Yes, I knew and remembered Lee Currier. Learned of a few others (Bill Smith was one I knew in my class) and then there was Bob Bell who after Vietnam apparently contracted cancer and died -- suspected Agent Orange related fatality. I remember at the graduation party how many thought I was crazy to wanting to enlist. Then I got home for Christmas in '64 and learned how many had not made it through the first semester of college before getting drafted. I was in Germany by the time the first 100K combat troops went to Vietnam. I even volunteered TWICE to finally even get a look at the place and that was to build the world's largest man-made harbor. Got home before the draft changed and when it did, I was #270 and had my first knee surgery by then. Doubt I would have been lucky enough to escape serving though as I did not have a clue as to what I wanted to be when I grew up and was not that committed to college as a result. GI Bill came in handy, too, for getting through college later.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Appian Way - Camp Darby
A small contingent of National Guard personnel were sent to Camp Darby, Italy to rewrite the defense plan for Livorno.,one of the main sea ports in Italy. I was the Major in charge of rewriting the plan.
We had a lay -over in London for a few hours and were subjected to a high degree of security as only one would suspect for Heathrow. We eventually were notified that our flight to Pisa on Alitalia was ready to board and we proceeded to the appropriate gate. That is when security stopped.
You might say that Italians are a little more lay back than most. We passed through the passenger gate with hardly even a glance from the airline attendants, took whatever seat we wished, received no instructions on how to fasten our seat belts or where our life preservers were, or anything else that might help us survive an un-forseen occurrence. To prevent a hijacking a curtain was drawn across the cabin separating the cockpit and the passenger section. I felt safe, sure.
The attendants were gracious and served all the espresso, biscotto , and wine that we could eat and drink. They were not bad looking either, the attendants not the biscotto. I began to feel safer.
When we landed in at the Aeroporto di Pisa we were left on the runway to pick up our own bags while the other passengers walked to the terminal building. That turned out not to be as bad it sounds. While the rest of the passengers were working their way through customs and machine gun carrying Carabinieri, we shouldered our duffel bags and walked right past everyone. I guess they thought if we were carrying OD duffel's we were OK.
My worst fears were realized when I soon realized there was no one at the airport to meet us. There was not an American uniform in site. I made my way to a public pay phone, figured out how to use it and called Camp Darby and identified myself as if my first name was Major. The operator switched me to the Officer of the Day, a 2LT, who said that they did not expect us until next week. I asked if he thought I ought to camp out on the front lawn and wait. He said he would send someone to pick us up right away.
An hour later a young captain picked us up and wanted to know where we were staying. I said I had no idea and that he better figure something out soon because I had some people who needed food and sleep and I as getting cranky.
He took us to Camp Darby which was about 5 miles away and were shown a cabin that four could sleep in. Unacceptable I informed him. We went to an enlisted mans barracks and found 8 empty beds and I told him that too was unacceptable. I suggested we go to the housing office. The captain explained our plight to a GS whatever, and that accommodations on post were not available. I and my rank and crankiness suggested that we be given off base lodging. Everyone agreed and we were given a government voucher to be used at a hotel in Tirrena, just three miles down the road. Fine I said, but how are we going to get back and forth. No problem the lady said, here is a voucher to rent a car. Later my little entourage and I were driving to the Tirrenia di Navigazione spa over looking a nude beach on the Italian Riviera in a five speed BMW.
I could tell this was going to be a hardship tour.
We had a lay -over in London for a few hours and were subjected to a high degree of security as only one would suspect for Heathrow. We eventually were notified that our flight to Pisa on Alitalia was ready to board and we proceeded to the appropriate gate. That is when security stopped.
You might say that Italians are a little more lay back than most. We passed through the passenger gate with hardly even a glance from the airline attendants, took whatever seat we wished, received no instructions on how to fasten our seat belts or where our life preservers were, or anything else that might help us survive an un-forseen occurrence. To prevent a hijacking a curtain was drawn across the cabin separating the cockpit and the passenger section. I felt safe, sure.
