, the next morning Jean was waiting by Sergeant Miller`s desk when he arrived for work. She was smiling.

Jack took his seat at his desk, taking in how fit and trim she looked in her nurse`s uniform. “What are you looking so happy about?”

“The sodium Pentothal you provided was perfect. I got several of the officers talking among themselves. We learned just what we wanted to know. It was too easy. But I can see now that I will soon need more.”

“Sure. I can do that. Whatever you want. Say, I have a question. When you feel you have learned all you can from these officers, what happens to them then?”

She looked down pensively. “I need to be discreet in my answer. You understand.”

“Go on.”

“I advise my superiors that my subject can now be consigned to history.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Consigned to history or… consigned to oblivion?”

She shot Jack a penetrating look. “Same difference. Nes` pas?”

“I see. And you do that too?”

“It`s part my mission, the mission I am trained for. But I wait until after I am instructed to do so. I have to follow orders. So, I may be asking you for a more potent substance in the next day or two.”

“Im sure I can provide you with what ever you need. Ill need to check for what we have in stock.”

“I was hoping you would say that. But on that note, this conversation never happened. You understand?”

“Got it!”

“You do understand that if we start working together, you will not just be working in the Army anymore. You will also officially be part of The Resistance. And once youre in, there is no getting out. We in The Resistance dont necessarily follow the Geneva Convention. Are you OK with that?”

“Got that too! Anything I can do to be of service against the Nazis is fine by me!”

Jean thrust out her hand for Jack to shake it. “Then I think we should shake on a very fruitful relationship.”

Jack put out his hand and instead of shaking Jean`s, he simply held it for over a minute with both hands, until she started to blush.

So was Aunt really that good looking? Here is a photo of Jack and Jean taken on their wedding day.

By Douglas Roberts

It was Private Pauley’s ‘yes sir’ that first had me wondering if he was as screwy as the other basic trainees in Bravo Company thought he was.

How could anyone take seriously an 18-year-old who carried a rubber duck with him everywhere he went?

Half-mocking, half-serious were Pauley’s answers to the drill sergeants at Fort Knox. I think to avoid suspicion his words were cleverly sugar coated with his slightly exaggerated West Virginia drawl, which largely disappeared when it was just us draftees in the barracks. An excellent actor, Pauley had me fooled for a long time. My second clue was his smile. He always wore one. But I finally figured out that it was more of a smirk than a smile, as it was always coupled with his mischievous blue eyes.

Pauley was a Project 100,000 draftee. Instituted in D.C. without popular consent, Project 100,00 was the Army’s “cannon fodder reserve.” Most G.I.s called it the Warm Body Policy: a sharp reduction of both physical and mental standards to ease the soldier shortages in Vietnam.

In many ways Pauley seemed to epitomize the Project 100,000 draftee. His home was from the backwoods of West Virginia, an area of the hills that some map maker forgot to name. He could read a little and write less. His poor grammar and slow exaggerated drawl stereotyped him as the original stupid hillbilly. He was lacking in education, sure. But he wasn’t stupid. Dumb like a fox, was more like it.

Unlike most of us, he never swore and had an easy going gentility about him – except when someone would try to take away his rubber duck. I had noticed the duck the first day we in-processed to Fort Knox. Pauley’s locker and bunk were across from mine in the four man cubicle we shared. The duck was a little smaller than a child’s fist. Its bright yellow body and orange bill made it easy to spot sitting on the top shelf of Pauley’s locker, when the door was open.

Until the fourth day of basic training the duck remained in his locker. But on that morning, as we filed out for the 6:00 a.m. formation, his duck defiantly hung from his neck on a shoestring outside his Army field jacket. As we assembled, the air was charged with snickers and fear of senior drill sergeant Brubaker’s reaction to the sight of Pauley’s absurd rubber duck.

“Attention!” was the first scream. One hundred and fifty boot heels clicked, stomachs sucked and chests thrust out – automatic reactions trained on nightmares of Brubaker’s raspy harassments.

Crunching gravel with his boots, Brubaker stepped briskly past the four rows of rigid trainees. He mounted the steps of the eight foot high platform on which his lectern was built and peered into the morning twilight.

Sergeant Brubaker was the worst part of the day. The frequent tales of his reign of terror tactics from other sergeants were not mere propaganda. They admitted he had mellowed slightly from his brief stint in the Marines. The story going around was that he was asked to leave the Marines because of his nasty habit of physically abusing trainees. Apparently, he then joined the Army. Ironically, it was the Army’s lowering of its recruitment standards that soon pitted he and Pauley against each other in a match of wills, if not wits.

For those who dared go up against Sergeant Brubaker, the records showed no winners. Brubaker had more Article 15s and court-martials to his credit than any other drill sergeant at Fort Knox.

Even his physical appearance was intimidating. Standing 6’6” with his head completely shaved, he looked like a hook-nosed version of Telly Savalas. His eyes were jet black and he was quick to point out that he was half Cherokee Indian. The joke was that Satan was his father.

Years of humiliating basic trainess had made both the scowl on his face and his horse high-pitched voice permanent features.

“All right you miserable bunch of worms, listen up. This is the day’s list of physical and mental tortures I have planned for each of you. I know you are going to love all of them. Am I right?”

In unison came a lusty “YES DRILL SERGEANT!” So it went with each of his diabolical questions. Every answer not loud enough to suit his whim merited a set of at least twenty push ups.

Now the October morning sun was coming up, softening the darkness, and we grew more tense. Brubaker was scowling, eyes doing a customary inspection. He walked down from his platform to walk the rows of terrified troops. The only noise to break through the silence was the alternate thud-clunk of his spit shined paratrooper boots as first sole then heel struck each wooden step.

Bravo Company collectively held its breath. His piercing eyes mentally noted the motleyness of each trainee. Moving to the end of the first row, his gaze scanned the next, and the next.

Now at the fourth row, his line of sight zeroed in on Pauley, who seemingly was oblivious to what was about to happen. Brubaker marched to the end of the line and stopped squarely in front of Pauley. He glared, possibly in total disbelief, at the duck hanging around his neck and continued glaring for what seemed like several minutes.

“What’s this?” he finally roared.

“It’s my duck,” replied Pauley firmly.

“YOU’RE OUT OF UNIFORM!”

A tirade of Army regulation, quoted verbatim gushed from Brubaker’s jaws. His face was so close to Pauley’s that I was sure he was going to take off a piece of his nose. A spray of saliva coated Pauley’s face. Brubaker’s hand jerked up to wrench the duck off of Pauley’s neck. But Pauley blocked with his arm and danced backward.

“It’s my duck! Nobody can take him away!”

Brubaker drew back his fist to swing. But at the last possible moment something must have clicked inside Brubaker’s vicious mind; a pang of conscience perhaps. It was more likely a painful memory of the dark incident that forced him out of the Marines years before. His arm stopped mid flight. For a split second Brubaker’s hand went to his brow to hold a bowed head. He looked up and quizzically stared at Pauley who was now clutching the duck with his left hand, trembling.

“You like your duck a lot don’t you Pauley? Do you feed your duck? Really? What does he like to eat? And do you talk to your duck? Oh? What does he say?”

“He talks duck talk,” replied Pauley with a roll of his head and adding extra drawl to his voice. Bravo Company roared. A nearly imperceptible smile escaped from some remote section of Brubaker’s black heart and planted itself on his face.

“All right, you may keep your duck,” snapped Brubaker. But don’t wear him around your neck. Put it in the pocket of your field jacket.”

Pauley slowly lifted the duck hanging around his neck and opened the side pocket of his jacket. With the duck now in his pocket Brubaker simply said, “That will be all.” Then he stomped off muttering.

Pauley was the hero of the day. As we marched to the mess hall for breakfast rounds of “For he’s a jolly good fellow…” could be heard echoing off the barrack’s walls.

The next encounter Private Pauley had with Brubaker a few weeks later was much more humorous. Brubaker had decided to sentence our platoon to a G.I. “party”, which meant that we were to scrub our entire bay from ceiling to floor.

“Who would like to volunteer?” Brubaker asked with a sneer.

Pauley eagerly raised his hand. Amid howls of laughter he begged permission to polish the bay’s 50 gallon garbage can – the worst possible job. After the last snicker died, Brubaker told Pauley, “If you really want to polish that garbage can, I’ll even give you the money for some Brasso.”

With the platoon in stitches, Pauley left the bay to purchase some Brasso at the PX, and was not seen again for over two hours.

With beer on his breath and a can of Brasso in his pocket, Pauley returned unmissed to a platoon of nearly exhausted trainees drenched in soap suds and sweat. Now we all wondered how he would keep his promise to polish the garbage can. But he cheerfully dragged it out into the hall near the steps and began dabbing and rubbing. About 30 minutes later a herd of trainees stomped into the bay area exclaiming that Pauley had transformed our tarnished gray garbage can into a shining piece of silver. Rude shouts of disbelief filled the air. Pauley just sat there, his left hand lazily swishing his too-clean polishing cloth over the gleaming surface.

At next morning’s formation, Sergeant Brubaker announced that the C.O. of a nearby rival company had reported his personal trash barrel missing. It was used only for inspections and was recognizable by its brilliant shine. Brubaker cast an accusing eye at Pauley who had achieved overnight fame as a garbage can polisher. He nodded at Pauley, then he smiled faintly, shook his head, but said nothing.

It was evident by this time that Brubaker had gained a certain amount of respect for Pauley, for as he himself would say, “That ignorant hilljack is the only person I ever met who would stand up to me, face to face.”

~

The last week of basic training I discovered Pauley’s serious side and personal problems. It was a Saturday night and the barracks were nearly empty. I had just finished writing a letter home and had picked up my “Bible” to study, a book written by Army lawyer Robert S. Rivkin: G.I. Rights and Army Justice; The Draftee’s Guide To Military Life and Law. Yes, I believe you can still purchase it on EBay.

Pauley had been watching me from his bunk. His voice suddenly broke my concentration. “I know what happens to guys like me. It’s us they send to Vietnam to do the fightin’, ain’t it?”

There was no use pulling punches with him. “Yes, I admitted. There is a good chance that will happen to you.”

Pauley winced and looked down. “But what can I do? I never had no schoolin’. Not even junior high. Pa took sick and died when I was 14. Ma and us kids were left to hoe our dirt patch. I just started workin’ at the lumber mill when I got drafted. We was all livin’ on that. All I got now is my duck. The Army wants me to be a nobody ‘cause the nobodies get kilt. But as long as I got my duck I’m still a somebody.”

In those brief moments of Pauley showing me what his life was truly like, I gained an enormous amount of respect for him. His duck was his last symbol of hope in a world that had beaten him down all his life. It was a medal of sorts that he awarded himself to maintain his pride and dignity.

Pauley knew (most) everyone thought he was crazy. He knew he could successfully cultivate that image because of low test scores and odd behavior. He admitted to me straight out he was hoping for a section 8.

It hurt me to the core to hear him say that and I did not want to dash his hopes. “Pauley, listen I hate to tell you this but the Army stopped giving out section 8 discharges right after World War II.”

The poor kid looked devastated.

“How would you like to go back to working in the saw mill?”

“That ain’t gonna happen.”

“Actually it can. From what you’ve told me, you could apply for a hardship discharge and get it.”

“Really?”

“Yes really.” I opened my “Bible” to the section on hardship discharges and read him a couple of pertinent paragraphs.

Tears were running down his face. Pauley knew he was getting out of the Army.

“Hey, don’t let the other guys see you do that.”

He took his hand and wiped his eyes. “Can I see that book again?”

I handed it to him.

“You a lawyer or somethin’?”

“No, I was advised by a lawyer to buy this book.”

“I’m a gonna do it!”

“Just tell Sergeant Brubaker you need to talk to the Staff Judge Advocate,” I advised.

“Right after formation Monday morning!” Pauley was beaming. He thrust out his hand to me and I shook it to seal the deal.

The next day at lunch in the mess hall, I sat down at my usual table, off away from everyone so I could study my “Bible” while munching my grilled ham and cheese sandwich and spooning tomato soup. Looking up, I noticed Pauley working his way down the chow line. He looked happy. I had missed him at the morning’s grenade throwing lesson and wondered how he faired with the Staff Judge Advocate.

