owp05

Strong Arms

Strong Arms

I am five in this first memory, sitting on my father’s shoulders, short brown legs dangling joyfully. As we approach the eating hall, I jump down and run to the line of children standing in front of an elderly man.

He smiles as each child proudly steps up and makes a fist, flexing his or her arm. “Very good,” he says, gently patting a budding round muscle. Then the next child steps up, awaiting the similar affirmation. When it is my turn, I squeeze as hard as I can and glory in the ritual.

Peaches by Marty Smith

                                                  Peaches

Nestled in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley in California, is a series of small farming towns that produce much of the fruit and vegetables sold throughout the United States, and parts of the world at large. Gustine, Newman, Patterson, and Los Banos are but a few of the seasonal stops made by those who follow the harvest circuit. Like my older brother and sisters before me, it was here that I spent my childhood summers, hanging out in peach and apricot orchards.
Perched high above the tree tops, I had the good fortune of being able to take in the world from atop a ten foot ladder. To the distant west was the coastal range, and to the east, the Sierra Madres. The rest of the landscape was a series of rolling hills covered in a patchwork quilt of agricultural farms varying in size from a small ten acre plot here, to a few thousand acre spread there. It was a view I never tired of seeing.
The air at the top of the ladder was always an infusion of rich, fertile soil, chemicals, rotting fruit, and diesel fumes emitted from the various tractors and other heavy equipment that dotted the country side. The chemicals lingering in the air (and undoubtedly in my lungs) would be the same chemicals whose usage was challenged during this time by Cesar Chavez and his supporters. I am not sure they won this battle, but even if they did, I am certain for many, it was too late.
I have many wonderful memories of the years I spent lugging buckets full of peaches to an awaiting bin, which once full, earned me nine dollars. For instance, I loved the challenge of stretching my arms out full length from the top of the ladder to retrieve the two remaining peaches on a nearby limb. It was a challenge in part, because I also had to keep from dropping any of the fruit that was now piled dangerously high above the rim of my bucket that I wore harnessed to my body. It was a balancing act that required a lot of physical strength as you had to wrap one foot a round a rung in the ladder to hold on, while you stretched out to reach the prized peaches. No one wanted to make another trip up the ladder for only a few pieces of remaining fruit. Of course, this was part of the challenge as well. You became adept at “setting” a ladder to allow maximum access to the surrounding fruit in that set. Although you might make several trips up the ladder, ideally, one could harvest all the fruit from any given tree in only four ladder moves. I was good at this, if I must say so myself. I guess in part because by the time I reached adolescence and was working to make my own money, I was anxious to complete my on-average quota of four bins a day, and didn’t like wasting time nor energy on ill-placed ladder moves.
I think one of my favorite memories of working in peach orchards had to do with the sounds. Two sounds that I enjoyed in particular were ones that greeted me at the start of each work day. My dad drove an old ‘58 Dodge pickup truck with a camper on back. After rising every morning at four o’clock in order to eat breakfast and be in the field by five, I crawled into the back of the camper for the drive to the field (along with the buckets, ladders, and the big, green, metal water cooler). There, I slept on a pallet of old blankets and pillows. Apparently the issue of travel safety was not a concern at that time. I could have at least been given a helmet in the event one of the ladders were to land on my head, but guess that just wasn’t a concern for my parents. I did survive those years unscathed, so I suppose it wasn’t all that bad. I must admit I don’t remember even once being concerned about a head injury.
The rocking back and forth of the truck as my dad drove over the tractor ruts and dirt clods, signaled that we had arrived and the time for sleeping was over. At first, after hearing my dad turn off the truck motor, there would be only silence. But then I would listen for the familiar sounds of the work day... and then I would hear them. First, the faint and distant drumming sound of fruit hitting an empty bucket in the still of the unfolding dawn, and then the eventual sounds of Mexican voices calling out greetings to each other from neighboring rows. The sound of friendships forged over years of long hours toiling in backbreaking work, under the merciless sun of the San Joaquin Valley during the long summer months. Men, women, and children who returned year after year to work for my father, who with a sixth grade education would have struggled to locate their home states of Durango or Oxaca on a map of Mexico, but as a field foreman with thirty years experience, recognized without fail their strong, unwavering work ethic. These families were always the first to arrive and the last to leave the field each day. Next to my father and brother, they were the hardest working people I’ve ever known. It was this that earned them my father’s respect and the assurance of the best, fruit-laddened sets for each work day. The ones that would bring the most money for their families on payday.
My memories of the peach orchards of my youth are extensive. From the chaise lounges constructed from down-turned peach lugs (small, wooden boxes used for hauling fruit) leaning against a tree to support a short midday nap, to the plastic grading rings my father carried in his pocket to monitor the size of the fruit being harvested. Making fashion statements even as a child, I managed to secure these rings in all colors, and wore them as my first-ever bangle bracelets. A personal favorite accessory that continues to be true for me today.
I don’t miss the long hours, sweltering heat, nor the combined feeling of peach fuzz, field dust, and sweat that would line the inside of your shirt collar by midmorning each day. However, I will forever be grateful for the memories and lessons learned from a hard day’s work in the peach orchards of the San Joaquin.

