Image by Nikki L.

Wandering through the antique shop aisles, I run my eyes over the glass cases filled with Eastern Star rings, tortoise shell hair combs, tarnished crosses, and pocket watches inscribed on the back with “Love Forever” and “Until the End of Time.” On the wall, a framed, hand-embroidered picture depicts a cozy living room with fireplace and proclaims “Happy 25th Anniversary,” with the loving stitcher’s initials in the corner and the date 1954. Around the corner, a large family Bible lies on a table between a sweet-faced Betsy McCall doll and a sad stuffed bear with sewn-on eyes. A page in the front of the Bible proclaims the birth of two children long ago. Betsy and the bear stare out at all who pass.

Who were the proud owners of these treasures? How did these most-personal items find their way to public display for strangers to pick and pry at and leave behind? Where are the sisters and brothers, the sons and daughters, the nieces and nephews of those who left it all behind? Why didn’t they want their loved ones’ precious stuff? I asked these questions every time I passed through antique stores and finally found some answers recently in a place closer to home.

“I just feel badly that nobody wants my stuff…” My mother’s voice trails off as she slips a small, flowered vase into the box labeled Salvation Army. Her house is for sale, and we’re sorting two lifetimes of memories into four chaotic piles – to move, to sell, to give away, and to trash. A second-generation pack rat, her miniature snails and boxes, decorative glass, paperback books, stuffed animals, candlesticks, photos, and miscellaneous knickknacks compete for space with an equal amount of similar stuff left behind ten years earlier by her mother. As fellow accumulators and keepers, my grandmother and mother were ever mindful of the depression years – not wanting to be without ever again.

“Why do you still have this old umbrella? It’s got a big hole in it!” During three days of sorting, we’ve found the story in everything we’ve touched. The ragged door rug? “Your brother bought that for me the year that he died.” The stained tablecloth? “Your grandma used that every holiday for years.” The glass Santa with the chipped beard? “I bought that one year at the state bowling tournament.” Now, she defends the umbrella. “It was Aunt Edna’s and mom wouldn’t part with it.” I make no comment, but bypass the to-move pile and put it in the small, but growing to-ask-again pile.

“Do you want any of my teddy bears?” my mother asks. I pick them up one by one and claim an old, dark-brown guy with floppy arms, imagining a future grandchild dragging it up the steps. My mother keeps two favorites, and I place the others in the to-sell box, trying not to look them in the eyes. “How about the dolls?” she wonders. We discuss the history of each, keeping my grandmother’s first doll, a tall, brown-haired beauty and two others with close family roots. Another doll, family tree unknown, survives the cut just because she makes us smile. The others join the bears to await their uncertain fates.

“You have at least thirty butter tubs. How many do you want to keep?” I ask, guessing at the answer. “I’ve already gotten rid of that many more; I want these for when I make soup.” I bite my tongue, putting all thirty in the to-move pile, while smiling at the unlikely image of my mother making enough soup for an entire neighborhood!

Old coins, original paintings – artists unknown, two patterns of tarnished tableware, crocheted doilies in many shapes and sizes, yellowed pillowcases – ends fancied up with colorful hand-stitched flowers, mustache cups, costume jewelry, nightstands and headboards that could tell stories if they could talk… My mother agonizes over her choices, frustrated at times at the need to choose. I try to ease her pain. “It’s not that I don’t want your stuff. I just don’t want all your stuff.” She shakes her head and continues to sort.

Stuff! We all surround ourselves with our own peculiar stuff that links us to our pasts, that brings us pleasure in the buying and the keeping, or that fills some other need, perhaps a sense of security to second guess hard times ahead. I came home from the sorting with renewed determination to downsize; to rewind our household to the days before all the stuff. Our sons will find an easier task when the time comes. My shelves, drawers, and closets are losing their clutter to free piles at the end of the driveway, to box loads for the Salvation Army, and in packages to eBay bidders still craving more stuff. And yes, someday, someone will step out the door of an antique shop, clutching one of my former treasures, ready to write a new story.

Peace and happiness to all in 2009.

