CANCER - Now What?

Cancer . . . Now What?

They found a growth in my kidney. Did my life change? Not really. Hey, at 76 stuff is bound to happen. I’m so grateful that the tumor was found early. I even heard the word “curable” - not treatable, but curable. A blessing right there. 

I got two kidneys. I know I can live with just one - another blessing. Looks like stage one, they say - another blessing. I should be able to walk out of the hospital within four to seven days, no therapy afterward - another blessing.

However, as a human being I also realize at my age it could be worse, a lot worse. Words like aggressive, spread, swollen nymph nodes, chemo are often used with the word cancer. To be honest, I really don’t know what may be hidden.

So I start to think about what comes next. I’m not talking about the operation or the recovery period. I’m thinking about the term everyone seems to mention . . . “He or she is in a better place.”

To the public at large, Christians included, the words “a better place” is used so flippantly. It generally suggests that death is a step into the right direction and everyone, from your cat, to the crook, to the pedophile is heading there after they leave this earth. Hog wash!

The devil is not in charge of “The Better Place.” He has been twisting the Truth since the beginning trying to fill his place, a place called Hell.

“Broad is the road that leads to destruction, and narrow the road to everlasting Life.” the word of God says.

Everlasting life, or Heaven, is where I am going. Prepared for me by one named Jesus, who has atoned my sins and calls me son.

So I got to ponder what my better place, my heaven, is like.

Pearly gates and golden streets are nice. No more tears, heartaches, or pain is great. Not only will I be with my Savior forever, but everything associated with evil will be gone.

I broke this glorious thought down even more. All communication and intent will be positive.

I went to the dictionary and looked to words that start with “de-”. Just a small section of the tens of thousands of words - words that have negative meanings and will not be in use or be necessary to describe anything in my Heaven.

Here are a few:

Debility, decay, decease, deceit, deception, decline, decompose, decrepit, deface, defame, defeat, defect, defiant, deficient, defile, defraud, degenerate, degrade, deject, delusion, demean, demise, demonize, deplete, depress, deprive, deride, despair, despise, destroy, detest, devious.

In my Better World there Satan is not in charge. It is a perfect world, a world without evil. 

In The Classroom

The following is an excerpt of my expanded childhood autobiography. This story happened in 1952, Munich Germany. Mr Kurtz was my sixth grade teacher. 

Just think, this may not have been the best way to teach respect for authority, but I sure learned it then and I still respect all authority. My parents, my teachers, my boss, my police department, and most of all my God.

IN THE CLASSROOM
Mr. Kurtz was a tough teacher. He had to be. With so many schools bombed out, the class sizes often topped fifty students.
Two kids sat at a slanted desk which had the bench attached to it. Two ink wells holes and a fountain pen rest were on the upper portion of the desk. A little pot of ink nestled in each hole. The aisles between the rows of students went

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from front to back and were just wide enough for the teacher to ease through.
Mr. Kurtz often stood at the back of the room to observe his students during dictation or quiz time. He was a stickler for making sure no one dared to do other than the assignment at hand. If one whispered, or even turned their head, he would approach from behind and grab the person by the short hair behind the ears. He’d pull quietly and steadily upward until the lad was in a standing position. Then for good measure he pulled a little higher.
His pointing stick, a thin hardwood rod, also substituted as a formidable disciplinarian. To receive this prize of correction for your mis- deeds, one had to stand before the class, stand erect, hold out your right hand horizontally, and receive a minimum of six lashes. The fingers smarted mightily after such a licking. Every fin- ger swelled and together the whole hand trem- bled. However, pain or trembling was no excuse for poor penmanship. Penmanship was always graded, and proper spelling was always ex- pected whenever we wrote anything at school, including notes and homework.
One day, during a class-wide written test, with the teacher seemingly busy at his desk, I

