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The Lost Archives : An Unknown Encounter

Holocaust Survivor Testimony: Eline Hoekstra Dresden

Oh to lead a bachelor’s life again.

My wife Joanie, had recently planned a trip for herself to drive to the opposite coast of Florida and spend a week with her daughter‘s family. 

As she made plans to leave I remembered what it was like when I was a bachelor and fending for myself.

Of course I remembered my bachelor days as carefree, footloose and fancy free. A lifestyle where I could do whatever I wanted without consequence. No one to answer to! No one to tell me to pick up my socks put the dishes in the dishwasher or to make the bed!

Ah, for a few days I was going to live just like the bachelor I remembered being! I’d stay up all night and do bachelor things like blog online, play video games and watch Showtime Up-All-Night semi-dirty movies and sleep until noon and not take a shower or shave until the day after that! In fact, I’d bathe in the pool! I’d eat pizza and chili with beer three or even four times a day and let em rip whenever I felt like it!

Like the man said… be very careful for what you wish for because you just might get it…

The day my wife left home I started feeling ill at work. My eyes watered and burned, my throat felt scratchy and I felt achy all over.

Not allowing for the obvious, after work I drove home and cooked a can of chili, had a beer, fed the dogs and the cat and sat down in front of the TV to watch an old Rambo movie – something my wife would have left the room for – had she been there. In fact she would have chastised me for having a can of chili for dinner as I have high cholesterol and definitely would not have appreciated my eating it right out of the pan I cooked it in. Of course she would have squawked until I cleaned up my mess in the kitchen, put my dirty pan in the dishwasher and asked if I was finished with the beer bottle. But then, she was not there and I was able to be a man!

About mid-way through the movie I began to feel really weak and my stomach began making louder noises than usual. As I made a bee-line to the bathroom I felt goose bumps make their way over my skin and was aware I had the shakes.

When I reached the bathroom I flipped on the light, looked into the mirror and nearly jumped in fright at the pale figure with sunken eyes and sweat running down his gaunt face looking back at me. It was then I got the uncontrollable urge to expel the chili.

After I wiped down the sink, mirror and floor, and gargled, I crawled back to the living room, pulled myself onto the couch and convinced this thing had not yet got its hooks firmly into me I thought hard about how I would stop the dreaded flu in it’s tracts!

My first thought was to pick up the phone and call my wife, because she would know what to do. But I dismissed that idea partly because I knew she’d worry and probably cut her visit short to come home to take care of me, but mostly because I was a MAN and was convinced I could and would handle the situation. 

So I asked myself; self, what would you have done when you were a bachelor? An age-old remedy came to mind and from the liquor cabinet I pulled out a bottle of Black-Strap Rum then made my way to the refrigerator where I found a lemon that had already been halved. I then went to the pantry and found the honey.

I put all the ingredients – one, well two, shots of rum, the juice from the halved lemon and one, well two, and tablespoons of honey into a saucepan and heated the mixture up to boiling. I then poured the mixture into a coffee mug and poured it down my throat.

Instead of the immediate soothing sensation I had expected I immediately jumped at the feeling of the skin on my tongue and throat being seared away! To make matters worse my stomach was immediately on fire and I made a bee line for the bathroom, again.

After I wiped down the sink and mirror and floor, and gargled, I crawled back to the living room, pulled myself up onto the coach and wondered aloud what I could do to prevent the flu and remembered the box of Emergan-C powder packets I had purchased a few months (or was it a few years?) back.

I made my way back to the bathroom and pulled just about everything from under the sink until I found the box. I read that each packet contains 1000 MG of Vitamin C and it seemed perfectly reasonable to me that Vitamin C is exactly what I needed to kill the flu before it took hold.

I also reasoned that if Vitamin C is what I needed then a massive dose of Vitamin C should really do the trick!

So I opened seven packets and poured the powder into an empty water bottle I had left on the dining room table missing the bottle with about a third of the red powder. Swearing, I made my way to the kitchen where I filled the bottle with filtered water, capped it and shook it hard.

I opened the bottle to a hiss of sweet smelling gas and drank the concoction down.

Again, the soothing sensation I had expected was replaced by a burning sensation as the acidic Vitamin C made its way down my burnt throat.

Fortunately, however, my stomach seemed to tolerate the mixture.

At that point I realized all my joints ached and it was very hot in the house and I was feeling weak enough to skip the movie and go to bed. So I turned down the thermostat and crawled into bed pulling the quilt up to my eyes.