   

"Chicago - My Kind of Town"

Sylvia Plath, one of my hero-worship-of-all-time writers told her friend and literary agent, "My new book is a pot boiler!"  One has to admire that kind of angst!" This book was her critically acclaimed novel, "The Bell Jar" which she developed a protagonist, Esther Greenwood as her alter ego. Esther was  a recent college graduate from an- all girls Ivy League college who is about to embark on an assistantship as an editorial "gopher" for a third level editor at a fancy New York city magazine.  The title refers to a glass jar that because of its twists in its design within its glass pattern, the perceptions of what people see can be false, or perhaps be the antithesis of its reality. In other words, what we see is not necessarily what we get.

She had lots of demons residing in her talented, yet tortured soul. However, I see so many of herreflections in my writer's soul as well. She left us with many soul-searching writings both in a novel as well as in verse. I only hope that I, in my writings, may do the same .

Her experiences in writing and living in a big urban city like New York made her remark:

                  "I went to public schools, genuinely public...everyone went."

That was me born and raised in Chicago. I, the only child of a an overbearing Jewish Mom and a quiet unassuming Scandinavian Dad spirited away many fond memories of growing up in "Chi".

My school life consisted of attending only two buildings from the ages of five to twelve years of age. Chicago had schools dotted throughout twenty square miles of various neighborhoods that would then known as" your neighborhood school " where everyone walked to school together. I do not think there were any car pools back then, and if anyone was driven to school by a Mom or Dad, it was because something bad happened and therefore,  Dad or Mom were called to see the principal.

I remember my mom hanging out of our four story apartment building, (from the fourth floor) hanging, it seemed, by her ankles, screaming at me to, "Do not forget to eat your tunafish sandwich; it will spoil if you don't eat it all!"  I should have been embarassed by that, one would think, but all the tough city moms screamed out of the windows either to call us in for dinner, or to call us in for God knows what? It is amazing when I think of it today, that there were not any casualties from their acrobatics from the window sills!

One of our neihgbors, believe it or not, was my dad's good friend, who also happened to become one of the world's famous athletes.  He rented an apartment from my dad, and he attended family meals whenever my mom made brisket or pot roast. I remember him talking in a very low voice and winking at me from time to time. He was handsome with cafe au lait colored skin and deep brown eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He was known to my family as Cassius Clay...also later known as Muhammed Ali!  The great thing about my Chicago neighborhood  was that it was typical to have all sorts of people who looked different from each other at any one given occasion. There was a melting pot of blacks, (African-Americans), whites, (Caucasians), Asian, Christain, Jewish, Muslim, whatever, and no one made a big deal of our differences; we just lived all together.

