Defining "Humane"

    "Why is a noble hound over yonder on a manure heap . . .?
     "If he were what he was when Odysseus left for Troy he would soon show you what he could do. There was not a wild beast in the forest that could get away from him . . . But he has fallen on evil times . . . for his master is gone."   Homer, The Odyssey.

     Tonka and several other dogs were accepted by the Humane Society of Sarasota County in July 2012, transferred from Sarasota County Animal Services whose kennels were at that moment full. She had been picked up as a stray and was perhaps 14 months old. Today Tonka is 2 and a half years and has been in the shelter for over a year. There has been a concerted effort by HSSC staff and volunteers to make her a "good citizen" and have her adopted by a "qualified" person. She needs special handling at all times. Tonka's bred is matter of debate. She is almost 50 pounds, short haired, beige with a white stomach and a dab on each paw. Her eyes are yellow and nose skin is pinkish. Tonka is listed as a Pit Bull Terrier mix. If you Google search "Pit Bull Terrier" the pictures that appear are distant relatives of Tonka. Now Google search "Thai Ridgeback" - what appear are her close cousins. She has the ears and body structure but is missing the hairy ridge down her spine that also distinguishes TRs. In its place is a 2 inch scar and a line of seven white spots. (Tonka does have distinctive ridges running down the back of her hind legs.) If Tonka is a TR mix she is something special - there are only a couple of hundred TRs in the United States. It is also a source of Tonka's problems. TRs are not fully domesticated - perhaps 80% of the way. At HSSC there are two outstanding animal behaviorists - one believes Tonka is a Thai Ridgeback mix and one does not.
     As Tonka's stay at the shelter continued I became more involved with her. The past several months I have worked with her 3 or 4 times a week. We have become close friends. On Wednesdays and Fridays Tonka would jump into the back of my car, put her front paws on the console between the front seats and slather my face. As the car began to move she would get down and lay on the floor in the back. We would ride to Sarasota's Bay Front Park and walk. Our other destination was often the path around Dead Man's Lake in the Meadows. We also patrolled the HSSC neighborhood between 12th and 17th Streets. The objective of our outings was to get Tonka to relax and control herself when surrounded by distractions. She needed exposure to people, traffic and noise. She behaved best walking 17th and 12th streets - much traffic - she would walk by my leg, ears and tail down and the leash loose. On the path in the Meadows she was OK requiring snacks when sighting other walkers. For strange dogs she would bark and rear up ready to engage - I would reverse course.
The Bay Front had the most distractions, people, children, fountains, dogs, boats and Tonka wished to investigate everything. I could keep her under control and concentrating on me with snacks - sometimes - but frequently my only recourse was outright retreat. Eventually we walked along the Bay only where there were no people. It also occurred to me when Tonka was raging and I was working to reestablish control - what would happen if at that instant I was struck by a meteor or had a stroke - who would get hurt? At the end of each walk I would find a bench with a panoramic view - sail boats, sun and sea. Tonka would jump up next to me, sit and shoulder to shoulder we would share snacks and a bottle of water. Tonka is a wonderful, affectionate and gentle dog.
     Tonka bit the Vet Technician. She did not draw blood. But when combined with her aggressive behavior she was deemed too dangerous to be adopted out by HSSC. Furthermore staff is not expected to accept dog bites as a condition of employment. So Tonka has fallen on evil times. She has not found a master. Adoption by me is not an option because of condo regulations and other reasons. So Tonka must be either euthanized or moved from the HSSC "shelter" to a "refuge" where no animal is terminated - assuming one can be found with a vacant cage. Animals can be adopted from a refuge under strict conditions. But most dogs are warehoused for the duration of their lives.
     Thoroughly depressed I went to HSSC to learn of Tonka's fate. In her old cage was a new dog. Waiting for a meeting I took Walker, a happy, young hound out to get some exercise. In the yard I exchanged greetings with another coach. The sound of my voice was met with a loud eruption of mournful cries from the back of the building. Tonka was still on campus in an isolation cage in Pod 3.
She had heard me and the wailing continued until I secured permission and took her out of the cage. Then we hugged.
     So distinguished reader - you decide what should happen to Tonka - which would be more "humane"? Should Tonka be "put down" or should she be "caged" for life? What you decide is the way this piece ends.