He spotted me, grinned and hurried over to sit down.

“Things must have gone well with the SJA,” I observed.

“I’m a short timer now, thanks to you.”

“No problem,” I replied taking a bite of sandwich.

“The SJA say he wanted to know how I learnt ’bout hardship discharges. I give him your name. All he said was, ‘Oh. Mr. College with the book.’ I hope I dint git you in any trouble.”

I winced. “No more trouble than I am in already.”

“Army don’t like dat book!”

“I’m sure of that.”

“I like it though.” He reached out and ran his finger across the cover reverently.

“You and me both.”

“Grenade class go ok?”

“I discovered I have a weak throwing arm,” I laughed.

“I’d a never guessed,” Pauley snorted.

“Everyone wondered where you were. I said you had a legal matter to attend to.”

“Sounds like I dint miss much.”

“Nope.”

For the next few minutes we ate in silence. But Pauley kept smiling. “We got rifle practice after lunch,” he finally said.

“So I hear.”

“You got yer battle buddy yet?”

“No.”

(Though everyone hated Sgt. Brubaker, he was ahead of his time in demanding all the soldiers be paired during rifle practice.)

“I’m pickin’ you.”

“Really? Why?” I asked.

“I got sumpin’ I wanna show you.”

“And what would that be?”

“Not ever thing there is to know come from book learnin’.”

“Are you planning on making me into a crack shot?” I laughed.

“Not ‘xactly.” Pauley’s grin was pure mischief now and I wondered what he had planned.

~

At the rifle range Pauley went first. He popped down into the cement tube which was supposed to be a fox hole. I stood in back of him to observe, mindful of protocol. When the voice on the PA came on, at the command to fire, Pauley let rip. A tight cluster of holes appeared in the target figure’s chest area.

“Damn Pauley! I thought you wanted out of the Army! That was awesome.”

“I’m a gittn’ out. You fixed that fer me. I jes’ wanted to show you how I shoot at home.”

“I guess we know who the crack shot is now,” I laughed.

“Yep.”

We watched one of the sergeants move down the row inspecting the targets. He stopped when he got to us.

“You do that, son?”

“Yessir,” said Pauley.

“You’re one hell of a shot!”

“Yessir.”

When all the targets had been checked, they were taken down and new ones put into place.

It was my turn to jump into the cement tube.

Pauley and I watched the sheets of fresh targets being put into place. He turned to me. “You bein’ a lefty, you got a special advantage,” he smirked.

“Is that right?”

“What side those shells come out from?”

“The right side.” (Whoever designed the M16 rifle clearly had those who were right handed in mind. The empty shells eject on the right of the weapon.)

“‘Xactly. You know, it’s gittin’ a tad warm doncha think?

I noted the bright sun in the October air. It was a crisp autumn day. “Seems perfect to me,” I answered.

“I’m thinkin’ you need to unbutton the top button on yer shirt.”

“You do?”

“Yep.”

“And why would that be?”

“Jes’ do it.”

“Ok.” I unbuttoned it as Pauley suggested. He was grinning broadly now.

The PA crackled and we listened to the same instructions we had heard the first time. I could feel my heart rate increase as I knew my turn to shoot was seconds away. I lifted the rifle up to my left shoulder and aligned the sights with my left eye, waiting for the signal to fire. I felt my left pointer finger make contact with the trigger. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my brow.

“When he say ‘fire’ you cock your right shoulder forward. Got it?” Pauley could barely contain his mirth.

“If you say so…”

The PA crackled. “Ready. Aim. Fire at will.”

I pulled the trigger and as I let loose a burst of rounds, doing as Pauley instructed. The next thing I knew I felt a burning on my skin as several shells seared my upper chest skin and trickled down inside the front of my open shirt. I jumped up and shouted, dancing around swearing, — with the M16 waving in my hand.

“Hot shell! Hot shell!” Pauley cried out.

The PA crackled. “CEASE FIRE!”

All the line of trainees stood up in their cement tubes and one of the instructors came running over to me.

All eyes were upon me as I pulled out bottom of the green fatigue from my waist band to shake out the remaining shells inside my shirt. When the instructor reached me I was mortified.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” he screamed.

“I wish I knew!”

“You a lefty?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Damn it!”

“Button that shirt up. All the way!”

I buttoned up the shirt right to the very top button. “I’m sorry,” I pleaded.

“You don’t leave that hole until you do this the right way,” he yelled handing me fresh clip to put into the rifle.

“Yes sir,” I replied meekly.

“Goddamn green horns!” he spat as he charged off.

I can’t remember when the target practice officially resumed if I even hit the target I was so rattled.

When it was time to climb out of the cement tube, Private Pauley offered me a hand up out of the tube and patted me on the shoulder. “Ya did good!” he chortled.

Once out of the fox hole, I looked around to see Sergeant Brubaker conferring with one of the firing range instructors. Both were looking right at me with evil eyes. Pauley was looking at me as well. But his expression was a naughty smirk.

It was only when target practice was over and we were marching out in cadence that I realized what had happened. Things went exactly as Private Pauley had planned.

When we had returned to our four man cubicle in the bay, he made a single brief comment about the incident. “I’m a paid up now. I owed you that ‘un.”

The last time I saw Pauley was on our graduation from basic training. I was mulling what it meant that I had been assigned to clerk school. It seemed like there was less chance of getting killed. Did Vietnam even use clerks, I wondered?

Pauley ran over to me absolutely jubilant. He showed me the papers approving his hardship discharge. One of the approving signatures was Sergeant Brubaker’s. He threw his arms around me dancing for joy. Now I was crying.

“Don’t let the other guys see you do that!” he laughed.

As for my “Bible”, it would be put to even greater use once I had settled into my overseas assignment after I finished clerk school. Not Vietnam. By some miracle, I was being sent to Tehran, Iran to work as a clerk and courier in a classified message center.

(Yes, the book mentioned, my Bible, is a real book and it saved my butt more than once….and my buddies too… when I got sent to Iran. But that is a whole ‘nother story.). The Man Who Fooled SAVAK is the title of my book.

Keeping Christmas Green

By Doug Roberts

It was because of my Grandpa Roberts that we had an important tradition that my father kept at Christmas time. Dad would always buy a live tree. No, not a live tree that you picked out and was cut down for you. He bought living trees from a nursery to be planted after Christmas.

I came to realize as I got older that this tradition was part of a father son bonding ritual, as I was always the one he would take to the nursery to help him select the tree we would later decorate. On the Saturday before Christmas, shortly after breakfast, Dad would smile at me and ask if I would like to help him buy a Christmas tree. That was like asking if I would like a new bike. I loved our Christmas trees and especially decorating them. A job I looked forward to was being the official bulb tester. We had several strands of lights that were wired in series and if one bulb went out, they all did. My favorite part was putting on the strings of special bubble lights. (I was surprised to discover that you can still buy those!)

When Saturday’s breakfast was finished, he and I would head to the white single car garage and I would pull up the large door so that Dad could back the 1950 Desoto sedan out into the alley. On the way to the tree nursery, Dad would invariably explain why we were doing this. I would always try to act like it was the first time I’d ever heard him tell it.

He would explain that when he was growing up – during the depression – his family was too poor to buy Christmas trees. The only tree of any kind that he ever got to decorate was the one his church purchased. The tree was the focal point of all the church’s activities during Christmas, culminating in a pot luck dinner on Christmas eve, quickly followed by the impatient opening of simple presents by all the children of the congregation.

As wholesome as the whole scene sounded, there was one sticking point that Grandpa Roberts vocally objected to. He thought it was a huge waste of money to buy something that was already dying when you brought it inside, only to throw it away a couple of weeks later. Dad would relate that yes, Grandpa Roberts gave new meaning to the word thrifty but that he also hated killing anything, — and would be in your face about it — especially about something so beautiful in all God’s creation as a tree.

There was one year Grandpa Roberts was successful in convincing a brand new pastor that purchasing a live tree for Christmas was the only course of action. After great debate, the church finally relented and took up an offering for the extra money that a live tree for planting would require.

Dad said it was the best, most meaningful Christmas he’d ever experienced because after Grandpa Roberts personally selected, purchased, transported and delivered the tree to the church, he announced to everyone that it would be his son’s job to keep the roots watered and the tree alive during the holiday season. Dad’s eyes would glisten and he’d take a hand off of the steering wheel to wipe away a tear.

After that Christmas was over another hot debate ensued: where to plant the tree. Once again Grandpa Roberts prevailed. He had decided that the only spot to plant the tree was a few feet away from the church’s single hole outhouse, positioned precisely to provide shade to the privy and thus keep the festering odors during summer months down to tolerable levels.

Dad would start grinning and I knew what he was going to say next. The tree was planted perhaps just a tad close to the privy and by the time the tree reached maturity, it’s lower branches were practically enfolding the wooden structure. As the tree quickly matured, (nurtured no doubt by the um, abundance of extra nutrients in the soil) this required regular trimming of the lower branches on one side to allow for easy access to the outhouse. There was a big upside to this. Almost totally surrounded in pine boughs, the outhouse was eventually completely shaded with the added bonus that users of the privy were treated year ‘round to the therapeutic aroma of fresh pine. The outhouse came to be affectionately known as The Pine Room.

As the years went by, Grandpa Roberts’ stature in the church grew by orders of magnitude as his vision of where to plant the tree, (now a majestic beauty) continued to reap much appreciated dividends. The joke was that it was how Grandpa Roberts got to be voted into the position of Deacon, all in spite of his cantankerous and overly opinionated personality. At this point Dad would laugh uproariously and I’d laugh along too.

And now here we were on our way to the tree nursery to buy the annual tree.

When we had arrived at the nursery and parked the car, the serious business of selecting a tree would begin. It had to be the right shape of course, with no holes or thin sides. But more important, it couldn’t be any taller than five feet. Trees over five feet tall do not transplant well.

Once the tree was purchased, with the help of the tree salesman, we’d open the trunk of the Desoto and put the burlap wrapped roots in first with the tree sticking out past the rear bumper. Dad would carefully tie the trunk lid down so as to not damage the tree on the return trip. He’d also tie a red bandana to the tip and we’d head carefully home singing Jingle Bells and Here Comes Santa Claus at the top of our lungs.

Instead of driving back into the garage, Dad would stop in front of the house so that we could take the tree straight up the front walk and into the living room where Mother would be waiting with a large washtub and a sheet. We would set the tree down in the washtub placed in a corner, and wrap the sheet around the base of the tree leaving an easily accessible small gap for watering.

With great solemnity Dad would entrust me with a watering can for this purpose and explain how it was now my job to keep the tree alive during the holidays. What would follow was a little sermon, though at the time I only saw it as Dad being overly concerned about his purchase. (I’m sure that was true too.) He would explain how the roots of the tree, even though they were hidden down under the earth, were the most important part, and how all those people who bought cut trees had killed it because the tree had been cut off from it’s roots and how people were just like trees in that regard.

Dad would explain that we were placing the tree in an unnaturally dark environment for a short time and that by taking special care to keep the roots moist, we would be compensating for that, keeping the tree alive. He’d always say that I should think about this when I got older and would ask me if I understood. Well, I didn’t. I just figured that he wanted me to plant live trees for Christmas when one day I would become a Dad with my own son. It never dawned on me until years into adulthood what the spiritual metaphor was about. At that age, I mostly just wanted to get the tree decorated as see the bubble lights. Now I understand that he was trying to show me the value of turning within to nurture one’s inner light.

During the days that would follow, I know that I would sometimes forget to water the tree. A few pine needles dropped onto the white sheet surrounding it would betray my inattentiveness. Dad or mother would admonish me, saying that how important my job was — for if the tree died, we couldn’t plant it in the back yard when Christmas was over. I’m sure that both of them would secretly add their own waterings. But there was always a bit of drama involved for me the closer it got to New Year’s Day and the amount of pine needles that dropped would inevitably rise.

