Monthly Archives: December 2011

Heavy Metal

Posted on by
Reply

Well, to the few listening, the party is now officially over. Five years ago, I would attend heavy equipment auctions regularly with my pal George Sack. Lots over two hundred acres of machinery, awaiting the auctioneer. Row, after row after row. THOUSANDS of machines of all sorts. An indoor stadium with comfortable seating made the wait for the particular bidding item you were waiting for, a sort of party feeling. Everyone around you would turn their heads to the right as the parade of equipment came into view. Small stuff first. Riding lawn mowers, then, small tractors, leading into the really big boys, ‘dozers and cranes. In between, giant six wheel drive water trucks, graders with six foot tall tires, rollers, snow plows, chippers, welding trucks, fleets of vehicles from bankrupted companies all over the South West. The Richie brothers had their act down pat. To make it all go, hundreds of lot men and drivers…O.K. Kim, swell, but, why would I even care, sitting with my latte and watching the news in my little piece of America. Well, because, soon, they will be coming for your little piece too, my friends. Now, five years later, the bidding crowd is not the gang of builders and construction people looking for deals to keep building going. Nope, now it’s all VULTURES. Are they looking to buy a D10 Bulldozer to grade some new road? Nope. For its’ weight in SCRAP. Ditto for all the row after row after row of machinery to MAKE THINGS. Screw machines, punch presses, metal bending, welding rigs, ALL FOR SCRAP. Well, why not. No one is using them any more, plus, THERE’S NO ONE COMING ALONG TO LEARN. And where do you think all this metal is going? Not here. All overseas. To be used there, or, rendered into usable metal for brand new units, for the other guys’ kids to learn trades on. Look around. Most of our kids are in the military. Machinists? Carpenters? Metal fabricators? Plastic formers? Heavy Equipment Operators or Repair people?…Even if we started to turn things around, TODAY, it would take five years to see any results. Involved in moving my 1948 UNIT crane, it all came into focus like a bright light switching on suddenly. Having parked this beast five years ago, then bolting it as a flying buttress for my tower, I was relieved to not have to drive it again. It was just too much work. You have to do everything by hand. No warning horns if you exceed a weight limit or extend the boom too far. No safety anything actually. Only your own common sense and experience kept you and your co-workers alive. Now, this prick had been sitting for FIVE YEARS in the rain and snow. My son Noah charged the big battery, we pour some gas into the old 1948 carb, hit the starter. IT FIRED RIGHT UP AND PURRED LIKE A KITTEN! No special electronics that takes a NASA scientist with a laptop to program. Good thing it did. Otherwise, the county would have scrapped it. Still has five flat tires and needs to be broken down to be put on a low boy dozer trailer to move it. I went on the internet to see about parts if I need them. NONE. I have the ONLY ONE LEFT IN THE WORLD. All have been junked for the scrap value. This brings us full circle to my first paragraph. Who could even fabricate a part? NO ONE…Extend this to all of our farmers and people who make this country run. Voting for a Ron Paul saviour then going to the mall days are over. Wake up and actually DO SOMETHING…