Instead of falling fast asleep as I had hoped, I lay there with my eyes wide open and counted the minutes click by on the illuminated digital bedside clock.

After about two hours of this I dragged myself out of bed and made for the kitchen and a tall glass of water when I stepped on an empty packet of Emergan-C. I picked up the packet and when I got to the kitchen I read the front panel in the dim light of the microwave. How I possibly missed the bright red words “energy Booster” surrounded by a bright yellow starburst was beyond me!

So after another hour or two of staring at the ceiling I decided I had to get some sleep and the only way to do so was to counteract the energy booster with Melatonin. A natural sleep inducer we kept around for those sleepless nights.

My manly reasoning powers kicked in again and I decided that if one or two Melatonin capsules helped me go to sleep on a normal sleepless night then in order to counteract the effects of 7000MG of vitamin C I would require at least seven Melatonin capsules. But, my previous lesson with the Emergan-C was not lost on me – no, I reasoned that seven would be overkill and decided five would be a more reasonable number.

I awoke with the sun shinning into my bedroom window and our Basset Hounds braying next to the bed. In a stupor I saw the clock read 1PM.

Realizing I was really late for work I tried to sit up and felt that the sheets, quilt and pillow were soaked with sweat, I had the chills and my throat had seemed to nearly close up during the night to the point that I could barely swallow. As I stood next to the bed I realized I was very sick and that none of my remedies helped.

As though my morning couldn’t possibly be worse, as I made my way to the bathroom I stepped in dog poop and remembered I had forgot to let the dogs out before I went to bed the night before!

While I cleaned the dog poop I got a familiar rumbling in my stomach and – yup, made another bee-line for the bathroom.

After I wiped down the sink, mirror and floor, and gargled, I crawled back to the living room, let the dogs out and then pulled myself onto the couch and concluded that I had the flu.

After I made calls to my boss and my doctor I pulled the wet sheets, quilt and pillowcases off the bed into a pile on the floor, and not feeling like making the bed I grabbed an afghan off the couch and curled up there.

As my cell phone rang on the end table next to me I glanced at my watch and saw it was 5:31PM. It was my cheery wife who was just calling to see how my day at work was and to let me know she was enjoying herself and missed both me and the dogs… of course, I tried my best to smile and laugh in all the right places and tell her how well the dogs and I were doing as I looked out at our partially devastated home.

After hanging up I wondered if I should have told her about being sick and the night’s events but thought better of it.

I forced myself to get dressed and drive to the pharmacy where my doctor had called in a prescription for an antibiotic and cough syrup. I had declined the cough syrup because I didn’t have a cough and thought it strange that the doc had included it?

On my way home I went through Wendy’s drive-thru and ordered a spicy crunchy fried chicken sandwich and fries forgetting about how ruined my poor throat was. I nearly ran off the road as I tried to swallow the first bite of that sandwich.

I arrived home and found that the soft, warm Wendy’s fries were actually very soothing going down and concentrated on savoring those.

I let the dogs in, fed them the chicken sandwich and curled back up on the couch where I woke up the next morning at 5AM.

Immediately upon waking I discovered my head and chest were full and I began coughing up all manner of yuck. I had a terrible headache, my eyes burned, my joints ached and I had even worse chills.

As I drank the warm Coke from Wendy’s I felt that familiar feeling and made yet another bee-line for the bathroom.

After I wiped down the sink, mirror and floor, and gargled, I crawled back to the living room, pulled myself onto the couch and remembered I had forgotten to take the medicine I had picked up and had also neglected to let the dogs out after their super the night before. A quick sniff of air backed up the latter…

I had discovered that apparently the Basset’s hadn’t enjoyed the chicken sandwich either and had left me gifts on the floor. I was really glad we had decided to tile the entire house a couple of years before.

After cleaning poop, taking my medicine and calling my boss I spent the next thirty-minutes or so searching through the bathroom cabinets looking for cough syrup.

I then spent the remainder of the day on the couch drinking water, sleeping and watching TV in between coughing fits.

I opened cans of soup for myself and cans of food for the dogs and even remembered to let them out before I turned in for the night. I kinda sorta re-made the bed, although I slept on the couch, and I admitted over the phone to my wife that I was very sick and missed her terribly.

The next morning I awoke at 8AM still feeling pretty sick but as I made my way to the bathroom I noticed the house was clean again; all my empty soda cans were gone as were my dirty soup bowls, snot napkins and cracker crumbs. There were no more water spots, red powder or empty packets of Emergan-C on the dining room table. The dirty bedclothes were picked up and the bed was properly made. All the stuff was put back neatly into the bathroom cabinets and there was no dog poop anywhere.

