Roman

I first met Roman Yoder in 1993 when I came from New Jersey to Ohio to visit with Lucy, his oldest daughter. She had sent me a get well card and letter over a year before. It was after a period of hospitalization and recovery that I just needed to stretch my wings and take a vacation before going back to work. Lucy invited me to visit with her. Elisabeth, a good friend, offered to take me. I had been in correspondence with Lucy for about a year and it was about time I met her in person.

Roman was in his leather shop patching leather harnesses and other leather goods, and making leather fly swatters for businesses that sell Amish-made goods. He was very cordial and showed me around the shop. He also showed me a bird cage sitting on one of the tables with a sign "Florida Red Bats" fastened on it. He told me to look in the cage. I was rather hesitant until I spotted the bats in the bottom of the cage—tiny red baseball bats. He was amused at my reaction. He said someone sent it from Florida some time ago. It's a good conversation piece.

It wasn't long before I was seeing Lucy on a regular basis, driving 475 miles from New Jersey to north central Ohio alone on a Friday after work, and heading back on Sunday, arriving home in time to get a good night's rest and going to work on Monday.

On Christmas weekend I met almost the entire family and that's when I took the opportunity to let Lucy's mother (step-mother) know who I was and what my background was. I was born and raised Mennonite and my parents spoke Pennsylvania German, and I was never married before. We lived in an area of Pennsylvania where most parents did not teach a second language to the next generation.

Over the course of a few months it was evident that we had a lasting interest in each other and we got engaged on February 27, my birthday. Of course, Lucy's Amish family heard about it but didn't seem to object, especially her parents. She was old enough to make her own decisions. One day when Roman and I were alone, he suggested we could get married in the Amish church. And there would be a lot of food to eat afterward . . . of course, if I become Amish. I politely declined. I didn't know the language that well. I was not a strong person and the Amish work pretty hard. And another reason I didn't voice; I could not give up my piano and accordion. The Amish can be musical but having a piano would be too much, especially for the more conservative Ashland, Ohio Amish. Beside vocal singing, harmonicas are about their limit in musical expression, mainly among the young people. But I didn't see that either.

It was also evident that Lucy would have to leave the Amish; she would be banned from returning unless she chose to rejoin the group. Roman was most likely trying to avoid the inevitable. Although I declined the invitation to join their ranks, it was evident that he liked me.

After we got married we still took liberties to visit with her parents, Roman and Emma. One day I took my accordion and played a few tunes for them. Another time we came in time for dinner (lunch) and they gave us each a plate of food. Lucy, respectfully adhering to the edict of not sitting at the same table with the church members when "you have departed from the faithful", sat on a chair away from the table. Roman obligingly invited her to sit at the table. There were no other Amish around to be critical of the arrangement. The gesture spoke of Roman's generosity and practicality.

Often when we visited, Roman was in his shop so I would take Lucy up to the house to visit with her mother, and then I'd visit with Roman. He'd often stop what he was doing and invite me to sit in the chair by his desk and we'd talk for an hour or more. The subjects? Current events, historical events, church history. I made it clear that Menno Simons (1496-1561) and Jacob Amman (1644-before 1730) were not contemporaries of each other. We discussed some Biblical events and I gave some of my more progressive views of my own experiences. He listened politely. Who's to say if he agreed with me. Some of what I said is written elsewhere in this blog.

One day I delivered a death notice of someone who had passed away. The Amish don't have ready access to a telephone so we have to deliver important messages in person. I talked about things afterward until another Amishman came into the shop. Roman immediately explained my presence; maybe to avoid criticism of associating with the "English" too much. Nonetheless, he ignored me and they talked their own language. It was a cue for me to leave and I went up to the house and visited with Lucy and Emma for awhile and then we soon went home.

On the early morning of June 30, 2007 I was sleeping on an armchair in the living room and, half asleep and half awake, I saw a group of black triangles appear up at the ceiling and group together into a larger triangle. Then the whole ceiling was decked in black squares like a checkerboard. Then on the wall there appeared a shape like a plaque and writing started to form. My thought at the time was that perhaps someone died or was in the process. I tried to read it, suspecting a name or something, but then the writing stopped, and reversed and then everything disappeared, and I fully woke up. What was it?

We had a party that day with quite a few ex-Amish young people. It was a birthday party for one of Lucy's nephews who had just left the Amish. A couple of ABC producers from New York were there with a TV camera to interview some of them for an upcoming documentary to be aired perhaps sometime during 2008. Lucy got a phone call to say that her father had a stroke or seizure of some kind. With what I had experienced that morning I ventured to tell her that he is OK. We visited with him a few days later and he didn't seem to be the worse for the experience, but there was something different about him.

As we were leaving he stood on the porch and watched us go. I waved and he waved back. It seems that he had the habit of seeing us off like that—a certain measure of respect for us. I'm sure he loved his daughter. He had spent a lot of time with her in her childhood, helping her recover from the effects of polio which overtook a lot of children in the 1950s. It was necessary to help her exercise to gain strength for her limbs after returning home from months in an Akron children's hospital.

