165. Homeward Bound

I woke this morning with tears in my eyes.  From a dream my conscious won’t let me remember, except my head was full of colors, pinks and sky blue and golds and spring greens. But these colors of my salvation somehow seem too close and I am afraid.  I feel like a small boy and I want to go home.  But home and Mom and Dad are no longer there.  The house is, but that section of the city is now a ghetto and I haven’t driven through there in years.  I would today, however.  I knew I had to go home and at least drive by the house before I took one more step forward in life.  I took Bouncer with me.  A week out of the hospital, he wouldn’t have let me go alone.

If one zips along the New York State Thruway at a speed somewhat below 80 mph, the trip from Saugerties to Utica  takes a little over two hours.   The Thruway has been around a long time but the magnificent roadway still strikes me as a modern wonder.  More than a half century later the interstate highway still handles increasing amounts of traffic quite well as it runs for 570 miles from New York City to Buffalo.

We weren't going quite that far. After the hills west of Schenectady, the four lane highway dropped back down into the valley of the Mohawk and gradually rose again on the south side of the river where one looks out over what is left of the small city of Amsterdam, famous in the first half of the twentieth century for carpets. Far away to the north one can barely see the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains, a beautiful tract of almost ten thousand square miles of wilderness, considered virtually worthless before minerals and timber began to float down its twisty rivers in the 1800's to welcoming markets along the Mohawk River where processing and manufacturing industries blossomed.

I could see the faint outline of the Adirondacks when we were high above the Mohawk Valley and I thought of those days in college drinking beer in the hundreds of summer bars for twenty year olds that closed down on Labor Day and reopened in November to slake the thirst of deer hunters.  Some of the businesses insisted on calling themselves restaurants, although a Slim Jim might be the only food item on their menu.  The Chambers of Commerce in the little towns  pointed to the many attractions and ice cream shops and didn't mention the huge percentage of profits in alcohol.  On one small lake to the northeast in Carthage, NY a popular beer joint overflowed the tiny island it was built upon and continued another 40 feet out over the water.   When the local assessor insisted the island had to have a name for his official maps, the owner's first reaction was, "What island?"  The woman was told pretending it was a barge would involve an inland salvage license.  She was at least honest enough to call it what the locals had always called it, Beer Island.  Evidently scandalized, a mapmaker in Albany added an initial so that it's official name is now J. Beer Island.

164. Delivery

The ambulance arrived at the McDonalds and through the tall window I saw the lights flash as the vehicle rolled up to the side door.  A uniformed man and woman in their twenties entered the restaurant and walked over to us when Mary waved to them.  While the woman EMT spoke with Mary, the fellow guided me outside and helped me up into the back of the ambulance with a little shove at the small of my back.  He helped me onto the stretcher.  After he started an IV line he attached little stickies to my arms and chest for the instrumentation.  Then he clicked a button on the radio and called my vitals into a nearby hospital.  The person in the Emergency Room made no comment about my condition. 

The woman EMT arrived and I was disappointed not to see Mary.  I wanted to thank her. 

"Where's Mary?" I asked the woman EMT.

"Who?"  she replied.

"The truck-driving nurse you were just talking to," I said.

"She said she had to get back on the road," said the woman.

"Oh," I said.  "I should have said goodbye and thanked her."

"Had to get the truck to New York by midnight, she said."

"Yeah," I said, "a load of medical supplies, she told me."

"Did you call her Mary?" asked the EMT.

"Yes," I replied.

"The name on her Nurse ID was Sally," said the woman.

"Sally?"  I asked, not certain I believed my ears.

"Sally Guardelli," said the woman. "I thought you knew each other."

"Yes.  Well, not really," I said.  "I may have met her once before."

"Sally said you'd been nothing but trouble," laughed the EMT, "since the day you were born."

Declan Galbraith - An Angel

163. The Road

I don't know why I expected the big truck to have a smooth ride.  Just because the cab was larger than a yacht didn't mean it would be comfortable and it wasn’t.  We jolted along the highway and the hot coffee Mary had bought me spilled on my hand and shirt cuff.
Mary guessed I was flat broke and she was right.


“I‘m a monk,” I said.


“How long has it taken you?” she asked.   I was surprised she put her question that way, and realized it was exactly the response my statement should elicit from someone familiar with the contemplative way.


“Almost forty-five years,” I said.


"That's a long time," Mary said.


"I'm a slow learner."


Mary gave her attention to passing a slower truck in front of us as we started up a long hill. The directional light clicker was the loudest I've ever heard, no doubt designed for noisy environments.  She glanced over my way, checking the rearview mirror.  I presumed she was watching the end of her trailer dutifully follow her out into the passing lane.  From my seat I could see nothing but the running lights down the side of the trailer.