The attendants were gracious and served all the espresso, biscotto , and wine that we could eat and drink. They were not bad looking either, the attendants not the biscotto. I began to feel safer.
When we landed in at the Aeroporto di Pisa we were left on the runway to pick up our own bags while the other passengers walked to the terminal building. That turned out not to be as bad it sounds. While the rest of the passengers were working their way through customs and machine gun carrying Carabinieri, we shouldered our duffel bags and walked right past everyone. I guess they thought if we were carrying OD duffel's we were OK.
My worst fears were realized when I soon realized there was no one at the airport to meet us. There was not an American uniform in site. I made my way to a public pay phone, figured out how to use it and called Camp Darby and identified myself as if my first name was Major. The operator switched me to the Officer of the Day, a 2LT, who said that they did not expect us until next week. I asked if he thought I ought to camp out on the front lawn and wait. He said he would send someone to pick us up right away.
An hour later a young captain picked us up and wanted to know where we were staying. I said I had no idea and that he better figure something out soon because I had some people who needed food and sleep and I as getting cranky.
He took us to Camp Darby which was about 5 miles away and were shown a cabin that four could sleep in. Unacceptable I informed him. We went to an enlisted mans barracks and found 8 empty beds and I told him that too was unacceptable. I suggested we go to the housing office. The captain explained our plight to a GS whatever, and that accommodations on post were not available. I and my rank and crankiness suggested that we be given off base lodging. Everyone agreed and we were given a government voucher to be used at a hotel in Tirrena, just three miles down the road. Fine I said, but how are we going to get back and forth. No problem the lady said, here is a voucher to rent a car. Later my little entourage and I were driving to the Tirrenia di Navigazione spa over looking a nude beach on the Italian Riviera in a five speed BMW.
I could tell this was going to be a hardship tour.
From Alaska - Log 6
Continued from Log 5...
9/30/02
School is going well, at least the preparation of the lesson plans. I seem to have a knack for it. I could improve my presentations I think. I went to the local Covenant Church yesterday. It was a little more interesting than the local Catholic service. The church is headed by a missionary. A relative young couple in their mid or early 40's I suspect. They own an airplane and he teaches natives how to fly along with being a real asset to the community. There is going to be a teachers retreat next week. The sponsoring organization picks you up in a plane and you fly to some location, stay in a cabin, have religious services, and they feed you. It will be a nice change of events.
I am glad I have done this, coming up here, but there is a part of me that wished I hadn't. Seems a long way from home. Over all Paula and I have a pretty good balance on things.
They say it will start snowing soon.
There seems to be a lot of interest in keeping the Yup'ik culture and language alive, the language is about to disappear. But how do you do merge a subsistence life style with the 21st century. The parents want to help and most see the importance of an education but a lot of the time it does not carry over into the classroom. The state is demanding that the kids pass tests to move on to another grade level, and they should but how do they do it.
10/08/02
It snowed today. It came down real hard and blowing in from the sea. A white blanket covered the ground in no time. My first thought was that I hoped it did not effect our TV reception. But within an hour it had stopped. The sun came out, no snow, but did have TV.
The water pump went off for a day or two. No water for the school or our place. Had to walk a quarter of a mile to get water from the center of the village. It got fixed OK.
The village ran out of money and could not pay their 10 city workers for about 2 weeks.
A friend - Jerry, went to Mountain Village for a math conference. He didn't know when he was to supposed to leave, where he was going exactly or where he was staying, or if they would even feed him. Typical Hooper Bay travel arrangements I am told by the veterans here.
