From my mind

FOX

I saw a fox today.

This, in itself, would not be remarkable only that I had never before seen a fox, in the wild, that is.

It was early this morning, really early.

A fresh coating of crystalline snow had fallen overnight.

The sun was at that perfect angle... at that point in the sky where everything gleams.

It's yellow glow reflected off the new snow, lighting up the tree line like limelight.

I really don't like to use words like "bounding". It sounds so 18th Century.

But this fox, it's bright crimson red coat in sharp contrast to the almost transparent white snow, was bounding.

There is no other word.

He couldn't have cared less that he was being watched.

The field was his to use as he saw fit.

He ran up one side, over to the middle, and down the other.

He jumped, rolled, and scurried (another word from 'ago')

And I truly believe I saw him laughing as he played.

He took notice of me when I put the car in gear, making a groaning sound.

As I drove away, I saw him leave the field and disappear into the woods.

Perhaps he did care, after all.

I'm sorry that I interrupted his enjoyment.

Embarrassed that I was caught in my voyeurism.

And ashamed that I enjoyed watching him so much. Perhaps jealous.

New One Act Play for your enjoyment

ACT I
Scene 1
Curtain is up at the beginning of the play
Stage is lit with harsh white light. The stage
should look like a show just closed and the sets
are in the process of being struck. There are some
small set pieces pushed to the upstage right and
left. One chair is set downstage center.

Off-stage sounds of a truck screeching to a halt
and a loud thud.

STANLEY enters stage left as if he has been thrust
out by force.
STANLEY
Wow, that was close! Did you see that? I was nearly run
down by that truck.
(Stanley notices that he is alone in a
different place than he was a second
ago.)
Wait a minute, where am I? Two seconds ago I was
crossing Broadway on my way to an audition. (panic)
Hello! Where is everybody? The street was crowded,
hundreds of people?
Stanley crosses to the chair and plops down. He
looks around and begins to wring his hands and
shake a little.
STANLEY (CONT)
This is very confusing.
(yelling)
What the fuck is happening to me? Where am I?
(quieter and frightened)
Did the truck really hit me? Am I dead? Did I die
right then and there? Oh, my God. Shit! Oh Christ,
what the...
(He looks around secretively, glancing
here and there)
Maybe this might be a good time to stop cursing. I
mean, if I’m dead than this must be(pause) where I wait
for... "Him".
There is a loud commotion from off stage, boxes
falling, furniture scraping across the floor, etc.
2.
HEATHER O.S.
Damn it! Who put that fucking crap there?. Shit! I have
a runner in my pantyhose. God Damn it!
HEATHER enters stage right, walks directly past
Stanley, not noticing him
STANLEY
Excuse me! Hello!
HEATHER
(She stops short staring downstage, then
slowly turns to Stanley and jumps back
in fear.)
Ah! What are you doing here? How did you get here? You
don’t belong here.
STANLEY
I don’t know where "here" is and I sure as hell don’t
know how I got here. I was crossing Broadway and...
HEATHER
You can’t stay here! I mean...Who did you say sent you?
(Stanley gets up and moves toward Heather. She
takes a Karate stance)
STANLEY
Whoa, wait a minute, I’m just trying to get to my
audition. I’m not going to do anything to you. Calm
down, will ya, for Christ sake. Who are you? And how
did you get here? I mean, you seem to at least know
where "here" is.
(Heather relaxes and Stanley moves
upstage center, examining the stage
walls and back drop curtain. Heather
matches his movements as she moves cross
stage to the opposite side)
(Stanley slowly realizes he recognizes
this stage)
I’ve been on this stage before. Many years ago when I
was in community theater. This is the stage of the
Omaha Community Playhouse.
HEATHER
Well, of course it is. Where do you think you are?
Broadway?
STANLEY
Well, ya, actually I am...was in New York, just before
I ended up here.
Heather’s Cell phone rings, State Fair theme ring
tone
3.
HEATHER
(perky)
Hi, this is Heather! - Ah huh, yup (she turns to look
at Stanley) Oh! What? - I see, well this changes
things. (pause) Okay doaky... ah huh... ah huh, yep...
OK, bye
Lighting focus transitions slowly from harsh white
to softer hues which bring out the actors features
and highlights the upstage scenery.
STANLEY
Was that call about me? What’s going on, God damn it? I
want to know what in hell is happening to me. Who was
that on the phone?
Stanley crosses to Heather and she takes the
karate stance again.
HEATHER
That was the Director. He wasn’t aware that you’re
here. Ah, you aren’t supposed to be...here. You didn’t
go to orientation, did you? Um, I, ah... You’re dead.
STANLEY
I’m what! What do you mean I’m dead?
HEATHER
Well you’re not dead, yet. I mean, you ARE dead, but
you’re not supposed to be. Here, that is.
STANLEY
Well am I dead or not? And I hope you say "not".
HEATHER
Oh, I hate this part. The Director usually handles
this. Oh, shit. You were hit by a truck and died.
STANLEY
I know it was close, but I didn’t get hurt, not even a
scratch.
HEATHER
Oh, you died alright. Splattered all over Broadway.
Guts smeared on the pavement. Your head came off and...
STANLEY
OK, OK I get the picture, very graphically. (pause)
What happened to my head?
4.
HEATHER
Well, lets just say that they need a new display window
at the Manhattan Mall. Really upset some people at the
Food Court. It ended up down by the McDonald’s, almost
went into the PATH station, but some French students
started playing soccer with it.
STANLEY
Oh Jeez, are you sure you mean me? I mean, here I am,
head and all. And if I’m dead, why aren’t I in heaven
or hell or whatever.
HEATHER
(very nervous)
Well, er, you see, Oh damn, I wish the director would
get here.
STANLEY
Tell me, how did I get here? And who is this Director
you keep talking about? Was that him on the phone?
HEATHER
Oh, I really don’t think I’m the right one to tell you
this, but you deserve some answers. So, here
goes. You’re dead, but you’re not supposed to be here.
You should have gone to orientation, first. There was a
mix up.
STANLEY
A mix up! What the hell does that mean?
HEATHER
This is hard enough without your interruptions, and,
frankly I could do with a little less of your attitude.
I’m doing the best I can.
STANLEY
OK, sorry, you’re right. Go on.
HEATHER
You are dead, and you are in what you know as heaven,
this is your heaven.
STANLEY
Heaven is Omaha? You’ve got to be kidding?
HEATHER
I asked you not to interrupt.
STANLEY
Sorry, but, come on, are you expecting me to believe
that not only am I dead, but Omaha, Nebraska is
heaven? Come on, I mean...
5.
Stanley begins to pace
HEATHER
OK I told you I was new at this and I AM doing the best
I can. I, or we, er, God... you do know about God,
don’t you? (pause) Well, it doesn’t matter if you know
or not. We, er, I, well, it’s just necessary to
believe. We are here, and that is all that really
counts.
STANLEY
What in the world are you rambling on about? Do I
believe? Does "what" really matter? Who, exactly is
"we"? Look, I’m just going to leave now. I’m obviously
in the wrong place, you said it yourself, I’m not
supposed to be here.
(Stanley exits stage left)
Stage goes to black


