Strange Interlude

One day, our next door neighbor, Mrs. Ranhorne, was summoned to her front door by a knock. When she opened her door, I thrust a naked doll at her and said "Here, you take this doll baby. It's naked, and I can't play with it no more." Then I marched off toward home.

I was probably three years old at the time, and although my mother tried to keep an eye on me, I was lightning-fast and very sociable. I liked to make the rounds. My folks would wake up some mornings to find I had already visited several neighbors. When the Munsons over on Farrington moved away, I was the first in the neighborhood to welcome the new owners, Bill & Sylvia Harris. I had to stand on their aluminum milkbox to reach the doorbell, but I beat the Welcome Wagon by several days.

Mr. and Mrs Ranhorne lived next door, and were quite a bit older than my parents. They had a son who was grown and lived in another section of town. Mr. Ranhorne died when I was still a little boy, and I remember visiting them with my mother when he was sick. He had cancer of the larynx, and had endured a tracheotomy. I stared at him with wide eyes as he smoked a cigarette through the hole in his neck.

Before Mr. Ranhorne died, he and his wife were sitting in their den when they heard ghostly piano notes coming from the other side of the kitchen's swinging door. When Mrs. Ranhorne ventured to investigate, there I sat on the piano bench, fingering the ivories.

After Mr. Ranhorne died, Mrs. Ranhorne was lonely for awhile, but then she found a boyfriend named Smitty. Smitty drank a lot and didn't fit in with the neighbors, but everyone figured if he made Mrs. Ranhorne happy we'd all put up with him. Smitty would try to mow Mrs. Ranhorne's lawn, but it never worked out well.

Smitty would careen around her yard, always sitting side-saddle on the lawnmower, clutching a beer in one bony hand and trying to steer with the other. After a few loop-de-loos and random patterns, he'd get bored and disappear into her house to pass out, leaving her yard a half-mown mess. My mother would sometimes go over to finish the job.

Movable Stairs & Dead Chivalry

I've discovered escalators in the 1950's office building where my office is located. They are hidden behind some doors in back of the elevator bank. Do you remember that weird pinky-beige that was so popular in the late 50's and early 60's? If you do, then you know exactly what these escalators look like. They are in an enclosed stairwell of sorts, and I guess they just rumble along all day, although few people seem to use them.

They came in very handy over the past couple of weeks, because the elevators were verplunkt. First, one elevator broke down, and then, in a sympathetic gesture, the second elevator followed suit. There is a third set of elevator doors, but rumor has it that there is no actual lift, and that the builders just put them there to add an air of solvency and prosperity to the railroad company that occupied the building initially. Finally, the escalator between the first and second floors joined the fun of the mechanical strike. The freight elevator was pressed into passenger service.

Many people grumbled about taking the freight elevator, especially Jessie from Building Maintenance because he had to run the thing up and down all day long. I just took the stairs or the escalator, although I did take Jessie a piece of chocolate cake one day to keep his spirits from flagging. The odd thing is that the moving stairs only go up to the fourth floor, and my office is on the sixth. I conjecture that originally the lower floors were staffed by secretarial pools and general office staff, so they were told to ride the escalators, while the executives took the elevators to the upper levels. Who knows?

I loved escalators and revolving doors when I was a small child. From my vantage point in a department store, I could see the on/off buttons at the base of the escalators, right below where the thick rubber handgrip disappeared. I always itched to switch the machinery off, but the fear of consequences kept me in check. I was also afraid that my shoes would get sucked into those toothy grooves at the end of the ride, and my feet would be mangled. It was part of the thrill of disembarking. It paid to be nimble.

Another thing I remember about shopping with my mom when I was little is the small bells that were scattered through some departments below a sign that said "Ring Bell for Service." I caught hell for that one.