Apparently the school is built on an old Eskimo cemetery. There is supposed to a ghost running around. One teacher at least says she has seen it. There is also a story about little people that live out on the Tundra. It is sort of interesting that the same legend about the Little People is told among the Greenland Eskimos. Might make a story about that some day.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Homer-Conley-Stone-McAnally/dp/0615779808/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1371306837&sr=1-1&keywords=tales+from+homer
9/30/02
School is going well, at least the preparation of the lesson plans. I seem to have a knack for it. I could improve my presentations I think. I went to the local Covenant Church yesterday. It was a little more interesting than the local Catholic service. The church is headed by a missionary. A relative young couple in their mid or early 40's I suspect. They own an airplane and he teaches natives how to fly along with being a real asset to the community. There is going to be a teachers retreat next week. The sponsoring organization picks you up in a plane and you fly to some location, stay in a cabin, have religious services, and they feed you. It will be a nice change of events.
I am glad I have done this, coming up here, but there is a part of me that wished I hadn't. Seems a long way from home. Over all Paula and I have a pretty good balance on things.
They say it will start snowing soon.
There seems to be a lot of interest in keeping the Yup'ik culture and language alive, the language is about to disappear. But how do you do merge a subsistence life style with the 21st century. The parents want to help and most see the importance of an education but a lot of the time it does not carry over into the classroom. The state is demanding that the kids pass tests to move on to another grade level, and they should but how do they do it.
10/08/02
It snowed today. It came down real hard and blowing in from the sea. A white blanket covered the ground in no time. My first thought was that I hoped it did not effect our TV reception. But within an hour it had stopped. The sun came out, no snow, but did have TV.
The water pump went off for a day or two. No water for the school or our place. Had to walk a quarter of a mile to get water from the center of the village. It got fixed OK.
The village ran out of money and could not pay their 10 city workers for about 2 weeks.
A friend - Jerry, went to Mountain Village for a math conference. He didn't know when he was to supposed to leave, where he was going exactly or where he was staying, or if they would even feed him. Typical Hooper Bay travel arrangements I am told by the veterans here.
Apparently the school is built on an old Eskimo cemetery. There is supposed to a ghost running around. One teacher at least says she has seen it. There is also a story about little people that live out on the Tundra. It is sort of interesting that the same legend about the Little People is told among the Greenland Eskimos. Might make a story about that some day.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Homer-Conley-Stone-McAnally/dp/0615779808/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1371306837&sr=1-1&keywords=tales+from+homer
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Remembrance
Strangely enough I found my military stuff and the clerk's name was Bessie Crose until 1970 when she married and became Bessie Chitwood. A real "sweetheart" to say the least.
This is not much about collecting things for WWII and I didn't know about this at all until my late brother (Newton Brown) contributed this piece for my mom's memorial service. His son (my nephew) wrote it down and we included it so it isn't really much and I don't know any more than what is here -between the asterisks - I imagine lots of families did the same thing:
*****************************
Oldest son Newton well remembers "Den Mother Margaret" baking cookies for her young charges and how they spent many hours over an old table doing various craft projects to keep little minds occupied. During World War II, Margaret could be found with Newton going up and down the streets of Fairmount, pulling a little wagon, collecting cans, bacon grease and other materials for use in the War Effort. They would obtain feedsacks from a local store to make shirts, towels and other things that could be useful at home.
*******************************
""Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake."
-Napoleon Bonaparte
***********************************************************************
Bear'ly Friends - Alaska
One day I was reading in the Anchorage Daily News about a man who was walking his dog near the military base that bumps up to the city limits of Anchorage. It was not the wilderness by any means.
All of a sudden a big Brown bear jumped out onto the wooded path. He (the man walking the dog not the bear) immediately pulled out his .357 magnum and several shots later the bear lay dead. Several things came to my mind after reading the article. I had seen moose walk along the side of the road in Anchorage proper, a friend of mine said she could not keep a garden in the suburbs because moose would eat up her planting, and I could not remember the last time I walked a dog and carried a gun.(of course many do that today in Arizona and several other states all the time I hear.)
There were no bears in Hooper Bay. There were bears in Pitka's Point and Noatak. I use to ask the villagers how they protected themselves against the bears when they would go out berry picking. They told me they didn't worry about it and if they did come across a bear they just left it alone.