In August 2007 Emma passed away. His first wife, Lizzie, Lucy's mother, had passed away in 1952 and now he was a widower again. He started to go downhill gradually, and in February 2008 he showed signs of deteriorating more. He became bedridden and his family came to his aid and made him as comfortable as possible, with advice from the family doctor. His son Melvin and wife, came from Wisconsin, and his other son Danny and wife, and his daughter Verba and husband came from southern Ohio to tend to him. Others of the family came to tend to him in turn. He evidently was not suffering but they kept him comfortable, putting him in a chair for awhile every day. A hospice nurse came to check on him now and then.

On Saturday, March 1, we visited with Roman and he had changed drastically; lost a lot of weight. They told us he wasn't eating anymore and they hardly could give him sips of water. They at least moistened his lips. We visited for a couple of hours and then Lucy approached him and told him we were leaving. It was evident that he understood but he never spoke; he just nodded his head. That was the last we saw of him alive.

The next day I was playing the piano at home with a beautiful tune, Light A Candle, Light the World, I had just learned. Lucy got the phone call from her brother-in-law Andy. Lucy's Dad had passed away Sunday around noon. The funeral would be on March 5.

On March 4 there was an ice storm but we went shopping, and Lucy had a doctor appointment. There was ice to scrape off at each stop but we got home before it rained even harder, and froze into sheets of ice. At 9:30 p.m. we lost our electricity and it stayed lost all night. In the morning we headed for the Roman Yoder farm to attend the funeral.

Lucy is on a power wheelchair but I was able to park right near the house and someone helped her into the house, which was full of Amish people, and a few ex-Amish and "English". I took a little longer to get out of the van and I walked with crutches, being careful not to slip on the ice. I had broken my leg in December and was still on the mend.

They led me to a room where other ex-Amish were placed. The Ashland Amish are quite conservative and they seem to take pains to keep the Amish separated from us English, although they are nice about it for the most part.

At 9 a.m. a preacher started talking but I didn't understand much of what he said. He was speaking Pennsylvania German, or Amish as some call it. He droned on for maybe 45 minutes. At one point he was speaking in a rather eloquent tone. I leaned over to my brother-in-law Joe and said, "I wish I knew what he just said." Joe whispered back, "If you knew that God was coming to your house, you would dress in your best clothes, gather your family around you, and wait." It was a good admonition for those who would be more spiritually minded but how many really believe such a sentiment.

We all had a chance to go by the coffin to pay last respects to the deceased. Then it was taken to the cemetery while others stayed behind and prepared for the noon meal. We didn't go to the cemetery due to the after-effects of the inclement experienced in the region the day before.

The next few hours were a bedlam of conversation among friends and strangers alike. An Amish pastime is talking. Many come from adjoining States and it was a mixture of catching up on the local news of familiar friends and relatives, to making new friends, although most of the Amish know each other. Lucy was in her element, talking to many whom she hadn't seen for a long time. They were cordial to her and she was able to catch up on the whatever the Amish talking about. I, meanwhile, sat and waited for people to talk to me. I'm not much of a conversation starter.

One man, Dan Miller, a former bishop, engaged in a conversation about his collection of purple martin houses which were soon going to be filled with migrating martins who come every year to his property. They fly to South America later in the year and in the spring they come back and often occupy the same house they were born in.

I met another Amishman whose wife recently had a kidney transplant. He talked about it to me since Lucy had told him that I was eligible for a kidney transplant.

I was eventually ready to go home—admittedly before Lucy was ready—but we went back home and had another get-together of ex-Amish who went through the same process; talking about old times, new events, and eating pizza, among other things.

I asked Lucy what her father was like when growing up. She said he was one who didn't mind being alone, and he usually was the last to come to the table, but was rather perturbed if he had to be kept waiting for anything. She said she doesn't remember him ever disciplining the children. He left that up to Mom. His kind-heartedness left a great legacy of a generous and kind man who will be missed for awhile.

Roman Yoder is missed but it is the honorable way of life to leave this world after a period of time and join back to where we came from in the first place, ready to evaluate the life we had experienced and continue with life in spirit . . . until the next round, if we so choose.

Moosonee, Ontario

In the days when I was single, the first week of July 1990, I took a long drive to Moononee, Ontario, a small settlement along the Moose River near James Bay in the sub-arctic. Ninety percent of the inhabitants of the village were Cree .

I picked the first week in July because I would have only four days vacation taken off of my two-week allotment because of the Independence Day holiday on July 4. I picked Canada because it is my favorite vacation spot, and an excellent chance to escape the infernal New Jersey heat we had at the time. And I had a road-worthy 1983 Honda to galavant around in. Judging by the distance to my destination, I was destined for a l-o-o-n-g ride—or rather, rides. I would drive to Cochran and then take the train to Moosonee, via the Polar Bear Express.

Elisabeth, a friend of mine, needed to go to the Kennedy Airport in New York so I offered to take her on my way to Canada on June 30. She and her daughter Malia were going to Switzerland.

It was a 100-mile drive and the traffice on the Beltway in New York was horrendous. Her flight was scheduled to leave at 7 p.m. but we left extra early in case there was an earlier flight. I dropped them off and left the airport at 5 p.m. The 7 o'clock flight was cancelled so they had to take the next flight—at 1 a.m. I wasn't about to wait that long to see her off. If they were going to miss that flight too, some of our mutual friends would just have to pick her up if a worst-case scenario presented itself.

