THE WOLF’S TOOTH

1. DREAM FLIGHT

2. NAUGHTY PATTY, NICE HELGA

3. GOING DOWN TO HELGA’S FARM

4. TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME

5. THEN ALONG CAME SALLY

6. A BAD TRIP TO THE OTHER SIDE

7. A LIFE AFFIRMING CONVERSATION WITH NANA ABOUT DEATH

8. THE SECRET BEHIND LONG LAST LOOKS

9: A WEEKEND WITH MOM AND DAD

10. ITS RAINING EVIL AND WE ALL HAVE TO LOOK BEYOND THE VEIL

11. HOOT NIGHT

12. A SUNDAY DRIVE ON THE WAY TO THE END OF THE ROAD

13. DAVEY’S CONNECTION CEYLAN CATCHES ME OFF GUARD

14. NANA’S ANGEL (DO YOU BELIEVE IN ANGELS?)

15. LEFT ALONE WITH THE OLD PEOPLE

16. THE WOLF’S TOOTH

(This fairly long story is also posted on MEDIUM as individual chapters for easier reading.) Just saying.

Chapter 1

DREAM FLIGHT

Do our life’s stories have meaning?

Do the events of our daily life actually have meaning? We all travel endlessly through one story after another, day after day, year after year.

Do these stories just happen, or do they have a secret purpose? Is it all one endless series of coincidences, or does it all fit tightly together like a huge jigsaw puzzle?

Should we seek out the answers in our stories, or should we take them at face value and not waste valuable time with constant evaluation?

My life is an open book. But, it’s poorly written and I have a sneaking suspicion that I die in the end.

Should we seek out the answers? I do not know. Just maybe the answer will simply be revealed to us as we take our final breath.

Or perhaps even sooner, down at the local bar.

“Give me a beer please.”

The young bartender leaned forward, smiled and said, “Could you be a bit more specific mate?”

I was standing in front of a magnificent wooden bar in The Dubliner, a popular Irish pub located in the heart of the Altstadt of Heidelberg. The pub appeared empty, except for the two of us. His response irritated me. I only wanted something cold, and I did not want to wait.

He continued, and turned to point at many various bottles of beer stacked along the mirror behind him. “We have Guinness, various British ales, German wheat beer, both dark and clear, and various German Pils, Exports and of course, a few excellent local beers on tap. Just give me a clue mate.”

“I didn’t think this was going to be so complicated. But then again, I didn’t think that life was going to be so complicated. Do you have any bartender’s advice for me about love?”

“That’s easy mate, marriage is the main reason for divorce.”

“Not funny. What have you learned working here at the bar?”

“That’s easy mate. It takes patience to listen to people. But it takes skill to pretend that you’re listening.”

“I get it. Never mind.”

I did not want a beer anymore. I shook my head, waved and walked outside to the street. There was not a soul in sight.

I loved Heidelberg, especially at night when the pesky tourists returned to their hotels. I stared into the emptiness and frowned. Something was not quite right. Despite the late hour, everything was all lit up.

I turned to the left, and then to the right and it seemed like I had also been wrong about the street I was on.

Because it wasn’t a street at all.

I was in a hallway, a long, dazzling corridor that stretched out before me. I started walking again, and made amazing ground. In seconds, I had traveled its length and found myself in front of a dark, wooden door.

There was a picture of my grandmother hanging in a golden frame mounted on the door. A voice- my grandmother’s voice- told me that this door led to the other side.

I should have taken that beer.

I had read many books on the Indian art of dreaming. I had even spent years naively trying to achieve a degree of dream control, following the ambiguous steps faithfully. My curiosity had been immense.

I thought that I had encountered the “other side” described in organized dreaming before, but I never lasted longer than a few minutes before I woke up in panic. But it is too early to be talking about this.

These thoughts came and went as I reached out for the door. I did not open it, yet found myself in a small room, devoid of anything except for a bed. There was a young woman sitting on the edge of the bed. She was barely dressed, wearing only a blouse; and her hands, folded in her lap, were bright blue.

I knew her too, but at the moment her name escaped me. It certainly was not my grandmother.

I wished I were back in the Irish pub, chugging an ice cold German dark wheat beer. Is that specific enough for yer mate?

Then I heard the bartender from outside the door. “What is the difference between a man and a woman? That’s easy mate, a woman wants one man to satisfy her every need. A man wants every woman to satisfy his one need.”

Now the woman spoke. “Passion and grace, longing and yearning, the cat laughs in your face, the dog is ripe for learning.”

She beamed at me, and slowly removed her velvet blue gloves. I was intrigued, even though personally, I preferred cats to dogs. Cats could be fed and then left alone, and they left you alone. I had never had the massive amount of free time a dog required.

I did want to have a dog though. Dogs showed affection. Dogs were loyal. Actually, the more I think about it, the more I believe that my cat hates me. Maybe I could get a dog when I retire.

“Stop thinking idle thoughts. Look at me. Concentrate. Beauty shuts down your brain, touch me here, touch me there, it will drive you insane, and you know deep down in your heart- I shall never truly care.”

She leisurely opened the buttons to her flowery blue blouse, then peeled off the garment and playfully let it fall over my head, partially covering up my face. I quickly tore it off, and stared at her.

She was completely nude, except for a golden chain around her neck with some type of animal tooth fastened to it. The tooth rested atop her flawless breasts. It looked rather enticing sitting there atop her cleavage.

“Please do. Touch them, feel them, feel me up big boy, get down to it, go ahead, touch me. You know you want to.”

How did she know that? I really did want to touch them. What was it about men and breasts?

The bartender was back. “What do boobs and toys have in common? That’s easy mate, they were both originally made for kids, but dad ends up playing with them.”

The woman ignored him. “Passion and grace, longing and yearning.” She closed her eyes. The tooth rose and fell with every breath that she took.

I moved closer and rose up my trembling right hand and slowly extended it towards her.

She smiled and closed her eyes. I felt the passion rise. Go away mate; fuck that beer, I’m good.

“Touch me, and we shall visit the other side together, just you and I.”

My hand closed in on her right breast. The instant I could have touched her, I felt a wave of fear overtake me.

Touching strange women had never been a challenge; I never got the chance to do so. It was touching women I knew that had always got me into trouble.

I hesitated and stepped back. And she was gone. He was gone.

I found myself standing alone in a field of grass. I recognized it; tucked away behind a cemetery in my hometown, back in Newburyport, back in the USA, where hamburgers sizzle on an open grill night and day. I had not been here in years.

This tidy, awesome transformation tore me out of my dream.

Aaaaargh.

The British Airways stewardess blinked in obvious surprise at my exaggerated reaction as I lunged forward in my seat, only to be instantly hurled back into my place by my seat belt restraint.

My outstretched hand, (passion and grace, longing and yearning.) fell limply to my lap, and bounced comically one time on my faded blue-jeaned thigh.

Bright light blinded me, the hum of powerful engines droned from somewhere underneath me, and through the blinding luster I saw endless rows of seats, the backs of many hairy heads, and, the young stewardess staring at me like she was wondering if she was going to have major problems with passenger number 169.

I quickly ordered a beer and curtly sent the young woman away, as my German wife Helga looked at me inquiringly through narrowed eyelids. I glanced at her, and shrugged my shoulders.

She wasn’t a dream. This was real. I closed my eyes.

“Shit.” I thought, so close, I was so very close. I reopened my eyes and loudly sighed. Just one more second; one more damn second and I would have finally known.

The dream had been incredibly vivid; it was warm, it felt real now, like the events had been a recent memory, which; relatively speaking, they were.

I felt oddly giddy, a combination of the child-like fear that I always felt back then when adults did things I was not accustomed to, and from the sheer excitement from the concept that perhaps something magical would have really happened had I actually touched her, had I gone inside myself and found the other side.

Stranger things have happened to me since I left my hometown many years ago.

The troubled teenager had become a responsible adult. I worked, paid my bills and taxes, fed my kids and I dutifully scraped my whiskered face with a sharp razor blade each and every morning.

What a pitiful, sad price to pay. I’m actually still in mourning for the premature death of my imagination. It began so long ago, the carefully designed slaughter of our dangerous imaginations.

It began with programmed bedtimes, but it really kicked in with Kindergarten, uncomfortably being trained to sit for hours at a desk, all in preparation for the real thing, big kids school, with more teachers, yet more rules, more restrictions, and importantly, less freedoms.

We were basically learning how to run the various machines and do the required paperwork, learning what was truly expected of us from a commercial society, thus having our precious imaginations eventually crushed, spanked out of us blow by blow, as we now- immaculate in appearance, shirt tucked in and hair neatly combed and childhood dirt scrubbed away- peacefully joined the submissive masses.

It was bullshit. For a child, the “What Ifs” are virtually endless.

Damn, I was thinking again about my life again, this was definitely not good. Where was that damn beer?

The dream finally faded away, along with my righteous thoughts; both evaporated like the wispy morning fog in the sleepy mountain village in the south of Germany where I now lived.

I delivered a smile in Helga’s direction as I lightly squeezed her hand. Now she shrugged her shoulders and looked away and we both sighed. My beer arrived.

I drank long, closed my eyes and belched. “Excuse me,” I said.

Three hours into the transatlantic flight, three hours to go. We were space travelers. But in all reality, we were all space travelers, moving along at the speed of 60 minutes per hour.

My second German wife Helga had surprised me and was bringing me back home for my 40th birthday.

The REAL surprise came a few weeks later, when I returned to Germany and found out I had to pay for the whole trip. She had secretly charged the flights on my credit card.

Happy fortieth big boy.

But, I am getting ahead of myself once again.

Forty. It would have floored me at one time, but not now. I was vibrant, feeling healthy, and finally over my soft-drug problem, once again.

This alone made me feel incredibly optimistic, but in general my positive outlook had indeed paid off in ways I knew it had to. What had I taken away from my five years in the US Army? Self-confidence breeds self-confidence.

I was actually ready to be forty. I certainly was not ready to be twenty, or to turn thirty. That was the age we dreaded back in the hippie days, the official “joining of the establishment”.

Little did I realize back then that simply by being born we all had instantly become “members” of the freak show, as the late great George Carlin once called it. He also said that being born an American meant you had a front row seat. How very true this was.

I had finally matured somewhat. But; I certainly had not “grown up”.

Being forty years old reminded me that I had started out with nothing and I still have most of it. Life is good.

I was flying for the first time since 1976 without my children. That was weird, much weirder than being forty and feeling sixteen. I felt sadness thinking about this, but these thoughts too passed passively into the massive clouds outside the thick paned window, touching me invisibly, but not altering my mood.

As always I was extremely reflective about my life as we raced across the skies six miles high. And, as always, mistake followed mistake as I looked back. I’ve been repeating the same mistakes for so long now I think I should start calling them traditions.

I reflected on the various paths I have chosen and worse, much worse, the paths I had ignored.

But this time around I had finally realized this arrangement was set in stone, and could not be altered. Life was real and temporary, way shorter than we believed in our youth, and this was a realization I would- like you- once again forget.

Helga had never been to America. I was excited about showing her my old stomping grounds, walking the purple sands of Plum Island with her, eating hot fudge brownie sundaes with her, and finally having sex with her without the kids barging in and without her damn dogs growling at me through our bedroom door.

Further sleep escaped me and so faced with nothing else to do; I ordered another beer and continued to stroll aimlessly through my random thoughts.

Modern flying was not all it was cracked up to be. Yes, the prices have come down, but the damn seats have also shrunken right along with those prices. And before you even reach those tiny seats, you have to wait in various lines for hours to be x-rayed and strip-searched and felt up and asked absurd questions like- “Are you a terrorist?”

The British airlines see to it that you have a talkative Bavarian sociopath sitting next to you, who is convinced that the holocaust is an American fabricated myth and attempts to convince you of this by leaning over you with his buffalo breath; and as if that isn’t bad enough, he accents every appalling point he attempts to make by poking you with his meaty finger.

Then there are at least three hyperactive children sitting directly behind you. The giant in front of you is leaning back the whole flight causing your tray and drink to tilt precariously.

And of course, across the aisle another family has taken hold of the flight. Two young kids are fighting loudly over one Gameboy. Next to this mess a frustrated baby is screaming hysterically the whole flight. The flustered mother is trying everything to calm the baby down. And symbolically the man, husband and father of this crew, is ignoring the whole scene, reading a magazine as he sips a cocktail.

It is not the children’s fault, nor is it the parents’ fault. It’s nobody’s fault actually, most of us do not remember the precise moment in life where we realized that what we have done, is who we are.

The video screens for the in-flight movie have also shrunk, and the food is already atrocious before they bring it to you cold. They serve you drinks in cute sip-sized cans, and as you empty it with one thirsty swig the stewardess disappears down the aisle and you know you won’t see her again until you are sleeping, or shortly before you land.

Honestly, I’d take the damn bus if I could, or walk.

I know, forgive me, I have learned how to bitch from the world’s best complainers, the Germans.

I was pushing twenty-five years of living in Germany. That’s a long time. I had unintentionally absorbed a lot of German mannerisms.

Furthermore, that is a lot of trips home and even more reflection time over the blue-green Atlantic. That’s also a lot of Hellos and Goodbyes.

And let me tell you, you never get used to saying goodbye. Never. It did not get easier with practice. What a bitterly sad, quasi-permanent word.

And the older you get, the more you play with the frightening thought that you may never see all of these people again. Every goodbye could literally be the last goodbye.

It’s so true. My grandmother had mentioned this distressing fact often in the past. Nana was the first person to do so.

Yes, I am from New England, and typically in the northeast your grandmother is referred to as “Nana”. I know, that means we hail from the only region of the USA that has the benefit of both Candlepin Bowling and Nanas.

As I was kissing Nana “Goodbye” in 1976, she had softly whispered, “I hope I see you again darling,” It sent shivers down my spine.

She uttered the same exact words to me the next two times that I departed. Then- they changed. They became even more cryptic.

Now it was “I shall never see you again”, which broke my heart.

The last time, in 1996, I cheerfully assured her she would see me again. But, I finally understood just exactly what she meant. Inwardly I had shuddered as her words reached me, despite my flamboyant reply.

Ageing was not all it was cracked up to be. Where this journey we were all taking here was going to end, was now painfully clear.

My other grandparents had died long before I got the chance to know them, and my father’s father was also long gone, so I was very happy indeed that Nana was still around.

Each and every visit home was a major event for me, seeing the changes was often frightening, and always entertaining.

The ageing of friends and family was much more obvious when you only see them now and then.

It was amazing watching the ageing process move in giant leaps and bounds. Sometimes the changes of family members were not visible, and sometimes these character changes were not for better.

Life literally wore some people out.

Thankfully though, some folks had remained essentially the same as they had been in the past.

And all the events that had just been scribbled words on paper and mailed to me or as unpunctuated thoughts in painfully short E-mails clicked my way suddenly came to life right before my eyes.

The family kept growing. There were bouncy children, energetic pets, expanded waistlines, new lovers, angry old lovers, new patch children, dirty divorces, dirty dishes, bitter feuds, silent treatments, sentimental reunions, mental and physical illnesses, baldness and gray hair galore and soap opera like happenings that at times left me reeling in the years and contentedly clutching my return ticket with sweaty hands.

Now I was on my way back to the USA again. It had not been that long this time. “Just” two years in between family visits was indeed a rare luxury for me. It was fantastic. I was psyched. And I was ripe for it. I was curious who had done what- where and why.

Who needed television when you have family?

Helga’s first time flying was rewarded with a relatively soft landing. She had been frightfully nervous seconds before looking out the window, as when you fly into Logan Airport in Boston you cruise in over the Atlantic Ocean and then seemingly land directly into the Boston Harbor.

Passing through Immigration was a drag, as always, and the disapproving eye of a Custom’s Man wasn’t much better.

It always struck me funny and somewhat ironic that most foreigners’ first contact in America was with uncouth, loud-mouthed, irritable; and under paid officials. (And this after the many hours of traveling in cramped conditions in the air.)

Yes, it goes down something like this. “Americans, move past and to the next hall. Foreigners, Welcome to the land of the free, you however, are not free. Move out. Germans over here, get in this line. Shut up. Hey you, yeah you, back off, stand with your toes on the red line. Get your passports out; hold them in your right hand. That’s this hand here Buddy. Form 1548, in your left hand. Hold them up. I need to see them. Hold them up NOW.”

Having survived the bureaucratic nightmare we crawled to the shuttle bus with our luggage to go to the Alamo rent-a-car depot. I could smell home.

Helga had rented the smallest car available, and as usual we got upgraded to a mid-size automobile, as the terminal in Boston did not have a compact available. It’s a great trick that almost always works.

I quickly tuned the radio in to WBCN, (WRKO and Dale Dorman and rock and roll music- or any music at all being played on AM Radio- were long gone.) And off we went, cruising northbound on Rte 95.

My God, wide, spacious six lane highways, and you can only drive sixty-five, what a pity. The German autobahn had spoiled me, (basically no speed limits.) but on the other hand, I was never in a hurry once I was here in America.

We had left foggy Germany early in the morning, and due to the six-hour time difference, arrived a tad later than the time we had left. Never the less, we were dragging ass as we pulled into sunny Hampton Beach in New Hampshire a couple of hours later.

Traveling home was always such a marathon session. You always lost a day in your life.

There was the packing, the loading of the suitcases, the long drive to the airport from my German home, the long distances walking in the airport terminal, luggage check in, security, the long waiting to board, the wait onboard for clearance for a free runway, the long flight, the waiting for the luggage to return, the miserable customs-immigration show, the crowded shuttle bus, waiting in line to get the rental car, and then the long drive north to Newburyport.

Yes, this was my favorite part of the whole trip, the dangerous drive out of Boston through all of those treacherous Massachusetts rotaries.

Bring it on bitches, I have been driving in Germany for over twenty years.

Minutes later, listening to “Comfortably Numb” from Pink Floyd, I nearly got broad sided entering a rotary. I laughed and as the extended middle finger faded in my rear view mirror from the irate driver- a horn suddenly blared and someone else abruptly cut me off as I attempted to leave the rotary.

Nope. We had to circle around again for another attempt to exit. Helga and I looked over at the car responsible for the additional lap.

This red-faced driver honked his horn some more and then screamed obscenities at us through his open window.

Helga couldn’t believe it. She rolled down her window and screamed back at the guy in German.

Oh yeah, this was what it was all about.

I felt blessed. I rejoiced in finally being back home again.

CHAPTER TWO

NAUGHTY PATTY, NICE HELGA

Maneuvering through these chaotic rotaries was indeed, intense. Helga made this intense drive even more difficult by deliberately getting on my nerves.

She had been raging the whole time. She was very upset with me that I was going to take us to a motel along the beach in New Hampshire instead of going directly to my parents’ house. (No one was expecting us. They thought we were arriving the next day.)

Helga liked to yell when she was upset. (A lot of Germans did.) She could get really loud.

I didn’t. I rarely raised my voice; in fact I would even speak more quietly than usual when being screamed at. (No doubt a leftover memory from viewing “Caine” in the classic television show “Kung Fu”) This passiveness tended to drive people crazy.

So to an outsider, these arguments were fun to watch.

I didn’t bother trying to explain how the jetlag would soon kick in and that we would be physically crashing at supper time- local time- (despite the twenty cups of coffee) just as everyone got out of work and wanted to hear all about our trip and our life together in Germany.

I didn’t tell her I was hoping for a cozy, romantic night on the beach, just the two of us. At home it was a fucking zoo, literally- and then there were all those kids. We were never alone together.

To be honest, I was actually a bit disappointed that she did not seem all that interested in a romantic night out for two. I had thought she would be really excited about it when she found out. Nope, she wasn’t interested at all.

I know one thing; in retrospect she wishes that we had spent the entire ten days at the beach alone! But, I am getting ahead of myself again.

Helga and I disagreed fairly often these days, so I didn’t think that much of it. We were both stubborn. We were both opinionated. At least we had something in common.

But when she repeatedly said that I was a selfish bastard I actually found myself agreeing with her for a change.

I really had wanted to be alone with her, have privileged sex with her, and then just chill the first night back in the states and then get some much needed sleep before seeing everyone again.

I knew how exhausting these homecomings could be; I also knew how moving these visits back home are.

At this point in time though, I did not know this trip was going to be the most touching of them all.

Helga and I had met two years ago. Before this surprise rendezvous I had been living alone, for the first time since 1976.

The divorce from the mother of my children had been epic. I had fallen into the deepest emotional hole I had ever fallen into. (Even worse than the dark crater I tumbled into after I resumed my dope smoking habit after kicking it for the third time.)

My first German wife had left me for a young biker. Yes, literally for a guy ten years younger than her, who was in a motorcycle club and always wore black leather. He actually called her- “a red hot mama” and she loved it when he did.

Broken relationships are like algebra in High School. Have you ever looked at your X and wondered Y?

It didn’t help matters that I knew the divorce was entirely my fault. (Basically, I had messed around and got caught.) This psychological bookkeeping mattered little late at night when we found ourselves helplessly hoping for some sort of relief.

It was a dismal time period in my life. I hated living alone.

Yet I functioned, I ate, I worked, but as the Germans like to say, I had lost my smile.

One evening a good friend of mine from work dragged me along to a German “Country-Western” Club to line dance and drink. I was not a fan of line dancing or country music, or for that matter- drinking.

At first he told me that he just felt bad for me. He said his crazy girlfriend Helga, a real-life cowgirl, was going to bring a friend of hers along to accompany me.

A blind date. At my age. You’ve got to be kidding me.

When he told me about his plans, I protested, but then he told me the truth. I had to do it, do it for him, because he was really doing it for Helga. Her beloved horse “Elvis” had nearly died and she desperately needed a night out to chill. The double date line was to trick her into actually leaving the horse and going out.

“How did her horse nearly die?’

“Elvis had three wolf’s teeth.”

“What did the horse have? Wolf’s Teeth? Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. They are the first premolar teeth, really small. Not all horses have wolf teeth. Only about 40–50% of horses have them.”

“That’s so weird. I have never heard of horses having wolf’s teeth. And half of them have them? That’s fucked up. Wolf’s teeth.”

“It’s just the name dumbass.”

“Cool name. So does her pony have Chihuahua Teeth?”

“You probably think that’s funny. I don’t.” I was indeed laughing.

“Helga believed that the wolf teeth interfered with the horses bit. She thought it hurt Elvis to ride. So she called the Vet. Usually the removal is a simple procedure. The horse is lightly sedated. But this guy used a local anesthesia. They put Elvis out. Then they gave her nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs for 3–5 days.”

“Elvis is a female?”

“Don’t ask. She loves the name. Anyway, something went wrong. Poor Elvis ended up with blood poisoning.”

“But I assume the horse made it.”

“Elvis is fine now, but she nearly died and that would have killed Helga. She was a wreck the whole time, hasn’t slept for days.”

“So we are going out line dancing because of a wolf’s tooth in a horse.”

“And because you just can’t seem to find a woman.” I still wasn’t interested, but I liked this guy. I agreed to go along with it.

So Friday came along and I met them in Sinsheim. They looked good together; he was sort of handsome, tall and heavyset, with dark, shoulder length hair. Helga was sort of pretty; also husky and strong; with nice hips and large breasts with pretty blond hair cascading down her back.

They both had German blue eyes. (Don’t ask.) They also had ten-gallon cowboy hats on, boots and tight jeans. I felt out of place already.

The double date didn’t happen though. The lady friend screamed “Hell no.” when she found out I was a divorced American. I wasn’t surprised.

Helga felt bad for me sitting alone in the back seat, so she tried to cheer me up with a barrage of clean-dirty jokes. They were of this nature.

What does a Rubik’s cube and a penis have in common?

The more you play with it, the harder it gets.

Or-

A bear and a rabbit are both taking a shit in the woods.

The bear asks the rabbit, “Do you have problems with shit sticking to your fur?’

The rabbit says, “no.”

The bear says “good,” and grabs him and wipes his ass with the rabbit.

She cackled like a witch at that one. Despite myself, I ended up laughing at most of them.

We arrived, and shuffled inside with the crowd and found a free table near the stage. There was a live band playing; but man, they were awful.

The song- “Achy breaky heart” is pretty damn hard to take anyway, but sung with a nasal German accent, wow. It was even too bad to be funny.

I was ready to go home before we even sat down. I truly hoped this made his girlfriend feel good, because it was torture for me.

I refused to dance, and just sat there drinking as I watched the German cowboy wanna-be’s do their rebel yells and get down.

After they had danced for a while, they rejoined me. Helga and I drank and talked for hours as my friend, volunteer designated driver; warily watched us from the other side of the table.

Eventually I got ripped on whisky-cola, the cheap cowboy special of the night, and after all was said and done, I half-walked, half-stumbled through the parking lot to the car. That’s all I remembered.

Around five in the morning I awoke and found myself fully clothed in my bed, they had carried me up the stairs to my place.

The next morning the telephone rang, and I cursed the volume as my head throbbed. It was Helga. I was too hung over to be confused.

She had broken up with my friend.

I listened, while staring longingly at my bed, wanting to return there as quickly as possible. Please stop talking.

Her claims of how bad their relationship was did not interest me. Now I was totally confused, but I politely listened to the whole story without asking a single question. Just stop talking already.

Then she asked me if I wanted to go out with her. Just as quickly I said no.

She asked if she could call me again. I said I didn’t care.

She thanked me. Then she hung up, and I thanked God.

I went back to bed. I slept all day, and couldn’t recall any of my dreams, which is a bad sign.

Upon wakening later, I remembered what she had told me, and frowned. My memory of the club was shaky after midnight. Had I flirted with her? It wouldn’t have surprised me.

I rarely drank, and might have had a loose tongue. And my love of flirting had been passed down to me from my father. The big problem was, with my father, it never went further than flirting.

I hoped it had only been my tongue that had gotten loose.

I crawled out of my warm bed and called my cowboy friend.

Yes, Helga had broken up with him.

No, I had not flirted with her.

Yes, they had been having major problems.

No, he wasn’t mad at me.

Yes, she was always that nutty.

No, he didn’t care if I dated her.

That surprised me. So I asked him straight up. “Why not”?

“I knew my time was nearly up.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“She’s crazy dude, a good time girl on the outside, a little dark on the inside.”

“That sounds weird. So why should I date her then?”

“That’s easy. If you are horny, and I know you, then you should definitely go for it; this woman is dynamite in bed.”

“Please man, that’s enough.”

“Dude, the girl owns horses man; you know what that means. She knows how to ride. That’s basically all she likes doing in bed, but it’s amazing, you’ll be impressed. But if you are looking for love, she will disappoint you, she is not a girl for long term relationships.”

The riding bit sounded intriguing, the last part sounded weird. “She seems sincere. Why would you even say that?”

“Because I know her. She has three little girls, all from three different dudes. Enough said?’ Ouch. She wasn’t even thirty yet.

I thanked him for his honesty, hung up and laughed.

I did not need Helga to satisfy my sexual needs. This wouldn’t be necessary. I was getting more sex at the moment then I had ever had at any other time in my life.

For most of my twenty years of marriage I had felt that I was just not getting enough. I felt like my sexual prime was being wasted. I know, now it even sounds stupid to me too.

I was so adamant about this that I bitched about it constantly. Thus, my wife and I even fought about it. (I know, in retrospect this was certainly not the best approach to get your wife in the mood.)

I had an intense sex drive. Some Indian tribes claim that the source of your sex drive is based upon the actual passion involved the very moment you were conceived. Mom and Dad must have broken the damn bed the night they made me.

I had always wished for way more sex. I guess it’s a guy thing.

My father always used to say, “Careful what you wish for, you just might get it.” It was so true.

Funny how idiotic clichés often have a tendency to be spot on when it comes to describing life.

Funny how things always seem to happen to you when you least expect them to happen.

Funny how I discovered that I had totally missed the point about sex.

Funny how some lessons we learn in life simply come too late.

I felt like I had already fallen in love with a woman. It turned out to be only lust, but back in my youth, there was a very thin line between lust and love.

Obviously I was very ripe for falling in love, I was scared, lonely, and I was nursing a broken heart, (Oh my achy breaky heart) the perfect mixture for falling in love with the very first person that just happens to come along.

Her name was Patty. Patty was the girl next door, literally. I had moved into a new apartment two weeks prior to our night out. She was my neighbor from across the hall. (Our doors were across from another at the top of the stairs, the only two apartments on that floor.)

She was eight years younger than me. And she too was divorced. (Weren’t we all?) She was fun loving, very pretty and her big sad cow eyes had captured mine the very first contact we had in the stairwell the night I moved in.

We shared a beer that night, and a single bed a week later.

Ok, so I’m a bit of a slut. Big deal.

After our first night together, she knocked on my door the very next evening. I was surprised to see her. I was even more surprised when she asked me if I wanted to come over and have sex again.

Really? This younger generation does not play around. She had asked me just as casually as if she had asked me to come over and watch a movie with her.

I’ll be right over.

And that was how it worked out between us afterwards. I never had to call her; she would just knock on my door when she was in the mood, which was surprisingly often. I was thinking, coolest apartment ever.

After a while I thought she really liked me, maybe even loved me, but later I discovered I was wrong.

I was told that my naughty neighbor Patty was a budding nymphomaniac. I never thought there was such a thing, and if so, I didn’t believe that she was one. To this day, I am still not totally sure. I never saw a line of guys walking through her door while I lived there.

Maybe she just liked sex. Maybe it was just convenient having a horny neighbor like me. (And I’m a bit of a slut, have I mentioned that?)

Regardless, there was no need to date Helga just to have sex. My sexual lust was totally sated.

Yet Helga was persistent. She called me nearly everyday, and we talked for hours. She was indeed a riot. Her wacky sense of humor floored me. She could make me laugh, which impressed me.

At the same time things had eventually soured in my erotic apartment house. I thought you could build a good relationship based entirely upon good sex. I guess I was wrong. (What a pity though, isn’t it?)

Patty was virtually insatiable. At first this surprising fact was absolutely tremendous. I mean, a woman who NEVER said no. Where do I sign up?

Foreplay usually did not compute in her bawdy program. I found that sad on various levels, both emotional and physical, but never the less, definitely tolerable.

Gentlemen; please lock and load your weapon and prepare to fire your guns.

We often began in her laundry-room, as we had the very first night we made it together in her place.

The laundry room was her favorite place in the world, her little Disneyland of debauchery. And her favorite ride of all was the dazzling, dizzying top loader rumble base. I have to admit, it was indeed, fucking fabulous.

We would climb up, lock and load, and sit on her ancient washing machine; which she had set up in the middle of the room. She would keep setting it to spin and the damn thing would tremble and pulsate as it literally crawled across the room with us shaking on top trying not to fall off.

I felt like a human dildo.

The rest of her place also had its unique areas, each to fit her current mood of the day.

Sometimes she wanted to do the good traditional housewife kitchen routines. That meant she put on an apron, and nothing else. She would prepare food while we did it from behind; all the while taking breaks to experiment with various foods.

The living room was a lot easier on me. She actually wanted it straight in here. We screwed on the couch or the armrest of chairs, directly in front of the console television with her beloved MTV on. (This was back when MTV actually played music videos.) She loudly sang along to the songs she knew.

On good days we did it on the exercise bike. It was a recumbent bike, and she could sit on me as I peddled for my dear life. She connected the pulse clip to my ear- she wanted to see it show 160 or she would get angry- and then it was off again to level seventh heaven.

If I survived the bike, things always got worse. There would be more to come while crawling out of the living room while still connected, literally on our hands and knees, and my skinned knees hated the carpeted hallway to the bedroom.

Yes. Believe it or not; sometimes we even went into her bedroom, for use of her huge beanbag and toys- and yes- sometimes we even used the damn bed.

This room was where she had her various sex toys, which she especially liked me to use on her while she laid on top of her “Hello Kitty” pink beanbag.

To be fair, it wasn’t all dirty though.

Occasionally we practiced clean sex, and we would hang out in the bathroom where we warmed up doing it standing up in the shower as the tub filled up, then settled down in a bubble bath, displaying various bubble poses before the mirrors she had set up, (There were mirrors everywhere in her apartment.) until the steam ended our beloved voyeurism.

Sometimes these routines got me wondering if perhaps this was becoming slightly abnormal. I never knew these things.

And at that moment in time, I just didn’t care. I slept like a baby after leaving her place.

Yes, it was exhausting, decadent, and outlandish at times, but still, it was great fun for a while.

Unfortunately Patty turned out to be a monster in a sexy disguise.

One morning I caught her beating her poor dog with a slipper because he had had an accident on the rug. I was sincerely appalled and I physically stopped her by snatching the slipper out of her hand and tossing it away.

I walked out in disgust. I stopped talking to her, and stopped doing the other stuff too.

She called me daily, telling me that she loved me. She constantly banged on the door, and then slipped erotic letters under the door, and still, I stayed strong. I was so proud of Mister Happy.

But, this was a bad time in my life, inwardly I was an emotional wreck, and weakened and lonely and thus, I returned just a few weeks later- literally- with my pants down and what was left of my pride placed in her fingertips.

It’s sad, but to a guy sex is like air, its not important unless you aren’t getting any.

I was not very proud of this move, but in the end, Mister Happy had no visible scruples. When I think back on my life, and I see how many times sex had gotten me in big trouble, I could literally scream.

But it was a well-known fact. Sex takes up the least amount of time, and usually causes the most amount of trouble. But, I never seemed to care, it was so much fun.

I kept the dog safe, but my naughty Patty eventually turned out to be a drag anyway.

I finally caught on to the fact that she just wanted sexual favors only when she was drinking. (She drank nearly everyday, so I had not noticed earlier.)

I quickly bored of balling someone who could only come while drunk. Now, I truly felt used.

Of course, this did not cause me to stop visiting her laundry room. When the knock on the door came, out the door I went.

But my post-divorce depression deepened. I found myself craving dope, my old friend from the past, my loyal, forgiving, good time buddy; the all time great escape.

Yes, it was high time to do drugs again and get high. I wanted to call a friend of mine and get some weed. And then I heard a voice in my head.

I decided Helga would be a better high.

I called her. I told her I wanted to see her. She got all excited. We got together regularly to walk and talk in various meadows and woods around the area.

It was so relaxing being with her, and she was always so nice. And it felt so normal, something that had been extremely lacking in my life at that point.

It was strictly platonic of course. I was still gorged with sex at the time. Until it happened.

It happened on a Saturday night. I had done some shots with Patty, and so, I was drunk too. Thus, the “let’s have some real fun” sex with Patty was a bit more decadent than the usual sessions we had been having.

We were out of our minds.

We had been doing it on her office swivel chair, and the phone rang. It was a friend of hers, and so Patty just talked normal to her as we kept going at it.

I decided enough was enough, so suddenly I pushed the chair out of the room to force her to hang up.

Patty did not want to hang up.

She tightly held onto the phone, laughing now, and the damn phone ripped right out of the wall with a crash.

Patty thought this was a riot and yelled “Auf Wiedersehen” into the dead phone and tossed the receiver away.

Now things got pretty hot. The chair was outfitted with sturdy wheels and I was readily pushing her from room to room, and then from my apartment to hers as we happily rutted away, laughing and screaming as we did so.

Then things took a turn for the worse.

Somehow her dog got out of the kitchen and I guess he got pretty excited by our animalistic actions. The damn mutt was barking and hopping around us in chaotic circles. Patty laughed even more.

Then the bastard grabbed my right leg and began humping me.

I was suitably revolted by this and panicked as I frantically tried to get away. Suddenly I wished I had that damn slipper.

The dog started barking. I was wildly shaking my leg just like dogs do when you scratch their bellies. I did not shake him loose, but I lost my balance trying.

We all tipped over in a thunderous crash- a creepy bundle of naked flesh and fur and chair- directly in the hallway between our apartments.

Patty was hysterical. She tightened her legs’ vice-like grip around my waist, and I could not escape her powerful thighs. I was frantic.

She was laughing her ass off at the antics of her horny dog, which was still barking and happily humping away on my poor calf.

Now I was more than disgusted.

Seconds later the guy who lived down stairs under my apartment was standing in the stairwell down under us, looking up at us.

I’ll never forget the look on his face.

Patty, the dog and I and the damn chair were lying sideways on the floor. I was still inside Patty, she was still laughing loudly like a maniac, and- of course- the damn dog was still excitedly barking as he humped away.

I’m the only one who sees the guy. It couldn’t get any worse.

I smiled at him and even waved as I shrugged my shoulders. “Evening neighbor, this probably looks a little strange to you, but-“

He interrupted me. “Perverts. Fucking perverts. You people make me sick. I should call the police.”

Fortunately, he did not.

He just shook his head from side to side and sneered. Then he stormed off into his apartment and slammed the door shut behind him.

I never had sex with Patty again.

CHAPTER THREE

GOING DOWN TO

HELGA’S FARM

Things were a little weird in the neighborhood afterwards. Apparently my adventurous lifestyle was being seriously frowned upon. Tenants from our apartment house gave me dirty looks when we met or worse, those accusing slow shakes of the head.

One woman made me smile though. We had spoken before in the past, and it looked like she had taken it a bit more lightly. I ran into her checking my mail, and she smiled and said, “Well, I didn’t realize I was living in the same house with the author of “Fifty Shades Of Blaine”.

Helga and I had gotten together numerous times in various places since we had met months before. Now, in light of my new position in the neighborhood as a perverted sex maniac, I finally took her up on her standing offer to come visit her at her place.

She referred to her home as “Her Little Farm”. I thought she was just kidding. As it turns out, she wasn’t.

Her house was actually a rented farmhouse complete with a small barn housing many animals and this doubled as a playground for many kids.

As it turns out, it was also the place where something totally unexpected happened.

I found it easily enough, even though it was situated on a mountain nearly an hour away from where I lived. I rang the bell and Helga cheerfully buzzed me in. I walked down a hallway, following her voice. She told me she was in her living room. I turned the last corner and peeked in.

Whoa, I didn’t expect that. Instantly I suspected she really wanted to make a good impression with this visit.

There she was, lying on a Weider weight bench, in the middle of her work out. She knew from our talks that I lifted weights, and had casually mentioned to me that she was into it too.

The first thing I notice is that she was bench pressing a pretty decent weight. I was impressed. First off, I had never seen a woman with free weights in her living room before. Secondly, I had also never seen a woman bench that much weight before, with no one around to spot her.

The next thing I notice is that Helga was wearing cut off jeans and a tight white tank top, and she must have forgotten to put on a bra, and thus, I had also never seen anyone look so damn good benching before.

Ok, I lied. The tank top was the first thing I noticed when I entered the room.

It was remarkable. She beckoned me to the couch, and I sat down. It was pretty cool watching her. But, as much as a surprise that this training session was, this is not the unexpected thing that knocked me out that night.

After she finished her work out, we hung out together in the kitchen. She whipped up two chocolate protein shakes, and tossed in a ripe banana for good measure. As we slurped our drinks, funny little voices reached my ears.

Then the Munchkin scene from “The Wizard of Oz” played out before me.

I heard these adorable little hidden voices giggling, and after a few minutes, Helga told them to come out. (Come out, come out, where ever you are) One by one, her three little girls came sneaking out from their hiding places where they had been watching us, giggling like little girls do.

They were simply delightful. After a nod from Mom, they came over to me and really checked me out. They began drilling me. They asked me a million questions. They were pretty hilarious.

I perked right up when the youngest asked me if I thought their mother was pretty. Instantly the second in line asked me if I knew what a great cook her mom was. As if on cue, the oldest said, “Mom thinks you got nice buns.” Kids say the darndest things.

One of them brought out an animal hand puppet and I put it on and immediately brought the charming lion to life. We called him “Mister Big Mouth,” because his mouth was huge, and because he joked around and laughed a lot. He also told them they had an amazing mother.

And then the unexpected happened.

By the end of the evening, I had fallen in love with her kids.

My cowboy friend had told me the truth. She actually had those three little girls, they were real, and it appeared to me that they were starving for attention.

They were as hungry as I was, and they needed a father figure. I had just lost my kids, and this match seemed just too good to be true. It appeared I was finally back on the right path.

It turned out to be one of the nicest evenings I had had in months.

Meanwhile back home, Patty was now terrorizing me daily, with nonstop phone calls, banging on my door, shoving letters under the door, and sometimes even following me down the stairs when I would leave the building.

She would be grabbing me, trying to get me to stop and talk to her as she told me that she missed me, that she needed me. Occasionally she would even pinch my ass. I had never been goosed before- guess what? It isn’t very sexy.

I suddenly felt so much empathy for women.

She even told me that she would get rid of the dog.

I had had a long heart to heart talk with her the morning after our final escapade. I told her flat out that despite the thrill factor, I could no longer be her boy toy. I explained that I had children, I was looking for a serious relationship; I had been wrong thinking that just having good sex would be enough for me.

Plus- I was too damn old for her.

She listened, then she told me I took life too seriously. She said she had been hurt too many times by men in the past, and so she preferred to be in control, and not let herself go emotionally. But- she thought she might be able to truly love me somewhere down the road.

I told her I could no longer walk that road with her, and I wished her well. I also told her we could still be friends, but- we all know how that usually works out.

So, the harassment continued. I was actually being stalked by a horny, younger woman who basically wanted nothing more than from me than to have uninhibited sex with her, and I can not believe I’m saying this, but I hated it. I couldn’t take it anymore.

Whoosh. I moved in with Helga two weeks later.

Yes, I went from having sex two times a day to just two times a week, but I was more than happy with it. All those years spent craving more sex suddenly seemed rather foolish now.

I had a family again. I quickly discovered that patch families could be just as satisfying as our own families. In the beginning, it was all bliss.

We had even gotten married three months before this USA trip, even though I swore I would never marry again. But- I have to admit; there were extenuating circumstances.

Helga was definitely a wild child. Her three daughters were indeed from three different men. Her parents had tried again and again to get her to settle down, and thus they placed a new offer on the table. If she would find the right guy, and get married, they would help her get into her own house.

At the same time, I was in a terrible tax jam with the German I.R.S., and owed them thousands of Euros. It was my ignorance of the tax laws that did me in; I did not change my tax status after my separation with Anneliese, thinking I was still married.

Yes, legally I was married, but not in the eyes of the German Taxman because I did not physically live with my wife. I had not been paying enough income tax, and they found out about it, and they wanted the back taxes, and they wanted it now.

Germany is one of the only industrial countries in the world where the population is actually diminishing. There are more Germans dying every year than there are Germans being born.

(Germans do like sex; they just don’t like kids.)

So the powers in charge have installed financial incentives to encourage people to have children, for example- Kindergeld (literally- Children Money) in which they pay you a certain sum of money for every kid you have every month until they become eighteen. It was around 200 Euros a month per child.

They also allow mothers to remain at home for a complete year after the birth. Yes, paid maternity leave. That means, Germany gives you money every month, around 800 Euros and also legally protects you from losing your job. Your employer must give you your job back, and by this time, your little rugrat will probably be walking already.

And you were given enormous tax breaks by having children to claim.

To make a long story short, by marrying Helga in December, I would be classified as being married for the whole fiscal year, have six dependants to claim, and the huge difference in the tax rates would pay back nearly all of what I already owed them.

And of course, Helga would get her little house on the prairie.

Of course there were other reasons to marry this woman. Despite my horny genes, I still saw myself as a hopeless romantic at heart. I did love her. The kids were wonderful. The animals were fun. I truly appreciated living in the country. It was all good.

I also cherished her insane way of dealing with things that would have freaked out other women I had known in the past.

Like “The Crazy Horse” incident.

Her rented farmhouse was very old. Helga owned a horse; Elvis- despite the misleading name, was a mare and not a colt. She was the horse who had its Wolf’s Teeth removed. Helga also had a pony; Pedro- who was a colt and also got to keep his Chihuahua teeth.

They were both housed in separate stalls in the barn. The barn was attached directly to the house, thus you could also enter the barn from the kitchen, as well as from outside in the backyard.

Her bedroom was next to the kitchen. The kids slept upstairs. The incidence occurred after I had only been living with her for two weeks.

One evening we were sleeping, when suddenly a loud crash in the kitchen woke me up. I jumped out of bed, and ran into the kitchen.

Elvis, Helga’s beautiful white horse, was standing next to the kitchen table.

I had ran out of the bedroom without bothering to put on my glasses, so I was not totally sure if there actually was a horse in the kitchen or not, so I went back into the bedroom, and grabbed my glasses. I put them on, and cautiously peeked out into the kitchen.

Elvis had not left the building.

The horse was now standing tall next to the sink; Helga’s two dogs were lying nearby, just staring at her and whining softly.

Elvis was munching on a complete loaf of German bread sitting on top of the refrigerator. I’m a bit shocked, but also amused.

The horse turned when she saw me, and I swear she winked at me. Then I heard the deep voice of televisions own “Mister Ed”.

“I’m awful hungry Blaine, I’m just going to make myself a quick sandwich before I hit the hay.”

“Ed, I mean Elvis, did you just talk to me? Can you really talk? Say something else.”

“How now, brown cow.” Elvis winked again.

“That’s cute. How did you get out of your stall? What if Carol, I mean Helga sees you?”

“Come on Blaine, don’t be such a spoil sport. You got yourself a mighty fine filly lying in there with you. I sleep alone.”

“Are you lonesome tonight?”

“Don’t be cruel. But, that’s all right. Blaine, please- love me tender, ok? And could you get rid of those two, they ain’t nothing but hound dogs, crying all the time.”

“Elvis, this is unacceptable. I’m telling Helga.”

“Aww jeeze, don’t be a selfish bastard.”

I quickly snapped out of it, thinking about how Helga’s latest batch of kittens had shit all over the kitchen floor a few nights ago after they had escaped from their box. It was not pretty.

On the way to the bathroom I had stepped in a wet pile, barefoot no less, and it had been a nasty experience. There is nothing quite like scraping out shit from in between your toes before going to work.

Ed’s, I mean Elvis’ pile, would be much, much bigger.

I ran back into the bedroom. “Helga, hey, Helga, wake up. Elvis broke out of her stall, she is out there in the kitchen.”

Helga slowly rolled over and faced me. She smiled. “Elvis is in the kitchen? What is she doing?”

“Making herself a sandwich.”

“Huh? Ok. Good, good. If she eats all the bread, the kids can eat cereal for breakfast.”

Seriously? That’s all she has to say about this?

It wasn’t, she added, “She’ll be fine, just open the back door, she can go back to her stall after she has finished her midnight snack.”

“Well, what if she doesn’t go back?” Roughly translated, what if she fills the whole kitchen up with horse manure?

“Then she sleeps in the kitchen, who cares? Did she complain last summer when the kids slept in the barn?”

The kids did not shit and piss on her floor. I tried again. “So you aren’t going to bring her back to the barn.”

Helga blew me a kiss and rolled back over. When it became clear to me that she was not going to get up and take the damn horse out of her kitchen, I decided to go back to bed too.

I took a final glance at the king, who was still happily eating the bread.

“Good night Elvis, sleep tight.”

“Good night Blaine, Viva Las Vegas.”

I went back to bed. I decided if this woman could sleep peacefully with a goddamn horse plundering her kitchen, then she was the right woman for me.

I also remember the first time I went haying with her. I was thrilled to be able to go haying again because of the sentimental value it held for me from my teenage summers working on the dairy farm with my father’s friend Ray.