Image by Aunt Owwee

My eyes shift quickly to the left side of the road as I round the sharp curve, drawn to a boy dressed in hot orange, standing in stark contrast to the dull December browns of the Pennsylvania fields. Three more men flash by my window at sixty-yard intervals, each in orange garb and with rifles slung over their shoulders, waiting to move into the woods. “Oh yeah, it’s the first day of deer season and school’s closed,” I remind myself, and feel a surge of envy as the last man disappears from my rear-view mirror.

Deer hunting! Thirty-some years after hanging up my rifle, that first-day urge still tugs at me even as I head to the mall. My mind wanders into the fields and forests of my childhood. Well actually, perhaps because I’ve skipped breakfast, my first thoughts are of our old farmhouse kitchen table with plates piled high with fried deer steak and hot pancakes, pitcher of homemade brown sugar syrup ready for pouring. “Wish I had some right now,” I think, remembering a time long ago when our farm neighbors from “The Hill” gathered together after the season to share this simple fare, swapping tall tales of the big bucks that got away, playing pitch, and just plain visiting.

My brother hated hunting, but I embraced it, impatiently waiting to turn twelve, and the thrill of my first hunting license wasn’t matched until four years later at the DMV. My dad welcomed my interest in his passion. In the weeks before the season opened, we’d cruise the back roads surrounding our farm, beaming a spotlight into the far corners of the fields, assessing the number of deer and the promise of trophy racks. And then, a couple of days before the Big Day, we’d sight our rifles in by leaning against a porch beam and shooting across the lawn into the black-ringed paper target.

My first gun, a 38-40 Winchester was Gene Autry and John Wayne movie-cool, with a Rifleman-like lever action. For the first three or four years of hunting, no matter where I stood – open field, full woods, or thick brush, the deer came to me, somehow knowing that I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with that old 38-40. My father finally bought me a 30-30 Savage, with bolt action. I could hit the barn, but I didn’t feel nearly as cool!

A few more miles down the road, I spy another hunter; a young girl, standing with rifle butt sitting on the toe of her boot, slightly bent over and drawn into herself. “Yeah, I remember standing like that for hours! Freezing, but not wanting to admit it or give up for the day.” After a few years of hunting with a gang of relatives and neighbors, my dad and I settled into a smaller gang – just the two of us. Outside before daylight, we’d take turns during the day standing in our special deer runs while the other walked through the woods to stir up the deer. Alternating between cold-to-the-bone standing and sweaty-hot-in-the-cold walking, we’d cover every inch of our hundred-fifty acres and much of the neighbors’, hope still alive, only driven homeward by darkness.

“I’ve got to get the gun-cleaning fluid out someday soon and take a whiff of it,” I think, weaving into the left lane of traffic. “I can’t quite bring back the smell of Hoppe’s, but I know it smelled really good.” Everything smelled, tasted, and felt good after a long day in the cold – often in snow, sleet, or rain, lugging a rifle up hill and down, fighting through briar patches that grabbed and held on, and climbing over slippery stone walls. Hot dogs frying in butter smelled better than steak on a grill. Baked beans from a can and warmed up on the stove called out as strongly as any gourmet dish Julia Child could cook up. Coconut washboard cookies rivaled fresh crème Brule as the perfect dessert. Feast complete, my dad would light his pipe, while I snuggled under an old quilt on the couch, fading in and out of an out-of-the-cold, body-so-tired sleep as Walter Cronkite read the news.

I remember clearly the day when my 30-30 finally found its mark…the thrill of a snapping twig, slipping the safe off and raising the rifle, waiting, straining to see through snowflakes, aiming, heart racing, adrenaline shutting out the cold, waiting a few more agonizing seconds to make sure, squeezing the trigger, barely feeling the recoil, ejecting the bullet, aiming again, squeezing again, watching helplessly as the deer disappeared, running awkwardly after it in heavy boots, struggling to keep upright on the frozen tufts of dead grass… My father, hampered by his color blindness, looked to me to follow the trail of bright red drops on the brown forest floor. Finally sighting the downed deer, he strode up to it, proud of his daughter and pleased with our day. Pulling out his knife to claim it as ours, he warmed his hands in the rising steam as he worked.