"Where ya headed?" she asked after a few moments.


For some reason I was having trouble with the word.  I couldn't say the name of the town.  Then I realized I couldn't remember the name.

"Sausage," I finally said.


"Sausage?" she asked.


"Sausage and cheese,"  I said, knowing that wasn't right.


"Are you saying Saugerties?" she asked, a note of concern in her voice.

"Yes,"  I forced a laugh, "just a nickname."


And as this conversation took place,  I hoped I'd feel better in the next two hours before we sped down the Hudson Valley to my destination.  My left arm felt dead asleep and I was getting dizzy.

 

We sat high up off the road, probably a good six to eight feet in the Freightliner's cab.  A couple of hours later the sky began to darken in the east, and the outline of the Catskill Mountains loomed ahead of us up against a lighter sky to the south and west.  Darkness was creeping across the valley that lay before us on either side of the endless strip of four lane highway, lightly crowded with cars and trucks and buses.  Where are all these people going, I thought?  They can't all be commuting home from jobs.  Maybe the New York State Thruway these days was used as a local expressway in the Hudson Valley.


Mary seemed unusually quiet.  True, I'd only known her for two hours and most of that time she had appeared lost in thought.  I suppose truckers aren't very talkative, until they reach a point where they talk to themselves from sheer boredom.  And then I suppose they tire of listening to themselves and quiet reigns in the cab for many hours.  And then they're bored again and ....


"What?" she said.  "I can't hear you."


I looked away from the side window I'd been gazing through and
brought my eyes around to her.

 
"You were mumbling something," she said.

 
"Oh, sorry," I answered.

 

"Are you OK?" she asked.

I gave her question about 3 seconds of thought.

 
"Well," I said, "I'm not sure, but I think I'm OK."

 
"Uh huh," was her only reply.

 
"I've been feeling a little spacey lately, but I think I'm OK now," I said.
 
"We're ten minutes from Saugerties," she said.  "I'll pull off and
take you into the McDonald's where I can get a good look at you."
 
"Are you a nurse?" I asked, ready to start an argument.

 
"Yes," she replied, "for forty years before I became a trucker.

 
Just my luck, I thought.  Help when you don't want it.


Mary walked behind me as I entered the McDonalds.  As I aimed toward the counter to order another coffee, I felt her grab my elbow and pull me hard to the left toward a booth in the back of the restaurant.  The place was practically deserted at this hour after dinner, before kids began to drop by for a mid-evening hamburger and a milkshake.


My new nurse sat me down at the end of a booth with my legs facing out into the aisle.  She pulled a backpack from her shoulders and plopped it on the table, then unzipped it and brought out a what appeared to be a huge wrist watch.


"Blood pressure," she said. "Roll back your shirt cuff and put it on.  I'll show you how to hold your arm."  Out of the bag came a stethoscope and small bug-like device that she clamped over my finger.

 
“Look, just call my Brothers down the road at the … at the modal, the motor, and they’ll come and get me.

"Open the neck of your shirt,"  she said.

I complied.  "With such low overhead here, you're not going to charge much, are you?" I asked.

She ignored me, placed the stethoscope inside my shirt and when I made to speak again, told me to shut up.  I complied.

She took a good look at my eyes and then put her tools away, motioned me to slide deeper into the booth and sat down next to me.  I had no doubt she was blocking me from leaving.

She began to ask me questions a doctor might, but I made light of them.

"Listen, Bub," she said harshly, "I'm trying to save your life.  Don't give me a hard time."

"It's my life," I replied.  I did not want to be sick or to die, but I had convinced myself I'd get over whatever was ailing me.  Don't we always get over it?   I suppose there will come a time when I won't get over it.

Mary reached in her pocket and retrieved her cell phone.  She dramatically placed it on the table for me to see.

"I have cards in my wallet identifying me as a nurse.  I don't need to be wearing a uniform to call for an ambulance and have you taken to the ER, with or without your permission."
 
"Oh, come on," I said, hoping to stall the inevitable.
 
"If you give me any trouble, I'll have the police come along and I'll tell them to take you to a psych ward for your own protection," she continued.  "Either way I'm going to get you medical attention," she said.  "You're either having a stroke or you had one."

I thought she was lying.  I could tell the policeman I didn't know her.  She's crazy, I'd say, I never met her before she walked up to my table and stole my French fries.  I don't think a nurse can walk into a McDonald's, pick out someone and have the police take them off to the loony bin.  I didn't buy her threat.  But of her sincerity I had no doubt.  She thought I was in serious trouble.  I probably was.
 


