- Sing the Star Spangled Banner at a sporting event.
- Bungee jump.
- Visit the pyramids.
- Parasail
- Learn to sail a ship
- See the Great Wall of China
- Go to Hawaii
- Do comedy on HBO (yeah, I know, first I have to be funny)
- Write and direct a movie (well, at least finish writing the two movies I've started)
- Raise a family
- Teach at a university
- Play Paganini in front of a crowd
- Design my home
- Save a life
- more to come
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Things I Want To Do At Least Once Before I Die
Simple enough title, in no particular order...
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
Random Thought
Okay, go with me on this one.
Do people realize how close we are to the chance of immortality?
Look at the state of our science and technology. At a level that is approaching fundamental, we understand the behavior of mass and light, which, if you read closely, is an almost all-inclusive statement.
We can almost understand the strange combination of chemical elements that makes up the aqueous, salt, and organic molecules which combine to form proteins, cells, and flesh, and eventually life. Modern techniques can almost reconstruct, if not regrow the fabric of life in the exact form required.
How far are we from the regrowth of body or brain and having a lifespan of limitless existence? Will I live long enough to find out, and will I be wealthy enough to afford it?
Given the choice, how long would I live before I decided I needed to die?
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
Do people realize how close we are to the chance of immortality?
Look at the state of our science and technology. At a level that is approaching fundamental, we understand the behavior of mass and light, which, if you read closely, is an almost all-inclusive statement.
We can almost understand the strange combination of chemical elements that makes up the aqueous, salt, and organic molecules which combine to form proteins, cells, and flesh, and eventually life. Modern techniques can almost reconstruct, if not regrow the fabric of life in the exact form required.
How far are we from the regrowth of body or brain and having a lifespan of limitless existence? Will I live long enough to find out, and will I be wealthy enough to afford it?
Given the choice, how long would I live before I decided I needed to die?
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
Saturday, January 01, 2005
Ich bin ein Berliner!
Dear Reader: If you have not the time nor the inclination to read this whole post, then I recommend going to The Icing On The Cake, which is the story of one of those times that must be shared.
It's been over forty years since John F. Kennedy announced to the world that he was a jelly doughnut with sugar coating (proper German would have had him say, 'Ich bin Berliner,' however, the Germans are used to hearing their language butchered, and they got his point), and many things have changed in the city of Berlin since then. In my various visits to Europe, I had never been able to make it to the new old capital of Germany, and almost every German will tell you that the city is the one you should see first.
I had known that I would make it to Berlin this trip, but I wasn't sure how. I had found out that Oliver was with his girlfriend and her parents this trip, and he would be too busy. Alex told me that her father, Guenther, and her uncle Wolfgang wanted to go, and we planned to go on the 26th and 27th of December. Wolfgang was a welcome edition. While Guenther understands a lot of English, and I'm pleased with how well my German is progressing; Guenther doesn't speak English well, I'm not fluent in German. Wolfgang's English is quite competent. Put simply, (I know, too late) he saved a lot of time flipping through the dictionary.
On the Road Again
We decided make the three hour drive from Hannover, and this was one of the more interesting parts of the trip. Our first stop was looking at the Helmstedt memorial of the former border between East and West Germany. The former checkpoint had about a dozen lanes, and Wolfgang and Guenther explained how it would require hours to make it through the checkpoint, and with one false word, you could be there for days. Wolfgang also mentioned how they used mirrors to look under cars. I mentiond that nuclear power plant security stations often do this now, and he said in an ironic tone, 'Ah, you get to reap the benefits of Communism.'
What was more interesting is that he said that he never imagined that the checkpoint would be a memorial before his death. It's at this point I began to realize the effects of the Cold War on Germany. In my experience, Germans accept the blame for what happened during the world wars, but what the Russians did afterwards was not warranted.
As soon as the checkpoint was crossed, there was an immediate difference in the quality of the roads and supporting infrastructure. Where before there were sturdy guardrails and very smooth surfaces, afterwards there were rather shabby guardrails, poorly constructed houses, and the road was a little less well maintained. It was apparent that many changes had taken place, but there was still much work to be done.
Not All Conference Rooms Are Alike
Before arriving in Berlin, Wolfgang wanted to visit Potsdam briefly, as he had not seen city or Schloss Sansoucci (which is gorgeous). Next to the Schloss (castle, in German) is Cecilienhof, the site of the famous conference between Truman, Churchill, and Stalin where they determined the fate of Germany after the war. Wolfgang told me that not long after the conference Churchill had remarked that they had 'slaughtered the wrong pig,' of course implying Stalin.
An interesting remark by Wolfgang was that this memorial was a place of sadness for many Germans because it is where the decisions about their life were made without their input because they lost. I mentioned that life was better now, and wondered what it would be like if Hitler won. He replied, 'Of course, but nevertheless...' We saw some more monuments and left.
Bright Lights, Big City
On to Berlin. In some cities, such as Paris, London, and San Francisco, I feel like the city itself has a personality, a life to it, that would be there even without the people. My first impression was that Berlin had it also. Before our trip, Alex had written down a list of sights that we needed to visit (I'm glad that Alex plans these things, because that's not for me). We checked into the NH hotel near Friedrichstrasse, and began our marathon trek around the city.
I won't bother with a detailed blow-by-blow (you'll understand the foreshadowing in a moment) of the trip, but I'll hit the highlights. Because of the war damage, sometimes Berlin has a mixed feel of the old and the new. Some of the real beautiful buildings survived, such as the Berliner Dom, Brandenburger Tuer, and Reichstag, others were not so lucky, like the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, which remains a memorial ruin.
A couple of interesting stories. As we were entering the Berliner Dom, standing in the garten alone was a woman screaming for no real reason. Every three or five seconds she would scream in a way that would curdle a banshee's blood. Only once did she say anything intelligible, something like I refuse to live under a dictator! Guenther asked which one, but we received no reply. We entered the doors hearing yet another a shriek, and saw the graves of Fredrick the Great. As we left the Dom an hour later, we heard her lovely singing voice yet again. Then I understood, we weren't watching a psycho scream for no apparent reason, we were the fortunate witnesses of performance art.
Another interesting facet of the city is that some of the waitresses in Berlin are very attractive, and the rest are stunning! Because of this fact, I thought I should advise the reader in just a little German so you may impress the ladies with your efforts in their language.
Ich haette gern eines grosses Bier, bitte.
(ISH HAY-ta GAREn (like bear, but 'g') EYEness GROWses BEER, BITT-uh)
I would like a large beer, please.
Noch ein, bitte
(KNOCK EYEn, BITT-uh)
One more, please. Repeat until drunk.
Bezahlen, bitte.
(be-TSALL-en, BITT-uh)
Check, please.
Ihre Bruessten gefaellt mir, viel dank.
(EE-ra BROOS-ten ge-FAYLT MEER, FEEL DONK)
Your service pleased me, many thanks
Naturally, Guenther and Wolfgang wanted me to practice my German, so it was imperative that we see at least one pub, kneipe in German, for every two visits to a Berlin sight.
The Icing On The Cake
Ah yes, it was a fascinating and entertaining trip to Berlin, and two old men and myself were simply exhausted and needed something to eat. We stopped at a random restaurant near Brandenburger Tuer, sat down, ordered our beers and food (see above), and began to recount the trip.
Our food came in the hands of yet another stunning waitress, we noticed that this food was amazing, we weren't exactly eating at McDonalds during this trip, but the fish I had (Seeteufel, or Sea Devil) was the best cooked fish I've had in years. I also liked that Wolfgang told me how much fun he had learning new expressions in English. Throughout most of the trip, he was speaking English, and I was speaking German, and we both found that we enjoy the subtleties of our languages and how they are related.
Guenther had noticed a blonde woman in the corner (the only difference between old men and young men is the amount of time they have spent looking at pretty women) who was eating with another female friend. He asked Wolfgang something quickly that I didn't quite get, and then Wolfgang replied and the word 'Wonderbra' was in the sentence. Guenther said, 'Ja, sie' (Yes, her)
Naturally my attention perked, so I had asked them to speak slowly. Guenther was almost certain that the beautiful young blonde in the corner was Regina Halmich, who also happens to be the current female boxing World Champion. If you've followed the link, you can see why an underwear company would be interested in her modeling their wares.
Now, as you can probably guess, not as many people are familiar with female boxing as male boxing, but Guenther knows boxing thoroughly. Regina has started to become a celebrity in part because of the underwear ads (hence Wolfgang's Wonderbra comment), but Guenther has been following her career for years, probably in part because she's German and winning.
