On Camping

The first time I went camping was at age 11. It was with the Girl Scouts. I packed a duffle bag and a sleeping bag and got on a yellow school bus for some campgrounds in Upper Westchester.

The walk from the parking lot to the screened in cabins was long. I kept dropping my sleeping bag on the stony trail.

It was so cold that for the three days I was there I wore virtually every article of clothing in my duffle bag. When I woke up from sleeping on my shoddy stained 4 inch mattress in the morning I was wet from the dew. There was no running water so I was grimy and wary of pubescent odor. The bathroom facility was a latrine which I used so infrequently from a deep fear of bacteria and attacking wild animals that I developed a UTI and constipation. The campfire provided no warmth—it only served to make me smell like an ash pit. And the food cooked over the open flame tasted like smoked dirt and char.

No amount of singing Girl Scout songs could elevate the experience.

I could not wait to go home.

The second and final time I went camping was the following year at age 12. It was also with the Girl Scouts. But by then I was a cadet and living in Dobbs Ferry—a much more upscale community with an expected standard of living. Our destination was Philadelphia. I packed a small Wedgewood blue hard shell Samsonite suitcase with flipping metal locks and boarded a coach bus that had a bathroom in the rear.

Upon our arrival to the City of Brotherly Love we toured the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, Betsy Ross’s house, the Philadelphia Zoo and the Franklin Institute. We “camped out” in the Holiday Inn in Centre City. The high rise hotel had 4-party private rooms with hot and cold running water, flushing toilets, electricity, an in-room heating system, a telephone and a 32 inch color Zenith television set with a click-style remote.

We took an elevator to our room and slept in shared double beds with clean white sheets. There was sweet smelling soap and shampoo in the shower. The towels were embossed in green and said Holiday Inn. We ate our meals on white china plates in a banquet room served by waiters and bus boys.

And ever since the age of 12  I have wondered why anyone would ever chose to abandon the basic necessities in life voluntarily. For me outdoor camping was a rather miserable misadventure—one I cared never to repeat. I did not see any fun whatsoever in being a victim of untamed nature and its elements.

And so for the past 40 years if anyone has ever asked me if I enjoyed camping my standard response has always been Yes—if it is the Holiday Inn—or any hotel at least 3 diamonds or greater according to AAA.

And I am quite certain all the inconvenienced or displaced persons from the recent storm would absolutely agree.   

Remembering All Veterans

Many of my girlfriends in the early 1970’s wore a silver bracelet engraved with the name of a soldier who was either MIA or a POW in the Vietnam War. The intent of the bracelet’s wear was to personalize a highly unpopular war—one soldier at a time.  By seeing a name, one could connect to the humanity rather than the politics of the Indochina conflict.

Andersonville is in the state of Georgia—26 acres of swampland. In 1864 the Confederacy chose to fence the land in and create a POW camp for Union soldiers. It was called Fort Sumter. The camp was built to house no more than 10,000 prisoners. But at its peak, the population swelled to 45,000 men.

The living conditions were appalling. Confederate soldiers picked off Union prisoners by gunfire for fun. There was no shelter, no clothing, no fresh water, no sanitation, and rations of food were more meager than those of the Japanese POW camps during World War II.  13,000 men--40% of all the Union soldiers who died in the Civil War fighting in the South—met their demise in Andersonville. The fatalities were due to exposure, malnutrition, starvation, scurvy, dysentery, typhus and malaria.

At the war’s end, Henry Wirz, the superintendent of the camp, was convicted and hanged for war crimes.

The POWs in Andersonville survived or died in a hellhole on American soil for a noble cause. They, like all Union soldiers, understood that a divided house could not stand. They understood that federal law trumped that of the states. They accepted that all men were created equal. Their resolve was that no man may own another.

And so, all Union soldiers must be honored for their sacrifice—because they, as much any other soldier of the 20^th and 21^st century, secured our freedom and protected our Constitution. The veterans of the North are the reason we are the United States of America.

And when the Vietnam War ended I remember that the man whose name was engraved on Patty Storm’s bracelet came home. He had survived the Hanoi Hilton—the most notorious POW camp of that war. The man whose name was on Cathy Schmitt’s bracelet was not as lucky. He remained MIA.

On Veteran’s Day it is our duty to remember those who protect and have protected our homeland on both domestic and foreign soil. Because it is their dedication that ensures that a government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Gratefulness After the Storm?

In January of 1999 I was stopped at the intersection of Stewart and Washington Avenues. It was 3:15 in the afternoon---I was headed to a PTA meeting at the high school. But when I received the left-hand turn arrow and accelerated, a woman driving southbound ran the light.

It was my first car accident.

And once I was settled, I did an accounting of the preceding events. I thanked God that I was okay—I had my seat belt on. I thanked God that my children were not in the car—they had missed the experience. Then I looked over at the driver who, while her car was totaled, was also unhurt. I then thanked God that I was not far from home and that some good Samaritans had stopped and called the police from their car phone.

Yet the second I had gotten to the end of my Thank God inventory all I could conclude was God damn it—that b**** just knocked the wheel off of my brand new Suburban!

