Hippie From Iowa

Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.
Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1
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HIPPIE FROM IOWA
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Hippie from Iowa / Free Copy of Draft 8.1
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Hippie from Iowa

by
MICHAEL SIELEMAN
GUARDIAN STONE PUBLISHING

Mason City, Iowa
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GUARDIAN STONE!
PUBLISHING!
PUBLISHED BY GUARDIAN STONE PUBLISHING
HIPPIE FROM IOWA
Copyright 2011 by Michael Sieleman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written
permission from the publisher.
Guardian Stone Publishing
354 Willowbrook Drive
Mason City, IA 50401
www.GuardianStonePublishing.com
First Edition: February 2011
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Sieleman, Michael.
Hippie from Iowa / by Michael Sieleman
1st ed.
1. HUMOR / General. 2. TRAVEL / Europe / General. 3. PHILOSOPHY /
Ethics & Moral Philosophy
ISBN 978-0-615-42856-7
LCCN
Printed in the United States of America.
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DISCLAIMER
While the events of this book are true, the names of characters
have been changed, and, in a few instances, insignificant
particulars of an events environment have been altered to further
protect individuals privacy.
It breaks my heart to use aliases rather than the actual names of
the people mentioned in this book, because each one has
enriched my life. However, despite the fact this work is narrative
nonfiction, it is of course a tale told from my perspective. Since
there are two sides to every story, I owe my friends their privacy.
However, I would like everyone to know there is not an aliased
character in this book that I do not honestly love, respect, and
thank.
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To
Mom and Dad,
whose love gave me the world.
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Contents
1.
Hey, It Was Ryans Idea
2.
The Perfect Solution
12
3.
Virtual Chapter 2.5
31
4.
Virtual Chapter 2.75
50
5.
The Race Chapter
64
6.
Ambassador of Goodwill
70
7.
Narrative Interruptus
78
8.
The Morning After
82
9.
Difficult Transitions
83
10.
Glasgow, Keswick, Glasgow
91
11.
Keswick Ho (Again)
101
12.
Lake District, England
111
13.
Stuff and Then Wales
117
14.
Stonehenge
124
15.
France, the Hitchhikers Paradise
149
16.
Geneva, Switzerland
159
17.
On the Road to Lausanne
170
18.
Grindelwald
175
19.
Munich to Iowa City
206
20.
Thirty-Three Years
209
21.
The End that Never Ends
216
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Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
Hey, It Was Ryans Idea

The substance of this writing is, I swear, all true, but Ill warn you right now,
dear reader, this thing will meander and digress all over the place. Therein, I
hope, will lay its charm. Ive sometimes almost believed that truth lies in the
apparent cracks and flaws of this apparently imperfect gem we call life. This
may be nonsense, but it gets me from one breath to the next and helps me
sleep. I take what I can. So, bail on me now if youre more fastidious than I,
and the best of luck to you. To those who are still with me, I can only say one
thing: thank God for the foolhardy.
It all began in January 1972, just days after we were back in school from
Christmas break. When I write we, I generally mean all the students and
faculty of a Catholic high school, Newman High, in a town called Mason City
in north-central Iowa. Specifically, we means my best friend Ryan and me.
Walking up to me in the hallway between classes, Ryanout of nowhere
said, Hey, instead of going to college next year, lets hitchhike around
Europe. My first reaction was to wonder when and how hed hatched this
preposterous idea. Wed been back in school several days, and it wasnt like
we hadnt seen each other over Christmas breakheck, we were probably
together most days at one point or another. You see Ryan had a big, crazy
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Irish family that was often more entertaining than my German one, so Id
taken them on as a kind of alternative family and loved them all. But where
the hell had this idea come from, and why was he suddenly pitching it to me
as casually as if saying, Hey, wanna skip out on school lunch and get some
burgers? After short consideration, I realized it was probably just as
unexpected to him as it was to me. We were, after all, both eighteen-year-old
young menthings did just pop into our heads.
Hitchhike around Europe, I said, repeating his own words, wanting
him to hear how ridiculous they sounded aloud.
Yeah, he said, undaunted.
You and I hitchhike around Europe, I repeated again, knowing he
could sometimes be a little slow. He was, recall, Irish.
Yeah. Why not?
Why not? Why not! Look, granted, I was standing there in bright yellow
corduroy bellbottom hip-hugger pants with two rows of buttons in a V
shape for a fly, a bright purple shirt with an enormous collar and big puffy
sleeves, and the then new (now, classic) white leather Adidas with the three
black stripes, but who did Ryan think he was talking to? He and I hitchhike
around Europe? Preposterous!
Ill get back to why this occurred to me as preposterous in a moment, but
as I reread the above paragraph, it occurs to me that the description of my
attire may be taken by someespecially those not around in the seventies
as not what it was but what it might appear to have been. Let me clarify.
What it was, was an attempt to be cool. What it was not, was an attempt to be
or to appear to be gay.
I point this out because the seventies were confusing, in their own way,
and Id like to help those who werent there understand how confusing they
were.
The seventies, of course, followed the sixties. There may be
pundit/propagandists on TV today that would take a stand and argue against
this point vociferously (there are more ridiculous stands they take daily), but
let them rail as they will against reality. The fact is there was a Holocaust in
Germany, the American Civil War was fought to end slavery, the white man
did commit near complete genocide against Native Americans, and seventy
does, in fact, follow sixty.
As I came to age in the sixties and understood to some extent that there
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was a larger society than just my mom and dad and family and friends, I
knew there were many problems. But in the sixties, we believed we were going
to solve them with peace, love, and understanding.
John Kennedy told us, The torch has been passed to a new generation
of Americans not as a call to bear arms but a call to bear the burden of
a long twilight struggle, year in and year out, rejoicing in hope, patient in
tribulation, in a struggle against the common enemies of man: tyranny,
poverty, disease and war itself.
Martin Luther King said, Let us not wallow in the valley of despair I
have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true
meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are
created equal.
Robert Kennedy quoted George Bernard Shaw: Some people see things
as they are and say, why? I dream things that never were and say, why not?
I was born into and became conscious of a world much greater than I in
an agelike all othersof bloodshed and violence, but unlike most others,
mine was an age blessed with unbounded hope and an unyielding dream for
the realization of love, understanding, compassion, and justice, based on the
truth that all men were created equal. We believed this was going to happen.
Why not?
We had all this hope, and then
John Kennedy, rejoicing in hope, patient in tribulation was killed when
I was nine years old. Martin Luther King, I have a dream, was killed when
I was thirteen. Not enough, Robert Kennedystill asking, Why not? long
after his brother John had been killed, urging his country to tame the
savageness of man and make gentle the life of this world in the ancient
words of Aeschylus on the night of Martin Luther Kings murderwas, only
two months later, killed too.
And then
I came home from school, everyday, and watched the evening news start
with a body count of Americans and North Vietnamese killed that day, an
opening displaced only too often by the lead story of an American city on fire
from race riots in the ghettoes. The end of the sixties and early seventies
brought us Nixon, I am not a crook, and Kissinger, who sat for years at a
table with his North Vietnamese twins hammering out Peace with Honor,
while the horror of war spread throughout south-east Asia and into far too
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many homes in America as the body counts grew.

Dreams were crushed, and their remnants crashed hard on very
impressionable, very impassioned, and very young people. In our shock, I
fear, we just danced the night away.
Now, back to me not being gay, not because its an important issue
necessarily, but because it brings up sexuality and, after the painful
paragraphs above, I think we need a break. Oh, and by the way, dont worry.
Well get back to Ryans and my scintillating discussion on Europe. You may
not know me very wellyetbut I promise well get back to it. Well get
back to everything in this thing Im writing eventually. Just relax and
roll with me.
And now SEX!
If you recall, the whole seventies were confusing thing started with a
statement thatdespite my attireI was not gay. That being established,
however, I still feel a responsibility to end the gay issue. Admittedly, I wont
clear up the prejudice part because as history has proved, were pretty slow in
ending that, but I will clear a certain misunderstanding that is fundamental to
the subject: Nobody chooses to be gay. I dont know if its genetic or
environmentalI suspect its a combination of bothbut people wind up
being gay. Why do I say gays have no choice? Its simple: I had no choice.
Im straight and I always have been. As a boy somewhere in the range of nine
to twelve years of age, I never considered, pondered, questioned, or examined
in any way whether I liked boys or girls. When my hormones started kicking
in, and girls my age started getting breastsIm a butt-and-leg man myself,
but back then, breasts were a stunning new developmentI got an erection. I
didnt know what it was, but I got one. No decision making. No choice. A guy
walked by, well, a guy walked by. End of story. A pretty girl walked by, and it
was boner city, leaving my fledgling erotic imagination to run amok, wildly
aroused, but not yet quite sure precisely about what. Nevertheless, the wood
remained, sometimes for a lot longer than the four hours for which they now
advise you to go to the hospital. Bottom line: I was straight, it was what it was,
and I had no choice. So why should gays or bisexuals be given a choice when
I wasnt? That just doesnt track. We are what we are in some aspects, and
sexual orientation is one of them. The only choice is whether to come out
or not, and I suggest to gays that you do and to straights that you accept it.
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Period.
To narrow-minded straight guys who just dont get this simple premise
let me add the following. If there is a sexual orientation choice, and a woman
does actually choose to be gay, can you blame her? Fundamentally, the gay
womans choice is vagina over penis. That, to me, is a no-brainer: Go for the
vagina. Its what I did. Its what you did. In addition, of course, theres the
extra bonus for the gay woman in that she does not have to deal with narrowminded ass-holes like you.
Yes, I said ass-holes, which brings us to gay guys because, fundamentally,
if they have a choice, its ass-hole over vagina and what guy, given a choice,
would choose that? Listen, straight guy, if youre anything like me, you realize
that the vagina of the woman you love is, in this life form at least, the closest
thing that well see to the face of God. And face of God is an
understatement. There are just no words to describe the wonders of a vagina.
A womans face with Natures own hand painted, Billy S. wrote in Sonnet 20, but
even the great bard dared not take on the vaginaat least as the subject of
verse.
All right! All right! All right! Now, goddamn it, to the women who are
now jumping up from their reading chairs screaming, Objectified!
Objectified! settle the hell down. First, note, I wrote, the vagina of the
woman you love not just any old vagina. Secondly, I wrote that the vagina is
the closest thing well see, which does not imply that your heart and soul are
not your true essence that wegood men at leastcertainly recognize as the
genesis of what we truly love. (Whew!) In summation, straight guy, we all
fantasize about women getting it on together even if we dont know why
though I suspect its primarily just plain laziness in that no man has to do
anything and yet there are aroused, naked women involvedand if we
accept that, and we do, we should accept the real thing.
Now, straight man, as for accepting gay guys, well, I dont know. Penises
are ugly and we dont have gay men fantasies, so I have no correlation to the
gay woman arguments above. Nevertheless, lets just give the gay guys a
break because, lets face it, they got cosmically screwed: ass-hole over vagina
is a raw deal.
I dont want straight women to feel left out of this treatise, but I dont
think I need to give you any guidance. In your natural grace, youre just more
accepting beings than menunless youre a religious nut, a subject you can
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be certain I will get to eventuallyso let me just say this to straight women: I
have no idea why youre straight and would pick a man over a woman but
and this comes from the bottom of my heartthank you, thank you, thank
you!
Now that the gay sexuality issue has been resolved, onto whats really
important: my sexuality.
I was ten years old when I found out about sex. I dont know how or
by whom, but find out I did, and for confirmation, I approached my big sister
with a simple question. Susan, would God really make you do that just
to have a baby? Susan raised her eyes from the pile of convent brochures
piled on her desk and responded glumly, Yes.
My father, shortly thereafter, would occasionally say, You know, Mike,
if theres anything you ever want to ask me about, anything, you know you
can. I told him I knew that. Over the course of some time, his questions
evolved to a higher form, eventually leading to the same question with
anything appended by even if you think its dirty. Id reassure him that I
knew that too, but eventually it led him and me, alone, to the shower at the
country club after a round of golf, where he asked me the same question and
again got the same response.
Okay, dear reader, I hear you groaning, and I know in a thing entitled
Hippie from Iowa I cant drop country club into a paragraph without some
defense. Fortunately, Ive got it. Our little house in Mason City was literally
two blocks from the railroad tracks, on the other side of which was not a
better part of town, but The Woods where my best friend Carlwho lived
right next to the tracksand I would go and hang out with hobos. Ten-yearolds had to be very careful with hobos because they were a lot bigger than us,
disenfranchised from society, and generally not very happy. They didnt talk
much, probably letting us just take it in as we could, but they did do things
like show us how to prepare snapping turtle theyd just caught in the old,
water-filled pits from which the stuff you make cement out of had once been
mined, and when the turtle was donesomething that took days, mostly
soaking the mud out of themtheyd offer us some as they ate. Carl and I
could be pretty stupid, though not so much as to take the food out of a hobos
mouth, and thats how I learned that hobos were sensitive enough to be
grateful, as well as generous, even to a couple of just plain lucky kids. I never
saw that kind of class at the country club, except from my father who treated
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everyone, everywhere, with the same respect, from the rich guy who owned
the cement factory for which Mason City was named, to the disheveled
drunkard that laid the concrete at our house for the pen of my dog, Auggie.
(Auggiename of dog not of drunkard.) The gist of all this is that I was a rich
kid in my neighborhood and a poor kid at the country club. I had the best
and worst of both worlds and for that I was lucky. I learned a lot.
Now, back in the shower at the country club, apparently tired of getting
the same response from me, my dad changed the game.
Okay, he said. Do you know where babies come from?
Oh, God.
Yes, I replied.
Alright, he said, a couple of showerheads to the left of me on the other
side of the steaming shower room. Why dont you explain it to me, and if
you have any misperceptions, I can correct them.
What? What! Did the best and bravest man I knew lack the freakin balls
to tell his son all the gory and disgusting details about how you make a baby,
and now expect me to tell him?
Huh? I asked.
With neither flinch nor hesitation, exhibiting all the calm born of
unlimited power and authority, he said, Go on. Tell me.
I looked at him carefully, realizing, tragically, he wasnt kidding.
Well, I began, tentatively, theres a woman
Uh-huh, he encouraged me. I was on the right track so far.
Again, I looked at him. Did he need more?
Continue, my dad said.
Jesus Christ! I swore aloud for the first time in my life.
What? he asked, frowning.
and theres a man, I said hurriedly, counting on a quick cover-up.
Then I stopped. The rest, I figured, could be gotten from inference.
Nope.
Okay, Dad said. Then what?
Long pause. Deep breath. Well you get naked.
And?
Jesus God Almighty! What the hell? Theres a man, a woman, and Ive
got them both naked. Thats not enough?
Nope.
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I can still picture my dad standing there, steam rising from the hot water
running down his back, his arms crossed over his chest, perfectly relaxed.
Look, I said, desperately wanting to terminate the subject for good.
Youve got a man and a woman and theyre both naked and you
do something.
Dad just looked at me casually. He waited.
I waited.
We were at this point, a precipice if you will, and I knew there was
nowhere to go but into the abyss if he pushed it.
Yes? my dad asked.
What could I do? He pushed. I jumped.
You fuck them, I said, because all I knew was that to make a baby, you
took your penis and put it in where the woman went to the bathroom and
that was called fucking. Thats all I knew well that and a rudimentary
understanding of English that enabled me to conjugate a verb meaning I
could figure out You fucking them was not proper, whereas You fuck
them was.
My father, without changing his expression, turned one-hundred-andeighty degrees to bury his face in the hot, steaming shower, and retained said
position for a short eternity, leaving me to wish I could evaporate and become
at one with the shower rooms steam.
Having no such luck, I was still there when he turned around and said,
Okay, I think you have a sound understanding of the matter. But, fuck is
not the proper word.
I quickly went over the conjugation in my head and again determined it
was proper, but I wasnt about to say anything. Id already said plenty.
The proper word, my dad continued, is intercourse. And I swear to
God this is true, to give me reference for the proper word so that I wouldnt
forget, he said, Just think of golf course, only instead, its inter-course.
Okay, Dad, you made your point, which is why to this day when anyone
yells Fore! I get an erection, something that, thank God, my girlfriend has
learned and uses to great effect. Who needs Viagra? Ive got a Pavlovian
response.
So, at ten I understood the logistics of the deal, but was still freaked out
about the implementation of the whole thing. I figured Id one day get
married like my mom and dad, because thats what people did and why
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should I be any different? But, this sex thing was gross! It had me
reconsidering.
Then came, THE REVELATION.
I was lazily lying in bed one morning while my dad had Tony Bennett
playing on the hi-fi. Even then I liked Tony because, lets face it, hes the
greatest. I have no idea what he was singing, but it was a love song, naturally,
and sung as only Tony can, with that perfect blend of grit, earnest truth, and
deep, plain emotion. For some reason I threw myself into the song, trying to
imagine what it would be like to love a woman as honestly and completely as
Tony did. I fell right in, realizing that if I loved a woman like that I wouldnt
be able to get close enough to her. Id want to pull her closer and closer to
me, until I pulled her right inside myself just as she pulled me inside her.
There would be no barriers and thats when it hit me. Sex was simply
the physical manifestation of the love between a man and a woman that
brought them together as one. It was perfect. The logistics of penises and
vaginas and this and that no longer mattered. I had transcended, and it
would stick. Never in my life would I be able to separate sex and love.
(Okay, Ill admit there were two occasions when I tried friend sex. It
didnt work. Enough said.)
I know this was a long way to go just to excuse yellow bellbottoms and a
purple shirt, but youll find out how important The Revelation was before
this thing Im writing is over. For now, its back to the high school hallway
where the conversation between my best friend Ryan and me haddespite
all its escalation and reiterationgone exactly nowhere.
Fucking Europe! I screamed at Ryan. Fucking Europe?
Astute reader that you are, Im sure you recall from the early goings of
this chapter that the idea to hitchhike around Europe was, to me,
preposterous, and that after a moment, I would explain myself. Well, a
moment has passed, and I will explain myself through dialogue, because
according to all the writing experts these days, a writer is supposed to never
tell the reader anything but always show, show, show. God forbid I should defy
the friggin experts.
Yeah, Ryan said. Fucking Europe!
Please note that as implied a few paragraphs ago, several iterations of our
argument were skipped. I point this out now only to give some comfort to
those of you who, like me, are of an age where we are approaching senility in
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10
bits and starts, and are becoming firmly aware that we are no longer all that
sharp. The comfort? If you look back on it, honestly, or use Ryans and my
argument as an example, youll realize the truth: we never were very sharp.
We were just blinded to this fact by the unconscious glee we carried because
our skin still had elasticity.
So, sharp or not, after a few moments of calm reflection, I understood
that shouting Fucking Europe back and forthno matter the number of
iterations nor the variety of inflections employedwas getting us nowhere. I
decided, therefore, to diplomatically de-delude my Irish friend with some
good, solid German reason.
Ryan, I said, gently, so as not to startle him. Were from Iowa.
There, case closed. It wasnt pretty, but it was what it was.
I understood it would take some time to soak into Ryans head, but he
didnt take it. Rather, he looked at me like I was nuts and asked, So?
So? I parroted. Good God! Was I going to have to spell the whole
thing out?
Apparently so!
Ryan, people from New York hitchhike around Europe. People from
California hitchhike around Europe. Were from Iowa.
So?
Jesus Christ!
So, were from Iowa. We dont hitchhike around Europe. We get out of
the Midwest the same way as everyone else: alien abductionits just the
details that are sketchy.
Youre insane, he said.
Youre an idiot, I said.
With that he turned and walked off towards, I dont know, some
remedial reading class or something, while I turned to go to Miss Wells honors
English class.
Okay, that was cheap and uncalled for and Ill get this out of the way
right now. Ryan got his Masters in English while I only got a Bachelors. Id
say he got the last laugh, but you know what? Hed never take it. Ryan has
class like my dad.
As I just wrote something nice about an Irishman, its clearly time to
wrap this chapter up. However, let me just add that for a week, Ryan was
relentless about the Europe thing, and we went round and round, with him
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always countering my argument with the same old, So?

I waited for him to come to his senses.
He never did.
I did.
I finally understood So? It changed my life. And that, along with
countless other reasons, is why Ryan is my best friend.
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12
CHAPTER 2
The Perfect Solution
From the second I understood Ryans So? it was written in

stone in our minds: We were going to Europe. Our classmates
rolled their eyes and said, Yeah, yeah, yeah. Our teachers,
thinking they knew Ryan and me, believed we were pulling a
hoax. As college deadlines approached, our parents and school
counselors asked with increasing apprehension when we were
going to apply. Wed tell them all the same thing, Were going to
Europe. Still, nobody got it except Ryan and me, to whom it
was as sure as the sunrise.
Many wonderful things have occurred during my lifetime
that were all about timing, not timing I was responsible for, it was
just the way things worked out.
A friend of mine pointed out to me a few years ago that we
were lucky because in the entire history of the world we, as young
men, had lived in The Golden Age of Sex. He was absolutely
correct. Before the 1960s, casual sex often led to disease and
pregnancy, but The Golden Age of Sex offered various forms
of birth control and antibiotics that could cure any disease.
However, by the 1980s, we had AIDS, herpes, and all kinds of
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13
new incurable stuff, so it was back to the same old same old. But
from roughly 1960 to 1980, you were safe. You were golden. You
were in literally. So, to those of you who may be a bit
morally judgmental of my generation, you have to understand
that it wasnt that we were drug crazed sex maniacs, but rather it
was a responsible recognition of a historical imperative that we
did our best to live up to with noble panache. When I say, we
did our best, I mean everyone but me. I, goddamn it, had The
Revelation (see Chapter One), and God always trumps history.
Let me demonstrate. When I was a junior in high school, I
was going steady with a girl, Kathleen. She was a beautiful
Irish girl with brilliant red hair, freckles, a nice figure, a great
mind (except for the obvious poor taste in men), a wry sense of
humor, and AND she was over-the-top smokin hot. She
oozed sexuality in the way she moved, in the way she held herself
when still, and in the way her lips curled when she gave you her
youre-so-full-of-shit-but-I-still-really-like-you smile. Kathleen was
a sweetheart with the face of an angel and eyes that were always
well naughty. Lord, what a combination. Moreover,
Kathleen had a sense of historical perspectiveboth imperative
and prerogativein every way, shape, and form. Again, Lord!
If you really loved me, Kathleen said, purring,
implementing all the wiles she possessed that made, believe me,
quite an impressive portfolio, youd sleep with me.
Her lips brushed my right ear as I strove to keep my fathers
1970 Bonneville on the road.
Yes, thats true, I countered, weakly, The Revelation doing
its evil good. But Im only seventeen. What do I know about
love?
So, she said, her voice changing, her lips retreating from
my ear, you dont love me?
I was quiet, deep in thought, in other words, fully aware I
was in trouble.
You said you loved me! she screamed, scooting across the
Pontiacs bench seat.
Hey, I do, I said, desperately. But in terms of a seventeen-
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14
year-old guy, what does that mean? I was scrambling. Its like
puppy love.
Fucking puppy is right!
Did I mention she was Irish and red-haired?
Hey, Ive never lied to you, I said, panicking, knowing it
was irrelevant but grateful words were coming out of my mouth.
And, I never took advantage of you.
Precisely! she snapped, her back pressed against the
passenger door.
I pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road. We were
out in the country along a stretch of county road that ran along a
small river lined with a few trees. On the other side of the road
there were, of course, cornfields. On the other side of the river
there were, of course, more cornfields. Nevertheless, the stars
were bright in the sky and the wind blew through the leaves of the
trees. In Iowa, thats as idyllic as it gets.
Kathleen, I said softly, sliding toward her over the vinyl
upholstery. You know I love you.
Yeah, just not enough, she said, pointedly.
Come on Kathleen, I do love you, I said, meaning it. But
you know that Im saving myself for my one true love.
All right! All right! All right! I know what you readers are
thinking. Men, youre saying to yourselves, For Christs sake,
just fuck her already! and Ill admit you make a compelling
argument. However, Kathleen was essentially making the same
argument, and she made it a lot more persuasively. Women, Im
not going to address your possible thoughts because, honestly, I
never know what youre thinking and you all scare the hell out
of me.
Kathleens eyes were fixed and glaring. The one true love
thing hadnt gone over so well. Still, she seemed to be on the edge
of something. I was hopeful.
I should point out that it wasnt like Kathleen and I didnt
mess around a bit, or even more than a bit, but weor perhaps
more accurately, Inever let it go too far. I might have been too
stupid to sleep with Kathleen due to the ill effects of The
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15
Revelation, but I wasnt completely daft. Im still a guy, she was a

beautiful and sweet young woman, and I did honestly have the
love of a seventeen-year-old boy for her.
I stroked her cheek with my hand and moved in to kiss her.
Kathleens lips were stone.
Dont you dare kiss me unless you mean it, she said, her
tone implying that I was missing something.
I mean it, I said.
I mean, mean it, mean it, she said, emphatically.
I caught on kind of. Huh?
Its all or nothing, Kathleen said.
Now, before hearing my response to Kathleens ultimatum,
you should know something about me. I come from a mother and
father who loved each other tremendously, made each other
better people than they were alone, and who never fought. Oh,
they had disagreements, but they talked them outoften at the
supper table in front of my sister, my brother, and mealways
showing an honest and mutual respect for each others opinions
and feelings. They didnt worry about acquiescence, compromise,
or any such nonsense. They simply believed that in the end they
would, together, come to an accord that would be the best
solution. They were remarkable parents and magnificent people
who made everyone around them better people. (Yes, I know Im
a clear exception, but they cant be blamed for me.) Yet, despite
any issues I may theoretically have, Im an honest guy, dont
manipulate people, and I expect to be treated in kind. In short, I
dont respond well to manipulations and ultimatums. So
Dropping my hand from Kathleens cheek, I moved behind
the wheel of the Bonneville, dropped the stick on the column into
gear, and calmly drove away, saying nonchalantly, Well,
nothing is fine with me. Theres a pop-bottle in the backseat for
you.
There was, of course, no pop-bottle in the back seat, or,
undoubtedly, Kathleen would have used it, enthusiastically,
against the back of my skull. And, look, I know it was cold of me,
and I imagine there are many women readers really pissed off
Chapter 2
16
right now, but before you burn this book, let me tell you
something. In the course of my life, I would eventually meet my
one true love, and before I could lose my virginity to her, she
would drop me for a horse. Yes, you read that right: she left me
for a horse. So, go ahead, look at this and see retribution or
karma or whatever you want. Maybe that really is how the
universe works, but I doubt it. Just considerits not always easy
for guys either.
Now you might think after the pop-bottle crack that
Kathleen and I would have been over, but Kathleen and I were
made of sterner stuff. Her all-or-nothing policy remained in
place, with me opting for nothing. Stalemate.
Then came the big party at Donna Vances house.
Donna, who was Kathleens best friend, lived in a big
farmhouse a few miles out of town, meaning that when her
parents (who happened to be good friends with my own) were
away for the weekend, it was the perfect place for a party. I doubt
I need to describe an un-chaperoned high school party to anyone,
so Ill just continue with my saga with Kathleen, allowing you to
easily imagine the backdrop.
The party went through the evening as can be expected, and
once the biggest guy on our football team threw-up on the whiteshag carpet, the dye was cast. (Yes, I know the difference between
dye and dieloosen up.) Donna, a bright girl, recognizing that
any chance at a cover up for the party was gone, let the load of
responsibility fall from her shoulders with a Zen-like ability of
acceptance for all thingsall things, that is, except for my not
sleeping with her best friend.
Mike, Donna asked pointedly, aside in private. What the
hell is wrong with you?
It was a reasonable question, one I got and still get quite
often. While I knew the answer was The Revelation, I also knew
getting into it would get me nowhere.
Its really none of your business, I told her. True enough.
However, Donna always got to the point. Listen, ass-hole,
do you have any idea how miserable it is to get all worked up and
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17
get no satisfaction? Do you know how hard that is on Kathleen?

I know how hard it is on me, I answered, and since we
were being so candid, I added, Thats why I masturbate.
Now, a two-part aside on masturbation.
Masturbation Part One:
In my Catholic high school, we had Open Confessionals,
wherein the repentant sinner sat face to face with the priest like
you were just hanging around with your pal, rather than kneeling
in the traditional box with the grate and veil and all the cool
Catholic stuff you see in movies. When I was fourteen, in open
Confession, after going through the obligatory Catholic Forgive
me Father, for it has been four weeks since my last Confession
crap, we got to the meat of the Confession, with me saying, I
lied to my parents. I swore. I looked up girls dresses. I had
impure thoughts, and dawning on me that I was speaking to a
priest, I interjected hastily, about girls my own age.
And? the priest asked.
And what?
You know.
Confused, I looked at the priest. Clearly, he knew what he
was talking about, but I didnt.
I told him as much.
Come on, the priest said, looking at me suspiciously with a
hint of exasperation.
I just looked back.
And he said, coming to a crescendo, You masturbate!
Smirking, he looked as if hed rooted out the last of my evil.
No, I said. I dont.
The priests smirk slowly disappeared, his face going through
one expression after another as he worked his way to realizing I
was telling the truth. Once there, he blurted, Christ! How do
you keep from doing it?
After a moment, I realized it was not a rhetorical question,
but my stock of weird sexual conversations with Fathers of any
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18
type had been used up years ago in the shower room of a country
club. Besides, I saw the opportunity to mess with the head of an
authority figure and I wasnt going to miss it.
I just dont, I said, plainly. I guess Im too pure.
Okay, dear reader, youll find that Im about to add another
digression onto an already existing digression, bringing us to a
level three digression, but I promise Ill work back through them
all and get back to screwing versus not screwing Kathleen. Trust
me.
From the priest incident above Im sure you recognize that I
didnt take Catholicism too seriously. Oh, like any religion,
Catholicism has a lot of good in it, but it also has a bunch of
nonsense too. In first grade, while preparing for First
Communion, Sister Mary gosh, I dont remember her name
all I remember is that she was hot
Oh God, on to digression level four.
About the hot-nun thing: Ive just always really loved girls
God help me. Digression five.
Even before kindergarten, I had two girlfriends, Jenny and
Amy, simultaneously. (Hey, cut me some slackat five years of
age, natural innocence trumps any tawdry associations with
having two girlfriends at once.) Anyway, I was sitting on the curb
with Jenny and Amy one lazy sunny summer afternoon,
absentmindedly playing with the sand on the side of the road
Jenny on my left, Amy on my rightas we casually conversed
upon the stuff of five-year-olds. Jenny had dark brown hair, Amy
was blonde, and both were very pretty. Jenny, who was more
emotionally and intellectually developed than either Amy or I,
suddenly asked, You like both me and Amy, dont you?
Of course, I answered, with all the naivet of a five-yearold boy.
Which of us do you like best? Jenny asked.
Amy, I innocently answered, and was immediately blinded
with a fistful of sand.
As Amy led a helpless me home by the hand, I learned
something that I now realize has morphed into one of the
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19
cornerstones of my life. I truly love women, butas Ive said

they scare the hell out of me. Theres nothing incongruous about
simultaneously loving and being scared by women. Its healthy.
Now, before I start working my way back through all these
digressions, let me say a little more about Jenny because I dont
want to leave her in a negative light. Despite the sand in my eyes,
I had a crush on Jenny through the ninth gradeyeah, okay, I
probably still do, and Amy toobut it was quite unrequited. (Oh
God, another cornerstone.) Nevertheless, one day in fifth grade,
Jenny took me aside and pulled a hoop made out of paper clips
from her purse. Do you remember this? she asked. I shook my
head. Its a necklace, she explained. You gave it to me in first
grade.
Hows that for a classy girl?
So, even before I knew sexuality existed, I still recognized hot
when I saw it, and there is no hiding hot, not even with a nuns
habit.
In preparation for First Communion, my hot first-grade
teacher told us, After you receive First Communion, you will
have the abilityin an emergencyto officially baptize someone
into the Catholic Church. All you need is some kind of a liquid
on the end of your thumb as you make the sign of the cross on
their foreheads and say, I baptize thee in the name of the Father,
Son, and Holy Ghost. Now, if theyre conscious and they make
the decision to be baptized as a Catholic, it will take. If theyre
unconscious, do it anyway, and God will know what their
conscious decision would have been. It will take or not,
accordingly.
Now, Ive admitted to being an idiot, but there are
limitations. Id been around. Id had sand thrown in my eyes, and
this was feeling familiar. I had a question.
Sister, I asked, my little first-grade wheels turning, what if
theyre knocked out, God knows they want to be Catholic, but
you dont baptize them?
Then they dont go to Catholic heaven, she answered,
unruffled. (Wed already been taught that non-Catholics, even
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20
Christian ones without sin, would go to some watered-down

version of heaven because they werent of The One True
Faith.)
So, I followed up, honestly confused, if my best friend
falls off his bike, smacks his head on the street, is about to die, and
he wants to be Catholic but I dont baptize him because Im mad
at him for I dont know, stealing my comic books or something
he doesnt go to heaven?
Not Catholic heaven, she said.
Her certainty was astonishing. I could grasp the concept of
an omnipotent God and believed as a matter of course that such
a Being would naturally be infinitely good and infinitely smart. (I
could grasp infinity because my little brother had a sippy-cup that
had a picture of a wolf holding an exact sippy-cup with a picture
of a wolf holding an exact sippy-cup and I could see (probably
one morning after an especially good nights sleep) that the
pattern would continue forever.) Thus, I had the essence of God
down, and I didnt believe for a second that such a Being couldnt
get around some revengeful little prick like me and get my friend
into the best possible heaven. I realized right then, right there,
that I was going to have to figure out the whole God thing on my
own.
Therefore, by the time I was fourteen, I had no problem
telling a priest I was too pure to masturbate just to screw with his
head.
And Boom! Were all ready back to the second level of
digression. Amazing, huh?
However, before I dispense with the second level, Im sure
you recall that the masturbation aside is in two parts. So, here
comes the second part. But, dont lose heart. Ill make it short. I
promise.
Masturbation Part Two:
It wasnt until I was seventeen that I started to masturbate.
Why? Well, because it wasnt until then that Ryan asked me how
many times a week I masturbated. I told him I didnt. He was
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21
shocked, and laughing hysterically, asked what the hell was wrong
with me. I explained I thought it was gay. Again laughing at me,
he asked why, and I explained that I didnt want a guys hand
touching me, and that my hand happened to be the hand of a
guy. Ryan pointed out how generally fucked up I was, and then
proceeded to explain that while masturbating I was not to think
about me touching me, but to fantasize about a woman touching
me.
Oh.
I put Ryans theorem to the test that night and, WOW, his
little explanation is the best present Ive ever gottenhands
down!
And Boom! Were back to me telling Donna that I
masturbate to take care of the sexual frustration derived from not
screwing her best friend, Kathleen, and, by inference, that I cant
understand why Kathleen cant do the same thing. However,
Donna wasnt picking up the inference, so I handed it to her.
Why cant Kathleen do the same thing?
Donnas eyes narrowed to slits. Because, she seethed,
drawing out that single word like it was the Gettysburg Address.
Because, she repeated, pausing, apparently to ensure that I
noticed the snakes growing out of her head, Because Kathleen
knows what the real thing is like.
Well, I said, then that should just gives her more fodder
for the cannon. While not a member of the debate club, I could
usually hold my own.
Donnas eyes went wild. Donnas snakes went wild.
Essentially everything about Donna went wild, and after a brief
glance that left me to understand that simple murder was too
good for me at the moment, she simply threw her hands up in the
air (unwittingly entangling them in the snakes), and turned to
storm away.
Good, I thought. Thats settled.
Nope.
Donna, it turns out, was only the first of an additional half-
Chapter 2
22
dozen assaults mounted by Catholic girls who all wanted me to

mount, and perhaps assault too, their friend Kathleen. Who
knew? Not me. I was stunned to find that the girls whose dresses
Id surreptitiously looked up were not as demure as Id thought.
Maybe, I began to realize, they sat as they did hoping Id look up
their dresses. Maybe there was no need for me to drop my pencil
to sneak a peek. God, girls were confusing, and apparently, as
they approached womanhood, it didnt get any easier.
Finally running out of patience with, I believe, outraged
Catholic girl number seven, I asked in frustration, Why dont you
sleep with her? Apparently, number seven was frustrated too,
because she also gave me a murderous look before throwing her
arms up in the air, spinning away as Donna and the others had.
Good, I again thought. Safe at last.
Nope.
Evidently, as in baseball, only the first rotation was
completed, because Donna was coming at me for her second at
bat, and this time her murderous look was no quick glance, it was
a fixed set.
Look, you horses-ass, Donna seethed, her head of snakes
going hyper-active, do you have any idea where Kathleen is?
Now heres an interesting thing: I had no idea of where
Kathleen was, and hadnt for almost two hours. Yes, at least one
hour had been consumed not with Kathleen but by the subject of
Kathleen, while an entourage of young women were gunning for
me in their own Catholic schoolgirl version of The Magnificent
Seven. But that still left nearly an hour unaccounted for. In an
unusual moment of wisdom, I let it go.
No, I answered, both because (1) I didnt know, and (2) I
understood that regardless of my knowing or not I was going to
hear it from Donna.
Let me tell you where she is, Donna hissed. Shes upstairs.
In my bedroom. Crying!
Back then a girl crying brought me to my knees. Honesty, Id
have done nearly anything to stop a girl from crying. Now, as a
mature man (go ahead women, snicker at the oxymoron) Im not
Chapter 2
23
so bothered by women crying. I dont intend to sound callous, but

lets face it, women cry all the time for all kinds of reasons. Its
like men getting frustrated all the time for all kinds of reasons.
This equates with what everyone seems to know: women tend
toward the emotional and men tend toward the rational. Im sure
right now many readers have their hackles upespecially you oh
so emotional womenbut dont get all riled up. Not yet, theres
more.
Having resolved certain aspects of the gay issue in the first
chapter, I might as well take on the whole woman versus man
problem here in the second.
The fundamental problem between women and men is
simple: women are crazy and men are stupid. This leads to a
great deal of confusion and is the basis of why we just dont
understand one another. Of course, all women will jump up and
scream, If were crazy, its because men make us crazy. How
often have we all heard that? For arguments sake, Ill concede
the point, but womenand remember, I really do love you
galsdont you think that men could propose the corollary? If
were stupid, its because women make us stupid. Ive never
heard this statement uttered (probably because men are too
stupid to figure it out), and Ill admit its not as self evident as the
womans, but think about it. Does anyone think men could live
with women if they were fully cognizant of just how crazy women
are? Men have to be stupefied to live with crazy women, just like
women have to be crazy to live with stupid men. Its like trauma
cases where the senses are dulled for survival. Now, lets not get
into a chicken-and-egg thing here, lets not get caught in the
blame game. Why? Because, in the end, at the beginning, I think
we just have to point the finger at God. Thats right. Its Gods
fault. He/She/It did it because eternity is a long time, and God
had to fill it with some kind of amusement. So, go ahead women
and cry knowing it accomplishes nothing (crazy), and Ill go
ahead and kick the trash barrel knowing just afterward that Im
the one that has to pick it all up (stupid). Were just doing what
were supposed to be doingentertaining God.
Chapter 2
24
As a young man, however, I didnt have this all figured out,

and a girls crying brought me to my knees. Donna had me
against the ropes.
And do you know why shes crying? Donna persistently
hissed.
No.
Because of you, ass-hole! she screamed.
Look, Donna, I said. Horses-ass or ass-hole, youve got to
make up your mind.
Donna and her snakes went berserk in an exponential form
and well thats the last thing I remember. Id forgotten to
be scared of a woman when I made the make-up-your-mind
quip, and whatever horror it brought was burned out by the
ensuing trauma.
What I do remember is that after some kind of near death
experience, I was knocking softly on Donnas bedroom door,
calling Kathleen? as sweetly as possible.
Getting no answer, I put my ear to the door. Still, I heard
nothing.
Kathleen? I asked once more, tentatively, but with a bit
more volume and urgency.
Waiting, but hearing nothing again, I slowly opened the
creaking door. My eyes fought to adjust to the darkness of
Donnas lair. In the dark, all I could make out was a desk against
one wall and a bed against another. There was a body on it.
Brave soul that I was, I stepped into the room and closed the door
behind me. I walked over to the bed amongst some peculiar
tinkling sounds and spoke to the figure I now saw to be under a
thick pile of blankets.
Kathleen?
I heard a sigh. It was Kathleens. I put my hand on the
blankets and despite all the layers, I felt sudden warmth
becausepuppy-wise or notI really did love Kathleen. I heard
her cry, just a little.
Kathleen, I coaxed as gently as possible. Whats the
matter? Please, lets talk.
Chapter 2
25
I heard a groan, knew it was directed at my lets talk, but I

let it go. Gently nudging Kathleen over a bit, I laid down beside
her.
Come on, Kat, I said, stroking the bedspread above where
I assumed her shoulder to be. Bring your head out from under
those covers so I can see you. Please?
Slowly the covers came down revealing eyes that, despite
crying, were radiant. Radiant and Lord help me very
naughty.
Hey, I said, pulling the covers down and tucking them just
beneath her chin. Her angelic face was breathtaking.
Hey, she said, her breath (oh, that tinkling at my feet had
been empty beer bottles), breathtaking on its own terms.
I moved to maximize the view and minimize the breath
because, as you may recall from the first paragraph of this thing
Im writing, I take what I can. I kissed her on the cheek
judiciously from the sideand stroked her red hair. Kissing her
on her forehead I said, Dont cry, Kathleen. I love you. Why are
you crying?
Oh God, she sighed, but softly. Why do you think?
Now it was my time to sigh. Kathleen, really, this is
ridiculous. Lets just stop all this nonsense. Your friends have
been all over me tonight about this thing, and I didnt even know
where you were or that you were crying. Why cant we just work
this out?
I was sincere, and apparently Kathleen knew it: she softened,
her crying eased, and I was starting to feel my old Kathleen.
Hey, Kat, why dont you move over a little and let me get
under the covers with you? I asked. I want to be close.
I dont think that would be a good idea, Kathleen
mellifluously purred.
Why?
Because, she said, drawing the word out like a long, sultry
song, turning her head to me, her eyes intense and glowing with
promise, I dont have any clothes on.
Standing up next to the bed I reached down, lifted the
Chapter 2
26
covers, looked at her naked body, and said, Youre right. Youre
naked. I let the covers fall and left the room.
As I said, I dont like being manipulated.
I really dont know what happened after that, except
somehow Kathleen got her clothes on and made it back to the
party. The Magnificent Seven were now just a drunken mess, as
was Kathleen, Ryan, Ryans girlfriend, Rachel, and literally
everyone but me, who was, as always, stone sober. But the beer
had run out, there was a full-blown snowstorm, andas wise
Ryan pointed outI was the only one sober enough to drive him
through the blizzard to illegally buy more beer.
Yeah, more beer, Kathleen agreed. That, at least, you
ought to give me.
So we all piled into my mothers 1966 Chevy Impala: Ryan
and Rachel in the backseat, Kathleen and I in the front. I was
driving. Kathleen was crying.
Ryan, ever the gentleman even when slobbering drunk,
asked from the back seat after Rachel pushed him away from
making a move, Hey, Kathleen, what are you crying about
anyway?
Rachel, who had not been one of The Magnificent Seven
despite being a good friend of Kathleens, explained the situation
to Ryan.
What? Ryan asked, astonished.
Rachel, next to him, shot him a look. I, in the rearview
mirror, shot him a look. But relentless Ryan, bewildered or not,
was not going to let it die.
Mike? Ryan queried after a solemn pause, which despite
his drunkenness sounded like a Supreme Court Justice asking for
clarification on some discrete point of law. You wont fuck
Kathleen?
I bristled. Ryan, this is none of your business.
Ryan, unabashed, turned to Kathleen. Kathleen, Mike
wont fuck you?
No, Kathleen sobbed, her crying intensifying.
Notwithstanding the blizzard, I glared at Ryan in the
Chapter 2
27
rearview while Rachel glared at him from the near view, but
Ryanlost as he was to drunken pondering upon something that
clearly rattled one of the tenets of his presently skewed world
was oblivious to us both.
You know, Kathleen, he drawled out at last, his voice thick
with a camaraderie built upon commiseration, Rachel wont
fuck me either.
Rachel hit him.
Un-rattled he turned back to me. Mike, what the hell?
I would not respond.
Ryan leaned back in the silence of the car, looking
alternately from Kathleen to Rachel to me, relentlessly resuming
his distilled deliberation. Finally, his eyes opening widely, I could
see resolution replace confusion. In great excitement, with
prodigious physical effort, Ryan pulled his drunken self up from
the backseat, reached the back of the front seat, and pulling
himself further placed his hand on Kathleens shoulder with his
mouth near her ear. In a sincere voice full of solace and
compassion he said, Dont cry Kathleen. If Mike wont fuck you,
I will.
Ryan! Rachel screamed.
What? Ryan protested, taken aback. Mike wont fuck
Kathleen. You wont fuck me. Its the perfect solution.
He was genuinely mystified we couldnt see it.
And thats one of the things I like about Ryan: he can
simultaneously be both a charitable diplomat and an
opportunistic scoundrel.
This would be a great place to end the chapter, but, of
course, theres more.
Surprised?
Remember, the party was held at Donnas house, and my
parents were good friends with hers. I was told that the house
cleaned up pretty well and there was no structural damage, but,
as you may recall, the biggest guy on our football team threw-up
on their white-shag carpet. He did so, naturally, in the very
center of a large family room. Try as Donna and her friends did,
Chapter 2
28
there was no getting the stain out thatso I heardwas pink

mixed with colors no human should ever see.
So, my dad asked me on Sunday, the very day Donnas
parents came home, were you at the party?
Yeah.
Did you drink or do any drugs?
No.
Do you want to tell me what happened?
No.
Pause.
Why dont you tell me?
Christ, this was going to be the friggin shower room scene all
over again, with this you tell me business. But I wasnt ten. I was
sixteen and had learned a few things. Like evasion.
I dont know what happened.
You were there and sober and you dont know what
happened? he asked, feigning incredulity.
Thats right, I said. I had evasion down cold, but didnt
know where to go from there.
How is that possible?
I was quick. I didnt know what was going on because I was
busy all night trying to convince Kathleen and half the girls at the
party that I wasnt going to sleep with her.
Immediately realizing my mistake, I went in for the save.
Scratch that. I dont know what happened. I was drunk and on
drugs.
No, my father said. You were neither drunk nor on
drugs, and I know all about Kathleen and the girls plan.
Jesus Christ! While I had the concept of omnipotence down
in the first grade, I was not prepared to see it ten years later,
practiced first hand, by my own dad!
What?
My tendency to take what I can get is evidently a handme-down from my dad, because from his great, generous smile he
was clearly enjoying the moment to its fullest. I had no idea what
was coming, but I knew from my dads look that everything was
Chapter 2
29
going to be okay and knowing thatalong with a dose of reality

and a lesson that there are always consequencesis one of the
greatest gifts a parent can give a child.
According to Donnas father, my dad said, trying to get
you to sleep with Kathleen was, in fact, the primary point of the
party.
What?
Yes.
My fathers disclosure seemed inconceivable. Nevertheless, it
explained a lot.
You have to stop seeing Kathleen, my dad said.
I looked back and said something I had never told my father
before, No.
I have no idea why I said it at that particular time. I guess, at
some point, it just has to happen. Maybe The Revelation had
something to do with itironic, if you think about it, coming as it
did from my fathers playing of his Tony Bennett album and my
lifetimes observation of my mother and fathers lifelong love
affair. At any rate, I said it.
No? my father asked.
No, I repeated.
Why?
Because I love her, I said. Without knowing it, if there was
an ace card to play, Id played it. It came from the heart. It came
from the soul. These things my father respected.
Dad leaned forward, and placing his hand on my knee, he
gave it a commiserative squeeze as only a father can. Bringing his
eyes to mine, with genuine sadness he said, Son, thats why you
have to stop seeing her.
Why? I asked.
Because, my father explained, you love her. And, if the
woman you love wants to sleep with you, eventually she will.
The other night wasnt the first time Ive said no to her, I
told my dad.
I suspect not, he answered. But eventually, she will get
her way.
Chapter 2
30
No, I said, confidently. She wont.

