San Francisco Story

Call it sibling rivalry, but I had always considered myself smarter, and, by inference, better than my sister Alex. I was especially haughty when she was in the last stages of alcoholism, and her whole body, including her thinking were showing the results of having been pickled in booze. In her teens and twenties, Alex had been oh-my-gosh gorgeous. Imagine a girl five–ten with long, long legs, blue eyes, glowing cheeks, gently waving chestnut hair, and a dresses and accessories that all looked like she was wearing them for the first time. She’d modeled for The Emporium and Macys, and everyone thought she was beautiful. And she had a matching, laughing, happy personality that made you want to talk to her and, if you were a guy, to flirt with her. Now fast forward twenty years. Imagine sallow, wrinkled skin, stained clothing, and the smell of tobacco, liquor, and, often, something much worse. And according to her, everyone was a bitch or bastards unless she needed something from them. As Alex’s life spiraled downward, I often got roped into helping her, and it was hard to tell where helping left off and co-dependency began. Anyway, one day I drove her to her bank on Market Street in San Francisco, feeling used, self-righteous and huffy the whole way. You should never drive to Market Street in San Francisco, if you can at all help it. Side streets join Market at weird angles; cars and buses creep along like three-legged possums; and the area is a mine field of one-way streets and no-left-turn intersections. And, oh, the pot holes! They’re just lying there waiting to attack your tires. So many pot holes!!! I also got huffy at the idea of paying to park the car. Downtown SF parking is outrageously expensive. And, yes, I was going to be the one paying for the parking. The nearest parking garage was several blocks from the bank, and Alex was pretty sick and a very slow walker. So I decided to just let Alex off by the bank and drive around while she withdrew her money. I let her off at a bus stop about a half a block from the bank on one of the side streets. “But where will we meet?” she asked, hoping that I’d come with her. That wasn’t going to happen. “Right here at the bus stop.” I was mildly irritated that she had been the one ask such an obvious question, since, as I said, I was the smart one. I dropped her off, turned onto Market Street and drove around aimlessly for a few minutes, avoiding pot holes and other motorists. There were a few metered parking spaces here and there, and I pulled into one of them and sat in the car until I got bored. I decided to drive by the bus stop and see if Alex was there yet. It was the weirdest thing - I couldn’t find the bus stop. I couldn’t find the street that the bus stop was on. (Sense of direction was never my strong suit.) Cars magically appeared daring me to hit them, and between avoiding collisions and watching for one-way streets and no-left-turn signs, I got very confused. In a nutshell, I couldn’t find the bus stop. I thought maybe I’d have better luck on foot. I found a fifteen-minute metered spot, pulled into it, and set out to find my sister. It was cold, and the sky was threatening rain. I hugged my jacket tight around myself, but I was still cold. And I felt the first pang of guilt. Alex’s body didn’t regulate temperature. She’d be cold sitting inside a room with the heater set to eighty. Out on the street, without a warm jacket like mine, she must have been freezing. I walked along Market looking up and down the side streets trying to identify the one with the bus stop, threading my way through the crowds. The people on Market Street broke up into two groups – the suits and the street guys. The suits were the ones with business downtown. The men wore suits and ties, and had good haircuts and leather shoes. They carried briefcases. Watches peeped from under the cuffs. Their stride was long and with purpose. The women wore either suits or high-fashion dresses. And you could hear the chink, chink of their high heels on the sidewalk, and the soft swish of their nylon stockings. Here and there you'd catch the flash of accessories – dangling hoops, and chunky necklaces. And, of course, there was the occasional Starbucks coffee, safely contained inside its cardboard sleeve. The street guys wore anything and everything - dusty jackets with clumps of newspapers stuffed inside for insulation, fatigues, serapes, jeans and Dockers. Their clothing was decorated with studs, and brads, frayed edges, torn knees, raspberry jam stains, and cigarette burns. They protected their feet with everything from combat boots to running sneakers, and then there was the pair of knee-high moccasins tied with green string. A minute or two later, I entered Hallidie Plaza. It was originally designed as a sort of town square, but most of the trees had been cut down, and the benches had been ripped out. The suits passed through Hallidie Plaza as quickly as possible, while the street guys and pigeons lingered. A couple of artists had set up folding tables, peddling jewelry displayed over a bright purple cloth. Another group was beating on drums, while a guitarist strummed a tune I couldn’t recognize. An upside down tambourine invited the passersby to throw in some coins or – even better – paper money. I can’t tell you what their