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thought it safe enough to get a boy’s attention in the next row; for what reason I don’t remember. Mr. Kurtz spotted my misdeed as I reached across the isle with my foot to touch the other fellow’s leg. I didn’t realize how big a crime I had committed until he called me to the front of the class. As soon as I stood before him he gave me a wicked blow across the face with the back of his right hand. This made my nose bleed pro- fusely. I stood at the classroom’s corner sink as blood poured out of my nose. For many minutes I dripped while the rest of the class finished the test.
I was still bent over the sink after the lunch bell rang and everybody had left the classroom. I do not recall when the bleeding finally sub- sided, but my mother and the school’s headmas- ter came to the classroom and called Mr. Kurtz out into the hall. As Mother and I exchanged quick glances, I could tell she would have liked to mete out a lashing herself. Not to me, but to the teacher.
That evening at home I asked Mom how she knew I had been struck across the face. As it turned out, a friend of mine gave up her lunch period to run home to tell my mother. That friend was Monika.

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I Didn't Say Enough

I Didn’t Say Enough

We recently had to have a small repair performed on our vehicle. The SUV stayed at the shop for several days.

During the repair work the men had to keep the door open for an extended time. This drained the battery. Since we were gone for most of the week, the additional time and cold weather totally drained the little zap that was left in the battery.

I drove Carol to the repair shop the day we picked up the completed vehicle. I went into the shop while Carol enjoyed the warmth of my truck outside. It was a cold day.

A couple of the worker finally brought the SUV around for Carol to drive away. I stayed in the shop knowing the owner and some of the employees. We had a jolly good time talking everything from eating beyond capacity, fishing, and other bloopers of years gone by.

It was not long after Carol had gone for gas and a few groceries that I received a phone call that the car does not start. Typical, that from a man, I simply said, “Just get out the jumper cable, stand outside of your car, wave the bright yellow cable and surely someone will soon stop to help.”

Well, that didn’t sit to well. Carol made a point, and correctly so, that she is not going to stand outside and wave a yellow cable.

Carol had left the shop and went less than a half of a mile. She was stuck at the Walmart gas station. She had turned off the ignition, as instructed on a sign. When she finished pumping, and turned the key to start the car, all she heard was a series of tick-tick-ticks.

I had just arrived home when her phone call told me of her predicament. It took me ten more minutes to get there and begin to quell the situation.

When I got to the gas station, with my 22feet-long pickup, there was no place for me to get into position other than block two lanes of gas pumps.

The cables were under the back seat of her car. Easy–? The battery was so dead it did not even let her unlock the rear door for me to retrieve the cable. Carol was in the driver’s seat. Being of a short stature, her seat was well advanced forward, with her elbows resting on the steering wheel.

How dead was the battery? So dead she could not even move the seat back.

So, how does one get the cables from under the back seat when the door is locked and the driver is up against the steering wheel?

Nimble is the answer. With great vigor Carol stretched, wiggled, and writhed her way slowly down to the floor in back, to reach under the seat for the cable.

Finally, like a participant of one carrying the Olympic Torch, Carol emerged from the back of the seat with the cables in hand.

The rest was routine. I should have told her not to turn the car off. After all, I did see the men having to jump-start the SUV at the shop.

Maybe I was a bit too busy telling tall tales to the guys in the shop.

Truth is, I didn’t say enough to Carol.

The Christmas Goose

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".
The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

Several times we enjoyed a goose for Christmas. I wonder, looking back, how did Mother do it? I wouldn't doubt she cashed in a silver coin for it, one she illegally hoarded in the early forties. No such thing as a frozen goose existed in that day. Freshly butchered, was the only way to have one in the forties. Though I never witnessed the butchering act, it must have happened nearby, because after the head came off the blood was drained immediately into a pot for future use.

The next step in this holiday ritual was to dunk the lifeless goose into scalding water. It took our big pot to do this, and many sticks of wood to get the water boiling.

After the scalding part, our little family plucked the feathers, all the feathers off the bird. Even the undeveloped pinfeathers under the wings and in hidden folds of the bird. All were diligently plucked.

Mom carefully removed the non-edible innards; they were but a few. She scrubbed the goose’s feet, chopped them off the bird, and dropped them into the pot that held the drained goose blood. The neck she cut off and put into the same pot to marinade. The gizzard she turned inside out, cleaned it, and it also ended up in the same pot.