Phase two of the holiday ritual would commence on New Years Day. Off would come the white sheet from around the washtub. I would take the sheet outside and nervously observe the pine needles that had fallen as they scattered in the air while I shook the sheet. Then we would remove all the decorations and when the tree was bare we would take it outside to get it acclimated to the chilly winter air before finding a place for it in the ground.

On the first Saturday after New Years Day, Dad would dig a hole following a by now memorized protocol for planting live trees. When the last shovels of dirt were replaced and tamped down Dad would express his gratitude to the tree for giving us such joy during the holidays. Then he’d look at me and invariably explain how the tree was a part of me now and how the tree was starting off a new year with me. “Do you have any good wishes for it?” he would always ask.

The most I could ever come up with was I hoped that the tree would grow up big and strong like me. Dad would laugh and then say his own little silent prayer. I would bow my head until Dad, no doubt sensing my being uncomfortable with the reverence of the moment would take my hand and we would walk together back into the house to sip hot cocoa and munch on Mother’s Christmas cookies.

 ~

Today, as a senior adult I appreciate that the live tree tradition that Dad picked up from Grandpa Roberts was the most meaningful thing my father ever gave me. As an adult, the father son bonds it created we sorely tested during the tumultuous sixties when I actively protested against the War in Vietnam. But when Mother died of a brain infarction at the age of 62 we rediscovered how much we needed each other. I resolved that I would renew those bonds.

We would meet for lunch every Thursday at the MCL Cafeteria. Though our politics were different, we both had a common passion for alternative health care. I had taken a non-traditional career path as a licensed massage therapist working for a chiropractor. It never ceased to amaze me that he supported me in that. During those lunches I learned from him that Grandpa Roberts had been a great believer in chiropractic and Dad would often tell me how proud of me Grandpa would have been. Often we would often discuss the latest article in Prevention Magazine or the touted benefits of a popular supplement.

When Dad passed away in May 1994 of Pancreatic Cancer, I believe we both felt complete in our relationship. I believed it enabled him to make his transition. We often hear it said that it’s the good that we do which lives on, but it’s not something which we very often take to be true literally. To receive a poignant reminder that it is indeed literally true, as happened to me very recently, is a great gift.

When I felt that I was finished writing my childhood memories, I submitted them to a professional editor minus this chapter. That, in spite of the fact that there was a part of me which wanted to tell the reader about so many wonderful Christmases — but all those memories seemed so clichéd so I dropped the idea. But the one memory of Dad planting live Christmas trees would not leave me alone.

My brain was demanding me to think about whether or not any of the trees Dad and I planted still existed. I had driven past the Bexley home once years before and was sad to discover that one of the first trees we had ever planted in the front of the house had apparently been cut down. Decades would pass with me living under the assumption that all the trees were gone. I could remember at least six.

Now for some reason, something inside me kept saying that I should drive out to Bexley, Ohio to see if even one of those Christmas tree plantings still survived in the back yard. Continuing to balk at the idea, I decided to be clever and pull up Google Earth and typed in the old street address. The view I first got was inconclusive. There did seem to be big smudges of green in the back of the lot. But when I shifted into street view and discovered I could move west virtually down Mound Street I began to wonder if I could also move down the alley behind the house where I lived. Unfortunately, Google Earth would not let me do that. But when I positioned the cursor at a precise point on Mound Street, looking down that alley I was startled to see – with amazing clarity – what looked to me like some kind of evergreen tree towering above the garages a few doors down. My heart started pounding.

I grabbed my camera and got into the car. Fifteen minutes later I was approaching the entrance to the same alley. There was indeed an evergreen tree beyond the garages. I stepped on the accelerator then slammed on the brakes and got out of the car, my jaw dropping. There was not just one tree in my childhood back yard. There were four white pines all higher than the two-story home. It didn’t seem possible.

Driving around the block I parked and knocked on the door. The owner was most gracious in my request when I explained that I wanted to photograph the pine trees in the back of his yard. He was visibly stunned when I told him that my father had planted those trees when we were done with them for Christmas. “Take as many photos as you want,” he grinned.

Moving around the side of the house I followed the sidewalk toward the familiar white single car garage. It was still the same color! I could almost picture my father’s 1950 Desoto still parked inside. The front of the old garage now sported an added low extension, no doubt to accommodate today’s longer automobiles.

Studying the trees, I was struck with the fact that the oldest of the four pines, the one we had planted near the corner of the garage, was by far the healthiest. Was it because it had the biggest head start in growing without competition for sunlight and soil nutrients? That was my conclusion.

The other three trees, while very much alive, didn’t seem so vibrant. One tree clearly needed some attention as its needles were more yellowish than green. It was clear to see why. Now quite mature, they had grown too close together. Oh, the irony! Dad had made the same mistake that Grandpa Roberts had made when he planted the church’s Christmas tree near the outhouse.

I thought of how often my Dad compared trees to people, and in that moment looking up at their tops, I realized a truism of my own that neither Dad nor Grandpa Roberts appreciated either literally or metaphorically.

But standing on their shoulders, it seemed obvious that when we plant trees and nurture them, just like our children, it’s hard to see how much they’re capable of growing. And that like people, as trees mature, they continue to need more and space in order to continue to grow and thrive as individuals. Yes, that which we do in our lives does indeed live on, and often in ways that only later generations will understand and appreciate.

I wrote this piece with the intent that my niece, nephews or my young grand nephew Izak, will someday read and ponder this story as a wise adult. I can easily imagine Izak finishing it at the end of some quiet solitary evening, looking up, eyes closed, with his hands behind his head and wearing a wry smile thinking about his uncle Doug, his parents and his own life.

by Douglas Roberts

The unique tale you are about to read documents the capture of a unique human being, his brief enslavement on a slave ship, his death, and the effect of his death on what is one of the strangest places in the world: Bonetta Cemetery. Bonetta Cemetery is a real place and the way it affects people is well documented. You may not want to read this right before bed time. 

~

Doctor Addison ran his hands nervously through his thinning hair. He knew without question now that he had made a horrible, deadly mistake.  The realization that he had been tricked and lied to by the captain of an evil slave ship turned his stomach. 

He looked out the port hole to watch the coast of Africa approach, and the fear of what his duties would be began to overpower him with dread.

Had he known he was signing on as a physician for a slave ship he would have rebuked Captain Pressman, and turned away from such a loathsome venture.

He wondered how many times he would be asked to pronounce as dead a slave who escaped from this floating hell hole, – escaped by passing from this earth.   

His official signature as a doctor was to merely satisfy insurance claims on living “cargo”. That was all that would be required of him. There would be no need of any of his doctoring skills on those with black skin.

His thoughts turned to the captain of the ship and wondered how anyone could be so purely evil. Captain Pusman, as they called him, was a well deserved name, he thought.  

Pusman suffered from a ghastly shoulder wound from a knife fight that never fully healed.  His festering oozing scars smelled almost as rank as the ships’ hold.  The wound was part of the ship’s infamous reputation and added authority to the name The Rattler, the most fearsome slave ship sailing the high seas.  Everything about the ship was venom and pure poison.  Its reputation was legend. 

Though he was a free man, supposedly, Doctor Addison felt as trapped as any of the Negroes Pusman would soon be packing into the festering bowels the floating dungeon.

He continued watching from the portal of his little room, the shore slowly growing larger on the horizon.    

He pondered jumping ship but where would he flee?  Though he was a religious man, Doctor Addison did not pray now.  He was resigned to the fact that he was on a ship of the damned and there was no hope, not for him or anyone on board. 

Not even Jesus could save him.

Now he could hear the crew prepare the landing boats.  Soon he would be called top side and he would be forced into one of the small landing craft and ride in it to shore. 

He jumped at the shout of the gravely voice.  

“Doctor Addison!  Ye be comin!”  yelled the ships’ first mate, a man the rest of the crew simply called Dog Face.  “Time we go ashore.”

From across the room he could smell Dog Face’s foul toothless breath,  As the doctor picked up his walking stick, Dog Face knocked it out of his hand and laughed when he bent to retrieve it. 

Dog Face glared impatiently and made gestures with his gnarled four fingered hand to hurry Doctor Addison along.

Steadying himself once again, he asked Dog Face straight out, “What will I do ashore, sir?”  

Dog Face laughed maniacally.  “It be sir now?”  He looked around grinning at the crew standing behind him.  “I’m a sir!”  They exploded with derision and Dr. Addison winced at their mocking of him.  

He shoved Addison forward as the crew continued in the mocking mirth.  “Get in da boat Doctor.  Be quick about it.”  

He tried to steady himself as the big ship rocked in the surf, making the landing boat tip back and forth.  Six sailors followed him in to sit down and man the oars.  

Dog Face laughed at his clumsiness but instantly stopped when Captain Pusman shoved him with a rebuke and climbed into the small boat and sat down next Addison in the bow.  

“Oars up!” Captain Pusman yelled.  

“Why am I going ashore?” Addison asked.   

“Ah, ya don’t know?  You be inspecting the cargo.”

“But I’m a doctor,” he objected.    “I know nothing about cargo.”

“The slaves!”  roared Captain Pusman. 

It was as he feared.  He would be expecting human flesh.

With the yawl now in the water, the oars down, and the oarsman putting their muscles in rowing it, the craft moved forward.   

It became clear why The Rattler was parked so far out in the water.  There was no harbor.

On his right the sails of The Rattler’s three towering masts fluttered in the blue sky.  Teams of noisy young boys were being lowered to the copper plating of the hull to clean off barnacles.

Just then Addison heard a whap and a cry:  “Shark!” 

The boys were hauled up and Captain Pusman turned to look behind him.   “Aye my big beauty.  Ye be thinkin’ dinner now!”  He laughed an evil laugh.   Soon my friend. Soon ye feast!”

Addison looked at the shark in horror.  Surely it could swallow the little landing craft in one bite.  His hands started trembling as he watched the beast circle the small boat.  The beast swam alongside with its eye on Captain Pusman.  Its huge jaws snapping.  Occasionally it would dive and resurface at the same spot, seemingly watching the captain’s every move. The shark suddenly appeared on Addison’s left.  Lunging out of the water with its jaws wide open it caught the edge of the boat and tipped.  Addison screamed in terror.  Pusman was unfazed.

The specter of The Rattler grew smaller and the activity on shore grew more clear which the doctor found oddly comforting.  At least on shore, he would be away from the shark. 

In the distance he could see a large structure filled with dark human figures:  the barracoon.  Several black men standing outside the wooden prison seemed to take charge.   One fellow, wearing a feathered hat, and European waist coat, appeared to be a tribal chief, or at least in charge.   Standing next to him, was a young Negro midget, round as a cannon ball, who held a crazed looked as though painted on his cherubic black face.  

The shark continued to follow even more closely now, raising its head up to look right at Captain Pusman, then moving ahead of the bow to spring partly out of the water, dive, then bump the little boat when it resurfaced.  It was as though the beast recognized the captain and was expecting something.   

Addison gripped the side of the craft when it would occasionally bump the craft with its head, threatening to tip the boat over.  Addison now wondered if they would even reach the shore.  But, observing Captain Pusman, who seemed not worried in the least, he resigned himself to the shark’s incessant bumps. 

But before reaching the beach, one of the oarsmen, let out a scream and pulled his oar out of the water.  The shark had reduced it to a jagged stick.  Addison’s heart beat faster and sweat poured off his brow.  

Captain Pusman laughed.  “Aye.  There’s my hungry boy! He knows who feeds him!” 

All the sailors yelled in agreement.   “Cap’n Pusman be his Daddy!” they joked.  

With the shark bumping the boat harder and harder until they were almost to the beach, Addison’s heart pounded as though it might burst from his chest.  Even the oarsmen were now silent with concern.

When they were almost to shore, the oarsmen all jumped out and dragged the bow up on to the beach as quickly as they could.  Addison jumped into the rolling surf and scrambled up the sand.  Turning quickly around he could see the shark’s dark fin moving in small circles a few yards out.

Now the men and women he had seen standing outside the barracoon were walking swiftly toward the landing party, the one in the feathered hat taking the lead.  Beside him walked the black butter ball of a man, legs churning to keep up. 

The chief was speaking in his African tongue.   All he could understand was Puusss-maan  Pusss-maan.