I enjoyed going to Temple on Friday nights, then ate Shabbat dinner, and on Sundays attended the community church where my dad sang in the Men's Choir, and I sang in the Youth Choir.

I do not remember any of us spending much time watching television. Immediately after we walked home from school, we dove into the refrigerators and grabbed our snacks, and ran back outside to play. Our games consisted of jumping "double-dutch" which was simply two ropes turning and twisting together as we somehow miraculously jumped in the small center of the two ropes! How I did that I could never repeat today!  We all had metal skates that you had to have a key to tighten to fit the size of your feet. I hung my key around my neck on a piece of jump rope. Bike riding was a must on my block. Because I was so small, my mom insisted that I keep my training wheels on my bike!  I was so embarassed.  However, one of my friends gave me a "leg-up" to let me ride her bike; I was so excited. The ride began well, yet ended up painful. The bike twisted out of my control, and I went falling and scraping my legs and arms so badly that any merchurachrome ( the save-all med of choice back then) made me look like a tiger with stripes for at least one full week. However, I prevailed and I got my mom convinced to allow Dad to take off those baby training wheels.

Ms. Roach...how can I describe the person who was the reason that I became a teacher? Physically, she was stoical.  She was tall, at least five feet ten inches, and in those days, that was tall for anyone.  She wore beautiful tweed suits and had her champagne hair twisted in a chignon.  She wore real silk stockings with open-toed high heels. No other teacher ever wore clothes like that in our public school buildings!  She was, in fact, from Great Britain, and her voice demonstrated that lilting British accent. Back in those days, teachers sat us in alphabetical order, so because my last name was Anderson, I seemed to always land in the first seat, first row.  Now Ms. Roach always called me, "Bonnie"!  Even though I tried to correct her and told her that my name is Deborah, she did not care. She remarked that I looked like a Bonnie!

Believe it or not, years later, my husband and I were walking with our new baby son in his pram down the street on Lake Shore Drive.  I saw Ms. Roach from at least a block and a half down from where we were walking. I thought to myself, could that be her? I was correct.  All of us eventually met on that street twenty-seven years ago, and I said, "Ms Roach. Do you remember me?"
She quipped, "Why, yes. You are Bonnie!"  I hugged her and told her that I too was a teacher just because of her positive influence that she had on me nineteen years ago.  I thought I saw what looked like a tear hug the corner of her eyelid, and all I knew from that moment on was that it was destiny for us to meet like that, and she realized how much she meant to me.

