tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-158043522024-03-07T18:58:52.937-08:00Frog HospitalThis is really interesting stuffFred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.comBlogger994125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-80200482184151132472021-05-26T08:47:00.004-07:002021-05-26T08:47:45.573-07:00 Keith Brown lived in Fishtown<p> </p><div style="color: #050505; font-family: Roboto,Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br />Keith Brown lived in Fishtown</b></div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><b>By Fred Owens</b></div></div><div style="color: #050505; font-family: Roboto,Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; font-size: 15px; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Keith Brown was an idiot, a man with serious mental health issues, who lived in a shack on the North Fork of the Skagit River at a place called Fishtown.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">You had to walk across Chamberlain’s field to get to Fishtown, or else, if Margaret Lee let you, you could drive out to her farm, and park your car there, and then it was a shorter walk, but either way you had to walk.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Keith lived in float shack moored to the bank. Years ago he had winched it up the bank during a spring flood, so it never floated anymore, but it was built on top of Douglas fir logs 2-feet in diameter and bolted together in a raft.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Keith’s shack was almost level. A marble, placed on the floor, would roll slowly towards the riverside of the shack, but this only made the place a bit more lovable – giving it a tilt, but not something you could see with your eyes. The shack was soundly built when Keith claimed it and moved in. He added a cupola on the roof with 3-foot windows on all four sides, for sleeping in the moonlight, or listening to the rain.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">He tinkered with electricity. He made a light switch from a fork, by drilling a hole through the handle midway, so it could move back and forth, and if he pushed it one way towards the contact point, the little light would go on.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"> He had catalogs from electric supply houses, dog-eared, laying on the counter, next to egg shells, banana skins, diodes, transistors, and lumps of lichen, car parts, fishing tackle, and odd sorts of plastic bottles.. A research scientist in his own way, Keith transmitted the news and the song of the River, via electronics that passed through subterranean granite tunnels, which existed in his imagination. But Fred was no scoffer, he listened to Keith’s fantastic theories without judgment.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Keith devised a small windmill on his roof that powered a 25-watt lamp.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Otherwise he used kerosene lanterns, and cooked and heated on a wood stove. He packed in his supplies, walking across the fields to Dodge Valley Road, and walking 3 more miles to LaConner unless he got a ride, carrying a canvas rucksack, with empty bottles for recycling on the way in, and beer and groceries on the way back.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">His car was a 60’s model Triumph, the English sports car. He parked that at the quarry, what people called a quarry, but was really just a part of the hill that had been carved out years ago for the stone. Keith hadn’t driven the Triumph in a few years and the tires had gone flat, and the blackberry vines were starting to grow over it. He had removed the trunk lid of the Triumph, and inserted a plywood panel, a place to mount his lawnmower – that was back when he worked for people, back when he wasn’t quite so crazy. But the Triumph was getting moldy and starting to compost, as if everything was going back to the earth sooner or later, something that even the farmers approved, because they never threw away their old equipment, they just parked it out in a field and let it rust, and the same way old boats, either sunk, or half sunk, or propped up in the backyard – they all returned to the earth.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">The dreamboats were gone in 1986 – the hopeless rotted hulls, the beautiful romantic lines of a wood boat that had once fished the abundant salmon of Puget Sound. The dreamers came in the 60’s and worked on them, to rebuild them, steaming oak planks in water-filled metal drums, bending new frames on the old rotted hulls. But they were dreamboats, and the hippies gave up on them, for the most part, although a few were launched, like the 32-foot Bristol Bay double ender that Singin’ Dan rebuilt and launched and lived on down the river from Fishtown at Shit Creek. Singin’ Dan came from Scandinavian fishing stock, and he knew what he was doing.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">But the dreamboats were abandoned. They made picturesque hulks, and the other boats were just let out to die peacefully, slowly sinking in the mud, landmarks with histories imagined or real.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">It was the law of the sea, as Fred had read in Moby Dick in the chapter about abandoned vessels. A boat, a ship, or the valuable carcass of a floating, dead sperm whale were all bound by the same law – it was either fast or loose. If it was “fast”, made fast to something, a pier or attached by a line to another boat, then it belonged to whatever entity it was made fast to. But if it was loose, if it was afloat, or adrift, or run aground, but on the sea, if it was abandoned – you couldn’t leave a marker or a note saying you were the owner and intended to come back and fetch it. If it was loose, then it belonged to whoever might claim it, and that’s how Keith got his float shack in Fishtown, because it was stuck on a sand bar just off the bank when he got there in early 70s.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">He just moved in and took it over. You could still do that in Puget Sound. Nobody minded anyway, there were lots of abandoned houses and shacks around the Valley back then – that’s why the hippies moved up there – free rent.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Keith had stained teeth and he laughed with a mad cackle, because he was mad. He had brown skin, so dirty it had acquired a patina, a sheen, like an old pair of pants. “I would fuck him if he took a bath,” G* said, in her typical brazen way. B* and G* lived in a shack that B* had built up on pilings, maybe a hundred yards downstream from Keith’s place. You had to get off Keith’s shack on a gang plank over the mud, then walk through the brush, bending under salmonberry pink blossoms if it was Spring, and then cross by the haphazard fence marking Steve Herold’s garden, and then hike up a small hill. It was a small hill, but it would have been a very big egg, because the hill was shaped like an egg, and then what creature would hatch from such an egg of a quarter mile diameter, lying oblong and crosswise to the flow of the river, this hill bearing madrone trees peeling red-orange bark. </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Fred would take that path, going through the madrone trees. “You always see them growing near the water. You never see them more than a half-mile from the water,” Fred noticed.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Over the hill and easing down the stone on a rope tied to a tree just for that purpose, the egg-stone of the egg hill was a composite of small stones – like old cement of geological age, over to the shack that B* and G* had built on pilings, where G* said things like that about Keith Brown and other men.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Keith was the canary in the coal mine, a symptom of changes in the valley. Fred had often visited Keith, taking the stroll across the fields, and then the primeval path through the old woods, coming up on the shack, sometimes in winter, stepping across mottled leaves, working his way through the path, stepping around logs, sometimes in spring when the skunk cabbage thrust up through the swamp near the river.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Fred came to visit, and if Keith wasn’t home, he came in anyway and built a fire and made tea and found a few books to glance at. The porn magazines were under the mattress in the cupola. Fred was a snoop. “I think I got that from my mother. She always found my things and it always seemed accidental, but it was her third eye, and I have the third eye, too,” he thought.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">But the door to the shack had no lock. He was always welcome. Or else Keith was there, tinkering with something, and they talked. Keith had a way of talking that made sense, but before you know it, it made no sense at all. “He’s half-mad,” Fred observed. “He’s got one foot in this world and another foot in a far more resplendent universe.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Afterward, after Keith got arrested for arson, Fred said, “We could see he was going off the deep end, but we had abandoned him, and he was all alone.”</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Keith spent more time listening to the voices – the CIA was after him because his electronic inventions might generate enough power to overthrow the monopoly of the corporations and large oil companies. The CIA was linked with the ant-Christ and Keith was the only one who knew that they had killed Lisa and buried her under the Lighthouse Inn in LaConner.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Keith began writing messages with a magic marker on his jacket and jeans – sayings from the Illuminati, and quotations from Revelations – “Beware, the beast with 600 eyes is coming.”</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">His cackle became louder. The problem, Fred realized, was that nobody had time anymore. Keith was the village idiot of Fishtown, but the village was itself disappearing, B* and G* moved into town, to that yellow house on the hill. Paul Hansen was building his 3-story log cabin (known as Fort Hansen) on a hillside on the reservation. He didn’t come out to Fishtown anymore. Black Dog Allen was down in Willapa Bay working on oysters. </div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">Avocado Richard had taken over the cabin where Charlie Krafft used to live. It would have been good for new talent to move into Fishtown, but Avocado Richard, besides being a sculptor of dubious talent, was a mean, crazy drunk.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">And, therefore, it became obvious, after Keith was arrested, that Keith simply had fewer people who would talk with him in his own crazy way, so he started listening to the voices all the time. And the voices told Keith that it was his duty to expose the CIA plot against him, and he could do that by setting fire to the Lighthouse Inn. “I’ll burn it down, and then they will find Lisa’s body, and then they will know the truth,” Keith said.</div><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">That fall Keith came into town with a five-gallon can of gasoline. He climbed up on the roof of the Lighthouse Inn, poured out the gasoline and lit the blaze. The cops came right away, the firemen put it out. There was no damage, but they locked Keith up in the mental hospital down in Steilacoom. He was incompetent to stand trial. “He’ll never get out,” Jim Smith said. “They won’t let him out unless he stops telling that story about Lisa and the CIA, but he won’t stop, and they’ll never let him out.”