faces were like. I didn’t look. I didn’t want to make eye contact. I’ve always been a little scared and put off by street guys. It’s not that I was afraid they’d hurt me or anything. It was more that I’d be embarrassed, that I wouldn’t know how to say “no”, or that I’d be talked into doing something I didn’t want to do, or giving something I didn’t want to give. I’ve always considered myself better than the street people, and, as a Christian, I’ve always felt guilty for thinking that way. But – but – but – I liked that better-than feeling. Whenever I’d feel small and guilty and dumb, it was nice to be able to point to someone smaller and guiltier and dumber than me. I think advertisers and politicians use our love of being "better than" to their advantage. They manipulate us by our love of gossip and put downs. In one corner of the plaza, a man, a portly guy, with a balding head and skin like weathered lumber was selling something. Street person. He’d typed a religious quote next to a clip-art picture of a dove, and he’d copied these over and over on a sheet of typing paper. Then he’d cut them apart to make bookmarks. Very enterprising! I avoided his stare. I think the quote was, “God loves you.” I walked along the streets. Still no sister. Still no bus stop. I hugged my jacket tighter. I peered up and down the side streets. A street guy, hunkering down inside a doorway, was lining his jacket with newspaper. I kept on looking. It really shouldn’t be this hard to find a bus stop. I had to go back to my car and move it. But it was almost four o’clock. After four, commute traffic regulations would be enforced, - no parking between four and six p.m. - and any cars parked by the meters would be towed. So I had to find Alex soon. I walked along Market Street searching the cross streets for something familiar. I hugged my jacket harder. I was running out of time. It was getting really cold. And I was scared for Alex. I asked God, “What do you want me to do?” I had entered Hallidie Plaza again, and I was walking past the man selling bookmarks. His jacket was worn at the edges, and dirty shirt sleeves poked out at the cuffs. His shoe had a hole. But he was handling the cold better than I was, and he seemed happier than me – even though I’d eventually get away from Market Street, but he’d probably be back tomorrow. And, as I searched for Alex without success, reality slapped me in the face – I was no better than the man with the bookmarks. I really looked at him. And I had to acknowledge him as a human being, a member of my family of human kind. How much for a bookmark?” I asked. “25 cents.” How many should I get? I bought one, and I gave him his quarter. “God bless you,” he said. “Thank you,” I answered and I meant it. For that moment, I understood that we were the same. I was no better; he was no worse. We were people. Capable of great good, capable of stupidity and baseness. And while I was hugging my jacket and feeling like pidgeon droppings for losing Alex and leaving her freezing in the streets, he was smiling and clearly God was pleased with him. It was a moment only, a window into God’s love. I understood that he and I were both pilgrims walking on the downtown streets, no more and no less - he selling his bookmarks, I searching for Alex. He said, “God bless you,” and I took in the words trying to hold onto them, trying to absorb the blessing down to my bones. Because I needed it badly. “God bless you, too,” I said, wishing that I could give him as much as he’d given me. Maybe I should have bought more bookmarks. That's when I decided to go inside Alex’s bank. The tellers there were wearing suits and coordinating jewelry. And I was aware of my jacket, not filthy, but demonstrating less fashion sense than the bank tellers’ outfits. But I was still better dressed than the street people. I waited to talk to one of the tellers. And I wondered if the street people would get to talk to someone as I was going to do, or if they would be told to move on because of their shabby clothes. But, of course, I was projecting my own judgments on the tellers. I told the teller I was looking for my sister, and she said that she’d helped Alex, and that she had noticed Alex turning right when she left the bank. I had been looking in the other direction. I ran back to my car. I had about two minutes till they’d begin towing parked cars. And I drove past the bank, where I immediately found the street and the bus stop and Alex. I had the heater running full blast. I pulled up to the bus stop where Alex was waiting, shivering badly. I handed her my jacket as she climbed into the car. It wasn't the end of the story. Alex pulled on my patience many times after that. I never knew quite how to handle the situation. I did my best. I tried to remember the person underneath the alcohol, the kid who’d run to do the dishes after a family meal, the one who’d give up Saturdays to take Mom shopping. I remembered the sister who’d played paper dolls with me, and who’d been my maid of honor, and the special sister-to-sister moments which had been far too few. In the end, one day, she stepped off of the curb on Market Street, fell and hit her head, and was rushed to San Francisco General Hospital. At the hospital, she went into a coma, and never recovered. She was forty-eight years old when she died.

