Speculation

                                   

                                                                   Miyajima Deer

     Still wearing youthful camouflage, the deer bounced from the bushes and landed in front of my car - it glanced at me and was then destroyed. My wife immediately began a slightly disjointed explanation of the dangers of crossing a street trying to sooth three young daughters who were not aware anything had happened. "That's it!" I despaired. In two weeks I was scheduled to leave for Japan on an extended tour. In addition to my distress this was clearly a disastrous omen. I expected to pay dearly for a transgression against nature in the land of Shinto and the Buddha.
     The first two weeks on Honshu were a blur - especially of shrines. But at each, hauling guilt I bowed, scrapped and donated. In Hiroshima Prefecture on the Island of Itsukushima I visited the sprawling Shinto shrine with its massive Torii Gate. The Shrine and Gate during tidal flooding appear to be afloat. Here in exchange for my donation I received a "fortune" from a priest - my colleague read it to me - it was he said the best prognostication of an individual future possible. I felt forgiven - exonerated - in life I shall indeed flourish! At the Shrine's gift shop I purchased a small metal bell - it alerts the spirits as to my whereabouts. This bell has hung near the entrance to my principal residence for the past 40+ years.
     Interest in gods and organized religions evaporated for me in 1959-60. For several months I worked in the sub-basement of the law school at New York University among the transcripts of the World War II war crimes trials - the International Military Tribunal Far East and the IMT Nuremberg. My conclusion - our species is profoundly corrupted and self destructive. But for reasons that Darwinian scholars might explain we are probably "hard wired" to believe in something beyond us - anything regardless of how quixotic or idiotic it might be. "Nothingness" beyond our consciousness is too unpleasant and perhaps impossible to accept. So if we must believe in something why not identify a set of ideas that satisfy, comfort and possibly we even enjoy. Over the millenniums millions have done precisely this and so have I.
     To oversimplify - Shinto is a belief in and study of "spirits". Every human, animal, bird, flower, tree and bush has one. Mountains, valleys, lakes and rivers possess a "spirit" as does our home, other special places, our automobile of course and cell phone. Things as common as a book,  coffee cup and rock have a spirit. All these spirits are an integral part of our existence and the best life consists of living in harmony with them and treating everything with respect.
     Looking for a pleasant venue for lunch I turned the car into the entrance of a Provincial Park in Nova Scotia. We poured out and the daughters seized a picnic table close to a stream gurgling through the park. My wife and I strolled around - on a breezy, bright day we had a Canadian park all to ourselves. In the middle of the stream we noted an abandoned tire - half its black mass rising above the turbulent waters. The tire's presence disrupted the harmony of the place. "Jennifer" I yelled at my ten year old. "I have a task for you - go get that tire!" 
     "Me? Whhhy me? Why alllllllways me? Why not Cathy or Liz?" She was an excellent youngster and despite the grousing had already started moving towards the edge of the water. "Because you are the youngest, lack seniority, and the spirits will greatly appreciate your efforts, and you have no socks on." I responded. Without another word Jennifer waded through ankle deep water and rolled the tire back to shore. We left it leaning against a trash can. A transgression against the stream and park had been corrected. Again it was a totally beautiful area.
     One of my finest automobiles was a Mercury Montego. Purchased for a fair price this second hand car flawlessly served and protected my family for three years. During a rainy, windswept night near Roscoe, New York I rammed another deer killing it and totaling my Montego. Before the wreckage was towed away I removed the eight inch "Montego" name plate. It would have been grossly disrespectful not to preserve a relic from that great machine before it reverted back to its elements. I kept that memento for over twenty years before it was lost in a change of lives.
     Shinto believers are troubled by death - it is considered "unclean" and "corruption". The Japanese will treat life's complexities with Shinto but in the presence of death prefer Buddhism. This "corruption" issue troubles me not - a Russian friend once remarked that "death is a natural process - often". I believe at death some spirits will simply dissipate into the ether, but other may congregate. On the southern edge of Kyushu in Kagoshima Prefecture there is a place where spirits are gathered - the Konoya Special Attack Corps War Dead Memorial. In the spring of 1945 the Konoya Air Base was the HGQ for the Special Attack Corps, also known as the kamikaze, the divine wind and suicide bombers. From Kanoya they assaulted the allied forces invading Okinawa. A total of 908 Navy and Army personnel ranging in age from 16 to 35 flew off into this maelstrom and perished. The Memorial consists of a tower on a small hill. At the tower's apex is perched a white dove with wings extended. When I arrived there in 1970 it was a memorial unvisited, uncared for and drenched in gloom. The walkways were littered with detritus while drooping flowers and weeds competed for space around the foundation. The dove's details were vague, an ethereal representation of a symbol of peace or a "holy" spirit. There were seven men in our group - three Japanese and five Americans - all remained absolutely silent. The only sound was strains of music drifting up to us from a nearby motel that rented rooms by the hour. Here were gathered many disconsolate conflicted spirits.

