Desert dessert...

“Friendship is a single soul

dwelling in two bodies.”

- Aristotle

“The sausage is really good,” Dave said. “They’re kind of like ‘Slim Jims,’ but not as oily.”   It was one of those upside down days that turned completely and memorably upside right.

We had planned this day for several months.  As soon as it was clear Stacey would be coming for the conference, I decided it would be great to go to the desert.  She would be coming from Syracuse, NY – a frightfully cold and snowy place this time of year.  Southern California would be just what the doctor ordered in the middle of a Northeastern winter!  Even better, January is right in the middle of the desert tourist season – moderate temperatures (in the high 60s F – 16+C) and low humidity.

Well, that was before the weather turned cloudy and rainy…who would have guessed!

The West is different…

Having never been near the desert in my life, the idea of cactus, big horn sheep, rabbits and an amazing assortment of other vibrant life forms living in such a harsh environment, has captured my imagination since coming to Southern California.  One can go from the ocean to the desert in just a couple of hours.  For an Eastern fellow, it is almost surrealistic!

Winters in San Diego, at sea level, are pretty moderate.  The days are a bit cooler than summer…the nights can be chilly.  Chilly, for those who experience ‘real winter,’ is a relative statement, with temperatures seldom ever getting below 32 degrees (0C), and even getting into the 40s is not the usual fare. The snow-covered mountains here, of course, are a different story…but that’s at elevation…not sea level of the city, and certainly not the case on the desert floor.

The adventure…

The beginning of the week had been lovely, but as the week began to approach its end, the weather turned cloudy with rain.  We like that when it happens here, because it reminds us a little more of spring or fall in the East.  But when friends are visiting from out town and we have an outdoor day planned, well, it is not quite so good.

Saturday morning I picked up Stacey and Kathy and we headed for Borrego Springs, a couple of hours from the city.  At a different time, the three of us had occasion to be together as part of a professional society.  Those days had formed and cemented our friendship.  It would be good to spend some quality time.

The Anza Borrego Desert sits in a ‘bowl’ surrounded by mountains and is on the southwestern edge of the Colorado and Mojave Deserts.  To get there from the west, one climbs 2400ft (730m) over the Laguna Mountains and drops 2000ft (610m) to the desert floor.  Both entrances to the area are scenic and offer wonderful views of the desert on the way in.

Coming in the Northeastern route offers the best views, and was responsible for our first adventure of the day.  As one climbs in altitude, the surrounding landscape changes dramatically.  It begins with the chaparral  (thorny bushes and scrub brush) of western San Diego County.  Next it looks like the gods took handfuls of very large boulders and densely sprinkled them all over the scenery along the highway.  Finally, the land turns to large grassy fields, scattered with trees, before it begins its descent to the desert.

Dropping in...

From this point forward, the last 6 miles or so are like riding the back of a snake hugging the sides of the mountain as it winds its way back and forth until it reaches the desert floor.  If one is smart, they drive slowly and carefully around one blind turn after another. 

There is a great pullout spot where one can get a breath-taking view of the desert floor, and while it was raining a little, it seemed like it might be a good place to make a quick dash out of the car so the girls could take in the view.  This is where we met Dave, who had been fixing a flat tire on his truck when his car jack had broken. 

What had been intended to be a 30 second, “let’s jump out of the car to take a quick look at the view over the desert floor,” turned into twenty minutes or so helping Dave fix his tire.  We slipped my jack under the front of his truck and were able to get the new tire on.  It turns out Dave was a salesman for the owner of a meat processing company, and as a reward, gave us the sausage.

On our way once again, we headed for the Desert Visitor’s Center.  It is a lovely facility buried in the side of a hill, so that when one parks their car, all that can be seen is desert landscape.  Walking around to the front reveals the entrance to a modern and well-kept structure manned by park guides.

An Oasis in the rain – hmm…

After a brief visit it was off to the trailhead and a three-mile round trip hike up the Palm Canyon trail.  The reward is an oasis surrounded by a clustered grouping of 20 or so palms trees.  I have made this hike several times, but never in the drizzle of rain.  In the dry heat of the summer, everything in the surrounding canyon is in earth tones of browns and rust colors.  