Some of my students at Pitka's Point told me that one night a bear did come into the village and wondered around. They had been outside playing and to keep out of the Bear's way they took refuge in an abandoned house and waited for the bear to go away.
I have a phobia about being eaten by a bear so that hindered my exploring the country side. I am sure I missed out on a lot of things by not communing with nature but a bear is a bear and I know I could not out run one even if my legs became unfrozen after I stumbled onto one.
In Pitks's Point it was about 100 yards from my front door to the school's main entrance. I seldom ventured out after the sun went down and when I did I was cautious. Call me silly and you can tell me about the probability of not being eaten by a bear all you want, but it is like people who buy lottery tickets weekly. The odds of winning are stacked against them but try telling that to the guy who won last week. It is the same as the chances of being eaten by a bear or a shark for that matter (I never swim in anything I cannot see the bottom of ), someone always wins and I would just as soon it not be the bear.
So how do the villagers manage their fear? Do they fear an attack at all? It does happen you know, at least enough to make the paper or Internet.
I decided to ask one of the elders if he was afraid or did he just "leave them alone." He was wise, most elders are. He said you have to respect the bear. "The bear has a spirit and there are good spirits and there are bad ones. If you respect the bear and understand that we are all bears, ravens, moose, rabbits, and salmon, we all just have different skins. We leave each other alone and the spirits we have blend and we become one. We all have animal spirits and all the animals have human spirits." "At last," I thought to myself, I should have talked to this guy many months ago.
He then said one more thing that brought everything in to perspective and focus and provided me with a touch of Eskimo wisdom that I shall carry with me for the rest of my day.
"It also helps," he said, "that when you are walking across our great land, enjoying what the great Eagle and Raven have made, that you walk with a friend, a close friend, a friend that you have known for many years, a friend you know that you can run faster than."
All of a sudden a big Brown bear jumped out onto the wooded path. He (the man walking the dog not the bear) immediately pulled out his .357 magnum and several shots later the bear lay dead. Several things came to my mind after reading the article. I had seen moose walk along the side of the road in Anchorage proper, a friend of mine said she could not keep a garden in the suburbs because moose would eat up her planting, and I could not remember the last time I walked a dog and carried a gun.(of course many do that today in Arizona and several other states all the time I hear.)
There were no bears in Hooper Bay. There were bears in Pitka's Point and Noatak. I use to ask the villagers how they protected themselves against the bears when they would go out berry picking. They told me they didn't worry about it and if they did come across a bear they just left it alone.
Some of my students at Pitka's Point told me that one night a bear did come into the village and wondered around. They had been outside playing and to keep out of the Bear's way they took refuge in an abandoned house and waited for the bear to go away.
I have a phobia about being eaten by a bear so that hindered my exploring the country side. I am sure I missed out on a lot of things by not communing with nature but a bear is a bear and I know I could not out run one even if my legs became unfrozen after I stumbled onto one.
In Pitks's Point it was about 100 yards from my front door to the school's main entrance. I seldom ventured out after the sun went down and when I did I was cautious. Call me silly and you can tell me about the probability of not being eaten by a bear all you want, but it is like people who buy lottery tickets weekly. The odds of winning are stacked against them but try telling that to the guy who won last week. It is the same as the chances of being eaten by a bear or a shark for that matter (I never swim in anything I cannot see the bottom of ), someone always wins and I would just as soon it not be the bear.
So how do the villagers manage their fear? Do they fear an attack at all? It does happen you know, at least enough to make the paper or Internet.
I decided to ask one of the elders if he was afraid or did he just "leave them alone." He was wise, most elders are. He said you have to respect the bear. "The bear has a spirit and there are good spirits and there are bad ones. If you respect the bear and understand that we are all bears, ravens, moose, rabbits, and salmon, we all just have different skins. We leave each other alone and the spirits we have blend and we become one. We all have animal spirits and all the animals have human spirits." "At last," I thought to myself, I should have talked to this guy many months ago.