My cousin Janet tried to enlist Aunt Magenta's help with the wedding invitations. Janet has selected them and an order is in preparation for shipment. Janet thought Aunt Magenta could help from home by assembling the invitations, and stamping & posting them. This task, which appeared so deceptively simple at first glance, became such a mare's nest that I offered to accept delivery at my office. I'll do the stamping and mailing, which will be no bother at all for me. I get package delivery all the time at work. I got a breathless note from Aunt Magenta along with the stamps, cautioning me to have the post office weigh the invitations to be sure they will not require extra postage. Noted.

The other day as I was returning from the bank to the office, I noticed a woman ahead of me a ways down the hall. She was, I can only assume, returning to her workplace from the ladies room. She wore slacks, and a blouse intended to hang loose all around. A casual, professional look. The problem was that half of the back of her blouse was tucked into her underwear. As I debated the wisdom of hollering "Hey, lady! Your blouse is stuck in your drawers from your trip to the loo!" she disappeared into the office across the hall from mine. Thank goodness! I don't know her, and she may have been mortified to see me ever after. She works in a suite of off-site university offices with several other women, and I'm sure one of them was happy to smugly point out her wardrobe malfunction. I'm still not sure if I was chivalrous, or merely shirking an unpleasant act of decency.

Oh, and the coolest thing about taking the stairs occured to me after one of the elevators was repaired. Just a little over a year ago, I was too weak from malnourishment and alcohol abuse to make it up the stairs in my own home. I am grateful that today I have the good health and stamina to walk up to the sixth floor. So I still take the stairs a couple of times each day.

A Stressless, Strapless Wedding

My cousin Janet is planning her wedding, which will take place this autumn. Janet and her fiance live several time zones away from Janet's mother, my Aunt Magenta. Although the romance between Janet and Brad has been smoldering for nearly thirty years, the relationship flamed a few years ago. Brad's proposal came suddenly and unexpectedly a couple of weeks ago, so Janet is planning a small wedding in a hurry. Everything is falling into place beautifully, mainly because Janet is focusing on the outcome instead of fussing over the inconsequential effluvia.

Enter Aunt Magenta.

My aunt is a delight to know. We talk on the phone from time to time, and I always find her intelligence and inquisitive nature stimulating. She's very detail-oriented, however, and it is killing her that she cannot provide more assistance with the wedding plans. The wedding will be at Point A, Janet lives at Point B, and Aunt Magenta is located at Point C. Hundreds of miles separate each location.

To be blunt, my aunt has control issues. Giving her information is like handing over a loaded gun.

Janet is handling everything skillfully from afar - invitations, gown selection, catering arrangements, reservations for the big event and guests' lodging, and more. But she is slowly losing her grip on sanity because of the barrage of questions from Aunt Magenta. To be fair to my aunt, Janet is her only child, and this is her baby's first wedding.

Aunt M's queries and cautionary advice seem to pop in just when they are least helpful. I told Janet that the Good Lord aligned the stars & moon so that she would be far from Aunt Magenta until the wedding weekend. Otherwise, there would be bloodstains all over the wedding dress when she walks down the aisle. "Imagine what it would be like if the two of you lived under the same roof as these wedding plans develop," I told Janet. Here's what comes to my mind:

(2:30 a.m. A dark bedroom)

Aunt M: (tapping softly but insistently - sotto voce) Jannie? Jannie, are you awake?

Janet: mmph...wha???

Aunt M: Oh, good. Listen, when you called the caterer today, did you remember to ask her about the napkins? Because I was remembering the napkins at Dottie Chrysler's rehearsal dinner. They were scratchy and they smelled - I don't know - musty...like they had been bought at a surplus store. You know there was a paper mill outside New Orleans that was devasted by Katrina, and I wondered if some distributor bought them cheap and resold them to Dottie's caterer. You know things like that happen, don't you? Well, never mind, you're using cloth napkins, but they could still be musty.

Janet: glrgh

Aunt M: I know, it's criminal. The things people get away with, it really makes me angry. What did she say about the beef? I'd rather she didn't serve beef, but if she is you should ask where it comes from.