Under these conditions, the water stained earth and surrounding canyon walls took on a much darker and shiny hue.  Because of the rain, cloud cover blanketed parts of the low peaks giving the valley, in places, it gives one the feeling of otherworldliness. 

We had been told a small herd of big horn sheep had been spotted the day before in the canyon, so we were in hopes we might come across them.  Sadly, we didn’t see them, but had a wonderful time during the hike, returning to the car a little damp, but refreshed and appreciative of the opportunity to make this hike.

We left the desert on a more southern route and as before, climbed out of the desert floor on serpentine roads, this time to Julian, California at 4,200ft (1.2km) where the temperature was 20 degrees (6.6C) colder than in Borrego Springs.  Julian is a small tourist ‘period town,’ meaning during the season, people of the community dress in period costumes from the 1800s.  Other than this, Julian is best known all over California for its apple pies.  Our reward for the drive into the desert, the hike and drive out to Julian on what had become a chilly day? Lunch!...consisting of hot drinks, hot soup, sandwich and a piece of warm apple rhubarb pie.  The early morning and afternoon could not have ended better as far as I was concerned!

The drive home had three contented friends with a little California desert under our belts, a great lunch and the satisfaction of having found some all too infrequent, but precious time together.

Later that evening at dinner the three of us regaled Molly and Ann C., with the intimate details of having shared the day.

The drive, the flat tire, the hike, the hot lunch…those will be the stories we will all tell.  What we will hold in our hearts, however, will be the enjoyment the three of us had spending time together in the comfort of well worn friendships…reminding ourselves once again how meaningful our lives had been to one another.

Oh yeah, I opened that sausage up when I got home…It was really good!!

- ted

"Knock on that door..."

“The mysteries of the universe are

revealed in the unexpected

experiences of life…”

- anonymous

It was cold and the stranger had been walking most of the day.  As the winter chill set in, he found himself in a small town.  He had been in trouble with the law, which in that time required him to register with the local authorities so they would know he was in their midst.

At first he went to a local hotel, but the police had already warned the community of his presence.  The innkeeper, fearful of this fellow, denied him a room, in spite of money offered for a night’s shelter from the elements.  Next he tried a small tavern where he was able to warm himself a little.  He asked for place to stay the night and he was refused once again.  He even tried the local jail, to which the keeper said, “Get yourself arrested, and you’ll be admitted.”

Finally, he found a sheltered place where he lay down on a small bed of straw, only to find it was a doghouse.  When the animal returned, he bit the man and chased him away.  By now he was desperate, exhausted, and as often happens when one realizes there is no escape, resigned himself to fate. 

With nowhere to go and no place to stay, he lay down on a small stone bench, pulled what clothing he had around him, tucked into a fetal position, and hoped to survive its ‘heat draining’ cold and dropping temperature of the winter’s night.

Just then a woman passed by…a brave woman, of little doubt, because she had the courage to speak to the stranger – asking why he was lying on this bench in this weather and not in the local hotel.  He replied that, in spite of having money, he had been turned out everywhere, and with a distant gaze and wry look of irony, that sometimes crosses the countenance of the lost, related even dogs would not receive him.

With a sense of resignation and with what little hope remained, he said: “I have knocked at all doors…I have been driven away everywhere.” 

The woman with a sense of compassion, fearlessness and gentle inquisition that can come only from the heart of God said, “You have knocked on all doors?”

“Yes,” he replied.

She looked across the way and to be certain, said, “Have you knocked at that one?”

He glanced in the direction of her gaze, and replied “No”

Her final words…“knock there.”  And she was gone.

The man walked tentatively to the door, uncertain what to expect. He paused, possibly wondering whether he could take one more rejection...took a breath, seeming to find a place of resolve…and knocked.

Little is as it seems…

An old Bishop opened the door and invited the man in.  As he crossed the threshold and passed through the portal, the place was modest and practically bare.  What could he expect here?  To avoid misunderstanding he immediately confessed he was an ex-convict, and waited to be asked to leave. 

But no…He was greeted with warmth and affection…treated as a guest, not a criminal.  He was taken in and welcomed by this old man as though he were part of the family.  For indeed he was part of the family of humanity…he was part of the intricate fabric wrought by the unseen hand of the Almighty God.

What he did not know, nor could perceive at that moment, he had crossed another threshold; passed through a different and unseen portal into a different home…into a different world really…a world of redemption; a world of salvation; a world of hope and acceptance. 