Gremlins

I’ve never been a great housekeeper. I was telling Sherry about my housekeeping phobia, and said that I often wished for gremlins to clean my house for me.
And Sherry made this weird face. “No! Bite your tongue,” she said. “You want fairies and elves to clean your house, but definitely not gremlins. They’re the ones who make your car battery die the day that your kid stars as the yoghurt cup in the healthy foods play. They’re responsible for your dog getting skunked an hour before the huge party you’re throwing. When you buy the best Christmas presents ever and your house gets burgled, blame the gremlins.”
So I’m writing about the Christmas gremlins. I hope my computer doesn’t crash.
Elaine Glimme

The Christmas Gremlins

The Christmas Gremlins -
Whenever a diaper fails, another gremlin gets his boots.

Only twelve days until Christmas. The gremlins were scurrying around like – well – like little gremlins. It’s their busiest time of the year, as everybody knows.
But Waldo wasn’t scurrying. He was marching ramrod straight - shoulders back, head high, and his feet blue with cold, carrying the garbage out to the compactor behind Gremlin Hall. No, he wasn’t an apprentice gremlin. He had earned boots eleventy-seven years ago. But they’d been stripped from his feet by the head gremlin, the Grand Exalted Gombah, because of the great soda debacle. He’d even been stripped of his socks. Every time Waldo looked down at his feet, he was once again reminded of the whole shameful incident.
It had all happened eight months ago. He was standing over the cola can assembly line adding extra fizz to the cans so that they’d shoot soda into your face when you pulled the tab. But he lost his balance and fell into one of the cans. Imagine Suzy Boonstople’s surprise when she pulled the tab and found a gremlin inside her Monster Cola can. “Never be spotted by a human” – that’s the first rule of being a gremlin, of course, and Waldo had definitely been spotted. But that wasn’t even the worst part. Monster Cola claimed that it was all a publicity stunt. “Find a monster in your Cola, and win a prize.” And the company gave Suzy and her parents an all-expenses-paid trip to Disneyland. And from then on, Monster Cola put a furry monster toy into every millionth can of Monster Cola. Well, I’m here to tell you - sales of Monster Cola shot through the roof. Suzy was happy, Monster Cola was happy, and customers, hoping to find a monster in their cola were happy. Everyone was happy. Except Waldo. He was brought up on charges before the Grand Gombah. Waldo received no mercy. “For conduct unbefitting a gremlin, for being seen by a human, for – shudder- helping, I hereby order you demoted to apprentice gremlin, bottom rank. Hand in your boots, and your socks.
You think Rudolph had it rough? That was nothing compared to the hazing that the other gremlins gave Waldo. They nicknamed him purple toes. They put tacks on the floor next to his bed. And while he was sleeping, they stuck chewing gum into his beautiful handlebar mustache. They never let poor Waldo join in any gremlin games.
But Waldo was determined to win back his boots. This Christmas would be his big chance. He’d show them all. He’d be the worst gremlin ever. Sitting by the garbage compacter in Gremlin Hall, he dreamed of fame and glory and beautiful warm boots decorated with gold braid and maybe a couple of stars symbolizing excellence.
So intent on his daydreaming was Waldo that he didn’t notice Dingus, junior gremlin second class, galloping at him and stumbling over his feet. Dingus had all the finesse of a Labrador puppy with a mouth full of hot dog. “Macafee wants to see us double quick in the conference room,” he said. “To hand out Christmas assignments, I suspect.” Macafee was the head honcho of gremlins. He’d risen to greatness because of his prowess with computers - viruses, worms, spam, phishes, etc. He was master of them all. His crowning achievement had been hacking into Stanford’s computer and flunking the entire senior class.
Waldo slicked down his hair, stuck out his chest, and goose-stepped towards the conference room, determined to excel on any assignment Macafee might give him. Dingus followed grinning like the crocodile after he’d spotted Captain Hook.
As gremlins filled the conference room, Macafee mounted his platform in the front of the room and paced back and forth with a self-important grimace playing on his face. Finally, he cleared his throat with a long harrumph, and began his speech. “Last year’s Christmas was a bitter disappointment,” he began.
The senior gremlins nodded their heads and murmured amongst themselves in agreement. Since Santa had computerized his workshop, Macafee and his staff, naturally, had set about hacking into it. Only, it seemed that Santa had equipped his system with every firewall, spam filter, anti-virus software and pop-up blocker known to man. (or elf). In spite of Macafee’s best efforts, Santa’s Christmas ride had gone off without a hitch.
“This year will be different,’ said Macafee. My ten most senior gremlins will be assigned to project N.P. I, of course, will be the project leader.
“The rest of you will report as follows:” Here, a long list ensued. Waldo stood at attention waiting for his name to be called. Finally, Macafee got to the bottom of the list. “Waldo – air conditioning.”
In his mind, Waldo began mapping out his strategy. He’d head south for hot weather – Hawaii, Rio, Acapulco. Waldo smiled thinking about thawing out his tootsies on sun drenched beaches. Eagerly, he looked up at Macafee, who glared back and continued. “Waldo, you are assigned to Alaska, Canada, Iceland, Greenland, Norway, Sweden and Denmark." Macafee grinned – and a malevolent smirk of a grin it was – A little drool crept from the corner of his mouth as he watched Waldo’s face deflate like a stuck balloon. “And, Waldo, your partner is Dingus.”
Not Dingus! The air conditioning assignment was bad enough, but, with Dingus as a partner, Waldo didn’t stand a chance of earning back his boots.
“Oh boy, air conditioners, oh boy!” Dingus jumped up and down and clapped his hands in expectation. “Do we have a great assignment or what!”
And so the gremlins set to work. While Dingus and Waldo deactivated AC’s throughout Alaska, report of operation N.P. made up most of the coffee break gossip.
In a brilliant coup, Macafee had breached Santa’s firewall and planted an M-17 hula popper virus in Santa’s mainframe which immediately began disabling toy production. “By December 24th, there should be nothing but rust and sawdust to load onto Santa’s sleigh,” said Dermot, one of the senior gremlins.
Waldo’s toes were so cold, he feared that they’d break off. Nevertheless, he persevered – plowing though snow banks to disconnect AC cables, crawling through icy ducts carrying water in a thermos bottle to short out circuits. No one noticed. No one cared. The humans were too busy stringing pop corn and cranking up the heat to notice that their AC wasn’t working.
“W-w-what’s next boss?” Dingus’s teeth chattered so he could hardly speak. “That last one was a good one, huh! Rats chewing the wires. We’re geniuses. Let’s find some more rats.”
‘You adlepated twit,’ thought Waldo. “Right, geniuses,” he sighed and shook his head wallowing in the misery of it all.
Meanwhile, Macafee was creating links from Santa’s e-mail to every other computer on the face of the earth, including those not connected to the Internet. On Christmas Eve, everyone would get the following message:
“The woods are dark
And full of snow.
Santa’s retired,
Ho, ho, ho, ho!
No toys for you.
No, no, no.”