As I slam the Buick door and head for Macys, my attention starts to shift to the Christmas presents waiting inside. One last first-day thought crosses my mind – a reminder to myself to call my father, a master hunter still at it in his eighty-third year. I’ll say, “Thanks, dad, we were great hunters together, weren’t we?”

I eventually lost interest in hunting, growing too soft to stand in freezing weather, swayed by a husband who felt it too dangerous, busy with job and family, and reaching a point, as my youngest son put it, where I didn’t want to kill those forest creatures! For several years though, hunting created a strong bond between my father and me, sorely needed right after a divorce which could have separated us. My love for the land and its wildlife also grew from those hours spent traipsing through the fields and forests of northeastern Pennsylvania…another reason that home always beckons.

Image by StarbuckGuy

“You should be calling your old friends,” my husband reminded me a couple of times in the days before we loaded up the Buick for a trip south to Fredericksburg. He was right, but procrastination, or maybe premonition, prevailed, and after seven hours on the road, we pulled into the Fredericksburg Hospitality House unannounced and unexpected, except by the front desk clerk.

“I can’t believe that you came down here all by yourself back then!” Gary said after we got settled. By ‘back then’, he’s talking about my decision in 1974 to move three hundred miles from home, leaving family, friends, and familiar surroundings far behind. “You know, I look back and can’t believe it either. It’s not like I was self-confident – pretty naïve and scared actually. I was just really determined to strike out on my own.” I closed my eyes and drifted back thirty-some years.

Three job offers came my way back then from Virginia – hospitals in Staunton, Culpeper, and Fredericksburg all needed a registered x-ray technician. Staunton tempted me with the sweet smell of honeysuckle wafting through much of the area, and small-town Culpeper called out to my farm-girl comfort zone. It was Mary Washington though who closed the deal, the hospital providing me the backdrop for two exciting, first-job, out-on-my-own memorable years. Scenes from those years tumbled around in my mind…

Helping the eighty-year-old woman in the dressing room remove her falsies for a chest x-ray… Buying my first car, a Toyota Corolla and almost crashing through the dealer’s picture window after the test drive… Holding hands with a Route US-1 accident victim who would die before morning from burns too severe to treat… Driving a total stranger home after he crashed into a telephone pole right in front of me because I didn’t want to miss the only horse show I’d ever ridden in… Lecturing the drunken barroom brawler on Christmas Eve about peace on earth as I x-rayed his banged-up body… Holding the money from my first income tax rebate for just a magic moment before giving it up for a friend to get her car out of hock… The ridiculously short white uniforms we wore… The wonderfully mixed-up lives I shared with Beverly, Beulah, Judy, Puggie, Kevin, Hugh, Roger, Miss Redd, Marsha, Linda…

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Linda. We talked for a few minutes, catching up quickly on what the years have brought our ways. We laughed and swapped memories of long-ago chest x-rays, barium enemas, and hip replacements. “What ever happened to Tommy?” I asked, thinking of our boss at the hospital and a fellow horse lover. “Tommy died.” Linda said, sending a sharp, stabbing needle through my heart before I could even ask how and when. “You know she had those stomach problems…” My tears welled up in instant mourning for a friend, out of touch for years, but still very alive in my mind’s file drawer labeled, “Fredericksburg Adventure.” Ah, Tommy, if only we could talk just one more time, I’d say…

Thanks for taking a chance on a kid from Pennsylvania by hiring me. Please tell your dad that I appreciate his help the night he dug the grave in your hard-as-rocks lawn for my dog, Roentgen, after she was hit by a truck. Remember that trip we took to the horse show at the Meadville Fairgrounds when we slept in the stall and had to use the 16-hole outhouse – wasn’t that great fun? Thanks for taking care of Kapoka for three months after I moved back to PA. I probably still owe you for hay and feed. Do you know that I will miss you, old friend?

Bringing someone special back into our lives isn’t always possible to do, so I will cry for Tommy and honor her by treating others more thoughtfully and with greater care. On the way back to Pennsylvania, Gary and I each made a list of people who are important to us, but who we’ve neglected to keep close. If you have a similar list – people to thank, to forgive, to ask forgiveness of, to reminisce with, to remind that they are important to you – call, write, email, visit. You may not get that chance if you wait too long!

