A HAPPY MAN

The alienation from his family happened a long time ago. If he remembered it, he never told us about it. The only glimpse we were given was in his introduction of himself: “John Peabody. Of the Detroit Peabodys.” For him that said it all. Who he was, and who he is now.

A solitary man, he lived in a small residential hotel in the central city Not a big man. Perhaps five feet ten, with an erect bearing, a shock of white hair, and bright blue eyes.

Some people who live alone want to talk all the time when with others. But not John. He responded to questions and comments, and then lapsed into silence. But he must have been talking to himself, because occasionally a little audible phrase would come out, out of context, and he would look a little embarrassed.

In 1954 Hadley Conner sold his Arizona acreage in preparation for moving to Mississippi. Since he still had the packing shed, he leased it out to another company for the spring lettuce harvest. He apparently knew of the reputation of the other company, because he hired a night watchman. That watchman was John Peabody. He lived in a small room built in the corner of the packing shed. It had a small bed, chair, table and sink. A minimum in accomodations But I never hear John complain.

I would not be moving to Mississippi. I would have my job in the office until he sold the rest of his properties. John and I shared the time together. Sometime he would come over to the office where we had air conditioning and just sit quietly as I did my paperwork. Perhaps if we had been closer in age we could have shared experiences and I could have known him better. But I didn’t ask, and he didn’t volunteer.

The crew of the company leasing the packing shed were, all of them, “winos.” Even the foreman. They came to work with a paper sack which they placed on the floor near their feet. The sack contained a bottle of wine or a milk carton filled with cheap red wine. Its contents were sampled throughout the day. No one was really drunk, but their actions and attention were obviously impaired.

John had no sympathy for these guys, but he dutifully kept watch, and when the foreman did not respond to a problem, John would call me.

The lettuce was brought in from the field and put on a conveyer belt which ran the length of the shed. A wooden plow moved along the belt and pushed the lettuce into bins for trimming and packing in crates. The plow was pulled by a small steel cable which wrapped around a drum on the end until the operator pulled the handle to turn it the other way. One day the “operator” sampled his wine when he should have turned the handle. Of course the drum pulled the cable until it broke John called me.

We found another cable and installed it. Then when the conveyer started up again I went underneath to see if the cable needed tightening. That stupid guy again let it pull against the drum. If it had come loose it would have wrapped around my neck! I came out screaming words I didn’t know I knew.

I vaguely recall John standing there with a little half-smile on his face.

When the lettuce season was finished the crew departed. But before they left John made sure they pickup up their empty bottles. I spent a long evening and night draining the sump pool and changing the impeller which had become entangled with the lettuce leaves and trash they allowed to fall into the pool.

Then John and I had the place to ourselves for the rest of the summer. John would sit in the doorway of the shed with his record player and his Mario Lanza records, and light his pipe. I can see him yet.

On those warm Arizona evenings, with the clear sweet voice of Mario Lanza filling the building and out across the yard, “Be my love, for none one else can end this yearning…” John Peabody, of the Detroit Peabodys, was a happy man.

Fred Strong

Dave Blodgett - Assignment #9

I can’t take it any more.

I refuse to look into the eyes of a dead US trooper whose photo is shown on PBS Nightly News after being blown to bits by an “improvised explosive device” in Iraq. Show me the body, if you can. Don’t sanitize slaughter.

Most of the 3,829 US troopers killed to date have been defenseless against powerful roadside bombs set off by remote devices at a safe distance. Humvees aren’t designed to protect our troops. They are helpless targets.

I printed out 105 pages with photos of the 824 US troopers slaughtered pointlessly so far in 2007.

Most are from little towns—many too small to even be listed in the Rand McNally Atlas. That’s tiny.