</div></div><div><br /></div>-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div>Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1622129438420000&usg=AFQjCNErHhB-e0EsCE0E8h7IibS8aju_vQ" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /><br /></div><div>My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1622129438420000&usg=AFQjCNFZtnTVXZVWbxrJPaUT8l8s-NZgjA" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhY71MqXYitEmz-bLb2mLkL8vF5IVMluHFh8ntK6y4uxwCUwUgXNAoVZtNmFz87-O9xJixqoBX0g1kEl_5oGvXVWgj8YL5JCdUSTU1BxuTKMaAY7VspIoq_EBG9nDTidu40v9-GIWYBTGQjfQn6KeAQlj7gzObK6ktRmaU9r8YW4E_fXJwZ6GMS1qhoKuQmoMQvXCxlxXQbpwt2Nav9lAvVxghZQrueiOU5PYSKEdw3-tejZn0Zjh1N_tn6-5-a5wwo=s0-d-e1-ft&id=0BxIzsAjFX0DBQzF4Z2JJVnpyeFk&revid=0BxIzsAjFX0DBdlV5dG4zMTJnK0JUTmZSTjJLYWI3eldaTTA4PQ" width="96" /><br /></div><div></div></div></div></div></div>Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-35224118338718193762021-01-31T09:59:00.005-08:002021-01-31T09:59:39.468-08:00Scrambled eggs, high school, 1960<div><i>I wrote this on Saturday, January 30, 2021</i></div><div><br /></div><div> I got up at 6:30. The sky was clear blue and not a cloud in sight after three days of rain. I got tired of reading politics on the Internet, so I looked up sea turtles. You can find sea turtles off shore in Los Angeles and further south, but the water is not warm enough for them in Santa Barbara. We saw sea turtles when we were in Hawaii a few years ago, but now I want to visit the Caribbean and look at marine life in that warm climate. Some island paradise, on a sailboat sailing as the sun goes down. Dazzling, sparkling clear water. Warm beaches. Puffy clouds. The Virgin Islands, Puerto Rico, Cuba....Yesterday I looked up websites on Parkinson's Disease because I have it, I was diagnosed two years ago. I joined a chat room, or thread where people described their condition, how many years they had Parkinsons, was it getting worse, their exercise routine and medication. I don't like to think about it too much, but movement is difficult for me, any movement, I can feel this stiffness. Not a pain, never a pain, but always a stiffness. You don't hear about it getting better. Success is defined as not getting worse, or getting worse but slowly. My best solution is to find absorbing activities because then I don't think about it.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Having said that, it's time to think about breakfast. We 're having avocado omelettes. I just love eggs. When I was a kid in high school, my mom made me scrambled eggs every morning. Two eggs scrambled, she added a little milk when she put them in the frying pan. I ate them with no glass of milk, no toast, just the two eggs and I ate them every school day morning, sitting at the big round table in the back of the kitchen, after I walked the dog.... Freshman and sophomore years I hitchhiked to school, three miles down Lake Street. It was only a one-block walk from our white stucco house on Forest Avenue, down 17th Street, past the tall horse chestnut tree, to Lake Street, carrying my homework books. I didn't carry a lunch bag because I always ate cafeteria food. So I got to Lake Street, let's say it's a little after 8 o'clock in early November. The ground is not quite frozen and the first snow might come any day. I stand with one foot on the curb and one foot on the street. It was a black tar street, the main street out to Edens Expressway, or going the other way across the Northwestern RR tracks a mile to the beach at Lake Michigan. I can see all these details in my mind, going back to 1960 when I was a freshman. The tall elm trees and oak trees, cars going by faster, on their way to work. It was usually the same men who stopped to pick me up. It took five minutes to catch a ride. They knew I was hitching to high school. I ran to the car and hopped in, always a man by himself. Some really boring guy with a coat and tie and a friendly smile, saying hello, going to school? I stared straight ahead. These guys were so boring. Was I supposed to grow up and be like them?</div><div><br /></div><div>My brother Tom, older by four years, was away at college, Marquette University in Milwaukee. Milwaukee was 90 miles to the north in Wisconsin, even colder than Chicago where we lived, in the suburb of Wilmette. Why would anybody want to go to college in Milwaukee? My brother had no imagination, except he had cool records -- Chuck Berry, Buddy Holly, Bo Diddley, stuff like that. He had a cute girlfriend. Her name was Betsy Wood and that's what she looked like. My brother was tall and Betsy was not. And Tom had friends. They went on a canoe and camping trip up north in the woods of Wisconsin. They stole a traffic sign and brought it home. It went in the basement and just sat there for years. Tom and I went water skiing in our boat on Lake Michigan. The boat was a 16-foot lapstrake Lyman with a forty-horse Johnson motor, which was a little under-powered, but good enough to tow a slalom skier. I was good at the slalom ski. Tom could hitch up the trailer and drive the boat down to Evanston where the launch ramp was. Picture an evening late in the summer, an August evening, hoping for a glassy-smooth flat calm -- ideal for water skiing. The lake was huge and the water was warm in August. You could run the boat for miles, clear up to Winnetka, and back to the ramp, when it was almost dark. We had some fun. But Tom was gone from home when I started high school, the same school where he just graduated. Too bad he wasn't there. He could have gotten me socially established. I had no confidence. I was the dork of all ages.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back at the breakfast table where this story started. It was a big kitchen, but just Mom and me at the round oak table. She might have the ironing board out. No TV, no radio. Mom was the star of my universe. My oldest sister Mary was gone from home. Tom was at college. That still left two sisters at home and my Dad. The funny thing is that I can't remember them being there, I mean in the kitchen when Mom made me scrambled eggs. <br /></div><br /><div><br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div>Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1612112615379000&usg=AFQjCNHYz2poigo09miT0nN2Cbz2qVChtQ" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /><br /></div><div>My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1612112615379000&usg=AFQjCNFaI7rM-Y0qbcXHLaukgBFxv4L31A" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhY71MqXYitEmz-bLb2mLkL8vF5IVMluHFh8ntK6y4uxwCUwUgXNAoVZtNmFz87-O9xJixqoBX0g1kEl_5oGvXVWgj8YL5JCdUSTU1BxuTKMaAY7VspIoq_EBG9nDTidu40v9-GIWYBTGQjfQn6KeAQlj7gzObK6ktRmaU9r8YW4E_fXJwZ6GMS1qhoKuQmoMQvXCxlxXQbpwt2Nav9lAvVxghZQrueiOU5PYSKEdw3-tejZn0Zjh1N_tn6-5-a5wwo=s0-d-e1-ft&id=0BxIzsAjFX0DBQzF4Z2JJVnpyeFk&revid=0BxIzsAjFX0DBdlV5dG4zMTJnK0JUTmZSTjJLYWI3eldaTTA4PQ" width="96" /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><p> </p>Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-66647198541982284592021-01-27T08:39:00.000-08:002021-01-27T08:39:10.456-08:00The Gap. No posts from September, 2020, to January, 2021<p> The Gap. No posts from September, 2020, to January, 2021</p><p> I have not posted here for several months. I have been working with my son Eugene to establish new formats and we neglected the blog.</p><p> I might resume posting here, but make no promises at this point. <br /></p><p> <br /></p>Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-32961413224690406992020-09-17T10:24:00.000-07:002020-09-17T10:24:00.334-07:00High Anxiety followed by an old story about Stealing Candy Bars<div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>By Fred Owens</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>You can't even quote Woody Allen anymore but he was the master of high anxiety, defined as worrying about nothing, but worrying just the same and worrying because you're worrying. But I want to assure the readers that this is not the case for most of us right now. We are anxious about real troubles, this is not imaginary, this is not a drill. The sky is falling and the ocean is rising. Okay, that overstates it, but you can look out the window and see evidence. Evidence of bad air. Evidence becomes facts and facts have been disparaged by the right to a large degree, as you all know. The right (meaning Trump) has no use for facts, and they don't have any anxiety because they're all going to heaven. So what can we do? I'm not going to present a solution except to repeat my initial point -- your anxiety is about real problems. Please write back and share with us -- how goes it at your house?<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Seven Weeks To Go</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Frog Hospital is published every Friday. There will be seven issues, including this one, until the election November 3. We are prepared for a rough ride. It could get a lot worse. The outcome is uncertain. But problems become opportunities -- really, they do. Our selected leader Joe Biden has surprising strength and stamina. He is going the distance. He can win in November. He can overcome Trump because he is good at politics. That is his greatest strength. We at Frog Hospital have always admired our best politicians. It is the fashion to despise politicians, but why? The alternative to politics is war, dictatorship, anarchy and chaos. I'll take politics and I'll take Biden. He knows how to build a team that can get things done. His first important decision was choosing Kamala Harris as his running mate. She adds strength and character to the ticket, and she represents the beauty and power of the Golden State, which happens to be on fire right now. But do you think this fire storm will stop us or defeat us? Not on your life. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Old Story about Stealing Candy Bars when I was ten.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>Where I grew up in the suburbs of Chicago in the 1950s, nothing ever changed. From year to year it was always the same, incredibly stable. I liked it that way. The trees grew and the weather changed from one season to another. No drama. Here's a story from that time, 500 words, an excerpt titled Stealing Candy Bars from a much longer autobiographical sketch titled Why Was I Born. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>
<p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">I don’t know where I got this
idea because nobody else did it. Or nobody told me about it, but I started
stealing candy bars when I was ten years old. And not from the Drugstore. I was dimly aware not to crap
in my own sweet spot and leave the Drugstore for honest candy. Besides that,
the tall, grey-haired lady was always watching behind the counter.<span> </span>No, I stole from the grocery store over
across Lake Street. I could put a couple of Milky Ways in my pants pocket down
the aisle where no one was looking and just waltz right out of the store. Free
candy. I kept stealing candy bars and I never told my friends, just ate them
myself. <span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">Charlie Swanson lived two
houses down from the grocery store in a tall and narrow wooden house, lived
there with his older sister and his parents.<span>
</span>He was an altar boy with an angelic pose. He had this kind of bland personality,
not too much fun. I didn’t play with him. But there he was one day just
standing outside the door of the grocery store when I came out with pockets
bulging with Milky Ways, and I made the mistake of bragging – that’s how you
always get caught – “Charlie, look what I got, and I stole them. Just took
them. Do you want some?”<span> </span><span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">If Charlie was shocked it
didn’t show on his bland, angelic face. He said, “That’s wrong. That’s
stealing. You shouldn’t take candy bars like that. I’m going to tell the
manager you stole them.”<span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">I turned red as a beet and got
really scared. I knew it was wrong, and now he knew, and pretty soon the
manager would know and then my parents. I was scared. I ran off, around the
corner to the front of the Drugstore. I ate the candy bars quickly.<span> </span>I never stole candy bars again after that.<span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">It was not like Charlie Swanson
was my best friend or anything. He was just someone in my class and I went over
to his house a few times. But this kind of put a strain on things. Telling on
me! <span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">Two years later, Mrs. Swanson
was getting out of her bathtub. She slipped and fell, banged her head on the
side of the bath tub and died, just like that. We all went to the funeral.