“Achito, you black pig!  How you plan to cheat me today?” laughed the captain.

“No cheat.  Best slaves.  Best price.”  

Pusman sneered. “A first for you!”   

The oarsmen laughed agreeably. 

“Let’s see what we got here,” said Pusman approaching the barracoon.  

His eyes narrowed as he looked the slaves over.   

“Where’d you get these sorry niggers?” 

“Up river. Near swamps.”

“Yer a goddam liar.  These are Fant people.”

Achito was indignant. “Not Fant!”

“What a sorry lot.  Old, fat, infirm.  Too damn many.  Cheat me again will you!!”

The chief touched the feather in his hat and laughed.  “No time to ‘cull’ as you say. We kill them later.”

Captain Pusman snarled and went into a tirade about how he didn’t sail from England just to have some Fant shoved off on him.  Where were the Igbo, the Attas and the Ottams he was expecting? 

“Sell.  Captain Thomas.”

“Those slaves were mine!” roared Pusman. 

“Thomas buy.”

“That stinkin’ thievin’ bastard!  I’ll kill him. I’ll kill you!”

“No kill,” said Achito. “Two for one. Special deal.” 

“Two for one?”  Pusman narrowed his eyes, greedily.  “I’ll be damned If I ever buy from you again,” spat Pusman.

Achito grinned. 

“Bring out the cargo!” yelled Pusman.

At that, Addison quietly asked one of the oarsmen why he was so angry.  He whispered back that the Fant are a warrior tribe and very fierce.  And they make the worst slaves. 

The slaves were led out of the barracoon, each one presented to Addison for complete inspection, male, female, sons and daughters, all naked as the day that they were born.   

With a deep sigh he began inspecting. He worked their feet, hands, limbs and every other body part as Pusman and Achito commanded them to bend, twist, kneel, stand and present themselves in all manner imaginable and subjected to humiliation upon humiliation.  Every body part presented for him to examine in detail.   

Following Addison at his heels, at the order Achito, was the midget.  Standing beside the doctor, he would also make the commands to kneel, squat, stand on one leg, raise an arm.  It was clear he spoke the language of the captive people.  

For the young women, he would invariably have them lay down and spread their legs.  Addison felt a revulsion well up within him as he watched, horrified.

It was clear that all these antics were not so much to help him with his inspection of the ‘cargo’ but to satisfy the midget’s lust.  Constantly at his heels like an enthusiastic puppy, he was underfoot to the extent that Addison nearly tripped over him numerous times.   

What Addison found most disturbing was that he greatly enjoyed making the younger women dance and jiggle for him.  His jovial mood was oblivious to the dark nature of what was happening.  

Addison was becoming more and more impatient as he had serious work to do, as vile as his task was.  Essentially, of the men, he was looking for strapping muscular physiques, of the women, ones who could make babies now or at least those who were soon approaching womanhood.   Would the ones he did not pick be killed? And how?  He had heard horror stories about the usual method:  beheading. 

It occurred to him that perhaps Captain Pusman was not getting such a raw deal.  Though the Fant were fierce, a fair number in the mix were handsome and beautiful people. 

He caught myself in that thought and immediately felt remorse for their plight.  Addison raised his hands and shouted to the heavens,  “I am a Christian man and hope my Lord still considers me to be such in spite of my transgressions. Have some mercy on me, Lord.”

Pusman laughed at this and yelled for him to get to work.  

Addison began his inspections in earnest, moving down the line of prospective purchases.  The deal appeared to be going forward and Pusman fired a shot, signaling the ship for the items to be traded in the bargain: mostly barrels of rum and boxes of rifles. 

Addison discovered that some of the slaves needed little inspecting, and per Pusman’s orders, he quickly weeded out the too tall, the short, the elderly, women with breasts like drooping dog teats, those with missing teeth, various growths, injuries of many kinds, one man with a blind eye, another who appeared to be dim witted, and a man whose testicles were missing — the reason for which could not be explained.   

This group amounted to 37 black souls who were sent back to the barracoon.  What would be their fate today? 

Except for two of them, Addison would never learn that. 

All those not rejected by Addison or Captain Pusman, were quickly manacled at the neck by twos and all chained to each other at the ankles.  

Captain Pusman fired his revolver in the air again, signaling the crew off shore.  More small row boats were lowered, heading out from the great ship to pick up the slaves.

Pusman yelled at Achito.  “Tell ‘em what I do if they try to escape!”

Achito became very animated and serious.  Addison could not understand him but from the reactions of the slaves, who became very afraid, it was clear the consequences of escape would be unimaginable horror.  

Now Achito called out of the barracoon a middle aged woman, plump in belly, with pendulous breasts and large buttocks.  They dragged her by the hair, screaming the whole way, scraping her skin raw to the sandy shoreline.

A man who must have known her began to yell in protest.  One of Achito’s men shot him point blank in the head.  The barracoon immediately fell silent.

“Take her to the ship!” Pusman commanded.

It seemed to take forever for the small vessel to take the woman to The Rattler.   Moving toward the group the other way, was boat after boat of the rum and the rifles. When the rifles and rum passed her, she seemed more aware of her fate and let loose a pitiful cry which was echoed by those in the barracoon. 

After that, the silence on the beach was deafening and Achito grew very somber.  

Addison could see now a few of the crew hoist the poor woman up on a rope tied under her arms, her naked breasts flattened at the top by the rope.  The woman’s piercing wails heightened the terror of the moment.  She was swung out on a boom over the water and immediately the giant shark started toward her and began leaping for its dinner.    

She was lowered a few inches and now the shark caught her foot.  The water turned red as Addison watched in horror to see her left ankle turn into a streaming bloody stump.  Her screams were even more piercing and her eyes seemed ready to explode from her head as she looked down at the shark coming at her again.

The men lowered her into the water and just as quickly pulled her up. But now her entire lower torso was gone, her intestines falling out of her abdominal cavity and dangling like grotesque ropes.  She must have passed out from the pain or fright for now she hung limp.

The men on the ship let her silent body hang like that, with the shark snapping at her loose entrails flapping in the wind.  He body swung visibly in the breeze as slaves were boarded onto the ship and securely manacled. The grotesque sight was a dire warning of the consequences for any type of rebellion.

As hypnotized by the ghastly scene as all the slaves were, apparently one manacled man was not afraid.  He stood slowly raising himself to the full stature of his well muscled physique.  Raising his arms with great solemnity he pronounced something Addison could not understand.   But immediately all the other Negroes from the barracoon fell prostrate to the ground.

“Wh’d he say?” yelled Pussman.

Achito nervously stroked the feather in his hat, as if looking for a response. “He send peace to her spirit,” he finally said. 

“My hungry boy get a peaceful tummy then,” roared Pussman unmoved.   

The crew laughed uproariously.

The midget, who was standing beside Addison took his arm and bent him low to whisper something.   “No. No.  He put curse on the ship.  Everyone die. Fant people make evil curse!”

Stunned, Addison shot upright and looked at the brave man.  He had an air about him now that Addison had not seen before, a certain regal bearing to his countenance.

“Is he the high priest?” Addison asked the midget.

“No. He medicine man. Ship cursed now.  Pussman die soon. Everyone die.”

Addison wondered if he should tell Pussman of this revelation but decided against it.  It seemed preposterous. 

Now he was simply curious as to what might happen once the medicine man came aboard. If everyone was soon to die, did that also include him?  Addison  thought such a fate might also be his deliverance, if the curse was real.

When the ship was fully loaded, with 467 terrified captives crushed into a small space down below, shoulder to shoulder, the remainder of the woman’s bloody torso was dropped into the sea. The water turned red and turbulent as the shark finished its meal.  

Addison shuddered, for now he knew that he was about to take a voyage with Satan himself.  He felt as damned as the living cargo on the cursed Rattler. 

Part II

As the physician’s assistant, the job Randolph Thompson had working aboard the H.M.S. Bonetta was scary by anyone’s definition.  The Bonetta was one of the many British slave patrol boats that would cruise the coast of Africa looking for slaver ships, ships that would do anything to not get caught. 

One of the chief dangers Thompson faced was contracting yellow fever carried by mosquitoes. There was no known cure. Either men survived or they died. A least people understood the concept of quarantine. 

Thompson had a job because the problem became so bad that the British government set up a quarantine area on Ascension Island in what was first called Comfort Cove.  Later, because it was such a tragic place, the sailors all started calling it Comfortless Cove, on “Fever Island”. 

Now, in January 1838, the H.M.S. Bonetta had a couple dozen sailors on board who had contracted yellow fever and they were on their way to Fever Island and the infamous cove.  Randolph Thompson wondered how the remaining healthy crew members would transfer all the sickly ones ashore.  Too many men were sick.  

As he logged the names of all the sickly men into the ships’ journal, something unforeseen happened. The wind changed to easterly and the crew aboard the Bonetta noticed the first waves of a stench so foul as to bring a man to his knees in retching.

The captain of the ship, Captain Bate, who was familiar with this odor, quickly determined that they were downwind of a slave vessel.  

Though he was in no position to overpower such a ship with his sickly crew, it was voted that he should take a slight detour from his destination to the fever station, to at least determine the source of the stench in order to notify British authorities once he landed on Ascension Island.

They were able to soon spot the ship and immediately noticed that its sails were down.  As the H.M.S. Bonetta got closer, the stench became overpowering.  Captain Bate, holding the spy glass steady, focused in on the name of the ship and a wave of terror tore through him.  It was The Rattler! 

Some of the crew, who knew The Rattler’s evil reputation, pleaded with Captain Bate to turn the ship around, including Randolph Thompson.  But as he was only an assistant to the chief surgeon on board, his voice was overruled. 

When Captain Bate, the chief surgeon, and Randolph his assistant, boarded the slave ship they discovered that the crew had apparently died.  There was no sign of the infamous Captain Pusman either. 

Though no one was found alive in the slave holding area, there weren’t that many bodies down there, they discovered.  It was presumed many dead were simply thrown overboard — as was so often the case.

Captain Bate, overcome with the vision of such floating pestilence, ordered several crew members to set the ship on fire, to remove any chance the vessel should ever come close to a shore and infect people.  In doing this,  the chief surgeon passed by the captain’s quarters of the ghost ship when he heard a faint noise.  

Upon opening the door he found laying on the captain’s couch a tall Negro man, attended to by a boy, perhaps just past puberty, a wiry little man dark as coal, and a young woman who was  placing on the man’s forehead a wet rag, presumably to cool his fever. 

The three naked emaciated figures bolted upright and the man on the couch opened an eye to take in the white people who had just burst in.  The three huddled together in front of the man laying on the couch, terror in their eyes.

Captain Bate made gestures to not be afraid, but to no avail.  At the Captain’s request, Randolph brought to the slave ship several pieces of salt pork and a pail of fresh water.

Upon seeing the food and water the slaves’ trust was gained as they devoured the offering.  The man on the couch took several bites, drank some water and refused more. 

Determining that the four pathetic souls needed to be removed from the ghost ship, they were brought aboard the H. M. S. Bonetta and taken to the ship’s infirmary where Randolph aided in attending to them briefly before returning to the ghost ship to help set it ablaze. 

As the flames around the ship spread and rose, wave after wave of rats began  jumping overboard.  And despite every available hand, even the sick ones, all firing upon the rats, so thick was the sea with them the crew feared for their lives that their own ship might be soon overrun with such vermin — so great was their number.

When the evil ship finally sank, Captain Bate ordered the crew to set sail once more for Ascension Island. He refused to use the sad name his crew called the Island. 

Randolph returned to the four emaciated slaves to attend to their needs and comfort them. Now dressed in night shirts, the crew found for them, the three began expressing their thanks to God and the ship’s captain for saving them.  The large man remained silent, possibly incoherent. 

Randolph learned that that woman could speak some English, having been raised by a slave ship captain before escaping back to her own Fant tribe after several years. The young man was her son.  The lean wiry man was their attendant.   Randolph learned the woman was married to the very ill man lying on the cot.  