The senior gremlins were working double quick, daydreaming of promotions, million dollar bonuses, and other magnificent perks. They expected the rewards to be great.
It wasn’t fair. Waldo knew he was born to greatness. If only he’d jumped on to the computer craze earlier. Stupid computers!
“I’ve got it, boss,” Dingus danced a little jig of excitement.
Waldo sighed. Oh, joy, he thought. Another stupid idea from the Dingleberry. (his nick- name for Dingus.) “What’s your great idea this time?”
But Dingus didn’t even hear the sarcasm, only the words, ‘what’s your great idea?’ He rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Computers," he said.
Waldo groaned, and he actually pounded his head against an icicle in exasperation. There it was again, that horrible word, his nemesis - computers - the bane of his existence.
Dingus hugged himself in happy anticipation of explaining his very good idea. “The only place in all of our assigned territory where air conditioners are turned on – is the computer rooms. They have to be kept cool for the computers to work.”
Waldo almost smiled. In a fair world, he would have been the one to come up with the idea. He gave a last smack to the wires he was working on, and the two gremlins hurried to the nearest Starbucks to plan their strategy.
The news from the North Pole was nothing but bad – or good. The gremlins had finished ahead of schedule - five days before Christmas. The only toys coming off the assembly line were defective batteries and dolls without arms. And electronic e-mails were flying through the airwaves.
Santa’s elves were feverishly putting in overtime trying to debug the computers. Santa was contacting every news service on earth trying to do damage control - apologizing to the children, promising to make it up to them next year. “Have faith,” he said but in his heart he was scared. Santa had let all the children down. Somehow, some way, he’d screwed up. Maybe computers weren’t the way to go.
Macafee and the senior gremlins had all flown south (first class) to the Bahamas and were sipping margaritas and tanning their toes in the sun.
With only five days left, Waldo figured they should target the really important computers first. He looked down at Dingus, frowned and rubbed his beard. “Our first stop – the University of Oslo,” he said.
After several wrong turns, they noticed a humming sound emanating from a locked enclosure nestled between the cadaver room and the chemical storage locker. Waldo was the one who picked the lock. “Jackpot!” he said. Inside he saw row after row of computers. Waldo immediately went to work checking out the AC system while Dingus danced a cha cha across the face of the computers.
“Look at this,” said Dingus. "It’s Macafee’s message coming over the wires. Check it out. Macafee’s a genius.”
“Waldo pretended not to hear.”
“Too bad we can’t monkey with the computers,” Dingus complained. I’d give it an undo tweak - make it reverse everything. Like this,” said Dingus. And he poked and prodded the keys. “Change A’s to F’s turn 'off' to 'on'". He began to sing and jump along the keyboard. "Backwards is forwards, left is right."
“Leave it alone,” said Waldo. "Let’s just turn off the AC and get out of here.”
“We ought to be making the AC stick on instead of turning it off,” said Dingus.
Waldo smacked his forehead. “And you pick now to tell me this. We could have been jamming ACs to 'on' all this time instead of turning them off. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“From now on, just follow directions and don’t say anything. I’ll do the thinking for both of us.” Waldo threw back his shoulders and stroked his mustache as he gave the order.
But Dingus was so fascinated by the computers that he didn’t even hear Waldo. “Hey, get a load of this. Look at what I did. Now the computer’s sending a different e-mail from Santa. Listen to this: “The woods are dark and…”
“Shut up and get busy. Do I have to do all the work around here?”
“But look at what I did. Macafee’s message…”
“Macafee frosts my pancakes. I don’t want to hear about it. That’s all I’ve heard for the last month – Macafee did this. Macafee did that. Macafee’s the greatest gremlin that ever lived. I’ve had it up to here.”
While Waldo jammed up the AC, Dingus lovingly stroked the keyboards making the keys dance in time to the William Tell Overture. Things might have gone so differently if Waldo had listened. But then, Waldo never did understand computers, so it might not have made any difference anyway.
Mrs. Boonstople heard Santa’s apology on television. Santa told the children that he still loved them and to ignore any e-mails from him. Well, Mrs. B. didn’t want Suzy to be disappointed, so she checked her e-mail, planning to erase anything discouraging. But Santa’s e-mail was anything but discouraging.
“Christmas is coming
So is the snow.
You’ll all get your presents.
Ho ho ho ho!”
‘What a lovely gesture,’ thought Mrs. Boonstople. “Suzy, come see Santa’s e-mail.” Suzy giggled and squirmed. I hope he brings me a computer game,” she said.
On Christmas Eve, Santa readied his reindeer for their midnight ride, then walked to his workshop, head down, expecting the worst. But maybe there was something to salvage out of all the malfunction, something that the computers hadn’t destroyer. So imagine his surprise finding his workshop filled to the brim with his best toys yet. The elves loaded up Santa’s sleigh lickety split, and Santa took off with the heartiest “ho ho” he’d laughed in a long very time.
On December 26th, news of the Great Christmas Fiasco (as it was later known) was making its way through Gremlin Hall. Two Christmases in a row, Macafee had failed, failed, failed! Standing on the podium in front of all the gremlins, he was stripped of all decorations, and as a final blow his boots and socks were forcibly removed from his feet. A new head gremlin was to be appointed to take Macafee’s place. All the gremlins muttered and whispered among themselves, wondering who it could be.
Waldo wasn’t wondering. He was sure he’d be elected. Clearly he was the only gremlin who succeeded in his assignment. The University of Oslo was giving out diplomas in dog catching, sausage manufacturing, and on-line potty training – all thanks to him and Dingus.
Any second now, the voice of the Grand Gombah of gremlins would be broadcasted over the loud speakers announcing Macafee’s replacement. The gremlins were beside themselves in anticipation. “The new head gremlin is….” Here, a drum roll boomed throughout the building, rattling windows and shaking the chimney dust loose. “The new head gremlin is Dingus - for accomplishments of mayhem and confusion at the University of Oslo. With a special commendation to Waldo for his help in Operation Oslo.” Gremlin Hall shook with excitement. Along with the commendation, Waldo is hereby promoted to executive assistant to head gremlin Dingus.
Waldo looked about for an icicle to bang with his head.
All over the world, diapers were leaking – in joyous salute to Dingus.

