Linnea's Ribbons and Bows

Linnea sits somber front row fingering a black grosgrain ribbon tied around her neck

holding a locket picturing her 56 year old husband Charles Stroud
being lowered for his eternal rest.

A namesake blue bow gracing a matching  store box
endearing more in the anticipation than the actual reveal;
sterling napkin rings engraved “Happy 25th Anniversary” inside.

Pink silk headband slipped over first daughter Charlotte’s head

by obstetric nurses bundling  her in a fuzzy embroidered pink blanket
for proud parents carry home.

Tulle tied white lace ribbon trailing stephanoitis and white rose stems, a final accent in hand

before walking down center aisle with Charlie waiting
at the front of the alter, tears in his big blue eyes.

Big chartreuse bow on orchid corsage from date Todd Nass

for a prom night of laughing and dancing,
but with steady focus always on that boy, “Charlie ,“ I think his name is.  

Satin shiny emerald ribbon belt on flouncy pastel organdy dress

joining Mom at a garden party where Lin wants really rather to be in her denim overalls
and scruffy Maryjanes, doing seesaw at the park with her cousin Susie.

Home now with her life-worn box of precious,
lap borne repository of all these ribbons and bows 
that bind the major parts of Linnea Stroud.

Pyrrharctia isabella

Pyrrharctia Isabella

 

Steps crunching through a crispy fall tree carpet,
 

homeward with some needed grocery,

A dervish of wind spirals up a leafy flurry,

 diverting my attention to a

dark fur ball uncovered from her flimsy shelter;

A banded wooly bear caterpillar,

farmer’s prophet, legend-tasked to foretell  duration of the coming cold.

Such a great expectation for such a small little fuzzy thing,

who will not even witness her own prophecy

frozen solid until spring

when she will thaw and begin a voracious

journey through yet another season,

relentless, until years of persistence finally grant her few brief days of

metamorphic freedom to fly high above her former world

to find a mate and continue this grand cycle.

What joy and satisfaction I imagine in store for little Isabella.

Another gust, and leaves once again grant her private space.

 I continue on from my encounter,

 filled with great wonderment  

at the grace of such a tiny creature.

 

-Jerry Wendt 2015

Christmas Party onboard a TWA Jumbo

As the largest account for Trans World Airlines in the U.S. our company was privy to all kinds of perks from free travel to lavish escorted vacations.  But one of the most interesting events I remember was one where we never left the ground.

It was 1974 and TWA had just introduced its new wide-body jet, the Lockheed L1011 into commercial service.   It was exciting and very popular as wide body jets were still a novel thing. The new 1011 was very quiet and had the galleys on a lower level reducing congestion in the main cabin.  It could accommodate 400 passengers.

Mr Travel Company President Sid Kutchin thought it would be really cool and innovative to have our Christmas party aboard a plane and the large new jet was a perfect choice. But it was also very popular and an aircraft TWA didn’t want out-of-service for any amount of time. However Sid could be very persuasive and we did generate that revenue, so to our surprise, TWA said “yes.”  I was jobbed the handling of the party logistics. 

I made a guest list of company employees and family as well as important company  suppliers and people important to our operations and sent out the invites in the form of a “Royal Ambassador First Class” TWA boarding pass wallet with a “ticket”  giving the date and the time, which was a certain gate at O’Hare Airport.

On that date I was at the boarding station greeting our 100 party-goers,  checking the list and welcoming them aboard. The TWA jumbo airliner sat at the end gate at O’Hare on the TWA concourse. The first class seats had all been removed and instead there was a small dance floor, band and two bars.  A full TWA crew was aboard  to serve drinks and appetizers.

Gates at O’Hare are in heavy demand, so after all guests were aboard, they were temporarily seated per regulation, and the plane pulled away from the gate and taxied over to and parked in one of O’Hare’s “penalty” areas reserved for planes that landed without available gate space.  FAA regulation required a full cockpit crew, so they sat at position but allowed people to come up and view the flight controls, a very popular option.