Upon further questioning Randolph discovered the ill man was Zicho, the great Fant medicine man, a high priest and healer in their tribe.   He was taken aboard The Rattler at his insistence, demanding that he be taken instead of his beloved niece who had been captured.  A fine specimen of a man he was then marked for purchase by Captain Pusman at a premium price. 

The woman frightened Randoph when she spoke of Zicho’s curse on The Rattler. “Zicho put big curse on the ship. He say they all going to die. He put big sickness in the water and everyone be very afraid.  Da crew on the slave ship hear this. The first mate, like a mad man, say that the water turned black, filled with worms.”  

Randolph listened spell bound as the woman related how Zicho had predicted two days before they were rescued that when no living person was left on the evil ship, that it would burst into flames and it’s blazing evil would sink into the sea. 

Randolph pondered the evil specter of The Rattler now engulfed in flame and black smoke, with wave after wave of rats pouring out of it.  

The woman continued her rant. “Our people know when he born where Zicho be buried. He be placed in a grave on an island, surrounded by bodies of many good white men. Their spirits to protect him for all time.”

Now Randolph was truly spooked.  There was no way this woman could know that the destination of the H.M.S. Bonetta was to Ascension Island, Comfortless Cove and the small cemetery there.  Only his countrymen knew that Bonnetta Cemetery is the resting place for sick British sailors of the West African Squadron.  It was the final resting place of those who caught yellow fever and died working from working around the slave patrol ships, or from the clouds of mosquitoes that plagued the African coast.  

Inwardly Randolph winced. No black man, let alone a slave could be buried there.  The woman’s prophecy was wrong on that count, – or so Randolph thought.

Randolph wanted to get away from the woman and her companions and went looking for Captain Bate, complaining about tending to all the men with yellow fever in the ship’s infirmary.  

Now he was worried that he might catch the dreaded disease himself and complained of being overworked and underappreciated in such a dangerous situation. But Captain Bate had his orders and continued resolutely sailing toward Ascension Island, or Fever Island as the crew called it. 

Two days later the ship’s first mate shouted “Land Ho!”   

Randolph ran top side to see on the horizon land indeed approaching.  He watched the ship’s first mate, upon order of Captain Bate, run the yellow flag up the mast, so all on land could know a fever ship was coming into Comfortless Cove.

Those on board who were healthy readied boats to take the sick men ashore once the H.M.S. Bonetta dropped anchor.   Randolph complained bitterly about having to do such menial manual labor when he was already overburdened.  But after a stern rebuke from Captain Bate he tried to work wearing a smile.  He resigned himself to the fact that the ship was severely understaffed and he was needed to help.  

Randolph began loading bedding and sails for makeshift tents in one of the boats.  When the boats were full, he insisted that he and the ship’s first mate row that boat to shore by themselves to avoid being put in with those soon to die of the fever.   

Other crew members loaded stores of supplies for the sick men from the ship’s garrison so that the men would have necessary provisions.  

An argument broke out among the crew over the issue of who would row the dying men in their last stages to the shore.   

After great deliberation and heated voices, it was decided that a method of using two boats would be used to transport the men, as none of the healthy men wanted to be near the sickly ones.  One boat full of healthy sailors would be dropped into the water and a rope tossed to the sickly men in a second boat.    

The first boat would row in the dying men keeping them at a safe distance until the boat landed, at which point the men now on shore would pull in the men dying of fever the remaining distance to the beach of Comfortless Cove.

When most of the fevered men were ashore, Randolph returned to the infirmary to find the Negroes he’d been faithfully attending to suddenly struck with violent dysentery.  

Zicho’s fever had worsened and a dreadful effluence now fouled the infirmary floor. Severe abdominal pains, had them bending over with sharp cramps.  But in spite of their suffering, the young woman begged to be taken ashore in order to tend to Zicho in his last hours.

Randolph argued with Captain Bate that they needed to be off the ship if they had something the crew could catch.  Finally the captain relented. 

Using the same two boat method, a few of the healthier crew members rowed the Negroes  to the far end of the cove, some distance away from the sailors.   

For Randolph it was a day as grim as any man has ever seen, burying so many men at sea. He felt overwhelmed that he had no time to tend to the ones still breathing.

Toward evening  Randolph and the first mate returned to the slaves.  All were sicker than when he left them and Zicho was near death.   “He have one wish,” said his wife.  “He be buried there,” pointing to the cemetery where a few of the ship’s officers had been freshly laid into the ground.

Randolph objected, saying that the cemetery is only for British sailors.  But Zicho awoke in that moment and rebuked them.  His eyes wide open, he looked like some kind of zombie Randolph thought and the specter of him suddenly sitting up and speaking scared him witless.   

“He say he can curse this place or make it a place of peace,” said his wife ominously.   “You bury him here!” she commanded.   “The prophecy!”

Randolph’s head was spinning.  He had never been talked to like that by a woman, let alone a black woman.   Randolph knew he did not want to make a decision so important alone and went looking for advice.  

After conferring with the first mate, Randolph offered a compromise to the woman, telling her that Zicho could be buried there but they must be the ones to do the digging. 

The woman agreed, much to Randolph’s relief. 

When the three Negroes had finally laid Zicho on an empty place in the cemetery, Randolph found them a shovel and the three began to remove dirt and rocks to make a hole. When a shallow grave was dug, they placed Zicho in it, still alive.

Randolph observed Zicho to be breathing with considerable effort and noise.  He jumped when all at once he opened his eyes and sat up looking at his wife and then right at him.

He began to speak and his wife interpreted.  She wept as she repeated to Randolph what were his last words: “I soon  lay down for the last time.  I am surrounded by the spirits of my white warriors.  They comfort me now and through the ages.  This was spoken by our people long ago.  Now a great gate is opening and I see the light spirits, a throng of black angels.”

Then, with a heave of his chest, he died and fell back into the grave. And when he gave out a last sigh the wind suddenly stopped and no sea bird could be heard, neither the ocean only a few yards away.   And Randolph felt a great peace fall upon him, and a silence.  

The slaves looked at Randolph in awe and Randolph at them. What had just happened? 

Deeply shaken, Randolph helped them cover the body with the dirt that they had removed, marveling that the peace continued and in fact only seemed to grow greater as they worked.  When they had finished covering the great leader with dirt, Zicho’s wife placed rocks in a pile at his head and made a long line of rocks the length of the grave in the center of it, like a ridge line.  “It point there,” she said, indicating a place in the sky where the North Star would be.   

And when the North Star appeared that night it seemed to shine with a greater brightness than any of them had ever seen, and every sailor marveled at it both sick and healthy alike.

Now Zicho’s wife, her young son and their attendant began to sing and dance on the grave with words and movements of wild abandon.  They danced and chanted all night without stopping and when the first light of dawn came they fell down motionless.  Randolph thought that they had exhausted themselves, but when he went to them Randolph found them all dead, every one.  

Terrified, Randolph ran to tell the head surgeon who was courageously administering to several dying men on the beach in the makeshift tents.  But when he found the surgeon, he was weeping as all the men who had continued to linger suddenly left this world as well. 

When Randolph told the chief surgeon about Zicho, and the Negroes suddenly dying  after dancing all night, the chief surgeon’s face became white wondering if it was a miracle; or a great calamity created by Satan himself.  

Not believing Randolph, he marched straightway toward the cemetery and as soon as he had entered it stopped suddenly for now the sea could not be heard over the silence and the great peace that had fallen upon the place, and upon himself, who immediately kneeled down on the ground. 

And this is the strangest part of the story:  Even today when a person enters into Bonetta Cemetery, he is suddenly struck by the eerie silence of the place even though waves can be seen breaking on the shoreline. 

As one visitor wrote,  “You can just hear the sea and birds before entering but it falls silent when you step inside the cemetery.”

The Ascension Island Heritage Society concurs.  In one of its publications, in a section titled FEVER, it describes the bleakness of Comfortless Cove.  “There are only a few reminders of its long and sad use, the grave sites, and a few broken beer bottles.  It does however have a certain atmosphere. The main graveyard, the Bonetta Cemetery, behind the main beach, is strangely peaceful, and even when the seas are rough, no sound of the sea penetrates the small hollow.”  It is a mystery science has no explanation for. 

But even stranger than the silence is the Final Prophecy of Zicho that, according to some, enforces the silence.  It was written down by Randolph at the command of Zicho’s wife:

You are reading this because Zicho’s wife asked me to write down his prophecy.  It was spoken to me upon her husband’s death, but before they all danced themselves into kingdom come, – may God rest their souls.  

As a faithful servant of our dear Lord and Savior, I wrote her words down as she spoke them. I swear that I have recorded accurately this day and in the King’s English, as God is my witness.  Let it be known that because you are reading this, the prophecy of Zicho, the great Fant medicine man will be fulfilled.” – Randolph Thompson

“The evil that made slavery happen will continue for centuries, but will be overcome.  Africa will sleep on until a future age.  Know that as long as great evil exists, this cemetery will be an open gate to a sacred world.  

Someday, black men will journey to this place to feel a realm that they lost and long ago forgot when their ancestors were ripped from their motherland.  For people of any color, it shall be a place where all beings and all nature is holy.  

When this holy place has been discovered, know then that all of Africa will soon awake. It will be a great change. But the silence of this cemetery will go on forever.”

I was recently shocked to learn someone who I loved and was very important to had passed away years years ago at the age of 63. She was my student newspaper advisor at Rio Grande College. I decided to write a memorial speech as though I had been at her service.

Barb Memory

“Hi my name is Doug. I was the assistant editor with George who just spoke. I`m glad to follow George because my memory of Barb involves him. As George mentioned, Barb was our student newspaper advisor.

As you probably surmised George was a zany brainy guy, and pretty liberal too. All those factors came together for his most famous, or infamous, editorial titled: Inter-racial Intercourse.

The day he wrote it, I knew something big was up with George when he motioned me over to his typewriter. Yeah, we used typewriters back then. He spoke in a whisper. “Roberts, hey, come look at this.”

He pulled the copy out and handed it to me. The title immediately caught my eye. The title was actually the most controversial part of his piece, which was about harmony between races but you had to read several paragraphs to see that. It was a little long I thought. We had a cute black girl on the staff named Vicky Brown we both liked and inwardly I wondered if he kind of meant it for her eyes.

“So, what do you think Roberts?”

“Geez George I dunno. Barb is going to need to see this and approve it.”

“But what do you think?”

I cleared my throat. “I like it. It will cause a big stir for sure.”

Just then Barb entered the office. “What`s up you two. You act like you are talking secrets.”

“George wants to show you what he wrote, right George?”

“Well, I uh just wrote this editorial. I thought maybe….”

“Let me see it.”

George hesitated, holding the copy close to his chest.

“She needs to read it man. Give it to her.”

“Yeah, yeah. Here.” He gave me a scowl and handed Barb the copy.

Immediately her eyes opened wide and looked up at George, clearly stunned.

“You have to read the whole thing Barb.”

The silence as she read it hung thick in the air. We held our breath. After long minutes she looked up. She looked serious.

“Lie in the headline. Tell the truth in the copy. That`s what you did here. The title will grab everyone`s attention all right. If you are willing to stand behind what you wrote, I`m okay with it. Just make a couple of word changes, the two vulgar terms. Fix those.”

I waited for George to object. I thought Barb sounded very reasonable.

“All right. I`ll fix the words.”

Barb had not said anything about it being long, which was my concern, probably because I did the layouts. George was all smiles. “So, it`s a go?”

Barb laughed. “Let`s see how much it shakes up the campus.”

Immediately off his feet George lifted his hand for a high five.

We were both dancing around. “Oh my god. Barb is just the best.”

After several minutes of merriment she raised her hand. “Party`s over. We have a newspaper to get out!”

This was typical of her. She was always very fair and easy to work with. And we dearly loved her for that.

My experiences of 9/11 were pretty different than just about anybody I know. At the time it happened I felt as though I was on a paradise planet far from earth. Yes you read that correctly.

The immediate impact of learning about the horrors of that day were greatly buffered by the fact that I was literally at a place fairly removed from access to TVs and radios.