Merry Christmas!

Elaine Glimme

November's Post

I want a story about winter so I picked ”Josia’s Tale”. It’s a story I wrote about ten years ago, and I’m hoping to tweak it (take out the boring parts and spice up the good parts) have it on my blog way before my January 31st deadline. So is there a problem???? Of course. I have to find what I did with it. That means organizing my office. And I hate organizing. If I didn’t hate it, my office would be all in order and I could have found “Josia’s Tale” in the time it took me to type the first three words. Wish me luck.

Yes!!!!!

EEK - October's Post - With Appologies to my Friends in Haz Mat

I must dehaz the haz mat in the can
Before the fire and smoke can knock me down.
I get to use the gizmos in the van.
My friends are cheering from a far-off town.

"What is this haz mat's haz?" I ask aloud.
"Perhaps a dirty bomb that could explode,
And on exploding form a toxic cloud,
Or grow a third eye to a horny toad."

The bells on the detectors make me wary.
The gas tech's warning buzzer gives me fright.
I never meant to be a mine canary.
I plan to chug a cold one Friday night.

Before the yellow smoke can knock me down,
I'll activate my feet and leave this town.

Immigrant

Someday, I want to write a book of stories about immigrants. I’ve know a few, most of them friends of my parents, and I’ve been fascinated with their stories. Most of the immigrants have a touch of “poor, tired, huddled masses yearning to breathe free” somewhere in the stories of their journeys to America. For some of these people, I only know bits and pieces of the story.


Art had lived in Azerbaijan and, one night, had left his home and everything he owned. “Do you know what means ‘pogrom’?” he asked me.

Some time in the midst of World War II, Father George and thirty friends were trying to escape from Stalin’s Russia by way of the Balkans. They ran into a U.S contingent, and he was given the choice of being sent to Nazi Germany or returned to Russia. Then, miraculously, it turned out that the American secretary was a friend of his

Another friend escaped from Viet Nam on a small boat, and after several unsuccessful attempts made it to freedom.

Some of the stories seem too incredible to have actually happened. It’s like watching the news – sometimes it’s so bad that I can’t believe it’s not made up.

My story for September is “Immigrant” and it’s Omar’s story. I’m writing the story as I remember it from thirty odd years ago. I’ve changed the names – just in case – and please excuse the geography and politics, which include, I’m sure, some serious errors. Just enjoy the story.



It was an evening in 1988, and I was working late at the lab. Omar was the only other person working with me. I was probably grumbling about still being at work, and about work in general, and about how slow the gas chromatograph was. There's something about being stuck at work after everyone else has gone home that makes conversation very real. Sort of like a slumber party after midnight.

Somewhere in the conversation, I think I mentioned that my parents were immigrants, and I wondered if they were ever homesick. Omar said that he had wanted to be a doctor. He said he’d even started medical school in Tehran. And his black eyes glittered - as if he longed for his land and his life so far away.

“So what happened?” I was sitting perched on a lab stool, and, as I said it, I hoped I hadn’t blundered my way into a story where he was going to have to tell me that he flunked out.

“I always wanted to be doctor,” he said. "And there were rumors that they want to make military camp on university." The night was quiet, with only the hum of the machines breaking the stillness. "Then they want to draft me.” “I did not want to fight. So I leave. I do not take much. Only some money and passport and birth certificate. Some clothes. Maybe that’s all.

“I remember, my mother, the day I leave home she makes a special meal. And she cried. And my sisters cried too. I was not worried. I think the trip is big adventure. Maybe some small trouble. Nothing serious. I did not tell my family where I was going. Safer if they do not know. I just say good bye. I would be gone few weeks, and they do not hear from me, and then I call them when I reach America. All very simple. But I hugged my mother and she cried, and I hugged my sisters, and they cried. Now my father is a strong man and solid like a tall mountain. Never in my life he hug me. He does not show sadness or fear. I remember two times when I was a boy he patted my head. Two times, that’s all. Two times he touched me with sign that he love me. But that evening, he hugged me close to him and he held me to his chest so long and I think he never let me go.

“Next morning, I am supposed to report for draft. So I leave in the night. I leave city. I do not take car. I travel by taxi or by bus. When I reach Isfahan, I meet Nasser. And he say he help me. The way ahead has few roads. Much wild country. Nasser has camels and he knows where we find water, and he knows tribes who wander in the wilderness. He knows which men help us if we have trouble, and he knows which men –clck.” Omar made the a shlashing sign across his throat.

“We begin the journey. We walk some ways and we ride camels some ways, and after many days I become restless. I want the journey to end. ‘We can ride faster,’ I say to Nasser, but he shakes his head. “To our left,’ he say, ‘Dasht-i-Lut.’ And he shivers. ‘Allah protect us,' he say. Because Dasht-i-Lut is desert, very dry, very hot in day, very cold in night.