See: Wikipedia; Bill Gordon, Kamikaze Images; Photo by Oliver Bonnet.

Law and Order

               

   
     Homo sapiens are different, "exceptional" if you like. We alone have "consciousness". But as Harvard's Stephen Jay Gould noted, if "consciousness" is such an evolutionary advantage why hasn't any other species developed it? Study of the human species reveals great cleverness but a blood soaked history - a UNESCO study reported that over the past 5,000 years humans have fought 15,000 wars - three per year - killing several billion people. The technology and weapons change and the killing is perpetual. The human species is an aberration -  a self destructive branch on the evolutionary bush that should and will disappear - it was a mistake that nature will not repeat. In the mean while to function at all we require rules, laws and rigorous political authority to enforce them.
     To follow this dismal assessment of the species with a history of my criminal behavior will be to the reader a crashing disappointment. On occasion I have broken the law and freely admit to the following: three speeding tickets and three warnings received; twice suspicious officials of state power have frisked me - once a NYS Trooper and another time two heavily armed German soldiers in Frankfurt am Main International Airport. Navy Shore Patrol once removed my two inebriated friends and me from a street in old San Juan, Puerto Rico. We were driven around in the back of a jeep for a half hour and then released - near the ship. As a callow faced child I ate a Twinkie that my friend "Fred" stole from Kowalski's Grocery Store. A mortal sin - I could hardly wait to get to confession - that cake is still partially stuck in my craw. That is pretty much it - my life has been excruciatingly boring from a brigand's point of view. Clearly I have no potential to be characterized in a Cormac McCarthy or Elmore Leonard novel.
     Acutely aware of its necessity I have admired the glimpses of law enforcement witnessed through the years. Sitting by a window in a Greenwich Village restaurant I was sipping a bowl of Wonton soup. A NYPD patrol car slammed on its brakes in the middle of the street. Two officers jump from the vehicle and rush into a neighborhood bank. Twice I dipped into my soup - the officers reappeared each holding the arm of a young man - I dip again - the police drape the individual over the hood of their car - snap on handcuffs - push him into the back of the patrol car and speed away. NYPD cool - excellent hot soup.
     In the early morning darkness of a Stockholm metro station, a train slowly approaches and jerks to a halt short of the platform. A problem on board - a few people drift toward the train and stop, anticipating further developments. Within minutes a Metropolitan Police Officer jogs past me on the way to the train. She was exceptionally beautiful - curvaceous in her tight, dark uniform, long pony tail waving at me and a 9 millimeter on her hip - everything a man could desire. A tad sexist at the time I feared for her safety. But then limping along her partner arrived. With no disrespect intended he was the ugliest man I have ever seen - and huge - with disheveled hair hanging out from under his hat. The knuckles of his right hand seemed to drag on the cement far beneath his weapon. She was in no danger. My train going in the opposite direction arrived and I departed.
     The mere presence of police can of course have a potent stabilizing effect. Stepping down a staircase connecting the door of a Tupolov 134 to the runway in Volgograd I finally stood in snow. To my right in a swirling white cloud a KGB Security Officer in black fur hat, great gray coat and black boots. He was back lit by flood lights. About ten meters behind him another dark silhouette - a noncom in gray, black and a Sam Browne belt. Neither showed a weapon. But their demeanor led one to conclude that nothing untoward could possibly happen here - a silent, peaceful night.
     Costa Rica has not had an army since 1949 and the end of it's 44 day civil war. December 1st is celebrated as Military Abolition Day. The nation of 4.3 million takes pride in being one of the few nations on earth without a standing army. But Ticos are not perfect. Costa Rica has a national police, the Fuerza Publica - the Public Force - that deals with general law enforcement and counter-narcotics. It has SWAT units. Since the border clashes with Nicaragua in 2010, Fuerza Publica has reestablished a Border Police. Under the Ministry of the President, Costa Rica also has an Intelligence and Security Directorate that contains Unidad Especial de Intervencion - the Special Operations Unit. UEI trains with the special ops forces of Israel, the US and others. A guesstimate of the total employed in the nation's police function is 14,000. *
     On February 12, 2000, the US Senate voted on whether to convict or acquit President Bill Clinton of two articles of impeachment. For reasons that remain unclear, Costa Rica went to a high state of defensive readiness. I stepped out of San Jose's Grand View Hotel onto sunny Segunda Avenue around 10:00 AM. Pedestrians crowded the street, shops were busy. The Park near the Theatro National was filled with visitors, dogs and hawkers. Fuerza Publica was everywhere - perhaps every 100 yards up and down the boulevard policemen dressed for war - body armor, assault rifles, sometimes helmets, sometimes motorcycles. There were different uniforms, shoulder patches, equipment suggesting that the Agency had simply issued an "all hands on deck". President Clinton was not impeached and Costa Rica experienced no challenge to national security. But the display of teeth by FP was visually impressive - for a country with no army.
     *World Military and Police Forces; Costa Rica, May 2013. Wikipedia. Costa Rica Star, July 2nd, 2012. Special Operations.com.