He then said one more thing that brought everything in to perspective and focus and provided me with a touch of Eskimo wisdom that I shall carry with me for the rest of my day.
"It also helps," he said, "that when you are walking across our great land, enjoying what the great Eagle and Raven have made, that you walk with a friend, a close friend, a friend that you have known for many years, a friend you know that you can run faster than."
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Crisp Lake Chronicles, Vol. 1
Crisp Lake Chronicle, 1950
A farewell party was held for Uncle Bill last Saturday evening at Hutcheson Park on Lake Drive. Uncle Bill has been the head Post Office official at the postal station in Fairmount ever since his return from the war. He was a natural for the job because he had done the same thing for the Army APO - European Theater, in London, England.
Uncle Bill says he is not real happy about the transfer but would make the best of it given the fact that it was politically motivated. "You play with a snake and you are going to get bit," was one of his replies. He claims it was politics pure and simple and had nothing to do with his performance. He said he made a mistake and told his cousin Walter on his mother's side that he had voted for Dewey and not Truman in the last election and Walter told Mr. Jones the precinct captain who in turn told Bill Serman. Well that is possible I guess but upon further inquiry I found out the real reason for the transfer to the Kansas City office.
It was no secret to anyone living in and around Fairmount that Uncle Bill had acquired the habit of drinking a beer with his lunch each day. It was against postal rules to drink in a government facility so he would take his sack lunch over to the Calico Cat each day to imbibe in a brew but never more than two. So as not to inconvenience the postal patrons he would leave his cousin on his wife's side, Homer, in charge who was the custodian but whom he had trained to sell stamps with instructions never to sort mail or do anything else around the office, only sell stamps.
One day however after arriving at the Calico Cat Uncle Bill found a birthday celebration in progress for Herb McIntosh. Two beers turned into six so my informant recalls because Herb's brother Hal was buying and Uncle Bill told folks he could not be rude and leave the party early. Besides Homer was capable of selling stamps and anything else could wait until the next day.
The whole matter could have been a non incident except when Uncle Bill did not return at his normal time Homer decided to take his lunch break anyway. He left instructions on the counter along with a role of stamps and a jar. The instructions stated that customers should take however many stamps they needed and leave the correct change in the jar or bring the money by the next day.
Leaving the post office unattended and the stamps on the counter would not have been a problem either either except just by chance a Kansas City postal inspector was on his way to the Independence branch and thought he would stop by the Fairmount station just to say hi.
The audit that followed found that there was nothing missing at our local branch.
Homer has been transferred to Sugar Creek and Uncle Bill to the Kansas City main office. His assignment is on the mail train that runs between Kansas City and Chicago where he helps sort and put the mail bags out for pick-up and delivery for the towns in between.
Uncle Bill says that the job is OK in and of itself but the main problem is that the mail car is always attached to the rear of the train and there are too many train cars in between it and the club car where they keep the beer.
A farewell party was held for Uncle Bill last Saturday evening at Hutcheson Park on Lake Drive. Uncle Bill has been the head Post Office official at the postal station in Fairmount ever since his return from the war. He was a natural for the job because he had done the same thing for the Army APO - European Theater, in London, England.
Uncle Bill says he is not real happy about the transfer but would make the best of it given the fact that it was politically motivated. "You play with a snake and you are going to get bit," was one of his replies. He claims it was politics pure and simple and had nothing to do with his performance. He said he made a mistake and told his cousin Walter on his mother's side that he had voted for Dewey and not Truman in the last election and Walter told Mr. Jones the precinct captain who in turn told Bill Serman. Well that is possible I guess but upon further inquiry I found out the real reason for the transfer to the Kansas City office.
It was no secret to anyone living in and around Fairmount that Uncle Bill had acquired the habit of drinking a beer with his lunch each day. It was against postal rules to drink in a government facility so he would take his sack lunch over to the Calico Cat each day to imbibe in a brew but never more than two. So as not to inconvenience the postal patrons he would leave his cousin on his wife's side, Homer, in charge who was the custodian but whom he had trained to sell stamps with instructions never to sort mail or do anything else around the office, only sell stamps.