END OF SCENE ONE

SCENE TWO
Lights up with Heather sitting on the chair
talking on the phone
HEATHER
He just walked out.
(laughing)
Okay, Doaky, you’re the boss. Yeah...Yeah... Okay. I
think I hear him now. Bye!
There is commotion from off stage. The noise
tracks from stage left around upstage and down to
stage right
Stanley enters quickly from stage right and comes
up short
STANLEY
What the hell! What’s going on here?
Heather gets up and approaches Stanley. Stanley
takes a karate stance.
HEATHER
(with a pitiful laugh)
I was going to tell you, but you left in such a hurry.
You’re here now... You can’t leave.
6.
STANLEY
What do you mean I can’t leave? Am I being held
hostage? You can’t make me stay here.
HEATHER
I just talked to the director and he told me to answer
all your questions as truthfully as I feel you can
understand.
STANLEY
That’s a little condescending. I’m finding all of this
very confusing. And I’m more than a little scared. But
I’m not stupid.
HEATHER
Sit down, and I’ll start at the beginning.
(Stanley sits on the chair and Heather
pulls down a set piece to sit on)
First, the bad news. Everything you have been taught
about death, heaven, and God is false.
STANLEY
Let me get this straight, everything I was taught in
Church, Sunday School, and from my family and friends
has been a lie?
HEATHER
Pretty much... Ya! Well, not so much a lie more like a
long series of myths and misunderstandings, perpetuated
throughout what you know as history, and relied upon by
people who need someone or something beyond themselves,
to provide social order and behavioral expectations to
their lives.
STANLEY
Huh?
HEATHER
People made all that stuff up to make people conform
and to have someone to blame.
STANLEY
Oh...If that’s the bad news, what could possibly be the
good news?
HEATHER
The good news is that everything you believe about God
is the truth.
STANLEY
What I learned about God is false and what I believe
about God is true. Is that it. That’s crazy. My
beliefs are based on what I have been taught.
7.
HEATHER
I think you are beginning to get it! Tell me about
what you have learned about God. Be specific. What do
you know about God?
STANLEY
Let’s see. God is an all powerful being who created
heaven and earth in seven days about 6 million years
ago. He created man in his image and loves us
unconditionally. He sent his son to Earth about 2000
years ago to give the people hope and direction.
HEATHER
Is that so? Well about three quarters of the people on
Earth wouldn’t agree with you. What about the millions
of Muslims who are taught by the Koran? Or the Jews and
the Torah? And what about the billion people in China
who have been taught something completely different by
Chairman Mao? Are their teachings wrong?
STANLEY
Well, ya, I guess. No, not wrong, just different. I’m
confused. What about Jesus?
HEATHER
Ah, Jesus, what a guy...Handsome and VERY charismatic!
People really got his message. But turning him into
God, that was over the top.
STANLEY
Jesus wasn’t the son of God?
HEATHER
Yes, of course he was, just as you are. And everyone
else in the universe.
STANLEY
That’s the kind of talk that would’ve got you burned at
the stake a few hundred years ago.
HEATHER
It did.
Did you ever wonder where Jesus was from the time he
taught at the Temple and his time as a prophet? Those
unreported 20 years?
STANLEY
No, not really. But I bet you’re going to tell me.
HEATHER
Where do you think he got all of that ’peace and love’
stuff he talked so much about?
8.
STANLEY
I have thought about that, actually. It seems to me
that Jesus’ message about love and peace sounds a lot
like the teaching found in ancient Persia and India.
Buddhist and Hinduism, like that.
HEATHER
Very good! Of course those teachings are older than
that, long before any form of writing emerged on
Earth. And, of course, they had it wrong, too.
STANLEY
Now I’m getting confused and more than a little pissed
off.
HEATHER
Of course you are. All of this is very confusing if you
go by what people are ’taught’. Now, when you look at
the problem from a ’belief’ point of view, things fall
into place.
STANLEY
I think I get it. I took a class in comparative
religion in college and learned a little something
about a lot of religious teachings and practices. On an
academic level I tried to understand where the
teachings came from and what they meant to the people
at the time. All of those people can’t have been wrong.
It doesn’t matter in the end what you have been taught.
What matters is what you believe.
HEATHER
Exactly! No matter what people try to teach you and
what you have learned, It’s what you believe that
counts.
STANLEY
So everybody is wrong and everybody is right.
HEATHER
Right!
STANLEY
But what about religions? They all teach something and
most teach something different than the others. Are
they all wrong?
HEATHER
Well yes and no. All of the so called organized
religions have it wrong at the base. Each wants to
think that God is on their side and God is a member of
their religion. We know that can’t be. If that was the
case, there would be no such thing as Christians.
9.
STANLEY
What do you mean? Christians believe that God sent his
Son, Jesus, for their redemption.
HEATHER
Yeah, but was Jesus a Christian? No! He was a Jew, not
just a day to day Jew, but a teacher, a Rabbi. It’s the
followers of Jesus we know as Christians. And they have
it just as wrong as all the other religions.
STANLEY
So, following along with your train of thought,
everything Jesus taught was false.
HEATHER
Not at all. Everything Jesus preached he believed at
the core of his heart. So, for Jesus, everything he
believed was true, for him. The same for Mohammad,
Buddha, Mao, Luther, John Smith, and the rest. They all
believed what they preached. So, for them it was true.
STANLEY
This is beginning to get confusing again.
HEATHER
Even some of the most crazy and evil preachers in the
world, believed that what they were saying was true and
that their behavior was righteous and justified.
Everyone from the Egyptians persecuting the Jews, the
Romans against the early Christians, the Christians
against everyone who wasn’t Christian, all the way down
to the Catholics, who at one time or another have been
against everyone else. And most recently the Muslims
demanding everyone become Muslim. All collectively
wrong and at the same time, individually right in their
beliefs.
(Heather’s cell phone rings. Amazing
Grace is the ring tone)
Stage goes black

END OF SCENE TWO

SCENE THREE
Heather and Stanley are seated on the chair and
set piece, respectfully. The lighting has softened
and the stage looks cozy and warm. Heather is
talking on the phone.
HEATHER
He’s coming around, but I still don’t understand why
you want him to stay....Yeah...No!...Noooo...I can’t do
that!...Listen, your the director, you get your ass
down here and direct.(pause) I’m sorry, but this is
just more than I can handle...Okay...Okay. Thank you,
Sir.
STANLEY
Trouble with the Boss? Directors can be such pains in
the ass... God complexes, most of them. Always
expecting the PA’s to do the dirty work and never truly
appreciating the demands of they put on them.
HEATHER
"God complex"...interesting choice of phrase...So, do
you get it now?
STANLEY
Get what? That I’m dead? Yeah. That, in the end it
doesn’t really matter what you’ve been taught, it’s
what you believe that’s true.
HEATHER
Right! Why?
STANLEY
Why? What? What do you mean?
HEATHER
I mean...Why does it matter what you believe and not so
much what you have been taught?
STANLEY
What is this, Death School? I don’t know. I guess it
matters because...(thinking) because the way we behave
is based on our beliefs, not our knowledge! We make
choices according to what we believe. Yeah! That’s it.
HEATHER
That’s it, precisely.
STANLEY
But I’m still a little hazy on how this stage in Omaha
can be heaven.
HEATHER
What do you know about heaven? Where is it? What’s it
like?
STANLEY
All I know is what I’ve been taught... Oh, I see. What
I KNOW is wrong. It’s what I believe
that’s...true. But if that’s right, I must believe
that this stage is heaven.
11.
HEATHER
Tell me about your time as an apprentice with the Omaha
Community Playhouse. What was it like.
STANLEY
Oh, it was great. I had a wonderful time. I spent every
waking minute there. Learning all about theater, from
the inside. The stagecraft tricks mixed with the
glamor and beauty of the productions... One minute I
was painting scenery and the next running lines with
the actors. (weeping a little) I loved that theater.
I felt like I was in heav...en!
Stage goes to work lights. Workers enter carrying
set pieces, scenery, etc. Heather blends in. The
place sounds like a working theater, power tools
whining, people yelling to each other, etc.
Director enters stage left. He carries a clipboard
and a walkie-talkie.
DIRECTOR
Are you the new kid? Steven?
STANLEY
Stanley... Yeah, I guess I am.
DIRECTOR
Come on then, I’ll get you started
they walk upstage