Charlie followed his mother’s coffin with his bland, angelic face. Of course he
was sorrowful but it didn’t show.<span> </span>I
wasn’t mad at him anymore for telling on me.<span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">My whole life changed because
of Mrs. Swanson dying in her own bathroom, a perfectly healthy mom, and then
she died. I became an adventurer and risk taker. I roamed the world as a man
and took my chances, some very foolish chances and all because of Mrs. Swanson
-- because why play it safe? Why stay home? You could die in your bathtub.</span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">That's all for this week, but with any encouragement I can publish more excerpts from this story in coming issues.<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";"><br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";">Fred<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype","serif";"><br /></span></p>
-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div>Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1600448379566000&usg=AFQjCNF3yIehyyj6pl9GVlIDo6_J16fw1A" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /><br /></div><div>My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1600448379566000&usg=AFQjCNHVbt-DDqxTs6wy1QyfCDLUErg-pA" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhY71MqXYitEmz-bLb2mLkL8vF5IVMluHFh8ntK6y4uxwCUwUgXNAoVZtNmFz87-O9xJixqoBX0g1kEl_5oGvXVWgj8YL5JCdUSTU1BxuTKMaAY7VspIoq_EBG9nDTidu40v9-GIWYBTGQjfQn6KeAQlj7gzObK6ktRmaU9r8YW4E_fXJwZ6GMS1qhoKuQmoMQvXCxlxXQbpwt2Nav9lAvVxghZQrueiOU5PYSKEdw3-tejZn0Zjh1N_tn6-5-a5wwo=s0-d-e1-ft&id=0BxIzsAjFX0DBQzF4Z2JJVnpyeFk&revid=0BxIzsAjFX0DBdlV5dG4zMTJnK0JUTmZSTjJLYWI3eldaTTA4PQ" width="96" /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-89509040288825419002020-09-10T09:53:00.000-07:002020-09-10T09:53:09.367-07:00Calypso was her name<p>
</p><div><span dir="auto"><b><br /></b></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><b>By Fred Owens</b><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto">Calypso
was her name -- the name of Laurie's horse, an Appaloosa thoroughbred
cross. Laurie got her when she was 2 and kept her until she died at 34
-- that's a long time, 32 years, and Calypso was a good horse. Laurie kept her
in the backyard and hauled in the hay and feed and rode her on the
beach.</span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto">Laurie always wanted a horse since she was a little girl growing up in Manhattan Beach. She and her husband, Paul, bought the house in 1976 here in Santa Barbara, a comfortable three bedroom ranch house on a half-acre lot, with room for a good-sized corral in the back. They bought Calypso the next year for $750. Laurie says she got lucky choosing Calypso, not having the experience of owning a horse. And Calypso was "green broke," that is, not well trained. But it worked out, and Calypso and Laurie became life long friends -- they learned together.<br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto">This part of Santa Barbara was horse country back then. Lots of people kept horses and public/private trails wandered over the hill sides and down to the beach. Now horse ownership is less common because the area has been built up and many of the trails are closed. Still, our next door neighbor Alex keeps a horse in his backyard. We can hear the horse making shuffling noises in the quiet of the night.</span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto">Calypso enjoyed good health most of her life, but had trouble with her eyes in later years, finally going almost blind. After Calypso died in 2009 Laurie decided not to have another horse. In coming issues we will be telling more about Calypso and Laurie's life as a horsewoman.<br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><b>My Car Might Be Totaled. </b>I am distracted from post-car-wreck trauma. I am handling it well and know, and truly believe, that I will get another car and it will be a good one. But here's the story, skipping the details. My car, a 2004 Nissan Sentra which I have owned for 8 years, was innocently parked on the street in front of the house. At about 9:30 on Tuesday evening, Jesus Garcia driving his Lexus for Uber, sideswiped my car causing major damage to both vehicles. Jesus is a nice man with Mercury insurance. I filed a claim yesterday and they said they will come and tow it away today and arrange a loaner. We await judgment -- will they repair it, or offer me a cash settlement? I am not worried about all this. Cars come and cars go. <br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><b>Smoky Air</b>. As of Thursday morning, we are only lightly impacted by the raging infernos sweeping across the Golden State, only a slight odor of smoky air in the morning fog. I called my brother in Sierra Madre, a nice town just east of Pasadena. There is a major blaze too near to their home. Tom said he wasn't worried and the sheriff has not yet come knocking on his door. Tom and Marti have two dogs and do not care to leave their premises. But he did say, toward the end of our conversation last night, that they had several bags packed and ready to go by the front door -- packed with documents, prescriptions, and snacks for the dogs. Marti's daughter in Playa Vista, on the beach, has a spare bedroom and the dogs are welcome. Tom says they will leave if they have to.<br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><b>Garden News -- the Gopher War Continues. </b>Laurie ended the short but sweet life of the gopher that was gnawing off the main stem of her prized tomatoes and peppers. The gopher kills the whole plant that way. We welcome all hawks and owls. Come here and hunt. We encourage Sasha the cat to come prowling for fat little rodents. I will not bore you with garden philosophy and how growing vegetable teaches us life lessons. The hell with that. Those are our tomatoes. We did all the work and we're not gonna allow these welfare-chiselling gophers to get a free lunch.</span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><b>Boredom. </b>We are not bored, as so many people report. True, we are watching more TV than we used to. And it takes longer to find something good on Netflix. But we are not getting fat, getting drunk, abusing prescription drugs or fighting with each other. Laurie and I continue to enjoy each other's company. We will never run out of good books to read. I have a half dozen Dickens novels in storage. I could easily read them a second time. As it is right now I am reading Million Dollar Baby, a collection of short stories by boxing writer F.X. Toole. Laurie is reading a Margaret Atwood's after the Flood.<br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><b>Too much news. </b>These are uncertain times. I am writing this on Thursday morning. It will be published on Friday afternoon. Who knows what will happen next. Don't be discouraged. I saw Democratic VP candidate Kamala Harris give an interview on CNN a few days ago. She is worried about all the same things that you and I are worried about, but she is doing her best to make it whole again. She's going to do her part, and we will do our part. That's all for today. Stay safe and stay healthy. <br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div>Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1599763276977000&usg=AFQjCNEyaABgbiQMLxoNZzYy29uGxATUBA" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /><br /></div><div>My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1599763276977000&usg=AFQjCNFJHNTXs9lZLpRnCLjg22jMUp4nyg" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhY71MqXYitEmz-bLb2mLkL8vF5IVMluHFh8ntK6y4uxwCUwUgXNAoVZtNmFz87-O9xJixqoBX0g1kEl_5oGvXVWgj8YL5JCdUSTU1BxuTKMaAY7VspIoq_EBG9nDTidu40v9-GIWYBTGQjfQn6KeAQlj7gzObK6ktRmaU9r8YW4E_fXJwZ6GMS1qhoKuQmoMQvXCxlxXQbpwt2Nav9lAvVxghZQrueiOU5PYSKEdw3-tejZn0Zjh1N_tn6-5-a5wwo=s0-d-e1-ft&id=0BxIzsAjFX0DBQzF4Z2JJVnpyeFk&revid=0BxIzsAjFX0DBdlV5dG4zMTJnK0JUTmZSTjJLYWI3eldaTTA4PQ" width="96" /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-18965359988373671452020-09-03T08:19:00.002-07:002020-09-03T08:20:37.565-07:00At Our House
<div><span><span> <br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span><span><b>By Fred Owens<br /></b></span></span></div><div><span><span><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span><span><b>At Our House. </b>Laurie
has picked over 150 pounds of Concord grapes from the solid old vine in
the back garden. These grapes are for juice and jelly or just to eat
fresh. We processed seven gallons of juice for the freezer, and to enjoy
on special occasions throughout the year. Then Laurie posted on the
Internet to sell the rest of the grapes at $2 a pound. We also expect a
bountiful harvest of passion fruit in October, some hundreds are green
now but will develop that ripe purple color in due time. Last year
Laurie sold her passion fruit at a dollar a piece and took in over $300.
The almost ancient avocado tree, which has not had much fruit in the
nine years that I have been present on this hacienda, is showing
hundreds of ripening fruit which will be ready for harvest in March. So,
in summary, it has been a good year for grapes, passion fruit and
avocados, but the reliable golden delicious apple tree is taking a
well-earned year off and not yielding much fruit.... Laurie just
reminded me that the apple tree had a ton of fruit just last year and
made many pounds of apple sauce. <br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>We
are sad realizing that the Thanksgiving party at her brother's house in
Manhattan Beach will likely be cancelled this year. Not this year the happy
house jammed with loud boisterous relatives, not the table overburdened
with food, not Uncle Sam sprawling on the couch in the den watching the
football game the whole time. But it will be like this for many families
and we will all get by. <br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><b>The Cat Caught the Rat. </b>Laurie's cat caught a small rat the other day and brought it into the house to play with. She let it go and ran around and caught it again, numerous times as we sat on the couch. Laurie grabbed it with a pot holder and took it outside.Sasha is 14 years old, a brown-grey tabby of a shy nature. She is not known to be a hunter, but this week she is showing us that she can hunt if she wants to. Sasha loves Laurie more than anybody else. She always wants to sit in Laurie's lap when we watch TV. She will sit in my lap if Laurie is busy, but I am clearly her second choice. Laurie got Sasha as a kitten, from a friend, who had two cats from two litters. So Laurie picked Sasha and Ripple to take home. Ripple was the same age but from the other litter. Ripple died a few years ago and Sasha's life changed in a big way when she lost her life-long buddy. She became more needy, less distant, which was understandable. If you come for a visit to Laurie's house you are not likely to meet Sasha. She will hide in the bed room until you are gone. That is her nature. Sasha loves to go down to the garden and nose around, but she almost always waits until someone goes with her. -- well, she isn't stupid, there are big creatures out there. <br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quotations_from_Chairman_Mao_Tse-tung"><b><span><span><br /></span></span></b></a></div><div><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quotations_from_Chairman_Mao_Tse-tung"><b><span></span></b><b><span><span>What was the Little Red Book?<br /></span></span></b><b><span></span></b></a><div><br /></div><span><span></span></span><div><span><span>Quotations from Chairman Mao and chanting slogans from the Little Red Book -- In 1969 I saw a group of students from Michigan chanting these sayings when I attended the SDS convention in Chicago that summer. SDS stands for Students for a Democratic Society. Anyhow I attended for one day and as fate would have it I was seated directly behind Yippie Elder Abbie Hoffman. Now Abbie was the weirdest guy I knew at the time, but he was within established parameters. He was an All-American weirdo, you might say. Anyway, at this SDS convention, groups were competing for the chance to be super hostile to established norms. The Maoists from Michigan chanting with Little Red Books were the most extreme. Abbie Hoffman thought they were round the bend and off the chart and if Abbie Hoffman thought they were too much, then you know they were really too much. Well, he got up from his folding chair and left the meeting. So did I.</span></span></div><span></span><div><div><span><br /></span></div></div><div><div><span><span>Keep in mind that in the late summer of 1969, hundreds of young American men were dying every week in Vietnam.(242 in one week, according to Wikipedia) So who was being extreme?</span></span></div></div><div><div><span><br /></span></div></div><div><div><span><span>The question coming from a small-town conservative friend was "Are these Maoists still around?' The answer is yes, Elaine, they are still here, still active in small numbers, kind of like small pox spores in a freezer. Avoid contact.</span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><b>Political comment deleted</b></span></span></div><div><span><span><b><br /></b></span></span></div><div><span><span>We are proud to be publishing our first cat story, celebrating the fabulous life of Sasha, our cat. Why disturb that peaceful passage with harsh words about the political climate? I did write something about the election a couple of days ago, but I looked it over this morning and found it depressing and fearful -- we can't have that. So I shared this gloom with Roger Barcant, my old friend in London. He is more consistently cheerful than most people. I think it comes naturally. But he made it all better, so thanks, Roger.<br /></span></span></div><div><span><span></span></span></div><div><span><span></span></span></div><div><span><span></span></span></div></div>
</div>