                                                           

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
                                                                   
    

Lake Pleshcheyevo

                                                         

       
                                                                   photo - A Savin

     The shore of the lake lay ahead down the snow packed street. On either side were small, colorful houses with yards - sites of the sometimes infamous "garden plots" of the Soviet era. Many yards contained a fruit tree or three. Others had a few stacked cages for rabbits. At the end of the street Lake Pleshcheyevo's 20 square miles was clearly spread out on this cold, sunny day. I gingerly put one foot down testing where I believed the lake began - it was like stepping on granite.  I began walking east across the lake's southern edge towards the center of Pereslavl-Zalessky. A thin layer of snow covered the lake and periodically a gust of wind would create a snow spout or better yet a Rimsky-Korsakov snow maiden undulating in the distance. There were some fishermen - tiny, dark figures crouched down on the ice. There are a reported sixteen species of fish in Pleshcheyevo. But they were probably after ryapushka - fresh water herring. It is a fish so delicious that it was sent to the dinner tables of the Tsars.
     I went ice fishing twice - once with Alex, his five year old son and ten year old Dima. My second outing was with a physical  education director, two army officers and a "top" noncom. Twice -  bundled in a great coat and boots I sat with my back to the wind on a steel can and stared down at a six inch hole in the ice. My numb fingers held a fishing line equipped with multiple hooks and baited with wasp larvae. Occasionally I would pull up the line and remove a three inch ryapushka and drop it on the ice in front of me. Within a minute it was frozen rock hard. With Alex I caught two herring. But with soldiers of the Red Army - feeling pressure to show that Americans "can do" I caught six. Typically my companions had twenty-five to forty herring spread at their feet. Time for a snack -four of the five items my army colleagues brought I found wonderful - bread, hard boiled eggs, one inch squares of pure lard, vodka and camaraderie. Later with darkness settling in we collected the day's catch and proceeded to the director's apartment. There his wife fried almost 200 herring. We ate the entire catch with bread, butter, salad and vodka. As I remember this meal I salivate.
     My walk continues across the lake with the shore about a half mile to my right. I took care not to slip on the patches of ice the wind had exposed. Somewhere to my left up on the hilly shore was the Botik Museum, a small classical structure devoted to Peter the Great. Between 1688 and 1693 Peter probably learned to sail on Lake Pleshcheyevo and a replica of his small boat is in the Museum. Pleshcheyevo must be a great lake on which to learn to sail. It is an expansive body of water, 82 feet deep in the center with extensive shallow water along the encircling 17 miles of shore line. In summer the lake water is warm - swimming in June I found the water almost bath temperature. In the beautiful River Trubezh - it flows into the lake - the moving waters were cooler. The entire Pleshcheyevo area has a beauty winter and summer that could be the brilliant setting in any Nikita Mikalkov film. For good reason the Russian government created the Pleshcheyevo National Park designed to offer camping and outdoor recreational opportunities and (hopefully) protect the lake from encroaching industrial pollution.
     As I approached the point of the shore where I planned to exit from my walk on the waters, I noticed the cupola of an old church tucked behind dense, bare branches in a corps of trees. Altering my direction 45 degrees I headed straight for it. Climbing off the lake and through some snow placed me in front of a decrepit Orthodox Church. Lined up to my left were several long, wooden lake boats  partially submerged in snow. I approached the front doors of the church and gently pulled at one. It opened. I entered and moved toward the center of the structure. Next to the walls were piles of line with buoys attached. Standing against the walls were oars, paddles and a few molding life jackets. The Soviets had taken this small Orthodox Church with its waterfront view of Pleshcheyevo and converted it into a boathouse. Scanning the walls I could see where large areas of decorative masonry had fallen away. But one could still see places where wall and spots of paint from frescoes remained. I looked straight up at the inside of the cupola. It was a barren brown except for one small area with some black, blue and white. Studying it for some time I was able to determine that it was the partial remains of the single eye of a profoundly agitated and furious god. I quickly departed.