    

Ancient Incidents - Hartwick College in the USSR

 

     We walked past the headquarters of Gosplan, the Soviet State Planning Agency, on the way to the auditorium in downtown Moscow. (1980s) My college group consisted of about 25 individuals. Already seated were another 50-60 students and faculty from Penn State. We were there to have a frank and friendly exchange of views with Soviet officials from an unnamed agency. Three men were seated on the stage ready to receive questions. The first came from Penn State students. "How many people did Stalin murder?" No response from the stage. "Will the Soviet Union ever have free elections?" The panelists neither responded or even moved. With the third question "How many people are in the slave labor camps?" I concluded that this session would be a tedious waste of time. The next question came from a Hartwick student. To reconstruct from a flagging memory, Wayne, a first year student asked; "Considering the incredible number of things a highly developed nation produces, is it realistic to have a state agency (i.e. Gosplan) trying to determine quantities to be produced and how much goods will cost? Isn't a market economy absolutely necessary?" The Soviet officials smiled and became animated - each wanted to respond. Perhaps I am overstating but my heart leap with joy. A provocative and intelligent question - those that wished to learn via a dialogue with the Soviets were now engaged. The questions that followed were all designed to challenge, elicit information and demonstrate a knowledge of the USSR - equal to Wayne's.

     Volgograd had a reputation in the 1980s as home to a "conservative" KGB establishment. So I was surprised when my Hartwick group was invited by a local university literary group to meet one evening at the local Palace of Culture. (Once in Tbilisi, Georgia my group was invited to a similar gathering one morning and dis invited that same afternoon.) The meeting was pleasant - I wandered around watching young men and women mixing. The Russians all spoke some English and could practice it and also learn American. In one brief discussion with three Russian young women I responded to a question by precisely quoting Lenin. One responded with "Mein Gott !" which I believe is German. It was also a conversation stopper that I regretted.

     The following day I was again surprised to be informed by Jennifer (not my daughter) and two other students that they had invited the Russian students to our Hotel for a return party the following evening. I knew Jennifer was intelligent and now added "organizer" to her characteristics. We were housed in the old Hotel Intourist. (It was just around the corner from the department store that was the Stalingrad HGQ for the doomed German 6th Army.) On the fifth floor of the Hotel was a buffet with a short steam line, a few tables and when serving, staffed by three older women. The party at the buffet went off as scheduled without incident or interference - my impression was that the authorities had cut my group and their young people some slack. At 10:00 PM the buffet area was also a mess - snack wrappers, mineral water and vodka bottles, cigarette butts overwhelming ashtrays. I thought of the servers arriving to see this chaos and felt sorry for them. I also anticipated catching some hell from the Hotel administration. Then Jennifer reappeared. "Professor - I know what you are thinking - we'll take care of it." She smiled and left. So I added "clairvoyant" and "takes charge" to her personal characteristics. Happily I returned to my room. At about 7:30 AM I visited the buffet - the servers were fulfilling their duties - one guest was having tea - and the area was immaculately clean.

    Czechoslovakian Soviet Socialist Republic (1977). Customs Control had finished inspecting our train and we were now rolling through morning darkness in Austria. I lay on a lower "couchette" - in the couchette above was an alpha student with a tremendous sense of humor - Michael. My first experience taking a group of college students to the USSR was over and I was near giddy with relief. Yes, there had been problems and stress. Three days ago as our train departed Leningrad, Michael casually put his passport down in another cabin and it disappeared. We reported the theft, he was questioned, searched and of course had to surrender various parts of Soviet military uniforms he had illegally secured on the black market. No passport, no souvenirs and now the prospect of an enforced stay at the Czech border awaiting a new passport. His mood was a mix of high anxiety and profound loss. Today at the border security personnel in jumpsuits holding screwdrivers had literally disassembled the cabin where his document vanished. They found the passport stuffed up behind a petition and held two passengers for questioning. But that was then - now we were out from behind the Iron Curtain and moving rapidly towards Vienna.

     The train began to slow and then lurched to a hard stop. I heard running through the carriage aisle. The cabin door flew open and the light snapped on. Close to my nose the barrel of an assault rifle held by a soldier topped with a scarlet beret. Aroused irritable from what must have been refreshing sleep, Michael yelled "Turn off that light !" I responded "Mike shut up!"

Michael then noted the presence of the armed intruder. "Ohhh. OK!" The light went out and door closed. But no sleep for me - time instead to watch a dawn brighten and illuminate the Austrian countryside.