Janet: blorfmg

Aunt M: I don't just mean who she bought it from, either. I'm talking about provenance. They track all the cows now with micro-chips or something, so she should know these things. That Mad Cow disease hasn't really gone away, you know. Oh, God, I just wish Brad didn't eat beef, Janet! It really worries me! Have you told him how it affects the filtration system? It just wears the body down. He should pay more attention to these things. He's a smart man, so I just can't understand why he doesn't care about his diet.

Janet: Mom...please...

Aunt M: Hey, listen, wasn't it unbelievable that the post office workers were so rude about selecting those stamps? I mean, this is important, and if you can get prettier stamps of lesser value and combine them on the envelope...well, they should know that these things take time to decide. They really need more postal workers at that station.

Janet: Mom, I'm exhausted. What time is it?

Aunt M: Oh! Let's see...here, let me flip this light on...

Janet: (screeches - throws covers over head)

Aunt M: Oh, it's nearly three in the morning. Janet, you should get to sleep. We need to be up early tomorrow to see about that veil. I still say it should be Italian lace, and that was NOT Italian lace, no matter what they said. Let me tell you, when I stayed at that convent outside Rome in 1953, I saw what Italian lace looks like.

Janet: (weakly) Mother...the light...please, please, turn it off.

Aunt M: Well, I just turned it on because you asked for the time. It's late. Go to sleep. I'll ask you about the peau de soie pumps in the morning. I'm still thinking more eggshell than cream, but it's your wedding.

Janet: I'm wide awake! Let's talk about them right NOW!!!

Aunt M: Jannie, I'm tired, I need to get some sleep.

(Note: the names have been changed, so that I cannot be sued)

McSick

I've been transcribing more of my mother's diary entries onto her blog today. I'm up to March, 1964, now. At this point, my grandparents are visiting from Iowa, and here's how a Friday in March reads:

Hank came home at 9:30 & got Billy - took him to base for haircut - we went to Roosevelt Gardens Shop. Center to Woolworth's & Rose's - ate dinner at McDonald's - then went to Miller's - Billy messed his pants in there - after coffee Mom, Billy & I went to Ship's Serv. & the Commissary - Billy messed his pants twice more - Mom was sick tonight - We were suppose to go to Dearmon's & called it off -

Probably a good call, Mom, unless the Dearmon's had those clear plastic slipcovers on their upholstered furniture. I'm guessing that McD's was the culprit since Grandma got sick, too. In March '64 I would have been four, and I went through the hair-raising diary entries about my potty training quite awhile back. When I was transcribing those dreary days I thought I would scream if I read "Billy messed his pants" one more time, and - damn- it turns up again like a bad penny.

I haven't eaten anything from McDonald's for at least a year, although there's a brand new one close to my home. It's constructed in the hamburger kingdom's latest architectural style. In 1964 the McDonald's in Tidewater looked like a bathroom turned wrongside out, all white tile with red tile accents, and two golden arches soaring over the sides of the building. There was no indoor seating. There were no Big Macs, QuarterPounders, McRibs, McMuffins, Hamburglers, or psychotic clowns wearing bright red wigs. You had a choice of a hamburger or a cheeseburger, one size (tiny by today's standards) bag of French fries, and a small soft drink.

There were a few outdoor tables, but we usually ate in the car. My parents kept an aluminum serving tray under the front seat so that my food wouldn't get smeared all over the red vinyl upholstery of our 1963 Mercury, and after I ate my mother would whirl around in her seat to reach back and give me the dreaded 'spit bath.' Ugh!

My grandparents probably thought that McDonald's was a treat, because I doubt that even today there's a fast food chain establishment in Grundy Center, Iowa. When we visited Grundy County when I was growing up, the nearest McDonald's was thirty miles away in Waterloo. Iowans preferred Maid-Rites, and I do, too. On my last trip to Iowa for a family reunion, my cousins took me to Taylor's Maid-Rite in Marshalltown. I had a Maid-Rite and a butterscotch milkshake, and they were so good that I would have slapped my grandma if she hadn't already taken the dirt nap.