Meanwhile, I traveled back toward New York City via the jam-packed Beltway and eventually got out of its sweltering environs and headed north toward Albany. I didn't know how long the trip would take on this leg of the journey but my intentions were to arrive Lloyd's and Maryann's house that evening, about 15 miles from the Canadian border. Maryann is my first cousin—a double cousin, our fathers were brothers, our mothers were sisters. I had called her up before I left home, told her I would stop in and she invited me to stay a day or two with her family.

Before I left New Jersey, I had bought three nice-looking watermelons at Produce Junction, figuring a family of 10 kids could make short work of one in a hurry. I was conscious of the heat with the watermelons in back of the car, but they grew up in hot weather, so what's the risk?

I traveled west toward Syracuse via Interstate 90, a toll road. Hours passed and at midnight I decided to stop at a motel. I had warned Maryann that I might show up pretty late, perhaps even at two in the morning and she said she didn't mind, she was used to it. But I was too tired to travel for another 2-1/2 hours so I stopped at Utica, NY, and stayed at a motel.

I called her up in the morning and apologized. Being Sunday, she invited me to church if I could get there before the service was over. I would have to leave right away in that case, so I gathered everything together and reached in my pocket for the car keys. No keys anywhere. I'm not one to habitually lock my keys in the car but I meekly sneaked out to look and spotted them in the back, behind the back seat where I had opened the trunk the evening before. And the doors were locked.

Triple-A came within 20 minutes and had the door open in 25 seconds. But I decided to take my good old time to head north so I stopped at McDonald's for a leisurely breakfast. It wouldn't do any good to starve for the next couple of hours. At 11:45 I arrived at my destination and decided not to go over to the church. It was probably over anyway. Anyway, I could use a nap after all that driving. I went into the house and I napped for over a half hour on the couch until they arrived—Maryann, Lloyd and their 10 children: Keturah, Loyal, Hannah, Victor, James, Justus, Nathan, Micah, Joshua, and little Lloyd, Jr.

I spent the next two days there. I had my camera and would have just loved to take all their pictures, but I made do with just a few shots of the family and a double rainbow which was displayed after a rainstorm. Almost everyone went outside to see the rainbow; even the little children in their bare feet. One of the children had picked flowers for his mother some time before and I noticed them on the table. Three-year-old Lloyd decided to pick flowers for his mother also. He proudly walked into the house with one of his Mom's prize marigolds clutched in his hand, with the roots dangling and dirt littering the floor. Maryann almost screamed, but just couldn't scold the generous boy. It was such an endearing gesture so she took the flower and suggested to him that they plant it outside. "But aren't you going to put it in a jar?" he replied.

At the dinner table I told them a joke: "There are three kinds of people in the world—those who can count, and those who can't." The children laughed uproarously. Maryann looked puzzled, "But that's two," which was even funnier to the kids. For dessert we had watermelon, the ripest and most luscious watermelon I saw yet! I was glad I brought them.

Fortified with Maryann's excellent cooking and everyone's hospitality, I left on Tuesday morning to travel to Ottawa, the Canadian federal capital, to visit the Science and Technology Museum. I just wanted to spend a couple of hours there before going to Cochran. I did some hasty calculations and studied the map for the route to Cochran where I would meet the train.

Route 17 follows the border between Ontario and Quebec provinces so some of the road signs are in French: Garde la droite sauf pour dèpasser—Keep to the right except to pass. Near large towns, which were very few and far between, I listened to an occasional radio station. But for the most part, the airwaves were ominously quiet. I was mostly driving through wilderness devoid of inhabitants.

You never realize how big the earth is until you travel over a good portion of it. Ontario is huge at 70% the size of Alaska and 150% the size of Texas. Over half of it is wild wilderness only accessible by airplane or canoe. Ordinary tour maps don't bother to show the whole province. There are many provincial parks and fish and game abound, although I didn't see so much as a moose during the entire trip.

I traveled for the rest of the day. I had left Ottawa at round 2 p.m. Tuesday and I began to realize how far Cochran was as the day wore on. It was nice and warm and the humidity was low; ideal travel weather. I drove with my lights on like I saw many other drivers do. The cars are easier to see at long distances and easier to gauge if you want to pass some slow-poke in front of you. No one traveled at 55 mph. Sixty-five seemed to be the standard speed and I was often passed even then—even by tractor trailers.

I turned due north at North Bay following Route 11 which would take me into Cochran. At 10 p.m. it was still light enough to see without lights but then it grew dark and started to rain. And I mean rain! The lightning flashed all around but I don't remember hearing any thunder. Strange! I kept up to speed though—65 mph. With a tractor-trailer behind you, you don't want to let him pass if you can help it. It gets awful nasty following one in the rain.

I was getting pretty close to my destination when I noticed my fuel gauge approaching empty. I can travel over 400 miles on a tank of gas but I had done almost twice that today. At Iroquois Falls I was about ready to pull into a Texaco station when another rainstorm sent blinding sheets of rain. A car ahead of me was traveling at high speed and for some reason I decided to keep following, forgetting the concern about fuel. It was easier to see the road farther ahead when there were tail lights to follow. Cochran was only about 50 miles or less and I took the chance to get there by 11 a.m. if I kept moving. So, rain or not, I continued on. The tail lights disappeared occasionally and a flash of lightning would reveal the road ahead. It was rather dangerous I admit, but I was a daring kind of guy.