Sources; Wikipedia; Advantour; WikiTravel
                                             

                                              Dozer - Bull Mastiff  - a perfect companion.

Moscow

    " . . . a multicoloured rainbow, its arch thrown across all of Moscow, stood in the sky, drinking water from the Moscow River. High up, on a hill between two copses, three dark silhouettes could be seen. Woland, Koroviev and Behemoth sat in the saddle on three black horses, looking at the city spread out beyond the river . . ." Mikhail Bulgakov *

                                                          

                                                               Red Square*

     Thursday, March 28, 1991 - The USSR established in 1922, was now fracturing into its' constituent Republics. Lacking the will to use the violence necessary and short of national suicide the capacity, the Soviet leadership allowed for the nation's first free elections. During 1990, the fifteen Republics each held competitive elections. The Communist Party lost in Armenia, Estonia, Georgia, Latvia, Lithuania and Moldova. In May 1990, Boris Yeltsin was elected Chairman of the Supreme Soviet of Russia and he soon resigned from the Communist Party. In June the Russian Congress of People's Deputies declared the Russian Republic's desire to secede from the USSR. Meanwhile Mikhail Gorbachev, President of the USSR was desperately trying to prevent total political and economic collapse. In addition to Republics declaring their independence the Soviet Union's "command economy" was in a death spiral. On March 10th, 1991 an estimated 500,000 people demonstrated in Red Square demanding that President Gorbachev and the Communist Party resign power. Soon to be President of Russia (June 12, 1991) Boris Yeltsin called for another demonstration to occur on March 28th. President Gorbachev announced that such a gathering would be illegal and was forbidden. The stage was set for another clash between the USSR and Russia.

     At 8:00 AM on March 28th, a middle aged van pulled up in front of the Frigate Hotel in Pereslavl-Zalessky. I opened the slide door and climbed in. My boss Ludmilla was in the front passenger seat and pleasantly chatting with the driver Yuri. We bounced through our first series of potholes and began the two hour drive southwest on the Yaroslavl highway toward Moscow. The purpose of the trip she had announced was to find me a small souvenir for my recent work - and by the way to see if we could buy some good meat and oranges. Curiosity about the impending demonstration was also casually evident.
     As we approached Moscow the Yaroslavl highway had been transformed by German construction from two to four lanes. The traffic intensified. After slowing to a crawl to pass a police checkpoint Yuri started to accelerate - suddenly he changed his mind. The Soviet Army lorry roared past on our left belching exhaust and doing twice our speed. A second six wheeler followed hard on as if short chained to the first. The third followed at a safer distance but the same speed. We also had a chance to examine the contents of this latter truck - soldiers with young faces under fur hats, brown great coats and shiny boots -  they were busy conversing - no signs of stress. We were passed by many Soviet military vehicles that sunny morning. President Gorbachev reportedly moved fifty thousand soldiers into Moscow to prevent/control this demonstration. I remember having felt excitement at the prospect of being in Moscow during a great democratic demonstration (riot?). The sight of load after load of Red Army troops being rushed to the scene of the confrontation I found quite sobering - I could feel my macho, revolutionary impulses, my desire to be near the core of the action - draining away like so much gas from a balloon.
     Moscow Ring now - the drive continued amid dense, slow traffic. Yuri pointed out his window. To the left in the distance a large building had dense smoke pouring out its' top floors. The building of ten stories was the United States Embassy. Several extension ladders were stretching up trying to reach those floors with two or three firefighters on each ladder. Two hundred individuals had fled the burning structure and remarkably no one was injured. Later reports claimed that KGB officers posing as Moscow firefighters had used this fire as an opportunity to ingress the building in pursuit of American state secrets. Absolutely no one on earth was surprised.
     We drove on approaching but not entering Red Square. Crowds of people seemed to gather here and there and then simply move about - a fine spring day. There were militia everywhere and militia cars, all seemingly Mercedes Benz - but no soldiers. Yuri stayed with the van while Ludmilla and I explored a vast outdoor marketplace. The Soviet economy was crumbling - goods were moving from the state stores out into the farmers markets and private kiosks and sold at inflated prices. Ludmilla found some meats but no oranges. We visited a couple of other markets, had some ice cream and began the drive back to P-Z.
     The March 28th demonstration occurred as Yeltsin had urged but with only 200,000 or so participants - far fewer than on March 10th. Legend has it that Izvestia had great trouble deciding whether President Gorbachev or President Yeltsin had won this confrontation. At stake was Izvestia's front page. Fist fights among Gorbachev and Yeltsin supporters reportedly broke out in the news and press rooms. The dispute was settled by publishing two front pages - the first with Gorbachev's picture and claim of success. On the reverse side of the same page was Yeltsin's image and his claim of victory.
     On December 25th, 1991, Mikhail Gorbachev resigned as President of the Soviet Union declaring the office extinct and the USSR dissolved.