My dad smiled and then gave a soft laugh.
Im going to tell you something that not everybody knows,
he said. Now nearly everybody knows an erection comes from an
increased blood supply to the penis, but what everybody doesnt
know is that the blood comes directly from the brain. Thats why
a man with an erection cant think.
My dad was a pharmacist and, being from Iowa
notwithstanding, he was no rube. He understood the anatomy, as
well as the analogy. To my credit, or perhaps more likely to the
credit of another hand-me-down from my father, I understood it
too.
Dad, I said, Ill stop seeing her if I feel myself slipping.
It will be too late, he said.
Im not going to stop seeing her.
Well, my dad concluded, his tone changing from
commiseration to practical, I cant stop you from seeing
Kathleen if you really want to and I wont make your home a
prison, but I can and will take away all car privileges until you
stop seeing Kathleen. Are we clear?
Yeah.
That was the end of the talk.
For the next three days I put up with an unyielding,
unrelenting pile of crap from Kathleen, The Magnificent Seven,
and some additional latecomers.
In the end, it came down to no car and a lot of crap, or no
crap and a car. It was a no-brainer.
On day four I told my dad Id broken up with Kathleen, and
without even a hint of acknowledgement for the victory he
deservedly won, he just tossed me the keys.
Chapter 3
31
CHAPTER 3
Virtual Chapter 2.5
At the beginning of the last chapter I wrote, Many

wonderful things have occurred during my lifetime that were all
about timing, not timing I was responsible for, it was just the way
things worked out. Okay, I know many of you might now be
criticizing me for being vain and lazy enough to quote myselfin
the same book no lessand Ill concede the point is well taken.
Additionally, Ill resist any insecure defense of myself, as there are
two overriding points: were in this together, and we need to
move on.
Unbeknownst to you, the last chapter was supposed to
encompass my fortune with the all about timing thing through
two examples: (1) The Golden Age of Sex, and (2) The 21st
Ecumenical Council of the Roman Catholic Church, aka, The
Second Vatican Council. However, once off on the subject of sex
I dwelt there awhilesomething I tend to dountil Chapter 2
got away from me, and finally just needed to end. So, now you
get Virtual Chapter 2.5, thats all about the effects of the
Ecumenical Council. It wont be as good as sex (what can be?),
but it wont be as bad as it sounds.
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32
Pope John XXIII convened the Ecumenical Council with the

purpose of changing a few of the official Catholic Church rules,
aptly called (though misspelled) canons. The Catholic Church,
the Pope thought, needed an upgrade from the old canons to
make the church more accessible to Catholics (increase the
revenues) and less standoffish (not such giant pricks) to all the
weenie religions: Protestants, Lutherans, Methodists, and the like,
and, who knows, perhaps even Baptists. I dont remember if this
was the verbiage specifically used in the Popes equivalent to what
we would now days call a mission statement, but I think Ive
captured its essence.
If the ship of state of the United States is intended to move
slowly, as all the political pundits of the day love to say over and
over and over, the ship of state of the Catholic Church is
intended to be permanently moored. (Note, thats Roman
Catholics being moored, not Roman Catholics being Moored.)
Nevertheless, the Catholic ship of stateto everyones surprise
actually moved. Pope John XXIII convened the council in 1962,
which was concluded in 1965 under Pope Paul VI, and was made
canon law in 1983, eighteen years later (you dont want to move
too fast) by Pope John Paul IIa pope with balls. Now, I dont
know how you can conclude something and not have it be made
law for eighteen years, but the inner workings of the Catholic
Church are more than I want to tackle. Besides, Im sure youd
need a canon lawyer to properly explain it and, oh yes, they have
them, because in the Catholic Church even God needs to cover
his legal ass.
At any rate, the changes of the Ecumenical Council were put
into practice long before they were made canon law, meaning
thats how I was raised from the fifth grade on. The changes kept
Heaven, Purgatory, Limbo, and Hell, but modified its stance on
the weenie religions: if weenie Christians were really good, they
could go to the exact same heaven as Catholics. (Ha! Take that hot
First Grade nun.) Oh, Im sure the weenie Christians would have
to spend more time in purgatory burning off their sins than
Catholics, and Im sure there were some other stipulations in the
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33
fine print, but still, this was a big change. No more five-star
Heaven for Catholics and other Heavens ranging from four-star
to one-star and further until you finally got to the Heaven-forPolygamist-Mormons-and-Other-Such that nobody wanted to go
to but that was, nevertheless, the lesser of two evils as compared
to hell. And, for Catholics, the change was big too. Now, during
Mass, instead of secretly doing incantations in Latin with their
backs to the congregation while wearing wide vestments that hid
what was in the works, the priests were supposed to speak in
Englishor whatever babble non-American countries babble
inwhile actually facing the people. Things didnt stop there.
Before long, nuns werent wearing habits, priests were growing
their hair long, and instead of choirs-in-the-rafters singing
Hosanna at Mass, the congregation sangaccompanied not by an
organ, but by a guitarsongs about love and peace. Jesus Christ,
there was hippie-shit goin down in the Catholic Church! Now,
dont get the wrong idea. Priests didnt have to wear their hair
long and nuns didnt have to take off their habits (ohhhhh
imaginary flashback to my hot First Grade nun) and most of them
didnt, but they could and some did. Also, some of the Masses
were still spoken in Latin to appease all the old Catholics who
were freaked out with change. The bottom line was that the
Catholic Church was allowing experimentation while offering
traditional consolation to those who felt the need. Thats right,
experimentation and traditions were intended to coexist
peacefully together. In other words, Pope John and Pope Paul,
for very noble reasons in the early sixties, inadvertently created
an uncertain clerical schism that in seven years, in Iowa, would
lead to the perfect environment for a smart-ass, seventeen-yearold iconoclast to really screw with the heads of the priests and
nuns of his Catholic high school. Okay, Id missed The Golden
Age of Sex, but the Schism-for-Iconoclast Deal? I was all over it.
I suppose it officially started on a day innocently enough dubbed
Inside-Out Day by the Newman High School Football
Chapter 3
34
Cheerleaders Squad. God bless them. Inside Out Day? Hmmm
The idea of Inside Out Day was for all the girls in the school
to show their unflagging support and spirit for our football teams
Homecoming Game by wearing their school blazers inside out.
This was, of course, symbolic of how our players were going to
turn the other team inside out in our uproarious victory,
despite the fact that five games into the season wed lost every
game and had yet to score a single point. But, I supported the
football team. I had school spirit. The only thing I didnt have
was a school blazer, because only the girls had to wear blazers
with plaid skirts down to their knees. The guys only had to wear
dress slacks (no blue jeans!) and a shirt with a collar (no tee-shirts!)
(See chapter one for how fastidiously I complied with the dress
code.) So, what was I to do? Was I not to be included simply on a
gender/garment basis? I didnt think so. Hmmm
Before I resolve this dilemma, I think its appropriate to
round out my athletic career so we can put things in perspective.
As in most things, theres good news and bad news. Im going to
give you the mighty impressive good news first. In football, I
played offensive halfback, and to this day, hold the single-season
and lifetime school record for most average-yards per carry:
seven. Not too shabby, huh? And, in basketball, I played guard,
holding to this day the single-season and lifetime school record
for highest percentage of field goals scored: sixty-six percent.
Again, not too shabby.
Now, Im sure youre all asking yourselves, Holy mackerel,
how could such an outstanding and multi-disciplined athlete not
go pro but instead come to write the shit Im currently reading?
I dont know what to tell you, except that I was screwed out
of holding the official records in each case by nitpicking
technicalities. You have to carry the football more than once to
have an average. You cant play organized interschool
basketball for five years before you finally take a shot in a game,
and then count the two-out-of-three baskets made as sixty-six
percent in the record booksseasonal or lifetime. Well, thats
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35
bullshit, man! Is it any wonder why I have problems with

authority? Fortunately, Im big enough to overcome evil and still
live the Glory Days.
To wit:
In the fall of 1968, I found myself as a ninth-grade freshman
football player at Newman High weighing in, literally, at ninetyeight pounds. How did I make the team? Well, Newman had
fewer than four hundred students spread out over grades nine
through twelve, so competition and talent were scarce. If you
tried out for something, you generally made the team. Newmans
freshman/sophomore football team had exactly thirty hand-medown game jerseys from the varsity. Taking the course that
required the least thought, the freshman coaches decided if a cut
was required, theyd cut the team to thirty. I dont know how
many went out for football, but I do know that a lot of them quit
before the day for cuts came. Eventually, though, the day did
come, and the coaching staff acknowledged those that made the
team by throwing, one at a time, a numbered jersey to the
accepted player on the sideline, who then whooo-whoooed their
way to the center of the field. I was the only one there who did
the math, and therefore, was the only one not surprised when
they ran out of numbered jerseys, leaving me standing alone on
the sideline. One might not expect empathy from the coaches or
players of a rough-and-tough football team, but whoever might
have thought that on that day would have been wrong. One of
the coaches casually walked over to the pile of un-numbered
practice jerseys, threw me one, and told me to take to the field.
The whole team whooped and hollered as I, without shame,
whooo-whoooed my way to join my teammates. Listen, I knew I
sucked, but I had something to prove to my new schoolmates, my
father, and most of all to myself: I was tough enough to do
anything even if I totally sucked at it. Well, I proved it, and its a
good thing since it appears that doing things even though I suck
at them has become a lifetime theme. Take, for example, this
book.
I dont think theres any need to go into the details of the
Chapter 3
36
season, as its best summed up by the following. Before our first

game there was a pole, painted white, about eight feet tall, newly
planted next to our football field. We are the Newman Knights!
the coach explained, all fired up just before the game, standing
with his back to the pole with all of us players squatting on one
knee facing him. Coach made a grand, sweeping gesture to the
pole. And this is our lance! The jousting stick of a Knight! (This
was clearly redundant, but to his credit, he understood his
audience.) Now every time we score a touchdown, four inches
gets painted red. Every time we win a game, eight inches gets
painted red. Getting us pumped up for the first game he was
very excited and clearly building to a crescendo. By the end of
the season, coach said in the tone of a charismatic reborn, the
entire pole will be red!
Before anyone had a chance to cheer Ryan, who was not
only the starting quarterback but also the team captain, said,
The entire pole? Youd better cut it in half.
The coachs face turned to stone. John, he said to our
back-up quarterback, youre starting. Ryan, hit the showers.
Ryan, it turns out, had been optimistic. In the dead of the
night after game four, the coaches secretly took down the nearly
all-white stick, which had become too dispiriting to look at. It was
probably their best call all season.
But the Newman High School Freshman/Sophomore
Knights did slowly improve throughout the season, and despite
some very lop-sided losses, by the final game, the mighty Knights
(sans pole) found themselves ahead thirty points to six, with
possession of the ball and under a minute to play. Johnour
starting quarterback ever since Ryans commentwas behind the
center calling the count for the final play of the game when the
offensive coach started signaling and screaming for John to call a
timeout. When the coach finally caught his attention, John,
literally, did a double take. Timeout? Even John knew that with a
twenty-four-point lead and only seconds to play we needed to end
the game ASAP because, with the Knights, you just never knew.
Now Ryanwho only later would be my best friend,
Chapter 3
37
propose to screw Kathleen, and talk me into going to Europe

that, as you may recall, is the point of this bookwas sitting
next to me on the far end of the bench that was pretty much our
place because he had a smart mouth and I had no discernable
athletic talent, when John finally called timeout. The coach,
whose usual form of communication with me was limited to a
smack in the head, called out down the long line of the bench,
Sieleman!
What? I asked, shouting back. I wasnt doing anything.
Come here! he shouted.
I was just talking to Ryan, I explained, defensively.
Get! Your! Ass! Up! Here! he screamed, each word
delivered deliberately and alone like they were five, individual
exclamatory sentences, rounded out with a sixth, NOW!
Jesus Christ, I mumbled to myself, dragging my sorry ass
off the bench, dreading a head smacking during a game, in front
of the crowd, in front of my dad who went to every game despite
the fact I never played. God, I hated the idea of Dad seeingin
the final seconds of the season, no lessthe coach smack me in
the head.
John and the coach were standing together when I got there.
Coach, wearing his perpetual sneer, glanced at me as I pulled to a
stop before turning his attention to John.
I want you to call Option 16, he told John. Only, no
matter what, you hand the ball off to Sieleman. You got that?
We had, if I recall, about three running options, so naming
one of them Option 16 was more than a little superfluous, but I
suppose the coaches had some psychological reason, leaving no
stone unturned in forging such a dynamic team.
I got it, John said. With that, he ran onto the field.
Coach turned to me. Get in there and tell Ed to come out.
Except for a few defensive plays late in the games of lopsided
losses, Id sat on the bench all season long, and now I was going to
rush on the last play of the last game? Id have preferred the
smack in the head. Running out onto the field I developed a
mantra: Dont fumble dont run the wrong way. I knew
Chapter 3
38
what the surreptitiously named Option 16 was, what the blockers

were supposed to do, and the openings to look for, but these
made no difference to me. I wasnt going to be looking for holes
or making any cuts. I was going to keep it simple. Dont fumble
dont run the wrong way.
Ed, youre out, I said, trying not to sound terrified,
pounding him on the shoulder, as was our way. I joined the
huddle, where John was explaining to the players that Id be
carrying the ball. The team looked dubious.
We went to the line, and John started his count.
Option 16 my ass. Dad was in the stands, and I didnt want
to embarrass him. Dont fumble dont run the wrong way.
I took the handoff, cradled the ball for all I was worth,
dropped my head, and ran as hard as I could straight toward the
Knights goal line.
The whistles blew.
The horn sounded.
Game over.
I didnt fumble. I didnt run the wrong way. I didnt even
turn from the tacklers. Armed with my ninety-eight pounds, I
took them head on and standing up. Finally letting go of the ball,
I looked at the small set of stands where maybe thirty people
stood, smiling, clapping, and cheering because wed finally won a
game. My dad smiled and clapped too. He had his own reasons.
Okay, that covers football. Now, onto basketball.
Newman High was essentially all white except for, I dont
know, maybe around twenty teenagers of Mexican descent who
pretty much blended with the English, French, German,
Scandinavian, and whatever mess the rest of us were. Mexicans
in Iowa are very different than Mexicans in, say, Texas. People in
the Midwest tend to lose their ethnicity. I think its because when
the Great Plains were settled, the population was so thin and the
conditions so harsh that you depended on your few neighbors
and had no time to worry about ethnic descent. Sure Newman
had clicks, but they were social not ethnic. The Mexicans were
just like the rest of us except that instead of looking deathly white
Chapter 3
39
in the midst of the long cold Iowa winters, they looked healthy
and alive all year round. As individuals, they were our friends or
not, depending on whom they were, period, and we never gave it
much further thought. I understand the dynamics are going to be
different in New Mexico or even New York. Im not judging here,
Im just saying thats how it was where I grew up. Ethnicity in
Mason City didnt go any further than the supper table, which
meant having friends like Nick Masino (Italian friend) or Maria
Perez (Mexican girlfriend) just meant having really good food at
their parents home. And, oh, Mrs. Masino, Im still in love with
you for your homemade pasta.
For some reason, the healthy looking guys all tended to
wrestle, leaving our basketball team exclusively populated with
uncoordinated white boys. We had eleven guys on our team, of
which I was the most uncoordinated andbecause I dumped
handfuls of foot powder down my jockstrap (none of your
business) that created a white cloud around me as I ran up and
down the court looking like a purer version of Schulz Pig PenI
was also the whitest.
I bring this racial stuff up because our team of little Catholic
boys from tiny Newman in modest Mason City went to Waterloo,
a huge city by Iowa standards, to play East Waterloo High, which
had several thousand students, a great many of whom were
enormous, incredibly athletic African American men. Not boys
like us. Men!
All right! All right! All right! Now, goddamn it, all you who
are just now jumping up from your reading chairs screaming,
Racism! Racism or Profiling! Profiling! or whatever the hell
youre screaming, Ill tell you the same thing I told all the
emotional female readers in the first chapter who jumped up
yelling Objectified! Objectified! Settle the hell down! Im going
to devote the whole next chapter to racism, particularly with
regard to African Americans, but right now just let me go on
record as saying racism sucks no matter the color of the racist.
Therefore, dear readers, calm down and roll with me. Okay?
Now, any reasonable person would ask why a small Catholic
Chapter 3
40
high school of little white boys would schedule a basketball game

with a huge inner-city school ofIll say it againenormous,
incredibly athletic African American men. Although Im not
positive, I believe the answer is that the guy who did the
basketball scheduling was the same guy that came up with the
idea for the eight-foot spirit stick by our football field.
At any rate, we showed up in Waterloo scared shitless. But,
scared shitless or not, I wore the same clothes I had on the day
Ryan suggested we go to Europe: bright yellow corduroy
bellbottom hip-hugger pants with two rows of buttons in a V
shape for a fly, and a bright purple shirt with an enormous collar
and big puffy sleeves. Only, for East Waterloo High, I added a
bizarre tie about six inches wide that Id found in my
grandfathers closet and a pair of my fathers white buck golf
shoes (Id screwed the spikes out) with custom made, color
coordinated tri-colored flaps.
Man, one of the players on East Waterloos varsity
basketball team said to his teammates during halftime of the JV
game, looking down on me from a height of about six foot eleven,
the dude must be good to dress like that! There was no trace of
sarcasm on his face, and since his friends didnt laugh, to
encourage their delusion I nodded with all the cool I could muster.
Hey, what did I have to lose? Theyd never recognize me in my
warm-up suit, stumbling through drills before the game and at
halftime, or sitting with Ryan on the end of the bench throughout
the game.
Heres how the game went down. By the end of the first
quarter we were behind forty-six to nothing. Taking a risk, the
East Waterloo coach played only his second string during the
second quarter. We got hot on offense, tightened up our defense,
and by the end of the first half the score was sixty-eight to four.
During halftime, our coach screamed, and our starters hung
their heads. It was unfair. We could have been playing the New
York Knickerbockers (I know it may be hard to believe but back
then the Knickerbockers could play basketball) and it wouldnt
have made any difference. Really, what the hell did the coach
Chapter 3
41
expect?
And you, Tom, the coach screamed at our star guard,
and you Mark, he screamed at our other star guard, how is
it possible to play an entire half of a basketball game without
scoring a single point?
They hung their heads lower and said nothing.
Christ, Coach said. I might as well play Ryan and Mike.
Hey, that was my best friend and me he was slamming.
What the hell, he continued, wearily. Ryan Mike
youre playing the second half. With that, he left the locker room
in disgust.
Hey, fuck you coach! Sure, wait for a game against giants
who can dribble, shoot, and wink at their girlfriends in the stands
at the same time, shame us in front of our team, and then finally
play us.
However, things didnt turn out too bad. The East Waterloo
coach decided to play the entire second half with his third string.
Actually, Im not sure it was his third string. I think, during
halftime, the coach might have substituted his third string with
the third string from some local junior high or middle school. I
say this, in part, because the guy that was guarding me was white
and no more than six feet tall, and I didnt remember seeing any
white guys or guys under six foot six on the East Waterloo team
during warm-ups for the first half, and, in part, because as I was
dribbling to the top of the key, the guy defending me actually
said, Gees, Im getting tired running up and down the court.
How about you?
Now, up until this point Id never taken a shot in a game, not
in five years of organized school basketball. One of the reasons
was, of course, that I rarely played. Another reason was that I felt
for the sake of the team, I should always pass the ball off to
someone more worthy. Then there was the final reasonmy best
friend Ryan. Ryan and I were usually only inserted into games in
the last couple of minutes when we were either twenty or more
points ahead or behind and nothing really mattered. Ahead or
behind was theoretical, of course, because in real life, we were
Chapter 3
42
always twenty or more points behind. Anyway, anytime he got

the ball, Ryan would always do the same thing. Hed dribble out
on the perimeter, call out a random play with authority, and then
stop at the top of the key and take a shot.
Hey, he told me once, I hardly get a chance to play.
When I do and Ive got the ball Im shooting!
Ryan was a lot smarter than me in many ways and I knew it,
so after the Im getting tired comment, I figured it was time for
me to put my friends logic into practice. At the top of the key
with my defender at least four feet away, I took the shot.
Swoosh, the ball whispered, nary disturbing the net.
As I ran down-court, I heard the cheerleaders chanting,
Mike, Mike, hes our man. If he cant do it, no one can. They
were right. No one could. Finishing their cheer, they turned to
me smiling and laughing. It was inspiring to see them appreciate
irony despite being cheerleaders for a team down by nearly eighty
points. Screw it all, their sparkling eyes and smiles said in
defiance. God, they were beautiful!
So, what the hell? I did it again, made the shot, and got the
same cheer with more laughter.
On my third attempt, I failed, but though I didnt get a
cheer, I gave the cheerleaders a good shrug of my shoulders and
we laughed again.
So. Two-out-of-three baskets. Sixty-six percent.
Glory Days.
With my athletic career in perspective, its time to get back to
Inside-Out Day. Where was I? Oh yes, I remember. The girls
had school blazers to turn inside out and I, being male, did not.
So, what was I to do? Hmmm
Clearly there was only one solution: go to school with all my
clothes worn inside out. Therefore, the next morning when my
friends picked me up for schoolI think it was Bills turn to
drivethey found me with my slacks, shirt, and winter overcoat
all inside out. I even had a pair of socks in hand to put, inside out,
over my shoes when we got inside the dry school. Naturally, as it
Chapter 3
43
was just the girls who were supposed to wear only their blazers
inside out, my friends got a good laugh at how ridiculous I
looked. My friends usually got a laugh at how I looked, but
Inside-Out Day was extra special.
By the time I walked into school and made my way to my
locker, many of the students got a good laugh out of the whole
thing. Providence, for some reason I wasnt going to question,
provided that Bills locker was directly across from mine, meaning
that Bill was watching and laughing as I put my socks inside out
over my shoes. Being a master showman, that was just the
attention getter. After attaining maximum attention from as
many students as possible, I proceeded with the unveiling,
nonchalantly taking off my inside out winter coat and displaying
myselfas you smart readers probably guessed long agowith
my underwear on the outside of my pants and, naturally, inside
out.
Bills eyes went wide for only a split-second before he erupted
in laughter, but heres the interesting thing: about half the
students laughed uproariously as did Bill, but the other half stood
in genuine shock. That astounded me. How could they not see it
coming, and how could they be shocked? Were talking about me,
after all, so what else could have been expected?
As the day wore on, things got more interesting. The faculty,
for example, was split down the middle like the students, with half
of them laughing and half of them in shock. Later, however, as
the shock wore off, outrage grew.
Ridiculous.
Sister Mary Laura Marie, coming around the corner of a
hallway and catching me dead on, covered her eyes with her
hand and losing direction, banged into an open locker door.
However, she wasnt hurt, and I wasnt buying her losing
direction excuse. Is it my fault a nun got so sexually aroused at
seeing me in my underwear that she lost her ability to navigate,
or in other words, that a member of the faculty lost a faculty?
You must understand that Sister Mary Laura Marie was the
sex-Nazi nun of the school. If she caught someone kissing in the
Chapter 3
44
hall, shed immediately slap both offenders in the face, hard, and
then scream, If you do this in the green, what do you do in the
wood? a phrase that if changed from the interrogative to the
declarative and the verbiage brought to the current century
means, If youre kissing in the hallways in front of everyone, you
must be fucking in your cars.
I know this is a further digression, but Ive got to tell you a
little bit more about Sister Laura Marie, because sex-Nazi nun
might be a little one sided. Sister Laura Marie and I had a special
relationship. I took Latin from her for the first two years of high
school, and French from her the final two years. Therefore, I had
class with her every day of every school year throughout high
school, which is a consistency unique in my experience. Now, as a
freshman, I would pull pranks on her but they were always
innocent. You know, for example, in the middle of a Latin test, I
once jumped out of my seat and started crawling around on the
floor looking for a dropped contact lens that, of course, did not
exist. A few friends joined in the hunt and after several minutes I
stood, walked right up to Sister Laura Marie, held my hand
before me with exactly nothing in the gap between my finger and
thumb, and asked, Sister, may I please be excused to wash my
contact lens?
Of course, dear, she smiled.
After four years of stuff like this going on, Id grown to really
like Sister Laura Marie. And Sister Laura Marie grew to really
like me, because sometimes Id do something like come to class
fifteen minutes late with no written excuse, only my verbal one
saying, Hey, a friend of mine was in trouble and needed my
help. It was important. Ill catch up on the French. Unlike the
contact lens incident, Id be telling the truth. Sister Laura Marie
recognized the truth (sometimes) and appreciatedin a unique
way that probably only a nun canthe sanctity of friendship. We
became good friends simply because she let it happen. It was a
peculiar and mixed blessing for her, because shed have to
endure, when we were alone, asinine joking from me such as, I
know what goes on in those convents I know youre a lesbian
Chapter 3
45
You can come clean. Shed laugh and blush like a young
schoolgirl. Nevertheless, she got some good stuff from me too,
because I was the only student she confided in when her mother
was dying and, finally, passed away. Im sure she got plenty of
shes in a better place sentiments from the church, and Im sure
the sentiments were sincere, but nun or not, she needed what we
all need under such circumstances. So, when I said, Sure, shes
in a better place, but it really sucks for you, she finally wept
while being held by a friend.
Thus, there was hilarity and outrage at my wearing my
underwear on the outside of my pants, which, I should point out,
were actually a brand new pair of boxers of my fathers, because I
didnt have any new ones (new being required, should you ever
need to pull off this stunt) and because even if Id had new ones,
they wouldnt have fit over my actual under wear and pants. The
amazing thing, to me at least, was that despite all the outrage,
nobody confronted me, not on the Friday of Inside Out Day.
On the following Monday, however, as we were all sitting
quietly in our morning homerooms, the loudspeaker crackled on.
Mr. Sieleman. Mr. Sieleman, came the voice, not of the
usual office secretary, but of the principal himself. Report to the
principals office. Immediately.
Click.
Gees, usually I got a please report.
Laughter rolled throughout the school as everyone recalled
my show of school spirit and support for the football team that on
the Friday night prior had, of course, gotten shellacked.
Off to the principals office I went, undaunted, inured to the
cross I bore. I whizzed by the secretaries behind the desk who all
looked at me, each one, with commiserative apprehension, their
eyes communicating both gratitude for my prank and empathy
for my punishment. I went straight to Office of the Principal
without words. It was an established procedure.
Close the door and sit down, Father Haynes said, leaning
back in the chair behind his desk, pointing with a rather sharp
wooden pencil to the chair on the opposite side of his desk from
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46
his own.
Have I mentioned that corporeal punishment was allowed in
Catholic schools? Its why I noticed and pointed out to you the
sharpness of the principals pencil. While Id never heard of
pencil torture, I was aware that on the practice of torture the
Catholic Church had historically been quite creative. I had my
guard up.
The second my code-approved, pants-covered ass hit the
naugahyde chair (all the money goes to Rome), the principal
started. He leaned forward with a stern look on his face, and
asked, What do you think you were doing?
Really, why do people assume I know what Im doing? I no
more knew why I wore my underwear on the outside of my pants
than I knew why I crawled around on the floor looking for a
nonexistent contact lens four years earlier. Nevertheless, I
supposed he needed to hear something, and I didnt like the way
he was holding the pencil.
I was supporting the football team and adding to the
schools team spirit by contributing to Inside Out Day, I said, as
calmly as I could, giving him the official reasons for the special
day. Hey, I didnt invent it. I just participated.
His eyes narrowed and the veins in his neck popped out to
the extent his funky little priest collar would allow.
Dont screw with me, he said. What. Do. You. Think.
You. Were. Doing?
Ive never understood why people repeat the same question,
slowly, with emphasis on each word. If English was not my base
language, maybe that method of speech would help by giving me
time to translate. However, he knew very well I spoke English at
least fairly fluently, and the question had been asked and
answered. I had a mind to repeat my exact same answer
employing his exact method of speech, but I was not completely
stupid. I held my peace. Besides, I was looking for peace and
knew this man was not unreasonable. Not usually. In fact, Father
Haynes was pretty bright, and though wed never officially
discussed it, I think he was one of the few who really understood
Chapter 3
47
the Schism-for-Iconoclast Deal. In addition, he still had that

sharp pencil, and you never know when the sudden urge to save a
soul might strike an ordained minister of The Church.
It should be revealed that a couple of my friends had started
a movement to allow blue jeans to be worn in school, and that the
school board had turned them down. Id lent my friends my
support, but I drew the line at going to the hour-long sit-in in the
gymnasium. I found it distasteful to employ the same tactics used
to try to end an immoral warwhere people were dying!to try
to end an oppressive dress code that, to my knowledge, never
even injured anyone. Nevertheless, still unhappy with the
upholding of the no blue-jeans rule, I had a little play left in me.
You know, I pointed out, I was fully compliant with the
dress code: underwear, dress pants, socks, dress shoes, and a shirt
with a collar. Theres nothing in the dress code about the order in
which theyre worn. I was going to add that it was not my fault
that he, the school board, the infallible Pope, and ultimately God
himself missed a loophole that Id found, but I figured Id slowed
his speech pattern down enough and I didnt want to be in there
all day. Besides, the veins in his neck were getting pretty big, and
pastoral collars have only so much give.
He stared at me for a while, hard, and then he softened a bit.
He was a reasonable man, and since he was a bureaucrat, he
knew Id made a good point. To his credit, I even believe he liked
the fact that I could occasionally be quite clever. While he was
searching for a new position to defend, I thought Id press my
advantage to end the battle.
Look, I said, honestly, because when Im not playing
around or when I dont know what to do, I always default to the
truth, I was just trying to have some fun. Not just for me, but for
everybody. And, most people did think it was pretty funny.
Uh-oh. I could tell by the look on his face my ploy had
backfired. Somehow, Id given him a new position.
Many people, however, he said, with a look that implied
he was on firm ground, did not think it was funny. Many people
were offended, and that, he emphasized, is not something I will
Chapter 3
48
tolerate.
My response was immediate.
If in a world where there is an immoral war that is killing
thousands of young American kids and countless Vietnamese,
Cambodians, and Laotians; where a handful of nations stand
with nuclear arsenals a hair-trigger from destroying all Gods
creation; where innocent children are starving to death by the
thousands every day in Bangladesh and who knows how many
other countries; where we cant even begin to count the number
of nations, right now, torn by civil wars raging, killing, torturing,
starving, and committing only God knows what atrocities; if in
such a world, people find the pettiness to be offended by some stupid
teenager for wearing his underwear on the outside of his pants,
then theyre the ones who should be in your office getting a
lecture right now, not me.
It was quite a little speech. It was sincere, impassioned, and I
have no idea where it came from. It was like manna from
Heaven, which, come to think of it, is probably exactly what it
was and where it came from. The principal, being a sincere man
of God, I believe recognized this truth.
I could see the Man-of-God/bureaucrat wheels where
spinning in his head, and I think his internal dialogue went
something like this. Shit, hes right. In fact, hes really right.
Dear God, how can such a piss-ant little fucker like Sieleman be
right? Oh, God, I know its not mine to question. I accept the
burden. But, what do I do about those idiots that were actually
offended and whove been harping on me all friggin weekend to do
something about it? Good Lord, it really was just an innocuous,
silly little stunt that was, I have to admit, pretty damn funny.
Actually, I wish Id thought of it. Oh, well so what do I do?
Come on God; help me out here. Lets see. I did call him into the
principals office. Everybody heard it on the loudspeaker and
everybody knows the reason why. Yeah by Jove that will
work. I do nothing! And, when all those nitpicking, small minded,
offended staff members press me on the issue Ill just wink and
say, Dont worry, Ive taken care of it. He wont be doing that
Chapter 3
49
again. And he wont, because, why would he? Good. Problem

solved.
Okay, he said to me, straight faced. You can go.
Thanks, I said, meaning it.
And that was that, because Schism-for-Iconoclast Deal
notwithstanding, for men who think with honesty and with love,
there is an honor that transcends any chasm thateven between
a principal and a piss-ant little fuckerbrings not a
separation but a union through which can grow the recognition
of simple truths. Father Haynes and I saw, for example, that
people need to get over the trivial and focus on the meaningful,
and that being a human being is not an easy business, no matter
on which side of the pants you wear your underwear.
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50
CHAPTER 4
Virtual Chapter 2.75
I suspect, dear readers, you may be a bit confused (perhaps

dismayed?) with seeing Chapter Four titled Virtual Chapter
2.75. I have to admit, I am. Regardless, let me explain.
As discussed in Chapter 3, Chapter 2 was envisioned as
putting Ryans and my trip to Europe into historical perspective
and was to cover two aspects: The Golden Age of Sex and the
Schism-for-Iconoclast Deal. However, I got off on a long tangent
on sex in Chapter 2 (big surprisesarcasm intended), which grew
so outrageously long that I had to end it and hold off on the
schism thing until Chapter 3. Still, Chapter 3 didnt get the job
done, because I actually spent more time on the schism thing
than the sex thing (big surpriseno sarcasm intended). And,
guess what? Im still not done.
Now, I know you might be frustrated, but I dont control the
Muses. While my recall of Greek Mythology is sketchy, I do
remember the Muses are women, so Im not going to mess with
them. Why? Ill tell you why: a woman really scares me, women
(plural of woman) really, really scare me, god-women (women
with supernatural powers) really, really, really scare me, and god-
Chapter 4
51
women who have control over what Im writing is really, really,

really, really scary. Were talking exponential scariness to the
fourth power (if youve been counting), and that is a level scary
enough to outweigh even my caddish impulse to blame the Muses
for the mess Im making with this book. Ill carry the blame,
but let me point out that in the first sentence of the first chapter, I
did warn you this thing will meander and digress all over the
place. Okay, Ill admit in my second sentence I wrote Therein,
I hope, will lay its charm, and that at times might have been a
stretch, but come on show some compassion. There have
been moments. Right?
All quibbling aside we are here in Chapter 4, which will be, I
promise, the end of the Schism-for-Iconoclast Deal and the whole
Many wonderful things have occurred during my lifetime that
were all about timing thing that was supposed to be all
contained in Chapter 2. Chapter 2 and its illegitimate virtual
offspring end here.
Oh, one more small detail: I wrote in Chapter 3, Im going
to devote the whole next chapter to racism. Ill repeat that now,
thereby making it pursuant to the next chapter, meaning, of
course, it isnt happening here in Chapter 4. Come Chapter 5, it
will happen I swear! Ill give it legitimacy and you hope by
titling it right here as Chapter 5: The Race Chapter.
Now, I give you, the actual conclusion to Chapter 2.
Theres an aspect of the Schism-for-Iconoclast Deal thats
very important, one on which Ive not even touched. While it did
create an opportune time to be a smart-ass teenager that some
people took advantage of, it was also very enlightening. Ive made
many jokes at the expense of the Catholic Church (they can
afford it), but it did give me religion classes each day of the school
year from grades one through twelve. Yes, there was a lot of
dogmatic crap butespecially after the Ecumenical Council and
as my classmates and I grew olderthere was room for
exploration about our lives and what they meant. Important
questions were asked in these classes, and there was openness in
the dialog that followed between teachers and students. Most
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52
questions were never answered, of course, but the questions

themselves led to an intellectual and moral exploration of very
important subjects: what was it to be a human being; what was
the nature of our individuality; how were we connected to the
world around us; what was our connection to God; was there a
God and if so what could It be; and even was there being or was it
all just non-being with the illusion of being. Id go on, but I could
never really capture it, and this paragraph is already boring me.
My Muses are falling asleep. So lets just have the understanding
we do from the above and move back to me being a smart-ass
teenager and an emerging hippie.
Im going to close out the Schism-for-Iconoclast Deal with a
story about a Guitar Mass, but first I have to digress to
something, because while it has nothing to do with either the
Golden Age of Sex or the Schism-for-Iconoclast Deal, it
chronologically falls in place here and you know what a stickler I
am for form. Besides, this is a story that quite simply stands on its
own.
Brace yourself.
One fine early spring day, I was casually sitting alone in one
of the classrooms looking out at the beginning of the seasons
greening, the blue sky, and the towering white clouds that
sometimes drift across the great prairie like majestic moving
mountains, when a classmate I barely knew came up to me and
randomly asked, Have you ever had sex with a fly?
Now, dear reader, if you havent already done so, I want you
to go back and read again that young mans question, repeatedly,
until youve assured yourself that I did (in fact) write what he did
(in fact) say, and that, yes, it is what you (in fact) read. For the
sake of perspective, I would also like you to pause here, picture
yourself at work doing whatever is you doreally put yourself in
that placeand then imagine someone you barely know
suddenly asking you, Have you ever had sex with a fly? Go
ahead. Put that psychological garment on. Walk around for a bit.
Comfy? Not so much? Good. Weve just established a level of
intimacy that should serve us well in the writing/reading of this
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53
book.
Im sure youre all inexplicably and unbelievably eager to
hear more on this sex with flies business, and I hate to throw in
some cliffhanger crap here, but there is something I need to
address.
Its heartbreaking to me that I cant use the real life names of
every person in this book, because these people really mean a lot
to me every one of them. However, as theyre not here to
represent (defend) themselves, I have to honor their privacy.
Therefore, I need to use aliases.
Theres an old joke about an American tourist in Ireland
who sits at the bar next to a lone local, introduces himself, and
asks the mans name. The Irishman looks at him and says in thick
Irish brogue: You see that harbor down there? I drove every
piling. You see the chimneys in the village? I laid the stones for
nearly half of them. You see the very bar at which we sit? I built it
with me bare hands. But, do they call me Patrick the Pile Driver?
No! Patrick the Brick Layer? No! Patrick the Carpenter? No! But
you fuck just one sheep
Therefore, in the case of the guy who hit me with the
disturbing fly question, Im naming him Patrick Smith, and hes
the perfect example of the need for aliases. You have to know
without doubt that if I used his real name, somebody, someday,
somewhere, would call Patrick Smith, Patrick the Fly Fucker.
Unquestionably, the name would stick until someone was killed. I
want to accomplish many things with this book, but I do not
include amongst them the ambition to initiate an inevitable
murder.
(There it is. The bar for this book has been set.)
Patrick wasnt from Mason City. He was a farm boy from
one of the handful of small towns that bussed their Catholic kids
to our school. Ill call the town Smithfieldagain as an alias to
avoid the inevitable appellation of Fly Fuckerfield.
Now back to the story.
Patrick Smith from Smithfield repeated his question all
matter of fact, Have you ever had sex with a fly?
Chapter 4
54
Okay, he was a farm boy and that explains a lot, but still his
question stunned me. I mean, a question about sex with sheep,
hogs, chickens, sisters, cousins, parentsyou know, the normal
stuffand I wouldnt have been that surprised ... but flies?
As it was daylight, and we were in a densely populated school
where I knew my screams could be heard if I deemed them
necessary, instead of just flat out running I asked, Excuse me?
You dont know about it? he asked.
No, I replied, for once not ashamed of my ignorance on a
subject.
Man, you ought to, he said, with the creepy smile and halfwink genetically encoded in sex offenders. Its awesome!
He stopped, pausing for effect.
(Whod have thought farm boys had a sense of drama?)
Ummm I began cautiously, even (Ill admit) curiously,
drawn like a moth to flame, like a fly to oh, lets leave that
alone. I have no idea what youre talking about, I said.
Listen, it goes like this, he said, leaning forward in an eerie
conspiratorial way, as if about to spill some ancient, diabolical
secret. His expression, mixed as it was with the aforementioned
sex offender smile/wink, was more than enough to make me lean
away incrementally as he leaned forward. However, Patrick was
undaunted. Warming to his subject, he leaned in even closer.
Okay, you catch a fly. Right? But you have to catch it alive.
You dont want to hurt it! You put it in a jar with some holes in
the top for air, and then you take it to the bathroom. You place
the jar on the edge of the bathtub, start to draw water, take your
clothes off, and get in the tub. You adjust the temperature and fill
the tub until just the head of your dick sticks out of the water.
Thats really important. The head of your dick and only the head
of your dick should stick out of the water. Now, heres the tricky
part. You have to get the fly out of the jar and hold it by the
wings pinched between your thumb and forefingers using one
hand on each wing.
He demonstrated with his hands by holding an imaginary fly
in an empty gap, not unlike (Ill uncomfortably admit) the contact
Chapter 4
55
lens trick.
You dont want to hurt the fly or it screws everything up.
You have to be gentle. Anyway, you carefully set the fly down on
the head of your dick and then, boom! You pull off both the
wings!
Patrick jerked his hands apart in dramatic demonstration.
Now, the fly is in shock, but it cant fly away, so it just runs
around on the head of your dick. Its in a panic, but everywhere it
goes, it runs into water, so it just keeps running, at lightning
speed, all over the head of your dick with its sticky little feet. The
feeling is just fucking incredible! Really, man, you cant believe it.
Its awesome!
Sticky little feet does it, huh?
Yeah, he slavered. You gotta try it!
Ill pass.
He looked at me in disbelief. Man, he said, shaking his
head in pity, you dont know what youre missing.
Thats okay. Im good.
A strange look of incredulity crossed his face, and shaking his
head with a commiserative sadness, he stood, turned decisively,
and walked away without ever looking back. I was, clearly,
unworthy.
If youve properly put yourself in my place, Im sure youll
realize that a story like that is going to stick with you regardless of
the time that passes, the amount of drugs you take, or the
counseling you seek.
Approximately sixteen years later, I was telling this story to a
couple of friends of mine in a bar, and we got a good laugh out of
it. We were still laughing a bit when our waitress came up to the
table and asked if there was anything else she could get us.
Do you have any flies? I asked.
The waitress, having no clue what wed been discussing,
answered animatedly, Not on me.
We laughed until our hearts nearly stopped, and then
laughed again.
Oh, but theres more.
Chapter 4
56
I moved out of Iowa when I was twenty-eight, but even when

in Iowa, Id never gone to a single class reunion, keeping in
contact with only a couple of friends. So, when I finally did return
for a reunion, my thirtieth, it was to see a bunch of people who
meant a lot to me, but whom I hadnt seen since graduation.
Talking with Jack Jackson (another obvious alias) at the
reunion, I was telling him the thirty-year old Sex with Flies story,
not because thats all I ever talk about, by the way, but because
he happened to be a farm boy from Smithfield, and I figured hed
appreciate the story and get a good laugh.
Throughout my life, the Sex with Flies story was always a big
hit, but as I told Jack the story, I saw him growing increasingly
uncomfortable. Unlike Patrick, whom I hardly knew, Jack and I
were close friends in high school. He should have loved the story.
But Jack wasnt laughing. Jack wasnt shocked. A certain
discomfort grew as I told the story, but it didnt matter. The Sex
with Flies storyI was findingwas one of those tales that once
begun has to be finished.
When the story came to an unsettling close, Jack looked at
me, dead serious, and asked, Who told you that?
Rummaging through my poor old memory I said, I think it
was Patrick Smith, but Im not sure.
That bastard, Jack said.
Huh?
We took an oath not to tell anyone.
Good God! There was more than one, and one was my
friend Jack!
We? I asked, tentatively. You might think thirty years
might have been enough to resolve this thingI had thought so
but this we information brought it back in multiples.
Yeah, Jack said, suddenly calming, coming to grips with
the betrayal, and making a decision. All us Smithfield farm boys
did it, but we werent supposed to tell anyone. Then he laughed
gently. Ah well, time for another drink.
Jack, of course, was Irish.
The fly story pretty much encapsulates Iowa. At times things
Chapter 4
57
get so dull even the insects arent safe.