Helga had some farmer friends, and one of them used to cut and bale up a couple of fields for her rather cheaply. We had to bring it home though.

In Germany it was often hard to get the hay in, because it rained so often. You need at least four consecutive dry days to cut, dry, rake and bale and bring it all in. We had begun the process, but now rain was predicted, and so we had to move fast to get the bales in the barn.

Helga’s father allowed Helga to use his Jeep and his Horse Trailer to bring home the bales. (Yes, her parents also had horses.) The trailer only held about eighteen bales, so we had a lot of driving to do.

The field was huge, and I had driven out with her small VW car to gather and stack some bales in one pile until she showed up with the jeep. Then we loaded it, and I drove it back to the barn, since I was faster at unloading.

When I returned to the field, I was surprised to see the farmer standing around with his wife and a friend, looking across the field. The guy was even taking pictures.

Then I saw why.

Helga was driving around on the field in her small European car, stacking bales of hay on top of her car roof. She had them stacked four high, and she had three more on the hood of the car. She had the trunk open and I could see a bale hanging out. There were two more in the back seat poking out forcing the doors to be left open. There was also one pressed into the passenger seat, where she had also left this door open.

Since she couldn’t see where she was going, she had the driver door open too and she was leaning way out of her car to see where to go. I had never seen anything like it.

She drove to a pile of bales, jumped out, and roughly starting pushing bales off of her car. The farmer started applauding.

I walked over and she was grinning from ear to ear.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“You see what I am doing, gathering up the bales to one spot. I got tired of dragging them by hand, so I’m using my car.”

“What about the mess, and your paint job?”

“The car smells great now, and fuck the paint job. It’s only a car.”

And there it was again. That fantastic- “who gives a shit” attitude.

That’s hard to find in a world where so many people are caught up in worrying about how they appear to others and about other trivial things.

So, we rushed out to the justice of the peace and tied the knot one chilly Friday afternoon right after work.

I had not told anyone about my plans, not even my kids. Since it did not change anything in their lives, they did not seem to care when they found out later that night.

At work no one even raised an eyebrow. I was already seen as the outrageous American. All of a sudden I was just married again to a crazy woman.

And I was more than happy to get those kids into a stable environment. I really cared about those three little girls. I was trying hard to give those poor kids some childhood memories they won’t have to repress down the road.

Plus, Helga having a house of her own was very important. Her parents had money, I felt they shouldn’t be allowed to punish her by withholding support and thus make her life more difficult just because she was a free spirit. It all seemed good.

Despite the fact that I did love her and my new life with the girls; the sudden marriage thing was slowly beginning to come back to haunt me.

Money, or better said- a serious lack of money had us working day and night, me seven to four in the factory, and then when I got home she would take off until eleven or twelve at night to work in a restaurant.

We rarely saw each other. This was not really the main problem at first. It was when I finally noticed that it didn’t seem like she missed me all that much anymore. That kinda bothered me.

Her girls adored me, but as my cowboy friend had warned, Helga’s love was apparently waning and she was not doing a good job of hiding it.

I believe she found me a bit boring. I was a devoted father and spent my time after work cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, feeding our horses, rabbits, goats, guinea pigs, dogs, and cats and the kids.

Weekends I went and got my boys and brought them to our little farm. They loved the animals and although they were at the tender age where they would not admit it, they also loved the girls.

Helga often worked long weekend shifts at the restaurant. We didn’t go to the Country Western club anymore. We didn’t have time for long walks together anymore. We were very busy. Sometimes day to day life just gets in the way of love.

It was like all that sexual energy I had been giving away to Patty now had another outlet. There was more than enough to do down on the farm.

Sex wasn’t one of them. In the beginning it was wonderful, of course, as we went through the initial exciting hot phase every new relationship has.

At the time I was more than happy to make love with someone who did not suggest a trip to the laundry room just to warm up.

Then- the honeymoon was over.

It was subtle at first. Once we were walking the dogs past a field and we witnessed two horses playfully rubbing noses. I put my arm around her waist, pulled her closer and whispered in her ear, “Boy, that sure makes me want to do the same.”

“Well go ahead,” Helga said. “But be careful they don’t bite you.”

My friend had been right about her sexual preferences too.

She would only allow me to make love with her in two positions, which would have been challenging for me anyway, as horny as I am, but after my outrageous fling with Patty it felt like going from a Harley Davidson to a tricycle.

Then there was that slightly odd thing with her breasts.

Helga had amazing boobs. I had known this long before I saw her doing sexy bench presses that fateful day two years ago. She literally had the body of a Sixties Playboy Bunny. She proudly told me her breasts were size 40, D cup no less, and that they also seemed to defy gravity sans bra.

So this is a problem?

Yes. In the early days she did not seem to mind when I touched them as we made out or made love. In retrospect, I suppose this was my period of grace.

One evening I was really spending a lot of quality time with them as we made out. (I really had missed the lack of foreplay with Patty, yes, I admit it; I missed the cuddling part of a good relationship.)

At one point Helga stopped me and says, “You know Blaine, I have to tell you something, they are not very sensitive at all, you could touch them all night long and it still won’t turn me on.”

I remember literally laughing out loud at the sheer irony of it all.

I finally get a woman with every teenage boys vision of dream boobs, and this woman is now my wife, and thus- we legally make love together regularly. And so, what happens?

She does not like having them caressed. It does not turn her on to have them touched or sucked. It leaves her cold. And- she makes it crystal clear to me that I know this uncomfortable fact. Boom.

Now to be fair, she did not forbid me to touch them in the future. But knowing she did not care for it at all sure took all the fun out of it for me, that’s for sure.

What could I do? I waved the white flag. Sex became a rare occurrence.

So I admit, I was feeling some frustration in my life at the time.

But, I still didn’t turn to smoking dope. I turned to something much worse than drugs. I began writing again.

I had a cool idea for a story, and had a creative burst that made my lonely evenings come alive. I had a word processor, and I had been saving these written words on a floppy disk, this being a few years before USB sticks and home computers and such.

I had been working on the story for months, and I had about one hundred pages of finished work, and another twenty that just needed to be edited.

Any working-man who dabbles in writing will tell you how difficult it is to sit down and write after working eight hours in a mind numbing factory.

Then I had the kids and animals to deal with for another four hours until they went to bed before I was finally alone. And still, the desire to write had returned. I was amazed, and psyched.

Until Murphy’s law set in.

One day I have some leftover time and energy after the kids are in bed, so I pop in the disk to do some work. I had a bunch of floppy disks, and I find out, much to my growing horror, that all that was left on the disk containing my story was two paragraphs of a letter Helga had written to her cousin the day before.

Oh my God. She had erased my story.

I was heartbroken. She did not know her way around the word processor, and made some wrong clicks trying to save her letter.

Instead of saving it as a new document, she saved it OVER mine. When she was asked “Are you sure you want to delete this file”- referring to MY STORY- She innocently clicked- “yes”.

This was a floppy desk.

It had been wiped.

There was no trash bin on the computer where I could retrieve my story.

There was no computer at all, the word processor did not have any memory.

My story was no more. Just like that.

How bad was this? I recall one night after I had done some touch up work, the power suddenly went out. The two hours of touch up I had done was gone, as I had not saved anything as I had worked.

Some nights the juices flow, and the writing is good, and some nights the writing is simply hard and demanding. This had been a good night.

I remember how terrible I felt, even though a lot of what I had just changed, added, and deleted was still fresh in my mind. It was a true feeling of loss.

Now the ENTIRE story was GONE. I was shattered.

I became so depressed at my lost words that I stopped writing again.

Helga said it was my fault for not hiding the disk. (She had never used the machine before; the letter she started to her cousin had been a spontaneous decision.)

She also did not understand why I was so upset, she said, “What’s the big deal, just write it again”.

I believe the USA trip seed was planted when she realized just how much it hurt me to lose my story. She put the wheels in motion.

When I found out about her birthday surprise in the USA I was hoping that the radical change in scenery would do our relationship good.

I was hoping that being alone with her for the first time since I had moved in with her would somehow help us close the gap between us that appeared to be growing.

I was even thinking that having her meet my family might deepen our roots.

Then on the way to the airport in Frankfurt she dropped the irrevocable bomb.

She said that she hoped we would not have to spend all too much time with my family; she wanted to see a lot of America, not Americans.

Dear God, she must be kidding. I laughed, thinking she was trying to be funny. Her facial expression made it clear she was not joking.

I was preparing for the worse, while hoping for the best. That is all any of us can do in life.

And the fact remained, she had her little house on the prairie now and I was debt-free. Our children were happy. I was grateful. I felt we had done well. Some marriages are not that fruitful.

And without a doubt, she had saved me from being fucked to death.

Helga and I survived the Massachusetts rotaries, random road rage and the New Hampshire potholes and finally arrived at Hampton Beach.

We found a motel right on the strip and rented a room with a fantastic ocean side view. Then we dropped our bags, stripped off our shoes and quickly jogged over to the beach.

The ocean, I was here at last. Words are too incomplete to express just how much I miss the sea living in Germany. Plus, I could never find the time to put into words just how I felt, a procrastinator’s work is never done.

Instantly it all overwhelmed me. I was alive. The proof was here, just to hear the rhythmic crashing of the waves, and see the endless shimmering water stretch from the foamy surf out into the symbolic eternity of the distant horizon.

Living proof was everywhere, but especially here. I could once again feel the moist spray in my face, and at the same time smell the exquisite salty air as my dancing feet left invisible footprints in the soft, warm sand.

“Yaaahoooo.” I joyfully hooted and clapped my hands like a small child at Christmas as I did a herky-jerky dance for the magnificent seagulls soaring overhead and the be-bopping shadow squirming at my feet.

Helga was not too impressed with my sudden burst of energy. “I thought you were too tired to go see your family.” Oh oh.

Nor was she impressed with the plastic coke bottles, Miller Light cans and the Duncan Donut coffee cups floating about in the surf.

To be honest, neither was I. It was distressing to me that people came to this place to admire the beauty of the sea, cherish the obvious beauty of nature, (although often unwittingly), then carelessly leave behind their damn trash.

It was like they had to prove through their utter humanness that they were in control of nature, despite the fact that this was an illusion. We all depended on nature. The fact that people could alter its beauty with an arrogant flick of the wrist was hideous.

I was sure the persons responsible for this mess could never admit they came here just to celebrate nature, or that they actually found beauty here. It was much easier to ignore primitive urges while being outdoors, way cooler to flagrantly leave their litter behind.

It was beyond me, and I had to force myself not to dwell on the complexities of human nature with all of this overwhelming splendor surrounding me.

This was indeed real. Every grain of sand was pulsating with life.

The tide was coming in, and so we sat down on rocks in silence and patiently watched it slowly surround us for nearly two hours.

The luxury of being able to watch the tide roll in all afternoon was very much appreciated by both of us. As kids you have the time to do such things “all the time”. As adults, well, time seemingly shrinks as you age.

Eventually we got hungry, and we reluctantly walked back to our room. Helga had been leaning on me for a while. I was no longer used to it, and enjoyed the intimacy.

It was now time to go. The clock was ticking louder and louder…

We drove to The Market Basket in Seabrook and bought some food. Helga was somewhat amazed at the large selection. (Of everything.) The cereal and soft drink aisles in particular were very impressive in direct comparison to Germany. (Tons of processed sugar, all within easy reach.)

We drove back slowly, taking in the American sights, and then sleepily returned to our room. We made sloppy triple-decker sandwiches and munched on white cheddar cheese popcorn in front of the window, contentedly watching the waves. We washed it all down with bottled water.

I was stunned, since when did Americans pay a lot of money for bottled water? How did they get tricked into doing that? I drank tap water as a kid here and I drank tap water in Germany.

After dinner, we enjoyed another bout of playful verbal dueling with our talented mouths and Helga reluctantly admitted that it was nice being on the beach.

We made up and utilized our mouths for something much more sensible and sensual. Then we cuddled a bit more before our drowsy bodies insisted that we pursue the matter no further.

We fell into a Jet-lag induced deep sleep around eight o’clock local time as the blood orange sun was setting over the salt marsh behind the motel.

Home again, it’s quite the feeling you know, I fear I’ll never really get used to it ever again…

CHAPTER FOUR

TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME

Helga and I were up and about extremely early, and found ourselves on the beach shortly before four o’clock. It was still dark. There was not a soul in sight, and the sleepy seagulls hanging out on the beach ignored us.

Helga kicked off her shoes and walked through the chilly surf. I walked along side of her in the damp sand.

We walked for hours in peaceful silence, stopping only to watch the sun rise over the ocean. I had forgotten. What a humbling event, my internal dialogue was actually silenced for the duration of this eternal performance, natures traditional painting of the heavens.

It was absolutely magnificent; I was amazed at how quickly it occurred once the sun had kissed the horizon. Seemingly seconds later the entire orange ball of fire was visible climbing higher and higher into the blue.

We walked on; until the sun was bright yellow again and breakfast in America called us.

Americans were, in direct contrast to Germans, a real breakfast culture. The traditional things like ham and eggs with home fried potatoes or pancakes and French Toast would be unthinkable in Germany. They ate these heavy foods in the evening. But, I still can’t warm up to pouring applesauce on my pancakes like the Germans do.

We ate on the strip at 4-D’s, named after the owner’s four daughters, Darlene, Debbie, Donna and Dorothy. Helga did it up with a real hungry man’s breakfast. She had scrambled eggs and fried bacon accompanied with crispy home fries and a stack of steaming pancakes.

Missing my fruit, I opted for a toasted blueberry muffin and a large glass of Florida orange juice. I had bananas back in the room. My diet is still being optimized, and now I used fruit for breaking the fast of the preceding night.

Arnold Schwarzenegger claims it is water based, thus it cleanses and regenerates the body, and when eaten at breakfast on an empty stomach fruit passes directly to the lower intestines where all of the nutrients are completely assimilated.

Plus, fruit doesn’t create an aggressive mood as everyone’s favorite wake-up drug- coffee does. When it comes to dealing with aggressiveness, Arnie would know, right? A lot of road rage in America can be traced directly back to massive coffee consumption.

And the caffeine levels in Boston’s Mystic River were so high; fish actually jump out of that dirty water trying to get caught just to escape the constant adrenalin rush.

The long walk and the romantic sunrise had mellowed us entirely. We chased our breakfast in America with another delightful physical break from our feud in the battered motel bed.

I could hear washing machines running next door in the laundry room. It didn’t hurt.

Yet even after our marvelous mellow morning, Helga was still openly irritated about yesterday. She was complaining again.

That has always confused me, how can you be angry about something that happened yesterday? Yesterday is gone. Even if it had been morally wrong for me not to go directly to my parent’s house the night before, it was too late to change it now.

I guess we can’t run from our past, someone near to us will always insist on reminding us of what we did wrong.

I have found out that Germans were exceptionally good at holding grudges. But maybe Americans were too; I just haven’t been around long enough to observe it firsthand.

Regardless, I was lousy at holding a grudge. Life is too short.

But on the other hand, if people could read my mind, I’d probably get punched in the face a lot.

Refreshed and showered, we left the motel again and crossed the street to the beach. Another quick, silent walk in the sand with the mischievous seagulls and the floating garbage, and then we had to check out.

We were headed for Milk Street, for Newburyport, for my hometown. It was May 21, 1998.

Forty years ago to the day I had received my name. Thanks Mom & Dad.

It was my birthday, the first one celebrated in America since 1982, and only the second birthday I have ever celebrated in my homeland as an adult.

How could I know way back in 1976 as I got on that Army bus in Boston that I would never come back again?

The sights seemed the same to me riding Rte 1A southbound down the rocky coastline out of Hampton Beach. It ran parallel to Rte One, which stretched from the Canadian Border all the way down to Key West, Florida.

Rte One was a man-made disaster. To me it represented the overblown commercial lust resulting in the hideous; a sheer delight in artificial ugliness seemingly just for its own sake. It’s a nightmare at times, endless billboards, fast food joints, tacky shops, broken neon signs, and more traffic lights than you have ever seen in your life.

But one thing had changed. There were no more American hitchhikers anywhere. Where had they gone? Had they gotten jobs bottling tap water?

I had thumbed rides everywhere growing up. I had a bunch of interesting experiences too. I instantly recalled one humorous experience I had here in Hampton as a teenager thumbing a ride home from the beach. A car had pulled up, and I jumped into the back seat. It was then that I noticed that the driver was wearing a strange hat. Actually, he had a KFC Chicken bucket on his head. (I assumed it was empty.) I remember thinking, this can’t be good.

The guy riding shotgun turns to me and says, “The Colonel says you have to pay for your ride by giving him a joint.” I had long hair and probably looked the part, but as a teenager I was as straight as Wally Cleaver.

I told them I was sorry, I didn’t have any dope. Then the guy says, “Then you have to make us laugh the old fashion way. You have to tell the colonel some jokes.”

I told them I didn’t really know any. The guy informs me I had ten seconds to think of one, or they would toss me out. He started a Nasa-like count down. “Ten, nine, eight,”

I remembered one my older brother had told me a few years before.

“Do you know the one about the dumb chick hitchhiking?” The colonel slowly shook his head no. The other guy stopped the countdown at two.

“An attractive chick was thumbing a ride, and a truck pulled over.

She climbed in, and thanked the trucker. Then she saw his CB equipment. She asked him what it was. The trucker told her he could contact anyone anywhere with it. The chick got all excited and said- even my mother in Boston? The trucker said of course.”

I paused, trying to remember the rest. Timing was everything when it came to joke telling, and I knew I had already blown it, but the colonel was smiling at me in the rear view mirror, so I continued.

“The chick sighed and she told him that she had not talked to her mother in months. She would do anything if she could talk to her mother with it. The trucker said anything? Then I’ll let you use it. He grinned and pulled over to the side of the road. Then he slid back, unzipped his pants and whipped it out. The chick looked at it confused, then she smiled, leaned forward and took it in her hand and yelled, Hello Mom??”

Nothing. Dead silence. Not even a giggle. I didn’t understand, it was a riot at fourteen. My heart sunk. But the colonel kept smiling, and he nodded in some type of approval. It made me laugh the way the KFC bucket jiggled on his head.

The other guy said, “Nice try kid, but this was your last ride with the colonel.”

Yet they kept driving. Then the Colonel started telling jokes, and he was hilarious. They even took me to Newburyport. It was the funniest ride I ever had.

I opted for this rustically superior neighbor highway to avoid all the traffic lights. Rte 1A was also a slow ride- but more often than not- stunningly beautiful. You passed through stands of maple, birch and pine, traveled along the chiseled rocky seacoast, and along miles of ancient stonewalls covered with lichens. And of course, the frigid blue Atlantic Ocean accompanied you the whole way. The distant white caps visible amongst all that blue were gorgeous.

I was homeward bound.

We sped through Seabrook and the fucking Nuke Plant and reached Salisbury Beach. I gave Helga another brief history lesson from my childhood of what all this once was for me. You would never know it now from seeing it, but Salisbury Beach had once been the playground of the Atlantic up north.

The child in me has never adjusted to the disappearance of the old, rickety wooden roller coaster. It had been huge, visible for miles around, the main attraction there. The first hill was so awesome, so breath-taking, you could see all of Newburyport as you slowly climbed it, then you forgot all about your hometown as you literally flew down the other side, basic physics deciding that your skinny butt shall no longer touch the seat of your car.

Shaheen’s Playgrounds was not the same. In this space in time all the vomit-inducing rides were gone, but the penny arcades lining the beach still remained, inviting you to come in and spend your hard earned cash.

I was thrilled to see Tripoli’s and Cristy’s Pizza were both still around. We used to debate as to which one had the best pizza, while outsiders frankly told us that they both sucked.

And yes, on the strip the Knotty Pines still stood tall, the sleazy motel all we kids went to back then-when we could get the fifteen bucks together- to actually “do it” in a bed. They never carded you at The Knotty Pines. Being naughty was so much fun.

I devoured all the sights with relish as they flowed by the open windows of our rented ride. Even the telephone poles looked great. Germany laid all of her cables underground; there are no such poles to see. The Germans really thrived on an orderly appearance. Seriously though, the wires never go down in a storm- so power outages are extremely rare.

As a small child I used to “saw” the tree-like telephone poles in half with an invisible chain saw from the back seat of my father’s car as we drove from one location to the next, it was great fun.

I did not feel very nostalgic entering Newburyport. After all, the city I grew up in was long gone.

Starting with the new bridge crossing the Merrimac River, and then passing through the chic downtown area, nothing was even remotely the same.

Urban Renewal supplied the cash to tear down the old and replace everything that even slightly resembled yesterday. They totally ignored the town’s great maritime history. They tore down many historical buildings, like Caldwell’s Rum Factory, or the ancient train depot and built repulsive condos on the lots for the rich.

Politicians and businessmen forget. I did not.

I was proud to be from New England.

Downtowns once thrived here in the birthplace of America. New England, the special place in America where these awesome six states created the enduring American mythology that still lives on today, even without the help of the NE Patriots dynasty.

The bloody saga of the revolution, the steepled country churches, the seaman villages, agricultural farms, and the incredibly tough winters were icons we all grew up with. (And now we can add Tom Brady to the list.)

New England still made things when I was growing up. There were shoes and textiles, and we grew cauliflower and sweet corn, fished the Atlantic and our neighborhoods actually flourished. Shopping Malls did not exist.

Life for Newburyporter’s was the thing you lived, not the yuppie daydream offered now in a relentless commercial assault that people today can not escape. Newburyport’s historical downtown was gone.

All the old shops had been replaced by modern establishments, selling tacky souvenirs and expensive, imported textiles and luxurious shoes and over-rated flavored coffee. It was a depressing sight for me to see.

My hometown was gone. Helga couldn’t quite understand my sadness as I gazed out the window.

Yet next to the library the tiny coffee shop Taffy’s still stood, along with the best jukeboxes of all. (You could select the songs from “mini jukeboxes” located on your table in your booth.) This was very important to me at one time. Music was such a big part of my life while living in Newburyport; it encouraged the expanding of my consciousness.

Music was a loyal friend growing up. It still is.

Can you imagine growing up in the Sixties, oh man, the music was happening. Rock and roll was born in the fucked up Fifties, but in the swinging Sixties it was a rebellious teenager. (Smells like teen spirit indeed.) We were spoiled rotten by the staggering, stimulating sounds.

We danced our hearts out. Our parents laughed at our explosive fast dancing. The late great Friedrich Nietzsche said, “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”

The Beatles were only the tip of the musical iceberg. There were so many great, innovative bands. I was exposed to so many musical directions. We listened to the diversity of the sounds; it wasn’t just background music, or brainless pop tunes.

This music was real, played on real instruments by real people and destined to become the unforgettable soundtrack of our youths. In retrospect we were quite lucky.

Could it be true that only in the Twenties and the Sixties did the world at large really wake up and live creatively and forget the insignificant routines, if only for a while?

Yeah brother, like, I was there, I really was, amidst the bright, colorful flower power movement, wearing purple bell-bottoms and psychedelic, striped shirts, practicing the vertical hair concept and heavily breathing free thoughts to the incredible sound blasting loudly on the transistor radio and my older brother’s record player.

Yes sister, my little Hippie flower child, like right there amongst the living I was eagerly growing up, happily, (innocently.) thinking life would always be this way. Nobody told me otherwise. (And I would not have believed them anyway.) Life rocked and we rolled in the echo. Far out man, it was so fucking far out.

Yo bro, like dig this bit of miraculous trivia- the laws of harmonics are the most basic laws in our universe. The notes of our musical scales are actually based on the true resonances of the cosmos themselves.

My man, the late, great Frank Zappa claimed that the elements, the planets and the stars all vibrate at specific frequencies. These very resonances are what define the intrinsic differences and similarities in all things.

Are you digging this? That means musical creation can be heard both whispering and roaring in the wind. Music, strange and beautiful, gentle and penetrating, rhythmical and powerful reaches literally everywhere.

Feeling groovy and understanding the structure of music is man’s greatest intellectual accomplishment- not the creation of smartphones, HD graphic video games and high speed internet.

And this was only accomplished only because man can also fantasize.

My friend, we can literally visualize the abstract. Music changed my way of seeing myself and seeing the world around me.

We were actually becoming spiritual, without even realizing it.

I really feel bad for today’s youth. Many of these kids do not seem to be into music anymore. And I am not talking about Rock music; I mean any music at all. Back in the day we would get together and sit down and just listen to music. Play records and actually listen. Who does that these days?

We were proud of our stereos. Today they have their gaming systems and smartphones. We had true vinyl; they have MP3’s, in which the high notes and the low notes are literally cropped, leaving a tinny, cold sound. They have been cheated.

I know I shouldn’t care, but it does make me sad. Through music, I learned to listen to the color of my dreams.

A Beatle song came on the radio.

(How convenient, I know, so I won’t name the tune, you already hear it in your head.)

Helga looked at the radio, then she smiled at me, knowing I placed value on such tiny cosmic coincidences. I believed that such occurrences confirmed one’s chosen path to be the right one. The clues are virtually everywhere. I smiled too.

I was finally returning to my musical roots. I was going home.

We left the downtown area. I admit, now I did feel sentimental turning down Federal Street, marveling at the familiar houses, the New England colonial architecture was so different from the solid, sandstone German houses I was now accustomed to. I was finally misty eyed.

It was true. How could this be? America looked foreign to me.

Urban Renewal had not reached this part of the south end. (But the elite had, none of us could afford to live here now.) And still, the fact remained, it could not be denied. My hometown looked strange to me.

This realization was unexpected. And it hit me hard. I was mysteriously touched, deeply saddened recognizing that this odd fact was indeed true. A stillborn tear aimlessly trickled down my cheek.

Entering Milk Street I laughed with glee at the wooden “MILK STREET” sign mounted on a telephone pole, complete with a tiny wooden replica of a bottle of milk placed on top. It was perfect. It was also too much, way too much.

“Far out,” I whispered. It somehow triggered some ancient part of my hippie teenage brain and slammed me, sending me way back in time once again.

“There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home”.

I landed somewhere over the rainbow, once again lost without my ruby slippers.

I closed my eyes and quickly reopened them, shaking the cobwebs off of my head and blowing the angel dust off of my dashboard.

It blew my mind man. Then I slowly drove down the narrow street, the street I grew up on all those centuries ago, whispering softly to Helga, “Baby, tune in, turn on, drop out,” over and over. She just shook her head. She knew I was tripping.

“What a rush baby. We had totally flipped out, tuning in instead of turning on. Hordes of happy Hippies were everywhere, long hair blowing free in the sea breeze, wearing colorful garments and leather Roman sandals, simply hanging out and letting it all hang out on door stoops, and on curb stones stoned, the age of Aquarius descending upon them in visible groovy, psychedelic waves, transcending modern definition, ascending all to a higher plain. And all you needed was love, and to righteously believe that Lucy In The Skies With Diamonds was just a child’s painting. Yeah yeah yeah.”

Man, whoever said sophistication was an artistic virtue?

“Are you finished? Are we almost there?”

“Oh yes. And there, right there, right across the street from my house, next to the brown house, is Kenny Adam’s bulky brown milk truck. Do you see it? Yeah baby- dig it, Newburyport’s last Milkman actually resided here on Milk Street. Ain’t that a trip?”

“I do not see a milk truck.”

“It’s all cool baby. But remember, there is more to life than making money. And if you’re not barefoot, you are overdressed. Like wow. It’s so good to be back home again.” I exclaimed.

“Is the whole trip going to be like this?” Helga asked.

“Better.”

I pulled the car close to the battered curbstone, where no more barefooted hippies sat stoned, and put it in park. I turned my head and stared hard at the house.

29 Milk Street was still painted white, still on the corner, still owned by a Hawkes, still there after all those years….

I sighed a grateful sigh. Yesterday was still there. “Right on man,” I whispered, and then I shut off the car.

Then I took Helga by the hand and without another wasted word we walked in and the day instantly turned into night.

There was no stopping the world now, no more watching the tides, no more casual walks without attaching any intellectual purpose to them.

The wicked witch from the west cruelly grabbed the dreaded hourglass, and it was placed with a sickening thud on its head.

The purple sand began flowing and kept flowing, faster and faster. It was maddening, but I knew I would be back in Germany in the blink of an eye and this would all feel like a dream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.

Talk about slight overkill, Helga met nearly everyone that meant something to me that day. In a continuous flow of positive energy, one person after another hugged us both and smiled continuously in our direction, just because.

What positive vibes. I knew it would be eye-opening; as I had waited for this moment ever since I had met Helga’s family a long year ago.

It had been awful. Radically right wing, callous and closed minded as only some bitter East Germans can be, they didn’t like me from the very first sighting.

They never gave me a chance to escape that “blue jeans liberal American bum” labeling they had painted me with. And long-haired and divorced with baggage to boot. (They had actually referred to my kids as baggage.) Can we just shoot him now and get it over with?

The weird thing was, they were doing just fine here in the west. The main problem with the rat race is that even if you win, you’re still a rat.

Of course I had nothing but sympathy for our new arrivals from one of the communistic countries where Marxism nearly worked, but her parents would never realize this. They didn’t even approve of the Kindergeld (Children’s money) Helga received from the state. Why should their taxes go to help poor people? Nor did it matter that these programs even assisted their own daughter. Fuck the poor.

Naturally I disagreed and spoke my mind. So- Helga’s outraged parents never totally accepted me, never gave me an ounce of a chance. Most of the time they would not even converse with me.

Which eventually was a good thing. I couldn’t talk to them either. I learned long ago that you should not argue with an idiot. He will drag you down to his level and beat you with experience.

Even months later after their own grandchildren began praying to God that I would stay aboard the sinking ship of fools; they still openly showed their disdain when they looked at me.

I always saved my best Elvis Presley sneer for these precious moments with my new in-laws. “Don’t be cruel” indeed.

In direct contrast, I knew that my family would accept Helga with open arms, NO questions asked.

Helga had written some strange, adoring letters in broken English to my family without my knowledge. I was surprised at the endless love she claimed to have for me.

And, so it was. Mom & Dad, the voices on the telephone had genuine bodies, the many scribbled faxes leading to this surprise visit had finally come to an end.

This was a once in a lifetime thing, like so many events in life.

Helga found my parents absolutely charming. It was the rest of my family and my friends she wasn’t too thrilled about.

To this day, I still don’t know why. I suspect she was just jealous of the way I wanted to be with them and that they also wanted to be with me.

Apparently she had truly hoped she would see more of America than she would see of my family and friends.

She met everyone the first day except my grandmother. This turned out to be a bona fide bad omen of things to come.

Nana was apparently not feeling very well, and she had cancelled at the last minute. I didn’t take the phone call, but was vaguely aware at the time that the look on my mother’s face was more than concerned as they spoke.

The list of locals parading through Milk Street looked something like this. Sister Becky, the very first and weeks later, the last person to hug me, just like it was nearly every trip I made home. Her husband tagged along, and she had her two boys in tow and their new, crazy dog.

The former Milk Street neighbors the Flynns stopped by, of course. Billy, my childhood best friend and his older brother Barry, my newly discovered pirate friend, were expected, his sister Julie and their father Harold were pleasant surprises.

Brother Larry came down from New Hampshire, with his woman Dana, and the three kids and their big dog, Ursa. Ursa was the reincarnation of our childhood dog, Pappy. And Larry was my doppel-ganger. He was often mistaken for me, leaving people wondering how I had managed to grow a few more inches after High School.

Big Brother Ted arrived even later- but not late- in his black jeep, with current girl friend Bonnie. He was a riot. He was quite witty and brutally direct, as always.

The friendly neighborhood cop stopped in just to say hello, big Bobby Adams, also a former Milk Street boy, the youngest son of Newburyport’s very last Milkman.

My cousin Kathy was there, sans husband but with her beautiful children. I am convinced that a finer woman I have not met.

Her father, the late great Earl Hawkes taught me how to play chess, but alas, that is yet another story. (Checkmate)

Sister Lara arrived with sweets, and a squished brownie for me. She was the shy one of the family.

My teenage nephew Mike seemed a bit bewildered with all the sudden life in the usually quiet house.

Mike was my sister Lara’s son, an only child, and he was living with my parents at the moment as Lara was in between apartments. She was searching.

Helga was without a doubt a bit bewildered too; the chatter and laughter went on and on. She didn’t understand much, due in part to the outrageous Yankee accents and all the fast-talking, but the feeling of being a part of a family was obvious, and real.

“Maybe that was the problem,” said my son Wayne cynically when he heard about the trip weeks later. He was not much of a fan of Helga.

We ate lots of Mom’s tasty tuna salad spread on fresh buns brought home by Dad from Kathy Ann’s Bakery, and drank soda pop and imported beer. I drank Maine spring water.

Bottled water in the fridge at Milk Street, wow, things certainly were different. Bottled water from the supermarket.

Once again; the bottled water. The world had really changed.

Back when I had lived here, water was free and you had to pay for porn.

Some things didn’t change though. It wasn’t just the kids who joyfully jumped on the delicious birthday cake, a dark chocolate deluxe from Newburyport’s famous “Cheese Cake Factory”.

But it was just the kids who mischievously jumped on Mom and Dad’s bed, breaking it yet once again.

Well, I confess, I had been right there jumping with them. When I was young, I did stupid things because I didn’t know any better. Now I know better and do stupid things because I miss being young.

The party over, everyone filed out, Mom and Dad went to bed and we finally went upstairs. I was so happy. Helga was now exhausted. After a short bout of unimaginative lip-mashing, she fell asleep in my arms.

I listened to her steady breathing, enjoying her warmth. I felt a slight twinge of sadness remembering how close we had been the first few months we were living together.

Memories were a dual edged sword.

I watched the ghost-like lights that slid along the ceiling and then crept down the walls every time a car drove down Milk Street. Eventually I too dosed off.

The night passed by in a series of broken dream segments, which concentrated on many happy facial expressions and stationary stones resembling tormented souls begging to be freed.

I kept waking up, feeling agitated. There was no place on earth where I dreamt as intensely as I did here. It happened each and every time I returned to the house where I grew up in.

Later I nodded off again and dreamt I had married my childhood sweetheart. We were sitting in my parent’s kitchen. I heard her say, “You better watch what you wish for.”

Then the cops crashed down the door, rushed in, opened the freezer and found it full of marijuana. They threw me to the floor.

I saw my wife smile and embrace one of them and they began kissing.

The cop with his knee in my back said, “You can’t put her in a cage and expect her to sing for you. Nothing comes for free in life.”

Another cop was smoking a joint and he said, “A wise man once said, fuck this shit, and guess what? He lived happily ever after.”

The cop pinning me down now said, “So big boy, what will you do?”

CHAPTER FIVE

AND ALONG CAME SALLY

It was at precisely that moment that I woke up.

Instantly I remembered where I was. I glanced over and saw that Helga was still sleeping. She looked like an angel. She looked so much better than the woman I just saw kissing the cop minutes before.

I was also relieved that I was not in any sort of trouble. This was always the best thing about waking up from a bad dream, discovering that it was just a dream. The day begins with a sigh of relief.

I was not only grateful not to be in trouble, I was also happy to be back in America; that had not been a dream after all.

I decided not to fight the jet lag this time around. Thus, this morning set the path for the remaining duration of the trip. I woke up around four or five every morning, I would lie still a while, but not fall prey to the lazy temptation to fall back asleep.

There was certainly enough to think about at this hour of the day. Like filtering through the various emotions that crept in like the ocean tide after the last dream of the night; flooding my brain, only to recede again as the imperceptible memory faded away. It provided the affecting mood to reflect on the coming day.

I was still a natural; I must have been a cat in my last life.

It was also around six that the ritual in the room next door would take place. The ancient ritual. Dad would wake up Mike for school.

Now that brought back memories.

What was weird for me now was that back then immediately after he woke us kids up he would drive Mom to work at Goulds- a local factory. Now, after he woke Mike up, Mom drove him to work at Goulds.

Mom had finally retired. Dad was now working in the Goulds sales department, and from what I had heard yesterday, he was driving the modern working girls crazy with his old fashion charm.

The ancient ritual. It was painfully clear after the first morning that Mike did not have the respect (Or the angst) for Dad that we had for him back in the day.

Dad averaged three trips up the stairs every morning to wake the young teenager, and with every trip he would stand next to his bed and softly say, “Ok now, open your eyes, Mike.”

Then, he would say it again. And again. Dad continually told Mike to open his eyes.

Helga and I would lie in bed in the next room and comically repeat with him, “Open your eyes Mike, open your eyes.”

Eventually Helga found it slightly annoying. Not me, I enjoyed it thoroughly, as it brought back childhood memories.

There weren’t any ordinary moments on these trips back home. This was a concept I tried desperately to bring back to Germany with me, because if you really think about it- there are never any ordinary moments in life.

As with Mike, we too feigned getting up, then laid back in bed until Dad returned back to the house fifteen minutes later after dropping Mom off at work. Then we would scramble out of bed and rush into the bathroom or run down the back stairs as he came up the front stairs to check on us. There was never a dull moment in that house.

My father never had to tell us to open our eyes.

I’ll never forget having a dream about the ritual back in 1989, I was lying in my bed someplace over the ocean in Germany dreaming that I was a teenager lying in my bed at Milk Street.

Naturally, it was a school morning and Dad had woken us up and then he had driven Mom to work. I must have dozed off, as suddenly I heard Dad’s footsteps coming up the wooden stairs, as always two steps at a time, and as always, I panicked, and quickly jumped out of bed.

I began looking for my pants. I found them and before I could get them on, I realized that they were really weird. Then something even stranger happened.

I woke up.

I found I was not in my bedroom at Milk Street. This room looked really odd, somehow foreign. The fog cleared.

I was actually standing next to my bed in Germany with my blue work overalls in my hand. My German wife Anneliese was staring up at me in awe. I was shocked and could not speak right away. Then I laughed.

The memory of the morning ritual was so intense that well over fifteen years later and five thousand miles away the mere noise of those footsteps, the memory of that unforgettable sound of Dad coming up the stairs drove me out of my warm bed faster than any U. S. Army Drill Sergeant had ever managed with angry screams and violent threats at Fort Dix in 1976. Now that is what I call respect.

And you know what? I am grateful for that life lesson. I can still hear those footsteps coming…

Awakening.

My eyes are now wide open.

Memories.

More powerful than viewing moving pictures in your sleep.

Remember.

Life enhanced by yesterday’s motions shares its secrets.

Question.

Existence means infinitely more than just being here.

Answer.

Open YOUR eyes…

I lay there listening to Helga’s easy breathing, knowing I had an hour or so before Dad would come up and harass Mike.

I was happy I had not just been busted for a freezer full of grass, I still felt relieved. I allowed my thoughts to wander into this blessed feeling of being free.

My childhood always came back to life in the USA. As expected, I was also dreaming heavily again at Milk Street.

Most R.E.M dreams occur in the early morning hours, and since I was waking up four hours earlier than I would normally wake up at home, I was recalling all of them, and worse, I was even waking up in some of them, as I had once seriously attempted to do in my youth with my “Indian Dreaming” endeavors. More on that craziness later.

Many of these dreams sent my thoughts into a deep reflective state that both amazed me and scared me. I would lie still between slumber and consciousness and not always be able to tell the difference.

The thoughts were fun. The dreams; well, they weren’t always so fun.

Being happy was not something we complicated with endless analytical prose as a child. Life was the muse, and I never once questioned being alive as a kid.

Naturally that all changed for me as I slipped into puberty and that horny desperado “Mr Happy” took over most of my subconscious mind.

By the time I had recovered from that overpowering sensual, physical shock, I was going bald, married with grown up children, and childhood seemed like nothing more than a surrealistic dream.

What an outrage that was. I felt robbed. I wanted to return back to the days where the only fun function of my penis was to write my name in the snow. Who do I have to see to get my adolescent infancy back?

So I had arrived; I was a grown-up. And what a drama life really was. Making relationships work and working for money and paying endless bills was a huge part of adult life. And then people got sick and died.

People deal with these brutal facts in different ways. Some folks can’t deal with them at all. Thus I associated daily with fellow adults who honestly believed life sucks, or that life often sucked.

I did not agree. I thought life was fun.

Sometimes I wondered why I was different. What did I see that they didn’t see? What was I ignoring that they could not ignore? Was I born this way?

My mother always told me that I was the happiest baby of the family. I was always smiling, seldom cried, and was easily amused. She could set me on a blanket with a couple of wooden clothespins and I was occupied for hours.

If I wasn’t born this way, was it the lasting effect of my dreamlike childhood? I got jolted in my youth, more than once in fact. I was very lucky.

Yet occasionally something totally unexpected and weird will also jolt even those hard-core pessimists into remembering this simple fact; “Life is good. It’s all we have.”

Yet it wasn’t until I met Sally as a teenager did it ever occur to me to try to pass along my imperfect vision with writing, however shallow it might seem, however obscure it might be.

Sally was- among other things- a kleptomaniac. Sally was also one of the most honest people I have ever met. Born into a middle class family in the ritzy north end of my hometown, she was used to getting what she wanted, and accustomed to never getting what she really needed.

I met her shimmering like a star in her element, quickly putting on a second pair of jeans in an empty aisle of a department store. It was like viewing a scene from a low budget foreign movie.

I was able to view these real-life films nearly everyday; thanks to one of my weirdest summertime jobs I have ever had.

I was a store detective in the Mammoth Mart, a department store in neighboring Salisbury, poorly paid to spy and hunt down lawless shoplifters

This exotic job gave me some of the rough stones that I eventually polished and laid down as my bewildering philosophical foundation. The “Philosopher’s Stone” is not singular. No, it lies in shattered pieces everywhere, lying there for the taking.

Not one prone to brag- but I was damn good at my job. I was a natural, and not just because I had once been a successful shoplifter myself. After just a few days on the job I could usually spot them as they walked through the door.

It wasn’t their physical nuances, or their potential criminal appearance. It wasn’t the way they looked about at the personal, or their revealing glances at the ceiling for hidden cameras. Nor was it their awkward, unhurried method of looking at merchandise that obviously didn’t interest them, occasionally sneaking glimpses in the direction of store personal. Their deliberate actions left me cold.

It was their eyes.

I had discovered the Club Bouncer’s secret in “who” to card and who not. You can keep your figure looking young and trim, you can keep your face unlined and fresh, but your eyes will always show your age, and your intent- they have viewed every minute of your life, and it shows.

I never believed that eyes could not lie, or be forced to tell the truth, but the deeper I slipped into the wretchedness of my demoralizing job, the more I came to discover that the tainted windows to the soul did indeed tell all.

The problem was, my boss did not know how good I had become. I rarely turned the imprudent offenders in. I was a hippie-wannabe, and hated authority. Screw the system, who needed the police?

I punished the sorry bastards myself, and then I sent them away with a nasty aftertaste in their mouth. I confronted them, dragged them to my insignificant, tiny office next to the horrible stench of the bathrooms, and ruthlessly interrogated them.

I always wanted to know why they were stealing. Were they poor? Did they need the merchandise? Was it just for the kick? Then I queried them about possible motives, sometimes getting into their life, or their childhood, and occasionally with the young folks (It wasn’t always youngsters stealing.) I would even ask them about their love life.

Yes, I know, little things amuse small minds. But all aspects of life were fascinating to me at one time.

Why would they talk to some punk kid about private, personal matters? The ultimate embarrassment of being caught red-handed usually made them quite agreeable.

This was so true. The local newspaper in town, the Newburyport Daily News, printed the names of all “Apprehended Shoplifters” daily. The small-town readers loved it.

“Hey man, look here, that idiot Ralph Fohner got caught stealing a package of cherry flavored condoms.”

Once they realized I was more interested in just hearing their story rather than to turn them in to the manager and thus- the cops, they also became very open minded. It was amazing. I had hit the jackpot.

Then along came Sally.

Sally had caught my eye a few times in the store before I actually caught her. Her eyes had fooled me. They were innocent, as was she.

I had followed her around that day just because she had on cherry red hot pants; very skimpy shorts and she had quite the look in them. I was amazed when I turned a corner and suddenly she had on brown corduroy pants.

I was fascinated. I expected her to head for the door, but she stopped and checked out some Levi’s. I got down and low-crawled under a rack of jeans.

From the floor I watched her deftly pull on a pair of stone washed 501’s; it took mere seconds, including slipping back into her battered sneakers. God; was I so impressed. I had to meet this chick.

I decided to shock her, and swiftly low crawled through the clothes’ rack and grabbed her ankles from the floor. She looked down at me in horror as I nonchalantly said “Gotcha. Store detective. Honey, you looked much better in your hot pants.”

Naturally she rebelled. She kicked and jumped and I held on tightly, loving my job for giving me these precious moments.

She tumbled to the floor, fighting me like a wildcat. Then we were face to face, and she was red-faced and livid with rage. Her eyes decapitated me on the spot. The scent of sweet strawberry filled my nostrils.

“Damn it, if you keep up this shit, someone is going to notice us. Be cool, and we can talk about this,” I said and her eyes softened, revealing she had understood. I reluctantly let her go. I realized it was her hair that smelt like strawberries.

She relaxed. I walked her to my office. Without my even asking, she stripped off two pair of pants, leaving her standing there unashamed in those marvelous red shorts.

I’ll never forget that defiant look she carried like a shield. Everyone else I had brought in had been embarrassed, literally ashamed, and not because they stole something, but because they had gotten caught.

Sally stared at me patiently, biding her time. I began my beloved spiel.

It didn’t take three minutes, and she had turned the tables on me. “Why are you doing this? Why aren’t you turning me in? Why are you asking me private things? Why do you want to know about my past? Are you writing a damn book? Why don’t you tell me about your fucking past.”

Sally and I became close friends.

She stole because she had to; it was compulsive behavior. That’s how she explained it to me; after I found out she was born relatively well off. I was convinced it was just for fun, but I was way too young and naive to fully understand obsessive behavior.

Unknown to me then, neurotic kicks lie in the future for me too, and yes, uncontrollable behavior was dutifully included, but I certainly would not be alone with that heavy chunk of mental blockage.

Sally often told me that basically we were all fucked.

Sally cherished my bubblegum philosophy to life. We spent hours upon hours discussing life together, and how to avoid so-called rules, and where to find the various unbeaten paths one could still take.

We wanted more than anything to escape from our dismal hometown lives. My appealing naiveté and our shared kissing addiction bonded us for months. I was in love.

Sally claimed she loved me, but I was never really sure. It didn’t matter though; it was enough for me just to be permitted to be around her. She was two years older than me, which back then made her appear like something wholly inconceivable, like a grown-up.

She was very unconventional; I suspected I was not the only one enjoying her loving caresses. For me she was the living depiction of the beautiful Carole King myth- in the Hippie neighborhood of the magnificent “Tapestry” era- a fun-loving free spirit, the natural woman.

She would show up to our rendezvous’ with her long wavy blonde hair dancing on her shoulders, hanging down on a knitted pullover and sporting faded bellbottom jeans- No doubt stolen- barely covering her bare feet and flamboyantly painted toenails, always sans make up and always radiating her enchanting charisma.

And thank God for Herbal Essence shampoo. She washed her strawberry blonde hair with Strawberry shampoo everyday and that sweet scent followed her around, often with me in tow.