Uncommon Valor

Posted on by
Reply

I used to take Leo into North Hollywood every Saturday for his Russian language school. Before our adoption of him was completed, we had to jump through hoops and over all these hurdles placed before us to make it official. It went from no one wanting him, to, ‘You’re too old’, or, “He needs his culture!” Huh? A culture of starvation and hospital stays in unheated homes? O.K., if they said so, we did as told…Now, at this ‘school’, I did meet an interesting fellow. A former Soviet Nuclear Sub commander. He had one of those screwy eyes that worked just fine, but, seemed to be looking off to the right. Also, his eye brows looked like he brushed them. A very bright fellow though. I played him about fifty games of chess and never came close to beating the guy. Not that I’m any sort of great chess player. I’m a Scrabble man. He told me a couple of interesting stories…When the Soviet Union collapsed after Reagan’s ‘Star Wars’ broke their backs financially, he told me he didn’t eat fresh bread for almost a year. All the formerly ‘Friendly’ states, were right back in the 1800’s as far as getting along was concerned. Long suppressed hatreds and fueds that had been simmering but hidden, popped out everywhere. He said it was like you lived in Burbank, but you had to go to downtown L.A. then up the coast, then, over to Newhall, then, down to Sylmar, just to get past the goons in Burbank wanting to shoot and rob you. It was like this everywhere…The worst thing of all, was the stealing of equipment and black market moving of radioactive cannisters and handling gear. No one was getting paid and it was all the officers could do to not get shot themselves once in port and docked. It was everyman for himself…Now, he also told me another story of a Russian sub accident. I can’t remember the Captain’s name, but, I remember the gist of what happened. Oh, it was a sub with just a number. K-19? Look it up, it has to be on the internet somewhere. Anynow, this sub was captained by a former class mate of his, so, he heard the lowdown from the cat’s mouth so to speak…His story: “There had been a fire in the cooling system section of the sub. No cooling, you have a good shot at a nuclear event. All subs are sectoned off in case of such emergencies to the crew members in these portions of the vessel. The Captain himself went to the section experiencing the ‘accident’. It was bad. Way worse then anyone would ever know past the propaganda machine writers’ lies and untruths. What they never told, was when the Captain asked the fifty or so odd men in the section for volunteers to go into the nuclear spill area to shut down some valves and reroute the cooling system, ALL STEPPED FORWARD. It was a death sentence to go inside that room. All were young men. Each man that went in, staggered out after doing as much as he could, then, another man took over, until he too collapsed. Seven died within days, twenty more died in less then two years. All horrible, painful deaths!”…He broke down in tears and sobbed so hard, his daughter came over to take him into the bathroom…

Snakes

Posted on by
Reply

My buddy, Tommy L., a door gunner in Viet Nam for two tours, told me this story…”We were at a forward camp awaiting orders to do medical runs if needed. It was about eleven at night. Most of the guys were in these large tents with wood floors and canvas roofs, drinking beer, playing chess, writing letters. Our duties were patient transport, so, we were pretty relaxed. The sounds of artillery and mortars could be heard off and on, but not that close to our camp, so, that was cool too. Now, it’s jungle dude. Heavy, thick jungle. It’s why they would spray agent orange. To defoliate. And boy, did it. One pass from some low flying bombers spraying it and instant dead area. No one knew about the repercussions on humans until a lot later, or, they just didn’t give a crap. So, everyone is also just in shorts, skivvies or no shirt. Medical choppers are a lot different then troop copters. People were always glad to see us.‎..These tents had four entrances since they were square in shape. Each entrance had wooden steps and a cover to pull down to block the light for snipers. We were forward, but, it was so hot, the two apertures away from the jungle were rolled up and tied off to let some air in. It was hot. Hotter then you can even imagine, even that late at night. And muggy? You would sweat taking a shower. One of the guys at our table volunteered to go for some more beers. About twenty other men and a couple of nurses were scattered around the other long tables filling these giant tents. Some music was playing at low volume from a small radio. All the lights were dimmed. You could pull them down on chains, but no one did. It was hot enough already. As I was shuffling the cards and getting ready to deal another hand of poker, our beer guy came back in across from us, camp side since the tent opening was clear. He froze all of a sudden. He had a look on his face that said it all. DON’T MOVE. He was stopped in mid-step. At the table, all conversation stopped. As it did at the other tables who noticed his odd behaviour. Next to me was this odd ball who wore his sunglasses constantly. Even in his rack. I could see in the reflection off his glasses, something moving right behind my head. Actually, a bit higher then my head. It was a snake’s head. Swaying back and forth. No one moved. No one talked. Just the radio made a noise. The snake had slithered in out of the jungle and through a gap in the canvas doorway behind me. Another man came in through the other open doorway. At this, I could see the snake’s hood shoot open. It was a King Cobra. Had to have been fifteen or twenty foot long since its head was over six foot off the floor, easy. I started to sweat so bad, it was cascadiing down out of my armpits and crotch like mini rivers. I’m not lying. Like rivers. I was frozen solid as a rock. The new man froze, too, as he picked up on everyone’s odd behaviour. Weaving back and forth, the hood went down, and the snake was gone. In the blink of an eye…

