Month: July 2016

THE WRONG TIME

 

 

I spent many years at the Lake, that would the Lake of the Ozarks if you are not a Missourian, from early adolescence to manhood, and had many defining experiences there. By the end of high school the lake was growing thin.   None of my family went down to our lake house any more. Our boats, an outboard motor boat and a big Chris Craft inboard had become mine by default, along with the endless maintenance. Every spring, I went down early to the marina where the boats were stored to repaint and varnish. My best friend Dennis went with me to share the work.

 

In the spring of my senior year in high school the marina changed ownership. A man named Donohue, a postman from Saint Louis, bought it and moved in a house trailer. He told us he was getting out of the rat race, and when school was out at home, the rest of his family would be coming to join him. That would be his daughter Phyllis.

 

Dennis and I got the boats done and tuned and on the water, and in June the daughter showed up.   Phyllis was a very attractive,   even beautiful, blond and an accomplished water skier which she did with only one arm. Her left arm had been paralyzed by polio and was completely useless. For a month we saw Phyllis every weekend when we fueled up or caught her out skiing. I was friendly, but stopped at that. After all, Phyllis was defective in my immature 18 year old mind.

 

At the end of June, she told me she had to go up to Columbia to the University Medical Center for therapy for a month. She was embarrassed to tell me she needed therapy, and clearly did not want to go.   Shortly, she was gone. A couple of weeks later, Donohue came up to talk to me while I was getting gas. He wanted to tell me he could not get away to visit Phyllis. That was all, but he knew I lived in Columbia.

 

I took the hint, and the next week I gathered up Dennis for moral support and paid a visit to the hospital. We found Phyllis with four other girls sharing a room. I did not bring her anything, being a rather callous boy as most boys are, but just brought myself….and Dennis.   Phyllis took one look, jumped out of bed in her pj’s, and with beautiful sparkling blue eyes, threw her good arm around me. The sparkling turned to tears, and in seconds I could see Phyllis had suddenly fallen in love with me.

 

I had no idea a visit would have this effect. I didn’t have a girlfriend, and didn’t want one, considering high school girls to be mostly trouble. We stayed a while longer while Phyllis gazed at me through her tears. Lord, what had I done! The next weekend I took a moment to visit her dad. I asked whether Phyllis could date, or go on boat rides, or something. He told me I was probably too old for her, and it was not a good idea. Thinking he was perhaps overly protective, I asked how old she was. 13! I had NO idea she was only 13. She was well developed and looked older. I was embarrassed and felt a little cheated besides. Phyllis had no business falling for me.

 

I squared things with Donohue. I was 18 and going off to the university in the fall and would never even think of Phyllis again. In fact, for the rest of the summer I abandoned the lake house entirely and lived on my uncle’s houseboat way up at the end of the Gravois Arm. Phyllis quickly faded, and the next couple of times I saw her she was distinctly cold.   I think her dad spoke to her, but I simply told her I did not realized she was 13. I did not mean to stir things up. I was just being nice visiting her at the hospital. She snarled something about it being too bad she was too young for me. I didn’t argue.

 

But, I am sorry to this day it turned out that way. In ten years things could have been different. My wife today is ten years younger than me, and that is just fine, but five years to a teenager might as well be a lifetime, particularly when one is 18 and the other 13.

 

Well, time moves on, and it was the wrong time for Phyllis and me. This old story had faded into forgotten memories until we were eating lunch last week at a marina cafe on Stockton Lake where we just bought a houseboat. Our pretty little waitress had long blond hair just like Phyllis and looked like she was 16, but it is hard to tell. She may well have been 13.   Memories came rushing back. Looking down on the dock from the window through big oak trees, thunderclouds overhead,   the smell of gasoline/oil mix.   And there I was watching Phyllis skiing into the cove. Now the story comes flooding into my head and I know I can’t put it to rest until I write it down.

 

Maybe there is a moral here. Something like, do the right thing even if it turns out to be the wrong thing.

THE WORST PLANE RIDE EVER

 

A Story about traveling from Germany to the USA with an Indian family.

 

Cheryl and I had been to Germany for a short vacation and to stay in Schloss Waltershausen. It was a really fun trip. We love Germany and we loved the Schloss so much we wanted to buy it. Going home, we flew out of Frankfurt am Main, where the airport ranks close to the top of worse ever.