1st paper -- Camping

Karen Lawrence

     In its glory days, it had been a training site for the rough, tough, U.S. Marine Corps.  U.S. Marines are by no means sissies and they don’t do frills.  So, even at its peak this place had none of the amenities such as flush toilets, paved roads, or drinking fountains.
  No.  This was not the place a sane person would go to recoup and relax.  But no one had ever called or thought of my father as sane. And so, the summer I was eleven, I found myself, with my family, on my way to the camping trip of a lifetime at, get this, Camp Cloudburst.
  Camp Cloudburst was located high in the California Sierra Mountains near the Nevada state line.  The air was so thin at this high altitude that when we unpacked a bag of marshmallows they filled the entire now-poofy package-- not unlike those infomercials for vacuum food storage systems.  Apparently, sufficient air was another “frill” the Marines had done without. 
    The place had running water—a stream.  There were pit toilets.  And, yes, there were also clouds that burst.  This was where my father had chosen to spend an entire week.
  The second day there, after we had dried everything out from the previous day’s “burst”, my father decided to take us kids fishing.  “Us kids” consisted of my sister, thirteen, my brother, seven, and me, still eleven. 
    We walked along the dirt road for about a half-mile.  My father carried the tackle box, my brother and sister each carried the poles, and I carried the jar of bait.  Salmon eggs. We turned left and began down a hill.  The word “hill”, in this instance, could be replaced by “sheer cliff”.  We moved as slowly and as carefully as possible.  My father would make his way down four or five feet and set himself.  We kids, in turn, would hurl ourselves towards him full of confidence that we would indeed be caught.  My father would then make sure we were secure where we were and repeat the whole process. 
    After a few repetitions, my father decided it would be easier if he handled all of the gear.  So he collected the poles from my brother and sister and asked for the bait from me.  I quite willingly obliged.  But I was on such a steep slope and my father was several feet downhill.  When I threw the salmon eggs to my father, I threw them level to me.  That made them way over my father’s head, and up stretched arms.  The jar of eggs rolled past the huge boulders my father had set himself against and on down, presumably, to the bottom of the “hill”.   
    My father did what any other father of the times would have done.  He left his children, his own flesh and blood, clinging to the side of the “hill” and went after the bait.  My brother and sister had made it a bit farther down than me.  They waited for my father to return in the shade of one the aforementioned boulders.  I, however, sat frozen with fear on the only level spot within my reach—an anthill.  Complete with ants.  In the sun.  There I sat for what seemed like hours, ants crawling all over me and biting me, twenty feet from the top and God only knows how many feet from the bottom. 
    My father eventually returned, without the eggs, to rescue us.  I don’t remember how he got us off the side of the “hill” or the walk back to camp.  I only remember falling asleep in the only place I felt safe—the car.  There I stayed for the rest of the day.

My Path to Teaching

I graduated from the U of O in 1990 with a degree in history, but a job in Outdoor Retail.  I spent the next ten years working for a company that sold backpacks, tents, climbing gear and other equipment. I didn’t make much money, but I controlled over one million dollars in spending annually. It was fantastic. Companies were throwing free equipment at me.  I was an “opinion leader”, so marketing departments would give me whatever shiny new object they were trying to sell.  This is called “seeding the market”.  People would see me sporting the latest gadget such as the Suunto Wrist-top Computer/Altimeter, or the newest jacket from Patagonia or The North Face and just have to have one themselves.
