The Bus Ride

August 1-4 1971

Sometimes at the beach I look down and see a frenzied sand ant bumping around my hairy shin.

That was me backpacking Europe in 1971 bumping into a smorgasbord of history, culture, religion and entertaining people.

In mid July I hitchhiked into Istanbul and stayed just long enough to see the major sites; Hagia Sophia Museum, Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace. The big souk. That's how I rolled. I came. I saw. I left.

In Athens I was in and out in three hours. My hitchhiked ride dropped me at the Acropolis which I surveyed with a keen eye for old things and then was on the road again before sundown.

Overnite in Istanbul I joined seven other  vagabonds in a youth hostel sharing four rickety bunk beds. Bathroom down the hall. Better than sleeping rough, as I had done the night before. Not as good as a night at the Hilton, which I could afford, but I'd have to go home the next day.

I decided on my next destination when I saw a flyer stapled to a wall advertising a 3 day bus to Tehran for $17.

The bus left dark and early. It had been modern in 1955 and sat forty uncomfortably. There were a few fellow vagabonds and some genuine western travelers but most riders were Turkish or Iranian men travelling between work in one city and family in the other.

I made friends with the local men. I was interested in them, their lives and thoughts and they liked to practice english on me. I knew some of the vagabonds from the road. The genuine travellers were uninteresting except for one.

For the first two days and nights we stopped only for fast meals and short visits in small cities on the way

On the afternoon of the third day I met Anne, the lone interesting person among the genuine travellers. We decided to sit together. We occupied the fourth row on the left side of the bus.

 We hit it off. My practice asking questions of the locals about their thoughts and feelings prepared me to make my time with Anne enjoyable for her.

Anne was English, about my age, a biology graduate student on her way to stay with a school friend in Tehran.

At around three in the morning we were sharing a kiss.

Then suddenly our aspirational moment went south. Anne felt nauseous.

I got the driver to pull off quickly.

Anne raced off the bus followed by me and some of the local travelers.

Anne threw up twice before regaining her equilibrium.

While I tried to be helpful some of the locals were less than. They saw humour in the situation and thru their gestures, like blowing me kisses, revealed that they had been eavesdropping on Anne and I and thought her illness was caused by me.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. As we parted Anne and I agreed we'd grab a coffee. She gave me her number.

But our relationship was doomed. Tehran had a third world telephone system. I could dial her number from a public phone but couldn't get any more than static on the line.

I quickly saw the sites in Tehran and was off towards Afghanistan at my usual warp speed.

April 9, 2019

The Potato Bug

1969

If Twitter had been around in 1969 more people would have turned up to see me die. But it wasn't. And I didn't. So nothing was lost.

In 1969 I was a 21 year old senior at San Fernando Valley State College in Northridge California. It was an idyllic life. I lived in the Sigma Alpha Mu fraternity house with five other man boys. We each had our own room. I could walk to campus and I had a car to get around LA's wide open spaces.

One downside. This was the one year in my life I had to cook for myself. Before and since I've been able to rely on someone else.

It's not that I can't cook. It's that I don't cook - well. Not something I'm proud of.

But this is a memoir not a confession so back to college days.

Living in the house with five other man boys meant there was a lot of fun on offer. We threw parties often, many brothers used our backyard as a free parking lot and the house as a place to get a beer after a tough day at college.

The backyard also served as a homeland for Potato Bugs more formally known as Jerusalem Crickets. These ugly, bulbous, desultory one to two inch long bugs liked our slice of the neighborhood. The house provided meal choices in a not so clean kitchen and an unkempt garbage area.

The housemates had different cleanliness standards. There was dissension.

We enjoyed squashing the Potato Bugs when they let us but it was a flash-point when one appeared.

One dinnertime I got into a ‘cleaner than thou’ argument with one of the guys.

I don't remember how it escalated into a bet that I would eat a Potato Bug or give my adversary ten bucks but that's what happened.

We set a date one week in the future to add a little unneeded excitement to our contest of wills.