FADE TO BLACK
CURTAIN

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RETIRE TO MEXICO-20 Questions You Need To Answer

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Veteran's Day, Damn it!

This is the second Veteran's Day I've spent in Mexico. Last year I had only been living here for just three months and didn't have a full appreciation of how not the U.S., Mexico is.

I was half asleep this morning when I overheard CCN on my wife's TV. The talking head was reading a story about where Mr. Obama, Mr. Bush and Mr. "Whatshisname", the current vice President, were going to be honoring me on Veteran's Day. When I determined that none of them were coming to Mexico to thank me for my service in Viet Nam, I decided to go to the market and see if there was a parade.

Not to be unpatriotic, I put on my T-shirt from the VVA National Convention in 2007, my 2nd Battalion, 1st Marines Jacket with the Corpsmen patch indicating that "we did our best", and my Camo cap with those pins and patches that label me a Viet Nam Vet who needs to have others know it.

It was early on this cool Autumn morning. The dew was still on the grass, somewhere. But in Ciudad Victoria it was already getting warm and there was no dew. Just the aroma of fresh tortillas and carne asada mixed with the smell of papaya and mangoes being prepared for the crowds of locals making their way through the stalls and alleys of the mercado.

After finding a place to park I got out of my car and adjusted my uniform. I was already questioning the wisdom of wearing the lined jacket. The sweat was already staining my T-Shirt. But I decided that I wanted everyone there to know that this is my day. Veteran's Day. So I began my own parade of one, fully expecting the people I met to smile and thank me for being a veteran. After all, if the United States hadn't sacrificed our men and women in wars around the world, Mexico may not have become a major player in North America. Mexico didn't send anyone to Viet Nam, Korea, Europe in either World War, and they do not have any troops in the middle east. As a matter of fact, the last time Mexico was involved in armed combat it was against the United States. And yet, they enjoy all of the benefits of our sacrifice. With this frame of mind and the self confidence that only comes from an egocentric American, I set out. My black satin jacket with the patches and medals shining in the early morning sun and the brim of my cap darkening from sweat, screamed out to be acknowledged. I am an American combat veteran, damn it. This is my day.

Well, you know the rest. Nobody understood the symbols I was wearing. No one cared that I was a veteran. And, no one said thank you. Except the old woman who sold the watermelon and papaya she grew in her back yard. She said "Thank you" in English when I bought my breakfast melon and papaya juice.

That's enough for me, for now.

Hug a Vet, today. We earned it.

Excerpt from my book RETIRE TO MEXICO-20 QUESTIONS YOU NEED TO ANSWER

RETIRE TO MEXICO--Cost of Living

Even before we decided to retire and move to Mexico, our family, friends, and sometimes even total strangers, questioned our sanity. They all want to know why we would sell off everything we own, leave our home town and all of our friends and family behind and move to another Country. ESPECIALY MEXICO!

Well, the answer is simple. Money! The low cost of living, to be more specific. In Mexico our meager pensions go much farther than they would in the States. Overall, the costs in our part of Mexico are about 30% lower than they were in Pennsylvania.

There are places in Mexico where the cost of living is the same or higher than retirement communities in the States. These areas are either prime tourist areas or communities with heavy concentrations of American and Canadian retirees. Many of these areas boast of a clean, healthy climate and oodles of Mexican culture. I looked into these areas and found that some of the Mexican culture was becoming a caricature of itself. The mere presence of so many gringos in one area had resulted in little enclaves of American culture secluded within walled communities. The 'clean healthy climate' in these areas was not that different than that found here in our community. The biggest impact these mini American cities have on Mexico is inflation. Because there are so many dollars being injected into the local economy, the costs of housing and food in these areas have become so high that native Mexicans can no longer afford to live in their own home towns.

We live in Ciudad Victoria in Tamaulipas in Northeast Mexico. This is not a tourist area and there are very few expatriates here. While we freely admit that we live a very quiet lifestyle, our costs are pretty much what we expected. This is mostly due to two very important factors:
I had visited the area some years ago during an extended trip to Belize. I stopped in Ciudad Victoria and explored the area. I didn't know it at the time, but the germ of an idea was forming. In the following year when telling the stories of my trip to Belize, I found myself remembering this small city with fondness.


COST COMPARISONS

As I said, this area is not a tourist area, it is not a "quaint" colonial town, nor does it have any significant history. As a matter of fact, Ciudad Victoria is never listed as a place to retire, and Tamaulipas is not mentioned in most travel books. When it is, Tamaulipas is described as a "vast wasteland" that "is best passed through as quickly as possible". Of course, this is not true. Tamaulipas is a huge garden with millions of citrus trees, sugar cane fields, and large fields of corn and sorghum for the cattle that range the high chaparral in the north.

We love it here. We are just three hours drive from the US border on very good multi-lane highways. We are just an hour away from the pristine, sugar white sand beaches along the Gulf of Mexico and the mountains are literally right outside of our back door. The climate is very friendly with 300 + days of full sunshine and cool, crisp nights when a sweater is necessary.

There are some down sides. It does gets HOT here in the summer. And it gets cool in the winter. We don't have air conditioning and we don't have a furnace. We use a space heater when it gets really cool and a fan when it gets hot. There is always a nice breeze, though. Ciudad Victoria is nestled up against the mountains to the west and is about 30 miles from the Gulf of Mexico to the east. To the North is a flat expanse of agricultural tracts and thousands of acres of high desert where cattle graze and wildlife is abundant. We also have maybe the best Bass Lake in the world. Travelers going south will find a more tropical ecology, colonial Mexico, and higher prices. Being two or three hours from anywhere else, Ciudad Victoria is an oasis of culture and commerce, as well as a very nice place to live.

The prices listed below are NOT remarkably low for this area. We live 'on the economy'. This means we live in a Mexican neighborhood, shop in the local markets, buy what's fresh that day, and avoid expensive treats. I have listed some of the major expenses we have here in Mexico. The currency exchange rate is in our favor right now. But this changes everyday so I am going to quote the prices in Mexican Pesos.