 Part of my job was to arrange for the on-board service.  Many of us had frequently taken the popular TWA  service to London. We would take flight 770 eastbound nonstop on a Thursday evening and return on flight 771 on Sunday. Onboard ,First class was always served  Chateaubriand with bouquetiere of braised vegetables and potato as well as an ice cream Sunday dessert.  All agreed this was to be our dinner, so after a period of mingling, guests were asked to be seated in the coach section of the aircraft where dinner was served.  A nice touch was the  Japanese Oshibori (hot scented towels)  presented at meal conclusion.  Guests then were free to sit and talk or roam around, dancing, enjoying more cocktails or just the adventure of having been invited to a private aircraft party.  After four hours, the plane was taxied back to a gate and the guests disembarked.

One of many amusing stories that came about was that of our TWA group representative Alice Hendrickson.  Alice had come from TWA offices downtown while her husband Al drove from his work separately, meeting up at the airport.  As the evening drew to a close Alice could not locate Al and became worried.  A check showed his car was still in the lot , but Al was nowhere to be found.  One of our employee’s husbands was a Chicago police dispatcher and put out a call to check.  The home was empty so Al hadn’t taken a cab home.  Alice headed home very worried while police put out a search. 

The next morning very early, TWA employees arrived at the airport to begin their day. They turned on the baggage carousel on the lower level in  preparation for the first day’s flights.  As one carousel revolved, into view came Al, sprawled asleep in the revolving circle.  Al had been too intoxicated to drive and just found this spot with the impaired thinking of a drunk, and had crawled into it and fell asleep.  

It became one of the most talked about events of the trip. However, the many conversations about this unique outing reached the ears of the FAA, who govern all airline operations. They definitely did NOT want other people to be having private parties at a public airport tying up the (at the time) world’s busiest and largest airline hub.  Regulations were hastily written prohibiting the use of aircraft for private events .

So our Christmas party went down as the one and only event of its type ever held in the history of commercial aviation.  It remains a unique part of my many memories of a fabulous time and place.

Welcome, Immigrant

Looking into the subject of Immigration, I researched the process from that to citizenship. Back when the grandparents of baby boomers came to the US as immigrants, there were no quotas or restrictions to speak of. Those started in the 20's. Even then ,if you came and were accepted at the border with a cursory questioning, you were given a Certificate of Naturalization. If you got employment and lived in the U.S. for 5 consecutive years, you could go to any court and petition for citizenship which was an easy procedure. Thus, we became a nation of immigrants from the beginning of those seeking religious freedom back in colonization days.

 

 With the establishment of the INS as bureau of authority, immigration became a "quota" system where it remains today. If You are a scientist working in Europe and have a job offer in the U.S., admission as immigrant is easy, and naturalization almost just as easy. If you are a Mexican peasant, this is not the case. In looking up all the various requirements and limitations from Visa through Green Card residency to citizenship is a labryinth of astounding difficulty. Even a cursory look at the law is perplexing. No wonder there are attornies that practice only immigration law.

 

Along with a friend ,I personally helped in getting a Visa for a Hispanic friend and his family to work in the U.S under a "person of exceptional ability"  quota.  This is a man of well-known and respected status in his native land.as well  as an artist of international reputation. Even with an immigration attorney and endless work with evidentiary substantiation requiring reams of paper, it took almost a year to get a three year work visa for him and his family.  Oh, and thousands of dollars. Even then, with his Visa and authorizations in hand, the US INS official at the embarkation airport told him, and his family within earshot, that he personally had to accept the papers but he himself would never have allowed them in.,  Legal advice to us was not to make note of the event as that official, minor as he was, could flag the file, making it more difficult to be in this country, as the visa was subject to review.    I am ashamed for my country. Truly embarrassed.

 

 My country is in dire need of revision to our immigration system and all the blow-hards who want to "wall-up[" our southern borders and create another "Berlin Wall'  or "send em all packing" should actually take note of Emma Lazarus when she said

 

"Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:

I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”

Instead of today's " get the hell off my front porch "

Really citizens, where is your humanity?

