Christmas 1967

One quiet night, I was standing an uneventful third watch thinking of home and wondering what the scene was in Brookline. It was Christmas Eve – my first ever away from home and family. At midnight, preparing to wake my watch relief, I took a final scan out over the parapet toward the desolately black DMZ beyond.

My rifle laid before me with a full magazine, chambered round, safety in the off position. There were several hand grenades by my side -fragmentation in case they got close, illumination in case I heard a scary noise. There was also a little switch that connected to a wire that lead to a claymore mine that I had placed twenty feet in front of me. When activated, a claymore would eliminate all living things within fifteen feet of its face – plants, rats, humans. It was a nasty little weapon that provided great peace of mind to any weary Marine on a late watch.

I had a fresh canteen of water and a half smoked pack of Camels. I pulled one out and lit it - ever careful to shroud the ignition lest I expose my position. I was saving the remnants of a joint for a special treat for later.

I wasn’t certain that I had ever been up at midnight on Christmas Eve. Dad and Ruthie used to go to the midnight church service sometimes, but I never found the idea very appealing. The faster I got to bed, the faster Christmas would come. I continued to believe that long after I stopped believing in Santa Claus.

Yet, here we really were - caught it an unfathomably peculiar limbo between war and peace.

War – the previous two weeks had been cold, wet, mud, horror, death, wounded, scared, oh my god so scared.

Peace – a three day Christmas cease-fire during which there was no noise, no movement, no patrols, no incoming artillery or mortars, and no outgoing.

At midnight, as I was preparing to give my watch relief a gentle nudge, a dull distant boom broke the silence. It was a distinctive muzzle blast from far to our south. Dong Ha? Quang Tri? Then another - boom. It must be night defensive fire from the rear.

Why were we shooting?

More drumming boomed on top of the other. So much for Christmas. Then, all at once, the familiar whistling sound from far above was followed by a friendly pop.
A white illumination flare exploded across a jet black sky…then another.

Alert.

Senses spiked.

Enemy activity? Eyes sharp, Jack – adjust. Adjust. Use your peripheral vision. Look away from the lowering flare. Look for movement, any movement. Is the claymore still there? Yes. Thank god. Then again from high above

A green flare ignited a sky that was already sprayed with a million stars, followed by a red flare.

A red flare.

I get it!

It’s Christmas Eve.

The silence of the cease fire continued all through Christmas Day except for a brief early morning flyover by a spotter plan with speakers that serenaded us with Christmas Carols. It was very cool. No patrols were sent out, although the watch schedules were maintained.

We took the time to breathe easier, while playing children’s games that my sister Ruthie had sent – checkers, slinkies, yo-yos, Old Maid, and Silly Putty. There were candy canes to eat and photographs of peaceful places back home in which to lose ourselves.

The yo-yos were the biggest hit. Machine gunner Tom Morrissey instantly made one of them his own. For weeks it never left his side. During an occasional quiet moment he could be seen alone pulling it out and, through the magic of a string and a round block of wood, removing himself to some distant New Hampshire childhood place.

Days later, Tom and I were on a patrol with the second platoon. I noticed him, far ahead where the column twisted around and into the tree line. He was at the edge of a rice paddy, kneeling to fill his canteen with the tepid swamp water. As he rose, M-60 machine gun carefully balanced on his shoulder, Ray Ban aviator glasses in place, he pulled the yo-yo from his hip pocket and with one downward thrust, spun a perfect “cats cradle.”

Then, with the flick of his shoulder, in a ritual of ultimate cool that he had performed a thousand times before, his weapon fell softly into his hands. In one unbroken motion he slapped a full bandolier of NATO 7.62 caliber ammo into the top, chambered a round, flipped off the safety, and followed his fire team back into the jungle.

Forever Tom.

I’m certain that no one saw it but me.

Six months later Tom Morrissey was dead.

Copyright © 2007 Jack McLean All Rights Reserved.