Apparently, this girl is a badass. She lost one time several years ago because of a cut to the eye, but has defended her title against twenty-five female contenders since. Interestingly, she also beat Ali's daughter (Guenther doesn't think Ali's daughter is that good). A local German television show host named Stefan Raab (his show sounds something like the Tom Greene Show) challenged her to a boxing match, and she apparently broke his nose. A Google search shows that she has quite a few fans, too.
Guenther wanted to be sure if she was Regina, so he asked the waitress to ask her to confirm. The waitress, with typical German discretion that I appreciate, refused, saying that it would be impolite.
Guenther was in turmoil. He didn't want to disturb her, but he really wanted her autograph. German celebrities typically sign business cards, and Guenther took out the one I gave him earlier, and then put it back in his wallet. He and Wolfgang were exchanging Maybe ifs, Maybe ifs, Maybe if's for a few minutes, and then we paid and Wolfgang and Guenther stood up saying how this was a wonderful ending to the day, seeing a celebrity in the restaurant.
I could write a novel about how many kind things Guenther had done for me; he had given me money, a place to stay, and advice at times when I really needed it. I watched Guenther go outside as I got my jacket. I then thought about how Alexandra would react if we told her that we saw Regina but didn't ask her for an autograph. Finally, I thought about a line in the old TV show The Commish, where the guy told his son, 'If you don't give her the chance to say no, you don't give her the chance to say yes.'
German caution and discretion be damned, I owed Guenther this much. Wolfgang hadn't stepped outside yet, so I asked him for a card. He didn't have one, so we asked the bartender for a piece of paper and a pen. She gave us one (with a very disapproving look), I looked at her table and noticed no food, and then I walked over towards Regina.
I have never asked for an autograph before, I'm sure most celebrities know how to write, and I wasn't sure what to do besides having the pen ready. The usual standby, honesty, turned out to be the best method. I approached her table, and said, in (heavily accented) German,
Entschuldigung Sie mich, bitte? Excuse me please?
She smiled warmly and said 'Ja'
Swish, from the look on her face, this would be easy.
Sind Sie Regina Halmich? Are you Regina Halmich?
She said Yes, again.
Sweet, at least I wasn't talking to a stranger for no reason.
I skipped the 'I really don't want to bother you...' and cut to the point with a smile and enthusiasm that I didn't have to fake.
'Mein Freund Guenther ist grosser Boxenfan und er haette sehr gern ihre Autograph'
My friend is a big boxing fan and he really would like your autograph.
I didn't see a reason to lie to her saying that I was the fan, because I wasn't. I was hoping that my honesty and intentions of getting it for someone else would be what she noticed.
She smiled again, apparently I wasn't bothering her, hell, maybe my broken German was entertaining her, and said (in German, but I'm tired of writing things twice) that she's sorry that she didn't have a card. I offered her the paper and pen with a shrug and a smile and she said, 'Guenther, like my father. Is it with a T or TH?' I replied 'TH' and she wrote, Fuer Guenther...and Guenther came up behind me (surprisingly, somewhat nervously) and introduced himself.
My first thought was 'Hey Guenther, you're cutting in on my girl here.' (as I said, she's hot, and she was smiling at me), but then I thought about to whom the autograph was addressed and realized it was the best thing that could have happened. She gave Guenther the autograph, we thanked her for her time, and left.
We were driving back to Hannover, and I was sitting quietly in the back seat with a stupid grin on my face. I was a little proud of myself that I had the courage to ask Regina for the autograph, the wisdom to be quick and honest, and mostly glad because finally I could pay Guenther back just a little for the good he has done for me. As we drove, Wolfgang had said,
'I suppose you would say in English that meeting her was the culmination of our trip?'
I replied, 'Naturally that works, but in America we would say that it was the icing on the cake.'
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
It's been over forty years since John F. Kennedy announced to the world that he was a jelly doughnut with sugar coating (proper German would have had him say, 'Ich bin Berliner,' however, the Germans are used to hearing their language butchered, and they got his point), and many things have changed in the city of Berlin since then. In my various visits to Europe, I had never been able to make it to the new old capital of Germany, and almost every German will tell you that the city is the one you should see first.
I had known that I would make it to Berlin this trip, but I wasn't sure how. I had found out that Oliver was with his girlfriend and her parents this trip, and he would be too busy. Alex told me that her father, Guenther, and her uncle Wolfgang wanted to go, and we planned to go on the 26th and 27th of December. Wolfgang was a welcome edition. While Guenther understands a lot of English, and I'm pleased with how well my German is progressing; Guenther doesn't speak English well, I'm not fluent in German. Wolfgang's English is quite competent. Put simply, (I know, too late) he saved a lot of time flipping through the dictionary.
On the Road Again
We decided make the three hour drive from Hannover, and this was one of the more interesting parts of the trip. Our first stop was looking at the Helmstedt memorial of the former border between East and West Germany. The former checkpoint had about a dozen lanes, and Wolfgang and Guenther explained how it would require hours to make it through the checkpoint, and with one false word, you could be there for days. Wolfgang also mentioned how they used mirrors to look under cars. I mentiond that nuclear power plant security stations often do this now, and he said in an ironic tone, 'Ah, you get to reap the benefits of Communism.'
What was more interesting is that he said that he never imagined that the checkpoint would be a memorial before his death. It's at this point I began to realize the effects of the Cold War on Germany. In my experience, Germans accept the blame for what happened during the world wars, but what the Russians did afterwards was not warranted.
As soon as the checkpoint was crossed, there was an immediate difference in the quality of the roads and supporting infrastructure. Where before there were sturdy guardrails and very smooth surfaces, afterwards there were rather shabby guardrails, poorly constructed houses, and the road was a little less well maintained. It was apparent that many changes had taken place, but there was still much work to be done.
Not All Conference Rooms Are Alike
Before arriving in Berlin, Wolfgang wanted to visit Potsdam briefly, as he had not seen city or Schloss Sansoucci (which is gorgeous). Next to the Schloss (castle, in German) is Cecilienhof, the site of the famous conference between Truman, Churchill, and Stalin where they determined the fate of Germany after the war. Wolfgang told me that not long after the conference Churchill had remarked that they had 'slaughtered the wrong pig,' of course implying Stalin.
An interesting remark by Wolfgang was that this memorial was a place of sadness for many Germans because it is where the decisions about their life were made without their input because they lost. I mentioned that life was better now, and wondered what it would be like if Hitler won. He replied, 'Of course, but nevertheless...' We saw some more monuments and left.
Bright Lights, Big City
On to Berlin. In some cities, such as Paris, London, and San Francisco, I feel like the city itself has a personality, a life to it, that would be there even without the people. My first impression was that Berlin had it also. Before our trip, Alex had written down a list of sights that we needed to visit (I'm glad that Alex plans these things, because that's not for me). We checked into the NH hotel near Friedrichstrasse, and began our marathon trek around the city.
I won't bother with a detailed blow-by-blow (you'll understand the foreshadowing in a moment) of the trip, but I'll hit the highlights. Because of the war damage, sometimes Berlin has a mixed feel of the old and the new. Some of the real beautiful buildings survived, such as the Berliner Dom, Brandenburger Tuer, and Reichstag, others were not so lucky, like the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, which remains a memorial ruin.
A couple of interesting stories. As we were entering the Berliner Dom, standing in the garten alone was a woman screaming for no real reason. Every three or five seconds she would scream in a way that would curdle a banshee's blood. Only once did she say anything intelligible, something like I refuse to live under a dictator! Guenther asked which one, but we received no reply. We entered the doors hearing yet another a shriek, and saw the graves of Fredrick the Great. As we left the Dom an hour later, we heard her lovely singing voice yet again. Then I understood, we weren't watching a psycho scream for no apparent reason, we were the fortunate witnesses of performance art.
Another interesting facet of the city is that some of the waitresses in Berlin are very attractive, and the rest are stunning! Because of this fact, I thought I should advise the reader in just a little German so you may impress the ladies with your efforts in their language.
Ich haette gern eines grosses Bier, bitte.
(ISH HAY-ta GAREn (like bear, but 'g') EYEness GROWses BEER, BITT-uh)
I would like a large beer, please.
Noch ein, bitte
(KNOCK EYEn, BITT-uh)
One more, please. Repeat until drunk.
Bezahlen, bitte.
(be-TSALL-en, BITT-uh)
Check, please.
Ihre Bruessten gefaellt mir, viel dank.