On my 1999 trip to Spain, there was a McDonald's under construction in Almunecar. Suzanne would hiss everytime we drove past it, but once it opened the Spaniards flocked to it. I guess it's a good thing. After all, why should America corner the market on grossly obese children on the fast track to diabetes?

Stuart Court, Chapter One

One of my favorite former residences is a 1920's apartment house on Monument Avenue. I moved into Stuart Court when I was in my early twenties, and I felt like I had truly arrived when I took possession of my sixth floor apartment. When I first left my parents' home, I moved into a spacious but decrepit house with three roommates. In less than a year, I moved to an apartment with one roommate, and about a year later another relocation placed me in my own small apartment in a modest twelve-unit building in the Museum District.

One summer, Suzanne and her roommate Andy decided to move to Richmond after classes ended. They were both students at the University of Virginia in nearby Charlottesville, and the two came to Richmond to hunt for an apartment. I helped them look for a home, and we took a look at an apartment at Stuart Court. The apartment was unsuitable for them, but perfect for me, since it only had one bedroom. I realized that I would have to act quickly to claim this unusual opportunity, so I arranged to sublet my small two-bedroom place to Suzanne & Andy.

When Stuart Court was built in 1924, it was the sole high-rise apartment building on swank Monument Avenue. Today, it is still only one of two. The stone pediment above the front doors is carved with STVART COVRT. I was enchanted with the apartment as soon as I saw the living room, which was spacious and had lovely wall sconces instead of overhead lighting. My favorite feature in the room, however, was the Murphy Bed hidden behind double-doors. The bed had arched matching headboard and footboard when pulled down from its hiding place, and provided an instant guest bed. This solved the one-bedroom problem, since I often had visitors from out of town. Although very practical, it also added a touch of whimsy to the apartment. Scenes from old Laurel & Hardy movies flashed through my mind, but the bed never sprang back into the wall in the night trapping an unsuspecting sleeper.

The dining room was small, but seemed roomy because of built-in cabinets and two walls of knee-to-ceiling casement windows. The room was also five-sided, which added to its charm. Since my sixth-floor dwelling was three storeys above any nearby building, there was usually a good breeze and always a panoramic view. I could easily see the city's baseball stadium, and on Independence Day my guests and I could watch the fireworks from my dining room table.

Another valuable feature, unusual for apartments in Monument's historic district, was the abundance of closet space. There were five good-sized closets, which was a luxury in a one-bedroom unit from this era. I also had storage space in the spooky, rambling basement of the building, and I will describe this cavern in another chapter about Stuart Court.

The galley kitchen was small, but made efficient by ample glass-front cabinets with pull-out cutting boards, and doorways to both dining room and hallway. Although the kitchen was smaller than the one in my previous apartment, it was more thoughtfully designed and usable.

The building was sturdily built with poured-concrete walls, both inside and out. An axe-murderer could have been hacking up my neighbor as she screamed for help and I wouldn't have heard a thing. My apartment was a serene oasis high above Monument Avenue. When I first moved into the building, the upper floors were reached by hand-operated elevators which required a twenty-four hour staff, including two uniformed hostesses by day and a night porter. Life at Stuart Court was like a step back in time, and I will write more about the building, the renowned architect, and the eccentric residents and staff on another day. Day to day life at Stuart Court was anachronistic when I lived there in the early 1980's, and, although the building still stands, this lifestyle is now part of the building's magnificent past. I am very fortunate to have lived there before its notorious decline.

Accompanying photographs:
Top: Stuart Circle, showing the statue of J.E.B. Stuart on lower right and, above the statue, Stuart Court's south wing and part of the central portion of the building.
Middle: Robert E. Lee's monument on Lee Circle, one block west of Stuart Court
Bottom: Stuart Court as it appears today.

Collards, Cornbread, and a Love Doll

Sunday evening I went over to my friend John's for dinner and a movie. We do this fairly regularly since he has a big, crisp screen on his wall and I have a Netflix subscription. Sometimes we dine out, and sometimes we fix dinner at his house. This time, John prepared a delicious dinner before we watched the movie I took along.