At long last, Cochran hove into view. I stopped at a garage by a darkened motel and asked if there were any other motels in town. Yes they were, but they were probably all booked up. I went to a lighted motel and enquired. I asked if there were any available motels in the vicinity of Cochran. She called a number. Yes, there was a vacancy about a half hour back down Route 11 at Iroquois Falls. I wasn't about to spend the night in the car when there was a chance to get a motel, so I hightailed it back to Iroquois Falls, keeping a weather eye on the fuel gauge. It was getting precariously low but I was heading back for the Texaco station and could fill up there...if it didn't close by the time I got there.

I had a few scary moments though, because I didn't see any lighted station where I thought the gas station should be. I even turned around to double check its whereabouts but it was too dark to see clearly. Yikes! If I run out of gas, I'd kick myself.

As it happened, I still had another 10 miles to go. And with a sigh of relief I belly-landed by the gas pumps at the Texaco station, filled it up with $29 worth of gas (Canadian dollars were 15% above American) and sped off into Iroquois Falls to the Glendale Motel.

Yech, the room smelled of stale cigarette smoke. In spite of the nice cool weather, I turned on the air conditioner fan to air out the place. I wasn't about to lose sleep over a few odd odors; I wanted to leave at 7 a.m. to travel back to Cochran to catch the 8:30 train to Moosonee. I hadn't bought a ticket yet. Last week I had reserved a room at the Polar Bear Lodge in Moosonee and the lady had told me there would be plenty of room on the train without reservations.

The next morning dawned bright and early. In fact, the day dawned some time well before 5 a.m. It was refreshingly cool outside as I traveled the next 40 miles to Cochran, flying low all the way.

People were staring to gather at the train station to take the Polar Bear Express. Tourists, railroad personnel, Cree Indians, and me. I bought a ticket and waited.

At about 8:45 we were off for the 4-1/2 hour trip to the end of the lnie on Ontario Northland Rail, 186 miles to the north at Moosonee.

There wasn't much scenic variety to see on the trip. There were pine trees all the way that gradually diminished to scrub pines and muskeg. Thousands of miles around was wild wilderness which was inhabited only by hardy people such as the Cree Indians, seasoned trappers and hunters, and farther to the north, the Inuits, or Eskimos.

I had often read of the Arctic and this was the closest I had come to it so far. It is a harsh and lonely land, but it is quite tolerable in the summer, especially here in the southern edge of the sub-arctic. The mosquitoes were practically gone so there wasn't much need for mosquito repellent this time of year.

We finally stepped off the train into the cool, sunny climate of northeastern Ontario. Even in early July, I was glad I had my sweater on. It was nice and warm in the sun when the breeze wasn't blowing, but the air had an arctic chill to it. I loved it.

A bus from the Polar Bear Lodge transported us to the motel and I checked in. It was quite cool in my room but I didn't see any switch on the heating unit along the wall. But at least it wasn't too cold. I came here to escape the heat. Outside, the streets were dusty and some streets were watered down to keep the dust down. It looked like a little shanty down with a school, grocery store, post office, churches, and other business places.

New Jersey was quite hot when I left it, but this was a cold 50ish kind of weather. I was afraid the cold would create problems for me so I had a nice soak in the bathtub, took a nap, and then went out to invade the town. The Wilderness Tour would wait until the next day. In the confusion of things, I missed the notice that a boat would leave for Fossil Island at 5 p.m. There are fossils along the Moose River and tourists are free to pick up whatever they find. The fossils are of sea life indigenous to tropical waters which gives one pause as to what really happened to earth for millions of years.

In the evening I was sitting on a bench, looking out over the Moose River as another tourist stood there, filming it with his video camera. The wind chill factor was intensifying as the sun was setting and the coat I was wearing was a little too light, but it felt good. The tourist ambled over and I commented, "This doesn't feel like July, does it?"

"No, it certainly doesn't, but it's a dry cold."

"Where are you from?" I asked.

He hesitated. "Bermuda."

"That's a switch. Everyone likes to go there for vacation."

"Well," he replied, "when you live in a tourist spot, you don't necessarily tour it. In Bermuda, the humidity is so high there it's downright uncomfortable. The temperature may go up to 86 during the day, and drop to 84 at night. During the winter it's cold if it goes down to 60."

It was certainly below 60 as we spoke, maybe even in the 40s and after awhile I went back to the motel. I wanted to wait up to see if the aurora borealis displayed itself in the night sky, but I figured I'd have to wait pretty long for that. The sun was still above the horizon at 9:30, but I went to bed anyway. I heard later that it didn't get dark until almost 11 o'clock.

There was a radio in my room and I listened to the Moosonee station for awhile and heard the weather forecast. The temperature is measured in Celsius and it was supposed to go down to 2 to 5 degrees, which translates to 35 to 41 degrees F. I opened the window slightly anyway. I wanted to take advantage of all the fresh air I could get while I was here. However, during the night the room got quite cold and the heater kicked in. I shut the window.