(EE-ra BROOS-ten ge-FAYLT MEER, FEEL DONK)
Your service pleased me, many thanks
Naturally, Guenther and Wolfgang wanted me to practice my German, so it was imperative that we see at least one pub, kneipe in German, for every two visits to a Berlin sight.
The Icing On The Cake
Ah yes, it was a fascinating and entertaining trip to Berlin, and two old men and myself were simply exhausted and needed something to eat. We stopped at a random restaurant near Brandenburger Tuer, sat down, ordered our beers and food (see above), and began to recount the trip.
Our food came in the hands of yet another stunning waitress, we noticed that this food was amazing, we weren't exactly eating at McDonalds during this trip, but the fish I had (Seeteufel, or Sea Devil) was the best cooked fish I've had in years. I also liked that Wolfgang told me how much fun he had learning new expressions in English. Throughout most of the trip, he was speaking English, and I was speaking German, and we both found that we enjoy the subtleties of our languages and how they are related.
Guenther had noticed a blonde woman in the corner (the only difference between old men and young men is the amount of time they have spent looking at pretty women) who was eating with another female friend. He asked Wolfgang something quickly that I didn't quite get, and then Wolfgang replied and the word 'Wonderbra' was in the sentence. Guenther said, 'Ja, sie' (Yes, her)
Naturally my attention perked, so I had asked them to speak slowly. Guenther was almost certain that the beautiful young blonde in the corner was Regina Halmich, who also happens to be the current female boxing World Champion. If you've followed the link, you can see why an underwear company would be interested in her modeling their wares.
Now, as you can probably guess, not as many people are familiar with female boxing as male boxing, but Guenther knows boxing thoroughly. Regina has started to become a celebrity in part because of the underwear ads (hence Wolfgang's Wonderbra comment), but Guenther has been following her career for years, probably in part because she's German and winning.
Apparently, this girl is a badass. She lost one time several years ago because of a cut to the eye, but has defended her title against twenty-five female contenders since. Interestingly, she also beat Ali's daughter (Guenther doesn't think Ali's daughter is that good). A local German television show host named Stefan Raab (his show sounds something like the Tom Greene Show) challenged her to a boxing match, and she apparently broke his nose. A Google search shows that she has quite a few fans, too.
Guenther wanted to be sure if she was Regina, so he asked the waitress to ask her to confirm. The waitress, with typical German discretion that I appreciate, refused, saying that it would be impolite.
Guenther was in turmoil. He didn't want to disturb her, but he really wanted her autograph. German celebrities typically sign business cards, and Guenther took out the one I gave him earlier, and then put it back in his wallet. He and Wolfgang were exchanging Maybe ifs, Maybe ifs, Maybe if's for a few minutes, and then we paid and Wolfgang and Guenther stood up saying how this was a wonderful ending to the day, seeing a celebrity in the restaurant.
I could write a novel about how many kind things Guenther had done for me; he had given me money, a place to stay, and advice at times when I really needed it. I watched Guenther go outside as I got my jacket. I then thought about how Alexandra would react if we told her that we saw Regina but didn't ask her for an autograph. Finally, I thought about a line in the old TV show The Commish, where the guy told his son, 'If you don't give her the chance to say no, you don't give her the chance to say yes.'
German caution and discretion be damned, I owed Guenther this much. Wolfgang hadn't stepped outside yet, so I asked him for a card. He didn't have one, so we asked the bartender for a piece of paper and a pen. She gave us one (with a very disapproving look), I looked at her table and noticed no food, and then I walked over towards Regina.
I have never asked for an autograph before, I'm sure most celebrities know how to write, and I wasn't sure what to do besides having the pen ready. The usual standby, honesty, turned out to be the best method. I approached her table, and said, in (heavily accented) German,
Entschuldigung Sie mich, bitte? Excuse me please?
She smiled warmly and said 'Ja'
Swish, from the look on her face, this would be easy.
Sind Sie Regina Halmich? Are you Regina Halmich?
She said Yes, again.
Sweet, at least I wasn't talking to a stranger for no reason.
I skipped the 'I really don't want to bother you...' and cut to the point with a smile and enthusiasm that I didn't have to fake.
'Mein Freund Guenther ist grosser Boxenfan und er haette sehr gern ihre Autograph'
My friend is a big boxing fan and he really would like your autograph.
I didn't see a reason to lie to her saying that I was the fan, because I wasn't. I was hoping that my honesty and intentions of getting it for someone else would be what she noticed.
She smiled again, apparently I wasn't bothering her, hell, maybe my broken German was entertaining her, and said (in German, but I'm tired of writing things twice) that she's sorry that she didn't have a card. I offered her the paper and pen with a shrug and a smile and she said, 'Guenther, like my father. Is it with a T or TH?' I replied 'TH' and she wrote, Fuer Guenther...and Guenther came up behind me (surprisingly, somewhat nervously) and introduced himself.
My first thought was 'Hey Guenther, you're cutting in on my girl here.' (as I said, she's hot, and she was smiling at me), but then I thought about to whom the autograph was addressed and realized it was the best thing that could have happened. She gave Guenther the autograph, we thanked her for her time, and left.
We were driving back to Hannover, and I was sitting quietly in the back seat with a stupid grin on my face. I was a little proud of myself that I had the courage to ask Regina for the autograph, the wisdom to be quick and honest, and mostly glad because finally I could pay Guenther back just a little for the good he has done for me. As we drove, Wolfgang had said,
'I suppose you would say in English that meeting her was the culmination of our trip?'
I replied, 'Naturally that works, but in America we would say that it was the icing on the cake.'
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
Friday, December 17, 2004
Ilsa Krage, Rest In Peace
Previously posted to rec.music.makers.guitar.acoustic Dec 26 2002, 12:49 am
Outside of Hannover, Germany, is a small town called Bad Nenndorf. The'Bad' refers to the spa (bath) that is the central attraction of the town, basically the spa is a place of healing for the sick and the elderly. This small town of a few thousand happened to be the home of my high school sweetheart, named Alexandra (about whom I could write books, but this is another story), and it was the final destination of a newly graduated, yet still completely stupid, young college student who had grand aspirations to learn a new language, get a job in a foreign country, and win the girl in the Summer/Fall of 1994.
Alex' parents had been kind enough to allow me to stay at their home while I looked for a job in chemical engineering. At this point, I had learned four details that had escaped my attention before brashly leaving my home country; the first is that an 'aufentheitsgenehmigung' (a.k.a. work permit) is required before a foreigner can have a job, the second is that the American bachelor's degree is virtually worthless compared to the German diplom (the diplom is the equivalent of the American master's), third, the unemployment in engineering was almost 30%, and fourth, Alex had fallen in love with another man while I made my plans to visit her.
Instantly it seemed two of my goals were shot. Alex finding someone else crushed me, but I kept my cool and remained a gentleman and a friend. However, the first three details caused me a lot of problems because I was running out of money. Because I had difficulties finding work, Alex'parents were kind enough to offer odd jobs so I wouldn't be sitting on my hands all day. One of them, and by far the most pleasurable, was takingTimi, the Bassett hound, for a walk.
Mind you, I like dogs well enough, they are fun to play with and they have an infinite well of affection for people that pay attention to them. But walking a dog does not exactly make my day. What did make my day was visiting Ilsa, Alex' grandmother and Timi's owner, before and after the dogwalk.
The ritual went like this: I would make the short walk to the house next to the church (and what beautiful houses they had!), re-learn how to open the fence gate (you'll find European doorknobs etc. tend to be like Bizarro world in the Superman comics, everything similar, but not quite the same), and I would press the doorbell and wait as I heard Timi bark. The door would open eventually and a portly old woman with eagle-sharp eyes would answer the door while holding a dog leash. She always asked, in slow, deliberate Hochdeutsch (High German, the dialect used in newspapers, news,and the Bible) "Hallo Dennis, guten tag, hast du schoen geschlafen." (Hello Dennis, good day, did you sleep well?, I often walked Timi in the morning). I'll say right now that she spoke no English outside of similar words in her native dialect in Plattdeutsch, any words I tell you are my translation, and she cannot be held accountable for the accuracy.
I would take the leash, ask Timi if he was ready (Bist du fertig?), and go walking for an hour or so in the wonderful parks and trails in the area.Timi is a good dog, he heels when you tell him to (although he responds better to German commands) and in general he never bothered anybody on the trails, he minded his business and left his signatures where they needed to be.