And then I smelled fresh coffee brewing and knew my savior, my best friend in the whole world had arrived to take care of me!

My wonderful wife said nothing about the mess the house was in and made no comments about my being un-bathed and unshaved. She met me with a worried smile, rubbed my back, asked how I was doing and if there were anything she could do for me.

It was then, at that very moment that I realized I was happy to be a domesticated man, that freedom was overrated and that there is no better feeling in the world than having a wife who loves and cares about me.

Thank you Joanie, you mean the world to me and I am lucky to have you.

love,

Your husband…

- Roland

About the Author

Roland J Duquette is a 51 year old Floridian with a very diverse past. He has been a US Navy sailor, a caribbean adventurer, a business owner, a construction worker, a corporate bank manager and now a writer of Short stories. He has recently been married for the second and last time and has learned the hard way what a wonderful thing a home and wife can be. Roland and his wife Joan share their lovely lakeside Central Florida home with their two Basst Hounds, Coco and Mindy together with their elderly black Lab Casey and two cats, Chubby and Smokey. Roland can be reached at RDuquette77@yahoo.com

TYT Episode 11/3/09 – The Obama Adm., Republican HC Plan

When in Italy- twenty necessary things to do

Sitting round the dinner table one night , after a few bottles of Chianti with some old friends, most of whom had spent time as European tour guides and backpackers, I asked them to name the best thing to see or do while staying in Italy. There was a lot of loud discussion as some tried to praise the less obvious things over the more mainstream, but there were also plenty of unanimous agreement for others. In no particular order may I present to you the top 20 things to do in Italy as decided by my mates.

1.    Nun Watching in Piazza San Pietro

There is something serene about watching a line of Nuns on tour, especially on specific Saint’s days, taking photos of the façade of St Peter’s or trailing behind each other inside the huge basilica. They are only out numbered by the pigeons, which parents ,who hate their children, encourage to sit on their offspring’s head in hopes they will pick them up and fly away, perhaps dropping them somewhere over the Forum.

2.    eating Gelati 3 times a day

This is mandatory for anyone travelling during the months of June, July and August. How the Italians get it so creamy, tasty and dribbly is beyond me but you never feel full. It’s the best thing after a long hot day queuing up for hours to see all those magnificent artworks. It is made with totally natural ingredients and everybody claims to have the best gelato shop in Italy, which is believable, but some even go further, experimenting in odd flavours like tomato and believe it or not basil.

3.    Holding up the leaning tower of Pisa

You’ve all seen it. The obligatory photo of someone and their mates holding up the Leaning tower, either with one finger or both hands. Probably the next best thing to climbing it, which is all anyone goes to Pisa to do. And holding it up is about the cheapest thing there.

4.    Dodging Cars in Rome

After sky diving in Switzerland and a taxi ride in the Czech republic this probably the most adrenaline packed activity you can do in Europe. To cross the road you must keep walking, make sure you keep eye contact with any oncoming driver like a bullfighter and keep moving. The cars and bikes will come very close, never actually touching you, so long as you keep going.

5.    Parking on a Kerb

Everyone else does it.

6.    singing a Duet with a Gondolier

He may not be the next Pavarotti but your gondolier should have a pretty good voice. They know all the old favourites and it makes the experience all the more authentic. They usually ask for a bit extra for the service on top of the hire fee. The most favoured time is around dusk as the lights are coming on making the reflections in the water add to the atmosphere.

7.    Hanging out with the Pope on Wednesday

Tourists, Nuns, Priests, locals and pigeons flock to Piazza San Pietro for the weekly address from his holiness Pope Benedict XVI at around 10am. Afterwards you can check out the inside of the Basilica and the crypt where St Peter’s remains are kept.

8.    Checking out David’s A-e

You could line up and pay to see the original inside the Accademia, where it was shifted at the end of the 1800′s to protect it from vandals and the elements. Or you could examine his copy up close in Piazza Signoria for free, or you could climb the hill above the Ponte Vecchio to see the bronze version standing in Piazza Michelangelo. Or you could see all 3 and make a comparison.

9.    Drinking wine and watching the sunset in Cinque Terre

There is something quite unique about sitting on the rocks next to where the fishing boats pull up, lanterns bobbing along the wires around the cove in the sea breeze, listening to a guy practising his baritone opera through an open window, watching the sun sinking over the horizon sipping on a locally made red after eating home made pasta and pesto sauce. Perfect.