I would meet with climbers that were just back from first ascents in the Himalaya and other more obscure ranges.  Companies would sponsor their expeditions, and the climber would travel the country giving slide shows and plugging the company in return.  One of my jobs was to make all the local arrangements for their shows.  An added perk was that I was treated to drinks and dinner with the person after the show.  I was even invited to join an expedition to the Karakorum.
While that was fun, leading outdoor classes was even better.  I led groups of college students in rock climbing, mountaineering, snow camping, and other classes as a volunteer.  That was when I felt most alive, most connected to others. These outings pushed people beyond their comfort zones and exposed their weaknesses. As an instructor I had to help solve people’s problems, even when they didn’t tell me they had any. Sometimes it was as simple as adjusting backpack straps to relieve discomfort, or putting mole foam on feet to fix a blister.  Other times it might be giving some warm food to prevent bonking: a hypoglycemic collapse where the cells have used up their glycogen stores and the blood sugar plummets causing shaking muscles, shivering, nausea, headache, and extreme fatigue.
People listened to me because I had information that improved their lives immediately. If a student’s feet lost feeling during a snow course I had to warm them on my bare belly. If the feet weren’t warmed the person could experience tissue damage and lose toes.  Climbers who tied into my rope were literally putting their lives in my hands. Nothing compared to the intensity of working with students in the outdoors.  I knew that I needed to find a way to quit my job and teach classes full-time.   The obvious answer would have been to work for the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS). They had classes all over the world. It was my dream job. 
Then I met Sam.  Sam was a NOLS instructor whom I met on a climbing trip to Joshua Tree National Monument. Sam would lead climbing classes for six weeks at a time in Joshua Tree.  Between classes he would travel and climb at locations such as Owens River Gorge, Smith Rock, Yosemite, or City of Rocks. Sam got to live in the outdoors full-time.  I was shocked when I learned that Sam envied me.  Sam lived in his truck.  He couldn’t do the things I took for granted.  He couldn’t stay in regular contact with friends because he had no phone or address. Sam envied my ability to have a pet, to plant a garden, or have a home.   He had no corner of the world that was his.  Most importantly, he had no romantic relationship.  His transient existence made it impossible. I wanted to capture the intensity of the connection to others that I had in the field and live that way all the time.  Through Sam I saw that it was an illusion.  The reality was that Sam was poor, homeless and alone.
I realized my dream job had heavy price and I wasn’t willing to pay it. Then on a starry night in the Utah desert, I had an epiphany; it was the teaching that mattered, not the activity. What really satisfied me was that  “seeing the lights go on” moment. Everything I did, whether it was selling $700 sleeping bag, training a new employee, or teaching an outdoor class, was teaching.  I came home from my trip and set about getting my Masters in Education.
I haven’t left the lessons of the outdoors behind me, though. Students learn when teaching is relevant, real, and consequences are immediate. Students need lots of scaffolding at first, and frequent feedback. To remember something, they must apply the knowledge.  Consequences must closely follow actions or people miss the cause/effect relationship. 
In the outdoors, consequences are inescapable. Nothing teaches physics like rock climbing.  Acceleration due to gravity is not an abstract concept when you are hanging 100 feet in the air on 10mm of perlon. In the classroom it takes more skill to establish connections between actions and consequences.   The consequences of the Crusades and European colonialism are still being played out today. Students don’t feel that their lives are in jeopardy if they don’t learn about medieval crusades, but perhaps they should. In my teaching I try to take remote and abstract ideas like these and make them concrete.  I show students how all things are connected. 
I have now taught a many different subjects to students from 6th grade through college. I know that teaching is the biggest adventure of all.