The heart and the fresh liver we split in half. After they were salted and peppered they were fried on the spot. It made a lip-smacking snack, whetting our appetite for the feast to come.

We stuffed our Christmas goose then baked it in the oven. The stuffing included chopped stale bread and hard rolls, onions, celery, parsley, a couple of eggs, some sage, and salt and pepper. It all was tossed together with scalded milk to get a loose moist mixture.

Throughout the year, every meat dish was always expanded with much gravy. The Christmas goose was certainly no exception. Gravy not only stretched a meal, but it added comfort to the other trimmings. Gravy had the taste of meat, and when one closed their eyes, it was meat.

Of course, the rendered goose grease was considered gold. Mom skimmed it off the gravy, a golden yellow, granular spread when cooled. It easily spread on sliced rye bread, with a little salt added, and made a mighty treat when the winds and snows howled. We also saved a bit of that yellow gold for medicinal purposes. Mom stored it in the cold, curtained off room, in a Nivea Creme jar. (see the Home Remedies section in the book)

Story has it, the Christmas goose got its fat from being force fed. The way my mother explained it, the goose was simply penned-up in a cage and systematically forced to eat much more than normal. This was done by holding the head of the goose back, prying open its beak, then stuffing food down the throat with the handle of a wooden spoon. Not a comforting picture, but it rendered a fat goose and a bounty of yellow gold.

(Look for the post on what we did with the goose blood)

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St Nick had nothing to do with Christmas

The following is an excerpt from my book "After The GIs - The Immigrant".
The time was in the mid to late 1940s in Post War Germany.

THE MAGIC OF CHRISTMAS IN THE MID 40’s

Practically every day on the Catholic calendar was dedicated to honor a saint. That day, if your name was the same as the saint's, you celebrated your Name Day. December the sixth is Saint Nickolaus’ day. The Catholic’s celebration of Saint Nick has nothing to do with Christ Jesus and His birthday. Activities honoring Saint Nick were a bit unusual and were not related to what is called Christmas in America.

In my younger days, Saint Nick visited the homes of families on the sixth of December. We didn't have malls or television, so the only way a kid got to see this colorful character, bearded and royally cloaked in red, was when parents thought it worthy to either reward or punish their children. . . .Let me tell you what I mean.

Saint Nick was always dressed in a red coat with white cuffs. He wore a tall hat like the Pope would during certain religious festivities. He walked with a tall staff in one hand and was proud of his long white beard. He toted a sack over his shoulder with goodies in it.

When Saint Nick came to visit the home on the evening of the sixth, he would ask the parents for a report on the behavior of the children during the previous year. If the child was deserving he or she may receive a few cookies, apples, nuts, or rock candy, along with a little admonishment to strive to be an even better person the coming year.

To have a Saint Nick come to one’s house, parents visited a local Gasthaus where men, wearing Saint Nick outfits, were gathered and waited to be hired.
However, for children who really needed a bit of additional reprimanding, Saint Nick’s helper, Knecht Rupprecht, would have to come along. This Knecht Rupprecht doled out the deserved punishment––as he saw fit!

Oh my, my!––This Knecht, he was an ugly, bent over, mean-looking creature. He dragged a long and heavy chain on the ground behind him. This introduced him as the coming of doom. One could hear the chain clanging as he smacked it onto the cobble stones. He would snort and grunt and would make eerie noises as he came up the front walkway, or up the steps, to pay the wayward child a visit.

He wore a sackcloth mantle over his shoulders and a crude rope tied around his waist. His hair, dark and scraggly, stuck out from under his floppy, black, wide-brimmed hat. He was marked with dark shadows under his beady eyes and showed a deep frown that extended down from each side of his mouth.

I recall one night in the mid 1940s, when our little family visited the home of a friend with two teen-aged daughters. We had a friendly and jovial visit until a terrifying commotion outside the house suddenly entered my ears and heart. Wow!––What?––Sure enough, Knecht Rupprecht approached the closed front door. Through the window I saw Saint Nick restraining his Knecht from totally going mad and breaking down the door. My sister and I shivered. I vowed never to do anything wrong as long as I lived. We did not want to face this evil creature at our house!