Welcome…Back

It’s been years since I was in a small New England town at Christmas time. There is a thick layer of snow and ice thanks to last week’s storms. Beautiful. It is now lightly snowing again. Can my first snow angel be far behind!

A white Christmas is assured.

Last evening we went to St. Patrick's Church to hear a Christmas chorale. The church was packed, candles were held, children behaved, while adults sang and listened to the story of the first Christmas. It was as magnificent as I remember from so many years ago.

There are, however, unmagnificent elements to a pending white Christmas. Because of the snow, roads are several feet narrower, turning lanes no longer exist, mall parking lots are diminished, vehicles are salt encrusted and filthy, sidewalks are unshoveled, and, not surprisingly, tempers are short as the big day approaches.

I am a world away from Knotts Island, but I do feel welcome … back in New England.

I walked over to the coffee shop this morning. As I slid across the parking lot to the door, a young woman exiting held the door for me.

“Thank you.” I said with a smile.

“No problem,” she responded neither breaking stride nor looking up.

No problem?

Safely inside, I ordered a tall chai tea latte.

“One tall chai tea latte?” the clerk responded.

“Yes,” said I. “Thank you.”

“Yup.”

Yup?

My lidded paper cup shortly arrived at the other end of the counter.

“One tall chai tea latte,” said the young man.

“That’s me,” said I reaching for the drink. “Thank you.”

“Thank youuuu,” came the reply.

Thank you??!!

Who’s doing the thanking around here and how is it that so few people care to acknowledge that. We teach our children “please” and “thank you” and most emerge form childhood with that aspect of manners intact. But, what about the “you’re welcome”…back?

“Please,” “thank you,” and “you’re welcome” are part of a three part contract that enters our lives dozens of times a day among family, friends, and total strangers alike. You ask a favor of someone (“please pass the salt”.) The salt is passed. You respond (“thank you.”) The salt passer then completes the transaction (“you are welcome.”)

Done.

Somewhere along the way, the “you are welcome” part was replaced by responses such as “no problem”, “yup” or, the worst of all, the echoing “thank youuuu.”)

In the case of my door holder, she may have more politely acknowledged my thanks (“you are welcome”) then passed on the additional information she felt compelled to give (“no problem.”)

The clerk who took my coffee order was flat-out rude. To respond “yup” to a “thank you” is to dismiss the person completely. (I don’t care if you thank me or not, because to me you don’t exist.) My daughter Sylvia will laugh out loud here. Ridding her of the “yup” response to a “thank you” was one of my singular achievements as a parent. She has since become a worthy disciple and, as an elementary school teacher, molding more young brains than this blog ever could.

Finally, the “thank youuu” response to the “thank you” delivered to the young man who delivered my coffee. By immediately responding to my “thank you” with his own, he is saying that not only does my “thank you” not count, but he is trumping it with his own “thank youuu” thereby letting me know who’s really in charge (nobody’s going to thank me and get away with it!)

Yogi Berra once said that “you can see a lot just by observing.” Do some observing of your own and see what you come up with. Turn on the TV to a show that has guests or commentators (Oprah, Meet the Press, NFL Today, etc,) and listen to how the guests respond when they are thanked by the host. You will hear, “yup,” thank you,” my pleasure,” "thanks for having me,” and, of course, the greatest of them all, “thank youuu!!”

You may listen for days before you hear “you are welcome.” When you do, buy lots of whatever the show’s sponsors are selling.

Let’s bring welcome…back.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"When life looks like easy street, there is danger at the door."

Nothing much happens on Knotts Island. This seems agreeable to the residents. My new eyes, however, see things happen all the time.

The other day, I walked to the ferry dock for a ride over to Currituck and back. It was a gorgeous windy day - ideal for a boat ride. The hour and a half round trip would afford an opportunity to take pictures and fiddle with the Times crossword.