The Gift - Paper # 1

    It may be a universal dream of all American children: the fantasy of receiving an unexpected gift,  a box covered with brightly colored paper, tied with ribbons and carefully marked with your name.  The content of the package might be as varied as the children who dream it, but that feeling of wonder and excitement at recieving the gift is somthing even adults can imagine.  I was lucky to actually experience this, the earliest memory of my life.
    Even as a four year old, I knew that something special was about to happen.    We were moving from Zorzor, a small town in northeastern Liberia, to Wozi, a farming village twelve miles away.   I watched as my mother and father began packing our belongings into large metal oil barrels.  Curious about the excitement and added busyness around me,  I climbed up the step ladder and peered into the barrel’s wide mouth where sheets, towels, blankets, and clothing were carefully folded and placed.  Kerosene lanterns, extra wicks and curious looking water filters were wrapped in anticipation of a home with no electricity. Bags of flour, cases of green beans, fruit cocktail and Spam were counted, stacked and packed in preparation for a town which had no stores.
        When I woke from my naps that week, all these items had gradually vanished from our home.  The clutter and chaos of packing was replaced with the calm emptiness of rooms once filled with the hum of my mother’s sewing machine and the reassuring scatter of Tinker Toys and doll clothes.
    I clutched my doll tightly and stood on the concrete steps of our home in the boarding school.  Strong dark arms unbolted our metal bed frames and stored them in the back of the Landrover.  When our mattresses were lifted to the top of the vehicle and tied on tightly with rope,  I felt the excitement of the move changing to the anxiety of the unknown.  My five year old brother jumped into the back of the Landrover ready for any adventure.  But I felt uneasy and scared at leaving my familiar surroundings. 
    Suomo, our cook, scooped up our unsuspecting cat and quickly stuffed her into an empty flour sack. Kitty-Kitty yowled loudly and struggled to free herself as Suomo tied a knot to enclose her.  Suddenly I felt as if I too were being scooped up and stuffed into an unknown environment, not knowing where I was going or what I would find when I got there.  Kitty Kitty continued to struggle and howl as my mother lifted me up into the front seat next to her.
    We left Zorzor in the late afternoon and drove five miles on a narrow dirt road to the next town called Fisebu.   I felt the hot air, saturated with orange dust, blow through the open windows hitting my cheeks and forehead.  We had only traveled twenty minutes, but Kitty Kitty continued to howl and struggle in the flour sack in the back of the Rover, and I worried that she couldn’t breathe.  My mother sighed and wondered out loud if Kitty Kitty would continue to struggle all the way to our new home.  Although it was only seven miles further, it would take us an hour to get there.
    My father slowly drove the Landrover between the thatched mud homes in Fisebu, carefully missing goats, chickens, and curious children running along side of our vehicle.  Women poked their heads out of doors and men stopped and stared as we wound our way through the  town.  I found myself distracted by this new environment and looked at the happy faces of the children running next to us.  It felt like a parade now,  and I was part of the main attraction.  I forgot my anxiety, caught up in the excited shouts of the children surrounding us.
    The calls and chatter of the children slowly faded away as we reached the edge of the town and headed into the rain forest.  The sun was setting quickly now and the darkness of the night seemed to thicken as quickly as the jungle surrounding us.  The road was little more than a footpath widened to accommodate the four wheels of our Landrover.  Heavy rains had used the road as a channel for flash floods, and water had carved deep grooves along some edges of the road.  I could hear branches scrape across the canvas sides as if waiting to cover the path behind us.  The engine whined and groaned as my father carefully guided our Rover through the dark jungle, over the boulders, streams and swamps.
    Kitty Kitty had given up her protests and settled down in a lump on the lap of Suomo.  Sounds of the night now replaced her meows and entwined our car with the screeches of crickets, croaking frogs and occasional cries of surprised jungle animals.  The headlights danced up and down on the road and thick trees ahead of us.  I snuggled next to my mother feeling safe and secure between my parents.
     My thoughts returned to my unknown future.  Would it be as comforting as the home I just left?  Would I be as happy as the children I saw in Fisebu?  Would it be as dark and scary as the jungle before me?
    Suddenly my father slowed the lurching Landrover to a halt and we all sat up in our seats.  I peered out into the darkness ahead and followed the beams of the headlights.   The trees were tall and thick, creating a black curtain of vegetation above us.  There, dangling from a swaying branch was a rectangular package spinning a dainty pirouette in the spotlight.  Its brightly colored paper and large pink bow glowed like a star on a darkened stage.  I blinked.   
    My father opened the door and stepped into the waiting path.  The jungle grew silent as crickets, frogs and beetles suspended their routine chatter.  I held my breath with them.  Stepping over rocks and ridges in the pathway, my father made his way to the suspended gift.  I watched in amazement as he pulled out his pocket knife, cut the string and carried the package back to the Landrover.  More disbelief followed as he gently placed it on my lap and pointed to the letters on the top that spelled my name.   
    Forty five years have passed since we came upon that package in the darkness of an African jungle.  I have no recollection of opening it and no memory of the object that was inside.  But I have a very clear image of that unexpectected present suspended in the headlights of our Landrover and I find myself reliving the happiness of my home in Wozi.  It was an amazing gift.

Miracles Still Happen

“Mom, Mom, come quick!”  My daughter, Sarah, came running into the room.  She grabbed my hand, pulling me out to our front porch.  “Look,” she said, pointing to the wall where our garage connected to our house.  “I measured, Mom, and it’s changed three fourths of an inch!”

The Trip of a Lifetime

When I was sixteen, Jim, an older friend and mentor, invited me to join him and several friends at a National Eagle Scout Association Convention in Nashville, Tennessee.  What made it particularly unique was that we’d be driving an indirect route from Salem, Oregon, by way of numerous sites—making it quite the sightseeing tour.