I was attending a 5 day massage therapy workshop at one of the most beautiful places I know of: The Esalen Institute near Big Sur, California right on the ocean, the very edge of the United States. (The only TV that I’m aware of was in the main office.) I was at Esalen to learn Lomi Lomi massage, which comes from an ancient healing tradition out of Hawaii.

The check in on Sunday night was standard. The new class met for orientation in the evening so we could introduce themselves.

By Monday morning September 10th, we were starting to get comfortable with each other and the various states of undress that massage workshops always create.

On Tuesday September 11th, I remember awakening that morning in a most unusual way for me. I felt like my brain was crawling up slowly out of a deep hole and it was taking an immense amount of effort to move myself up and out of it. As I got out of bed I was unaware that on the other side of the nation a horrific tragedy had just taken place.

But once awake, I shook that off and noted that I was up early enough to attend the morning’s movement meditation. Something called the 5Rhythms, which sounded like it would really get my bones moving. I didn’t know it then, of course, but because of the west coast time difference this 7:00 a.m. movement class would take place a little over an hour after the World Trade Center had been hit (8:46:26 EST.)

To my delight I discovered that the dance leader was Lucia Horan, a woman from whom I had experienced several expert massage therapy sessions. I listened to her captivated as she introduced the 5Rhythms Movement Work developed by Gabrielle Roth. Nothing in her presentation that morning gave any of us a clue that she was in possession of a terrible secret, which she would soon share.

According to the 5Rhythms work the five dances are:

1. Flowing: the opening to our inner truth connecting us to the energy of our being, to who we really are. a place where we listen and give attention to the inside and the outside. connecting to our body, our inhale and to our ground the earth. soft, female, flowing. i am one with my feminine power. mother earth and I melt into unique harmony. i follow the stream of life and sensuality. my body moves in spirals and I connect with the earth through my feet. there is no start or stop. everything is one big circle.
2. Staccato: which “shows us how to step out into the world connected to our feet and our feelings. This rhythm is the ruler of our linear world, the ruler of the warrior part of us, the part of us that shows up as truth and clarity. It is the part of us that stands up for what we care about, who we love, and what we love. Staccato is the fierce teacher of boundaries.”
3. Chaos: the rhythm of letting go, connecting us to the big mind. we surrender into the uknown of our dance, our fluid self and rebirth. On the 5Rhythms website Ms. Roth reflects that it is the chaos rhythm that “held me through many shatterings…”
4. Lyrical: “the rhythm of trance, where the weight of self-consciousness dissolves, where we lighten up and disappear into our own uniqueness. lyrical is the aftermath of chaos where my inner-child comes out and plays. it is air rooted to the mother. i dance my joy, i dance my bliss. i surrender to the infinite possibilities of my soul. sometimes I am spinning in circles until I fall.”
5. Stillness: “the quiet emptiness, where gentle movements rise and fall, start and end, in a field of silence. the internal dance which aligns me with my spirit. i am fragile yet empowered, i am one with the nothingness. it unites me with love and compassion. i am the breath being breathed. I am diving into the vast ocean of my soul and the big silence.”

After leading us through the rhythms of flow and staccato, I remember feeling an expanded group energy which felt good. But in a moment that feeling would completely vanish.

As Lucia announced Chaos as the next wave I noticed that her voice broke and was filled with emotion. Her announcement was so brief. “This morning the World Trade Center was attacked….” Was my mind hearing correctly the words? Something like “…and let us hold in our hearts as we dance this wave of death the departed souls who died…” It did not compute. Surely I had heard wrong. But no, the faces all around me told me otherwise.

Suddenly the dance class had been turned upside down. I felt an immense tightening in my abdomen as though I had been punched in the stomach. Yet no one asked any questions though our faces searched each other that what we all had just heard could possibly be true.

The music of the Chaos wave began and we did what we were there to do. We danced a dance of death and grieving and disbelief.

I have to confess that I don’t remember the next two waves very well. I know that I certainly was not feeling stillness when we finished dancing the stillness rhythm. In spite of that I felt that we had all processed something huge, — and in the moments that we first learned of the tragedy. For that I will be immensely grateful for the rest of my life!

On Wednesday, the third day of Lomi Lomi instruction was filled with tension as students shared bits of news and rumors of the morning’s tragic events. The line to the pay phones were too long to deal with and a lot of us, including myself, were happy not to stress ourselves with that.

Tension and stress of any kind is not conducive to Lomi Lomi work, as it’s method is almost an upper body dance across a person’s body using sweeping strokes of the forearm. I wasn’t doing very well with it, needless to say.

As the week long workshop progressed, any tensions that had partially subsided in the middle of the week seemed to be returning as the participants had to ponder how they were to get back home. By Thursday, September 13, airports were technically open again but flights were happening only on a case by case basis.

By Friday when the Lomi Lomi workshop ended at noon, horror stories about trying to fly were filtering back to Esalen. In short: flying was a nightmare. Car rental places had no cars to rent because so many people abandoned the idea of flying — either out of outright fear, or because they simply wanted to avoid the extreme hassles they were hearing about at the airports. I was to find out later from a friend who was trying to get back to Columbus, OH from Las Vegas that it was impossible to even buy a car outright from anybody. There were none to be found.

Because I live in Ohio, I knew a flight was my only option — if indeed it was an option. Calls to the airport from my motel room in San Jose on Friday night suggested that my best chance of getting home was to arrive at the airport at least two hours before my scheduled flight the next morning. I decided to make it three hours just to be safe.

When I arrived at the airport the next morning via a taxi, I was stunned by what I saw. Huge throngs of people flowed out of the airport entrance onto the sidewalk. It was absolute chaos. But, having no plan B, what could I do? After some effort I found a line to get into, which seemed like an exercise in utter futility. As it happened the person in back of me was a teacher also headed back to Columbus, Ohio. Though she and I were supposed to be on the same flight, announcement after announcement of flights that had been canceled did not offer us any hope.

The only thing that kept us going was the fact that the line was moving; not because passengers were being processed but because people were giving up in droves and simply walking away. I remember telling the teacher behind me, “Well, I’ve got nothing else to do today, and since I don’t know what else to do I’m staying in line.” She agreed and I felt some needed support in my decision.

The line continued to move as more and more people simply gave up and I could now see the ticket counter. After another hour or so the teacher and I could see we would soon be at counter. I told her that no matter what happened I needed to talk to an airline official. She agreed that’s what we needed to do.

When it was finally my turn to stand at the counter with my ticket for a flight that never happened, I showed it to the clerk. I explained that I was supposed to have been on this flight. “What should I do now?” I asked.

To my amazement I heard the words, “I’ve got two seats in first class on a flight going to Columbus, OH. Which one do you want?” The teacher behind me had heard this and she fairly shouted, “I’ll take the other one!” My new found flight buddy and I looked at each other gleefully, barely believing our luck.

Once on board I took advantage of every free alcoholic drink offered. As I recall, it was several glasses of red wine. This was highly unusual behavior for me, as I normally don’t drink.

Once we were on the ground in Columbus I was so overcome with joy when I saw my wife standing there waiting for me I fell to the ground and kissed it, then got back up to receive a hug.

It was only then on the way home that I was bombarded with all the ugly details of how the horrific events unfolded. As I listened to my wife, and the news analysis on TV, I realized that by some bizarre stroke of fate, I had been spared from being overwhelmed by a tsunami of terrifying news that had left everyone I knew personally in a visible state of shock and grief a week later.

The world I had hoped to come back home to had been forever changed and no longer existed as I remembered it.

Recently someone asked me if the book I wrote was a response to 9/11. I dismissed the idea. But after watching a lot of thoughtful news pieces I was startled by a new thought that jumped into my head. My book recounts a time in Iran when the bogeyman of that era was Communism. Islam had not yet been hijacked and politicized by terrorists. My girlfriend was Muslim, and her faith was never an issue with my family. Rather, it was my ‘pinko commie’ leanings. I never thought about all the friends I made in Iran as being Muslim friends. They were just people I liked.

Now I find myself wondering if there is a part of me that so longs to live in a pre 9/11 world that I attempted to recreate a version of it for myself as a story to publish.

Obviously it’s impossible to go back to that time. But I still love Persian and Middle Eastern culture. And I have Muslim friends in ‘real’ life and many on line via Facebook. All those experiences have helped me isolate ‘terrorists’ to a place in my head that is completely foreign to religion of any kind. And so, even though I maintain that writing that book was not a response to 9/11 it was more therapeutic for me than I first realized.