And then I would return to Ilsa's house. Each time she would ask me if I was thirsty, and ask me what I would like. I always asked for apple juice, she would slowly, yet deliberately, get the glasses, bring the juice from the refrigerator, and then, adding a detail I hadn't seen before, a bottle of carbonated mineral water. She would mix them in about equal proportions (maybe just a little extra juice), and we would talk.
For those of us who have not tried to really learn another language, I have one observation to make: There is a long journey between knowing a little bit of a language from school and being fluent. If someone you know has spent a year in a foreign country, I promise that though they can speak andread quite a bit, they are nowhere near fluent. I had been there for a few weeks, and though I was working hard, I was still flabbergasted by the sounds coming from people's mouths...it sounded nothing like what I had learned.
Except for when you are talking with children and the elderly; both groups tend to speak slower, use less slang, and use a simpler vocabulary. I suspect the former uses simple words because they haven't learned the complex ones yet, while the latter chooses their words carefully, and experience tells them what their listener would know.
This was Ilsa's gift, and it is shared by her daughter Renate (Alex'mother). She always knew if I understood what she said, and if I didn't get it (which was half the conversation), she could instantly rephrase her comment in a way that I would comprehend. I can't tell you about her hours of patience as I flipped through my dictionary discussing the news, politics, and philosophies of life. We would argue about the benefits/disadvantages of getting all of the Lotto money at once (she said it was better to get it over disbursements, I said it was better at once, and mentioned the time value of money. She pointed to a story about a guy that said the first thing he would buy is a Ferrari, I said that a fool and his money were soon parted...she laughed at that one).
Then we talked about World War II. I have always been a person to appreciate a story from the horse's mouth, and having studied WWII more thoroughly than was required in history, I was eager to hear what she had to say. I was almost always held speechless when she spoke.
Contrary to popular American opinion, the whole German nation was not behind Hitler's rise to power. He came in a fell swoop, quickly capitalizing on the bad economy by promising better days for a stronger Germany, and then he put his system in place faster than anyone had dreamed. She talked about how the Junior SS children were being ordered to report their parents if they should call Hitler a pig or something similar (sounds Orwellian, eh?), and then she described the universal fear that everyone shared, the government was feared. She was always candid, and I asked if she knew aboutthe concentration camps. She honestly said she didn't know, but everyone had heard rumors that seemed unbelievable at the time. However, repeating the rumors could lead to problems, so people didn't talk about them.
She then told me a story I will never forget. Her husband was a cook in the German army on the French front. For over a year he had watched the French people be brutalized, slaughtered and starved, and eventually he did something that I seriously doubt that I would ever have the courage to do; he would steal food from the German kitchens and take them to the French people across the border in the middle of the night. I don't think I need to elaborate about what the consequences were if he were caught. Just imagine that... I had met him, and although he was a rather distant man, I have often told that story of courage to others. He died of cancer three years later.
I had many conversations with Ilsa over my six weeks in Hannover, and promised her a postcard when I returned home. I did send her a postcard(after a long time), and on a return trip to Germany two years ago I visited her again, speaking better German, and after I had walked Timi, we had the same wonderful conversation. And, mandatory guitar content, on my second visit I had my guitar with me and I showed her some of my better songs. I could tell she truly enjoyed some of them (especially Bruce Springsteen), she was smiling as I played, which I learned later she had done less often. While watching her smile, it had amazed me how much German I could understand, and how most of it was the result of a patient old woman with a Bassett hound that needed walking.
Three weeks ago I had called Alex to wish her a happy birthday (in spite of a failed romance, we've always remained close friends), and she was somewhat distraught because she had to travel often between home and work because her grandmother was ill. I was concerned, and I asked Alex if Ilsa was okay. She thought she was, although they were worried, and I told her I would send another card hoping she would feel better.
I bought the card, and I was ready to write it this morning. I called Alex to wish her family a Merry Christmas, and then I learned that Ilsa had died less than a week ago. I had asked to speak to her mother (who speaks no English) and as usual, I couldn't express how much the time I spent with her mother meant to me. I could only say I'm sorry and that I hope that she'll be okay. As usual, Renate understood, but it still felt empty. I didn't ask about Timi, maybe I should.
Now I have a card with nobody to send it to. I think I will write one simple phrase with no address, maybe a fake one in Germany. The sentence will read,
'Gute Nacht, Ilsa, und schoen schlafen.' (Good night Ilsa, have a pleasantsleep).
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
Outside of Hannover, Germany, is a small town called Bad Nenndorf. The'Bad' refers to the spa (bath) that is the central attraction of the town, basically the spa is a place of healing for the sick and the elderly. This small town of a few thousand happened to be the home of my high school sweetheart, named Alexandra (about whom I could write books, but this is another story), and it was the final destination of a newly graduated, yet still completely stupid, young college student who had grand aspirations to learn a new language, get a job in a foreign country, and win the girl in the Summer/Fall of 1994.
Alex' parents had been kind enough to allow me to stay at their home while I looked for a job in chemical engineering. At this point, I had learned four details that had escaped my attention before brashly leaving my home country; the first is that an 'aufentheitsgenehmigung' (a.k.a. work permit) is required before a foreigner can have a job, the second is that the American bachelor's degree is virtually worthless compared to the German diplom (the diplom is the equivalent of the American master's), third, the unemployment in engineering was almost 30%, and fourth, Alex had fallen in love with another man while I made my plans to visit her.
Instantly it seemed two of my goals were shot. Alex finding someone else crushed me, but I kept my cool and remained a gentleman and a friend. However, the first three details caused me a lot of problems because I was running out of money. Because I had difficulties finding work, Alex'parents were kind enough to offer odd jobs so I wouldn't be sitting on my hands all day. One of them, and by far the most pleasurable, was takingTimi, the Bassett hound, for a walk.
Mind you, I like dogs well enough, they are fun to play with and they have an infinite well of affection for people that pay attention to them. But walking a dog does not exactly make my day. What did make my day was visiting Ilsa, Alex' grandmother and Timi's owner, before and after the dogwalk.
The ritual went like this: I would make the short walk to the house next to the church (and what beautiful houses they had!), re-learn how to open the fence gate (you'll find European doorknobs etc. tend to be like Bizarro world in the Superman comics, everything similar, but not quite the same), and I would press the doorbell and wait as I heard Timi bark. The door would open eventually and a portly old woman with eagle-sharp eyes would answer the door while holding a dog leash. She always asked, in slow, deliberate Hochdeutsch (High German, the dialect used in newspapers, news,and the Bible) "Hallo Dennis, guten tag, hast du schoen geschlafen." (Hello Dennis, good day, did you sleep well?, I often walked Timi in the morning). I'll say right now that she spoke no English outside of similar words in her native dialect in Plattdeutsch, any words I tell you are my translation, and she cannot be held accountable for the accuracy.
I would take the leash, ask Timi if he was ready (Bist du fertig?), and go walking for an hour or so in the wonderful parks and trails in the area.Timi is a good dog, he heels when you tell him to (although he responds better to German commands) and in general he never bothered anybody on the trails, he minded his business and left his signatures where they needed to be.
And then I would return to Ilsa's house. Each time she would ask me if I was thirsty, and ask me what I would like. I always asked for apple juice, she would slowly, yet deliberately, get the glasses, bring the juice from the refrigerator, and then, adding a detail I hadn't seen before, a bottle of carbonated mineral water. She would mix them in about equal proportions (maybe just a little extra juice), and we would talk.
For those of us who have not tried to really learn another language, I have one observation to make: There is a long journey between knowing a little bit of a language from school and being fluent. If someone you know has spent a year in a foreign country, I promise that though they can speak andread quite a bit, they are nowhere near fluent. I had been there for a few weeks, and though I was working hard, I was still flabbergasted by the sounds coming from people's mouths...it sounded nothing like what I had learned.
Except for when you are talking with children and the elderly; both groups tend to speak slower, use less slang, and use a simpler vocabulary. I suspect the former uses simple words because they haven't learned the complex ones yet, while the latter chooses their words carefully, and experience tells them what their listener would know.
This was Ilsa's gift, and it is shared by her daughter Renate (Alex'mother). She always knew if I understood what she said, and if I didn't get it (which was half the conversation), she could instantly rephrase her comment in a way that I would comprehend. I can't tell you about her hours of patience as I flipped through my dictionary discussing the news, politics, and philosophies of life. We would argue about the benefits/disadvantages of getting all of the Lotto money at once (she said it was better to get it over disbursements, I said it was better at once, and mentioned the time value of money. She pointed to a story about a guy that said the first thing he would buy is a Ferrari, I said that a fool and his money were soon parted...she laughed at that one).