Next day, when shadows grow long before evening, Nasser takes me arm suddenly. He pulls the leads, and motions for me to follow. I do not understand. He pulls me behind large rocks, and gives me binoculars, and then I see. There is dust, tiny puffs like from a pipe after good meal, and the faint sound caclunk caclunk. And at first I do not understand. And then I hear it. Horses. Running swiftly. And Nasser find hollow place and we hide the camels there, and we stay back and try to be small. The ground is hard, and we leave no traces – no footsteps. They ride fast and they come close and I can see scimitars, curved swords, making shining flashes when sun hits them. But they ride past us and do not see us. And we stay there and we are quiet very long time. And then Nasser he say it is safe to go farther. But we turn toward the left. And we walk some more and we ride some more. And there are more rocks and less grass and I see waves like water, and I ask Nasser what is this. And he say Dasht-i-lut. How far I ask, and he say maybe twenty miles. And we walk some more and we do not talk. Finally, we reach Iranshahr and Nasser and I part ways. And he say ‘may you walk with Allah. ‘ And I say ‘may Allah be with you.’

"My journey is almost over. I inquire for a taxi who can drive me across border to Pakistan. In Karachi I can get on airplane to the United States. Abbas say he will do it. His car is old. A gray Volkswagen beetle. I paid him 500 rial, which was a very good fee. We taped my papers and my money to bottom of his taxi, in case someone should stop us at the border. We begin our trip and I pray that we do not get stopped. The crossing was peaceful. In Karachi, I thank Abbas, and I paid him and shook his hand.

"Then, just as we make farewell, we hear shots. Loud and close by. There was shouting. People ran. People screamed. I never knew what happened, what shooting and shouting was all about. We all ran to hide. Everything was confusion. I run until I was too tired to go farther. And I sit down and breathe hard. And then I think about what to do next.

"Then I remember my money and my papers still taped to bottom of the Volkswagen. I hang my head and I cover my face with my hands. I have no money. I have no friends. And I have no name. Karachi is full of beggars. No Salvation Army, no Red Cross, but many beggars. People die in streets all the time. This is nothing unusual. And there is nothing special about me. No reason why anyone should care about another beggar. I have nothing to do now. I walk in the streets and I try to beg. I am hungry and dirty all the time. Children spit on me. After four days I was disheartened to death. And I prayed to God. “I lay my life in your hands. Do with me as you will.” And that night, for the first time in Pakistan, I sleep. The next morning I woke up. In the hazy morning sun, I see grey Volkswagen . I couldn’t believe it. Abbas say the last four days he drive through Karachi looking for me. This was his last day to try to find me. Then he must leave Pakistan and go back home to his family. I hug him like my brother, and I cry like a child. With my papers and money I fly to Europe and then to the United States. "

Now I cannot pass a beggar but I give him money and a blessing."

I Am From - The Longer Version

I am from Eugenia and Lewis who skated on the Sungari River in Harbin Manchuria. I am from Lewis, who ran off with a model to Bangkok, and from Eugenia, who stayed home and raised me.
And I am from Nictopolean, the iron man and Irene and Alexandra, my sisters.
I am from San Francisco hills and Golden Gate Park. I am from Burke’s private school for young ladies. Oh well!
I am from dark solemn churches with icons, lots of icons, illuminated by votive candles. I am from incense and smoke. I am from standing butt-high behind the man in front of me. “Again and again in peace let us pray to the Lord.” I am from bushy beards, pectoral crosses, and thick brocaded albs and stoles. And batushki coming to our house in the week after Easter. “Again and again in peace let us pray to the Lord.” – I am from hoping that the neighbors don’t hear.
I am from outside, not knowing the words and the games.
I am from salmon roe sandwiches, boiled tongue and boiled chicken. I am not from bologna and PB and J. But I am also from piroshky, and stroganoff, and blini, and from pasha and kulich after Easter when the batushki have finished praying.
And I am from midnight snacks and paper dolls, and rolling down the San Francisco hills on a broom perched on top of a roller skate.
I am from Eugenia and Lewis (My mom and Dad). Like other refugees from the Russian Revolution their families gathered in a Russian colony in Harbin, Manchuria – in the northern part of China. Mom and Dad met and were married there.

Then during World War II, the situation in China became unstable and they fled to the United States.
My Dad served in the United States army and Mom followed him around the bases while he did his training. According to a letter I found, I was conceived in St. Paul Minnesota. My Dad was part of the reconstruction effort in Japan after the war.
I am from Lewis who fell in love with Vera, a glamorous model. Mom must have been devastated. She was a proud woman and very much a “what would the neighbors think” kind of person. Back then, no one got divorced, but she did. When she found out about the affair, she kicked him out. Clearly my Dad was the bad person in the divorce, and Mom made sure to protect me from him. I was about two when they divorced and I didn’t see him again until I was about twelve, but I fantasized about him, and, since he was a fantasy and not a real human, he was perfect. I remember imagining him coming to the front door in an army uniform and telling me, “Hello, I am your father.” I used to write him letters, but I never heard back, and once I found a letter I had written a month earlier in Mom’s dresser drawer. No, it wasn’t a mistake. She never mailed my letters to him.
I am from Nictopolean, the iron man and Irene and Alexandra, my sisters.
Mom married Nictopolean when I was five. I think he was actually a better match for Mom than Lewis ever was. Lewis and Vera were adventurous. They ran off to Bangkok and created The Star of Siam – a silk manufacturing company. My Dad ran the production end – manufacturing the silk, and Vera designed clothes. They were glamorous types, while Nictopolean and Eugenia were more grounded. Or maybe it just seemed that way because Nictopolean and Eugenia raised us kids.
Sometimes, I’d get presents from Thailand, exotic presents. But to me they seemed weird. I was fascinated by the Tai silk when I first saw it, but I really didn’t like it. The silk had a lot of texture – bumps and ridges – very different from the smooth shininess of Japanese silk. I preferred more conventional presents.