John grilled thick, juicy pork chops outdoors, and he also fixed collard greens, fresh corn, and iron skillet cornbread. After a satisfying meal, we settled down to watch the movie. I have to give Netflix credit for having a great selection of DVD's. I've watched many films that, otherwise, I would not have had easy access to view. More and more classic, foreign, documentary, and obscure films that would have been too unprofitable for the VHS format are being released on DVD's.

Last night we watched an enchanting film called Lars and the Real Girl. I've enjoyed nearly every film featuring Ryan Gosling, and when I saw that Patricia Clarkson also appeared in the movie, I decided to give it a try. Ryan Gosling plays Lars, a painfully shy loner who lives in a garage behind the home of his brother and sister-in-law. Lars orders a life-size love doll from a website, not for sex but for companionship. He believes that his new friend Bianca is real, proudly introduces her to his shocked brother & sister-in-law, and from that point on the film is a delightful journey.

An astute doctor (played by Patricia Clarkson) instructs the bewildered brother to play along with Lars' delusion, assuring him that it will pass when Lars no longer needs it. The reaction of the townsfolk to their newest citizen is heartwarming, and soon Lars is taking part in social activities with Bianca in tow.

This film speaks comically but eloquently about the healing power of acceptance, kindness, and love. I can't help but wonder how much more splendid our world would be if we treated each other with such tender compassion. Please add Lars and the Real Girl to your short list of must-see movies. Your time will be covered by Planet Bill's guarantee of satisfaction, and if you feel your ninety-five minutes were wasted each moment will be refunded. This film is a jewel!

(Note: you may click here for your own love doll, but be forewarned that this is an adults-only site!)

Cool Cat in Texas Celebrates Birthday

Happy Birthday to Scott!!!

My pal Scott in Houston has a birthday on Sunday, June 29. You can drop by and wish him a happy day by clicking here.

I started dropping in on Scott's blog last year. He's a faithful daily blogger, and his place always has a thought-provoking quotation and a lot of gratitude for life. He's an artist, and he occasionally posts one of his latest creations, and there's also a link on his blog to a website devoted to his work.

Through Scott's blog I've met many new friends, so it may be his birthday, but I'm the one who has received the gifts. Sweet!

Scott has been an inspiration to me in my own recovery, and many of the old photographs you see throughout my blog are courtesy of the work he offered to do to transfer them to digital images for me. He's just an all-around good guy.

Have a great day, Scott, and keep coming back! And here's what Blogthings says about your birth date...

Your Birthdate: June 29

You have the mind of an artist, even if you haven't developed the talent yet. Expressive and aware, you enjoy finding new ways to share your feelings. You often feel like you don't fit in - especially in traditional environments. You have big dreams. The problem is putting those dreams into action. Your strength: Your vivid imagination Your weakness: Fear of failure Your power color: Coral Your power symbol: Oval Your power month: November

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

Back to the Salt Mines

Yoo Hoo! I'm still here on Planet Bill, but I've been making daily trips to another galaxy. After three years of a job-free lifestyle I am now pulling on my grown-up pants and wearing shoes that require a shoehorn again each morning. Blogging has been a low priority, although I've been making an effort to visit your blogs. Even that has been haphazard, I'm afraid, and I haven't always had time to leave a comment. Soon, though, the transition will be complete, and I'll settle into a daily routine.

The job dropped out of the blue and into my lap. I was sitting here in my home one morning, minding my own business and probably visiting your website, when my phone rang. The local office manager of a worldwide service organization was leaving her position, and had recommended me for her job. The fellow calling me, the chairman of the steering committee, wanted to know if I would be interested in the job. This seemed like one of those God Moments I've heard people talk about, so I bowed to the Greater Reason and went to an interview a few days later.