Checkout time was 10 o'clock but I wanted to take the Wilderness Tour at 9 a.m. so I gathered up all my belongings and took the suitcase to the front desk. They stowed it in their office until I would leave at 5 p.m. Then I purchased a ticket for the boat ride to James Bay and a tour of Moose Factory Island.

The overnight weather was true to the forecast. I took my sweater, light jacket, and medium jacket to ensure that I wasn't going to be a victim of hypothermia. The boat ride was uneventful but interesting, if you like history. The Hudson Bay Company did a lot of business with the Indians in this part of the world during the 17th to 20th centuries. Fur trading was lively, but so were occasional territorial disputes. The British traded with the hunters and trappers, and the French tried to get a foothold in the region. Battles ensued, but the worst killer of all was the weather. Extreme temperatures played havoc on new settlers, and they were no match for prolonged sub-zero weather and icy winds. But the Hudson Bay Company thrived, thanks to the rich and fertile region of beaver, caribou, lynx, fox, marten, moose, bear, seal, walrus, and whale. They traded furs to the European market in return for supplies.

The Moose River also told tales. The banks of the river were gouged and scarred with trees toppled at some points. The river freezes up in the winter and the spring breakup of ice does its fair share of trying to widen the river by the sheer quantity of ice which can be as thick as four feet. Toward the mouth of the river the boat captain pointed out some ice along the banks in the distance which still hadn't melted.

We turned around when we came to James Bay. The next part of the trip was a tour of Moose Factory Island in the middle of the Moose River. It was the site of the Hudson Bay Company for years and now there were museums and craft shops where tourists could buy handmade trinkets, furs, bead necklaces, artist's drawings and knickknacks. I managed to take a picture of a group of Cree children selling trinkets, spontaneously posing for me when I asked (picture at beginning of article).

All in all, the trip was a very interesting experience for me. The train left around 5 p.m. and we tourists arrived back in Cochran at almost 10 o'clock. It was almost light outside and I drove another three hours before calling it quits. I stayed at a nice motel in the middle of nowhere and the next morning I started out again at 8 a.m. I arrived in Kitchen, Ontario at around 3:30.

I usually visit the Haldemann goat farm when in the area and they were glad to see me. They told me to stay as long as I wanted to. I stayed overnight an went to the Ontario Farmers Market in Waterloo before going home. I found what I wanted and got back to the farm laden down with fruit drink powder—flavor crystals—which I wanted to take back to the States. Mrs. Haldemann asked when I was leaving. "Right away," I said. But first she wanted to give me "supper." It was more like lunch, being only 1 o'clock, and I sat down for a generous helping of meat, potatoes, and salad. Goat meat, that is. Delicious!

I then took off and traveled south for about 10 hours, and got home after midnight. The trusty Honda did itself proud. And my horizons were broadened by the experience.

Leap Year

I was born on a leap year, which doesn't mean much unless you're born on February 29. I was born on the 27th. I often wondered if there were many people who were born on the 29th. I found one in Lancaster County, PA over 30 years ago who was a fellow USDA poultry inspector who worked across from me. Sorry, I don't remember his name. He told me he celebrated his birthday on March 1 in the off years.

Then I met another one at the Center the other day. John is on dialysis like I am and when February 29th rolled around we found out about it. He told us he celebrated his birthday every four years. He is 15 leap years old.

When I was 25 my brother Dave and a couple sisters and their spouses took me to a dinner theater in Philadelphia, PA for my birthday where a delightful comic opera, The Pirates of Penzance by Gilbert and Sullivan, was playing. Frederic was an apprentice, born on February 29th and apprenticed to a life of piracy and then he was asked to change his career. But because he was technically only 5 leap years old he was told he had to wait out the apprenticeship until age 21 which would be 84 regular years.

There is an Honor Society of Leap Year Babies on the internet.

And don't forget Anthony, Texas, "the Leap Capital of the World."

Mall of America

I did some traveling in July 1993 where I flew alone to Minneapolis and spent a long weekend in Minnesota. I stayed at the Wasie Center of the Abbott Northwestern Hospital for two nights. On Saturday, I attended a conference at the Minneapolis Children’s Medical Center. It was a conference dealing with children born with medical conditions similar to what I had to deal with. When I arrived, someone asked me about my child. I said, "I'm the child." I was the then the center of attention to a few people who met me, who realized I was a survivor. There were a few speakers and when they asked for questions or comments from the audience, I had a few suggestions to offer.

My flight back home wouldn’t leave until Monday evening so I had two days to kill. I rented a car so on Sunday morning I headed north. The Mississippi River was overflowing its banks in nearby St. Paul, and roads were flooded here and there in southern Minnesota, so northbound was the best bet for a decent addendum to my vacation. I headed for Duluth. I would visit the Mall of America on my way back.

Duluth is right on the tip of Lake Superior. A small city of ships, granaries, and ore docks. I toured the S.S. William A. Irvin, a 610-foot steam ship. Then I took a cruise on a tour boat on to Lake Superior for a trip to Superior, Wisconsin, past the docks and factories, being narrated all the way. It was refreshingly cold for July, temps in the 50s or 60s.