Whilst at the moment he had no idea, he had just had a “…road to Damascus…” experience that changed the apostle Paul from an uncompromising Pharisee, into a “…new creature…” in the body of Christ.  

Jean Valjean would never be the same, for at the table and in the home of Bishop Myriel, he found something he had never known…hope for a better day.

While Les Miserables, and the story of Jean Valjean soars through Hugo’s gift of majestic story telling, it carries in its pages insights of all of our lives.  His characters not only reflect parts of all of us…the small subtexts reflect our experiences.

Unguarded moments…

Our lives are and have been filled with small events, words from another, flashes of momentary curiosity that when followed – and of a certainty they have been followed – led us to knock on an unknown door. The result may not have been a pathway to redemption, but passing through the portal of what was presented behind that door changed everything.

What if we had not visited that place…taken that flight…sat beside that person…had that conversation…returned that smile.  There are a thousand small things in the calculus of our lives, so complicated we could not have planned for nor predicted the result, had we been given all the time and resources of the universe.  And yet here we are…wherever ‘we are’ is, because we invoked the simple instruction – knowingly or not – by that carpenter from the village of Nazareth.

“Ask, and it shall be given you;”

Seek, and ye shall find;

Knock, and the door shall be opened unto you” 

(Matthew 7:7 – Bible)

It is the way the universe of life works...curiosity followed by action.  All of us, like Valjean are driven by circumstance and drawn by the question of what is next; what is it we don’t know.  It is, in all of this as it was for Jean Valjean, the way our lives unfold…it is as we look back, the very way we have found ourselves where we are today.

The great truth is that action is required for anything to happen…the ask…the seek…the knock…all of it key to survival and the road to our salvation….

- ted

A snapshot in time...

“Death belongs to God alone.

By what right do men touch

that unknown thing?”

Victor Hugo – Les Miserables

It was Friday, May 8; the week almost over. 

Not that it mattered – in that setting one day was pretty much like any other…unpredictable and potentially dangerous. 

What really mattered was half the year was nearly gone, and I could soon say, with hopeful optimism, that I was ‘short’…crossing the crest of the hill…the ‘gravity of time and heart’ bringing me from the backside of Southeast Asia and slingshoting me toward the familiar constellation of my home planet where the consistent orbit of loved ones awaited. Six months to go…a meaningful marker.

‘Short’ is a military expression meaning one is approaching the end of their tour in theatre of conflict (read GOING HOME!!).  Six months is NOT really short, unless you are a ‘…glass half full…’ kind of person – which little doubt I was then and am now.  In those days, unlike in today’s military, unless one volunteered for a second tour in the war, it was “…one and done…”

It was Friday, May 8; the week almost over. 

It wasn’t like you took the weekend off to recharge for the next five (5) day cycle…it wasn’t like you slept a little longer on Saturday morning…it wasn’t like Sunday, church, lunch and a ball game of some sort.  Friday there?  It was the day before Saturday…the day before Sunday…the day before…

The mail didn’t come every day, but most Fridays it did…a day to look forward to.  Mail call…one of the little things that made Vietnam tolerable, even for those of us who were fortunate to have an assignment not requiring a daily dose of ‘jungle risk’ – those ‘dark days’ when even the brightest sun did not ease the sense of blackness and death.  Even so, then as now…American military in a foreign and hostile environment, safety…a relative term.

As usual, there were newspapers with the mail.  They came two to three days late because they were shipped half way around the world – no instant access via email or the web…no telephone with which to call home. I have never really paid much attention to the papers other than the headlines and story titles.  Occasionally I read the stories, but usually not.  This day was different…this day was bone chillingly different…

Ah, Muskoka – truly God’s country

It had been a great 30-day ‘leave’ before shipping out to the war.  It was August, and while I wouldn’t head to that tiny country in Southeast Asia for another 60 days or so, our family did what we always had done in that special month of the year…we were together. 

In Muskoka on our yearly pilgrimage, we swam, fished, hiked, canoed, sandwiched between morning breakfasts and dinner where we recounted the day. It was a place where we brought our friends…a place where we read the scripture…a place where we, in our innocence touched the face of God every day…every moment…with every breath on those chilly mornings and warm August days in the isolated tree filled region of Central Ontario.  When things seem routine in youth, it takes the tincture of time to sometimes appreciate that what seemed so normal is actually extremely special…meaningful…life affirming…protective. 