I worked closely with the departing manager through yesterday, and there's been a lot to learn. So far, so good. Here are just a few of the things I like about the job:

• it's in a climate-controlled environment


• I work with people all day, in person and on the phone, but I work alone


• there are a lot of balls to juggle, so the work is interesting


• there's candy


• I get to order lots of fun stuff


• there's a 24-hour crisis hotline


• the region, ranging from urban to rural, is large


• I get to dispense a lot of hope and encouragement


• I have a lot of responsibility


• I am extremely grateful for this opportunity to help others

Thanks to the efforts my HP and I have been putting out over the past year, I am able to handle stress much better these days. This calmness and detachment came in handy today when I was ready to lock up and leave. The second telephone line went verplunkt, and I was able to contact the repair service and get the crisis hotline transferred to another number without getting agitated. There's a temporary fix in place, and the phone company will solve the problem tomorrow morning. And since I sat on Ma Bell's knee at one time, I know the magic words to use tomorrow morning if the situation has not been resolved: I'm filing a complaint with the State Corporation Commission. Those are the magic words when you are at odds with the phone company in Virginia.

The office is on an upper floor in a large office building. The state rents a great deal of space for its department of Taxation, and one floor is leased to a large law firm. There also a Hispanic radio station that broadcasts from the building. Who knows what other enterprises operate from this structure? I'll keep my eyes peeled.

Yesterday when I approached the elevators to leave, there was a tiny, thin woman waiting for an elevator. We shared it on the way down. As we exited toward the parking lot, I noticed that this woman needed a shave. It was a weensy man with a unisex hairdo. If a celebrity, his picture might appear on this site. He headed toward a motor scooter parked next to the building.

The telephone problems this evening were foreshadowed by various technical calamities throughout the day, including a facsimile machine that continuously jammed. I had an urgent fax to send, so I dropped in on the law firm next door to my office. There was the miniature man/woman. His name is Paul, and he is a very nice fellow. He cheerfully allowed me to use his fax machine, and I complimented his scooter. He beamed, and told me he's only had it a couple of months. It gets one hundred miles per gallon. Paul is my new hero.

That's what I've been doing lately. How about you? In other blogger news, Our Girl in Amsterdam became engaged on her birthday last weekend. She and her betrothed are planning an Autumn Wedding in New England.

Speaking of birthdays, Someone Very Special will celebrate a birthday this Sunday, so mark your calendars and drop by his place for some cake and ice cream on the 29th.

I hope to post again soon. I have something in mind already. Think Murphy Bed.

The Quiet Man

This Father's Day I am revisiting a post I wrote about my father last year. I'm grateful that he was my dad. He loved my mother, and he loved me. Only now, as a grown man, can I appreciate his remarkable courage, compassion, humility, and sweet nature. I am proud of my father, and I miss him.

(Our scene opens in a large, homey kitchen in an American suburban home in the mid-1970's. A small family - father, mother, and teenage son - are sitting at the Early-American style round wooden table having dinner)

Son: We learned about this French luxury oceanliner, The Normandie, today. It caught on fire in New York harbor during World War Two and sank because of all the water they pumped in it trying to put out the fire. Isn't that neat? Have you heard of it?

Father: (chews, swallows, pauses) I was on it.

Son: (speechless)



How in the hell do you become old enough to drive a car without knowing this about your own father? After a few initial sputters reminiscent of our pushmower, my engine roared to life. I peppered my dad with questions as liberally as I had the Swiss steak which now sat before me, untouched and forgotten.

The French luxury liner, The Normandie, made its maiden voyage from France to New York in 1935. She was the sleekest, fastest, most artfully decorated ship of her day. The Normandie was the largest object man had ever set in motion. She was the pride of France. She was the pinnacle of the era's shipbuilding technology.

The Normandie was seized by the United States in December, 1941, and was immediately turned over to the Navy to be re-outfitted for troup transport. My dad, a young sailor, was assigned to this task. The ship caught fire and sank in February, 1942.