• Rent of a large (for Mexico) two bedroom house on a quiet lane in the city...$2600. This came unfurnished, I mean completely empty. Before we could move in we needed to buy new kitchen appliances, furniture, hot water heater, and even the tank to hold the propane gas for the stove and water heater. The rooms are very large. The living room/dining area is larger than the entire apartment we had I Pennsylvania which costs us four times as much. Our house is literally surrounded by big windows that let the breezes flow through every day. We even have a little apartment attached that was intended as the servants quarters. It has it's own entrance, private bath/shower, closets, and space for a bed, small table and chair. We use this for guests housing.
• Electric...~$250/month. The electric service is the same as that found in the United States. It is provided by hydro-electric power and is very reliable. We lost power once when a truck hit a utility pole on the next block. It was restored in about two hours.
• Water/sewer...~$45 every 3 months. Our water is drinkable right from the tap. There is no need to boil it or use those purification tablets other writers say are necessary. 1
• Cable/Internet...$850 for the premium level Cable. 200 channels, about half of which are in English provide all of the popular shows with the exception (mores the pity) game shows. We also subscribe to the highest speed Internet (2megs). Neither of these services have ever been interrupted in the past 14 months.
• We don't have a phone because we use SKYPE, the Internet based telephone communication service, for all of our international calls (free to other SKYPE users-2¢/minute to other phone numbers). I have a TelMex phone card for the pay phone on the corner for local calls. (pizza delivery)
• Gasoline is high right now at $9.90 per liter. Gasoline as well as all other petroleum products, is regulated by the government company PEMEX. Although the prices do vary from place to place, they are all controlled by PEMEX and are kept relatively stable. During the recent economic fiasco in the US, our prices did increase gradually. However, when world prices fell, our costs went down sooner and more radically then those in the States.
  

Everything you could possibly need is available in the local Mercado or street market. Shopping at these markets can be a fun way to spend a few hours in the morning. With our difficulties getting around, we seldom go there, though.2 We shop at the local supermarket, Sam's Club, and Walmart. Fresh fruit, veggies, and meat are very inexpensive when compared to the US. Almost all of the produce available is grown within a hundred miles of here. Things like apples, pears, grapes, broccoli, and cabbage come from the US by way of NAFTA and South America, especially Chile. We can by Tyson precut and packaged chicken in the supermarket, but the locally raised poultry are so much better and less expensive. This is live stock country and beef and pork is very inexpensive and of the highest quality.

Canned goods from Mexico are a good bargain but those from the US and Spain are expensive. Cleaning supplies are about the same as the US. Many of the US manufacturer have Mexican brands of the very same products from the US. Mr. Clean is Mr. Musculo, for instance. Clothes, bedding, and furniture can be expensive. You have to watch were a product was manufactured. If the item you want was made in the US or Europe the cost will be about the same as in the US. But if it was made in China, watch out. There is a 1000% import tariff in effect right now and all things Chinese are very costly.

Movies in either of the two megaplex theaters cost $38 if we go to in the afternoon. Most of the time there is at least one new film in English with Spanish subtitles.

As the capital city of the State of Tamaulipas, Ciudad Victoria is the hub of culture for this area. Live theater, concerts, art exhibits, and sports events are very popular and VERY inexpensive. The local government values the Arts and underwrites the costs, making these events affordable to most of the residents.

If we need a break there are several very nice restaurants and fast food joints in the area. Applebees, McDonald's, Burger King, Pizza Hut, Church's Chicken, Subway, and Domino's Pizza to name a few. These are nice and exactly like those in the States. However, these American brands are expensive when compared to the vast variety of local restaurants and street vendors who offer everything from shrimp cocktail, tacos and gorditas, and hot dogs, to roasted ears of corn and fresh orange and grapefruit juice. My personal favorite is the tamales made fresh by the lady on the next block and sold door to door everyday.

Medical care is available. We joined the government health scheme for about $2000 a year. This gives us unlimited access to medical, dental, vision, and emergency care with no further costs. This system is crowded and the clinics are slow. But it covers all of the costs of t our prescriptions, a savings of $400.00US each MONTH in co-pays. We have this local medical program primarily to cover catastrophic injuries from a car accident or medical conditions which preclude a road trip to Texas. Should a major medical situation arise that can wait, as it did when my wife needed to have her gall bladder removed earlier this year, we can go to Texas and have Medicare cover the expenses.

The bottom line is, of course, the BOTTOM LINE. When all is said and done, we have a hard time spending $800US per month here in Ciudad Victoria. As I stated earlier, we live a very quiet life style. Neither of us smoke, we don't drink, and we stay at home most of the time. We moved to this area because it offered everything we needed, a comfortable home in a modern city with affordable prices that allow us to live on our social security and veteran's pensions.

1. One of the reasons utility prices are so low is because the companies pass on the costs of emergency repairs to the customers who suffered the interruption. An example of this occurred just last month when a water main broke, causing a six hour interruption in service. The water company sent in a crew of several dozen men who worked well into the night to repair the problem. The costs of this emergency repair showed up on the next bill as a “surcharge”. When I questioned this practice, I was told that the cost of making this repair was shared with all of the customers who were effected by the break and then spread out over the next four billing cycles. The result is a $30.00Peso increase in my bill for the next year.
2. My wife relies on a wheelchair and we seldom have problems getting in and out of most places. Although sometimes not up to ADA standards, the city has ramped most sidewalks at intersections and all public buildings are required to offer ramps.

Flash Fiction Contest entry

What I Saw At The Beach
I saw a dragon flying up the beach this afternoon. Some may think I’m making this up or that I must be nuts.
The only reason I bring this up is to explain why I am sure that I am not crazy. Back in ‘65, I joined the army, as many of my friends had done. There was a war where the southern part of this country had decided that they wanted to be their own country and the northerners decided that it would be better to completely destroy the south then to have it be it’s own country.
Well, my experience as a solder was a short one. I arrived at the regimental headquarters at about 6 in the afternoon and at eight I was in the hospital with a gunshot wound to the head. I was sitting by the kitchen tent cleaning the new rifle I was issued when a guy about fifty feet to my left thought he was being funny and aimed his rifle at a water bag hanging nearby. Well it was loaded and went off when this guy “accidentally” pulled the trigger. The bullet ricocheted off a cast iron frying pan, passed clean through the water bag and hit me right behind my right ear. I woke up about dawn with the most extreme headache and I was not able to move my left hand or leg. The surgeon explained to me that I had been shot, but the bullet had hit so many things before it hit me that it had flattened out and just barely penetrated my skull. The good news was that the damage was minimal to my brain and that most, if not all the use of my arm and leg would return, hopefully. The bad news was that first, they had decided to leave the bullet in my head. To remove it might cause more damage and it was best to just leave it where it was. Secondly, the war, for me was over. One day! And I wasn’t even shot by an enemy solder. I was home exactly four day from when I had left.
That was nearly forty years ago. The war ended. The north won to my disappointment, and the country is again reunified. I still have terrible headaches and I see crossed eyed when I get really tired, or drunk. The bullet is still there and I use it as a bar gag to get free drinks. I bet people that they can see the bullet in my head and they gladly buy me drinks for the privilege. Sometimes quite a few drinks.
But I wasn’t tired or drunk when I saw the dragon flying up the beach this afternoon. I was out pulling crab lines along the tidal pools about a mile from town. At first I didn’t hear anything. I just sensed a shadow passing overhead. When I looked up there it was. A hideous sight to be sure. Dark brown and glowing in the bright sunshine. It had two wings about forty feet wide, one on top of the other. Just as it passed me I heard it growl. A low whiny growl like the noise from an injured cat. And, then it was gone. Over the dunes and out of sight.
I hurried as fast as I could to town and went directly to the Sheriff’s office to report what I had seen. A large crowd had gathered in front of the office, so I assumed that I must not have been the only one to see the monster. As I drew closer, I could hear that the Sheriff was making an announcement. “Ladies and Gentlemen, It is my great honor to welcome Misters Orville and Wilbur Wright to Kittyhawk.”