Like the warmth of the womb – the only environment the growing baby knows – this was NOT the norm of life.  It would take time to appreciate what wonder the Almighty God had wrought in bringing us to this place with a yearly regularity as certain as the rhythmic beating of our hearts.  That was Muskoka for us…no that is not exactly correct, for while we wouldn’t fully appreciate it until later years…Muskoka was as much a part of us as the fingers on our hands, the toes on our feet – not always noticed, but ALWAYS in the background of our lives.  For our family, it simply ‘was’…..

This time it was different…

Unlike other years, however, as the month passed, we all became a little tenser rather than relaxed and refreshed.  At first we didn’t talk about it, but as the time moved forward, we all knew it might be the last time we would be together as a family.  We all knew as surely as Odysseus found himself at risk by the call of the sirens, our lives might forever change.  We all hoped, that as he…my ears would be plugged with wax…my body tied to the mast of the ship…I would escape the dangers of the swirling waters of that tiny country across the sea.  We all hoped, unlike the myth of the Odyssey, God would keep his hand on my life and in the words of Jean Valjean, “…bring him home…”

As the month ended we were all a bit awkward with one another…our love not so, but ‘the’ conversation of the future in this year different than that of others.  We made ourselves busy.  Nancy was returning to school and me to my ‘pre-shipping out’ assignment.  We decided to drive back to the States together.  It was a wonderful trip.  We stopped for lunch at Niagara Falls, then drove the rest of the way to Ohio.  It is hard to express how meaningful the time with her was.  We began the trip as brother and sister; we ended the trip deep and rich friends.  It was one of those seminal moments.  We talked about everything…everything, with the open frankness and safety that comes only from a place of total trust and love.  I was afraid of what was coming.  I had done (I thought) well in hiding it with the family – not so with her.

And so it was she returned to school, and within two months, I descended the stairs of a plane into the humid…dark of night…dankly oppressive air of Ton Son Nhat airbase in the Republic of South Vietnam.  A couple of hundred of us in clean jungle fatigues were met by a similar number of young men in not so clean jungle fatigues, waiting to get on that plane, escaping the land if not the trauma, of their time “…in country…”  There wasn’t one of us arriving that did not envy those boys waiting to get on that plane!

The mail…

It was Friday, May 8; the week almost over. 

The mists of time have taken what I might have gotten in the mail that day, but not the headlines in the paper dated Tuesday, May 5, 1970:  “Four Dead in Kent State shooting!”  While not much else is clear about that day – this is.  I was in the middle of a year as part of a war waged in South Vietnam, and at least this day, I was safe.  My sister, seven or eight months earlier, following our drive home, had returned to college: It was Kent State!

It was one of those moments of surreal cognitive dissonance that happens when one comes upon, or is thrust into a situation that is both foreign and familiar at the same moment.  Like maybe running into an old high school classmate in some far flung part of the country or world.  You know where you are, but ‘they’ don’t belong in that mental space…it takes a bit of time to recalibrate.

There had been protests against the war at the university.  They had begun several days earlier with student war protesters and rabble-rousers vandalizing and confronting the police with an ever-escalating hostility.  On the third day, the governor brought in the National Guard to help stabilize and protect the campus.  What caused the young men in the Guard to open fire is unclear, but dozens of live rounds in a brief few seconds flew out if the barrels of their weapons, leavin a few students wounded and four dead…four dead!  Was one of them Nancy?

In those days there was no way to find out what had happened or to whom.  The only option to write home to find out, and so I did.  It was a brief letter to my parents urgently asking about Nancy’s safety.  While all of this was tragic, my only concern was her.  The mail?  Generally three days out, another three days back.

It was Friday, May 15; the week was almost over.

That day, I got two letters from home.  One from my parents indicating Nancy had NOT been part of the protest and was, as she had relayed to them, safe.  I also got a brief, but ‘…breath relieving…’ letter from her saying she had watched the situation unfold, that the shootings had been completely unexpected.  While there had been violent protests all around the country…most damage being done by the protestors…opening fire on unarmed students was unprecedented.  I couldn’t see her or talk to her, but knowing she was safe meant everything.