A believable episode.

162. Travel

And then not long ago  I found myself sitting in the  hot dog place in the village.  But it didn’t look like the hot dog place.  It was way too large.  I got up and walked around and realized I was in a New York State Thruway rest stop, complete with gas station, rest rooms and five different restaurants.  But I didn’t really know where I was on the road that runs from New York City to Buffalo.  I asked the woman in the gift shop the name of this plaza and when she replied, “Westmoreland,” I  knew I was near Utica in the Mohawk Valley. 

I didn’t know how I got there, but at least I was on the southbound side of the Thruway and could hitchhike home.You don't see anyone hitchhiking anymore and the reason is it's all but impossible to get picked up.  Nobody wants to take the chance anymore. So you hang around truck stops or jump the fence to get in a Thruway rest stop and ask guys for a ride.I walked around the truck area to the rear where the big tractor trailers pull in at an angle so that each is 15 feet or so ahead of the other and the driver can see more than just the trucks on either side of him when he parks.  I looked up through the cab windows for drivers ready to go.  One fellow was checking out something under his trailer and I approached him, but he said he wasn't allowed to take a rider.  

As I walked away a woman said, "You looking for a ride, Bub?"

Behind me stood an elderly woman and I wondered what she was doing in the truck area.

"I'm hauling to the West Side docks, she said, “12th and 23rd."

I knew she meant New York City and therefore she was headed down the Thruway, but it seemed unusual she might be a driver. She had to be 70 if she was a day.

"I'm 72," said Mary, later when we were up to speed and out in the lane.

"My husband, Walter, drove all his life as an owner-operator.  I took over when he died."

"You've got more stamina than I do," I said.

"I can see that," she said.  "You were sort of tottering when you climbed up into the cab.  And I bet you don't have much road experience either."

"'Fraid not," I said.

"You stick with me, Honey," she said. "I'll get you where you're goin."
I wondered if I should tell her I was a monk.

161. What?

Dr. Harry Bunch is a  man in his fifties with a boyish face and an open manner.

"Hey," he said as he came in the examining room while the nurse took my blood pressure, "you're the guys from up on the mountain!"

I admitted we were indeed, but were no longer there because of the fire.

"Yes, I know.  Sorry to hear it.  So what can I do for you, Abbot?"  he asked, surprising me.

"How did you know I'm the Abbot?"  I asked.

"Your bodyguard caught me as I was coming down the hall a moment ago.   He snuck in from the waiting room. I threw him out.  I hope you don't mind ... or would you prefer to have him in here with us?"

"Not at all," I said.  "Brother Bilhild can be annoying at times."

 "So what's the problem, Abbot ..."

 "Please, call me Jesse ..."

 "Ok, what's up, Jesse?  And you will please call me Harry."

 "I guess I just need a check-up," I said, "and Bouncer thinks I'm getting too forgetful."

 Harry poked and prodded me, asked a lot of questions, sometimes going back to earlier questions to see if he got the same answer.  He finally pronounced me physically fit, although out of shape.

 “You don’t need to worry about being forgetful.  You’ll probably find it comes and goes,” said the doctor.                

"Some of us get that way early and others wait till their nineties.   It probably wouldn't hurt to have someone to check with, just so you don't get to be a danger to yourself.  Should I call him in?”

“Who?” I asked.

The doctor looked at me.  "The man waiting for you," he said.  

"Oh .... OK," I said.

"Who's waiting for you, Jesse?" asked the doctor.

I remained mum.  For the life of me, I couldn't follow what he was saying.  Why would anyone be waiting for me?

"Where are we, Jesse?" the doctor asked.

"In town,"  I answered.

"What's my name, Jesse?" the doctor asked.

A long time seemed to pass.  Then I said, "I don't know."

Sorry if I used this before. I still like it.

160. Growin' Milk

(This story is 

mostly true.  

OK, it’s probably 

all true.  – Bouncer)

 

Bouncer is tired of the Mountain Meadow Motel  and he wants to leave, he said.  When he mentioned it,  I first tried to avoid his feelings with some levity, a bad habit I wonder if I'll ever conquer.

 “You need a hobby,” I said.  “We could get a cow for you and keep her on the meadow out behind the motel.”

 “That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking,” he said.  “Maybe all of us could run a dairy farm!”

 “I don’t think so,” I said, “we’d hardly have time left over for prayer and meditation.”