THE THREE SEASONS OF MAINE

An Essay by a Maine Man in Mexico
Let me begin by saying that I was not born in Maine so I am not a Native Mainer. That fact makes a difference to some "real" Mainers, although I can't for the life of me understand why. I guess it's like being Italian or Jewish. A way to include some and exclude others. I was brought to Maine when I was three and raised as a Mainer. I have not, however, lived in Maine for many years. Some of those years by choice and some by chance. If the philosophers are correct, we experience life as a succession of choices which have consequences, which lead to more choices and ...well, you get the idea. Anyway, through a long sequence of choices and consequences I have been away from Maine since 1973. But my memory of Maine and it's seasons is as clear as if I had never left. Maine has only three seasons. Humorists and cynics say there are only two seasons, Winter and Tourist. While others insist that Maine has four distinctly separate and beautiful seasons. This could be true if a Spring and Fall can be a week or ten days in length. And then there are those who divide Maine into recreational seasons. There's Black Fly season, Trout season, Mosquito season, Hunting season, Black Fly season, again, and, of course football season, High School Football Season, to be correct. But I know, having been raised there, that there are only three distinct seasons. One of these seasons, however, repeats twice during the year.
Winter is the longest of these three. It begins somewhere around Columbus Day and ends around Memorial Day. Other than being exceptionally pretty once in a while, winter is dark, cold and quiet. Dark because the sun doesn't rise until after school or work begins and sets at, or very nearly at, the time you get home from work or school. Quiet because everyone bunkers in, shuts down, and goes into hibernation mode for the entire season. The tourists are gone, the "away" people have left for another year, and, other than ice fishing, and that strange crowd that ride snowmobiles, there's really nothing much to do. Winter in Maine is cold. Not a refreshing, exhilarating type of cold. But a forehead numbing, finger freezing, peel the skin off your cheeks, cold. And damp. I have many, not so fond, memories of walking home from school in the dark when the temperature was dropping from a high of 15. By the time I got to the old iron bridge from Bangor to Brewer I was so cold that my tears froze on my cheeks and I couldn't feel my forehead anymore. Why was I crying? Well, I hated the fact that I had to go to that Catholic school five miles away instead of the public school which was literally in my back yard. Now I know that sounds like sour grapes, and maybe it is. I had no one to blame for my fate. I had behaved badly in public school and was sent to the Nuns for the discipline I so desperately needed. So, I made that trip every day for three school years. As it turned out, I learned much more about myself and life than anything the school taught me. These daily treks alone through the freezing cold and stinging snow gave me time to contemplate my fate, and I hated my life in Maine at those times. This same walk in the opposite direction, however, was full of promise and excitement. It was just as cold and just as long, but the walk to school was, somehow, fun. I looked forward to it almost every day. Some days I would stop at the Bangor Rye Company and buy a freshly baked "Boogie" roll for a nickel and use it to warm my hands. It also warmed my body as I savored it while walking up the hill to Broadway and St. John's School, and later, John Bapst High School. I loved my life in Maine during those times.Summer, or Tourist Season, began around the middle of June and ended precisely at 6:00pm on the first Monday of September, Labor Day. Why 6:00pm? That was the time when the restaurants brought out the "off-season" menus, priced for the Mainers. Summer was the time when Mainers would gear up to take money away from the people coming from "away". These "away" people were those who came to Maine each summer to work in the tourist traps. A lot of people refer to the "away" people as tourists, but they weren't. College kids, hucksters, Carnies, and "foodies" were the real "away" people. They would open craft stores, "antique" shops, and "Authentic New England" food stalls with food shipped in from New York. And summer was their time. Even though they were resented, Mainers permitted these "away" people to come to Maine to work because they always spent more then they earned. The did the work that Mainers did not want to do. And, for the most part, they provided a constant supply of beer and causal sexual opportunities for the locals. Otherwise, they stayed to themselves.
For me, Summer was that brief interval between school terms when I had to work. I worked in the tourist industry, sort off. My Aunt Anna worked in the New Franklin Laundry. For over forty years, she did almost every job in this large commercial laundry, from sweeping the floors to packing finished laundry for delivery. It was hard, crippling work, and she did it every day of her adult life. It was through her influence I was able to get a coveted position each summer. The laundry operated a second shift during summer to accommodate the motels and hotels in the area because they could never keep up with the demands by themselves. I worked the dryers. Four large commercial gas fired dryers that I kept busy for the entire shift. Each afternoon I would begin loading hundreds of pounds of towels, wash clothes, and bath mats into these dryers and then I folded the dried product and packed it for delivery. It was hot, heavy, and repetitious. But I thoroughly enjoyed it. I was left alone. I knew my job and did it without interference from the foreman or other distractions. These were happy times. And I got paid real money. Twice as much as I could get bagging groceries or picking beans or berries. Probably as an omen of the future, I spent a large part of my savings at the end of each season taking the Greyhound to Boston to see the Red Sox and be the same type of resented tourist in Boston we resented in Maine. My mother still says that I couldn't wait to get out of Maine, even then. Maybe she was right.The last of the Maine seasons is Mud Season. This is the few weeks at the end of winter when the melting snow and ice causes the ground to swell with wetness. In farm country, like Iowa or California, this wetness would be welcomed and promise banner crops and beautiful green, well, everything. In Maine, at least the part of Maine where I lived, it meant a soggy bog of slate gray clay mud. It oozed up through the cracks in the pavement, it crept out from under sidewalks. This disgustingly slimy, silvery mess splashed out of potholes large enough to sail in, dousing passersby with gray yuk. Every car was gray. Every tire on every car was gray. Every shoe not covered with rubbers, was gray. There was no escaping it. Now, as I said at the beginning of this piece, Mud Season is the one season Mainers get to enjoy twice each year. Enjoy is probably a poor choice of words because there is nothing whatsoever enjoyable about Mud Season. As slimy and sticky as the "after Winter" mud season was, at least it held a promise that things were getting warmer and that Summer was close by. The "after Summer" mud season was particularly uncomfortable. It provided all of the same yuckiness, without any promise of hope. This season was marked by rain. Relentless, cold, steady, days at a time, rain. Not a nice thunder storm to clean the air. But a cold, gray rain, falling from dark gray clouds that hung so close to the gray streaked ground that you felt like a iron gray anvil was hanging over your head. This mud season did not promise hope, it was the preamble to the long, dark, quiet, and cold winter. I believe that this Mud Season had a purpose, however. This Mud Season was designed to make people wish, no pray, for a change, any change. Winter, with all of it's problems was a welcome relief after enduring the clammy, gray cold of Mud Season. That first clear, crisp day of winter, with it's bright, sparkling blue sky that went on forever, was so refreshing and renewing that it made living in Maine a joy.In his infinite wisdom, the creator put those two sets of despicable, miserable few weeks in Maine to force Mainers to appreciate their short, hot, muggy summer, dominated by "away" people who had more money than sense, and their long, dark, and cold winter when nobody had anything except school, church, neighbors, and family.There is much I miss about living in Maine. My family mostly. I left Maine 35 years ago to earn a living, something not available in Maine at that time. I have traveled back "home" many times over the years. But each time, I was aware that I was now from "away" and not really a Mainer. I'm not alone in this. I heard the same thing at reunions from classmates who, like me, left Maine to find a career and go back now to visit. We had become tourists in our own home town. My wife and I have discussed returning to Maine now that we are retired. We remember events in our childhood and remember the places that were special to us. And then we talk to my parents, who continue to live in Maine, and hear that those places are no longer there. They tells of heating oil at four dollars a gallon and how it's a struggle to make it from one year to the next. So, unfortunately, now that we are retired and on a fixed income, we can not afford to live in Maine. We left Maine because of money and we can't go back for the same reason. We now live in a small city in Mexico. Our meager pensions go much farther here allowing us to live a comfortable, quiet life. No snow or cold weather. No heating oil bills, no snow tires, or heavy winter clothes. And, we get very little rain. But when it does rain, we get mud. Slimy, sticky, baby poop yellow mud that gets into everything. It splashes on the cars, cakes on our shoes, and tracks into the house. It's very yucky. It makes me homesick, sometimes.