Saint Nick and his sidekick entered the house. The room filled with evil. I had slid down in my chair and was barely able to watch the goings-on above the table’s top. After a brief report from the girls' mother, the Knecht stomped and smacked his wooden switch on the floor. With much huffing and snorting, he started to chase the giggling girls around the house and into the bedroom. Soon the calamity subsided. The girls had received their reward. I, however, could not understand the disrespect these girls had for an individual of such authority.

I also remember on one such night when a young boy, a little older than me, still having respect for “The Authority” was rewarded with Rupprecht's whipping cane. After a good salting, the naughty boy found himself stuffed in Knecht Rupprecht’s sack. The Knecht, grunting and mumbling, carried the boy, over his shoulders, into the night. Several hundred yards from the boy’s house he shook the boy from the sack into the deep snow in the forest. The boy received additional stern warnings and was told to find his way back home in the dark.

After that ordeal, I bet the boy had to change his clothes from the inside out!

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Going To Bed Was Not Punishment

This is one of more than a hundred stories now published and on Kindle at Amazon.
The book captures my early life until I was seventeen years old.

GOING TO BED WAS NOT PUNISHMENT

My mother, a firm believer in much fresh air even in the coldest of weather, often bundled me up and sent me out to play. My mother’s knitting turned me into a wool-wrapped mummy. With a couple of wool sweaters, a cap, mittens, scarf, knitted underwear, and socks, I played until my feet got cold. My feet got cold when the socks got wet. The socks got wet because my britches were too short and snow crawled down into my shoes.  –I had no boots.

Likewise, my sister, never too young for fresh air, was wrapped and tucked in woolens, placed in the carriage, and set out to enjoy the day. I was told not to wander off too far, and to keep an eye on Sis.

During cold weather it seemed like it snowed all the time. One day, while I was supposed to be keeping an eye on Sis, I was having the best time and was not paying much attention to the thick squalls of snow coming down. I totally forgot about little sister, as did Mom. When I finally checked on her, the carriage had filled with snow, except around Dagmar’s little head where her face lay peacefully napping.

No one heard of babysitters back then. The oldest sibling was in charge. He or she knew the routine, the rules of the family, and decisions were backed by the parents. The same was true at our house.

In the evenings when my sister and I were left alone at home, beginning when I was barely five years old, we had to fend for ourselves. Dagmar, three years younger, went to bed around dusk. I usually returned to the kitchen table, the center of all activities.
Again, I’d like to mention the extreme quietness of life in those times. The dome shaped kitchen clock supplied a constant ticking that soothed and somewhat mesmerized. A little crackling in the stove made the evening complete. When all the fire died, I also went to bed.

Bed was a heavenly place, a refuge from the cold. On very cold nights, when Mom was home, we preheated the foot area of the bed with a warm water bottle, which was a solid brass, oval container, highly polished, and a little bigger than a three-pound loaf of bread. It sported a screw-on cap on top. A little chain soldered to the bottle and cap kept them from being separated. The warm water bottle easily slid under and around the featherbed to desired spots; the hot water inside doing its magic. A wonderful addition to life indeed.

We used other tricks to warm the bed. Several hot clothes irons, wrapped in towels, as well as a hot cobble stone, heated in the oven, made wonderful bed warmers. I remember sneaking up to the bed, reaching in, arms stretched out, and moving the warming objects around under the feather covers until heaven was ready.

When we jumped into bed in the winter time, we lay between a feather tick under us, and a feather bed as thick as a fat man’s belly on top of us. The pillow, also stuffed with feathers, was as wide as the bed. When my head hit it, it collapsed around my ears.
In the dead of winter when the stone walls of the building absorbed the outside cold, I’d pull my knitted hat down over my face with nothing but my nose sticking out of the bed. On occasion the horses below kicked their stalls, in a way signaling that we were all together in this challenge.