As I continued to poke and pry, my father told me that he was in a briefing in the childrens' playroom when the fire broke out. The playroom, he recalled, had padded leather walls so that rambunctious children would not injure themselves if they fell. The sailors were evacuated from the ship, and then sent back onboard to assist with firefighting. The irony is that the fire did not cause the demise of this great ship; the amount of water pumped inside to quell the fire caused the ship to capsize and sink harborside.

This story is typical of my dad's reluctance to talk about his past. To this day he remains a cryptogram to me in many ways. The bits that I coaxed from him revealed that he led a fascinating life. Through crafty questioning and wheedling I learned that my dad went with a friend to a Navy recruiting station and lied about their ages so they could join the action in WWII. He was assigned to the Atlantic Theater, and reassigned to the Pacific after the Normandie went belly-up. Assigned to a destroyer, the USS Buchanan, he was in many battles, including Iwo Jima, Guadalcanal, Okinawa, Bougainville, Cape Esperance, and others. He never talked about these battles. They were listed on the framed USS Buchanan scorecard on the wall that I had passed by every day without a glance.

The Buchanan was one of the first ships that entered Tokyo Harbor following the surrender of Japan, and his ship participated in the surrender ceremonies. He said the Japanese citizens were terrified by the sight of US sailors in Tokyo. He saw sumo wrestling matches and God knows what else before his ship was given the task of going up and down Japan's coastline picking up POW's. The only thing he would say about this was "Bill, they didn't even look human when we got them back." Those few words still make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

After the war, he became a Navy diver, a "frogman", a member of the elite Underwater Demolition Team (and, later, the UDT/SEAL team). At the time, there were four UDT's; two in California, and two in Norfolk, Virginia. He was first in San Diego, and I know nothing of his life there. He was then reassigned to Norfolk, where he met and wed my mother.

By the time I happened upon the scene, my dad was an elder member of this branch of the service, and he instructed younger men in the art of utilizing finesse and perfect timing with explosives. He was respected and admired by the men in his charge, but at least one told my mom that if he ever blew his top, they shaped up fast. He had a long fuse in general, but had no tolerance for the careless grab-assing of cocky young men. My dad had a dangerous job. He had seen buddies killed in combat, lost a man in a fall from a helicopter during a training maneuver, and had a diver alongside him eaten by a shark during a nightime mission. He told me the only parts they recovered for burial were a hand and a piece of thigh. He knew the dangers of the ocean. Sometimes the phone would ring in the darkness of night, and my dad would be gone in a flash. My mother and I didn't know where he was going or when he would return. But he always came home to us - thank you, God.

His reticence was not confined to his years of military service. I learned more about his family from his sister, Therza, than I ever learned from him. For example, Aunt Therza told me that their oldest sister, Olivia, died in the great influenza epidemic of 1918. My mother nor I had ever heard of Olivia. Even the circumstances of his mother's death when he was six are cloudy; he always said she died of tuberculosis, but Aunt Therza told me she died following a horseback riding accident. He did not like to talk about his childhood, and was adept at avoiding questions. Like the sea he loved, he held his secrets close.

He was a quiet man. He enjoyed simple things. He liked to laugh. He did not want many possessions. He cherished my mother and me, and he provided us with a good life. There was always plenty of food on our table, even if boats and campers never cluttered our driveway. The vehicles may have been old, but were always bought new and never financed. Our house was not large, but it was paid in full and we lived in a nice neighborhood. He and my mother taught me that friends and family do not wear out with time like material things.

I grin everytime I think about my friend Suzanne and my dad together. Once one started chuckling they were off to the races. Chuckles and giggles turned into side-clutching gales of laughter. My friends adored him, and he made each one feel welcome with an easy-going manner, a twinkle in his eye, and questions that engaged them in conversations that told them that he found them as interesting as they found him. He was never boastful, and was always kind. Meeting him casually, you would never guess the risks he took every time he headed off to work. No one would dream that he had been trained to kill with his bare hands.

I think my friend Tracey put it best when, following his death, she turned to me and remarked "You know, Bill, if I had to describe your dad in two words I would say 'humble' and 'gentle' ."