Towns like Ewing, Kentucky; Richwood, Texas; Verdon, Nebraska; Trafford, Alabama; Davidsonville, Maryland; Nakin, Ohio; Santa Fe Pueblo, New Mexico; Windthorst, Texas, Chagrin Falls, Ohio; Centerville, Massachusetts; Candor, New York; Sun Valley, California; New Tripoli, Pennsylvania; Givens Hot Springs, Idaho; Kenduskeag, Maine; Crimona, Virginia; Alanson, Michigan; Sims, Arkansas; Hondo, New Mexico; Minong, Wisconsin; Speedwell, Tennessee; Holstein, Nebraska; Quitman, Mississippi; Spring Hope, North Carolina; Crystal Falls, Michigan; Inver Woodbury, Minnesota; Scott Depot, West Virginia; Otis, Oregon; Browersville, Georgia; Lone Tree, Colorado; Chiocton, Wisconsin; Lone, California; Gays,Illinois; West Valley, Utah; Clinton,Utah; Hager City, Wisconsin; Ivyland, Pennsylvania; Sweet Springs, Missouri; Cataldo, Idaho; Millstadt, Illinois; Pembroke, Massachusetts; Kingston Springs, Tennessee; Spangle, Washington; Burns, Wyoming; Gold River, California; Dibble, Oklahoma; Lee, Maine; Vequita, New Mexico; Greenwood, Nebraska; Bismarck, Arkansas; Okeana, Ohio; Moscow, Maine; Earleville, Maryland; Bedias, Texas; Bon Aqua, Tennessee; Mashpee, Massachusetts; Parlin, Colorado; Pittsview, Alabama; Groveland, California; Wallins, Kentucky; Clackamas, California; Ismay, Montana; Cameron Park, California; Pointblank, Texas; Rootstown, Ohio and Killingworth, Connecticut.

Everyone in these 66 hamlets can put a name to the young man or woman who died in Iraq “to protect them.” There are no strangers in Killingworth, Connecticut or Pointblank, Texas.

They don’t want some unpatriotic World War II combat veteran like me to tell them their sons and daughters died in vain in a “war” to avenge the loss of 2,464 Americans killed by non-Iraqi terrorists on September 11, 2001 and to save us from the nonexistent “imminent threat from weapons of mass destruction of Saddam Hussein.”

It’s got to stop now!