The trip home…

Many times over the years, I have reflected on events with Nance.  There is little doubt, the memory of the headlines and subsequent fear for her safety in the Kent State affair, are burned deeply into the neurochemistry of my mind. 

What I remember the most, however, was the trip home from the cottage…what I remember most is the ‘next level’ our relationship had elevated to…what I remember most is how deeply we loved each other in subsequent years.  Life’s events taught us how fragile life is…how easy it is for what we think to have permanence, falls into the turbulent currents of time and unexpected circumstance…slipping away.  I think those years taught us both how precious we were to each other.

She is gone now…rather should I say…she is no longer ‘in country,’ and yet for me, and I suppose for you, circumstances in life, whatever they may be provide a richer tapestry when cradled in the care of those for whom we have loved, and by those who in return loved us.

- ted

Now he's a critic...

“He respected learned men greatly;

he respected the ignorant still more…”

- of Bishop Myriel

Victor Hugo: Les Miserables

“We can either take the Ferry to the Islands or go to the theatre” I said to him.

We had the evening open and I was responding to his question, “What should we do this evening?  It’s your home town.”  He thought a moment and said, “Let’s do the theatre.”

“It might be sold out because the show is tonight,” he continued, “but do your best.”

I left the hotel and headed for King Street between John and Simcoe to the Royal Alexandra Theatre to see if I could get tickets for the performance.  It was the summer of 1992 and we had come to Toronto to speak for the ‘Combined Meeting of the Orthopaedic Associations of the English Speaking World.’  I know, you would think they could have lengthened the name of the conference just a little!

In those days, I was the research director for a large orthopedic group in Columbia, Missouri.  My mentor, Dr. R had submitted a paper that had been accepted for presentation.  At the same meeting, he had been asked to supervise a surgery workshop that he also accepted.  Unfortunately they were at the same time!  Hence, my presence…I presented the paper (which I had written) and he did the workshop.

The venue…

The ‘Royal Alex’ was built around the turn of the 20^th Century.  It had a good run for several decades, but with the advent of movies during the years of the Second World War, reduced interest in live theatre, and a declining neighborhood…the Old Girl went into decline…eventually sold in the early 1960s. 

Oddly enough, it was purchased by an immigrant ‘discount store’ owner much to the chagrin of Toronto society.  Would this man tear it down and put in another discount store?

Before it was over Ed Mirvish, purveyor of Honest Ed’s Discount Emporium would bring back a thriving theatre community to the city.  In addition he would build another theatre on the same city block (Princess of Wales); purchase and restore London’s historic Old Vic Theatre.  This pariah in the eye of the public would become the darling of Canadian Theatre in his time and his family to this day – so much for public opinion!!

Opportunity missed…

It was one of the older books on my father’s bookshelf.  It was of 5x7 inches (12.7x17.7cm) in dimension, 2.5 inches (6.35cm) thick and 749 pages in length.  It was one his favorites, but by the time I realized its existence, it was well worn with a binding that had separated from the pages – not the kind of book a ‘busy’ teenage boy would be interested in or careful with.  Not a collector’s item, this early 1900s copy of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables had an intimidating look.

While he suggested with enthusiasm I read the book, it wouldn’t be this copy…it was too fragile.  I made note…the kind of attention a son pays to a father’s suggestion – you know, the ‘I’ll take it under advisement’ nod – and moved on with my life.  I would, however, recollect how frequently he referred to life and Christian redemption lessons he attributed to Hugo’s work.

Back to the Royal Alex…

In the end, I would remember the seats (Right side of the house H 4,5) and the woman who sat on my left (H6).  Well, I wouldn’t remember her name, but surely the experience.  Since I had NOT read the book, I did not have any idea about the story line…it would be brand new. 

The lights dimmed, the audience hushed, the orchestra began, and in an instant I was captured, mesmerized and yes overwhelmed as the story unfolded. In fact, and the reason I remember the woman on my left, is that we both openly wept at death of Fantine.  By the time the first act closed with ‘One Day More,’ I felt drained. The music of Schönerg, the Boubil lyrics brought to English by Herbert Kretzmer…all of it simply had drained me like a washcloth wrung out in the firm, well worn hands of a French farmer’s wife.  I didn’t know what was coming in the second act, but I was certain it could not be as totally absorbing as the first…I was wrong!