Flash Fiction contest winner

Window On The World

“I am telling you the truth, Officer, I saw a woman running and screaming down the street with nothing on.” They never believe me when I call them. They think I’m nuts. Well, I’m not nuts and the woman was real.
I see the strangest things through my window. I’m lucky to have a good window. Some of my friends don’t have a window at all and some that do, can’t see anything through them. My window looks right out onto the street. The other day I saw a three legged man riding a bicycle, or was a two legged man riding a tricycle? Whichever it was it seemed odd at the time. I called the police, but they said that they really couldn’t spare an officer to investigate, but that they would cruise the neighborhood to see if they saw anything strange. When the officer was finished taking my report something must have happened in the station, because I overheard a lot of laughter on the phone. Maybe someone tripped or something.
“No, doctor, I’m not crazy. It was a woman, totally naked, running down the street, screaming.” I’m used to this. It happens every so often. Something weird happens through my window and people think I’m nuts because I report it. Most of the time they are polite and take a report and check it out. But sometimes they get upset and try to take my window away. I just remind them that I pay rent here and that they can’t just take my stuff away. I have rights, after all.
It’s been like this for the last seventeen years. Ever since I moved here. I needed a place to stay after my wife left. She was such a nag. Bitch, bitch, bitch! Well the bitching stopped the day she looked through my window. I don’t remember all of the details, but she stopped nagging at me all of a sudden. Whatever it was she saw through my window must have set her straight. There was so much blood. I had to move because of the blood.
“More medication? No, I’m fine thank you. Do you have any raisins?” They’re very nice here, always checking if my meds are OK. I have a medical condition. Kind of embarrassing, in a way. Apparently I need medications to be able to see clearly through my window. When I don’t get enough, the window seems too dirty to see through. When I get too much, I don’t go too close to my window, I might fall out onto the street.
“What do you mean, was the woman I saw running down the street my wife?” Some of the questions these people ask, I just laugh. I think they think I don’t know that my wife is in Des Moines, visiting her sister. She’ll be back soon. But I must admit, it is a lot quieter since she looked through my window. It’s time for lunch. I always get hungry on electric shock day. I hope they have fish.