With love and appreciation for the life of Thomas Ann Chapman 1946-1992.

Image by hII!H

I promise to never again ask my husband why he is taking another picture out an airplane window! I finally realize that each time he flies; he recovers, at least for a few moments, a child-like curiosity and wide-eyed wonder of what he sees. You can’t always tell when those moments will find you.

Softball games, county fairs, picnics, berry picking, swimming in the creek, riding down hill on sleds, ice-skating on the pond, deer hunting, high-school plays…all scenes from my childhood in rural Pennsylvania. My grandparents, parents, other relatives, friends, and neighbors and I lived quiet lives revolving around family, home, and community. Trips to Florida and Canada were monumental adventures, exciting events celebrated with slide shows and stories of new sights seen. Only local service men experienced exotic lands across the oceans.

My limited knowledge of Japan followed me into adulthood: samurai, sumo, geisha in kimonos, rice, Mount Fuji, and green tea. As time passed, new images of Japan pushed their way forward – Japan as a powerhouse in technical innovations and top-notch manufacturing. And then, the real lessons began with my first flight west to the land in the east.

“I can’t believe I’m actually standing in Japan!” I thought, gazing out my high-rise window at the Keio Plaza. “It just doesn’t seem possible. Who would have ever believed that I would make it from the farm on Sugar Hill to Tokyo! I wish my Aunt Belle were still alive so that I could tell her I’m here doing business with…”

Japan! Where trains run on time and people politely wait their turn in line… Where taxis have pure-white starched headrest covers and people sensibly aren’t embarrassed to break into a run when late… Where simple lunches are served with care on real china and “set” meals are served without choices of side dishes… Where toilets make cheering noises and shoes are taken off in restaurants and placed in perfect alignment at the door… Where fish guts are actually listed on the menu and every meal challenges the I-don’t-like-seafood eaters of the world!

Japan! Where a westerner stands out like a red cherry in a bowl of bings and rules for bowing are somewhat baffling… Where clerks and waiters shout “welcome” and “thank-you” and wrapping up everyday packages is an art form… Where in business, a smile isn’t always a positive and a frown isn’t always a negative… Where centuries-old temples sit peacefully among high-rise office buildings and young people grow much taller than their elders… Where 3.5 million people pass through Shinjuku train station every day in such a rush of humanity that I have to look down at the floor to keep from getting motion sickness!

Japan! Where Mount Fuji looms off in the distance and bullet trains fly low through the countryside at 186 miles per hour… Where rice fields grow right up to back doors and no land is wasted on oversized lawns… Where the heaviest people would be among the thinnest at home… Where giants Sony, Panasonic, Hitachi, Mitsubishi, and Fujitsu develop the latest have-to-haves and massive electronics stores hawk these wares with a lights-flashing, beautiful-girls shouting, loud-speaker blasting, wonderfully-chaotic style!

Japan! Where…

Even after making several more business trips to Japan, that moment when I gazed out over the rooftops of Tokyo for the first time remains forever etched in my mind. In today’s fast-paced and over-exposed world, we’re lucky to find occasional spontaneous moments of joyful wonder. Take another picture out the window, Gary. I know how you feel.

Image by ptofnoretrn77

“Rats, I’ve really done it this time. Gary’s not going to believe this!” I started the long walk up the hill, imagining his reaction to my latest fiasco as I stared into the darkness ahead of me.

“You locked the key in the van when you stopped at the mailbox?” He asked. “Well, yeah, I must have bumped the lock with my knee. But, that’s not the only problem. The other key is in my pocket book, and that’s in the van. And there’s one more thing. The van’s still running and the headlights are on!” I smiled at him, he rolled his eyes, and we climbed into the truck to go back down the hill.

His eye roll said it all…just one more in a long line of rescue missions for Diane’s many locked-in keys or lost pocketbooks. Or, at least, it started as another typical rescue. Little did we know…

Under the truck’s lights, we circled the van trying to find a way to open the doors or the hood latch. Unfortunately, the locks on the doors weren’t reachable with a coat hanger like in the old days, and we didn’t even consider breaking a window or a latch on our two-day old Astro van. We decided to go back to the house and try to call someone from the Chevy dealer.