                                                      

 

Captain "This is my ball. I don't trust you. But if you have some chew toys perhaps we can play!"

   

 

Winter (Russia) - Summer (Venezuela)

     It has been my belief that travelers should see Russia as the armies of Sweden's Gustavus Adolphus, the Emperor Napoleon and Hitler saw it - in the winter. Snow stretches to the horizon. Overhead the skies are gray and flurries are frequent. When the sky is blue the temperature drops. On occasion Celsius and Fahrenheit meet at 40 degrees below and Moscow becomes quiet. During the day people are few, traffic is light. It is still possible to buy ice cream on a stick but one must gnaw at it. At night near silence and empty streets - only the suppressed murmur of lorry engines left running. Street lights glow yellow in the cold and vapor rises from mysterious locations. If snowing more beauty - the Kremlin and Spasskaya Tower at night, bathed in flood lights and falling snow are visual spectacles. On route from Sheremetyevo International to Moscow there is a memorial marking the closest advance of the Wehrmacht to Moscow. It consists of three tank traps - roughly 30 feet high illuminated by flood lights. Driving by at night in a wild snow storm leaves an indelible image - Russia is a tough place to send an army.
     So when my daughter Cathy, an ornithologist called one day and said "Dad, would you like to visit my research project in Venezuela?" my first thought was "They have no winter - what's to see?"
     Caracas is a bright, warm and densely populated city - the metro area has 3.4 million people. The impoverished neighborhoods climb up and over the surrounding hills. The police enter these areas only in force. Caracas has music everywhere. Walk along to the samba beat emanating from a marketplace - turn the corner and it is replaced by different pounding music - that is  in turn drowned out by other driving rhythms. We were joined by two of Cathy's friends from the USA and went to dinner walking a few blocks to a restaurant. I was happy with my "peasant's platter" rice, beans, vegetable and fried eggs - and enjoying the music. Then instantly total darkness - the restaurant and neighborhood experienced a power failure. In the time it took me to remove the fork from my mouth and find my plate the waiters were circulating with lit candles for each table. Dinner barely interrupted and now  even more pleasant by candle light.
     Our bus stopped in the middle of nothing. It was a vast, flat, hot area in the Los Llanos - and the location of the  massive ranch of Tomas Blohm . Across the two lane highway a dirt road began and after a short wait the four of us climbed into the back of a 3/4 ton pickup. The driver and his amigo had been fishing. On the truck's bed a wire loop held the catch - ten reddish, toothy, ugly piranhas - great eating we were told. At the ranch Cathy's room in a bunkhouse was beyond simple - concrete floor, green cinder block walls, steel roof, one hanging light bulb, a hammock strung up (with mosquito netting) and one window. The window had curtains and each was clutched by a sleeping bat. But biologists are a sturdy race and remarkably social. Cathy gave a dinner party one evening that she prepared, cooked, served buffet style, all the while doing instantaneous translation for her Venezuelan and American guests. All greatly enjoyed dinner - taking extreme care to keep our food covered  at all times - thus preventing disease bearing bugs from falling in from the thatched roof above. Tomas Blohm joined us for desert. (He is now deceased - dying years later.) Cathy's research on a small bird with prodigious engineering instincts - the Thornbird; Phacellodomus rufifrons - led to her receiving a Ph.D from Harvard.
     A few days later after travel by pickup truck and bus we were now in a twin engine, five seater aircraft. The plane is flying directly toward Angel Falls. Sitting next to the pilot I am looking first up at the water's source tumbling off the "tepuie" (aka mesa) and then down - but unable to see the water finish the stupendous fall. The pilot was clearly enthused - "Magnifico ! We go around again !" Then in his best imitation of a Super Marine Spitfire the small plane banked up and right circling and then charged back toward the Falls. I heard someone behind me gag.
     We touched down on a dirt strip in Canaima National Park and collected our packs. There are now six of us - we have been joined by a young couple from Spain. Our national guide is casual - shorts, open shirt, long, black hair - all Indian and proud. He leads us for a half mile down a path under a rainforest canopy and ending at a dark pond with an elderly canoe on the bank. "Now we swim" he announces. The young Spanish woman cannot swim - he helps her into the canoe. We push our packs into black garbage bags and place them in front and back of her. I eased into the warm water - it had a delicious taste - and began the 40 yard crossing. I looked back and saw our guide swimming toward me pulling the canoe by a short line. The passenger is stiff and clutching the gunnels. At a forest clearing we looked at another pond that appeared to end 30 yards away at a black wall. As instructed I swam across and grabbed a floating line. Then I pulled myself forward against a frothy rush of current and into the darkness. Quickly the water force subsides, light returns. I am standing in an exuberant, lush jungle garden with a waterfall and pond. It is surrounded by moss and leaf covered walls of the tepuie. The walls soar up as in a cathedral and open upon billowing clouds and an azure sky. This grotto - a miniature Garden of Eden - remains the most beautiful place I have been on earth.
     For decades I enjoyed winter - I skied (badly) and jogged (slowly). For years November was my favorite month - and of course delighted in the changing seasons. But travel in Venezuela began the process of converting me to an enthusiast of living in endless summer.