<br clear="all" /><br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div>Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1599149158073000&usg=AFQjCNGcIB7VVd0eMz2jWVuvCp_0gEmHJQ" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /><br /></div><div>My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1599149158073000&usg=AFQjCNFO_dIcPnlSRdgXD1u-kP5POtS7pA" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhY71MqXYitEmz-bLb2mLkL8vF5IVMluHFh8ntK6y4uxwCUwUgXNAoVZtNmFz87-O9xJixqoBX0g1kEl_5oGvXVWgj8YL5JCdUSTU1BxuTKMaAY7VspIoq_EBG9nDTidu40v9-GIWYBTGQjfQn6KeAQlj7gzObK6ktRmaU9r8YW4E_fXJwZ6GMS1qhoKuQmoMQvXCxlxXQbpwt2Nav9lAvVxghZQrueiOU5PYSKEdw3-tejZn0Zjh1N_tn6-5-a5wwo=s0-d-e1-ft&id=0BxIzsAjFX0DBQzF4Z2JJVnpyeFk&revid=0BxIzsAjFX0DBdlV5dG4zMTJnK0JUTmZSTjJLYWI3eldaTTA4PQ" width="96" /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-16649892113715754292020-08-27T12:48:00.001-07:002020-08-27T12:48:22.207-07:00Love with the Proper Stranger<span><span></span></span><div><b>FROG HOSPITAL -- August 28, 2020</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Love with the Proper Stranger<br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>By Fred Owens</b><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><div><span><span>Love with a Proper Stranger, starring Natalie Wood and Steve McQueen, 1963. <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v%3DEh-p2kJsiNc&source=gmail&ust=1598545251939000&usg=AFQjCNHX4C12jZIRuXJFc8yygrr0aEQz8w" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eh-p2kJsiNc" target="_blank">This is the trailer.</a> We watched it last week on Turner Classic Movies. Black and white, romantic drama/comedy.</span></span></div></div><div><div><span><br /></span></div></div><div><div><span><span>She gets pregnant and finds him at work to let him know. They hardly know each other. Only one night, you see, but one night was enough. He is a musician living with Edie Adams, a dancer in a friends with benefits situation, although they did not use that term in 1963. But McQueen is willing to help Natalie find a doctor to terminate the pregnancy. They gather the $400 fee but the doctor proves contemptible and they both refuse to go through with the procedure. So, now what? Under pressure from her older brother, McQueen agrees to marry her -- to do the right thing, which is what some people did back then and some still do today. She refuses his dutiful proposal, it's not love, she says. Anyway, through this and that they actually do fall in love and he woos her with bells and banjos. Great movie. I've seen it several times. McQueen's only romantic movie. He plays a guy who is not used to traditional romance. In other words he is playing himself. She plays a young woman who wants to get away from her traditional family. Natalie Wood is the all-American girl in every way -- she reminds me of my big sister who was 24 when this movie came out and going out in the world with her own job and her own apartment and in no hurry to get married, which was a bit unusual at that time. McQueen plays it well too. He had just finished the Great Escape with the fabulous motorcycle chase and he was up to the challenge of a romantic lead -- but he is so much better than Tom Cruise in action or in romance. Natalie Wood is everyone's big sister even if you don't have one. She was just how it was supposed to be in 1963, before it all changed. She is what America looked like in 1963.</span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>And 1963 was the last year you could say that. The civil rights movement was looming. After 1963 if the cast of a movie was still all-white, it wasn't supposed to be. You could either give Sydney Poitier a serious part or else prepare a good excuse why he wasn't included. Integration was the goal. We were all going to mix together. It was inspiring.</span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>Seeing to these changes was James Baldwin among other luminaries. He is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v%3D5Tek9h3a5wQ&source=gmail&ust=1598545251940000&usg=AFQjCNESkus_YuX0oR5CSg3oI9rYi2tFnw" href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Tek9h3a5wQ" target="_blank">shown here in a famous debate</a> with conservative ikon William Buckley at the Oxford Union in 1965. Talk about crisp diction. These two fellows outdid each other on presentation. Buckley, and I'm being charitable, represented the brakes on the train of progress. Both of these fellows had been through this dance on other stages, using well-worn yarns and words pronounced so carefully they were almost chewed.</span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>Baldwin made his point -- that the goal was that men like Buckely, although probably not Buckley himself, but some white men in any case, might rise to the level of power and vision that was already in the possession of Baldwin and his fellow Negro advocates. It was not, and Baldwin said this in a dozen different ways, an equality where he was to rise to Buckley's level, but the other way around. Such a bold stance was shocking in 1965 when Baldwin addressed the Oxford Union. Such pride and ego! And yet one can find in his writing and speeches, without too much trouble, moments of humility and the humor and smiles that come with that humility. One prayed, almost hopelessly, that Buckley might some day achieve that same humility, but he only became uncomfortable. You can see him squirm in his chair when Baldwin was speaking. <br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>Notice the archaic language, Negro where we would say African-American. And he, where we would say he or she. It was the grammar of integration and the proper thing in 1965 <br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>Maybe this isn't useful, reviewing a movie from 1963 and a civil rights debate from 1965. It could be that I am just more comfortable with these words and these actors from times past.<br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><b>Fire and Flood. </b>Stuart Welch, the former owner of the Rexville Store in LaConner, helped me to make sense of the current disaster. We have multiple connected disasters all caused by climate change. Fire in California, flood in New Orleans, pandemic virus globally, economic dislocation, and a President who is clearly unhinged -- all connected and related, said Stuart in wise reflection. It is one great big problem and to know that and describe that is more than half way to a solution. so let us keep connecting the dots. <br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><b>At Our House. </b>Laurie has picked over 100 pounds of Concord grapes from the solid old vine in the back garden. These grapes are for juice and jelly or just to eat fresh. We processed seven gallons of juice for the freezer, and to enjoy on special occasions throughout the year. Then Laurie posted on the Internet to sell the rest of the grapes at $2 a pound. We also expect a bountiful harvest of passion fruit in October, some hundreds are green now but will develop that ripe purple color in due time. Last year Laurie sold her passion fruit at a dollar a piece and took in over $300. The almost ancient avocado tree, which has not had much fruit in the nine years that I have been present on this hacienda, is showing hundreds of ripening fruit which will be ready for harvest in March. So, in summary, it has been a good year for grapes, passion fruit and avocados, but the reliable golden delicious apple tree is taking a well-earned year off and not yielding much fruit.... Laurie just reminded me that the apple tree had a ton of fruit just last year and made many pounds of apple sauce. <br /></span></span></div><div><span><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>We are sad realizing that the Thanksgiving party at her brother's house in Manhattan Beach will be cancelled this year. Not this year the happy house jammed with loud boisterous relatives, not the table overburdened with food, not Uncle Sam sprawling on the couch in the den watching the football game the whole time. But it will be like this for many families and we will all get by. <br /></span></span></div><div><span><span>'<br /></span></span></div></div></div>
<br clear="all" /><br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div>Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><span><span>t</span></span><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1598545251940000&usg=AFQjCNGW4ZXptJF8OsYzOt6HkBjdS1r82A" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /><br /></div><div>My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1598545251940000&usg=AFQjCNE1atLQTYNA9MEwji5r8h8MWCZxzw" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhY71MqXYitEmz-bLb2mLkL8vF5IVMluHFh8ntK6y4uxwCUwUgXNAoVZtNmFz87-O9xJixqoBX0g1kEl_5oGvXVWgj8YL5JCdUSTU1BxuTKMaAY7VspIoq_EBG9nDTidu40v9-GIWYBTGQjfQn6KeAQlj7gzObK6ktRmaU9r8YW4E_fXJwZ6GMS1qhoKuQmoMQvXCxlxXQbpwt2Nav9lAvVxghZQrueiOU5PYSKEdw3-tejZn0Zjh1N_tn6-5-a5wwo=s0-d-e1-ft&id=0BxIzsAjFX0DBQzF4Z2JJVnpyeFk&revid=0BxIzsAjFX0DBdlV5dG4zMTJnK0JUTmZSTjJLYWI3eldaTTA4PQ" width="96" /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-9763536819641903572020-08-20T10:11:00.001-07:002020-08-20T10:11:15.380-07:00The Fire Next Tiime<div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>By Fred Owens</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i>God gave Noah the rainbow sign, No more water, the fire next time!</i><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>E<span dir="auto">ugene
asked me what I wanted for my birthday, June 25. I said James Baldwin. I
had read several of his novels when I was a kid and I thought it might
be worthwhile to read them again. So Eugene sent me Collected Essays, which
includes The Fire Next time. I read a few pages as a warm up to see if my serious reading brain still worked. I often read
challenging works during the sixties when I was in college, but these
days I often look for something easy and I'm afraid Baldwin is not too
easy. But worth the effort.</span></div><div><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div><span dir="auto">
</span><div><div dir="auto"><div id="m_1886045987544541273gmail-jsc_c_fe"><div><div><span dir="auto"><div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Baldwin is rich. Here is one section from Down at the Cross, written about his coming of age when he became 14.</div></div><div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">"Negroes in this country -- and Negroes do not, strictly or legally speaking, exist in any other -- are taught really to despise themselves from the moment their eyes open on the world. This world is white and they are black. White people hold the power, which means they are superior to blacks ...." <br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
<div><div dir="auto"><div id="m_1886045987544541273gmail-jsc_c_bz"><div><div><span dir="auto"><div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span dir="auto"><div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">The Fire Next Time by James Baldwin, was published in 1963, about 50 pages, 2 essays. This is difficult for me to write because it is a serious book and I have never, in all my years writing, written a book review. So I'm going to ask people to work with me on this. </div></div></span><div><div dir="auto"><div id="m_1886045987544541273gmail-jsc_c_bq"><div><div><span dir="auto"><div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">I asked Eugene to find a public domain photo of Baldwin that we could use to illustrate the essay. "Whatever looks good," I told him, figuring he would choose one of those deadly serious author poses so commonly placed on the back cover of a book. Instead he selected Baldwin smiling in sun glasses standing next to Marlon Brando. They were friends, it turns out. They even roomed together for a period. And Baldwin is showing a Hollywood smile with lots of teeth. Not that he had good teeth, because he didn't, but you know he had his moments when he knew he was as good as Marlon Brando. <i>Viva Zapata</i> was my favorite Brando film, followed by <i>On the Waterfront</i>. "I could have been somebody. I could have been a contender, instead of a bum, which is what I am." <br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /></div></div><div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">I could have been somebody. I know exactly what that feels like. Brando I understand. Not James Baldwin. I don't understand him. No, that's not right. Let me try and say it another way. Baldwin describes his life and his options as a young black man in Harlem. I know I don't understand it. I got the book out on Monday and raced through the fifty pages in two days. It was intense. But I didn't get it, so I'm reading it again.</div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /> </div></div><div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">In 1963, that was the year of the big civil rights rally in front of the Lincoln Memorial. Baldwin was there, of course. Brando was there. That's when the photo was taken. It was a tragic time, August, 1963. Kennedy was assassinated in November. Malcolm X was assassinated in 1965. MLK in 1968. In 1963, when Baldwin's book was published, I was a senior in high school. I didn't have a clue. But I read his books, The Fire Next Time and Another Country and Giovanni's Room. That was a world I didn't live in.</div></div><div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
<span dir="auto">Now
I am reading a short story by James Baldwin titled Sonny's Blues. Sonny
is the younger brother by seven years of the narrator. Sonny plays the
drums and piano in various pick up groups at jazz clubs around Harlem,
but doing heroin, which concerns the narrator who wants to help his
younger brother find that thing that matters. I am on page 30 of the
story which goes to 36 pages..... I don't think I have ever been to
Harlem. I was at Columbia University for a Tikkun Conference in 1994 --
from the campus you can look down the hill to see Harlem, but I never
went down the stairs.</span> <br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
<span dir="auto">I've
never written about race, couldn't do it justice. We watched the 2016
documentary on the work and life of James Baldwin, titled I Am Not Your
Negro. Baldwin has a very expressive face and an elaborate diction.