One day however after arriving at the Calico Cat Uncle Bill found a birthday celebration in progress for Herb McIntosh. Two beers turned into six so my informant recalls because Herb's brother Hal was buying and Uncle Bill told folks he could not be rude and leave the party early. Besides Homer was capable of selling stamps and anything else could wait until the next day.
The whole matter could have been a non incident except when Uncle Bill did not return at his normal time Homer decided to take his lunch break anyway. He left instructions on the counter along with a role of stamps and a jar. The instructions stated that customers should take however many stamps they needed and leave the correct change in the jar or bring the money by the next day.
Leaving the post office unattended and the stamps on the counter would not have been a problem either either except just by chance a Kansas City postal inspector was on his way to the Independence branch and thought he would stop by the Fairmount station just to say hi.
The audit that followed found that there was nothing missing at our local branch.
Homer has been transferred to Sugar Creek and Uncle Bill to the Kansas City main office. His assignment is on the mail train that runs between Kansas City and Chicago where he helps sort and put the mail bags out for pick-up and delivery for the towns in between.
Uncle Bill says that the job is OK in and of itself but the main problem is that the mail car is always attached to the rear of the train and there are too many train cars in between it and the club car where they keep the beer.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Ski Lesson - Alaska
Two of my so called friends when I was living in an Alaskan village decided I needed to learn how to ski. I suggested to them that there did not seem to be many hills on the tundra. They said cross-country skiing is what they meant.
I have always been a reluctant athlete. Neither my father nor grandfather ever did anything physical unless being in the Calvary for my grandfather or my dad participating in an extended camping trip they called Korea counts.
My athletic training was left to the 20 or so kids that lived on Lake Drive. I was usually the tackling dummy or the right fielder or the person on whom everyone else practiced their wrestling holds and throwing over their shoulders. I eventually did play football at Van Horn but the only real ability I had was that I did not mind getting knocked down.
Living as the youngest kid on the block gave me a lot of practice; I could always hit the ground without breaking anything and still can. When it comes to falling I am very coordinated and good at it. Getting up, however, at my age gets to be a struggle.
Things are usually scarce in bush Alaska, but let me just tell someone that I would love to learn how to cross-country ski but, alas, have no equipment, and sure enough skis, poles, and boots showed up out of nowhere.
Having exhausted any possible excuse, I met my "friends" behind the school one Saturday. They helped me put on the skis, showed me a few pointers, like how to move forward, gave me some encouragement as I began, then set off ahead of me and yelled over their shoulders that they would wait for me on the small rise just up ahead, which seemed sort of far to me. I did what they told me, putting my left arm forward opposite my right foot and vice-versa, crouching over the skis like a gorilla, and swaying like a fat lady from side to side. Those are terms they used and typical in cross-country ski jargon, I guess.
I found the rhythm and was doing very well, even if I did say so, which I did because I was all alone watching them on the rise waiting for me. It was very exhausting and lonely work. By the time I got to the rise I was huffing and puffing and looked for a soft blanket of snow to lie upon, feeling sort of smug that they would have to lug my body back to the village after my coronary.
They were amazed that I had not fallen and heaped much praise upon me. Good balance has always been a trademark of mine. We three were standing there, I savoring mastering yet another sport, when I fell over. Not from exhaustion or anything, I just fell over. Apparently when on skis on soft snow you must always concentrate on keeping your ankles, knees, and hips aligned and not shift your weight from foot to foot.
As I was lying there waiting for assistance from my "buddies" they said that happens now and then, and I needed to learn how to get up on my own. They were nice enough to offer me words of encouragement and instruction while I flopped around like a wounded walrus. Getting up on two skis is not an easy task. My feet would not turn the way I wanted, the ankles would not bend in the proper direction, my skis kept getting tangled and every time I put a pole into the tundra snow to brace myself it would hit a soft spot and down I would go again.