At the end of the day I stayed at a motel in town and headed south to Minneapolis in the morning. It was 42 degrees and cloudless. You could see for miles and miles. I stopped at a small restaurant along the way for breakfast for beef hash, scrambled eggs, and sourdough bread. Pure heaven! I even stopped at the Grand Casino in Hinkley, Minnesota, prepared to lose $10, which I did. I escaped before I would go to the next $10. I’m not much of a gambler.

On the way I listened to Talk Radio which discussed the bombing of Baghdad in retaliation for the plot against President Bush. Most thought it was a bad move on President Clinton’s part. If we want to have a reputation as a peace-loving nation, we shouldn’t resort to aggression like that. One caller suggested that they should have taken the Kuwaiti policemen that discovered the plot, brought them to the U.S. and gave them well-publicized commendations, to show to the Iraqi people, and the world, that we indeed are an honorable country. But maybe we’re not so honorable these days.

I just had to visit the famed Mall of America, the largest shopping mall in the country. It wasn’t far from where I had rented the car so I traveled the 150+ miles back to Minneapolis and Bloomington and parked on one of the decks of the huge parking garage. I locked the car and headed inside. I walked all over the place—stopped here and there to buy something, but just mostly looked around. It is an interesting place. There were a few courtesy desks here and there.

About three hours before flight time I got tired of walking and headed back to the car. I put my hand in my pocket for the keys…and they weren’t there! I searched all my pockets for the keys…at least twice! I didn’t really panic for I could probably contact the rental agency who might have another set, but I wanted to find those keys.

I went into the men’s room. Not there. To Camp Snoopy, the adventure park, and the place I bought a taco salad. Not there. To the place I bought some post cards. The manager said there was a Lost and Found but he was rather cynical about it. “You better hope they don’t have them, you’ll have to sign your life away to retrieve them.” I really didn’t understand his logic.

I went to one of the courtesy and asked if anyone turned in any car keys. A lady showed me a set. They weren’t the ones. It would be only one key. The lady asked the supervisor who came along. She said she remembered seeing a key at one of the other stations. She called and checked. By golly, they were there! On the other side of the mall. She told the person someone would be along to claim them. I walked over to the south side and got the keys. I didn’t have to sign anything. You can believe I held onto those keys tightly as I headed for the car.

The 6:15 flight was delayed, wouldn’t you know! The announcer told us four flight attendants for this flight were still coming in on another flight. We would depart as soon as they got here. Later, it was announced that a couple of airline managers were aboard the flight and agreed to help in boarding the passengers, which would then take off as soon as the attendants arrived. Then we sat about 10 minutes in the plane until the flight attendants scrambled aboard and we were off.

As soon as we took off and leveled off at 37,000 feet, the Captain announced that that there would be some heavy weather enroute to Philadelphia so they were taking a more northerly tack over Wisconsin, Michigan, and then south over Harrisburg and southeast to Philadelphia. We can expect a bumpy ride here and there. And bumpy it was. I could feel the plane crabbing a little (being pushed a little sideways) when hit by a crosswind. It took only 2 hours flying time but it was after 10 p.m. when we arrived in Philadelphia safe and sound. I was glad when I finally got home at 11 p.m.

Bicycling

It was May 1993. I lived in Merchantville, New Jersey at the time. I endeavored to take a bicycle journey—going a longer distance than ever before. Friday was a perfect day—quite warm, and Saturday promised to be the same. In the middle of the night sometime, I promised myself I’d get an early start in the morning and ride as far as I could. Maybe even down to the shore. This was about 60 miles away.

I arose at 5 a.m. and by 5:20 I was out the door into the cool morning air. It was just light enough to see and be seen but the sun wasn’t up yet.

The birds were warming up their vocal chords for their daily songfest, and it was a bit brisk as one traveled along. I was dressed in a green long-sleeved sweater, assured that later I would have to shed it n the exertion of pedaling.

I knew the route I wanted to take; the only question was if I could take it for the whole day or fade along the way. Route 38, just a mile away, runs east for about 18 miles to Route 72, which goes to points south all the way to the shore—to Ship Bottom if I crossed the bay to the outer island. Would I be able to make it? I had traveled to 72 before but had turned around from the growing exhaustion. It was almost halfway to the seashore. The distance from Merchantville to Ship Bottom is about 56 miles.

I had 10 gears to keep me occupied on the grades and levels of the route. My idea was to stop here and there along the way for some refreshment. About 4 miles along the way, I came upon a Texaco station and had a meager breakfast of a bologna and cheese sandwich and cranberry juice. I was becoming more aware of unused muscles that hadn’t seen much action for quite awhile but the refreshment and short relaxation gave me new strength. I continued on toward Mt. Holly. Traffic was light and I was able to speed along at 10 miles per hour or more.

I became pleasantly aware of the fragrance of the air. The fresh clean smell of grass, of newly plowed fields, was in itself invigorating. On the other side of Mt. Holly the fragrance decayed to the faint odor of a landfill. On my left was a huge mound that spread over half a mile well outside of town. In the middle was a power station that supplies electricity from within the bowels of the thousands of tons of refuse that lies buried. The landfill is closed and sealed.

The road was rather smooth traveling. The shoulder was wide enough to travel without fear of being sideswiped by a passing car. I kept my ears open and the rearview mirror was useful for analyzing the situation behind. One had to be careful.