When I arrived at the landing, I saw a large white van with "North Carolina Prisons" stenciled on the side. It was hauling a portable outhouse and several cases of orange trash bags. I had noticed filled orange trash bags along the side of the island roads over the previous several days. This would be the source.

The ferry was delayed because of wind, so the driver of the prison van and I sat on the curb and chatted (his human cargo was securely chained within the van.)

"What's doing," I asked the ferry operator. "Is the ferry going to go?"

"Dunno" replied the captain. "Wind."

He was an enormous man with a sweet demeanor, but difficult to understand.

"Have your guys been picking up the trash along the Knotts Island roads the last several days?"

"Yip."

"They all prisoners?"

Long pause, "Yip?"

After a time, he pulled out a cell phone and speed dialed a number.

"We still here." Pause. "Yip." Pause. "Yip. K."

"What's up?' I asked. "Did you get some info?"

"Yip. Wind. Maybe go at 11."

It was 10:45.

There seemed to be no urgency on any one's part to get the ferry going. The prison van was the only vehicle in line and I was the only other passenger. I began to wonder if the prisoners would be released during the ride. I began to further wonder about the wisdom of my spontaneous morning adventure.

"Where's the prison?" I asked. I decided to keep the conversation, such as it was, going.

"'Lizbit Siti."

"Elizabeth City?" I searched for clarification.

"Yip."

"Ah." I responded. "State prison?"

"Yip."

"Ah" came my rote reply. "How do you pick the guys, I mean, what's to keep them from taking off?"

"Sho timahs."

"Ah, short timers. I see. So they don't really have much incentive to run. O.K. That makes sense."

"Yip. Maybe a mon or two left mos ofem, but evy so ofen, one dummass will duck in da trees."

"Try to escape, really, with only a month or two left?"

"Yip."

"Gosh, then what do you do?" I had visions of southern chain gangs, shot guns, blood hounds - scary stuff. Knotts Island is not that big a place.

"Oh, we go fine hid gull fran. He be there. Dummasses."

I suppose it made sense. If a prisoner with two weeks left was stupid enough to run, why would he be smart enough to go someplace other than his girl friend's house.

The guards cell phone rang.

"Yip. Wind. Yip. "K."

"Any news" I asked?

"Nope."

On those times when the ferry didn't operate, one had to drive 25 miles up into Virginia Beach, 15 miles across to the Great Dismal Swamp, then 20 miles back down into North Carolina. The upper school kids did it all the time. It took about as long to drive the 60 miles as it did for the ferry to travel 5 miles across the sound.

"Well, too bad about the drive," I commiserated. "I suspect you are ready to get these guys back."

"Can drive. Godda takeda ferry."

Now I was confused. "What if the ferry doesn't go. I mean, what if the wind doesn't die down? Don't you have to drive around?"

"Nope. Can't"

"How come," I pressed?

"Ain't loud take da boys to Ginia. NoCalina prisoners."

"Oh. No kidding. Gosh, I never thought of that. You can't cross a state line with the prisoners, is that it?

"Yip."

"So, what do you do?"

"Wait. She'll go."

It was a curious state of affairs - no pun intended. Knotts Island has no land connection to North Carolina. The only two ways out are by road north to Virginia Beach or by ferry to Currituck.

I waited for five or ten more minutes, took a final look back at the prison van, and decided to walk back to my garage and finish the puzzle at home.

The wind died down later in the day. That afternoon, I saw the van was gone and the ferry appeared to be operating.

All's well that ends well, I 'spose.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

It's Official

I've lived over the Tillery garage for three months - well past the legal time limit for a local driver's licence and vehicle registration. So, yesterday, I took the 10AM Currituck ferry across the sound to begin my journey to Elizabeth City, the closest motor vehicle office.

I had, in fact, set out the day before on the same journey but realized, as the ferry left the dock, that I had brought no proof of anything (age, residence, insurance, etc.) I was so focused on the driver's exam, that I had brought only the NC Motor Vehicle Manual to study on the ride over.