My two nemeses did try to stifle their laughter between instructions on how to regain an upright position but they failed miserably. Eventually my ski pole struck one of the four boulders on the tundra and I managed to get to one knee, then another, and finally to my feet again. No sooner had I assumed my position as a crouching gorilla when they said we needed to move on. I followed them around the dump, thorough the abandoned oil tanks, and into and through the grave yard. Nice touch, I thought, just in case.
We eventually made it back to the rear of my semi subterranean dwelling. They helped me stumble up the back steps. They pounded on the back door for me because I could not raise my arms that high nor had the strength to knock, plus they thought it unseemly to watch a grown man butt his head against the door to get his wife's attention. What are friends for. I was let inside by a bemused wife, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening prone on the couch checking my vital signs.
I have always been a reluctant athlete. Neither my father nor grandfather ever did anything physical unless being in the Calvary for my grandfather or my dad participating in an extended camping trip they called Korea counts.
My athletic training was left to the 20 or so kids that lived on Lake Drive. I was usually the tackling dummy or the right fielder or the person on whom everyone else practiced their wrestling holds and throwing over their shoulders. I eventually did play football at Van Horn but the only real ability I had was that I did not mind getting knocked down.
Living as the youngest kid on the block gave me a lot of practice; I could always hit the ground without breaking anything and still can. When it comes to falling I am very coordinated and good at it. Getting up, however, at my age gets to be a struggle.
Things are usually scarce in bush Alaska, but let me just tell someone that I would love to learn how to cross-country ski but, alas, have no equipment, and sure enough skis, poles, and boots showed up out of nowhere.
Having exhausted any possible excuse, I met my "friends" behind the school one Saturday. They helped me put on the skis, showed me a few pointers, like how to move forward, gave me some encouragement as I began, then set off ahead of me and yelled over their shoulders that they would wait for me on the small rise just up ahead, which seemed sort of far to me. I did what they told me, putting my left arm forward opposite my right foot and vice-versa, crouching over the skis like a gorilla, and swaying like a fat lady from side to side. Those are terms they used and typical in cross-country ski jargon, I guess.
I found the rhythm and was doing very well, even if I did say so, which I did because I was all alone watching them on the rise waiting for me. It was very exhausting and lonely work. By the time I got to the rise I was huffing and puffing and looked for a soft blanket of snow to lie upon, feeling sort of smug that they would have to lug my body back to the village after my coronary.
They were amazed that I had not fallen and heaped much praise upon me. Good balance has always been a trademark of mine. We three were standing there, I savoring mastering yet another sport, when I fell over. Not from exhaustion or anything, I just fell over. Apparently when on skis on soft snow you must always concentrate on keeping your ankles, knees, and hips aligned and not shift your weight from foot to foot.
As I was lying there waiting for assistance from my "buddies" they said that happens now and then, and I needed to learn how to get up on my own. They were nice enough to offer me words of encouragement and instruction while I flopped around like a wounded walrus. Getting up on two skis is not an easy task. My feet would not turn the way I wanted, the ankles would not bend in the proper direction, my skis kept getting tangled and every time I put a pole into the tundra snow to brace myself it would hit a soft spot and down I would go again.
My two nemeses did try to stifle their laughter between instructions on how to regain an upright position but they failed miserably. Eventually my ski pole struck one of the four boulders on the tundra and I managed to get to one knee, then another, and finally to my feet again. No sooner had I assumed my position as a crouching gorilla when they said we needed to move on. I followed them around the dump, thorough the abandoned oil tanks, and into and through the grave yard. Nice touch, I thought, just in case.
We eventually made it back to the rear of my semi subterranean dwelling. They helped me stumble up the back steps. They pounded on the back door for me because I could not raise my arms that high nor had the strength to knock, plus they thought it unseemly to watch a grown man butt his head against the door to get his wife's attention. What are friends for. I was let inside by a bemused wife, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening prone on the couch checking my vital signs.
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