We used to do weird things together to celebrate life. For example how we used to take the bus to Boston and go to Logan Airport just to watch people get emotional. We would usually start with the departure scenes. We would get all choked up and sometimes even cry. When it got to be too much we would rush over to the arrival terminals and stare at the happy hugging reunions and get all gushy and cheerful again.

I recall one rainy evening on the bus returning from emotion watching at the Airport. We were observing the rain cascade off the huge window of the Greyhound Bus.

Then Sally softly said, “Some people feel the rain. Other people just get wet. Aren’t you glad we are learning how to feel?” Then she smiled at me.

When she smiled at me it would take my breath away. I finally understood why Adam allowed Eve to talk him into eating that unmentionable apple with her.

One day she shocked her parents and me by up and joining the damn U.S. Army. She claimed Jimmy Carter would be the last president we would have who would not send the American troops to a foreign land to kill civilians in the name of apple pie and big business interests. Her father won’t pay for her to go to college, and she had to get out of this place.

Typical of my luck at the time, she told me the very same day my boss caught me letting a petty thief walk out the front door after a fifteen-minute palaver in my depressing office. Bossy screamed obscenities at me and then he fired me and stormed away softly muttering to himself.

I put on two pair of pants and walked out in a huff.

I was broken hearted, but much too young to waste time dwelling on it.

The sudden unemployment situation gave me a lot of time to spend with Sally and her small gang of merry outsiders before she slipped away into the future.

Sally defined life in prose I could understand at the time. She claimed non-volitional living was simply to surrender, avoiding conflict and going with the flow, and then she added with a smile that it was important to climb out of the shifting river as often as possible and take a deep breath on the grassy banks and if possible, masturbate.

Prior to Sally I did have another girl friend with which I could talk about life and philosophy with, but not about sex. That was still taboo. I had never met a girl that talked about life and sex that way. I found it enticing.

“Write it down,” Sally had said.

I had just let loose one of my exaggerated “Ringoisms.” One of the gang was obnoxiously bitching because she had to get up at some ungodly hour the next day to start a new job. She felt plagued that she wasn’t born rich, she felt like she had been born under a black star. She went on and on about it. It was too much for me to stomach.

I replied, “You really think you are unlucky? Are you fucking nuts? There was only a one in four million chance that the universe did not collapse back upon itself after the big bang. There was a one in three million chance that the solar system ever formed to produce a planet that could sustain life. Then there was a one in a two million chance that your biological parents ever met and of course that well known, one in a million chance that one incredibly tough ironman of a sperm from your dad could swim against the tide all the way through the terrifying darkness and reach the fruitful egg allowing your Mom to actually give birth to you nine months later. Statistically speaking I’d say there was a one in a ga-zillion chance that you’re incredibly lucky just be alive and to be able to awake into your life everyday and be fortunate enough to even be able go to work tomorrow.”

Sally laughed until she had tears in her eyes. We were hanging out on top of the Marches Hill water tower, our favorite place at the moment. You could see for miles around sitting up there, you could even see the ocean.

We climbed the water tower nearly every weekend. Sometimes we would be seen climbing up, and someone would call the cops.

They would come, and yell from below with their bullhorns that we better come down, or they will come up and get us. They never did. Eventually they just drove away. Today had been one of those close encounters. I figured that there was a one in a million chance that one day they would actually climb up and arrest us.

Before Sally left for basic training I spent so much time preaching to her and her weird friends about my wonderful discovery- “life is good”, that they convinced me to write a story of uncharacteristic clichés about my ordinary life. Sally had been the ringleader.

Sally said if it assisted one lonesome person through one dark hour of one miserable day it would be worth the trouble and time. We were all so idealistic at sixteen.

I sadly argued that I possessed no original thoughts.

She laughed, saying there was nothing new under the sun; she insisted that using trite verbal expressions might indeed offend the selected few at times, but after seeing what they were in for, they wouldn’t bother finishing anything I wrote anyhow.

“Why thank you, that was very inspiring.”

“You selfish bastard, you have to write it Blaine, these are your stories, this is how you see them, who else can do it?” she said as she stood up from the log we were sitting on and began nervously pacing in front of me.

“You’ve got to be kidding, me, write a self-help book? How to have a pleasurable life written by the guy whose idea of a good time is tackling a good looking girl in a department store? Philosophical observations from the guy who once thought ketchup was used just to cool off hot French Fries?”

She showed me a notebook, in it she had written down some random things I had said in the past. “Some of this stuff is really good.”

I was shocked. She was actually serious. Could I really get my thoughts down on paper? I used to be indecisive, but now I’m not too sure.

“Well what about my limited vocabulary? I hate people who use big words just to make themselves look perspicacious.”

“Are you trying to be cute?”

“Besides, we live in an age where just mentioning that you read a book seems a bit like you’re showing off. Can you imagine writing one?”

“Forget the book, think short story. Add your thoughts to actual events.” She looked at the notebook again, “Remember this? Baby, I just let my mind wander, and guess what- it didn’t come back.”

“So what, that notebook is just a bunch of lame clichés. A story is more than a collection of weak one-liners. What should I really write about?”

Sally shook her head. “Who cares? It doesn’t matter. And it’s obvious, you write about yourself.”

“Sally, maybe I’m a hopeless romantic, but I’m not a poet or a writer.”

I reached out for her. She hopped backwards out of my reach, ignoring my longing hands.

“Yeah, exactly. Because you know what? I don’t know any real writers. Sometimes we need to be reminded that there is always an alternative.”

Yeah, and the guy who has been fucking up ever since he could walk upright will help someone see the light, the guy the Class of 1976 voted least likely to succeed and most likely to fuck up, he knows the undisclosed answer to a good life. Right.

“Sally, people we know do not read books to learn, people nowadays read to be entertained, if they even read at all. And what if no one likes my writing? What if I suck?”

She just smiled at me. “Do I detect your ego on the rise? You cannot worry about what people will think about what you write. And you certainly cannot try to please people. It just does not matter what people think.”

I stood up and grabbed her, holding her steady, fighting the incredible urge to kiss her. If I could write poetry, Sally would be the muse of volumes of beautiful works of art.

She stared back at me intently, with a look so damn intense I had the sudden impression she was trying to memorize my facial features. I nearly blushed and looked away.

“Well Blaine, please try, please. If you can’t find the time to write, you will just have to pass up on some of those Three Stooges reruns.”

I was a sucker for her exaggerated “pleases”, she would imitate my lisp and smile at the same time. I changed the subject.

Yet she eventually convinced me to try my hand at writing, which no one had ever done before. So I sharpened ten pencils and sat in the electric chair to write a story.

Every attempt at writing the story was aborted however, as I always wandered into my other favorite subject, my growing obsession with sex.

I even tried to marry the two, but this never quite seemed to work for me, it was pure mayhem, dense, childish. I was basically too heavy handed with my antique Bic pen in one hand and my young cock in the other.

Actually, the real truth was, I still had a lot to learn about life and even more to learn about the craft of writing. I had a feeling both would take me a lifetime to master and my first book would be finally written as I lie in my deathbed.

The last night we spent together she finally took my virginity in our favorite field behind Marches Hill.

Despite my obvious obsession with sex, I had been much too nervous to go all the way with her or anyone else earlier. This was a frightening journey into no-man’s land- no pun intended- and frankly, I was scared shitless.

Now faced with the bitter truth- this was our last chance to stop the world- I finally faced my fears and actually defeated them for a change.

It seemed impossibly intimate, to enter into another body. It had taken me years to finally master kissing; figuring out what to do with my big nose had been an immense problem. Then just how complicated would love making be?

A clutter of limbs and intimate body parts, mutually discovering right and wrong positions, it was indeed scary stuff. And yet, things simply fell into place. It was indeed exhaustive, but extraordinary in a delightful way.

It was like discovering the veritable secret to life. This bodily merger enthusiastically occurred and left me feeling the earth move from deep within my solar plexus.

Our souls slowly melted into one. It was the ultimate celebration of love. The gratification of what life could be. I was done, I was now prepared to die; I had experienced being, tasted love in its superior form. Mission complete. Take me Lord; I am yours.

Lying in the sweaty afterglow in the tall grass, her head on my chest, the strawberry scent of her hair engulfing me, we dreamily watched the warm winds blow the stars around the black skies. In the distance an owl hooted again and again, and the lonesome sound echoed behind us, surrounding us with the serenading forlorn tones, giving me goose bumps as I instantly understood.

This was it, tomorrow at this time I would be alone. It was impossible to hug a memory.

Against my budding masculine will, tears began flowing down my cheeks. Sally felt my stomach contract as I silently wept, and she glanced at me while releasing a killer smile in my direction. She sighed and gently caressed my moist face. She swore to me we would meet again someday.

Strange, in all the years that have since elapsed she remains the woman I loved and lost, the unattainable one. In the memory of her china-blue eyes I see myself forever and ever as the frustrated fool, the lonely soul, the drifting wanderer, the hopeless romantic, the man in love with being in love, always seeking the unattainable.

Of course this is just another illusion, she was my first adult love. She was my first sexual partner. Who can forget their first true love or their first time?

I never saw Sally again.

And this although things had started off so positively. We wrote each other weekly; unbelievably long and passionate letters flew back and forth until she graduated from Army vocational school and disappeared over the vast pond to Europe. She never forwarded her new military address and her parents moved away to Florida.

I lost her and my innocence, but the memory of both remains. Sally understood there was no understanding life. I understood nothing.

Sally inspired me to write- for better or worse- an activity I have indulged in off and on ever since she went away so long ago. In this new age of the internet; I dream that someday she might Google me and find me here on Medium, and actually read what she had inspired so many years ago.

We all need hope. We all need inspiration.

With her departure Sally added one final lesson to the sizable stack of lessons she had already taught me.

Change is the only constant in a world of constant change. Nothing remains the same.

CHAPTER SIX

A BAD TRIP TO THE OTHER SIDE

Helga moaned softly in her sleep. She was stirring; soon she would be awake. I rolled away from her and faced the wall. As if on clue, she started snoring.

Time had caught up with me again.

Now I was lying here in my childhood home with a woman I had not known all that long, thinking about a woman I had not known very long either, and despite the lost decades that lie between us, I sadly realized that I still missed the latter of the two.

Do we only miss what we cannot have? I had not thought about Sally in years.

My mind was racing backwards again. Childhood had been- in retrospect- fucking amazing. I suspect that I know why all these wonderful things had happened to me too.

It was because we were always outside, playing various games or sports, out exploring, socializing or to sum it up in one extremely important word- “LIVING”.

We were experiencing life “LIVE”, not indirectly through various TV screens sitting in an enclosed room indoors. Ok, maybe our graphics weren’t as great as High Definition Grand Theft Auto but; they were real 3D.

The first generation of couch potato children has come and gone, and these kids have no idea what they have missed hanging around in the middle of four walls laboring with their talented fingers in their incredible make believe worlds.

They had been passive Watchers in their childhoods, and in direct contrast, we had been active Doers.

I now realize how lucky I was to have been a baby boomer. Yes, we experienced the overwhelming onslaught of the television, but that was nothing compared to all the things distracting these kids today.

In retrospect, I was a member of a dying breed. We were the VERY LAST generation of kids to grow up as children have grown up for generations and generations before William Windows and Mario and Luigi Nintendo and Sony Station the 4th and the high speed internet and ultra thin smartphones changed the very nature of childhood and growing up forever.

Modern technology was moving along at an incredible pace. This worried me at times; yet I remember that our parents were also worried about the future of the planet after the hippie movement came into being.

Now I felt stupid to even be thinking about it at all. I did not want to think. And I was getting sleepy again. Helga turned over and the snoring stopped. In the ensuing silence things began getting murky, and my eyes closed. Sleep returned, and so did my dreaming.

I have had enough experience with dream perception to realize that in our dreams everything continually changes; yet in our recollections we create the continuity.

This concept was not that far apart from our precious time spent awake. The continuous flux that makes up our daily lives is often invisible to the naked eye. (It helps to keep them open.)

A dream is defined as a succession of images, thoughts, emotions, and sensations that usually occur involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep.

The content and purpose of dreams are still not fully understood, though they have been a topic of scientific speculation, as well as a subject of philosophical and religious interest, throughout recorded history. They awoke my curiosity too.

Dreams are literally an endless series of rapidly moving pictures, (Like MTV once was and the other video worlds that require an attention span of five seconds.) and over the years I had learned to skim the surface of choosing what ancient gallery I would visit.

I found myself in a field, the field behind the cemetery at Marches Hill. I became excited, realizing that I was now dreaming, and I was aware if it.

Dreams have varying natures, such as being frightening, exciting, magical, melancholic, adventurous, or even sexual. The events in dreams are generally outside the control of the dreamer, with the exception of lucid dreaming, where the dreamer is self-aware.

The recollection of dreams is usually unreliable, though it is a skill that can be trained. You can become aware of yourself as you dream.

Remembering Carlos Castaneda’s vague “Dreaming” instructions, I quickly held up my left hand and stared at it. Then I looked away. I saw a large stone in front of me poking out of the grass. I concentrated intensely on the form in front of me. The stone had indeed changed its shape. It had elongated. Damn.

I held up my hand again and looked at it. The theory was simple, but extremely difficult to achieve. To actively remain in the dream, you had to constantly reaffirm your position, by gazing at a body part, because you are always the dreamer, you are literally there, even if you are not actively participating in what’s going on.

Believe me, you have never actually seen yourself in a dream, like you were watching a movie about yourself. (Unless you can find a mirror.) You are always there, right smack dab in the middle.

Then I gazed from my hand back to the stone again. As I concentrated on this its new form suddenly became crystal clear. I blinked in obvious disbelief. This additional shape shook me. It was a tombstone.

It was a miniaturization of a familiar gravestone. Oh shit. I knew I should get up now, try to get out of bed and stop this madness, but it was already too late.

I was certain that I knew this gravestone. My flesh began to crawl. I could read the inscription. Again the truth set in and it sickened me. It was my grandfather’s gravestone.

JOE BUTCH LACHOWICZ

1929–1988

It was a perfect replica of Grampie Butches’ gravestone. I felt repulsion and wanted to look away, but rereading the inscription froze the sight in my line of vision. I felt queerly nauseous. Then I realized that a woman’s voice was calling me.

Oh-oh. I should have known better. That’s the bottom line with obsessions; the worst was always yet to come. Sigmund Freud explained dreams as manifestations of one’s deepest desires and anxieties, often relating to repressed childhood memories or obsessions. Sometimes I agreed with this.

I knew that lucid dreaming is the conscious perception of one’s state while dreaming. I strived to learn this, inspired by Carlos Castaneda in the Seventies. In this state the dreamer may often have some degree of control over their own actions within the dream or even the characters and the environment of the dream. Or he may not.

I wanted out of this dream, but this was no longer possible. I had nearly mastered dream control with years of practiced deliberate lucid dreaming, but eventually discovered that the ability to control aspects of the dream is not necessary for a dream to qualify as “lucid.”

I discovered that a lucid dream is any dream during which the dreamer knows they are dreaming. It did not help me any to also discover that the occurrence of lucid dreaming has been scientifically verified. Once you are dreaming, you are basically on your own.

It was at precisely that point that I realized the old woman’s voice had now changed too. It was now a familiar voice taunting me, much too familiar.

I needed to wake up. I was as helpless as a lost child. I felt I had once again ventured into a situation that no normal person would be stupid or foolish enough to enter into. I quickly became disorientated.

Yet I was stubborn, well trained, and so, I tried to gaze at my left hand again, but I could not raise it. The upsetting dream continued. And thus, no longer able to deliberately control my physical movements, I was delivered to the “Other Side”.

I had an incredible amount of respect for the “Other Side”. I always woke up horrified when I erroneously managed to break through.

The Doors even wrote a song about it, suitably named- “Break On Through”. Carlos Castaneda’s descriptions of the other side were spot on. And it was the only thing he warned against in his books.

In fact, the “Other side” was the only reason I had “retired” from my attempts at “organized dreaming” years ago. The few times I had broken through to the other side had nearly killed me. Seriously.

I used to wake up with my heart pounding in my head; I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I felt there was something there that my body or perhaps even my mind could not handle knowing about. Perhaps I was getting too close to the flame.

The biggest difference in here was that I could no longer control my passage in any form or way; but- I was still wide-awake and fully conscious. Thus the petrifying anxiety during the dream was very real, similar to the ensuing fright I felt in the end-phase of my successful “Dreaming” attempts upon awakening. And try as I would, I could never escape of my own will or logically explain any of it later on.

The other side was beyond rational definition. All I could see in front of me was the impenetrable mist. I always felt it was comparable to a dense wall of fog that was always directly in front of you, regardless of which way you turned. And then there was the ongoing storm.

The wind raged fiercely here, no metaphor. And the winds were deafening. To me they carried with them the desperate voices of the lost. Forlorn and dismal, it was a repulsive, horrible sound.

Inwardly I feared someday my voice would join them.

The average person has three to five dreams per night, and some may have up to seven. Dreams tend to last longer as the night progresses. Most dreams occur in the typical two hours of REM. Now, with the jet lag, I was having very long dreams.

The voice I was now hearing was also lost. It should have soothed me, as I finally became aware of who it belonged to. And she did not belong here. She was one of my all time favorite people on the planet.

Yet she had never sounded like this before. She sounded like she was suffering. She sounded like she was dying. And she was calling me. The voice belonged to Nana.

Then I realized the gravestone now had another inscription on it, a second name, complete with the date of death engraved on it. I caught the name, but as I tried to focus in on the second date, the numbers seemed to move off to the side and squiggle like caterpillars along the surface of the granite stone.

ZELMA SCHREMPF HAWKES

1912 — }}}}

The engraved name and date remained in place, but the departure numbers quickly disappeared over the edge of the stone and out of my sight. Now my head droned as my stomach did another revolting series of daredevil somersaults.

I had to get out of here. Yet movement was still not possible. The winds seemingly held me firmly in place. I dropped to my hands and knees, frozen in fear as my hair blew wildly around my face.

I finally risked a glance to the source of the voice, definitely afraid of what I would see there, and yet, I looked anyway. My heart leaped as I quickly exhaled and then my facial expression froze in place with my mouth left wide open as my spit instantly dried up.

The name on the monument. The date on the monument. I had seen it.

My grandmother was sitting in front of me in a wall of fog.

Nana was sitting on a faded wooden chair. The field was hidden from view. The chair she sat on was seemingly hanging in the gloomy vapor. The dense fog surrounded her, totally engulfing her. She looked terrible, frail, and her features were badly distorted.

Yet she was wearing a bright ruby red dress, like the ones she wore in the square dancing days long ago when I was a kid, and for a split second I pictured her rapidly standing up and twirling like a ballerina on the chair as the dress arose and openly bloomed like a Tulip turned upside down.

Her snow-white hair was wild, being blown by the winds in every direction, her teeth were pitch black, or perhaps even missing, and her face twisted and contorted as she sneered viciously at me.

Her voice was so powerful, and she was firmly commanding me to reach out and touch the truth. I began to shiver uncontrollably.

It doesn’t get better than this.

“Touch the truth Blaine, get closer to the truth, you gave up much too easily back then with your dreaming, but of course Darling, you always give up too easily.” she taunted, and repeated this statement over and over.

My eyes were riveted on her, and her eyes were blazing. They were blood red, and the raw power in her normally feeble voice was wearing me out.

Nana appeared to be getting angrier. I could not see through the fog as my eyes were glued to the woman in the chair, as if I was in a trance. Maybe I could touch her. Maybe I should touch her. Maybe that was what she meant with touch the truth. I reached out again into the void.

Nothing. The weight of this nothingness suddenly got to me. I could no longer keep my head up, and I fell into a prone position with my face down. Let the fog take me back home. Please.

Touch the truth? This truth was a myth, suddenly I was sure of it. It was unattainable. Dreaming was also a myth. Dreams allow the repressed parts of the mind to be satisfied through fantasy while keeping the conscious mind from thoughts that would suddenly cause us to awaken from shock. Like right now.

Dreaming. Carlos Castaneda had lied, and made a mint with his ingenious lying too. I was chasing rainbows again, as I had been doing all my life. It was just a fucking myth.

I remembered being fascinated with Castaneda’s famous Shaman “Don Juan” accounts of Indian Dreaming. All of my life I had felt there was more to life than met the eye. I felt our busy lives kept us from ever coming close to glimpsing the truth. Then I read this paragraph.

“Dreaming is the vehicle that brings dreamers to this world,” the emissary said, “and everything shamans know about dreaming was taught to them by us. Our world is connected to yours by a door called dreams. We know how to go through that door, but men don’t. They have to learn it.”

Carlos Castaneda gave me a way to find out for myself. I followed the vague steps, kept a dream journal, and after years of doing so, things began to happen. And then I walked away, scared out of my wits.

A myth. Or was it? Nana didn’t seem to think so. She continued to taunt me ruthlessly. I managed to open my eyes again, but now she was hidden in the fog. I was grateful for the fact that I could no longer see her looking like “this”.

But, I could definitely still hear her. Her words tore deeply into my flesh like a cracking bullwhip. I was bleeding all over from unseen wounds. Her words easily rose above the steady droning of the raging winds as the tears rolled down my cheeks.

The words cut right through me, awakening painful memories that had been laid to rest long ago, simply to save my sanity from the sadistic human condition of allowing ancient memories to literally eat you alive and destroy your soul.

“Darling Blaine is trying to touch the truth again. Big boys don’t cry Blaine, didn’t your father tell you that? Didn’t he really give you something to cry about if you did? Bah, stop your whining, you’re still a sissy. Do you want to know why you cannot touch the truth? It is here, right in front of you, but ever so slightly out of your reach little boy.”

She paused, but not for long. “You are a weakling Blaine, you will always be too weak for this world. You were never as tough as Teddy. You were too scared to touch the truth when you had the chance. Remember that, you did have the chance. Not everyone gets a chance, but you did. You had the chance and blew it.”

I wanted to protest, but apparently she just was just warming up. “Now you have been running away from all of your problems ever since. It begin early little boy. You went from all “A’s” in school to grades just good enough to pass your courses. It was easier to feign laziness then to risk total failure. You father didn’t like failure very much, did he? ”

I could not find my voice. I could not wake up. Then I recalled the “safe word.” I had chosen music. I had to concentrate on a song, any song, but I had to stick with it, regardless of what happened. The music had to play in my head. I stopped crying. I can do this.

“Day after day, alone on a hill.”

“Remember how you avoided any serious relationships with girls? Too risky, one might break your heart. So you went from one girl to the next. Good enough for a trip to the woods, but other than that, well Blaine doesn’t have the time. Then you finally fell in love against your will. A girl named Shirley actually broke through your stonewall. You saw unadorned devotion in her eyes. And what did you do?” she paused.

“The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still.”

“I know what you did. Do you remember how you broke poor Shirley’s heart? Remember how happy you were that you had finally found someone who believed in you? She sure was good to you. But, you walked away. Remember how you went away to the Army to save money for your dream house and to marry her? Funny thing though, you broke your promise, you never returned. You never came back. And you never apologized.”

“But nobody wants to know him.”

“Do you remember what rejection does to the soul? Didn’t Sally teach you that? And what did it bring you? Your kids don’t even live with you anymore. Your German wife left you for a goddamn biker. So you partied. You sobered up, and then your party friends left you too. So you partied some more. What does it take to get through to you?”

“They can see he’s just a fool.”

“What the Hell are you doing over there in Germany anyhow? A land of guilt-ridden sociopaths, is that where you choose to call your home? Is that where YOU fit in? What excuse for staying are you using this year? Did you get somebody pregnant again? Did the damn car break down and eat up your fictional savings? Another hundred thousand miles between you and the days that used to be.”

“And he never gives an answer.”

“Funny little man, when your father had that dangerous, life-threatening blood clot in his leg, I saw your brother Ted there, he came in all the way from the west. I saw Lara there, Becky, Larry. But I did not see you Blaine. I don’t recall ever seeing you there at Milk Street when you are needed.”

“But the fool on the hill, sees the sun going down.”

“Then your father had his congested heart diagnosed. Christ almighty, now he had a death sentence hanging over his head, and still- no Blaine. Where were you when my son Earl died? Your cousin Kathy needed you like never before. Were you at a dope party that night smoking with the boys? I didn’t see you at her side consoling her as only you could have done in that space in time. She believed in you, Lord knows why.”

“And the eyes in his head, see the world spinning round.”

“Where were you when my daughter Barbara died? Can’t recall seeing you mourning with us all at the wake. Your cousin Paige lost her Nana; she even knew her Nan’s Story. Darling, Paige thought you were the cool, older cousin, but not a word of condolence came from you. Where were you when Mary Flynn died? Your best friend Billy cried in Robbie Adams arms. Robbie is a real, calculating individual, at times an ice-cold businessman, but he was there Blaine. He was there.”

“Well on the way, head in a cloud.”

“And you little man? Where were you? Let me guess. Blaine horny. Blaine need woman. You were cheating on your wife in the woods that night with a girl who had beautiful green eyes. Eyes like an alley cat, this mysterious woman, and when she went into heat, you ran blindly into her arms, panting like an animal, forgetting your sacred vows.”

“The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud.”

“And where the hell were you when my husband died? It was not a secret you know, Grampie Butch did not get hit by a goddamn bus. He suffered miserably with his cancer for months. Everyone managed to get back to Salisbury and see him, they even came back from California, but you didn’t even bother to come by to say your goodbyes. Named your boy Joseph did you, named him after Butch you said, but Butch never even saw him. He sure wanted to meet him.”

“But nobody ever hears him.”

“Silly boy, and still searching for the touching stone to find the truth in a dream world. Do you want some truth? Where will you be when I die? Let me guess, not here! We needed you- you selfish bastard, we all needed you. You have always been hiding in your imagination, ignoring the real world. You even called it a separate reality, how clever, another thing you obviously stole from Carlos Castaneda, but your detached reality was not connected to anything remotely real.”

“Or the sound he appears to make.”

“How enlightening your life has been, smoking finger thick hashish joints and talking to German trees instead of your inner circle. Bloody marvelous, you’ll have some awesome stories to tell YOUR grandchildren someday.”

“And he never seems to notice.”

“Coward. Fool. Selfish Bastard. And just what is it about this dreaming crap? You kept a notebook next to your bed and wrote down dreams in the middle of the night? Seriously? No wonder your wife thought you were losing it. You were more interested in your stupid dreams than in the broken dreams of your own family. Dreaming zeeming, where are you going tonight little man? You deserted us all you coward. You deserted your own family.”

“But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down.”

“You slipped away in your cushy world, cushy, cushy. You even took drugs to escape, but you can’t escape Blaine. There is no escape. Do you want to know why little boy? I’ll tell you why, the truth that no one ever bothered to tell you.”

“And the eyes in his head, sees the world spinning round.”

“No one ever told you Darling. Not your mother, not your father, not your hero of a big brother Ted, not your farmer guru Ray, not even the trillionaire cocaine addict Paul McCartney clued you in with silly love songs and hidden backward lyrics.”

“And nobody seems to like him.”

“Read my lips little boy, don’t miss this, cause you’re gonna love it. It is our genes Blaine, our shitty genes. We have incredibly bad genes. BAD GENES. Ha-ha-ha.”

“They can tell what he wants to do”

Her voice boomed over the roar of the other voices in the wind. I firmly pressed my hands over my ears, to no avail. Her laughter was deafening.

“We have bad genes. You have bad genes. You cannot escape your genes. You cannot escape your life. You cannot escape your fate. You’re going to get addicted to so many things; you’re going to be constantly depressed, about everything you think about because- you think too much.”

“And he never shows his feelings.”

“And guess what little darling boy, you’re going to die a slow, painful death, its all pre-programmed, a malicious cell just waiting for the signal from your bad genes to split, and split again and then run amok, eat out your insides, ruin what’s left of your pitiful life, and its all because you did not touch the truth when you had the chance, and you did not touch the truth because you possess bad genes.”

“He never listens to them.”

“Why are you crying now Darling? You ought to appreciate this delicious information like you used to appreciate your dealer’s efforts to keep your lungs green week after week after week. No, wait a minute, didn’t you screw his wife?”

“He knows they’re the fools.”

“Hey, you love words, right? Words create worlds, right? Isn’t that how this bullshit works? Well little man, let me tell you what no one dares to tell you, your world sucks! Your words suck. The truth has finally been spoken. Now, THOSE are words finally worth printing.” she shouted victoriously and then she laughed horribly.

I had had more than enough for one night.

The winds raged on, and became unbearably loud. I had to open my eyes again as I felt sudden motion. Nana was still seated on the strange chair floating in the fog. I felt I was about to be carried away.

Nana continued chastising me, now clinically listing my mistakes with eerie accuracy, but her commanding voice was fading away. I rolled over on my back and felt my body effortlessly rise. I began to slowly spin, as I flew out of the yard through the turbulent air currents and the thick fog. I experienced a mild vertigo.

“And the eyes in his head, see the world spinning round, spinning round and round, spinning round.”

It had come to this.

This was what I dreaded the most about the nights ending up in the other side. The “Other Side” never just let you wake up; no, it literally threw you out.

“See the world spinning round, spinning round and round, spinning round.”

Naturally that is just a way of talking, using inadequate words to create surreal worlds. In the world of the “Other Side” you were always awake. You were always terrified. To me it was often realer than the half-asleep world of our day-to-day working class lives, and not an imitation created by my disturbed mind.

I felt instinctively that it was very possible that I would never wake up again, which would be the horrible equivalent of falling into a coma. My body would lie useless in some hospital while in another dimension my soul faced the dreadfulness of dealing with the wall of fog indefinitely.

“See the world spinning round, spinning round and round, spinning round.”

I slowly rose higher. Then I began rocketing, which further nauseated me. My vision blurred, the gray day turned to black night and I wildly plummeted through the inky darkness riding the transcendental winds in sheer terror.

With God and Nana as my only witness, I screamed and screamed.

Thankfully for the occupants of 29 Milk Street- I screamed silently.

I woke up sitting upright in bed, mouth open, still trying to scream, but no sound escaped. My head throbbed, my chest hurt, and my heart was pounding. I crawled out of bed.

I barely made it to the bathroom. I rushed down the hall clasping my hand against my lips before finally arriving at the throne where I violently vomited the remains of Mom’s tuna salad.

I stayed on my hands and knees for a while before I slowly stood and reached the tiny sink. I washed out my mouth again and again. I finished off half a bottle of green mouthwash. Then I splashed water on my face.

I tiptoed back to our room. “I’m getting too old for this shit,” I whispered.

Helga was still asleep. I was sweating, literally dripping wet, and I could plainly hear my pulse pounding in my forehead. And I thought I could still hear my grandmother’s voice too, loud and clear, calling me from the other side, although I was obviously awake. I was truly a natural.

I slowly slipped back into the bed. I fell back against my pillow and softly sighed in the darkness as Helga snored. I stared blankly at the ceiling. I was too weak to do anything else.

Nana’s voice joined the voices of the lost in a dreadful chorus, chastising my degenerate genes and me. Slowly they became muted, barely distinguishable from the real New England winds blowing outside my window.

I could really understand the strange talk you hear from suicidal people about hearing voices. I was an accomplished Dreamer.

And I understood, some nightmares did not stop when you woke up.

“See the world spinning round, spinning round and round, spinning round.”

The winds finally faded and I heard the real breeze caressing the leaves in the trees outside the bedroom window. I had not visited the “Other Side” in years, and I hadn’t missed it.

I couldn’t decide which had been worse, Nana’s haunting words or seeing Nana’s date of death on her and Butches gravestone.

I let the argument rage in my head as I became drowsy. I felt it was safe to close my eyes again. I did so as I softly cursed Carlos Castaneda.

I certainly did not fall back asleep after this nightmare. I didn’t ever want to fall asleep again, like the pitiful characters in the “Nightmare On Elm Street” movies. Hell, I would have actually preferred pizza-faced “Freddie” to a satanic grandmother.

Physical pain was so much easier to handle in the long run. Physical pain eventually went away. Then Helga turned again and faced me, and this time she opened her eyes.

I must have looked pretty bad, as she instantly said, “My God, what happened to you? Did you have a wet dream?”

Oh yes, Freud also believed that virtually every dream topic, regardless of its content, represented the release of sexual tension.

She took me in her arms and I laid my head on her magnificent breasts. We lie there in peaceful silence until Mike finally had to open his eyes. I smiled knowingly. I was going to see my grandmother.

There was one extremely positive thing I had taken from my dreaming experiences. I believed that dream control was indeed possible. What if I was actually waking up every morning- into another dream? I had total control over my actions in this dream. I could focus my attention on everything I saw, smelled, touched, heard and felt.

That sounded really enticing.

Carlos Castaneda said that if you broke through to the other side, you would come to a weird place and the self would then be faced with the question of just who is dreaming whom?

I smiled. A new day had begun.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A LIFE AFFIRMING CONVERSATION WITH NANA ABOUT DEATH

As I casually listened to the mini-drama in the room down the hall I wondered about my nephew’s genes and thus any possible connection to his teenage laziness and refusal to open his eyes.

Was it just our genes, or did our current environment also play a vital role in our personality?

Then what about the past environment? Can we truly forget? Should we remember?

Was our childhood responsible for our sins as an adult, or just an excuse, a very convenient excuse to do what we really want to do?

I could hear proverbial voices again, duly explaining to me why it’s not their fault that they do what they do. It was all because of their fucked up childhood. Mom and Dad made me this way.

Hey, it’s not my fault- I smoke dope because my parents smoked dope. I do drugs because my parents didn’t do drugs, and they were obviously bored by life.

I am cold because I didn’t receive enough loving attention as a child. I am affectionate because I never received any affection as a child and I’m hungry as hell.

I drink because my parents drank. I don’t drink because my parents drank and things were more than a bit peculiar at times. And on it goes.

Yes, it’s five o’clock in the morning; do you know where your children are- both spiritually and emotionally?

Had Nana actually been right, or was it just too simple of an explanation? Bad genes indeed.

Helga heard my father’s frustrated attempts at waking the lethargic boy next door and she loudly groaned and quickly turned on her side, covering her head with her pillow.

I chuckled softly at her exaggerated reaction. I gently kissed her exposed shoulder, got up and crept down the back stairs, no longer caring why Mike hated to get up and face the day. I loved mornings.

I had enough self-indulgent, impractical philosophy for one morning. Every valid question was answered with yet another grueling question. Like many things I enjoyed doing, it seemed rather ridiculous when you shined a light directly on it.

A tune began to play in my head, and I hummed along. “We’re on a road to nowhere, come take that ride,” I purred and instantly felt better.

Nostalgia just isn’t what it used to be.

My stomach had finally settled after my bad trip and was now grumbling. It was time to break the fast of the night. I found myself in the kitchen and reached for the fruit basket on the counter. I ate a banana while standing there. Then I grabbed some fruit and sat down.

As I thoughtfully peeled oranges I decided it was high time to go visit my grandmother.

Helga was not too thrilled about my sudden change in plans. I had promised to take her to a popular banner shop in New Hampshire to pick up some flags, which was her latest kick.

When she realized my mind was made up and there was nothing she could do about it, she called me a selfish bastard and fell silent. “But we will go see that fish restaurant first, you promised,” she added and plopped down on the couch.

She clicked on my parent’s television, tuned in the Animal Channel and sulked as grizzly bears ate campers in sleeping bags and cute, randy raccoons mated. Soon she was smiling again. I instantly made a mental note to start video taping some of this stuff before we flew back.

She had seen a wooden horse buggy parked next to a seafood restaurant while we had been cruising around down Plum Island. She wanted me to film it with my video camera, so she could build one like it when we got home.

It was true; the girl was mighty handy with tools. After we had moved, she built stalls for her horse and the pony in her new barn. It only took us two weekends.

I remember talking to Dad about it on the phone, and I mentioned that I had helped her. Dad says, “Oh? What did you do, hold the nails for her?”

It made me laugh, but it was the type of comment that angered brother Ted and I, simply because Dad never bothered to teach us how to do anything in our youth. Dad was also a gifted handyman.

So after breakfast we headed down towards Plum Island. The buggy was parked in front of a popular seafood restaurant on the island. This place was doing well. There had been a steady flow of people coming to the area, due in part to the resurgence of bird lovers visiting the State Refuge.

The National Birdwatchers Association had also moved in. The birdwatchers had arrived, with bulky zoom lenses and expensive cameras and telescopes and identification books galore.

I had already noticed them. Birders were everywhere.

We found the place. Helga went over, and was studying the buggy, as I went inside to get us some coffee to go. Then I went back outside and revved up the video camera. I set down the coffee and began filming. Helga wanted to build one similar for the kids. She said it was light enough for Pedro, her pony, to pull it.

As I was dutifully filming it from all possible angles a huge albatross flew by overhead, and instinctively I swung the video camera upwards and filmed its graceful flight.

Suddenly the restaurant’s screen door blasted open with a loud crash.

Two men came flying out, and stumbled down the wooden steps together in unison as they struggled with their bulky cameras, immediately pointing them skyward.

One of them screamed at me “What was it, a migratory Laridae? Tell us. What was it? Where is it now?”

The other man exclaimed, “Did its scapulars have black, swarthy patches? Come on, we’re dying to know.”

Helga and I exchanged wide-eyed glances. I didn’t see this coming.

The exuberant birdwatchers reached us and they by now were practically drooling as their eyes switched from the sky to me, the sky to me.

I couldn’t resist. I smiled a toothy grin and slowly said, “It was a seagull man, a big white one with a yellow beak.”

Helga added, “It was maybe Johnathan Livingston Seagull. It was flying very fast.” That cracked me up; she too had read that hippie book about self-perfection back in the early Seventies.

They looked at us with obvious disdain, and then grumbled as they lowered their cameras and sauntered away. They reentered the restaurant, and not without shooting us some more daggers with their eyes.

When we were done, we climbed back into our own buggy. It was time to go see my grandmother.

This urgent “Nana” visit occurred immediately afterwards. Turns out that my sister Becky had stopped by Milk Street, so she went with us to go see Nana.

Becky warned me as we walked to her apartment, (Nana only lived two streets away.) that our grandmother didn’t look too healthy these days. Nana wasn’t as strong as she was the last time I was home, (two years ago). She had lost a lot of weight during her recent hospital stay, and had never regained it.

“Believe me Becky, I know she looks better than she looked the last time I saw her.” I thought to myself cynically, shivering as I recalled my latest dreaming encounter.

Becky said, “Now Nana had problems finishing off a mini can of “Spaghettio’s”. I wondered why she would even bother to eat something as depressing as Spaghettio’s in the first place, but said nothing.

Now and then I can actually observe without comment.

This visit with Becky took place in Nana’s cozy little apartment in The Sullivan Building, two streets away from Milk Street, and one street away from downtown Newburyport. She had ended up here after selling the house she and Grampie Butch had built together in Salisbury.

She had moved here after Butch had gone away for good, a victim of his own bad genes.

In retrospect, I was extremely lucky to see her here.

It was the very last day Nana ever spent in her apartment.

Earlier that morning my mother had found Nana in a precarious situation. My parents were going up to her place many times daily to check on her, to assist her with chores, make sure she was taking her medication, and of course, to visit, and spend quality time with her.

As with all of us, her time was running out.

Nana had fallen off the couch trying to get up and simply did not have the strength to pull herself up from the floor and get back on the couch. She had lain on the floor for a couple of hours until Mom had walked in and discovered her. (Ironically, as Nana lay helpless on her living room floor, I was lying helpless in a field dreaming about her.)

Needless to say, her tumble had scared everyone pretty badly, but Nana did not seem too upset about it. She complained of a sore lower back because of the long wait on the hard floor, but other than that, she was okay.

I had listened to my mother’s gloomy account in shock.

Welcome to the real “Other Side”.

Nothing like this had ever happened before. Nana had always been strong enough to get around alone in her apartment. The fall forced questions to be asked that no one really wanted to hear the answers too.

The grim reality of ageing.

I remembered Ringo’s great line in The Beatles movie- “A Hard Days Night”. He was alone, talking to Paul’s “grandfather”, who was obviously not too thrilled about being too old to go out “Parading” and chase girls with the younger guys. When Ringo finally realizes what Grandfather McCartney is really trying to say, he stops and frowns.

“Funny, I never really thought about it, but being middle aged and old really takes up most of your time, doesn’t it?” Ringo quipped as a young man.

You’re so right my fellow big-nosed drummer friend.

But it goes by in the blink of an eye. Twenty-five years ago Grampie Butch and I were working together in his garden one late autumn afternoon as the daylight slowly departed.

Out of the blue he just dropped his rake, sat down on the lawn facing the sunset and said, “When you are young Blaine, you get old, but when you are old, you only get older. A beautiful sunset suddenly takes on a whole new meaning.”

I added, unnecessarily, like the brat I was, “You no longer waste the dawn.” I giggled.

He had turned away from the setting sun and was now watching me, thus I continued, trying to get a funny retort from him. “You get closer to the edge. You prepare yourself to burn from the fire within. Am I right?”

Butch grinned now too, shaking his head slowly from side to side and said, “The fire within? Do you still think you are going to Hell for melting all those crayons on the radiator in the Brown School back then?”

He laughed heartily, as he often did. Then he continued. “Everything once again becomes magical Blaine, as it was for you and I as a baby and a young child discovering the many wonders surrounding us everyday, the things we all eventually take for granted”.

At the time I thought Butch was simply humoring me. He often did. Everybody did at this point in my life; I was only sixteen. But turns out I was wrong, he had meant every word.

Yet this subject was something my other adult mentor, Ray, never quite understood; how people could take so much in life for granted. Of course Ray had the ultimate lesson of life and death slammed into him.

Drafted into the Army in the Fifties he was sent to Korea after completing his rigorous infantry training in the south. Twice he was a member of a platoon patrolling in the Asian jungle that was viciously ambushed, and twice he was the only man who lived to tell about it, the Sole Survivor.

He had actually seen the inside of a real life “MASH” unit. Not one time, but twice. (And according to Ray, it was not funny in any way.)

And Ray had walked away, incredibly enough, he had lived to tell. No chance for misunderstanding the message here. No chance to ever forget.

I was never bored down on Ray’s farm. He fascinated me. Ray would say weird things to me, for example he would often tell me that I could easily improve my memory just by doing unforgettable things.

The swift passing of time often staggered me as a child. By the time I was a teenager I had realized it was just an illusion, this statistician’s whim of an average 75.5 years of life. Seems like an incredibly long time as a kid. But I wasn’t buying it. It’s a fucking lie. Ray woke me up.

I practiced the god-awful difficulty of just paying attention. Ray felt if you miss the little things, you miss all you’re really going to get in life. If you miss that, you simply become your attentions.

He said we all watch way too much television. I knew he did not watch TV, and that he included himself amongst the pack merely as a didactic device, but it was still great.

Today Ray would say, beware if your attentions revolve around your phone or some other device. We are losing touch with something very important.

The ability to focus deeply on a single idea or task for long periods of time is one of the most important abilities you can learn for succeeding in this modern information age.

Ray said that our ability to focus and hold our attention on what we need is the key to living a happy, healthy life.

We’ve all had those moments where we are constantly sucked into situations of useless drama brought about by endless clicks and notifications. What happens? We get confused.

And now, with the upsurge in smart devices and internet available pretty much everywhere from Germany to Newburyport, this loss of attention is hurting us more and more.

Ray would remind me that this inability to focus for any length of time hinders our efforts to keep our attention where it belongs- on the moment at hand. It causes us to lose our train of thought.

Even worse, it eats away at our ability to connect and just be present with one another, eliminating any chance of true human intimacy in the process.

I know people who get quite nervous if they can’t check their damn phone in social situations. I know people who feel like they need to always be checking Facebook, Instagram or their messages to feel as though they are alive. They feel like they have to always be caught up on every piece of worthless information that is sent their way, otherwise they’re somehow incomplete.

We have friends who can no longer sit through an entire movie or even an episode of a TV show without pulling out their damn phones. We know people who can’t make it through a meal without having the phone lying in view next to their plate on the table.

It seems to be happening everywhere, and thus- it’s actually becoming the social norm. That would have scared Ray and thus, it scared me. Ray would have never tolerated me pulling out my phone for a peek as we spoke. He would have smacked it out of my hand. I missed Ray.

Intense thoughts and idealistic memories of this nature overwhelmed me as the three of us leisurely walked in silence down the crooked and uneven sidewalks of the south end of Newburyport.

We arrived and Becky led us in. We rang the bell and it took a while until Nana opened the door.

It was a sad visit for me. I was not too sure Nana even knew who I was. She was vague, and I caught her looking at me a few times with a bewildered look in her eyes after we had all sat down in the living room.

I had not seen her for two years, and before that it had been even longer. She was either not hearing well, or unable to understand the unpretentious questions I was asking, as the conversation never really got off the ground.

I was also so frightened at her tiny appearance. She actually resembled the Nana in my dream, other than the distorted features, of course.

She was so tiny, but her voice was definitely not booming, as it had been hours earlier in the fog. Her voice was meek and tired. We spent most of the visit just looking at each other.

It was enough.

I flashed back to my last visit. I had spent hours with Nana hanging out in the cemetery next to Grampie Butches grave, just the two of us. It had been astonishing.

Nana and Butch. The dream team with the odd- yet entertaining name.

Butch was her second husband, a good friend of my father and his brother Earl. We all called him Butch, his childhood nickname, even though his real name was Joe.

None of us kids called him Grampie; although all of us saw him as our grandfather.

For the first fifteen minutes of that visit I had stood next to her at Butch’s monument, feeling more than a bit awkward as she literally “spoke” with Butch. But then she wished him well and told him I was here from Germany, and she was going to talk to me for a while.

And she did just that.

We talked casually about life, family ties, Butch and bad genes. Yes, bad genes. Sometimes “knowing” was just as bad as “not knowing”.

Dreaming was often nothing more than the “not-doing” of long forgotten knowledge and sleeping memories awakened by opportunity and then brought back to life.

After some gentle prodding from yours truly, Nana recalled Butch’s last days before the cancer literally ate him alive. I had only heard bits and pieces from people while back in Germany, so I listened in respectful silence.

Butch had handled the news of his upcoming death incredibly well. Outwardly, no one can say what Hell he was going through on the inside, not even his wife. He loved life so much; it must have been unbearably difficult to live with the confirmed knowledge that he would not be around to celebrate Nana’s next birthday.

They went to see a lawyer, an old schoolboy friend of Butch’s. Butch told him he wanted to sell their house and split up the money evenly amongst the family before Nana died, to spare everyone the hefty inheritance tax.

He also wanted to assure that Nana would have enough to comfortably live on after he was gone. He wanted to buy his gravestone, pick out a coffin and pay for their cemetery plot. (Naturally Nana would also be buried there when her time to escape arrived.)

He calmly added that this all had to happen rather quickly, as he only had a few months left of trouble-free pleasure, and the real pain was yet to come, and he was not sure he would be able to get around freely anymore when “that” nightmare finally began.

Nana said the hard-assed lawyer was actually misty eyed as he listened to Butch’s soft-spoken demands. He assured Butch he would take care of everything right away, which Nana proudly added, he did.

And it was all done pro bono. He waived his fee, refusing to accept so much as a penny from Butch for his legal work. Whenever Butch wanted to see him, or called him on the phone with a question, the lawyer immediately made time for him.

Nana said Butch knew so many good people. I wasn’t at all surprised.