And here I sit in my kitchen nook with my battery powered laptop --too many days since Super-storm Sandy. The snow’s reflection lights my keyboard—it is the first day I have chosen to sit down and write. And I have much to be grateful for. All of my family is safe—including the dog. I thank God that the linden tree behind my house still stands—it did not fall and crush the rear of my home –nor have the squirrels who live in the top branches chosen to relocate in my attic. And I thank God that I never relented and upgraded my heating system—because while it is energy inefficient, I am warm and toasty. I thank God too that I have hot water and a gas stove and grill. I may shower and cook.

I thank God that I am so much more fortunate than many others who are homeless, cold and hungry.

Yet for as lengthy as the Thank God column is, I am consumed by the God Dammits. I am tired of long gas lines and no power to do the laundry or vacuum my flooring or run my dishwasher. I cannot blow-dry my hair or see well enough to put on my make-up. I want my internet, phone, and cable back.

 I want my routine reinstalled.

For all my good fortune, I covet those even more fortunate than I. I am powerless and power-less to fix my dissatisfaction.

It will take time. It took six weeks for the wheel of the Suburban to get placed back on its axel. It took months for the insurance company to settle the car accident claim. All I know is it better not take that long for me to get my electricity back or I am going to have to round up all those displaced squirrels from the fallen trees in my neighborhood, put them in a giant turbine wheel, and create my own power company.

Because there is no way my Squirrel Powered Energy Authority (SPEA for short) could perform any more poorly or as inefficiently as LIPA. And I understand the squirrels, like the LIPA workers, both enjoy working for a handful of nuts.

Labels for Free

The other day The Alzheimer’s Association sent me some decorative return labels with my name printed on them.

But either I forgot to save the envelope and donation card or I cannot remember where I put it.

I am sure it’s something the organization must experience all of the time. And given the nature of the disease they are trying to cure, it is also something they are obligated routinely forgive.

It Takes a Partnership

Steve Jobs provided the creative element to Apple. He was forward-thinking—he imagined what could be—not what was. But he knew nothing of computer programing or the naked  bones of technology. And so he smartly teamed up with Steve Wozniack during Apple’s inception, who was literate in computer language and boards and hard wires. Because Wozniack, while skilled in nuts and bolts, could not think beyond the tangible unless prompted. And so Jobs and Wozniack became a powerful team who worked synergistically.

I completely enjoy home design. And in particular I think my skill lies in small space renovation. It is there that my creativity is best unleashed. I excite in the tension of form and function—especially with the added pressure of limited funding. And so whipping up a vision and a plan for my daughters’ apartments has pushed my limits.

Yet I am pitiful at the work end of paintbrushes, drills, and screwdrivers. I require a partner to allow my ideas to actualize. I need a Steve Wozniack of the decorative arts.   And that is where my husband comes in. He enjoys hammers and nails and all things Home Depot. He enjoys the task of making my ideas real. And even when he thinks I am crazy—he trusts the potential.

And we have become so adept as a team that my older daughter has joked that we could go into business as rent-a-parents. For a fee the Facebook generation could pay my husband and I to whip their first apartments into much more than several clicks above shabby chic. And we work so seamlessly it would not interfere with their active social life.

And while Jobs and Wozniack built a financial empire, my husband and I not so much. We have built only a good marriage and a good reputation among my daughters’ friends and roommates. But it’s a kingdom I am happy to co-preside over—it’s one built on love and teamwork---and most of all: trust.

Racial Profiling

Many years ago I heard the comedian Jimmy Walker say: In Northern Ireland everyone hates the Catholics. It just goes to show in a country where there are no blacks, Puerto Ricans or Jews, people will make do with the minority they have.

I was the only Caucasian in a sea of non-Caucasians at Big Lots!

I am contented to find bargains no matter where they bring me.

And when I got to the register the African-American cashier said to me with a hint of judgment You don’t have a Big Lots! discount card right?

And I said No—should I?

At which point I received a double dose of  disdain: Well only if you shop here often which I am sure you don’t.

And I was a little bit insulted. The fact is that I do shop at Big Lots! often enough. I have bought lots of awesome things at a fraction of the price that I would have paid elsewhere. Was she suggesting that I was not entitled to such discounts? Did my skin color and attire deem me inappropriate for the status of the store? Was I not good enough to shop there?

So I said Actually I shop here quite often so yes I would like a discount card application.

Anyone can be a victim of racial profiling. All that is required is a race and someone with an aversion to it.

A Secret War

For virtually the entirety of the time the United States fought the war in Vietnam, our armed forces were engaged in a secret war in Laos. Our nation did not publically admit this until May of 1997.

And I am certain that this is what the beloved well-respected AP American History teacher was cleverly eluding to when he asked his class Where was the Vietnam War fought?

Yet when a young female student eagerly raised her hand to respond I expect that her answer was not what he would have predicted. The girl proudly stated that the Vietnam War was fought in Canada. 

It would seem she was not even close.

But the teacher, without emotion, simply said No and then asked Anybody else?

Teachers face a battle every day. They fight a teenager’s resistance to knowledge. Teachers routinely maintain peace between their own mind and their mouth—they remain silent when foolish things are spoken. It’s a secret war they fight at all times.

It’s why teachers are deserving of a medal of honor—they often suffer battle fatigue--especially the most veteran of ones.