While the fly story is at last safely finished, I have one related
tidbit to add. When I was in high school, Patrick, Jack, and all the
farm boys I knew came from farms their fathers and grandfathers
and sometimes great-grandfathers had nurtured and cultivated.
Even with only a hundred acres or so, they lived well enough,
some very well. There were hard years, yes, but somehow they
got through. Today, I dont know of one family farm from those
boys that still exists. I knew that over the years, they and their
wives all took second jobs in an effort to support their farms and
their families, but in the end, they couldnt compete with the
bigger farmers, and soon even the bigger farmers couldnt
compete with the corporate goliaths. Its no different for ranchers,
fisherman, loggers, little hardware store guys, or well you
name the way of life. Every day, there are fewer and fewer
independents. Some talk about a thousand points of light, but
once there were millions, they were real, and now they are
vanishing. When they are gone, what are we? We are statistics on
a corporate spreadsheet, numbers in a government study. Some
talk about family values, but is corporate America where family
values are planted, nurtured, and grown? No, but we give too
little consideration to this, because weve been taught to measure
our worth by the numbers on Wall Street, and because were too
busy working hard to make the rich richer and bailing out Wall
Street to see its smothering our real values.
But enough on Sex with Flies. On to The Guitar Mass.
Recall that the 21st Ecumenical Council of the Catholic
Church made great strides to make the Mass more accessible to
the people. One of the things they did was to offer Guitar Masses,
wherein a few young folks played guitars and sang near the altar,
instead of a formal choir singing up in the rafters in the back of
the church. They encouraged the congregation to join in, but in
the early days the effect was pitiful. Old people, if they wanted to
sing in church, would have just become Baptists or something,
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58
and the young people didnt want to sing lame songs with
something as cool as a guitar. However, in the small chapel at
Newman High, we were able to take things a bit further in Mass
by bringing in songs like John Lennons Give Peace a Chance, and
then the congregation of students actually did get into it.
Near the end of my senior year, on a beautiful spring day,
the powers that be decided to have a Guitar Mass outside, under
Gods glorious blue sky and brilliantly bright sun. It was a great
idea. A friend of mine, who has as good a voice as Ive ever
heard, was singing and playing the guitar, leading us in rock
songs that were relevant to the message of the Catholic Church.
Rock songs relevant to the Catholic Church? you may ask.
Well yeah. Let me point something out that should be
obvious but yet is often not. The Catholic Church is Christian,
and Christianity is all about peace and love. This fact may come
as a shock to many Catholics and many Christians, but if you
actually read the Bible, cover to cover, by yourselfas opposed to
getting biblical sound bytes out of priests or shit-heads on TV
youll see the truth: Christ was all about peace and love.
Moreover, with Jesus, peace and love was something meant and
lived, not just opportunistic jargon he mumbled while fleecing
your pockets. Christ actually took his stuff seriously.
While Im herea propos of the constant wars that are
fought between Christians, Muslims, Jews, and whatever-haveyou religionsIm going to point out that the basis of all religions
is peace and love, that all of you warriors for God make God
want to puke, and considering God has an infinitely strong
stomach, thats not a good thing. Id go on, but those who dont
get the sentence above wont get it no matter what I say, and they
probably stopped reading this book a long time ago. So Ill just
continue with those of you who do understand this most obvious
of obviosities: God, by any name, is still God, and God loves love,
as well as its natural derivativepeace. Simple. Right?
Getting back to the subject, there was a natural marriage
between real people of the cloth and real members of the peace
and love generation. Thus, a Guitar Mass generally worked, with
Chapter 4
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love and peace abounding. There are, however, by definition

always exceptions to generalities. This particular Guitar Mass,
even under that perfect spring sky, would be such an example.
There is a part of the Mass where supplications from the
congregation are offered up to God. In the case of a formal Mass
held in church, people will submit their supplication to the
rectory during the week. Thus, when Sunday rolls around, during
this part of the Mass, youll hear the priest say something like,
For the returning health of Joe Jones who suffered a heart
attack, and is now in intensive care at Mercy Hospital, let us
pray. The congregation then says, Let us pray. There were
usually between six to twelve special supplications, with some
general standards for times when, mercifully, there was a shortage
of supplications.
Now, at a Guitar-Mass at Newman High, we were both
small enough and communal enough to just blurt out whatever
we had to say right there in the Mass. So, for example, Patrick
Smith might say, For the souls of all the departed, de-parted
insects, let us pray and the priest would repeat, For the souls of
all the departed, de-parted insects, let us pray, to which wed all
say, Let us pray. (Patrick Smith, though he probably should
have, never offered such a supplication its just an example.)
The point is the priest would take requests from the crowd, and
he could not refuse any supplication sincestanding between the
supplicant and Godthis was his irrevocable duty.
On that day, the Guitar Mass was said by no ordinary priest,
but by Father MacPhadden, who had been a Chaplin in the
Marine Corps in Vietnam, coached wrestling, and was the goto priest when it was time to smack some student aroundI
meanto, with grievous heart, meet out corporeal punishment to
save a misguided soul. I dont think a students soul was ever on
the line, but Father MacPhadden never explored that
differentiation. He always defaulted to a lets just smack them
and make sure stance. I didnt like MacPhadden.
The supplication part of the Mass came along and, I have to
tell you, while school Masses were generally good as far as Masses
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60
go, that part of a school Mass sucked. Despite all the peace and
love stuff, we all know how cruel teenagers can be, so students
didnt want to expose their vulnerabilities. I, however, was
unafraid, and desirous of making even this part of the Mass a
success, I decided I was going to supplicate.
For the well being of the girls in our school who have
morally struggled, silently and alone, with abortions undertaken
because they had been taught that using oral-contraception was a
sin, let us pray, I supplicated.
Father MacPhadden, unlike our principal, lifted weights, so
when the veins in his neck stood out you could see the blood
pumping through them beat by beat. His eyes narrowed as he
drew a bead on me. Moments passed. Students stopped
whispering. Birds stopped singing. And then to everyones
amazement (especially mine) Father MacPhadden said what he
was supposednaywhat he was Ordained to say, For the well
being of the girls in our school who have morally struggled,
silently and alone, with abortions undertaken because they had
been taught that using oral-contraception was a sin, let us pray.
He took a long time, the words coming very slowly in that slow,
staccato, one-word-sentence way people, for some reason, seem
so often to employ with me. God only knows why.
About half the students managed to mumble the reply, Let
us pray.
I made a second supplication and though I dont remember
what it was, it was along similar lines and had much the same
effect. Father MacPhadden once again said what he was
Ordained to say, in the same slow staccato, only this time, with
each word, both the circumference of the veins in his neck and
the redness in his face ratcheted up a notch. The students
maintained silence. The birds still withheld song. Now, however,
even the insects were stillfor once not out of fear of the
Smithfield boys. The look on MacPhaddens face was chilling,
and it gave me pause to think. Should I go for a third
supplication?
Pros and Cons:
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61
Pro: (1) There is a natural symmetry about doing things in

threes. In the Christian religion alone, you have God as a Trinity:
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Then theres Jesus, Mary, and
Joseph; Heaven, Earth, and Hell; three crucifixions (Christ and
two two-bit role players); Peters denial of Christ three times
before the cock crowed, and on and on and on. Therefore, the
Three Supplications of a Smart-Ass would fit in well. (2) Probably
three-quarters of the students gave a rousing Let us pray on the
second go (up a quarter from the first) because they all knew
Father MacPhaddens anger was directed upon only me and they
could, therefore, butt in on my action without peril to themselves.
Being a natural leader, I supposed I should lead. (3) Ryan was
standing beside me, saying out of the corner of his mouth with
great delight and only a hint of concern, Sieleman, I cant
believe youre doing this. Being an innate giver, it was only
natural I should give my friend joy. (4) Despite the adrenaline
coursing through his body, Father MacPhadden was a squat man
with short legs, and I was six-foot-one, a hundred and thirty-five
pounds (Id shot up remarkably during my last two years of high
school), and was mostly all legs. I was pretty sure I could outrun
him.
Con: (1) Maybe I was wrong about Pro (4), and MacPhadden
would run me down and kill me. (2)
I waited, but there was only one Con.
Four-to-one, Pro wins, and actually, it was never really a
contest, because an eighteen-year-old boy believes hes invincible.
Which is why, as we all know, the old men who start wars send
eighteen-year-olds off to do the fighting. Unfortunately, by the
time these young men learn that they are wrong and are not
invincible, but are very vincibleas evinced from the bodies that
lie around them on the battlefieldits too late. Shame times ten
to the twenty-third power upon these bastard old men who send
boys to war for some obscure ideology, some preposterous
somethingism. I was a lucky. Those of us graduating in 1972 were
the first in as many years as I could remember that didnt need to
worry about the draft and going to Vietnam. The war was
Chapter 4
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winding down as the old bastards closed in on a Peace with

Honor that came at the cost of so many goddamn young men
my own age who had gone and died before me, or had come
home too often debilitated, scarred, and ignored. So, with all
these thoughts whirling around in my head on that beautiful
spring day, and with MacPhadden snarling away like the very
culmination of all the old warmongering bastards that ever lived,
the Pro versus Con count suddenly didnt matter one whit. Pro
was a go.
For all of the young men who found the courage and
wisdom to choose imprisonment or defection to Canada rather
than fight in an immoral war, who chose peace over bloodshed,
the way of Christ over the way of violence, let us pray.
My eyes were as firm and fixed on MacPhadden as his were
on mine.
A long of time passed.
For all the young men, Father MacPhadden began, in the
same, slow, staccato hed used before, only now, there was real
blood in his voice, who found the
Thats where MacPhadden stopped.
Ryan looked at me like hed already lost his best friend. I
planted a toe in the turf.
While I would love to write that MacPhadden parted the
Body and Blood of Christ as he leapt over the altar, effectively
saying Out of the way Jesus, Im going to kill the motherfucker
as an uproarious chase began, I cant, because he didnt. Im
certain he thought about it, but he withheld. Instead, Father
MacPhadden followed his beliefs, put himself aside, and stood
between man and God as he had promised at his Ordination.
who found, he continued, the courage and wisdom to
choose imprisonment or defection to Canada rather than fight in
an immoral war, who chose peace over bloodshed, the way of
Christ over the way of violence, let us pray.
Let us pray.
That, amazingly, was that.
Now
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Over the years, Ive worked with and become friends with a
number of veterans of Vietnam and a plethora of other wars too,
and I cant think of even one I dont respect. I also know that I
can be wrong about things, and that what may be morally wrong
for me may be morally right for another. Ill rail against any war,
but I will not rail against any warrior. However, I will say to any
would-be young warrior, DO NOT DO IT! I dont care what
you think. I dont care what youve been told. Dont do it. Tell
the old bastards that would send you to war to go fuck
themselves. In this technologically advanced world we live in
where devastating arms can be easily obtained, and where items
like a rented truck full of fertilizer or a hijacked jet full of fuel can
be made into weapons of mass destructionthere is just no more
room for violence. We have reached a point in history where
violence is always no-win. Its time to prepare for peace.
And, whether you are caught up in violence of these
confusing days or not, remember, for others as well as for
yourselves, forgiveness always, forgiveness.
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CHAPTER 5
The Race Chapter
Being raised in Mason City meant there were virtually no racism

issues. I can recall only a single African American family that
lived in our town, and I only knew that because we often drove
by their home on 6th Street to get downtown. While no ghetto,
6th Street was modest living. The family had one boy about my
age, and I never met him other than looking out the window of
the car at him as we drove by. He was always alone. I figured that
must have been tough.
When I was a kid, my few experiences being around African
American people came from family vacations. We were modestly
middle class, so although we went by car to California when I was
five, all other vacationsexcept for a couple of forays to the
Black Hills via the Bad Lands, Wall Drug, and the Corn Palace
consisted of driving to a big mid-western city, such as Milwaukee,
St. Louis, or Chicago. My parents idea, Im sure, was to round
out my sister, my brother, and me by having us see something
besides cornfields, grain elevators, and the Corn Palace.
We went to the big cities to see museums, amusement parks,
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aquariums, zoos, and in general, just hang out around the hotels
pool. However, my father seemed to have a rule that before
checking into the hotel of every city we vacationed in, we had to
get lost in the heart of its African American ghetto. Fortunately,
these inadvertent forays never started a riotsomething my older
sister and I always feared from watching the race riots of the
sixties on the TV newsand once safely in our hotel room, wed
reassure ourselves that the accidental side trips were both
interesting and informative. They also, somehow, always seemed
to revolve around my little brother, Dan, who was seven years my
junior.
Lost in St. Louis, my dad pulled over to the curb and said to
us, Hey, that looks like a Holiday Inn. Why dont we go in and
ask for directions to our hotel?
Looking out the window, I understood my fathers point, but
didnt agree. The buildings architecture did display Holiday
Inns look back then, and there was a sign in front fashioned like
the old Holiday Inn signs, but there was no Holiday Inn
written on the sign or anywhere else. The marquee was without
letters, and the light sockets without lights.
I dont think thats a Holiday Inn, I told my dad, showing
the street savvy of a sixteen-year-old from Iowa, noticing the
perplexed African American faces peering into our shiny
Chevrolet Impala as they passed by. While I knew my father had
a penchant for getting us lost in ghettos, I doubted the locals
understood the phenomenon.
It looks like a Holiday Inn, my dad persisted, still checking
out the building.
You have to understand something. My dad saw the best in
everybody, and while very bright, he had no guile. Dad was
completely unfazed by the fact that we were white people in the
middle of an African American ghetto during very turbulent
times. My father knew what was going on, but if it didnt make
sense to himand racism didntthen it just didnt register. He
had no ill feelings for African American people, so why should
they have any ill feelings toward us? Besides, Im not sure he even
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saw them as African American. I think he just saw them as people,

people who might give us directions.
Maybe it was a Holiday Inn at one time, I said, but I
think that time has passed.
I think Mikes right, my mom said, with a bit of
apprehension in her voice. My mother, you see, had brains and
guile.
My older sister, Susan, was in college and too hotsy-totsy (as
I called her in those days) to have anything to say to her family of
commoners.
But my little brother had something to say. Ill go check it
out, he said, already out of the car and off like a shot. Dan, nine
or ten at the time, had inherited no guile from my father, and
with investment, had grown it to clueless. Thus, into the building
that had seen better days went Dan, to the horror of my mother
and me, to the satisfaction of my father, and Im not sure to what
from Miss Hotsy-Totsy.
Of some comfort to my mother and me was that Dan was
always lucky. When he was just under two-years-old, I was
taking care of Dan, amusing him by sitting in the unfinished
half of the basement of our house and chucking small pieces of
wood from under my dads workbench into the sump pump that
was recessed into a hole in the concrete floor. He really got into
it, as kids at that age will, and kept on long after I got up and
moved on to something else. Plunk, it would sound as he threw
in a block of wood. Plunk. Plunk.
After awhile I noticed the plunking had stopped, and when I
looked around for him, he was gone. I went over to the finished
half of the basement and saw no Dan. I looked into my dads
office in a corner of the basement and still saw no Dan. I had my
hand on the railing to go upstairs and look for him when, for
some unknown reason, I turned to look back into the unfinished
part of the basement. On the surface of the water-filled sump
hole, I saw blocks of wood floating, and to my shock, the bottom
of the soles of Dans little white baby shoes. I rushed over and
pulled him up by the ankles. He coughed, sputtered, and turned
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to throw another block into the sump as if nothing had happened.

Hed gone in headfirst, with no room to turn around in that
narrow sump hole, and would have drowned had I not glanced
back. Thats always freaked me out. It was my first experience
with the fine line between life and death: Dan could have died,
but instead (the curly blonde-headed little twit) just got wet
clothes.
A year or two later, my mother and I stood on the porch of a
friends house screaming at Dan to stop, as he darted between
two parked cars. Screech! We heard the tires of an oncoming
car, as my brother, from the bottoms of his feet to tips of his curly
blond hair, was sucked beneath the vehicle. We ran to the street
and pulled him out from under the car. Dan was fine, but the
driver of the car was badly shaken. Oh my God, the man
screamed, as my mother and I methodically dusted Dan off,
ensuring that everything was still in place and operational, I
couldnt believe it when you pulled out a kid. I thought Id run
over a Golden Retriever! Curly, golden-haired boy cheated
death again, this time just getting his clothes dusty.
As I watched my little brother disappear into the alleged
hotel, I thought about these things. Plunk, I seemed to hear,
and Screech! I wondered if chance had spared his life, twice, just
so he could die in St. Louis. Christ, that would screw up family
vacations.
Several minutes passed, each one seeming an eternity, before
my brother came out of the building with a woman on either side
of him. I want you to picture this. Dan, as a kid, had no sense of
how to dress cool, but he thought he did. He was wearing corduroy
pants, a wide white belt, white shoes, and some kind of weird
pullover shirt with an enormous collar and buttons that opened to
the middle of his chest. (Yes, I know I wore enormous collared
shirts and have admitted as much, but mine were cool, and I only
undid the top button.) The actual Dan stood at around four and a
half feet and weighed about sixty pounds, but the apparent Dan
with his long curly blond hairadded another twenty pounds in
weigh and six inches in height. Yes, my brother sported a blond
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afro. But the women on either side of him sported actual afros,
along with miniskirts, fishnet stockings, tops I dont even know
what to call, a lot of makeup, and (of course) stiletto heels, which,
combined with the afros, put them about a head and a half taller
than my brother whounder these circumstancesappeared to
be the worlds shortest pimp. Dan, oblivious as to the nature of
the building hed just entered and exited, probably thinking hed
found some dancers from Soul Train, grinned from ear to ear.
Not a Holiday Inn, my sister finally spoke. Even with the
Hotsy-Totsy thing going, Susan still had a sense of humor.
Mom was appalled but relieved that her youngest son was
being delivered. As they approached the Impala, one of them
gave my brother a little nudge, and he jumped into the back seat
through the door Id opened for him.
The women, bending down to my mothers passenger seat
window, peeked in through the glass. Mom rolled down the
window. They looked right past her to my Dad.
This young man, one of them said, dryly, nodding toward
my brother, says youre lost. She gave us all a quick look-over.
We believe him!
They laughed.
Yes, we are lost, Dad said, as casually as if he was talking
to Mom in our kitchen. Do you know where the Sheraton is?
The women cracked up and, I think, fell in love with my dad
instantly. With tons of smiles and laughter all around, we got our
directions, and once again made our circuitous route to the hotel
intact.
Now, readers, some of you might be thinking, this being The
Race Chapter and all, that Ive not really said anything significant
about race. I would disagree, but I respect your opinion.
Regardless, it all leads up to the next story that says it all.
Before the adventure in St. Louis or any other ghetto
chronicles that arent worth getting into, we vacationed in
Chicago somewhere in the mid-to-late sixties, at the height of the
era of race riots. Susan was maybe fourteen, Dan two or three,
and I was about ten. (Ten seems to have been a big year for me.)
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As was to become our family tradition, we wound up in the

darkest African American ghetto possible asking, of course, for
directions to our motel: 50th On the Lake. The trip through the
ghetto was tense but otherwise uneventful: we made it to the
motel just fine.
Later that evening, Dad, Mom, Susan, Dan, and I were all
out to dinner. Dan, who had only recently learned to put
coherent sentences together, was sitting in a highchair. A waiter
came to our table. He was as dark an African American man as I
had ever seen, the kind of black that has no sheen, like dusty coal.
My brother, whod never before seen an African American man
up close, popped his head up and dropped his jaw. His wideopened eyes followed every movement as the man calmly poured
ice water into my mothers glass. Everyone of usMom, Dad,
Susan, and Iprayed to God in terror to keep my brothers
mouth shut, or, as it was already opened to its full extent, at least
muted. Dans gaze never left the mans face as he moved on to
my sister. Working his way around the table with dignity, he
ignored the look of astonishment on my brothers face, as well as
the awkward, tremulous silence from the rest of us. Finally,
having finished his job, he left the table. Only then did my
brother, not more than three-years-old, lean forward and quietly
say to his anxious family, You know what? That man had the
biggest nose Ive ever seen.
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CHAPTER 6
Ambassador of Goodwill
It hit Ryan and me all at once while on a bench in Londons

Heathrow Airport: Were in Europe. Now what do we do?
Wed known from the time I finally got So? that we were going
to Europe, but nobody else believed us. It wasnt until we got
back from a two-week trial runhitchhiking from Iowa to San
Diego, up the west coast to Seattle, and back to Iowathat
people began to take us seriously.
Well, my mother began, upon our return, just after giving
me an unusually long hug, Are you still going to Europe? She
wore her maternally knowing smile; clearly thinking wed learned
on our trip that things werent quite so easy.
Heck, yes, I told her. We had a blast!
Honestly, we did have a blast. Sure we got lost in LA and
wound up in Watts with the sun going down, but getting lost in
African American, inner-city ghettos was a family tradition and
genetic trait that I, evidently, had inherited from my father. And,
yes, because we had long hair, we got crap from rednecks who
appeared at least once in every state wed crossed, but we met a
lot of great people too. Wed gone to an all-nude sulfur bath up in
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the hills just outside of San Francisco populated by hippies to

whom everything was cool. We ran naked in the woods of
Oregon following the example of a bunch of girls, whod
unabashedly stripped naked to ford a four-foot deep river in
Oregon, stretching their nubile arms over their heads to hold
their backpacks above the rushing river and exposing yet other
nubilities (emphasized by the cold waters spray), and then slowly
emerging from the water as we reached the far side of the river to
revealoh god, oh god, oh godyet more glories of Gods
nubilineously nubiled nubilitude. Then, with three hot nurses in a
VW bus who picked us up and took us to Seattle, Id gotten high
on pot for the first time, staring out the right side of the little bus
at spectacular mountains, and on the left at the Pacifics surf
pounding against gigantic boulders that rose from the sea.
However, Mom didnt need to know about all the naked
girls, or the pot, so we told her about the Redwoods and stuff like
that, which, while not naked girls, were still pretty cool. Mom
wasnt enthralled. My going to Europe terrified her. Dad, giving
her time to calm down, finally said, You know, hon, hes the
same age I was when I went to Europe, and he wont have
Germans shooting at him.
So Dad was onboard, he brought my mom around, and a
week later, he even hooked us up with non-stop tickets from
Minneapolis to London for one hundred and twenty-five bucks.
Sure, we had to fly on a charter with The Elks Club, but my
Hey, Ryan, we need to be cool on the planethese are my
parents friends flew out the window as soon as one of my moms
friends winked at me while surreptitiously stealing a bottle of wine
from the stewardess cart. With the plane in the air, the Elks Club
really got off the ground. In no time I had my guitar out and
everybody was grooving. It didnt take long for the steward and
stewardess to give up trying to keep track of the booze and then
the party was full on. After awhile, I asked the only girl onboard if
she wanted to go for a walk. Yes, we were on a plane, but who
knew what would turn up? By the time we got to the end of the
plane, something didthe steward directed us to a cozy little
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room. Sweet! We were already making out in our nest when the
stewardess rudely put a stop to it, but at least she didnt scream,
If you do this in the green what do you do in the wood! She
didnt slap us either. I didnt know this at the time, but hippies
chartered many flights, and once in the air, drugs and free love in
the aisles were not uncommon. In retrospect, I understand the
stewardess need to nip things in the bud.
By three or four in the morning, all the passengers were
passed out or asleep well everyone except me. Too woundup to sleep, I was helping the stewards (the stewardess having
forgiven my transgression) clean things up and prepare breakfasts.
I made fast friends with them, and just before serving breakfast
they took me into the forward galley pulling the curtains closed.
They told me what they were about to do was against the rules,
and that I needed to not get anyone into trouble. I had to remain
silent. The pilots knew nothing of their plan (wink, wink) but the
stewards were sure the pilots would be too busy to see anything.
Quietly, the stewardess opened the cockpit door and waved me
in. The pilots stared ahead, continuing their flight to Europe. We
remained quiet, me in awe of the cockpit controls.
Then I realized what was really up.
Flying straight eastward, the sun slowly arose over a snowwhite cloudbank stretching across the horizon. Rising steadily,
the sun grew to an enormous, radiant ball of pure light. Time was
suspended. The sun and I became the universe.
It was a good portent.
With the sun now above the clouds, we left the cockpit and
served the passengers breakfast.
Soon the plane landed at Heathrow Airport, and there sat
Ryan and Ibaffled on a bench. Considering all the skepticism
regarding our trip, all the planning, all the work to get money and
gear, all the trials of weekend camping, and then the hitch to the
west coast and back, with, in short, all the single-purposefulness of
everything wed done for nine months (a long time for eighteen
year olds), we felt like wed suddenly accomplished our
Promethean task. Europe was attained. We were there! But
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now what?
Ryan and I had never given any thought to a plan of what to
do once we got to Europe. Oh, wed planned to have no plan,
and that would turn out to be a very good plan, but there was this
initial jolt, a sudden stop that neither of us knew what to do with.
What the hell was our first step? Ryan, I think, was in a bit of
shock, and so probably was Imine being less acute only because
the carousing and the no sleeping left my body too exhausted to
create the required adrenaline. At any rate, finally, a plan
formed.
Okay, I said to Ryan. Were going to ask someone in a
uniform where an information booth is. Were going to find out
where a youth hostel is and how to get there. Were going to
check in, and then were going to sleep.
Thus began our surreal trip from Heathrow to the hostel
where, in the midst of minds altered by shock, exhaustion, and
hangover, we took in the new-to-us old world that was, peculiarly,
very much as was portrayed on TV and in movies. The British
really did have those peculiar accents, two-decked red buses,
wood and glass-paned telephone booths (again red, the wood that
is, the glass being clear like American versions), and Bobbies,
who wore funny hats and carried no guns.
Finding our way to the hostel, we learned from the guy
behind the desk that to join the European Youth Hostel
Association, we had to pay four times the regular initiation dues
because, he said, All Americans are rich.
We pointed out to him that while we were Americans, with
only three hundred dollars in our pockets representing our net
worth, we could hardly be considered rich. We also noted that
unlike the Europeans getting in at a quarter of our dueswe had
to pay a lot of green just to get to Europe.
In the end, of course, we paid the inflated dues, paid for a
nights lodging, and dragged ourselves to a huge dormitory room
with about a hundred metal-framed beds, all painted white,
looking very much like a makeshift World War II hospital except
with no trace of staff or patients other than Ryan and me. It was
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Nirvana. We un-slung our backpacks and flung them close to a

couple of beds. It was about noon. We crashed.
By three-thirty we were up and razor sharp. We showered,
grabbed a bite to eat, and threw ourselves into London. We were
on our game.
There was a time, and it lasted for several years, when I
could tell you day by day what I did for the three months I was in
Europe, and people in Iowawhen flies or other matters of
interest were in short supplywould listen. However, time has a
way of culling out what is of no great importance, and middle age
does the rest. Therefore, dear reader, youll be spared a
travelogue. Ill try to move fast and stick to whats interesting or
(as Im sure you can guess) might occasionally digress and
meander randomly, continuing with my ubiquitous and now
ineffable charm. Right?
We did London, a great city with extraordinarily gracious
people, where the men were so nice it took me a while to realize
they werent all gay. I say this not because European men may
seem a little effeminate next to Americansalthough they do
but because usually guys are only that nice when they are trying
to get inside your pants. However, this was not true in England:
the Brits were just that nice.
In London, after a six-hour queue, we saw the King Tut
exhibit at the British Museum. Parliament, however, was a
sleeper. We had to go to the House of Lords instead of the more
entertaining House of Commons, as the Commons were Out of
Session which meant, it was inferred, they were out getting
drunk in the common pubs. Trafalgar Square, the Tower of
London, and a number of parks were way cool. We also saw the
changing of the guard at the Queens house, perhaps the most
ridiculous thing Ive ever seen.
What I most got out of London was a sense of vastly different
perspectives. I walked into a petrol station and asked the guy
running the place if I could get a book of matches.
A what, mate? he asked.
A book of matches, I repeated.
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Maybe its still true, but back in 1972, matchbooks in

England came with tiny wooden sticks you broke off instead of
the cheap cardboard ones you get in America. Again, way cool.
Matches? he queried, astonished.
Figuring, from his reaction, that they didnt give away the
high-class wooden matches like we did the cheap counterparts in
America, I added, And a pack of Marlboros.
His eyes widened even further. Marlboros? This is a petrol
station! he exclaimed, looking at me as if I was mad.
Yeah, so. Do you have matches and cigarettes?
In a petrol station! he exclaimed, again.
Yeah.
You want to buy cigarettes and get matches in a petrol
station? he asked.
Finally, I thought, hed put it all together. But he still
appeared shocked and horrified.
Do you want to blow up all of bloody London? he shouted.
Just like that, I got it.
Good point, I said.
Bloody well right, he said, shaking his head and walking
away feeling, I think, as if hed just saved the Empire.
Ill give myself credit. Id seen another perspective, one that
made sense, and I was immediately onboard with it. This is not
such a big deal, yet it appears to elude many Americans. Now,
Britain was not Vietnam, but Id read The Ugly American, and in
only my first few days in England, Id already seen that unseeing
sense of superiority by Americans played out far too many times.
No wonder were so often looked upon as bloody bores. (Bores,
not Boars.) Well, I resolved to do something about it. I was going
to be an ambassador of goodwill, spreading peace and love
everywhere I went, making it known everywhere that, American
or not, I saw myself as no different than anyone else. It was
simple, true, and I was going to live it.
We finished London, did Oxford, and then hitched in a
hurry up to Edinburgh, which in my mind is the prettiest city Ive
ever seen. From there, we went to Aberdeen (best fish and chips
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ever), and then up north to Elgin before turning southwest to

Inverness. Inverness is a terrific little fishing town tucked away
into a pocket of the Moray Firth off the North Sea. Now up until
Inverness, wed just been doing the touristy stuffat least, as well
as it could be done on a five-dollar-a-day budget. Wed had a
good time seeing museums, castles, and the like, but we were
really taken by Inverness. Wed always known we were going to
have to get jobs along the way, so after a couple weeks of travel
we thought, what the hell, how about working in Inverness for a
while?
When you go to Britain, or at least when you went back in
the seventies, you had to sign all kinds of crap promising, in
effect, that you were there to spend money, not make any money,
and above all, youd be gone in thirty days. (Apparently, in this
instance, theyd missed the memo on all Americans being rich.)
Searching for employment was (I believe) more egregious in the
eyes of British law than murder, and was punishable (if I recall
correctly) by beheading. But we were way up in Scotland, the
Scots didnt have much good to say about the English and, recall,
the Bobbies had no guns. Therefore, Ryan and I screwed up our
courage and went to the outskirts of Inverness to a fish packaging
plant that was reputed to provide work to anyone. It turned out
to be true. Ryan and I apparently appeared fit enough to work, so
we started on the details of employment. The plant managers had
a way of getting around the law, but that would cost a bit. Theyd
provide us with the proper gear, but that too would cost. Oh, and
the wages? Well, we couldnt expect to make regular wages being
irregular workers now could we? Hmmm the Scottish really
were a thrifty bunch, werent they? Ryan and I did the math and
its a good thing or wed still be there trying to save up enough
money to get to Glasgow. How stupid did they think we were?
Clearly, America was not the only country that took advantage of
immigrant or immigrant-like types. We graciously (I think)
declined.
Yet, not even a bit did this quash our love of Inverness or of
the great Catholic Northland. My days as a Catholic had ended
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during Mass the summer before, when a missionary priest from

South America said, We dont want your prayers. We want your
money. I quietly got up and left. Years later Id be told by an
earnest priest, Not practicing Catholicism doesnt mean youre
no longer a Catholic, it just means youre a Catholic thats going
to hell! Well, okay, I may be hell-bound, but there are some
Catholic practices Ill uphold, and while that doesnt include
going to Mass, it does include going to where the Scots in
Inverness go after Massthe pubs. They hit them at ten oclock
in the morning with their family in tow and go on a good, rousing
drunk. Well deserved, I might add, especially if after a week of
packing fish.
The Scots in Inverness were a fine lot.
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CHAPTER 7
Narrative Interruptus
My referring to you as dear reader comes from Henry

Fieldings Tom Jones. I dont know why he chose to use it, and I
dont know why I originally used it in this thing Im writing, but
having come this far, I now understand: I use it because I mean
it. You are the reason Im writing this, and you are very dear to
me. No doubt, Im writing it for myself too, but as Ive said
before, were in this together.
I think I have to take a break, leave the fine lot of Scots in
Inverness back in 1972, and come up to present dayas I write
this, Wednesday, November 28, 2009and the present me.
Why? Because in case you havent noticed, as evidenced by the
last chapter, Im floundering. So now, at twelve thirty AM, Im
writing to you and breaking two of my most strict writing rules:
(1) never write at night, because in the morning youll find it to be
crap, and (2) dont write after youve had a drink, or when youre
sober youll find it to be crap. You might not suspect it, but trying
to avoid writing like crap is a big deal for me. Look, Im going to
come clean with you: I take writing very seriously. In my mind,
Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky are the two giants of writing and
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everyone else pales by comparison. I also think most American

writing, while technically very good, suffers because while written
exceedingly wellwhatever that means by the experts opinion du
jourthey really dont have an awful lot to say. There are
exceptions for sure: To Kill a Mockingbird, Zen and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance, or anything written by Faulkner. But
theres a lot of crap out there, as exemplified by F. Scott
Fitzgerald, who I believe was too concerned with his writing to
tell a story that was either good or meaningful. I call it Baroque
writing because, like a Baroque chair, it may be pretty to look at,
but its damned uncomfortable to sit in. Maybe we can blame
Zelda for F. Scottit seems Hemingway didbut we cant
blame her for all the other empty writing. And for all you readers
who are pissed at me right now, I draw comfort from the fact that
I recently read an interview with one of Americas greatest writers
of the past fifty years, who said he and most of his contemporaries
dropped the ball by writing about the trivial while ignoring things
of great importance. He went on to stress that writers should be
one of societys great treasures of leadership. Historically, this
would appear obvious, but as of late, it seems to have been
forgotten. Is everyone so afraid of criticism that they wont take a
stance?
By the way, Ive actually only had one glass of scotch, so
technically Im not on a drunken tirade. Im on a sober one.
Sorry.
But, damn it, I am trying to be honest and good. Maybe a
little soul clearing will do us some good.
Yesterday, Tuesday, I began chapter six as it appears in this
book. On Monday, I had also begun chapter six on a different
tack, wherein I wrote about Ryans and my hitch to California
that preceded our flying to Europe. As I lay in bed last night (a
couple hours ago), I was no happier about Tuesdays writing than
about Mondays. What had been going pretty well seems to have
suddenly run amok, or, in the case of this book, suddenly stopped
running amok, which seems to have become the theme. Theres
definitely a transition to be made, but Im doing a lousy job of it.
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This is supposed to be a quick, short, easy book to write.

Suddenly, Im mucked.
Okay, heres the deal. Until I was nineteen I was going to be
a lawyer, but when crisis hit, I decided I needed to write. Ill spare
you the details of the crisis except to say that it was a threepronged, perfect-storm attack, and that if Rimbaud spent a
season in hell, I spent twelve. Anyway, I promised myself I would
only write if I could write something of worth. If I had nothing
good to say, I just wouldnt say it: Camus and Sartre had that
covered. And, I purposely avoided following everybodys advice
to learn to write like writers who are getting published, get
published, and then write the way you want to, because isnt
that a little like learning to be a great slut so you can be an
outstanding virgin on your wedding night? (I know there are
some logical faults in the last statement, but you get the point.)
Besides, how could I learn to write like someone else, and then
learn to write like myself, when my self would be gone?
Robert Frost wrote in his poem The Road Not Taken:
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Thus, famously did Robert Frost write, and thus, did I. I

knew the road would be long, hard, and most likely impossible,
but I took it anyway, for you and myself.
Back in the eighties, I wrote a novel about the Russian
Revolution that was well researched and had a good plotline but
read as dead as dead. I wrote stuff over the yearsshort stories,
the beginnings of novelsand started one novel several times.
Finally, I went back to that one novel and started it again, in
earnest, giving it my all. I finished the first draft about six years
ago, and while its very close to being a good book, there is
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something missing. While I think Ive recently figured it out, I

havent had the time, money, or energy to put into it. Theres
that old you-have-to-make-a-living-to-feed-and-clothe-yourself
bugaboo.
A few months ago, I was fired from my job as an electrical
engineer. The next day I was thinking about how Id promised a
guy at work my Stonehenge Story, but had never gotten
around to telling him. I was considering writing it as a short story,
but by the next day, this thing Im writing came into focus and
I thought, hey, this will be easy to write (relatively), easy to sell
(relatively), and if the gods are with me, it may earn me enough to
get the time, money, and energy to get back to the other book
that might actually be made into something decent.
So, here I am.
And Im failing.
And at one PM today, I have to go talk to a lawyer about
declaring bankruptcy.
Id better call it a night and go to bed.
Ill get back to writing to you by Thursday, I promise, and
well see what happens. Ill do some surrendering and see what
the Great Spirit shows me. Maybe the Muses will return. If not,
Ill keep muddling through until, hopefully, we get going again.
For now, thanks for listening and goodnight.
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82
CHAPTER 8
The Morning After
Ack. Im not even going to read what I wrote last night. I broke
my own cardinal rules of writing and you see what happened? A
rant an errant writer like me should never make upon other
writers, and a sappy, soul baring, spill of the guts all on a single
glass of scotch. I will, however, move on.
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CHAPTER 9
Difficult Transitions
This chapter is my third attempt at making the transition from

various childhood and high school adventures to my trip to
Europe. My extremely loose plan for the writing of this book was to
proceed with general subjects in this order: high school
tomfoolery, Ryans and my summer jobs to earn money for the
trip to Europe, our trial hitchhike to the west coast and back, and
then our trip to Europe. However, as youve seen, it didnt work.
The crux of the problem, I think, is that this is not just a
transition from Iowa to Europe, but one from boyhood to
manhood as well. While the former is clear, the latter is not. The
boy to manhood stuff is tough to cipher, because the boy always
carried in him a part of the man he will become, and the man he
becomes will always carry the boy. This is difficult stuff on its
own, made even more so by a fundamentally unstable narrator,
me, who on top of everything else is shifting. Before Chapter Six,
the narrator was quite simply a smart-ass with a lot of
imagination and occasional bursts of meaningful insight that were
often, curiously, intertwined. Now, this guy is moving into
manhood without either the structure of an outstanding family or
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the support of a Midwest society. As a result, things get weird, or,

as in the vernacular of the day, far out, man. I amthough it
may come as a surprise after the past few chaptersabove all
trying to be entertaining. Maybe thats the problem. Entertaining
was relatively easy with characters like the fraternal farm-boy fly
fuckers, but now its just Ryan and me in Europe with characters
who came and went instantly. While I have no problem writing
shit about people who are family or friends, Im a bit hesitant to
do the same with strangers. (Yeah, I know thats messed up.)
Hence, I start writing about how nice the English were, and how
the lads in Scotland were a fine lot. While true, its boring to
write, and I suspect even more boring to read.
Before I go on with the narrative proper, let me just clue you
in to something. Europe was a transcendental thing for me, and
while I might have known it to be true in a general sense at the
time, in the moment I was rarely aware of it. Nevertheless, as we
move forward, remember that beneath all the nonsense great
things were afoot. I was not just on a random journey, but
whether I knew it or notone of purpose. Life, when you live it,
is a remarkable thing.
Now, we continue.
Where were we?
Oh yeah, with the fine lot in Inverness.
From Inverness, Ryan and I traveled to Fort William,
essentially crossing Scotland east to west just above the highlands
along the great lochs. Nessie, as the Scots referred to the Loch
Ness monster, unfortunately did not show herself, but that was
expected. Wed learned from the Scots: Only after Scotland gets
her independence from England, will old Nessie come up for
good.
Arriving in Fort William, we went up the road a bit to Glen
Nevis, where a little hostel sat alone in the heath by a small
stream near a trailhead pointing to the tallest mountain in the
British Isles: Ben Nevis. Ryan and I planned to climb it the next
day, but I had curry for the first time that night and was,
apparently, allergic. I spent the night and most of the next day
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along the river crawling out of my sleeping bagfar too often

to allow my body to do appalling things, from opposing ends,
sometimes in simultaneous syncopation. I imagine from some
perspectives it was orchestralnot so much from mine. Anyway,
Ryan climbed Ben Nevis while I, euphemistically, wrote
symphonies.
Recovering the next day, I hitched alone to Aviemore to look
for a job in a ski resort, and spent a full day hiking across heathcovered mountains. The Grampian Mountains around Aviemore
are like no mountains Ive seen. The heath is ever-present,
covering the terrain like tightly woven carpet pulled tight-andeven across every minor undulation in the landscape, spreading
continuously from mountain to mountain. Reaching a
spectacular highpoint, I looked down upon a narrow river that
lay far below in a wide valley that ran to the far off horizon. I
could see not a tree, not a building, not a soul. There were, along
the walls of that valley, stone cliffs that showed a bit of gray as
they fell to the river, but other than that there was only the thick,
resplendently green heath, the same as that which I stood upon.
Things like this make a difference in a young man: the spirits of
god whisper great things, things beyond words straight into your
soul, and though you may not fully comprehend them at that
moment, you understand you are being given a great blessing
that will reveal itself in time. Never in my life had I walked the
halls of a church as solemnly as I walked those mountains.
Of course, day and night are different things and that
nightfor the first of several times to comeI was thrown out of
the youth hostel.
Hostels are terrific things, but they have a singular problem;
the doors are locked, the lights are put out, and theres to be
nothing but silence after ten oclock at night. Ten friggin oclock at
night! Now, I know how the story goes: hostels were placed along
the trails of olde for the weary travelers who needed their sleep.
However, these were now youth hostels, as in youths, youths who
dont want to go to bed at ten oclock because, among other
things, you can only get a girl in a bar so liquored up before
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getting back to the hostel in time. In Aviemore, the hostel was set
up like the average hostel with maybe twelve to twenty beds per
room. Our room was full, but as there were no old coots in the
room who had made a long trek that day, we naturally started
talking, as young men will, probably about the girls wed failed to
get sufficiently drunk. We were just talkingand not all that
loudly I might addwhen this squat little shit of a hostel warden
came busting through the door like a mad clansman, banged on
the lights, and screamed, Pipe down. People need to sleep!
I hadnt started the talking, but as I happened to be the one
solely engaged in it when the lights came on, Napoleon
Braveheart directed his discourse to me, completely oblivious (for
some unknown reason) of the natural innocence I exude, to which
you readers will so readily attest.
You know, I was talking quietly, I said in my mild,
Ambassador of Goodwill voice. But dont you think you all but
rose the dead with your door busting, banging on of the lights,
and wild-ass screaming? And, by the way, pipe down is a
strange phrase for a Scotsman to use. Are you sure youre not
English?
Enlish? Enlish! Yo-a doanna thin Is Scoish? he
thundered away in the manner Scots do when they speak English,
randomly deleting letters, syllables and, often, entire words, as if
refusing to commit to English as the whole or perhaps (as with
everything) being cheap with vowels and consonants too. He
continued with a long rantprobably scotch induced
concluding with, Yo-a git out!
Hey, I said, putting my diplomatic skills as an ambassador
to use, I paid for the night and paid for the Youth Hostel
Membership at four times the cost because Im a rich American, so I
doanna thin Isa gon anywhere. Goodnight. I turned from him,
ignoring his rave, stretching and snuggling myself leisurely into
bed.
Finally, all ranted out, he said, Yo-a gon be out in da
monin! Getting no response, he abruptly left in reverse fashion
to his entrance: screaming stopped, lights banged off, door
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slammed shut.
I slept well, checked out, and hitched back to the Glen Nevis
Hostel. Hooking up again with Ryan and some friends hed
found on his second trek to the top of Ben Nevis, we had a pretty
rowdy night drinking in the hostelright up until the time for
lights-out approached. I dont know how the subject got started,
but as I lay on the top bunk with a stranger on the bottom bunk
and Ryan across the aisle, somebodya Canadian, I supposed,
given his friggin maple leaf pajamasstarted to give me shit
about Americas role in Vietnam.
The Canadians in Europe were truly an obnoxious bunch,
not all of them, but a disproportionately large percentage. They
had their maple leaf flags all over themselves and their packs to
ensure that Europeans recognized them as peaceful, leaf-loving
Canadians, not war-mongering Americans. It was, Ill admit,
generally effective, even to the extent that many Americans put
the maple leaf flags on their backpacks to make getting rides
easier. But I certainly wasnt going to stoop to that level. I had my
pride, and Id had enough shit from Canadians too. The
Ambassador of Goodwill was retiring.
Listen, you fuckin Canuk, I said from my bunk, realizing
only as Id said it the homey poetry in the phrase fuckin Canuk.
Its all fine and good for you to sit up in Canada and hide under
American skirts for protection, but at least America showed some
balls and threw off the British Empire in the Revolutionary War,
while you waited for the Queen Mother to nag the king into giving
you independenceprobably because she was afraid you were
about to all move back home to mummys basement.
Hey, somebody suddenly chimed in, dont be talking
about the Queen with disrespect! I assume he was a Brit.
Listen, you Limey puke, I said. Fuck you and your
queen! If it wasnt for America, and specifically my dad, youd all
be goose-stepping around your precious parks on Sunday reeking
of sauerkraut.
I should interject here that it had been, as pointed out above,
a rowdy night of drinking, and we were really just joking around
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most of us anyway certainly me. Nevertheless, a few people

were getting their noses out of joint, which was coolgiving, as it
did, more fodder for those of us that were joking.
Ryan, suddenly looking uncharacteristically panicked, was
pointing surreptitiously to the bunk below me, while silently
mouthing, Hes German!
Are you trying to tell me theres a U-Boat below? I asked
loudly.
I rolled over the side of the bunk and looked down. Are you
a U-Boat?
Ja, my lower bunkmate enthusiastically replied.
Fucking kraut, I said.
Fucking Yankee, he said.
So, are you over here trying to gather intelligence in
Scotland? I asked.
Ja, he said, the sarcasm with his heavy German accent
quite impressive. Intelligence in Scotland as likely as a rose in
a Limeys ass.
A rose in a Limeys ass might be more likely than you
think, I said. And if there was Scottish intelligence, thats most
likely where it would be.
Apparently, the fast treaty made between the warmongering
nations of America and Germany disturbed the Brits and all their
subjectsthe very Brits whose destabilizing empire building in
the nineteenth century, it can be argued, was the primary root of
nearly all the hostilities of the twentieth centuryand the place
erupted in vindictive from every corner, most of it in fun, but
some in earnest.
Enter another hostile hostel warden who, needless to say,
decided for some incomprehensible reason to pick on me.
Can you imagine why?
The warden and I exchanged wits in a one-sided battle
during which treaties were formed all around, everyone siding
with me, and no one with the hostel warden. Despite differences
in the nation of origin, we were all young, drunk, and in no mood
to go to bed. We united against a common foe threatening our
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inebriated way of life.