The final days with Butch were often obscenely wonderful. He was constantly trying to cheer her up. He was lively, spontaneous, funny, and even romantic.

For example, he would suddenly turn up the stereo when one of their favorite songs played and grab Nana, and say, “Hey babe, wanna dance?” Then he would wing her across the living room cheek to cheek in a lively waltz.

They listened to a lot of music together in the end. He would hum along, and longingly reminisce with her about their square dancing days and their life melting together as one in the early days when they met and living was really simpler, and the days seemed longer, the nights sweeter and time had moved so much slower.

But he also had tragic moments where he cried like a baby, unable to hide his sorrow and his mounting pain. She said he was such a passionate man.

He had also been the unofficial family photographer for years. He gave me the bug and had helped me pick out my first real camera when I was twelve. It didn’t stop there, as he had always asked me to show him my latest snapshots.

I was thrilled when I found out my cousin Kathy ended up with Butch’s camera after his passing. (Kathy also possessed an eye for beauty.)

Unfortunately it was just not meant to be. Malevolent thieves broke into her house one day while no one was home and stole all of their video equipment, electrical adult toys, and- Butch’s sentimental camera.

Understandably, Kathy was heart-broken. Desperately, she placed an advertisement in the local newspaper explaining the exceptional circumstances and begging the thieves to return just the irreplaceable camera- no questions asked; and she also checked out all the local pawnshops for months afterwards, all to no avail.

Butch’s camera, as with Butch, never returned.

Nana and Butch had a closet literally filled with photo albums. He loved to capture the moment on film, and our growth as children was chronologically filed away under the simple title- “The Kids”.

They spent hours looking at these pictures now, marveling at what time had done to us. After his passing, Nana could no longer bear to admire his pictures, and eventually split them up amongst us “kids”.

His love of photography was only matched by his love of gardening. He had a green thumb, and an eye for natural beauty. She reminded me of my long bike rides where I would trek to Salisbury and help him for hours in the garden. I didn’t need to be reminded, but I listened closely just the same.

As she spoke longingly from the garden in Salisbury, she was simultaneously looking up at the sky. Her big eyes were misty, her gaze forlorn, and I was helplessly falling into them, feeling her unspoken anguish.

Damn, life could be so unfair. No one had ever expected Nana to outlive Butch; she was so much older than he was. He was only fifty-nine when he passed.

Suddenly she looked at me and said, “He really loved you kids, and he really loved me. I’m glad he came around. I’m so often lost without him Blaine. But you know, he made me promise to keep going after he was gone.”

She smiled and continued. “He told me that being a part of this family was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And that I was lucky too, because my family would always be there for me, and it is true. Everyone has been so good to me.”

Nana was silent after this for a few minutes. Then she went on. “Blaine, he was in so much pain at the end. I hated to see him suffer; I would have done anything if I could have taken his pain from him. It was awful, simply awful. It’s terrible to say this, but the suffering, the pain made it easier to let him go, you know what I mean? You get the feeling it makes dying easier, because then the pain finally stops. The suffering ceases. It was wicked bad.”

I gazed into her eyes, as my eyes clouded over, her voice suddenly coming from very far away. Tears trickled down my cheeks, but neither of us noticed. I wondered if she was going to talk about his death, but she remained still, obviously lost in deep thought.

Tears also trickled down her face, and I reached out and took her hand into mine. I bit on my quivering lower lip, and my mouth dried as I angrily cursed that goddamn evil disease cancer.

As a kid you are luckily spared from vivid details of this death thing. Yet the addition of decades of new experiences to add to your memories doesn’t make the passing of loved ones any easier.

It’s where the vicious bouts with your faith begin, when a person close to you dies a horrible, painful death. Make sense of it if you can, but it’s more likely you will ponder your own direction for a long, long time.

Hopefully afterwards, you shall embrace life again, live fully and return to your path. (As Nana had done.)

Unfortunately, some folks never recover completely, and carry the emotional scars as their own private, sacred muse, using it as justification to be bitter and distant, forever wasting their own precious time until their time to exit life actually arrives.

And then others simply exist, go day from day without really tasting anything anymore, forever missing out on things that once brought a smile to their lips. A broken heart could indeed be deadly.

And then some people still seem to enjoy life, yet they never stop mourning. The name of the diseased is mentioned at every possible opportunity, morbid anniversaries are openly celebrated; they literally never let go of the memory.

Suddenly she changed the subject. “Blaine, despite our bad genes, we have such a wonderful family.”

I was so taken aback. I was instantly fascinated, and wanted her to explain what she meant with “bad genes”.

I had spent my whole adult life across the ocean. The adults I grew up with were in many ways strangers to me, as I had never had the chance to talk to them about personal things, or about life from a philosophical standpoint.

So when I came back, I constantly asked “them” about their lives, and their motives for doing things I had remembered as a child. It was and is still so fascinating for me. I smiled at her, and patiently waited for her to answer as my anticipation greedily grew.

She smiled back at me and began. “We really do have bad genes Blaine, there is a lot of cancer and heart disease in our family. I have been told it is hereditary. We also are prone to alcoholism, and to chemical imbalances. That can lead to depression you know. I used to be depressed when I was younger, before I met Butch.”

“I didn’t know that. Funny thing though, Mom told me that the Moran’s were prone to depression. I guess we kids don’t have a chance in Hell to be happy.” I laughed, but I guess Nana did not find it very funny as she looked away.

“Just kidding. I do remember you being nervous though.”

“Oh yeah, wicked. Well I was depressed all the time. Remember the big fight with John and Paul a few years ago when they stopped talking to each other while they were living together? It made me so sad. It reminded me of my sister and me. We got mad at each other about some little meaningless thing, and one stupid thing led to another, and in the end we just stopped talking to each other. She died before we ever made up. I felt awful about it for years. It still haunts me you know.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that either.”

“Don’t be sorry, I’m sorry.” She was still again. I waited in silence. She smiled and continued. “Then I got nervous all the time. I don’t know why, life got so busy, and you know how mothers worry about their children, it doesn’t matter how old they get.”

“Oh I know all about that. But didn’t you used to do Transcendental Meditation?”

“Yes, I used to meditate, that helped me to relax a lot in the beginning.”

“Isn’t it weird? The Beatles played such a big part in introducing the western world to meditation.”

“Oh? I didn’t know The Beatles had anything to do with T.M.”

“Oh yeah, they went to India back in 1968 and studied with the Maharishi for months. When they came back, the press was anxiously waiting. It was like they came back down from the mountain and the world wanted to know the answer to life, the comprehensible truth. T.M. really took off then, The Beatles interest in the East totally changed western attitudes about Indian spirituality and T.M.”

“They were a pretty good band. Butch liked a lot of their music, that is until they got so weird. Darling, he did not like the weird stuff.”

I had to laugh. “Did Butch meditate?”

“No, Butch was always calm you know, except when he was watching sports on TV. But he helped me with it you know, he helped me learn to do it.”

“Why did you stop meditating?”

“I stopped doing a lot of things after Butch left.”

But had he left? Was Butch really gone? Physically, of course, but here we were; standing next to his grave talking about him, and I could still feel his spirit, his energy, and his lasting presence.

“Butch lives on inside of us Nana.”

She smiled at me, and our eyes met in a long, meaningful moment.

She let my hand fall and we hugged spontaneously. I held her tight, gazing down at her bluish, silver hair, suddenly aware of how small she really was.

Once I had looked up to her. Emotionally, I still did.

Nana was my grandmother. Grand Mother. What a fitting name, a fantastic collection of words. Nana had raised her own children. Now she could spend time with her grandchildren without parental tribulations, no judgment, certainly no criticism, and no unsolicited advice, but when asked, she gave great advice. Grandmothers felt no more pressure, plain and simple. Nana accepted us for ourselves, without rebuke or any effect to change us, as no one in our lives has ever done.

Nobody ever forgets their last conversation with their grandmother.

“I stopped doing a lot of things after Butch left.”

But had he left? Was Butch really gone? Physically, of course, but here we were; standing next to his grave talking about him, and I could still feel his spirit, his energy, and his lasting presence.

“Butch lives on inside of us Nana.”

She smiled at me, and our eyes met in a long, meaningful moment.

She let my hand fall and we hugged spontaneously. I held her tight, gazing down at her bluish, silver hair, suddenly aware of how small she really was.

Once I had looked up to her. Emotionally, I still did.

Nana was my grandmother. Grand Mother. What a fitting name, a fantastic collection of words. Nana had raised her own children. Now she could spend time with her grandchildren without parental tribulations, no judgment, certainly no criticism, and no unsolicited advice, but when asked, she gave great advice. Grandmothers felt no more pressure, plain and simple. Nana accepted us for ourselves, without rebuke or any effect to change us, as no one in our lives has ever done.

Nobody ever forgets their last conversation with their grandmother.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE SECRET BEHIND LONG LAST LOOKS

And so Nana and I stood together holding each other against the ephemeral nature of life. I noticed two large seagulls pass overhead silhouetted against the brilliant blue skies. It was fabulous.

I had one of those brilliant rare flashes where you are totally aware of the complete situation at hand. I was alive. She was alive.

We were still in the graveyard, surrounded by people who could no longer make such a claim. I was aware how lucky I was to have a grandmother that loved me and to have her in my arms- “right now”.

Does it get any better than this? We parted, and the wistful moment was gone.

“Do you ever dream about Butch?” I asked.

“It’s funny that you ask that. I dreamt about him just last night. We were playing Bingo at Joes Playland at Salisbury Beach. Do you remember how often we used to do that?” I nodded and smiled.

Then she continued talking. “I didn’t have an easy life before Butch, but I have had a good one over all. I tried to give my kids what they needed. We were nucker poor back when we lived in Joppa. But I could make a meal out of a can of Spam and some macaroni. It wasn’t easy back then.”

Again she fell silent. I recalled stories from my father about the tough life in Joppa, the south end of Newburyport- in the years immediately following the great depression. Dad said they were indeed- “Nucker” poor, an expression he and my mother used all of their life to describe the condition of being genuinely poor.

Back in the thirties and forties there was an alley downtown, it lie in between the library and Taffy’s. It was called “Nucker’s Alley” a place where food was collected and distributed amongst the poor. More often than not, Nana’s family and all of their neighbors lived on food from Nucker’s Alley.

My grandfather was a struggling alcoholic and thus, they were even poorer than they had to be. I wondered if Nana was going to talk about my father’s father now. I knew very little about him, except for the fact that he was an out of control alcoholic.

With the grandiose memories of Newburyport’s famous Duncan- the poetic town drunk- burning in my mind, I was quite smitten with the concept of my own grandfather being more than just a down on his luck hard drinker.

I had ruffled some feathers in the family after I had elevated my grandfather into a heroic, Don Juan-like ghost in a past narration.

We did have a few alcoholics in the family, and I even saw my own dope smoking in the past as another form of alcoholism- however in a billowy structure.

Nana had never forgiven her first husband. I also knew that in the few family pictures I had seen at my parent’s house where dad’s dad was also in the same snap shot with Nana, she had never smiled, which was very unusual.

But again, she changed subjects. She led me away from my curiosity. She began talking about the rest of the family. “It was so awful losing Earl, he was so young. The cancer took him so quickly. He was in so much pain in the end. It was unbelievable.”

She was referring to her son, my favorite uncle, and Kathy’s father. Barely on the heavy side of forty, cancer had hit him suddenly, and brutally hard. Earl had lived life fully.

He broke away from the south end in his youth and bought a place in the better side of town before the prices went through the roof. He dreamt about breaking away again, completely, and disposing of his secure job in the Post Office and heading north to the backcountry to raise chickens and become a farmer.

It seemed especially unfair when the merciless verdict fell and prematurely took him from this life. (Although I imagine every person ever hit with the cancer stick must feel it was very unfair.)

I said, “I still feel bad I wasn’t here. That’s my cross to bare, I guess.”

“Oh Blaine, that’s ridiculous. It’s not your fault; you were in the army. Plus you live in Germany, that is not exactly a quick car ride away. We all understood. And besides, it’s really true. We do have bad genes.”

I interrupted her mode of thought. I had to. I wondered about the bad genes bit.

“You know what Nana? I really don’t know if cancer is hereditary, as that sounds like something the tobacco industry would love to have us believe, or if it was the damn no filter cigarettes that gave Earl his lung cancer. I also don’t know if Butch’s never ending dieting played a major role in his stomach cancer. Bad genes, you know Nana, it may not be that simple.” She looked at me, and shrugged her shoulders. But, I wasn’t done.

“With things like depression, they still argue about whether the genes are bad, the body chemistry is bad, the psychology is bad, or whether it’s in the mind or even in the brain. In fact, and I especially love this, they can’t even decide if there is such a thing as the mind.” I stopped again and laughed out loud.

“But Blaine, they can prove there is a chemical imbalance with a blood test.”

“Of course they can. It’s also the easy way out. It’s much simpler than to try to heal someone’s psyche. If a Doctor can prescribe a chemical and overnight turn a haunted soul into a bustling little body, why take on such a troubled and potentially lengthy quest of pursuing the secret of one’s very self?”

She smiled at me. “You never did like Doctors, did you?”

“No, not really. I guess I never really totally believed in them, they rely on meds too much. The pharmaceutical corporations run the big show, and they want you to treat every possible condition with their drugs. I guess I’m just a cynic. I also don’t believe in therapists either. I don’t believe that any therapist has ever completely healed anyone. I have been stalking my own behavior for twenty odd years now, and I’m still clinically insane.”

She giggled. “Oh? And if you were depressed, what would you do?”

“What would I do? Roll a big fat joint and watch a Three Stooges marathon.” I laughed again- alone again. Nana frowned; she was not impressed.

“Sorry. Just kidding, I know that smoking dope makes a depressed person even more depressed. What would I do? Pat the family cat, go for long walks in the woods, talk to my friends, keep busy, but I’d try to let it out, and let it go and get on with it. You have to take the quest into your own psyche yourself. But who cares? Who really wants to change?”

“I don’t think it’s that easy Blaine.”

“Nothing worthwhile is easy. Many people are basically lethargic and often overwhelmed from life. And some people just don’t give a damn. But still, I do believe in people Nana. I give them considerable thought; I always have, even as a kid. And not because I’m more virtuous, because I’m certainly a sinner too, but because I am so curious.”

Nana nodded and said nothing, so I continued.

“I’m a good listener Nana, I listen to people carefully, absolutely amazed at the trouble they get into, and still, how few really quit. People are braver than you might expect. But diagnosing a chemical imbalance and giving them drugs, that’s as bad as all the so-called hyper active kids here in the USA being treated with Ritalin. It just ain’t right. Kids have always been hyperactive. It’s normal. In our days it was the literal fear of our fathers that kept us from going crazy in the house.”

Nana grinned at this.

“Now a days, so many parents can’t be bothered to take care of the kids, or they just don’t have enough time between working and getting by to spend enough quality time with them. So the TV comes into play. Once the cartoons and Barney no longer work, and the TV turns out to be a lousy babysitter, they move on to Nintendo, or a Play Station, and these fantasy worlds are pretty extraordinary you know. When all else fails, its time for the legal meds.”

Nana stared at me wide-eyed. She was nearly smiling. I knew why. I was very opinionated, subjective thinking was not cast over board from my boat very often; I embraced my values.

She said, “Not all parents today are bad parents.”

“Oh I know, I’m not saying they are, I’m just talking. I was a lousy father myself in my twenties. And I am still paying the price.”

Grandmothers were such good listeners.

Normally when I began with my bubblegum philosophizing people began anxiously looking at their watches and then suddenly recall that they had to be somewhere else ten minutes ago. So naturally, I kept going.

“And even now, twenty-five years later, life can be so good, there is so much to observe, every single day. I can’t even pass this feeling of being here now onto my own kids.”

“Darling, you should know that your kids won’t listen to you, I guess they have to learn these things for themselves. Things have changed so much Blaine. I wouldn’t want to be a young parent today. People are scared. It is way more complicated today. We had a simpler life. We really did.”

“I know, but life can still be simple. We decide on how we live. We can live as we choose. You know what I think Nana? I think what really scares people is the realization that they are stuck with themselves. Yeah really. It is not knowing who they are or what to do with themselves. They are frightened out of their wits that they are not doing what they should be doing, according to their role models in television and movies. Celebrity news, those beautiful people- fabulously famous for nothing at all, they should know how we should live, right?”

“Boy, that was a mouthful. What have you been eating over there? You are such a strange bird Blaine. You were always different. Butch always said it was such a shame that you lived over there.”

“It’s hard, I do regret living in Germany sometimes, but I don’t regret the life I have lived. Not all of it anyway. Sort of the ying yang thing, but it’s true. How can I regret what can’t be changed? That’s suicide.”

I was lying again. It was so much easier to talk the talk than walk the walk.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about darling, but it sounds nice. You must really love it over there. Butch loved his life too.”

“Of course he did Nana, he had you.”

“We witnessed so many changes together, Butch and I. We were born before television, can you imagine that?” She then paused thoughtfully, gazing over my shoulder, until a smile erupted on her face and she blurted out “And TV was just the beginning Blaine, We were around before TV Dinners and other frozen foods made to eat in front of the TV.”

She paused, obviously lost in thought. I instantly remembered the Three Stooges as “Icemen”, delivering big blocks of ice to houses for the Ice Box before the electric freezer came into being. It was a hilarious Curley episode.

Nana continued. “Butch and I were also born before plastic bottles.”

“Tell me about it, plastic, the scourge of the oceans, and what is up with people buying water in plastic bottles?”

“I know, crazy, isn’t it? Butch wouldn’t believe it either. All of these changes. Some were good though, like penicillin or contact lenses, and even the birth control Pill.”

“Oh God, the pill, it ushered in the summer of love. The hippies loved the pill Nana. Before AIDS, fear of babies was the only reason to use rubbers.” I stopped abruptly, suddenly embarrassed that I was talking about condoms with my grandmother.

She grinned at me, and so I continued. “My God Nana, that means you were also around before man blasted off to space and then you saw them walk on the moon. And there were no home computers. To you and Butch Hardware meant nuts and bolts, and Software wasn’t even a word.”

“It still isn’t. I hate computers.” Nana said.

The game was on. I could see her searching her memory for more. She glanced briefly at Butch’s gravestone, as if she was eavesdropping for further suggestions from beyond, and then she continued.

“Blaine, we were around before credit cards, and ballpoint pens; before electric dishwashers, electric clothes dryers, electric blankets and air conditioners. Darling, we were all so well behaved back then. We got married first, then we lived together.”

“How quaint,” I said and we both laughed. I had also thought of a few. It wasn’t difficult, science had brought us so many remarkable changes in this century. These in turn have led to amazing cultural changes.

(And children that refuse to go outside and play.)

“Nana, you were born before the Germans split atoms, and before laser beams, before Frisbees and house husbands, and even gay rights.”

“Gay rights. You know in our time, oh this is wicked,” she paused and giggled, an unexpected, wondrous little girl laugh that thrilled me, then she said “Closets were for clothes, not for coming out of.” She held her hand in front of her mouth and she laughed out loud.

I laughed too. “Seriously, in our time there were no nursing homes Blaine. Really. Your parents were welcome into your home when the time came around and they were too old to live alone. Somehow that seems like the natural cycle of things, doesn’t it?”

I nodded in agreement. Nursing Homes were still rare in Germany where this family thing still had some reliable roots. But this too was changing in beer and pretzel land, even as I write this.

Those cultural changes were creeping in everywhere, global awareness indeed.

Nana paused thoughtfully. Then she smiled again. “We thought fast food was what you ate during Lent. And we thought Outer Space was the back of the Port movie theater.”

She laughed heartily. It was a beautiful sound for my ears. It was engaging music; you could never tire of it.

“Nana, you were actually around before McDonalds. How did Americans live without McDonalds?” I exclaimed and snickered. I was only joking, but once the thought had actually been voiced, I really began to wonder. Fortunately Nana interrupted my futile train of thought.

“There was no junk food Blaine, we had to cook everything from scratch, and there wasn’t even any instant coffee either. And back when I was a kid made in Japan meant junk, and making out referred to how you did on your exam in school.” She laughed out loud again, a joyful carefree laugh

I laughed with her. She was obviously enjoying this. I racked my brain searching for something just to keep it going. I remembered the old nickel and dime department stores uptown. “For a nickel I used to buy a candy bar or a pack of M & M’s.”

“Darling, that’s nothing. I used to buy big ice cream cones for a nickel. You could make a long distance phone call for a nickel, buy a glass bottle of tonic, or enough stamps to mail a letter and two post cards. You know, I can also remember when you could buy a brand new Chevy for 800 dollars, but no one in the south end could afford one. It was a real pity too, as gas was only 11 cents a gallon.”

We both shook our heads at that one. This must have been back when the Arabs were actually our friends

Then she remembered even more. “We were around before yogurt, and,” she winked at me and pointed to my left ear, “The only guys wearing earrings were pirates in the movies.” She glanced at my gold earring.

I instantly flashed back, and vividly recalled the incredulous look I got from my father the first time he saw it. Yes, times have changed. Should I tell her about my oldest son’s pierced tongue or my other son’s pierced lip? I decided against it. I smiled fondly at her instead, and contemplated this changing of the guard thing some more. Another one hit me. A racy one from down on the farm.

“Nana, I have a good one. I remember Ray telling me this one summer when we were haying somewhere in the salt marshes of Newbury, he told me that in his time it was actually fashionable to smoke cigarettes, but grass was mowed, coke was a cold drink, and pot was something you cooked in. And crack was the space between your butt cheeks. Speed was simply velocity. Rock music was a Grandmothers lullaby, and AIDS were helpers in the principals office.”

We both cracked up. A couple walked by, and they looked at us oddly.

Nana politely greeted them, and continued, “Blaine, what is Rock music? We had never even heard of FM radio or tape decks, or stereos and now CD players? And modern medicine, for us artificial hearts and cloning were literally things out of science fiction. And the language changes too, for us, time-sharing meant togetherness, not condominiums.”

More laughter. She glanced at his grave again. “Butch and I shared lots of time together. God, don’t I wish it could have been more. Where does the time go darling, where does it go?”

“I miss him too. He would have loved this, he loved looking back too, he was wicked into nostalgia. His influence is still felt Nana, he’s always here with us. He lives within us, in our memories. That’s another rock music quote you know, preserve your memories, they are all that’s left you. Sorry. That’s my generation, we don’t quote Shakespeare or Walt Whitman, we quote Paul Simon, Bob Dylan, or Bono and the late great John Lennon.”

“It’s okay. Music is good. We listened to country music mostly, that’s what we loved. But Butch even loved polka music.”

I had visions of Lawrence Welk and the ridiculous soap bubbles floating over the strangely beautiful women dancing to manic polkas. Back then I could even get fired up watching a Ivory Soap commercial. But of course that was the gorgeous Linda Lovelace getting clean, right?

“He was a wonderful man. Did you know your father read a letter Butch wrote specifically for his own funeral?”

“Yeah, I know. My mother sent me a copy of it. I thought the opening line said it all. I consider myself a lucky man. Imagine that, he was dying from cancer, and starts off a letter with that line. I found that so astonishing. I would love to write my own eulogy, but everyone would fall asleep before it was completely read. I have a tendency to be long winded.”

“We all found his letter so inspiring. God, where does the time go?” she said again and fell into a lengthy silence. I softly sighed.

We reminisced for hours as the autumn leaves blew around us. I felt she did not want to leave this spot, nor did I.

We stood meekly against this wonderful moment in time, two fading Hawkes descendants slipping away into a breaking wave of nostalgia, crashing helplessly into the sands of time, achingly longing for the impossible, just to go back one more time, our souls gradually ageing as our shadows grew longer as the sun began to set behind Butch’s grave, cruelly denying our innermost desire, that this day, that this moment never end.

As dusk set in, we reluctantly walked back to the rent-a-car in slow motion, hand in hand. I opened her door for her, and she slowly climbed in. I started the car, and the tape kicked in. Patsy Cline sorrowfully serenaded us. Her haunting, melancholic voice fit well to our mood.

We both turned out heads and looked woefully at Butches grave as we slowly drove by in reflective silence.

It was unreal, still. Joe “Butch” Lachowicz was gone. This extraordinary moment too.

All things must pass.

I smiled again at Nana sitting silently on the couch next to me. During the lengthy stretches of silence here on the couch that wistful afternoon in the cemetery was replayed in my mind.

Amazing. It had only been two years since that remarkable visit and the groovy game we had played. Such verbal dexterity was now way out of her reach.

Sadly, I felt I finally knew the answer to her miserable question. I knew where the time had gone. Nana had shown me.

Time flowed relentlessly into today, into this hour, into this very moment. (Can you feel it right now?) Time had seemingly caught up with us.

Nana actually smiled at me, and then returned her eyes to Becky.

Becky had been holding a baby doll of Nana’s the whole visit, constantly looking at it, studying its adorable features as if she had somehow lost a sizeable chunk of her childhood in it. It was a beautiful porcelain doll that Nana had received from her daughter Zelma from California.

The doll’s facial expression was frighteningly real, a cute- the way we dream about babies faces- appearance that could capture your nostalgic glands if you let it, drawing you over the threshold of yesterdays memories, and then dragging you into the gallery down the hall where mothers of all ages constantly hum soothing lullabies; and the babies there never grow old, never make that alarming transformation from cute into walking, talking adult mammals.

I watched Becky’s face as she gently handled the doll, and at times I felt the doll was indeed a real baby. They had a visible relationship, although at the time I hadn’t a clue as to why.

The visit flew by, just like the wonderful Fall afternoon we had shared together in the graveyard, much too swiftly.

Of course I am speaking just for myself, Helga was dying to leave after the first half hour. She still hoped we could get to the flag shop.

I tried to get her laughing by calling Nana “Babushka” (Pronounced “Babooshka”), which is Russian for grandmother. Helga’s parents were from East Germany, and East Germans had used this term too. (East Germans were taught Russian in school; it was mandatory, of course.)

To the Russians, Babushka was sacred, the real head of the family. Age was respected, as experience was always the best schoolmarm, and women were infinitely wiser than men. Thus grandmothers were more important than grandfathers, and all family members respected their wisdom and common sense. I believed in this concept completely.

Babushka held the family together. There you have it. I certainly felt this description fit Nana extremely well, right to the very end.

We slowly got up to leave. Reluctantly we all said our goodbyes. And even more reluctantly it seemed, Becky set the baby doll back on the table.

She saw me observing her and giggled and blushed. Then she said, “I have always checked out that doll when I come over, been doing it for years now. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Never one to miss the chance to touch someone’s talisman, I patted the baby doll’s head softly as I passed by.

Nana did not walk us to the door when we left.

We all leaned over and kissed and hugged Babushka on the couch. She remained seated.

I hid my feelings, but inwardly, I was totally shocked at this. I was horrified. It was the first time in my whole life that when I departed from her home that she did not walk me to the door. The very first time.

It became crystal clear to me just how serious the situation was becoming. It also reminded me of another visit with her during my last trip home to the States.

I had visited her with the boys and my nephew Bob. We left, and Nana accompanied us to the front door. Then she stood in the doorway and watched us walk down the hall until we reached the corner and the lift.

Bob was ribbing Frederick, saying “Watch this, she’s gonna watch us until we reach the elevator, then when we get inside she’ll rush to the window and watch us from her living room window.”

It was true.

I glanced back and waved again as I followed the boys into the lift.

While crossing the parking lot outside she was standing in front of the window watching us, waving every time we looked back. Bob continued laughing about this with my young sons, who now laughed along with him.

I was continuously gazing backwards, feeling her eyes upon us, feeling sad about leaving her alone up there.

It did not seem right.

She was all alone. Butch was gone. Years and years of having a house full of adults and children alike, and now she was living alone.

Why must she live alone after all these years of serving her family? She had sent me birthday cards for years and years in Germany, always including that symbolic dollar bill and a handwritten greeting.

She had a lot of grandchildren, and even the great-grandchildren received the traditional birthday greetings. I loathed myself remembering there had been a few years that I had not sent her a thank you message. I had been “too busy”.

Eventually everything came back to haunt you.

Her silhouette framed by the wooden window evoked a melancholic mood within me. It was so symbolic.

I had the sudden urge to turn back, and go back inside, hug her, tell her about my job, about weird German ways, tell her anything to make her smile. But I knew this would not go over well with the boys, who were quite bored by the visit in the first place. So I merely waved again, much more frantically this time.

We crossed the street after leaving the huge parking lot, there were quite a few parking spaces for visiting children here, and the angle changed, and she was nearly out of sight.

She watched us still.

I wondered what it was like for her after we passed out of sight. I remember how strangely my children had reacted as babies when someone would leave the room. It was as if they had left the building, left the planet, left this life completely. When the person suddenly returned into the room, the babies would nearly fall over backwards from the shock of it all. “My God man, where did you come from? I forgot all about you. You were GONE.”

Did Nana softly sigh as we slipped out of sight?

Did she picture us walking down Orange Street? Or were we just “gone” again.

Did she think about what we would be doing later?

Did she replay the visit play by play in her mind?

Did she ever wonder when she would be “gone”?

I could not stop the army of thoughts marching in rapid succession as they flooded my fatigued brain. I quickly waved again, and cheerfully urged the boys to do likewise. They did so reluctantly.

Bob laughed and loudly exclaimed, “This is so stupid. She watches us like this every single time.”

A reprimand nearly crossed my lips, but I smiled and let it go.

This was not a lesson that I could pass along to him with stern words, no, this lesson you had to learn the hard way, by living long enough to experience the passing of a lot of time and the passing of loved ones.

The boys were young. The day would come when he would understand just what Nana was doing up there in the window, and even more important, “why” she was doing it.

The secret of long last looks often escaped the very young.

Yes, someday he would know, my kids would know too.

Because someday, Nana would not be waving goodbye in the window, Nana would be gone, Forever…

CHAPTER NINE

A WEEKEND WITH MOM AND DAD

As we slowly walked down Orange Street I wondered to myself just what Grampie Butch would have said had he lived long enough to see that I had married a “second” German woman. He eventually grew to like Anneliese; my first German wife, but his proud Polish roots were quite evident in their first meeting in the seventies. It was awkward.

It’s quite understandable that Germans are not exactly a loved race in Poland.

I wasn’t even sure Nana had registered just exactly who Helga was. Yet I wasn’t the only grandchild who had cruised from one mate to the next, so perhaps it wasn’t that big of a deal.

Helga was indeed very German. I know that I can’t toss together a whole group of people in one sack because of their race, but after all these years of living with various spoiled German people, I think I can finally say this, Germans can be a bit different. That’s a good thing.

We later found that chic “Flag & Banner” store Helga had heard about. Dad had given me detailed instructions on how to find it, and Mom had then wished me luck with a funny smirk on her face. (I understood the reason for the smile later on as the young clerk happily tallied up the pile of flags.)

Then they rushed out the door to go see Nana. Their current schedule was nothing short of amazing. This was “retirement”? But we planned on getting together soon.

Helga bought three hundred dollars worth of flags. Naturally she charged it on my Master Card. I was not impressed.

She was so happy she was actually talking about making amends, and proposed to physically placate my nerves when we got back to the now empty house on Milk Street. (I was pathetically easy to appease.) I was impressed; usually the only time she ever really got horny was when the vet came with his stud to impregnate her horse Elvis.

I didn’t quite get what the big deal was with the flags though. Helga had been inspired by the many flags we had seen flying in the suburbs here in America. They were literally everywhere.

Alone during that fatigued ride from Boston’s Logan Airport to Hampton Beach we had seen faded abandoned Halloween, Easter and Christmas motives, and weird things like laughing cats, and flying rainbow colored birds, and, of course, various “greeting card” messages like; “WELCOME”, and “LOVE RULES”.

And let us not forget the pompous patriotic fever that was once again burning like crazy in this country, “America First” and the original “Old Glory” flags were flying everywhere too. (When I was growing up in the Sixties, it was Old Glory herself being burned everywhere.) Naturally, Helga wanted them all.

Coming from a relatively well to do family, (Shortly after their appearance in the West, they inherited a small fortune.) Helga was not used to waiting when she got it in her head to buy something. Thus, she was usually in debt, and never seemed to care, perhaps because she knew someday down the road she would inherit a decent amount of money and property.

She never worried about tomorrow, and in retrospect it was my good fortune that she felt this way, or I never would have landed in America to celebrate my fortieth birthday.

However, looking back, fate had decided for me that I would take austerity. Spiritually, I now agreed. The purpose is clear; freedom. What more can I say? Possessions do indeed weigh you down. It’s never enough; bigger and better is always looming enticingly over your head.

A lot of people loved to shop. Consumer madness is addictive, and comparable to sex without an orgasm.

And as the late great Henry Miller said, let us not get into the degrading concessions you have to make to acquire these possessions.

Simplicity is flexible. I have found it endures well. I always rediscovered this fact after every divorce when I found myself sitting in empty rooms, no longer full of possessions. Without so many things hanging around, I had more time. This time was then used for the two things that seem to matter most to me. Spending time with loved ones and participating in the hardest activity of all, “reflection”.

For example, thinking about Helga’s impeccably clean Mom and Dad and their spotless, scrubbed plants was very difficult for me, as this always left a bitter taste in my mouth. And thinking about my Mom and Dad was also difficult, as I had spent my adult life over seas, and thus, I barely knew them.

Using my life as subject matter in reflection formed ideas and purpose. These opinions formed were not set in stone, by any means. Growing up in the south end had also taught me something I never stopped utilizing in life. Flexibility. Flexibility is simplicity.

I know, speaking in tongues is not always the most efficient way of expressing yourself.

Okay, perhaps I was also slightly influenced by too many hours of watching the late great David Carradine in his ground breaking show “Kung Fu” back in Milk Street in the Seventies, shortly before I set off on my own, sadly wandering the German Black Forest with an semi-automatic machine gun (M16) hung on my shoulder, peacefully searching for my Dao (Tao)- my path in life. But hey, what if Master Po & Grasshopper were right?

Theoretically I feel they were, but I also know Caine was similar to Blaine in other ways, possessing esoteric personality quirks and inclined to love unconditionally and infinitely question the chosen paths followed. And still, just like me, he fucked up on a regular basis. I just can’t kick any ass.

Caine constantly recalled his past in forms of vivid flashbacks, using his experiences as lessons for the present. At one point the goal of getting back home was finally seen for what it really was, unattainable, and theory became knowledge; thus the journey itself was all there was.

My journey was in end effect, my life. It wasn’t a metaphor anymore. I will always be going home.

I guess life is a comedy for those who think, but a tragedy for those who feel.

Which finally leads me away from Kung Fu, Germany, scrubbed plants, substantiated surrealism, austerity, and back to Mom and Dad and Nana and the rest of the story.

I told Helga about life on Milk Street during the ride back from the banner shop. As kids, we were indeed in many ways, poor. Our Milk Street temple was not stuffed full of expensive things. (Thus the front door was never locked when no one was at home. Other than the TV, there was nothing to steal.) But when my mother joined the working forces, things improved financially, but this also meant that we kids were on our own.

Modern day “Key Kids”, no one was home to open the door when we returned from our adventures at school. No one forced us to do our homework before we went out to play. No one had a snack waiting for us; we ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or frozen doughnuts. We did what we pleased.

Well, four out of five of us were free as a bird.

My older sister Lara drew the unseen broken stick. Poor Lara involuntarily took over the household, cooked and cleaned and spent hours at the local Laundry Mat with huge green Glad bags filled with our filthy clothes.

And Lara never completely recovered. Playing house was a fun game as a kid, but all games lose their enchantment once they become mandatory..

Meanwhile, we ran wild. I too grew up in a house where the damn television was always on. If you were the first one home, you automatically switched it on before you even took off your coat. Like most of the homes I frequented, the boob tube was centrally located in the living room, like the entity it had become.

It was at times, the modern campfire we huddled around at night. But none of us told stories, we sat silently together and “watched” them, roasting our brains instead of toasting gooey marshmallows.

My family was close knit, beginning with day-to-day life with my brothers and sisters and extending into constant contact with Grandparents and Aunts and Uncles and Cousins. I spent a lot of time with all of these people growing up.

It’s the only thing that I was not able to pass onto my children living in Germany. I really regretted this, because after my divorce, I couldn’t offer them anything in the way of family, certainly not in the traditional sense.

Helga loved hearing about Nana’s daughter Barbara. She was one of our favorite Aunts growing up. The late great Aunt Barbara was a great lady, animated and bold, she was a joy to be around as a kid. For example my father’s flamboyant sister would often passionately wrestle my older brother to the ground, not an easy thing to do, and tickle him until he screamed for mercy. That was a sight to see.

She was the Aunt that actually swore like a trooper, and did so with relish, much to my poor Catholic mother’s chagrin. She drank beer, smoked and told adult jokes. Barbara was the Aunt who basically didn’t give a shit what other people thought about her. So naturally, I loved her.

Barbara and her husband lived in the heart of the country, after spending years in a trailer in the woods in New Hampshire somewhere out in the boonies.

My cousin, Paige Farmer wrote a book about her, “Nan’s Story” (Kindle version available) offering a brilliant theory about one of the many mysteries concerning Aunt Barbara’s life. It’s a great read.

https://www.amazon.com/Nans-Story-Paige-Farmer-ebook/dp/B008CHLKCK

Newburyport was not a big city, but it sure felt like one after visiting Aunt Barbara’s various country homes. Sadly, she had died a few years ago. I didn’t attend the funeral.

Which leads us to her only daughter.

Aunt Barbara only had one child. My older cousin Sherri was always a personal favorite of mine growing up, although she never knew this. I had a schoolboy crush on her. But, I lusted silently.

She was as carefree and outgoing and outspoken as her mother. Yet she was probably even smarter and without a doubt better educated.

With her dark hair and laughing eyes, she was a natural beauty. When her womanly features began showing, my older brother and I observed with wide eyes.

I literally watched her growing up, and since she was a few years ahead of me, it was pretty neat gazing down the road to the teeny years that were rapidly coming up.

Her forty-five collection was nearly as cool as my older brothers record collection was. I fondly remember walking into Aunt Barbara’s house and hearing Elvis and loud rock and roll music in the air, coming from Sherri’s room.

Of course, I also remember seeing Sherri lying on the couch wrapped up with her boyfriend Ralph, making out like there was no tomorrow. My parents were embarrassed, we kids just stood next to the couch and watched with our mouths open, totally fascinated by the passionate, animalistic display. Eventually we were pushed away.

It was the real thing too; Sherri and Ralph have been married ever since. Even as an adult, she never lost her edge. Sherri grew from an amazing teenager into a wonderful woman.

When she returned to college at the age of forty after all her kids were grown, I applauded her courage and wisdom from afar. She accomplished all of her scholarly goals too.

Sherri was also a huge Nana fan. As a little girl she always told our grandmother someday they were going to live together. She would say “Nana, when I get big, you are going to come live with me and I will take care of you.” Everyone thought it was pretty cute.

The interesting thing is, when her and Ralph finally built their dream house, (After being married for twenty odd years.) a room was indeed set aside for Nana. It was quaintly furnished, and very cozy.

So far, Nana had politely denied all her invitations to actually move in. She loved her freedom. And, Sherri lived in New Hampshire. Newburyport was still Nana’s home.

And still, Sherri never stopped asking Nana when she was moving in, something she had repeatedly asked our grandmother again and again for over forty years in a row. I thought that fact was incredible.

Sherri was coming down from New Hampshire, where most of my family had migrated over the years to avoid the outrageous Massachusetts taxes, to take Nana for the weekend.

Despite the incident with Nana and the fateful fall, Sherri was still optimistic. She believed in Nana. All of us believed.

Including my parents. Despite the fact that my mother was retired, and my father had temporarily interrupted his retirement to help ease his monthly medication bill, my parents had a pretty busy schedule. Between raising their grandchild Mike and caring for Nana, precious little time was left over for them. (My mother jokingly referred to her “Golden Years” as the “Tarnished Years”.)

They both were at Nana’s place daily, at various times throughout the day. This meant I didn’t see them too much my first few days back at Milk Street. But with Sherri taking Nana for the weekend, they were now freed, and able to spend some time with us.

And this they did, much to my delight. I had spent very little time with my parents as an adult, and every form of contact was appreciated immensely. After all, I owed my very existence to them, and regretted never really getting to know them as people. This hunger grew thanks to all those years spent over yonder.

Who would have thought that hot summer day in June that when I got on the Army bus in Boston (a mere two weeks after High School graduation), that I would never return again?

Was it my father’s favorite saying again, (Be careful what you wish for, you just might receive it.) coming back to haunt me?

I had actually moved out of my parents house once before while still attending High School. I had a job at Fowels after school, plus my Sunday paper route. I found a cheap furnished apartment; (this was before Urban Renewal), and got Mom and Dad’s permission to move in.

I just wanted to be alone. On my own. I wanted to be free. It was a great experience. Yet I returned home after just two months, not because I couldn’t handle paying the bills, or because I was homesick, no, the reason was quite simple.

My girlfriend’s mother found out about my place, and forbid her to see me there. What was the point of having your own place if your girlfriend couldn’t come over and share it with you?

But less than a year later I was gone again, six thousand miles away, alone, on my own. I was free all right, but it wasn’t nearly as stupendous as I thought it would be at seventeen.

Man, I was lonely. I knew what Led Zeppelin meant when Robert Plant sang, “I know what it means to be alone, I certainly wish I was at home.”

My mother had been retired now for a few years. She had done nearly thirty years in a factory, which certainly was not the plan when she joined the working forces in the Swinging Sixties.

Dad should have retired years ago, but as previously mentioned, he had a heart condition that required him to take a lot of expensive medication. The only affordable solution was to continue working until he was sixty-five, so his medical insurance from his company would help him pay until Medicare finally kicked in.

And there it was again, the cosmic wheel turning and churning out the strangest combinations. It was quite ironic, the stress of working could be killing him, but without it he couldn’t afford the drugs he needed to live.

Again I thought about how good the Germans have it with our universal health care, and wondered “why not here”?

How did the powers that be convince people that socialism is actually communism in disguise?

What could any sane individual have against having socialized health insurance?

That would also mean the drug companies would have to toe the line, and drugs would become as cheap as the prices in Canada and Germany.

Why would anyone think this was a bad thing?

But Mom and Dad were alright. They didn’t complain about the situation, nor did they bitch and moan about raising a teenager at their age.

Thankfully, Mike was an angel compared to us, which must be the cosmic wheel turning gently in their favor. They could not have taken it had he gone nuts like we had at that age.

My older brother had been the perfect hippie rebel. The battles he and my father had were legendary, fighting about subjects like long hair and the Vietnam War and politics. Not all the fights had been verbal.

My cousin Sherri had told Ted years later that he was a hero of hers, because he had the balls to stand up to my father. Dad could be pretty intimidating. Of course, Ted was my hero too.

As a teenager I was constantly bored and thus strayed into even darker alleys as a restless, (Or should I say reckless.) teenager. At times my parents even thought I would end up in jail. But, that’s another story.

Mom had kept the torch burning for me over the years. Like every parent no doubt, she looked back at some of her choices made concerning us kids with regret. She once told me it was unreal, but all of her babies came without an owner’s manual.

I had a possible answer; maybe they didn’t get a chance to give it to her, as she always had to sneak out of the hospital as all of us kids births were paid for with weekly installments to the hospital.

I still have the original bill from my birth. I cost 1,710 dollars. I was a bargain.

But the cosmic wheel is forever turning, and a better grandmother you would not find. Hearing the grandchildren call my mother- “Nana” reminded me of the relationship I had with my Nana, and it was obvious that this thing was truly working.

My father was not much of a letter writer, thus it was Mom who kept the long letters coming, twenty years long. This tradition began in the Army, and never went away as those crazy olive green days faded from everyone’s memories along with my return ticket to Germany in 1983.

Forever the emotional one, the really bad news always came from Mom in a tearful phone call. Unlike the days from our youth, with the passing of time you could be more open speaking with her. You could even joke around about your past dope smoking, or joke about sex. Over all, I felt my mother had done well.

As with my grandmother, I could only recall one long, deeply personal talk with my father. It had occurred during my last trip, where he had taken the boys and me down to the beach to look for sand dollars.

Dad then found four sand dollars. In my whole life I still haven’t ever found one. But I did find a four-leaf clover once in Germany.

The boys were scurrying about gathering shells as we walked along the surf and talked. Dad almost admitted to mistakes while we were kids. “You are not the same person you were twenty-five years ago, nor is your world or the world in general remotely similar to how it had been back then. I did the best I could. I do wish I had spent more time with you kids.”

I had found that listening to people over the years formed all of these strange sermons in my head. It began very young, way back in Grammar school.

I actually used to tell fictional Jesus stories.

I used to make them up on the spot and tell them to my siblings and friends sitting in the back stairs.

I was a huge Jesus fan.

Mom even thought I was going to be a Catholic Priest.

That is until puberty hit me.

Perhaps I wasn’t as brutally thorough with my story-telling back then as a child as I am now on paper, forever explaining the obvious, and repeating the emphasized. That feature of my preaching probably comes from the repetitious nature of factory work.

I do owe a lot to Mom and Dad. In particular, I owe my manners to Mom’s continued efforts, and to Dad for strictly enforcing the compliance with this harmonious code of civilized behavior.

Mom has kept journals off and on over the years, and I found this interesting entry from the days when she thought I was heading off to priesthood.

Blaine’s homily on manners.

Its rather depressing that many young folks, including my own friends, are ignoring social customs of the past and slipping into a more convenient mode I would certainly label as rude behavior.

Like them, I used to play with the line “Respect your elders” and claim they, (Our elders) have to win my respect first. And maybe they did, but regardless, I treated them with respect just the same, despite of what I might have really felt or thought about them.

Dad also taught me this. It was not just a case of being polite. Any idiot can say “thank you” when the opportunity arrives or “excuse me” when they fart in public. (Although I’m sure Miss Manners would definitely not approve.)

It was a quasi-combination of displaying consideration to others, and having deference to the rest of the world’s ways.

Using the word “Please” was an obvious example of displaying courtesy. But it goes much deeper than that. When you ask your lover, friend or sibling to pass the soup, adding the magical word- “please” shows that you realize they are NOT THERE just to SERVE YOU.

Maybe good manners is just play acting, but this is a prefect way of easing the tension in dealing with other people. (I avoid people when I can, but I’m not a monk living in a cave, we all have to deal with people.)

It certainly makes the world more pleasant, our own world- the only world that counts, and I believe that when we are offered the choice between being an asshole and being nice, it makes so much more sense to be nice.

It’s our world, right? Why make it harder on ourselves? We are naked apes, with the slight difference being we can articulate our thoughts with one another. We can be civilized, even if we are only play acting.

So much of life appears to be just a game; this social conduct game was one I played particularly well, and the goodwill I experienced along the path was well worth the honest effort.

I was sincerely happy to possess good manners. I thanked my mother for this invaluable lesson and later on, I thanked my father too for keeping me in line, and of course, at the end of everyday, I thank God.

Amen.

Taken from Blaine’s Homily, Sunday, July 7, 1971. Source- Mom’s Journal.

So, with Nana gone with Sherri, and the weekend here, we finally had time to spend with Mom and Dad. Everyone needs a break from the routines that make up our day-to-day life, so we all looked forward to the upcoming break.