Mostly, the nights were deathly silent. Nevertheless, I cannot deny to overreacting to any creaking, cracking, and fluttering noises. When I couldn’t interpret the source, I simply crawled deeper into bed.

Many times, I remember waking up in the morning after the breath of the night’s sleep had formed a frozen circle of hard crust on the featherbed around my face. One could knock on the frost and it would sound like knocking on a door.

The bedroom’s single pane window stayed open in the summer. Being high above the dark backyard, we didn’t worry about mosquitoes. However, everything else was free to enter the room. Moths didn't try, we had no lights. Bats tried it at times, but there was nothing for them to feed on.

The neighboring cemetery had in its midst a funeral chapel. The short, squatty bell tower of that chapel was home to several large hoot owls. The owls frequently sounded off in the night and made two little kids wide-eyed and well behaved.
More than once during a season, one of the owls fluttered up to our window to have a look around. To us, the owl was so big that it had to duck to look into the room. When it decided to sit a while on our lone windowsill of the bedroom, we hunkered down. Often, it did not only look in at us, but loudly hooted; all the while bobbing its head from left to right... We prayed a lot. 

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Fantasize, The Hidden Evil

Why do women, even young girls, dress to attract men?

Being in style has nothing to do with my point.

What I'm saying, to flaunt the female shape to entice men is wrong. To reduce sex crimes should be simple: do not entice the ignorant, lustful, wretched male dogs that are traveling among our midst.

I'm sure other women looking at the emphasized shapes, motions and appearances flaunted are not impressed. And I'm sure woman do not want to sexually attract other women. So, if you are spoken for, save it all for the love of your life.

Why then do married women want to attract other men? Or, why do young impressionable girls want to attract men if they have not yet lived long enough to have witnessed the wickedness that lurks in the world and even in serene neighborhoods?

I remember when pretty ladies were used to sell a product, however, they did not sprawl their legs from one side of the ad over to the next page.
I remember when girls flirted with their eyes not with a cleavage deep enough to expose the piercing in their navel.
I remember when girls crossed their legs whenever and wherever they sat down.
I remember when panty hose were knee-high because no skirts came above the knees.
I remember when courtship was courtship. When engaged meant you promised to be married. When marriage was till death do us part.

Now, everyone is in a "Relationship". I do not mean a business relationship. This word "relationship" now can mean anything you want it to mean. Absolutely anything ! ! ! you fill in the spaces. The closet is wide open. You pick your relationship.

Do you know who said, "In as much as you lust after a woman in your heart, you have already committed adultery with her."?


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Respect for Authority

Respect for the Authority

Human nature always wants to live by its own will. If not curbed it’ll destroy all that is in its way to achieve what it desires.

When does this selfishness start, and when does the need to curb it begin?

We are all born with it. A baby may cry because it is hungry, but a toddler will whine to get what it wants. Soon the child will scream and stomp, snort and backtalk to try to get what it wants. Once in school the child now needs the latest styles in clothing and footwear and has a hard time taking orders from the teacher.

You may say that kid is just spoiled. I say that kid is destined to despise authority because eventually someone will say “No.” “No, you are not allowed to do that.” Or, “No, you cannot have that.” Now that child begins to show animosity and hate toward these authorities that are anchored in law and have been given the power to control unchecked behavior.

Soon the adults are disliked. Then the teacher is hated. Then the principal. Then the boss. Then the police. “All are against me” is their cry.

The earlier a child hears the word “No” the easier it is for him or her to understand that there are limits and that there is always an authority higher than oneself. The word "No" must stick. No means: no, period. No arguing, no deals, no capitulation. To disobey must always bring consequences.  

That is why the traditional family structure is so important. A strong and loving father figure, anchored together with his wife, can curb the natural desire of the child who always wants.

When a young person has total disregard for authority, life becomes a constant confrontation. Respect for others is secondary.

Trayvon Martin, if he had simply continued to walk through the guarded community, he would be alive today. Michael Brown if he had had total respect for authority he also would be alive today. Both cases had nothing to do with race.

Say “No” to your kids, it's good for them.