10.    Eating Pizza in Napoli

home of the Margherita pizza. A famous local pizza maker Rafaelle Espositi heard the Queen of Naples was interested in trying a pizza so he made a patriotic one using basil, tomato and mozzarella for the colours of the Italian flag. She liked it so much she gave her name to it. To be enjoyed while observing the kamikaze scooters and cars going hell for leather down the narrow streets.

11.    Cliff diving in Sorrento

Not for the faint hearted. Locals, generally boys, scramble up the steep cliffs to leap off dropping tens of metres into the big blue beneath. If that is way too over the top you could always take a mask and snorkel and wait around underneath.

12.    Calling your mum from the top of the Venice Campanile

Believe it or not there is a public pay phone at the top of the campanile so you can make that all important call to your mum, or maybe order a pizza for dinner.

13.    Wine Tasting in Chianti

There is a theory that the word Chianti comes from the old Etruscan word for water ‘Clante’, which is an obvious connection to make if you drink a lot of Chianti. The stringent production standards set by the Consortium means the quality of all types of the wine is consistent and it’s hard to find a bad one.

14.    Tossing a coin into the Trevi Fountain

But don’t go swimming unless you want to pay a huge fine. One coin means you return to Rome, two coins means you return and get kissed and three coins means you return and get married. All the money gets swept up regularly and given to charity. The authorities also don’t take kindly to anyone stealing from the fountain. Put the coin(s) in your right hand and throw over your left shoulder. It’s something fun to do with the change from your third gelato.

15.    Visiting the Sistine Chapel

If you survive the 3km walk through the rather opulent Papal Rooms of the Vatican Museum you will be rewarded with the sensational view of the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Created in situ by Michelangelo, he often painted freehand straight onto the wet plaster, through belligerent Papal outbursts, financial difficulties, staffing problems, slipping foundations, wars and finally completed after 4 years in 1512. Take mini field glasses and some sort of key to each fresco. The noise of everyone whispering is only drowned out by the guard bellowing ‘silencio’ every so often. And don’t sit on the steps.

16.    Walking the planks in a flooded Venice

One of the more original experiences when visiting this watery city. Winter rains flood the lagoon and when the tide is in the level can rise to your knees. Practical locals have come up with the solution in the form of raised platforms so you can walk the planks around Piazza San Marco without getting your toes wet. Or you could invest in some stylish rubber booties.

17.    Getting Grappa-ed ( drink too much Grappa)

Every country has it’s fire water. In Russia and Poland it’s vodka, in Mexico it’s Tequila, in Czech it’s the Absinthe and in Italy it’s Grappa. Distilled from the leftovers from pressing the grapes for wine, all the pips, skins and stalks, it is usually drunk at the end of a meal after the espresso. The first shot takes care of any sensation in your throat and the second and third take care of the rest of the nervous system.

18.    buying a Ferrari hat

After football, the Pope and their own mother comes the nation’s almost religious following of that little red car from Maranello. Most Italian drivers appear to fancy themselves as the next Schumacher along the autostrada, including the truck drivers, but you have to admit the car is cool.

19.    Riding a scooter in Tuscany

Winding country roads between rolling green hills, vine rows neatly slicing down the hillsides, wild flowers in the fields and those tall cypress trees lining the driveway to a mediaeval villa. All that fresh air and the chance to take life at the local pace while unpacking a tasty picnic in some farmer’s field.

20.    Finishing a Bistecca alla Fiorentina ( T bone Steak)

The resurrection of the Florentines favourite steak made national headlines. The local celebrity butcher from Panzano, Dario Cecchini had held a public funeral and memorial service when the EU banned the sale of beef on the bone products after the mad cow scare a few years back. Now it’s back and everyone is celebrating. Just make sure you’re really hungry for this one as it is huge.

The general consensus was that these were all the things that should be done during a trip to Italy, along with all the usual art and history things of course, in order that you get the most out of the trip.

About the Author

Find tips about growing parsley and growing parsnips at the How To grow vegetables website.

TYT Hour – June 30th, 2010

tips From A Terrified Skier

I could hardly believe it. More than a year had passed and it had once again been time for the annual company ski trip to the Pocono Mountains. Unlike last year, almost everyone had decided to go the night before and stay in the same hotel, getting a full night’s sleep and reaching the slopes early, without getting lost on the way. Or so I thought. Although Sidonie had intended to join us the previous year, her excessive amount of alter-names had proven too many to fit on the invitation and she had therefore stayed home. This year she had been asked verbally. But perhaps the greatest difference between the two years is that this time I would attempt to ski, an experience, I must admit, I greatly looked forward to–with as much enthusiasm as root canal therapy without Novocain.