Where am I taking this? I was in Africa for a year and married an
African woman and we lived together for seven years. What did I learn? I must have learned something, just not much to write about now. I might do better writing about the
time Jim Smith and I went fly fishing in Montana, right outside of
Yellowstone Park, on the Madison River, full of hungry trout and easy to
catch. Now I'm comfortable with that. But the Fire Next Time is not
approachable. Well, Mark Twain could not write that story either. He would put Baldwin on a raft and call him Jim, but without the humor. Mark Twain would rip up draft after draft trying to write about Baldwin. He would curse a lot, puff on his cigar and give up. Norman
Mailer would put Baldwin in a boxing ring fighting at the welterweight level and the result would be embarrassing. So if I
screwed it up I would be in good company.</span></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: start;"><span dir="auto">To be Continued .....<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: start;"><span dir="auto"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: start;"><span dir="auto"><br /></span>
</div></div></span></div></div></div></div></div>
</div></div></span></div></div></div></div></div>
</div></div></span></div></div></div></div></div>
</div><div><br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div>Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1597938146923000&usg=AFQjCNHCrJ7-_cDnASfDcgSdPxvbrxeMCA" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /><br /></div><div>My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1597938146923000&usg=AFQjCNGdTgUhrmKZpnaA7Di5UapWw60CZQ" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhY71MqXYitEmz-bLb2mLkL8vF5IVMluHFh8ntK6y4uxwCUwUgXNAoVZtNmFz87-O9xJixqoBX0g1kEl_5oGvXVWgj8YL5JCdUSTU1BxuTKMaAY7VspIoq_EBG9nDTidu40v9-GIWYBTGQjfQn6KeAQlj7gzObK6ktRmaU9r8YW4E_fXJwZ6GMS1qhoKuQmoMQvXCxlxXQbpwt2Nav9lAvVxghZQrueiOU5PYSKEdw3-tejZn0Zjh1N_tn6-5-a5wwo=s0-d-e1-ft&id=0BxIzsAjFX0DBQzF4Z2JJVnpyeFk&revid=0BxIzsAjFX0DBdlV5dG4zMTJnK0JUTmZSTjJLYWI3eldaTTA4PQ" width="96" /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-41071212915413445732020-08-13T09:50:00.001-07:002020-08-13T09:50:20.419-07:00Precious Comes to America<div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>By Fred Owens</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>The
photo shows Precious shivering in her winter coat but obviously
enjoying her first glimpse of the daffodils in the Skagit Valley. This
was in February, 1998.<br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>"It's
really cold in America and there are white people everywhere, you sure
you want to go?" I asked her and asked her again. "Yes," she replied
with no elaboration and no declaration of goals about how America was a
dream of Disneyland, wealth and freedom. For her, life in Zimbabwe was
not only harsh, it was boring. To me life in Zimbabwe was exotic. To her
it was like New Jersey. A question I never asked, because I didn't want
to hear the answer was -- did you marry me to get a visa?</div><div><br /></div><div>We
got her a visa, it took four months. At one point I had to call Ed
Burke, the attorney, who lived in Framingham, Massachusetts. Ed had
recently retired from a position as state senator in Massachusetts and
began a private law practice. He was the widowed husband of a college
classmate, that's how I knew him. I left him $5,000 on retainer before I
went to Africa, figuring he might have to bail me out of jail or get me
out of the hospital. He didn't ask for the retainer, but I thought
paying him in advance like this would simply guarantee faster action and
greater conviction. Because what if I did end up in jail or in hospital
in Zimbabwe, who would get me out? Ed Burke. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This
turned out not to be a problem, but we needed to jump through some
immigration hoops to get her visa, so Ed took care of that. A funny
thing is that she needed a criminal background check among other
documents. We had to drive four hours to Harare to get that document
because the issuing agency had run out of stamps and could not mail it.
This is Africa, waiting for stamps. But we did not want to wait for the
stamps so we drove the four hours and there was Precious's criminal
background report sitting on the bottom of a stack of un-mailed letters.
<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We collected the document and looked it
over. "Precious, it seems you were arrested for assault a few years ago,
how did that happen?" She immediately launched into an elaborate
fabrication of events. The boldness of her dishonesty astonished me.
There was a fight. Somebody hit somebody else. Somebody called the cops.
Somebody -- that would be Precious -- got arrested, but it wasn't her
fault. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This situation did not disturb me.
I knew her to be very feisty and strong. I had seen her look out for
herself. Sometimes an African woman has to do that. And how much safer
and easier would it be for her being a black woman in America?</div><div><br /></div><div>We
drove again to Harare for the interviews. Separate interviews were held
at the American embassy to determine if our marriage was a matter of
genuine affection and not some pay off for the visa. The embassy staff
was charmed by our mutual appeal and gave us the thumbs up. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We
got the visa in late February, 1998, and bought plane tickets to the
Promised Land. Precious was never one to show excitement but we did get
to the airport more than two hours early, her first time on a plane. We
landed in Jo-burg for a four-hour layover. Precious did not fear flying
but the escalator scared her to death so we took the elevator, which did
not scare her. Whatever. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>A long plane
ride to NYC, a hop to Logan Airport in Boston for a short visit with my
son. It was very cold and there were white people everywhere. Precious
did not admit to being afraid but her face broke out in pimples, because
she was afraid. But she was strong and there was no going back. We flew
to Cleveland and visited my daughter at Oberlin College. Then we flew
across the country to Seattle and took the bus to LaConner, just in time
to see the daffodils blooming. It was very cold. She never complained. I
think she liked it.</div><div><br /></div><div>We bought a house. I made
sure it was what she liked and I put her name on the deed alongside my
name. We lived in that house for six years and then got a divorce. I
guess you might say we ran out of things to talk about. I don't want to
criticize her behavior or mine. It just didn't work out. And truthfully
most people who knew us were not surprised. We didn't look like a
couple, didn't fit in the grand plan. Except there is no grand plan. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>For
a long time afterward, I wished I had never gone to Africa and I wished
I had never married Precious, but I got over that. I did get a good
story. Precious lives in Pennsylvania now and works as a nursing aide.
She returns to Zimbabwe every few years to see her family.</div><div><br /></div><div>The End.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>The Fire Next Time</b><span dir="auto">. Eugene
asked me what I wanted for my birthday, June 25. I said James Baldwin. I
had read several of his novels when I was a kid and I thought it might
be fun to do it again. So Eugene sent me Baldwin's Collected Essays, which
includes The Fire Next Time. I will read a few pages in coming days and
let's see if it still works -- my reading brain. I often read
challenging works during the sixties when I was in college, but these
days I often look for something easy and I'm afraid Baldwin is not too
easy. But worth the effort?</span>
<div><div dir="auto"><div id="m_-4351506715980833411m_984461655608611278m_5911988325962206465gmail-m_-4574884976631057103gmail-jsc_c_2e8"><div><div><span dir="auto"><div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;"><br /></div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">Baldwin is rich. Here is one section from Down at the Cross, written about his coming of age when he became 14.</div></div><div><div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">"Negroes
in this country -- and Negroes do not, strictly or legally speaking,
exist in any other -- are taught really to despise themselves from the
moment their eyes open on the world. This world is white and they are
black. White people hold the power, which means they are superior to
blacks ...."</div></div></span></div></div></div></div></div><br clear="all" />
</div><b>The Election. ..... </b>Current events can be
overwhelming, but the news about Kamala Harris is uplifting......