Sources: * Mikhail Bulgakov The Master and Margarita Trans by Pevear and Volokhonsky p 376; 1997.
                  Photo -  Red Square by Raul P - Wikimedia.      

Christine Christian; animal behaviorist extraordinaire

Hi Christine,
     I thought you should know what is going on at the kennels in your absence. Black, rolling clouds laced with lightning have formed over HSSC and refuse to move. Inside the buildings in the misty gloom dogs snarl and snap while staff and volunteers, bent over in misery shuffle about their tasks muttering "What would Christine say?" What would Christine do?" On occasion a volunteer simply disappears! Days later investigators find perhaps a belt buckle -  on a greasy spot. "This never happened when Christine was around" they mutter. Meetings have become filled with simple chit-chat. They have become like a Bolshevik Congress without the genius Lenin or The Apprentice without The Donald.
     In any event you are missed - Best wishes for the Holidays and Happy New Year ! !
:-) John

Christine Christian - A Memory Book Contribution - Humane Society of Sarasota County -
                                  Ann Patterson editor. January 15, 2013.
(1) What has Christine taught me about dogs? Just about everything - five years ago I thought I knew something but was clearly wrong. I have taken CC's Manners Classes for years now and have learned much. CC is very patient - today I am better informed, practiced and eager but remain an apprentice dealing with dogs. Also thanks to CCs instruction I still have all my fingers.
(2) What has Christine taught me about volunteering? I remember a noncom looking up into my eyes shouting "Fool, never, never volunteer for anything!" So in retirement I volunteered at HSSC with lingering trepidation about any such activity. CC has dramatically improved my attitude toward service. She is so talented, dedicated and valuable a component at HSSC it is hard for me to imagine the organization without her involvement.
(3) What has Christine taught me about myself? Underneath my wild, bold, confident, bronze facade there is an introverted nerd - CC has given me a new found confidence to deal with dogs that really are more intelligence, powerful and confident than me - for instance Bruno, Troy, Cooley, Emmitt, Sarge and I could go on and on. In addition because of CCs instruction and leadership I no longer get as down on myself, which in turn means I make fewer trips to the car wash, where I usually go to recharge.
(4) What has been Christine's biggest contribution to HSSC? CC contributes tremendous intelligence, substance and structure to the activities at HSSC. There are hundreds of dogs that have had a life and a dramatically enhanced chance of a great life because of her knowledge and effort.
(5) What do you admire most about Christine? CC is one of the most impressive people I have ever met. She is a prize and it is a great pleasure to know and work with her.