Dead men do tell tales

Posted on by
Reply

I just read a news story on how L.A. morgues are doing mass cremations to open up some badly needed spots in their coolers. Gee, no kidding. I’ve been in a hundred, easy. The worst are the small ones in the out of the way convalescent hospitals. Sometimes the bodies are just rolled into corners for days at a time, awaiting pick up. Remarking about some of the things I’ve witnessed, brought out some comments from Rick, aka, Tent Boy. He informs me he worked as a pickup man for various morgues, in more then one city over two decades. Huh? I never knew this about him. I thought I had stories. Rick had me beat, hands down. He was on call, 24 hours a day at times. Now, I had hung out and watched some autopsies and yakked it up with a lot of forensic lab types. Rick was out running through the mine fields, every day. Mentioning the news story brought out quite a few memories for both of us…First of all, sparkling clean working areas are NOT the norm. In a large hospital such as Cedars Sinai, yes indeed. Chrome and lots of cleaning solvents make them almost sterile. A clinic in Watts or somewhere in East L.A.? No way. Also, the mortuaries themselves have mini morgues. All over town. Some in former homes, turned into mortuaries. No one regulates them. Don’t even get me started on cemeteries. I’ve talked it up with many a cemetary man at Forest Lawn while doing phone repair. They can curdle your blood with what they do EVERY DAY. From routinely disposing of older plots’ inhabitants in the crematorium, then, reselling the now empty spot, to digging graves intentionaly deeper so they can put another coffin on top of it. One graveyard in Compton was just busted for handing out any old remains from the cremation process, regardless of whom it may of been. Also, for dried up corpses stacked in storage rooms because people didn’t pay their bills. Some of the problems of running out of room are because of pending trials. They keep the body on ice so to speak until the trial is over. This can take years in some cases. Some of Ricks loo-loo’s: “I would say the hardest body to move is one with an arrow sticking out of its’ chest. Try it sometime with rigor mortis already well settled in. The cops want nothing changed, so, you do the best you can. Hmm, oh, people seem to die on the toilet more then any other place it. Depending on how long it’s been since they checked out, that makes for problems. Getting stiff 400 pounders onto a gurney in a sitting position can be quite a challenge. Or, even worse, the soul-mate who attacks you as you try to remove the guy they just stuck a knife into about forty times and are now sad about it. Off Wall Street on a fourth floor walk up, you open the door there’s a cop with his gun in his waist band, sitting on a dirty bed reading a paper with a dead transvestite laying next to him with a syringe in his arm, staring at the ceiling. The cop has his ash tray on the dead man’s chest. The absolute worst are what are called in the trade, ‘Blobs’. Once you touch them, they can explode into masses of maggots and glop. On one of these it’s adios wardrobe. You just toss your clothes, the stench never comes out. If you even try to wash them, they contaminate your good clothes. Oh, lazy assistants. I’ve had guys ready to retire, just drop a corpse halfway down some stairs and let the head bounce all the way down, making up a song to the thumps. Now, I would prefer a stiff on the can, over the one that’s sat in the bathtub for three days. Don’t even go there. When our regular van broke down, we still had to make those pickups. We once had five bodies in various stages of decay, stuck in plastic bags in the back of a Toyota pickup all the way to the camper shell!”…Rick says he’ll make a list and I can do about ten pages on things he’s witnessed. Save ’em for later…