                    

Thornbirds

Writers

      Anton Chekhov told this story. "You know I recently visited Tolstoy in Gaspra. He was bed ridden due to illness . . . When I was about to say goodbye he took my hand and said 'Kiss me goodbye'. While I bent over him and he was kissing me, he whispered in my ear in a still energetic old man's voice 'You know I hate your plays. Shakespeare was a bad writer and I consider your plays even worse than his.' " *
     I imagined becoming a great writer from fourth grade on - remnants of the desire remain locked in a closet of my mind. At a recent social gathering I chatted over punch and carrots with a woman who had studied years ago at Middlebury College. She mentioned the Bread Loaf Writers Conference and there was a banging on that closet door. Since 1926, BLWC has been a ten day gathering of aspiring writers, led by a few prominent authors and sponsored by Middlebury College. In seminars the aspiring have the opportunity to read a piece of their work and receive comments from the successful. The New Yorker forever blessed the BLWC as "the oldest and most prestigious writer's conference in the country." **  In 1979 I was working on a manuscript - historical fiction set in the Racquette Lake region of the Adirondack Mountains. I applied for admission to the Conference and was accepted. Pleasant and vivid memories of those ten days remain.
     I must note here that BLWC is a very structured affair. Everyone at the Conference had published something but there were distinct classes.  The lowest class, the "contributors" have paid full assessment and may get a chance to read something they have produced. They are analogous to the "struggling masses". The second class consists of the faculty, fellows and "waiterships" - those who critique the work of others, read their own and waited tables - hard scrambling "apparatchiks". Finally there were the "authors" - at this Conference decades ago the stars were John Irving, John Gardner, Tim O'Brien and others. These were the "party elite". I was among the masses and the class distinctions were rigorous and enforced. (There was the occasional lapse - one star accessed the wrong bedroom one night. The woman occupant kindly explained to him his mistake. The star immediately apologized - thought for minute and then added - "Well as long as I am here perhaps ..."
She declined.
     My roommate Patrick, was an attorney from Chicago with a withering sense of humor and a protective nature. He had also published a book. After attending one of the first morning seminars Patrick and I left together. Without saying a word we went to the lunch buffet and filled trays. We proceeded to look for a place to sit. Without communication we went over and sat down across from a young woman sitting alone - "Sara". A few minutes earlier she had read a sample of her writing and the ensuing comments had ranged from simply negative to mean spirited and outright ridicule. We felt like we had witnessed a junior high school pile on. For the next hour and a half Patrick and I engaged in damaged ego relief and refurbishment. The first few minutes were awkward - we knew her not at all. But then I remember laughing - and Sara smiling, the best we could get from her - as Patrick explained the feeding habits of semi literate intellectuals and arrogant, pretentious writers.
     But there were many engaging people to meet - some seemed to be seeking "characters" to utilize in their work. Janice was already a published author of a children's book - creative, intelligent and extremely funny - she would write 20 more. "Jess and the Stinky Cowboys" is her most recent. Bernard was an Olympic class wrestler with a physique that stressed his clothing in every direction. He was a poet with a gentle, lyrical voice. We were sprawled - the five of us - on the grass under a massive oak while he read from his work. Poetry is an area in which I am beyond ignorant. But I was enjoying this reading. Bernard was deeply involved - I remember saying "great!" several times. On occasion we applauded. Even if you didn't understand all his work you had to like Bernard. Certainly the contrast between this powerful man and the intense presentation of his work was one reason. But I was also at ease with people whose primary interest was in the beauty and elegant expression of language. Finally - it was a warm and sunny afternoon in the mountains of Vermont.
     In August 2008, my grandson Tony and I drove up into the Adirondacks and put up a tent at Lake Durant State Park. The following day I went to the Adirondack Museum to do some research. The manuscript in my mental closet was again demanding some attention. I spent the afternoon examining documents and the final guest registers of the Prospect House. Located on Blue Mountain Lake in the 1890s, the Prospect House was a multistory, grand resort hotel - today not a board remains. I took the notes acquired and added them to the research folder. My manuscript is entitled Blue Mountain and it has six rejections - as of this date.