Yesterday I was ready, or so I felt.

Friends had forewarned me that the DMV would get me one way or the other, so I set aside the entire day for the adventure. I am not a novice. This was to be my ninth driver's license in seven different states (NC and Mass. being repeats) and eighth vehicle registration. Most notably, over the past nine years I had become a battle scarred veteran of the antediluvian District of Columbia DMV. How tough could North Carolina be?!

I had no idea.

After driving off the ferry, I studied every traffic sign for the duration of the journey to Elizabeth City (regulation?, warning?, informational?) I flipped though my notes (25 feet from a curb, 15 feet from a fire hydrant).

My heart raced.

The first surprise? There was no DMV office at the given address.

How diabolical.

While blindly retracing my steps back through Elizabeth City, I noticed a door in a small strip mall that said "License Plate Office." I'd have missed it but for the large black and white sign on the adjacent storefront church ("Jesus? He's in the Book!")

The license plate office, run by a private contractor, was the size of a living room and housed four staff, stacks of plates, computers, printers, extra paper, a small fridge (safely behind he counter), a twisting line of 14 people, several stenciled signs announcing the presence of no bathrooms, and dozens of other faded hand stenciled signs announcing changes in every code imaginable over the past ten or so years. Unfortunately, I did not notice the one announcing that an NC driver's licence was now required to register a vehicle.

Twenty minutes later, I was so informed.

The diver's licence bureau is located six miles on the other side of town inside of the State Police office. When they called my number (28) the officer while pleasant, was insistent that my laminated Social Security card was not acceptable. I was in luck, however. There was a local Social Security office on yet another side of Elizabeth City. Talk about good fortune!

The Social Security office was the size of, well, a living room. There was one extremely patient staff member who gave diligent and thorough service to each of the nine people in front of me. She was remarkable. I'd have killed half of them. An hour later I emerged with a valid Social Security card - not part of my original mission, but a small sign of progress.

It was now 2PM.

The people at the driver's license office seemed happy to see me back. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, or perhaps there are some poor souls who never return from the trip to the Social Security office.

I was now getting nervous. The driver's test loomed.

I confidently presented my passport as my second form of ID. Had I been more diligent, I'd have noticed that my passport had expired in April and was, thereby, unacceptable. Fortunately I was deep in ID. Ironically, the notarized copy of my marriage license sufficed.

The final hoop prior to the test was proof of insurance. I proudly presented my insurance card with all of the required information. Unfortunately, it had Karen's name on it. An hour later, after several telephone calls and a fax from my agent, I was ready for the test.

Eyes? O.K.

Sign knowledge? Check.

Driver's exam? 22 out of 25. I passed with two to spare!

Back ground selection (lighthouse, airplane, bird), voter registration, organ donor, signature, photograph and...???

I am legally licensed to drive a class 3 motor vehicle in the state of North Carolina.

Armed with the license and renewed confidence, I headed back six miles to the Final Battleground. The line at the license plate office wasn't that bad - maybe nine people this time. I waited patiently, read some more signs (they apparently are not responsible if small children swing on the ropes that twist around the room to demark the line), and fooled around with the prior day's NY Times crossword.

After a time, I got to the front, gave them my license, gave them my insurance information, and even gave them my Social Security information - not because they asked for it, but because I could. There was one snag as the old title read J.P. Morgan Chase the leasing company wanted the new title to read Chase Auto Finance. Tab "A" did not go into slot "B". I was tired, starved, but rigid in my resolve.

It was 4PM. Victory was at hand. They made a few calls, sorted things out, pulled out a shiny new plate, showed me where to sign, and asked for $238.

$238!!??

There was a tax of which I had not been aware. I'd forgotten my check book and was way short on cash.

Would they take a credit card?

Laughs all around.

Where was the nearest ATM?

Shrug.

The rule was that, if you left the parking lot, you'd have to return to the end of the line.