Having been the first to make the almost three-hour drive, I approached Mount Pocono shortly before 7:00 p.m., seeing the sun, low on the western horizon, cast a soft, yellow glow through the ubiquitous, bare, brown trees on the snow-devoid mountains. Wait, I thought, no snow meant no ski. The thought of not having to face my ski schizophrenia provided a momentary relief, but I felt sorry for those who had really come for the experience.

Although Mike had not traveled the night before and therefore had not shared the room with me, his ability to dictate my unearthly wake up time had hardly been eradicated. In order to reach the slopes by 9:15, I had to get up by 7:30–at least physically. He would see the rest of me by noon, I had warned.

Making my way down the long hallway and into the breakfast room like a zombie the next morning, I immediately caught glimpse of equally sleep-deprived Dorit, the other company Duty Manager.

“Did you sleep?” she anticipatorily asked.

“Nope,” I answered.

“I didn’t either,” she responded with a hint of desperation. “How could I with the noise in this hotel?”

“What noise?” I inquired.

“From the group,” she answered.

“You mean our group?”

“Yes, I mean our group.”

“What time did you get here last night?” I wondered.

“I arrived at 11:45 and the rest came at 1:19.”

1:19, I thought. At least her state had not robbed her of her accuracy.

I later learned that their late arrival had been due to loss of directions and the need to stop at Burger King.

“It seems they availed themselves of the hotel’s facilities,” she continued to explain, “going from room to room, to the pool, to the Jacuzzi,” whereupon, one by one, they entered the breakfast room, pajama’ed and barefoot. This year had already begun to vie with last year for “events,” I thought.

Leaving the group to its lengthy, “morning-after” preparation, Dorit and I decided to depart on time, as scheduled, she in the lead car with David and I in the trailing car with Damian. David, requesting a momentary bathroom visit before departure, reappeared 20 minutes later, at which time we drove out of the parking lot. Boy, did he have to go, I thought. Adhering to a self-restricted five words per day, he confidently led me to believe that he would not shatter Dorit’s cherished early-morning silence during the drive.

Following her jeep down the long, winding road toward Jack Frost Mountain, I turned into the parking lot. One year later and there he stood: the Mike. I had awakened at 7:30 and could barely see through my eyes. (I had actually forgotten that Damian had been next to me the entire time.) He had awakened at 5:00 and looked so damn chipper and cheery. With a positive mood like that, there must be snow up here somewhere, I thought. All right, so much for Plan A. There must be a Plan B.

Tires crunching over gravel alerted me to an approaching red car containing the only three who had not elected to drive the previous evening: Annie, Sidonie, and Jenner. Sidonie, wearing her Viking hat, sat in the back and folded the map a final time. Annie, owner and driver of the car and a person who had little patience for lengthy, embellished conversations, sat next to Jenner in the front who, unlike David, restricted herself to five words per second. In fact, she had initiated a sentence upon entering the car in New York and had just reached its verb as it pulled into the parking lot three hours later. As Annie opened the door, I attempted to read her thoughts, which assuredly must have gravitated round a single desperation: I need a Valium!

Jenner, getting out of the car, adjusted her sunglasses and stood before me.

“How was your ride?” I inquired.

Thinking it over, she responded with her universal, one-word-fits-all-occasions response, “lovely!”

Walking across the road, we entered the lodge. Ordinarily used as a lounge and designated “Canteen,” it had been four times larger than last year’s and had featured a bar, multiple tables and chairs, a fireplace, a sofa, wall-hung sleighs, and a wooden, outdoor deck with picnic tables. Serving as the group’s base, it would be the location to which we would return throughout the day.

As the others settled in, Damian and I elected to inspect the public areas and have a look at the ski slopes. Opening the door and catching first glimpse, I went into mild panic. There it was: the white stuff, blanketing the mountain. Didn’t it know how late in the season it was and that it should have melted by now? The snow and I were already not getting along. Oh, God, where was Plan C?

Because the group would travel the same short distance as Dorit and I had and would not be given misdirections by Adam, who had been unable to attend this year, they should theoretically have trailed us by only a few minutes, but, in fact, pulled into the Jack Frost parking lot almost two hours late.