Harris, quoting Biden, said "There is room for everybody." That is a
hopeful mantra. The African story comes to a close this week. There are
many more stories coming out of Africa, but who will write them? The
entire text is about 35,000 words and could be worked up into a proper
book manuscript. That is possible. But my energy, for the next few
months, is getting Biden elected in November, so we are giving Africa a
rest for now. Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-68655371440814349322020-08-06T10:29:00.000-07:002020-08-06T10:29:31.363-07:00waiting for the bus<div><b>FROG HOSPITAL -- August 7, 2020</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Waiting for the Bus</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>By Fred Owens</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>I have these moments when everything is just right and this was one of them. We were sitting by the side of the road waiting for the bus. It feels calm, I mean who knows if the bus will ever come or if it ever has come, that's not our problem. It's for us to wait. And she was being kind to me, as you can see in the photo. She gave me the shade, me being fair-haired from northern climates and not used to the hot African sun, while she was at home in it. So she gave me the shade. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Waiting for the Bus is what people do in Africa. You can buzz right through it as a tourist, or sign up for an NGO and do some decent development project like teaching children to read, or helping to re-build the well in the village that goes dry half the year. But you don't become Africa, you don't be Africa unless you're waiting for the bus. That's hope and no hope. I got to be Africa, waiting for the bus after many false starts. They could tell I was trying to get somewhere, until I finally realized I was already there. That's Africa, when you be Africa. But by then my time was up. That's what I said at the beginning of this story. It doesn't matter if you love or hate Africa, or if you want to stay forever or leave tomorrow. You are given so much time and given by whom I cannot say but you are given so much time, and when that time is up, you better heed the signal because it's time for you to leave, and you should be mighty grateful that you got to stay here at all. I got to stay for a year and sometimes she gave me the shade.</div><div><br /></div><div>We got back from Malawi in early November.........Mr. Mataka and his two daughters, Marji and Winnie, stayed behind to share secrets with Amina, to tell old stories around her small cooking fire, and she laughing the whole time. But Precious and I headed back to Blantyre, the big city in Malawi and there I almost got killed by an angry mob. This man accosted us. He seemed to know Precious very well. He began to shout that I had stolen his wife and I must give her back. Quickly a crowd formed and the language became more heated. I was frightened. But Precious rose to the occasion and confronted this pig. She said to the pig, You do not own me. I am not your slave to order around, I go with this man now and we are married. You were a pig to me, but he is kind. So shut the fuck up and go back to your lemonade stand. You are bothering me. I will call the police and you will go to jail........ so she said to this man speaking in Chewa, which is the language of Malawi. She was very calm. The bystanders drifted away. Some old boyfriend I guess. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This reminded me of how little I knew about her. She had two passports. One from Malawi said her name was Precious Mataka and that she was 25 years old. The other passport was from Zimbabwe and said her name was Precious Sibanda and that she was 32 years old. I did not believe either one. I figured I would never get to the bottom of the common African practice of multiple identities. She was who she said she was when she said it.</div><div>Well, I said, I guess you are.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The photo was taken right near Victoria Falls and we had come out to this road to view the world's largest baobab tree, called the Livingstone Tree, named after Scottish explorer David Livingstone. They never tore down his statue when they kicked out the colonial govt. in Zimbabwe. They tore out all the other statues of European heroes, but they left Livingstone standing because he did no harm. He just wanted to find his way.</div><div><br /></div><div>Who took the photo? It must have been my daughter Eva who came to see us that summer of 1997 in the few weeks before we got married. Eva stayed with us before starting college in September. She took the photo. Then she got on the bus and saw her own adventures in the cold mountains of Chimanimani, which lie near the border with Mozambique. The guerilla partisans used to pass through there into Zimbabwe from their training camps in Mozambique but that war ended in 1980. Still it was wild, rugged country and I can't believe I let Eva go there all by herself having just turned 18.</div><div><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/09/coronavirus-american-failure/614191/?fbclid%3DIwAR2X-12fOENQMIyIRo6VsyWCS0k--xtf3HNHETgScB237j8AJoNZzQIim94&source=gmail&ust=1596817947218000&usg=AFQjCNGVRxRApogf-_5XPoN0FhMHFTDMkA" href="https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/09/coronavirus-american-failure/614191/?fbclid=IwAR2X-12fOENQMIyIRo6VsyWCS0k--xtf3HNHETgScB237j8AJoNZzQIim94" target="_blank"><br /></a></div><div><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/09/coronavirus-american-failure/614191/?fbclid%3DIwAR2X-12fOENQMIyIRo6VsyWCS0k--xtf3HNHETgScB237j8AJoNZzQIim94&source=gmail&ust=1596817947218000&usg=AFQjCNGVRxRApogf-_5XPoN0FhMHFTDMkA" href="https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/09/coronavirus-american-failure/614191/?fbclid=IwAR2X-12fOENQMIyIRo6VsyWCS0k--xtf3HNHETgScB237j8AJoNZzQIim94" target="_blank"><b>How the Pandemic Defeated America </b></a><span dir="auto">Defeated,
yes, but it's not over. This matter of fact story in the Atlantic does not hide the
truth but just lays it all out. I accept this judgment and say we can fix this if we first make a ruthless explanation of how it happened. Trump and the attitude that elected him is the biggest problem. But the whole notion of private health care and insurance by means of employment needs to be challenged. The last paragraph reads, "</span>The pandemic has been both tragedy and teacher. Its very
etymology offers a clue about what is at stake in the greatest
challenges of the future, and what is needed to address them. <i>Pandemic.</i> <i>Pan</i> and <i>demos</i>. All people."</div><div><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/emotional-fitness/202008/if-you-re-not-happy-right-now-s-totally-normal&source=gmail&ust=1596817947218000&usg=AFQjCNHDimwI3PWsXr0idFrAF-4uRaSuQw" href="https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/emotional-fitness/202008/if-you-re-not-happy-right-now-s-totally-normal" target="_blank"><br /></a></div><div><b><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/emotional-fitness/202008/if-you-re-not-happy-right-now-s-totally-normal&source=gmail&ust=1596817947218000&usg=AFQjCNHDimwI3PWsXr0idFrAF-4uRaSuQw" href="https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/emotional-fitness/202008/if-you-re-not-happy-right-now-s-totally-normal" target="_blank">If You're Not Happy Today, That's Totally Normal.</a></b> Barton Goldsmith explains this in Psychology Today. More than a thousand Americans are dying every day, plus many more thousands are dying around the globe. The human family is under great duress. So, to put it bluntly, these are not happy days. He writes, "Right now, I don’t think there’s any way to manufacture happiness when there is so much going wrong in our world.....
your job is to survive—having a good time and feeling happy again will come later if you just do that."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Africa Knows How to Survive. </b>Africa has survived every disaster since the beginning of the human race. Africa can say, better than anybody, that we're still here, we've always been here, and we always will be here. Africa is the place where herd immunity was invented. Individuals may die but the tribe lives on. This is something I neglected to mention in my quest to visit Chembe village and meet with Amina, the wise sister of Mataka, because this is where the human race originated. Somewhere around here, many thousands of years ago, a young creature stood up on her hind legs, looked around and realized that she was different from all the other creatures. She realized that she was a human being. And she began the process, taking many thousands of years, of finding out what it means to be human, a process that began somewhere near Chembe Village and continues to this day, to this pandemic. So tap into that life force and survive. And when it's time to be happy crack open some cold beers and smile, because that's what they do in Africa. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>In the Next Issue, Precious and Frederick Begin Their Migration to America. </b>Leaving Africa, Coming to America. They got married September 1, 1997, the day after Princess Diana died. They made a honeymoon homecoming journey to Chembe, Precious's ancestral village. They came back to Bulawayo and began the visa process. Precious is about to take her first flight in an airplane. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>See you next week,</div><div><br /></div><div>Fred<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br />
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</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr"><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div><div dir="ltr"><div>Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1596817947218000&usg=AFQjCNHPEaMRKR2NIVZk5bUiyb8wz0ni1Q" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /><br /></div><div>My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1596817947218000&usg=AFQjCNEOhcQmRcPvaLAPULVoN8zMtaIKvA" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><img height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhY71MqXYitEmz-bLb2mLkL8vF5IVMluHFh8ntK6y4uxwCUwUgXNAoVZtNmFz87-O9xJixqoBX0g1kEl_5oGvXVWgj8YL5JCdUSTU1BxuTKMaAY7VspIoq_EBG9nDTidu40v9-GIWYBTGQjfQn6KeAQlj7gzObK6ktRmaU9r8YW4E_fXJwZ6GMS1qhoKuQmoMQvXCxlxXQbpwt2Nav9lAvVxghZQrueiOU5PYSKEdw3-tejZn0Zjh1N_tn6-5-a5wwo=s0-d-e1-ft&id=0BxIzsAjFX0DBQzF4Z2JJVnpyeFk&revid=0BxIzsAjFX0DBdlV5dG4zMTJnK0JUTmZSTjJLYWI3eldaTTA4PQ" width="96" /><br /></div><div><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-41771000369639484682020-07-29T11:15:00.001-07:002020-07-29T11:15:45.719-07:00hey dude<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<b>FROG HOSPITAL -- August 1, 2020</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Hey Dude!</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
I don't know about that exclamation point in the title, but hey Dude, I'm the Dude, a slovenly white man who takes advantage of his dwindling privilege to go to the liquor store in his pajamas. He can get away with stuff like that. I was thinking of myself, reviewing crazy, stupid things I've gotten away with over the years. Like why didn't I get arrested, or scolded, or kicked out? Because I 'm smart and good-looking? So I thought. Actually it was just privilege.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or this nice neighborhood where I live with Laurie in Santa Barbara near the beach. Having few funds amd fewer marketable skills, how did I get included here? Because I fit in. Because I feel comfortable and people don't wonder what I'm doing here. I belong here. That's privilege. Privilege doesn't explain everything. The term is currently being over-used. I'm using it now but I am usually at the tail end of these trends.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The leaders in language reform are way ahead of me. Like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, or AOC. She is a definer. She gives new meaning to current vocabulary. Her judgment is impeccable, in my view. I liked very much the way she handled Congressman Bloho. And you know he said it sideways, not to her face, but going away, close enough so she could hear it, but far enough away that he could deny saying it. Trump is the master of this sideways slur. What me? I didn't mean it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Her speech in defense of good conduct was very good. Every word and every phrase held my attention. Not rehearsed, but prepared. The Congressman gave her the set up she was waiting for and she hit it out of the park. The wrong man said the wrong words to the wrong woman at the wrong time. And the world changed. You could feel it. I'll use that word again -- impeccable.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He used the b-word. The vocabulary of nasty pejoratives aimed at women is extensive. That's the low ball. Matched by an often phony high range -- the lady madonna phrases. Her purity of spirit! Her angelic beauty! Good grief.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What is missing is the mid range, the tone of equality. Men have neutral words like dude, buddy, fellow and guys. Some of these words could cross over and become gender-free. Gals doesn't work. Not Babes. Not Dolls. Woman is always right and it is the safe choice. Young man works better than young lady as a term of address. I use Sir or Ma'am a lot. You won't get in any trouble saying those words. All I'm saying is that I deserve to have a place on the committee. AOC can be the chairperson for new usage. I just want to have a say in it. Race is also getting the overhaul, but I am not talking about that today. Like Thug, being ruled racist. I go along with this, but reluctanly. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I forgot Dame. Dame is just right, informal but not pejorative. It was common usage back in the day. Let's bring it back. Like in a detective novel, this dame says to me.....</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Batchelor cannot be salvaged. Spionster is much too sad. But we are stuck with Single, a word devoid of color. Are you single? I hate it. Let's come up with something better than Single. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What's wrong with old? Like Old Man, that sounds okay to me. Old Lady doesn't work however. See the problem? But in any case old is good, in my view. I'm old. I was young once, then I got old. Does that bother you? Kiss my grits. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Good Morning America.</b><span><span> </span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span>Watching Good Morning America with George Stephenopoulis -- it's my favorite TV show. I made the effort to learn how to spell Stephenopoulis. This is a good way to start the day. The news, the weather, a bit of cooking, fashion, sports, adventure. Not too cheerful. They smile, but not too much. And the ads are good too, mostly local businesses in Santa Barbara -- arborists, garage door installers, carpet salesmen --- businesses I support. </span></span><div>
