2020
The sun warms my shoulders. It feels reassuring. For seven days its rays could not pierce the mushroom clouds that filled the horizon. Out West, there are many fires, so intense that clouds form full of vapor and ash, and like spiteful gods, produce lightning and torrential rains. Today I walk through the tall wheatgrasses to find the elusive bog turtle. In the field, there’s a tiny wetlands area full of plants, peat, and moss. It’s really a moor or bog, perfect for the turtle. The base and roots of the Larch trees are covered with moss and fine grasses, I can see a gentle stream to one side and streaks of wild fern on the other. Something sharp punctures the bottom of my boot, and I jerk and fall to my knees. Except for the faint, serene sounds of the stream, there is silence, and my eyes fixate on the ribcage of an animal, partially covered by mud. I walk towards the remains of the animal; I forget what penetrated my boot and see that it is not an animal but the skeletal remains of a human being. I’m so shocked that I believe that my eyes play tricks, fear envelopes me and I run towards the house.
All the while, my mind is buzzing, flits of various images dart in front of my eyes of human flesh scorned, of innocence, of life lost unnaturally. It is late fall and darkness is lurking from stage left. I must get back to the “scene” before darkness.
Flight
He lifted the boy out of the water. The boy was no more than three. His legs hung heavily over the volunteer’s arms, one shoe off, one shoe on. One arm was bruised badly, but surprisingly his face was without blemish. It was not quite dawn. The wail of a seagull could be heard in the distance, while the quiet waves of the sea set the rhythm for the day. Other than the volunteer, nothing else seemed to move.
On higher ground, he laid the boy down on a black tarp. The morning sun seemed to awaken life out of its slumber. Not too far away a beachcomber was adding sea glass and shells to two separate piles. He would sell them to tourists later that day. In the distance, on a terraced hillside, black-clothed figures could be seen sweeping and setting up tables and chairs, while tourists claimed their beach umbrellas for their daily dosage of sun. The lifeless body could not have weighed more than thirty pounds but seemed of normal weight and height. He wore blue shorts, like most boys his age, with shoulder straps crossed in the back. A woolen beige turtleneck sweater suggested that it must have been late summer or early fall. If not for the limpness of his body, you would think he was asleep.
He came from the sea. He has washed ashore. Was it malicious intent or a desperate act? An accident? Pharaoh’s daughter asked the same questions eight thousand years before when she plucked a baby out of the reeds. The volunteer didn’t know. There were freighters in the distance carrying unknown cargo. No patrol boats were visible to the naked eye and no one seemed to be searching for the boy. There must have been some turmoil at sea. There were other things floating and drifting toward the shore. A red suitcase could be seen, as well as several plastic water containers. The volunteer dutifully picked up whatever items he could see and rested them carefully next to the boy. Soon he would call his office to report. This would be his third report of the day.
Disharmony
On May 5th, 2020, my book came out: Searching for Home: The Impact of WWII on a Hidden Child. Seventy-five years before, Europe was liberated from the Nazis. Today, the world continues to simmer and mother earth weeps; the scapegoats, victims, and perpetrators may have changed, but the same old story abounds. I’m convinced the people’s quest has always been the same, the want for food, safety, intimacy, and meaning, and yet we do not know how to achieve that without rancor, pain, and suffering. We divide the world into neat little boxes of us and them and scream into the emptiness. No wonder we embrace the cosmos as our only hope.
2020
Flight
Disaharmony
The Dinosaur and the Bumble Bee
Sixty-five and a half million years ago there lived a dinosaur named Morgan. He was not the biggest dinosaur, nor the smallest. He weighed 10,000 pounds and was 13 feet tall, with a horn above each eye and a third on the ridge of his nose. He was a plant-eating Triceratops foraging for food.
Not far away lived a bumble bee under a canopy of yellow wildflowers, named Buzz-Buzz who had yellow rings around her neck and stomach. The two rings were important because they signified that someday she would become a queen.
Morgan wasn’t formally introduced to Buzz-Buzz, but he did hear her tiny voice scream, but being 13 feet tall meant that he couldn’t see her right away. It was only when he stumbled over a big tree trunk that he saw the Bumble bee.
She was caught in a large three-foot web that glittered in the sunlight and was about to become the dinner of a very large purple spider.
Morgan scooped her up with the horn on his muzzle or nose so that he could see her up close. He saw the twin yellow rings, and that she was less than an inch long, but what he liked most were her eyes. They were green and then purple and then deep yellow.
She thanked him, of course, and flew off on a green leaf-like chariot with six worker bumble bees holding the leaf. Morgan was mystified, he had never seen anything so small, so beautiful and interesting.
Days went by, or maybe years, and he missed her more and more.
One day a meteor lit the sky, or so he thought. It looked like lightning, there was fire everywhere and all the animals started running every which way. He heard a tiny voice, it was queen Buzz-Buzz, and she said follow me-and he did.
Surprisingly, she flew faster than he was able to run, and she led him to a large cave that was made out of iron. He was out of breath as he entered, squinting because he could not see.