Climbing into the truck, Gary turned the key, but instead of the welcome sound of the engine starting, we heard, click, click, click, click, click, click – dead battery! So, leaving the truck to keep the van company, we walked the six-tenth of a mile back up the hill, still in pretty good humor considering the situation. We wondered how long the van would idle on three-quarters of a tank of gas!

We couldn’t reach anyone from the Chevy dealership, so Gary called a local locksmith, who kindly agreed to help us at that late hour. We drove down the hill to meet him in our 67 Corvette, again leaving the lights on, but this time also leaving the motor on to preserve the battery. First, the locksmith tried each of the 400 master keys on his giant ring, but with no luck. “If I can get a good look at cuts in the key, I might be able to make a key that will open the door,” the locksmith said as he shone his flashlight into the van at the key dangling down from the steering column. As he drove away to get his hand-held key cutter, we turned toward the Corvette, just in time to hear cough, cough, sputter, cough, sputter, sputter as the engine died – out of gas!

We stood looking from van to truck to car in stunned disbelief. I looked at Gary’s face in the glow of the van’s headlights, expecting him to explode in frustration, but instead, he just quietly said, “And all I wanted to do tonight was eat popcorn and watch Dallas!”

The next fifteen minutes passed in silence except for our footsteps and heavy breathing as we trudged up the hill again. An hour later, with no more wheels to choose from, Gary walked down the hill to meet the locksmith. He made several attempts at keys, but finally gave up and went home. Gary gave up too and made the final, long, lonely trek up the hill, leaving behind the idling van, the dead-battery truck, and the gas-hungry Corvette. “Is it still running? I asked as he slipped into bed. “Yup,” he said, “guess it gets pretty good gas mileage!”

The van ran all night, but by the time Gary walked down the hill in the morning, it was silent, turned off by the conscientious locksmith who returned at daylight to successfully defend his key-making reputation. By 8:00, the van, truck, and Corvette all sat safely at the house, ready for another adventure. Good car key habits – needed them then, still need them now! See Locking Keys in the Car.

Image by supergiball

As I sat on the picnic bench in front of the Sundae Time in Troy savoring the small waffle cone of raspberry swirl, another familiar smell caught my attention. I lifted my head and sucked in the aroma and for a moment felt the heart-tug of my childhood memories. Oh, the sweet smell of cows!

My husband and I spent the next ten minutes swapping “the best of” in farm smells. For those of you who grew up on a farm, this will be a walk down memory lane. For all others, you can wonder, is she really serious! Here are my Top 15 Favorite Farm Smells, not necessarily all good, but all distinctively memorable:

House smells

1. Homemade everything – homemade bread baking; hot, bubbling apple, cherry, blackberry, huckleberry pies made from fruit picked on the farm or on the local mountain; smell of the brine in the hand-cranked ice cream maker filled with milk straight from the cow; fried deer steak and pancakes topped with boiled brown-sugar syrup; the first-blast good smells when you open home-canned jars of home-grown peaches, beets, pears, tomatoes, apples, pickles, and cherries; baking powder biscuits straight from the oven, dripping with lots of butter and homemade wild strawberry jam. Oh, yeah…
2. Bacon, sausage, home fries, and eggs frying on the stove every morning for breakfast – a hearty fare for hard-working men going to the fields and to the barn; I still love that smell on the two or three times a year when we leave the cereal in the cupboard!
3. Porter’s Salve -a traveling salesman showed up on the farm every now and then peddling the green and white tins with salve claiming to benefit bruises, rough skin, insect bites, sunburn and local irritations; recommended for man or beast. Blindfold me and wave 100 concoctions under my nose, and I’ll pick the Porter’s salve out. The smell is that memorable!
4. The dank, wet, musty smell of most farmhouse cellars – no poured concrete or cinder blocks, just field stone walls and earth floors; perfect spot for storing canned goods and produce from the garden, but no place to linger.