Thoroughly trounced at the Battle of Wits, the warden
screamed at me, Git yo-a kit an git out!
What? I asked.
Git yo-a kit an git out! he screamed. Git yo-a kit an git
out!
Get my what? I asked.
Yo-a kit!
My kit?
Yes! Git yo-a kit an git out!
What?
Git yo-a kit an git out!
Jesus Christ, this was one rut of a rant.
Look, I said, I hear the words Get your kit and get out
coming out of your mouth. But what the hell is a kit?
Yo-a no wha a kit is, he said, so furious he was jumping up
and down. Git yo-a kit an git out!
Come on, I said, Im serious. And, I was, but I couldnt
help laughing because the guy was so beside himself. Whats a
kit?
A kit is-a kit! A fuckin kit. Yo-a know wha aya mean.
Doanna fuck wi me! Git yo-a kit an' git out! Out! Ouuuuuut!
Jesus Christ, I said, leaping from the top bunk to the floor.
Okay, okay, I said in a conciliatory tone, bending over slightly
and peering around the room. Here kit, kit, kit, kit, kit, I called.
Come on kitty. Here kit, kit, kit, kit, kit
We went back and forth, with me walking slowly around the
room calmly calling, Here kit, kit, kit, kit, kit, and him at my
heels screaming with increasing ferocity, Git yo-a kit an git out!
He worked himself into a perfect furyhis face all purple, with
the engorged veins in his neck growing with each heartbeat. It
was awesome.
I stopped at the end of the room, bending over as far as the
floor to look under a bunk. Here kit, kit, kit, kit, kit I called,
and when I stood up and turned, I was face to face with the wildeyed Scotsman. Stepping around him, I went to the next bunk,
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bent over, and called, Here kit, kit, kit, kit, kit
When I stood up, the mad hosteller was once again before
me.
Say, I casually asked. How many bunks do you think you
have?
Suddenly, turning and grabbing a backpack at random, he
threw it at me while screaming, you guessed it, GIT. YO-A!
KIT! AN! GIT! T! T! T! OUUUUUUTTT! T! T! T!
There, I asked casually, was that so hard? Secretly,
however, I was impressed. Driving authority figures to shout in
one-word sentences was standard stuff, but this Scotsmans selfinduced echo was something new.
Why didnt you just tell me a kit was a backpack? I asked.
Im sure you know his answer.
GIT. YO-A! KIT! AN! GIT! T! T! T! OUUUUUUTTT!
T! T! T!
I put down the backpack hed thrown at me and went over to
pick up my own. Okay, I asked, how many of you guys want
to git yo-a kit an git out with me?
Nearly everyone sprang from their beds, Ryan the first, and
out of the hostel and across the little stream we went. Id been
kicked out of two hostels in as many nights. My first night at Glen
Nevis was spent alone, poisoned and retching by the side of the
stream, my last night was spent along the same stream, in revelry
with Ryan and strangers from a half-dozen countries that on that
night were lifelong friends.
Ahhhhh, an Ambassador of Goodwill after all, and, I think,
dear reader, weve finally worked our way out of the transition
problem.
Thank you.
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CHAPTER 10
Glasgow, Keswick, Glasgow
A lot happened to Ryan and me in Glen Nevis, both together and

apart, and so we decided to split up and meet at our next
destination rather than hitching together. Why? For many
reasons.
Perhaps the biggest reason was simplelogistics. Those
readers who are sans age-spots might not remember the era of
huge American automobiles, but Im sure youve seen them in
what you would call classic movies. (By the way, a real classic
movie is defined as one made before 1954, the year I was born.)
Having been raised in an era of behemoth cars, the small
European autos were a novelty to Ryan and me. I remember
seeing an Austin Mini Cooper for the first time parked next to a
curb. The roof was about waist high and it had wheels the size of
a kids wagon. Peering into the clown-cars spartan interior, I said
to Ryan, Hey, screw hitchhiking round Britain. Lets just get one
of these. It cant be more than fifty bucks. Oh, but it was! So,
hitch we did, but hitching, always difficult under any
circumstances, is made even harder when there are two hikers,
you both have huge kits, and one of them (mine) has an
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acoustic guitar strapped on the back. Trying to get our gear and
both of us into those tiny little cars and leave room for the driver
was nearly impossible. (Rolls, Bentleys, Land Rovers, and Jaguars
dont stop for poor, plebeian, proletarian hitchhikers.)
Another reason for splitting up was that Ryan and I were
getting on each others nerves. On our test hike to the west coast
and back the previous summer, wed learned that ten days
together, all day long, day after day, was about the maximum we
could go without wanting to kill one another. We learned this on
the morning of day ten just east of Spokane, Washington on our
way home.
Hey, Ryan began, innocently enough. Can I use your
toothbrush?
What?
Can I use your toothbrush? he asked again, confirming
that Id heard correctly.
Hell no! I replied.
Come on. I cant find mine. Let me borrow yours.
What, are you gay? I asked. Do you want to kiss me too?
You are asking me if Im gay? Hey, Im not the one who
passed up a chance to screw Kathleen. Id have done her, he
countered, his tone surly, knowing by now he wasnt getting the
toothbrush.
Maybe, I snapped back. But would you have been
fantasizing about a guy?
I should point out, before we had become good friends sitting
together on the end of the players bench of basketball games
season after season, that on several occasions Ryan had wanted to
beat the shit out of me. Lord knows why. However, I have to give
Ryan this: he always knew I would be no match, so he always let
it go. Still, outside of Spokane, he had that old menacing look in
his eye, and I saw no reason to provoke him further.
Listen, I said. Just put some friggin toothpaste on your
finger and use it like a toothbrush.
He took my advice but things remained tense. Not getting a
ride from the few cars that passed by was no help.
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Being creativeand bored with the silenceI took a bottle

of white gas for the Primus stove out of my backpack and poured
the fuel across the road during a lull in the traffic. My master plan
was that when the next car approached, Id strike a match, light
the gas, and whoosh! That, I thought, ought to get their attention.
But, as you might know, there are reasons why white gas is called
white gas, and one reason is thatas I was about to learnit
burns very clean, so clean, in fact, that if you light it on bright
pavement on a sunny day in Washington, you cant see it burn;
not at all. A car approached. I lit the gas. The car whizzed by
without so much as a look askance.
At times, I can be a quick study, and thus it was with the
white gas. Looking up and down the again vacant road, I
shrugged my shoulders, and simply posed, perhaps, historys most
prevalent rhetorical question, What the hell?
Ryan, clearly knowing about white gas all along, had
remained completely quiet throughout the entire execution of my
plan. He now roared at my idiocy, and I got a good laugh at
myself too. Our rift was mended and more importantly, some
magical being must have taken notice of my otherwise invisible
burnt offering, for within a few minutes, a lone pickup truck with
a nice cap over its bed stopped, picked us up, and gave us a onethousand-mile ride to Mitchell, South Dakota, only fifty miles from
Iowa.
It had ended well in Washington, but back in Glen Nevis,
except for my solo excursion to Aviemore, Ryan and I had been
together about two and a half weekswell past the ten-day limit
wed discovered east of Spokane.
I believe another reason for splitting up was that while Ryan
and I had found our European bearings together in Britain, we
were now feeling assured of ourselves and just needed more
independence.
Having said good-bye to our fellow revelers from the night
before by the stream across the way from the hostel at Glen
Nevis, we trekked the five kilometers to Fort William. In the rain,
Ryan and I talked things over and hatched out the details of how
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wed split up and meet again. Since Keswick in the English Lake
District was our next destination, too far to expect to get to in one
day, we decided to make it a two-day trip. Wed hike and meet
that night in the hostel in Glasgow, a good one hundred and
seventy two kilometers away, and then hike and meet the next
day in the hostel in Keswick, another two hundred and twelve
kilometers away.
When we got to the Glasgow side of Fort William, there was
a line of at least a half-dozen hitchhikers. Ryan and I split up,
picked our spots carefully, and within ten minutes, a car finally
stopped to pick up one of the hitchhikers me.
Heres the deal. When I was eighteen, I looked like I was
about twelve. Yeah, I was just over six feet tall, but I had a young
looking face. Terribly boyish. Terribly innocent. (For example,
when I tried to hit on girls, theyd all but pinch my cheek and say,
Oh, youre such a cute little thing!not an impression
conducive to a high success rate.) I was also rail thin at about one
hundred and thirty-five pounds, and to top it off literally, I had
long blonde hair just past my shoulders. In short, not only did I
look like I was about twelve years old, but I looked like I was a
twelve-year-old girl. Even better put, I looked like the cross
between a twelve-year-old girl and a lost puppy. While not a good
look for picking up girls, it was a great look for being picked up
while hitchhiking. Ill tell you straight, in my day I dont think any
guy in Europe could out hitch me.
But I didnt know this on that day in Fort William, because
Id only been hitching with Ryan whowith long dark hair and
straggly beardlooked like Charles Manson. So when I got
picked up by a guy who was going to Carlisleonly about fifty
kilometers from Keswick!I thought it was just luck. Logistically
I figured it was no problem. Id just call the Glasgow hostel that
night and tell Ryan I was already in Keswick. I had this all
figured out even before Ryan, standing alone in the rain at Fort
William, disappeared behind me in the frame of the cars rear
window.
I dont want to turn this thing into a travelogue, but writing
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books has a way of surprising you, if you let it, and I generally do.
So there are going to be some places where Im bound to get a
little travelogue-esque-ish. This is one of those places.
It had been raining, recall, the morning I left Fort William,
and it continued to rain hard for about another hour after I was
picked up. Sometime just before noon it quit, brightened, and for
the next half-hour we drove through a landscape that is one of
the most memorable of my life. On any other day, it might not
have been noteworthy, but on that day it was spectacular.
Mountains, barely discernable through lingering clouds, showed
in the far distance beyond a broad plain. But it was not like any
plain Id ever seen, for as in the mountains around Aviemore the
ground undulated and broke into small crevices and peaks only a
couple of feet deep, a few feet high, with everything covered in
that resplendent, tight woven heath that detailed every dip and
every rise, every low hillock that rose and fell gently all about. In
every crevice, set one to another at random angles, flowed
impossible torrents of rainwater, crashing and roaring first
together and then apart, wildly filling the air with spray in a
perfect mad dance. It was as if the earth itself opened up, not with
the violence of hot lava, but rather with the cool peace of graceful
water that rushed all about cleansing, feeding, nurturing rising
to care for everything even me. As in Aviemore, the spirits of
god whispered great things, bestowing benevolent blessings that
could not be missed.
I dont recall the name or even the face of the man who
drove me to Carlisle. I remember only his generosity.
From Carlisle, I made it to Keswick in short order. Once
there, enthralled by the mountains, the lake, and the beauty of
the village, I held off taking it in with anything more than a
glance. I wanted to give it my full attention, to savor it as it came
to me, but first I had to get to the Keswick hostel and call Ryan in
Glasgow.
I checked into the Keswick hostel, but before I even dropped
my pack into the dorm room, I asked the person at the desk to
call the hostel in Glasgow. To my surprise, they found it an odd
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request and told me I needed to use a public payphone. No, I

couldnt just pay the hostel. No, they couldnt give me the
number. So, off I went looking for a stately old English phone
booth andafter finding one, after an awful lot of help from the
operator, after a great deal of English coinI finally made the
connection to the hostel in Glasgow.
Sorry, they said. We dont take messages. Click.
What?
What!
After screaming a long stream of obscenities into the English
phone and getting back only a lame, bizarre excuse for a dial
tone, I slammed the receiver back into its cradle. Leave that to the
English. How do you fuck up a dial tone?
I headed back to the Keswick hostel, picked up my kit, and
started to backtrack two hundred and twelve friggin kilometers to
Glasgow. And friggin, for those of you unfamiliar with the metric
system, in this context means: Really Fucking Goddamn
Long!
Do you know one of the great things about hitchhiking? You
leave your bad attitude by the side of the road. Its replaced with
heartfelt gratitude by the next ride.
Now I dont remember a single ride on my way back to
Glasgow, but I can tell you how every conversation started,
because since my arrival in England, every ride started out the
same.
Where are you from? the driver asks.
America.
Where in America?
Iowa
Cincinnati? theyd hazard a guess, with a bright face and
smile, proving they knew at least one city in every state.
No, thats in Ohio. Im from Iowa.
There would be a pause, some thinking, and then theyd
perk up. Oh yeah, potatoes, right? Again, the bright smile.
No, thats Idaho. Im from Iowa.
Then theyd look at me funny, first baffled by Iowa, then
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befuddled with trying to figure out why I was messing with them
by making up non-existent places.
Sometimes, as in the case of the white gas, Im a quick study,
but most of the time, Im very slow. I was extraordinarily slow on
the Where are you from? deal. I dont know how many times I
went through the same dialogue before learning my lesson.
Where are you from? the driver asks.
Ohio.
Cincinnati?
Yep.
Then wed move on.
For the second time that day, I trekked across Carlisle on
foot. It was a long haul, and I cursed anew the Scottish bastard at
the Glasgow hostel who couldnt take a friggin message. You see
the problem with hitching and cities is that you arent going to get
a ride in a city. You get rides on the edges of cities, on the
beginnings of roads that lead to where youre going, preferably
before the speed zones increase to cruising speeds. Sometimes its
smart to wait there, and sometimes its better to trek on as a show
of initiative, your thumb always at the ready. Its a judgment call,
dependent upon many variables, that improves with experience.
However, whenever you were dropped off in a city, you have to
resolve yourself to hoofing it to the citys edge to hitchhike.
Carlisle, at least, was an interesting trek.
After a couple of rides, I made it to Glasgow and trekked to
the hostel. The person behind the desk who couldnt take a
friggin message (I guessed) begrudgingly confirmed that Ryan
had checked in. Could he tell me the room or the floor? No, of
course not, and I couldnt enter unless I checked in and paid.
Really?
I didnt think so.
Ryan Becker! I hollered, turning away from the desk,
randomly searching the first floor for my friend. Freaking out, the
hostel desk-dweeb followed in tow screaming some Scottish
gibberish, whilst I repeatedly called as loudly as possible, Ryan
Becker!
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Now, if youve been paying attention, this reveals to you for

the first time Ryans last name: Becker. Yes, its German, and yes,
I know that on the first page of this book I said he was Irishhis
father was German and his mother was Irishbut was his entire
genealogy necessary at the time? I didnt think so. Is it necessary
now? I dont think so. I only bring it up at this point because it
occurs to me that you might be confused by Ryans apparent
intelligence as juxtaposed against his being Irish. So yes, Ryan
was a mutt, and as far as Im concerned, mutts make the best
dogs. Ryan, incidentally, was a dog but I suppose you
surmised that a long time ago by his generous offer to Kathleen.
Anyway, I believe it was on the staircase to the third floor
where Ryan and I met. The hostel twit was still screaming, but
we just tuned him outmuch as we had teachers, who tried to
interrupt our conversations with annoying things like, say,
teachingas we talked on our way down to the lobby, where I
picked up my kit and walked out onto the sidewalk. Hostel twit
stayed at the doorway like a good little puppy. Terrier, I
supposed, no wolfhound.
Ill point out here to those of you who dont know, that
throughout the British Isles, Glasgow is known as the armpit of
Britain. Its a name well earned. As Ryan and I stood on the
sidewalk, we were surrounded by industrial filth and urban waste.
It wasnt pretty.
This isnt pretty, I said to Ryan.
Nope, he said. Its a shit-hole.
What have you taken in? I asked, figuring hed been
around.
Nothing, he said. I just got here about fifteen minutes
ago.
You just got here?
Hey, he said, a bit defensively. The hitchhiking sucked,
and anyway I beat you.
Yeah, except that Ive been to Keswick and back!
I turned to the hostel twit who was still fuming like a dip-wad
on the hostels threshold. Hey, Fuck Head, I called, figuring
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that if well-earned names were a Glasgow standard, Fuck Head

would certainly be his. Are you the needle-dicked bug-fucker
who couldnt take a friggin message?
Fuck Head disappeared into the hostel.
Ryan, piecing it all together, laughed.
Ill do the math for you. I hitched from Fort William to
Glasgow, to Keswick, and then back to Glasgow. Ryan hitched
from Fort William to Glasgow. Thats me at five hundred and
ninety six kilometers and Ryan at one hundred and seventy two.
Thats not even counting two long, time-consuming treks through
Carlisle. Still, Ryan beat me by only fifteen minutes.
This place sucks, I said. Im going back to Keswick.
Ryan tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle his laugh. Sieleman,
come on, you cant be serious. Lets get a drink.
Ryan, as you well know, always had compelling arguments.
I looked at my watch, considered, but was resilient.
Its quarter past six, I told him. I made it back here from
Keswick in three hours. We can make it back before the hostel
closes. Lets go.
Forget it, Ryan said, laughing his deep baritone laugh that
came intermittently, as if he repeatedly mulled over how stupid
you really were, getting a fresh laugh each time. Are you nuts?
Ive already paid for the night, and Im not hitching out of town
this late in the day. Still laughing, his tone became merciful.
Come on. Ill buy the first round.
I looked at the grimy Glasgow street, recalling pretty little
Keswick and the pristine lake she nestled against. No, I said.
Im outta here. Ill see you tomorrow in Keswick.
Ryan mentioned some nonsense about me being stubborn,
but it did no good. My backpack was on with straps adjusted.
Hey, I said, Have a good time tonight, and drink a beer
for me. Ill see you in Keswick tomorrow. Youll love it.
I turned and took off down the street in the direction Id just
come.
Ill see you back here within a half-hour, Ryan called to
my back. Ill win the bet and still buy the first beer.
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Dont count on it, I shot back over my shoulder, and as I

walked further down the street, it occurred to me that only the
night before Id been walking around the hostel in Fort William
crooning, Here kit, kit, kit, kit, kit
It seemed impossible.
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CHAPTER 11
Keswick Ho (Again)
By the time I found a good place to hitch near the southbound

motorway out of Glasgow, it was almost seven oclock. Being
October, it was nearly dark. Setting down my pack, I relieved
myself of a weight I had carried a lot that day, and set myself into
scouring the motorway for potential rides with thumb extended.
Traffic, in the gloaming, slowed.
Standing on the side of the road, I noticed a couple of guys
on the walking bridge Id just used to cross over the motorway.
They appeared to be locals, just hanging, smoking to pass the
time. I waved at them in camaraderie, and they waved back with
big smiles. As time passed, the traffic thinned, the night began to
set in, and the couple of guys on the bridge grew to a small group.
I waved every now and then. Theyd all wave back.
In Britain its against the law for a lorry (semi-truck) to pick
up a hitchhiker, and the motorways are watched closely by
Bobbies-in-Autos (the British version of the Highway Patrol), so I
wasnt expecting anything from the lorry headed my way until it
suddenly screeched to a halt just beside me, and the driver
leaning halfway out the door screamed, Get in! Hurry!
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Though I found the melodrama to be a bit bizarre, he was

southbound, my options were becoming more limited by the
moment, and Keswick was still two hundred and twelve
kilometers away. Grabbing my kit by the straps, I ran to the
wrong side of the lorry (the English side) to get in the door the
driver had already opened for me. No sooner had I handed him
my pack than he dropped it to the floorboard and let off the air
brake. We were off before Id closed the door behind me.
Repeatedly checking each side of the lorry through every
mirror and window available, without yet having looked through
the windshield at the road before him, the lorry man asked,
What the hell is wrong with you? The question might have
been a little off-putting, as introductions go, but at least it was a
refreshing change from the ubiquitous Where are you from?
Youll have to be more specific, I told him. I often get
that question from a variety of sources, and there appears to be a
long list of answers.
He smirked, in a lorry-driver way, pulling out a cigarette for
himself, finally looking up at the road, then throwing me the
pack.
We lit up.
Specifically, he said. Are you trying to get yourself killed?
Still pretty general, I said. Still dont know what youre
talking about.
Turning to me, he took a careful look. You have no clue, do
you?
Nope.
That gang back there he began, ominously, before I cut
him off.
What gang? I asked.
You didnt see that gang on the bridge?
I saw the guys on the bridge, I said. First there was just a
couple of them, and then more showed up. We were waving to
each other. I think theyd have helped me out if a gang had come
around to hassle me.
Bloody hell, the driver said, shaking his head. Thank
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Godnot that I believe in God, Im a Marxistbut thank God I

stopped. Those guys on the bridge were a gang, you idiot. They
were waiting. As soon as the sun was down and there was no
traffic, they were going to beat you until unconscious or dead,
and take everything you had.
The guys on the bridge? I asked.
Listen, reader, youve heard a bit about my background
nearly perfect parents and an almost perfect Iowa societyso the
idea of a gang in Scotland beating me for my kit was just not
on my radar. On some level, I knew it was true the moment the
lorry man said it, but it took me a bit mentally to morph the
bunch of smiling guys into a gang of bloody thugs.
Yes, the guys on the bridge he said, boosting the speed of
my reboot.
A blessing goes along with being nave. I cant say how many
times my navet has protected me until I was well through the
danger and safe again. Still, I wouldnt suggest being purposely
naveif such a thing is possibleIm just making an
observation. Id counsel toward common sense and a sound
understanding of your situation any day, and Im sure thats
saved me more times than navet. Nevertheless, I cant ignore
the truth: sometimes being clueless helps.
Thanks, I said to the lorry man, meaning every word, in
this case, just the one.
No problem.
So, youre a Marxist?
Yes, he was a Marxist, and we had an interesting
conversation. Mostly I just listened to avoid an argument,
because Marxists in the West have always perplexed mealmost
as much as laissez-faire capitalists.
First, for Marxists, the following: Marx expected communism
to develop in the industrial nations, but it never did. It supposedly
developed in the relatively undeveloped countries of Russia and
China, and call those governments what you will, neither were
Marxist nor, in Marxist terms, ever communist except in rhetoric
and propaganda. If you look at what they actually were, youll see
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that Russia and China were what they had always been
historically: Empires run by autocrats. In Russias case, all you do
is exchange the name from Tsar to Premier, Autocracy to The
Party, and the bullshit basis from divine right to a nice, modern
materialist dialectic like Marxism, and you have the same thing: a
small group of the privileged few beating the crap out of the
underprivileged many that they havent gotten around to killing
yet. Chinas version of communism was much the same, and
an even better example of communisms theory of
humanism, which in practice runs something like this: Were
going to make all the Workers happy even if we have to kill
every last one of them to do it. Actual Communism, to the
contrary, is everyone working together for the common good,
because they understand that whats best for all the people is best
for the individual as well. Well, good luck with that. How many
people do you know understand what the common good is? And,
if they do, what really motivates them, the common good or their
own ego?
Second, for laissez-faire capitalists, the following: Capitalism
depends upon commerce, which ultimately translates to
consumer goods. Now, how are consumer goods sold if the
consumers dont have any money? Are you, a rich, laissez-faire
capitalist, going to ensure through your sense of the common
good that the consumer/worker is well off enough to buy your
goods, when every day you actually impoverish him even more
as you mustto get your capital gain? What really motivates you,
the common good or the next quarters earnings? Whats the
literal translation of laissez-faire anywayleast fair?
All right peoplelets get real. Look at history. The West
didnt turn to communism nor did the capitalists eat it up,
because working democraciesalong with a few enlightened
industrialists and the establishment of Trade Unionsraised the
majority of an impoverished class to the middle class, and things
worked fairly well. So well, in fact, that most Western nations
evolved to ensuring the stability of the middle class, with ideas
(crazy, by American standards), such as making sure everyone
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receives health care, education, a good and well-earned

retirement, and decent vacations. In other words, most Western
nations decided they were going to act as a community because
heres a shock!human beings are actually communal animals;
thats how theyve survived for millions and millions of years.
Meanwhile, in America, in my country, the privileged few
and their wanna-be lackeys rant on in anti-communist or anti-gay
or anti-whatever, to keep the common Americans so riled up they
dont notice their pockets are getting fleeced and their liberties
erased.
THINK. THINK. THINK.
Look, we have a government of the people. Corporations
arent of the people, and they arent supposed to be. We
citizens have a ton of regulations on our behavior, Civil Laws,
designed to ensure our individual constitutional rights are
protected. Shouldnt the corporations that make money, in large
part due the evolution of society and an infrastructure provided
by the government (government = the people), be held
accountable too? Are corporations more moral than individuals,
to the degree that they need so little regulation? Is that what
weve seen? Again, corporations are not of the people, but our
government is. Dont rail against the Federal Government, or the
State Government, or City Hall. We are the government. We vote
those people into office, and if they suck, its ultimately because
we the people are not doing our job.
Let me spell this out. We must demand: (1) fair
compensation for our work (hourly minimum wage = Poverty
Threshold times one point five, divided by two thousand hours
annually, which currently would be sixteen dollars and fifty cents
per hour); (2) universal health care; (3) universal education
through four years of college; (4) Social Security benefits equal to
at least the minimum wage; (5) six weeks of paid vacation; and (6)
guaranteed government provided jobs in lieu of unemployment,
with a minimum wage set as above without the one point five
boost in the equation, because people need to be motivated.
If someone running for political office isnt unequivocally
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onboard with these six premises, dont vote for them. If someone
is in office and does not vote on the principles of these six
premises, never vote for them again.
Oh my God! people will scream. Where will the money
come from?
(Oh, I know some will also scream about Death Panels and
all kinds of other ridiculous stuff. Theyll try to play on fear. But if
we just think, honestly, we can simply see through the nonsense
and write off the politicians who cant or wont understand these
six premises, whichif you stop to think of itare fundamental
to our unalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of
happiness.)
The money issue, however, is a legitimate concern, so let me
address where it will come from. It will come from the richthe
American Aristocracy. For example, from someone with one
billion dollars were going to take nine hundred million dollars,
and if they complain about being left with only one hundred
million dollars, we can tell them to stop whining, and point out
that in France they took everything and cut off their heads.
(Perspective never hurts.) Well call it Trickle Down Economics
Version 2.0.
Listen. The corporations are doing their jobs: theyre twisting
the laws to their advantage; theyre lining the pockets of our
congressmen with money. Well, we have to do our jobs too, and
that starts with understanding that we have values far greater
than a pile of money. We need to care for our families by
ensuring that our society is built on a basis that enables us to
provide our children with the best this world has to offer, and to
understand that every child is our child.
Why are the self-evident truths this country was founded on
no longer so self-evident?
THINK. THINK. THINK.
Speaking of anti-communist and anti-gays (remember?) it
turns out that my lorry driver was not only a communist, but (can
you see this coming?) he was, no shit, gay. I swear to God, Im not
making this up. I was picked up by a gay Marxist.
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Its wonderful, isnt it? I just unwittingly gave every

reactionary redneck in the country the perfect argument against
everything Ive written. Of course hes all screwed up, Bubba,
theyll say to a friend while scratching some body part. He got
butt-fucked by a commie in Scotland. Oh, redneck, Ive been
butt-fucked all right, but not by a communist and not in Scotland.
I was butt-fucked right here in America, by the same guy that
butt-fucked you: Wall Street. The thing is, I know it and I dont
like it. Do you? THINK, or youre going to get it again.
Out of respect for actual rednecks and guys named Bubba,
many people who would never consider themselves rednecks and
arent named Bubba are no different. There are plenty of
professors and businessmen named, say, Niles Huffington, in ivyclad halls and high-rise buildings, who think the same but just
articulate their thoughts with bigger words while doing their
body-part-scratching in private.
Therefore, everybody, its time for some reevaluation.
Getting back to the gay Marxist lorry driver, he did not come
right out and say he was gay. He snuck into it. In the midst of
talking politics, he asked if I was traveling alone. I told him no,
that I was traveling with my best friend Ryan.
Oh, youre traveling with a best friend, huh? he queried the
obvious.
Yeah.
Do you ever share the same sleeping bag with him? he
asked, working in an unsettling wink.
Again, I have to put some things in perspective for you
readers. You have to remember this happened almost forty years
ago (times were different) and I was from Iowa (a place rather
sheltered). Similarly to my believing only people from California
and New York hitchhiked Europe when Ryan first proposed our
trip, I pretty much thought you had to be from California or New
York to be gay unless, of course, you were an ancient Roman
Emperor, a high ranking Nazi, or a priest. This belief necessarily
excluded most people. The bottom line is, back then I never in
my life expected to meet a gay person. That may seem incredible
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to young readers of this book, but back then all the gays were
pretty much in the closet. Rock Hudson gay? Sure, and John
Wayne too, would have been my line of thought. So, when I got
asked if I ever shared the same sleeping bag with my friend
Ryanwith whom I wouldnt even share a friggin toothbrushI
knew something was amiss, but I couldnt put my finger on it.
While I was mulling over the nature of this sudden, bizarre
shift in reality, the gay Marxist asked, Do you ever whack-off
with him?
What!
You know, spank the monkey, flog the dolphin, crank the
weasel, pound the pud, beat the bishop, pull the pope, shine your
pole, yang your wang
Oh, he went on and on.
Yeah, I get it, I said, interrupting his rather prodigious
repertoire of euphemisms for masturbation. I now knew exactly
what was amiss, and though I could put my finger on it, I sure as
hell wasnt going to. The answer, I said emphatically. Is no!
Have you ever tried it? With a friend I mean? he asked,
continuing his disconcerting investigation.
No. No. No. And Im not going to. Ever.
Why not? How do you know if youve never tried it?
inquired the gay, Marxist, lorry driver, now turned inquisitor.
Listen, I like girls, I told him. Im not sure about many
things, but Im absolutely certain about that.
That doesnt mean he began.
Yes it does, I cut in. Its disgusting!
Seriously, how many ways can you politely say no?
No offense, I added.
The inquisition was over.
Ill say this for the man, once things were clear, he shrugged
it off and we talked of other stuff until we got to Carlisle, where
he drove out of his way to get me through the town and to a good
hitching spot for Keswick. I dont think he minded burning a
capitalists gas to help a comrade, even if the comrade was
straight.
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It was after ten oclock when he dropped me off, already too

late to get to the hostel in Keswick, but I was still game to make
Keswick that day, and make it I did, getting in just before
midnight. By then it was coldthat damp cold of Britain that
seeps right through to the core of your bones. Already chilled and
having picked out the shrub under which I would unroll my
sleeping bag and tuck in for the night, I went to a local pub,
walked in, set down my pack, and walked up to the bar.
Give me a shot of whiskey, I said.
Even as I write this today, Im laughing. I said it just like a
cowboy out of an old Western, right there in the English Lake
District, surrounded by local Brits drinking warm beer who were
clearly astonishedI could see reflected in the mirror behind the
barby the assured swagger of what must have appeared to
them as the tallest, most self-confident twelve-year-old girl theyd
ever seen. But I must have had a bit of beard stubblemeaning
then that I hadnt shaved in a couple of weeksbecause the
bartender gave me a shot of whiskey as soon as my cash hit the
top of the bar. Id never had hard liquor before, but with so much
attention there was only one way to take it. Gambling, gunslinger
style, I downed it in one swift backward jerk of the head and a
quick pound of the empty shot glass to the bar. Yeah, the fumes
were a little heady and there was a bit of burn, but once I got
through that, warmth spread kindly throughout my chest.
Amazingly, I hadnt made a fool of myself.
What was that? I asked the bartender.
That was twelve year old scotch, he said, his pride
showing.
Id like another, please, I told him, pushing back the
change hed given me, paying for the second drink and leaving a
hefty tip.
Of course, sir, he said, a bit wise with the sir, but with a
genuinely kind smile too.
I took the second shot like the first, and then with a nod to
the bartender, turned, picked up my pack, and got outta Dodge.
To this day, I love Scotch, and except for an occasional beer,
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its about all I drink. Johnny Walker Red is my Scotch of choice,

and I usually drink it with water and ice. No single malt for me. I
like a little bite.
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CHAPTER 12
Lake District, England
My sleeping bag was an army surplus relic from the Korean War.
I still have it. Its a goose down, mummy bag, good to forty below
zero degrees Fahrenheit, and has a quick zipper that will zip open
in a flash by gripping the bag on either side at the top and
pulling. Zoom, the zipper slides down, and you pop-up ready for
battle. I paid forty bucks for it, and while it may smell a bit, its a
good bag. The point is, in a goose down bag you need to sleep
completely naked or you get both hot and clammy regardless of
the outside temperature. So, after returning to my chosen shrub
after the two shots of scotch, I laid out my sleeping bag and
pulled out some fresh (least disgusting) clothes from my backpack.
Putting them inside the bag, removing my Browning Kangaroo
Boots, climbing into the bag and undressing, I placed the shorn
clothes Id wear again the next day along the side of the bag with
the fresh clothes. Thus, the following morning, I was fully dressed
in pre-warmed clothes when I quick-zipped myself out of the bag
and rolled out from under the shrubbery in the park in Keswick.
Yes, a few surprised faces suddenly watched a fully developed
human emerging from the bushes with an enormous backpack in
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tow, but hey, its not my fault they close the doors of the hostels so
early. Besides, I was fully dressed with my underwear worn on the
correct side of my pants. What more did they want?
It being a bit chilly, the first rule of business was to put on my
brand new coat. Ive neglected to tell you that with all the to-ing
and fro-ing between Glasgow and Keswick, Id walked by an
English army surplus store in Carlisle and bought myself a
Scottish army jacket and a poncho from World War II. The
ponchothat was to be used as a ground cloth since Ryan had
the tenthad, unfortunately, disintegrated when I took it out of
the aged clear-wrapped package to which it had adhered, the two
having formed some type of symbiotic relationship during the
period of 1945 to 1972. Fortunately, my sleeping bag came with a
sturdy shell (courtesy of the US Army) that I found good enough
to work as a ground cloth in a pinch. But the Scottish army
jacket, with its numerous and generous pockets, I found to be
positively splendid, as I stood in the park, bathed in light where
there had been only darkness the night before. Derwent Water (a
lake), spread out all beautiful and blue on the far edge of
Keswick, and the fells (mountains) rose beyond. Im not about to
wax poetic on the English Lake District. The Lakes have been
covered rather thoroughly by some pretty heady writers and
poetsWordsworth for oneand I wouldnt butt heads with
them on a good day, much less one some forty years after I
beheld the subject. Let me just say that the Lake District is one of
those places that at every turn displays another spectacular facet:
another water, fell, turn, or crag.
I sat on the bench beholding all this beauty, eating bread off
the loaf in one hand and cheese off the hunk in the other (both
pulled from my backpack), occasionally putting one of them
down to swig from my canteen. Once nourished, I headed off to
the hostel to check in and relieve myself of the pack. Once done, I
started for the lake.
Along the way, espying an appealing little breakfast shop, I
went in. Discouraged by the pricesI was now down to a two
and a half dollar a day budgetI ordered tea. The tea was
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British, and therefore, excellent, and I took it with cream and

sugar because, hey, they provided free protein and carbohydrates.
When I went to the counter to pay, check-stub in hand, I was
more than a little embarrassed to find Id forgotten to take my
wallet out of my pack back at the hostel. Telling the woman
behind the counter my predicament, and guaranteeing her Id
return shortly with the money, she gave me one of those I know
youre screwing me, but dont lie to me on top of it looks. I
tookthe tea evidently not being enoughumbrage.
Look, I said, unbuckling my belt in front of the counter to
her wide, wild-eyed incredulity, stripping it from my waist, and
placing it on the counter. This is worth more than a cup of tea.
Rest assured. Ill be right back.
Oh no, sir, she said, looking nervously from me to the
short line of paying patrons forming behind me. (Oh, the
impropriety!) Sir, really, this isnt necessary!
Oh, I think it is, I said, and I left.
Returning a half hour later, I paid the ransom, liberated the
belt, and secured my pants.
With that adventure behind me, I was off to the lake, where I
found that for a surprisingly small outlay of cash I could rent a
rowboat for half of the day. It would blow my two and a half
dollar a day budget, but that was just an averagesometimes I
splurged. On that day, I did, going for the half-day rental.
Roll the oars so the flats are parallel to the water, and hold
them lower on the backstroke, the boats owner shouted over the
water as I rowed away. Its less work. It will make a difference
on a long row. I adjusted, struggling to get the rhythm, doing my
best to follow his advice. He smiled. Better, much better. Then,
he shouted one last time. Things are a little slow this late in the
year, lad. Take her for the full day. Youre all paid. With that
and a smile, he turned and left me to Derwent Water, the
mountains above and around, and to a silence that was broken
only by the quiet splash of the oars in water that grew ever more
undisturbed as I learned to row. Once again, this time on a sunny
day in October in the English Lake District upon the surface of
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Derwent Water, I heard the spirits of God whisper.