HADLEY'S CAFE

In the very small town of Brewer, Maine, the chances of anything exciting happening during the long, cold winter is very slim. Folks around here bunker in during winter. They stay to themselves and family. Other than to attend the occasional church and school function, they don't go out much. That's what makes this so remarkable. About a month ago, a series of events changed my life and the life of my life long, best friend, Hadley.The phone rang at about ten past midnight. It was not completely unexpected. It had been snowing and I had the contract to plow the IGA parking lot. I did think it a bit strange that they would be calling this early, or late, depending on your point of view. But it wasn't them, it was the Penobscot County Sheriff's office. The deputy asked me my name and if I was acquainted with a Joseph A. Hadley, of Brewer. "Yes", I said, "what's this all about"? Could I come to the Emergency Room at Eastern Maine? She would explain there. He was my friend, of course I would be there for him. The things that went through my head on the way from my home to the hospital ranged from suicide to homicide. From someone finally taking all of the shit they could from Hadley and beating it out of him. Or, maybe he needed my special services, again.
Hadley's Cafe is the kind of place that exists because it has to. It has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The food's not good and it would be an insult to the word to claim any ambiance. The Cafe has been on this spot for 75 years. Ever since the Mill was opened. Now, that's not exactly accurate, and I want to be as truthful as possible in re-telling this story. The building housing the Cafe was moved once to make way for a new rail line to the Mill. It would have been cut in two, so they moved the building ten yards to the left. That was in "48. So, anyway, as far as anyone is concerned, the Cafe has been a fixture of this town, forever. It wasn't always called 'Hadley's' though. For 60 years this place was known as the JET Diner. Hadley changed the name when he bought the place. The whole of South Brewer was up in arms when he did that. Cries of "tradition" and "history" were thrown about the City Council meetings. A petition was circulated by the good members of the Committee for Historic Preservation to force Hadley to change the name back to the JET. When that didn't work, the City started to apply pressure by issuing codes warnings and threatening to rescind his permits. Hadley responded to these concerned citizens by closing the diner. He decided that it wasn't worth the hassle to keep fighting, so he just went in one morning and cleaned out the perishable food, shut off the gas and electric and locked the place up. It stayed closed for about two weeks before the Mill owners came to Hadley, asking him to reopen. It seemed that not only was the diner an historical place, but, (and evidently of higher importance) it was also the only place close enough for the mill workers to get lunch in the short time they had. In our town, the Mill always got what it wanted, so the City stopped pressuring Hadley and he reopened the Cafe. Feelings had been hurt on both sides and the resentments never went completely away. But Hadley didn't care. He didn't seem to care about anything except money.
Hadley was cheap. Not the "I don't tip" kind of cheap, but the penny pinching, hoard every dime, cheap. This was reflected in the way he ran the Cafe. Hadley charged for everything. If you had coffee he charged extra for sugar and cream. Crackers with your soup would cost you more. If you wanted your BLT toasted, extra. Don't even think about free seconds of anything. Full price, always.
Hadley measured out portions as if he was measuring chemicals, and to be off, even a bit, would cause an explosion. Not that his portions were small. Hadley was cheap, but he wasn't stingy. If you ate at the Cafe you went away satisfied, if not comforted. Comfort was in short supply at Hadley's Cafe. You see, not only was he cheap, Hadley was also not a nice man. He never, ever, smiled. He was rude and somewhat vulgar to his customers. The up side, though, was that he almost never spoke first. Most of the time all he would do to answer customers questions was grunt or utter one or two words. That is, if he chose to answer at all. If someone, especially a tourist off the bus, asked a question that Hadley deemed too stupid to answer, like "is the fish fresh" or "can I get change?" Hadley would let go with a string of curses and slams that would make a sailor blush. So most of the time the regulars didn't bothered to talk to him. They would point to the chalk board at what they wanted to eat and help themselves to a coffee or a soft drink out of the cooler in the corner. That suited Hadley just fine. The less human contact he had to suffer the better.
Now, why I even bring any of this up is... Well, it was last month, as I said, on a Tuesday. It was cold. I mean one of those colds that causes your forehead to freeze up. And damp. I was at Hadley's with Flynn, my friend from the Mill. Up until then it was just a typical day. we had snuck out a little early to get to the cafe before the rush. We needn't have hurried, though. Rush hour at Hadley's was really just rush 'ten minutes' because nobody who could avoid it went in there any more. And those that did, the Mill workers, wanted their food to go and got out of there as soon as possible. Hadley charged extra for the plastic cartons and forks, but it was worth the price to avoid him. Even on this cold, damp day in February, people would rather get their food and eat in their cars than sit in the warm cafe and endure Hadley. Flynn and I ate in for two reasons. First my car heater didn't work that well, and second, we knew Hadley from before. We all grew up on the same street. Flynn, Nichols, Reed, Mitchell, and Beck, God rest his soul, and Hadley, were all about the same age, and we went to the same schools. We played sports together, went to church together, we went exploring in Adams field and misbehaved at Puck's Muck together, we shared our lives as intimately as brothers. So, Flynn and I knew that the Hadley of today was not the Hadley we grew up with.
Something terrible had happened to him from the time we graduated High School and when he came back to Brewer from the service. The Globe and Anchor tattoo on Hadley's arm told some of the story. But without specific details all we could do was guess about what had happened. Hadley was one of the few people from our town who joined the service out of High School. Most of us went to work in the Mill or in our family's business. At that time, joining the military was an honorable thing to do. It was something to boast about. Servicemen were given respect. A man in uniform couldn't buy a drink in a bar because everyone there would buy for him. Girls still swooned over medals and stripes. Businesses would give discounts. Mothers would display stars in the windows of their houses and fathers had pictures of their military sons in their shops. That was 1966. Over the next few years all of that was to change. It changed while Hadley was with the Marines in Viet Nam. Now, I say Hadley was 'with' the Marines because he was not "in" the Marines, per se. Hadley joined the Navy, just as his father and grandfather had done before him. His was a Navy family. He went to Basic Training and advanced his education by attending the Hospital Corps School where he learned how to be Corpsman.
After training he was assigned to duty at the Navy hospital at Newport, Rhode Island. That's were we met up for the first time since High School. Hadley had been stationed at the hospital for almost two years, ever since Corps School. He had settled in to what had to have been the best duty station on the East Coast. Newport in the mid sixties was THE happening place for young people, especially young sailors. The clubs, beaches, and the half dozen all girls colleges in the area made Newport a party town. The Folk, Jazz, and Rock festivals were icing on an already tasty cake. I arrived in June of '67. I had completed Corps school three months after Hadley and was very excited to be stationed in the same town. I was already assigned to the Fleet Marine Force and was part of the Marine Security Detachment at the Naval War College. Hadley took me under his wing and showed me all of the ways I could get in trouble in Newport. It was Hadley who told me that "if you never woke up in the brig, with stitches you don't know how you got, you didn't have a good time". And, unfortunately, he was right. I didn't expect to live long enough to worry about a Good Conduct Medal anyway. All of the Corpsmen of that time eventually went to Vietnam and the odds of coming home in one piece were not in our favor. Six weeks after I arrived in Newport, he left. Hadley was reassigned to the Fleet Marine Force, Viet Nam where he joined a Marine platoon in a combat position. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one of our group who knows these details. I was one of the few from home who received letters from Hadley in the early days of his tour. After he was there for about six weeks he stopped writing and I lost track of him for about five years. His mother took down the star after a while. His dad changed jobs and never put the picture of Hadley in his Navy dress blues up again. Life went on and everybody just sort of forgot about him.
Then one day, out of the blue, Hadley showed up back in Brewer at a High School football game. We hadn't seen each other since Newport, six years earlier. This particular October Friday night was Homecoming. I was hanging out with Flynn and Mitchell. I didn't recognize him at first. He had lost about fifty pounds. His hair was long and shaggy and his clothes were out of place; combat boots, jeans, and a military style field jacket. He just didn't look as if he belonged there. It wasn't until I heard his voice that I could place him. I went up to him to say hello and it was then that I knew something was terribly wrong. This man was Hadley, but not the Hadley I remembered. The most striking thing was the absence of life in his eyes. Black holes where bright blue eyes had been. His skin was sallow. He looked dead. When I said hello, he nodded and walked away. That was it, not even a "how've ya been" or "get lost", nothing, he just walked away. When I told Flynn and Mitchell what had happened they just said,"fuck him, if he can't take a joke". The following Monday the JET Diner was Hadley's Cafe, owned and operated by my best childhood friend who I didn't know at all.
Back to last Tuesday. I was sitting with Flynn eating chili burgers and fries when it happened. The Bus from Portland stopped across the street and this guy got off. Guys getting off the bus was not that unusual, but this particular one, he was different. We watched as he hesitated a little, looked both ways, then crossed the road and walked into the Cafe. Flynn and I knew immediately that this was going to be good. We knew that we was going to see the closest thing to theater in Brewer. Hadley was going to blow his top. The anticipation of the show was so intense that I couldn't even eat. Hadley had his back to the counter, as usual. Flynn and I almost died waiting for him to turn around. We knew that Hadley had a very low tolerance for different people, and this guy was different. Maybe not different in Boston or even Portland, but in Brewer he was different. You see, the man was black, African-American, Negro, colored, whatever the politically correct term is these days. There were no black families living in Brewer. Never had been. There was that family in Orrington who had the great produce stand each summer, but that's another story.
The tension in the cafe was so thick it almost cut through the smell of the fries, almost. It all but exploded when the young black man walked up to the counter, took a seat on one of the stools, and spoke. "What can I get to eat for a dollar and seven cents?" Flynn and I almost fell out of our chairs. Here was this guy, a black guy, a stranger in our town, asking probably the cheapest, rudest man in Maine, the one person who we knew was last person to care about this man's problems, and he was asking Hadley what he could eat for a dollar seven. Flynn hit me in the shoulder and nodded toward the door as if to show me the emergency route, anticipating an eruption of anger and maybe even violence. Hadley turned and faced the young man, stared directly into this man's eyes, wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, and said in a calm, almost friendly voice, "you can have anything you want off the board". "You want some coffee?" Hadley poured the man a cup of coffee and brought him the sugar and creamer. Something he never does, not even for Miss Fickett, with the artificial leg.
Hadley talked to this guy. He actually engaged in polite conversation. Now, as I said before, I've known Hadley for all of my life and he has never, ever, had a racist bone in his body. So, that he was polite to this black man was not unexpected. That he was being polite to anyone, was. I didn't hear all of what was being said, only bits and pieces. A word here and there. "jar head", "2/1", "Iraq", "Nam", "1st Med", "Boston", "Calais". The man ate his food with gusto, like it had been a long time since his last meal. Hadley compounded our confusion when he asked the guy if he needed seconds. Flynn choked on that one. When he was finished with his meal, the guy got up and shook Hadley's hand. And then, to take us over the edge, Hadley refused to take the guy's money. He flatly refused to accept the dollar and seven cents. As confidently as he came in, the young man walked out of the Cafe. I saw Hadley watching through the window as the guy got back on the Bus. As it drove away, I heard that mean, rude, and sometimes crude man say, in almost a whisper, "Semper Fi, brother". That's when it all became clear to me.
The parking lot at the ER was all but empty. Only a few cars covered with the new snow and two Sheriff's department patrol cars at the entrance with their blue emergency lights still flashing. The combination of the orange light coming from inside the hospital and the blue strobes of the police cars reminded me of the light shows I saw at the Cheetah Club in Chicago while on Liberty from Great Lakes. Only much colder. It didn't take my mind off wondering why I had been summoned here. As I entered the lobby, I was immediately struck with the staff and how they moved in a rhythm, like dancers in a ballet. Nobody bothered to ask me why I was there. They apparently were anticipating my arrival. The lady behind the counter looked up and, without speaking, gestured for my to go down the hall to the left. The corridor was cluttered with spare stretchers, electrical equipment, and linen baskets on wheels. The bright florescent lights made everything parked in the hall look stark and cold. Two Sheriff's deputies were standing outside of the last room on the right. The door was closed. Before I could get to the room, one of the deputies, I guessed the one who called me, because the other was a man, approached me and asked, "Are you Bobby James?" I nodded. She went on "Mr Hadley has had an 'episode' of some sort". "He asked for you, specifically". "Can you tell us why?" It took me a moment to gather my thoughts, but when I did I told the deputy that I had a pretty good idea. "What kind of 'episode' are we talking about?"
Hadley's Cafe was closed for about three weeks after that. The sign on the door read "Closed due to family illness". No one knew any details, except me. It was the black guy, you see. That was the trigger. There wasn't a thing anyone could have done to predict it, or prevent it. Sometimes shit just happens. Hadley had been found crouched in the ditch along the Bar Harbor road, armed to the teeth with knives and guns. The sheriff's patrol almost shot him when they saw the weapons. It must have been very scary for them. When he starting raving about "VC" and "ambush", they understood, thank God. They had to mace him to get him under control. That's when he asked for my help. Even though he was experiencing vivid hallucinations and was totally consumed with fear, he knew that he needed help. And, he knew I would be that help. This was not the first time Hadley had needed this type of help. It had happened before. He was experiencing another of what they explained to me as a "flashback" to his Viet Nam days. The first time happened about two years after he had returned to the World from Viet Nam. Not as severe as this one, but just as dangerous. That time all he needed was to have his meds tweaked and his counseling sessions increased to twice a week. This time, however, I knew that Hadley was going to need a refresher period back at the PTSD Center at the Togas VA. I asked the Sheriff if they would drop the charges and permit me to take Hadley with me. "Did I want an escort?", "Was he safe?", they asked before calling their superiors to get the necessary approvals. The hospital people agreed to discharge him to my care. They knew me, after all. I'm "the veteran's guy". The guy they call when someone needs Viet Nam related help. When someone steps out of reality and regresses to that scary and dangerous place.
I know that at any time, for no apparent reason, any one of us could go off to that place and need someone who has been there to recognize the symptoms and intervene. I went to Viet Nam the year after Hadley. I had been a Marine Corpsman just like him. And I knew that what was happening to Hadley on that cold Wednesday morning in Maine might happen to me next week or next year. I was there for Hadley on that night so he can be there for me when I need him. You know what they say, "once a Marine, always a Marine"? It goes for Corpsmen, too. We live it, still, every day. Semper Fi, Brothers.