                                                      
                                                                        Tonka

Tourists in Baku

    
     The Armenian enclave of Nogorno-Karabakh, (aka Artsakh and since September 2, 1991, the independent Republic of Mountainous Karabakh - RMK) is located inside the Azerbaijan Republic. The history of how this occurred is convoluted. But as the USSR's power disintegrated fighting between Azeris and Armenians for control of this enclave began in February 1988. Until that year Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan had in addition to Azeris a large, diverse population of Russians, Armenians and Jews. But the outbreak of war in the mountains resulted in the expulsion of Azeris from RMK. Armenians living in Baku then experienced Azeri retribution and were forced to begin an exodus from the city. The fact that the Soviet Union favored the Armenians in this conflict also enraged the Azeris. In order to maintain control in Baku the Soviets rolled into the city an impressive military force and by January 1989, Baku was essentially under martial law.*
     With its gritty cosmopolitanism and located on the shores of the Caspian Sea I have found Baku most appealing. One walks the streets to the unrelenting beat of Turkic music. Along the sea front there are parks, mostly deserted in winter, flocks of seagulls, a frigate wafting at anchor - a most serene place to jog. My Hartwick College group arrived in Moscow January 3rd, 1989, for a one month tour. It consisted of 25 undergraduates and two curious faculty members.  My daughter Jennifer, a senior at Syracuse University was also in the mix. In my original itinerary I had requested  three days in Baku - and in Moscow was informed that because of "problems in Baku" it might not be possible to visit there. Perhaps unwisely I renewed my request for Baku. Over time I have thought about why the Soviet authorities granted my request. There were at least two reasons - first the Soviets urgently wanted the appearance of "normalcy" in Baku and the second I have accepted as a personal compliment.
     On January 16th we flew into what is today Heydar Aliy International Airport. Then in a modern, bright red "Intourist" bus on a sunny, cool afternoon we began the ride to downtown Baku. Traffic appeared to me to be normal. I had noticed that there were no other Intourist buses at the airport - we were the conspicuous "it". Then within a half mile from the airport in a grassy depression near an intersection appeared a large tank. Its cannon stretched forward the length of the chassis and then some. Everyone on the bus exhaled, Aaaaaaahhhhhhh ! Almost every crossroads on the way downtown was presided over by a tank or an armoured personnel carrier. At the Hotel Intourist on Neftyanikov Prospect there were two APCs parked nearby. Five soldiers on patrol studied us as we unloaded. In the lobby we had a meeting with the Hotel's administration and were informed of the curfew. Everyone had to be off the streets between 9:00 PM and 7:00 AM. Other than that all was normal - Welcome to Baku. The Hotel was not crowded. Our rooms were excellent - some with panoramic views of the Caspian Sea. The only incident that first day - three female students told me of someone hanging around too close. I told them to take his picture - they tried and he was not seen again. That first evening after dinner I experienced an anxiety rush - curfew at 9:00 PM - do I know where my students are? No problem - for three nights all members of the group were in the Hotel well before the appointed hour. As darkness gathered around 8:30 PM all were gathered on balconies overlooking the square below. At 8:50 PM the two APCs below would start their engines emitting a roar and bloom of exhaust. Then they would move - one would block half the street and turn off its engine. The other APC would pull parallel to the first and block the rest of the street. It left it's engine idling thus creating a formidable gate. In the near silence that ensued soldiers could be heard conversing amid the glow of cigarettes.
     We spent three pleasant days in Baku. At a well maintained school we met 25 or 30 first and second graders, all scrubbed, smartly dressed, with black hair, dark eyes and totally excited at meeting American tourists. I gave the children and their school a rave review in an interview for Azeri television. At a rug factory there was an interruption of the work day so some of the workers (all women) could meet the visitors. I remember a beautiful Hartwick student - Erica, with black hair and dark eyes sitting with two Azeri women with similar physical attributes - it could have been a family gathering. As I passed nearby the Azeris were saying "You American?" Erica replied "Yes, honest!" "Nnnnnnooooooo!" One afternoon I was returning to the Hotel and noticed three of my group, my daughter and two other young ladies across the street mingling with three Soviet soldiers on foot patrol. The six of them were laughing with heads rearing back and forth in great amusement. I enjoyed the scene for a couple of minutes. An officer coming up the street also saw it, stopped about ten yards ahead of me and yelled something including an obscenity at the sergeant. He saw the officer, came to attention and saluted. Then stone faced the soldiers quickly shooed away the surprised girls like annoying pigeons. My students had plenty of street time in Baku.  In the old USSR the streets were where students always learned the most.  The Hotel meals were substantial with plenty of good Soviet/Azeri food - students of course complain about all food - I liked it. We departed Baku without incident on January 19th by night train for Tbilisi, Georgia.
     Exactly one year later Baku exploded in an anti-Armenian pogrom. During January and February 1990, Armenian residents were murdered, tortured, robbed and humiliated. Reports were that 90 Armenians and 21 Russian soldiers were killed and approximately 700 were injured. *
     *See Baku, Wikipedia; Bill Keller, New York Times - 1990; Website of Republic of Mountainous Karabakh.

                                                       
                                                                       Samantha