Then we talked about World War II. I have always been a person to appreciate a story from the horse's mouth, and having studied WWII more thoroughly than was required in history, I was eager to hear what she had to say. I was almost always held speechless when she spoke.
Contrary to popular American opinion, the whole German nation was not behind Hitler's rise to power. He came in a fell swoop, quickly capitalizing on the bad economy by promising better days for a stronger Germany, and then he put his system in place faster than anyone had dreamed. She talked about how the Junior SS children were being ordered to report their parents if they should call Hitler a pig or something similar (sounds Orwellian, eh?), and then she described the universal fear that everyone shared, the government was feared. She was always candid, and I asked if she knew aboutthe concentration camps. She honestly said she didn't know, but everyone had heard rumors that seemed unbelievable at the time. However, repeating the rumors could lead to problems, so people didn't talk about them.
She then told me a story I will never forget. Her husband was a cook in the German army on the French front. For over a year he had watched the French people be brutalized, slaughtered and starved, and eventually he did something that I seriously doubt that I would ever have the courage to do; he would steal food from the German kitchens and take them to the French people across the border in the middle of the night. I don't think I need to elaborate about what the consequences were if he were caught. Just imagine that... I had met him, and although he was a rather distant man, I have often told that story of courage to others. He died of cancer three years later.
I had many conversations with Ilsa over my six weeks in Hannover, and promised her a postcard when I returned home. I did send her a postcard(after a long time), and on a return trip to Germany two years ago I visited her again, speaking better German, and after I had walked Timi, we had the same wonderful conversation. And, mandatory guitar content, on my second visit I had my guitar with me and I showed her some of my better songs. I could tell she truly enjoyed some of them (especially Bruce Springsteen), she was smiling as I played, which I learned later she had done less often. While watching her smile, it had amazed me how much German I could understand, and how most of it was the result of a patient old woman with a Bassett hound that needed walking.
Three weeks ago I had called Alex to wish her a happy birthday (in spite of a failed romance, we've always remained close friends), and she was somewhat distraught because she had to travel often between home and work because her grandmother was ill. I was concerned, and I asked Alex if Ilsa was okay. She thought she was, although they were worried, and I told her I would send another card hoping she would feel better.
I bought the card, and I was ready to write it this morning. I called Alex to wish her family a Merry Christmas, and then I learned that Ilsa had died less than a week ago. I had asked to speak to her mother (who speaks no English) and as usual, I couldn't express how much the time I spent with her mother meant to me. I could only say I'm sorry and that I hope that she'll be okay. As usual, Renate understood, but it still felt empty. I didn't ask about Timi, maybe I should.
Now I have a card with nobody to send it to. I think I will write one simple phrase with no address, maybe a fake one in Germany. The sentence will read,
'Gute Nacht, Ilsa, und schoen schlafen.' (Good night Ilsa, have a pleasantsleep).
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Current Events
I am preparing for my trip to Europe over Christmas and New Year's. Two weeks split in some way between Hannover, Berlin, and Vienna. I'm realizing that I'm starting to get excited about it. I'll have the chance to see three of my best friends; Alexandra (Alex), Oliver (Ollie), and Bernhard (Berni). All three have had real impacts on me, mostly for the better, although some for the worse. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to zip over to Nancy and see my sister, but I'm not counting on that (I'll be in France enough this year).
Although my job will bring me to Europe often (I have several trips scheduled for next year), I've noticed (as have others first) that all you see on business trips are the 'finest hotels, airports, and conference rooms in the world.' You would think that you would enjoy fine dining, new cities, and free drinks, and you do, to some extent. What most people don't talk about is the endless hours of working, e-mailing, talking about work or planning work or calling people to set up meetings about work...you never get to enjoy the location, you're always busy.
So this trip to Europe, being all pleasure, is something I've been needing for a while. Thanksgiving was a lot of work with some rest, this is full-time no responsibilities. My goal is at least three stories out of this trip, preferably with no visits to the police station.
Talk to you for sure in two weeks, but maybe a little sooner.
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
Although my job will bring me to Europe often (I have several trips scheduled for next year), I've noticed (as have others first) that all you see on business trips are the 'finest hotels, airports, and conference rooms in the world.' You would think that you would enjoy fine dining, new cities, and free drinks, and you do, to some extent. What most people don't talk about is the endless hours of working, e-mailing, talking about work or planning work or calling people to set up meetings about work...you never get to enjoy the location, you're always busy.
So this trip to Europe, being all pleasure, is something I've been needing for a while. Thanksgiving was a lot of work with some rest, this is full-time no responsibilities. My goal is at least three stories out of this trip, preferably with no visits to the police station.
Talk to you for sure in two weeks, but maybe a little sooner.
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Found in Translation, Part I
Let's set the wayback machine to February, 1999. I'm a graduate student working on my last year of my doctorate, I'm living with my ex-girlfriend (discussed elsewhere in this blog), and, in general, I feel like I had a good handle on what life was about.
All of that changed in the span of time it takes to read a two-line e-mail.
I still remember it clearly. I was working on a computer from our apartment in Tulsa, and I had checked my university e-mail account. There was a message from 'philipe.XXXX@yyyyzzz.fr' Spam has already been around for sometime, and I was about to hit the delete key, except that I had been receiving questions about my guitar tablature posts recently, and I've made some nice acquaintances from the other side of the world because of a kind reply. I knew the .fr meant France, so I hit 'Enter,' and waited for my slow connection to load the message. The e-mail was short, but devastating.
'Hello, my name is Jessica XXXX-MyLastName, and I was born in France in 1964. I'm looking for Denis YYYY MyLastName who was born in New York in 1941. Can you to help me?'
I knew for whom she was looking, and I knew what help she needed. The last name was the same as mine, and there could be only one reason why. At times, I have a detailed imagination, and it was interesting to see where my mind went in the ten seconds following the receipt of this message.
I'm a young girl in France, in school, looking at the rest of the children during parent's day, and wondering where my father is. Days pass, and repeatedly throughout my life I explain to people that my last name comes from an American father, and no, I haven't met him. I see random strangers in the street speaking English, and each time I wonder if it could be him looking for me, he looks like me, doesn't he? Men come and go in my life, and though I loved them, there is one whose face I still long to see, one person for whom I shed tears late at night when I'm alone, even though he is unaware of my existence. And all I know about him is that his name is Denis.
And that also made my reply to her short.
'He is my father, and I suspect that you are his daughter. If this is true, write me back. There is much to discuss.--Dennis'
I was stalling for time. I certainly needed to know more before we talked, but I also needed time to think. How do you tell someone that their father, ahem, has issues?
My relationship with my father has always been difficult. My parents divorced when I was three years old. When we lived in New York, my brother, Sean, and I would go to visit him and his new wife Robin on most weekends. During these times, I have to admit, we had a great time and he was as much of a father as a divorced dad could be. He taught us how to fish, took us to see Star Wars, watched car races with us, and in general was accessible for questions that sons ask their fathers.
All of this changed when we moved to California. We had left New York for a year, but throughout the whole time, he hardly ever called. After we returned to New York, our visits to him were more infrequent, often less than once a month. I don't recall us ever saying we didn't want to go.
After another year in New York, my mother had received a marriage proposal from my stepfather, and we moved to Oklahoma. The phone calls became infrequent, until he even started forgetting our birthdays. After a year in Oklahoma, he basically ignored us. At this time, he also stopped paying child support. My mom had offered to drop child support in lieu of him setting up a savings account for $100 a month so we could use the money to visit each summer. He said no, and didn't pay anyway. Mom let it go because she was married, but we were dirt poor because my stepfather was not what you would call an 'earner.'
We visited New York about four years later, and called my father to see how he was doing. He had divorced Robin and married another woman named Frannie at this time, but not after having another child with Robin. He must have been thinking about the child support payments because he was kissing our butts in a very large way. He bent over backwards saying how he wants to be part of our lives, if we wanted some tapes, etc.
Many people would think that I/we shouldn't regret the next action, but we definitely should have explained it better. We enforced the child support, and it pissed him off. He had to pay until we were 21. He complained, but then again, he didn't know I had only one pair of pants.
We visited two years later, I called him and said we'd like to see him. He replied, 'Why, did your mom want to bleed more money from me?' I said, 'Nevermind.' and hung up.
The rest of the relationship consisted of three phone calls for a few minutes each.