*I have lost the source of this story. ** See BLWC in Wikipedia.

                                                        

 

Jack - Timid, little, junk yard dog. "I'll bite you - yes I will - really! really! - honest!"

Adopted

Web Cam Mystery

                                                   

 
                                                                                            
       I abruptly stopped watching the Explore.org web cam about five weeks ago. For over a month I had tuned in twice a day to observe an osprey sitting on three eggs in a nest perched high on the coast in Bremen, Maine. The nest has an expansive view of the quiet bay below and occasional small boat traffic. The osprey performed her task with inexhaustible patience - rising only to stretch. Finally two eggs hatched and exposed feather balls - she resumed her protective sitting - the third egg never opened. The osprey chicks grew each day - flaunting tiny wings - drunkenly staggering to and fro. When still I would study the cam transmissions to determine if each chick was breathing. The osprey's mate seemed to be a dependable fellow - he would periodically land on the nest and leave a half eaten hunk of fish. Mother would then serve - a talon holding while her beak picked off a bit of fish - three or four pieces to one chick, then three or four pieces to the other. Once fed the chicks would collapse into motionless lumps. On one occasion the osprey spread her wings and lifted off. The sleeping chicks were now defenseless. I left the web site. A couple of hours later I returned and so had the osprey.
     One morning in the precise middle of the nest was a perfectly round piece of birch bark - perhaps 6 inches long and three to four inches in diameter - a white tunnel. It seemed unlikely that either parent would have brought it to the nest - but maybe. Perhaps a wind gust?. A few days later one chick exploring the confines of the nest staggered over to the tunnel and plunged in. Then with effort the plump chick pushed forward into the bark and became stuck. The chick had demonstrated no capacity to move in reverse and its weight was enough to anchor the tunnel in place. By tomorrow the bird would be slightly larger and moving forward would be more problematic. Outside assistance seemed necessary but mother appeared unaware of the chick's disappearance and continued her preening. I stared at the screen and this "drama of nature" waiting for something to happen.
     It then occurred to me that if I were a god I would instantly extend one divine finger - or perhaps a few quantum of energy - expending no time eternity being as it is - and push that chick's feathery tush forward and out of distress. But then I remembered a photo of a ten year old Bosnian girl lying face down in the dirt of a rutted path, her skinny legs disappearing into black barn boots. A sniper had drawn down on her and fired. No god had felt moved to prevent her murder. From Cambodia many photographs - one of a mother and young son clutching each other - terrorized as their picture was taken before being tortured and murdered. Again, no god. When a miscreant armed with an assault rifle slaughtered 20 first graders and 6 others at Sandy Hook - no god - not a single warrior angel - no legendary saint - nor a single member of the heavenly elect - exploded out of heaven outraged at the interruption of their beatific vision but determined to save those children - not one.
     So things were not looking good for the chick. Unable to do anything I preferred not to watch a small life form with wings slowly die in a roll of bark. I exited the web cam thinking I might look again in six months.
     Approximately one hour (and five weeks) after finishing this piece, I again clicked on the Explore.org site and the camera monitoring the nest. In it stood the mother serenely observing the bay. Next to her stood not chicks but two juvenile ospreys almost the mother's size. Both were furiously grooming their brown, white spotted feathers like narcissistic teenagers - but magnificent predators.
     So something happened. Perhaps I over estimated the degree to which the chick was trapped and it was able to free itself. Maybe the osprey became aware of the chick's distress and freed it. Or perhaps there was a quantum burst of energy from heaven freeing the chick - a miracle.
     The day after almost finishing this piece  I was walking the dog allowing for her morning wiz. As luck would have it there appeared messengers from god in the form of two, tall, elegant young women. They walked up the driveway extolling Chloe's "cuteness". I thanked them on behalf of the dog. They were representatives of a religious organization and wished to chat with me about  the Lord Jesus, God and the hereafter. I could have told them I was giving it some thought - where is their god during the slaughter of innocents? But I feared a gibberish retort about "working in mysterious ways". So I told them I had no interest in the subject and we parted amicably - "Cute dog" smiled one.



