A Not So Boring Life

My Ten Rules for Visiting Machu Picchu Machu Picchu!  Famed lost city of the Inca Empire nestled deep in the Peruvian mountains at an altitude of around 7,972 feet above sea level:  hidden from the outside world for centuries; patrimony of humanity; mystical destination of hundreds of thousands of tourists from around the world.  Who could pass up an opportunity to do this once in a lifetime visit - especially when colleagues were willing to make most of the arrangements and all I had to do was pony up the cash?  So I signed up. Rule Number 1:   Don’t let others take decisions for you . My ears should have perked up when the word ‘trek’ entered into the plans.  A guided trek along part of the INCA trail could be had for just a few dollars more.  “Oh, don’t worry” they said “this is the LESSER trail. It will be GREAT!”  You get off the train (Yes, you heard me:  train.  Nice, comfortable engine-drawn cushion-seated coaches that wind gently along the Vilcanota River direct t

Introductions to life and death. Having a dad who was a volunteer fireman, part-time ambulance driver and a deputy Game Warden in addition to his full time job as a guard at the Riverside Merck plant, allowed me to be aware - sometimes even a part of - a wide variety of some of the more exiting aspects of life in Danville during the 50s, 60s and early 70s.  I remember how as kids we would stop what we were doing to listen closely to the sound of the town fire alarm as it roared out the series of short blasts, the pattern of which would let you know in which of the wards the fire was located.  I knew that Dad, if he was not working, would be jumping into our family car and heading for the Washie’s Fire Company to roll out one of the red pump and ladder trucks that would rush to the scene.  As Danville is not that big, I would sometimes hop on my bicycle, pedal to where the fire was and watch him at work unrolling the long hoses, connecting up to the hydrant and watering down the fl

An Eye for an Eye…. I believe I used this same title for an earlier blog, but it fits, so I will use it again. It’s not the first time I have encountered the notion of blood feuds.  I think many of us in the U.S.  grew up with the stories of the 30-year-long Hatfield and McCoy feud that took place in the late 1800s in the rural mountains of Virginia and Kentucky.  That battle between two extended families was even caricatured with cartoons depicting what were considered humorous incidences of backwoods and backward members of the families taking potshots at each other at every opportunity.  The actual feud began with the death of a member of the McCoy family who returned home after fighting in the civil war for the Union and was killed for ‘disloyalty’ by a Hatfield relative who was a member of a group of ex-confederate home guards.   Over a dozen members of the two families were killed as a result of the ensuing campaign of vengeance. I came across the concept of family f

Marbles are for... Somewhere between unsuccessfully trying to suppress a few sobs at the poignancy of flawed humanity and experiencing a deeply satisfying grin as Bill Murray over-sings Bob Dylan’s “Shelter from the Storm” during the credits of my second watching of the movie “St, Vincent” on Netflix, I was hit with a memory from long ago Junior High School as Murray’s Vince, recovering from a stroke, was made to pick up marbles with his toes and deposit them into a nearby bowl.  A strange thing to associate, is it not? But that is what well-done fiction is all about: connecting us with both universal and very personal things. Along about 1964, shortly after the assassination of JFK and still under the influence of his school- based physical education initiative, our local school officials had every student evaluated in terms of stature and other physical qualities.  I remember standing sideways in front of a graphed board set up in what doubled as the Junior High gym and lunc

HOME DELIVERY I would get up in the early morning and hurriedly pull on a pair of denim pants, patterned shirt and a pair of beat-up sneakers to scoot out the backdoor and up the six or so blocks past the Junior High, cutting through the parking lot of the laundromat on Market Street and into the alleyway leading to the squat cinder-block building with a large garage-like door on the left and a small office to the right.  Although still dark, there was a bustle of activity on the street and in the building as the three refrigerated trucks waited their turn to back halfway through the open bay to load plastic cases holding quart, half-gallon and gallon containers of pasteurized milk, along with pints and half-pints of chocolate milk, heavy cream and half-and-half.  As a helper on the morning retail run covering second and third and fourth wards, I would begin the day’s shift stacking the crates of milk along the walls of the back of the truck, arranging them for easy access acc

Reflections on Hair I am about to cut all the hair on my head and shave off all of my facial hair. It started as a simple fund raising idea for the organization I work for.  In a gambit to raise a minimum of $1500 from friends and family, I foolishly promised that I would let myself be subjected to a Kojak-like do-over if it happened.  And it did.  For those of you who might not know who the 1970’s TV character Kojak was, he was a detective.  A bald detective.  A lollipop sucking bald detective.  And I will soon be like him. Well, maybe not the lollipop part. But first, before I submit to a public shearing, I feel the need to reflect back over all the different manifestations my hair and I have gone through over the years. When I was between the ages of 3 to 12 years, I didn’t know that there was any kind of haircut other than the flattop.  It was an uncomplicated thing:  you went to the corner barber shop, sat in the hydraulic chair (on the kid seat that lay across the ar

Something, maybe a snatch of music, possibly a reference to the time I was a literacy Vista Volunteer in Pittsburgh, drew up this memory: My best guess would be that he was around 70 years old.  He wore a herring bone suit that had seen better days; a sweat-soiled white shirt; a pair of scuffed, lace up black shoes.  He placed a battered Homburg on the counter beside me as he ordered a cup of coffee.  When he turned to say good morning, looking me up and down, checking out my half-eaten eggs and finally locking me in with a penetrating gaze of slightly bloodshot eyes, I knew a story was coming.  The best ones usually come about through chance meetings and the time and willingness to listen.  It was Saturday, I had nothing better to do, and the second cup of coffee was free.  He told me that he was a debt collector during the thirties.  He alluded to, but didn’t quite say, that it was basically a strong arm job, chasing out-of-luck debtors for one of the hundreds of fly-by-nigh

Now that’s what you could call….uh…perseverance? Toward the end of 1971, I was still pretty young.  And relatively healthy (despite the recreational inclination of those iconic 70s and a two year old cigarette habit that would last for another 40 years).  I was also serving time in the U.S. Army as a clerk/typist running an offset printer in a tiny, windowless room on the first floor of the Army Security building at Fort Meade, Maryland.  I still wonder about that from time to time but heck, we all do things throughout life that don’t necessarily fit in with who we are.  Or aren’t. So, the healthy part:  Three friends and I started getting up early to run laps around an on-base park.  It wasn’t really any kind of physical regimen - more a group activity that wasn’t regulated by any part of our military lives. One day we saw a bulletin board notice about an informal inter-unit track and field competition.  It included all the usual events – shot put,  javelin throw, long jump,