I didn't need the week to consider the wisdom making the bet. Intellectually I knew eating a giant insect wouldn't kill me but, but, but.

I went back and forth in my enthusiasm for the moment.

It was a jump the shark situation but few other people were interested. Without Twitter there was just no way to hype the event. Not many people were interested in seeing me die.

The Potato Bug to be eaten had been corralled and frozen for the week. My plan was to boil my victim before eating. I was going to sanitize my meal before cutting it into morsels of protein.

I couldn't do it. Did you think I would?

In retrospect I realize my aversion to cooking was the problem. I needed more practice.

If this challenge comes up again I'm thinking a stir fry with chicken, cashews, broccoli, green beans, carrots, fava beans and the Potato bug, sliced, diced and spiced.

April 23, 2019

Most Memorable Gift

1965

My good fortune is to have a wife, two children, four grandchildren and the memory to know all nine birthdays. I have lots of chances to be a gift giver.

My wife's good fortune is to have the nature  of a camp counselor. She has ideas. She plans. She negotiates. She strategizes. She takes charge. She moves with lightning speed.

So she has the birthday gifts for our grandchildren approved by the parents, purchased, wrapped and delivered before the birthday message travels from my cerebral cortex to an action nerve.

It is no coincidence the kids always love the gift.

And I've become a bit of a slug, slow to move when the time to buy is nigh.

There was a time when it was different.

In 1965 while a freshman in college I fell madly in love with a fresh college woman I met working a part time job. It was not entirely mutual. I was more into her than she was into me.

So while we saw each other at work and even dated there was more that could have been written into our story.

Then I found a perfect birthday gift for her.

It was a folksy piece of art that was a pretty sunflower painted in vibrant colors on a one foot wide by two foot tall piece of wood. Except the artist put a mirror where the middle of the flower should have been. And above the mirror were the words ‘nice thing’.

So anyone looking in the mirror got an affirmation along with their reflection.

I gave this present to Erica along with a card that simply said “happy birthday nice thing”.

She opened the box, read the card, looked up into my eyes, smiled and said “Liking you more”.

March 2019

I Remember Mama

1962

No one is ever going to write a biography of my mother. But someone should.

She was born far away in deep poverty. The last of seven children. There'd be a few chapters about her childhood.

She was living in a big Canadian city by the time she was eighteen. A few chapters about the trials of getting to the boat, travel in steerage and embarking at the immigration depot in Halifax.

Then married and moved into the depression era middle class before she was twenty-five. More chapters.  

Then four children. An interesting husband. Enduring sadness when her parents and siblings left behind died horribly during world war 2. More chapters.

While still in charge and capable, she hit the best notes a parent can sing. She was loving, generous, instructive and fair. A good model. And she went out of her way to make her children's lives better whether we were receptive or not. Here's an example.

For the summer of 1962 mum and I were living in a small house near Venice Beach in California. We were summering there to test out a possible move to California from Toronto. My dad had passed five years before and two of my sibs had made the move a year earlier. I was the youngest. 14 then.

I spent my days on Venice Beach or watching television. I was shy kid. I hadn't met and made any local friends. It wasn't hell for me. I liked to read. But, of course, I was lonely.

One day I was on the beach cultivating my own garden. Suddenly a tap on my shoulder. It was my mother and there were two girls standing behind her, about my age.

My mother explained that she had met the two girls nearby and suggested they might like to meet her son, soon to be a doctor.

I know my mum had engineered this for me. She knew I was lonely and wanted to help. It was surprising that the girls had gone along with the ruse. My mum was already elderly, in her fifties, and had a foreign accent. But she had a nice smile.

She left me alone with the girls. I had some experience talking talking to girls, once I met them. There was much to discuss. Where do you live? What is school like for you? What do you like to watch on television?

We split up to go home for dinner agreeing to meet again at 7.

But this is a story of my mum's success as a parent. While it doesn't always work out the job includes going the extra mile for your kids. And she showed me how.

March 2019