As Morgan went deeper into the dark moist cave, Queen Buzz-Buzz encouraged him to follow. Soon there was a light, new dawn, and the cave opened up to a field full of sunlight, flowers, a variety of flora, and bumblebees. There was even a waterfall. The gush of water, sunlight, and green plants made him relax, and he fell asleep, or so he thought.
He woke up to find himself at home surrounded by his family, it was as though everything was normal, and he was about to go foraging for
food.
Our cat, Tina:.
Who will lick me?
Who will watch over me?
Who will snuggle with Sheila?
Who will nurture us all?
When will I see my cat gallivanting across the field?
She dances, while the tall grasses sway to the wind.
Who will watch me toil in the garden?
Who will look for moles under the straw?
Her semi-limp body weight is still etched on the edge of the couch.
Who will be Jake’s sibling?
Her black fur glistening in the sun. She brings us the day’s hunt. Her trophy, her gift.
Ah, just a barn cat!
We made a deal of mutual interest. We would give her shelter and food and she would merely enrich our family with her presence.
She trusted us completely! We all loved her deeply!
Until the end she was dignified.
She was always heavy-boned and close to the ground. Elegance was not in her nature. Her beauty resided in her deep appreciation of our love. She was so thankful to be with us.
She jumped on the bathroom window sill to share her hunt of a half-eaten rabbit.
She knew it was near the end. She nudged Sheila’s stomach as though she wanted to return to the womb.
She was cremated a day later and I picked up the box of ashes from the post office. The indignity of it all!
“Hold on little girl hold on…”
They heard the rush of water as they left the house.
The car made its way slowly and deliberately.
They walked when they could no longer ride.
The earth bled with water, saturated.
A strong current tugged and they drifted downstream,
“Hold on little girl hold on”, her mother said.
The girl clung to her mom, as they both drifted further.
Cold, numb, and limp, their bodies were glued together, as they continued to float.
But then water overwhelmed her being and she willed her spirit to support her child
She bounced with the waves like a raft.
The little girl clutched at her mother’s heart,
they continued to float, one dead, one alive.
“Hold on little girl hold on…”.
MILTON
I sit here, side by side, mourning my dog. Mourning myself.
The knowledge of his decay permeates my mind and envelopes me in sadness. I can not sleep.
He still breathes, and his seal-like eyes follow my every move.
No longer will he play the dog that smiles and wags his tail
His act is almost over, and yet he licks his paws as though there will be other days to come.
Weak, with little appetite, his waste, like pigeon markings stain the elevator floor, as we make our way to the street.
It is night, desolate, and snowing.
Eleven years ago, he was born in this familiar whiteness. It kisses his fur as we amble one way and then another.
Nothing really matters anymore. Life and indignity blur.
The blizzard numbs the senses.
There is only the thumping of his heart, and then there is not.
Son of my Son
Son of my son I have loved you from afar.
I have touched your brow with my fingers and your smile with my heart.
I have heard that you walked early and are stretching for the sun. Such energy and determination!
Your parents are proud, as I am of you my son, as I am of your son.
Time expands and contracts depending on what we do.
Continuity is dependent on a series of experiences, like still photos.
They get animated the faster they flip.
The vacuum can be filled or remain empty, depending on how much film there is left.
Distance can be measured this way as well.
I hope every day that distance will be shortened, and the camera keeps rolling…
Song
Lord, Lord, Lord, where have you been,
got so much to tell you, don’t know where to begin.
The streets are deserted, the curtains are drawn,
the weeds are aplenty, and the laughter is gone (pronounced “gon”).
The earth is so dry, that tears won't come
the moisture at night might give solace to some.
Lord, Lord, Lord, where have you been,
got so much to tell you, don’t know where to begin.
The boats drift quietly, no shoreline in sight.
“Go home they say”, we won't help your flight.
Lord, Lord Lord, where have you been,
got so much to tell you, don’t know where to begin.
Faces pressed forward, no time to rest,
life on the run, they believe in their quest.
Silence is golden and the wounds will heal,
“Just wait your turn”, don’t make a big deal.
Are you there, am I here? Are you here, I cannot, see?
Is it time to walk together and fold back into the sea?
Lord, Lord, Lord, where have you gone?
The Cycle
For those in the womb, the day has yet to begin! The ocean waves move forward and then subside. A seagull’s cry makes a limb jerk inside. Will birth follow?
For those who crawl, the day has just begun!
The carpeted floor, the legs of a chair, a soft couch, cat hair, sound, light, and smell-it is all a blur. Where am I going?
For those who stand and walk, it is high noon!
The day never ends, yet time passes quickly. Yesterday is far gone as today blends into tomorrow. It is exhilarating! What joy!
For those who run fast and long, it is already late afternoon!
The air is cold, my vision is clear, the race is wearing and sweet, and almost over.
For those who waddle homeward bound, the day is almost ending!
Am I finally mature? Is my finiteness visible to everyone? Is my swag still there?
For those in the womb, the day has yet to begin!
If I sleep, will I wake up? If I wake up, will it be here? Will I be alone?
A Rough Patch
“You are dead to me,” he said.
Is it simply figurative or am I to be six feet under?