Pearl Harbor

Posted on by
Reply

It was a big event in my family. We’re either Circus, or U.S. Navy. I talked to a blind man who lived in the guest house of Orson Welles. He was Welles’s best friend. He was also a total drunk. It took me a couple of repair visits to realize he smashed his phone up, just to get me out to argue with him while I repaired it. If dispatch sent someone else, he had a fit. He was on the medical ship across from his ship, the U.S.S. Arizona, getting over a hernia operation, when the Japanese first wave came in. He wanted to get out of his bed when they heard the bombs hitting and all the firing started, but was unable to unhook all his tubes. He told me it was a good thing, since everyone that was able to make it to the windows were blown backwards, killed instantly by shards of glass when a string of bombs from the Jap planes hit a mine sweeper at anchor right next to them, sending part of their blasts right towards the medical ship…Now, a lot of people blame Admiral Yamamoto for the attack. Sure, he planned it and gave it the go ahead, but he was under orders. When they asked him his opinion of his own plan, he told them flat out they would have about a year to kick our asses completely, or it would be the end of them. His superiors looked at us as lazy clowns who made movies and good home appliances. They were sort of right. Yamamato knew different. He spent a lot of time in the U.S. as a young man attending our universities. He was blown away at how large our country was and our assembly line production of machinery. Especially the Ford plant. He was also a big time gambler. He would come back on board ship after leaves and his men would wonder if he had won or lost. If he had lost, he would do a handstand on a guardrail, showing he had no money left to fall out of his pockets. He had to stay on the Yamato battleship for over a year, hiding from the assasins of the Japanese Army. Killing off rival military rivals was quite acceptable in Japanese society. Just like in John Carter of Mars by Burroughs. For a surprise attack, it was really successful. Too bad they didn’t make a second sortie. They missed the MILLIONS of gallons of aviation and oil tanks sitting right out in the open. Also, they missed their primary targets. It’s the reason they pulled out and didn’t put in that second string. Our carriers were not at anchor. One of the Japanese spies had made a radio message that they were indeed there. He lied to save face. He had been out drinking and just made it up. Halsey, our carrier chief, had kept all our carriers out on a phony search for a downed flier story because he smelled a rat. One of our destroyers had fired on a submarine trying to slip into Pearl in between a tug boat and its target bouy it was towing behind it from some firing exercises. Sure, they killed over two thousand of our boys, most still in their racks. One bomb went right down the forestack of the Arizona, detonating in its’ 12 inch gun armory. It blew the entire Battleship, clear of the water, before putting it down for good. Concussion killed most of the men. They all went instantly. I guess its as good a way to go as any. Going out with your mates in a millisecond…More people were killed on the islands by spent ammo then from the bombs. The first attack was made by dive bombers. When the second wave came in, it was torpedo bombers, coming in low since Pearl was a known shallow harbor. The dive bombers had a field day. Not so the torpedo crews. They reported back on landing that the flak and return fire was so thick, you could climb out and walk on it. Doris, a black cook, and heavywight champ of the Pacific fleet, shot down two Jap planes in his underwear from a twin fifty with a dead crew laying all around it…Years later, while at Orson Welles’s house, I noticed a new person sunning themselves off the pool near the guest house. Welles informed me his navy buddy had died. He also told me one other thing. His buddy was cremated, then buried with his buddies on the U.S.S. Arizona…We don’t have those big battle wagons anymore. Most of our big ships are nuclear. All the old ships are docked as museums or scrapped long ago. Oh, we do have one left. Its still carried as an acitve ship on the line, ready for duty if needed. It’s name? The ARIZONA. It’s NEVER BEEN RETIRED!!!