I couldn't have said it better.

Bulgarian Rhapsody

One of my treats this past Sunday was getting an impromptu phone call from Wendy. Wendy is my pal Suzanne's mother, and we call each other from time to time. When I was growing up, Wendy was the Interesting Mom who taught foreign languages at a local Tidewater college, practiced Transcendental Meditation, and served green spaghetti with green sauce to her daughter's unsuspecting guests. She is still filled with a love of learning, and took a Japanese language course as well as folk dancing lessons following her retirement from a Norfolk university.

One of the topics Wendy brought up was her daughter's upcoming trip to Bulgaria - had I heard about it? Yes, I had. Wendy expressed her concern that Suzanne would decide to move to Bulgaria, because it would make calling her by phone even more inconvenient because of yet another time zone differential. She did allow, however, that the folk dancing opportunities would be richer. Suzanne currently lives in Amsterdam, after spending about six years or so in Spain.

Suzanne and her boyfriend, Brett, have made several forays to various places in Europe, but Bulgaria is the most obscure country they have included in their travels. I had a vague idea about its location, knowing it was near Greece, but had to look it up on a map to pinpoint it. Oh, there it is, on the Black Sea! It's not a country I hear mentioned much in the news, but I remember hearing about a change in their political climate several years ago. Tourism in Bulgaria is growing, and I was eager to hear from Suzanne about her impressions of this wallflower of Europe. This morning I got my wish when Suzanne sent me a message from her hotel, and I asked her if I could share it with all of you. I think you will find it an interesting read, so here you go without further ado.

WOW!!!

We're fascinated. This is really something different! We are day two in Veliko Turnovo. It took us just about a day to get here from Amsterdam. On the down side, the town is shrinking and a bit decrepit, lots of faded paint jobs and abandoned buildings. On the up side, gosh so much. What's not to love. The people are gentle and curious, eager to learn English and friendly.

The town's history is considerable, and monuments dating back to this city's glorious medieval heritage dot the surrouding hillside. We are staying in a very upmarket hotel by Bulgarian standards. Ninety euros a night is exorbidant in a town where the best rooms go for 50 euros a night, and many a room can be had for 20 euros or less. However, this must be the most modern, chic, lovely, well-equipped hotel in a 100 mile radius, and we are well-pleased to be paying the rate. When visiting a depressed area, it's kind of nice to come back to something upmarket at the end of the day. This is really in the chic boutique hotel category.( I cringe to think of the horrid hotel room you could end up with in Amsterdam for 90 euros a night.)

Things are astoundingly cheap here. Brett and I dined at a lovely local tavern last night. I had a crisp white Bulgarian wine, Brett a local lager. He had some local dish of pork Kavarma, a stew sort of a thing, and I had an innovative stuffed trout. We sat on a spotless patio at a cute polished picnic style table next to a box of bright impatiens and gazed over the clay rooftops at the nearby lush green hills. The entire bill came to 24 leva, or twelve euros. In Amsterdam we pay more than that for a snack from the local taco hut. Brett and I figure on paying around 45 euros when we dine out at a restaurant, and we don't go to the Ritz.

While dining there an American approached us, astounded and grateful to hear English. He was visiting VT with his wife, who is from here. He told us the name of another town that sounds intriguing, Povdiv, with Roman monuments and a thriving art community, but three hours from here, so we'll save that for the next trip.

We saw the Veliko Turnovo light show from the rooftop of our hotel last night. It's a breathtaking light and music extravaganza that involves the entire excavated fortress collection of buildings...and ...I can't even begin to describe it. Maybe I was tired, but I was moved to tears, it was so beautifully executed, so professionally done. There seems to be a native intelligence among the people here. I find it interesting that they excel, as a nation, in mathematics.

We've observed that the native television shows have better production values, especially where lighting is concerned, than homegrown Netherlands TV.

We're off to explore the fortress. Just in to escape a sudden sun shower, but it seems to have cleared.

Ciao!
Your Wandering Expats
Suzanne and Brett