• By Douglas Roberts
• Isfahan, Iran
• When I was in the Army serving in Iran, one of the most long lasting memories I have was a trip to Isfahan, Iran in the spring of 1972. This was planned by Daveed, my friend and co-worker who organized this and in fact, all trips for our military assistance advisory group, ARMISH/MAAG.
• As was his custom he would personally lead the trips he planned and this one was no exception. The part of the trip I enjoyed most was when he took us to on a little side trip to Shiraz to visit the tombs of the great Persian poets Saadi and Hafiz. The morning after our return to Isfahan he told me that based on my enthusiasm for those mausoleums, he had a special treat planned just for me that I would surely love. But he wouldn’t tell me exactly what it was.
• I still remember it like it happened hours ago….
• i am on pins and needles in anticipation. Finally, later that afternoon Daveed hails a taxi from the Shah Abbas Hotel where we were staying. He tells the driver to take us to Monar Jonban, the famous shaking minarets, a popular tourist attraction in Isfahan, Iran.
• Heading west to the outskirts of Isfahan, we soon arrive at what appears to be a mosque, and I have to confess I am not all that impressed. I had seen much more beautiful structures in Isfahan. What is the big deal I wonder.
• Daveed motions that I am to follow him and we walk around to the back of the building. As we walk he explains that Monar Jonban is the tomb of a 14th century dervish named Abu Abdullah ibn Muhammad ibn Mahmud Saqla, who died in 1316. The famous shaking minarets are not part of the original design of the mausoleum, but added in the 17th century, he tells me.
• I follow Daveed to the narrow staircase that leads to the roof and to the minarets. We climb the stairs and Daveed explains I will soon be participating in a unique and mysterious phenomenon: the design of the building is such that one can rock one of the minarets and the other one will begin swaying in unison until the whole building begins to move.
• Now he has my attention! He tells me that until very recently people believed that this shaking happened because of the amazing spiritual powers of the Sheikh who is buried there. I’m like, “Yeah, right.”
• When we get to the roof of the building there is a small crowd of local tourists who have gathered to hear what I assume to be a local tour guide explaining the structure to the Iranians who are listening intently. Looking around I note that I am the only foreigner in the group.
• Daveed explains to me it’s the custom to allow one person in a tour group the honor of climbing into the one of the minarets and have that person begin rocking back and forth to initiate the shaking process. I have no idea that it is me who he has in mind for this. (Note, no one is permitted to ‘shake’ the minarets now because of the structural damage that the building has incurred over the decades.)
• When the local tour guide gets to the point in his presentation where a person is be selected to climb up into the minaret, Daveed vigorously volunteers me, much to my amazement. He announces to all present how much I had enjoyed visiting the tombs of the Sufi poets Hafiz and Saadi the day before and how honored I would feel. The crowd for the most part seems fine with this, except for one elderly gentleman who objects, saying that he doesn’t believe an infidel should be allowed to enter a minaret.
• Daveed pours on the charm and counters that I am a really Sufi at heart and that I should be allowed. In my head I’m thinking he should now just let the whole issue drop, — plus I’m wondering what in the hell he’s talking about. As most of the crowd is agreeable to this, and Daveed is being so forceful about it, the next thing I know Daveed is physically ushering me into the entrance of the minaret and telling me to start climbing up into it.
• Just before entering I turn around to look at the crowd and note the scowl of the man who has objected. I’m not feeling good about it, but nevertheless, I hand Daveed my Pentax camera so he can record the event. He gives me a shove and up I go.
• Once I finish climbing up inside the minaret Daveed instructs me to start rocking my body back and forth, which I do. Soon enough the other minaret starts to undulate gently and shortly after that everyone can feel the whole building move slightly. This delights most of the crowd, except for the old man who continues to scowl, which is making me most uncomfortable. Thinking I have now rocked the place enough, — in more ways than one — I announce that I am done and will now come down.
• “Stop!” cries the old man. “If you really are a Sufi, as this man claims, — and not an infidel — you should give us a call to prayer. You can come down when you have done that.” All this is in Farsi and Daveed in translating.
• I look at Daveed horrified. What was happening? “I am not qualified to do such a thing,” I object.
• “He’s not a muezzin!” answers Daveed with some anger in his voice.
• One of the bystanders shouts his agreement with the old man. “Yes, have him do the call to prayer!” as he walks to the stairs to block me from coming down until I do just that.
• I look pleadingly at Daveed for direction, but he’s arguing with the old man. At that moment, I notice a handsome man, perhaps 6 or 7 years older than me, with full dark beard emerge from the narrow staircase that leads to the roof. He is dressed in Imam’s robes and in my mind looks rather regal. “Him!” I shout. “That’s the man who should do the call to prayer. I’m sure he’s really good at it.”
• All eyes turn to the mullah. Several of the locals recognize the man. He’s a recent graduate from a madrasa (Muslim theological college) and who is establishing himself at a local mosque by doing the call to prayer. (But I didn’t know it then. I would learn it later.)
• A few people in the crowd turn back to look at me. “How did the American know?” someone asks.
• Rubbing it in Daveed shoots back, “See! I told you he was a Sufi.”
• I cringe at Daveed’s brashness and how he’s cavalierly digging my hole deeper. But the old man who minutes before was my accuser, now looks totally abashed and ashamed.
• I grin and a wave of familiar cockiness sweeps over me. Feeling like I can safely come down out of the minaret, when I step out on to the roof again, the crowd of locals surround the mullah, who is now absolutely beaming with joy. The notable exception is the old man who comes up to me beseeching my forgiveness and saying in Farsi over and over, “I’m so sorry.”
• Daveed sidles up close beside me and whispers that I need to give the old man my blessing. I’m like: “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t know any blessings! I’m not a blessings kind of guy.”
• “No no! You have to. He thinks he’s cursed now. Just make something up.”
• “You can’t be serious!” I’m glaring at Daveed now. “You are gonna pay for this,” I yell.
• “Just do it!” he yells back.
• “Jeeesus H. Chee-rist” I swear.
• The old man looks at me now beseechingly. “Jesus?” he says.
• I’m shooting daggers at Daveed. “Bale Agah, Jesus,” I reply with a sheepish grin, embarrassed at my own swearing.
• “And Mohammed?” asks the old man.
• “Yeah, Mohammed too.” Now I’m ready to spit fire. “Daveed, I’m gonna kill you!” I’m feeling like I am not only out of my element but am now functioning in some sort of alternative universe.
• Daveed is laughing so hard he’s wiping the tears out of his eyes so he can see.
• Now the old man is smiling at me and I feel the old man’s hands clasp mine, caressing them. I can feel his fingers moving over my hands and make note of the thick calluses on his fingers. “It’s ok. It’s ok.” I tell the old man. “No harm done.”
• “He wants your blessing!” shouts Daveed totally serious.
• My head is spinning. I have no clue as to what to tell the old man. I look down and examine his calloused fingers. I can see the nicotine stains on his index finger and thumb of his right hand. And now I smell the tobacco on his breath as we are standing that close.
• “What do you do?” I ask him making note of the trembling in his hands. Is he really that afraid, I wonder.
• In spite of my limited Farsi I understand his answer. He’s a shoe repairman.
• I look carefully at his nails. They look like mechanic’s hands. But I can see now that the darkness under his trimmed nails is actually old shoe polish. The joints of his fingers are slightly enlarged with what must be arthritis.
• I see a scar on the fleshy area between his thumb and index finger. I touch it and he jumps. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Is it sore?”
• The old man nods, embarrassed. Most curiously, at that moment, my hands seemingly detach from my brain and take over. I watch as my fingers now — all on their own — knead, lift, stretch, push, pull and compress the soft tissue in his hand. As I watch my fingers continue, now I hear an almost imperceptible purring sound coming for the old man. I stretch the flesh then spread his finger and thumb wide apart stretching it even more. The old man grins broadly.
• “Oh my god. What have I done?” I’m asking myself. (Of special note here is that many years later, in 1989, I received my license from the Ohio State Medical Board to practice massage therapy.)
• “Better!” the old man says in English, opening and closing his hand showing a few people in the crowd, including the mullah, who has turned to watch me with great interest.
• I look deeply into the old man’s eyes. The anger towards me is gone now and I take his hand and place it in the center of my chest and hold it there with both hands for a few seconds.
• A single tear falls from the old man’s droopy right eye. Searching deep within myself I attempt to summon up some shred of anything that might remotely sound like genuine beatific pontificating. Holding both his hands firmly in mine I tell him, “You go in peace now,” not knowing what else to say.
• The old man grins and bows and I see he has several teeth missing.
• I grin back and return the bow to him pressing my palms together in front of me and I am so done!
• “Let’s get the hell out of here,” I say turning to Daveed.
• The original plan was to explore the grounds of the mausoleum including the tomb of the Dervish buried there, but now I’m too uncomfortable with sticking around any longer. I want no more incidents! I’m really pissed at Daveed as we quickly head for the street to cross.
• “You goddamn crazy Iranian! Don’t you ever do anything like that to me again,” I snap.
• Daveed can’t wipe the smirk off his face.
• “Give me my camera back!” I yell.
• He hands me my camera and says “Come on Doug, let’s head over to the Zoroastrian fire temple.”
• “Yeah, well. Ok,” I grumble.
• Trying to smooth my ruffled feathers Daveed playfully punches me in the arm. “You really had that whole building rocking man!””
• I laugh involuntarily. “Yes, I guess I did, didn’t I?” Daveed laughs along with me glad to see I’m calming down a bit.
• As we walk across the street I’m eyeballing the long climb up to the fire temple ruins, wondering if I’m up for that much exercise. At that moment Daveed and I hear someone calling to us to wait up. We turn around astonished to see the man in mullah’s robes dashing towards us, holding up his robes as he runs.
• “O man! Now what?” I’m wondering. The mullah wants to climb up to the fire temple with us. Ok, fine. No problem Daveed tells him. “No more incidents!” I’m telling myself.
• Huffing and puffing as we make the climb, he regales me with questions. What is America like? Do I like Persian food? Do I like Persian women? Do I have an Iranian girl friend? What do I think of the Vietnam war? Was I drafted? Did I really work at Sitade Buzurgh? Do I see the Shah every day? On and on. It’s like I’m his new best friend. I am used to Iranians being very friendly toward Americans, but this guy is way over the top. What’s up with that I wonder.
• I learn that the man’s name is Ahmad, but that we can call him Mike. Ok, Mike then. Mike really loves California and tells me he has a lot of Iranian relatives who have moved to Los Angles.
• “Oh, Tehran-geles!” I reply, knowing that a lot of Iranians, including Fari’s cousin, have moved there and formed a large community.
• “You know Tehran-geles?” replies Mike gleefully. “I love Tehran-geles!” he tells me, despite admitting to the fact that he has never actually been there.
• Fine. Whatever. I look at Mike’s face more carefully now. And for the first time I can see that his nose is on crooked. He notices my impolite stare and blushes. “I used to get into a lot fights. That was a long time ago,” he offers.
• “Then you got religious,” I add.
• “Something like that,” he laughs.
• He tells us he’s really big on the Beach Boys, then does a pretty good imitation of Mike Love, hence his nick name. As if to prove himself to us he launches into song: Little Duce Coupe, you don’t know what I’ve got! Daveed and I find this to be hysterically funny and so encouraged, he keeps on singing. Several Iranian couples who are nearby and also making the climb are looking at each other like, “Who’s the crazy mullah with the funny face?”
• Huffing and puffing we continue climbing to the top of the hill, then when we reach the summit, start poking around the fire temple ruins and enjoying the splendid view of the beautiful city of Isfahan far below us. After exploring the ruins for an hour or so, Daveed, Mike and I decide to make our way back down to street level.
• Back on the edge of the highway that we crossed earlier, Daveed and I are now feeling a little tired and thirsty. We’re wanting to get back to the Shah Abbas Hotel for a refreshing beverage and perhaps a nap before dinner. We ask Mike to join us. But Mike his other ideas. He wants to take us to his mosque. He is so insistent that we agree reluctantly. I’m thinking that I’ve never met anyone so ‘ON’!
• Once we arrive there Mike shows us the beautiful walled garden which he is especially proud of as it’s one of his jobs to maintain it. The mosque is nothing elaborate like the ones in the main square of Isfahan. Just a neighborhood meeting place, and no doubt a good place for Mike to get his feet wet as a local Imam, I surmise. After a brief visit there, Daveed and I start to hint that we really need to get back to the hotel now. Mike insists that I take his photo before we leave him.
• I decide I want to take a portrait of him in his garden and Mike thinks that this is a wonderful idea. But he wants it to be a formal presentation. I had been thinking of something more informal and spontaneous, but I finally agree — not wanting to argue when I am so eager to get back to the hotel.
• Mike knows just where he wants to stand, walks over to the pre-selected spot and strikes solemn holy pose. Is this the same person who was singing Beach Boys tunes earlier, I wonder. I click the Pentax shutter and we are done. As we prepare to leave Mike, as part of our goodbyes, tells me he wants me to promise him something.
• “What is it?” I ask.
• “I want you to promise me with all your heart that you’ll write of your experiences about Iran.”
• I readily agree, but hide my surprise. Unknown to him and almost everyone except those closest to me is the fact that I am in the process of applying to the graduate school of journalism at Kent State University. Silently I wonder how Mike has sensed that. But I’m also thinking that yes, my experiences in Iran would certainly provide me with bountiful material for some good articles – some which eventually did appear in the Daily Kent Stater, the student newspaper.
• With our goodbyes finally said Daveed and I catch a taxi and head back to the hotel where I plan to meet up with Farzaneh and listen to her tales of shopping adventures, and all the vendors at the Isfahan bazaar who she cut down to size utilizing her terrifying cut throat ability to, um, ‘bargain’. You don’t want to hear about that, I assure you.
• It would also be a bad way to end this tale, but in fact this is not to be the end of this story. There is a most curious epilogue!
• The next afternoon I am visiting a bookshop of off Isfahan’s main square, looking for a book of Persian poetry printed in English. There aren’t that many but I find a promising collection which includes poems of Hafiz and Saadi. I’m about to make my purchase when I jump, hearing a voice behind me say, “Let me get that.”
• I turn around to see a handsome middle aged gentleman dressed in dark slacks, a black T-shirt over which he is sporting a simple tweed jacket – common attire for the area. Except for a small mustache he has no facial hair. On his head he’s wearing a dark grey taqiya (the little cap Muslims wear) embellished with fine white embroidery. His overall appearance is quite distinguished.
• Looking startled I reply, “You’re saying you want to pay for this book?”
• “Yes, I want to thank you for helping out Mullah Mike yesterday.”
• “How do you know who I am?” I ask.
• “I knew who you were when I saw you perusing the shelves. But when you told the clerk you wanted to buy that book, that confirmed everything.”
• “Oh I get it. How many Americans with G.I. haircuts are wondering around Isfahan inquiring about purchasing Persian poetry using faltering Farsi.”
• The gentleman laughs. “Yes, that helped. But I just knew.”
• I wrinkle my brow and I’m sure I am staring much too intently at the fellow. “And just how did I help Mike?”
• “It was your emphatic declaration to the crowd that he was the one who should be doing the call to prayer.”
• In my head I’m wondering what in the world he’s getting at but I reply, “Well, it was a snap judgment based on the man’s outer appearance. I was just trying to get myself out of a tight spot. There was no way I actually knew that he was a muezzin.”
• “And there was no way I knew rationally you are the man who he encountered yesterday. But the signs mirrored the reality.”
• “Say what?”
• “The signs are the mirror of reality. Ayat mirrors hakik, — assuming that you’re looking for reality.
• “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
• “No. But you will someday. I think you’re a person who likes to know what’s real and what isn’t.”
• “Yeah, I guess that would be true. Say, just who the hell are you?” I ask incredulously.
• “I’m a friend and a kind of a mentor to Mike.”
• “You help him with his studies?”
• “No, not exactly. I’m more like his guide.”
• “Like a senior mullah?”
• “No, not a mullah. Let’s just say that we … have a deep friendship. ”
• Feeling a little confused now I blurt, “Well, I still don’t understand how I helped him.”
• The gentleman smiles. “Ahmad, uh Mike, has had some unfortunate experiences lately that’s weakened his confidence in himself. And as you may have noticed he’s quite Americanized. Some people at the mosque where he’s assigned wonder if he’s Iranian enough and if he’s really up to the task. I came to his defense during Friday prayers last week and announced to everyone that Mike would soon receive a dramatic and unmistakable sign that he is in fact the right person. Everyone at the mosque has been on pins and needles waiting for something dramatic to happen. And it has.”
• “Most interesting! And was one of those people who doubted Mike the old man who I encountered?”
• “Ah! See, you knew! Ayat mirrors hakik!”
• “It was an educated guess, based on all that happened.”
• “If you insist,” the distinguished gentleman replies.
• “So everyone at the mosque believes in Mike now?”
• “Yes. And Mike believes in himself again.”
• “Well, I’m glad I was able to help him out. He’s an absolute delight.” In my head I’m having a veritable “Ah Ha” moment, finally understanding why Mike had been so friendly.
• The distinguished gentleman takes the book of poetry out of my hand and presents it to the clerk who has been taking in the whole conversation. The gentleman extracts some bills out a clip of money with his other hand.
• “No. No one pays,” says the clerk. “Here you take this book. Allah wants you to have it,” he says, thrusting it into my hands.
• “No. But you will someday,” says the clerk nodding at the gentleman. They are both wearing a broad grin now.
• At this point I’m not sure what is happening but the two men seem to be in on a secret that they aren’t telling me. I give my profound thanks to both the clerk and the man who spoke so strangely about ‘signs and reality’.
• “Tell Mike I wish him well and that I’m glad everything worked out for him,” I say as I reach the door to leave.
• “Don’t forget your promise to him to write about Iran,” says the gentleman. “He was very serious about that.”
• “I promise,” I reply. “You have my word.”
• Oh, and you are no doubt wondering about that book. It’s Poems from the Persian by J.C.E. Bowen. Apropriately for me it contains, 19 poems by Saadi and 8 poems by Hafiz, plus many more by other famous Persian poets. It initiated me to a love of that genre of poetry. I would later discover Rumi, who quickly became my favorite.
• Much to Fari’s amusement, but not mine, when I finally settled in that night at the Shah Abbas Hotel, to read the book so generously bequeathed earlier that afternoon, I was shocked to discover a little message for me in the form of a Persian Proverb on page 85:
• If ever on a Minaret
• Your mind dishonestly you set
• First dig a well with space inside it
• Where you can lay your prize — to hide it!
• Fair enough!!
• A better example of what kind of poems are in the book are two by Hafiz, numbers 44 and 45 in the book:
• O Wind of Morning, rise and tell
• My Love, who like a white gazelle
• Forever loiters proud and free,
• That she shall no more torture me.
• Because of her, this summer day,
• Across the desert sand I stray
• To find when day at last is done,
• The Vale men call Obivion.
• The fields of heaven which gleam before our eyes
• Are fare as any vale in Paradise,
• For these high pastures at the close of day
• From turquoise green turn luminously grey;
• And while her courtier stars expectant stand
• The young moon comes, a sickle in her hand,
• To reap the coloured clouds where day has fled,
• And bring me dreams of all I’ve sown and harvested.