I called Nictopolean “Iron Man” because he was the man of the family and the king of the house, as most fathers were back then. I had to call him “Daddy” and I had to accept him as my father, and I had to be happy and act like I loved him. I wasn’t one for rebellion, at least not on the outside. I never admitted to being sad or angry. And if I ever looked sad or angry, I’d be laughed at. So I kept very quiet and kept my feeling in check. But I didn’t outgrow teenage rebellion until my thirties.
Alexandra was the youngest of the family, the child of my Mom and Daddy. She was a sunny, happy little girl. We nick named her “Tata” when she was six months old. We’d go out to dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf, and, at three, she was so cute that she could mooch cookies from the other diners.
I am from dark, solemn churches, Russian Orthodox churches. The first thing you notice inside an Orthodox church is the wonderful odor of incense. The priest carries a censer which is a golden dish suspended from a golden chain, and inside the dish is some burning incense. The priest waves the censer, directing the smoke towards the icons and towards the people, making the church all smoky and smelling wonderful.
The walls are covered with icons, and most of the icons are illuminated by votive candles. And throughout the church, there are stands with metal candle holders – imagine upside down thimbles - where worshippers place lighted candles as a sign of devotion. I remember the churches as dark places, and, writing this I’m wondering how that can be with all the candles. When we had to go to church, I liked to put out the candles that had burned down low before they could make a waxy mess inside the holders.
There are no pews in a Russian Orthodox Church. You stand. There are a few chairs off in the corners for sick or elderly parishioners, but most people stand throughout the services which last a couple of hours. The Russian Orthodox religion is not for the faint of heart or weak of leg.
We didn’t go to church all that often, and when we did, it was usually to Vesper services, which start at six p.m. and are considerably shorter than Sunday morning services. We’d each hold a lighted candle throughout the service, and the candle would be stuck through a flower-shaped piece of cardboard to catch the dripping wax. I liked to play with the melted wax, catching the drips with a finger nail and pushing them back up into the flame.
The litany was in Slavonic back then, and it was close enough to Russian that I could understand bits and pieces but not everything that was going on. There was a lot of repetition in the service. Prayers were chanted by the priest, and the singing had a lot of monotone in it. It had the feel of a Taize service.
I was short, standing about butt-high to the person in front of my, and back then the churches were usually crowded, so my view was limited. Another think about being short – carbon dioxide, the product of people breathing and candles burning, is heavier than oxygen and sinks in the air. As a kid, I used to get dizzy and sometimes even faint in church. I liked this because it meant I got to go outside and sit on the steps until I felt better, and, if I actually fainted, I got to cause a little commotion.
As a kid, I didn’t like going to church with one exception. I loved the service on Easter Eve. You got to church at about 11:30. The church was dark – only a few candles lit – and the singing was minor key and melancholy, mourning Christ’s death. We stood holding candles that were not lit. Then at midnight, all the lights in the church went on. We lit our candles, passing the flame from one person to another. The priests would yell “Christ is Risen” at the congregation, and we would reply “He is Risen Indeed” (in Russian, of course). They’d say it three times, and we’d answer three times. There were several priests, so there was quite a bit of joyful shouting. The singing shifted to a major key. One song got sung over and over –“Christ is risen from the dead, Trampling down death by death, And upon those in the tomb bestowing light.” Back then the churches were packed and often, for Easter Eve service, we couldn’t get inside the church but had to stand on the steps outside.
Our family never observed the Orthodox lent, which is a vegan diet for seven weeks with a fast on the Saturday before Easter. Instead, we gave up meat and watching television on the first fourth and seventh weeks of lent. After Easter Eve services, you’d go home and break the fast, and that tradition we did observe. The table would be covered with food. There would be at least five kinds of meat – roast turkey, ham, duck, smoked chicken, roast beef – and side dishes – Russian potato salad, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, pickled fruits, and the traditional Easter dessert – Kulich and pasha (pronounced pas-ha). Pasha is like cheesecake without any crust, and it’s delicious, but you can’t eat very much of it. Kulich is a very rich, sweet bread studded with candied fruit and nuts, similar to panetoni, only more buttery. It takes about twenty hours to make because of all the times you have to knead it and let it rise. My aunt Maria used to call up my Mom each year and cry because her Kulich didn’t rise properly.
For the week after Easter, the priests – the batushki – came around visiting every Russian Orthodox family. There were about six churches, so we got about six visits during that week. They’d perform a service in our house, and then we’d all eat the ham, turkey, Kulich, etc. Most Russian Orthodox priests were chubby.
I was embarrassed by the priests’ visits. They wore black cassocks with brocade stoles. They did not shave or cut their hair. (Remember, this was in the days before hippies. All men were clean-shaven with short hair.) When they performed the service, they sang and chanted in Slavonic. I remember one time when Mom wanted to take a nap and told us not to let the batushki in, so, when the doorbell rang, Tata and I hid under the dining room table and giggled.