At intermission, it was clear my mentor had been moved, but it was also clear not as much as I, nor the woman to my left.  He and I retired to the basement bar for refreshment and I slipped into the men’s room to stuff my pockets with toilet paper in anticipation of the unknown second act…Eponine and Gavroche shot, Marius at death’s door, Valjean singing ‘Bring him home’ – wave after wave, unrelenting, deeply touching…the ‘paper’ an excellent move!  The voices…all the voices – principles and others, were astounding.  Where would one find such an array of talent?  I am not sure I could have taken any more. 

Great matters…

Injustice…judgment…Justice regained…courage…virtue, unrequited and freely given love…redemption – all of it set to towering music and richly moving lyric.  The first few lines of “Do you hear the People Sing” reflect this.

In the first act injustice drives these words:

“Do you hear the people sing?
Singing a song of angry men?
It is the music of a people
Who will not be slaves again!”

In the reprise it is redemption:

“Do you hear the people sing?
Lost in the valley of the night
It is the music of a people who are climbing to the light
For the wretched of the earth
There is a flame that never dies
Even the darkest nights will end and the sun will rise…”

One a cry of anger – the other a cry for and recognition of hope.

Over – not done…

As the curtain came down, I turned to the woman beside me and smiling said, “It was simply wonderful sobbing with you this evening.”  Through equally swollen eyes, she returned the smile and quietly said, “For me too.” 

Since that chance evening in Toronto with Dr. R, I have seen the production five times in different cities in different countries on different stages.  The huge themes of the story and production have never failed to reach into my breast and touch in my heart.  In later years, I thanked him for kindling what has become a lifelong love of musical theater…for surely he did.

A movie??

For many years I also wondered if this story would ever be turned into a film…rather a musical film.  I learned by happy coincidence, in the summer, it had and would be released for the Christmas holiday.  I was excited!  It is not hard to imagine how our family spent part of Christmas day.

I suppose anytime one has developed a familiarity with a story, or for that matter a thing repeatedly engaged, change can prove a little disconcerting.  If one has listened to a particular cast recording with great regularity, a different cast provides subtle, but noticeable variances.  I have listened to this music untold numbers of times and have images and sounds in my mind to which I have become accustomed. 

And so it was, the film was NOT the stage production.  The voices were not all the caliber to which I had become accustomed from the stage and recordings. And yet…and yet the intimacy of the film, the attention to historical detail…all brought a gritty intimacy I had not before experienced.

There is little doubt the musical productions all…all have deeply touched me, but the granularity and starkness of the film provided the richest texture, touch and tone the stage simply could not bring.

My own confession…

In all these years, I am a bit embarrassed to say, I had never read Les Miserables.  I had depended on the broadest of brush strokes provided by live theater, and now the palate knife of sharper edges from the film.  I was compelled, decades later to act on my “I’ll take it under advisement,” and read the story.

I am now well into Hugo’s book, and am overwhelmed to an almost unspeakable degree with his ability to reach from 1862 into my brain…through the neurons and circulation of my bodily workings…and deeply into the 2013 rhythmically beating chambers of my heart. 

He writes his now familiar characters and storyline with genius and delicacy.  He pens the blackest of hearts that make one shudder with discomfort…the nauseating unrelenting gravity of injustice upon injustice…the purest of souls that make one soar with aspiration…the fall and resurrection of broken lives that make one want to make a difference…to be a better man (woman)…to find one’s place in the human condition. Indeed, he reveals the ‘little of ourselves’ found in all of his characters.  It is one of the most revealing and thoughtful books I have ever read.

Toronto to San Diego – not so far…

Dr. R and I could just as easily have taken the ferry to the Toronto Islands that summer’s night in 1992, but we didn’t…we didn’t and result of that evening’s experience has rippled through and influenced much of my life. 

The ferry ride would have been a pleasant, but soon forgotten, way to spend a summer’s evening.  Les Miserables was also a lovely way to spend a summer’s evening…soon forgotten?  Are you kidding??

From the water, we would have had delightful glances of the Toronto Skyline illuminating the evening sky.  Les miserable, on the other hand, has richly illuminated decades of my life.

So as I look to the horizon of the coming year, I find myself with optimism humming...

“…One Day More…”

- ted