I am four years old. Last week, we came to Anna’s house to live--me, my big brother Matty, my sisters Dolly and Goldy and Papa. We are all in Anna’s house with her husband, Phil, and his three children, Herbert, my age, Lil, two years older, and Goldy, four years older. Phil scares me, he is huge and frowns a lot.
Today I am going to go to kindergarten. Anna helps me dress after my bath in the big tub. First my one-piece short-sleeved underwear with the buttoned drop seat. Over that goes a little harness with garters hanging down. They hold up the long tan cotton stocking. Next, a cotton dress with pockets and embroidered flowers. Matching panties over the underwear. High button shoes. I use a buttonhook to fasten the buttons. Anna inspects me. My straight dark brown hair is parted in the middle, cut so it comes just below my ears and with bangs a half-inch above my eyes. I have a clean handkerchief in the pocket of my dress.
Anna takes my hand and walks to Public School Number 7 with me. I must cross South Broad Street. “Remember to look both ways to make sure it is safe for you to cross,” Anna reminds me. South Broad Street is broad, paved with cobblestones with two sets of trolley tracks in the middle and electric wires overhead. After that, I must walk to Grier Street, the next corner and turn left. “You know which way is left,” Anna prompts. Before the end of the first block I can see Public School Number 7. It is a red brick building. There are big maple trees shading the grass between the building and the sidewalk. Two very heavy tall doors confront me. Anna pushes them open and we are in the entrance hall. There is a big clock with a pendulum. The tick-tock seems very loud because there is no other noise in the entrance hall. Anna guides me to an office and I sit in a big chair while she talks to the lady behind the counter. “This is my little sister, Cecile, she just came to live with me. Her mother died more than two years ago. Her father also lives me with. Here is her birth certificate and a letter certifying that she has been immunized against small pox. She will be five in November and I want to enroll her in kindergarten.”
Anna is ready to leave. “Be a good girl, do what the teacher tells you to do. Remember the way home at noon.” I blink back tears; I don’t want Anna to leave me there.
The lady comes out from behind the counter and takes me into a room crowded with children and toys. “We have a new student today, say hello to Cecile.”
Thirty-two pairs of eyes look at me, thirty-two mouths say in unison, “Hello, Cecile.” The teacher takes my hand and sits with me beside her. “Sit here, this is story time.” She begins to read about the Little Red Engine. I know the story. My sisters read to me. My big secret is that I can read it by myself.
The teacher notices my distressed look. She leans down to ask, “Do you need to go to the bathroom?’ I nod and she leads me to it. See, there is a picture of a girl on the door. Inside there are six toilets each enclosed by walls and a door. Six washbowls on the opposite wall. I have to stand on tiptoe to reach them.
A few days later the teacher comes to me. I have an open book in my hands. Are you looking at the pictures?” she asks. “No, I’m reading the story.”
“Read it to me."
“Hansel and Gretel saw a gingerbread house in the forest.”
The next day I moved up to the first grade. We learned to use the steel pointed pens, to dip them into the inkwell in the corner of the desk and to carefully print the letters of the alphabet.
I am six years old, in second grade. We learn the Palmer Method of Penmanship. Each of my sisters has a framed certificate because they learned Palmer Penmanship.
I am seven years old. In the third grade we no longer learn Palmer Penmanship. No more tedious hours making continuous circles or vertical strokes. A new invention, a fountain pen, has its own ink reservoir.
I am ten years old. I am sick with a sore throat. When my throat feels better, I have trouble controlling my movements. My hands sometimes jerk, my mouth moves, and my eyes blink. Sometimes I find it difficult to walk, or hold utensils. Anna takes me from doctor to doctor. One says,” she has Rheumatic Fever and St. Vitus Dance. Here is a prescription for powdered aspirin four times a day. Bed rest and nourishing food are the only treatment. I can’t say how long the symptoms will last.”
I could no longer go to school. I stayed home with Anna. But, I could read books. My brother would bring me seven books at a time from the public library. I think he just started at one corner and went along the shelf to select the books. I read them in less than a week. I listen to the radio.
I am eleven years old sitting next to my Papa. It is Thanksgiving and the huge dining room table is crowded with extra chairs. My Papa must feed me with a spoon because I cannot hold the spoon and bring it to my mouth.
I am twelve years old. I am in a big hospital in New York City. They put me in cold packs three times a day. First, they put blanket on the bed, then a rubber sheet and then a cloth wrung out of cold water. I must get in bed on top of the wet sheet, which they wrap tightly around me, then the rubber sheet is wrapped on top of that and finally the blankets are also tightly wrapped around me. This is a new treatment for St. Vitus Dance.
After I leave the hospital, I go to a convalescent home in upper New York State. I am the only child there. The other patients are kind to me and take me to pick mushrooms with them. But, one of the ladies had some kind of fit in the dining room and I began to have nightmares. I begged Anna to take me away from there.
I am thirteen years old. I return to school to enter the seventh grade at Alexander Hamilton Junior High School. I miss the children who were in my class from First Grade through the Sixth Grade, Helen, Olga, Dorothy, Clifton, Robert and George. But they are now in the ninth grade at Theodore Roosevelt Junior High at the other end of town. Now, we have moved into Anna and Phil’s beautiful large new home on Union Avenue. Now, I have a big room all to myself and even my own bathroom.
I find it difficult to make friends at this new school. Also, now we have a different teacher and a different classroom for each subject. The boys sit on one side of the cafeteria; the girls sit on the other side. We are seated like that in the auditorium, also.
I am fifteen years old. My papa died this past summer while I am at Girl Scout camp at Lake Kannawakee in New York.I did not know he was so sick and without warning Anna came up to camp to take me to his funeral. After the funeral, we endure the ritual period of mourning, sitting shiva, the mirrors are covered.
When my father’s will is read, my other sisters contest the will, and this caused a bitter rift which lasted for many years.