Before nightfall I returned to the hostel and found Ryan
settled in and waiting for me. It was good to see him. We pooled
our stock and scraped together something to cook in the hostel
kitchen, shared supper, and then headed out to the pubs. While
we did our fair share of getting drunk at times, Ryan and I also
knew how to drink and stay sober: that night, we did, enjoying
the good conversation that comes with the amazing ease of a truly
great friendship.
I dont know what Ryan did the next day, but I took off for
the mountains. Without directions, I went looking for a certain
path. I dont know how it came about, but unable to find the
path, I soon found myself in a ravine with a bit of water running
through it. The water, except for a few deep pockets, was never
more than a few inches deep, and never more than six feet wide.
The rounded stones laying on the bottom and the steep faces that
formed its sides made it clear the gully was capable of delivering
cascades when called upon, so I followed the quiet stream,
winding its way upwards between two mountains, keeping an eye
on a sky that hung heavy with rain clouds, recalling the
spectacular torrents in the Scottish moorland. I was mindful that
Id have to scurry out of the ravine in a hurry and find another
way down the mountain if the clouds ever let loose. Climbing the
easy slope of the streambed in my ascent, deep in the narrow
ravine and not able to see the spectacle of mountains around me,
I scaled the ravines walls occasionally to have a look about and
perhaps scout out a trail. Yet, I always returned to the ravine.
Increasingly, I gave myself up to it, for while it afforded no
astounding airy panoramas, it did provide a subtle earthy beauty.
What I remember most was the variety of stones. I walked on a
bed of rocks the size of fists, all rounded, that rolled and clacked
with my every step. I made my way around boulders bigger than
myself. Large or small, the stones were all smooth, but varied in
color, grain, and texture. Some were mottled, others veined,
some bright, while others lay quietly, presenting subtle colors that
appeared to run deeper than possible in the dimensions of a
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stone. Picking them up, while sitting upon another stone, Id gaze
at the stones for some time, moving on again up the stream until I
found the next thing of interest, the next quiet place. Soon I
forgot about finding a path to the mountains. The ravine slowly
transformed my intent and perception as I made my slow ascent,
now, without consideration to any end. I knew water from rains
and melting snows had carved the ravine, smoothing the stones as
it made its way, always downward, feeding everything in its path,
giving itself up along the way or, ultimately, to the great Atlantic,
where it would evaporate, rise, and ascend until the whole
process began anew. No beginning. No end. Understanding the
role the stones played in conducting the flow of the water,
whether in a torrent or a trickle, I understood too that every one
of those stones was its own universe. Aware that I could never
reason these things, I felt, observed, witnessed, and then felt again,
always a bit deeper, in my own cycle that never ended or began,
neither separate nor inseparable from the worlds in the stones,
the ravine, the sky, or in the clouds that held the rain, which on
that day, would happen not to fall.
Evening, I could see, would soon fall, and so I turned to
descend, tracing my footsteps in reverse and reinforcing all Id
experienced.
Ryan and I had another quiet night together, leisurely
enjoying each others company, but on that night, we both knew
why. The time had come for us to go our separate ways. Oh,
sure, Ryan wanted to head for Germany straight away and I
wanted to head to Wales before going to France, and, yes, wed
been getting on each others nerves a bit hitching together, but
none of that had anything to do with it. Wed simply both gotten
to the point where we needed to be just ourselves, alone from the
past or future. Separating ourselves from our families and
homeland had been a step, but we never did do anything partway
when we put our minds to it. Ryan and I needed to be apart in a
world where no one knew us through any association other than
just what we were at that single point in our lives. Alone, we
would turn from boys to men.
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The following morning, Ryan and I walked to the edge of

Keswick with our backpacks, and separately took up our hitching.
Knowing I had the lost puppy advantage, I gave Ryan a fair
chance by giving him the first spot, and thus, first crack at a ride
coming out of Keswick. He snagged the first ride, and we waved
as he passed. Ryan and I parted with no plan to hook up again,
all contact lost. I found myself alone in a place Id never been,
and with places to go where I would be a complete stranger. I
would not be known as Don and Lois Sielemans son, the one
who sat on the curb with Jenny and Amy before being blinded
with sand, or the guy who once raised a little hell at a Guitar
Mass. I was alone, just me, in an unknown and unknowing world,
and that just may be the greatest gift a young man can be given.
I was eager for Wales, eager for everything, and grateful
to my best friend for getting me there.
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CHAPTER 13
Stuff and Then Wales
When I write a book, I just keep going and dont look back. I
might have to go back and briefly see if Im repeating myself or to
remind myself what a minor characters name is or something,
but otherwise I dont read what Ive written until Im all done. If I
go back, its easy to be caught in the editing trap, and that really
bogs me down during the creative process. Mostly, however,
reading what Ive written destroys any illusion I may have of
being a competent writer, and that leads to depression. I prefer to
go blissfully on and save all the disappointment until the end,
because at least then the work is done well the first draft
anyway.
Why am I telling you this?
Ill tell you why. I do not have such a narrow mind as to
believe Im writing this without your help. Ive told you plenty of
times that were in this together. This thing is written to a large
degree by the dictates of what you want and what you need.
Dont get hung up on the fact that Im writing this before you read
it. Just because the writing comes before the reading on some
arbitrary time line, doesnt mean the reading wont affect the
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writing. Loves not Times fool, Shakespeare wrote, and I

agree. Id also add, since God is Love, God cant be times fool,
and since were all a part of God, neither are we at least not all
the time. Look, Ill take my help where I can get it, and if it comes
from you, Ill gladly take it and not worry about who does what
first. Ill thank you too, and while its tempting to share with you
the blame for whats not so good in this book, Ill take it all
squarely on my rounded shoulders and give you an honest thank
you for what youve given me. Thank you.
Again, why am I telling you this?
Again, Ill tell you why. Youve become very important to
me. Here are a few of my writing rules: love yourself, love your
characters, and love your readers. This is the first book Ive ever
written in the first person, and I cant recall a book Ive ever read
where a writer speaks so directly to readers. So, the long and
short of the why is that Ive come to really love you, which means
that I have compassion for you, which means that Im sorry Im
not doing a better job here.
Last night I was thinking about you and how you might be
confused by the turn of tone this book has taken. I mean, one
minute Im running around with my underwear on the outside of
my pants pissing offor possibly, inadvertently teasingCatholic
priests, and the next moment, Im walking around a hole in the
ground around Keswick, sensing whole worlds in rocks while the
spirits of God are whispering. You just might (in confusion and
frustration) find yourself screaming (justifiably), What? What!
or even possibly Jesus Christ! I feel responsible for this angst, so
maybe a little background will help.
This is how the book got started. The day after I was fired
from my proverbial day job as (get this) an electrical engineer,
I was thinking about how I never told the promised story of my
night at Stonehenge to a couple of the designers at the firm.
(Though perhaps hard to believe, some engineer/designer types
are actually enthralled by my stories, most likely because they are
just so damned implausible to mathematical minds.) Hating to
break promises even if its out of my control (did I mention I was
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fired?), I thought maybe Id write a short story about Stonehenge

for them. By the next day, the thought had grown to the concept
for a full book. The day after that, I started writing.
My mom once asked me how I wrote, and I explained it was
like being an explorer: you have a rough idea of where you want
to go, and a vague idea of how to get there. You know, for
example, its west or at least west-ish, and you might even know
from unreliable hearsay or heresy that there are a couple of rivers
to ford, a mountain pass to overcome, and a whole lot of forests
and swamps to wade through. But, thats about it. You just set off,
making your own map as you go. Its seat of the pants stuff. Im
sure real writers dont do it this way, but thats how I do it. If I
think too far in advance, or flesh out an idea too carefully, it falls
flat. To me (though I didnt tell my mother this part) writing is
like sex. You dont plan anything out or it kills the mood. Rather,
you jump in and let yourself go. You love the woman. Thats the
extent of the plan. Then, you pay attention to how she responds,
how you respond, and you work with it. Its like sailing. You cant
control the wind or the seas, but you can work with them, and
when you do, its a beautiful thingnot as beautiful as sex,
certainly, but as Ive mention on several occasions, what is? Its all
very Zen: sailing, sex, and writing. Especially sex.
So, thats what Im doing here. I had no idea Id go on and
on about my early days like I did at the beginning of this book,
but there was a lot of energy there I felt shouldnt be ignored. But
that energy could only be sustained for so long, and probably
only tolerated for so long too. Thus, without plan, it changed. I
suppose it had to, because, as Im the subject of this book and I
changed, its only natural that the narrative would follow suit.
See, that makes sense almost as if it was planned out. Look,
Im just trying to pay attention and stay true to myself, this story,
and, of course, to you.
What does all this mean and what is my loose plan? Well,
specifically well have to see, but generally, Ill tell you this. Im
going to go through some really resplendent stuff, like Wales,
pretty damn fast, because as wonderful as it was, its really more
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of the same as Scotland and the Lake Districtindescribably

beautiful scenery and whisperings from the spirits of Godbut
keep these things with you as you read. Whether Im writing
about them or not, these things were always in the background. I
lived them at the time and, repetitive or not, they were great
blessings. However, while I may have needed the repetition, Im
gauging you dont. So just hold it with you. Maybe Ill remind
you now and again, but thats all. Im going to go chronologically
and quickly (except for when I briefly meander and digress)
through some stuff, and then slow down for things that bring new
aspects to this tome or are just plain entertaining.
Okay. Enough. Wales-Ho!
I left Keswick in the morning, and by late afternoon arrived
at a small hostel in a little village on the coast of Wales. I believe I
went through Chester and the mountains of Snowdonia to get to
there, but Im not sure. All I can tell you for certain is that
arriving was a miracle. A guy driving a Mini-Cooper Sport
picked me up just before we hit the mountains. He was a freakin
lunatic. The road, narrow even by British standards, wound
around blind corners with the face of a sheer rock wall a few feet
to the drivers right and a sheer drop-off of hundreds of feet a few
inches to my left. This madman drove like he was at Le Mans,
and since he was taking up the entire road on the blind corners,
and since there was nowhere to go but into or off of a rock face, I
naturally asked, What happens if we come upon another car
from the other direction? I knew the answer to the questionwe
would die!but I thought asking might jog something in his
mind, make him wonder too, and slow him the fuck down.
Nope.
Well just have to deal with that if it happens, he said,
downshifting and flooring the accelerator to bring us out of a skid
that would have put us over a cliff.
Im told Snowdonia is beautiful. I have no idea. Its hard to
observe or recall events when the proper amount of trauma is
induced.
But the miracle was wrought: I made it to the little village
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along the Welsh coast alive. Id love to tell you the name of the
village, but I honestly have no idea. Ive gone to some trouble to
try to figure it out. Ive Googled stuff I remember and tried crossreferencing them, and as recently as a week ago a map of youth
hostels in Europe from 1972 all but fell out of the sky into my
hands. (How do such things happen?) Still, it was all to no avail.
So be it.
This village had everything youd want from an old Welsh
villageno touristy stuff of any sort. The hostel keepers were a
dear, marvelous, late middle-aged couple who ran the hostel out
of their home from spring to fall. It housed no more than a dozen
hostellers at a time, and on the night I arrived, it held only two
others beside me. As they both left the next day, I was alone with
the couple for another two nights until the place shut down for
the seasonquite a deal, for less than a dollar a night. After a
pint or two at the local pub, Id sit at home with the couple
around their cozy hearth with a glowing coal fire, while reading
from an old copy of Rob Roy Id found on the mantle, as they
read too, through narrow, near-sighted reading glasses, hung low
on their noses.
As I write this and think of that late middle-aged couple
(who back then were probably the age I am nowor less), this
warm feeling of peace falls upon me. I wrote at the end of the last
chapter what a gift it was to be alone in a strange place, and
heres one of the reasons why. Its easy to be yourself, because
thats all you are. There are no associations. You are you at that
moment and thats all there is. Its true of those you meet as well.
Everyone is themselves and unguarded, because no matter what
you or they do, it will all disappear in a few seconds or a few days.
The good stuff youll remember because you want to, the bad
stuffrare if everyou learn from, let go, and move on. Thus,
you make intimate friends hard and fast. Its remarkable. All
these years later, I still love that couple of hostel keepers in their
home in Wales, along with so many people I met along the road
with names and even faces long forgotten.
Ive just now realized a great pleasure in writing this book.
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Maybe some of these dear people, lost to everything except

memory, will read this book and say to themselves, Hey, I
remember that dip-wad. I hope theyll smile, as am I.
I dont remember the chronology of what happened in
Wales, but Ill give you a quick list of some of the things I saw and
did.
I went to a five-hundred-year-old pub where knights sat and
drank ale, and probably forgot their nobility for a bit and did
some serious whoring. This was no museum. It was a pub where
the locals still sat and drank their pints. Unbelievable. Thick,
rough-hewn wooden lintels, blackened with age, hung over the
doors scarcely five feet off the ground. (Knights, you come to
realize when you see your first standing suit of armor, were little
buggers back in those days.) And while the headers were
impressive, they were nothing compared to the enormous
fireplace mantle that seemed to have grown into the gigantic
hearthstones, all settling into one over the centuries. It looked as if
the only thing that changed was the firewood, morphing slowly to
ash as it gifted heat. The fire appeared ageless.
I walked along a sandy beach and looked out across waters to
where Ireland laytoo far away to be seenuntil I came to a
cave that had been made into an ancient chapel. It too had been
a pilgrimage for knightsmost likely on the mornings after their
whoring at the pub.
I trekked with sheep in fields across broad hills and found, in
the middle of nowhere, a grand old home of brick that appeared
so quiet I thought it had been long abandoned. I considered
taking up short residence until I saw a new Jaguar coming up a
road on the far side of the house.
I climbed mountains and spent an afternoon sitting on an
outcropping of rock, silently and without movement, hoping to
catch sight of a mountain goat. I saw not a one, but below a view
of land showed the winding remnants of a onetime Roman road,
giving me much to ponder. Vividly, I recall, the sun was warm
upon my face.
Coming back from the mountains, knowing it would be the
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last night Id spend in the little hostel, I thought for once Id have
a ton of meat for supper. Stopping at the village butchers, he
pointed out some good and relatively inexpensive cuts of stew
meat. I bought a pound and a half. Having no idea how to cook
the stew meat, I asked the hostel woman for advice.
Ill tell you what, she said, wiping her hands on her apron.
The old man will be home soon from a day of picking
blackberries. How about you pitch in your meat, and Ill make a
fine meal for us all, with a blackberry pie too?
Great! Ill help.
No, youll be getting out of my kitchen, she smiled.
I went off to the pub and came back in time to clean up for a
supper that was to be served promptly at six.
The three of us sat down together for the first time at their
table in the kitchen. The woman served a magnificent concoction
of stew meat and simmering vegetables covered with mashed
potatoes smothered with melted butter. It was, I believe, the best
meal Ive ever eaten. And the blackberry pie? Indescribable.
After the dishes were done, we spent another quiet evening
around the coal fire, with me getting my last licks into Rob Roy
before Id have to leave it on the mantle for good. As soon as I left
the next morning, the hostel would officially close for the season.
I looked up at the couple over my book, knowing how Id miss
them.
Morning came. The sun arose. I shook hands with the man
and gave the woman a hug that I wanted never to end. Then, I
picked up my backpack.
Once across the hostel threshold I beheld the day, taking in
the little village one last time. I took a step, and before I passed
through the hostel gate, promised myself Id sleep that night at
Stonehenge.
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CHAPTER 14
Stonehenge
Having left the hostel, I walked through the little Welsh village
searching for a good place to hitchhike. As you know, I cant
remember the name of the village, but as Ive been writing, a few
things about its name have resurfaced. I recall that the name of
the village was impossible to pronounceeven for the locals.
While they appeared to say a word to denote the towns name
that was mutually understood amongst them, it never sounded
the same coming out of any two mouths. Not only that, but in no
utterance wherein I assumed the name of the village was referred
to, did it even remotely possess any phonetic resemblance to the
written word I saw on signs and signposts. How could it? The
name of the village contained a lot of reiterative consonants,
mostly Ls and Ps and maybe an H or two, but few vowels except
for maybe an occasional A or some uncertain and-sometimes
Ys thrown indiscriminately in. So, the village was named
something like Llllphpppyllalphllallallppphly. If you want to get
an idea of the Welsh language, think, Crazed Hobbits on LSD,
and youre not too far off.
However, Welshmen are not Hobbits, as was evidenced by
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the first ride I hitched. Instead of a Mini-Cooper Sport, a friggin

massive coal truck with tires above my head came to a stop where
my backpack and I stood. Looking up (me, not my backpack), the
first thing that appeared was an enormous arm leaning against
the trucks enormous side window frame. The arm emerged from
the gigantic sleeve of a gargantuan tee-shirt stretched to its limit
by a bicep that was bigger than my head, waist, hips, or even
shouldersthough, to be honest, at the time I was so skinny all
those measurements were about the same. Then, materializing
above that great bicep like the sun across the horizon at break of
day, arose the broad, friendly face of a giants head, chock full of
curly hair blacker than the coal heaped in the trucks behemoth
dumper.
Want a ride? the giant asked.
In that?
Its big enough, he said.
I had little doubt.
Listen, he said. Im not going far before I dump this load,
but I can get you to a much better spot to hitch.
Great!
In a moment, he was on the ground towering above me. Ive
never seen a man that big so quick and nimble. Ill take that for
you, he said, and in a flash, my backpack was airborne.
To this day, I can see it, playing out in slow motion in my
head. The backpack leaves his hand, spinning, at a velocity and
in a trajectory that my mind instantly calculates will land the
backpacks entire weight on the neck of my guitar as it strikes the
steel rail of the trucks bed and then rolls, disappearing, into the
pile of coal. My calculations, unfortunately, proved to be precise.
There, the giant Welshman said, grinning with the
satisfaction from a job well done. Then, gallantly waving his arm,
he motioned me to climb into the truck.
Glancing at the spot of the truck where my guitar had struck,
I looked at the kind giant whod unknowingly broken my
beloveds neckand body too, most likelybut what could I do?
Nothing, because (1) it was, now, already in the past, and (2) the
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giant, as giants tend to be, was friggin gigantic. Smiling foolishly

at the Welshman, I accepted my loss, and came to terms with
losing something I didnt need to lose to realize all it meant. Ah,
well farewell, my beloved.
The Welshman, true to his word, delivered me to a great
place to hitch. As he brought the truck to a stop, he neatly
jumped into the coal bed, and retrieving my backpack along with
what remained of my guitar, he tossed them to me just as my feet
hit the ground, forcing me to execute a diving catch for an object
nearly half my weight. It wasnt pretty. In another nimble flash,
the Welshman was back in the truck and with a hearty wave, a
giant smile, and a heartfelt Good luck, he was off, with me still
laying on my stomach, extracting one arm from beneath the
backpack to vaguely wave back.
After the giant and his truck were out of sight, I freed my
other arm from my backpack and sat on my ass to assess the
damage. Amazingly, the backpack was still in one piece. Getting
up to my knees, I turned my attention to my dearly departed,
thoroughly beloved guitar.
Have I mentioned that my guitar, strapped to my backpack,
was covered by only a soft case?
I sighed as I unlashed the guitar carefully from my backpack,
astonished that it still heldif no promiseat least the rough
shape of a guitar. I gingerly laid the guitar on its back upon the
ground, wrapped in its soft case that now served as a body bag.
An identification of the body was required before the burial, and
since I was the only one within ten thousand miles that knew
herbesides Ryan, whose whereabouts were unknownthe
responsibility fell to me alone. After carefully unzipping the entire
length of the body bag with eyes closed, taking a deep breath, I
did what I had to do. I bore witness.
My God! From the front view, all laid out and supported by
the earth, she looked wonderful. How was that possible? Had my
diving catch knocked me unconscious? Had elfin mini-morticians
emerged from the Welsh Woods to lay her out so beautifully?
Things should have been askew, yet her neck aligned perfectly
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with her body. Could it be all right? I replayed the slow

motion visual of the neck striking the truck before tumbling into
the bed. No, it could not be all right; that would defy the laws of
physics. Still, I could not refrain from reaching into the bag.
Wrapping my fingers gently around the back of her neck just
below her head, I slowly, with great care, ran my hand down the
length of her magnificent, exquisite long neck, all the way to her
body. I found not a single flaw. In awe, I tenderly drew her from
the body bag with one hand beneath the neck and the other
beneath the body and miraculously everything held. With
one knee on the ground and the other upright, cradling the body
of the guitar, I held my beloved. Tentatively, I placed my fingers
upon her neck in an A chord and, in a giant leap of hope,
expecting nothing but despair, I strummed, and my dear, sweet,
beloved sang. One chord, A, reverberated against the hills and
mountains that held us while the trees, recognizing their wooden
sister held in another shape, shook. The body bag morphed back
into a soft case. My beloved and I sat by the roadside for a bit,
playing to the trees, the mountains, and all that would hear.
Yet, there was Stonehenge to get to, and a day of hitchhiking
that would prove to be the strangest hitching of my life. The giant
Welshman, it turns out, was just the opening act.
Id gotten a much-needed early start that day, because Wales
to Stonehenge was a long hike, and it was a Sunday, a day
Englishmen tend to stay at home.
I might point out to those of you who have not hitchhiked
Europe, its a misperception to think that because European
countries are so much smaller than America, you can hitch to
more places faster. Its not a misperception if youre flying,
driving, or going by train, but when you hitch, everything is
scaled down. Europeans dont have to drive very far to get
whatever they need or want, so rides are often very short. While
Wales to Stonehenge doesnt look like much on the map, I knew
from my few weeks of hitching experience in Britain that even for
me, it was an ambitious hike.
Nevertheless, things went well. The Welsh were generous in
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giving rides, and while the rides were short and the traffic thin, I
still spent little time standing on the side of the road. Soon, I
found myself at a roundabout not too far from the motorway that
would take me south to Bath, where Id then turn east to the
Salisbury Plain and Stonehenge.
Roundabouts, by the by, are built like American rotaries but
are used in an entirely different manner. The British dont bother
with merging, lane changing, or watching other traffic. When
Brits come to a roundabout, they simply make bee-lines from the
road theyre on to the road theyre going to, oblivious to time and
matter, creating an unimaginable tangle oftheoretically at
leastan infinite number of cars going in an infinite number of
directions at an infinite number of kilometers peryou pick the
time unit, it doesnt matterand somehow, it all miraculously
works. As a hitchhiker, you quickly learn that you need to be well
away from a roundabout to get a ride, because the magical
British groupthink that occurs at a roundabout that makes the
impossible possible takes a great deal of concentration that will not
and cannot factor in a hitchhiker unless, I thought, you were at a
rather large roundabout in the middle of nowhere in Wales on a
Sunday and there was absolutely no traffic.
Thus, I hitched at the vacant roundabout for a short time
before two drivers entered from two different roads
approximately one hundred and eighty degrees apart and, it
being Sunday, puttered around at normal speeds. As I was a new
object to consider at the roundabout, both drivers stared at me
with inquisitive looks while I, for the second time that day,
worked out trajectories. Despite the fact that both cars were
simultaneously slowing down to a near stop to offer me a ride, my
calculations, unfortunately, again proved to be precise. The two
lone cars on the roundabout did, in fact, collide.
Apparently, two drivers in Britain are not enough to
constitute a group, and a group not being constituted logically
eliminates the possibility for a groupthink to form. Had a
groupthink formed, of course, the hitchhiker would not have been
considered and no collision could have occurred. But it did. Its
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like the Butterfly Effect with the hitchhikerin this case, me

being the butterfly. However, I wasnt on the other side of the
worldand the drivers knew it.
After grinding to a stop and looking up at each other in
surprise from a collision that occurred at no more than five miles
an hournot enough to hurt anyone but plenty enough to
significantly dent two opposing fendersthe drivers quickly
snapped their heads, angrily, back to the butterfly (again, me)
who, while watching them out of the corner of my eye, otherwise
gave every indication of being so thoroughly engrossed in the
beauty of the resplendent universe surrounding me as to be
rendered completely unaware of the two morons who, barely
moving, had just collided in front of me.
Twenty-five hundred years ago, in the Tao Te Ching, Lao-tzu
wrote (and no, young readers, we are not contemporaries), Offer
evil no opposing force, and its own force dissolves to nothing.
Well in 1972 (see, not so long ago), Id never heard of the book or
the author (in fact, I just recalled, I happened to be carrying a
book in my backpack titled The Wisdom of Mao that was given to
me by a girl who owned the first pair of pants I stuck my hand
down, but somehow just couldnt get behindbehind Mao, I
mean, not the girlbecause I thought Maos wisdom was trash
and Ill stick to that because, hey, a hundred million dead
Chinese cant be wrong), but Mr. Tzu must have been speaking
to me that day at the roundabout in Wales, because I was all
about offering evil no opposing force, and my trick of pretending
to be engrossed in everything in the universe but the two
ungroupthinkers before me was apparently paying off, as they
increasingly ignored me while dealing with the exchange of
information requisite to any collision of automobiles regardless of
circumstance. Besides, Im a realist. Id dropped my thumb and
given up hope for a ride from either of those two.
To be a little more current with my sources, Mr. George
Harrison tells us, All Things Must Pass, and thus did the two
unfortunates at the roundabout.
A short time later, a lone car showed up at the roundabout
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and gave me a ride of not more than twenty kilometers, dropping

me off in a small village made entirely of thatch and moss, lovely,
really, but devoid of significant traffic. An ambulance came down
the road with lights on but no siren, and as it passed I said an Our
Father (as Id been taught), and then turned again to look down
the road for a ride.
Hey, I heard behind me. I turned and saw a guy in a white
uniform hanging half out of the ambulance door. Do you want a
ride or not? he asked.
What?
Do you want a ride? Youre bloody hitchhiking arent you?
Yeah, I said, trying to reconcile myself to the fact that an
ambulance with their emergency lights on was offering me a ride.
Well, get in then, he said, good-naturedly. We havent got
all day.
Like all good hitchhikers, I picked up my kit and ran to the
ambulance (its bad form to amble carelessly up to someone kind
enough to give you a ride), but hesitated halfway through the
door, as looking back around the corner of a divider in the
ambulance I saw the bare, scraggily, starchy-white ankle and foot
of the guy whod officially hitched a ride.
Dont worry, were in no hurry. the driver said, his voice a
drone of banality.
It turned out to be a great ride, as I recall, with the two of
them (pilot and copilot, I supposed) being a jovial pair. They
werent much older than me, so we shared a lot in common. We
talked about rock and roll, American football versus rugby, all
kinds of normal stuff, but not once was there any reference to the
guy in the back. They gave me to understand, somehow, that
while it wasnt exactly protocol to pick up hitchhikers, in this case
it didnt really matter as long as I knew nothing about their more
appropriate passenger. That would have been unprofessional. By
writing I knew nothing, I mean to say that I didnt even know
if the guy was dead or alive. I didnt even know if it was a guy or
not, but Christ, with an ankle and foot like that, I hoped so. The
ambulance guys were clearly in no hurry. Im willing to bet it was
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a transfer from a hospital to a nursing home or vice versa, or

something like that primarily becausegiven the conversation
and levity of the mood in the ambulancethe other explanation
is just too creepy to consider. Either way, when they dropped me
off and drove away with all of usminus onewaving goodbye,
I knew no more about the passenger then when Id been picked
up. It was very strange.
Talking about strange, no sooner did I turn round than I saw
every male hitchhikers fantasy coming down the road: an
incredibly gorgeous young woman driving, alone, a shiny red
Jaguar XKE convertible, with her long, full, blonde hair flowing
behind her like some Greek goddessone of the hot ones too,
not one of the head-snakers. And, good God! She was slowing
down! And, speaking of God, I was praying. Oh God, please let
there be room in her boot for my kit! (No, readers, that was not
a euphemism.) I mean, I was literally praying that there would be
room in her trunk for my pack. (Stop it!) My heart was racing
because she was slowing down and she was pulling over and she
was even more beautiful up close than from afar and she was
smiling andoh, thank you dear merciful God in whose bounty
thou hast given so much she was stopping. And and
JESUS CHRIST!
There was a friggin baby in the passenger seat!
I was quick: We can put the baby and my kit in your boot.
She laughed, apparently thinking I was kidding.
Oh, I wish there were room, she said, sweetly. Id love to
give you a ride. Really.
My kits not all that important, I said, my mind working
lightning fast. Tell me, is it your baby?
She laughed, again thinking I was kidding. No, its not my
baby, she said, flushing just a bit. But she is my responsibility.
Look, the babys in a car seat. How about we put it here
next to my kit and send the butler back to fetch them?
Oh, she giggled. You are cute.
Oh, fuck!
She called me cutethe kiss of death.
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Sorry. I do wish you luck, she said.

There might have been more, but after cute, it was all
over. In the end she drove off, taking with her the luck shed
wished me.
Friggin cute.
Ack.
So, what are the odds of another Jaguar stopping? Not good,
but odds are only odds, and like everything, have uncertainty
built into them. I dont know if it was at the same spot or a couple
of rides later, but sure enough, another Jaguar did slow and come
to a stop to pick me up. No XKE convertible, nor hot blonde, but
no baby either. A well dressed man, William, picked me up in a
plush Jaguar sedan, and gave me a long ride to Bath. We rode
together for a couple of hours and had an interesting
conversation. He was a great guy.
Its not often you get a ride in a luxury car. The first shot I
had was with Ryan on our California jaunt. In the middle of
Kansas, on an extremely hot August day, a big Lincoln
Continental had pulled over. Ryan and I were running to the
Lincoln for all we were worth, aching for the inevitable air
conditioning. As we approached the car the wheels spun, sending
gravel against our shins and enshrouding us in a cloud of dust.
We heard the screeching of tires as the car hit the pavement and
then caught a shout out backward, Cut your hair and get a job!
accompanied, very cleverly, by a scissors gesture with his hand
and then, of course, the middle finger. The sad part was the
laughing children in the backseat who you knew were screwed for
life. (You know, for example, those kids grew up and voted for
George W. Bush, each of them, twice!) Thats pretty much the
way it was, hitchhiking-wise I mean. It was the simple folks,
driving beaten-up old vehicles, who would generously offer rides.
I dont know what the deal is with rich people. Look, Ill confess
to being generally prejudiced against rich people, and I suppose
wealth like anything else has its burdens, but damn it, with all
their privilege, education, and time for leisure, one would think
the wealthy could manage to pull their heads out of their asses, at
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least on occasion.
However, there I was with an exception, riding in a late
model Jaguar sedan with an amiable, well-heeled, erudite man,
who was having an open and civil conversation with me on
politics and economics. William voiced what Id always suspected
of the British. We look at America as a wayward child, a
teenager maybe, full of promise but needing to grow into itself a
bit. He said it kindly, even paternally, enough so that I spared
him the goose-stepping in the park with sauerkraut breath
speech Id honed in Scotland. We got along famously, actually,
and as we arrived in Bath around six oclock, only an hour or
twos hitch from Stonehenge, I gratefully accepted his invitation
to his house for dinner. You can meet my wife, he said, and
after dinner and dessert, Ill take you to a good spot to hitch.
Sounds great, I said casually, feeling privileged after less
than two hours in a Jaguar.
We drove down a boulevard with a nice curbed green
between the lanes, filled with grass and enormous old hardwood
trees. To my left was a scenic riverfront, and to my right was a
row of mansions set back from the road on perfectly manicured
lawns, with long drives that wound around back to carriage
houses. Sure enough, William turned his Jaguar around a paved
opening in the curbed green, and quickly took a left onto a long
driveway.
This is home, William said, offhandedly.
I should clarify a bit on the term mansion. Williams home
was probably no more than six thousand square feet, but thats
huge by British standards. Land in Britain is dear, and there are a
lot of building codes to keep the Ye Old England feel to cities
like Bath, so William had a pretty nice placeall brick, stone,
moss, and ivy. Maybe not Duke-rich, as in owning a castle in the
countryside and chauffeured in a Bentley, but William was clearly
doing well.
Jenny, he called, coming in the back door. Im home,
honey, and Ive brought a friend.
Williams call went unreturned. Walking down a short
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hallway, through a kitchen (whose intoxicating aromas to a

hitchhiker on a two-and-a half-dollar-a-day budget were, quite
simply, indescribable), we eventually entered a large room Id call
a library, wherein sat Jenny upon a generously upholstered, highwing-backed silk chair.
Do you recall a girl named Jenny who blinded me in a
jealous fit when I was five years old? I do, and the look English
Jenny had on her face was much the same look little American
Jenny had before the sand hit my eyes, except that English
Jennys look showed the temper of years of experience, so that as
she satall beautiful, shapely, and snug in her silken throneshe
was positively terrifying. Her eyes screamed a maddened menace,
and the chair arms coverings took real punishment from her
fingernails, despite the fact that she did not move; not one little
bit. If the Grim Reaper has a hot sister, Murder Incarnate,
there she was.
Petrified, turning only my eyes to William for clarification, I
saw him standing with his gaze locked on Jennys, with just the
hint of a smirk upon his lips.
This is Michael, William said to her, extending his arm
toward me, speaking with careful civility.
It was at that moment I realized the guy hed called out as a
friend while entering the back hall, was not really so much a
friend as a witness. It was all a gambit. Though his lips didnt move,
nor did his mouth utter audible words, he was clearly saying, Go
ahead and kill me, dear, but youll have to murder this innocent
looking twelve year old too.
Jesus Christ! All of a sudden it was all so clear as to why the
rich son-of-a-bitch, William Jaguar, picked me upthe unwitting
witnessto, so graciously, take me to his home. I had no idea
what his transgression was, but it was clear he knew it, she knew
it, and they both knew each other knew it. In a panic, I quickly
scanned the room, and sure enough on the mantle of the fireplace
just to the side of Jenny was, among other pleasantries, a big-ass
candlestick. Okay, I put the clues together and pretty much had it
solved: Murder Incarnate killed William Jaguar in the Library
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with the Candlestick, while a tall skinny hippie from Iowa curled
up in a ball on the floor screaming like a girl.
There was a grandfather clock in that room. The sound of its
ticking was nauseatingly slow, monotonous, and solitary. It
was a small universe, devoid of any other sound.
For a number of reasons I needed to use the bathroom, but
there was no way to remove myself, because it was clear that I
was the only thing that might, maybe, possibly, on a long stretch,
prevent a murder. As for the two of them, they looked to have
twenty to thirty years of experience in communicating in all the
mysterious ways married couples do, whereby nothing appears to
be happening, but quite a lot actually is. They were like the
technological gadgets they have these days that exchange
information secretly, leaving you in the dark until a Sync
Complete message shows up on one of the screens. Looking
from one pair of eyes to the other, I saw no signs of completion. It
was getting warm in that room, and my urgency for a bathroom
was growing acute.
The clock ticked.
When the end of the universe finally occurred, Murder
IncarnateI mean, Jennywithout any other movement, not
even a blink, turned her eyes to me.
I confess, I blinked, possessing only enough control to
consciously perform an ultra-kegel to keep from wetting myself
while my sphincter, fortunately, was ratcheted sufficiently tight
through its own accord. Jenny studied me briefly, understanding
me completely in a matter of seconds. I was, at that moment, the
easiest book in the library to read. As for my own literacy, I noted
that Jennys demeanor had changed so quickly and favorably
upon looking at me, that it was clear she and William had never
had a child of their own.
Michael, Jenny addressed me, smiling calmly. Would you
have supper with us, please? It would be pleasant to chat with
you. Its not often William comes home with a stranger.
Sure, I lied, not missing her jab. That would be nice.
William, why dont you show Michael where he can freshen
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up? Ill bring the dinner into the dining room.

Halleluiah! On both counts.
William and Jenny in Bath England put on a hell of a spread,
and as we made small talk around the table, an amicable ceasefire
was reached. The laughter and delight that surrounded us at that
table after such an inauspicious beginning at that home was
genuine. By the end of the meal, William offered me a warm bath
and a place to sleepwith no agendaand Jenny with guileless
enthusiasm and charm seconded the offer. They made it hard to
say no, but when a goal is set, I generally stick to it. I deferred.
Stonehenge was calling.
I parted with dear Jenny, William drove me to the hitching
spot hed promised, and we said goodbye.
Things, sometimes, happen so fast.
It was eight oclock.
While Jenny, William, and I dined, a fog had befallen Bath,
but while the lights of the city made things perfectly navigable, at
the edge of the town the fog closed in quick, thick, heavy, and all
permeating. The street lantern where William dropped me off
cast a light no more than thirty feet into that fog. In fifteen
minutes of standing there, Id not seen a single set of headlights
from either direction. With it being Sunday, foggy, and getting
later by the moment, things didnt look good for getting a ride.
Id traded my chance at mirth with friends, a night in a mansion,
a warm bath, andIm fairly certaina long nights sleep in a
really sumptuous bed, just to sleep on the ground by the side of
the road under a dismal lamp.
Friggin wonderful. Cocky Mr. Hitchhiker finally meets his
comeuppance.
Still, I hadnt given up completely. After all, it was only eight
oclock. I figured I might as well stand in the fog shivering in my
Scottish Army coat as climb into my bag. The bag would have
quickly warmed and become inviting, but while that would have
been conducive for sleeping, it was far too early for that, and
laying by the side of the road wide awake in the dark of a
mummy sleeping bag left little for entertainment. I paced back
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and forth in that small circle of light in the fog, examining what
little there was to see, dropping to do push-ups to help warm me
up on occasion, thinking of God only knows what.
Then, I heard a noise, and quickly discerning it to be the
noise of a car coming out of Bath, my thumb went up
automatically. Upon first consideration, I had little hope of being
seen in that small spot of light as the car sped by, but Id failed to
factor in the perspective of the autos driver. The thick fog,
naturally, limited his ability to see too. When I saw the headlights,
finally, they were moving no more than twenty-five miles an
hour. The driver, looking at me as if I was an apparition, stopped
without even pulling over. I vaguely waved my thumb.
Apparently having ascertained I was real, the driver pulled safely
off to the side of the road, leaned over, and rolled down the
passengers side window.
Bloody hell! he said, in wonderment. Youre hitching
tonight? Youre crazier than I am.
Thats quite possible, I said.
Where are you headed? he asked.
Stonehenge.
Stonehenge?
Yeah. Stonehenge.
Tonight? he asked, incredulously.
Its not that far, I said, myself incredulous with his
incredulity.
He seemed stunned, as if distance was not the point, but he
quickly recovered. No, its not that far, he admitted. But it will
take a couple of hours crawling through this fog. I can barely see
the side of the road to make my way. I wont reach London till
way after midnight at this rate.
Youre driving to London? I asked, this time generating
my own wonderment. I started ciphering. Roughly speaking,
Stonehenge was just off the road about halfway to London. It
would be a long drive in this fog, and this guy could use some
company. I wasnt in the car yet, but it looked like Mr.
Hitchhiker was about to pull it off again.
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Throw your stuff in the back and get in, he said, amicably,
seeming to accept the fact that he was about to give a ride to a
lunatic. I can use an extra set of eyes tonight.
I followed his instruction and we were offat about twenty
miles an hour. He was right; another set of eyes was helpful. We
literally could only see a few feet in front of the car, just enough to
watch the side of the road and drive as close to it as possible, so as
to stay on the road and to avoid any possible oncoming traffic.
Man and car were humble, and I remember little else about
either, except that on that two-hour ride to Stonehenge, the guy
talked nonstop about Stonehenge and the Druids. The Druids, he
told me, were not just some ancient cult as many believed. Hed
lived on the Salisbury plain all his life and he knewas did
everyone else who lived therethat the Druids were still alive
and doing well. He was not a Druid, he assured me, and he
couldnt put his finger on even one, but they were all around. If
you were a Druid, you did well, because the Druids looked after
their own. Druids, my driver told me, had their hands in
everything from banking to dairy farming andwho knew
maybe even the guy selling newspapers, magazines, and tobacco
out of his little shop in Bath. You kept your nose out of Druid
businessif you were smart. Stonehenge, of course, was the
center of their cult.
Oh, the government will tell you the elaborate fence around
Stonehenge is for security of a national monument, but we all
know its really there to keep the Druids out. Why do the guards
leave at night? Ha! Theyre not stupidthey know there are
things you dont want to question. Sometimes, when they open
the place up in the morning, the remains of animal sacrifices are
found inside the fence, with no clue as to how the Druids got in
or out. Mind you, the sacrifices dont stop with animals. This I
know! Occasionally, for the rites requiring it, there are human
sacrifices too. But, the Druids never leave human remains behind
at Stonehenge none except for human blood!
That, basically, was how the whole ride went, with him
telling me in hushed melodrama and emphatic tones Druid story
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after Druid storyeach tale more ridiculous than the one

beforeas we crawled our way toward Stonehenge, straining our
eyes against an ever-thickening fog. We never met or came upon
a single car, and thus traveled through unseen, indiscernible
territory, following the small cast of light on a bit of road that
never varied. I listened to the madman tell his Druid tales and
lore with little effect. Let him drone onI was getting a ride to
Stonehenge.
After a small eternity, he pulled unexpectedly over to the side
of the road.
Were here, he whispered.
Stonehenge?
Yes.
How can you tell? I asked, seeing nothing but the same bit
of road.
Look, he said, ominously, his right hand slowly reaching
before my eyes, pointing with a crooked finger to beyond my side
window.
Following his finger, I saw nothing but a reflection of the
cars dashboard lights upon the windows glass.
His pointed finger never wavered. There, he said, his voice
tremulous with awe. Do you see it?
I rolled down the window.
As I did, a vague glowing sphere of dim light appeared,
hovering off the side of the road by a couple of hundred yards,
maybe a hundred feet or so off the ground.
I looked back at him. His entirety was as rigid as the pointing
finger, hand, and arm that he held immovable before me. With
eyes and mouth frozen wide open, he appeared to be in a fit of
fearful, respectful astonishment. He was as fixed as rigor mortis,
with the exception of the Adams apple that, as he swallowed,
moved creepily beneath the insalubrious skin of his throat.
Do you mean that dim ball of light in the sky? I asked,
following his finger, because thats all I sawno substance, just a
barely distinguishable illumination.
Thats Stonehenge! he said, his eyes glued to the sphere.
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Thats no ball of light in the sky, he added, derisively.

Stonehenge sits on a hill, off the main road, and in this fog all
you see is the light from the security lamps reflecting off the
stones. Thats it. Thats Stonehenge!
Oh, I said. How do I get to it?
I startled his homage to the invisible wonder of stone.
What, he said, pulling his arm back, once again becoming
animate. You still want to go?
Yes.
Clearly, one of us was missing something. Clearly, he
thought it was me.
Listen, he said, with a peculiar blend of urgency, patience,
disdain, and care. Ive given up on London tonight. This fog is
intolerable and only worsening. I can hardly see a thing. Now,
not more than ten kilometers down the road, we can take a turnoff and be in a little village with a small inn and a fine warm
fireplace, where we can sit and have a drinkmaybe even a bite
to eat, all my treatbefore we call it a night. Ill bring you back
here in the morning.
No, I said, already getting out of the car, reaching back for
my pack. I really appreciate it, but I had Stonehenge as a goal to
reach tonight. Ill be warm enough in my bag. I might even make
myself some cocoa before I turn in.
Patience and care vanished from the mans countenance.
Urgency and disdain consumed him.
Get back in the car! he shouted. You cant even see to get
up there!
Ill figure something out, I said. I was, remember, eighteen.
He didnt say it, but I clearly saw in his eyes that he thought I
was mad. Quickly resigning himself to the fact, he threw up his
arms, wished me good luck, and placing his hands on the steering
wheel, peered straight ahead into the fog.
Thanks for the ride, I said.
He was immobile again, and would say nothing. I closed the
door of the car, and in a sudden fit the Englishman drove away.
One of the things I remember clearly was his driving off, for
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I dont know if theres ever been an instance in my life where the

surroundings around me changed so abruptly and unexpectedly.
In a split second the car disappeared, swallowed whole by the fog,
and in the next instant the cars lights and all sound passed out of
existence too. I was, all of a sudden, in complete darkness. A
moment before I was bathed in the light that exuded from the
mans car, but once its lights disappeared into the fog, I was
surrounded by absolute blackness. It was like being in a cave a
mile deep with all lights extinguished. There was no adjustment
for my eyes to make. I could see nothing, neither my hand in
front of my face nor my feet upon the ground. A flashlight was an
extravagance I didnt have, but regardless, it would have done
little good in that impermeable fog.
Figuring that there must be a road leading to Stonehenge, I
felt along the edge of the pavement with my feet as I walked one
way up the shoulder and then down, but found no offshoot going
in any direction, much less in the direction of the vague light that
was, supposedly, Stonehenge.
Id told the man Id figure something out, and figure
something out I did. There was really only one thing to do: walk
directly in the direction of the only discernable thing in my black
worldthe dim, hovering light in the distance.
Slowly, carefully, I placed one foot in front of the other,
feeling for the ground before tentatively exchanging the weight to
the forward foot. I waved an arm in the blackness to see if there
was any obstruction, and if not, I stepped forward again. I
repeated this process, painstakingly, climbing down the ditch by
the side of the road and then up. I ran into bushes, tripped over
rocks, and went down with my heavy backpack many a time. I
dont remember all the obstacles I had to overcomethere might
have been fences, gullies, hedgerows, thickets, or whatnotbut I
overcame them all one-step at a time and always in a straight line
between that effusive light and me. Who knew what lay beside
me? Was there an easier path? Certainly, but I had no way of
knowing where it lay. All I knew was that the shortest path
between two points was a straight line, and as I had no
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navigational aid other than that vague light, it became not just
my North Star, but also my only and every star. Following it after
an interminable struggle and an undetermined amount of time
even my watch gave no illuminationI found myself, in one
piece, at last inside the sphere of that peculiar gray light, which
even at its source, offered little hint of form or discriminating
aspect. There was light, but in the deep fog there was little sense
from where it originated. The light came reflected off uncounted
numbers of small dull droplets from the fogs moisture, which
reflected the light in a myriad of directions in a small, mean way.
Nevertheless, I could now see my feet upon the ground, and at
least a yard or two around me. I even managed to see a chainlink fence before I walked into it. It was not too hard to figure
that the stone monoliths of Stonehenge were just beyond the
fence, for there the light seemed brightest, and certainly, the
security lights would have been pointed towards the great stones.
Perhaps the influence of the giant stones gave the light its gray
specter. Following my way around the fence upon the grass of
that Salisbury hill, I came upon pavement, and continuing on
reached a spot a bit brighter than the rest. With a light pole just
before me, I could now see the ground for nearly ten feet around.
I knew I was in a parking lot from the painted white lines lying,
barely discernable, upon the pavement. Walking from pole to
pole until Id gone some little distance into the lot, I set my
backpack down next to a pole that just felt right. My campsite
was chosen. Sitting with my back against the light pole, I savored
a well-done days hike and a goal admirably achieved.
Lets leave me, readers and friends, seated with my back
against the light pole feeling so peaceful and confident at days
end, stop for a bit, and do a little reconnoitering. Its important to
establish an appreciation for the previous twenty-four hours of
my life, and to provide a perspective for the place where I now
found myself.
On the night before leaning alone against that solitary pole
in its diffuse, constrained light, I was in Wales at the home of my
surrogate parents eating the best home cooked meal of my life,
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followed by an extraordinary piece of blackberry pie, a fine read

by the side of a warm coal fire, and a self-tuck into a gloriously
comforting bed.
Starting on that very morning I: said goodbye to my Welsh
mom and dad; got a ride from a giant in an enormous coal truck;
thought Id lost my beloved guitar to certain death to find her not
only alive but unscathed; causedI suppose some people would
saya car accident on a roundabout with only two cars present;
hitched a ride in an ambulance with two guys and a rider who
should have been the central character in that scene, but who
rather remained unknown to me in every respect, such as
whether it be man or woman, unconscious, dead or just
remarkably indifferent; had fallen in love with a gorgeous blonde
woman in a red Jaguar XKE with whom Id had a baby and then
lost in a matter of minutes (blonde and Jaguar tragic losses, baby
not so much); had been picked up and taken home by a rich man
from Bath who used me as a foil to his wifes plan for murder
that, who knows, perhaps was not foiled but merely postponed
until things degenerated after my parting Jenny and Williams
home, leaving me to be the last one to have seen the victims of a
murder/suicide or double homicide that remains unsolved to this
day, until some retired police detective in Bathtrying to keep
current with Nobel Prize winning literaturereads this book, and
putting the timeline together screams Eureka!; and, finally,
caught a ride in the fog with a Druidophile who dropped me off
in the middle of nowhere so I could scratch my way up a scathing
hill in absolute darkness to Stonehenge, where I was engulfed in
the most eerie fog-addled light imaginable.
Okay, put that day all together, and lets get back to me at
the light pole in Stonehenges parking lot, enjoying my wellearned moment. And, moment it was, because momentstransient
phantoms that they aredissipate quickly to the next moment,
which in this instance, became a torrential flood of all the bizarre,
aberrant, unimaginably strange Druid stories that the crazy
Englishman had told me thatin the midst of the lonely,
unearthly light that engulfed me nowseemed suddenly not so
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unimaginable and the teller not so crazy. I realized at once,