<div class="gmail-">
<div class="gmail-_1mf gmail-_1mj">
<span><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="gmail-">
<div class="gmail-_1mf gmail-_1mj">
<span><span>Massive quarantined boredom is creeping across the land. I called my brother last night -- we had nothing to discuss. Folding laundry and stuff like that. We're going to need a pandemic pep rally, because people are down, with the serious matter of knowing this will last until Christmas easily, and knowing we might likely lose family and friends. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div class="gmail-">
<div class="gmail-_1mf gmail-_1mj">
<span><br /></span></div>
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<div class="gmail-">
<div class="gmail-_1mf gmail-_1mj">
<span><span>Cheerful news will happen. Biden will win. We will begin to smile again and have a little zest. Let's get through this.</span></span></div>
<div class="gmail-_1mf gmail-_1mj">
<span><span><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="gmail-_1mf gmail-_1mj">
<span><span>That's all for this week. Remember, Precious and her family are still in Chembe Village in Malawi. They are communing with their ancestors, so let's give them some quiet. We will hear from them later.</span></span></div>
<div class="gmail-_1mf gmail-_1mj">
<span><span><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="gmail-_1mf gmail-_1mj">
<span><span>Bye for now,</span></span></div>
<div class="gmail-_1mf gmail-_1mj">
<span><span><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="gmail-_1mf gmail-_1mj">
<span><span>Fred</span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr">
<div dir="ltr">
<div>
<div dir="ltr">
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<div dir="ltr">
<div>
Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1596122632991000&usg=AFQjCNHmGIIvWQCUmOBSaR3n8q2h69NQPA" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /></div>
<div>
My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1596122632991000&usg=AFQjCNF11kkXj3ZCUtSjhA1Z6dHD6MHz5g" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a></div>
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<img height="60" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhY71MqXYitEmz-bLb2mLkL8vF5IVMluHFh8ntK6y4uxwCUwUgXNAoVZtNmFz87-O9xJixqoBX0g1kEl_5oGvXVWgj8YL5JCdUSTU1BxuTKMaAY7VspIoq_EBG9nDTidu40v9-GIWYBTGQjfQn6KeAQlj7gzObK6ktRmaU9r8YW4E_fXJwZ6GMS1qhoKuQmoMQvXCxlxXQbpwt2Nav9lAvVxghZQrueiOU5PYSKEdw3-tejZn0Zjh1N_tn6-5-a5wwo=s0-d-e1-ft&id=0BxIzsAjFX0DBQzF4Z2JJVnpyeFk&revid=0BxIzsAjFX0DBdlV5dG4zMTJnK0JUTmZSTjJLYWI3eldaTTA4PQ" width="96" /></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-29687725465970181422020-07-22T13:41:00.000-07:002020-07-22T13:41:03.977-07:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<b>FROG HOSPITAL -- July 24, 2020</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Amina Was the Younger Sister of Mataka</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Amina
was the younger sister of Mataka. She had lived her entire life in
Chembe Village. She was the happiest person I have ever known and she
had such pretty feet. I doubt she ever wore shoes. I would encounter her
as she walked the 200 feet from her cook shack to the small mountain
stream that provided water for the village. She pittered and pattered in
light steps carrying a clay jug for the water. She would stop to set
down the jug and talk to me. Her smile dazzled me and she told me many
stories and gave me much courage in my endeavors and said she hoped we
had come to Chembe to make it our home. She spoke to me in her language
called Chewa, which I did not understand, not a word she said, except
for the smile and the wonderful life-affirming energy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But
she put her smile away for the camera when I took this photo. It was at
a village wedding and hence I had permission to take photos and it was
expected. We see Mataka on the left with his Muslim hat. We see Precious
in her pretty dress which I had bought for her in Pretoria. We see
Amina looking down, wearing her festive wrap skirt. And finally we see
Lysson Rashid, a young man of the village, looking quite at ease.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chembe
was a quiet place. It was a Muslim village and hence had no dogs, no
barking or growling at night. In the first light of dawn, the imam would
sing the first call to prayer. To hear this prayer as it was intended,
without electric amplifying, in a village without electricity was a
haunting experience. The melody is so peaceful. The mosque was a simple
adobe-brick structure, and the imam carried his tattered scriptures
under his arm. The women did not cover their heads as they would in more
religious environs. Here it was simple Islam, as it should be, taken
lightly. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mataka and the two aunties bedded
down in Amina's cook shack, warmed by the last coals of the cooking
fire. Precious and I were given the more honored position, to sleep on a
hard, dirt floor in one room across from the mosque and the chief's
house. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Chembe was the chief. It was his
village, He was most at ease, treating me as an honored guest and quite
his equal. Although I was more than a guest, being married to Precious, I
had pledged my life to the village and Chembe, the chief, might show me
a plot of land where I might build my home, if I chose to do that. But
an equal to Chembe in the sense that he admired me but did not envy me. I
had my college education and world travels, he had two wives. He
quietly brought out and served a bottle of rum. Of course there is no
open consumption of alcohol in a Moslem village, but a quiet drink now
and then never hurt anybody. So Chembe and I talked into the evening,
seated on chairs, what I suspected were the only two chairs in the
village. Hard-wooden chairs. I got tired of that and we went to bed
early, to sleep on the hard earthen floor of the hut. I could begin to
see that I was not built for long-term occupation of such environs, to
live without modern facilities entirely, to grow your own food entirely
or not eat. And do this by hand for there were no tractors or other
machines. No, not for me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We stayed one
week. Any longer and they would have put us to work. As it was, we had
brought many pounds of groceries with us to spread around as guests. And
they killed a goat for us. Goat meat has never done much for me, but I
appreciated the gesture. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Fathers and Sons. </b>My
father published a fishing magazine and he was moved to get one of his
two sons involved in the business and to eventually take it over. I can
understand that desire. I feel a special thrill knowing that my son
Eugene is helping me out. My Dad was quite disappointed that neither my
brother nor I want to get involved in his business. We simply had other
interests. The funny thing is that my Dad never thought to ask one of my
three sisters if they wanted to take over. His bad.
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Back in Zimbabwe.</b> One reader's request
to input stuff about the culture and politics of Zimbabwe is
reasonable. But that is not what I can do.. I stick with what I actually
saw and heard plus my immediate reaction to that. But I can make a
short exploration of that topic. I noticed the utter lack of political
talk when I was there in 1997. Robert Mugabe was the unchallenged
president for life at that point, and people kept their mouths shut
about his rule. You were free to come and go and go about your business.
But to wear a political slogan on a t-shirt was ill-advised. Better to
talk about the football game or the weather. Mugabe's rule was
authoritarian and that was understood. And still is today, even though
Mugabe himself is gone.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Back ground. Zimbabwe used to be Rhodesia. From Wikipedia.</b><b><span dir="auto"><span id="m_1653645346683719552gmail-jsc_c_i"><span><span></span></span></span></span></b>
Cecil Rhodes invaded the Shona kingdom with his private army, took over
all the territory, and founded a colony named after himself. Rhodesia,
which became Zimbabwe. When I lived in Bulawayo I often visited Rhodes's
unmarked grave, high on a granite outcropping in Matopos Park. They
tore down all his statues, but it was too much trouble to dig up his
grave.<b><span dir="auto"><span id="m_1653645346683719552gmail-jsc_c_i"><span></span></span></span></b><div dir="auto">
<div id="m_1653645346683719552gmail-jsc_c_j">
<div>
<div>
<span dir="auto"><div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
Cecil
John Rhodes PC (5 July 1853 – 26 March 1902) was a British mining
magnate, and politician in southern Africa who served as Prime Minister
of the Cape Colony from 1890 to 1896. An ardent believer in British
imperialism, Rhodes and his British South Africa Company founded the
southern African territory of Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe and Zambia), which
the company named after him in 1895. South Africa's Rhodes University is
also named after him. Rhodes set up the provisions of the Rhodes
Scholarship, which is funded by his estate.</div>
</div>
</span></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.facebook.com/fred.owens.56?comment_id%3DY29tbWVudDozNzUwNTAyNDQxNjMyNDEwXzM3NTA1MTM4ODQ5NjQ1OTk%253D%26__cft__%5B0%5D%3DAZXHWqpZnZcFd9hVudJ4B7iDAidqVg_BoJD77I3rGxdFfQ-XVn0K-nW2RoJZ27OYTAITJsW5P0rykzm_EsWqJfKub-jOKKSZKQm7p6cuEz5bSNTUo02xe1Rzw8FgIrLHOQQ%26__tn__%3DR%5D-R&source=gmail&ust=1595536758569000&usg=AFQjCNFOx4N-wHVEWEhG6h5TvqX3Lo335w" href="https://www.facebook.com/fred.owens.56?comment_id=Y29tbWVudDozNzUwNTAyNDQxNjMyNDEwXzM3NTA1MTM4ODQ5NjQ1OTk%3D&__cft__[0]=AZXHWqpZnZcFd9hVudJ4B7iDAidqVg_BoJD77I3rGxdFfQ-XVn0K-nW2RoJZ27OYTAITJsW5P0rykzm_EsWqJfKub-jOKKSZKQm7p6cuEz5bSNTUo02xe1Rzw8FgIrLHOQQ&__tn__=R]-R" target="_blank"><span><span dir="auto"></span></span></a></div>
<span dir="auto"><div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
One
of Rhodes's primary motivations in politics and business was his
professed belief that the Anglo-Saxon race was, to quote a letter of
1877, "the first race in the world". Under the reasoning that "the
more of the world we inhabit the better it is for the human race", he
advocated vigorous settler colonialism and ultimately a reformation of
the British Empire so that each component would be self-governing and
represented in a single parliament in London.</div>
<div dir="auto" style="text-align: start;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
There
you have it, baldly stated. The English folks who settled in what is
now Zimbabwe, believed they were doing the local people a big favor by
demonstrating the superiority of their own way of life, what was called
Commerce and Christianity. </div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
<div>
<b>Back in the USA. </b>As I said on Facebook this morning, the
pandemic and quarantine is getting to be a solid drag, like it will
never end. We are in the endurance phase, being tempted to cut corners
and ignore basic commands. But we must not slack off. It will end, some
day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Please make a contribution to PayPal,
your donation of $5 or $50 will be greatly appreciated. Otherwise we
are especially glad to hear from readers. We need the feedback. Your
comments can lift our spirit and help us do better. Please write to us
and say what you think.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: start;">
<b>Back to Chembe Village. </b>This week's
issue is long enough. We will be back next week with more photos from
Chembe Village, and more stories from Amina, the wise woman.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</span></div>
Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-55548232934489377192020-07-14T10:14:00.002-07:002020-07-14T10:14:34.545-07:00grace's music<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<b>FROG HOSPITAL -- July 15, 2020</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Grace's Music</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Bulawayo, Zimbabwe</b>.