One could argue the child support issue was a reason for him to be angry (he chose not to see us when we came), so I can accept part of the blame for our problems. But he literally abandoned an earlier family, and never told anyone about them. And he had a daughter that he hasn't seen since a little after she was born.
"Shit!" I yelled, Christine asked what was the matter. Mildly giggling (in the most insane sort of giggles) I told her briefly what I just read. She was compassionate, and I was reminded of how she always says 'Everybody has an interesting family.' Her family is interesting, and indeed, mine is too.
I called my mother and asked her if she knew about this. She said no, and her first question was,
'Dennis, do you think he got a divorce?'
I didn't think about this, and I realized that it would really hurt her if the answer was no. I wondered if there was a way to set the clock back five minutes.
But it was too late. I replied already, and there was no turning back. I also had a feeling that this woman in France needed my help.
I told my mom that I didn't know about the divorce, but I would find out. I told her that I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting this. Neither did she.
The next day, I saw a reply from Jessica in my Inbox. It said...
-to be continued
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
All of that changed in the span of time it takes to read a two-line e-mail.
I still remember it clearly. I was working on a computer from our apartment in Tulsa, and I had checked my university e-mail account. There was a message from 'philipe.XXXX@yyyyzzz.fr' Spam has already been around for sometime, and I was about to hit the delete key, except that I had been receiving questions about my guitar tablature posts recently, and I've made some nice acquaintances from the other side of the world because of a kind reply. I knew the .fr meant France, so I hit 'Enter,' and waited for my slow connection to load the message. The e-mail was short, but devastating.
'Hello, my name is Jessica XXXX-MyLastName, and I was born in France in 1964. I'm looking for Denis YYYY MyLastName who was born in New York in 1941. Can you to help me?'
I knew for whom she was looking, and I knew what help she needed. The last name was the same as mine, and there could be only one reason why. At times, I have a detailed imagination, and it was interesting to see where my mind went in the ten seconds following the receipt of this message.
I'm a young girl in France, in school, looking at the rest of the children during parent's day, and wondering where my father is. Days pass, and repeatedly throughout my life I explain to people that my last name comes from an American father, and no, I haven't met him. I see random strangers in the street speaking English, and each time I wonder if it could be him looking for me, he looks like me, doesn't he? Men come and go in my life, and though I loved them, there is one whose face I still long to see, one person for whom I shed tears late at night when I'm alone, even though he is unaware of my existence. And all I know about him is that his name is Denis.
And that also made my reply to her short.
'He is my father, and I suspect that you are his daughter. If this is true, write me back. There is much to discuss.--Dennis'
I was stalling for time. I certainly needed to know more before we talked, but I also needed time to think. How do you tell someone that their father, ahem, has issues?
My relationship with my father has always been difficult. My parents divorced when I was three years old. When we lived in New York, my brother, Sean, and I would go to visit him and his new wife Robin on most weekends. During these times, I have to admit, we had a great time and he was as much of a father as a divorced dad could be. He taught us how to fish, took us to see Star Wars, watched car races with us, and in general was accessible for questions that sons ask their fathers.
All of this changed when we moved to California. We had left New York for a year, but throughout the whole time, he hardly ever called. After we returned to New York, our visits to him were more infrequent, often less than once a month. I don't recall us ever saying we didn't want to go.
After another year in New York, my mother had received a marriage proposal from my stepfather, and we moved to Oklahoma. The phone calls became infrequent, until he even started forgetting our birthdays. After a year in Oklahoma, he basically ignored us. At this time, he also stopped paying child support. My mom had offered to drop child support in lieu of him setting up a savings account for $100 a month so we could use the money to visit each summer. He said no, and didn't pay anyway. Mom let it go because she was married, but we were dirt poor because my stepfather was not what you would call an 'earner.'
We visited New York about four years later, and called my father to see how he was doing. He had divorced Robin and married another woman named Frannie at this time, but not after having another child with Robin. He must have been thinking about the child support payments because he was kissing our butts in a very large way. He bent over backwards saying how he wants to be part of our lives, if we wanted some tapes, etc.
Many people would think that I/we shouldn't regret the next action, but we definitely should have explained it better. We enforced the child support, and it pissed him off. He had to pay until we were 21. He complained, but then again, he didn't know I had only one pair of pants.
We visited two years later, I called him and said we'd like to see him. He replied, 'Why, did your mom want to bleed more money from me?' I said, 'Nevermind.' and hung up.
The rest of the relationship consisted of three phone calls for a few minutes each.
One could argue the child support issue was a reason for him to be angry (he chose not to see us when we came), so I can accept part of the blame for our problems. But he literally abandoned an earlier family, and never told anyone about them. And he had a daughter that he hasn't seen since a little after she was born.
"Shit!" I yelled, Christine asked what was the matter. Mildly giggling (in the most insane sort of giggles) I told her briefly what I just read. She was compassionate, and I was reminded of how she always says 'Everybody has an interesting family.' Her family is interesting, and indeed, mine is too.
I called my mother and asked her if she knew about this. She said no, and her first question was,
'Dennis, do you think he got a divorce?'
I didn't think about this, and I realized that it would really hurt her if the answer was no. I wondered if there was a way to set the clock back five minutes.
But it was too late. I replied already, and there was no turning back. I also had a feeling that this woman in France needed my help.
I told my mom that I didn't know about the divorce, but I would find out. I told her that I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting this. Neither did she.
The next day, I saw a reply from Jessica in my Inbox. It said...
-to be continued
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
Sunday, December 05, 2004
What Kind of Man
Mid-October 1995
The phone rang.
It’s near noon and I had just returned from class, weary from another all-nighter induced by sadistic graduate engineering professors.
“Dennis”
“Hi mom”
“I just brought Grandpa back from the hospital.”
“I thought he got back two days ago.”
He was supposed to be taking a break from experimental cancer therapy; they were going to start radiation later that week. His prognosis was not good; we were worried.
Mom replied,
“Someone broke into his house last night looking for diamonds of all things. Grandpa pulled the gun from under his pillow and the guy took it from him and beat him up with it.”
My thoughts on having a gun in the home were radically altered in seconds.
My mom and grandfather lived in a very small town in Oklahoma called Osage. So small that the only public establishments were two churches and two bars, both equally attended. There was no police station or law for at least ten miles.
The ‘diamonds’ bothered me. He didn’t have any, but Grandpa had shown his silver and gold bullion on occasion to people other than family. Something told me that a perverted game of Telephone lured someone who was no more than two degrees of separation from me to his house at the exact wrong time. Most likely I knew this person.
“Is Grandpa okay?”
“He is bruised really badly on his arm and head, but he seems all right.”
“I’m coming home.”
“No, no, it’s okay, he’s all right, and you’re busy.”
Which was the truth, I was.
“Who did this mom?”
“Grandpa said he was skinny and had a deep voice.”
Skinny, probably a crank addict looking for money, the town was known for it.
“Can I talk to him?”
As Mom gave him the phone, I’m wondering what kind of man could beat up an old man.
“Are you okay Grandpa?”
“Ohhh, that bastard got me good, Dennis, you should see the bruises. But I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? It’s not that far…”
“Yeah I’m sure, you got school.”
We chatted a little more and concluded the conversation.
“I’ll come to the hospital and see you this weekend. And Grandpa, if I find this guy…”
“I know Dennis, I know”
“I love you, Grandpa.”
“I love you too.”
Those were the last words he spoke to me directly.
Later that week
The phone rang.
It’s mom again, and she’s crying.
“Dennis, something is wrong with Grandpa, you need to come see him.”
I finally told my professors what is going on, and find out they are not so sadistic after all. I rushed to the hospital.
I saw the man who had lived a troubled, imperfect life lying in a bed with his eyes closed. Occasional murmurs came from his mouth. My mother was telling him to say hi to me. He managed to utter the last words I ever heard him say,
“That’s my daughter…”
Yes, she was always his daughter. I wondered if he knew I was there. The doctors told us to leave.
Halloween, 1995
I was standing next to my mother as the neurosurgeon tells us that Grandpa had a subdural hematoma induced by the trauma of the beating, and they had to perform emergency surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain. My mother asked what he will be like when he wakes up.
The surgeon firmly replied,
“If he wakes up, ma’am, you have to accept that possibility.”
She’s shocked. So am I. Clearly this man has said this too many times to be truly sorrowful, but he tried.
November 2, 1995, 12:50 A.M.
The phone rang.
I heard my brother Sean’s voice.
“Dennis, you need to go to the hospital.”