chillingly, that the Druids could be surrounding me unbeknownst
at that very moment, hidden not more than ten feet away in the
heavy fog, ready to fall upon me without warning. The
Druidophiles stories flooded in again, this time, with a bite.
Thus ensued the first panic attack of my life. I had no idea
what a panic attack was, and having never heard of such a thing
made it all the more frightening. It fed on itself. I watched it feed
and grow and, fortunately, had enough semblance of reason to
try to convince myself it was all just stuff and nonsense. Damn
that strange little Druid devotee and all his twisted little Druid
tales. There was work to be done! I stood and unpacked my
mummy sleeping bag, pulled a sheet of plastic Id found
somewhere and saved as a ground cloth from my pack, laid it out
on the pavement, shook and fluffed my bag, laid it upon the
ground cloth, and taking off my boots, stepped onto the bag. The
boots I put in the pack to keep dry, draping my coat over the soft
case of my guitar strapped to my pack. Still forcing myself to not
think of the possible fog-hidden Druids surrounding me, I
disrobed quickly, piling my clothes into the sleeping bag,
following them with myself.
The proper way to sleep in a goose down mummy bag is not
only completely naked, but to have your face exposed at the small
opening at the top so that your breath does not add moisture to
the bag, thus degenerating the downs ability to insulate. If its
really cold, you should place a shirt, sweater, or other suitable
cloth over your face. This is the theory. However, theory in
practice necessitates sleeping on your back all night in one
position that, come on, is not realisticcertainly not for me. I like
to roll around and stretch or curl into all kinds of positions as I
sleep and, furthermore, I kind of like my warm breath inside the
sleeping bag. On nights that were not cold, I simply left my whole
head out of the small hole in the bag, and on nights that were
cold, I withdrew completely into my cocoon and made peace
with the wee bit of moisture. On that night in late October, on
the top of a hill in the middle of the Salisbury plain, in the midst
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of damp, chilling fog, I cocooned into my mummy bag and told

myself goodnight.
Entirely withdrawn inside the bag I was, light pole
notwithstanding, completely immersed in darkness.
I listened, and told myself not to listen. I imagined, and told
myself not to imagine. I feared, and told myself not to fear. I
fought a frightful struggle inside that bag, cursing and re-cursing
that damn little Druid junkie and each of his damnably nefarious
narratives. It occurred to me in a rush, maybe he wasnt just a
Druid junkiemaybe he was, in fact, a Druid! Maybe the nice
little inn at the small village hed offered was really a Druid lair.
Maybeafter all the appropriate ceremonies, incantations, and
proper protocols between he and his Druid buddies were
completedthe bite to eat hed proposed was me. Maybe, those
Druid bastards would be so pissed at being forced out to
Stonehenge on such a dreary nightfumbling around in their
own foggy darknessthat they would perform their rites with
gruesome elaboration as payback for my behavior that,
undoubtedly, theyd have found frightfully disagreeable. I fought
a horrific mental battle in that mummy sleeping bag, ending with
me laying straight on my back, forcing myself not to think, and
willing my bones to stop their damn shaking.
Panic attacksIve been told, and now know from
experiencewill generally wear themselves out in around twenty
minutes. The body can produce adrenaline and the other
required chemicals to sustain the flight or fight response for only
so long. Eventually, it will pass. This is exactly what seems to have
followed, for at last, I was able to refrain from thinking, my bones
did stop shaking, my skin ceased crawling upon itself, and I was
able to finally fall asleep.
I slept and slept well, I assume, right up until I groggily
awoke, wondering what had awakened me. Though muffled to
sound inside my mummy bag, Id heard something, andI
realized suddenly wide-awake with terrorI still heard it!
Listening carefully, doubting my sense of hearing at every turn,
realization came to me bit by bit: there was a noise, it was that of
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human voices, and they were chanting and circling my bag. I

pinched myself. I really did. And I was not dreaming that I
pinched myself, because just following (as a double-check), I
slapped myself too. The conclusion was as inescapable as it was
unfortunate: I was trapped inside my sleeping bag fully awake
listening to chanting voices move in a circle around me.
I cant tell you how many ways I tried to dissuade myself
from having the perception that I heard what I heard, but they all
failed for one simple reason: I did hear them. While the thick
down of the mummy bag made it impossible to make out what
was being said, it was clearly a chant.
Hum hum hum-a-hah. Hum hum a-hum.
It was repetitive, had form, was consistent, and the chanters
were unmistakably moving slowly around my bag. Clearly, it was
an incantation.
JESUS CHRIST!
Inside that pitch black sleeping bag, curled up and
unmoving, I pulled all my resources together and tried to reason
as clearly as possible. Okay, what were the possibilities? One,
there are Druids encircling my sleeping bag and chanting. Two,
Ive completely lost my mind and am experiencing an audio
hallucination of Druids encircling my sleeping bag and chanting.
Three
Oh, God
There was no three!
Either the Druids were there or Id lost my mind.
FUCK!
Dwelling on the two possibilities my terror built to
proportions I cant begin to describe, but can only weakly attest
to as being badreally fucking bad. There was no sense in trying
to discern which alternative was the worst, as each was bad
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enough in its own right or rite whichever. Unable to come

up with an alternative, I ultimately found that the only thing
worse than lying there, paralyzed, trying to determine which
horror was real and which was unreal, was the unknowing. I could
not lie there any longer uselessly banging my mind against the
walls of my skull. The horror had to end. I had to face it.
Moving slowly, I reached over my head, grabbing the top
edge of the sleeping bag where the quick-zip opening made for
war began. Grasping both sides of the zipper, I promised myself
Id pop-up and face whatever reality presented. I could deal with
the uncertainty no longer. I had to know. Closing my eyes, I took
a deep breath.
Pulling the quick-zip down with both hands to my waist,
bolting straight up, I willed open terror stricken eyes carved into a
horrified face.
Blinded by an instant onslaught of bright light, I squinted
narrowly between trembling fingers.
It was broad daylight. The parking lot of Stonehenge was
half-full of tour buses and parked cars. A crowd of people stood
and stared, bursting into hysterical laughter as a group of English
schoolgirls in plaid skirts, knee-high stockings, and blue blazers
skipped, hand in hand, around my sleeping bag chanting:
Wakey, wakey! Time to eat your Cheerios.
The gates to Stonehenge had not yet been opened, and in
lieu of the monolith, the sleeping hippie in the parking lot was the
big attraction. Laughter and the clicking shutters of innumerable
cameras now accompanied the little girls rhyme.
So, if while paging through a circa 1972 photo album of
yours, your parents, or your grandparents, and you happen
upon the picture of a skinny, half-naked hippie in the middle of a
paved parking lot, sitting up, half-covered by an army surplus
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sleeping bag, horrified, with both hands before his terrified eyes,
itsvery likelyme.
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CHAPTER 15
France, the Hitchhikers Paradise
By day, Stonehenge was anti-climactic. After the impressive,

surreal presence from the night before when I could not see it,
now that I could, my reaction was pretty much limited to, Oh,
nice rocks. Judging by the number of people who were still
snapping pictures of me, it was obvious, unfortunately, that my
sentiments were not alone. I thought at the time and believe to
this day, that when you one-up something as spectacular as
Stonehenge, you take a bow and split. Thats what I did.
London was only a couple of hours ride from Stonehenge. I
got there quickly, took some combination of buses and
undergrounds to the famed Victoria Station, and purchased a
combination train/ship ticket that would take me from London to
Calais before the end of the day.
Killing time in London and a seaside town in England
(Dover, I think), I finally set sail for France as night fell.
A group of around a half-dozen hitchers came together on
the boat: Americans, Canadians, and one old French guy. (I say
old, but thats relative to my then eighteen years of age. He was
probably no more than fifty-something, making him then the age
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that I am now. Ack.) One of the girls was a quite attractive

Canadian, and yes, I was hitting on heruntil she became
seasick and her attractiveness was considerably diminished.
Actually, nearly everyone was seasickthe English Channel often
being a bear to cross and thus a cross to bearbut the flatlander
from Iowa proved to be quite a seaman. I loved it. As my new
group of friends turned increasingly green and became
incrementally more boring, I went out on the deck alone and
stood right at the bow, in the dark, with sea spray hitting me in
the face and the wind whipping all around. The boat rose and fell
with a great show of strength against impressive seas. It was
remarkable.
After a while, I got hungry. Surprising a couple of greenfaced cooks in an otherwise white and otherwise empty galley, I
requested a hamburger, which they grudgingly made and with
astonishment watched me devour. It was the best burger I had in
all of Europe, which, to those of you acquainted with European
burgers, isnt saying much.
Eventually my newfound seasick friends and I arrived in
Calais, where they quickly returned to their natural colornice
for them and me too, since the Canadian girl became hot again.
The old Frenchman, it turned out during conversation onboard
the sea-tossed ship, had been a restless traveler for decades, and
was just returning from a trip to Egypt where hed missed being
eaten by a horde of ants but for the grace of a nearby river into
which hed jumped. PierreI dont remember his actual name,
but referring to him continually as the old Frenchman just wont
dowas one of those guys whose stories you know are all
embellished and only fractionally true, but with whom you
discount veracity for the sake of entertainment and education.
(Now, I know at this point youre laughing at me and saying
to yourself, Oh, yeah, one of those kinds of guys. However, I
swore to you in the first paragraph of this tome that every story is
true, and they have been. In fact, honestly, theyve been told with
little embellishment. Christ, whats astonishing me the most in the
writing of this thing is how little embellishment is needed, and the
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amount of odd and bizarre things that Ive pared down or

completely ignored just to move this book along. I know this is all
hard to believe, especially after the last chapter, but this stuff is,
Ill swear to it again, all true!)
Back to Pierre and our little group of travelers, Pierre had
accommodations for the night all scouted out: a concrete bunker
built by the Germans in World War II on the beach at Calais.
We made our way there, all of us, and while everyone else turned
in for the night, I went for a walk on the beach with the Canadian
girl. Ill spare you the details and me the embarrassment by just
telling you that the romantic walk on the beach got me exactly
nowhere, so we retired to the bunker where the hot but cold
Canadian girls somewhat manly-looking girlfriend was snoring
louder than anyoneincluding Pierre. Draw your own
conclusions.
(Please, dear lesbian readers, dont be offended by my
insinuation. Certainly, you know it comes from my insecurity and
fear of women. Besides, Ill tell you straight up, if I were a
woman, Id be gay. Totally. Id wake up every morning, lift up
the covers, look down, and scream, Whoo-hoo! Its Christmas,
and these are the best toys ever!)
Thus the day ended, but consider the progression of my last
three nights for a moment: first at the home with a dear Welsh
couple, then Stonehenge, and now a German bunker in France.
Incredible.
Let me give you a bit of background on hitchhiking in
France. The title of this chapter, as those of you who are
experienced in the matter already know, is of course sarcastic.
France is anything but a hitchhikers paradise. In fact, everyone
in Britain had told me not even to consider trying to hitchhike
across Franceimpossible, they all agreed. They were almost
right. I did manage to hitchhike across France, but in so doing,
was actually picked up by more foreigners driving in France than
French people. The story went that hitching in France was nearly
impossible because Algerian terroristsduring the Algeria
Revolution against France in the 1960swould sneak into
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France, hitch rides from the French, and kill them by pulling a
knife across their gullet. I doubt this is true for any number of
reasons, ranging from the weakestPierre told me it was
bullshitto the strongest: you hardly have to be a terrorist to
want to slit a Frenchmans throat.
At daybreak, the short-lived little group of channel-crossers
decamped the bunker and broke up to go their separate ways. I,
however, trekked with Pierre, who told me he had a car in Le
Havre, and that if I met him at the hostel, hed give me a ride to
Paris. Le Havre to Paris would be a good ride and, with Pierre
being an interesting and informative guy, it was like a two-for-one
special. As a bonus, Pierre threw in a promise to demonstrate
how easy it was to hitchhike in his homeland. I gratefully
accepted the deal.
When we got to the road and a good hitching spot, after
telling me where to stand, Pierre went up the road to find his own
spot. Being rather early in the morning, there was little traffic
(none, to be specific) for the first ten minutes or so, until a car
coming from the opposite direction from where we were headed
broke the drought. Undaunted, Pierre threw out his hand to wave
to the car that, to my amazement, pulled a U-turn in the road,
picked Pierre up, and drove away abandoning its original
direction of travel. This was unheard of! The validity of the
horror stories Id heard about hitching in France was, it
appeared, exactly what Pierre had saidbullshit.
With newfound optimism, I threw a little wave like Pierres
into my thumbing action, and while nobody changed direction
for me and several cars going in my direction did pass by, I got a
ride before too long. My optimism grew. Hitching France was
easy. What was everyone complaining about?
The ride dropped me off in a small village where I needed to
change to another highway that did not intersect with the one Id
been on. (Incidentally, the term highway is liberally applied to
the abysmal roads in France.) The map I had was not detailed
enough for me to figure out how to get from one road to the next,
so I stopped into a little shop to ask for directions.
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As you may recall, Id had two years of French with Sister

Laura Marie, so I addressed the woman who ran the shop with
my rather vague French. While most people find a foreigners
attempt to speak their language both admirable and flattering,
the French, Id been told, generally feel that if God had intended
you to speak French you would have been born in France and, if
not, you were a cretin for even trying to speak in their oh-so-pure
language. Evidently, this, like the difficult to hitch fable, was
simply a lie. The woman showed great patience in gracefully
interpreting my rough French, and even went so far as to draw
out a little map for me to follow. I mean, come on, how nice is
that?
Merci beaucoup, I said, smiling as I left her shop.
Walking through the village, easily following the map that
shed drawn not only with street names included but with a
remarkable eye to scale, I smiled at every passerby, often giving
them a courteous Bonjour! and wondering why these generous
French people were so maligned. It was perplexing.
Following the map to the letter, with everything matching
up, I was surprised when I turned the last corner. Expecting to
see the highway, I instead saw a pond. Looking up at the street
sign on the side of a corner building, I saw it matched the map, as
did the street that ran perpendicular to it that was similarly
identified by a street sign. Why did I see a pond where there
should have been a highway? Perhaps, I thought, the highway
was off to one side or the other of the pond, and I just couldnt
see it for the narrowness of the street and the height of the
buildings. With that being not only the most plausible but also the
most likely explanation in this most perfect of all perfect worlds, I
lilted down the street, once again feeling assured and full of
warmth in that quaint little village with the nice Frenchwoman
whod so painstakingly drawn out such a fine example of
cartography.
When I got to the end of the street on the edge of the village,
the buildings ended, but still I could see no highway nor sign of
anything beside the little pond, except for a small, single story
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brick structure, not more than twelve feet square, out of which
ran several large black pipes, one into the pond.
Studying the map, I scratched my head. Going over the
streets on the map, I recalled my passage through the village.
Everything was in proper order. So, where was the highway, and,
what was that peculiar odor? This was France, not Denmark, but
as Marcellus noted in Hamlet, something was rotten.
As I approached the pond, the odor grew increasingly
offensive with each step. Then came realization. This was no
polluted little pond. This was the village cesspool. Oh, the map
was perfectly sketched, but with one modification: delete cesspool,
insert highway, and make fool of American hitchhiker.
Friggin French bitch! I mean really, how fucked up do you
have to be to go to that much trouble to screw over a complete
stranger for no good reason, other than well ... to just be a
fucking French bitch?
And so, I learned, that when asking for directions in France,
keep asking until you get two stories that match. Lies, being
untrue and random, have a low probability of matching, whereas
stories that matcheven in Francehave a likelihood of being
true. Nevertheless, when in France, save yourself the trouble of
trying to get matching stories, and buy yourself good maps with
information of all sorts, because in France, unless youre spending
a lot of money, youre pretty much on your own. But, dont think
money makes the problem go awayit just diminishes it.
My experience with France begs questions. Why did
Germany invade them? Twice! Was the stolen art really worth
the hassle?
The map to the cesspool story pretty much sums up my Tour
de France, but Ill add a few quips that once again prove that
while general rules hold there are always exceptions.
Checking into the hostel late at night in Le Havre on my first
day in France, I discovered Id forgotten to exchange any traveler
checks into French currency. The pretty, young French girl
behind the desk paid for my stay out of her own purse, and would
take no British money to exchange as a payback, nor would she
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take the francs Id gotten for her the next day. It was her treat.
She insisted.
Pierre drove me to Paris, as promised, and as always he was
entertaining as hell.
In Rouen, sitting at an outside caf on a hill, I watched as
across the street a group of uniformed schoolgirls passed before a
tall wrought-iron fence. They strolled quietly in single file with
bright smiling faces. A pair of nuns with gracefully blessed
countenances and long, black habits appeared to glide upon the
sidewalk, like bookends, one before and one behind the children.
Beyond, as a background, lay the intricate rooftops of the broad,
beautiful city, glinting in the autumnal sunlight. Everything was
perfect.
In Paris, I came out of the Metro, and was accosted by a
Frenchman waving a Polaroid picture hed taken of me in front of
Le Opera, insisting that I buy it at the equivalent of two-days
worth of my budget. He wouldnt take no for an answer, either in
English or in French. Being a Frenchman, he naturally grew
rude, earning him not a few francs, but instead a couple of middle
fingers, presented inches from his face. I walked off, leaving him
alone with his raving French rant full of obscene gestures and
vulgarities because, as you well know, my sensibilities do not
allow for cussing in any languageespecially from some ass-hole
French motherfucker.
I stayed the night in Paris.
The next day I hitched to Dijon as a stepping-stone to
Geneva, which not far from the French/Swiss border, seemed an
oasis. The hostel was clean, and the people everywhere were very
pleasant.
Let me give you an example. As I was leaving Dijon, I
stepped into a bakery to get a loaf of bread. I had my backpack
on, which if you recall was very large and additionally had a
guitar strapped to its back. The bakery turned out to be a
specialty bakery with rows of glass shelves filled with intricate
hard candies, fancy pastries, and cakes all made in the shapes of
animals, buildings, cars, and what have you, all very upscale, very
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cool, and very creative. I was taking it all in when a woman from
behind the counter said something in kind, pretty, little French
voice. Always attentive to such things, turning around to see who
addressed me, I swept an entire shelf of incredible edible art to
the floor with my backpack. Looking down in horror, I saw
hundreds of francs worth of once artistic goodies turned to goo
and rubble.
Sacre Bleu! Quest-ce que cest? a gruff mans voice
thundered from a backroom.
Looking up, I saw the womans face wearing essentially the
same terrified expression Id shown less than a week ago at
Stonehenge.
Allez-vous en! Immediatement! she whispered urgently,
her eyes wide opened in terror, looking from the mess on the
floor, to me, and to the backroom from which the gruff voice
continued to unintelligibly boom.
What? I asked.
Sauvez-vous! Immediatement! Immediatement! she cried.
Huh?
Sister Laura Marie had never covered En Franais while
facing la guerre.
Au revoir! Au revoir! Au revoir! the woman screamed
aloud, waving me toward the door with her backhands, as if
shooing away a rabid cat, her eyes wild and panicked.
Finally getting it, like a one-man show of all three Stooges, I
turned, wiping out another shelf, and ran for the door.
Mon Dieu! I heard from them simultaneously, but I wasnt
looking back. I was allez-vous-ing and sauvez-vous-ing
Immediatement! Immediatement! Immediatement!as quickly
as possible.
That woman, Ill tell you, poured her heart and soul into
saving my pathetic ass that day, showing no regard whatsoever
for the consequences she might have had to suffer. She could not
have covered the escape of French partisans from the Nazis with
more earnest, heartfelt compassion and courage than that which
she offered me so freely. Its her, more than anything that I
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remember about France.

Except for one thing.
The one thing actually happened my first day in France, as
I was hitching to Le Havre, not long after the cesspool incident. I
tell it now, out of sequence, because Im going to tell it as I told it
to some friends of mine a few years later, as it was only then that I
realized what had actually happened. Therefore, in terms of
awareness, its virtually sequential. All clear?
We were sitting in a bar and the subject of France came up,
inevitably leading someone to say, God, the French are assholes! That naturally led to several French ass-hole stories from
a variety of folks. I, of course, threw in Le Cesspool Chronicle. But,
Im a fair guy (sometimes), so I followed my tale of cartographical
woe with the following.
You know, not all Frenchmen are ass-holes. I remember a
nice, middle-aged womanmaybe forty years oldpicking me
up in an old, beat-up, canvas-sided car she shifted with a cane
that came straight out of the dash. She ran that car through the
gearsall three of themlike she was at Le Mans, never mind
that we never topped forty miles an hour. She was plain and
pretty at the same time, you know? In addition, she was
exceedingly kind and friendly. She actually took me to her home,
made me lunch, and we just talked for a while before she took me
back out to a good place to hitch.
You just talked? someone asked.
Yeah, we just talked. She was really nice.
What did you talk about?
Oh well, lets see, I said. I remember her home was
humble, like her car, yet it was nicely kept up. Still, it had a kind
of dreary, lonely feel to it. In fact, now that I recall, she
commented on that too. She told me how lonely she waswhat
with her husband off to work and her son off to school all day.
You know, she wasnt standoffish and arrogant at all. She was just
really nice and open and made me feel very comfortable. She was
really very well warm, I guess Id say. Anyway, she kept
telling me about how lonely she was with her husband and son
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away, and how it left her all alone for the entire afternoon,
because they never came back before five oclock, leaving her with
hours with nothing to do. She wondered if I had any ideas about
what we could do and
Jesus Christ!
So there I was, several years later, telling a story Id told
many a time and only then, only then! did I realize what you,
clever reader, figured out where? halfway through the
paragraph before the curse? Earlier? Heres the kicker. She might
not have been a striking beauty like the chick in the Jaguar, but
she was a very nice looking forty-year-old women with long, thick
brown hair and a very, very nice figure. I missed it all because I
thought she was just so nice.
Heres irony: from my present perspective as a fifty-five-year
old man, a forty-year-old Frenchwoman would be such a young
thing. Lord, a young, hot, forty-year-old French housewife is now
a friggin fantasy!
But screw Time, and know this dear, lovely, lonely
Frenchwoman. If I failed to see one thing, it was only because I
was looking at another. I saw not your face and body, but you, a
beauty that eclipsed all else, a beauty that does not fade.
It was November 2, 1972.
I remember.
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CHAPTER 16
Geneva, Switzerland
Just now, titling this chapter without knowing the moment before
what it would be called, Ive sat here a bit without writing
another word. Just the name Switzerland evokes so many things
in me. In nearly every respect, the month I spent in Switzerland
was, without question, the most outstanding time of my life.
Switzerland, as a nation, I find enigmatic. On the one hand,
you have a country that has been largely neutral in just about any
war thats ever been fought, has been the center of lord knows
how many peace conferences, is the home of the International
Committee of the Red Cross, and has given us the Geneva
Conventions through which we can wage war with more civility.
(And, theres no intention at irony in that last sentence, because
while it seems crazy, Im sure many people around the world are
grateful for those conventions, and many people very sad when
they are not applied.) On the other hand, you have a nation
whose banking institutions secretly and steadfastly hide the booty
of any number of war-marauding thugs and cretins of dubious
distinction, from relatively clean laissez-faire capitalists to drug
lords and arms dealers, whose business eats awayevery dayat
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the very souls of every nation around the globe. There can be
arguments about the legitimacy of privacy, and not without
reason, but the fact is although Switzerland was neutral during
World War II, it still hides plenty of shit plundered by Nazis, and
thats just not right no matter how you cut it. Ill hang my case on
that.
Having trounced France in the last chapter, its not my intent
to do the same with Switzerland. After all, the enigma presented
by Switzerland is foundto one degree or another, or in one
form or anothernot only in every nation in the world, but in
every citizen of every nation. This is a line drawn through the
center of us all, and is simply yet another example of how truly
difficult it is to be a human being. Besides, how can I trounce
Switzerland after it offered me the most outstanding month of my
life? I cant. So, back to my trip.
Id hitched across France from the shores of the English
Channel to the border of Switzerland in only five days, a feat that
made me somewhat of a legend amongst fellow hitchhikers in
Europe. I confess that I did cheat a bit, employing a nave but
extraordinarily beautiful young woman whom Id met in Paris,
telling her that she would make it to Geneva more quickly and
safely by hitching with me. She bought it! Undoubtedly she was a
great help in getting me rides, but karma doesnt always wait to
get you.
My backpack is getting heavy, she whined, not two blocks
away from the Paris hostel, struggling awkwardly with a
backpack that was really nothing more than a large purse with
adjustable straps. Why dont we just hitch from here?
Because were in the middle of Paris, I said, over my
shoulder, over my fifty-five pound backpack. Most of this traffic
will never leave the city limits.
Some of it must.
Lord, Geneva was going to be a long haul.
I think well have a little better odds on the edge of Paris, on
a road that actually goes to where were headed, I answered.
Its only another three blocks to the Metro. Well take it to a
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station only a couple of blocks away from the road to Dijon.

Three more blocks! And then another two!
Yes.
You know, in the kibbutz
And thats what Id hear for the next two days, this girl
denigrating everything, especially me, all prefaced by the phrase
in the kibbutz followed by an extraordinarily boring story of
how everything in a kibbutz was done perfectly. She was
American, I could tell, but she never confessed to be, nor did she
give any personal or even human information about herself in our
two long days together, except in reference to the kibbutz where
shed spent all of three months.
Before the end of block three, I knew two things: (1) she was
a bitch, and (2) somewhere in Israel a kibbutz was celebrating.
I guess I might as well digress and meander about Jews for a
bit. Ive gotten rather conventional lately, and I think a side trip is
long overdue.
When I was a kid in Mason City there was a large synagogue
in town, but it was just another church to me. I had friends at the
country club that were Jews and I didnt even know it at the time.
Did it matter? The only Jew I was aware of was a girl in our
neighborhood who was my own age, ten-ish, who would
occasionally escape from her house and run up and down our
street screaming Fuck Jesus! at the top of her lungs until she
finally tired, her parents corralled her, and she was huddled back
into their home. I was confused until a friend, Steve, who lived
a couple of houses up the street from ours explained: My parents
told me its because shes a Jew. You know, theyre the ones who
crucified Jesus. Okay, we all know I can be really stupid at times,
especially as a ten-year-old, but I wasnt buying that. I knew from
my Catholic rearing (excuse me) that the Jews yelled Crucify
him! to Pontius Pilot, but I also knew, for Christs sake, that
Christ himself was Jewish, and while Id guessed nothing about
Christ was known before his preaching to the rabbis on the steps
of the temple at age twelve, Id highly doubted at age ten he was
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running up and down the streets of Jerusalem screaming, Fuck

Jesus, or the alternative corollary that this unique case allows,
Fuck Me, which considering Christian catechism regarding the
Holy Trinity begs the question: Would that be a three-way? So,
on the evening following an afternoon Id partially spent
watching the young Jewess (who was really cute, by the way) pass
first one way across our picture window and then the other, all
the while vociferating ferociously her favorite phrase, I asked my
parents about it and what had been said by Steves parents.
Well, my dad said, rolling his eyes, shaking his head, and
taking a deep breath before letting out a long sigh. First of all,
Steves parents are idiots.
Now Don, my mother cautioned softly, always there to
attenuate my fathers atypical tempered tenor.
Now Don, nothing, my father said, plainly. Theres no
place for such stupidity.
This was strong stuff from my dad. However, he fought in
Germany, was wounded, and having recovered, stayed with the
occupying forces for the first six months following the wars
conclusion. I imagine he saw some stuff to get pretty strong
about.
Jewish people are no different than we are, my dad said,
his voice softening, except that the Jewish religion doesnt
believe that Jesus is The Messiah, but rather, another prophet like
Abraham or Moses. Theyre still waiting for The Messiah. Thats
all. This unfortunate little girl has something wrong with her
head. It has nothing to do with being Jewish.
My little ten-year-old wheels were turning. But, if another
Messiah doesnt come because Jesus is The Messiah, theyll have
to figure that out at the end of the world, right? So, then, wont
we all be the same?
My father smiled. We already are, he said. And yeah, he
tousled my hair.
The next encounter with Judaism came when I was a senior
in high school.
My girlfriend Maegan and I went to a biker bar, The Stoned
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Toad, where Id obtained an ad for our senior yearbook by

explaining to the tattooed manager, Hey, soon a bunch of us will
graduate and that, along with being eighteen, enables us to drink
legally. Where are you going to get a better, targeted advertising
deal than that for only twenty-five bucks?
Maegan, a gorgeous girl who I admit was rather looked
over in the biker bar, was a bit miffed. When I pulled up in front
of the synagogue, she screamed, Okay, this is too far!
What do you mean? I countered. I think in the spirit of
the Ecumenical Council it would be nice to have an ad from the
synagogue in our senior yearbook. You know, kind of an open
invitation to join them at temple to celebrate our brotherhood.
Youre not fooling me, she said. Youre always just push,
push, and push it some more. First its The Stoned Toad, then its
the synagogue what next?
The Pink Poodle, I said not nonplussed (in other words,
plussed) referring to our citys infamous gentlemans club, because
Maegan was right. I was pushing. I was on a mission to get all
kinds of contractually binding advertisements from as many
advertisers as possible of the type that would rip the hearts out of
those members of the faculty and school board who were narrow
minded because it was necessary and well it was fun. Plus,
the ads would have been a great legacy for me, bound in faux
leather no less, one that would have beat the shit out of my
writing Ill remember you always in everybodys friggin
yearbook.
Anyway, Maegan went ballistic. I had to take her back to
school, and we broke upfor five minutes. But, we broke up for
good a couple of weeks later because I wouldnt make-out with
her during a party in the basement of Pamela Gilberts house,
because I was too busy playing the guitar and singing with
friends. Besides, please, someone explain to me why its okay to
make-out in publicwell, in front of other maker-outers at
leastwhile its not okay for me to do a little more in privacy.
Thats messed up. Its like Sister Laura Marie played backwards,
like its okay to do more in the green than in the wood. Whats up
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with that? So, Maegan broke up with me for the synagogue thing,
the no public make-out thing, and God knows how many other
things. Stranger yet, a couple of weeks later, she started going
out with Ryan who, apparently, having missed his chance to
gallantly fuck my previous girlfriend Kathleen, was now going to
give it a go with Maegan.
Now, my third encounter with Judaism came in Edinburgh.
There, in the hostel, I met a guy from New York.
Are you Spanish or Italian or something? I asked, simply
because it was October, and while I was already Clorox white, he
had healthy color.
You think thats smart? he snapped back.
Huh?
Dont huh me, he said, getting angrier.
All right, I had never gotten the memo explaining that if you
had dark skin, a big nose, and were afraid to break a nail, you
were Jewish. And, having been raised around Mexicans, Italians,
and Greeks, I simply assumed he was Spanish, Italian, Greek, or
something. What was the problem?
Once he realized I was sincerely clueless, he was amazed. I
couldnt figure out what the big deal was. You must understand
that it was not until I was eighteen years old and in Edinburgh
speaking with this guy, that I learned there was, generally and
throughout history, a prejudice against the Chosen People by the
Un-chosen ones. Sure, I knew about the Holocaust, but I thought
that was just an anomalya horrendously bad one, yes, but an
anomaly nonetheless. Id figured some Jewish youth had kicked
the shit out of Hitler as a kid and, being a nut-job, little Adolph
held onto that resentment until he was an adult and was
surrounded by other nut-jobs like Goring and Goebbels, who
most probably had also been beaten up as kids by Jews. I mean,
hey, if as kids, they were running around spouting all that master
race crap, Id have kicked the shit out of them too. But now this
guy was telling me a Jew couldnt get into the New York Athletic
Club? The Russians routinely had pogroms against the Jews? The
Spanish Inquisition was primarily a way of wresting political and
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economic power away from prominent Jews? Good Lord, I had

no idea!
You know, it was nice not having any idea. No, thats not
true. What was nice waslike my little brother in Chicagonot
having any idea about prejudice. Clearly, getting over prejudice is
long overdue. Consider this, if youve read the Old Testament
youll find God telling the tribes of Israel to commit genocide
against all kinds of foes. At some point in history, nearly all our
ancestors have committed outrageous atrocities. So, enough
alreadyits time to stop all forms of prejudice. Seriously.
Everybody, stop it! If I wore a priests collar my engorged jugulars
would have snapped it a long time ago. Do you get it?
JUST! FUCKING! STOP!
Ill put in my effort: You know, dear readers, the French are
a lovely people
So, what was the point of the above digression on my
experience with Judaism? First, I suppose its simply because this
kibbutz chic was Jewish, and while she was a complaining bitch
she waslike the poor girl who ran around screaming Fuck
Jesusthe way she was, because thats just the way she was, not
because she was Jewish. Second, Ill use any opportunity to rant
against prejudice.
Getting back on track, the fortunate thing about the kibbutz
chic, was that while I knew she was a bitch, she was an
extraordinarily beautiful bitch, and the drivers coming down the
road who picked us up knew only the extraordinarily beautiful
part, not the bitch part, and therefore, stopped to pick her up. I
say pick her up because I usually hid in the bushes until the
drivers were committed to a complete stop. (Hey, it was France.
Hitchhiking wasnt pretty.) It was not until we were a mile or two
down the road that theyd realize the bitch part, when shed say
something like, You know, in the kibbutz, they dont drive like
this. They
At this point, the drivers expression toward me would
change from hostilitydue to my trickery in the bushesto
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understanding and compassion. So, overall, my scheming

worked. Nevertheless, arriving at the hostel in Geneva, I was
relieved to see the last of her.
One of the reasons I went to Geneva was Id heard they had
a place called Manpowerif memory serves me rightthat
could line me up with a place to work. You might recall it was
looking for a job at a ski resort that took me to Aviemore,
Scotland, the home of the first hostel that threw me out. This had
been my plan all along; not the being thrown out of hostels part,
but getting a job at a ski resort. Growing up in Iowa in the middle
of an endless cornfield was not conducive for a number of things I
wanted to do, and skiing was primary among them. A job at a ski
resort would not only make me some moneyof which I was
quickly running outbut would also provide me the opportunity
of learning to ski and, of course, meet all kinds of cute girls in foxy
little ski outfits with nothing to do at night. Plus, I was good with
accentsJa, Ja, my name iz Varig, und I am from Sveden
that, unless they pinch my cheek or call me cute, girls fall for
without fail. In short, my plan was brilliant! Manpower told me
they could undoubtedly get me a job, but that Id have to wait
two to six weeks for the ski resorts to begin hiring their seasonal
staff. All I had to do was give them an address, and theyd send
me a letter telling me where to go for a job. Id heard of a great
hostel in Grindelwald, so I gave them that address, and hit
Geneva with a load off my mind.
Here are some odds and ends I remember about Geneva.
A giant swan on the shore of Lake Geneva attacked me.
About to boot her in the chest in self-defense, I stopped because,
fortunately, she stopped. She menacingly spread her wings in
warning and I slowly backed away. Thank God. I doubt mauling
a swan in the City of Peace would have gone over very well.
There was a restaurant somewhere that I went to every
morning that served some kind of muffin or biscuit or something,
along with a pile of warm strawberries in some wonderful goo
and a ton of butter. It was incredible. I took friends I met at the
Geneva hostel to the place, and they, too were converts.
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Speaking of converts, a group of Americans and Europeans

lived in the basement of the hostel and ate nothing but balls of
bread dipped in milk. They were supported, they said, through
some kind of funding by George Harrison, and they ensured me
that when they reached Enlightenment, they would actually need
no food to live on. I couldnt talk any of them into going to the
strawberry muffin place, and they couldnt talk me into their little
bread balls. Oh, they also believed in having sex only to make
children. Im sure theyd accuse me of being judgmental for
pointing out that they were an example of the surplus of idiots
there are in this world, but then Im sure theyd point out that I
was not Enlightened enough to understand the purity of their
religion. Well, maybe they would have been right, but if I were
after hunger and sexual frustration, Id have remained Catholic.
I fell in love with an Alfa Romeo Montreal I saw in a dealers
showroom. Imagineas I stood there in my blue jeans, Browning
boots, and Scottish army jacketnot one of the salesmen came
up to me.
I spent several hours one Sunday morning in a park in an
Italian section of Geneva watching men play bocce ball, women
conversing upon benches, and children playing all manner of
inventive childhood games. It was like watching the parading
schoolgirls in Rouen. Everything was perfect.
Of all the things that happened in Geneva, the most
memorable occurred while I was leaving the city, walking across a
park with my flared-out raggedy jeans, backpack, and guitar. An
American woman in her mid-thirties, or forties, or fiftiesI dont
know, at eighteen they all looked the samecame up to me and
asked very politely, Excuse me, would you mind if I took your
picture so I can show my children what an American Hippie in
Europe looks like?
I was shocked. Her question seemed analogous to me
walking up to Morgan Freeman on Hollywood Boulevard and
asking, Excuse me, would you mind if I took your picture so I
can show my children what an African American in an affluent
neighborhood looks like? Besides the effrontery of her question, I
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was taken aback by being considered a hippie. The title of this

book notwithstanding, I never really considered myself a hippie.
Ive never really considered myself anything other than just who I
am. However, as I thought about things from her perspective, I
could understand her classification: I had long hair, grubby
clothes, a backpack, and a guitar. All that was missing, I suppose,
was a bong. (Damn.) Once over my initial shock, able to notice
the unmistakable look of guileless innocence on her face, I simply
said, Sure.
She took a couple of snapshots of me in Genevas park, while
I speculated on the possibility of her snapping away with her
camera at Stonehenge tooon that memorable morn that was,
good god, only a little over a week agoand when she was done,
she thanked me kindly. Then, with embarrassed uncertainty, she
asked, Do you mind if I ask you how much money you spend a
day? Since I didnt smack her (she probably was counting on the
peaceful nature of hippies), she continued. I dont mean to be
nosey or crass, but its my understanding that hippies dont have
much money. How do you travel Europe?
She was amazinglike a child.
I average about two and a half dollars a day, I told her.
Two and a half dollars a day? she repeated, in one fell
swoop co-joining three of the four sentence types: declarative,
interrogative, and exclamatory. Now it was her turn to be
shocked.
Yes, I answered, using the declarative as my sole sentence
type. Being a hippie, I could afford only the one.
My God! she exclaimed. My husband and I scrimp and
save, and on some days cut it to the bone, but weve never been
able to get below four-hundred dollars a day. How do you do it?
Now it was my turn to be shocked, or as is the case with our
little engagement, re-shocked. Id left Iowa with less than three
hundred dollars, had spent around two hundred bucks in about
six weeks, and they were spending four hundred dollars a day! It
took me only a moment to do the math, and I was seriously on
the brink of employing the only as yet unused sentence type in
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our conversation, the imperative, by saying, Hey, go home early

one day, give me the four hundred dollars, and Ill get three more
months in Europe. Not yet reduced to begging, I refrained.
Instead, I explained, Sometimes I sleep under bushes in parks,
and often my meals are just water and a hunk of bread pulled
from a loaf.
We stood in the park for a moment, speechless, like two alien
species that had just met for the first time, and having so little in
common, could not even begin to fathom one another. Let me
put this in perspective for you. Have you noticed I havent
mentioned if she was hot or not? I dont even recall. How often
do I miss that distinction?
Amazing, she said, at last, shaking her head in
bewilderment. She smiled strangely, and meandering off, looked
vaguely around the park at the trees, bushes, and walkways as if
trying to get her bearings again. I think a rich woman had
momentarily pulled her head out of her ass. She was, Ill give her
credit, at least looking.
Meandering off myself, perhaps a little less prejudiced against
the privileged, I headed to the outskirts of Geneva for a hitch to
Lausanne.
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CHAPTER 17
On the Road to Lausanne
Having given Manpower the Grindelwald hostel as an address to

contact me regarding employment at a ski resort, clearly that was
my destination. However, Grindelwald was a ways from Geneva,
so I set Lausanne as my first goal, Interlaken as my second, and
Grindelwald as my third.
Hitching to Lausanne, I was picked up by an odd
professorial-type guy with a funky little mustache. Amazingly,
after only a little over a week in France and French-speaking
Switzerland, I was closing in on fluency in the language Sister
Laura Marie had taught me. (Ah to have the mind of an
eighteen-year-old again.) Its wonderful to speak the language of a
foreign country with its citizens. It really puts you at home with
them, especially when you get to the point where you dont have
to translate mentally, but are actually able to think in their
language. I was on the cusp of this ability when I got the ride
from the little professor.
It took only a few seconds for us to go through the ritual of
finding a mutual language. When he stopped, as he spoke in
German and I in English, no connection was made. Trying
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another tack, one of us asked, Parlez-vous Franais? The other

responded Oui, and we were off and running. It turns out he
was fluent in French, and as I was getting there (sort of), the
following conversation took place in French. Ill tell it in English
as I have (of course) almost entirely forgotten French, and also to
stay in keeping with this book thatthough you may have had
times of doubtis intended to be written in English.
After establishing the logistics of where I was hiking to, where
I was from, and other essentials, the time came for casual
conversation.
Its a beautiful day, isnt it? I remarked, looking out at the
clear November sky, the bright fields, the snowcapped Alps in the
distance.
Yes, but not as beautiful as you, he responded.
All right, I suppose you readers have this already figured out,
but you have to remember my mindset: I thought homosexuals
were rare and only lived in New York or California. That navet
wasnt shaken just because of one gay Marxist in Scotland.
Staring out the side window, I considered what hed said.
While I didnt need to go through the translation process, as a
double check, I thought it wise to do so. Once establishing in my
mind that he had, in fact, told me I was beautiful, not wanting to
carelessly judge, I began to look for loopholes. Being in a foreign
country, one has to make allowances for anothers culture.
Besides, Frenchmen generally seemed effeminate to meall
skinny with their tight turtleneck sweatersyet how many times
had I sat in restaurants watching them kiss each other on the
cheeks in greeting only to sit down with bevy of beautiful women
who never gave me a second look? Quite a few. So, is it
implausible to consider that commenting on my beauty might
simply be just a quaint colloquialism in some old Geneva-toLausanne tradition? Still, I was uncertain (not completely stupid),
and had doubt sufficient to keep me from commenting on his
not as beautiful as you remark. I decided to shut-up and see
how it played out.
You look like a beautiful woman with your long, blonde
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hair, he said.
Fuck.
Assuming the least womanly pose possible, I turned to
consider him carefully.
Vous tes vraiment tres joli, he said.
At least thats what I think he said. Amazingly, some French
is popping back into my head as I write, or, to be more precise,
some kind of reconnection has been made in my aged neural
pathways, bringing back long-lost cognizance that is perhaps
accurateperhaps not. To cover the bases, I offer his statement
in English: Really, you are very pretty.
The statement in this particular context, in any language,
was decidedly not pretty, and as the last vestiges of my hope for
quaint colloquialism dissipated into the whatever-sphere of
wherever hopeless hopes go, he reached out and put his hand on
my leg.
Actions are so clear.
Arrtes la friggin automobile, I said, pushing his hand
from my leg while trying to crawl into the hole in the passenger
doors armrest.
Mais, vous tes he began.
Hey, no mais. No vous tes. No shit of any kind! Stop the
fucking car! I screamed, in English, reverting to native tongue, my
safe place. Stop the fucking car right fucking now!
Im not sure what the little guy understood from my
hysterical screaming in English, but I assume he figured it was not
a propitious portent for his passionate penchant. Besides, unable
to crawl into the hole in the armrest, I now had the door opened
and appeared, even at full speed, ready to jump. He pulled the
car over tout de suite.
My feet hit the pavement the second the car came to a stop,
maybe even a little before, and the guy was out a split-second
later. Fortunately, for my sake, he remained on his side of the car.
Whats the matter? he asked, innocently, over the cars
roof.
Whats the matter? I shot back. You had your hand on
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my fucking leg!
Yes, but you are so beautiful and
Yeah, you keep saying that. Its not getting you anywhere!
But you are, he said.
Giving him a look to ensure he understood the subject was
closed, I reached into the backseat for my pack.
What are you doing? he asked.
What do you think Im doing? I snarled. I thought things
were clear. Hed put his hand on my leg. Id jumped out of the
car. Werent the actions rather self-explanatory?
Listen, he said, speaking evenly, calm down for just a
moment and hear me out. If you want me to leave you here and
jump in my car and drive away, I will do so.
Good, I said.
But why?
Why?
Yes, I ask, why? Look, you may not want to hear this, but
its important. You are beautiful to me. I understand now you are
not gay, but how was I supposed to know without giving it a shot?
Look, if a beautiful woman picked you up, wouldnt you make a
play for her?
I looked at him across the roof of the car and considered his
question. Of coursebecause of The Revelation, my neurosis,
navet, and inherent cowardicethe answer, for me, was a bit
sketchy. Still, I understood his point.
Well, he continued, generously ignoring my speechlessness
and speaking very matter-of-factly, I found you beautiful. Im
gay. I made my play and it turns out youre straight. Very
straight! So, I give up. You cant make me straight and I cant
make you gay. Everything is clear. Now, we can ride to Lausanne
like a couple of pals, or you can hitchhike from here.
Germans, it appear, are a very logical and practical people;
regardless as to whether theyre trying to conquer the world or
your ass.
The fact that he was a little guy factored into my decision,
and that, along with several assurances that wed be just pals,
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got my pack and me back into his car.