I have slipped into the River Styx,
floating in the murky darkness, I see nothing. I am nothing.
What could cause such a remark?
I thought, as father and son, our bond would not be broken.
Invisible threads would connect us and weave bridges to the future.
Does a son need to kick his father as part of his own emancipation?
Must he stake out new territory to create his own pride?
Does he mourn me still? Am I alive in his memory?
Will tomorrow bring him back? Will I be washed ashore?
Tina
Hold On
Milton
Son of my Son
Song
The Cycle
You Are Dead to Me
My Father, the Enigma
Lasting Impressions
My father was an enigma! In many ways, he was closer to Marja than to me. Maybe Marja was more approachable. I know we (he and I) were more often verbally dueling, yelling at each other, and unknowingly trying to gain favor from my mother.
I have all sorts of memories, twisted, like so many Kodak moments. They were clues to the man, though they did not do justice to who he was. I learned about who he was, not through his words, but through his actions. He was a doer! Always good with his hands, he would focus very intently on anything that needed repair or needed to be nursed back to health. Thus, he would take his time to repair a watch, fix a toilet, or heal a plant.
He was comfortable at home (the inner sanctum) but alienated everywhere else. There were countless days that I would see him practically running home from the subway after a day’s work, lunging towards that dinner meal, lighting up a cigar, lifting one leg over the side of his easy chair, and then promptly falling asleep. Fortunately, there were the Friday nights with our extended family, Jenever gin, tea, bonbons, card games, and political discussions that gave balance to his life. However, that was America, there was another time-Israel.
Israel was good for him. As a shepherd, he could tend to his sheep, walk the Gilboa, and be left alone. I have a few glimpses into that time. After dinner in the khador-ohel (dining hall), we would go to a large grassy field where parents would gather to talk and children would play. Sometimes my father would carry Marja well above his head. I was awe-struck by his energy and strength. Four-year-old Marja must have found it quite exhilarating. Another time, I saw him slowly quite methodically pull a newborn calf out of its mother’s womb. Lastly, I was numb with fear as he slowly gained control over the horses that ran amuck while pulling our farm carriage. He modeled responsibility yet was a free spirit.
It was once I left my parent’s home that he and I got closer. We would go out to various bars and drink and talk and drink some more. I had known that during the War to fill the time he would draw still-life images of canals and boats and smiling little girls. In fact, today his children and grandchildren are the proud custodians of these ink drawings. But, on one of these evenings in the late 1960s, while clutching onto a non-descript beer, he told me of his fantasy to live on an island off the coast of Greece, and just paint all day.
If there is one memory of my father that reverberates often, it is watching him tend to a fragile plant resting on my kitchen windowsill. I am notoriously neglectful when it comes to taking care of plants, until they are nearing their last breath of life, and then desperately trying to save them. So, there was my father creating an inventive splint out of wooden matches, wrapped by tissue paper, held together with loose-fitting rubber bands, and sealed with a plastic bag. This is how that little plant miraculously came back to life.
What he touched turned to beauty!
Yetta
Lasting Impressions:
She walked the hallways like a queen; head held high, gray/white hair always coiffed to perfection, cane in hand, a red jacket, and blue skirt. Where was she going or coming back from? Call it vanity or just routine, this was a variation on a theme, which happened every other day. She was now 97, struggling to maintain her dignity and propped up by her daily regimen of prescription drugs. She would still push on, chatting along the way, waving to some, as she made her way back to her room, Pernell, her trusty aide, a few steps away. Nursing homes, like any institution, require adherence to rules, regulations, and predictability. Showers were not to be taken at noon, but somehow Yetta would deem that to be the best of times for such a pleasurable and hygienic ritual.
These were also times when her mind would float to other times and other places, but she always came back to incorporate her experiences into the Now. I remember sharing with her how expensive the Met opera had become. A week later, she told me that she had just come back from a holiday in the south of France, went to the opera there, and you know what, she was astounded as to how expensive the tickets were.
A week before she died, Marja and I were spending every day at her bedside. She lay there moaning, eyes mostly closed, her kidneys were failing. This was the fall of 2003. Her grandchildren and great-grandchildren would visit her, and on queue, she would sit up, focus on the child in front of her, with her grey/blue eyes, and pepper him or her with questions. “How are you; how are you doing at work; how’s school; how’s your girlfriend; and what about those Mets?!” As soon as each would leave, she would slide into the horizontal position and continue her moaning. Marja and I would look at each other, and wonder if we were chopped liver or something, as she pushed us aside for one last audience with her grandkids.
Life is ever-changing, you cannot paint it by the numbers, we are a series of photographic impulses, that sometimes overlap and then fade. Her cycle was vibrant and long, and if we were to paint her by the numbers, then we would have to include: Assen, Groningen, Amsterdam, Holland, Israel, and America. She was a Swartberg, a Gosler, and a Buttikhuis, her alias in WW2. She was an athlete, beautician, social democrat, wife, and mother. There were Friday nights, chocolates with tea, work at W. T. Grant Stores, and the Dutch Sporting Club. She was funny and sarcastic, a thinker, proud, happy…
She inspired us all!
My Father, the Enigma
Yetta