I was playing chess with my friend Jason who lived close to the hospital. The rest of the family was home about fifty miles away. We were all tired from the deathwatch; however, my mother wanted to be sure that he did not die alone.
November 2, 1995, 1:05 A.M.
I’m too late.
I was holding the hand of the man who always had Cokes and candy bars in his refrigerator for me when I was young, who had import beer for me when I was in college, who would act like he didn’t know that I sometimes took a pack of cigarettes, who smiled as he gave me twenty dollars for an imaginary date that he knew I didn’t have, who bought my plane ticket home from Germany after I foolishly thought that I could live and work there because I wanted to.
I was holding his hand, and it was turning cold. I let him die alone.
I remembered my last words to him, and promised myself that the killer would soon join my grandfather. I wondered about what kind of animal could kill an old man.
November 2, 1995, 2:00 A.M.
My mother asked me if I was here when he died. I said no. It seemed impossible for her to appear more hurt, but yet she did.
The one time in my life I should have lied to her, and I didn’t.
Late-November, 1995
The phone rang.
My mom told me that someone broke into Grandpa’s house again and ransacked the place. The fool, I thought, he was still looking for the diamonds. He was as good as caught; they said the house was too dirty for prints the last time, which I doubted, but now the evidence was fresh. A little bit of dust, a modem connection to the NCIC database, and we have a lead to my grandfather’s killer.
She asked me to be there when the police came.
The Next Day.
A grossly fat man wearing black jeans, a black pocket T-shirt, an Osage County Police Department baseball cap, a cheap badge, and a gun arrived in his personal vehicle. He had no forensic equipment. We brought him inside. I point out that the cabinet doors were closed before, and now they were open. I reminded him that this was a murder.
He looked at his watch, ignored me and told my mom that he couldn’t do anything. This was Osage County’s Finest in action. I was about to unload on him, but my mom could see it, and gently pulled me away.
I told Sean, and he was as angry as I. We both knew justice would not be served through the system. We both planned for it ourselves. Older people in town gave us tips; some of them were too good to not have been tested. I didn’t ask them how they knew about them.
I remembered a quote from John Dryden, “Beware the fury of the patient man.”
Early December, 1995
The phone rang.
Sean said he needed to talk to me.
He approached my mother’s neighbor late at night. Sean was was with my cousin, Mike, and he was drunk. The neighbor was certainly not one of the churchgoers in town, and most of the people that hung out at his place were suspects.
However, we didn’t suspect him because Grandpa had crawled to his door first, and he was the first to give him aid.
Sean told him, “I know you know who killed my grandfather you son-of-a-bitch.”
The neighbor pointed a shotgun at him and said,
“I don’t know nothing for sure, now get off my fucking porch.”
Sean laughed and said, “You’re not going to shoot me.” He closed the door.
Mr. Rogers would never want this man for his neighbor, and I was terrified that he was still my mother’s.
My mother has never heard this.
January, 1996
I saw a woman on TV crying. She had lost her son in the Oklahoma City bombing. Her anguish was real, and she was demanding swift justice.
I understood her pain, but I knew it is not justice that she wanted. She wanted what I wanted. She wanted revenge.
At this time I realize that in almost every case, ‘justice’ is a euphemism for ‘revenge.’
Early January, 1997
After being gone for almost a year on an internship, I’ve returned to graduate school. My brother pulls me aside and says,
“Dennis, I think I know who did it.”
Bloodlust tempered by caution entered my mind. I didn’t like hearing the word ‘think,’ you have to know. He whispered a name, and he was certainly a suspect. He described an unmistakable look of guilt on his face when he met my brother’s eyes. I suspected that at least this person knew who did it, and we could find out. It could be possible only if one question had the right answer.
“Who have you told?”
He said something other than “Nobody.”
I cursed him, and told him to forget it. He objected, he thought the guy was cool. I replied,
“Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.” (Ben Franklin was a wise man).
He understood, three people knew already. I told him it’s over for at least eighteen months, minimum, and never speak of it again. There was too much to lose, not enough evidence, and we couldn’t count on an encore performance from Osage’s Finest. I could see that my words hurt him, but they were necessary. I remained patient, and remembered the name.
January 16, 1997
Ennis Cosby was senselessly gunned down while changing a flat tire. The killer was apprehended because he couldn’t keep a secret.
January 17, 1997
Bill had performed at our university the year before; unfortunately I had missed the show. Large poster boards were put up on the walls of the Student Union so students could express their sympathy. I think that I wrote something to the effect of
“Mr. Cosby, I’ve also lost someone to senseless violence, I can only say the pain lessens over time.”
I looked at the words that I wrote, and I wondered if I believed them.
Later that month, Bill Cosby asked the judge to spare the murderer his life.
I was confused. I didn’t understand how he could maintain his values in the face of such a tragedy, but I admired it deeply.
September, 2000
I had returned from another summer in Germany, and was relaxing before starting work. While reading Frank Herbert’s Chapterhouse: Dune, my world was changed and the last vestiges of my anger were quenched as I read eight simple words in the final chapters.
“Revenge is for children and the emotionally retarded.”
My jaw dropped as I put the book down. I thought about Israel and Palestine, and then I thought about the Marshall Plan. I saw which solution worked, and which one didn’t. I remembered creation and destruction parables. I knew then that I was not a child, and I knew that I was no longer emotionally retarded. I was glad that my brother came to me first, and that he told somebody something that he shouldn’t have.
I learned that Frank’s wife had often said those words before she passed away. I realized she must have been a remarkable woman. I understood Bill Cosby’s plea to the judge, and understood he is a wiser man than I.
I told my grandfather that I’m sorry that I can’t fulfill my last promise to him. I’m sure he would have understood.
But I still wondered what kind of person could hit an old man.
Later that month, 2:00 A.M.
I was dreaming in German, and I awoke from it in the middle of the night. I remembered when I returned from there the first time, my Grandpa greeted me in German. I never knew how he learned it.
I missed him and thought about him. And then a key detail about the life of the man who killed him came to me, and I was certain that it was correct. I didn’t know the ‘why’ to my question, but I knew the ‘how.’ For the first time, I felt pity for the killer. Oddly enough I thought about writing my realization as a song. Then I went back to sleep.
July 3, 2002
I had finished the song a few months before, but I hadn’t played it for my family because I hadn’t seen them in person. I visited my brother’s family for the holiday. My mother was traveling; she’ll hear it next.
Late in the day, my body tired from throwing his kids into the pool, I played the song for him. He liked it. He told me that he wouldn’t do anything about Grandpa anymore. He, like me, had found his peace. I didn’t ask him how he came to that conclusion, but I suspected there were two reasons, and they also happened to be the cause of my soreness.
He asked if he could have a copy of the lyrics, and he wanted me to play it again. I gave him a copy. The final verse reads,
“And if you should ever cross my path,
I don’t know that if I would cry or laugh,
Because I can’t imagine the hell you’re in,
knowing nobody loves you like we loved him.”
Note: This story was published previously in Atomica Magazine.
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
The phone rang.
It’s near noon and I had just returned from class, weary from another all-nighter induced by sadistic graduate engineering professors.
“Dennis”
“Hi mom”
“I just brought Grandpa back from the hospital.”
“I thought he got back two days ago.”
He was supposed to be taking a break from experimental cancer therapy; they were going to start radiation later that week. His prognosis was not good; we were worried.
Mom replied,
“Someone broke into his house last night looking for diamonds of all things. Grandpa pulled the gun from under his pillow and the guy took it from him and beat him up with it.”
My thoughts on having a gun in the home were radically altered in seconds.
My mom and grandfather lived in a very small town in Oklahoma called Osage. So small that the only public establishments were two churches and two bars, both equally attended. There was no police station or law for at least ten miles.
The ‘diamonds’ bothered me. He didn’t have any, but Grandpa had shown his silver and gold bullion on occasion to people other than family. Something told me that a perverted game of Telephone lured someone who was no more than two degrees of separation from me to his house at the exact wrong time. Most likely I knew this person.
“Is Grandpa okay?”
“He is bruised really badly on his arm and head, but he seems all right.”
“I’m coming home.”
“No, no, it’s okay, he’s all right, and you’re busy.”
Which was the truth, I was.
“Who did this mom?”
“Grandpa said he was skinny and had a deep voice.”
Skinny, probably a crank addict looking for money, the town was known for it.
“Can I talk to him?”
As Mom gave him the phone, I’m wondering what kind of man could beat up an old man.
“Are you okay Grandpa?”
“Ohhh, that bastard got me good, Dennis, you should see the bruises. But I’m okay.”