He was true to his word. The rest of the ride to Lausanne
was uneventful and, once I calmed down, pleasant. Arriving in
Lausanne, he offered to let me stay at his place. No strings
attached, he assured me.
I declined.
He laughed.
The little professor dropped me off at the hostel and we
waved goodbye.
Checking into the hostel, dropping off my backpack, I went
out to do something Id not done in a long time.
I got a friggin haircut.
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CHAPTER 18
Grindelwald
There are times in life, dear reader, when one is so overcome that
to proceed you must put one foot in front of the other and hope
for the best. You take one step, another and soon youre
walking again. Writing is like that too, for there are times, like
now, where Im so overcome with just the title Grindelwald
that I dont know where to start. So, Ill put one word down,
another and hopefully the Muses will bless me.
After spending the night at Lausanne, I began the hitch for
Interlaken. I have no idea how many rides I had that day, nor do
I remember anything about any of themexcept for one.
Rounding a broad curve in the foothills of the Alps just as the
road straightened, there arose an immense mountain like Id
never seen or even thought possible. Reaching to staggering
heights, over two-thirds of its top was covered in unending,
immaculately white snow. The day was bright and cloudless, the
air crisp and clean, so the line of that snowcapped giant of a
mountain against the deep blue of the sky was strikingly beautiful.
The spirits of godas they had in Scotland, Englands Lake
District, Wales, Rouen, Geneva, and nearly everywhere I went
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were once again whispering great things.

My God, I said to the driver, as eager as a child at
Christmas. When will we get there?
Oh, not until after nightfall, he said. Its still a ways off.
After nightfall? It didnt seem possible. The mountain
appeared to be just down the road no more than a few miles
away. My lifetime on the Great Plains didnt allow me to
associate anything looming so large to being so far away. On the
prairie most beauty, except for the sky, is on a small scale. The
scale I looked upon now was the greatest, by far, that I had ever
seen. Its little wonder that I remember so little of that day: the
majesty of the Alps, into whose heart I was headed, was
incomprehensible.
The man was right. Night would fall before I reached the
mountain.
A little research on my part reveals the drive from Lausanne
to Interlaken takes only a couple of hours, so how is it possible
that I remember riding all day and for what seemed like hours in
the dark of night to Interlaken? Probably short rides with long
interludes between. What I remember most, is riding in anxious
awareness that as I passed by in the darknessincredible sights
were escaping me.
When I reached Interlaken, it was still early enough to take
the cog railway up to Grindelwald and check into the hostel. Its
reasonable to ask why Id do such a thing in the dark. The
sensible thing would have been to stay the night at Interlaken,
take in the beauty of that city on the lake in the bosom of the Alps
the following morning, and in the afternoon take the railway up
while it was still light enough to see, God only knew, how many
extraordinary sights. Yet, the mountain scene that emerged as I
rounded the bend in the highway that morning had captivated
me, and knowing Grindelwald lay at its base, I could not resist
the draw. Riding the cog railway on the twenty-mile ride to
Grindelwald, I craned my neck trying to see the mountains,
catching nothing more than darkness and a few glimpses of stars.
Stepping out of the train onto the platform of Grindelwald
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Station, standing near the edge facing the tracks, I watched as the
train pulled away and descended to Interlaken.
When the train passedit appeared.
Before me arose an immense blackness, towering above,
ending with an uncertain, jagged line where the vast dark
silhouette of the mountain finally ended, and stars appeared in
inconceivable density and brightness. I stood with my head tilted
back as far as possible, looking nearly straight up, beholding this
massive obscurity that rose ten thousand vertical feet from where I
stoodan immediate, perfect wall of darkness nearly two miles
high. This stark blackness was the Jungfrau, which on that
moonless night presented itself as a shadowed darkness,
identifiable only by what it hid. In so doing, it revealed a bare
enormity Id never known.
Lao-Tzu wrote:
We form pots from clay,
but its the non-existence
the emptiness inside the pot
that holds what we choose to carry.
At eighteen, staring into the vast, empty blackness that was

the Jungfrau, I saw only endless possibility. Thats how
Grindelwald began.
From the train station, I made the two-kilometer trip up the
mountain to the hostel. Enshrouded in darkness, I saw very little,
but could at least navigate the road that wound its way back and
forth up the mountainside. The trek was a gradual vertical climb
of no more than five hundred feet, but the elevation easily winded
me.
I approached the hostel in darkness and might have missed
it, all nestled in the pines, were it not for a single lantern lit near a
small doorway with an unassuming but legible little sign.
Stepping off the roadway and onto a narrow path I was, in a
moment, before the hostel that was made of some kind of rough
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but homey mortar painted gray on the ground floor, white on the
first, and then dark wood reaching to the roof. Once inside, I
found a room full of coats hung up on pegs, and benches under
which boots were neatly aligned. A sign on the wall in several
languages informed me that only socks and clean, soft-soled shoes
were allowed beyond the entry room. Dropping my backpack, I
took off my green, soft, kangaroo-hide Browning boots, placing
themconspicuouslyamongst rows of brown, hard-leathered
Vasques, and pulled on my suede Adidas. Swinging my pack
loosely over one shoulder, I headed up a narrow stairway in the
direction the check-in sign pointed. Topping the stairs, I followed
the signs past a large dining room with about a dozen wooden
tables and chairs sitting on tiled floors with large, wood paned
windows that opened like French doors. Proceeding down a
hallway of some highly polished dark wood with a warm rugrunner, I reached the small reception desk that was really no
more than an open window with a wide sill cut into the hallway
wall. After checking in, I headed down the remainder of the hall
that opened into an enormous room, where on the left I found a
grand wooden staircase of thick well-polished banisters and
balustrades, and on the right, a great room with wooden panels,
herringbone hardwood floors, immense windows through whose
glass stood the giant Jungfrau, and a massive fireplace with a
roaring fire. The hostel, in short, was like a five-star resort (I
assumed) at a daily rate of about two francs. Climbing the stairs, I
passed the third floor to the fourth, and following the directions to
the room Id been assigned, found it filled with about a halfdozen wooden bunk beds. The floor, walls, and ceiling were
wood too, as was everything except for the paned glass in the
French doors that opened onto a small balcony.
Throwing my pack on an empty bunk next to the doors, I
walked out onto a balcony, stood against the wooden railing, and
once again, found the austere Jungfrau towering above me. The
spirits of the gods were not just whispering great things, but
singing them too, and with so much power that everything
vibrated with a universal resonance, connecting all things
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together, even the great Jungfrau to little me.

Once able to tear myself away, I headed back downstairs and
around the grand staircase to a narrow stairway beneath. The
little stairway, open to the hostels kitchen, had a dogleg to the left
on a landing halfway down. Like many hostel kitchens, they had
little stoves where you stuck in five or ten-centime coins to heat
your meals, like plunking coins into the machines at a
Laundromat. While in the basement (probably on the other side
of the wall from the boot and coatroom), and though bare
compared to the gorgeous wood of the floors above, the kitchen,
with its simple wooden booths against mortared walls, had its
own quaintness. As I cooked away with a dozen others despite the
late hour, we struck up a conversation. At least another twenty
people sat around booths, drinking beer, smoking, and in general,
just having a good time. We all quickly became acquainted.
Thats how hostels work. As Ive said, when you travel like this
you make friends fast because you have no time to waste and
nothing to lose. People tend to be themselves, and their selves,
unmasked, are generally pretty remarkable.
Before long it was time for bed. In Grindelwald, as in most
other hostels, it was lights out and all quiet by ten. In my bunk,
allowing the long days travel to settle in while gazing at the
shadow of the Jungfrau, I fell asleep.
Morning came. Awaking, in my first glimpse, I beheld the
Jungfrau in daylight. Only the base of the mountain held pine
trees, thick and bright, before giving over to bluish gray stone that
rose until the snow began, rising, still rising, long before reaching
the peak. Getting dressed in a hurry and stepping out on the
balcony, I beheld Grindelwalds long, deep valley and the
immense wall of mountains on its far side. Facing me was not just
the north face of the Jungfrau, but the Monch and Eiger too,
stretching east to west in three continuous peaksthe Virgin, the
Monk, and the Ogreeach peak with an elevation over thirteen
thousand feet. To the west of the threesome lay the Lower
Grindelwald Glacier, and just further, the Schreckhorn, a broad
goliath of a mountain that also rose above thirteen thousand feet.
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I was blessed.
The mountain range on the north side of the valley, the side
where the hostel was situated, rose to no more than nine
thousand feet, and the juxtaposition of the lower mountains on
the north against the wall of the giant Alps on the south side
presented a remarkable phenomena that was simply a blessing on
top of a blessing, for at that time of year, late autumn, the cold air
coming in from the north ran into the face of the great mountains
and trapped the warm summer air below. I was in Grindelwald
from about the second week of November well into December,
and the warm weather remained for the first couple of weeks.
Even at high elevations, the temperatures were routinely in the
sixties with nearly every day bright and sunny.
Tearing myself away from the Jungfrau, I went from the
balcony to the kitchen to fortify my hike with a good breakfast.
The kitchen camaraderie of newfound friends taught me a few
new tricks. In Grindelwald you had your breakfast with bowls of
thick coffee, as in France, and you packed plenty of chocolate for
the days hike. The caffeine and raw energy of the chocolate
fueled you for hikes that were spectacular but strenuous. I learned
too of a footpath between the hostel and Grindelwalds center,
which was steep but much quicker than the road. While the trail
was a killer the first couple of days, by day three I scaled it like a
mountain goat.
Most people traveled like me, rarely staying in any one place
more than a few days. But, I was there waiting to hear about a
job from Manpower. What better place to wait than
Grindelwald? None. Friends came and went while I, remaining,
ultimately became the expert guide in the kitchen.
On the streets of Grindelwald, however, things were
different. Being blonde, blue-eyed, and sporting my new, short,
European haircut (inspired by the little professor), American and
Canadian hippies and hikers would often mistake me for a local.
Excuse me, theyd say. Do you speak English? Can you
tell us where the hostel is?
Ja, Ja, I speak Enlish a liddle, Id say in a thick German
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accent, giving them directions to the hostel, playing it straight

faced, getting a good laugh with them later that night at the
hostel.
Man, we really did think you were a local, theyd say,
pumping Swiss coins into the stoves.
Yeah, Id say, stirring whatever crap I was making. But
Christ, I was wearing a friggin Packers football jersey.
Well, you know how some Europeans try to appear
Americansuch as wearing blue jeans. Besides, you look like a
kid, wear those funny green boots, and your haircut is goofy.
Fuck you. My haircut is cool, and its got a story too.
Fuck you, too. Tell us your story later.
I should have given you the wrong directions, Id snap
back.
You did! From what weve learned, we took the long route.
Ja, Ja, vell da short vun vould have kilt you, tourist, for
certain. Ja, das ist true, panzy American.
Were Canadian, ass-hole!
Canadian ass-hole dont be redundant, Id say.
Half of them got it.
After awhile, a guy from Milwaukee and a couple of
Canadian girls and I got together. We formed The AllAmerican Family. With one of the girls looking very mature for
her age and the guy from Milwaukee sporting a full beard, they
naturally became Mom and Dad. The younger looking Canadian
girl was called Sis, and I was Bud. Mom, Dad, Sis, and Bud
(me) would hike all over the mountains, and on returning to the
village, act like an obnoxious American family, posing for silly
pictures (with no camera) in front of everything we thought was
quaint, and window shopping (with no money) saying, How
cute. Wrap it up and ship it home! Back at the hostel, wed retire
to a room where Mom and Dad would massage each other while
Sis and I did the same. We were fully clothed, of course, but after
a hard days hike massages feel pretty good, so there was a lot of
moaning and groaning coming out of that room. Before long,
hostel rumors abounded that we were having orgies. We moaned
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and groaned louder, and soon, people were asking to join in. We
never admitted the truth. Wed just look them over and shake our
heads in mild dismissal.
Most all the hostlers would buy Feldschlsschen beer, and
put it just outside the kitchen in a big wooden trough that ran
continuously with frigid spring fed water. Feldschlsschen out of
the trough tasted clean, crisp, and so cold it nearly hurt, but at
around eighteen percent alcohol, after a couple of liters wed go
to bed hammered. Still, waking up early in the morning, wed
drink a bowl of syrupy coffee, eat whatever we had, and then
head for the mountains to climb as if born to it.
On an outstandingly beautiful day with the sun bright in the
blue sky, Mom, Dad, Sis, some friends, and I began an ambitious
hike that was to start at Lower Grindelwald Glacier, cross the
face of the three mountainsEiger, Monch and Jungfrauand
end when we got to the restaurant on the face of the Jungfrau.
When I say the face Im not talking about the grand bowls and
escarpments that would tower above us, but we would be just
above the tree line during part of the hike and it would be, by our
estimation, one hell of a long hike. We expected to take the
gondola down in the dark after eating at the restaurant.
We climbed the base of the Eiger and were rewarded with
not just a close-up of the glacier, but with the luck of being there
as a huge chunk of ice broke off with an incredible crack and fell,
as if in slow motion, into a stream far below. It seemed like
forever before we heard the sound of the crash. Fortified with our
luck, we changed plans, and decided to take a spur that would
bring us above the glacier. It was a climb of at least another few
hundred feet and our trail map showed the trek to be dangerous,
but what the hell. Still, though we expected danger, we didnt
expect what we found on one short stretch of the trail.
Near the top of the ridge to which we were climbing, the trail
tapered to a rock shelf across the face of the mountain no more
than a foot and a half wide, with several hundred feet of rock cliff
below. If that wasnt bad enough, the rock actually bulged
outward above the shelf, and curved around a corner so that we
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had no idea how far it went or just how hairy it got. I suppose
nobody does this trail without ropes, climbing gear, and a little
sense. We had none. The seven of us were initially undecided, but
I finally figured Id give it a shot. Facing the mountain with my
arms outstretched, I leaned backward while trying to hug the
mountain that bulged outward, sidestepping in inches around the
corner into who knew? It was terrifying, but once around the
corner, the shelf widened to a good two feet, the outward bulge of
rock went vertical, and there was only about another twenty feet
to go. I made itas might be surmised by the fact that Im
writing thisand called back to partners I couldnt see, telling
them it wasnt so bad and got better once past the first terrifying
twenty feet. Ill try, Dad called back. Within minutes, he joined
me. Next came another guy, and then Mom followed by Sis. One
couple remained. We heard them scream from around the corner
theyd wait for us to come back. They were in love and that,
apparently, gave them something immediate for which to live.
We five lunatics continued our climb, and in short order
found ourselves looking down on the sprawling glacier that gently
fell toward Grindelwald in one direction and in the other wound
its way back and up, tumbling down from between the upper
peaks of the Eiger and Schreckhorn. The blinding sunlight
striking the pristine ice was positively startling. None of us spoke.
Finally, one of us noted a placard mounted on a little stand
pointing out that the glacier, about five-hundred feet directly
below the ledge upon which we stood, would take thirty years to
inch its way to the end of the pass, where it would then split away
and fall to the stream below. This was precisely what wed
witnessed on the way up. Always being adept at reading between
the lines, I clearly understood that the little placard was telling me
that if I pissed upon the glacier, it and my urineDNA and the
whole shebangwould become at one and would travel together
harmoniously for thirty years before becoming part of the little
stream. (At that time, thirty years seemed an eternity. As I write,
now, that eternity was completed seven years ago. How is that
possible?) There was, however, one problem. (Yes, only one.) We
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stood on a ledge fifteen feet from the edge over which I would
have to piss, and it sloped downward steeply enough so that no
one could go further without plummeting over the cliff. I wanted
my urine to become at one with the glaciernot me.
While neither now nor then would I call myself Enlightened,
I believe Ive always had the sense that I was more than the sum
of my urine, and even as a healthy eighteen-year-old, I doubted
fifteen feet was within the scope of my ability with respect to
projectile pissing. I could only count on, honestly, about five feet,
with possibly another foot from the gentle wind that was (at least)
to my back, and that still left me nine feet shortor just under if
you count my few inches. Okay, we were all insane or we would
not have made the passage below across that narrow shelf
without climbing gear, but that does not preclude our having
some modicum of reasoning. A plan was hatched. The biggest,
strongest guy would wrap one of his arms around a tree while
extending his other arm toward the precipice. The next strongest
guy would climb across the first guy, hanging on carefully, until
he, hanging on to the first guys extended arm, would then extend
his free arm, again, toward the precipice. Then, sturdy Mom
would follow suit, and finally me. That would get me within
range andshould things go awryleave Sis uninvolved, so she
could return to the shelf and shout the tragedy back to the sane
couple wed left safely behind. We were crazy, but we werent
callous. We wanted our families to have closure, if needed, and
know we died for a noble cause.
We put our plan into action, and soon I was on the end of a
human chain fumbling with the fly of my pants with my left
handmy right hand being engaged with holding onto Mom
and keeping myself aliveall the while precariously perched
within a few feet of the precipice. This part, having not been well
thought out, was proving to be difficult. I didnt want to unbuckle
my belt, unbutton my fly, unzip and drop my pants a bitmy
usual MObecause if my pants accidentally fell, it would really
suck trying to get back up the steep slope with them woefully
wrapped around my ankles. This left me with a single-handed
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unzipping and wrangling of myself around and through the

overlapping flaps of the fly of my briefs, long underwear, and Levi
blue jeans via a metal zipper that was, naturally, really fucking
cold. Eventually, however, I was able towell, theres really no
other way to put itpoint my dick towards the glacier.
Hey, whats taking so long? came a voice from up the line.
Oh, good, is that what I needed, more pressure? I mean, Im
not one who is shy about pissing in front of other people, but I
was cognizant of the fact that besides my life being in danger, Id
also endangered the lives of three others in the execution of this
exorbitant endeavor. So, I had stark fear and guilt going great
guns on the psychological side, while on the physical side, I had a
dick (mine) kinked around the fly of the briefs, long underwear,
and jeans like a fucking corkscrew thatfor you women who are
reading this and might not knowis not especially conducive to
the execution of proficient pissing.
Come on, came another voice from above, hurry up. My
arm is about to give out.
Jesus Christ!
I ignored them. I had to. I focused, breathed, and let
everything fall away, until there was nothing in the universe but
the glacier, myself, my dick, and about a liter of urine. Suddenly,
the world coalesced, my pain transmuted to splendor andI
peed! I produced a steady, hard stream that cleared the ledge by
a good two or three feet in an elegant, glorious golden arc that
caught and reflected back the suns magnificence, magnifyingin
every way shape and formthe splendor of all that Is.
Nirvana?
Shmirvana.
This was the real deal.
A Nobel Prize should be awarded for my accomplishment.
Granted, the category might be hard to figure, but I should still
get one. However, no matter. I live knowing that when I die, I
will meet my maker, and He/She/It will look at me and say,
You know, Father MacPhadden has been here in heaven for
thirty years lobbying for you to go to hell, and he has built quite a
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following. However, that pissing on the glacier deal? Way cool,

man.
Back in the material world, safely on the level ledge, we all
celebrated, and when I say we I mean every one of us, for we
all knew in our hearts the truth in what I told them: my urine,
without them, would have meant nothing.
So after wed transcended, we descended, crossing the scaryass ledge again that was now not so scary-ass, and hooked up with
the sane couple. We crossed the Eiger, the Monch, and part of
the Jungfrau, arriving at the restaurant with maybe an hour of
daylight to spare.
I think Dad suggested that rather than taking the gondola,
we should bolt down the Jungfrau and see if we could beat the
darkness. The other three, looking forward to a good meal,
declined, but the All-American family was firmly committed to a
four thousand vertical foot plunge.
On a dead run, we launched ourselves straight down the
mountainour goal, Grindelwalds valley stream before a
nightfall, no more than an hour away. When I say straight down
the mountain, I do mean straight! Not attempting to follow any
trail, we ran wildly downhill bolting from fallen tree trunk to
boulder to ground to whatever was next as gravity propelled us
downward at impossible speeds. We could not stop except when
we fellan abrupt jolt that should have killed usonly to arise
and resume our downward flight. Keeping reasonably close we
watched out for one anothereach of us would have taken a dive
to pick ourselves up and go to the aid of an injured comradeby
listening. We couldnt actually look at one another because we
couldnt break our visual concentration on the rushing terrain as
we each carefully picked our path a few moves ahead to maintain
some degree of control over what approached near free-fall. It
was ecstasy. Despite occasional falls, never serious, we all leapt
and flew with a skill and grace that was impossible for humans to
possess but possessed nonetheless. I have no idea what distance
we actually covered, but at the endwhen we all fell together on
our backs, exhausted, winded, unable to do anything but lay in
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the luxurious snow next to the little stream and look upwards in
wonderI glanced at my watch. After a five-hour ascent and a
three-hour traverse, wed made the descent in only eighteen
minutes and twenty seconds. Recovering our breath, we lay,
laughing, like astonished children.
A group of about a dozen of us met one night in a restaurant.
As one of the girls had a sore throat we talked her into going to a
nearby pharmacy. Returning, she repeated her pantomime for
the drugstore clerk whounlike the pharmacist whod stepped
outspoke no English. We laughed while she went to the
bathroom to gargle. Coming back her eyes were bloodshot, her
face beet red. My god! she said. I cant believe these people
gargle with this stuff.
Is your throat better?
Yes, but this stuff is terrible!
Give it to me, I said. It cant be that bad. I took a swig.
Jesus Christ! I cursed, coughing, my eyes watering and throat
on fire.
Oh, come on, Sis said, sitting next to me and grabbing the
bottle. You ignorant clown.
Tipping it back, she immediately spat it into her napkin.
As can be expected, the bottle made its way around the table
with Mom, Dad, and nearly everyone skeptically needing to try
out this ungodly strong Swiss gargle to believe it. Just as about
Yankee/Canuck number ten was tipping back, a man in a white
smock (obviously the pharmacist) appeared at the front door of
the restaurant (filled with at least forty people) screaming in a
dead panic, No! No! No! Dont drink! Its for the douche!
Evidently, it was for about ten douches.
Eventually, I got a letter from Manpower for a job in
Zermatt, and Mom, Dad, and Sis all tagged along with me to see
if they could get jobs too. Guess what? They all got jobs and I
didnt. I got, We can probably use you in a couple weeks.
Fortunately, the train from Zermatt to Grindelwald provided me
with relief from my sudden hatred for everything Swiss, courtesy
of a group of uniformed Swiss army guys who proved inherent
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pacifism and class by ignoring my drunken tirades that included

the likes of, Why do you guys wear uniforms and carry guns
anyway? Every time theres a war all you do is hide in the
mountains whittling cuckoo clocks and inventing new recipes for
chocolate.
Never mind him, Mom and Dad and even Sis would
explain. (They had to go back to Grindelwald to get their stuff.)
He didnt get a job today. Hes drunk and has decided to take it
out on Switzerland en-masse.
Yeah, thats right, they used the word en-masse. Easy for
them to say, sober, with jobs possessed, skilled in English, French,
and German.
The next day on the platform of the Grindelwald train
station, we had a genuinely tearful good-bye. While they
promised to do everything they could to get me a job and hurry
along the couple of weeks, I think we all somehow knew wed
never see each other again. Being inured to the All-American
family, we said good-bye calling each other Mom, Dad, Sis, and
Bud. As the cog-train pulled away, I was surprised when a newly
arrived long-hair in Grindelwald walked up to me, and with his
hand on my shoulder, said consolingly, Hey, Bud, it will be
alright. Youll see them again. And, you know what, man? Your
mom and dad really look young. Im talking far-out young.
Youre Canadian arent you? I asked.
Yeah, he said, blankly. Can you tell me how to get to the
hostel?
Ja.
I will not whine about being orphaned. Dickens has that
covered.
Life went on.
Up the hill from the hostel, two identical apartment
complexes were being built, one on one side of the road built by
an Italian Construction Company, and one on the opposite side
of the road built by a German outfit. I asked the Germans if they
needed workers, and the guy told me, yeah, as much help as they
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could get. They had an urgent need to get a trench dug. Cool. I
told him Id return the next day with a bunch of help gathered at
the hostels kitchen. Fine, he said, but, as it was illegal and we
didnt have the proper permits, theyd only pay seventy-five
centimes an hour. Returning the next day with about a dozen
hippies that were nearly as hard up for a little cash as I, we began
our dig with picks and shovels. Do you know what its like to try
to dig a ditch in the hard, rocky ground of the Swiss Alps? Let me
explain: it sucks. About an hour into it, recalling the trench was
urgent, I figured we should go on strike for more money.
Sitting on our asses by the side of the trench, we watched the
builders of the two complexes. The Italian complex was two
stories complete, while the Germans were nearly done with their
fourth. Watching them for only a few minutes told the story. The
Germans spoke barely a word, moving with the efficient
synchronization of a group of worker ants, while the Italians
walked around with boards thrown over their shoulders, knocking
each other on the head, and turning round to see who hit them,
clocking a couple more. The Italian head bashing ceased only
when a woman walked by on the road. Then, dropping their
boards, hanging out the windows, theyd make that long, noisy,
pursed-lip-kissing sound that comes out like a high pitched fart,
and stretch their arms out, lewdly jogging their backward hands
and upturned fingers up and down, while shouting Italian
renditions of amore as indecipherable to me as they were
ineffective upon their recipients. The Germans, never noticing
the women, silently went about building. As we sat on strike,
laughing hysterically as every stereotype played itself out one by
one on either side of the road, a backhoe came up the street and
with distress, we watched it turn into our building site. Yes, the
strike had been trumped. Nevertheless, the Germans gave us each
an even frank, apparently paying our one-hour of well-earned
seventy-five centimes and throwing in an extra twenty-five as
severance. Starting unions isnt easy.
Suddenly the weather changed. Sunny warm days gave way
to a couple of days of clouds and rain that forebode, I was told, a
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dramatic change. Late every fall, in Grindelwald, the pressure of

the cold air from the north builds against the warm air in the
valley below, until a tipping point is reached. In a sudden rush
the cold air slips down the faces of the Jungfrau, Monch, Eiger,
and Schreckhorn, accelerating with the force of pressure finally
released, pushing the warm air out of the valley in one fell swoop.
I was told if you observe it in daytime, a wall of wind sweeps
down the face of the mountains against the bending trees like a
giant wave. But, I didnt see it. I heard it, at night, crashing down
the face of the great mountains like a giant locomotive to the
valley floor and whooshing up the other side to hit the hostel with
an enormous bang, a rushing whirl of sound, and then calm.
Only three days before it had been sunny and in the seventies,
but I awoke the next morning to more than a foot of snow on the
ground as pure as well snow in the high Alps. Standing on
the balcony, I surveyed the entire valley: the whole of everything,
as far as the eye could see, had startlingly changed in the course
of a single night. All was enshrouded in snow. With barely a
whisper of wind, great flakes filled the air, falling gently in
mystifying silence. Despite a temperature at just below freezing, I
felt no coldonly warmth, quiet, beauty, and peace.
Once the snow came, it fell nearly every day.
Only a few days after the great wind with a few feet of snow
already on the ground, while hiking alone in thick woods, I came
upon a clearing on a steep embankment that fell below me
probably the result of an old rock fall. The snow, deep even in the
woods, was even deeper in the clearing. Carefully crossing the
treacherous traverse, I watched every step, until the last one,
where both my legs were simultaneously pulled out from beneath
me. Sliding down the mountain at a furious pace, flying snow
blinding me, I tried to gain a measure of control by staying
upright upon my ass while attempting to steer by dragging my
gloved hands to either side behind me. Hitting a small plateau I
went airborneHoly shit!landing for only a few seconds before
I was launched again. Righting myself on my ass after my second
landing, trying to dig in with both hands to slow my descent, I
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had little luck until, finally, the steepness of the slope came to a
gentle curl as an enormous bank of snow engulfed me. Popping
my head out of the snow, orienting myself, wiping my face and
eyes clear, I looked back up the path Id made in my descent.
Far! Friggin! Out!
Crossing the clearings gentle slope, I made my way back to
the trees. Pulling myself up with my armstrunk by trunkin a
thicket of small birches, pumping my legs furiously against the
snow and steep pitch, I climbed back to the trail Id been on and
once again began the treacherous traverse. Reaching the point
where Id lost my footing before, I threw myself down the chute
Id just madenow somewhat packed and even fastersliding
with both terror and exhilaration. Again and again, down the run
I went. What a rush!
After telling everyone at the hostel about the fun Id had, my
sport was modified, and the next day a group of around twenty of
us went to the run armed with empty fertilizer bags wed found.
Plastic on snow? Oh, yah! For two days we had more fun, Id
wager, than any skiers ever had in the Alps. Constantly
perfecting our technique and increasing our speed we had riotous
fununtil a girl broke her wrist on one of the landings. She bore
it with courage, but tragedy struck. The police shut us down.
Now, I ask you, do they shut down a ski resort every time
someone gets hurt? Ive torn ACLs in both my knees skiing and
theyve never shut a mountain down. People die hitting trees or
smacking their heads against ice, and they never shut them down.
However, let one hippie break a wrist sliding down a mountain in
a fertilizer bag and The Man comes and, boom, its all over. Is
that right? No, its a fuckin bummer, man. Crosby Stills and
Nash should write a song about it.
Speaking of Crosby Stills and Nash, Id run out of money.
Okay, Ill grant you that last sentence might seem to be a
non sequitur, but give me a minute and I can make it a sequitur.
With a bit of sequiturizing, its completely sequiturizable. Watch.
Obviously, it starts with a girl with an impacted wisdom
tooth. As I didnt know the girl that well, I didnt notice her
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absence from the kitchen or thatdue to her infirmitythe

hostel warden gave her dispensation, allowing her to stay in the
hostel during the days. (Hostels, you see, make sure you are outand-about by nine or ten in the morning and dont let you back
in until around five oclock in the afternoon. At least, thats how it
worked back in the olden days.) But I had a dispensation too,
because knowing Id run out of money and was waiting for a job,
the hostel warden let me stay for free as long as I helped out
around the hostel a bit. That gave me special privileges, and
every now and again Id come back early from hiking to sit alone,
quietly in my little hostel room, singing and playing my guitar.
On the night that the girl with the impacted wisdom tooth
was well enough to come to the kitchen, she began telling
everyone that while her days had been quite miserable, every day
around three oclock some guy on the floor below her would sing
and play the guitar.
He sounds incredible, she said.
Up until the he sounds incredible comment, Id assumed
she was talking about me. Now, clearly, it was somebody else,
and I waited like everyone for the guy to come clean.
Nobody did.
Come on, the girl pleaded Who is it?
Still, no one confessed.
What floor are you on? I tentatively asked.
Im in the attic, she said. In the girls room on the fifth
floor.
As my room was directly below her and she heard this guy
the same time I started playing, it wasthe incredible
comment notwithstandinga bit coincidental.
What songs does he sing, I asked.
Crosby Stills and Nash. Simon and Garfunkel. Stuff Ive
never heard. Some of it even sounding like its written about
Grindelwald!
Oh, Jesus Christ.
Alright, I said. It might have been me. But, how much
medication were you on?
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No drugs were required, she said emphatically. My God,

youre fantastic! How come you havent been playing for us all
this time?
Now came a barrage from my fellow hostellers in the
kitchen. How come youve been holding out on us? they asked.
Go get your guitar and start singing.
A mob formed.
I pointed out, near to the madding crowd, that a good third
of them were the same people whod insisted on drinking
douchean act closely akin to listening to me sing and play. But
they wouldnt listen to reason. There was nothing for me to do
but get my guitar.
Theres an old saying, Hunger is the best spice, and it
certainly applied to this crowd. Crazily hungry for American
acoustic music, these poor expatriates in the basement kitchen of
the hostel actually thought I was good. A deal was struck. Id play
and sing every night while people cooked and cleaned, and theyd
all take turns sharing their supper with me. Two one-liter bottles
of Feldschlsschen went with the package. It was great. My room
fee was taken care of by doing odd jobs around the hostel, and I
rose early every morning to scrounge up all the beer and wine
bottles from around the kitchen, take them to the grocery store
and from the return deposits, buy breakfast and enough chocolate
for a days hike. But meals at night and beer money were a tight
squeeze. Now, with the music gig, I had that covered. I had no
money, but I had my guitar and the songs of Crosby Stills and
Nash. It was a good life.
Sequiturization Complete.
Hiking alone in the lower mountains one day, finding what
appeared to be an abandoned hay barn, it took me only a
moment to put things together. From the barn, I took as direct a
path as possible back to the hostel, remembering every detail of
the route so that I might know it blind. Back at the hostels
kitchen, having finished my performance and eaten, I told
everyone about the hay barn. Ensuring them I could find it in the
dark, in a matter of minutes an expedition of twenty or so
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adventurous hippies with sleeping bags, candles, food, and lots of

wine and beer set off on a campaign in the dark for the hay barn.
Thered be no hostel lights-out at ten oclock for us!
I expect, dear skeptical reader, you may anticipate some
calamity in the dark, but Im afraid I have to disappoint you. I led
everyone, without incident, to the hay barn under a resplendent
full moon. Once there, in the clearing before the barn, the moon
and stars shone so brightly in an air so clean that you couldif
you were young, and we wereliterally read the lettering on the
bottles of our various alcoholic beverages. Setting up in the hay
barnlighting a few candles, rolling out sleeping bags on freshly
fluffed haywe set into serious drinking. Our carousing spilled
outside the barn where, with bottles in hand, wed talk in hushed
tones while gazing at stars that were amazingly vivid, numerous,
and dazzlingly close. When the moon set below the Eiger the
stars became even more miraculous. Streaking across our heaven,
the distinct stripe of the Milky Way was unmistakable and
everythingthe snow at our feet, the air we breathed, the stars
overheadwere so pure, it infused us with a grace that left us
quiet, respectful, and finally at complete peace. Oh, we still
drank and reveled inside the barn, but outside well it was
like being inside the grandest cathedral of all, alone with a God in
whom you did believe.
In the morning we returned to the hostel, had our breakfasts,
and then went our own wayshiking alone or in small groups.
But after dinner, along with a few newcomers, we all returned to
the hay barn.
On the second night, I was inside the hay barn when
someone came in and said, Hey, you guys have to come see
this.
Walking out onto the snow and joining the others already
outside, we stood, arms fallen to our sides, facing the
Schreckhornsilently enthralled. The northeast side of the
Schreckhorn presented a two-mile high vision of Christ on the
Cross, covered with a pure white shroud of snow. The details
were precisely etchedit could not have been sculpted more
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perfectly. After about twenty minutes, as the angle of the light

from the moon shifted, the apparition faded and disappeared,
and though we slowly became ourselves again, we did so with a
tinge of solemnity that lasted throughout the night.
On the third night, our carousing was suddenly interrupted
by a Swiss farmer who stood framed in the doorway of the barn,
bathed in light from a lantern at his side. He said something in
German I couldnt understand, but he was clearly none too
happy.
Standing, only mildly drunk, I faced the man.
Whats the matter? I asked.
What is the matter? he repeated in halting English,
unmistakably bewildered. What do you think youre doing?
Until that moment, it had never occurred to me the hay barn
might not be abandoned. The hay, I suddenly realized, was fresh,
and therefore, probably only recently put-up. The farmer likely
fed his cows with this hay while we were out hiking.
Im sorry, I said, realizing we were trespassing. We didnt
mean any harm.
You meant no harm? he repeated me again, sweeping his
arm emphatically around the hay barn. Look!
Looking around I saw a bunch of would be hostellers
innocently lying around in the hay, sitting on benches, or maybe
even already asleep in their bags. I saw empty bottles everywhere,
sure, but while I understood we might be trespassing, it was not
intentional, and wed always been careful to clean up after
ourselves, regardless of the fact we thought the barn had been
abandoned.
Im sorry, I said again. I genuinely was. We thought the
barn was abandoned and saw no harm in coming up here to sleep
and, yes, to drink and have some fun.
Drink and have fun, sure, but this? Again, he made the
sweeping movement with his arm, gesticulating emphatically.
Look!
I looked around again and saw the same thing. Returning
my look to him, I innocently asked, What?
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Dropping his head, for he was bigger than I, he carefully

looked me over. Completing his study, frowning, he slowly shook
his head. The result of his assessment was obvious: I was an idiot.
This was not news to me, but the particular why in this instance
still escaped me.
You have candles! he yelled at last. Lit candles!
Yes.
He waited.
I waited.
You have lit candles, he repeated, slowly. In a hay barn.
Suddenly the idiot was thinking, and the understanding came
upon me like a mathematical derivation. Candles in a hay barn
equals fire. Fire equals no hay. No hay equals dead or milk-less
cows. Dead or milk-less cows equal no income for farmer. No
income for farmer equals loss of farm and destitute farmer and
family.
Blow out the candles! I screamed, waving my arms
frantically, as if after nearly three full nights of burning candles
there was now not a second to lose.
The candles were immediately extinguished.
The farmer and I stood, lit only by the light of his lantern.
I have no idea if it was due to the look of horror on my face
as everything became clear, or the immediate extinguishing of the
candles, but the farmers demeanor changed as he lifted the light
and once again looked at me closely.
Im sorry, I said, dropping my head as the gravity of the
thing fell upon me.
Its an amazing thing really, that two such disparate things
could at once be true. In complete innocence Id found a barn,
and thinking only of the goodness of sharing camaraderie
amongst friends in the clear alpine air, was further blessed with
enchanted starlight and a mesmerizing vision of Christ. Yet, the
whole time, Id been a careless criminal, who had thoughtlessly
endangered a man and his familys livelihood.
Look, I began. How do you want us to do this? Do you
want us to stay here while you call the police, or come down to
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your farm and wait? Or, do you just want to place a call to the
police and well take ourselves down to the station? I cant speak
for everyone, but Im certain about myself. Im the one who
found this place, and thoughtlessly believing it was abandoned,
led everyone here. Ill show up at the police station. Its a
promise.
He looked at me.
I mean it, I said.
Ja, he said. I know you do.
Then, looking around at my friends and back to me, he said
the most extraordinary thing. I too, was young once. This thing
I know of. So, you drink, you sleepno candles!and in the
morning, you go and never come back. Agreed?
Youd do this? I asked.
Yes.
Agreedyou have my word! Thank you!
He simply nodded, turned, and walked away, his broad
shoulders outlined against the Eiger as he ambled down the
mountain pasture and disappeared below a crest.
The following night, we were back to our usual drunk fest in
the hostels basement kitchen. The crowd, except for me, always
changed. Every day people would leave and every evening new
people would arrive. It wasnt that we just got drunk, we just
happened to drink a lot while swapping stories, telling jokes, or in
general, just getting to know one another.
As I was the entertainment, everyone knew me, and one of
the many things I did to earn my meals was a sans guitar
rendition of the song Gary Indiana from the musical The Music
Man. Heres how the thing would play out. Someone would yell,
Hey, Mike, where are you from? and Id immediately go into
my little Gary Indiana song and dance.
I know, dear fastidious reader, technically Im from Mason
City, Iowa and not Gary, Indiana. However, Meredith Wilson,
who wrote The Music Man and was from Mason City, didnt write
a cute song about our hometown, but only one about Gary,
Indiana. I take what I can. Look, I cant sequiturize this thing and
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I dont intend to try, but trust me, when youre drunk in

Grindelwald, it doesnt matter. Besides, the little song and dance
(stolen though it was from the movie version as performed by
Ron Howard in his Opie Taylor days) had an a priori beauty that
needs no explanation.
So, well into the night, after doing my stint on the guitar,
receiving my meal, drinking my two liters of beer (and then
some), I was on my way down the stairs to the kitchen from doing
God knows what, when somebody yelled out, Hey, Mike, where
are you from? Even drunk I knew enough to stop because, well,
that was my queue. Launching into my song and dance, and soon
hitting the big finishcrooning Gary Indiana, my home sweet
home while spreading my arms wide and leaning forward into a
one-knee kneelI was so in the moment, that I neglected to
recall I was on a stairway. Rolling headfirst down the stairs, I hit
a wall (remember, there was a dogleg), ricocheted, rolled down
the remainder of the stairs, and came to a stop under one of the
tables of the hostel kitchens booths. Lying on my back, looking
up between the table and the bench seat, I saw the face of an
incredibly beautiful young woman who was clearly new to the
place or I would have noticed her sooner. Not missing a beat, I
slithered up between the table and bench with all the makeshift
drunkards charm I could muster, and planted myself next to her,
engaging her in drunken blabber to which sheincredibly
listened. We talked for awhile, until someone came up to the table
and said, Hey, Mike, come with us. We need you for
something.
Excuse me, I enchantingly slurred to this gorgeous young
woman. Im needed. Ill be right back. Would you please save
my seat?
Amazingly, she said yes.
But, I never went back.
Why?
I have no idea. That night is the only time in my life Ive
been so drunk that I have no recall. Nothing. Im able to write
about the above only because it was recounted to me later.
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What I do recall, is that the next morning started with the

usual ritual: get up before everyone else, collect all the beer and
wine bottles from the kitchen, hike down the mountain to the
grocery store, deposit the bottles, buy eggs and coffee and
chocolate, hike up the mountain to the hostel, and make and eat
breakfast while drinking the thickest coffee possible out of a bowl.
Then, just before leaving for a hike, suddenly turning around on
the third step up of the hostels majestic wooden staircase, I saw a
stunningly beautiful young woman before the fireplace of the
great room. Oblivious to me, I stared at her as she spoke with
someone. She had thick, dark brown hair with one thin bleached
white strip that swept back from a clean and perfect forehead, all
set above a graceful brow, dazzling green eyes, and the most
perfect little heart-shaped face imaginable. She wore a loose
fitting brown cable knit sweater and baggy well-faded dungarees,
but somehow nothing was hidden.
Who is she? I asked, and though I asked everyone, I
learned little about her.
After a good days hike, I returned early to play the guitar in
solitude. Despite knowing nothing more than the young womans
name, Sarah, and that she was from Maine, I wrote a song with
her in mind. I have no idea what the lyrics were, but I do
remember being aware while writing the song that it might be
sung to the kitchen crowd that night, and was therefore careful to
avoid any clue as to her being the subject. When it was finished, I
wrote Sarah across the top of the page as a working title.
That night, the crowd in the kitchen was particularly large
and energetic. I sang and did my thing until Id finally earned my
meal and when finished, with all the dishes cleaned, as people
began to settle into the usual night of conversation and drink,
someone said, Hey, Mike, why dont you play in the big room?
The big room? I asked.
Yes, you know, the cafeteria or whatever it is at the top of
the stairs above the coat room.
Yeah, man, said someone overhearing the conversation,
loudly enough for the entire kitchen to hear. A concert in the big
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room would be way cool.