 

Indiscretions

 

It was a dark and stormy night .  On the overland stage from York to London, the  deluge was so great that our stagemaster had decided to stop at a Postal Inn, as proceeding further in the rut-riddled mucky roads would be to risk a broken axle. So I, and my travelling companions, a Viscount and his Countess, disembarked for a night of refuge.  I did think it a bit odd that this couple were not travelling in private coach, not befitting their peerage, as I am sure they had several. But, there can be reason for everything as I would find out.  On this night where even the worst of Hades had sought refuge from the torrent outside, the Inn Alehouse was empty except for me .  My travel companions had elected to retire directly to quarters but I stayed to have a bit of beef and several quaffs of hearty Claret before heading upstairs to chambers.

In the room next to mine I could hear delicate giggles, sounds of obvious mirth.  I could not resist, and, even though not an action of any breeding, I put eye to keyhole.  What delicious pleasures lie therein.  The Lady was lounged on the bed, her travelling cape draped beneath her. She reclined, and I gazed upon her form downward.  Her dress was gathered up in her arms and my eye was drawn to her silk stocking being drawn down her shapely leg, revealing an alabaster sculpt worthy of the best artesian hands of Greece.  I was entranced.  The Viscount pulled down the silk until it barely grasped the end of her toes. I was ecstatic as I saw the remnant slip off the last toe, leaving her bare foot in his hand.  Oh, Joy !  He bent to kiss it and fondle her toes as she gave a delighted little cry.  I jerked in enraptured anticipation, and the old timber floorboard protested too loudly for the storm to conceal.  Before I could regain my position, their door jerked open with the latch catching me squarely in my eye.  With arms gaining purchase, I regained my footing, swiftly and awkwardly stumbling for my life into my own quarter, slamming and latching the door.  The expected knocking, pounding or  loud exclamations never came, and after a long period with ear to the door, I withdrew and tried to sleep through my unfortunate night.

Now, a new morning, I awoke with dread.  What confrontation awaited me for my indiscretions?  After prolonging my morning toilette, where I could see my newly bruised and purpled eye, I tried to think through any route to absolution to avoid a long journey looking into the flesh-burning stares of the Viscount, or an even worse fate.  Well, it had to proceed one way or another, so I unlatched my door and cautiously peered out. No one there. Then, I noticed a small silk bag strung on my chamber latch tongue. I extracted it quickly and withdrew again to my sequester. I opened the bag. Inside were 4 Guinea’s and a folded vellum.  The short note stated the bounty was my ransom for silence about the previous night’s episode.  Relief and wonderment.  Why would my silence be of value when they were the wronged party?  I expected a righteous indignation of monumental stature would have been my confrontation. Perhaps I did not understand the price of stature to landed gentry.  But I did not explore the issue, rather deciding to use part of my bounty to stay on for a few days, thus avoiding the awkward journey sitting across from the couple. 

Days later I resumed my journey and found that the stagemaster was the very same that had been our guide that fateful night.  To whet my curiosity, or perhaps reach some close to my guilt, I enquired as to how The Viscount and Countess had fared on their journey into London.  The Driver gave a chortle and smiled,  “That wasn’t the Countess with the Viscount,” he related,  “That was one of the Countesse’s handmaidens accompanying him to attend to the Countess at their London townhouse.”  I didn’t ask after them any further, fearing the stagemaster’s smile might be indication of his privy to the relationship, and I was already in deeper than I wanted.  But it sure gave credence to the old saying that travel broadens one’s outlook.  And it makes for the great story I‘m here telling to you, Yes?  And since you’re buying, how’s about another round, eh mate?

Letters to the Editor

To the Editor:   (Published NW Herald Sept 6, 2015)

Avant-garde phony intellectuals among us stridently defend a man’s right to “become” a woman while coldly trivializing the sale of an intact fetal cadaver, justifying that savage butchery with hollow rhetoric spinning the indefensible as “women’s health.” Josef Mengele, Margaret Sanger and Kermit Gosnell serve proudly on the board of directors of that twisted mindset, totally void of a moral compass or hint of conscience.

Even the most staunchly devout agnostic/atheist thinkers subscribing to an ordered social fabric acknowledge the despicable/destructive nature of this sort of sick existence. Let’s hope so, because the overwhelming majority of so-called God-fearing Americans across the fruited plain cower in fear, somehow duped into believing they remain forever powerless to reverse and soundly defeat a willful insanity destined to destroy a once great nation.