The new Newburyport Yuppies were having a pompous street fest uptown on the weekend, and on both days we walked up with Mom, Dad and Mike and hung out for hours amongst the American elite.

It was like a LSD flashback, it reminded me so much of my early encounters back in the Seventies with wealthy Germans.

What had “Urban Renewal” done to my hometown? It was like Chrissie Hynde sang in The Pretenders song, “My City Was Gone”. Locals were forced out by unbelievable taxes and obscene housing prices. In end effect, Olde Newburyport was destroyed by a government with no pride.

It was eye-opening to me, I had seen what these fine people had done to my hometown, but somehow they had remained anonymous. Now I could see them with their fantastic hair cuts strolling from expensive shop to shop, the men wearing their L.L. Bean hiking shoes and ironed plaid shirts, the women wore heels and Von Furstenberg signature dresses.

The men had thrusty names like Dirk or Pyke or Blaine.

I overheard staid conversations about Grand Marnier crepes and the tribulations of paying for their daughter’s ballet lessons, the timeshare in Aruba, and upgrading their foreign automobiles.

And what to do with all the money, oh boy. Risk nothing; they were letting the soulless tell them where to put their money. My God, surety bonding, net profit margins, compound interest, condos, total shareholders equity, I grew dizzy vividly picturing being rich and wanting to be richer still.

I felt their greed, and pondered this continued gathering and piling of material good upon material good and desire upon vain desire. And fear? What’s that? These folks feared only being caught one day finding themselves without their driver’s license and Apple Watch. Wow. These were definitely people who knew where they were going.

I had a sudden longing for the unkempt German freaks I hung out with in the late Seventies who lived in barely furnished farmhouses in communal groups and reused their peppermint teabags two or three times and had no idea where they were going and just didn’t care.

I probably learned more about life and myself with those carefree folks than I had ever learned from time spent with society’s well-heeled elite. Wait a minute; I have never spent time with people with money, I never got invited in.

Of course I’m exaggerating. I love everyone. We had fun downtown. We checked out all the stands, tried various exotic foods, and did a lot of good-natured people watching.

And it was educational too. I overheard a great conversation between two male species of yuppies looking at expensive paintings painted by a local artist.

One guy was enthusiastically telling the other that his marriage had been saved. He had finally gotten his wife pregnant, after five years of futile attempts. (In direct contrast, my first wife and I had unprotected sex one time in Germany, and bang, she was carrying.)

Seems this guy had a low sperm count, another modern day sickness. Yet his problem wasn’t brought about from consuming our polluted resources.

Seems his underpants were too tight in the past, creating too much heat for poor Mr. Happy and the family jewels. He had switched over to wearing boxer shorts, thus giving his overheated testicles some air, and soon afterwards, his sperm count had improved drastically.

He finally connects, his wife collects, and suddenly a baby is on the way, and now- all is well and dandy.

His mate congratulated him and heartily slapped him on the back and they walked away giggling like naughty Alter Boys telling dirty jokes in church.

I laughed, but at the same time felt a growing twinge of jealousy.

Helga and I could be heading for a divorce. I did not have a clue as to what to do to prevent it. Yet right here in Newburyport this guy had saved his marriage simply by changing his damn underwear.

Later on Mom and Dad even accompanied us to Michael’s Harborside, a popular seafood restaurant and lounge to watch the original piano man- Billy Flynn- perform outside on the deck.

It was great seeing Billy sing and play again. (He was playing an acoustic guitar, not his piano.) I was really proud of him.

I remember being seven years old and singing for Nana’s sister Bud with Billy on Lime Street. We called ourselves “The Robins”, after Robin Waldell, the girl from the neighborhood who used to play spin the bottle with us hidden in the bushes in Billy’s back yard.

We rang Bud’s doorbell, and when she opened the door, we began singing a song I had written the day before sitting on Billy’s bed entitled “I’m Just A Painter Today”. Billy strummed his Roy Rogers guitar and we sang in harmony like choirboys “I’m not a writer, I’m not a fighter, I’m not even a biter, I’m just a painter today.”

At that tender age my vocabulary couldn’t produce a better word to rhyme with fighter than “biter”. Years later “Supertramp” released the song- “It’s Raining Again”. Billy and I felt Rodger Hodgson didn’t do all that much better. He sang “Hold on you little fighter, no need to get uptighter.”

Bud stood there and smiled away at us giving this surprise concert on the sidewalk. Then she actually gave us money, a whole quarter. (This was before many things, yes? Back then a candy bar, or a package of M & M’s only cost a nickel, and a bottle of tonic a mere ten cents. As I recall, we splurged, each drinking a Cream Soda and sharing a bag of Humpty Dumpty potato chips.)

My brother Ted always taunted us and said Bud only gave us the money so we would stop singing and leave her alone.

Never the less, in retrospect it was Billy’s first professional paid gig, and my last.

I did continue to write songs in grammar school sitting in Billy and Barry’s bedroom, silly ditties like the tragic “Billy Joe”- “Billy Joe was raised in an orphanage, and never ever had a home, he wrote letters to no one, wishing that he had a phone” or the horny adolescent tune- “Meet Me At The Corner”- “I’ll be there, meet me at the corner, bring your pretty hair, and I’ll touch you there”, or the song we could never sing all the way through, “The Train”- “Baby is going astray, baby has nothing more to say, baby how I hate you today, riding that train far away, wooo wooo”. We would end up hysterically laughing because of singing the woo woo bit in falsetto.

It didn’t take much to get us laughing. We didn’t suffer from insanity; we enjoyed every minute of it.

My personal favorite had a typically “Blaine-like” title. Ladies and Gentlemen, introducing the positively charming “I Know That She Knows That I’m Gonna Go”.

Billy always said he would be a singer someday. From the moment we saw The Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show until the day I left America twelve years later, he continually made this claim.

I then marched off to Germany with tears in my eyes in Combat Fatigues to fight the Cold War, and Billy has done just what he said he would do. He didn’t make it big, and he hasn’t struck it rich either, but he has never punched a clock in a factory either. Respect.

His voice was still great. It was splashed with drink and reverb and still moistened a few middle-aged panties in the crowd. The Atlantic seagulls seemed to like it too, they flocked in large numbers to the roof of the building and anxiously watched the show, bopping their yellow beaks up and down to the folkish beat.

It certainly appeared that way to me, but actually they had been anxiously following the local fishermen coming in to the pier next to the deck and the many yellow beaks were only bopping trying to swallow the guts and entrails they had just salvaged out of the bloody river.

It was a hot sunny day on the Merrimac River, Billy was singing, Dad had hip sunglasses on, Helga was enjoying the sunshine on the river, and poor Mike was obviously bored to death. Billy’s folk songs and covers were a long way from “Green Day” and “Blink 182”.

Mom was constantly smiling at me and I was feeling fine, again. The days were now so complete the morning dreams nearly faded from my memories before I found myself crawling back into bed at night.

It was great walking around, and hanging around with Mom and Dad and the boy. The two days were so laid back. We weren’t in a hurry. We had time.

It turned out to be quite the luxury, as the way things worked out, something terrible had happened that added an unprecedented new level of stress to their lives, and- to ours.

Mom and Dad became extremely busy after this lazy weekend. We all did.

CHAPTER TEN

IT IS RAINING EVIL AND WE ALL HAVE TO SEE BEYOND THE VEIL

The enjoyable festivities in downtown Newburyport peaked with the traditional Olde Fashion Sunday. Now it was over, and that brought us all back to reality.

I felt a real touch of old fashion melancholy too as we walked with my parents back to Milk Street that lazy Sunday afternoon. Helga must have felt it too; she had even held my hand while walking.

I felt awesome, yet I was on the verge of tears because it was going fast, way too fast. I could see the sun racing across the sky, feel the earth rotating at a thousand miles an hour, all conspiring to age me and my loved ones as I blinked the bright light of the sun from my moistened eyes.

It took eight minutes and twenty seconds for the light of the sun to reach the earth, and if the sun exploded, we wouldn’t even know it for another eight minutes. That’s how I felt during this wonderful weekend with my parents. The light was here, now, but the source was so far away that the light was in actuality, coming from the past.

The warmth that I was feeling now was real, but it would not, could not last. Winter was nearing, and it would be bitter cold, as it always was after I left Milk Street and the United States and returned back to my full time life in fruitful, modern Germany.

Homesickness was a terminal illness without a known cure.

Such is my fate. In the past, smoking dope had provided a perfect smokescreen, no pun intended, as we just did not notice the time slipping away from us.

The late, great David Bowie used to say, “If you find yourself in a hole, you should stop digging.”

My plan to return back to the United States to live never had a chance. I should have known this, but the fog was too thick. (I was too thick.)

At one point one of the random paths I chose became “the path”, without me even realizing it. And even though it was theoretically true, as the late great Led Zeppelin sang in one of their most enduring rock homilies, “there was still time to change the road you’re on”, my journey back home was indeed nothing more than a weary metaphor.

My divorce had literally left me stranded in Germany.

If I wanted to watch my children grow up, and then see and experience them live their own lives as adults, it was there that I would remain, forever.

You see, it was entirely my fault, the divorce was literally my responsibility gone mad. I was the selfish bastard who cheated on my wife, and as such, I lost everything.

Yet there is more to the story. (There always is, isn’t there?)

I often wondered in the ensuing lonely, childless years if I had done the right thing by listening to my immense guilt feelings. Is brutal honesty always the best policy? Would I have lost my kids, would my marriage have ended if I had just kept my big mouth shut?

It went down like this. I had fallen for a woman I met at work, or should I say, she fell for me.

Ahh the modern workplace, that hotbed of frustration and endless flirting, bored souls being forced to spend nine hours a day with another in tight quarters. Words generated lust, lust bred love and that spelled big trouble. Messy situations were inevitable.

Sometimes things just happen. She and I had a fun love affair that lasted nearly a year. Then we reached that scary crossroad that one always reaches when you have an affair. It becomes too good.

So at some point she demanded that I choose between her and my wife, and I chose my wife. We split up, and it hurt. It was so painful; she quit and went somewhere else to work. I never saw her again.

Then the guilt feelings came back to haunt me. I felt terrible that my lover left a job that she loved. I felt terrible that I had been a backdoor man. I couldn’t sleep. I just felt remorseful.

Perhaps Freud would say I wanted to punish myself.

Or perhaps it was my strict Catholic upbringing. I broke down and I willingly confessed all and my penance was extremely harsh.

Yes, I confessed my affair to my wife, after it was all over and done, after the other woman was long gone. I did not get caught in the act. I just felt terrible and wanted to clear my conscience, so I turned myself in.

And she left me for another guy.

What had Ray once said to me, be careful of your thoughts, they may become words at any given moment.

But now, I don’t think about my confession anymore. It is as it is. I accept the responsibility of all of my acts, even those I no longer recall, and those I hurriedly buried under a mountain of natural and chemical recreational drugs. (Yes, we are talking about brilliant escape methods here, if only they weren’t so unhealthy, decadent and downright expensive.)

Acceptance was the way, the only way left for me. Yet sometimes late at night when the wanton cats roamed the empty German cobblestone streets alone, I pondered the inner meaning of my very being, denounced my drug consumption of the past and regretted my abstinence of the present and realized with sadness and growing joy; once on the bus, always on the bus.

I didn’t have time to cry now; Lord knows there would be plenty of time for that later on the tedious flight back over the Atlantic.

Now there’s a tragic tradition I don’t talk about too much, but let me tell you, those long flights back to Germany are real killers, almost as bad as unexpectedly running into an ancient friend from your childhood, (As I had done today during Olde Fashion Sunday) and then discovering for the very first time just how old you have really become.

And yet, it was upon returning back to my childhood home that afternoon where I really felt old. We weren’t back at Milk Street for five minutes before we heard the bad news.

Calamity had struck Sherri and the whole family over the weekend. Her long planned weekend with Nana had turned into a brutal nightmare.

Nana had complained of abdominal cramps Saturday morning, and by the time Sunday evening rolled around, intense pain was a much better description. Her condition worsened as the minutes crept towards the witching hour.

Sherri alerted my father, and they all met at the Anna Jagues Hospital in Newburyport. Sherri’s husband Ralph and Nana had resembled newlyweds as he had lovingly carried Nana through the threshold into the house on Friday, as their new steps had yet to be completed.

He carried her back out of the house the very next day because Nana could no longer walk.

And then the fun really began.

Have you ever tried dealing with the emergency crew in a hospital on a Sunday night? George Clooney and Patrick Dempsey aren’t there, that’s for sure. And neither is House, or Marcus Welby, M.D.

Nana laid on a cot in a hallway moaning in pain for hours as no one wanted to admit her without the consent from Nana’s Doctor, who, for reasons never explained, could not be reached by any means. It was unreal.

The problem was, as always, money.

“Necessity” was the magic word tonight.

Was this trip really necessary?

Would the insurance pay???

Without Nana’s Doctor’s authorization this could not be determined. So in their infinite wisdom they searched for hard facts, facts they could use in court, not in dealing with Nana’s abdominal pain.

Nana was then subjected to three painful blood tests. All three were accompanied by lengthy “we’ll have the results soon” waiting periods. And just maybe we shall have something we can throw at the bastards, the Insurance Company, should they refuse to pay.

I took all this in with the silent knowledge of how smoothly and effortlessly things went in Germany, and was amazed at this ongoing tragedy. Nana dosed off and on lying in that bright, sterile hallway, but no one else could remotely relax on this fateful night.

The Doctors did not want Nana to be taken away, nor did they want to admit her. They sat on a fence and discussed their options as everyone else fumed.

Sherri was the first to literally explode. She began to get loud and demanding, and thus the first clash between loving son and loving granddaughter was held to the amusement of the captive emergency crew.

Dad truly believed in respecting figures of authority. Sherri did not.

Ralph and my mother stood quietly in the background talking about the weather as these two had it out. Sherri was relentless. She decided she did not need Dad’s consent to fight back against this bureaucratic bullshit. She went on the offensive, alone.

Eventually a decision was made to admit the elderly woman, before things got totally out of control. This had taken well over four hours.

A sigh of relief was visibly heard by Nana as she was told she would be spending the night. In my father’s own words, she was stiff as a board at this point. They rolled her from the hallway into a room, and that was that. She slept instantly.

We all thanked Sherri for refusing to play the waiting game any longer. Dad even hugged her as they said their goodbyes.

When Dad returned home well after midnight, he was openly peeved. I had not seen him so angry, so frustrated in many years.

The last picture show had begun.

I awoke the next day with a headache. Once you are over forty, this and other aches and pains upon awakening is perfectly normal. In fact, its safe to say that if you wake up in the morning and nothing at all is hurting you, then you can be pretty much sure that you are dead.

I also awoke with heartache. I did not dream about Nana again, the nightmare at the hospital had been bad enough.

The awesome weekend was officially over; things went back to normal everywhere. Monday morning arrived, accompanied by the droning of hundreds of thousands of captive, sleepy yawns.

For us though, nothing was normal anymore. Word from the hospital this morning had been that Nana was not doing well.

Mike opened his eyes, and I opened mine. I listened to Mom & Dad drive away, picturing the houses they were passing on Milk Street as the sound of their ageing Buick faded away. In what depressing junkyard did Kenny Adams’ milk-truck eventually land?

As always when in America, my senses were so keen. I was actively devouring all sights and sounds, and scents. Even my taste buds were wide-awake. Everything I ate or drank in America tasted extraordinarily good to me. It was not just my heightened senses; it was also the good company I was keeping.

I wasn’t being distracted by the ever-present thoughts about work, the kids, various bills, the rent, weird noises the car was making; in end effort anything that belonged to the normal day to day living was shortly put out of commission.

Living in moment was very difficult for emotional human beings, thinking creatures that we claim to be, but here in the United States I perfected this abstract concept I had attempted in Germany seemingly with ease.

I crept down the ancient wooden backstairs, knowing already which steps would creak and complain about my weight coming down on them. I caught a glimpse of the Brown School through the window as I entered the living room, and viewed a brief collection of mental Polaroids as the memories flowed from my time spent there, until I reached the kitchen and pulled the plug.

I stood in the doorway. I spent a lot of time here too over the years. As kids we even did our homework here, because of the smooth kitchen table. It was also Dad’s bathroom of sorts, where he shaved, brushed his teeth and combed his hair. I walked into the kitchen.

Wasn’t it neat smelling the “Old Spice” next to the sink where my father had splashed some on hours before? A quick peek at all four walls and then I stopped by the counter and peeled myself an orange. The sweet scent of the blossoming roses from the backyard drifted through and combined with the smell of fresh pine from the excellent new wooden windows in the kitchen Dad had installed. The faint scent of the microwave popcorn my mother had popped the night before was still enticing, as was the familiar scent of freshly brewed coffee.

The Florida oranges were delicious, a fact I discovered before I actually ate them as I licked the fine mist that had covered my fingers while peeling them, and the ripe New Hampshire Granny Smith apples I chased them with were delightfully tart.

As I slowly chewed the fruit my eyes lingered on the faded picture of Pappy, a snapshot taken by Grampie Butch so long ago. I flashed.

I could really smell the salt in the air looking at the framed picture hanging on the wall of our only childhood dog- Pappy- standing in the foamy surf at neighboring Plum Island.

Mom had given me a key to the house for the duration of our visit. The first time I used the key; it had also opened a surprise door from yesterday. I could swear I heard Pappy’s paws on the other side of the door, excitedly dancing on the linoleum floor, anxiously awaiting for the door to swing open to greet me with wet kisses and scratching paws.

Back then Mom had decided to get us a pet dog without telling Dad. He loved animals but he always said no when asked about getting a dog. Dad was a practical man.

So we drove down to get Pappy, and when we arrived at the house, this big, gangly dog came rushing out to greet us. Mom says, “Oh this must be the mother.”

No, it was not the mother; it was Pappy, who was a very big puppy.

Dad was incensed, but within a few weeks, he turned out to be Pappy’s biggest fan. Pappy the puppy was absolutely wild the first few months, peaking with her literally breaking out of the cellar once by crashing through a panel in the door.

So Dad chained her out front. We would be inside watching TV, and hear her gnawing on the house. She would lie there and just chew on wooden panels of the house. So, eventually she was allowed in the house.

My favorite Pappy comedy moment came one morning upon coming down to the kitchen for breakfast. Dad had made us corn muffins, and as he drove Mom to work, Pappy seized the moment at hand. There she was, standing on the kitchen table, devouring muffins as fast as she could. Once she spotted us in the doorway, she panicked. She tried to run, but her paws could not find traction on the glass smooth surface, and so, she ran and ran, but did not move an inch. It was hilarious.

My emotional Pappy moment came after I joined the army. After being gone for three long years in Germany, I came back home on leave. The first time I returned home was a surprise, and so I snuck up on Milk Street from the Federal Street side.

I was walking and halfway down the street I could see the house, and Pappy lying out front of the house. She saw me, and she started going crazy jumping around accompanied by some intense tail wagging. (The reason a dog has so many friends is that he wags his tail instead of his tongue.)

I could not believe it; she had not seen me in three long years. I called her name and all Hell broke loose. She started crying, yelping, jumping up and down, wet the sidewalk and nearly broke her neck straining her chain to the limit. I reached her and was attacked with sloppy dog kisses. I was shocked. Not only had she remembered me, she went nuts just to see me again.

My cat is never happy to see me.

At Milk Street I found myself flashing all the time. It was a blessed curse. Doors were being opened again. I was continuously blowing the dust off of crusty memories and then watching the ancient scenes one more time in slow motion.

Helga and I had a simplistic plan. We did not have much time. We wanted to hit everyone’s house one time, and then we just wanted to hang out at Milk Street and allow who ever wanted to see us again come to us. Word spread quickly that we had arrived with precious little cash, so suddenly everyone wanted to take us out for a meal. Naturally, we didn’t refuse.

My eating habits have changed immensely since I had grown up here, but I was not so set in my ways that I didn’t let myself go a bit, and enjoy some of the unhealthy foods I grew up with.

Many early childhood memories for me revolved around food, which was never present in abundance in the house. I am certainly not insinuating that we were suffering from malnutrition, but it is safe to say there was no chance of any of us getting fat. Thus not all of my memories revolving around food were pleasurable.

One example that stands out in my mind was the Saturday afternoon ritual of eating Boston Baked Beans combined with hot dogs. I would have rather eaten the dog shit from the sidewalk. I hated the hot dogs, absolutely detested them, somehow realized even as a child that they were symbolic of everything that was immoral about modern meat processing, as even the eyeballs were used.

Imagine it, the windows to the soul landed, crushed and ground into bloody mush, in the wrapped flesh-fiends. Oh and how we all loved to sing along when that obnoxious ditty came on the TV- “Oh I’d love to be an Oscar Meyer Wiener.”

Thus I refused to eat them, in retrospect the only food I declined to eat back in the days when my metabolism was demanding food 24 hours a day.

We ate packaged cereals for breakfast, long before the sugary grains became trendy and expensive. It was a good thing that they were still cheap in the Sixties, as we ate them in mixing bowls because they never actually filled you up. And naturally we also sprinkled tons of sugar on them. Yummy yummy for the tummy. Type II diabetes here I come.

My father went grocery shopping every Friday, and by Sunday night all the snacks he may have bought, like Oreo cookies or potato sticks and powdered doughnuts were gone. Even the trick with freezing the Hostess Doughnuts didn’t help; I would eat them frozen, direct out of the freezer.

Wonder bread was always around, as was peanut butter, which naturally, I adored. We had the typical south end problem of having nasty chunks of gunk in the peanut butter, brought about because we were prone to using the same knife to spread both the peanut butter and the grape jelly or worse- the Fluff. This led to me hating chunky peanut butter as an adult, no more surprises, please.

But, as with the cereal, Wonder Bread never seemed to still your hunger. Its no wonder, actually, seeing as white bread is stripped of nearly all of its nutrients and fiber, and then they label it enriched because they add the nutritional equivalent of crushed vitamin tablets into the dough before baking.

I used to eat four or five sandwiches, and chase the sticky combination down with a half-gallon of white milk that I drank right out of the bottle. We never bought our milk from Kenny Adams; his milk was too expensive.

As young children we used to all eat together at the kitchen table, but unfortunately a few years later this family ritual died a silent death as one by one we slipped into the living room and happily ate with our supper plates balanced precariously on our laps in front of the television.

Mom and Dad rarely sat with us back then, which was just as well, as we were rather ferocious when it came to food. Quantities were limited, and thus the unofficial race was on. We were all atrociously fast eaters. The winner got first dibs on seconds. No doubt this unattractive ritual earned me my nickname at home.

My older sister would watch me in obvious disgust. My older brother would also watch me, totally amused, and eventually he commented that I must have a bottomless pit as a stomach. I was a real pig, a glutton. With a shake of the head, he then labeled me “Gut”. It stuck.

I would then lurk like a vulture until everyone was finished, as I was not above eating any leftovers from their plates. Nothing was thrown away in the early days.

Now I constantly remind my kids to eat slowly, I carefully explain to them that digestion actually begins in our mouths. I take this seriously, but inwardly I am smiling, seeing the ultimate irony in this in light of my eating habits back in the early days of my culinary life.

Our dinner invitation for this evening had to be cancelled. Mom and Dad were going to spend the evening at the hospital and we went with them.

With Nana now officially living in the hospital, a new pattern emerged for Helga and I. We too spent a lot of time at the A.J. Hospital, heading up daily to see Nana.

This only fuelled Helga’s growing frustration with the trip. Thus I hoped the dinner visits with siblings and friends would pacify her somewhat. It was not always the case, but the evenings out did help.

Unfortunately she had underestimated how difficult her lack of English would make the trip for her. I translated a lot of basic conversations for her, but obviously I just could not translate every word.

I remembered how frustrating it was for me to sit in a room full of talking Germans in the early days when I did not understand the language. Often you got the feeling they were talking about you. You felt alienated. Hell, you WERE an alien.

The evening meals were a welcome relief for Helga, and she acted like my wife, an American term she hated. In German, the translation was not the same, Man and Wife, was not translated as husband and wife, but Mann und Frau; Man and Woman. It makes more sense.

She sat by my side, and smiled when we all laughed, but it was her blue eyes that betrayed her. Sometimes they propelled ice, and despite myself, I mourned the premature death of another love.

We left a funny mixture of impressions on the people we spent time with here. No one was sure what was going on between us. It didn’t matter though; the hourglass was still passing purple sand; the days were literally flying by.

Helga also met many of my cousins while visiting Nana. The second night Nana was hospitalized we ran into Mary, a 2nd cousin on my mother’s side, waiting in the hallway outside of Nana’s room.

I translated a long conversation between Helga and Mary about therapy, something Helga did not particularly like. Her mother had been in therapy and had since become an egomaniac. Helga never forgave her.

Yet Mary was into therapy, for sure. Helga felt that everybody has to find his or her own way. Mary disagreed. She said her therapy helped her. Helga coldly replied, “If therapy worked for you, then more power to you.”

I had spoken out against therapy before, only because I believed it could never help me. I too felt it was personal choice, and I’m sure some people really get something out of it. Helga completely disagreed.

Helga felt it was elitist, sexist and self-indulgent, and in end effect, just another business, another angle to make money. How many sessions end when the insurance coverage ends? I was frowning as I translated that line. It was a bitter truth.

Helga also felt a thoughtful life simply did not require Psychoanalysis.

Mary disagreed. Mary felt it was a form of surrender. She said her ego fought it until the pain was so big that she didn’t have a choice anymore.

She asked how could she love life if she hated her past? How could she get over hating her life if she couldn’t get over her fears?

Mary’s therapist claimed the ego prefers death to surrender.

I said that in my travels I had met some people who were really into analysis, and seriously believed in it. Yet the father of a German friend of mine was a successful therapist, and he claimed no one is ever really totally cured. He also mentioned that you would be amazed to hear of all the incredible ways people screw up their lives.

I was happy to hear this at the time, as in the past after I had done something “unethical”- I used to just blame it on the age old theme of good against bad. The devil made me do it.

But in reality it was even simpler than that. Don’t assume that I don’t know the difference between right and wrong. Wrong is the fun one.

Helga said that surrendering was a good thing, but not to a therapist. Surrendering to life is good. It is as it is.

Helga just could not understand the point in reliving painful memories over and over again. “Why bring the pain back to the surface, why would you want to relive nightmares, why would you want to feel it again? To symbolically banish it from your memory banks afterwards? I hardly think so.”

I softly agreed with my wife on this point. I don’t think you can rid yourself of emotional pain by surrendering to it all over again. My nightmare with Nana had certainly not done me any favors.

But listening to them I realized that I preferred the simple word acceptance to surrender. In some aspects, the words actually mean the same thing anyway. Accept things as they are. Surrender to existence.

I wrapped it up with a tongue in cheek line from my German friend, “Mary, success in therapy is like pregnancy. Everyone congratulates you but nobody really knows how many times you got fucked to achieve it.”

She was not impressed.

The doctor had left Nana’s room, and now we all went inside. Once inside of Nana’s room, nobody felt their personal problems were bigger than her problems.

No need for therapy here.

Later, all of us went out to eat, Mom and Dad included. We went out for Chinese food. On this night there was a tornado watch in effect in all of New England. This had never happened in my childhood. The climate was indeed changing, despite constant denial from fossil fuel supporters. The local thunderstorms were indeed impressive.

After the excellent tasting meal, (The usual junk food, sweet and soured chicken, pork fried rice, chicken fingers, steak teriyaki, chi chow mein, chop suey, ect)- we all stood at the door watching the storm rage outside.

The owner, a tiny oriental man, stood with us. He was visibly upset. We made a move to leave and he quickly said, “People, do not go out there, it is raining evil and it is real, that’s what I say.”

He also said his neon sign had been “rocking like crazy palm tree in the wind, and that had happened before never”.

I laughed at his crazy palm tree statement and told everyone to stay put. I ran to the car, literally getting soaked in the process, and drove it to the front door. I drove my parents back home to the safety of Milk Street.

Then Helga and I drove through the humid night watching the marvelous lightening show in the sky. I took off my wet T-shirt, and tried to sweet-talk Helga into doing the same. No dice.

We drove to the beach. The storm raged all around us.

The storm may have been evil, but Mother Nature had a right to be angry with mankind. She put on one hell of a show for us. I can still feel the booming bass of the thunder rocking in over the Marshlands. It literally shook us in the car.

This had inspired me in the usual way. I desperately tried to talk Helga into some back seat passion with words and caresses while the storm’s fury flashed all around us at the beach, thrilled at the non-recurring prospects of such a dramatic scene.

The pouring rain was deafening, the thunder explosive, and the sporadic bright flashes of lightning lit up the darkened interior of the car and displayed the huge waves crashing continuously into the sand. Plus, it had been years since I had done it in a car.

My growing exhilaration faded quickly however when she said I was nuts and should finally grow up. So I sulked as we drove back in silence with the familiar credence called enforced abstinence.

The storm had passed by the time we finally laid our heads onto our pillows at Milk Street. I had another dreamless night.

I suspected I was gaining weight again during this trip. Siblings and friends were feeding us very well in the evening. I was doing my fruit and Helga was frying up a pan full of eggs every morning for breakfast. Yet it was the lunches that really excited me.

For most of this trip we ate our lunches at Kathy Ann’s in Newburyport. This place was a combination Bakery and Restaurant. The best cheeseburgers and homemade fries in town were found there.

But more, shortly after noon, Ted Hawkes Senior could be found there. (Dad worked next door at Goulds.) We managed to be there too, just for that reason. (Becky usually showed up too, she only worked weekends.)

Being a natural born people watcher, observing Dad in his natural habitat with his cronies was quite the special treat for me. I found it fascinating. Coffee Shops were literally a way of life for him.

I liked Dad. Maybe that sounds weird, but it wasn’t always that way. By the time a man realizes that his father was right, he has a son who thinks he’s wrong.

When Dad was a sales representative for Prince Gardner in the Seventies he took my ex-wife Anneliese along with him one day when he was visiting his Boston customers. They left Milk Street at six-thirty AM. Poor Anne claimed she was shaking all over from the caffeine by ten o’clock as he had already hit five coffee shops along the way.

This whole “Breakfast Culture” did not exist in Germany and Europe. There were no coffee shops, and the so-called “Cafes” did not open at four A.M. No way Jose. If you were lucky, you might find one in the bigger cities that opened at eight. It just wasn’t a European thing.

No wait, there were “coffee shops” in the Netherlands. But these were somewhat different than Taffy’s and the rest of the “All American” coffee shops. The coffee shops in Amsterdam legally sold marijuana and hashish along with their freshly brewed coffee, just like you heard about in the movie “Pulp Fiction”.

Dad was such a stranger to me still, but sharing time with him here in his own element, a coffee shop, I found him charming and entertaining. He was still the king of gab. The experience was well worth the caffeine rush and the ensuing headache I got when I crashed hours later.

The lunch experience here after the stormy night was calm. Dad was a rock; nothing shook him. He had lived too long, seen too much.

However, when I tried to engage him in conversation about his mother, he balked and instantly changed the subject. Nana’s current condition was not something he would talk about it. He flat out refused.

I pressed him, and he just said, “Blaine, it doesn’t do us any good to harp on about this, you just have to keep going, lift up the veil and see what is really going on.”

Then he changed the subject. Dad stopped talking about Nana.

Nana’s condition was something that everyone else was talking about though. And it did not look good; it did not look good at all.

I finally realized, it is raining evil and we all have to see beyond the veil.

Chapter Eleven

Hoot Night

The storm had passed, and the fresh air the next morning was so crisp and clean, I went out into the back yard.

I just stood there in the morning sunshine for ten minutes, taking deep breaths and savoring the raw energy.

Small beginnings- to yet another eye opening day for me.

My sister Lara had noticed how frustrated Helga had become, and volunteered to have a ladies night out with her. Helga was all for it, so I suddenly found myself faced with a night off alone.

I recalled that Billy Flynn had a weekly show every Saturday evening in a place called The Barn in Amesbury. He hosted an amateur night of sorts, and called it Hoot Night. I called him to get the details.

Billy got all excited at the prospects of me being there. The last time I had seem him perform live was with his Low Murphy Band playing the Cancer Benefit at Salisbury Beach years before. I had been impressed, he had come a long way from playing the drums in our high school marching band.

The day flew by in yet another breathtaking blur of American sights and conversations until once again, we found ourselves assembled together in Nana’s room. Nana slept through the whole visit.

Lara picked Helga up here at the hospital, and it was from there I drove off to see Billy.

I’m coming to see you old friend, entertain me. He did not disappoint either; the evening was not only highly entertaining, but also full of surprises and ultimately, enlightening. But, I’m getting ahead of myself again.

I found the Barn right away, (It really was a barn.) and noticed that the huge parking lot was full. I found an empty space, locked up and walked inside into the darkness. It took a few seconds until my eyes adjusted to the dimness. I instantly heard Billy’s voice, singing a well-known Elton John tune. The music was coming from a visible hayloft above us.

I walked into a dimly lit open bay, old tables and chairs were scattered here and there, and I noticed with amusement that sawdust lie on the wooden floor. The bar was long, and from what I could see, every stool was occupied. I walked along the bar in the direction of the music, twice glancing at my reflection in the mirror. I actually seemed surprised to find myself here.

I came to a set of stairs, and slowly wandered up. The loft was great. Bales of hay were scattered everywhere and seemingly relaxed people occupied many of them. There were also more wooden tables and chairs, and it appeared most of the tables were occupied.

Located directly in the middle of this room was a tiny wooden stage, and on top Billy was seated at his keyboard, crooning into a microphone.

Thinking of past summers haying with Ray, I plopped down on a bale and casually checked out the crowd. It appeared mixed, a lot of couples, plus a few tables with just men or women. It seemed like everyone was drinking beer.

As if on cue, a waitress appeared, and I ordered a beer. Suddenly it occurred to me that I had never entered a bar alone in America. My life had been playing out now for forty long years, and here I was, finally experiencing something my birthright should have made non-fiction years ago.

My beer arrived, and Billy’s song came to a close. Some people clapped, some cheered, someone screamed out “Play some Billy Joel.” Someone else screamed “Shut the fuck up.”

Billy spotted me and waved and then pointed at me saying, “The Germans are here tonight.” A table full of women looked in my direction and I blushed. I wanted to stand up, stomp my foot on the floor and give him the Hitler salute, but I didn’t dare.

Then Billy introduced some skinny hick wearing a massive cowboy hat. The guy had an acoustic guitar with him and sat on a stool in front of a microphone set up next to Billy’s throne. The guy instantly began to strum bar chords and sing in an exaggerated nasal twang. Billy rolled his eyes behind the guy and left the stage.

“Hey Boinger, you made it, this is great. And you’re early.” he exclaimed as he reached my bale of hay. He sat down next to me, took my mug, and chugged down half of my beer.

“Yeah Boinger, just came directly from the hospital.”

“Bummer. How is your grandmother doing?’

“Not good Boinger. No one knows what’s up, the doctors are being vague, plus she sleeps a lot. Anyway, Lara came early to get Helga. Tonight is ladies night, and Helga is on cloud nine.”

We had kept our childhood nicknames. We both called each other “Boinger”. I believe the name had its humble beginnings with our pre-teenage observations of the subtle motion of female boobs, but I could be wrong. And both of us shared the name, I guess it was like two hippies each calling each other “bro” or “man”.

“That’s good Boinger, but I don’t think you should be talking about your wife anymore tonight, this is your only night out. And that said, I think you better head downstairs and go to the right side of the bar and see who is sitting on the very last stool, waiting just for you.”

“What are you talking about man?” I asked. Billy looked at me and smiled. The hick was now stomping his right foot loudly on the floor as he closed his eyes and plucked out a solo. Somebody screamed. Billy whistled.

“Boinger, times a wasting. She was wicked excited when I told her you were in town. Blaine, I know you and you know me and we both know this chick knows you too. Think about it Boinger, think about it.”

“She? Who is she? Boinger, what did you do now? I came to hang with you, not chase women.”

Should I have been surprised? Doesn’t expecting the unexpected make the unexpected become the expected?

“Fuck, who scared you? Are you gonna give me one of your sermons or something here? I’m not asking you to do anything. Jesus, yesterday you were bitchin’, saying you could be heading for another divorce. Just relax Boinger. I’m talking about seeing an old friend and having a little fun, that’s all. Life is about having fun.”

He took another drink of my beer and continued, “Just go and talk to someone you once liked a lot, a real lot. Now you just get off that bale of hay, dance down those wooden stairs there, right there Boinger, and go check her out. Just pretend that you want to have fun.”

With that he cuffed me, turned and headed back to the stage. He took my beer with him.

Obviously, we never took our names very seriously. Actually, we never took much of anything seriously hanging out together as kids. (The fact was, we both were sort of crazy.)

Plus, as a kid I really hated my name. Blaine. Blaine. What the fuck? Then comes the icing on the cake. I found out that mom got it from reading a Harlequin Romance novel- “Slow Dance With The Best Man.”

It gets even better. In this cheesy story the character Blaine was the best man and he eventually had a torrid affair with this freshly married woman and then after she rejected him, he did her sister as revenge.

Thanks mom, I was jinxed for life.

Blaine. Yeah, it was a pleasure to hang it on the hook and become Boinger with Billy.

I still found it nice, despite the weird looks we received from anyone who happened to be near by. The fact that sometimes we spoke in a goofy cartoon voice didn’t help matters any. We were no longer children, but sometimes you would never know it listening to us converse together. And we didn’t care.

Harry Hick finished his song and as Billy started to say something, the guy began playing a new song. Billy shrugged his shoulders and sat down next to him comically bopping his head. He looked at me, and pointed to the stairs. Then he made an obscene gesture with his hand.

I stood up, and walked away. I had been so amused by the silly banter and the down-to-earth hick’s country tune that it was just now sinking in that someone was waiting for me downstairs. Jesus, who was it?

I rushed down the stairs, but stopped once I reached the floor. I turned to the right, and could now see the end of the bar. I squinted into the dim light, and saw the last bar stool was indeed occupied. It was a woman, who was sitting with her back to me. She had long reddish brown hair, which was lying motionless on a blue denim jacket.

For an instant I thought it was the insatiable Darlene Seeth, and the thought of meeting her again was like ingesting instant testosterone, and my balls suddenly felt like agitated ginger ale. Darlene was a girl who could change your life with nothing more than her mouth. No one kissed with the intensity she mustered up at Marches Hill as teenagers. She had been amazing.

I froze in place, wondering if I was even up to this. At that moment the bartender approached her, and she turned her head to face him. For a long second I saw her face. It was not Darlene. Yet I wasn’t disappointed. Nor was I stumped as to her identity.

Unlike schoolboy Bob from downtown two days ago, this woman had hardly changed at all since I had last seen her, which was well over twenty years ago. I had no idea how Billy had managed this, but Melanie Boyer was sitting there in front of me, the first girl I had ever French kissed in my life.

It was back in the spring of 1971. I had just turned thirteen. Melanie and I had been “going out” for months. That was like going steady, which meant we went to school dances together, hung around on her front steps with her little brother a lot, and sometimes when we could scratch fifty cents together, we went to a Saturday afternoon matinee at the Port Cinema.

We communicated at best with written words, as we were both quite shy. We had invented our own code and safely passed notes to each other daily in school. Infatuated with the concept of love, we both told each other in various ways that we were in love with these coded notes.

The first time I ever voiced these words to a girl was the night we finally opened our mouths while kissing. Up until this evening we had only dry kissed, we pressed our lips together awkwardly and ground our mouths together in a circular motion, wondering what the big deal was.

My nose was also a problem. I didn’t know where to put it while kissing. It pressed against her nose, or landed smack in her eye. But on this night, it just clicked. We were standing in a field near her house, and just holding each other. We had a few minutes of dry kissing behind us.

Melanie then looked at me, and her tongue slipped out of her mouth, and flicked along my lips. It tickled, and I laughed. She did it again, and my tongue met hers. It was like a revelation. The key to it all.

Slowly our mouths found each other, and this time remained slightly open. Instinctively my nose found a safe place to hide on her cheek, and we finally kissed for the first time. And again, and again.

I learned fast, realizing at last that she knew how to French Kiss the whole time. After what seemed like hours, we fell in the grass and mock wrestled with one another. She pinned me down, and I looked at her and said I loved her. Then we wrestled some more.

Our relationship lasted nearly all of sixth grade. Then she left me for a summer love. High School brought us back together again, but only for ten heated months. This time we were nearly grown up, and our minds also met; we thought a lot alike. This time the kissing was also inspired by puberty, and accompanied by exploring hands and roaming fingers, and Melanie had revealed with gleaming eyes that she was no longer a virgin.

I was still a virgin, and remained so a while longer. I was scared. The thought of having sex really spooked me. Melanie grew bored, and left me again for someone more advanced in physical loving.

Decades later I stood at the bottom of the stairs and watched her chat with the bartender. Isn’t life strange?

For a moment I had the sudden desire to leave. I had wanted to spend the night with Billy. But Billy would probably be behind the mike for most of the night. And Melanie had just smiled at the bartender, and my curiosity was growing.

I had always gotten along better with women than with men. It was easier to talk with women than with men. I wasn’t into sports, cars, politics, tools, computers and such, thus many typical men themes were out of my reach. I figured I could ask Melanie things I hadn’t dare to ask Bob downtown.

And maybe, just maybe, I could taste those sweet lips of hers once more, for old times sake.

I slowly shuffled over to her, and just as I was about to tap her on the shoulder, she spun around. Our eyes didn’t meet. My eyes swept over her, as she scoped me from head to toe. It seemed to take forever.

I sent the bartender away with my request for a beer. Then Melanie smiled warmly at me, reached out with her hand and took mine, and as she heartily shook it, she cheerfully said “Jesus Blaine, you haven’t changed a goddamn bit, how the hell are ya?”

A German I had not seen for a quarter of a century would not have greeted me that way. A German would have hugged me, planted a kiss on my cheek, perhaps even my lips. I was disappointed.

I was constantly adjusting to talking to American strangers; they often acted like they knew you personally. Once they knew your first name, you were old buddies. I sat down next to her, and we started gabbing and really checking each other out.

Her voice was much deeper than it had been 25 years ago. My nose was even bigger. I suspected her hair was dyed. Her pretty face had remained girl-like, although her flaccidity was not be hidden at this close range. She was at least twenty pounds heavier. I caught her peeking at my receding hair line; and my silver streaks. These tell-tale signs of our age only added to the heroic essence of this strange situation.

We didn’t bother with the small talk. She talked openly about her adult life after High School; it was like talking to a female version of myself. There were no holds barred.

Melanie summed it up nonchalantly, almost like she was talking about someone else; she narrated facts like she was reading from a paperback book. She had been happy, unhappily married twice, the first attempt lasted ten years, the second survived nearly six, but it’s okay, there were no kids involved, and there was no particular reason why that she ended up childless.

She ended both marriages because one was a workaholic, and never at home, and the second turned out to be bi-sexual and she caught him in her bed with a man. That had not bothered her, but the cheating did.

She had worked in three local factories, and got knocked out of all three of them by that modern day job killer “down-sizing” and ended up bored at WalMart, until she walked out one day two months ago and now she was currently, happily unemployed.

She loved late-night television, devouring Daniel Steele novels by candlelight, and she proudly claimed to be the last Boston Celtics fan around. She had been in the A.A. for years, but claimed she now had the problem under control. (She was drinking beer.)

She was, however, now living with a “real” alcoholic, but he was a nice guy most of the time. (And he paid the bills, which was a definite plus.) He was at home watching the frigging Red Sox, who sucked like always.

At the mention of her boyfriend I asked if he was a jealous guy. Melanie laughed and said he wasn’t really into sex. They hadn’t done it for months. Nice guy that I am, I asked her if she missed doing it.

As if on cue, our mutual yes eyes met and she smiled. I quickly leaned forward to kiss her, a mere twenty minutes after sitting down next to her.

Just as quickly she spun on the swivel bar stool and my mouth tasted hair as she stood up and said we should go upstairs and check out the show as Billy was really hot tonight. She was gone.

I recovered, and stood up. Noticing that the bartender was watching me, I shrugged my shoulders and followed her up the stairs. He flashed me a thumbs up.

Then I stopped and considered leaving again. A conscience is what hurts when all your other parts feel so good.

I pictured her lips again, and sighed. I headed up the stairs.

Billy was pounding the keyboard, and roaring into the mike. Melanie had not waited for me, and I quickly scanned the crowd through the dimness, and found her at a table in the middle of the loft. She waved to me. I walked over, and as I began to sit down, I remembered I had left my beer at the bar. I told her I had to go back downstairs to get my beer, and she grabbed my hand and said they have beer up here too. I sat down.

Billy finished his song, and announced a special treat; Sheryl Crow was here. I looked up, and some heavy set woman sat down, and began singing about beer buzzes in the morning. Billy quickly came over to our table. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Wow, who would have ever thought I would get to see you two together again in this lifetime.”

“Yeah, Boinger, I have to admit it, I was surprised. You outdid yourself. This is almost as good as that song you wrote for me.”

“What song?” asked Melanie. Billy explained, even singing a verse, “I think we should get together again, and again”. I got a hold of a waitress and ordered another beer.

“Blaine looks pretty good doesn’t he? And he’s heterosexual you know,” Billy said with a grin. Melanie laughed out loud, and I realized he knew about the ex bi-husband, and that Melanie was probably a fan of Hoot Night. I wondered just how well they knew each other.

“Well fuck me, look who’s here.” Melanie suddenly said. I turned to look, and inwardly groaned. It was her younger brother Davey. Davey had always been a pain in the ass.

“Hey sis, what’s up. Bill, my man, damn good show tonight. And are my eyes deceiving me, or is this really our long lost friend Blaine?” Davey said. He held out his hand, and I shook it. Naturally, he then sat down.

“Don’t they look good together Davey?” Billy said as the waitress brought my beer. I looked at Melanie, and she leaned towards me and laid her arm on my shoulder. My head slid to her shoulder.

“You’re right man, they do look good together. But I thought you lived in Spain?” Davey asked.

“Germany.” I corrected, and began planning how I could get Melanie out of this place away from Davey. “I’m on vacation.”

The woman finished her song. Billy seemed surprised, and rushed to the stage. Melanie’s arm left my body, and she grabbed her beer. At that moment Davey reached out for mine, and he winked at me.

He raised it to his lips. “Blaine, here is to old friends and lovers, because in the end, you always go back to the folks that were there in the beginning.”

“I don’t seem to have a beer to toast with,” I said with a smile. “But that was a excellent toast Davey.”

“Oh I remember listening to you and Melanie back then, you two had it all figured out. I never got over the break up you know.” He laughed and Melanie punched him.

Then he and Melanie began talking about their mother. I got up and decided to retrieve my beer from the bar. I headed for the stairs.

At that very moment Billy broke into a classic. The reaction was amazing. I stopped and stared.

“Well she was just seventeen, you know what I mean.”

People jumped up from their chairs and bales and began dancing. Up until this point, no one had danced. I was astonished. People in America still twisted to Beatle music. I stood there and watched, tapping my foot.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, and Melanie said “It’s been twenty-seven years since you last danced with me, isn’t it time we shook our asses together again?”

We shook our asses.