Cool, everyone seemed to agree, despite the fact they
werent yet drunk.
It was inconceivable to me that people could be that starved
for music, but everyone in the kitchen appeared excited. Even the
Japanese group in the corner, whod shared their squid jerky with
me the night before but otherwise rarely spoke outside their
group, said in diminutive, halting English, smiling while nodding
their heads, faces brightly lit with hope and cheer, Yes. Please.
Concert in big room. Very much cool.
How do you say no to that?
Up to the big room we went, where tables and chairs were
quickly and efficiently arranged. Everyone sat comfortably in
their chairs, while I sat on a table near the door facing my small
cult of amusical wanderers. Lit candles on tables cast a gentle
glow against the deep, rich, wood paneling of the room,
illuminating themselves twice-fold against the glass of the large,
hinged windows. It was a strangely quiet crowd that evening
very different from the boisterousificity of the kitchenand
though the folks drank, they did so leisurely. Playing for them like
thisup front, before a quiet and attentive groupcould have
felt awkward for me, but I played and sang with ease. Everything
was cool. Very much cool.
After playing for some time, I pulled from my pocket the
scrap of paper with Sarah scrawled across the top, set it on the
table by my side, and gave it a go. At the end, a girl sitting just
before me said, My God, that was beautiful. Grabbing the
paper, she looked at it for a split-second before showing it to her
friend beside her. Her friends eyes opened wide, and timidly
those striking green eyes looked up at mine. Yes, it was Sarah,
and seeing her name across the top of the page, she was clearly
wondering if the song had been written for her.
I looked at her until she knew.
Would you like to go for a walk? I asked.
Now? she queried, buying time, a small purchase, but at
the moment all she could afford.
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Yes, I said.
There was hesitation then, she said, Okay.
I set my guitar down on the tabletop. The concert was over.
Sarah and I walked down the stairs to the coatroom and
soon, with our boots and coats on, we headed up the mountain
while colossal flakes of snow fell upon us.
Being used to the elevation and on a paved road, it was not
much of a hike for me, but Sarah, having arrived only the night
before, was having a tough time. I realized too that while I knew
the road and had a feel for the mountains, she might be feeling
lost and a bit overcome. I slowed my pace.
I know the road well, I said, offering her a hand that she
gladly accepted. I know its dark with the snow falling so heavily,
but on nights with no snow you have no idea how bright it is up
here. Still, I can tell where we are by the lights of the cottages.
Can we fall off the road? she asked, legitimately, for it
really was dark and she had no idea where she was.
Not far, I said, laughing gently as I felt her hand squeeze
mine a little more tightly. There are trees all around us and,
while there are some steep banks, there are no cliffs. We couldnt
roll off the road more than fifteen feet before snow piled in front
of a tree would gently stop us. Were fine. I promise.
Where are we going?
Youll see. Its not far.
Her breath was labored.
It will be a piece of cake going down, I offered.
Good, she replied.
We approached a couple of streetlamps, one on either side of
a small bridge. Once on the bridge, I stopped and leaned with
both elbows against its wooden railing. Sarah followed suit.
Well, this is it, I said, looking before me. Weve reached our
destination. Its beautiful, dont you think?
Before us was a waterfall. From above, between two giant
mounds of snow, slipping over a lip of rock no more than a few
feet wide, the water fell twenty feet or so into a small pool that
ran beneath the bridge. On that night, with the huge flakes falling
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and the two streetlamps illuminating little more than the bridge,
the falls, the pool, and us, it was particularly beautiful. It was a
cozy, perfect little world.
She said nothing for a whileI assumed catching her breath
while taking in the beautyand then at last she broke the silence.
Do you mean to tell me you dragged me halfway up a
mountain, in pitch darkness, to see this little waterfall?
Turning to her to see if she were serious, I found she was.
You dont think its beautiful?
Its not much of a waterfall.
There was freshly fallen powdered snow on the railing, and
making quick use of it, I doused her face with snow.
Jumping back in shock, looking even more extraordinary
with her face framed by brown hair now tinged with white snow,
she screamed. What the hell was that? She shook the snow off
vigorously.
What do you think? I asked.
No answer.
Youre right, I said, trying to be calm. I did practically
drag you, but it was hardly up a mountainside, and nowhere close
to halfway. This little waterfall may not be Niagara Falls, but if
you dont see how beautiful it is, you need to wake up.
I have no idea what got into me, but in only a few moments
she joined me, placing her elbows on the railing next to mine,
contemplating the waterfall.
Youre right, she said at last. It is beautiful.
Thank you, I said, earnestly.
Youre welcome, she said, meaning it. We watched the
waterfall together for sometime before she added, Dont ever
throw snow in my face again.
Only if you need it, I said.
For that, I got a face full of snow.
Sarah and I hiked the next day together, again in the midst
of giant falling flakes, and coming down a little used trail, with
arms wrapped around one another, we fell in the soft snow. We
landed with our lips not more than an inch apart. It was our first
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kiss.
Oh, I know how silly this all sounds, and I could go on and
on with one ridiculous romantic movie scene after another that
Sarah and I found ourselves falling into in Grindelwald, but Im
sure you get the idea. I wont bore you with the details. However,
while you certainly can see where this was going, I can honestly
tell you that I did not. Over the course of the next few days we
fell in love so hard and so fast we had no idea what was going on.
But for all we didnt know on the last night we had together before
Sarah was to head to Munich to catch her plane back to Maine,
we did know we couldnt call it a night at ten oclock. When I
suggested we go snow camping, Sarah thought it was a great idea.
We hiked a bit up the mountain behind the hostel, and while the
old hay barn was tempting, I remained true to my word given to
the good farmer. Continuing up the mountain, we found a small
clearing in the trees that offered a spectacular view of the
mountains across the valley, countless bright stars above, and a
deep soft snowdrift where we could lay snugly together. It was the
perfect place to camp. We dug a small trench in the snow, threw
down my salvaged plastic ground cloth, and tucked my sleeping
bag into our little nest.
Oh, it all sounds so romantic. Right?
Well, do you recall the details Ive gone into about the
proper way to sleep in a goose down mummy sleeping bag? Sarah
and I were about to break every one. Honestly in love (even if we
didnt yet know it), with both of us virgins, we were content to just
be together. What that means is that the two of us piled into my
sleeping bag fully clothed, pulled up the zipperand thats how
we remained. Yes, thats right, two of us fully clothed, zipped up
in a single goose down mummy sleeping bag rated to forty below
zero degrees Fahrenheit. There was no view of the mountains
across the valley or of the stars above. We could see nothing, not
even each other. But, we could feel each otherwedged together
as we were in our thick winter sweaters, heavy pants, and socks
and we hardly needed to worry about keeping warm! I remember
waking up in the middle of the night time after time, beastly hot,
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soaked right through with sweat, aghast at how thoroughly

disgusting she must have found me, until I realized she was just as
disgusting as me. It was impossible to know where my grossness
ended and hers began. Hows that for romantic?
It was the first night Id ever slept with a woman (and I do
mean sleep, fitful as it was) and the first night shed ever slept with
a man. We went to bed virgins and woke up virgins albeit
extraordinarily sweaty and repugnant ones. So, what can I say
after my first night with a woman? The shower in the hostel the
next morning was awesome! Ive no doubt Sarah felt the same. If
sighs of pleasure came from her shower that morning, Im certain
she wasnt faking it.
After cleaning and eating breakfast, we stood in the parking
lot of the Grindelwald youth hostel saying goodbye. Sarah had
hitched a ride in a VW bus to Munich. We waved as she was
driven away.
I still had no idea.
Its hard to believe Ill never see her again, I said to a
friend of mine, standing by my side.
He laughed.
Whats so funny? I asked.
You.
What?
You dont think youll see her again?
No.
He laughed again. Youre in love with her, you idiot. Youll
see her again.
Im not in love with her, I said, meaning it, looking at him
like he was crazy.
He shook his head. What do you think it was?
Just a little hostel romance.
He gave my eighteen years a worldly, twenty-three-year old
smile, and shook his head in pity. God, virgins are stupid, he
said. With that, he turned and walked to the hostel to prepare for
a days hike in the mountains.
I followed. At nine-thirty I was off on a solo hike of my own.
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By eleven oclock that morninghiking alone in the pristine

snow that fell still upon the stone mountains of GrindelwaldI
realized everything was different. Something essential was
missing.
Sarah was gone.
I came down the mountain and packed for Munich.
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CHAPTER 19
Munich to Iowa City
A day and a half after waving goodbye to Sarah in Grindelwald, I

held her in my arms again in Munich.
Is it okay that I followed you? I asked.
While Sarah held on to me, silently pulling me ever closer, I
looked over her shoulder to her friend who whispered
reassuringly, Shes done nothing but talk about you since we left
Grindelwald.
In Munich, Sarah and I now knew we were in love, and we
fell more deeply every day. We saw the sights, slugged beer from
enormous mugs at the Hofbruhaus and Lowenstein beer halls, and
shared a sobering afternoon together at the Dachau
Concentration Camp. Mostly, however, we just drank each other
in, reveling in being together. Then, after only three days, we
again waved goodbye, this time on a wet, cobbled street as her
trolley rolled away into the dark night.
The following day, I stood with the crowd of spectators at the
Marienplatz, just before noon, staring at the Town Hall. The
immense structure had more than four hundred rooms, an
eighty-five meter tower, and facades intricately detailed in the
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Gothic Revival style. Precisely at noon, thirty-two copper figures

began the Schfferltanzthe coopers dancecommemorating
the end of the plague. It must have been fantastic, but while
knowing this, I felt nothing. I might as well have been in Iowa
looking at yet another cornfield. Watching the figurines execute
the mechanical dance as they had for a hundred years, I sensed
the same unconscious monotony. Life had left me. I wondered at
the strange spectators around me who looked with animated awe
upon those cold, copper figures performing their perfunctorily
preordained dance. Without Sarah there to share it with, it meant
nothing. I knew without her nothing ever would.
My trip to Europe was over.
I called home and asked my parents for a couple of hundred
bucks to get me home, and had them wire it to Luxembourg.
Thinking Ryan might be in Dusseldorf, I headed there to let him
know I was headed home, hoping to find him through a foreign
exchange student from our high school, Katrina. Dropped off
from my hitch to Dusseldorf, I walked up to a man on the street
and asked for directions by showing him Katrinas address
written on a book flap. In a city of half-a-million people, the man
turned out to be her father. Go figure. Unable to get any leads on
Ryan, I left the next day with fifty marks given to me by Katrinas
father, and began what would turn out to be a long hitch to
Luxembourg.
I flew into New York City and bussed up to Portland, Maine,
where Sarah and I spent five days together, falling always more in
love. Then, I headed home.
Sarah and Id shared Thanksgiving together in Grindelwald
I was home in Iowa before Christmas.
I applied for scholarship to Bowdoin College in Brunswick
Maine, less than thirty miles from where Sarah lived, but I wasnt
accepted. I went to my fallback school, the University of Iowa in
Iowa City, the town of my birth and first five years of life.
A couple of weeks before school started, after a grueling but
rewarding summer of working on the railroad, I drove out to
Maine to see Sarah. It had been nine months since Id seen her,
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but our love had not wavered.

At school, I wrote to her every week or two. I wrote about
how much I missed her, how much I loved her, how naturally we
should casually see other people while apart in college, but how
we could get married the summer between getting my Bachelor
degree and starting law school. Her replies were sporadic, and
seemed rarely to respond to what Id written. Well, I reasoned,
she always was quiet. We had an agreement to never call on the
phone. In those days, cross-country phone calls were outrageously
expensive, and we knew wed spend a fortune. It would be better
to save our money for trips to see one another.
We were patient.
In the middle of December, just before going home for
Christmas break, I got a letter from Sarah saying thatthough
she didnt exactly know whenshe was coming to Iowa to see me
during my second semester. I was ecstatic all through Christmas
vacation. Back in school after Christmas, I wrote to her every
week, sometimes twice or more, and returning to the dorm from
classes every day, I would race straightaway to my mailbox to see
if a letter from Sarah had arrived. January and February passed
and I heard nothing. At the end of March, I finally got a letter
from Sarah. She wrote, I had the money all saved up for the trip
to Iowa, but I got this great deal on a horse I couldnt pass up. I
placed a phone call to her a couple weeks later to ensure I wasnt
misinterpreting. I was not. That was that.
The good news? In the category of hard breakups with first
loves, the she left me for a horse story wins every bar contest.
I take what I can.
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CHAPTER 20
Thirty-Three Years
Sometimes, dear friends, its hard to know if something is the

right course or just plain folly. Im sitting here with an
undecorated Christmas tree behind me in my girlfriends house,
at six oclock in the morning, following only a few hours of sleep
and an hour or so of tossing in bed, contemplating this particular
transition, wondering, right course or folly? These transitions, as
youve come to see, are always difficult. And now, Im
questioning myself: am I breaking my rule of never writing late at
night, or am I just getting an early start? I have no answer and
suppose it makes no difference. Perhaps this is a point where old
algorithms need to be replaced. I dont know. Ill just move on.
I might suppose the scope of this book ended with the last
chapter, but not quite. Things do go on, and in this case, they did
so for thirty-three years. Ill make short order of them by only
touching on what is relevant to this book.
After my first year at the University of Iowa, I had no interest
in being a lawyer and decided instead to be a writer. In my
sophomore year, I started taking a few graduate courses in
philosophy, literature, and Russian History. After three years of
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school, the university had the audacity to insist that I declare a

major before returning for my senior year. Naturally, I didnt
return.
I got married, became a carpenter, and had my first child. I
stayed home caring for my little Maggie, cradling her in my left
arm in the morning while reading Russian History, and after
putting her down for her afternoon nap, writing a four-hundredpage novel about the Russian Revolution. It has sat, ever since, in
a box.
My wife and I had long talked of moving to New England, so
in 1982with me out of a job and construction work on the skids
nationwidewe checked out jobs in New England. We could
find only oneit was in Maine. We moved to Maine, had our
second daughter, Emily, and were divorced 1985. Realizing I was
not going to be able to take care of the kids on a carpenters
wages, I bit the bullet and went back to college to get an electrical
engineering degree to take care of Maggie and Emily. I had to
borrow a ton of money, but my parentsshowing once again
what outstanding parents and grandparents they weretook care
of the child support while I was in school. I graduated in 1991
carrying a heavy debt, but by living frugally, things worked out.
Ten years after the divorce, I met and fell in love with
another woman and we were married. Six years after that, we
were divorced.
That put me in an odd place because not only was I
divorced, but also Maggie and Emily had recently graduated
from high school, and my college loans had just been paid off. All
of a sudden, I had no wife, no stepson, no house, no debts to
repay, no child support, and children off to college. I had some
clothes, a few sticks of furniture, a nice pair of skis, a fairly new
laptop, and an old car. That was about it. Oh, and I had that
damned engineering job Id really only done for the sake of the
girls, and later, my wife and stepson. My daughters joke about me
having a mid-life crisis, but this was really about havingfor the
first in a very long timeno financial responsibility for anyone
other than myself. I didnt want stuff, never really had, and I
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didnt have my ego wrapped up in an engineering career. What I

had was a burning desire to write. Writing, even if sporadic, was
my constant. It had grown to where I had a full-term novel in me,
and like a nine-and-a-half-month pregnant woman, I just wanted
the damn thing out! Fortunately, an amicable divorce had left me
half the equity of the house, enough to take care of myself
modestly for better than a year. I quit the engineering job and
started workin earneston a novel Id played with for years.
The book grew much bigger than Id ever envisioned, and
finishing it a year and a half later, I realized that while it was
fundamentally good, it needed a ton of work. Worse yet, there
was a crucial element missing, and I had no clue what it was.
Wonderful. More patience required.
I was living next-door to a great old couple in their nineties,
Barb and Jack, who rented half their house to me. Wed become
good friends. Growing old, they say, is not for sissies, but Barb
and Jack found a way to make things work. Their house sat on a
large, beautiful piece of property on the bank of the Kennebec
River, with the house down a hill a hundred feet or so from the
garage. Barb, whom even at ninety was an extremely beautiful
woman, had broken her hip years before and could not make it
up or down the hill on foot. Jack, though hed lost his eyesight to
where he could no longer have a drivers license, was spry and
strong. Whenever they went anywhere by car, hed walk up the
hill and with squinting eyes, navigate the thirty-year-old Monte
Carlo down the tricky drive to the house where Barb would work
herself into the drivers seat. Off theyd go! Coming home was
simply the reverse procedure. It was inspiring to see this splendid
couple work together to thwart the frustrating challenges that
come with age.
But none of this helped my being lost with the novel.
Looking askew through the window from the desk where I
wrote I would, at different times of the day, glance out the
window and watch the river. The house was about fifteen miles
upstream from where the Kennebec spills into the Atlantic
Ocean, so the river was affected by the tide and was brackish
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enough to remain unfrozen during the winter. A mile or two

further upstream, however, the salinity of the river decreased and
the river, growing wider and slower, did freeze. Between the
effects of the tide coming in and out and fluctuations in the
weathers temperature, chunks of ice would break away from the
edge of the ice mass and form small icebergs that, with the
current and falling tide, would float downriver past my home as
they drove for the sea. That was natural enough, but heres the
curious thing: when the tide turned and rose, the icebergs would
reverse course and travel upriver.
In Iowa the rivers flowed in one direction. Period. That
makes intuitive sense. But in Maine, I would look out my window
during the winter months to see the ice drift slowly downstream
(as expected), only to glance up sometime later to find the ice now
drifting slowly upstream. The ice goes down the ice goes up.
The ice goes down the ice goes up.
Did I really need, at that point of my life, imagery like that
slapping me in the face every day?
I could write reams on the thirty-three years between being
dumped for a horse and being lost with a novel, but it would
drive me insane and bore you to death. Lets just keep the
metaphor of the uncertain ice in the uncertain river in mind. It
pretty much sums it up.
Oh one more thing. During those thirty-three years, I did
manage to figure out the meaning of life, and since that seems to
be of interest but elusive to many people, I might as well throw it
in here before finishing this book off in the next chapter.
The meaning of life is really nothing more than a take on an
allegorical tale I was taught as a child. It goes like this. God
created angels to love him, sing to him, and whatever. But if you
create something to love you and it does, big friggin deal, its just
doing what you created it to do. Therefore, the Creator had to
create something that would choose to love Him, and if it were to
have choice, then clearly it must be created unfinished. Human
beings are, of course, that something, and as unfinished, must
create our own unfinished part to be whole. In short, the business
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of being a human being is that of self-creation, and the purpose of

our life is to choose, as we self-create, to love the Creator.
Why? Well, there is no why. Why in this caseas most often,
if not alwaysis a bogus question. If there were a why, there
would be a reason, and if there were a reason, there would be a
proof, and if there were a proof, then where would the choice be in
the choosing to love? If there were a why, such as, say, you love the
Creator so that you can go to heaven after you die and be happy
for all eternity, thats not choice. I have a dog with two brain cells
that will stand on his hind legs for a treat. Shouldnt the meaning
of life be something more than an elaborate dog trick?
Yes.
Since Ive invoked Jesus Christ! often enough in this book,
let me use him as an example.
Whats the big deal about the crucifixion? Like most people
in life, Ive suffered more than a whipping, a crown of thorns, and
a cross to drag to my crucifixion. Granted, that would be a bad
day, but it was only one day, and it was for the explicit purpose of
the salvation for mankind. Jesus Christ, Id swap my friggin life
for Christs any day. Most of us suffer a lot more, a lot longer, for
a lot less. So, what is the crucifixion of Christ really about?
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
Christ spoke these words just after being jabbed with a spear
and taunted by Roman Legions who asked why, being the Son of
God, he couldnt just pull himself down from the cross. Now, we
all know Jesus could have pulled himself off the cross and kicked
the shit out of these pre-guineas, but he didnt. He had the
salvation of mankind deal going.
Consider, in the Christian parable that Jesus is one part of
the Holy Trinity: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. As God the
Father, the omniscient one, he could see the infinite implications
of saving mankind. As God the Son, a human being, Jesus
showed a tremendous empathy and compassion for his fellow
human beings every day of his life. So imagine this scenario: Jesus
on the cross undergoing great human suffering with an
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unwavering belief in his actions, suddenly being told by God the

Father, There will be no salvation for mankind. Ive changed my
mind. Sorry, no deal.
Jesus, as part of the omniscient Holy Trinity, would fully
understand, as did God the Father, the unspeakable implications of
no salvation for mankind. Simultaneously, as the Son of God, a
man, Jesus would excruciatingly feel both immeasurable
heartbreak for mankind and inestimable betrayal by God. Jesus,
as possible only with a God/Man being, would have held in his
sacred and human heart an infinite pain that no matter how brief
would have eclipsed the collective pain of all human suffering
throughout all time.
Yet, Jesus did not pull himself down from the cross. He did
not betray the Father whod apparently betrayed him. He chose,
even as everything around His eternal and infinite vision was
destroyed, to love the Creator. Furthermore, He chose it
repeatedly, right up to his human death. Why? There is no why.
He just chose to love both the Creator and the created,
unconditionally, and that is the meaning of the crucifixion,
salvation, and life.
A parallel to this allegory is found in every version of every
faith.
Creator. Universe. Allah. God. Jehovah. Supreme. Great
Spirit. Energy. Source
Jesus, Buddha, Mohammad, Moses
The Meaning of Life
Live, grow, and self-create. Understand and accept that the
Creator and human purpose may not exist, and that all may be
an illusion. Nevertheless, choose to love the Creator completely,
and see the Creator in everything and everyone. In so doing,
choice becomes Faith, and self-creation becomes Love. The
Creator is loved by the Created the circle is complete all is
whole.
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Okay, thats it. Just be careful not to be hung up on who or

what the Creator is, or who or what we as the created are. Love
the incomprehensible Creator. Love yourself. Love others. Love
everything. In the end, as everyone really knows, its all One.
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CHAPTER 21
The End that Never Ends
On Friday, September 29, 2006, after a hard workout at the gym,

I parked my car in front of my apartment and stepped out into
the early evening sun of a gorgeous early-fall day. Standing still
for a moment, I took in the green grass, the blue-gray stones of
granite, and the old oak, maple, and pine trees that fell gracefully
to the gleaming river.
Mike, Barb called, unseen through the screen from her
kitchen. Can you come in for a minute? Jack and I would like to
talk with you.
Tired and hungry after the workout, I put them in check and
called back. Sure, Ill be right in. Talks with Barb and Jack
were always good ones.
Opening the door, I found them sitting at the kitchen table.
They had peculiar looks on their faces, like children whod just
played a prank. Barb looked at me and smiled. This was
unusualthey normally got right to the point.
Whats up? I asked.
Barb settled into her chair, her smile becoming even more
mischievous. Oh, she said, coquettishly, we just had a talk
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with an old friend of yours.

She stopped, like this was a quiz, while I racked my brain on
what possible old friend could produce such peculiar behavior
upon my surrogate parents. Jack, saying nothing, was clearly
enjoying his wifes play.
Who? I asked, my brain racking having produced no
viable candidate.
A young woman stopped by to see you.
Still baffled, I was now a bit excited. I couldnt imagine any
context in which a young woman stopping to see me could be a
bad thing.
While Barb clearly loved the cat and mouse game she was
playing, her timing was perfect as she told me, Her name was
Sarah Brandt.
There was a pause.
Sarah Brandt? I asked, shocked.
Yes.
Was here?
Watching me take it in, Barb couldnt refrain from laughing.
Neither could Jack.
Youre all sparkly, Barb teased. Ive never seen you like
this.
I havent seen Sarah in thirty-three years, I told them.
Yes, we know, Barb said. Jack laughed easily.
We met in Switzerland.
Yes, we know all about that too.
Good God!
We had a long talk, Barb said casually, leaning back in her
chair with her incredible smile, enjoying every second, proving
that women never outgrow the pleasure of messing with mens
heads.
I was literally speechless, which may have been a good thing,
since apparently I had nothing to say they didnt already know.
Now, I should point out, it could have come as an even
bigger shock, except that my most recent ex-wifea great
woman with whom Id had an amicable divorcehad emailed
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me about a month prior, informing me that Sarah Brandt was

calling her house and asking for me. Calling my ex-wife, she told
me Sarah had been leaving phone messages asking if she was
calling the home of my Michael Sieleman and leaving her
phone number for me to call. Giving me Sarahs number, she
asked me what I was going to do. I dont know, I said.
I spent a month going back and forth on what to do about
Sarah. I was seeing somebody, Gretchen, and had initially told
heras I supposed Sarah was getting divorced and was in need
of a friendI was going to call. Then I told Gretchen I wasnt
going to call, because it would probably just be a mess. (The ice
goes down the ice goes up. Again, did I need this in my life?)
Finally, I changed my mind once more, deciding that whatever
else Sarah was in my life, she was a good friend and I needed to
be there for her. Still, I hadnt yet called.
How did she know to come here? I asked.
Sarah, Barb said with casual familiarity, as if speaking
about the next door neighbor, was driving through Bath to see a
friend in Woolwich, and knowing that you might live in Bath, she
went to the Town Office and charmed the bureaucrats into
giving her your address. Sarah said youd called her from Bath on
the day of the twentieth anniversary of your meeting in
Switzerland, and though that had been some ten years or so ago,
she thought you might still be in Bath, which, of course, you are.
How long did you guys talk? I asked, suppressing a Jesus
Christ! so that my surrogate mommy real mother being in
absentia in Iowawouldnt slap me.
Long enough.
All right, I need to fill you in on a few things. After dumping
me for a horse, the following Christmas, Sarah sent me a card
with a picture of her and the friggin horse who was namedIm
not kiddingMa Cherie. Gag! Gag! Gag! (If only I were
imaginative enough to make this shit up.) Eight years later
nearly ten years since seeing her and one month before my wife
and I were to move to MaineI got a letter from Sarah saying
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that while she never held good to her promise to come to Iowa,
she was going to be in Chicago and would like to meet me. Well,
I was married, and would already be in Maine when she would
be in Chicago. So, after the Chicago date passed and things from
the move had settled down, I responded saying I was living in
Maine (surprise!), was happily married (not quite true), and had
one child with another on the way (very true). She responded,
telling me she was married with a child as well, and gave his
name that, I noted, was the same as that of an old boyfriend. That
pretty much explained things.
Not until I was divorced three years later did it occur to me
that things might not have been rosy with Sarahs marriage when
she wrote about Chicago. Maybe she was divorced too. I pledged
to myself Id wait a year to get my head straight and then write a
letter to Sarah. In late December of 1986four years after
writing to Sarah about moving to Maine, thirteen years after last
seeing herI wrote.
Dear Sarah,
Well, sit down and get ready for another strange but
true letter from me. I dont know where to start except to be
blunt, so please dont misconstrue this as insensitivityI
simply dont know where else to begin.
The upshot is this. Im divorced and I would like to see
you again. Of course, if you are married or for any other
reason dont think it would be best to see me, Ill completely
understand. But I would like to see you again, although I
cant exactly tell why. Certainly, whatever the reasons may
be, they are rooted in the deep feelings for you that I have
always felt. But I cant really say if its an attempt to revive a
romance that has never died, a desire to see someone I care
about and think of so often, or whether it is to find out at last
what exactly happened so many years ago. Probably my
desire to see you again stems from all these reasons and more
that I myself cannot discern. In a manner of speaking, your
image has never left me and this is something I dont quite
understand. If nothing else, I would like to face it and see.
Lastly, I would like you to know that this is no sudden
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impulse. Ive been divorced for nearly a year and a half,

separated for two, and really (for all practical purposes), my
wife left me a year before that. I would never have thought
divorce was possible, but apparently, it is. Looking back at the
last year or so of the marriage, I know its all for the best, and
recognized that shortly after the divorce.
Oddly enough, just after the divorce, several people
(including my mother) asked if I was going to try to get a hold
of you. I had never given it a thought, as I was certain you
were married, but then I took a look at thingsyour using
Brandt as a last name, mention of your children but not a
husband, and etceteraand I began to wonder if you too
were divorced. At any rate, I did not want to run headlong
into seeing you just after the divorce, but decided if I were to
look you up again, it would be with my feet more firmly
planted. I guess that time has come. Will you see me again?
Well, enough of this. My God, I feel as if Ive written
my Confessions. So, on to other things.
The young man who you once cared about so much,
the one who was going to be President of the United States
and then decided it would be better to be a Nobel Prize
winning author, is now a freshman student in the College of
Electrical Engineering at the University of Maine. Crazy isnt
it? Well actually, I do have sound reasons. The truth is I have
never given up on writing and probably never will. The book
Ive been working on is of a rather massive quality, however,
and will probably take a lifetime to accomplisheven if
accomplishment is possible. In the meantime, of course, I
have to live and support my children. To support my children
through carpentry would require me to travel constantly,
which would mean I wouldnt be able to see them as often as
Id like. I get the children three days a week and, of course,
take the responsibility very seriously. Besides, I love them and
dont want to be away from them. (Youll remember I have
two girls: Maggie (5) and Emily (4)). So I have to do
something practical as far as employment, and since my
science and math aptitudes were always high, I decided to go
into electrical engineering. This seems to be the field of the
future. Actually, as Im already very close to having a B.A. in
English, I will probably graduate with a double major.
Can you imagine what its like to be a freshman at
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thirty-two years of age? Its crazy. Actually, though, in

engineering, the work is so demanding that theres no time for
a social life (other than with my children), so it doesnt make
that much difference. However, there are the odd moments
like a month ago, when two of my physics lab partners found
they both had birthdays coming up and began to discuss what
it was like to be approaching the big one-nine. I wanted to
beat them with my cane.
I feel like I could go on forever with this letter, but I
suppose Ive said enough. I hope not too much. At any rate,
before I sign off I would like to ask you for a favor: please
respond to this letter promptly, even if its just a postcard
saying yes or no.
As always
Love,
Michael
P.S. What the hellmy phone number is 207-495-7236.
Sarah called, and it was great to hear her voice. We talked

easily as she casually said she was still married and was sorry to
hear about my divorce. We talked about nothing in particular for
over an hour, mostly laughing. It was good to hear her laugh.
A week or so later, I received an unexpected letter from
Sarah.
Dear Michael
I cant believe that after talking on the phone for over
an hour that Im writing a letter. An hour of small talk. After
we hung up, I thought of so many things that should have
been said. You asked what happened with us. We were both
so young and I was afraid, so much so that I held back from
you from the start. Goodbye was my monster from the first
in Europe to the last after your visit.
I love this state, my family, and friends, and I assumed
that you felt the same about your home. I was sure one of us
would be badly hurt. So in that young girls minds heart, the
only thing to do was let go. The ironyhere you are!
As we talked, Michael Sieleman and all the things that
were so special about him came back to me. Your
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philosophies and goals may have changed, but your kind,

gentle way is still very much intact.
You say youre differentI say youre special.
Youve been a sweet memory that Ive enjoyed many
times through the years and always will.
Thats the way we have to leave it.
Just promise me not to ever pack up and move without
a word. As a Friend, Id like to know youre okay. (A letter
every few yearsno matter what.)
Always,
Sarah
P.S. Youre in my heart, youre in my soul. Youll be my
friend should I grow old. (It says it all.)
A couple of years ago while looking through some old college

boxes I accidentally ran across an old journal full of random stuff.
In the journal, I found an entry Id written in the form of a letter
to Sarah. Freely writing in the journal was an exercise just for me,
with no intention of ever sending such a letter. The journal entry
was dated December 17, 1989.
Dear Sarah,
Its now been how long? I last saw you in August of
1973, this is 89, and so its been sixteen years since Ive seen
you. I last talked to you in December of 86, so its now been
three years since Ive heard your voice. Between our meeting
in Grindelwald in early winter and our last talk in December,
I seem to think of you especially often this time of year.
Christmas comes and I begin to think of you.
The other night, I sat down and scribbled something
down on a piece of paper, and then threw it away. It went
something like this:
Sarah, you may have been wrong in not waiting, in not
trusting in us, but I was wrong in not coming after you when
you were afraid. I only hope that if I ever have the fortune to
feel about another woman what I felt for you that I will let
nothingsave what is sacredstand in the way. I love you,
Sarah, and will love you forever.
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What I didnt write the other night is that I hoped that

woman would still be you. I try to believe that there is another
woman out there that I can love as wonderfully as I loved
you, but I find that hard to believe. I do not want your
marriage to fail. I want you and your children to be happy
and to have a wonderful home. Still, I cant help but dream of
seeing you again and making you my wife. I miss not only you
but also that part of me that went with you and has always
remained lost to me. I wish there could be completeness, a
marriage in more than one form. It seems as if it should have
been, and I wonder: are you really only given one chance?
Do you ever think of me? Do you think about me the
way I think about you? Did you ever? Are you the one? My
God, there are so many questions.
Okay, I can resign myself to not having you. But I
know from loving you that I am capable of great loveit
would seem a shame if I were never able to realize it again,
with you or with someone else.
I will say this youll be a hard one to beat. Ive been
with you for only a few weeks, and loved you nearly half my
life. Crazy as it may sound, I believe it to be true.
I hope you have a wonderful life. I know, despite our
mistakes, youve made my life better.
Love,
Michael
In November of 1992, as Barb had said, Id called Sarah on

the twentieth anniversary of our meeting in Switzerland. Her
husband answered the phone, asked me who I was, and then
handed the phone over to Sarah. I wished her a happy twentieth
anniversary, and once more, we made small talk, laughing for
over an hour.
While it was a wonderful conversation, it left me feeling how
very different we were, and for the first time in twenty years, I
could honestly say I was no longer in love with her.
Sometimes, it takes me awhile to accept things.
But, Sarah Brandt had now stopped by my house, and had
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sat down and talked with Barb and Jack?

She asked what you looked like, Barb said, still with that
amused, knowing smile of a very sharp, wise, ninety-somethingyear-old woman. I told her you were very handsome.
What did she look like? I asked.
Shes very pretty, but shes so skinny. Still, very pretty, with
long, thick, blonde hair.
Blonde?
Yes. Blonde.
Are you sure?
What? You dont think I know blonde?
Well, Barb, your judgment is a little questionable. You did
just say you told her I was handsome.
Well, you are especially when youre all sparkly.
I shook my head. Okay, enough of this. I have to be
showered and cleaned up. Gretchens coming up this weekend.
Barbs eyes narrowed.
Gretchen knows all about Sarah, I told her.
Good, Barb said, as if a matter of great importance had
been irrevocably settled.
Barb made another sparkly comment. I was out of there.
So, what are you going to do? Gretchen asked, as we sat in
my living room, sharing organic wine while waiting for supper to
bake.
Gretchen and I had been seeing each other for nearly a year,
were very good for one another, thoroughly enjoyed each others
company, and had great fun skiing and sailing. We had our
doubts about the forever thing, but who knew? We didnt. What we
knew was that we loved one another and held that as a blessing.
Well, of course, Ill call her as I told you. She is a friend.
And will you meet her?
Yes.
What do you think will happen?
Well, I said, having already thought things through, I
think theres only three possibilities. One, we meet like old
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friends, its great, and we remain friends. Thats what I expect to

happen. Two, we meet, find that we dont like each other at all,
and wonder how we ever stood one another. Thats possible, but
highly unlikely. Three, we meet and fall madly in love again,
which is extremely unlikely.
Id ticked off the three scenarios on my fingers as Id
explained them.
Can you think of any other possibilities? I asked.
Gretchen could not, and agreed with my assessment of
possibilities and likelihoods. We had a great evening together,
and a couple of fantastic sails the next two days before she
returned to her home in southern Maine.
Id planned to call Sarah Monday or Tuesday, but after I
returned home from my sail on Sunday evening, Sarah called me.
You know, I was about to call you. Honestly, I told her.
Oh yeah, sure, she said, already laughing.
No, really!
It was a brief conversation. Sarah said she was recently
separated from her husband, and that since so many of the
people in her life were marriage friends, she was spending time
contacting old friends to reestablish ties with people that were
just her own. We agreed to meet the following Friday at a place
in Portland we both knew, and then head off together for dinner.
During the week, Gretchen told me over the phone that
shed planned a spiritual retreat for herself that weekend, and I
told her I was meeting Sarah for supper.
I met Sarah in the parking lot of an organic restaurant in the
last light of the day. Id arrived early, and knowing each others
cars by description, she pulled up next to mine, smiling and
waving. Good God, she was blonde! And, Barb was right, she was
very skinny, and very pretty too. Yet, heres something strange: I
didnt recognize her at all. Now, only a few years earlier, Id been
home for my thirtieth high school reunionthe first Id ever gone
tooand I still recognized everyone. Nevertheless, Sarah was a
complete stranger. I cant tell you how many times over the
yearsespecially whenever I was in Portlandthat I fantasized
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about running into her. Now, there she was, and I can honestly
say if we had been standing in a grocery store line together
talking, I wouldnt have recognized her. It was peculiar and, I
have to admit, disappointing. Still, I opened the door to my car
for her (ever the gallant) and off we drove to the restaurant. We
talked easily as Sarah gave me directions.
At a point well into the dinner, while Sarah was talking, I
stopped and observed the whole thing. Our seeing one another
again was not anything like Id expected. Id anticipated some
kind of emotional tug to this woman Id once been in love with
for over twenty years, but I didnt feel anything of the kind.
Looking across the table, I realized that the young woman Id
fallen in love with all those years before had vanished, as much as
the young man who had fallen in love with her. I told her,
casually, how much Id loved her and had planned to marry her.
Amazingly, she was shocked. That surprised me.
You didnt know? I asked in disbelief.
How would I have known?
From all the letters I wrote.
What letters? You only wrote a few, and in one of them,
you talked about how we should see other people. It wasnt hard
to figure out where you were headed.
Sarah, I said. I wrote you at least every couple of weeks. I
remember saying we should date and socialize, but not seriously.
I wrote constantly about how much I loved you.
A somber look of understanding came over her face. Looking
down she grew quiet. That would have been my father, she
said. Playing with the napkin in her lap, she pursed her lips and
shook her head slowly. He would have gotten the mail and
thrown them all away, except for the ones that well werent
so good.
Oh.
A while later, for the first time that evening, I just looked at
her, the woman in front of me, without any ties to the past. I
smiled, realizing that whoever this woman before me was, she
was the most interesting and charming woman Id met in the four
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years since my divorce.

Therefore, naturally, I spilled my glass of wine that, of
course, ran across the table and directly onto the leg of her dress
pants. Oh, it was not the bold move of tumbling down a flight of
stairs and under her table before slithering up next to her, but,
apparently, Id honed my charms to greater subtlety over the
years. She laughed and excused herself from the table to clean
herself up. Upon coming back, she good-naturedly said, My first
date in more than thirty years, and the guy spills his wine on me.
This isnt going to be easy is it?
No, I told her honestly. And, do you want the bad news?
Sure. Why not?
This actually is a great date.
Yeah? she asked, her green eyes lighting up.
Yeah, I said.
It was a date neither of us seemed anxious to end, so after
dinner we went out to the Portland Headlight where wed been so
many years before and took a long walk. We kept bumping into
one another.
Are you cold? she asked.
No, I hardly ever get cold.
Youre trembling.
Yeah, I know. I have no idea what thats about, but Im not
cold. Im fine.
Back at her car, Sarah told me shed had a great time and
would like to see me again as a friend. But Ive got the divorce
coming up in a couple of weeks, and Ill need to concentrate on
that. How about we get together in a month or so?
Sure, you know where I live.
She laughed.
The next day, Saturday, I called her and told her what Id
been thinking about in the restaurant. I just want you to know,
I said, that I really liked the woman youve grown into being.
Youre a wonderful person. Dont ever doubt that.
She thanked me.
The day after that, Sunday, she called and asked if Id like to
Chapter 21
228
come along with her as she walked her dogs. We walked together
for a while, and then sitting on a stone bench of blue granite next
to a broad, silver river under a bright, warm sun, we talked about
matters of substance. On our walk back, without thought, we put
our arms around one another. Until that moment, Id forgotten
how good she felt beside me.
That evening Gretchen came back from her retreat. She
called and told me she wanted to go somewhere deeply spiritual
with someone, and if I didnt wish to be on the journey with her,
she would need to move on. There was no animosity, no
ultimatum, and no ulterior motive. Gretchen, as always, was
simply honest and courageous, and had made a choice with her
life. I told her I couldnt go on that journey. We parted as friends.
Barb, once appraised of current events, told me throughout
the week that I was all sparkly, and was pleased to no end when I
told her Sarah and I had another date on Friday night.
In an Italian restaurant that had been a longtime favorite of
mine, we had dinner. Afterwards, while finishing our wine, Sarah
said, demurely, Theres something you should know. Im
menopausal.
Oh, I said. That makes sense. Its how my life works. I
can just see God, decades ago, saying to himself, Okay, Michael,
you can have her. You just have to wait for thirty-three years
until shes menopausal. I said it a little too loudly and the couple
in the next booth laughed. Sarah smiled, blushed, and then
laughed too.
After our meal, we went on a long walk, stopping every now
and then just to sit and talk. This was our third date, a date
wherein I usually initiate the first kiss. My father had told me
years earlier that you should wait until the third date to kiss a
woman.
The first date is too soon, hed explained. No matter how
well the date goes, shell feel uncertain and so a kiss will be
awkward. Now on the second date, if things go well, shell expect
it. So, dont do it. Let her stew. On the third date, she will really
want the kiss, but now wont know what to expect. Shell be so
Chapter 21
229
relieved when you finally kiss her that it will be a great kiss, even
if you do screw it up.
Laugh if you want, but Ive employed my fathers strategy
and its never failed. (Yes, I know, Im twice divorced, but you
cant fault first kisses on the third date for that.)
Walking and sitting with Sarah on our third date, there were
at least a dozen times when it was right for me to lean in for the
first kiss. However, Sarah had told me, cautiously on our second
date while walking with our arms around one another next to the
river, You know nothing can happen until after the divorce,
right?
If thats what you want, thats fine, I said.
As a result, during each of the times when it was natural to
kiss her, I drilled a mantra in my head, telling myselfnay
screaming at myself, Dont kiss her! Dont kiss her! Dont kiss her!
So, when we were sitting in my car saying goodnight and she
suddenly leaned into me for the kiss, an alarm started going off in
my head like a submarines during an emergency dive and my
mantra kicked into DEFCON 1Dont kiss her! Dont kiss her!
Dont kiss her! My hands automatically went up in defense, and I
dropped my head while pleading, Wait a minute! Wait a
minute! Wait a minute!
Whats the matter? Sarah asked, confused and shocked by
my exhibition. Granted, shed been out of the dating game for
more than thirty years, but she certainly had no reason to expect
a meltdown over a kiss.
Ummm I said, brilliantly, trying to sort out things in the
midst of the screeching alarms, you said we couldnt do
anything.
She laughed, very prettily, while gently placing her fingers
upon my still upturned hands. Its just a kiss.
Yeah well and I confessed my nights dilemma about
forcing myself, repeatedly, not to kiss her.
Well, she said. You dont need to worry about that now.
All right but give me a second to reboot my brain
okay?
Chapter 21
230
Okay.
A few moments passed, and we kissed.
Now Im sure that as we pass into the last few paragraphs of
this book, you may be wondering, Has this book led at last to
nothing more than a dissolution into yet another love story where
the guy gets the girl and thats a wrap? Well, yes and no. No, its
not a wrap becauseas your reading of this now proves
nothing ever really ends. Yes, its a love story becauseas can be
deduced from the previous chaptereverything meaningful in
life is a love story. To love and to be loved is what we all want,
from the Creator to the Created, and from the beginning with no
beginning to the end that never ends.
And, while Sarahs and my story is ridiculously romantic,
let me be honest here: after youve learned how to live without
someone you love for thirty-three years, its not necessarily easy to
then learn to live with them. While Sarah and I have been
together for over three years now and there is hope for us, it
remains to be seen what we make of the remainder of our lives.
But this much I knowand I know it like I knew that every
day my father would come home and before anything else put his
arms around my mother, waiting with eyes already lit, to kiss her
as if theyd been parted for an eternity; and I know it like I knew
that no matter what happened to me in the days of my childhood,
that my mother would always be there to hold me in that old,
creaking, maple rocking chair, never letting go until I understood
again that everything was going to be all rightI know, now, that
Sarah was a gift, and that the real gift was that as I stood on the
broad wooden staircase of the Grindelwald hostel watching her
before the fireplace, I saw not just a beautiful heart-shaped face,
deep beautiful eyes, gorgeous thick long dark hair, and curves
that rivaled those of the majestic Jungfrau, but I saw beyond all
that and beheld Her. I saw past her physical beauty and
recognized a perfect Being. I might not have understood that at
the time, but all these years later, being given a second chance, I
behold this perfect Being again, and while Im aware of all her
human wrinkles, Im also aware of Her. This time, I understand.
Chapter 21
231
Most importantly, dear reader, I understand that what I have

seen in my beloved must hold true for each of us too, and that
despite how difficult this business of being human is, despite all
our human frailties and flaws, despite our desperate and often
painful journeys of self-creation, we are allboth as individuals
and as OneBeings, already perfect.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Personal
Nothing is ever accomplished alone, and that is certainly true
with this book. Due to the nature of this particular narrative, Im
literally indebted to everyone Ive met in my life. However, a
special few have made specific contributions to this book and
deserve recognition. Thanks to Jan Anderson, Debbie
Burchstead, Elizabeth Cherry, Karilee Freeberg, Willis Johnson,
Mary Knapp, Richard Knapp, Sister Mary Patricia, Sandrine
Grupp-Scrim, Kitty Studer, and a family that includes my
incredibly supportive mother and two wonderful daughters,
Maggie and Emily, who have always given my life love and
purpose.
ii
iii
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Professional
With deep appreciation, I thank Robert Frost for the inspiration
he has given me, and for the use in Chapter 7 of a portion of his
poem The Road Not Taken, from his book Mountain Interval. Thanks
too for insights into understanding parts of Chapters 11 and 60
from Lao-Tzus the Tao Te Ching (used in Chapters 18 and 14,
respectively) provided through translations by James Legge, J.H.
McDonald, and Stephen Mitchell.
And
Thanks to:
Publishing & Marketing Advisor: Phil Whitmarsh
Editor: Katharine JM
Book Cover & Interior Design: Jonathan Gullery
Website Design: Gina Maiolatesi
Book Guru and Team: Ron Pramschufer and all his staff at Self
Publishing, Inc.
iv
AUTHORS BIOGRAPHY
At the helm of Cariad

At the age of nineteen, after a single semester of college rhetoric
screwed-up the authors ability to write, he naturally decided to
become a novelist. Writing steadfastlyif sporadicallyhe
eschewed all practical advice on how to write while working as a
carpenter, an electrical engineer, and a ships joiner. After more
than thirty yearssurprising no one more than himselfthe
author learned to write. Readers will find evidence of this in his
next book.
BLANK SHEET
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Hippie From Iowa

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Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.

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HIPPIE FROM IOWA

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Hippie from Iowa

GUARDIAN STONE PUBLISHING

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Hey, It Was Ryans Idea

The Perfect Solution

Virtual Chapter 2.5

Virtual Chapter 2.75

The Race Chapter

The Morning After

Glasgow, Keswick, Glasgow

Lake District, England

Stuff and Then Wales

France, the Hitchhikers Paradise

On the Road to Lausanne

Munich to Iowa City

The End that Never Ends

Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

Hey, It Was Ryans Idea

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Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

many homes in America as the body counts grew.

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Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

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always countering my argument with the same old, So?

Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

The Perfect Solution

From the second I understood Ryans So? it was written in

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Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

Revelation, but I wasnt completely daft. Im still a guy, she was a

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Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

get no satisfaction? Do you know how hard that is on Kathleen?

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Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

cornerstones of my life. I truly love women, butas Ive said

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Christian ones without sin, would go to some watered-down

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Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

dozen assaults mounted by Catholic girls who all wanted me to

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so bothered by women crying. I dont intend to sound callous, but

Hippie from Iowa / MTS / Free Copy of Draft 8.1

As a young man, however, I didnt have this all figured out,