Phone Company Legends

Posted on by
1

Some people asked this question would most likely say, “Alexander Graham Bell!” And they would be wrong. My legend of the day is a guy named Samson. Sort of like Madonna. One name was all he needed. A real one of a kind…I first meet him when demoted to the prewire crew. Its where phonemen were sent to be straightened out for some reason. Foremen used it as a purgatory. Once you came around, you would ascend out of hell and get your phone truck back. No truck on prewire. You rode in vans with a bunch of other miscreants. Always in buildings under construction. Plus, you had to actually work all day. I wasn’t used to it. Big cables (1000 pair and up) need great big holes for ’em to go through. So, big drills and drill bits. I mean BIG! Three inch around bits and five foot long steel shafts…Also, another problem. Guys from other trades stealing your ladders constantly. Plumbers, electricians, carpenters, steel men, elevator men, tile guys, painters, gas company, all would grab your ladders if you weren’t actually on them. Off you would go on a ladder hunt. Usually talking to a tool belt and a butt crack of a guy twice your size ignoring you as you tried to get it back. It’s my first day and I’m sick of it. I was ready to shape up in four hours. At lunch, all of the phone guys take the stairs when lunch is over. I’m still a pariah, so, no one clues me in. I figure screw four flights of open stairs in a half completed building. I get in the large enclosed construction elevator that goes up the outside of the building to carry cement bags and such. Also, about fifteen, large, hot, sweaty guys. All in bad moods. The last guy in, Samson. He actually shoved his way in. About fifty, 375 lbs. No teeth. Five ten. Always wore the same clothes, EVERY DAY. Coveralls with a cut off sweat shirt. Had a monk style bald spot. Chewed tobacco 24 hours a day. He had one other thing that made him unique. We all found it out trapped on the way up for three more floors. The ability to fart the longest, greasyest, stinkyest, and wettest, farts you have ever had to experience. Accomplished by a play by play from Samson himself, “OHHH, boys, that part just ran down my leg!” “Here comes yesterday’s chili and peppers, this is gonna be goooood!” By the time the doors opened, it was a screaming mass of lunatics fighting to the death for fresh, clean, non toxic air. The next day, after lunch, ALL of the trades took the stairs. Some management types were being taken up in the large elevator for a look-see. Waiting his turn? Samson. A toothpick in his mouth and a big grin on his face. We all raced to the top floor to beat the doors opening…

Something about Mary [Part 4 of 4]

Posted on by
Reply

“Sadly, if you are not of Africa, most soon will be. In the time it took our group of sixteen to secure our first bull elephant, six were dead. None over forty. Most younger. Two died fifteen minutes apart. All from illness. We had no penicillin in those days. A small rash could turn fatal in a day. It was a reversal of the problems your American Indians had with European disease. No imunities. Africa has fifty times the virulent diseases, plus, billions of ways to spread them almost instantly. Insects. From spiders you can eat like lobster, to twelve inch dragon flies, the insects would keep our Entomoligist busy twelve hours a day. We soon had species named after us in Latin. Now the mosquitos and other poisonous insects were nothing to laugh at. Where our new compound was located, there was a river cutting past one corner that swept into a wide, shallow area, before becoming shallow rapids about a half mile away…We had set up nearby these shallows for our soon to be procured elephants to bathe and cool off in. In our services were mahouts with two female cows to help gentle the new arrivals. They told us the running water was essential. I think this is what started all the sickness. Those horrid mosquitos would NEVER go away. Spraying kerosene from a hand pump seemed to work the best. Dilute it with mineral water first. Our tents had nets to keep them at bay, but there was no relief during the day. I would say I was spared for a couple of reasons. First, I became African. I ate what they ate, stayed away from things they stayed away from, and, most important, never ran myself down. Being lazy saved me, I’m positive. Since I was mainly an interpreter who picked up some dialects quickly, I would make sure I attended trips for supplies, meeting new arrivals, and things like that. I tried to never do any real work. Now, on the other hand, the men drove themselves constantly. Even while sick. They also stuck to European diets as much as they could. No African eats one hundreth of the staples of a white man. No refrigeration tends to do that to a people. Also, meat was a rarity. Too many people in a large village to share kills. Most made do with potato-like yams and garden grown squash and melons. Maily crops that insects couldn’t wipe out completely. Once our elephants were being trained, the pace accelerated to prove that the money being spent was viable. Alas, more died and the program failed. Oh, we had some elephants trained to pull logs, but, their main draw back was their size. They ate more money then they produced. Also, they were killers. We would constantly be searching for new mahouts to handle the beasts. Men were killed by normally placid animals for what seemed no reason at all. Also, that stretch of the river helped do us in. It was also a favorite sunning spot for the largest crocodiles I have ever seen in my life. Oh, just terrible animals. Finally one of our drivers brought back some cases of dynamite from the railroad men. When the villagers came to see what was making all the racket, they lept and danced in terrific gyrations. Using our small diesel tractor, we pulled some of the larger carcasses out and put them onto the tree refuse where the branchs were trimmed prior to stacking. The skins burst from the heat and huge sections of white flesh billowed out. A feast enough for the entire King’s compound and a smaller village across the river. It was about the best night I spent in all those years. Not long after this, our director died of a cobra bite. I was shipped to a Catholic school in Mozambique, then, spent the rest of my career walking from village to village, winning over the people that would listen to the Belgian propaganda. I would leave, but always went back. Now, here I am, the last one alive. Telling my tales and remembering my adventures!”