I was erased from the computer, given back my paperwork, and exiled to search for an ATM. There aren't a lot of banks in Elizabeth City - a subject perhaps for a future blog. After a time I found one, my card worked, I returned four miles back to the license plate office, the line was manageable (7 people - 2 appeared to be together) and at 4:45, exited with my new plate. NC XPA4552. I waved goodbye as we all agreed to get together again in the Bahamas in 5 years.

I just made the 5:30 ferry back to Knotts Island. As it pulled out, I headed for the upper deck to watch a magnificent sunset and find a trash can that would be a worthy receptacle for my dog-eared North Carolina Motor Vehicle Manual.

Thank you for visiting,

Jack

"The Most Excellent California Christmas Ever!"

This is the title that my daughter Sylvia has given to our family Christmas celebration.
No doubt, somebody in her family has a background in marketing.
In deference to my California friends, this will be Sylvia's first California Christmas, so her claim is not designed to slight those of you who have had a string of most excellent California Christmases.
This will be the Most Excellent (McLean/Elmer family) California Christmas Ever.
You know how people sometimes will say, "boy a year ago, I never imagined that I'd be doing this or that...?" When someone says that to me, my mind tries to imagine everything that is imaginable ever. I don’t want to be caught off guard in a year having something happen to me that I never imagined would happen. My brain is so actively ADD that I like to think that I've imagined everything that could ever be conceivably be imagined. It keeps me from thinking about the things that normal people think that I should be thinking about.
That having been said, a year ago I never imagined that I would be cheerfully anticipating the “Most Excellent California Christmas Ever!” I’ve spent the last five Christmases in Georgetown with my wife Karen, her ex- husband, their two kids, and four grandkids. One big happy family. O.K., I did feel a like an outsider, but over time it had developed into a manageable routine.
My three daughters spent Christmas with their mother Roz in Maine. That was the way it worked. Two years ago, however, the wall began to crack. Sarah moved to Hong Kong and married John. Last summer, Sylvia married Brad and, against all imagination (mine included) moved to Davis, California. A month ago, Margaret McLean Tsien came into the world. New grandmother Roz will, consequently, be flying to Hong Kong for Christmas.
Coincident with this family excitement, Karen decided that she’d had enough of me, so I raced to the Outer Banks to write, consult and, on a breathtaking day like today, ride the Knotts Island ferry five miles over to Currituck and back with only my camera and a book. This I happily could not have imagined a year ago.
The balance falls conveniently into place. Sylvia and Brad are eager to host Christmas for their displaced family members (Sylvia’s sister Martha, Brad’s mom Peg, his identical twin brother Chris, and me.) Three of us. Three of them. Perfect. It has all the makings of the most excellent (McLean/Elmer family) California Christmas ever.
Now, two weeks before the big day (we will in fact celebrate the day on December 26), my mind is again in overdrive. How could I not have seen this a year ago - Sarah and John have Margaret, Sylvia and Brad move to California, and Karen splits.
What will next year hold?
I can hardly imagine.
I’m hoping for the Second Most Excellent California Christmas Ever.
Two years in a row?
It will have become a tradition.
Thank you for visiting.
Jack

"Everybody's a deamer. Everbody's a star."

Bonnie is the Post Mistress of the Main Knotts Island Post Office. I'm not aware of a branch office, but they call it the Main Knotts Island Post Office nonetheless.

Bonnie and I became friends shortly after I moved down from Washington, DC. She signed me up for my little post office box and explained how, when a larger package arrived, she'd put it into one of the two bigger package boxes, a key to which would be placed in my little box.

Simple pleasures.

It's the most enjoyment that I have derived from the mail process since I was in Vietnam when we watched the big red nylon bags of mail being tossed off helicopters.

Bonnie was excited the day that I came in several months ago and, with a resounding "thwmp," presented for delivery the first of my book manuscript edits to be sent to my editor Katie Hall in Seymour, Indiana.