Strong Arms

    I am five in this first memory, sitting on my father’s shoulders, short brown legs dangling joyfully.  As we approach the eating hall, I jump down and run to the line of children standing in front of an elderly man.
    He smiles as each child proudly steps up and makes a fist, flexing his or her arm. “Very good,” he says, gently patting a budding round muscle.  Then the next child steps up, awaiting the similar affirmation.  When it is my turn, I squeeze as hard as I can and glory in the ritual.
    The man wears a broad hat to shade his weathered face.  He looks out on the horizon to where the topography rolls down- tamed fruit trees, apple, peach, and plum turn into rocky fields and twisted olive trees, and far off, a hint of the blue green Mediterranean Ocean.
    He turns to me and beams at my offering “How strong you are, and every day stronger – so good, so good.” I take his words in: it is good to be strong, and skip into the dining room to meet my parents.
    Several years later, I am in a new country.  There are no rolling purple mountains, no olive trees.  I meet grey concrete and the New York City grid when I go outside.  But I am strong, still proud of my muscles.   I challenge all the boys in my class to arm wrestle and I mostly win the contests.
    When I proudly reveal this prowess to my American Aunt Frances, her sharp reaction “But it’s not ladylike,” is my first inkling that perhaps owning physical strength is a complex endeavor.
    Luckily, we soon move to New Jersey where I can once again climb trees and explore in the woods.  I make wooden rafts to float on the narrow mucky streams and chisel initials into the soft white flesh of birch trees. My life is now filled with images of valiant heroines of the Revolutionary War inspired by a book series titled ‘The Little Maids Club”.  There are many ‘ little maids’ – one in Bunkerhill, one in Ft. Ticondaroga, one in Trenton, each bravely helping the effort to win the fight for independence. The girls in the books are all clever and brave and I join them, creating my own adventures and romance along the way.
    The importance of physical strength and imaginary bravery give way to other things by eighth grade and my muscles are no longer where I want the attention to be.  In class, we learn to read The New York Times by first folding the bulky over-sized paper in half and then into thirds lengthwise.  But while the folds make the paper more manageable to hold, the black and white pictures of the war in Vietnam are not so easy to adjust.   The daily images sear me.  I do not know what to do with the horror and shame.  Strength now becomes attached to military might and I want no part of it.
    Years later, I am holding my children – a baby boy and a five year old daughter at a cemetery.  I lean back for support from my husband and then shudder, new with the knowledge that it is him we have gathered around to bury.  With coffee for sustenance I gingerly approach each day, There is much to do: bottles to fill, a house to sell, papers to sign, drives with Jake in a car seat in search of a blessed nap, casseroles and dishes. Friends, strangers, and relatives assure me that “ I am so strong”.  I stare in disbelief when I hear their words and then gaze at my children.  What I do has nothing, nothing, to do with strength.  It is their young lives which sustain me. 
    For a long time, when I thought back on my early memories, on the elderly man sitting outside the dining hall, I concluded he was measuring our muscles as a gesture of measuring redemption.  After all, this scene took place in Israel barely ten years after the Holocaust. Now with a country, the Jewish people would not have to endure centuries of degradation.  We could own land, we could be farmers and fighters.  We would be so strong.
    Perhaps as he looked out over the ancient hills and then back at our eager line, his words of praise had nothing to do with our flexed arms. Strength nor longer seems like something measured, exerted over others, or a mark of endurance.   Rather, perhaps, the ritual of meeting our smiling eyes was his way of giving gratitude for vibrant unfolding life.   

Busted!

                                                 Busted!