 “Hell, Jesse,” he retorted, “think of all the self-supporting monks on farms the world over.  Shoveling cow poop is almost a monk’s tradition.”

"Don’t you miss all the old toilets?” I said.  “Can’t you just wait to get back in time to see the front porch fall off?"

"It burned down, Jesse,"  he replied, as his eyes squinted at me. “Our monastery burned down.”

"I ... I know," I said, "but you just said you were … and I thought you meant ...."   I stopped, confused for a moment.

"You didn't remember the fire, did you?"  he said.  He stood keenly watching me as I sifted through a pile of papers.

I didn't want to lie.  "I don't know," I said  "I wasn't thinking anything in particular.  I wasn't thinking the monastery was actually still there."

"Jesse," he said, "did you have your annual physical this year?"

"No," I said. “We didn't have the money.”

"I think we should call Dr. Bunch and get you in to see him.  You're our leader and we have a lot of trust invested in you."

 "Well, thank you, thank you very much," I said in my best Elvis imitation, anchoring the tip of my tongue against the back of my lower teeth.

"I'm serious,"  Bouncer said,  "We don't want to follow you off a cliff.  You could do a lot of damage if your head is screwed up."

"I appreciate  your subtlety," I said.

At the doctor's office later in the week I was reminded of how Terd had handled Agnes when he was alive.  Bouncer acted like my servant as he stood with me at the check-in window.  Referring to me in the third person as "The Abbot,"  Bouncer explained to the receptionist that we were mendicant monks and had no money, but would be happy to share the first fruits of our harvest with the doctors and office staff.

"And what would that be," asked the sweet lady, “your harvest, I mean.”

"Why, Ma'm, we're gonna grow milk," he said, launching into his best imitation of Professor Hill in The Music Man.   "Yes, we are.  Through cows, don't you see, but soon we'll have quarts and gallons and 2 percent and 5 percent and 40 percent and ice cream and cheeses and ..."

"Bouncer, stop it," I interjected.

"Excuse the Abbot," Bouncer quickly said, "he needs the doctor to look at his head."

You get the picture.  Traveling anywhere with Bouncer is like accompanying an acting troupe.  I filled out paperwork and sat around in the waiting room for an hour, but finally Dr. Bunch finished his schedule for the day and had the nurse bring me into the examination room.

Sometimes, this group took itself way too seriously.

159. Brother Student Lance

“I met Roger Kumminski today,” I said to Harpo when he and Cat returned from the Chinese restaurant with take out lunch.

“Don’t know him, do I?” said Harpo.

“He’s the fireman who tried to save Agnes in the fire,” I said.  “His sister was married to Lance before she died.  You taught Lance how to fish.”

“Yes, I did,” said Harpo, looking uncomfortable.

“How did you come to meet Lance,” I asked.

“He lived at the monastery,” said Harpo.  “He’s the only boy from the school we ran who stayed around Saugerties when the State Ed Department shut us down.”

“Harpo, are you shitting me?”  I almost shouted.

“Language, my dear abbot, is a mirror to the soul,”  Harpo said.

“How can it be that I’ve been dealing with Lance for the past few  years and you never admitted you knew him.  And which other Brothers knew him from his school days here?”

“No one,” said Harpo.  “They’re all dead.  Took our secret to their graves.”

“What secret?”  I asked.

“That when the State closed down our school, we hid the boys and didn’t send them home.”

“What?”  I almost shrieked.

“They were all 16 and 17 years old at the time.  We had five boys then and we worried greatly about their welfare if they returned to their … sick families.  Maybe we couldn’t have students, but who says we can’t have private guests?  Ask Visiting Scholar Julio.”

“I’m sure the state would object to that logic,” I said.

“We thought so, too, so we didn’t tell them,” Harpo said.

“What did their families think?”  I asked.

“All the parents eventually opened their mail from the state to find the boys had been liberated, but only two families bothered to seek them out here,” he said.  “When we lied and said we didn’t know where they were,  neither family pursued it, evidently believing the boys had struck out on their own.”

“This is all hard to believe,” I said.

“Well, as time went on, the boys did strike out on their own.  Most joined the armed forces.  Lance joined the Army, got scholarships, became an officer and did quite well.  Did you know that Lance is a wealthy financier?” asked Harpo.

“No,” I said.  “Why doesn’t he just give us a hundred thousand dollars a year and take care of us?” I said, half seriously.

“He’s offered,” said Harpo, “but I have explained to him the meaning of our vow of poverty.  We wait upon no man.  We wait upon the Lord, who provides what we need, Jesse.  He’s never failed us.”

He Will Provide - Georgia Massed Choir