"A book? Really? Goodness. How exciting."

"Well, almost sort of a book, Bonnie. It still has a long way to go," I responded.

Bonnie proceded to ask me about out the book, ("It's a memoir about my time in the Marine Corps between prep school and college,) how long I'd been working on it (five years.)

Another "goodness" from Bonnie.

I asked that it be sent by overnight mail. "Overnight is not overnight to anywhere either from Knotts Island or into Seymour, Jack" It will take two days. "

She said she'd keep a close eye out for Katie's return package.

Several weeks later, I found a key to the big box in my little post office box. Inside the big box was the returned manuscript. It was one in the morning.

Bonnie was nowhere in sight.

Several days later, I returned with the final draft. Bonnie made certain that it got right off to Seymour with the proper postage and packaging.

"Remember, Jack, overnight is not overnight."

"Right, Bonnie. Thanks."

"Goodluck."

Last week, Katie told me that the finished product was on its way back to Knotts Island by overnight mail. I waited the requisite two days, took a deep breath, and rode over to the Post Office.

I opened my box - the New Yorker, a cell phone bill, and a flyer from Circuit City.

No key.

As I was closing the box, Bonny's voice came from the void beyond.

"Jack? Is that you? Hey Jack. Wait a minute. I've been waiting for you. You have a package. It's from Seymour. It's from Ms. Hall. Is it your manuscript?"

It was.

I took it home, sat on my bed, opened the box, and began to slowly turn each of the 292 pages. A typo here - a missed comma there, but mostly nothing across page after black and white page where, on pervious iterations, Katie's grey pencil had splayed every manner of the editor's script, praise, and admonitions.

At the end of the third chapter came her first remark,

"Jack, I will endeavor not to gush at the end of every chapter, but this is pitch perfect. I am so proud of you."

Wow.

End of Chapter 4... "Great."

And so it continued with more "greats" and even smiley faces (Katie HATES smiley faces!)

Chapter 14..."Great, great, great."

"Excellent"

"Oh! How wonderful."

When she wrote the occasional, "good" followed only by a lowly period, I wondered if I had somehow failed.

"Seamless, fluid, cohesive, effortless, v.v. good."

"Your battle dialogue is some of the best in the book."

"Excellent, Jack. Classic wartime writing."

"Breaks my heart. You're profoundly talented."

"Awesome." Complete with enormous smiley face.

And finally, at the end, "you make me cry every time. Bravo!"

I am now frozen with such an enormous sense of accomplishment, that I literally cannot speak to it. So, I am trying to write.

When, as a child, I extolled in the manner above, my mother would be quick to say, "that's nice dear, but it would come so much nicer from someone else." Wise words.

When my children were young, however, I'd remind them of the importance of marking important moments, in whatever form they may manifest. Fleeting though they may be, they exist for us all if we can only recognize them.

So, I am here stopping and marking one of the great moments of my life. That God has guided my hand and permitted me to tell the untold story of the grand young sons of Charlie 1/4 is humbling beyond all imagination.

From so many of you over the past five years, I have received love and support, every ounce of which was required to keep me pushing myself to a place that I could hardly imagine.

The writing is complete.

Tomorrow, Katie and I will speak and the next phase will begin. This moment will have passed.

We are satisfied that the manuscript is an honest well-told accounting of those turbulent times and a group of boys who were swept up into them for better, worse, or reasons none of us will ever be able to adequately articulate.

It has been my great honor to have had the opportunity to try.

Thanks for the package, Bonny.

Thanks to you for visiting.

Jack

"The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round."

Knotts Island, North Carolina, where I live, hangs as an appendix into Currituck Sound, 30 miles south of Virginia Beach, Virginia. It is connected to the mainland my a long breathtaking causeway from the west that winds through the Mackay Island National Wildlife Refuge.