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Jump to Conclusions

Franz's Symbol of Wisdom

I have been guilty of, and so are most folks, to jump to conclusions without knowing all the facts.

The truth is, if we listen to rumors and gossip we come to conclusions and may never know the real truth, or all the facts.

The sad thing about such a situation is that we build an opinion about a person. Opinions often become a picture of the other persons character and integrity; which is sad.

We all know once we judge, or conclude on a persons character, we as humans will hardly ever change our mind. As a fact, we look for the flaws we based our characterization on to verify our opinion of that person.

We have a saying in Germany: (I'm translating) "If a person has lied to you once, you will never initially believe in him again, even if he speaks the truth." 

This opinion forming starts as soon as we meet the person. It also works the same way as ones grandchildren grow and leave an impression on you.

We recently had some grandsons over. As the day concluded, I instructed one of the twelve year olds to bring the fishing poles into the basement and lock the door. Later that night I went to the basement to see if the the door was locked. Sure enough, the deadbolt was not engaged.

The next day I went out the basement door after I flipped the deadbolt open. I started to do some chores and needed a tool out of the basement. Oops. The deadbolt might have been open, but the door was locked!

My grandson did what I asked. He did lock the round doorknob from the inside. This type of locked knob does turn from the inside, but not from the outside.

I've got to admit, in my mind I labeled the boy a little aloof, not always listening, not doing what he was told.

The fact remains, had some one else gone out the basement door before I did, I would have never altered my opinion about the boy.

I was wrong by having judged to quickly.

"Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?"  Matthew 7:3  NIV

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How To Grow Minnows

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE A TIME AND PLACEThe Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

How To Grow Minnows

In the branch below the dam we caught minnows. On occasion, one could snatch one barehanded by running it into a shallow corner, but most of the time we used a large white handkerchief. We hollowed out a low spot in the stream then stretched out the cloth and pinned it to the stream’s bottom with a few rocks on the corners. We then squatted on each side of the branch. With hands ready at the water’s edge we watched and waited quietly, motionless, until several minnows came to rest in the hollow of the kerchief. In unison and a sudden snap of the corners we pulled up the cloth. Most of the minnows darted out, but often one or two were caught. We quickly added the prized catch to a canning jar filled with water. It took quite a spell for the creek’s water to settle again, but, we had all day.

When the day’s catch reached a half dozen or more, we carried our cache uptown to my friend’s house and to their family bathtub. We filled the tub half full of water then dumped in our catch.

Now the time came, for all participating men, to hunt for food for the obviously underfed fish. If we were to see them grow to any edible size, in the tub? . . . we had to feed them. Well, down to the branch we returned to catch some morsels of food out of the fish’s natural habitat.

Worms, snails, bugs, flies, grasshoppers, and leeches were a good start. The leeches we realized were hard to find. They stuck on slippery algae under the sheet of water running over the pond’s dam. Those critters, kind of orange-red with a jagged sucking cup on one end, would rather stick themselves to our bodies than be shoved into a jar.

Well, we gathered enough food, what we considered, for the minnows in the tub to grow to some good sized fish. It included all the food groups, worms, flies, grasshoppers, bugs, and snails, all stuffed into the glass jar. Uptown we jaunted, and simply dumped the jar full of creepy things into the bathtub.

While the project still dwelled on our minds we’d check on the minnows before the day was done. However, after a few days we found most of the fish food had died in the tub or had merely crawled out to greener pastures. A week or so later, it was reported that the minnows also had croaked.

This gets me wondering, with my now Americanized brain, why did that family have a tub when no one used it for over a week?

As to the extent of our own washing, most days Mom just wiped and rubbed me down with a coarse, damp rag. She swiftly hit a lick around the face and behind the ears, and checked for black-looking sweat rings on the neck. We washed our own feet, followed by a cursory inspection by Mom to make sure the rust was off before we crawled into bed.

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We Raced Snails

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE A TIME AND PLACEThe Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

We Raced Snails

In damp places, under dense, dark trees, where the sun never shined, and the rain had washed the ground bare, we raced snails. Big snails, the ones who carried their houses on their backs, were thought to be the real racehorses.