Mary of the Jungle [Part 3 of 4]

Posted on by
Reply

“It was quite an experience, handling someone elses feet. Seeing as how my ‘patient’ was a King, didn’t make it any better. Prior to meeting the King of the Burundi, I had some things explained to me on proper etiquette in the royal household. First, NEVER, EVER, say your here to ‘change the Borundi’, or anything remotely like it. When the initial party from the Belgian government said something along these lines they were shown a large wicker basket, filled with dried penises and scrotums. The dignitaries were informed that this is what happens to those who try to change the Burundi. I kept it in mind as we walked the mats to the King’s chamber. Oh, the mats. The King is not allowed to touch bare dirt. Elaborate woven mats connect all the various buildings in the royal compound. The buildings were made of mud, covered with a type of clay rubbed smooth. People swept constantly it seemed…Fortunately, a young man who was supposed to be my assistant, had some medical history behind him, so I felt a bit more confident I could play out my part. The King’s chamber was one large room. A high ceiling with an aperture to let out smoke was the only opening. The windows were made of animal membranes stretched over narrow, tall slits in the walls to let in light. There were entrances leading to other rooms, but I never saw the interiors. I always came and went using the same pathway. The King was not a pleasant man. His face showed he was an absolute ruler. As I gave a low bow, he nodded at me while the translators did their jobs, then put out his right foot, wrapped in scented cloths for me to inspect. Oh my, I almost fainted. From first glance, I saw his problem immediately. In grown toes nails had been neglected. It looked like someone had tried to rectify the problem and only exasperated it. The toes were badly infected. To brighten my mood, the translator informs me the last ‘Doctors’, skeleton was still hanging on a post somewhere near by. I pointed to his left foot. He let me inspect it, but gave me a look that said, “Don’t even think about hurting me!” His toes were fine on this foot, but the skin was stretched to almost breaking from swelling. I attributed this to his weight. I lightly rewrapped them and gave a reassuring smile to the King, while telling the interpreter I would make a decision on his treatment and return later. The King shook his head no. I’m informed by the translator after the King spoke to him, that I am now a guest. I’m taken to a small chamber off the wives’ quarters. My attendant is not allowed. Females only. Many of the King’s wives were giving me freightening looks as they went past my open doorway. A younger one, a bit friendlier, asks me in broken English if I am a virgin. I shook my head no. She then beamed and ran off. It turned out, the King only married virgin brides. Now the wives treated me a lot better. Over the next few nights, with the real doctor doing the work, disinfectants and clean wraps, did wonders. Some basic petroleum jelly helped the swollen skin. It was from the Kings weight that most of his problems arose. He had to have been 500 pounds. Plus, he never exercised one bit. He was carried where ever he went. Oh, we had to wait until the King was passed out from drinking this potent native brew, before we could treat him. A suggestion by the young wife I had met earlier. Alas, she was killed later on the King’s order for some reason we weren’t privy too…Now in the good graces of the King, we got down to the business we traveled so far for. Secure a large tract of land, build a compound for the Belgian government, then, purchase ten African elephants of various ages to begin their grand experiment. Teach African elephants to do the same work their cousins the Asian elephants had been doing for thousands of years. Some one high up in the Belgian ruling family thought it could be done, thus, enabling the beasts to drag the large hardwood trees out of the thick, impenetrable jungle. It would save transporting fuel, equipment and vehicles. A rail line was also planned to ship the new lumber source. I wondered why I had never been informed of such a grand project. It seems that until I became the King’s nurse, no one trusted me to stay on past the translating stage. Funny. I never said one word to the King. You could only speak to him if he spoke to you and he never uttered one word to me. Only by his translators. Thus began almost five years of my life spent on elephants. It was facinating and sometimes rewardiing. On the bad side? Everyone started dying…




Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary [Part 2 of 4]

Posted on by
Reply
…Mary now had about ten people listening. Some only had a couple of minutes, so, were standing, eating the last of their lunches, not wanting to leave. I grab a fresh little metal pot of hot water for Mary’s tea. She used the same tea bag. Just like my grandma Jewel Gates. I’ve known a lot of blind people. Never move stuff on them without giving them the low down…Mary fixed her tea, felt around for her cup, but didn’t pick it up, then went on with her story…”I was still in bad shape as far as walking went, so, I was carried by porters hired by my new boss. I swung quite comfortably between these two men who had their gaits down to make carrying a load a minimum effort. They were happy at my 140 pounds. I was still a bit plump from all the rich food and partying in Paris. I wouldn’t have to worry about that any more. After four months, I never weighed over 115 pounds…In a million years, I would have never dreamed that I would outlive all these handsome young men…(I asked her questions for my notes before I took off, so, more on this at the end)…I also found out we were to meet up with some trucks in about five days’ travel. Now, you think five days and shrug your shoulders. Not in Africa. Every breath there is different. The smells are like no other on earth. From a whiff of some fragrant flower, to overpowering rotten guts from a hidden kill you’re traveling past. Many times you won’t see the animal, you will smell it though. If not the beast itself, the smells it leaves around. There are huge rutting spots where Wildebeest or Zebra stallions unload their urine scented with their own particular oils, all mixed together. They will then roll in it and fight each other. Lions leave them alone they are so vicious in this state. And the smell, oh my, I can still recall it. Horrid. I would soon learn many worse. You may leave Africa, it never leaves your nostrils. Also, it is horribly hot and muggy, then, rain will blow in, pounding you so hard it hurts your skin, then, blue skies and you’re once again burning up in the sun. Most travel along well established trails that skirt the jungle. Not game trails, but human, village to village trails. Predators stay off them usually. Too many warriors with spears or rifles and they well know it. They will pick off the old and small though. Especially the wild dogs. Did you know that the wild dog packs kill most of the game you see the prides of lions eating? It’s true! They can bring down anything, just about. The lions let them do the work, then, kill or run off the dominant female and take the kill over. I’ve watched them for hours, over weeks at a time. Oh, I’m wandering. Once we were in the trucks, I wished I was back in my sling. Oh my god did they beat you up. These were in very bad shape. They were from the 1920’s and looked it. Always breaking down. Leave one behind? Never. A man with a truck rates just below a King in Africa. The exhaust fumes made me get back into walking shape. I had to get away from the smoke as it was giving me a pounding head ache. I would walk as far as I could, then, back into the smoke for awhile. When I heard some of the men laughing and calling out, I knew we were at our destination. The village of the King of the Burundi. Coming around a bend of the wide trail, I was a bit amazed at first sight of the King’s palace. It was gigantic! Smoke lazed upwards from at least one hundred cook fires inside the tall wooden walls. Everything was whitewashed white. Even the stones that marked the paths. Patterns and art work were only allowed on the Kings close family members’ areas. We stay stopped for about two hours. Village children kept a distance, unlike the smaller, rural villages. My new boss approaches me as I’m wiping off my face and reapplying a balm that helped keep the insects from biting somewhat. He has a request. It seems he has just left the King’s presence and my services are required. I was dumbstruck. What was he talking about? He soon filled me in. “Ahh, I told the King we had a nurse who could cure his swollen feet!” Oh, my, I wanted to run away. When I was in the presence of the King and unwrapped his feet, oh, I wished that I had…




Sister Mary [Part 1 of 4]