Barn Smells

5. Corn silage – tightly packed into a silo, the chopped corn ferments to such perfection that my husband and I agree that this one tops the list for good farm smells. Oh, to take just one strong whiff up a silo again someday…
6. Cow feed with molasses – I doubt there’s a farm kid alive or dead who hasn’t taken a taste of this sweet-smelling mixture at least once!
7. Milk powder mixed with water for calves being weaned from their mothers – easy to smell as you bent close to the pail to get the calf to drink by sucking on your fingers.
8. Whitewash, a mixture of lime and chalk – sprayed on the walls, floor, and ceiling of the main barn floor to sanitize surfaces, drive out spiders, and brighten things up; the white wash momentarily masked all the other ordinary barn smells.
9. Fly spray – overpowering, eye-watering stench for a few minutes after spraying all the cows while in their stanchions in the barn.
10. Fresh cream collecting on top of the strainer over the milk can in the milk house.
11. The granary – sweet smell of oats, sometimes dusty, sometimes musty; as kids we played in the oat bins!

Outside Smells

12. New mown hay – this still takes my breath away when I drive through the country; roll your window down next time you pass a field and take it all in.
13. Singed chicken feathers – burning the fine feathers off after plucking the main ones. Yuck!
14. Creosote added to corn before planting to discourage birds, animals, and worms from eating the kernels.
15. Manure – no, you can’t ignore this basic olfactory delight of family farm life, and I openly proclaim to the world that horse and cow shit on a small farm smells good! Sorry, but no one on the farm called it manure!

Gone are all the dairy farms that lined the roads for miles on either side of my father’s land. Barns sit empty, many with caved-in roofs and missing boards. Former pastures grow wild again with weeds and brush, with no Holsteins, Jerseys or Guernseys to graze them tidy. My generation, the sons and daughters of farmers, found other ways to make a living, most not requiring the 24/7 commitment of the family farm.

The Troy Fair opens in July, with folks from the few remaining local farms gathering with their animals and produce to compete for prizes, bragging rights, and a week of camaraderie. I’ll spend a few moments walking through the cow barns, breathing in those smells that still possess the power to take me back home again. Oh, the sweet smells of childhood!

On a more serious note, today’s huge factory farms conjure up other adjectives – pungent, putrid, unbearable, foul, and appalling. I’m a meat-lover, and have no qualms about raising animals for consumption, but I admit to a wave of conscience about the conditions that factory-farm animals endure in order for me to enjoy my steak sandwich, lemon chicken, or sliced ham. Also in question is the right of these farms to impose their nauseating smells and real or potential water pollution on neighboring properties. Sounds like this topic may show up in a future post…

Image by tamaki

“Here, take this. I won’t need it when I get to Japan,” I said to my husband right before going through security at the airport. I handed him $300 in cash and my personal credit card, gave him a kiss and hug, and thus began my seventh business trip to Asia. International travel can be challenging, but I felt confident and calm as I climbed the airplane steps for the long journey from small-town Towanda to big-city Tokyo.

Nineteen hours later, I shuffled slowly along with the other weary passengers heading for customs at Narita Airport. “Ten days; this is the longest business trip I’ve ever taken,” I thought as I passed by the foreign currency counter, knowing that I could get yen at the hotel using my credit card. I headed straight for the bus counter to buy a ticket for the Keio Plaza Hotel – 1200 yen or about $12, cash only. Safely on the bus, I dozed during the ninety-minute ride.

“I am sorry, but we cannot do currency exchange with a credit card,” the young women at the hotel counter said early the next morning. “Rats,” I thought, “The other hotel I’ve stayed at in Tokyo would do it.” I quickly counted the cash in my wallet, finding that after paying for the bus ticket, I now had $68 left, enough for about 6800 yen. “OK”, I thought, “This won’t be a big problem; I’ll just find an ATM machine sometime today.” Looking up, I spotted Mr. Ando, our business representative in Japan and our busy day began.