It was really fun. Billy had followed up with “Lady Madonna” and people just kept on dancing. Afterwards, Davey met us on the dance floor and led us downstairs. Out the door we went, and I wondered what they were up to. He led us to a nice pick up truck, and turned and leaned against the driver’s door. Then he pulled out a joint and casually lit it up.

“You guys still get high?” I asked, instantly regretting my question. Yet they only laughed. I quickly added, “I mean, I used to get high, but eventually you outgrow it, don’t you?”

“Outgrow it? This is America man, it’s a way of life.” Davey exclaimed. He passed the thinly rolled joint to Melanie, who sucked on it.

I said, “Seriously, the people I know who used to indulge have all stopped.” Melanie grinned, and passed the joint to me.

I took it, looked at it, and wondered how stupid it would look to just pass it back to Davey. But it sure smelled sweet. The smoke was drifting up and suddenly the desire was there to taste it. It was intense. My mind was reeling. Don’t do it. Walk away. You’ll regret it in the morning. Just say no.

I hit the joint.

“Jesus, now we’ve done it, he won’t get back on the plane now.” Davey said. We all laughed. I hit the damn thing three more times, each hit deeper than its predecessor. Then I reluctantly gave it back to Davey.

As with Melanie, Davey had aged gracefully.

“Good genes” I thought to myself cynically.

Davey said, “It ain’t no big deal man, I like it better than getting drunk. And beer ain’t cheap anymore, that’s for sure.”

He took another toke, then passed it to Melanie, and disappeared.

Melanie hit it long, and then she closed her eyes. I stared at her, remembering kissing her with my eyes open in the beginning, gazing at her closed eyelids. It was a strange flashback. Her eyes sprung open, and I smiled as she exhaled. I hit it a few more times, until it burnt my fingertips, and she grabbed it and tossed the tiny stub away.

My throat was already feeling scratchy, and that was annoying. But the truth was, I had a good buzz on. In fact, it was getting better by the moment.

I looked around the parking lot, almost confused at seeing all the big American cars, and then I realized Melanie was standing very close to me, watching me. I turned to her, and our faces were nearly touching. I smiled. She smiled. I leaned forward to kiss her, my eyes sliding into half-mast.

“Okay, my frigging bladders empty, let’s go.”

I made a mental note to kill Davey in my dreams. He came up to us and hung himself between us, his left arm around me, his right around her, and that’s how the three of us walked back into the Barn.

And that was the pattern for the rest of the night. The perfect chaperon, Davey’s presence and sudden reappearances kept my lips from tasting Melanie’s lips. Later on Billy was not impressed.

“Have you kissed her yet Boinger?”

“Not yet man, but it looks good.”

“What? Damn, what are waiting for? Tell her that in Germany old lovers always get back together and screw, just for old times sakes. That sounds like a European custom.” We laughed, and duty called. Billy left.

Melanie and I may not have kissed, however; we really communicated well together. I discovered that I still liked her. I liked the way she thought. I also opened up, and told her many stories about my life since leaving America. She was an enthusiastic listener, and I was charmed by her constant smile and the soft way she giggled.

I found I was losing myself in her at times. When I would touch on something sad I had experienced, she touched me, and her hand would find mine, or she would touch my shoulder or leg. Most German women were “touchers” and it was dreamlike to be experiencing this situation in English in an American bar.

Being stoned just added to the growing surrealism.

Two enticing pit stops later, Billy intercepted us as we casually walked back into the bar. I was feeling no pain at this point. Melanie retreated to the restroom and Billy wanted to know how I was making out. I disappointed him.

“Boinger, you still haven’t kissed her? What are you waiting for? Fuck Davey, he doesn’t care. He’d even be happy for her. Davey thinks the world of you.” He reached for my beer.

“Well, I am getting closer. I asked her for a kiss, and before she could say anything, Davey was back, stealing another one of my beers.”

“Whoa, run that by me again. Boinger, you asked her to kiss you? Jesus. Pretend that was a pretty stupid thing to do. What kinda bullshit did they teach you over there? Why didn’t you just ask her if she would blow you?”

“Huh? What are you talking about Bill?”

“Boinger, listen to me good. You don’t ask girls to go to bed with you. If they say yes then they feel like sluts. Man, you don’t ask them a damn thing. You just do it. That’s what they want; they want you to be sure of yourself. They want to be romanced, they want to be seduced,” Billy said, looking at me with growing disgust.

Back in High School Billy was our equivalent to Masters and Johnson as far as sexual guidance went. He gave good advice. No one had more success with the girls than my Boinger friend.

“Damn Bill, I only asked her to kiss me.”

“But that’s just it, it’s the same thing. Kiss you, blow you, go to bed with you, its all the same thing. Boinger, believe me, don’t ask her anything. Don’t you see the way she is looking at you? She really likes you man. OK, bide your time, later when you drive her home, you’ll nail her, believe me.”

Now I was confused. In his youth Billy was, as my mother would say, a bit of a Lady’s man. Mom complained that we both had those “Kennedy” genes.

Bill saw my confusion and said, “Sorry, I’m out of my mind at the moment, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

He laughed and slipped away with my beer. He climbed back up on the stage and burped into the mike, and then he excused himself with a perfect imitation of Popeye. People laughed everywhere.

I was flashing back to 1972. Billy always got the pretty girls, and I ended up with their weird friends. Billy and the pretty one would be rolling in the grass together making out, and I would be making awkward conversation, trying to figure out what the other girl wanted me to do.

Hoot Night ended after midnight. Billy had been amazing. His songs kept the people from leaving from all the awful stuff coming from the open mike. It had been awesome seeing him perform again. But, it was even more amazing seeing him host the evening, introduce all the acts, tell jokes, do his impressions; it was just very impressive.

We sat with Billy a while longer, before we took off for Davey’s house. I was against going there, but Melanie insisted.

Billy left us with a wink, and said “Boinger, pretend that you guys have a ball. This was so great having you here. Call me tomorrow.”

Davey had a beautiful house. I was stunned. He led us from room to room, Melanie’s arm locked in mine. Then we reached the patio, and he slid open a glass door. There was, what appeared to me to be, a wooden swimming pool there. Two guys were standing inside, both holding beers. Davey greeted them with gentle cusses.

“This is my Jacuzzi Blaine. Come on, float with us awhile, this is the ultimate nightcap,” he said as he began undressing. I looked at Melanie, but she just shrugged her shoulders and smiled.

“I don’t know man, but tell me, do electricians earn this much money here? This place is amazing.” Everyone broke out laughing.

I looked at Melanie, and she pointed to her nose and grinned. Still confused, I turned to Davey, who slipped nearly naked over the edge into the tub.

“You dubba, don’t miss a friggin’ thing do ya? In the late eighties things really changed here. Grass virtually disappeared, became really hard to get. But suddenly coke was very available, and very cheap,” Davey said.

“Coke as in cocaine?” I asked, again regretting my ignorance. In Germany I was street smart, but I certainly was not being very cool here. Fortunately Melanie rescued me, and laughed heartily from behind me.

“Yeah man, is that what the Germans call it?” He was grinning, and lit up another joint.

“Sort of, they say cola. So are you saying you dealt with it?” I asked, allowing myself to be brutally direct.

But now I saw the young Davey before me; a freckle faced boy with Beatle bangs, asking me what it was like to be fourteen. Now he passed me the Joint, and I took a long, sweet toke.

Little Davey, always tagging along when Melanie and I would try to slip away to the field to make out. Davey, good student, lousy athlete, fast talker, the proud boy who once told me he would get out of the south end as soon as he was eighteen. He would not die here bored shitless by life like his father.

“Oooo, have we shocked our visiting Spaniard? You sound like a goddamn narc. But if I was a user, I hardly doubt I would have this place man. You know what they say about cocaine, drains your bank account, makes your nose bleed and makes your dick shrink. Nah, I think I’ll pass.” The guys in the tub roared. I had to laugh too.

“Hey, I’m not shocked, just, well just surprised.” I held the joint up and Melanie leaned in and hit it, her lips touching my fingertips, gazing at me as she toked. Then I hit it again.

“Really? I know someone from your past who built their dream house the very same way man. We’ve met. It’s cool. But I don’t deal anymore. Are you guys coming in? Come on Melanie; let Blaine see how good you still look. I bet he has never even seen a naked American woman.”

Actually, I haven’t.

“Nahh, I’m not up to the tub tonight,” Melanie replied. I was relieved. I was ready for some time alone with her. And as if she could read my thoughts, she said “Can you drive me home?”

We said our goodbyes. Davey, the perfect gentleman, shook my hand, thanked me for the beer and laughs and told me to stop by before I left for my trip back to Spain. I told him the phone number at Milk Street was still the same.

We left, and climbed in the Florida rental car, and Melanie slid all the way over and sat next to me. I put my right arm around her and her head rested on my shoulder.

It was like being in a time machine.

We spoke softly as we drove through the abandoned streets. She defended her brother. She said he was only active for a few years, and only dealt with friends. I told her she didn’t have to explain, my own experiences with so-called dealers in Germany had followed a similar vein. All of my past dealers had been good friends. They did not sell to strangers, in my eyes they provided a service, and they certainly did not have to drum up business, or hang around schoolyards!

I also told her our experiments with “cola” were extremely short-lived. It was a very stupid drug. The first thought I always had after doing a line was “That was Great. When can I do another one?” She laughed, and quickly agreed with me.

We fell into a comfortable silence. My thoughts ran wild. I was surprised that I felt so warmly towards her. Her charm reminded me of the sheer innocence of teenage relationships. No future, no tomorrow, it was all so urgent, and yet, all so laid back.

She had a hand on my thigh, and my thoughts quickly returned to a sexual nature. I coyly asked her if she wanted to go right home. She said no way. We drove to the beach. This time the thunder was inside of the car, not outside.

We parked and she lit up the joint Davey gave us. The car got foggy as we just sunk deeper into the seats. We talked, and laughed to the unobtrusive background of classic rock. It reminded me of our endless telephone calls back in the day. Topics ranged from future dreams to past failures, and the surprising difficulty of adult relationships.

Melanie was philosophical about everything. She was indeed like a female version of me, with one notable exception.

She did not seem happy at all with her current circumstances in life, she was visibly sad.

I bled for her hearing the heartbreaking details about her lost loves, her regrets about not having children. I wanted to support her somehow, take her home, kiss her tears away and forget the real world and just pretend it was just we two against the straight world, as it had been back then.

She talked and I listened, nodded, smiled and eventually found I had little to say. Eventually we just watched the waves crash over and over into the sand. We tried counting them, but we could not find that elusive seventh wave.

The stars fled across the shadowy sky, but there was no escaping the dawn.

When she finally asked me to drive her home, I wasn’t really surprised, or disappointed. I figured, as in the past, I had simply waited too long to make my move.

Yet I was determined to kiss her, long and hard at the door.

She lived in Newbury. It was an old house sitting on the corner of a quiet street a block away from the Town Square. We climbed out of the car, and walked hand in hand to the door. I quickly pulled her to me, and we hugged a long time. I could feel her breathing accelerate. Then I loosened my hold, and moved in to kiss her. She turned her head to the side.

I became angry, but curbed my tongue. I laughed, and asked her if she was still afraid of getting my nose in her eye? I assured her I had finally learned where to place the beast while kissing.

She laughed, and I tried again. Melanie turned away again. Now I was sincerely perplexed.

I became desperate. I went into a long, inspired spiel about fate, cosmic coincidences, and life in general. I claimed it was no coincidence that we were together tonight, and that it was totally natural that we experience a lashing kiss together again, if only to see how we have grown over the years and to seal the magical moment forever in our souls.

A magical memory.

I talked about the swift passing of time, reminding her of the twenty plus years that had passed since we had last kissed, all the experiences, the laughs, and the tears.

I exaggerated about my feelings for her back then, and also reminded her of how I had always fancied redheads after having her. It just went on and on. Billy probably would have puked if he could have heard me.

I was practically begging her to kiss me.

It must have been the damn Kathy Ann’s coffee combined with all the mellow weed, as I rarely put together a spontaneous speech that flowed like this one did there in front of her home.

Melanie listened in silence, occasionally smiling when I tossed in a light joke. I was thoughtful, emotional, and incredibly inspiring.

Unfortunately, I didn’t notice that her eyes were actually sad and gloomy and even moist until I finished and finally stood still in front of her. I was too wrapped up in the heat of the moment, way too pleased with my own cleverness.

I was anxiously expecting her to grab me and kiss me until my lips fell off.

Melanie did not grab me. Nor did she kiss me.

She stood silently for minutes, looking at me searchingly. Then she spoke. And I listened.

“Blaine, it was a wonderful night for me. It really was. You made me feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. I actually felt good about myself. But I have to tell you something. You’re a selfish bastard Blaine. You always were. You’re only thinking about yourself. Let’s say that I do kiss you now. Let’s say that I really like it. I like it a lot. It reminds me of how I used to feel. It reminds me of how it feels being loved. What happens then?”

She stopped, looked away, then her eyes found mine again and she continued. “I feel all these wickedly nice feelings bubble up in me, and then you just turn and walk away and get on the frigging plane and go back to whatever it is you do over there and I’ll never see you again. I go up the stairs here and climb over my boyfriend, who most likely is passed out on the floor. If I’m lucky he won’t wake up. You’ll be gone. No Blaine, I think I will pass on that so-called magical moment of yours. I do wish you well though, really.”

Melanie looked away again, and then she continued, her voice now cracking. “But why we’re at it, just one more thing before you go. You’re full of shit if you still believe I broke up with you back in High School just because you didn’t go all the way with me. Do you really think sex is so important to woman? We don’t think with our goddamn zippers. I left you because you were seeing Sally on the side. Yeah, I knew about it. And let me tell you, it hurt like hell too. But you seemed to recover pretty quick.”

I did not know what to say.

“Hey, I swear, I really didn’t want the night to end like this, but that speech you just gave was fucking amazing. You made me feel like I have to explain to you why I kept you at a distance tonight, but you know, I never could match the intensity of your love letters. As Billy would say, pretend that you have a real gift with words. But you know, the fact is, I wasn’t pretending. I loved you way more than you loved me. With me, it has always been acts, not words, you know what I mean? Sorry if I hurt your feelings. It’s late. I better go in now. Bye bye Blaine.”

My words had abandoned me.

It didn’t matter though. There was nothing I could say. I wanted to apologize, but it was way too late for that.

And so she walked away, looking back once. I nodded and even waved. Melanie unlocked the door, and slipped away into the shadows without looking back again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A SUNDAY DRIVE ON THE WAY TO THE END OF THE ROAD

I crawled back to Milk Street on my hands and knees and arrived around four o’clock in the morning.

I crept up the back stairs, avoiding the treacherous creaking step. I sincerely hoped that good old Dad had not heard me come in, just like in the old days.

Helga was still sleeping. Sleep was not possible for me. I was in dire need of a conscience clause. I had trouble just lying there doing nothing, I sort of felt like climbing the Marches Hill water tower and jumping off.

At some point, I did doze off, and was awakened by Dad’s voice in the next room, softly saying, “Open your eyes”.

I had them opened last night, that’s for sure.

I did not want to see anyone yet, so I remained upstairs. I did not have a hang over from the smoking, but I felt the typical haze one usually felt the day after. Everything was foggy. But worse, much worse, my mouth felt like a buffalo had shit in it. It was pretty nasty. I had to brush my teeth a long time until it felt better.

Soon, my parents took off to go to the hospital to go see Nana. I slowly walked down the back stairs. I grabbed myself a banana and began peeling it, as my thoughts wandered back to the outrageous night at the Barn. It already had a long time ago feeling to it.

As I finished my fruit, Helga joined me. I peeled her an apple, as I filled her in on Hoot Night with Billy. She had liked Billy, probably because he hugged her three times, and then he told her it was because he liked the feel of her big breasts against his chest.

I didn’t even lie to her with my narration about the night before, but I tactfully emphasized all the fun facts while totally ignoring the uncomfortable facts, a valuable skill I learned from observing my brother Ted as a teenager.

Helga had enjoyed her night out with Lara. They had gone out to eat seafood and then to the Mall to shop.

We actually had a road trip planned ourselves. Helga’s night flight out was chased by Helga’s day away. We stopped at the hospital and said a quick hello to Nana. She was out of it though, and barely stirred when I kissed her hello/goodbye.

From there we headed south. I had promised Helga a day in Rhode Island, to go visit a German woman she knew from back home.

We got on Rte 495 near Amesbury. Rte 495 was a pretty cool highway. Helga seemed just as fascinated by the wide winding road as I was. Perhaps she was just grateful to get out of a long visit in Nana’s hospital room for a day. I was grateful to be moving in any direction.

I kept gazing into my side mirror and watched Newburyport get smaller and smaller as we sped along the highway, literally fading away right before my eyes.

Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. I reckon that this is a good metaphor for viewing past memories too. At my age so many things were indeed- long ago- but they are prisoners in my mind and thus- always close to my heart.

I instantly flashed back to past trips down Rte 495 to reach Rte 2 with my brother Larry, perpetually heading to Western Mass to visit our big brother Ted and his wife. Now, that too seemed to be from another lifetime.

Amazing visits they were though; brothers hanging out with brothers set in another space in time. Even though it actually was not that long ago, there were no computers, no wide screen televisions, and no television video games, but, of course, we all had kick ass stereos.

Ted was always a step ahead in this direction. Music was not hidden in the background; the three brothers actually sat around and listened to music together just as we had done as teenagers.

We were still listening to records too. We all had incredible album collections. We hated the modern CD revolution, but eventually went along for the ride when vinyl pretty much disappeared from the shelves.

It was perverse to eventually realize that a CD could be manufactured for a fraction of what it cost to produce and press a vinyl record, yet these modern Compact Discs cost twice as much as our albums had cost back in the day.

Yet another entry to the long list of convincing reasons why pipe DREAMS do often become pipe BOMBS.

But actually, in retrospect, the recording industry was directly responsible for internet piracy with this obscene greed induced CD pricing policy. They simply got too greedy.

I now felt like Nana had felt that day in the cemetery, living in this modern life today. I smiled remembering just how amazed Larry and I were that day in 1979 where Ted demonstrated the first television remote control I had ever seen.

Ted called it “Mister Clicky”, perfectly named too as this device simply rotated the circular dial on the TV, click.. channel seven, click.. channel eight, click.. channel nine.. You did not have to stand up anymore to change the channel on your TV. It dutifully went from one channel to the next. It was impressive.

Despite Mister Clicky, in retrospect these were still simple times.

No one could have warned us back in Hippieville, Western Mass, that this laid back lifestyle was only temporary. We would not have cared. Being young makes you invincible, virtually immune to the complicated concept of “Ageing”.

Young folks live in a euphoric world full of mirrors. All they really see is themselves.

Why is youth wasted on the young? I thought I had known the answers, I thought I understood everything back then, but even my self-indulgent, flamboyant flag-waving of my youthful gray less hair days pales in light of my current opinions on life today.

Pink Floyd sang about the constant flux of life on the “Dark Side Of The Moon” thirty years ago as I gratefully discovered the joys of masturbation.

The late great John Lennon was our hero, and eloquently told us “Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans,” (Shortly before he was murdered.)

What to do, right? Time is a remarkable teacher, but unfortunately it kills all of its pupils.

I bored poor Helga with these yarns (Yawns) covering this weird phenomena; my sudden realization that my American life took place a long, long time ago.

I was on my best behavior. I had a perfect attitude about the day trip to Rhode Island. Helga was queen for a day.

Originally, I had been feeling a bit guilty about giving non-family people a day of my precious time, a tenth of this short trip, almost feeling that it was a waste of time. Then, Hoot Night occurred, and well, let’s just say I definitely owed Helga her day in the sun.

Now flying along south bound on 495 I realized that no activities are a waste of time except perhaps being depressed and killing priceless time in a shitty mood.

Isn’t it funny how these simple life lessons have to be hammered in again and again. How quickly I fly from being an enlightened Dalai Lama wanna-be to being absolutely incognizant, once again a poorly educated factory worker indulging in obnoxious philosophizing, and sometimes just to steal a kiss.

We stopped at a rest area shortly after crossing the Massachusetts border so Helga could go to the bathroom. I climbed out of the car and sat on a boulder near the edge of the lot, waiting, watching the endless stream of cars and trucks loudly zoom by. It was hypnotic.

I saw the metaphoric symbolism there in all this speedy activity on this magnificent eight-lane highway. Off we go now, rushing from one event to the next, our thoughts usually preceding our bodies, so in end effect, we are seldom here and now, but there and then, and this because when we think about what we are going to do next, we also then think about what we are going to think about after we have thought about what we are actually going to do. Ahh, the heavy gift of consciousness

The lightness of being me was becoming heavier.

Helga returned, and we climbed back into the car. A few hours later, we found the city and after stopping to ask directions twice (this was way before the GPS revolution) we even found the address.

The German woman’s name was Ramona. She had married a GI, but they had since divorced and she had remained in the USA for basically the same reason I had remained in Germany after my divorce. Her two kids, two girls, aged eight and ten, were living with her.

Ramona cooked us a German meal, Sauer Braten and homemade dumplings, which was great. We spoke German the whole day, and again, I felt bad for Helga. What a surprise, she could express herself really well in German. Helga was funny. She never got a chance to really communicate with anyone here; the language barrier was just too great.

The same thing happened to me with my Germans friends being confronted with my writing. None of them could read my stories. I know, I know- at this point somebody out there is probably thinking- “no big loss”.

Ramona’s girls, Jenny and Leah, were absolutely adorable. They spoke delightful German, and were genuinely happy to do so. I was impressed that Ramona had taught her children how to speak her mother language. Both of the girls had been born in the USA.

At one point Ramona realized she needed some cream for her German gravy. Helga quickly agreed to go with her to the mall. They asked me if I would mind watching the girls. Naturally, I didn’t.

But I sort of minded the trip to the mall on a Sunday.

Thinking back to all the cars on the road as we came here, and now confronted with this little excursion, I wondered to myself what had happened to Sundays.

Back when I was a kid, if you got into the car on a Sunday, it was to go visit someone, family or friends. It certainly was not to go shopping. And it was a thrill, it was special, we were happy about it. All of my siblings remember Sunday trips to visit family in New Castle, New Hampshire. We looked forward to it all week.

In Germany stores were still closed on Sundays. There had been many attempts by big chain stores to change this law, but the people’s government fought them off, thus protecting the little worker, and assuring that no one could be forced to work on a Sunday.

“Didn’t you like it better in Germany with all the businesses closed on Sundays?” I asked as the women prepared to leave.

Ramona started shaking her head and said, “I like the freedom of being able to shop on Sunday. You can always go shopping here in America. It’s cool.”

“Yeah but, it wasn’t that long ago in America when Sunday was the day we all hung out, we rested after the busy week. Sunday was quiet, a special day.” For me this was especially true.

Helga was getting anxious. She shot me a dirty look.

Ramona said, “We are not church goers. Sunday is just another day. So why not go to the mall? Why not go shopping? It is a good thing.”

I was polite and quietly gave up. I did not want to argue with her, or anger Helga, but this attitude had really struck a raw nerve.

It was another one of the subtle changes in our lives that was costing us spirituality, and not because we do not go to church anymore.

But because we were all being systemically groomed to be devoted consumers, willing to spend our hard earned money at anytime, all the time, yes, even seven days a week. That’s why the laws were changed and suddenly you could even shop on Sundays.

Yet this so called freedom creates unseen pressure on all of us. Compulsive shopping was a Government sponsored illness. There was no longer a day set aside for rest, and this is intentional.

So I simply said, “I get your point. Of course it is convenient. But you know, my parents lived their lives with having all Sundays off; that meant basically they had 52 days a year off, every year that I lived with them growing up. That would mean that just in one decade they had 520 days off, time for family or just hanging about. These are days that we no longer have. We have lost 52 opportunities a year to be human.”

The women laughed. “Oh Helga, he is so cute. No wonder you took him home.” Helga and Ramona laughed again as they headed for the door. Helga gave me a kiss, and off they went.

The girls now came rushing over and ambushed me. They laughingly dragged me into their room. They were playing Barbie, and they wanted to me be Ken. It reminded me of being with Helga’s girls, and it was all good.

The women eventually returned, finished preparing the food and we ate together. After we all ate, I helped the girls with the dishes, giving Helga and Ramona some time alone outside. It was fun. Jenny and Leah were singing the only German song they knew, “Oh Tannebaum”. It was a well known Christmas song, “Oh Christmas tree”. Later we all played Uno and Damen, a popular German card game.

It had been over a week without our kids, and I fully realized how much that I missed them. It was by far the worst part of being divorced, having to share the kids with your ex-partner.

The afternoon flew by in a whirl, and then there we were, reluctantly saying our goodbyes. One of the girls surprised Helga with a drawing of a horse. Jenny had done a great job with it. Helga grabbed her, and then she hugged Leah.

The little girls gave me a big hug as well, and Ramona squeezed me tightly and thanked me for bringing Helga down to see her. Then she kissed me on both cheeks. I corrected her, and said Helga was the one responsible for this trip. We both grabbed Helga and I kissed her left cheek, and Ramona kissed her right.

Helga seemed to be on the verge of tears as we walked to the car. I placed my arm around her and she leaned on me. I understood her sadness all to well, that damn ocean was so incredibly wide. She knew the possibility was very real that she would never see Ramona alive again.

We talked about the visit for a while. She told me some stories about her times with Ramona back in the day. They had even dated the same guy at some point. Eventually we fell into a comfortable silence. The radio entertained us during the long drive back.

Despite making great time, we arrived back in Newburyport too late for a quick visit with Nana. I was disappointed.

We drove straight to Milk Street. Upon arriving I was happy to see my brother Ted’s car parked there. I never seemed to see much of him during these visits to the USA. This was probably so because he was the only sibling working fulltime, and more often than not he worked six days a week. Larry and Lara were both collecting social security and Becky only worked on weekends.

We went inside, and found that Lara and Becky were there too, along with Ted and his girlfriend Bonnie. I gave the packed room a quick wrap up of our day out. Helga showed everyone the drawing of the horse. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a leftover slice of pizza. Lara followed me and asked me if I had enjoyed my night out without Helga. I said it had been ok.

Helga and Lara started chatting then, and I was grateful that no further questions had arisen. I slipped out of the kitchen. I followed Ted upstairs where we listened to Mike play some electric guitar. He was damn good. Ted told him so, and Mike nearly blushed as he protested.

Ted cuffed him. “Bullshit man, you play great. I don’t know any Green Day.” Mike looked down at his guitar and smiled. Then he started playing again.

A little later Ted and I ended up outside together alone, sitting on the wooden bulkhead. Long ago, it had been the neighborhood stage as kids, for comedy skits and songs. And many a conversation had taken place sitting there over the past three decades.

“Dare I ask? How was Nana tonight?’ I asked.

“Hey, she actually seems a little better. They are even saying that she might be moved into Port Rehab.”

“Really?” I was impressed. Two days ago we were all pretty much convinced that the end was near. “Becky works there, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, and Larry’s wife works there during the week too. She’ll be in good hands. Better than in the AJ, that’s for sure.”

“Life is funny. It’s crazy isn’t it? Who would have thought back then that she would outlive Butch?”

“Really. But no one expected him to die so young. Nana is such a tough woman. She has lived alone ever since.”

“Do you think she will ever be able to return to her apartment?”

“It doesn’t look good. And we all know how she feels about Nursing Homes.”

Yes, we did. She hated them. The mere mention of one and she would get visibly upset. I get it though; I couldn’t picture living in a nursing home either. A car drove by us, and went down Lime Street. We could hear “Light My Fire” from The Doors being blasted from within. We both laughed.

We sat there in silence, and Ted lit up a cigarette. He broke the silence, “So what’s up with you and Helga? She doesn’t really seem too happy here.”

“You got that right. I don’t think this trip has been going quite as she had planned.”

“Well, no one knew that Nana would end up in the hospital. What does she expect?”

“More sightseeing, less family for one. Plus, I she underestimated how bad it would be not understanding English.”

“What the fuck did she expect? We are Americans. Anyway, wasn’t this your birthday present from her? She should be happy doing what you want to do.”

“To be honest man, I’m beginning to think it could be my farewell present.”

“What? Why would you say that?”

And the floodgates finally opened. Over the years Ted had always been the one I could be totally open with. He had been my hero too growing up, not just cousin Sherri’s hero.

He literally broke down all the doors with my parents that I eventually passed through. He gave me a creed to follow. He also turned me onto music and showed me what music truly was. That was major.

But perhaps my biggest debt to him is the fact that he taught me it was ok to be different.

Ted could be brazen, he would raise his voice when he got angry, and like my father, he would be stoic most of the time. But that didn’t mean he was detached from his emotions, he just did not wear them on his sleeve.

Underneath the tough guy thing he had going, Ted was a spiritual man.

He had never attempted to reinvent himself, ever. He was the perfect big brother; unfortunately something my little brother Larry would, and could not honestly say about me.

So I told him everything, about how Helga and I really got together. (I left out the part about Patty, I was still digesting that chapter myself.)

I informed him about Helga’s wild past and the three girls all having different fathers.

I told him about her parents hating me, and about the generous offer with the farmhouse for Helga.

I told him about my tax problems.

I wrapped it up by generalizing that basically that was why we got married so quickly.

Ted shrugged his shoulders. No accusations, no judgment. “You could have done worse, she seems cool, and she’s pretty hot.”

“Pretty hot?” I laughed, and told him about the things that had changed in the bedroom since she had gotten her house. So I told him about our weird sex life. He had been serious up until this point, but now he laughed out loud.

“Are you kidding me? She’s got great tits like that, and she doesn’t like having them touched. That’s classic.” He laughed some more.

“I laughed too when she told me, but it isn’t that funny anymore.”

“You selfish bastard, they’re her tits.” Ted laughed again. Then his tone softened, and he said, “Well she lets you look at them, doesn’t she?”

We both laughed now. Then he punched my shoulder and said, “That’s pretty cool. Take what you can get Bro, that’s all any of us can do.”

From Ted, that was a bitter truth. He had just gone through the divorce from hell. His wife had gone psycho, and took literally everything away from him in the legal proceedings.

Her father had hired a great lawyer, (Ted was as unpopular with her parents as I was with Helga’s parents) and Ted did not have the money for a good lawyer. From what I have heard, his lawyer was in fact- horrible. Even my father had said to me Ted’s lawyer seemed like a clown.

Ted never had a chance in court. Boom. Full custody to the mother; and massive child support payments to the father.

And not only had he lost his kids, she went on to prevent the whole family from ever seeing them again. It was completely insane.

Not even my parents, who were sweet, loving grandparents, were allowed to see their grandchildren anymore. Legally, there was nothing any of us could do about it.

Ted’s temper had flared in court seeing where all of this was going, and now he even had a restraining order out on him, so that he could not even pass through the town she lived in without feeling fear she would see him and get him jailed. This was tough, since that was where the factory was located where he worked.

He lived alone after this, and Bonnie was his first try at love again. “Well man, to be honest, I don’t think Bonnie and I will be together very much longer either.”

“What? You guys get along great. She seems wicked nice.”

“Oh she is, but it just isn’t love. We got fixed up, and we were both lonely, and so here we are.”

“Does she let you touch her boobs?”

He laughed and so did I. Guys will be guys.

We talked for another hour or so, enjoying the location, and each other’s company. With Ted we never ran out of things to talk about.

Eventually, the house emptied out, and Mom and Dad went to bed. Helga watched a little more of The Animal Channel.

I sat down in Mom’s chair and read The Daily News. The names of people who had been caught shoplifting were still being printed. I couldn’t believe it. I smiled, and remembered Sally with a sigh. I was proud of the fact that I had saved a few people the embarrassment.

But I was still far from being proud of myself; Hoot Night still hung over me like a heavy rain cloud ready to burst. A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory. I was remembering again now.

It isn’t that easy discovering that you really were a selfish bastard. I went to bed with a sigh.

Every arrival back in Newburyport was greeted with endless days and lengthy nights. But after the first few days had passed me by, the bubble then burst; soaking me with the unbearable weight of my imminent return flight.

Upon awakening, my thoughts would race in three directions at once; covering the yesterdays, which was like sealing the precious memories in a vault, planning the day, which was absolutely useless, as something or someone always came along unexpected and threw us for a loop, and last, but certainly not least, make time to go visit Nana and make the rest of Helga’s visit as pleasant for her as possible.

After a quick breakfast, we drove straight to the hospital, having missed the opportunity to see Nana the night before. I was prepared for some Monday morning family gossip.

On this trip Nana’s room was the place to be, but not just for me. I had seen many family members here already, cousins, friends of the family, people I normally don’t get to see during these short visits back to the world.

And most of them I had already seen more than once, and some, like cousin Sherri, Kathy, sister Becky and my Aunt Katherine were actually here everyday. Nana had a private room, small, but cozy, if a hospital room can ever be described as cozy.

Her bed was situated near the door. Surrounding this bed, set up in a semicircle, were the standard metallic hospital chairs we all sat on during our visits. Nana was the hub. There was only one reason that we were here, in this room, at this moment in time. And we all knew it.

Except perhaps Nana. She was in and out, at times she spoke, but most of the time she observed us in deafening silence. She was awake a lot of the time, but she also napped fairly often.

At times it seemed like she was intently listening to us, but more often than not you got the feeling she was somewhere else, some place much better, someplace very far away. So basically the ensuing conversations were ours.

This was real life. It was happening right before our weary eyes. This is where it officially ends. It was almost like a melodramatic play. The stage was dimly lit, the theater reeked of fresh disinfectant, but it sufficed.

The topics of conversations we shared constantly changed, and were either exhausted if they intrigued or simply ignored if they bordered on the mundane. We debated heatedly, gossiped dreadfully, told dirty jokes, ethnic jokes and bad jokes, criticized and praised each other and our kids.

At times Helga and I were alone with Nana, and other times the room was full, over flowing out into the hall. The play had no beginning, and no one wanted to see it end. And like all inept theatre compositions, everyone had at least one spoken line.

Some of the stuff was pretty funny. Like when Sherri said, “You know the world is going crazy when the best rapper is a white guy, the best golfer is a black guy, the tallest player in the NBA is Chinese, France is accusing the USA of arrogance, Germany doesn’t want to go to war, and the three most powerful men in America are named “Bush”, “Dick” and Colon”.

Yes, Sherri was always there. I was there, Helga, my parents, my brothers Ted and Larry, sisters Lara and Becky, cousins Kathy, Doug, Terry, Rachel, Charlene, Charlotte, Todd, Randy, my forever composed Aunt Katherine and more.

We were the final keepers, the symbolic angels, anxiously waiting for Nana to tell us something about her life that we didn’t know.

Like angels, we wanted to know the excitement of the highlights of her life, and weep over the lows. We wanted to feel the exhilaration of eighty plus years of intimate experiences, and mourn all of her losses with her.

We wanted to file away every single word and emotion and carry them in our hearts, always remember them.

And yet, we wanted so bad to forget that we were all dutifully and willingly accompanying Nana on her final voyage.

Suddenly we all had the time. Just a few weeks before it would have been unthinkable that all of these people would have been visiting her at her apartment with such frequency.

No one ever had time. Life was simply too busy. We were diligently running in the wheel, always going nowhere, the wheel spinning faster and faster.

It was quite typical of human nature. The priorities always change when we unexpectedly run out of time. We always live life to its fullest once our backs become pressed against the wall. Time doesn’t exist. Clocks exist.

And so we all came and waited. We chatted just to pass the time. Someone had even asked me if I still wrote my pretentious stories. I said not at the moment, while glancing at Helga, my erased story suddenly coming back to mind. Helga shrugged her shoulders. I smiled at her; all forgiven my love, I was a bad, bad boy.

“But I always get weird ideas being back at Milk Street. How do these titles sound- Hey look, the bathtub has feet. Was it just my imagination, or had the back yard really shrunk over the years? Boy, eventually hair will be growing out of my ears too.”

Nobody laughed. Terry asked why I didn’t try to write fiction.

“I can not write fiction, basically because of the major difference between fiction and reality. Fiction has to make sense.” Now, they laughed. My eyes returned to my grandmother.

Then something hit me. Looking at Nana jolted something in me. I was confused; I knew that look on her face. I had seen it somewhere before. I frowned as I tried to remember where.

My eyes followed hers and I walked over and looked out the window.

As I reached the window I glanced at Nana again, and she was still looking outside, watching something very intently. I turned and looked below. (We were up on the second floor.)

I saw a young woman pushing a baby carriage down the sidewalk. It was not one of these modern three wheelers, but a more traditional baby carriage. The top was down, and you could see a baby inside, wrapped in a blue blanket. The young woman was wearing a red T-shirt and blue jeans.

There was movement in the wagon, and the woman stopped. She leaned in, blocking our view of the baby. The baby may have been crying, we could not hear anything from outside. I picture the young mother consoling her child, perhaps even singing softly.

And then it hit me. That forlorn look on Nana’s face.

I had seen that same look years ago back when I worked in the wallpaper factory.

I ran a series of machines that cut and rolled wallpaper into ten-meter rolls. The machines were big, and took up an area as large as two basketball courts.

Directly next to my machines was a metal ramp that full pallets of product were placed upon to load directly into trailer trucks. The long ramp led to a large garage door. Management had put up a cheap metal wall between my machines and the loading ramp to protect me a little from the cold when the doors were open to load the trucks in the winter.

The sheet metal they had was second hand and old, and extremely rusty in various spots. (We all know that rust never sleeps.) The wall had to be cleaned up.

We had a guy named Bendt who did all of our exhibition work, setting up display walls of various wallpaper. He also did all the painting within the factory. Bendt was a nice guy, and he had just turned fifty.

He was working on this metal wall for weeks. First he sanded everything, and then he began painting a section with primer. Since I was working right next to him, I went over and talked to him all the time. He was funny, and he loved Monty Python, as did I. Reruns were being shown on German TV every night. We did a lot of funny recreations from the Ministry of Silly Walks.

After he had finished the primer work, he went back to the beginning and started painting the first section of the wall. It was being painted in dark blue, the primer was a dismal shade of gray, so in direct contrast it looked great.

Then, one day he did not come to work. I noticed, and I missed our chats. After a few days, I asked someone where he was. I was told he was sick. After a few weeks, I asked someone else. I found out he had cancer.

He had abdominal cancer, and it was bad. They could not operate. He had done two doses of chemotherapy. Yet, it was too late; metastasis had set in. Bendt was looking at a few months left to live, at the most. Just like that.

I felt terrible. I wanted to see him again, but I had never been to his home, in fact, we had never talked much at all before the wall got built next to my machine. A couple of weeks later I heard he was going to stop by the factory. I looked forward to seeing him again, and at the same time, I wondered why he was coming. I could not picture coming back to the place one worked to say that final goodbye.

Ted had informed me once that Grampie Butch had done the same exact thing back when his cancer was getting bad. Ted was at their house in Salisbury when Butch had told him that tomorrow was going to be a hard day. Ted asked why. Butch told him that he was going the factory to say goodbye to his workmates. Ted said Butch was teary eyed.

The day arrived, and I saw Bendt in the next hall standing in the middle of a group of co-workers. He was a lot thinner, but other than that, he did not really look that bad from where I was standing. I saw him then wander off to another group, and waited, figuring he might stop by here and the warehouse behind me.

I understood now how difficult it must have been for Butch to go in to his workplace and say goodbye. Butch was such a passionate man, it must have killed him to do so, it was so very tragic.

Sure enough, as I was hanging a huge bale of wallpaper into my machine, I saw Bendt slowly walk by. Now that he was closer, you could really see how sick he was. His skin was pasty pale, his eyes were sunken, and he had the gait of a very old man.

No more Monty Python silly walks for this man.

He stopped at the wall. I stopped working, and I watched him.

He walked over to the section that was finished, the blue wall. He reached out, and felt the painted wall with his right hand. Then, he took a step over and touched the gray wall, then reached back and felt the blue again.

I was walking towards him now, but I stopped, seeing his eyes were misty. His facial expression was so sad, and his eyes so despondent. He rubbed the smooth blue wall, and turned his gaze to the gray again. His head turned and he looked at the length of the wall. He stood there for a few minutes, his gaze unwavering, the sadness etched deep into face.

A few weeks ago this had been a large part of his life. He hadn’t known he was terminally ill. Not anymore. Now he knew that he would not finish what he had started. He would not be doing this ever again; he would not even be seeing this again. It was history, his personal history. And it was done.

Now, I was seeing the same exact look on Nana’s face as she gazed out the window at the mother and child below. It brought a lump to my throat.

She had once pushed babies in carriages. She had once been a young mother. She had been a young grandmother. It had been her life once. And now, it was over. It would not happen ever again. It was her personal history. It was done.

I took a step to Nana’s bed and touched her face. Her eyes blinked and she turned her head and looked at me. I said, “I bet it is a beautiful baby Nana.”

Nana smiled at me and then she looked back out the window and said, “All babies are beautiful Blaine, all babies are angels.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

DAVEY’S CONNECTION CEYLAN CATCHES ME OFF GUARD

We got home later to find out that Davey had called for me. Mom gave me the message.

Davey had happily told her that he ran into me at the Barn the other night.

Mom told me that she remembered how he used to come over with my girlfriend back then. She said it was so cute the way he used to follow me around. I had to grin, thinking to myself that some things apparently never change.

Actually, I was a little surprised that my mother even remembered him, or his sister for that matter. It was so long ago. I was a little anxious fearing that she may question me about Melanie, but mom did not pursue it at all.

I took the slip of paper with his phone number on it and stuffed it into my pocket. But, my curiosity got the best of me and sure enough, I called him back the very next morning.

We were rapidly running out of time. Actually, aren’t we all rapidly running out of time?

Davey seemed excited hearing I had called. He was talking to me as if I lived next door and we were best friends. He cheerfully invited us over for a dip in the Jacuzzi. I was more than surprised. He told me to bring along my old lady, and not to worry about the possible implications, as his sister Melanie would definitely not be there.

I strongly suspected I would never see Melanie again, which left me feeling strangely empty.

Were we all masochists at heart or is it just me?

I ran it by Helga, not mentioning that his sister was also there at Hoot Night. Helga was all for the trip to Davey’s house, anywhere other than the hospital was just fine with her.

I wasn’t surprised, and I was already wondering if she would climb into the Jacuzzi with Davey and his friends. I had a strong feeling that she would.

Before we left Milk Street I made a few rushed phone calls, confirming dinner dates, setting up times and silently hoping that I would keep the appointments. Then we said goodbye to Mom and Dad- who were- surprise surprise- heading out to go see Nana- and we dashed out the door.

All of us had seemingly been in a hurry for days now; it was extremely annoying, but also, simply unavoidable. It is that damn sand you see, the purple sand was flowing and flowing, faster and faster.

We drove away from Milk Street in the south end of town to Davey’s house in the north end.

I surprised myself, and found it right away. I rang the doorbell, and seconds later Davey answered the door.

“Well hi man. This is awesome. Glad you could make it.” Ever the gracious host, he then flashed that preppy smile of his and in an exaggerated gesture, dramatically swung the door open for us with a bow.

“Hi Davey, this is my wife Helga.”

“Hi there. Good to meet cha. Does this guy treat you right? Selfish bastard broke my sister’s heart back in High School.”

“All men be selfish bastards. But, Blaine is good man.”

I was stunned hearing her say this, regardless of her good mood. I shot her a questioning look. She smiled at him, then at me.

Davey smiled and turned and then he led us into the house. It was even nicer than I remembered it to be. It had that juvenile-bachelor flair, but there were no “Scorpions” or “Joe Satriani” posters hanging up on the walls. We followed him down a corridor in silence. He led us into the bright kitchen. He walked to a counter, and hit a switch, starting up a blender with a roar.

“You guys up to a south end style daiquiri? Was just mixing a batch. Relax, I go pretty easy on the rum.”

“Oh yes, I like cold drink,” Helga answered.

“Good, good. Plenty of ice in the house too. So what have you guys been up to? Mary is it?”

“Helga.”

“Helga, of course. Do you like it here? Not as nice as Spain I assume.”

“I like Spain. I like America much too. Good food, good people.”

“We have been mobile. It’s been non-stop motion,” I added.

“Well then a dip in the Jacuzzi could be just what the doctor ordered. Are you up to it?” Davey asked as he switched off the mixer.

“Blaine said jack uzie is a hot water tub.”

“Basically. Got a few friends floating out there now, didn’t know I was so damn popular until I had it installed last year.” he quipped and laughed.

“I like hot water,” Helga said, and she wasn’t kidding. I knew her favorite method of dealing with stress was to lie for prolonged stretches of time in the bathtub. Yes, hot bubble baths, a couple of candles, soft rock music and you have soothing balsam for the soul.

Davey began filling glasses with the pinkish foam. Once he had a tray full he picked it up, and with a nod, headed down the hall. He led us to the patio, and then outside. Sure enough, the same two guys who were floating the other night were sitting in the tub.

“Jesus, you guys live in there?” I said and laughed.

“Blaine, Mary, this is Pete and Flip.”

“Helga, her name is Helga,” I corrected and shook hands with the sharks. They smiled, and then extended their hands in Helga’s direction.

“Helga, it is a pleasure. Please join us,” said Flip.

“I have to head out and pick up some rum. You wanna go with me Blaine? We could catch up some more,” asked Davey. I cringed inwardly, knowing Helga would be pissed if I took off. Yet once again I was wrong.

“I don’t know, would you mind? What do you want to do?” I asked her.

“I go in the hot water, you go with Davey, no problem.” she answered with a smile and then she began undressing.

She kicked off her shoes. Then she slipped off her jeans and all talk stopped as we all stood staring. I was smiling again.

Nudity was no big deal in Germany and in all of Europe in general. A naked body was simply not obscene. Private parts, an American description by the way, were also not obscene.

What I feel is really obscene is watching someone getting his head blown off by a weapon, and you can see that nearly every night on TV in the States. Murder, physical violence, death, all obscene to me.

War is also obscene, but no one gets too upset about that either, as long as it isn’t happening in their own backyard.

And yet, nudity was not shown on public TV in the USA.

And breastfeeding? Women breastfeed everywhere and anywhere in Germany. You will not find someone telling them that they are offended by the mere sight of it. Seriously, what is offensive about a mother feeding her baby?

Yes, Nestle is extremely offended, in the Fifties they got a whole generation of mothers to believe that their factory made powdered formulas were better for babies than a mother’s breast milk. Thus my siblings and I were never breastfed.

And Nude beaches were the norm, television showed naked bodies, or couples smoozing; even the soap commercials showed naked folks soaping up their private parts, and even men’s genitals were a common soapy sight.

Europeans loved saunas, and indoor swimming pools; these organic places were naturally “co-ed”. The first time- and last time.- I walked into a sauna still sporting my underwear I was greeted with knowing giggles and looks of amazement. Sure enough, after a while you stopped gawking and felt at ease hanging around in the buff.

It felt natural to be nude, our naked bodies were our temples; how can we be ashamed of them?

This wholesome condition, coupled with the legality of prostitution probably had something to do with the fact that rape was quite rare in Germany. In fact, rape occurred ten times more often in the U.S.A. than it did in Europe.

Helga peeled off her top and stood before us sporting just her blue bra. I was quite familiar with her substantial breasts, so I watched the widening eyes of the men in the tub instead.