Posted on by
Reply

It’s been raining all week. I’m goofing off at a Nuns’ rest home in North Pasadena. I’m replacing old cord pair switchboards with a newer system. I had been whining and crying for the last two days for some help, but, with the rain, forget it. Old cables and dial tones are out all over the city. I had the job about completed, but, it was raining out. I left the back off the last switchboard and some tools laying around, then headed for the cafeteria. The place was old and sort of decrepit, but it had a great cafeteria. Hal Roach, the guy from the ‘Our Gang’ movies, had donated the place to the church back in the forties, so, it retained most of that era’s look. High ceilings since no central air in those days, large, tall windows. Spacious. Colored tiles everywhere. I had been at the job for three days so all the staff knew me. Especially one of the cashiers I had been trying to get interested in me. I strike out again…I take my tray and sit down at one of the long, wooden tables set in rows with different style chairs to sit in. All donated I guess. I start eating my eggs. A chuckle comes from a big overstuffed chair four chairs past me. I had thought I was the only one at this table. I say to the unseen voice, “Are you laughing at me?” A tiny head pokes around the tall back and nods, then goes back out of sight. I figure to straighten her out. I slide my tray down and sit across from her. I can only see part of her. She’s wrapped up in a big multicolored blanket, She has her legs under her but a foot sticks out. I look harder at that foot. Its really tiny. It also has no toes. Naturally, being an idiot most of the time, I say, “Hey, what happened to your toes?” Thus began one of the most interesting days of my life…She told me her story. In a strange sort of English, mixed with words I didn’t understand at times. She would move her head when she spoke so you had no idea she was blind. About ninety. Very frail and small. Used up she called it…Sister Mary: “I was raised in Holland. My parents were Dutch and Belgian. My father was a customs man who worked for the Belgian government. I went to the very best schools. I have a knack for languages, so, a friend of my father who noticed this, set me up with an easy government job in the Belgian embassy in Paris. It was in the early thirties. No hint of the war to come in Paris. Plays, parties, men chasing me. It was grand. But, I was soon bored. One day, I’m looking at some papers at a fellow employees desk. Languages and dialects always interested me, so, the odd writings captivated me. My co worker wonders if I would like to take a shot at translating them. This is what started my fifty years in Africa!”…(Now, during the five hours I sat with her, a lot of nurses, nuns and friends of hers came by and sat to listen along with me. They all just nodded at me, sipped their coffees and enjoyed before going back to work)…”I studied on my own time and learned some basic Burundi. The Belgian government was investing a lot of money into a new project in Central Africa and desperately needed translators. Once a big shot found out about me, I was signed on with promises of promotions and you name it. Since I was only twenty, I fell for his lies. I also had to pretend to be a Catholic. Oh, I did all the motions and such, but, I never really believed in religions. I did it to appease my superiors. Now, once off the boat, I thought it would be cars, boats and planes to get us around. Not so. We walked. Yes, walked. I must have walked thousands of miles through terrain you would not believe. Its was the only way you could get to the out of the way villages. Some people say a rifle is your best weapon in Africa. Nonsense. A good pair of water proof hiking boots will do you far more good. You see, all the villages are just filthy. The people aren’t. The places they live are. They have to keep all their livestock inside these kraals at night to protect them from predators. There is horrible mud everywhere except the main village where the Burundi chief and his extended family reside. Now, my first month in what was to be called the Belgian Congo, I get these horrible parasites in my feet. They get beneath your skin, then lay eggs. Just terrible itching. Then, your feet swell up. I was going to be flown back to France for medical care when a Swahili medicine man informed my boss that he could heal me for five goats. I would have gone through anything to get rid of those things. He first puts my foot up onto his knee, then, lays out an assortment of very thin, sharp sticks. Actually, they were thorns from a bush I was to find out later. He is also stuffing his toothless mouth with a mixture of tobacco and herbs. Once he felt he had the correct mixture, he spits the mass onto my bare foot. It drove the heads of the parasitic worms out of my foot. As they wriggled in the juice, he would hook them with one of his thorns and extract them very slowly so as not to break their segments. It took him about an hour for one foot. After he completed my other foot, He gave my feet a liberal spitting and waved me away, cured. His young assistant later told me to keep putting tobacco juice on my feet for a few days to wipe out an residual egg cases. He told me the rest of the herbs and such were mostly for show and effect. I spent a few days resting, then, end up going off with a Belgian team who needed an interpreter for a big project they were conducting. It ended up taking up almost five years of my life. (to be continued…)