“Are you sure? It’s not that far…”
“Yeah I’m sure, you got school.”
We chatted a little more and concluded the conversation.
“I’ll come to the hospital and see you this weekend. And Grandpa, if I find this guy…”
“I know Dennis, I know”
“I love you, Grandpa.”
“I love you too.”
Those were the last words he spoke to me directly.
Later that week
The phone rang.
It’s mom again, and she’s crying.
“Dennis, something is wrong with Grandpa, you need to come see him.”
I finally told my professors what is going on, and find out they are not so sadistic after all. I rushed to the hospital.
I saw the man who had lived a troubled, imperfect life lying in a bed with his eyes closed. Occasional murmurs came from his mouth. My mother was telling him to say hi to me. He managed to utter the last words I ever heard him say,
“That’s my daughter…”
Yes, she was always his daughter. I wondered if he knew I was there. The doctors told us to leave.
Halloween, 1995
I was standing next to my mother as the neurosurgeon tells us that Grandpa had a subdural hematoma induced by the trauma of the beating, and they had to perform emergency surgery to relieve the pressure on his brain. My mother asked what he will be like when he wakes up.
The surgeon firmly replied,
“If he wakes up, ma’am, you have to accept that possibility.”
She’s shocked. So am I. Clearly this man has said this too many times to be truly sorrowful, but he tried.
November 2, 1995, 12:50 A.M.
The phone rang.
I heard my brother Sean’s voice.
“Dennis, you need to go to the hospital.”
I was playing chess with my friend Jason who lived close to the hospital. The rest of the family was home about fifty miles away. We were all tired from the deathwatch; however, my mother wanted to be sure that he did not die alone.
November 2, 1995, 1:05 A.M.
I’m too late.
I was holding the hand of the man who always had Cokes and candy bars in his refrigerator for me when I was young, who had import beer for me when I was in college, who would act like he didn’t know that I sometimes took a pack of cigarettes, who smiled as he gave me twenty dollars for an imaginary date that he knew I didn’t have, who bought my plane ticket home from Germany after I foolishly thought that I could live and work there because I wanted to.
I was holding his hand, and it was turning cold. I let him die alone.
I remembered my last words to him, and promised myself that the killer would soon join my grandfather. I wondered about what kind of animal could kill an old man.
November 2, 1995, 2:00 A.M.
My mother asked me if I was here when he died. I said no. It seemed impossible for her to appear more hurt, but yet she did.
The one time in my life I should have lied to her, and I didn’t.
Late-November, 1995
The phone rang.
My mom told me that someone broke into Grandpa’s house again and ransacked the place. The fool, I thought, he was still looking for the diamonds. He was as good as caught; they said the house was too dirty for prints the last time, which I doubted, but now the evidence was fresh. A little bit of dust, a modem connection to the NCIC database, and we have a lead to my grandfather’s killer.
She asked me to be there when the police came.
The Next Day.
A grossly fat man wearing black jeans, a black pocket T-shirt, an Osage County Police Department baseball cap, a cheap badge, and a gun arrived in his personal vehicle. He had no forensic equipment. We brought him inside. I point out that the cabinet doors were closed before, and now they were open. I reminded him that this was a murder.
He looked at his watch, ignored me and told my mom that he couldn’t do anything. This was Osage County’s Finest in action. I was about to unload on him, but my mom could see it, and gently pulled me away.
I told Sean, and he was as angry as I. We both knew justice would not be served through the system. We both planned for it ourselves. Older people in town gave us tips; some of them were too good to not have been tested. I didn’t ask them how they knew about them.
I remembered a quote from John Dryden, “Beware the fury of the patient man.”
Early December, 1995
The phone rang.
Sean said he needed to talk to me.
He approached my mother’s neighbor late at night. Sean was was with my cousin, Mike, and he was drunk. The neighbor was certainly not one of the churchgoers in town, and most of the people that hung out at his place were suspects.
However, we didn’t suspect him because Grandpa had crawled to his door first, and he was the first to give him aid.
Sean told him, “I know you know who killed my grandfather you son-of-a-bitch.”
The neighbor pointed a shotgun at him and said,
“I don’t know nothing for sure, now get off my fucking porch.”
Sean laughed and said, “You’re not going to shoot me.” He closed the door.
Mr. Rogers would never want this man for his neighbor, and I was terrified that he was still my mother’s.
My mother has never heard this.
January, 1996
I saw a woman on TV crying. She had lost her son in the Oklahoma City bombing. Her anguish was real, and she was demanding swift justice.
I understood her pain, but I knew it is not justice that she wanted. She wanted what I wanted. She wanted revenge.
At this time I realize that in almost every case, ‘justice’ is a euphemism for ‘revenge.’
Early January, 1997
After being gone for almost a year on an internship, I’ve returned to graduate school. My brother pulls me aside and says,
“Dennis, I think I know who did it.”
Bloodlust tempered by caution entered my mind. I didn’t like hearing the word ‘think,’ you have to know. He whispered a name, and he was certainly a suspect. He described an unmistakable look of guilt on his face when he met my brother’s eyes. I suspected that at least this person knew who did it, and we could find out. It could be possible only if one question had the right answer.
“Who have you told?”
He said something other than “Nobody.”
I cursed him, and told him to forget it. He objected, he thought the guy was cool. I replied,
“Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.” (Ben Franklin was a wise man).
He understood, three people knew already. I told him it’s over for at least eighteen months, minimum, and never speak of it again. There was too much to lose, not enough evidence, and we couldn’t count on an encore performance from Osage’s Finest. I could see that my words hurt him, but they were necessary. I remained patient, and remembered the name.
January 16, 1997
Ennis Cosby was senselessly gunned down while changing a flat tire. The killer was apprehended because he couldn’t keep a secret.
January 17, 1997
Bill had performed at our university the year before; unfortunately I had missed the show. Large poster boards were put up on the walls of the Student Union so students could express their sympathy. I think that I wrote something to the effect of
“Mr. Cosby, I’ve also lost someone to senseless violence, I can only say the pain lessens over time.”
I looked at the words that I wrote, and I wondered if I believed them.
Later that month, Bill Cosby asked the judge to spare the murderer his life.
I was confused. I didn’t understand how he could maintain his values in the face of such a tragedy, but I admired it deeply.
September, 2000
I had returned from another summer in Germany, and was relaxing before starting work. While reading Frank Herbert’s Chapterhouse: Dune, my world was changed and the last vestiges of my anger were quenched as I read eight simple words in the final chapters.
“Revenge is for children and the emotionally retarded.”
My jaw dropped as I put the book down. I thought about Israel and Palestine, and then I thought about the Marshall Plan. I saw which solution worked, and which one didn’t. I remembered creation and destruction parables. I knew then that I was not a child, and I knew that I was no longer emotionally retarded. I was glad that my brother came to me first, and that he told somebody something that he shouldn’t have.
I learned that Frank’s wife had often said those words before she passed away. I realized she must have been a remarkable woman. I understood Bill Cosby’s plea to the judge, and understood he is a wiser man than I.
I told my grandfather that I’m sorry that I can’t fulfill my last promise to him. I’m sure he would have understood.
But I still wondered what kind of person could hit an old man.
Later that month, 2:00 A.M.
I was dreaming in German, and I awoke from it in the middle of the night. I remembered when I returned from there the first time, my Grandpa greeted me in German. I never knew how he learned it.
I missed him and thought about him. And then a key detail about the life of the man who killed him came to me, and I was certain that it was correct. I didn’t know the ‘why’ to my question, but I knew the ‘how.’ For the first time, I felt pity for the killer. Oddly enough I thought about writing my realization as a song. Then I went back to sleep.
July 3, 2002
I had finished the song a few months before, but I hadn’t played it for my family because I hadn’t seen them in person. I visited my brother’s family for the holiday. My mother was traveling; she’ll hear it next.
Late in the day, my body tired from throwing his kids into the pool, I played the song for him. He liked it. He told me that he wouldn’t do anything about Grandpa anymore. He, like me, had found his peace. I didn’t ask him how he came to that conclusion, but I suspected there were two reasons, and they also happened to be the cause of my soreness.
He asked if he could have a copy of the lyrics, and he wanted me to play it again. I gave him a copy. The final verse reads,
“And if you should ever cross my path,
I don’t know that if I would cry or laugh,
Because I can’t imagine the hell you’re in,
knowing nobody loves you like we loved him.”
Note: This story was published previously in Atomica Magazine.
Farewell Reader, have a good day.
Hussman
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