Helga turned her back to me, and I nonchalantly unsnapped the metal restraint and her bra fell to the floor, but no one watched its descent. All eyes were on her beautiful breasts as she climbed over the edge and eased herself into the bubbling water.

“Geil, mann tut das gut,” she murmured and sat down on the hidden edge.

“Wow, are all German women built like you?” Flip asked.

“I build the horse stall,” Helga answered and we all laughed.

“Wow, wasn’t that something. Okay boys, behave yourself, we’ll be right back,” Davey said and headed back into the house.

I leaned forward and kissed Helga. She held my head and kissed me back, and I wondered how much of this kiss was for the benefit of the sharks. The kiss finally ended and she smiled at me real naughty like, then reached out for one of the cocktails and took a long sip.

Pete and Flip also grabbed a glass from the tray and toasted her. Davey had returned and he tugged on my shirt, and practically dragged me off the patio. We walked through the house and through the living room. He grabbed his wallet and a set of keys from a table near the front door.

“What’s up Blaine? You ain’t jealous, are you?”

“No, I don’t think so anyway. Why, you don’t think those guys will try anything, do you?”

“Damn, check you out. A few nights ago you were literally drooling chasing my sister around the Barn. Don’t tell me my childhood hero is a fucking hypocrite.”

“Aren’t we all? And what are you talking about, childhood hero?”

“Do I have to say it? For a while you were like the big brother I never had man. I didn’t hang out with you guys to be with my sister,” he said as we reached the front door and passed through. He led me to his pickup, and I climbed in. He started the big machine, and rolled out of his driveway.

“You didn’t miss much. I am not a very good big brother. I wasn’t there for my brother Larry either. And to be honest Davey, you used to drive us nuts.”

“Tough shit. I knew you guys were onto something.”

“Really? What were we onto? And where are we going anyway?”

“Aww, I figured you just might wanna get high again. I spaced it off yesterday, so we gotta make the run today. I like my weed man. They say Marijuana makes you lazy and unmotivated. That’s bullshit; you can do anything you normally do just as well when you are stoned. But when you are high you realize it’s just not worth the fucking effort.”

He laughed and continues, “ Sorry, but that’s life. You work for the man, pay tons of taxes, pick the wrong woman, get a divorce and then you die.”

“It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other about smoking. So if that’s the only reason we are taking off, we can go back.”

“What the — HEY, you are jealous. What a prick. I thought you said you guys might even break up?” Davey said sarcastically and lit up a cigarette.

“I don’t really know, but somehow it just doesn’t really matter. Helga can take care of herself. I believe in love, but love doesn’t seem to believe in me.”

“That’s it man, that’s exactly how you and Melanie used to talk. Now give me a Kung Fu quote.”

“I get it, you liked the weird stuff. Ok, I can do that. Kwai Chang Caine once explained to three rednecks that ordinarily, there are three ways we learn- through education or example, through meditation or divination, or through experience- which the most bitter and hardest, and the slowest way too. Then he beat up the three rednecks, smiled and said that was the third method and then he slowly walked away into the sunset.”

Davey cracked up. “Yeah man, exactly. Now give me that daily prayer you two used.”

“Come on Davey, that was long ago.’

“It doesn’t feel that long ago. Seeing you the other night was shocking for me, I had forgotten about you two. And you have not changed brother, it must be the German beer, but you have not aged nor do you act old. So, lets hear the fucking prayer you and my sister used to recite before you would sneak off to make out.”

I grinned and gazed out the window at the passing American scenery. I had never considered that Davey might have missed me after Melanie and I broke up back then.

He was her little brother. So, he was an innocent bystander? What does the Army call it, collateral damage?

I looked at him driving and saw the young freckled face boy again. I was in that weird time machine once more.

Ok, I had to think about that one, and then I knew what he meant. It was our appreciation psalm. Remembering it, I was really beginning to miss Melanie. I was missing being young. I shook it off.

“Ok, I see that being with Davey is great. The grass is green. The water stilled my thirst. The stars are still in the heavens. I am still breathing. With every breath we draw we are utilizing forces that are absolutely mysterious as well as powerful. We are swimming in a vast sea of forces, which demand only to be used and enjoyed.”

Davey laughed again. “You guys were insane. Ok, do you remember the one about looking for fun?”

“Seriously? What is this? Why aren’t we talking about the Red Sox or something?”

“Because the Red Sox suck, you know about the curse of the Babe, we shall never win a world series. C’mon man, humor me here.”

“Why so sentimental? Aren’t you too young to be this sentimental? I think we have gotten too old for this shit.”

“You’re right. That’s exactly why I want you to do it, it takes me back. Seeing you and my sister back together the other night blew my mind.”

Again, I glanced over and saw the boy, and not the man. I wondered if he knew what happened after Melanie and I left his house. I frowned. Maybe I owed it to him to play along. It was weird though. “Ok man, which one am I supposed to recreate?”

“The one about the secret about having fun.”

“Ok, I think I know what you mean. Wow, you know what? I had forgotten that we used to do this; I guess as teenagers you have way more free time, aye? Here goes, the most remarkable secret, which we have discovered so far, was this. The world, for all its ills and shortcomings, was made purely for our enjoyment. Have fun.”

“Yeah dude, that one led me directly to doing drugs!” Davey quipped and burst out laughing.”

“Well, that’s depressing.”

“Fucking with you man. I don’t like drugs, drugs just like me.” He laughed again, and I laughed with him. “Just one more; do the cool one about cosmic coincidences.”

I winced inwardly. He must have talked to Melanie. I used the cosmic coincidence bit in my final please let me kiss you speech. But again, I felt I owed it to him to play along.

“Ahh, my favorite. Let’s see, Cosmic coincidences; a fantastic term I heard with Melanie in a movie at the Port Cinema and we instantly adopted it as truth. The chaotic itinerary of my life’s travels have led me to where I am, although the proposed route detoured from the chosen path years ago. This never-ending path does not convey the concept that life is to be enjoyed when I reach a certain level of perfection; or achieve any abstract goals. There is no forthcoming arrival; this path leads nowhere. The main idea is that life may, can and should be enjoyed NOW, under whatever conditions.”

“Amen brother. Again, you two led me directly to a party lifestyle. Thank you.”

“That was not the point, but, I have to admit, I partied for years too.” And so has Melanie. Maybe I should not have agreed to another meeting with her brother. But, maybe I did owe it to him. I always believed in paying your dues. “It’s good to see you again Davey. I guess I never thought I would ever see you again.”

“Hey Blaine, confession time, we are not just going to score weed, I wanted to have a little more time with you before you took off again.”

“That’s cool. These trips home always fly by. I never get to spend as much time with everyone as I would like to. And as weird as it was, it was awesome seeing Melanie again. I guess I was an asshole though. I upset her. I got carried away. I am sorry Davey.”

“Why are you apologizing to me? Melanie knows what she is doing. She really dug you man, I talked to her yesterday and she said that you had not changed at all, which she said was both good and bad.” He grinned at me.

I had to ask. “Is that all she said?”

“Well, she said you still sucked in bed.” He said and laughed.

I laughed too, and decided there was really nothing I could say about his sister if he didn’t say anything else. And he didn’t. So, I let it go. But we talked about everything else going on in his life. It was an enjoyable ride.

We crossed the state line and he pulled into a once popular shopping center. The nearby mall had killed this place. He stopped the truck in a space in front of Radio Shack and pocketed his keys. He nodded to me and said he would be right back. He strutted across the street and I watched him walk into a Laundromat neighboring the Radio Shack. So I waited.

Ands waited. And waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.

I thought about Helga naked in a hot tub with two strangers, and oddly enough, I even got a little excited. I laughed, thinking about how we all used to read “Penthouse Letters”. They were mega-popular in the army. There was a lot of wife swapping going on too. Strange times.

Change the subject! I thought about Nana lying in that damn hospital bed, and wondered what the subject matter was today with the clique surrounding her. I thought about various people working in the place I worked at in Germany. I wondered what my kids were doing at this very moment at home. I felt like eating a chocolate coconut doughnut.

And I waited.

After nearly half an hour had passed, I was getting angry. He had taken his keys, or I would have just driven back to his place to spite him. Having no other choice, I decided to go in and see what the hell was taking so long. I opened the heavy door and hopped to the pavement. I didn’t have a shadow. It was an overcast day, but we had been spared from rain thus far.

I walked across the street and stopped in front of the big picture window of the Laundromat. I held my hand against the window to shade the glare and glanced inside. It was hard to see the interior.

I didn’t really know Davey, so I didn’t know if he was normally this rude. Maybe something had gone wrong. Maybe something had happened to him. Suddenly I was mentally prepared for the worst.

I had indeed had dealers as friends over the years, and it was not cloak and dagger like it had been so often portrayed in television or movies. Yet occasionally the nature of the business did expose the dark side of it all.

I half expected to see poor freckled face Davey lying in a pool of dark red blood on the floor, bogus weed spread out all over him and the floor, a smoldering joint hanging from his bloody mouth.

I peered inside, and nothing was out of the ordinary. There were three women and two men spaced throughout the place folding clothes, or waiting in chairs browsing through magazines near the running machines. Davey was nowhere in sight.

I frowned. Perhaps he knew the person working here and was in the back room. They must have a storage room or something along those lines. I decided to go inside.

I pulled the door open, and walked into the gloom of the interior. No one looked in my direction. I gazed left, then right.

Still no Davey.

I walked through the aisle along the line of heavy-duty washing machines. I was looking for a door. At the back there stood three vending machines, two with soda pop, one with candy. Next to them was a door, with a sign “STAFF ONLY”.

I stood in front of the door, and turned once more and scanned the entire room. No one was paying any attention to me. I turned the doorknob and slowly opened the door.

I stuck my head inside and took a peek. He was alive.

Davey was sitting across from a woman at a small table, a small white cup, turned over onto its saucer, was sitting in between of them on the table.

The woman was middle aged, had a great tan, and long, brown wavy hair. I expected to smell weed, but no, the smell of rich, roasted coffee permeated the air.

Davey and the woman gazed at the residue on the saucer, apparently into its void. Davey asks, “Too soon, aye? Then when will I be able to find my one true love?”

Really? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I smiled, and loudly cleared my throat.

“Oh Blaine, damn, I should have come out and got you. Sorry. This is Ceylan. This is my long lost brother Blaine.”

Ceylan nodded briefly in my direction, and then she shot a condemning look at Davey. I understood. Back in the day my connections did not tolerate me bringing strangers along to any meetings.

Ceylan held her glare a bit longer, then the woman looked back at the coffee grounds before her.

“You probably think this is weird. But I usually get a reading when I stop by. This will not take long.”

I walked over to them, and now Ceylan glanced up and smiled at me, then returned her gaze to the little saucer. I smiled back. She had a delightful gap in between her front teeth. My smile lingered.

My Mafia fantasy was a little off.

Apparently she was studying the little symbols the grounds had left behind. I wanted to complain about the time he had left me hanging outside, but I decided this was not a good time to complain. Besides, now I was curious.

“I see a bow, that means a happy event. I see a bird, that means good news.” She looked up at Davey and then said, “I also see a volcano, which means you are out of control Davey. Perhaps you need more composure in your life before your true love can reach you.”

I was grinning now. Davey was really having his fortune told. What next?

“You don’t believe in such things Blaine?”

I glanced quickly at Ceylan, having been caught off guard. “William Shakespeare said it is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”

Hey look Nana, I had finally quoted Shakespeare! I grinned.

“I agree, I totally agree, but the clues are here, all around us.”

“Come on Blaine, let her do your fortune.”

“Oh I don’t know. I don’t believe in it.”

“Call it corny, call it a joke, but predicting one’s future by reading coffee grounds is one of the oldest fortune-telling practices in the world, and one of the most widely practiced to this day.”

“That may be true, but we are really in a hurry. Plus, my wife is at Davey’s house naked with two guys right now.”

Davey laughed, and said, “I think you should ask her about that! Seriously man, Ceylan is amazing. We got time. What happened to cosmic coincidences?”

I shrugged my shoulders, but I guess my face was displaying my uncertainty and my growing curiosity. Ceylan smiled at me again. Then she spoke.

“Blaine, in a world filled with uncertainty, man has sought answers from every imaginable source- the stars, the moon, the earth, in each other, and within one’s self. From these unknowns and the human mind was born such things as astrology, evolution, creationism, atheism, and hundreds of other ideas humans use to define the mysteries of the universe, explain events from the past, and predict future occurrences. I see even without coffee grounds that you have spent a lifetime seeking answers.”

Davey had already nailed me with his comment before. Now she had just hammered it in.

“What do I have to do?”

She quickly prepared me a small cup of coffee as I exchanged seats with Davey.

She handed it to me on a small saucer, which I carefully took.

Then she said, “Just relax Blaine and sip slowly your coffee from the same side of the cup. You must leave one-sip liquid in the cup.”

I took a sip and my eyes widened. “Whoa, this is strong coffee!”

Davey grinned. Ceylan sat across from me and I found her big brown eyes revealed nothing. I sipped, wishing I could sweeten it, but this was not possible. I drank down to the last sip and tried to give her the cup.

“No, you must prepare. Swirl the rest slowly; it will help the sediments get loose. Now, you may make a wish if you so desire.”

“What? I get a wish too? Cool.”

“I do not grant you a wish, I am not a genie. I can tell you if your wish will come true. Now, place the saucer over the top of the cup to cover it. Make sure that you seal it very well. Hold the coffee cup set with your hands in front of you. Make three circles clockwise, this way.” She demonstrated the movement needed.

Then she continued. “You must spread the sediment around and evenly spread it around the entire inside of the cup. Good. Now, flip the cup with a quick movement.”

I had followed all of her instructions, and flipped the cup and saucer. Davey was standing next to me. “Good job Blaine, I made a mess my first time”:

“Pass the coffee cup set to me please now.”

I did so and smugly leaned back in the chair. Ceylan held them and looked at me expectantly. “You will tell me your wish?”

“My wish, oh man, where do I begin? More sex? Mo’ Money? Ok, I wish for peace on earth.”

“That is a very noble wish, but I fear it shall never come true.”

“Could we skip the wish?” I said with a shrug.

“Naturally. I begin now. “

She started poking at the grounds on the saucer. Then she closed her eyes. When she opened them she sighed, and said, “Perhaps we should skip the reading too.”

“Really? Look, I’m sorry about the wish, it was stupid of me to wish for sex or money, I-”

She cut me off. “It is not a question of you not desiring a wish. I see no good symbols for you. None. This is very rare. Perhaps it is better not to know.”

Davey laughed and said,” Oh man; you better not get on that plane! I told you that you would stay here! First it was Ceylan’s kick ass weed, now it is her kick ass warning.”

She shot him a look of daggers. Then her eyes returned to me, and her expression was very serious. Then she looked away.

“Please, I will take your reading with a grain of salt. Please, continue.”

Ceylan glanced at me, and then she returned her gaze to the saucer. She began. “If you insist. I see a cat, this means you shall fight angrily with someone, and that you are in a wrong relationship, perhaps a very dangerous relationship.’

I smiled. Tell me something I don’t know.

“I see a knife, meaning a bad break up with a good friend or lover looms close by. It shall be ugly. It shall cut you. Shall I continue?”

I was intrigued, but she had not told me anything I did not already suspect. I figured Davey had mentioned me to her before I came in. “Yes, please, by all means do continue.” I was amused again.

“I see two symbols that I never see together. Not good. They touch each other. This is also very rare. Not good.” She stopped, and gazed at me with sympathetic eyes.

I smiled at her. “I’m a big boy, I can take it.”

“You will have no choice. I see the crow, the crow means bad news, bad news from far, far away, and, I see a coffin. We know this symbolizes the end. I see death, very soon. It shall not be you. But, it will be close to your heart. Death is very near. I am sorry.”

We had just pulled up to Davey’s house. He had been raving about Ceylan the whole drive. He had a point, not everyone can get a reading from their weed connection.

Now we were talking about my reading. “You told me yourself that things were not going very well with Helga.”

“Did you tell Ceylan that? Just admit it.”

“What? You fucking egomaniac, do you think I was in there talking about you? The world does not revolve around you.”

I fell silent. It made sense; he had not mentioned me. Plus, Davey did not know about my grandmother being in the hospital either.

But hey, Ted had said Nana was doing a lot better, that they were even going to move her to rehab.

We walked into the house. We had been gone nearly two hours. As we approached the yard, we heard mixed laughter. Helga’s funny cackle was amongst them. We walked out, and they were still in the damn hot tub.

“Jesus, you guys must be sprouting gills by now.” I said, and went to the side and kissed Helga. Davey happily opened his baggie and began rolling a joint.

“Did you have fun?” I asked Helga.

“No, the question is, did they have fun?” Davey said and laughed.

Pete said, “It was cool man, funny lady you brought over from Germany.”

“I like hot tub. I like pink drink too. I a little tipsy, maybe.” Helga replied and the guys laughed.

An hour later, we were finally on the way to the hospital. I wanted to leave right away, but Helga had surprised me, and had even smoked with them. I politely declined. Somehow, the urge to party had gone away.

I had a good talk with Davey. I wanted him to apologize to his sister for me, but he told me he wouldn’t do it, couldn’t do it, that it was meaningless. It would not change anything; I would still be flying out the day after tomorrow.

He told me I was old enough to know that I should never give anyone false hope.

Little Davey was all grown up. I told him I felt he really had his shit together. Despite hanging around me in his youth, he had turned out fine.

Everyone had loudly booed when Helga left the water and covered up with a bathrobe Davey had produced for her. Helga smiled, and she nearly blushed, something I have never seen her do.

I was really happy that she had had a good time; now we were heading to the hospital to say good night to Nana before we went to meet my brother Larry for dinner. Helga seemed totally relaxed.

I was not feeling very relaxed. Davey’s surprise visit had taken a very weird turn. Ceylan’s ominous words had gotten to me.

“I see a coffin. We know this symbolizes the end. I see death, very soon. It shall not be you. It will close to you. Death is very near.”

No, I was not feeling relaxed at all.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

NANA’S ANGEL (DO YOU BELIEVE IN ANGELS?)

Helga was blissfully gushing about the afternoon spent floating with the sharks in Davey’s backyard.

I had not experienced her this happy at any other point during this trip.

“Better late than never,” I thought to myself bitterly. Yet, I was truly happy for her.

Meanwhile, I was still lost in morbid thought about my weird meeting with Ceylan. I could not get her out of my head. It was not just her words or their supposed meaning that spooked me.

It was Ceylan’s eyes.

It was the look of surprise that was followed instantly by sincere concern when she first gazed at my coffee grounds. It was the look of fear that then ensued. Then it was the look of motherly sympathy as she softly informed me of what she had seen.

One thing had become crystal clear. Ceylan honestly believed what she had seen to be the bona fide truth, so why shouldn’t I?

We got to the AJ Hospital ten minutes later. We drove around to the back. I found a parking space right away and we strolled across the large parking lot. Helga locked her hand in my arm and smiled broadly at me.

I had to admit, she looked marvelous. Her hair was still slightly damp, and thus a little curly, and clung a bit to her face and neck. Her face was still a bit flushed, giving her a nice color.

I realized once again just how much smiling or simply being happy changed our outer physical appearance.

Helga was transformed. Her frown lines were gone, her facial muscles were relaxed, and now she looked ten years younger. Her eyes even possessed that rare beam of light that somehow altered those icy blue eyes into vast pools of meaningful warmth. I squeezed her hand and smiled back at her.

We entered the air conditioned building and instantly the smell of disinfectant invaded our nostrils. We were regulars and strolled inside as if we owned the place. We went directly to the elevator. Seconds later the doors opened, and it was empty. Once inside, Helga grabbed me, pinned me against the wall and kissed me. I was more than surprised.

“What’s up? Don’t tell me you’re horny? Did those guys hit on you back there?’

She laughed. “Not really, they liked what they saw I think, yes, but I think they were afraid of me.”

No doubt, I thought. To be honest, I had nothing against a little elevator sex, and let’s face it, there was never a reason NOT to have a quickie when the opportunity presented itself, but this was probably not the time or place.

The doors suddenly opened and Helga let go of me. She shrugged her shoulders and grinned at me. We stepped out into the bright corridor and she gave my left butt cheek a deliberate squeeze.

I turned towards Nana’s room and waved at Helga. She walked in the other direction to get us some coffee, as had been our routine since the first time. It gave her a few more minutes of freedom. She just did not enjoy being in that distressing room. Some people really hated hospitals.

I went into Nana’s room alone.

I was happy to see that I really was alone. I was the only one there, which was extremely rare. I walked over to her bed, waiting to see if she was awake before I spoke.

Nana was awake, and she was lying on her side, gazing at an empty chair. She was smiling. I leaned over to her, and said a soft hello and planted a kiss on her cheek. I took her hands in mine and asked her how she was feeling.

“Blaine, it’s so nice to see you. I do feel a little better today honey.” Then she looked away and continued smiling.

“It’s great to see you smiling Nana.”

“Oh Blaine, I’m so happy, look, she is back again.”

“Who is back Nana?”

“The angel. She came back this morning. I didn’t see her at all yesterday.”

“Wow, that’s cool. Is she here now?”

“Yes she is, sitting in that chair. She must like you Blaine, often times, she leaves the room when someone else comes in.”

“That’s really wonderful Nana.” I meant it too.

Nana was still smiling in the direction of the chair as she said, “I wish she would talk to me, but she only smiles at me. She is so beautiful.”

Nana’s angel was here.

Nana had been seeing her angel for the last couple of days.

She told me about it three days ago, and I was so fascinated by her awesome confession that I wanted to find out more about angels in general.

To me the most logical place to start seemed to be the church. I wanted to talk to Father Ritchie about it, the scholarly and at times boorish priest from my mother’s church, the Immaculate Conception Church in Newburyport.

The only problem was, I did not know how to go about this. I was rapidly running out of time, and no longer had the time to make an appointment to talk to him privately.

However, we were Catholics, and that gave me an idea. I found out from Mom when weekly confession was, and I got lucky, it was scheduled for the very next day. So, it was there I went.

I sat around in the church and waited until everyone had gone in to confess his or her sins. Yet in this case there were no males present. I admit, I was slightly surprised to see it had only been elderly women waiting in line. Who would have guessed? I didn’t know old ladies could be so naughty.

My turn came, so I nervously headed over to the Confession Booth to corner Father Ritchie in his robes. Suddenly this seemed like a bad idea.

I had not been to Catholic confession in years, and was convinced I could not even tell him how long it had been since my last confession, never mind list all of my sins for him.

Redemption? I hoped it was possible, I felt deep inside that I was basically a good person.

I remember as a kid being forced to go here each and every week, and most of the time I felt like I had not sinned at all during the week. So usually I just made something up, things like I had lied to my parents, or stole someone’s pencil at school, pulled on a girl’s bra strap, silly stuff like that.

Not necessarily offences that one burned in Hell for.

But never the less, it was ironic to me, even as a kid. In end effect I was actually sinning just to be able to confess my sins and take part in the weekly confession ritual. Then I gratefully said my “Hail Mary’s” and “Our Fathers” and went home happy and redeemed.

The church had completely emptied out and so I cautiously entered the confessional booth. It was dark in the booth; I found the wooden seat and sat down. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, the sliding panel to the screened window in front of me suddenly opened and there he was.

I was instantly very anxious, and I almost laughed a nervous laugh. I was a scared child again. Funny how those fears of sinning, that deep guilt-ridden instilled fear of fucking up- never went away entirely.

Just as I glanced at the Jesus on the cross hanging over the window, I found my voice. “Hello Father, I confess, I am not here to make a confession. My name is Blaine Hawkes, and my grandmother is very sick and may be dying and I just wanted to ask you something about angels.”

He remained still, yet now he had turned to face me. Then he cleared his throat and spoke. “This is a confessional booth my son. This is confession. I am afraid I can’t help you here. However, you can make an appointment in the rectory with Sister Mary, and I would more than be happy to talk to you then.”

“But father, I waited until the end of the confession period and there isn’t anyone left out there. You can check for yourself.” I opened my door to prove this, and peeked outside, verifying for myself and for Father Ritchie that we were in fact- alone. I heard Father Ritchie sigh.

I continued, “Just a couple of quick questions, please. What does the bible say about angels? Are there really angels?”

I heard him sigh again, and then he said, “You’re Helen’s son, aren’t you?”

Oh oh. This couldn’t be good. What had Mom told him? Suddenly I was paranoid all over again.

“Yes, I am. My mother is crazy about you. I mean in a spiritual way, of course.”

Again, that loud sigh. “My Mom suggested talking to you.”

My mother had become very active in the church in her old age, after years of not attending mass. Thus I had also attended mass with her last Sunday. It was wonderful. She even gave out Holy Communion these days.

“Helen Hawkes sent you. That explains this folly completely. Blaine, in answer to your question, yes, there are angels. An angel is a spiritual being. Angels are endowed with wisdom and knowledge of earthly events. Most of them serve either as intermediaries between Heaven and Earth, or as guardian spirits.”

“You mean there are guardian angels too?”

“You have forgotten your Sunday School lessons.”

“Not completely, I’m just a little rusty.”

“Are you going to take part in the sacrament of reconciliation now?

“Take part in what?”

“Confession Blaine. Do you have the intention of returning to God?”

Again, I felt that childlike fear take residence in my stomach. Where could I even begin? Why were we Catholics? Protestants did not have to confess their sins. We used to joke with kids at school that we Catholics had a classier heaven because we were the original Christians. We had the Pope as a spiritual leader while they were not subject to papal authority. We worshipped the Virgin Mary and they did not. Protestants did not even have Nuns or holy water.

I caught myself getting lost in thought and hit the brakes. No, there would be no confessing today. “Father Ritchie, to be frank, I never left God, really. But confession, no father, I am not prepared, I-”

He interrupted me. “Then let us leave the booth. If the church is empty now, I have a few minutes I can give to you. Come.”

“Thank you.” The panel door slid shut. I heard wood creak as he stood up and then his door opened. I stood up and stepped outside into the church. Father Ritchie was standing there checking me out.

He was perhaps fifteen years older than I was, but he still had a full head of gray hair. He was handsome, and had warm brown eyes. And then he smiled, and I understood exactly why Mom and her female friends all thought it was a terrible “waste” that he was a Catholic Priest.

He held out his hand. I smiled and shook it, half expecting to feel a painful shock rush through my body for denying him the chance to resolve me from my numerous sins.

He beckoned to a nearby pew and I quickly sat down. He sat next to me. I began. “My grandmother is claiming to see an angel in her hospital room. Does this mean she is dying?”

“Many people struggle with fear when they approach death, or even when they simply think about dying. A variety of research studies have shown that the fear of death is universal among human beings worldwide, and not just amongst Christians. People are afraid of the suffering they may have to endure when they die, and they fear what will happen to them after death, wondering if they may go to hell or even not exist at all anymore.”

“So, she is making it up?”

“On the contrary. Throughout recorded history, people from various religious perspectives have spoken of an “Angel of Death” who does accompany people to Heaven. Many people from all walks of life who have had near death experiences have reported that they’ve encountered angels who helped them, and people who have witnessed loved ones die have also reported encountering angels who gave their dying loved ones peace.”

He paused, then continued, “Sometimes dying people’s last words describe the visions they’re experiencing. For example, just before the famous inventor Thomas Edison died in 1931, he remarked: “It is very beautiful over there.”

“I had never heard that. But my grandmother has not been in a church for a long, long time.”

“And? Are you judging her? Do you think she is a bad person?”

“No, no, she is a wonderful person, a very nice person, a good person. I was just thinking that maybe she didn’t believe, well maybe.” I could not bring myself to say it.

“You think that your grandmother does not believe in God?”

Actually, I was not sure. I really had no idea. This was a subject we had never talked about. So at the risk of yet another ten Hail Mary’s, I lied.

“Of course she does. My father never goes to church either and I know that he believes. But, I’m not judging. I really just wanted to talk about the angel thing. She says her angel is a little girl. She had a friend who died as a child. Could her angel be someone from her past?”

“This is not an angel thing, as you say. Angels are on a much different evolutionary path than humanity. Diseased people transforming into angels is a common misconception. They’re not humans who have become angels after death. That is important. Angels are just angels. They were created as angels without living a life as a physical being first. Angels exist in a higher vibration than humanity. They vibrate in complete oneness with the Divine, and exist outside of any religion, dogma, or perceived separation.”

“Does the church believe in angels.”

“Of course the church believes in angels. Angels are real.”

“Is this angel preparing to take my grandmother?”

“Angels are pure love, light and spirit and when they’re present, their incredible love vibration is amazing to feel and experience. And although they’re pure spirit, they can appear to us in many forms.”

“So the angel has come to take her. Does this mean she is dying?”

“I am not a doctor Blaine. And even if I was, I could not answer this question. Only God knows this.”

I hated that statement. It seemed like a cop out. “But she has never spoken of an angel before. So it must be her time, right?”

“You’d be a fool not to believe that God places angels, and people for that matter, in our lives for a sincere reason. Let us talk about that. You are suddenly here, and your grandmother is not well. God understands the dynamics of everyone’s individual make-up; therefore, he chooses to have paths cross and introduces people in order create a greater sense of community. He understands who needs it and who doesn’t.”

I was frowning. He smiled and said, “What’s wrong? Has not anyone ever told you that you impacted their life in a positive way? Or maybe they’ve expressed gratitude for your good will? While you may not have visible wings and a halo, you could be the message from God in a different dynamic — a real life angel.”

This was not going as I had expected. “Father, I am not an angel, believe me. I am just afraid that this appearance is a sign of her possibly leaving us.”

“I understand this. I have also spoken to your mother about your grandmother. Are angels real Blaine? Are they truly around us? Yes. We often don’t hear about angels and when we do, the stories are often secularized or commercialized. The truth is, angels still walk among us and each story of a true encounter with one is quite unique and amazing.”

He was smiling. “Again, Angels are spiritual beings with a much different frequency compared to humans. Your grandmother feels the presence of God’s angels at work in her life. Angel signs are all around us and can come in a variety of ways depending on your current challenges.”

“So this is good right, her angel could also keep her alive longer.”

“Hope is a powerful element to possess. When you have hope on your side, everything seems possible. With hope things suddenly seem less scary, with hope dark skies aren’t as dark as they once appeared and miracles tend to reveal themselves more often. Oftentimes hope gets roped into the same category as angelic entities, because your glass of hope has to be pretty darn full if you believe in angels. Like me.”

He laughed softly, and continued, “Now let’s be clear — angels absolutely do exist and they are powerful beings that exist on a physical level here on Earth and a spiritual level in heaven. With that being said, it’s important to recognize and come to terms with the reality that life happens.”

“And in life old people pass away.” I said, and sunk deeper into my seat.

“Not just old people die. We all shall pass away. Blaine, in this life there are going to be rough times and there are going to be smooth periods — no matter what, life will continue to run its course and only God will know the plan. Be careful of how you perceive your grandmother’s angel. Having faith in God’s messengers can become obsessive and that’s not entirely the world’s fault. It’s important to recognize the difference between obsession and natural courses of action.”

I sat there in stunned silence. I felt like I could talk to him for hours. “Wow. This is really fascinating.”

“So here you are, you have come here into my church, I must ask, do you need an angel intervention?”

“Do I need an angel?” I grinned at him. I thought about my life, about my marriage with Helga, my past divorce, my estranged kids, my drug dependence, and even my love of women. “Yes Father, I think I do need an angel. How can I get one?”

I Laughed. I thought he would laugh too. He did not.

“Open your eyes son, there are angels all around you. Now I am referring to earthly ones. Often times we subconsciously take these people for granted because their sincerity and positive nature is invaluable — and in many ways becomes expected instead of being appreciated. Don’t take anyone for granted. Make no mistake about it, this life we have here is a gift.”

I smiled. No wonder Mom was crazy about this guy. I liked him.

“I hope I have been of some service Blaine, but I am afraid I must leave you now. Feel free to remain longer and say some prayers or just gather your thoughts.” He stood up and extended his hand.

“Thank you father. I think I have to go now and go visit my grandmother at the AJ.” We shook hands.

“My pleasure son, will I see you here with your mother Sunday?”

“I would love to, but unfortunately, I will be back in Germany. My time has nearly run out.”

“Now now, only God knows that. Please, extend greetings to your mother and to your grandmother. You do care about her; just let her know that. God bless you Blaine.”

“Thank you. I will.”

And again, I realized, I was indeed blessed.

I gave Nana another hug. Then I told her that Father Ritchie told me to say hello. I did not tell her why I had been talking to him in the first place.

She did not seem to care though; her attention remained focused on the chair. I wished I could see the little girl.

I began telling Nana how wonderful it had been having her as a grandmother. I told her how we all worshiped her and respected all what she had accomplished in her life. She was indeed our “Babuska”.

I told her everything I had ever wanted to say.

The door opened, and Helga walked in with two of my distant cousins in tow, Terry and Doug.

We all greeted each other, and they made their way to Nana’s bed. Then I cringed as Doug sat on Nana’s angel.

I quickly looked to Nana, but her eyes were closed, she had dozed off again. I smiled, wondering if she had heard all the things I had told her before or if she had fallen asleep. It did not matter though; I knew that Nana knew exactly how I felt about her. Then my attention returned to Doug.

“Christ Doug, you just sat on Nana’s angel.” I was annoyed.

He laughed. Terry said, “Really? The little girl was here again? Too bad I missed her.”

“That’s what he said.” Helga gave me a cup of coffee, her joke going totally unnoticed. I thanked her.

Terry looked at Nana and said, “You know, she is not making this up. It is not the drugs either.”

“I didn’t say she was making it up. I believe her.” I replied.

Terry sat down, and Helga sat next to her. I walked over to the window and looked out. Doug then said, “Really? Sorry man, hate to disappoint you, but it’s a load of crap. Angels, yeah right, give me a break.”

Fuck off asshole. That was what I was thinking, but kept my mouth shut. I had never been too crazy about Doug.

The door opened again and now Ted and Bonnie entered the room. Again, greetings were exchanged and then Bonnie snatched up the last free seat. Ted and I stood together directly behind everyone.

“So big man, I’m sure you have heard this bullshit about having an angel in the room. Tell me, what do you think about Nana’s angel?” Doug asked, looking with anticipation at Ted.

“I believe her. Why wouldn’t I?” Doug’s face crashed.

Terry leaned forward and said, “There are also many different types of angels, like; helper angels, guidance angels, protection angels, love angels, warrior angels, wisdom angels, angels of compassion, and so many more who will come in and out of your life experience depending on where you are and what you need help with. Yet, although they’re pure spirit they can appear to us in many forms.”

Doug laughed out loud. “Hey girl, let me smoke some of that wicked stuff you’re on! Warrior angels? Seriously? Let me guess, do they help out fighters in the UFC cage?”

“Watch your voice, she will wake up,” Ted said. Nana hadn’t budged, but Ted wasn’t all that crazy about Doug either.

Terry then continued. “Angels are energy, and so their appearance is not static. For example, if you expect your angels to look a certain way, like a human with wings and a halo for example, they will often take on this mode so that you will recognize them.”

And yet more loud laughter from Doug. I could feel Ted’s frustration growing. Mine too.

“The natural state of being for angels of course is much closer to an incredibly powerful sphere of light and energy presence which radiates with unconditional love, service and purity.” She almost blushed seeing I was staring at her. She added, “I’ve been reading about them.”

We adored Terry. She was the writer in the family. She truly had a mystical thing going with words, and she enjoyed bringing her own personal experiences into strange and beautiful places in her stories.

Naturally, I was envious. I could never write about my past experiences.

Now Doug laughed even louder at her last statement. Ted left my side and slowly moved towards him.

Terry was unfazed; “Angels will sometimes appear as such, as pure light, and other times, in a way that is completely different. In addition, your perception colors how you will see and experience the angels. This is true for all psychic information. We see what we want to see, right? Like so much of our lives, it’s perceptive.”

“You’re an idiot.” Doug said, just as my brother Ted reached down and lifted him out of the seat like it was nothing.

“As the late great John Wayne said, life is tough, but it’s tougher when you’re stupid. Look Doug, just keep your damn voice down, if you wake Nana up, if you upset her, I will upset you.” Ted said, and Doug nodded quickly in silent agreement. Ted released his iron grip and slowly let him sink back into his seat.

Terry smiled at Ted. Ted shrugged his shoulders and returned her smile.

I had been fascinated by Father Ritchie’s knowledge. I also loved what Terry was saying. But the truth was, I had my own theory about Nana’s angel now. I did not bring it up though.

I asked Terry, “Why do you think Nana’s angel is a little girl? Why not Michael complete with wings?”

“Everything about their appearance carries meaning, including their age. What remains the same is that they are positively shining and glowing with light. They may however choose to appear as children or as being more childlike if these are the qualities you need to help healing or personify yourself.”

“So you don’t think this little girl of an angel has come to take Nana home?”

“No. I refuse to believe that she is dying. No way.”

Thank you Terry for saying that. Thank you Doug for saying nothing. Thank you Ted for your assistance in keeping Doug’s mouth shut.

Ted seemingly changed the subject when he asked us, “I know Blaine does, but does anyone else here know the Beatles song “Tomorrow Never Knows?”

Terry nodded, Helga shrugged her shoulders and Doug seemed too afraid to answer. I was grinning.

Ted said, “John Lennon was deeply influenced when he wrote that song by a book he had just read. Does anyone know the name of the book, except for Blaine.”

“Of course.” I said and smiled some more. No one knew the name of the book.

“It was the Buddhist Tibetan Book Of The Dead. The book describes how people who aren’t yet ready to enter God’s presence when they die may find themselves in the presences of bodhisattvas, which are in fact angelic beings, right after they die. Such bodhisattvas help and guide the deceased souls in their new state of existence.”

“And your point?” Doug had found his voice. Ted shot him a look.

“The little girl is obviously not a bodhisattva, as Nana is very much alive.”

“Good point.” I said. “And I agree, don’t you Terry?”

“Oh absolutely. Nana is a rock.” Ted nodded in agreement. Doug kept still.

We hung out there for a while, the talk slipping away from angels to more worldly things, like the Boston Red Sox. Then a doctor came in, and shooed us all out.

We grouped in the hall, and when he came out five minutes later. He smiled at our group and then said, “I am sure you will be happy to hear this, we are moving her to Port Rehab tomorrow. Her condition has stabilized enough to the point that this would be the best step to take at this time. If this improvement continues, she shall be back home in no time.”

Wow. I was stunned.

Everyone cheered. Helga clapped right along with us.

This was amazing, unexpected news. I was thrilled beyond words. The thought of Nana being in the hospital when I flew out had been killing me.

Because the sad fact was, tomorrow was my full last day here in America.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LEFT ALONE WITH THE OLD PEOPLE

Jimi Hendrix asked us all in a song just two short years before he died- “Are you experienced?”

I was nine years old when this song was brand new, and I always answered “yes” when my brother was listening to Jimi in his tiny bedroom next to mine.

My older brother always laughed at me and said, “How can you stop when your feet say go? Blaine, when you understand exactly what that phrase really means, then you are experienced.”

My last complete day in America had officially arrived. Waking up knowing I would return to this very bed and lay my head down on this Milk Street pillow later in the evening was absolute bliss.

Tomorrow I would not have this luxury. Tomorrow I would be lying my head down on a German pillow some 6000 miles away. These days, my feet were always saying- “go”. Yes, I was now experienced. Experience has shown me that it would not be easy.

Excuse me, while I kiss the sky.

Dad’s creaky stairs had been climbed a number of times, sleepy eyes have since been opened, closed and reopened in Mike’s room and in then in ours, and fresh fruit had been peeled and consumed. I had not been here long enough for any of it to become routine, and it made me a little sad knowing that I never would.

Ray said to me back in 1975, “Life is a learning process.” Then he sold all of his cows, built an addition to his house, married a younger woman and added a swimming pool where they floated naked together nights under the stars sharing a bottle of French wine. Some people are naturals.

Unfortunately, that was long, long ago. I had visited Ray a few days ago with Helga; and it was a short, awkward visit. I always made it a point to go down and see him every time I came home. I was very loyal. Ray had talked to me about what life had to offer back in a time period where my father was constantly telling me what I could not do.

Ray had a serious stroke a few years back, and even though he has recovered fully, he still had his bad days. Regrettably, we had caught one.

He basically ignored us during our visit. His wife tried to entertain us in his absence, even though he was sitting right there in the room with us. I did not mind, I just wanted to see him, hear his voice, and see for myself that he was okay.

Helga however, saw things quite differently. Helga was rather upset by his behavior and she was not so cool about it. She did not shake his hand when we left. She told me as we were climbing into the car that my childhood hero was very rude. I didn’t say anything.

I was thinking her reaction was probably my fault. I had told her so many wonderful things about Ray over the years, that she was expecting nothing short of a God. And instead, all she got was a tired, ailing old man.

I guess I should not have been surprised. I had been shocked to hear from my father that he no longer visited Ray at all. They had been friends for a lifetime, literally from childhood up until this day.

But, Dad had experienced just one too many bad days, days where he would show up and Ray simply did not talk to him. Dad said yes it was hard, but he didn’t have a choice, Ray was not the Ray he once was.

Dad said that life is too short; you just can’t constantly spend time with someone who made you feel like a shot of Novocain.

That made a lot of sense to me.

Believe it or not, today we were not off to the AJ hospital. No, Nana was already in her room at the Port Rehab. That was the good news of the day.

This rehabilitation center, slash- nursing home- was not even five minutes away from the hospital.

The move had taken place earlier that morning around eight. Dad had been there, even drove with her in the ambulance, and now he was obviously relieved. You could see this written in his face.

But, before we took that ride to go see her, we had another ride to take with my father. We visited all the family graves in preparation for Memorial Day.

The Hawkes’ graves were for the most part all situated in neighboring Salisbury. There were a few in Newburyport. Dad was talkative and chatted away about our history and family tree as he efficiently planted freshly purchased Geraniums. It was awesome hearing all of the history. He gave me so much input in such a short period of time that I promptly forgot most of it.

The Hawkes gravestones were battered, and relatively small. It was obvious our roots were poverty-stricken. As if on cue, Dad casually added he doubted that anyone ever came to visit these graves.

In a few years my younger brother Larry would take over the maintenance of the family graves, including Mom and Dad’s. He was the only sibling with a green thumb. Larry was also able to retain the history in his memory. He was the ideal man for the job, and eventually began taking his own kids along with him as the years passed us by. It was picture perfect.

Helga had gotten down on her knees and was happily helping Dad dig the small holes. And there it was once again, Dad’s unnerving charm, filling up a room. In retrospect, he was the only one Helga had really liked during this visit.

Feeling lazy and melancholic, I walked off with the empty watering can and filled it with that rusty metallic scented cemetery water I remembered so well from my childhood.

We spent a lot of time hanging out in cemeteries as kids, playing hide and seek, telling ghost-stories, reading ancient gravestones and occasionally making out with daring south end girls.

Cemeteries were also a place- the only place- where we could always get a drink of water in the heat of the summer while out traveling on our bikes. The thought of stopping somewhere and buying something to drink was virtually unthinkable, who had money back then? And you could not get water in a store anyway. Stores selling bottled water? That was never going to happen, people are not so easily duped.

And you never went home if you were thirsty; you might not be able to get away again. Being outside was synonymous with freedom. So you came here to drink. The cemetery water tasted like crap, but it was always cold and refreshing and most important- wet.

I took some neat pictures of Dad and Helga as they worked. Dad was talking to her the whole time, and I knew she was only getting a third of what he was saying. Yet she was amiably smiling, which again, stripped years off of her age.

I gazed at her from across the way and suddenly remembered the first time I ever saw her face. The now infamous double date.

We had met at the McDonalds in Sinsheim, and when I walked in, I spotted my cowboy friend with this blonde haired woman at a table next to a window. He was munching away on chicken nuggets, and she was eating a quarter-pounder. I walked over to the table.

My friend quickly introduced us, and as a joke, I grabbed both of her hands and vigorously shook them, along with the dripping hamburger she had been munching on. Unfortunately the hamburger fell apart; the meat and soggy lettuce and tomato plopped grossly on her tray.

She looked at this mess, then her eyes slowly raised and glared at me in angered disbelief, and then her eyes instantly softened, and she actually smiled. I was stunned by the definite change in her rigid face once her eyes had begun beaming- they were positively dazzling, she became beautiful.

She later claimed it was love at first sight, and be damned if I hadn’t noticed. I didn’t believe in such a thing, a WHOOSH when you met someone, but there it was.

I snapped another picture with my Minolta as I viewed this mental Polaroid in my mind and I felt a tug of regret. What had I done to murder that innocent love? We had unexpectedly arrived at some sort of holy place, where a cease-fire had not been suggested, but had become reality anyway.

The truth was, that neither of us had gotten what we had expected from our relationship, or from this trip for that matter, but this fact shouldn’t have surprised anyone, least of all me.

A wary feeling of responsibility had brought us to this peaceful place, and I was thrilled that she had laid down her arms. I knew the axe was still lying under the bed, the blade razor-sharp and gleaming in the light, but I was finally beginning to find myself looking forward to her using it.

I wanted her to find happiness. I wanted her to fall in love with another man. There were worse things than being the other man, or living alone. There was living in a loveless relationship.

Dad led us back to Newburyport and into the next cemetery. This was where his brother and sister lie, and Mom’s parents and even Grampie Butch too. I felt queasy standing in front of Butch’s grave, as the memory of the spine-chilling dream with Nana floored me.

My intense dreaming had eased up somewhat, and I believe it had a lot to do with Nana’s poor health. You could literally feel Nana everywhere you went. She was on everyone’s minds, and tragic as it was, it was inspiring for me to see that this woman had touched so many lives so deeply.

I was very grateful to have had her as a grandmother. I quickly walked away again from the folks actually working and gathered more rusty water. I took my sweet time too.

They finished the flowering quickly, and I commented on how efficient they had worked together. It was true. They got along great.

Helga had cut Dad’s hair in the kitchen earlier that week at Milk Street. She had been a hairdresser in Germany, but not for long. She bored quickly. But with just scissors and a comb she had given Dad a great cut. At the time she had chatted with him in German, which he did not understand.

Dad still had a few German phrases stashed away that he had perfected from his time in the service when he was stationed in Germany. The most famous and known one was saying “Gesundheit” when someone sneezed.

Some people thought it was German for “Bless You” but actually it literally meant- “Good Health”. You were wishing them health and hoping the sneeze was not a sign of an incoming illness.

He was also quite fond of jokingly calling people, usually me, a “dummkopf”. A rough translation of this would be dumb-ass.

He got himself in trouble with one of his phrases though. He told Helga, “Du bist ein schones madchen”. It meant- “You are a pretty girl.” Helga giggled when he said it, and looked at me in obvious surprise.

This reaction got Mom suspicious and she demanded to know what it meant. I wanted to flee, but she insisted that I tell her. I asked Dad if it was alright if I did so.

He just laughed and told me to tell her. I did, and Mom’s eyes narrowed into thin slits and she says, “Oh? Really? Why would you need to know how to say that over there?”

Ted Hawkes laughed and shrugged his shoulders. Like I said, Dad’s unnerving charm.

Helga was in an exceptionally good mood. I knew she was very excited about the thought of finally going home. Ten days is nothing really, but being so far away from home for the first time and then being surrounded by people speaking in different tongues, well, that could make ten days feel like an eternity.