The Refuge, largely wetlands, covers most of the island. The Refuge bird list, issued by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, identifies 154 speciaes of birds from bald eagles to hummingbirds that may be observed (and checked off the list) throughout the year. There are also snakes, deer, racoons, an annoying rooster, and other predictable rural flora and fauna, including dozens of mostly hospitible pet dogs of every make and model that freely roam.

The northern third of the island, well above the causeway is physically in the state of Virginia. I often ride my bike down the road for a mile, pass a "Welcome to Virginia" sign, then ride another mile past houses, farms, stables, and trailers. The road ends abruptly at the edge of the Mackey Preserve.

So much for the Virginia part.

South of the causeway is all North Carolina. There is a small general store, the post office, and Pearl's, a restaurant of sorts. The garage, over which I reside, is on the island's southweatern point, about six miles from the causeway and several hundred yards from the ferry dock. I have three windows and each faces the water (east, south and west.)

The ferry crosses Curituck Sound eight times a day for a 45 minute ride west to the town of Currituck on the mainland. The ferry is very cool. It holds ten or twelve cars and is free. Were I in search of a morning maritime adventure, I could grab a book, walk to the ferry dock, ford the bounty main to Currituck, wait a few minutes for loading and unloading, then ride it back - and all before lunch!

What ever does all this have to do with "the wheels of the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round?"

It's all about the kids.

Knotts Island has an elementary school (The Knotts Island Elementary School) for the North Carolina children. The Virginia children from earliest age, thereby, must be daily transported to the Virginia Beach schools by busses that come down from Virginia, pass into North Carolina, cross the causeway, take a left, reenter Virginia via my afformentioned bike route, pick up a few kids and reverse the process. There are also busses that take the Knotts Island children to the Knotts Island Elementary School, but they travel exclusively on the North Carolina side.

It is a curious fact of island life to obseve, on a morning walk, a Virginia school bus directly behind a North Carolina school bus both heading south on a North Carolina state road. The Virginia buss peels off at the causeway, but still....

So, compared to the Virginia Knotts Islanders, the North Carolina kids have it made. Right?

Well, not exactly.

The Knotts Island North Carolinians, although well served by a resident elementary school, have neither a middle school nor a high school. They are no more welcome in the relatively proximate Virginia Beach Schools than that unfortunate Knotts Island Virginia kids are welcome at the Knotts island Elementary School.

Knotts Island is part of Currituck County. The Currituck upper schools are five miles across the sound in Currituck. Therefore, the North Carolina Knotts Islanders can either travel about fifty miles by bus (which they occassionally do during inclement weather) off the island, north into Virginia, west across the state, then south back into North Carolina again.

Or...

They can take the ferry which is of course what they do. Every morning, before dawn, the busses line up to take the Knotts Island North Carolina children five sea miles across to school. They seem to come home at all hours what with sports and after school programs - I haven't figured all of that out yet. The last ferry, however, comes back over at 6:30.

It seems to med that a five mile morning and evening ferry ride to school beats the five mile walk in the snow (uphill both ways) that we endured as kids.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"Blind people come to the park just to listen to him pitch."

Reggie Jackson was commenting about New York Mets Hall of Fame pitcher Tom Seaver's performances during the mid 1970's. He was the dominate pitcher of his generation.

Listen to him pitch?

Counterintuitive and true.

Certainly the blind patron could not have seen Seaver's wind up, pause, gaze, and delivery. Nor could he have seen the dirt on Tom's right knee - a sure sign that his follow through was complete, and that his stuff was unhittable.

The blind patron could, however, hear what the others might miss; the distinctive pop of a high fastball into catcher Jerry Grote's mitt, the soft crack of a ball missing full bat contact and dribbling down to first, the crowd's screaming anticipation with every two strike pitch, and, of course, the public address announcer introducing a new player with every third or forth pitch.

Perhaps that's what it was like to listen to Tom Seaver pitch.