William G. Parrot

McHenry

To The Editor:  ( Published NW Herald Sept 14, 2015)

William Parrot (“Argument indefensible,” Sept. 6) once again has fallen in love with his own multi-syllabic, obscure words – words about as clear as Wallace Stevens’ poetry.

From me, Parrot’s letter gets an “F” for supplying insufficient facts to support an unclear thesis.

However, if it is his intent to rant against legal abortion in the U.S. and also against the use of the resultant cells for research, then I have some very clear advice for him:

If you object to Roe v. Wade, then work to repeal it; that is, unless you are simply a windbag that blows across the U.S. every four years during presidential elections. Better yet, begin lecturing your heterosexual counterparts on abstinence. Thus, no sperm and egg will have a chance to meet and create that sticky problem to which, I think, you refer.

I know that it takes two to tango; but, for eons, women have led in the “saying-no” dance. Now, Mr. Parrot, if you and other men will take your turn on the floor and are successful in simply saying, “No,” problem solved as far as I can tell.

Jan Bosman

Woodstock

 

Published Comment

just folks 5ptsFeatured
50 minutes ago- Ms Bosman writes a very cogent and succinct response to Mr Parrot, who evidently has conduit to the  thinking of all "avant garde intellectuals," or "devout agnostics.."  Perhaps Parrot , like Kim Davis, hears voices from a higher plain .  I have no voices to guide me, but I can recognize the smell of bullshit. 

Me- The Sea

 

Shame.  You seem to know it no more.  You have spoken reverence to Me for eons.  You called Me Guo pu, Tangaroa, Neptune, Doris, Kanaluo, Idirgijengel, Njhord, and Poseiden. I received your prayers , your sacrifice, and your offerings.  I thought eternally I could reward you with my bounty, My beauty and My being.

I thought you had respect that My lofty mountains, My deepest canyons, My forests , deserts and even My angry volcanos which are home to more living things than populate your puny lands ?

Those that lived by My grace used to have respect for Me.  I was lore and legend. There was awe and inspiration from Me .

Now, I cry for vast islands of flotsam that gather as cancers on my  glistening skin. My tears flow copiously for my leviathans struggling in plastic netting ,or bounteous schools of marine life taken from Me beyond any hope for replenishment.

I grieve for fluids I stood as sentinel over for eternities, now drawn forth from my belly and spilled back into my realm by the careless who have appreciation only for the weight of their purses.

Aquatic clarity has become occluded.  My gardens die here, great reefs are destroyed and in my bosum My deepest flocks die because of temperature changes at my core. Slowly yes, but surely I diminish in sanctuary.

You delight in my shores, the beauty of sun off me .  “Oh, that sea air,” you relish. And then throw your garbage into my face. How callous.

Huge float factories skirt upon  my vastness,  with captures for hungry masses. But also are taken  the lives of the unwanted like seals and dolphins, and sharks and turtles, all deaths that go unmourned and worse, unnoticed . . . except to me when you throw their carcasses back.

Please know I am no more eternal than you.  This may not seem easy to grasp as I have always “ been.”  I was before and will be after.  But I can die. I am dying-  A death due to the disease of “You”.  Like all other things, you cannot take, take, take, and expect there will always be more.  You cannot keep dumping garbage  into Me and expect Me to remain  crystalline.  The wage you will pay for your pollution is death. Mine first and then yours, because we are tied and cannot exist without the other.  

So the time has come.  As My resplendence astounds your vision looking upon me,  think also of being part of My preservation.  It will come down to your decision and the teaching of it to yours and of your efforts to keep, guard and treasure My resource.  My majesty “from sea to shining sea”  depends entirely on y-o-u. 

-Jerry Wendt 2015 

The “Gods” of “Me”-  Tangaroa- Maori Australian, Guo Pu- Chinese,  Doris- Greek,  Poseidon- Greek,  Kanaloa – Hawaiian,  Idiragijengel -Inuit Alaskan, Njoprd- Norse, Neptune- Roman.