Probably the most important thing I have ever done

In 1969 I was sent to Viet Nam as a combat corpsman with the US Marines. Never before and not since, have I ever been so alive and so proud as during those days in the mud and sand of I-Corps with "H" 2/1 and then 1st Med Batt.

In honor of Mr. Libby

I fancy myself a writer. There is absolutely no reason for doing so. I just decided to be a writer. I teach English to students on the Internet. One of my students, Marcelo, from Brazil, asked me to explain why I had become a writer. I was stuck! What does it take to be a writer? I couldn't give him an answer that made any sense. The flippant answer was all it takes is a pencil and a piece paper. But that didn't sound like a fair answer to a legitimate question, so I told him I would give the answer at our next class. What follows is that answer.
While a student (and I use that expression loosely) at Brewer High School in Brewer, Maine, I was routinely called to the Guidance Office where Ms Curran would tell me that I was not working up to my potential, that I was at risk of being held back, and that I would not graduate with my class. She was correct, of course, and as a result I failed Junior English and was required to take both Junior and Senior English the following year. This would be difficult under any conditions, but there was a tricky bit of fate at work. On the first day of my Senior year I was assigned to Mr. Libby's home room. For those who are unfamiliar with Homeroom, this is where each student starts the day, receives announcements, and is counted for attendance for the day. On this first day of classes I was given my class schedule for the school year. The scheduling gods, for whatever sinister reasons, had assigned me to Mr. Libby not only for homeroom, but for Junior English, Senior English and for my only study period. Of the seven class periods in the day, I was to be in with Mr. Libby for four of them, three of which were consecutive.
Having to take both Junior and Senior English in the same year placed a tremendous strain on my ability to fake my way through. Having Mr. Libby in four out of seven class periods each day made it impossible to slide through and ditch classes. It seemed that at last the academic powers had caught up with me and I was actually going to have to do some school work. But the real kicker was that I was now responsible for reading books and writing reports on these books. Twelve books for Junior English and 14 books for Senior English. I was being required to both read and write a report on 26 books in one school year. And to complicate matters further, I was required to do these reports for the same teacher.
I was to find out only after completing High School and enlisting in the Navy that I was essentially blind in my left eye do to an astigmatism. I was unable to see words in the correct order. So it is enough to say that I didn't read any books, or anything else for that matter during school. But I did complete 26 book reports during my Senior year. I would go to the library and find the books that hadn't been signed out for over a year believing that if they had not been signed out no one else would be writing a report on those books. I would read the dust cover and maybe the first and last pages of the book and then create a complete four page synopsis of the book from my mind. I would sign out the books and keep them out until Mr. Libby graded my reports. That way he would not be able to go the library to check my work. My God, I was clever!
Mr. Libby was a very good teacher and a very compassionate man. As a good teacher he held me to very high standards of behavior and compliance with the expectations of the classes. As a compassionate man, he knew that I was not reading any of the books I wrote about in my reports. But he accepted my reports anyway and graded them for content, grammar, and spelling, knowing full well that I had not read the books. I know that now, but at the time I was sure that I was getting away with the biggest hoax in the school. It wasn't until Graduation Day that he stopped me in the parking lot and told me, in a very calm but serious tone, that he would very much like to read the books I had written the reports about, and that it was a shame that a God given talent was being wasted on me.
I graduated in the class of 1966 from Brewer High School and went immediately into the service. While in the Navy, I was fitted with glasses and was, for first time, able to read the words in the order they were placed on the page. I was able to go on to earn a Masters Degree in Education and recently retired as a Guidance Counselor. I have just had my first work of fiction published, a short story entitled Hadley's Cafe. I can't help but to think that Mr. Libby would be sure that I stole it from the dust jacket of someone else's book. And who could blame him. I don't know if he lives today. I hope so. And I hope he is still inspiring students to be creative while complying with the expectations of their school. I would like him to know that I did go on to write and that his influences on me were not wasted, and neither are my talents, limited as they may be.