On our way to the train station, we detoured into the bus terminal to find an ATM that would accept U.S. cards, but my pin number didn’t register. I called my husband and a co-worker in hopes of verifying the number, but neither could find my paper with the number. Frustrated, but only slightly concerned, we spent the day between meetings in taxis and trains, with no time to stop at a bank. Fares for the day amounted to 2800 yen, which took my cash down to a measly 4000 yen. Maybe tomorrow……

The next day, I called the bank that issued my credit card, but they couldn’t verify my pin. They offered to send me a new pin in seven to ten days. Scratch that idea! Without revealing the full seriousness of my situation, I told Mr. Ando that I wanted to stop at a bank. We found a few minutes to do so, but the bank wouldn’t issue money to me without the pin number! After shucking out more coins for train fares that day, my funds were down to 1400 yen, with six more days looming ahead before returning to the land of easy cash. “Tomorrow, I’m on my own in Tokyo with almost no money, among 12 million strangers,” I thought. “Oh well,” as I turned out the light to sleep. “I’ll worry about that tomorrow.”

Up early the next morning, I decided to take a taxi to my customer’s office so that I could charge the fare rather than pay cash on the train. I carefully chose a taxi with credit card symbols on the window. When we arrived, I handed my card to the driver, but he shook his head and pointed at his card reader. It took me a moment to realize that it was broken. He needed cash! I sheepishly told my customer of my dilemma, and he graciously paid the fare.

After the meeting, I walked up the street to the Royal Park Hotel where I’d stayed during previous visits, convinced that my money problems were over. “We are very sorry, but we cannot issue funds on credit cards unless you are a guest,” the lady at the counter told me apologetically. For the first time, I felt a slight wave of panic, and with a heavy heart, I parted with the rest of my yen for the train trip back to the Keio Plaza.

After a good night’s rest, I awoke feeling quite optimistic, knowing that I would be able to get currency after my flight to Korea, either at the airport or at the hotel. On board the flight to Seoul, I talked with a gentleman from Indiana who was also traveling on business. We swapped stories of our work and families, plus I told him the sad tale of my cash troubles. When we left the plane, he handed me a 50-dollar bill and his business card. I didn’t argue too much with him, since it was a bit unsettling to land in Korea with only $2.40 in change in my pockets!

My optimism faded at the foreign currency counter at the Incheon Airport. They required cash to make an exchange, so I could only get $50 worth of Korean won. The hotel exchange desk proved to be a bust too, requiring cash to do an exchange. Somewhat discouraged by the latest failed attempts to get cash, I nevertheless relaxed in Seoul the next day. I shopped the afternoon away in Itaewon, paying for new luggage and an antique wooden jewelry box with my company card – not per company policy, but this trip was an exception! (Yes, I did pay for these myself once I got home!).

Customer visits on day eight went well, without any need for cash, so I began to think that the 50000 won in my pocket might be just enough to get home without the need to panhandle. It helped my attitude that 50000 won sounded like a heck of a lot more money than $50! Despite my positive thoughts, I decided that I’d try one more time to secure additional funds. I stopped at a bank that was very willing to issue won on my credit car without a pin, but I left empty-handed. Why? I had violated one of the top 10 travel rules – keep your passport with you at all times! I had left it in the car and there was no time to retrieve it and return to the bank. Foiled again, but only two more days to go…

My last business day took me from Seoul on the train south to Daegu. I traveled with a business agent who spoke limited English. Since we couldn’t chitchat, I didn’t tell him about my money woes, which created new suspense. At the train station, while I was trying to decipher the credit-card-accepting ticket machine, our agent was buying my ticket with cash. He expected me to pay him back with cash. So, I gave him cash – all my cash! As we rolled on down the line, I reasoned that meals could go on my credit card and the bus to the airport in the morning was free. With that settled, I relaxed and watched the beautiful Korean countryside pass by.

As we left our last customer’s office, I felt light-hearted, already anticipating the end of this 10-day adventure. Considering the events leading up to this moment, what happened next shouldn’t have surprised me. It did. When we reached the train station, our agent asked for my money for the return trip to Seoul! “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I thought. “The money that I gave you this morning was only for a one-way ticket?” I asked, my stomach starting to churn a bit. Sure enough, it was the end of the line and there was nothing left to do but beg. I threw myself at his mercy and after much hand-signaling and mis-communication, he finally realized that I was penniless. He would have to trust me to repay him or leave me stranded in Daegu. Fortunately, he paid, and I hopped on the train back to Seoul.