                                                  

                                                      
                                                                 

Entering the USSR - Rail

     As the Chopin Express slowed approaching the Czechoslovakian border the duration between the clicks of the wheels became  almost excruciatingly prolonged. It was a black night in November 1977. The passengers in my coach, mostly Hartwick College students were unusually quiet. Light from the train then illuminated a steel cyclone fence about three feet from the windows that reached up perhaps 20 feet. No one was going to jump off this train. Night became day - courtesy of strategically placed flood lights. The train lurched to a stop next to a platform populated with soldiers, weapons and dark dogs on chain leashes. Yes - I was intimidated. Passport Control swept through the coaches checking passports and visas. This was followed by another security search that reexamined documentation and randomly some luggage. A half hour later we were on our way - but things felt different. Behind us fifty kilometers was beautiful, free Vienna - 1900 kilometers in front the locus of the commissars - Moscow.
     For twelve hours the train powered across Czechoslovakia, Poland and now approached the border with the Belarus Soviet Socialist Republic. The train crawled out of the night and entered a cavernous structure. Here each coach was to be jacked up and the wheels and axles (i.e. the "bogie") removed and replaced with a bogie of the narrower Russian gauge. As this work occurred Soviet Passport Control causally proceeded through the train examining passports and stamping visas. Next a custom's inspection and passengers were asked to open their luggage for inspection. As luck would have it a few of my students were discovered to be carrying "forbidden literature".
     Back on the Hartwick campus I tried to prepare my Soviet program participants for entering the USSR - always keep medications in the container with the prescription information; this is Russia - bring extra socks; do not lose your passport; "and for God's sake always be courteous!" Concerning reading material my advice was "Bring what you want to read." The Soviet laws regarding "forbidden literature" were of course discussed. But my revulsion concerning censorship laws that forbade the works of Boris Pasternak, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and others was always apparent. "What about Playboy?" (Also illegal but enormously popular in the USSR.) My answer was "If you are reading it - bring it - at worst forbidden literature will be confiscated." There were some additional titles that I had assigned to be read as part of the program. I also admit I wanted my students to experience some hard nosed censorship - as a kind of inoculation that would make them defenders of free expression for life.
     Soviet inspectors opening Bill and Peter's luggage immediately found copies of Dr. Zhivago and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Three soldiers then paraded my two students out of the carriage and onto the station's platform. There they stood under flood lights amid a swirl of police and soldiers. I experienced a rush of anxiety. All the students were now crowded in front of the train's windows. Three female students were sadly waving and whispering "Good bye Bill! Good bye Peter!" I experienced a rush of panic. Peter having been taken off a train in the middle of the night entering the USSR was elated. Hands on his hips he dropped into a squatting position and began to do Russian dance kicks. Immediately he had an audience of smiling or puzzled soldiers. This side of the train window there was laughter and a small cheer. I started breathing again. Peter was asked to stand up and the two of them were led out of sight.
     It takes about three hours to change the bogies. After two hours my stress tolerance collapsed. I burst out of the cabin and down the aisle into the next carriage. I saw a conductor walking in my direction.
"Where the hell are they?" The conductor screwed up his face and waved his hands telling me to relax. He told me the students were fine and would be back on the train in a few minutes. He then asked me if I would like to trade some dollars for rubles. I declined. To the immense relief of all our new heroes returned and the train was underway a few minutes later.
     So what happened we asked? "They wanted to know why we were carrying forbidden books into the USSR".
     So what did you say? "Because our professor made us."
     Where were you for two hours? "They took us into the barracks and we watched television."
     The train was now rolling along in darkness across the utter flatness of Belarus. Brilliant moonlight reflected off a patchwork landscape of snow  and earth stretching out to the edge of the earth. Students were standing shoulder to shoulder in the aisle looking out the windows - Russia! A couple of female voices began softly humming Lara's Theme and others joined in. In the Soviet Union Lara's Theme was illegal - forbidden music.