We readied the track by scratching into the dirt a starting and finishing line. Side line markers were made out of thin sticks to guide the snails to the goal line. Behind the starting lines we made chutes out of sticks to point the snails in the right direction.

We picked big, wide-bodied snails with their houses seemingly too small for their size. We figured they’d be faster because they didn’t have to carry the extra weight of a large house. Strategy! Strategy!

Well, the race started when the snails were placed in the chutes behind the starting line. Their heads had to face toward the finish line. Of course, when one picked up the critter, the head and tail disappeared into their house. One had to be aware which end was where, as not to place your racer with the south end facing north onto the starting line.

We laid on our belly and waited. It took quite a spell for the snail’s body to expand and reappear. Good thing it was cool and comfortable under those dense bushes and trees. Slowly, the slimy glob got bigger. Like two tiny bumps, the eyes came out of the snail house first. Soon they expanded outward; eyes on two little sticks with a distinct dark pupil at the end of each.

The race had officially started. To yell and cheer the snails on did not work. All it would do was scare it back into its shell. So, you left your racer alone. The snail usually just sat there a while and checked out the new environment. As it oriented itself––it laughed at us.

Well, after a minute or so of orientation the snail still had not moved a sliver toward the finish line. We laid low, quiet, and motionless. Finally, all still and safe, the snails began to slither leaving a thin trail of shiny slime.

One would think, with eyes as good as theirs, stuck way out there on those little stems, they could see better. After all, us boys had the finish line and the side lines clearly marked. Yet those dumb snails were determined to veer off to the left or right or even turn around. Once the race began we agreed not to pick up our racers and face them in the right direction. However, we could place a stick to one side or the other if our snail started to veer way off track. Every time we did that, the dumb critter retracted into its shell. It then took its good old time coming back out, look around, before slothfully continuing toward the goal.

I never won a snail race, nor did anyone else. After an hour’s worth of racing, the racers, having traveled hardly the length of one’s hand, were certainly not worn out, but the trainers were. So, we went on to more exciting things.

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The Perfect Wind Ensemble

A shorter version of this story is in my book "A TIME AND PLACE The Making of an Immigrant." I have expanded the story and it will be published as part of an e-book in the near future.

The Perfect Wind Ensemble

The following year, I was selected to yet another, and different summer camp. Nuns managed the camp and took care of us.

The place we slept in was different from where we napped. I remember this camp well. Nuns took our temperature under the arm and not the more intrusive way to which I had been accustomed.

Because of an outbreak of mumps, five of us boys were quarantined in one room for a while. So, how do five boys pass time during a quarantine?

During such a time, and the close-knit camaraderie with the other four boys, I learned that flatulence was considered funny. Naturally, each of us in that room wanted to be the funniest. Contests to determine a winner were regularly held.

To counter boredom, we selected players and scorekeepers to judge teams consisting of two boys against the other two. The fifth boy was appointed to keep score. We rotated players and judges so all could get into the competition. Acceptable outbursts were scored in goals. A given timeframe was chosen, much like a soccer tournament.

Much twisting and grunting dominated the event. The scorekeeper had to show keen discernment between a real goal and one fabricated by other means. Accidents did happen––which resulted in frequent trips to the privy.

I learned during those educational times, that the desired noise can quite accurately be duplicated. This is done by placing a cupped hand under the armpit, and then quickly pressing the arm inward. With a little practice, the desired sound always erupted. Well, such learning was considered a magnificent achievement for all five of us. We practiced those joyous sounds until we sounded like the perfect five-piece wind ensemble.

Our wisdom expanded and we even came up with a ten piece orchestra. We learned that by spitting into our palms to dampen them, we could lie on our backs, place a cupped hand under each of our knees and pedal our legs; similar to the pumping of a bicycle. This combined effort filled the room with triumphant music that fed uproarious laughter and giggles. . . .Thank God for the mumps.

An Ode To The King

An Ode To The King

by

Franz X Beisser

Ah, Christmas, the season of sharing––what annual fun,

If we’re not careful, it can get quite overdone.