I was speaking from personal experience.

They rinsed off their hands with the cold, rusty water and we slowly walked back to the cars. We drove to Nana’s new home, hopefully just a temporary home. It was beginning to look as though she may recover enough to return to her cozy apartment in the south end. They were thinking this could happen soon.

We followed Dad in the rental; I wanted to see as much of America as I could. When we drove back later, I already knew that we would be taking the long way home.

The Port Rehab was moderately sized, with 100 beds. Like so many medical centers these days, it had for-profit, corporate ownership. It participated in Medicare and Medicaid, but preferred private patients.

They did have a great staff, including my sister Becky and Larry’s wife, Dana. They also had air conditioning, which was nice. Summers were hotter now than they were back when I lived here as a kid.

We parked near Dad and followed him inside. He led us through the building, greeting people as if he had been here a thousand times already. We followed him to Nana’s room. It was about the same size as her hospital room. There was a picture of a Clipper ship cruising through choppy water hanging on the wall, and the walls themselves were dressed in really nice wallpaper. There was not much else.

Except for people. The room was filled with people, the exact same people I had been running into in the hospital all week.

I greeted everyone, and of course, my grandmother. But turns out, Nana was not in a good mood. She was actually bitching, nonstop. Why doesn’t someone talk some sense into the doctors? She did not understand why she had to come here, why couldn’t she just go back to her apartment?

She was obviously not strong enough for that. On top of that, her blood count was still not good. There were problems with her white blood cells. Her Lymphocytes count was down, and since her intestines were inflamed, this was potentially dangerous. Nana had practically no natural defenses against infection.

At some point, Helga and I slipped out unnoticed and we went for a final drive south along side of the beautiful Atlantic Ocean down Route 1A. We had spontaneously decided to walk on sand again. We stopped at Crane Beach in Ipswich.

I was instantly reminded of our early morning walks upon arriving at Hampton Beach nine days ago. Now it seemed like it had been so long ago. This time I was not nearly as excited as we hit the beach.

But Helga was. She kicked off her shoes and walked through the surf. As we walked, she even began humming loudly. I looked at her, and she smiled, and winked at me. I began to think I might even get lucky on my last night.

A bit later, a total stranger saw us and then she made a beeline for us. The woman was wearing cut off blue jeans and a see through white blouse. She had a red bikini top underneath. She had long dirty blonde hair, which was braided and hung halfway down her back. She was wearing red-mirrored sunglasses, a similar shade of red lipstick and she was casually carrying a pair of pink flip-flops in her hand.

The woman stopped us, and apologized for intruding on our walk and then she explained that she was looking for something special in Ipswich. Absent-mindedly I thought she meant sand dollars. Instead, she asked us if we knew where “Wolf’s Hollow” was. I grew up just down the road from here, but I had never heard of it.

She insisted that it was somewhere here in Ipswich. She just had to see the place before she headed north again. Helga was all bubbly around this woman, and I instantly saw why. We quickly exchanged names, and I discovered just from hearing Tina’s description of the place that she was an animal lover. I knew from prior experience that Helga could spot one a mile away.

Helga got all excited hearing about the exotic place Tina was searching for. Now she wanted to see it too. So, we walked on together.

Tina was extremely friendly. She had a pleasant voice and she went on and on about her life in Maine, happily divorced living with her three dogs, two cats and her horse. Yes, she was into horses. So they excitedly talked about horses; and I was happily translating for both sides- simply because they were both so seemingly happy about the chance meeting and the whole scene intrigued me.

We walked along the beach with this woman, and she kept asking people we ran into about it, until we finally found someone who actually knew where the secretive wolves were located.

We did an about face and headed back to the main parking lot, where Tina had also parked. Tina finally removed her sunglasses and I gazed into pretty emerald green eyes as she asked Helga if she wanted to drive with her. Then she turned her gaze to me and added, “If that’s okay with Blaine, of course.” She smiled at me.

So Helga and the woman drove away together in her car and I followed them with my rental. Before they got into Tina’s car, Tina smiled at me again and said, “This is such a nice surprise, I didn’t expect a threesome today.”

At this point I was thinking the same exact thing, but I suspect our perspectives on precisely what that meant might have been slightly different. So I bit my tongue and just silently smiled at her.

We drove for fifteen minutes. We almost missed it, as the sign was so small. The parking lot was tiny too. I parked next to her and in we went. We stuck together the whole time. Tina was great, and Helga was in seventh heaven.

Wolf’s Hollow was great too. The place was amazing. I even got suckered into taking the lecture, and now I have to admit, I was very happy that I did. It took over an hour though, and by the end I was feeling guilty that we were not back in Nana’s room with the family.

There were six fully-grown wolves living there, and Helga and Tina seemed especially fascinated with the alpha male. He was magnificent. He was brooding. He was compelling. When he looked at you, you felt it.

It was also obvious that the staff really loved these wolves. We all felt a sense of regret as we reached the end.

Helga wanted a poster from the gift shop. It featured the famous Cherokee Wolf legend. There was a beautiful portrait of two wolves, one huge, one tiny and the following text was printed under the picture.

Parable -Tale of Two Wolves

A grandfather is talking with his grandson and he says there are two wolves inside of us, which are always at war with each other.

One of them is a good wolf, which represents things like kindness, bravery and love. The other is a bad wolf, which represents things like greed, hatred and fear.

The grandson stops and thinks about it for a second then he looks up at his grandfather and says, “Grandfather, which one wins?’

The grandfather quietly replies, “The one you feed.”

Helga bought the poster. I liked it. Good stuff. As her poster was being rolled, I asked, “So tell me, which wolf would you feed?”

Helga smiled and replied, “Silly boy, I would feed both of them for as long as I could.” Tina instantly agreed and the women high-fived each other as they laughed.

Then they went off to the bathroom. Do women ever go to the bathroom alone? I took advantage of the situation and quickly went back into the gift shop and bought Helga a present. It had caught my eye the second we had walked into the room. I’d wait until the right time came along to give it to her.

The women came out, still talking. I felt a little bad for Helga, finally meeting someone she evidently liked on her last day here, but I had to put an end to this wholesome threesome.

I softly suggested we really should get back. Helga was content; she had spent time with real live animals again, and happily agreed with me that we should head back to Newburyport.

Outside they hugged, and then Tina turned, grabbed me and gave me a good hug too. She whispered in my ear that I had found myself one hell of a woman over there. I told her she appeared to be one hell of a woman herself, which got me another hug and a wet kiss on the cheek.

Tina climbed into her car, wishing us a safe trip back to Germany as she did so. Then she was gone.

We were back in Nana’s room twenty minutes later.

The room was still full, although it was a different group of people now. My cousin Sherri saw us and she came rushing over to us, and said my parents had gone to grab a bite to eat.

Then she grinned at me and said, “Your mother was pretty mad that you guys were gone so long on your last day. Blaine, you selfish bastard, where were you so long?’

I told her about seeing the beach one last time, and about visiting the wolves. Sherri laughed at this. “You got yourself an alpha wolf already Helga.”

“Blaine too nice to bite.” We all laughed. I did not know what to make of it though.

“Anyway Helga, we all want to thank you for bringing him home.”

Helga nodded. At one point everyone had thanked her for bringing me home, again and again. Including me.

We mingled some more, and then Mom and Dad returned. Becky had been working, and now she was off duty and so she was hanging out with us too. Ted had come and left, as had Larry and Lara.

Yes, Nana was really drawing them in.

And so a few more hours slipped by, as the flowing purple sand neared its unavoidable conclusion. I was rapidly running out of time.

Time is eternal, the collection of events that determine our existence, as they occur in an irreversible succession. Perhaps time is the fourth dimension. But, why couldn’t we move about in Time as we are able to move about in the other dimensions of space?

Time is subjective, do we feel it as a sensation or is it judgment, merely an intellectual exercise.

I would never know, but during these intense trips back home I felt the swiftness of time passing. According to the late great German philosopher Martin Heidegger- we do not exist inside time, we ARE time. We are not stuck in sequential time. We are able to remember the past and project into the future; we can, in our thoughts, step out of sequential time.

I was now lost in both worlds, desperately trying to stay in the moment, happily recalling all what was and anxiously staring into tomorrow. This was hard.

I was not Mick Jagger, “Time was not on my side.”

I knew I would be stopping by here again tomorrow before we took off for Logan Airport in the morning. So I was not too emotional saying goodnight to Nana.

She was still cranky, and did not seem to register the fact that I was leaving. I kissed her never the less. I looked back as I left the room, but she was not watching us depart. She was not even looking in my direction. I watched her until I reached the door.

The secret behind those long last looks.

We left, and went to get some take out Chinese food. We ended up eating it in the car parked down at Plum Island for another glimpse of the ocean’s waves endlessly rolling into the sand. We ate in a comfortable silence.

We got back to Milk Street an hour later. I was happy to see Ted’s car, and Mom and Dad were also home. We went in and munched on white cheddar cheese popcorn as we all talked about the awesome surprise recovery of Nana.

No one mentioned the other elephant in the room.

After a while Ted and I went outside and sat together on the bulkhead on Milk Street.

We were just talking about The Beatles song, “Revolution Number Nine” when Becky pulled up across the street. She parked in front of the Brown School. We watched her rapid approach, and Ted said, “Oh oh, something is wrong.”

“Really? Why do you say that?” She looked fine to me.

“I know her, and I can see just by the way she is walking that she is upset.”

Becky reached us, waved us a quick greeting without making eye contact and rushed past us into the house. It appeared as if she had been crying.

Ted was right. Something was wrong. Suitably alarmed, we jumped up and followed her into the living room, where things were now heating up.

“How could you do that to me? Why did you just take off?” Becky said, as she stood in front of our father.

Dad smiled, but he seemed to know not to laugh. A good time to keep your mouth shut is when you realize you’re in deep water.

“What are you talking about?” he answered softly. I think he knew.

“I was the last one. I ended up the last person in Nana’s room. Everyone had snuck out. I was left alone with Nana.”

Ted said, “Did something happen? Is she alright?”

“No, she is not alright. She was upset; she was hysterical. She wanted me to take her with me, she even begged me to take her with me.” Now Becky was crying. We all sat in silence. I was stunned.

“She told me she did not want to stay there with all those old people. She wanted to go home, home to her own apartment. She was clinging to me, begging me, don’t leave me alone with all these old people, please don’t leave me here alone, take me with you.” I could literally picture this, and my sympathy with Becky grew.

“She seemed ok when we left,” Mom said, and added, “And I don’t think anyone snuck out Becky.” I wondered though. I suspect Mom and Dad knew what was coming.

“Even Sherri just disappeared from one moment to the next. It was awful, Nana wouldn’t let me go, she was crying, she was holding onto me, and she kept begging me to take her with me. She did not want to be left alone with the old people.”

Much later Becky, Ted and I were outside back on the bulkhead. Becky had calmed down, but it was safe to say she would probably not forget this night too quickly, if ever.

I wondered what was really behind Nana’s extreme reaction. Surely she did not have anything against elderly people. Surely she must be aware of her own age. Why did she freak out? What was she really afraid of? Was it the brutal symbolism of the place? No one gets out of these places alive. But, that statement is true for all of us in life.

Just by living, we know that we shall die. We are the only creature on Earth aware of our own mortality. Some people use this incredible knowledge to motivate themselves to lead incredible lives. Others basically curl up in an emotional ball of depression and await the bitter end.

Why did not Nana want to live with the old people? Old people, I assume this simply means being old, which basically refers to reaching ages nearing or even surpassing normal life expectancy, thus this too is symbolic with the end of human life.

Was it the thought of living with the meanness we sometimes see in the elderly? Nana had always remained a nice old lady. But many old folks were down right cranky. I think most of this rage comes from fear, the fear that arrives when ones instinctive “fight or flight” machinery kicks in. I think nothing we have faced in our lives can be more fearful than seeing our bodily functions slowly shut down. There is no way to escape this enemy either, so fight is all that’s left.

I thought about The Beatle song, “Eleanor Rigby”. I could hear Paul McCartney singing at the beginning-

“Ah, look at all the lonely people. Ah, look at all the lonely people.” And at the end- “All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?”

Even as a kid, I associated this song with old people. I still do.

Nana was a hip old lady. She knew things. People are living longer. Old age homes are on the rise, everywhere. Family bonds are weakening, and many senior citizens are feeling neglected and unworthy tucked away in these homes. I hoped that Nana must have known this would not happen to her, she would never be totally left alone with the old people. Family would always be coming to see her, as we did in her apartment.

So if she was aware of her position in the family, (Babushka) perhaps she did not see this stopover as Rehab. Maybe she saw this move as final. That would justify her sadness, since she would be leaving her home. (And her memories there.) There is a true loss of independence once you reach a nursing home. You could even lose your self-esteem once everything in your daily life becomes a planned activity for seniors.

Nana was smart. Was it her basically knowing that Nursing Homes were the final move before death? Nursing homes were in effect the somber place where the final chapters in people’s lives were written.

I realized at some point that I was leaving in the morning, and would never be able to ask Nana about her emotional breakdown this evening. It would remain a mystery.

Then Ted’s voice reached me, and ended my stream of thought.

Ted was talking about Nana’s eyes at Butches funeral. “You could just see the light had gone out.”

“It was worse than that tonight, she was in panic. She was clinging to me, and her voice, cracking as she begged me, God, it was awful.”

“I feel so bad for you,’ I said. “I remember how I used to feel terrible about leaving her alone back at her apartment every time I left. But this, this is way worse.” The comparison was weak, but I too had left Nana’s room before Becky tonight.

“See Blaine, all the good stuff you miss by living over there? You’re lucky man. You’ve never even been to a funeral over here, have you?”

I recalled the nightmare I had the first night back with Nana. The guilt feelings were busy building that fucking fence again. “No, and I feel bad about it too.”

Becky seemed surprised. “Why? You should be glad, funerals suck. Wakes are even worse. And no one blames you anyway. We know how much it costs to fly here.”

No one blames me except for Nana, pointing that long accusing finger at me, floating in that wooden chair on the other side. I shuddered; will she be waiting there for me tonight?

Why didn’t you save me from the nursing home?

Why would you leave me here with strangers to die?

Why did you leave me all alone with the old people?

Ted then said, “Life just isn’t what we expected as kids. You don’t think about this type of shit when you are young. But this is just the beginning, we are just starting to get to that age.”

I knew Ted was right, but I also knew why we never talked about it. It was just too fucking depressing. Most of us Hawkes’ were continuously optimistic.

That age, I thought. The age where everyone older than us dies? Where we ourselves become the last generation? This is the oldest I have been so far.

I said, “I intend to live forever, or die trying.” They laughed at my joke, a little anyway.

And I wondered- is it better not knowing how much time is left for us? It seems to me that by the time you learn the rules of life, you’re much too old to play the game.

Ted continued, “Well I know I’m certainly getting old. The other day I was doing my walk, and when I walked past the cemetery- two guys rushed out and attacked me with shovels.”

We laughed, and I said, “Knowing you, they were probably the gravediggers from Shakespeare’s “Hamlet”. Did they tell you any jokes?’

Hey Nana, I remembered something else from Shakespeare!

Ted shook his head. Then he continued. “I do hate getting old. Now doing it three times a night is how many times you get up to pee.”

We laughed harder, even Becky. I thought it was just a guy thing.

“It’s fucked up isn’t it? How did this even happen? Life is like a roll of toilet paper, the closer it gets to the end, the faster it goes.”

Becky really laughed at this one too. Then she said, “Isn’t it the truth though? Every year seems to get shorter. Our new dog Midnight is already a year old.” I had met that dog. Crazy Midnight, running turbo laps in the Milk Street backyard like a maniac.

Yes, and crazy Ted had us laughing again. He was the toughest kid on the block growing up, and yet, by far the funniest. Maybe those traits went hand in hand. He kept going.

“You know, you can still have a lot of time left, these days you can even live to be ninety, that is if you give up everything that even makes you want to live to be ninety. Well, on second thought, I guess I’m not really interested after all.”

“Didn’t Neil Young say that the thing you love the most will kill you in the end?” I didn’t know any good jokes. All I could do is quote rock lyrics.

Ted replied, “Neil is still great. Who knows what will kill us? Now when I go to a doctor with anything, they tell me that this is normal for my age. I think that at some point dying will also be normal for my age, right?”

“I guess you just gotta appreciate still being around. You know, in Germany they say an optimist believes that we live in the best world, and a pessimist is afraid that it might be true.”

“In other words, we’re fucked.” Ted said and we laughed. “But you know, you do get smarter when you’re old. I know now that life isn’t just about winning and losing. It’s about wishing you would have won and wondering why you lost.”

We laughed some more. The fact remains; life is an ongoing tragedy. What else can you do? Make the most of it. And laugh. You have to laugh.

This had been the most emotional “last night” I have ever had in the USA. The night before the Army sent me away to Germany was very emotional too, but at least I got laid that night, and just like Ted had mentioned, I did it three times.

We talked and joked around for a while longer, then Becky finally went home, she had been on her feet for eighteen hours now. After our goodbye hugs, we watched her drive away in silence.

Ted then told me he had to work the next day. “That’s the reward for a job well done bro, more work.” Aint it the truth.

Because Ted was working, that meant this was our final goodbye this time around. Fortunately, it was like Johnson’s Baby Shampoo- “Tearless”.

Ted was like Dad; his goodbyes were quick and physically painless. He, like Dad, understood by the time the final goodbye came around; everything important had already been said.

We hugged, that peculiar one arm guy hug, and he told me to write more often this time around. And then he was gone.

I watched him drive away too, tears welling up in my eyes. I stood there on Milk Street, and then sat down again on the bulkhead a few moments more after he was gone.

Then I smiled thinking about one of Ted’s jokes. Do you want to hear three words from a woman that will destroy a man’s ego? “Is it in?”

I went back inside. Mom and Dad had gone to bed, and Helga was conked out on the couch. I woke her up and we stumbled up the back stairs together. She undressed in record time and plopped on the bed wearing nothing but her socks. I stared at her for a minute or two, still liking what I saw.

I brushed my teeth, and then gazed out the window at Lime Street for a long time. The Stickney’s sign was still lit up. But they were closed. That day was done. I dragged myself away from the window and went to bed.

Sleep evaded me. When it finally came, I did not get delivered to the other side. Nana did not torture me for leaving her alone with the old people. I could not recall dreaming anything at all. The dream was over.

CHAPTER 16

THE WOLF’S TOOTH

The last chapter.

Looking back, I only had one teacher back in High School that was supportive of my writing. Her name was Anita Edelmann.

She told me I had interesting ideas, and that I was surprisingly accomplished at marrying up a bunch of seemingly unrelated topics and then making them actually make sense as a collective theme. She also said sometimes my writing really flowed.

Then she smiled and said unfortunately when it didn’t flow; it didn’t incite the reader to continue reading. She added that my writing was also way too pretentious. My stories were a tad too shallow and that my story endings were outright horrible.

This is what I would call supportive behavior. I grew up in the south end of Newburyport in very tough times. Nobody cut you any slack; there was never any mercy. My father was not into Doctor Benjamin Spock’s theories of being more flexible and affectionate with your children. In my house, and in the south end, no one babied me. I was told to “man up”. No one tried to shelter you from life if you were too emotional. Tough shit. No one walked on egg-shells around you if you were too sensitive. Deal with it. Like the late great Patrick Swayze said, “Pain don’t hurt.”

So I had no problems with Ms Edelmann’s relatively harsh criticism. In fact, she went on to say that most stories do not end well, simply because it is unnatural. There is no end. There can be no end. The universe is still unfolding after the big bang. One story automatically flows into the next. Life goes on, always. Even if someone dies, life goes on for the leftovers and the left behinds. And even when you and I die, life goes on.

As the late great George Harrison sang- “When you’ve seen beyond yourself then you may find peace of mind is waiting there. And the time will come when you see we’re all one. And life flows on within you and without you”

Paul McCartney took a slightly more stoned, reggae point of view. “Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on brah, la-la-la how life goes on.”

The late great John Lennon sang, “When I wake up early in the morning, Lift my head, I’m still yawning, When I’m in the middle of a dream, Stay in bed, float up stream (float up stream) Please don’t wake me, no, don’t shake me, Leave me where I am, I’m only sleeping.”

Fantastic songs. Wonderful sentiments, but unfortunately, all to no avail. I was shaken, someone had awakened me. Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, how life was about to go on. And life in Newburyport was about to flow on without me.

The last sleepover at Milk Street had officially ended.

The last day. It sounded so biblical to me, so damn final.

The last day. Mom said, “You’ll be back before you know it.”

The last day. Dad said, “We’re just happy you weren’t arrested this time.”

The last day. Father Ritchie jokingly referred to it as the time period described by the eschatology of being a Catholic, in other words, the final destiny of my soul.

The last day. The woman at the counter at Duncan Donuts- where I had been purchasing my coffee the last ten days said, “What a pity, now you have to go back to drinking lousy German coffee.”

The last day. Davey called and said, “Ceylon thinks it would not be a mistake to stay here, my sister thinks it would not be a mistake for you to stay here, my friends said Helga told them that it would not be a mistake if you stayed here, my friend, have you thought about just staying here? You could finally prove to my sister that you are not lousy in bed.”

The last day. Helga said, “Thank God, no more hospitals and shitty American food.

The last day. So much of life is simply about showing up. I always thought about just missing my flight, simply not showing up at Logan Airport. I had this thought each and every time I departed the USA.

The last day. It always comes, and it always arrives long before it should.

I wanted to get up extra early, but somehow I overslept, for the first time during the whole trip. I was suitably annoyed. It was already after seven-thirty.

We had to take off shortly before ten to drop off our rental in Boston. I cursed, and quickly woke up Helga. She groaned, and rolled over.

Then I practically flew down the stairs. I just managed to catch Dad before he took off for work. He stood in the living room with a bemused grin on his face as I stumbled in, still zipping up my jeans.

“Well good morning. Were you going to go to work without even saying goodbye?” I asked him incredulously.

“We said goodbye last night, didn’t we?”

“That was goodnight, that’s different.”

“It wouldn’t have been different if I had died in my sleep.”

My Mom cut in. “Oh will you stop it. Your father is going in late, he already called in. He was going to wait to say goodbye to you and Helga.”

I grinned. Then I was thinking, but now he-

“Yes, but now that you are up, I don’t have to go in late. We can do it now. It was good to see you again.” He laughed.

Mom did not laugh. She exploded. “I said stop it. Behave. Blaine, we’re going to go up with you to say goodbye to Nana.”

That was good news. Then we all turned towards the back stairs as we heard Helga coming down the back stairs. She poked her head around the corner and smiled. She looked marvelous. When this woman finally smiled, the world smiled with her.

“Guten Morgung schonen Frau.”

It was Dad again, of course. Mom shot him another dirty look, the third in the last two minutes. Helga happily greeted them, and then she made a bee-line for the box of doughnuts sitting on the coffee table. I saw them for the first time, and joined her. No need to eat healthy now, there would be no doughnuts on my breakfast table tomorrow morning.

I finished off four of them, while Helga ate three. I chased them with the take out coffee Dad had brought home from Kathy Ann’s. And yet another cliché for the road, this was my last breakfast in America.

I flashed back to our first breakfast at 4D’s back in Hampton, seemingly years ago. I was distracted; this was not going to be a focused day.

Mom watched us, and asked how long Becky and Ted had stayed the night before. She was surprised to hear at how long we had hung out on the bulkhead out front. “Nice to be young,” she said.

Suitably stuffed, I went back upstairs and quickly brought down our luggage. (We had packed yesterday.) I did this without announcing it; Mom already had that painful, tear-jerking look in her eyes.

I went outside and placed everything in the trunk. It was going to be a beautiful day. I slammed the trunk shut and stood still for a minute and looked around, up and down Milk Street. So much of it looked the same as it had while growing up here, and yet, there were differences too. Today, they were one and the same.

When I came back in, Mom and Helga were hugging in the middle of the living room. I looked at Dad and shrugged my shoulders. He smiled. Then he said, “Shall we go?’

We had said our goodbyes to Mike the night before too, as well as to Lara, who hated these moments. Larry was supposed to stop by again, but he was having extreme problems with his back, and was going to see a doctor. We had said goodbye in Nana’s room in case we didn’t see each other again, but he called again last night.

I had seen Billy shortly the day before. Our farewells were never too overly sentimental, somehow we knew our lifelong friendship was sealed by generous fate. Boinger, it is time to go. I know Boinger. It was great seeing you again Boinger. Same here Boinger. Goodbye Boinger. Boinger, goodbye. You get the picture.

Davey had surprised me and called yet again. He tried to talk me into staying, insisting that certain people felt it was an epic mistake for me to go. He was very animated about it. In particular he felt a certain woman he grew up with could make my life complete. He then wished me a safe flight back to Spain.

I had said goodbyes to various family members yesterday in Nana’s room, including Kathy and her mother.

It seemed to me that with every goodbye I metaphorically moved a step closer to my own death. How many goodbyes like this did I have left in me? This was an aspect of moving far away that I never thought about as a young man.

Dad had it right though. Just keep moving; you just keep going.

When I had asked him once how he dealt with the unforeseen, tragic death of his brother Earl, he seemed confused.

He said, “What do you mean? You do what you have to do. You persevere. You keep moving. You don’t have a choice; you just keep going.”

He shuffled us out the door, and we drove behind them to the Port Rehab. I felt like I did not have enough time to properly say goodbye to my childhood home. Things were happening too fast. I hated not having time for my long last looks.

I quickly recalled all the excitement here upon arriving; the fanfare in the house with family and friends and my nonsensical monologue to Helga in the car as we arrived and I had reminisced about all what once was.

All of this and more was rapidly fading behind me now. 29 Milk Street faded rather quickly in my rear view mirror.

Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Indeed.

I saw Mom look back twice at us as we stood still at red lights. Both times she waved. This was a rare moment waiting at a traffic light; now I hated to see the light turn green. This was fucking hard.

But it was going to get worse. We arrived at Port Rehab and we followed Mom and Dad inside, Dad cheerfully greeting people as he always did. As we reached Nana’s room, Dana came out. “Good morning, glad I caught you guys, I get to say goodbye again.”

Dana was on duty, and she made it a point to get into Nana’s room as often as possible. I told her she looked cute in her uniform, almost like a Candy Striper. We all hugged, then she said, “I’m afraid she had a bad night. They sedated her at some point, and today, she is not a happy trooper.”

“Tell Larry again I said goodbye.” We exchanged a final glance, then we hugged one last time and after that she was gone.

Three more to go.

We walked into the room, and we saw that Becky was also here. Ok, correction, four more to go.

Becky greeted us and confirmed what Dana had told us. Nana was lying in bed awake, but she wasn’t in the mood for small talk. Becky filled us in on her condition and we all chatted a bit.

The end was near was now a bona fide lie. The end was here.

Helga was getting antsy and to be honest, so was I. I informed them we had to be heading out. Mom wanted no part of it, she said she couldn’t watch me say goodbye to Nana, so she quickly jumped to the front of the line.

She grabbed me, now crying, and I fought back the tears as she mumbled something in my ear.

I wasn’t hearing the words; I was just feeling them.

She let go and hugged Helga, thanking her again for bringing me home. Then she rushed out of the room, telling Dad she was going to get coffee. I watched her go, my heart getting heavier. Dad was now hugging Helga, so I moved to Nana’s bedside.

You keep moving.

“I’m leaving now Nana. We are on our way to the airport.” She looked at me blankly, and her facial expression did not change. I had told her everything I wanted to say in the hospital the day before, and even before that, but now all of my words, both past and present- seemed woefully inadequate.

I got down on my knees and leaned over her bed and hugged her. Her right arm found my shoulder and I told her I loved her. She whispered that I was a good boy. I kissed her and stood up.

Keep moving.

Helga bent over her and said goodbye. Nana seemed confused. She looked at Helga like she was looking at a complete stranger.

I turned away and saw Becky quickly leave the room. No time to wonder why, Dad was heading towards me. He said, “It’s always good to see ya, have a safe trip.” I told him I loved him, something I’d only started saying out loud to him a few years ago, and he grinned at me.

He once told us that back in his day you didn’t need to say it. Mom had instantly chimed in, “But it doesn’t hurt to say it.”

We hugged a guy hug and I turned away and quickly followed Helga out of the room.

Keep moving.

Don’t look back, I told myself. This was already hard enough; do not look back. I reached the door; Helga was already gone.

Keep moving. Do NOT look back.

But I did. I saw Nana lying there, and now she was looking at me. I imagined her to be smiling, but I wasn’t really sure. Dad stood next to his mother’s bed. I raised my hand and waved to them. Dad waved back. He was still smiling. Nana looked away.

I walked down the hallway in a slight daze. My mind was racing.

Nana did not say, I hope to see you again.

She did not say, I will never see you again.

This time she did not say anything at all.

This time, we both already knew.

Keep moving.

I reached the exit, now walking faster and faster towards the car, when out of nowhere Becky appeared. “You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye to me, were you?”

“No, I kinda figured you would be out here.”

“I couldn’t watch that, watching you with Mom was bad enough, watching you with Nana, no, I did not want to see you say goodbye to her.”

“There was not much I could say Becky. I’m just so glad I saw her.”

Then I remembered, we were also the last ones who saw her in her own apartment. We were there with her the very last day she spent in her apartment. It seemed strange then, but not now.

Years later we would also be the last two people in Mom’s room when mom took her very last breath.

We hugged, and she too mumbled things in my ear, which I didn’t, couldn’t begin to understand. The tears were enough, and they were flowing freely. Even Helga seemed choked up now, and probably surprised. Her family was not what I would refer to as close-knit.

Becky let me go, and we climbed in the rental.

Keep moving.

I couldn’t get the key into the ignition quick enough. Becky stood by and watched us drive away, getting smaller and smaller in my mirror, but larger and larger in my heart.

The first one to hug me upon my arrival, and once again, the last one to hug me before I left.

Keep moving. We were moving alright; we were Germany bound.

My last summer down Ray’s in 1975 had been awesome. I was so young, only seventeen, and yet, he treated me as an adult. He showered me with weird advice all summer long, and told me many entertaining stories from his colorful past. I may have been very young, but I was old enough to realize I was very lucky to have him as a mentor of sorts.

One evening in late August, we were heading to downtown Newburyport to, as he called it, “check the temps”. Every evening when he drove me home we drove downtown. We would drive past the Institute of Savings Bank on State Street and beforehand, we would guess what the temperature would be on their new digital clock display. Like so many things, Ray had made a game out of it. And he was usually right about the temps, too.

On this particular evening, he also suggested we indulge ourselves in an ice cream soda at Hodges. Hodges was down in the Route One traffic circle. I took advantage of the extra time in his pick up truck to pick his brain some more.

“Can I ask you something Ray?”

“If I say no, will you ask it anyway?”

“Ok, I want to ask you something. You have been filling my head with all these suggestions about how to handle certain situations in life. There were so many of them that it confuses me. How do I know what one are you talking about? How will I know which philosophy to use in which situation?”

“To be honest “B”, I don’t really know what you are talking about.”

“Ok, for example making choices, you say I should always choose positive over negative, choose harmony over conflict, choose solutions and not problems, choose love, not hate, choose courage, not fear, and to be honest, these things are not always so obvious.”

“B, all you need to do now is choose a flavor.”

“Ray, humor me please, this is important to me. You say I should never take anything someone says or does personally, I should live in the here and now, I must accept things and people as they are, I should always be true to my word, I should appreciate what I have, I should not assume things about other people or situations, I shouldn’t ever complain, I should not allow my feelings or emotions to control my actions, I should-“

“Whoa man, I said all this?” He was laughing.

“And more, so please let me continue, I should be the message, not the messenger, I should always do the right thing, I should live simply, not get caught up in material things, I-”

“Blaine, stop. Now I have a simple question for you. Chocolate or vanilla?” We had arrived at Hodges. I chose chocolate. He jumped out and walked to the window. Minutes later he returned with the ice cream sodas.

“Thanks. Ok, just one simple question. How do I know how to react in certain situations, how do I know which path to follow?”

Ray slurped his soda, and looked at me. Then he smiled and said, “You’re making things way too complicated. Thoughts will do that. It is quite simple actually.”

I waited, and he just kept drinking from his paper cup. So I sucked on my own straw and waited some more. Then he continued, “Do your best Blaine. That’s all really. Give your best effort, no matter what you are doing, at any given time. Always ask yourself, is this the best I can do? Don’t listen to the chatter in your mind; be mindful of the task at hand. Just remember to be in the here and now when you do something, and to do that all you have to do is your best. See, it’s not complicated at all.” He smiled and loudly slurped the rest of his soda.

“Just to do it should be your purpose B. Yeah, your purpose in life. Moment by moment, a lifetime long. Just do your best.”

Once Helga and I had landed in Frankfurt, things began to get brutally real again. I tried to do my best. I found the humor in a situation that really was not really that funny.

I discovered Helga had not asked anyone to come pick us up. Somehow she had just forgotten.

We had to take the train back from the airport to Heidelberg, and because we had run out of cash in America, and I could not get any money from the ATM because my German bank account was empty, we had to do something foolish.

We rode the Deutsche Bahn without a ticket. We literally had no money to purchase the train tickets. We got very lucky though; we did not get caught. We had to hide in the toilet twice from the Porter checking tickets. It was actually fun, both of us standing together up on the toilet in one stall. We were pressed together so tightly I was tempted to suggest an erotic activity to help pass the time, but I was too upset.

The end had officially begun.

Now Helga finally opened up and confessed everything about the money. I had to pay for the whole trip. She had secretly charged the expensive trans-Atlantic flights and the rental car on my credit card. Then I remembered all of the other purchases on my card, like all of her flags and banners.

To my growing dismay I also discovered the German Telekom had struck- the telephone had been turned off. She had “forgotten” to pay the bill. At least she had been smart enough to pay the electric bill.

Helga’s sister Gertrude picked us up in Heidelberg and drove us home. It was not a warm welcome. Gertrude had recently boycotted our wedding; she had actually claimed I was only marrying her sister just because I wanted a house in the country.

I silently fumed in the backseat of the car during this horrible drive, listening to Helga put down America, lamenting about how dirty it was, how lousy the food was, she even complained about electrical and telephone wires being visible on telephone poles. Then she really got to me complaining about all the time she had to spend in the damn hospital.

The next surprise came once we were back at the farm, as we got out of her sister’s car and I saw my car sitting there. It looked different. Then I discovered my car insurance had not been paid and the efficient German Polizei had been to the house while we were in the USA and had removed my plates, as was the practice in Germany, thus effectively grounding me. There was also a fine to pay for driving without insurance, which I had not done since I was away in the States, but this didn’t matter.

It took me days to correct this mess; with money I eventually borrowed from a workmate. I was not able to go see my children in this car-less time period, which really upset me. I was also forced to walk five kilometers in the morning to catch a bus to the town I worked in.

The cash I had given to Helga for all of these bills went towards our expenses and food in America, and, of course, for someone to care for her horse, pony and dogs and cats during our absence. Naturally- I was not informed of this arrangement while we were in America.

Yes, I was really finding it hard to do my best.

The irony now was obvious. The bogus marriage with Helga had gotten me out of debt; now- I was worse off than ever before. It was incredible. What had not gone wrong since being back in Germany?

Thank you to the late great Edward A. Murphy. He was an engineer in the Air Force in 1949. Eddie was working on a project testing human acceleration tolerances, and someone had installed 16 sensors the wrong way on a mount, and thus, the experiment failed. The engineer’s famous quote came days later at a news conference.

“If there are two or more ways to do something, and one of those ways can result in a catastrophe, then someone will do it.”

It was later refined. The first corollary, “Left to themselves, things tend to go from bad to worse.”

The second corollary, “It is impossible to make anything foolproof because fools are so ingenious.”

And then the now famous- Murphy’s law- “what can go wrong will go wrong.” And when faced with it, you have no choice than to follow Murphy’s Philosophy- “Smile, tomorrow will be worse.”

I was beginning to truly understand.

Yet in retrospect, I had already known. Helga had been a different woman ever since her father had co-signed on a house with her three months prior to this enlightening trip home. I was not asked to sign, which although ominous, was fine with me.

I had helped her renovate the farmhouse Dad had picked out for her, but I secretly suspected that I wouldn’t grow old within its freshly painted walls.

Obviously, I had noticed that Helga had literally distanced herself right from me the moment her lifelong dream of a farmhouse had become reality. She was still nice, polite even, but we rarely talked and we rarely saw each other.

After that fateful day she went to the bank with her father she and I only had what I lovingly referred to as “sympathy sex”. It was that bothersome duty that Fifties mothers used to tell their daughters they had to do with their husbands now and then to keep the peace and keep them from doing it elsewhere.

I never saw that look of passion in her deep blue eyes again. Digesting rejection was not my strong point. It was so bad that I even began having real orgasms again just to cut the quasi-lovemaking short. (At the time, I practiced sex without male orgasm, as an exercise in energy safeguarding. Don’t ask.)

I had been living with Helga for well over two years, which was longer than any of her men from the past had managed to stay in her bed. (The sexual practice of intercourse without male orgasm had really impressed her in the beginning.) Now she was bored. Maybe Davey was right after all!

I was obviously not her parent’s idea of a dream-son in law, but- with the passing of time they grudgingly determined that I did indeed work hard, and never seemed to tire taking care of the critters, the kids and the household after returning from my real job. They were also aware that their grandchildren adored me.

Yes, I was well loved by Helga’s three daughters. Only one of these girls still had regular contact with her father, the other two fathers had disappeared into the early morning mist and were never seen again.

These girls obviously had no idea what was brewing. They rarely saw Helga and I together, and now they were quite used to it. I also spent more time with them than Helga did, as she left for work soon after they returned home from school and then shortly afterwards I would come home too. Helga then took my car to go to work. She also worked most weekends.

I had finally decided I was going to leave the farm. I was going to walk away. I had to; I needed to get my own life back in order. The only reason it then took so long was because I wanted to spend some more time with the girls before I left for good.

In retrospect I was prone to believe Helga only believed in herself, and just didn’t need a man by her side. At first I was afraid this explanation was just my ego coping with the rejection. (Not that it mattered, its all just metaphysical book-keeping in the end.) But as my vision returned, things became clear again.

Yearning had been my middle name when it came to love, and when I met Helga I was intrigued, but not interested as she was the girlfriend of a friend of mine. (Not that this mattered to her.)

As you recall, we had only met because of her horse Elvis having a rare tooth disease. That was the only reason. Helga then left the friend of mine after meeting me and chased me regularly until I met her daughters and became hooked. Ironically, at the same time I was practically being forced to leave my fifty shades of Blaine apartment because my sexual exploits had created an intolerable living situation. The combination of having a safe place to stay and the joy of living with her kids was simply too enticing for me to say no to. The rest, as they say, is history.

Helga would undoubtedly laugh at the term “Feminist Liberation”, but in my eyes she had freed herself from the ultimate trappings of men years ago.

She wanted children- she had children. I felt that was all she really wanted from men, in end affect the only thing we were really good for in her eyes. Reproduction.

And how would my life had turned out if I had not constantly thought with my zipper? What good was a penis? How many fools lived their life listening to this obnoxious body part? We men were so pathetic.

Yet I was still glad I was a man, simply because of the fact that I could never picture myself living with any of the men I know. (Including myself..)

If I were a woman, I would be a lesbian for sure. Helga was a genius, a modern woman dancing to the offbeat rhythms of her own music. I had loved this trait in her, as well as her vain insanity. She hated rules, and adored fun.

She had once told me in the early days that she would not be my guide in heterosexual love, as true love only occurs between people sharing the same gender. Since she laughed as she said it, I assumed that she had just been teasing me, but who knows, perhaps she was indeed referring to herself.

I knew she was not referring to a traditional lesbian lifestyle, as she dug having a man around and found women in general to be way too weak and much too subdued in their actions with men. How she hated to see a woman allowing her male mate to dominate her.

Nor could I ever picture her physically making it with a woman in bed, as she was not a big fan of cunnilingus. I would emotionally and orally attempt to bring her to the erotic edge of ecstatic fervor, and she would casually switch on the bed-lamp and reach for her book on the nightstand. I guess her pussy was just as unresponsive as her breasts were to male touch. (Or maybe Davey was right!)

But she certainly knew what men liked. She had used her female weapons well, and I had fallen hard despite the warning tones of the alarm bells blaring away late at night. My oldest son had been the first person to warn me that she was only playing. But what could I do?

It took well over a year before I began to believe my son’s admonishment, so adept had she played the love-game of give and take. Its hard to see the truth when the truth is something that was going to hurt you pretty bad and leave you gasping for air and reeling in the years, years that can not be relived.

Naturally I wanted to believe this woman when she told me she had never met anyone like me. But- being unique certainly offers no guarantee that this abstract emotion we called love will survive the ordinary truths that surround a man, any man; every man. I found out.

It also seems like Helga had just tagged along with me on this faithful trip. The painful fact was that Helga had in all probability given me the USA trip as a combination “Thank You” and “Good Riddance” present.

The gift was not wrapped, nor was it even paid for, but never the less, it was an amazing gesture. Helga gave me the ultimate present, a present that no woman would ever be able to match down the road.

I was able to see my grandmother alive, right before she passed away.

The bells of Heaven rang. Nana passed away just three days after we flew out.

Her condition had worsened from hour to hour. We think that when she realized that she was not going to return back to her apartment, a part of her just gave up. Others thought she had given up after Butch had died, and it just took a while. Now, it was her time.

Since returning to Germany I had thought about Nana’s angel a lot. The beautiful little girl, who just sat with her, smiled at her and said nothing. Just sat there and merely made her feel good.

I loved all the beautiful theories we had talked about in Nana’s hospital room. I also loved Father Ritchie’s spiritual explanations about angels.

In retrospect, Nana’s angel was the most beautiful, touching and mysterious aspect of Nana’s final days.

I had a slightly different take on it. Perhaps this angel was Nana herself; this wonderful angel could have simply been Nana’s very own soul.

Her soul was revealing herself to her, literally showing Nana that all was well, that her body, now old and worn out, would soon be discarded like the shell that it is. It was only matter, merely something physical, while her soul was pure consciousness, and thus the little girl was vibrant, like her astral body would be. She was a non-corporeal substance, or even simpler, pure energy. Nana’s soul was finally visible to Nana herself because she knew her time to leave here was nearing.

Nana’s soul was beautiful and alive.

I was broken hearted after hearing of Nana’s passing, despite the fact that Ceylan had basically told me it would happen. I was devastated despite the fact that I believe in eternal life. You never get over death. You just learn to live with it.

So of course I was sad, but I also knew she had lived a long, good life. She had touched many people, including me. And of course I was extremely grateful that I was able to say goodbye.

I felt Nana’s memory should be celebrated. I still do. I never really understood how some people never stopped openly mourning the passing of a loved one. I would never want anyone to be sad or depressed after I die, just as I know Nana didn’t want this, or my parents, or anyone for that matter. But I don’t judge, I was my father’s son, and thus I knew- life went on.

Keep moving.

Regardless of what anyone thinks now about Nana’s angel, I knew that Nana’s spirit was still alive and well. I carry her with me, each and everyday I awake in the morning and open my eyes.

When Becky told me about Nana’s death, she asked me if I had remembered that cute little doll Nana had sitting in her living room. I did remember it, and I also recalled Becky’s obvious fondness for it.

My father gave it to Becky while they had been cleaning out Nana’s apartment. After Becky found out it had been a present to Nana from our Aunt Zelma in California, she asked Zelma about it. Dad’s sister Zelma had come back east, and had even managed to see Nana while she was still alive. So she was still in Newburyport for the funeral too.

Aunt Zelma talked to Becky about the doll, telling her that it was a collector’s item, as Linde Schere dolls were cult. She also told Becky that that all the dolls even had individual names.

Becky went home that evening; took out the doll and searched for her name. She found the tiny label on the doll, and discovered to her shock and amazement that the doll’s name was- “Becky”. A final bit of Nana magic.

The passing on of a loved one is one of the worst things that can happen to you. So is the end of a intimate relationship. But- it’s much worse when it doesn’t end after the end. It was hard, but I actually hung on for a few months more after all of this, simply because it was damn near impossible for me to leave those little girls. So I stayed on, despite knowing I had to walk away.

Where does the motivation come from to complicate the uncomplicated and travel alone along that ludicrous road to nowhere?

Once I told Helga I was moving out, she actually seemed relieved, and we got along fine. We still rarely saw each other due to our conflicting work schedules, but when we did, it was peaceful.

I was too broke to move into an apartment, and I did not have any furniture anymore. (Every divorce brought back my austere quality of life.) I left her and the girls everything else. All I had left was my car, my word processor and my kick ass stereo.

So I moved into a small room in a Student Dormitory near Heidelberg, where I lived with students and other outsiders for eight crazy months.

But, that’s another story.

The last night Helga and I spent together was extremely moving for me. The girls had finally been informed, and understandably, they were very emotional. I even had the feeling from the sad way the dogs looked at me that even they felt bad because they somehow sensed I was leaving.

We all went for a final walk on that gorgeous mountain, Helga, the girls, the dogs and two cats, and me. At some point the critters were off doing their own thing and the girls were down messing around in a field below the road we stood on, so I stopped and told Helga I had a small parting gift for her. She complained, said it wasn’t necessary. She didn’t really seem to care.

But I did. I knew it was spiritually important to always give thanks where thanks were due. I also believed we should try to give little surprise tokens along the way.

I told her it was to remind her of what once was between us. (Like the house wasn’t enough?) I had her present gift wrapped; and now she showed some curiosity as she quickly tore the paper off with a smile.

When she saw what was inside, she stared crying. It was the first time I had ever seen her cry. She grabbed me and we stood there in each other’s arms for a long time. When her tears had subsided, she asked me to put it on her.

It was a chain necklace that I had bought in Ipswich. Fastened to the golden chain was an animal’s tooth. It was the wolf’s tooth.

Do the events of our life actually have meaning? We all travel endlessly through one story after another, day after day, year after year.

Do these stories just happen, or do they have a secret purpose?

Is it all one endless series of coincidences, or does it all fit firmly together like a huge jigsaw puzzle?

Should we seek out the answers in our stories, or should we take them at face value and not waste valuable time with constant evaluation?

I always felt that everything that happened to me happened for a reason. Is this an illusion? Possibly, even probably, yet there it is.

It seems that every story I knew had a moral to it, something vital to learn.

Yet this could be just another silly game my mind plays to ease the boredom during the many lazy-mental moments when I do what I have to do to just to survive in this world. (Let’s go downtown and guess the temps.)

Yet there is no denying that we are all a part of the same universe, literally stardust, all of us a mere bundle of electrons floating helplessly in space.

It could be that life reveals its true secrets in the stories that occur during our day-to-day travels. We have to decipher the message ourselves. This could be irrational superstition on my part, yet this concept has survived within me to this day.

This irrational superstition could be deeply intertwined with my need to assume responsibility for all of my acts. I blame no one for what has occurred to me over the years. I stand alone.

Acceptance is the key; I accept things as they are. I mix the two notions together and then I shake well, no metaphor. It’s a potent potion that enables me to see my own life stories more clearly.

The stories we live comprise the essence of our lives, and there lies the key to the truth, and at the same time, the mystery.

THE END

But, it never truly ends.

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