One of my favorite memories growing up in Columbus, OH is my Aunt Alice. She and her spinster sister Aunt Amelia lived on Columbus’ south side. Aunt Amelia was a registered nurse and all business. Alice was like an Edith Bunker on steroids, for those readers who recall the ditzy wife of Archie Bunker in the TV show All In The Family.

Alice was one of the most delightfully wacky individuals I’ve ever met. She was always cheerful and really fun to be around. My cousins and I all loved her because she was so child-like. Her high pitched laugh was so infectious that you wanted to be around her just because of that.

I suppose adults considered her to be ‘a half a bubble off of true’, as they say, but not us kids. She was also my birthday buddy. Her birthday was on leap day, February 29th. Because that happened only once every four years, she attached her birthday to mine, March 2nd. I was happy about that, as she was fun! And I was “older” than she was even though she was a grown woman.

Though my parents had now moved from the west side Sullivant Avenue apartment to Bexley, OH, a suburb on Columbus’ east side, we saw a lot of Aunt Alice. As she was not really employable by anyone, she did a lot of domestic work for all the relatives. I would see her regularly at Aunt Dorothy’s too. She would come over to do the ironing and other chores that both women found disagreeable. She would also baby-sit my infant sister and Dorothy’s kids.

I think at some point Alice must have figured out, — perhaps by the prodding of her sister Amelia, she was getting the short end of the stick working for all the relatives in town for little or no money. When the Omar Bakery started expanding, Aunt Alice found a job there as a donut packer, a job which she cheerfully did for the rest of her life. Alice didn’t drive and because her new job was within walking distance, it was perfect for her, but sad for me. I suppose it was pretty sad for my mother too. With Aunt Alice gone, who would do the laundry and ironing at such a dirt cheap price?

But soon enough a tall lanky woman showed up at our door one day to apply for the job. I thought she was the strangest looking creature I had ever seen. She had very dark skin! She had grey wooly hair!

Columbus, Ohio was lily white back in that era and being so young, I had never seen a black person up close before. She was a constant source of curiosity for me. She would eat lunch with us and for some reason I still remember that she ate a lot of cottage cheese with prunes, and seemed to actually like it!

The slowest eater I ever saw, she would pick at her food but eventually would finish. Was that to stretch her lunch break? Business like and formal she always called my mother Miz Roberts. She just called me Doug. Mother must have liked her services because she worked for us most of the time we lived in Bexley.

When she would leave at the end of the day I would often assail my mother with questions about her, — well, about black people actually. “Mommy do colored people have fannies?” (I’d seen a lot of bare fannies swimming naked at the YMCA.)

“Yes dear,” my mother would assure me.

“Just like us?”

“Yes, just like us.”

I would marvel at this. She looked so different from anyone I had ever seen before, but according to my mother’s answers, she was in truth, just like us. Just like anyone. I had a hard time making that compute.

When I got a little older, sometimes I would walk with her to the bus stop on Main Street. After giving me a hug and waving goodbye, I would then pick up a loaf of bread or similar item from Paul’s Food Mart before walking back home on my own. I felt so grown up doing that.

Although she would never rise to nanny status as she only worked for us a couple of days a week, Nancy did become a fixture in the family. I remember that her duties expanded into general house cleaning during the period when we had a very special pet parakeet named Bebe. My sister and I would let Bebe out of the cage for long periods and the bird would leave it’s droppings all over the house, much to my father’s disgust. (Bebe was a trip and I’ll get to him in a future blog.)

If you have inferred from this that my parents were moderately well off, you would be correct. Father had a solid job at the big newspaper in town, the Columbus Dispatch, “Ohio’s Greatest Home Newspaper” – and the most conservative.

I knew we had more money than my cousins because Mom and Dad would often take Tommy, Danny, Susie and I to the White Castle on Main Street on Saturdays after we finished our swimming lessons at the YMCA. Susie obviously hadn’t swam, but always seemed so curious about our swim classes. I think she was envious of the fact we swam naked, as she often asked about it. My three cousins thought eating at the White Castle was this huge deal. To me it was another eatery. But I remember I liked sitting next to Susie. Sometimes she’d give me a few of her French fries. But I digress.

One of my mother’s favorite activities was to go shopping downtown at the big famous department store: Lazarus. It was a huge hub of economic and social activity for the city. At one time it sported 12 different restaurants scattered over its five floors, if you included the employee cafeteria and the soda fountain. It was so famous even people in New York City knew about Lazarus Department Store.

Mother would take me with her shopping there on a regular basis. I loved this because Mother would treat us both to lunch when she had finished spending all the money Dad had given her that morning. Mother would always ask me where I wanted to eat. I would usually answer that I wanted to see the pretty ladies. The Lazarus Tea Room, had a non-stop parade of fashion models who would saunter past your table wearing elegant hats, dresses, shoes, gloves, etc., while we dined in relaxed comfort. Most remarkable is that the lunch prices were very reasonable. (I researched this.) I imagine that Lazarus made its real money from this extremely shrewd marketing tactic and not from the lunches themselves.

But there were a lot of wonderful restaurants in downtown Columbus besides the ones at Lazarus Department Store and one of the most talked about dining establishments was a unique place where you selected you own food items and put them on a tray – a cafeteria. In Columbus, there was only one: Mills Cafeteria. (Lazarus had one too, but the general public was not allowed. It was only for employees.)

Mills Cafeteria was not just a precursor to fast food. It was upscale and the fare was as good as any in town. After discovering this place I remember that Mother and I could sit in the mezzanine and eat where we would watch people on the sidewalk below outside from the big picture window. Mills was an easy to spot landmark, easily visible because of its neon lighted motorized windmill!

One of the things that amazed me as a little kid was that unlike Lazarus, black people would eat there – people just like Nancy who did our ironing. Nancy was no longer a complete oddity! I could study black people and make mental notes. They even had their own special area to eat in at the back of the cafeteria. There was even a sign for them that said “colored only.”

In those days the racial attitudes were as white as the Columbus demographic. (Columbus city schools weren’t integrated until a court order in 1977 mandated it.) Like many businesses of the era, segregation was still the order of the day. Mills Restaurant, sadly, was still one of those segregated places. It’s as hard to believe now as people swimming naked at the Y. White people sat in front. It never occurred to me when we ate there that the black people and the white people never sat together. But an uncomfortable incident eventually shook me out of my innocent state.

I remember that Mother and I had just finished selecting our food items from behind the spotless glass windows, paid, and had removed them from our trays to sit down and eat. I had barely sat down when I spotted Nancy way in the back, in the colored only section. “Look Mommy, there’s Nancy,” I shouted.

I broke away from the table we’d selected and ran back to her to say hi. Nancy, instead of acting glad to see me, acted very embarrassed. Totally innocent of the restaurant segregated protocol, I urged her to come up the front to join Mother and me. Nancy was balking at this and resisting my pleading. Now Mother had rushed to the back of the cafeteria to intervene and sternly told me to come to the front of the restaurant. Unmoved, I insisted that Nancy come join us. She shook her head vigorously and looked terrified.
“Come on. Come on,” I pleaded to Nancy.

Mother was totally abashed, not knowing what to do. Finally, she walked to the front near the big picture window and put all our food items on a tray and brought them back to where Nancy was sitting. Now I was happy. But nobody else was. We had barely resumed eating when the manager rushed over to our table. “What’s the meaning of this? Why are you sitting here?” he shouted angrily.

“This woman works for us,” Mother replied testily.

The manager stood in stunned silence glaring. Finally he spoke. “You know the rules. Don’t ever do that again if you want to eat here.” Nothing worse than a white woman who didn’t know her place, I suppose – unless it was a black woman! But what did I know about it? I was a little kid.

Mother and Nancy looked contrite. The rest of the lunch continued in absolute silence, not just at our table but every table in the cafeteria. I felt like I had done something horribly wrong. I never saw Nancy eat so fast — soon leaving mother and I to finish our lunch in the colored only section with everyone, both black and white, looking at us like we were circus freaks.

When I asked Mother about it after lunch was over she explained simply that black people and white people were supposed to eat in different parts of the restaurant. I took the explanation at face value, even though something about the whole experience didn’t compute.

I can tell you with absolute certainty that Mother and I never ate at Mills again, not as a way to boycott them but to avoid any further public humiliation. The Lazarus Tea Room got a lot more of Mom’s business after that.

It would be years before I finally understood what had taken place and made a connection to the Camp Chase Civil War cemetery, thanks to Grandpa Roberts’ hands on history lesson and me telling him about the time Mom and I almost got kicked out of Mills Cafeteria. If you haven`t read it yet, you need to read my blog about Grandpa Roberts, it’s a good one!