“Where have you been?” Dorit inquired, as they filed across the road to the lodge.

“We stopped in McDonalds,” Patrick explained.

Could this group not go anywhere without stopping at a fast-food place first? I wondered.

Back in the lodge, Mike prepared to purchase the ski tickets. Counting the number of people who intended to take lessons and those who intended to partake of full-fledged skiing (do you think I was part of the latter group?), he temporarily left and returned with the stack of ski passes, the sight of which sent fear through my body like a bolt of lightening. Those tickets may well have been gallows! I could not believe that I was going to go through with this!

Mike distributed the triangular-shaped hangars which attached to one’s clothing and on which the peeled, gummed passes were glued. Examining these two items, I could not imagine how they could possibly be united into a single, hanging identification badge, and took some 20 minutes of attempting multiple configurations before I had been able to do so. If attaching the badge were this complicated, I thought, what would it be like putting on the actual skis?

The sheer thought of this only heightened my nerves–so much so, in fact, that a fart slipped through my body, but got stuck between its exit point and the hard, plastic bench on which I sat, vibrating with earthquake intensity as it attempted to escape and sounding very much like submachine gun fire. Bobbing up and down in a virtual blur, I assuredly must have looked as if I rode atop a jackhammer.

Somewhere at the ski resort, a nasal voice asked, “Ena, what’s that noise?”

“I don’t know,” an equally throaty voice croaked back.

I later learned that Ena and her friend had been in an enitrely different room.

Successfully hooking the assembly to my pants, I stood up.

“You suddenly look very confident, Robert,” Mike observed.

Silently looking at him, I thought: there’s a fine line between confidence and stark terror. Besides, I had also just released enough wind to create a tornado and my body was now a lifeless sack of organs.

Thus provisioned for my pending trauma, I left the main lodge with Sidonie, Damian, and Jenner, crossing the snow-covered ground to the ski equipment rental shack. Directed first to the ski boot room, we walked among the aisles of boots. If Jenner had so much as hinted that this lead-weight, Jolly Green Giant footwear appropriate only for walks on the moon was “lovely,” I was going to scream! No shoe store ever looked like this, I thought. “Look at these fashions,” I commented, attempting to deliver a milder statement, as Damian, making no attempt to ascertain the correct size, aimlessly began to try on the closest boots to his reach. Then again, there seeemed to be only one size: HUGE!

Deciding upon a set of boots (did they have to have a pair that fit me?), I moved to the next station. As I clumped across the floor in my 100-pound foot armor, displaying as much finesse as a rhinoceros walking down an aisle of Swarovski crystal, I shared a reflection from last year’s ski trip with Jenner and Sidonie. “Now I know what Joseph was talking about last year when he put his ski boots on for the first time and said, ‘These shoes are damn tight,’ only damn’ wasn’t quite the word he had used.” Sidonie gave me that glazed look.

In order next to obtain the properly-sized skis, we had to present ourselves at two counters, where we were required to complete and sign a consensus form more detailed and complicated than that preceding open-heart surgery.

“You have to circle one of the numbers between one and three,” the representative instructed me.

“What do they mean?” I asked.

“One is the lowest amount of ski experience and three is the most,” she answered.

“Don’t you have anything lower than a one?” I desperately inquired.

Assessing my ski boot size, she then waded her way through the racks until she had found the corresponding skis, returning to the counter and, after tightening them with a screw driver, handed them over to me.

Shakingly, I cradled them in my arms and looked at her pleadingly. Puzzled, she looked back, wondering what I could still have wanted. What, I thought, no prayer? I’m a first-time skier!

Now fully outfitted with boots and skis, I walked toward the exit, following Damian, Jenner, and Sidonie, at which time one last person stopped me. Did he want to see my ski badge, too? I wondered.

“Wait,” he said, “you have to get your poles.”

You get those, too? I thought. For all I intended to do, I probably could have done without them.

As the four warriors now emerged on to the battlefield of virgin snow, led by Sidonie in her Viking hat, Jenner proudly proclaimed, “I’m not a novice! I’ve had former skiing experience.”

“Where?” I asked, already anticipating how inferior I would look in comparison to her.

“Holland,” she enthusiastically shared.

With a country entirely under sea level, you could have done better than that, I thought, and my anticipated inferiority image rapidly faded. Sensing my disbelief, she supported, “No, there are small hills there.”

I didn’t know that the country was so overrun with ants, I thought!