    “Who taught you to drive, Dad?” my fifteen year old daughter inquired. I was nervously seated in the passenger seat of the family SUV. My mind flashed back to the spring vacation of 1970 in Salem, Oregon.
     My best friend and neighbor, Mike Fagen, and I had decided to put up a basketball hoop. We had already assembled the pole, basket, and backboard. With youthful energy, we’d dug a four foot deep hole. All we lacked was cement. No problem. We’ll just wait for Mike’s older brother Cal to drive us to the lumberyard. Fourteen year old boys don’t have a lot of patience, and after ten long minutes, we developed “Plan B”. This involved walking two miles to Keith Brown Lumber to buy a bag of Ready-Mix Concrete and carry it home.
     The cashier laughed and shook his head as we told him our plan to carry the eighty pound sack home. We lugged it thirty grueling steps across Portland Road to the Chevron station before we realized “Plan B” was a bust. The gas station attendant wasn’t exactly thrilled that we were leaving a large obstruction in front of his station while we traipsed back hoping Cal was home. He wasn’t. “What are we gonna do now, Einstein?” Mike quipped.
     My father was attending a seminar in Chicago that week. His 1963 Cutlass convertible was parked in the garage, my mom was at work, and the keys were dangling temptingly in the laundry room. Hmm… So, in my best imitation of a seasoned driver, I haltingly backed the Olds out of the garage and down the driveway. With Mike proudly in the passenger seat, we carefully drove to the gas station, tossed the hefty load in the trunk, and I drove home like a pro.
     “Man, that was great!” I announced with bravado. In fact, we enjoyed the newfound freedom of driving so much, that we decided that we were WAY too cool to be stuck in my driveway shooting hoops. It made much more sense to abandon our project and drive to Kennedy Elementary to practice our jump shots. And, that’s exactly what we did. Mario Andretti would have been proud of my deft driving ability. Upon return, we were feeling very independent and mature.
     The next day after my mom left for work, Mike and I ran a variety of errands (driving, of course), returned for tuna fish sandwiches, and then leisurely drove to the grade school playground.
     Our latest road trip was going smoothly until we saw a Salem Police cruiser coming toward us on the four lane corridor. CRAP!!! He undoubtedly noticed that the top of my head was level with the steering wheel. Our eyes locked, and we both knew I was busted! I panicked! I jerked the convertible from the left lane into the right lane, cutting off and nearly hitting a sedan driven by an old lady. Due to my erratic driving, predictably the policeman made an abrupt U-turn. Resigned to my fate, I turned right and pulled over onto the gravel shoulder. The officer pulled in behind us his red and blue lights flashing. He asked for my license, and I told him I didn’t have one... yet. He inquired of my age and I stuttered, “F,f,fourteen, sir.” I was cited for reckless lane change and driving without a license. Mike and I were sent walking home with our tails between our legs. The car was stranded on the side of the road, a symbol of our stupidity.
     It was bad enough that I had to confess my illegal driving to my mother that evening, but calling my father halfway across the country was torturous. He just happened to be the Director of Driver Improvement for DMV. I explained the situation to my dad. He was obviously disappointed. He calmly told me, “We’ll discuss this when I get home.” and hung up. The three day wait for his return was more painful than any prison sentence imaginable.
     When my father finally returned, he sat me down, looked me in the eye, and firmly stated, “I’m sure you’ll never make a mistake like this again.” Then we discussed the issue of trust and I went to bed. Thankfully, it was the first decent night’s sleep I’d had in seventy two nerve wrenching hours. I slept like a log.
     The saga of my underage driving was not over though. I was scheduled to appear at Marion County Juvenile Court presided by Judge Albin Norblad, otherwise known as the “Hanging Judge”. That was the day I first experienced perspiration. I was so anxious as my father and I sat waiting in the deep red leather chairs of Judge Norblad’s office that sweat began to bead under my arms and trickle down my sides. The “Hanging Judge” suspended my Driver’s Permit for thirty days after my fifteenth birthday. Luckily, I was in no hurry to drive for long while!
     So I’m not sure who taught me how to drive. Self taught, maybe? Mike Fagen, doubtful. My dad, probably. Just like I’m trying skittishly to teach my own daughter to drive. Hopefully, she won’t make the same mistakes as her old man!

Mark DeBow