Although New Jersey is relatively flat, you could easily sense the lay of the land by the upgrades and downgrades. The gentle slope of the route by Mt. Holly attested to the fact that surely Mt. Holly is indeed a mountain. You could tell I was not too used to long rides yet; my second wind hadn’t kicked in yet. But I had 10 gears to choose from, like I said, and I therefore was able to continue the cadence without difficulty.

It must have been at the 12-mile mark when I came to a Cumberland Farms mini-market. I needed more refreshment to sustain myself. But when I got off the bike I really felt the strain of the miles I had already traveled. My legs felt rubbery. Clearly I was not going to be able to accomplish what I thought I might set out to do. Every 100 feet I traveled was another 100 feet I would have to retrace so I became more conscious of how far I was going.

Route 38 ended at a turnoff to points toward the seashore, and Route 72. I had traveled this route before but I didn’t remember how many miles it was to Route 72. However, the route was quite pleasant and I passed a blueberry field with bushes ablaze with blossoms in the morning sunlight. Somewhere to my right a bobwhite called. I imitated it and it answered back. I was fast becoming attuned to nature.

Farther on was a swamp and as I passed by, from somewhere within came the unmistakable resonant sound of bullfrogs. Maybe they were answered the mating call of my bicycle chain softly clicking in the sprockets.

But I was beginning to tire. I had more second thoughts about going too far. I would have to retrace the whole route back so it would not do to travel too far. Then it hit me! Breakfast! I hadn’t had a substantial breakfast! I probably had long ago drained out all the nutrition (if indeed there was any) from the bologna and cheese sandwich I had earlier. I hoped there’d be a place to stop along the way now, but I was getting into no-man’s land. The state forest was all around me—the Pine Barrens, they call it.

But I eventually came upon a restaurant in the middle of the forest. Not having a lock for my bike, I parked it by a window to keep it in view from inside. It was a rather small place, made of logs. It was now about 9 a.m.

Another couple was also entering the restaurant and another couple was contentedly feasting on their breakfast—but not a waitress in sight. It was small dining room with a decided frontier atmosphere. We waited.

A couple of waitresses finally appeared. “My goodness, there are more people here!” Typical of country humor, someone remarked in return, “That’s what happens when you keep the door unlocked.”

They hurriedly distributed the menus and poured the coffee. It’s surprising (maybe not so surprising) how much addiction is prevalent in society. Most people need—no, demand—a cup of coffee to get started in the morning. I declined. I don’t drink coffee and that was the time I didn’t drink caffeinated sodas. The last time I was in the hospital, I went cold turkey off of caffeine. It was a miserable couple of days of withdrawal but I hadn’t drunk any Pepsi or Coke since about seven months before, which is a record. I remember drinking Pepsi years before, sometimes a 6-pack a day.

The menu prices were quite reasonable. I picked the eggs-over-medium with sausage for $3.75 and orange juice and waited. Every once in a while I glanced out the window at my bicycle.

Waiting for the order, I took advantage of the time. I got up to use the restroom and was chagrined to find out I could hardly lift myself off the chair. I wasn’t sore, but almost paralyzed it seemed. Hurry up with that breakfast!

By the time breakfast was over, I was more relaxed. I could feel my legs returning to normal. And it wasn’t long before I was out the door again. But my mind was made up. I would take Route 70 west toward home as soon as I came to the Route 72 circle.

By this time the day was quite warm. The sky was cloudless and flowers were in full bloom here and there. The Pine Barrens was on either side of me, the Red Lion Circle (New Jersey still has circles at many intersections). I was approaching Medford Lakes where my sister lives.

I could not envision finishing the final 15-20 miles of the run so at the Evergreen Dairy Bar just outside Medford I called my sister Jane. She borrowed Dad’s station wagon to pick me up and we went to her place. I had traveled 34 miles. Later Dad took me home to Merchantville. Everything was still intact—I wasn’t the worse for wear.

I felt good after that…more invigorated. I had ridden my bike before in the mornings before going to work and it always set the tone for the day, full of energy, even after a 5- to 10-mile run. I never did ride bike to the shore.

Jonathan

It was around 1989 or 1990 when I attended my niece’s high school graduation in Souderton, PA. And afterwards we had a party at my brother Ron’s house. One of their neighbors was invited over and the party didn’t really liven up until they got there. They brought their son Jonathan, an inquisitive, talkative five-year-old who was smartly dressed up in suit and tie. The first comment he made when he walked in the door was, as he looked around the room, “Mom, thewe awe no othew childwen hewe.”

“No,” his mother replied, “this is a graduation party. Just behave yourself.”

Jonathan did have the run of the house and yard, but his mother kept a constant vigil on his whereabouts. “Jonathan, what are you doing?” … “Jonathan, don’t spill it on your clothes.” … “Jonathan, don’t go beyond the fence.” … “Jonathan, didn’t I tell you not to go beyond the fence?” … “Jonathan, come here. Now look into my eyes and promise you won’t go farther than the fence. It’s dark out there.”

Thanks to Jonathan’s nature, he apparently wasn’t too intimidated by his mother—he obediently complied, and promptly forgot. The exuberance of his own curiosity and outlook on life won out. But his mother began to realize the scenes she was creating for the rest of the group. Even her husband had a look of chagrin on his face. She was becoming the center of attraction although we were sitting out on the patio away from the main group. So she explained it to me.