 

First off, we were directed to the wrong parking garage with our rented car. After we unloaded the luggage, the attendant insisted we drive to the other garage, and then gave us wrong directions. Time was of the essence, and when I saw that she had actually directed us out of the airport, I made an illegal left turn and drove the wrong way briefly to get to the garage. But we made it. Then we had to get to our gate. This required pushing through crowds of Italians who blocked the entire passage.   I took the lead, forcing the people out of the way, but Cheryl fell behind and was almost swallowed by the really rude Italians. She is still angry.

 

We arrived at our gate just as loading started, and got right on the plane. After a while, everyone was seated, but the door wasn’t closed. The attendant explained they were waiting for late arrivals. In half an hour the late arrivals arrived. A family of Indians; grandma, grandpa, mom, two little kids. These looked like Indians from the country, dressed like Indians from the country, and, unfortunately, smelled like Indians from the country. They did not have seats together, either. Grandma, mom, and two kids sat in the middle section four rows back from us.   Grandpa started wandering around the plane looking for his seat.

 

Grandpa wandered up and down the aisles. The attendant, a very punctual German woman, already distressed at the forced late start, became ever more irritated. She started giving orders to grandpa over the PA system, telling him to take his seat, in German and English, because they could not close the door and start the flight. Grandpa did not understand either language, and continued to wander aimlessly. Eventually, the attendant had to physically seat grandpa.   I guess that was verboten because grandpa took great umbrage at being manhandled. The attendant was the larger of the two, however, and grandpa was forced into a seat and buckled up.

 

Before we could start taxiing to the runway, grandma had to go to the restroom. So, we had to wait again. Those of us sitting along the aisle couldn’t help but notice that grandma’s butt was slightly larger than the isle width. We also couldn’t help but notice a rather fetid odor as she passed.   Using an airplane toilet seemed completely unfamiliar to her as well. This included an inability to close the door. Perhaps closing the door just wasn’t necessary back home. Grandma took some time in the toilet, and I thought the attendant might have a seizure. You know the exhaust fan doesn’t come on unless the door is closed, right?

 

An hour late, we took off.   The Indian family was quiet as we gained altitude, but as soon as people unbelted and started into the overhead storage, grandma needed to make her way to the toilet, again. It took her longer to walk up the aisle and we got more benefit from the increased fetid odor. Again, the door closing was an issue, and remarkable odors drifted around the cabin. Grandma had to pause right next to me on the way back. I had to lean over Cheryl to avoid the buttocks and realized grandma did not know what toilet paper was, either. Fetid was no longer descriptive of the odor. For the next eight hours, grandma made her way to the toilet at regular intervals.

 

On long international flights, passengers usually pass some of the time by sleeping. A couple of hours in, bad food had been served and debris cleaned up, and everyone was settling down…except for the Indians of course. Then the children discovered the button that rang the bell for an attendant. This was great fun, and mom and grandma either didn’t connect the bell tone with the children pushing the button, or they were very forbearing.   The bell ringing went on and on, and finally an attendant came down to try to stop the action. Actually, the attendant had to come repeatedly since the Indians did not understand any known language. Eventually, the attendant apparently found a translation book and was able to convey to the family that the bell ringing must stop or they would be thrown off the aircraft.

 

At some point I was awakened from a fitful doze by an overwhelming reek of curry. The Indians had brought their own snack. I have never liked curry since. Grandma had to make even more frequent trips to the open door toilet after the snack, and the accompanying odors cannot be described.   The air was becoming thick and hazy.   I was reminded of that part of the book ‘Das Boot’ where the submarine was stuck on the bottom of the Straights of Gibraltar for a couple of days and accumulated the stink of 50 men in a small steel tube. I wondered what would happen if I pulled down the oxygen mask. I think that is exactly what the attendants were doing in the back of the plane since they had basically quit being attendants.

 

Well, all adventures come to an end. We finally glided into Atlanta and cleaner air. Most of the passengers were green or passed out by now, but the opening of the cabin door did wonders. I must say, I have never seen a plane empty out so quickly. As our large group headed for customs we tried to ignore the sidelong looks of people passing us in the concourse. I felt pity for the next passenger that had to sit in grandma’s seat.