When I worked for the New York Mets, I saw Seaver pitch dozens of times. Occasionally, I closed my eyes and felt the unmistakable aura that existed in Shea Stadium when he was on the mound. Different rules applied when Tom pitched and my every sense was aware of it.

The sense of sight may, thereby, be no more important to watching a great baseball pitcher than, say, hearing is integral to appreciating a Beethoven symphony.

Had I been deaf, I would like to have seen Leonard Bernstein conduct Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in New York's Carnegie Hall. I would have watched his animated arms extol the mighty brass while enticing the delicate triangle in the same seamless motion.

The hairs on the back of my neck would feel the mighty strings while my arms tingled at the subtle vibrations of the oboes. The chorus would be animated while the audience sat rapt in anticipation of the next note - indeed the next quarter note.

Finally, the crescendo. The audience would stand and cheer while mouthing the word "more!" Bernstein would bow his deep bow, wave to his concertmaster who would bow in turn, while signaling his arm to the orchestra who would all rise and bow.

It would have been the euphoria of a near perfect performance that Beethoven himself had never heard. Beethoven was near total deafness when he composed the Ninth Symphony. For years he sat plotting note after excruciating note, hearing a perfect symphony in his head without ever having the perceived benefit of his ears.

I was most fortunate.

As a child, I did hear Leonard Bernstein direct Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in Carnegie Hall. Every one of my senses understood that Saturday afternoon that they would never be the same.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

"Get Busy Living, or Get Busy Dying"

These words were spoken to Red by the fictional inmate Andy Dufresne at Maine's Shawshank Prison in 1947.

Get busy living or get busy dying.

It is my first thought each morning when I rise.

My immediate second thought is, "so now what?"

Then it all starts to become complicated.

Andy was a thinker who set and pursued goals. For him, happiness existed with hope. He hoped to start an inn in Mexico and provide a charter boat service.
For him to get busy living, however, he was forced to stoically endure torture at the hands of the guards and the other prisoners.

For him to get busy living, he also had to dig an escape tunnel, build trust with the guards and other inmates, and meticulously defraud the warden.Living with hope and happiness is a choice and, as seen in Andy's case, may require endurance and action all at the same time.

We are born with the capacity to live lives filled with hope and happiness. We indeed live in a country in which the persuit of happiness is a constitutional guarantee.

That being said, the very idea of hope or happiness may become so buried or blurred over time that it eludes even our deepest probes.

We are all filled with dreams. We are all filled with hope.

Get busy living, or get busy dying.

Thank you for visiting.

Jack

Why I Write

It may be fitting that, as a writer, I begin this blog in writer's block.

My sister Barbara has come to the rescue with the following passage from author/naturalist Terry Tempest Williams on why she writes:

I write to make peace with the things I cannot control.
I write to create fabric in a world that often appears black and white.
I write to discover.
I write to uncover.
I write to meet my ghosts.
I write to begin a dialogue.
I write to imagine things differently and, in imagining things differently, perhaps the world will change.
I write to honor beauty.
I write to correspond with my friends.
I write as a daily act of improvisation.
I write because it creates my composure.
I write myself out of my nightmares and into my dreams.
I write to the questions that shatter my sleep.

I write to remember.
I write to forget.
I write to quell the pain.
I write as an act of faith.
I write as an act of slowness.
I write to record what I love in the face of loss.
I write as a bow to wilderness.
I write becauseI believe I can create a path in the darkness.
I write because I am not employable.
I write as a witness to what I have seen.
I write for the love of ideas.
I write knowing words will always fall short.
I write as thoiughI am whispering in the ear of the one I love.

Wonderful.

In the words of the older woman deli customer in When Harry Met Sally, after Sallys faked orgasm, " I'll have what she's having."

And so I begin.

I will endeavor to speak with you tomorrow and daily thereafter on subjects that float through the open window of the Tillery garage in Knotts Island, North Carolina.

Thank you for joining me.

Jack