She married late, is over forty, and Jonathan is her only child. And frankly she wasn’t accustomed to how to raise a child. She felt he was so fragile, and didn’t really know his limits, or what limits to set for him.

I then decided to help her with my own perspective. I told her that I remember when I was six years old, and Ron was five. We climbed 50-foot silos, whether empty or full—in the dark, to catch pigeons. As I described it to her (quite descriptively, I admit) she began to be affected by my story. I could see her getting a little pale as she listened transfixed.

She exclaimed at one point, “Weren’t you afraid of falling?” I told her we were conscious of the danger, but we were careful.

“Did you ever fall?”

“Yes,” I replied, “when I was eight years old I climbed the silo to throw silage down for a herd of 40 cows. In the process of checking how much I had thrown down, I slipped on a rung just as I was starting to climb down and fell hind-end-to all the way to the bottom—about 30 feet I’d say. Fortunately, I wasn’t hurt.”

It was too much for her sensibilities and she bolted to another topic of discussion.

Trip to Columbus

On Monday, February 4, Lucy and I went for a scheduled trip to OSU Medical in Columbus. I was being re-evaluated for a kidney transplant. It was not a pleasant trip.I had some misgivings about the trip, mainly because the 1994 Ford Econoline E-150 van started acting up. It started out by making extraneous noises which I couldn't place. Lucy also heard it and commented on it. I hoped it wasn't the transmission but I don't know enough about cars and trucks to make an educated guess. There was one point where I thought of taking it to Monro to get checked out, but I didn't feel good so I didn't follow through. It would have been better if I had made the effort.

Anyway, going out the door, at 6 a.m. it was risky because I was walking with crutches and there was slick ice everywhere, and dark. I gingerly walked out to the van and backed it around closer to the house so Lucy could get on on her wheelchair. Going out the lane, there was a little noise in the direction of the transmission but it wasn't too pronounced and soon went away as the van warmed up. We took off and headed for Route 30 East and then south on Interstate 71. The Route 71 entrance is only a couple miles from our place. According to Mapquest, our destination was 71 miles away. Our appointment was at 8 a.m. The van was running OK.

We arrived early and waited about 20 minutes for the doors to open. Others had arrived early too, and waited in the lobby. When the doors opened I signed in and waited. When my name was called I gave them needed information and was told to go to Room 135. It would be a full day.

There were a few other kidney recipients and donors, and I had my own donor, who arrived a few minutes after the office was opened. Esther is Lucy's cousin and she offered to donate a kidney after she saw my plea for a kidney donation in a Christmas letter over a year ago. I had been to Columbus in October 2005 for an evaluation and was encouraged to try to get friends or relatives to donate. It's not easy to ask for someone's kidney, but there are kind people around who are willing to go through the process to aid a friend. Otherwise, you can wait several years for one--from someone who passed on.

I started getting severe headaches as the process went on. Chalk it up to tension, or in need of chiropractic treatment, but I did not feel good because of it. I didn't have a chiropractic treatment for several weeks, ever since I broke my leg on December 7. But I slogged through the day and was glad we were finished around 12:30 instead of the 3 p.m. that they forecast.

We went scouting for lunch afterwards. We found ourselves onto Northwest Boulevard and then came to a mall which had a cafeteria. MCL Restaurant which we never saw before but decided to investigate. It was worth it because we had the best food you could eat at a restaurant since it was touted to be homemade. The display was magnificent. We spent more than we intended to but we learned that there are value meals which are less expensive. Most of it was sold ala carte.

I got a little lost on the way of out Columbus but eventually found Route 315 and the Interstate 71 north. It was then that I started feeling the vibrations and the sluggish driving. I thought maybe a tire was low so I stopped at a rest stop and checked. All the tires were OK.

But I was starting to get worried. I don't know that much about vehicles. I have a 69 Datsun years ago and worked on it, but now cars are too complicated and I let the mechanics work them over--at a price.

As we drove north it started to get foggy, and at 2:30 in the afternoon! Unusual. It added to the anxiety I experienced and I prayed to get home safe and sound. I kept it on 60 mph which helped assuage the added noise, but it was slow progress anyway. Every time I was climbing a hill the noise increased somewhere.

Lucy, meanwhile, didn't say anything. She sensed that I was not keen on entertaining a back seat driver this time. I don't know if she was reading or sleeping, or having enough sense to not add to my concern. We finally made it home and was I relieved! No breakdowns; of me or the van.

A couple days later I mentioned it to Jason and he took it for a test drive, and determined that it might be the universal joint. And a couple of days later I drove it to Monro in Mansfield and they also took it for a test drive, and determined that it was the universal joint, which was a relief because I was half afraid it was the transmission.

Another client asked if they had any coupons to deduct from the bill, so when my bill came I asked if they had any coupons or AAA discounts. He deducted 10% off my bill for the AAA discount. It pays to ask.

So all my worry was half needless. I should have taken the opportunity to get it checked out when I thought of it before the trip. It might not have saved me a headache but I would have had a nicer drive. My headache disappeared when I had an overdue chiropractic treatment a couple days later.