What a journey we have traveled! We can congratulate ourselves for making it thru. Most of us were born in the years 1922 and 1923. In 1922 King Tut's tomb was found and Reader's Digest was first published; in 1923 the Charleston dance became popular; talking movies were invented.
When we entered the first grade, it was 1929. While we were oblivious to the stock market crash, we felt it in different ways. Our standard of living drastically changed. Additionally in that year the car radio was invented and the St. Valentine Massacre occurred. (Personally my family returned from Japan and we settled in Tracy.)
We graduated grammar school in 1937. While in grammar school we experienced the following:
1930—Planet Pluto was discovered and sliced bread became available. 1931—The Empire State Building was completed; the Star Spangle Banner became our national anthem. 1932—Amelia Earhardt flew solo across the Atlantic; Lindbergh's baby was kidnapped. 1933—Adolph Hitler became the Chancellor of Germany; prohibition ended in the U.S. 1934—Bonnie and Clyde were killed by police; Parker Brothers began selling the game "Monopoly." 1935—Social Security was enacted in the U.S. 1936—Hoover Dam was completed; King Edward VIII abdicated; Nazi Olympics were held in Berlin. 1937—And so we graduated West Park with one positive note: the Golden Gate Bridge was opened. The negatives were—Amelia Earhardt vanished; the Hindenberg disaster occurred; and Japan invaded China. (On a personal note, my Mother died.) 1937 thru 1941—We went to Tracy High School and while we were there Chamberlain announced "Peace in Our Time," first commercial flight was made over the Atlantic, the helicopter was invented; World War II began in Europe; nylons came on the market; Manhattan atom bomb project began; and Mount Rushmore was completed.
1941--We graduated high school and in December we receive the shock of our lives—the attack on Pearl Harbor. This changed completely the direction of our lives. U.S. entered the war. 1942 thru 1945 were the war years where each of us experienced what we could never have imagined was possible. Most of us came thru it somewhat scarred but whole. Japanese Americans were incarcerated in desert camps (I went to the desert in Arizona where my Father died); T-shirts were introduced; ball point pens went on sale; the Germans fired the V1 and V2; FDR died; the first computer was built; Germany surrendered; Hitler committed suicide; microwave oven was invented; the atom bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki; Japan surrendered; and the United Nations was founded. During those years I went to the University of Utah for my sophomore year and while there received my draft classification-1A-eligible for the draft. I quit school and went to Chicago to visit with my sisters while I awaited induction into the Army. After enough Nisei were accumulated, I was inducted in January 1945 and went for basic training in Florida in an all-Nisei training unit, then to the Engineer's OCS in Virginia. By this time both wars had ended and I went to occupation duty in Japan. I was a CIC (Counter Intelligence Corp) Agent, summarizing the SECRET reports of Northern Japan activities for General MacArthur’s G-4. Many of you were either in Europe or Asia. At our first meeting Jim Gillen, who was in the Navy, told me he had entered Tokyo Bay as one of the first American to enter Japan when Hirohito capitulated. I would be remiss if I didn't mention one outstanding happening following our return from the service: In 1946, it was just what we veterans needed to lighten our lives. I HAD TO maintain my swimming skills REQUIRING that I go periodically to the beaches, and INCIDENTALLY to take note of man's remarkable invention—the BIKINI. Yes, we have come thru almost to the period of replacement of body parts via stem cells. I may try a few if they become available, but just a few. With the kind of struggle, excitement, and joy that we all experienced and the peace we now feel, we should be content to just fade away when the time comes. In the meantime, be of good cheer…. God bless you all!

What’s In a Name?

Mother called me Rutechka; Daddy called me Ruti and to Bubby & Zyde I was Ruhele. I knew myself by this name, knew I was loved in a special way. Mama enrolled me in a dancing class because I wanted to be a dancer. Friends listened to the stories I made up anytime they asked. That’s how I knew that I was a story teller. I liked to jump rope, play hide and seek, and best of allI loved to share secrets with my friends. They made a place for me. I knew that I belonged.
But at night, with moonlight splashing shadows on my bedroom wall, I was afraid. those shadows were mysterious, unknowable, the stuff of darkness, and they looked like crooked fingers stretching out their unsubstantial touch to turn me, just like them, twisted and dark, a thing without a name, without a home, no family, and no friends.
I called into the night for Mom and Dad. They came to hold me tight and sing soft songs and shush my fear. And yet I couldn’t sleep. I feared those shadows looming over me, though Mama told me shadows couldn’t think or feel.
“See, those twisted branches on that old oak tree? See how they move against the sky?” She pointed to the window, said, “Those shadows are reflections of that tree.” She pointed to my open window; heard the breeze and saw the branches move.
Yet those shadows on my wall seemed real as our daisies growing in the yard, real as Bubby’s chicken soup, real as my dancing shoes and velvet cape. They seemed as real as I.
But then one day the German soldiers came with boots that beat staccato on our cobblestones.
Mama and Daddy changed our names and hid away where no one knew that we are Jews. I had to leave my Bubby and my Zyde, all my friends, my home, and we moved to a strange town to live in hiding under a borrowed name. I was replaced as was my name by someone I had never met, someone who answered to another name. Using his pen and ink a man without a name forged our new identity papers. Made us unreal, passing as someone else. My parents hoped such scheme could save our lives.
But the Gestapo found us anyway. They took my dad and mom, my little sister and the home where we found space to hide. And then, they took my unreal name and turned me into nothing, a shadow on the wall, a cipher to be processed in their null and void machine.
My family succumbed. The Germans had their way, but somehow I endured the darkness. But then the darkness lifted. I was free. My life and name returned to me. I don’t know how or why, I lived to tell this tale.