                                                             

                                          Gypsy - 7 years old, probably abused - HSSC. Escaped from
                                          foster care July 2013 on Long Boat Key, FL.
                                                                             LOST

The Soviet "Gray" Market

     The Foreign Service Officer said "Good morning" and motioned for me to sit down. He also waved his arms around to remind me that the room was bugged. "What can I do for you?" This was a spacious office in the US Embassy in Leningrad (St Petersburg) and the year was 1977.  I told him that I had just arrived in the USSR accompanied by 25 students from Hartwick College. The problem was that my students had become involved in the flourishing Soviet counter economy, aka the "black market". For the listening walls I emphatically noted that there was no dealing in drugs or gold, no way, not my students - and they all still had their passports. "So in what are they involved?" the FSO asked. "Consumer goods - military belts, hats and some minor currency trading" and left it at that. In fact I had students that had acquired army, navy and KGB uniforms, gray, brown and black great coats, hats, belts and boots - they loved the boots. I was afraid to know how many had traded dollars for rubles but had noticed a couple of my charges sporting rolls of rubles. The FSO was very responsive and offered advice. "Take them into a park and explain how dangerous this can be - tell them not to trade currency. Remember the Soviet authorities do not want trouble. Remind them they will only be in the USSR a month unless . . . " That night at dinner I watched two students arrive proudly wearing Army boots mostly covered by their jeans. In the morning I noticed other students ordering bottles of champagne with which to wash down breakfast and paying with rubles. So far my students loved traveling in the USSR.
     By the time the Red Arrow Express rolled into Moscow 24 hours later I had decided that metaphorically, I had to get inside the tent. I informed a few of my students, Karl, John, Charlie and a couple of others that at the next opportunity I wanted to do some "bizness". Three hours later several of my students and I walked into a "hard" currency store. These shops were restricted to foreigners with western currencies (including the yen of course) and Soviet elites with access to special ruble certificates. Here one could purchase goods generally not available in Soviet stores - Johnny Walker Scotch, Marlboro cigarettes, sable, artic fox, mink hats and coats, Japanese pearls, French perfume, western televisions and refrigerators. I witnessed one young Russian roughly arrested for simply entering one of these shops. My bizness  deal was to buy $15.00 worth of American bubblegum and with considerable guilt I piled it on the checkout counter in front of a surly clerk. I then presented the bag of gum to my student's contact - a middle aged man. As I requested he rewarded me with 13 Soviet military patches (I only asked for 10) and one Red  Army belt with its shiny brass buckle. I was extremely pleased with my deal and my students were proud of me.  Shortly there after I promulgated the Lindell Rule for this and all future groups I would accompany to the USSR. When traveling in the Soviet Union always obey Soviet law. But if you should succumb to seduction by the black market keep your deals at $20.00 or less. All my groups were repeatedly informed that if they followed this rule and got in trouble "I shall if necessary go to the wall with you." But if they did not - and if they traded in drugs or large amounts of currency then I wished them luck. They were told to send me a postcard, or more likely a scrawled note from wherever they were in Siberia at the first allowed opportunity. (A few years later the rule would appear in an international guide for those traveling in the USSR.)
     The rule had minimal impact but it did provide a guideline. In a later tour another student named Carl came to me and said he and a couple of Russians had been picked up by Militia and questioned. "What did you do Carl?" He had traded $15.00 for a rabbit fur hat and was even allowed to keep it. "Forget it" I said. Carl was reassured but not much. For the next five hours wherever I went, whatever I did, I had only to look near my right elbow and there was Carl, smiling - "Here I am Professor."
     The train left Tbilisi, Georgia early in the morning bound for Baku, Azerbaijan. It was 1983. Word spread rapidly throughout the train that a group of American college students were on board. A few people began to come into our carriage seeking to trade. My group of about 25 had been in the USSR for three weeks - they had bonded, traded and felt like Soviet experts. Quickly noting the visitors they organized - stationing two or three of their number at each end of the carriage. Students in the cabins piled up what they had left to trade. Now when someone entered the carriage a student would ask what goods they sought; jeans, sweatshirts, sneaks, books, magazines, currency, electronics (calculators, Walkman). They would then be directed to a cabin offering the desired goods or simply was less busy. Soviet shoppers were allowed to try on some apparel for size. I was about midway down the carriage causally looking out the window watching the hills and valleys of the Caucasus' slide by. Amid the now raucous din of a bazaar I was experiencing high anxiety but also intense pride. Then a deep voice speaking English rose clearly above the babel. "Mike, sweeten up that deal - throw in a couple of pens and a book!"

                                                                         

                                         A "Michael Phelps" world class, water loving dog