Damian had been the first of the four to actually ski…in other words, make the initial plunge into danger. Attaching his left boot to his ski and then the right, he stood erect, grabbed his poles, and catapulted across the snow-covered ground like an F.104 fighter launched from an aircraft carrier deck, careening into a snow bank.

I will certainly look more professional than that, I thought. Following his lead, I attached my ski to the left boot, praying that it would not fit (the moment of truth was at hand and I had run out of plans), and then the right. As if the plug on all friction had suddenly been pulled, I accelerated forward, passing Sidonie and picnic table in a helpless blur, and yelled, “Sidu..” until the facade of the lodge intervened and arrested my travel. So much for the improvement over Damian! I thought

New activities often provide new perspectives and I must admit that, during my initial ski experience, that I had had a profound revelation–namely, that everyone has a goal in life and that mine was to return to the ski rental shop and kiss my concrete-griping shoes to kingdom-come.

Mike, sensing the need for a personal ski lesson, stood next to me, issuing a submachine gun fire of instructions: “Stand up straight…poles on the side…skis directly ahead…bend the knees…lean back on the shin bones…ankles stiff…head forward…eyes ahead…center of gravity over the skis…in other words, work your way into a position like you have to go to the bathroom”

I shot him a glance and stated through chattering teeth, “It may not be like!”

“Okay,” he stated, “that’s it. You’re ready! (Ready for what, I wondered?) “I suggest you ski to the right toward the beginner’s slope.”

“Ah,” I nervously pondered, “I actually think I’ll ski to the left.”

“The left?” he puzzled. “What’s there?

“The place where I return the equipment,” I hesitatedly answered.

“Well, then,” he answered with attempted patience, “I’ll go off skiing myself.”

I almost felt sorry for him after all his work. I said almost, because the question of whether there had been a cast for every part of the body–yes, that part, too–had not yet been answered.

Jenner, upon inquiry from her Station Manager concerning her initial ski experience, stated, “I fell down” and promptly bent face forward to reveal, as evidence, the round, wet spot on the pants covering two half moons which, when put together, equaled a full butt, no buts about it.

Fear certainly has a way of distorting perception. First-time skier Ecaterina had somehow passed me and made it to the top of an 8,000-foot mountain with a vertical drop. “Robert!” she yelled. “You should see the view from here. It’s beautiful!”

“Marvelous,” I yelled, fearing a noise-induced avalanche. “Take pictures! I’ll look at them later.”

I subsequently learned that her elevation had been three feet higher than mine had!

While performing one of my cross-country ski expeditions–translated as between one picnic table and the other–a passing skier yelled, “How’re you doing? By the way, which group are you with?”

I stretched a crooked arm and pointed to the three souls clinging to the picnic table like capsized ship survivors clutching a floating life raft. Cowardly, yes, but they were my group and I loved them!

During one of my “ski walks,” which must have made me appear as graceful as a hippopotamus attempting the ballet, a blue, stocking hat image blurred by to the right, caught his ski on an ice protrusion, and plunged into an almost sequence-indistinguishable maneuver of impact: the right ski tripped on the elevated surface; the left ski rose vertically toward the sky; gravity pulled his rump toward the hump; the skier plunged into the snow, careening toward the left; the right leg flipped over; the head bored a trench into the ice; snow entered the left nostril like a plunger into a backed up toilet; and the entire discombobulated, white-sheathed ice bank came to a halt.

“Are you all right?” I yelled.

The snow pile nodded.

“I’ll try to make it there and help,” I returned, “but at the speed I move, I think spring thaw will get there first.”

Luckily, a more experienced skier passed, lifted the man up, and transformed him from snowman to human. By the time the situation had been remedied, I myself had significantly closed the gap to the scene–by at least a foot!

Meanwhile, picnic table-bound Sidonie had bravely attempted several unaided skiing positions herself, which justifiably must have made her very proud: at the end of the bench, on the middle of the bench, half a butt hanging off the bench, and a full, double-diamond switch–from the bench to the table. I could not help but wonder: why did she look more content than I?

The waning sun beckoned everyone back to the lodge, where the pear-filled schnapps glasses, sporting miniature flags, lined the picnic table on the outdoor deck, and the goulash, dumplings, and spaetzl warmed in chafing dishes on the bar, filling the room with aromas of Austria. One by one, they returned to the comfort and safety of the hut like soldiers seeking refuge in their barracks from battle, nursing their wounds: George, with a black-and-blue buttocks, Munny with a swollen leg, Ricky with torn ligaments, and Sidonie with splinters (from the picnic table). Swelling seemed to be a common denominator in Munny’s ski adventures. Last year, as I recall, he had brought some girl, disappeared, and did not resurface until the end of the day with very swollen lips, as if some cosmetic doctor had gone hog-wild on him with collagen injections.