I am from outside, not knowing the words or the games. When I was three, my grandmother came to live with us, and, since she didn’t speak any English, we all spoke Russian and so Russian was my first language. They sent me to kindergarten when I was four years old. I was the youngest one in the class, and I didn’t speak any English when I got there, and I understood that I was different from the other kids. Burkes was a private school. The other kids came from rich families. I didn’t. When Mom and my Dad got divorced, she asked for a huge settlement, which he gave her. (Guilt, I think.) And she used it to send me to Burkes school for girls. Burkes was all white, back then, and mostly WASP with a few Jewish girls. So, as a Russian kid, I was the minority – at least that’s how I felt.
You could get lunch at the cafeteria, but I always got a brown paper bag with a sandwich and celery or carrot sticks, and a thermos filled with milk. The sandwich had either salami or ham, or salmon roe, or smoked salmon or boiled tongue. Mom usually buttered the bread with cold butter which ended up in chunks and sometimes tore the bread. A lot of my lunch ended up in the garbage, and I was a skinny little kid. After we finished eating, the kids could play until the bell rang, but I usually just watched.
After school, I had to wait in the office for Mom to pick me up – another example of being different from the other kids. One day, I felt lonely because I was so different and didn’t have any friends. I was picking up English, and wanted to tell the principal about this, but I didn’t have enough language to explain what I was feeling. I did the best I could. “You know, Miss Catherine, I don’t like your school.” That’s what I told her. She looked at me. And she said some things, but I couldn’t understand them. So I just stared. She kept on talking. “That makes Miss Catherine very cross,” she said. Her voice sounded as if she cared about me. I assumed that “cross” meant sad. I liked that she cared about what I was feeling. “Oh, I’m glad,” I told her. Then she said some more things. She said many more things. I didn’t understand them, but I learned that “cross” didn’t mean sad. It meant angry. Finally I said, “I’m sorry,” because I knew that was something you could say when people were angry at you. Later, Mom told me that I was in big trouble, and that they were going to kick me out of school because I was rude and arrogant. (Mom always misused the word “arrogant”.) I think Mom was exaggerating to make sure I’d behave myself. Mom was always telling me “stop bothering these people,” and “look, that lady is staring at you,” and, “what’s wrong with you? Are you crazy or something?” So I was scared to say anything, and usually just kept quiet.
Growing up, I had a few friends, and even some close friends. But I always knew that I was different. From an adult’s perspective, I think that most kids sometimes go through those feelings of being an outsider – even popular kids have some insecurities, I think. But at the time, I figured that I was the only one who felt that way.
Mom was usually more proper than loving, but I have three memories of her letting her hair down and of us just enjoying each other:
When I was little, Mom used to grab me by one hand and one foot and swing me around until I was dizzy.
We weren’t allowed to eat in our rooms, but once in a while, after we went to bed, Mom would sneak up some food to us. We called them midnight snacks, although they were more like 8:30 snacks. I think she really did sneak them up, and Daddy didn’t know about them. And we’d giggle, and eat the snacks and tell stories and secrets, and it was a sharing time.
I always wanted a flexi flyer, but since I was a girl, I never got one. So I invented broom skating. We lived on a fairly steep hill, and one day I got the idea of putting a roller skate under the straw end of a broom, and sitting on the straw and rolling down the hill using the broom handle to steer. It worked. You had to stick your legs out in front of you, and your feet acted as brakes. You wore out the heels of your shoes really fast. And here’s the best part of broom skating – to come to a complete stop, you pull up on the handle until the skate comes out from under you, and you’re sitting on the straw, and the broom comes to a complete stop. One day, my very proper mother, who never did anything unconventional tried broom skating. She had no problems with it. Broom skating is very safe, and I loved that she did it.
I am from… all these things. So what does it mean? Examining the memories and putting away childish things, I see people doing the best they can with what they have. And I see that, as a kid, I missed a lot of subtleties.
Most of the time, Mom was the parent and very intent on preserving her image. So the times when we could goof around and just enjoy each other’s company were very special. I wish we had more of them, and I think Mom wished the same thing. But here’s the revelation. I could have made us have more good times if I’d just loved Mom without a chip on my shoulder. That’s what she wanted. As an immigrant, she’d left everything familiar and had to start all over. She even had to start with a new language. She was also an outsider looking in, not knowing the rules.
As a kid, I imagined God as a whiskery old man with a clipboard. And He’d check off the things I’d done wrong – “talked back to mother”, “didn’t make her bed”, “squirmed too much in church”, “was mean to her sister”, etc. I never got goodie points for doing good things, only demerits. It wasn’t way into my adulthood that I experienced God as loving, and forgiving. I’m trying to find words for the beauty of the Russian Orthodox religion, the beauty I’d missed growing up. But as an adult, when I’d strayed from God – and I mean really strayed – that church was there to forgive me and welcome me back. I remember the smell of incense wafting through the doors as I walked in and I knew I’d come home again. There is something about the Orthodox Church that makes you aware of God’s greatness in a way that’s different from any other experience.
Reading this, I wish I’d loved more, forgiven sooner, appreciated more and judged less.
I rejected Mom’s “what would the neighbors say!” mentality, and I rejected Mom’s love of style and decorum in favor of the informal. I wish I’d taken just some of that in. Sometimes being proper is a good thing. I wonder what Mom and Daddy would have said if they’d read my blog. Hmmm…..