Day ten of this adventure meant backtracking my way home; Seoul to Tokyo to Detroit to Elmira to Towanda. In Detroit during a layover, I stood in line waiting for a bagel and rummaged for the U.S. coins on the bottom of my pocketbook. Problem? The bagel cost $2.45, and the change totaled just two-forty. I turned to the man behind me in line and asked, “Do you have a nickel?” That’s Japan and Korea on $8 a day plus five cents!

When I told this story to my family, they assumed that I was terribly stressed during this trip. Surprisingly though, except for a few moments of distress, I always felt that things would work out OK. And they did. Was this just due to dumb luck? I don’t think so. I believe that most people are basically kind-hearted and willing to help someone in need. Yes, I mailed money back to each of these kind souls, but I know that each helped me without total assurance of that. Trusting in the goodness of others can help us through troubled times. Now, if I only knew who that man in Detroit was so that I could return his nickel!

Image by Geek2Nurse

My brother died young. He struggled with schizophrenia, and after years of legal drugs, chain-smoking, and lack of exercise, his heart protested and he was gone at forty-six. Suddenly, I became an only child and the empty space around me felt overwhelming. Filling that space took a long time, but the journey began with my quest to understand the mental illness that claimed so many years of his life. I immersed myself in books, articles, and discussions about all mental illnesses (great source is NAMI), and with this knowledge came resolution of my conflicted emotions about his life.

Future posts will explore these emotions, which I think are quite common for family members and friends of people with mental illness. For now, I’d like to share this tribute to my brother that I wrote during my quest for answers.

It has been almost a year and a half now since Lanny died, but in many ways he actually left us back in the early 70s. For those of you who tend to remember Lanny with his illness and for those of you who didn’t know him in his early years, let’s go back in time for a little bit.

The brother I remember growing up with knew every symphony that Mozart wrote, but struggled with algebra. He could recall all of the significant historical events of Medieval Europe, but had no interest in how an internal combustion engine works. He had a great sense of humor, and had many good friends in high school, despite the fact that he had no abilities for, nor interest in sports.

Lanny loved cherry pie, played the cello, liked to play king on the mountain, but only played baseball because the rest of us kids did. He disliked hunting, had a crush on Claire Ann at least for a little while, and liked to stay up and watch midnight mass on Christmas Eve.

Lanny loved Donald Duck, sunburned easily, had beautiful handwriting, and saved me from drowning in the Camptown creek one hot summer day when he could still laugh easily. He liked to ride down hill on sleds, ate his Easter candy much too slowly, sang in Allegheny College’s choir, and spent much of his life dreaming of far off places.

Lanny also retained a phenomenal memory of important family dates and events. I’m sorry now that I didn’t sit down with him and map out a family history, since he could remember the year (and usually the day) of events, like the time that Uncle Ern and Aunt Claire’s barn burned, or when Aunt Marie tangled with the bull.

What we should remember about Lanny is that he began his life just like you and me, with likes, dislikes, strengths, weaknesses, hopes and dreams. He didn’t choose to be ill, and suffered not only from the depths of the illness, but surely even more during the short, intermittent times of relative wellness, when he saw clearly that his life was not as it should be.

It’s easy now to look back and wonder what else we might have done for Lanny. I’m comforted somewhat by the fact that back when he was diagnosed, there was little known about mental illness, nor about how to treat it, so there was probably not much more that could have been done for him on a large scale.

However, what we might have done a little differently was to overcome our own sense of uneasiness, to ignore our own sense of discomfort, and to have taken time from our busy lives to reach out to Lanny with more calls, letters, and conversations. Very often, the little things that we do for others, out of love and compassion, not duty, are the very things that lighten our own spirits and refocus our lives.

So, let’s celebrate Lanny’s life and keep him in our hearts as a reminder to reach out to those who are struggling on this earth.

I’d like to quote from a short poem by an unknown author:
Through this toilsome world, alas!
Once and only once I pass;
If a kindness I may show,
If a good deed I might do
To a suffering fellow man,
Let me do it while I can.
No delay, for it is plain
I shall not pass this way again.

Rest in peace, Lanny. We always loved you; we just didn’t always know how to show it.

Lanny Joseph Potter   4/26/50 – 1/14/97