Giving shirts, more shirts with sales tag wagging.

Fancy ties and dapper hats, all not worth the bragging.

Long-johns, how many does a fellow need?

One in the drawer, and one doing its deed.

Does a guy need a present from the digital world?

For fifty years he was without it––why now be spoiled?

Does a guy need a book on gardening means,

When still in the freezer are last century’s beans?

So what are the best gifts the old guy should get?

Treats––like the pooch for good behavior,––you bet!

A sack full of goodies such the wife cannot stand.

Goodies all aged and packaged in a mystery land.

With labels printed in silver and gold Chinese,

Ingredients and spices added by pious Mongolese.

The goodies must explode with sharpness and flavor,

Only a man with exquisite palate and grit would savor.

Pickled eggs, hot cherry peppers to make the mouth pucker.

Black olives, purple and green, for which I am a sucker.

Herrings, kippered and smoked, in wine sauce sour.

Sardines, spiced and skinned, in bites ready to devour.

I love smoked fishes in olive oil layered two deep,

Or singed in hot sauce, a true memory to keep!

Smoked oysters from the Mekong’s clean waters, the ultimate treat!

Stuffed with pride into shiny new cans, sealed and packaged all neat.

Why not soft and hard cheeses, some born years ago,

Still improving with age as surely you do know!

Brie, how delicate its flavor, on a cracker sprinkled with pepper,

Or layered inside a hot baked potato, oh my, what could be better!

Camembert, its fast growing mold so pungent and white––

Paired with onions on seeded rye, a man’s true delight.

Smoked Edam and Gouda makes great little cubes,

Much superior to anything squeezed from a plastic tube.

Cheeses, bring them on!––Havarti, Fontina and Asiago too.

And don’t forget, the Kaiser of cheeses must make his debut.

The aroma arrives first with it an instant cheer.

I offered to share it, but none dared to come near.

All the other cheeses stood respectful in the wing,

Smiling, bowing to their ruler––Limburger the King!

I have gained eight pounds since last Christmas so fine,

Eating cheeses for breakfast, supper and at snacking time.

For weeks my wife noticed a gathering fragrance in the fridge.

I did not tell her, but knew the King waxed picante and rich.

It was well into January when the King took the stand.

An anointing with pomp was his rightful demand!

My wife, all giddy with joy, went quilting from morning till four.

From the fridge stepped my King, as she closed the front door.

Basking on fine china he blended to room temperature,

Giving a boost to its excellent flavor and aroma for sure.

The knife, the onion, and rye bread were ready for duty.

All waiting to give honor and elevate that aging beauty.

A little Mozart added to lift my heart’s dancing,

The dog aroused from deep sleep came prancing.

It wasn’t the music, the smell the onion was making.

It was the scent of something dead that caused his awaking.

Poo-bear, I said, this heavenly treat is for Papa alone.

I promise you will lick the plate––better than an old bone.

His tail wagged with anticipation as my nostrils flared,

To take a good bite now, was all that I cared.

Discarding the crust, so pungent and ripe, would be a sin.

A nibble of it made my palate explode. Wow––truly a win!

The crunch of the onion supported the creamy inside,

Delivered by the rye bread––with chest-pounding pride.

Each bite built more flavor on top of the last,

I enjoyed every morsel till noon day long passed.

My wife will be home shortly, the aroma still in my nose,

And wafting happily through the house I suppose.

I opened the deck door and a window or two,

Praying for the breeze to freshen the air all new.

The wrapper I buried deep in three zip-tight bags,

Then I noticed the pooch’s boisterous wags.

Come here my little brother in crime,

Lick this plate clean, we don’t have much time.

I scrubbed my hands and finger nails too,

Bent in the sink to rinse my mustache with bubbly shampoo.

The scented candle gently crackled and hissed,

While I sat in the chair waiting by my love to be kissed.

Its been a long day and I did miss my wife,

But the King of all cheeses had added to life.

She bounded through the door all jolly and filled,

Then drew a deep breath for a greeting so fine––WHAT STINKS?