All too soon it had again come time to leave and make the long drive back to New York.

As I drove out of the parking lot, I could see Mike recede in the rearview mirror and I somehow sensed that the recipe for next year’s trip had already begun to simmer on the back burners of his mind.

driving through Pennsylvania on Interstate 80 and passing the Delaware Water Gap as Damian and Noemi slept, filling the car with a cacophony of snores and snorts, I reveled in the fact that I had come a long way in overcoming my ski phobia: last year snow tubing, this year ski lessons, and next year–who knows, I may actually put on both skis…

About the Author

A graduate of Long Island University-C.W. Post Campus with a summa-cum-laude BA Degree in Comparative Languages and Journalism, I have subsequently earned the Continuing Community Education Teaching Certificate from the Nassau Association for Continuing Community Education (NACCE) at Molloy College, the Travel Career Development Certificate from the Institute of Certified Travel Agents (ICTA) at LIU, and the AAS Degree in Aerospace Technology at the State University of New York – College of Technology at Farmingdale. Having amassed almost three decades in the airline industry, I managed the New York-JFK and Washington-Dulles stations at Austrian Airlines, created the North American Station Training Program, served as an Aviation Advisor to Farmingdale State University of New York, and devised and taught the Airline Management Certificate Program at the Long Island Educational Opportunity Center. A freelance author, I have written some 70 books of the short story, novel, nonfiction, essay, poetry, article, log, curriculum, training manual, and textbook genre in English, German, and Spanish, having principally focused on aviation and travel, and I have been published in book, magazine, newsletter, and electronic web site form. I am a writer for Cole Palen’s Old Rhinebeck Aerodrome in New York. I have made some 350 lifetime trips by air, sea, rail, and road.

An Evening of David Foster Wallace

Philip Glass – Opening (from Glassworks)

Personalized glasses As Unique Gift ideas

Sometimes, it is pretty hard to get men a really unique and personalized gift. Women have it easier since there are a lot of stores and outlets that cater to women’s needs and liking. Quite rarely do you find stores that specialize in gifts for men. Some of the most easy and very unique gift ideas for men come in the form of customized glasses. These glasses come in handy for those who have a mini bar or even do a lot of entertaining.

Customized glasses are drink ware that are customized and functional. It serves both as a gift and as something he can use. These glasses are great for your dad’s birthday or as a gift to your best man or even during father‘s day and Christmas day. You can even give customized glasses to your female friends with unique sayings and designs.

Customized glasses can be personalized with a small message and a name and date. Some have even brought the customization to a whole new level by coloring the glass surface and the effect you get is a stained glass effect. You can get your glasses such as wine glasses, shot glasses, martini glasses, goblets and even whiskey glasses. Get the type of glasses that are normally used by that person for drinking their beverages. There is also the barware collection available that comes with beautiful crystal decanters, matching glasses, carafes and ice buckets. All of them can be personalized with the name and message of your choice as well as some designs. You can also give wine sets with customized glasses, totes and bottle stoppers.

shot glasses make for great customized glasses. In most outlets, you can buy a pack of four, 6 or 8 glasses with each glass having its own message or you can have all glasses having the same message or design on them. When planning on presenting gifts of customized glasses to your family or friends, sit down with the engraving artist to come up with designs that look nice on glasses. You may have your own design in your mind but at times, what looks good on paper may not be so appealing on glass. The engraving artist will be able to tell you what looks good and what doesn’t. At times, the engraver may be able to refine the design that you have chosen to suit the glass surface. Also, keep in mind that there are only certain types of fonts that can be used on etching or engraving on glass since glass may bring out a different effect from the fonts.

It is best to include a saying or quote that they would normally use. Some people are known among their friends and family from the lingo that they always use. Or you can include a tagline that the both of you know the connection with it. There was once a couple who made personalized glasses and engraved it with the cute names that they call each other. There are many designs and messages that are great to be accompanied with funny taglines and quotes. These glasses make for perfect favors as they can be used over and over again for drinking sessions with their friends.

About the Author

Kim is the author of Discountmugs.com. If you would like more information about Glassware, please visit http://www.discountmugs.com

Drinkin Jager out of Ice Shot Glasses

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