Grace Sibanda is the cousin of Precious Mataka. She lives in Bulawayo
in a modest neighborhood named Nketa Nine. In 1997, when we lived in
Bulawayo, we often took the 20-minute walk to Grace's house. Smiley
Sibanda was her father. Smiley was uncle to Precious. To me, he was
"baba-zala" or uncle by marriage. I liked him. We had many reasonable
discussions while drinking tea in his cozy living room. I once helped
Smiley plant a fig tree and an orange tree in his yard, Grace tells me
the trees are still living and producing great amounts of fruit 23 years
later. I asked Grace to describe her taste in music. People younger
than me will recognize many of the names. </div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Grace's Music</b>. I
<span><span> love reggae, Rnb, a bit of south african hip hop, and
gospel music. My all time favourite artists are luther vandross, joe
thomas, westlife, ron kenoly, adele, brandy, mariah carey, christopher
martin, ub40, bob marley, lucky dube, the gentleman, hillsongs, don
moen, don mcclurkin, kirk franklin, black diamond. Local musicians of my
country are legendary... Oliver mtukudzi, JAH prayzer, ammara brown.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><b>Rugby. </b>Watching
a 2017 Rugby match between New Zealand and South Africa. Rugby is like
playing football without any rules and no helmets. It is very popular in
South Africa. Cricket is also important. I watched a cricket match
once. It is a very silly game I thought. It has that British silly
quality that this mother nation spread to all her colonies. The British
also built good roads and train tracks. But it became time for them to
move on, so the people took over the governance of Zimbabwe in 1980.
They are not doing too well at independence in my opinion. But, being
independent, they never asked for my opinion. Good on that. I only write
about what I see, and very little about what it should be.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><b><br /></b></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><b>God Bless Africa. </b>God Bless Africa is the South African National Anthem. <i>Nkosi sikelele Africa</i> goes the lyrics. Such a lovely stirring song.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<br /><span><span><span><span></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><b>Back in the USA.</b>
The African story, as told in Frog Hospital, was interrupted last month
by personal business. That is, I had back surgery on June 15 to relieve
the chronic pain of sciatica, followed by three weeks of intense
physical therapy. This procedure worked. I am now pain free although
the surgeon carefully advised me that nothing lasts forever.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span>Three
weeks in rehabilitation at the hospital. No visitors. No wandering the
hall, no communal dining. I was isolated except for the nursing aides
who quickly became my new bosom companions. We talked in Spanish. I
called Laurie on the phone and several times she came to the window of
my room and we talked across this barrier. It was hard at times. I read a
lot of books. I watched Good Morning America for national news. The
aides made wonderful friends but the food was terrible. How could you
ruin macaroni salad? </span></span></span></span></div>
<br /><div>
<span><span><span><span>All this put Africa way in the background, but one or several determined readers reminded me that </span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span>I
had not yet finished the story and they were patiently waiting for the
next installment. That is why we have my picture this week with my lush
Covid hair and beard. Next week the photo will be of African life. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span>I also remind everybody that this story serves as a pleasant diversion from the current double disaster of Pandemic and Trump. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span>So
without further ado, let us return to Zimbobwe where a warm September
evening at our rented house might find us lounging on the couch while
watching re-runs of Fresh Prince of Bel Air. It is 1997. The newly weds
are getting ready to go to Malawi. </span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span>
</span></span></span></span><div>
<div>
<span><span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div>
"We
can bring Mataka. He is the grandfather of all to us, and Chembe
village in Malawi is where he was born," I told this to Precious."We can
buy a train ticket for first-class treatment. We will have our own
suite for the journey. Mataka will like that, to have his own bed."
Precious agreed, but she added, "What about Aunt Marji and Aunt Winnie?"
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Marji and Winnie can come. I will buy
them a second-class ticket. They can sleep in their seats. They are used
to that." I said.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><b>to be continued</b></i><span style="color: #888888;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #888888;"><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<span><span><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
</span></div>
<span style="color: #888888;"><div>
<span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
<div>
<span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
</span></div>
Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-11939866059808400392020-06-11T11:19:00.001-07:002020-06-11T11:20:23.356-07:00my name is grace sibanda<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div aria-label="Message Body" aria-multiline="true" class="Am Al editable LW-avf tS-tW tS-tY" contenteditable="true" id=":31l" role="textbox" spellcheck="true" style="direction: ltr; min-height: 300px;" tabindex="1">
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>FROG HOSPITAL -- June 12, 2020</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>FRED OWENS, Editor</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This
week, brought back by popular demand, we can read the rich and
meaningful story of Grace Sibanda, written in her own words. She is the
cousin of Precious Mataka, and the grandchild of Mr. Mataka. She works
in the hotel industry in Bulawayo, her home. She has a husband and two
children. But I'll get out of the way now and let her tell her story
........</span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Photo credit: Fred Owens. I
took this photo in 1997 when Grace was seven. She is on the front porch
of her grandfather's house in Luveve.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>my name is grace sibanda</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>By Grace Sibanda</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My
name is <span data-ddnwab="PR_28_0" data-wpkgv="true">grace</span> sibanda, I was born 15 may 1990, my parents are simile
dick smiley sibanda and cathrine phiri. I stay in nketa
9, bulawayo in Zimbabwe. In my family I am the only girl. I did my
primary education at <span data-ddnwab="PR_29_0" data-wpkgv="true">mgiqika</span> primary school, my high school at Maranatha
adventist high school which was a private institute. I obtained 8units
at primary and at secondary I passed 5 subjects.
Tertiary I did my certificate of hotel and catering at metro institute
and diploma I did at speciss college where I got 5distinctions in all my
subjects. My dad pushed me to where I am today through his
encouragement, he always told me that he was not learned
but he wants us to excel and be successful <span data-ddnwab="PR_30_0" data-wpkgv="true">busines</span> people.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I love my job fred, I got my diploma in hotel and catering in 2015, lv meeting new people even though it keeps me on my toes
all the time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Am renting nearby my parents place, but <span data-ddnwab="PR_31_0" data-wpkgv="true">we building</span> our dream home <span data-ddnwab="PR_32_0" data-wpkgv="true">at silobela</span> where my husband comes from.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Life
was hard for my family during my high school days, the economy in my
country had inflated to the highest level, my dad's
salary was now peanuts, we could barely make ends meet, at that time
they were earning trillion bearer cheques which were useless. What used
to happen in those days you would go to the bank and collect your salary
but after collecting you find prices have
gone up and that money will be useless to buy anything. Prices would go
up 3times in a day <span data-ddnwab="PR_33_0" data-wpkgv="true">it totally</span> <span data-ddnwab="PR_34_0" data-wpkgv="true">insanity</span>. But my dad and mum would take
loans and pay my fees which were very high since it was a private
school. In the morning before school I would eat
<span data-ddnwab="PR_35_0" data-wpkgv="true">left over</span> pap and cow heels /vegetables from our previous supper and go
to school because I had no lunch money. I would not bother asking my
dad because I knew he was also struggling even at work too. Life was so
hard my mum had to resort to baking and selling
scones, doughnuts and plain buns to help the family.<br />
<br />
I loved my grandfather, I adored him, he used to call me nkosikazi wami
meaning my wife. Whenever I would visit him he would put me in his lap
and tell me he has been busy the whole week planting sweet potatoes and
that soon when I visit him he will give me
some, and he loved 2 come 2 my home. Whenever he would come my mum
would cook him his favourite meal which was chicken and pap and before
he would go he would have a cup of tea accompanied with scones, kkk and
my dad will give him some money, he would be so
grateful to them both, and he would use his chewa language to bless
them. He loved his home language chewa but I only learned 2 use the
2words 2greet only which were <span data-ddnwab="PR_36_0" data-wpkgv="true">murimbwanji</span> meaning hello and <span data-ddnwab="PR_37_0" data-wpkgv="true">murimbwino</span>
meaning how are you. He came from Malawi but that
time before he passed away I was young so he never spoke 2 me about it.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">He
loved his family <span data-ddnwab="PR_39_0" data-wpkgv="true">alot</span> and he used to <span data-ddnwab="PR_40_0" data-wpkgv="true">perfom</span> his home rituals whereby he
would invite all his kids and their family and <span data-ddnwab="PR_41_0" data-wpkgv="true">perfom</span>
sadaka(its traditional appeasement to the ancestors). My aunties would
make traditional beer which would be brewed for 7days before being
served on that, and they would slaughter a goat and cook the blood of
that goat without salt and braai the meat, they
slaughter chickens too, and cook them. These would be served with white
rice only. Then before people feast my grandfather will go in centre
and kneel and talk to his ancestors asking for blessings and guidance on
how to guard his family, he would then pour
some of the traditional beer on the ground, and the feast will start,
it was a joyous celebration all the families together in his home.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b>Donate. </b> Please make a donation into the PayPal ikon at the end of the newsletter. All donations this week will be given to Grace.
We hope Grace will write for us again. Her writing style is so personal that you feel she is somebody you already know. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">That's
it for this week. We wanted to give the whole show to Grace, so I will
display my own pearls in the next edition. I am having back surgery in a
few days -- Monday. Recovery from that procedure means that another
issue next Friday is unlikely -- unless Eugene wants to do it. Eugene
will be in charge. He has been a great help to me with <span data-ddnwab="PR_48_0" data-wpkgv="true">this</span> changes we have introduced, such as photos and a semi-firm weekly schedule.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Not
forgetting the further adventures of Precious and Frederick and their
fabulous adventure to Malawi, to Chembe village where Precious's
ancestors are buried. Every urban African has a home village and Chembe
is her true home, for her first visit, with a brand new rich, white
husband in tow. She will make quite a splash. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">People
of Chembe speak Chewa, which goes Mulibwanji --- or hello. Mulibwini
-- how are you? I am taking my kasu -- hoe-- to the mindu --field and I
will cultivate the cassava crop which is nearly ripe. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Please
contribute to the fund in PayPal and we can make a nice cash gift to
Grace Sibanda. I will ask her to keep writing for us. Perhaps she can
share her hopes and dreams --- for herself, for her husband and
children, for Zimbabwe, and for all Africa. Grace, is there hope for a
better world? She can answer that question, or write about something
else if she chooses.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">All my best to you and yours, Fred</span></div>
</div>
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</tbody></table>
</div>
Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-43860833464165798872020-06-04T14:44:00.000-07:002020-06-04T14:44:08.540-07:00 Part Two, Domestic Tranquility<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<b>FROG HOSPITAL -- June 5, 2020</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Part Two, Domestic Tranquility</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
This is the beginning of Part Two of the African Story. Part Two will describe the incredible journey to Malawi, going way back into the mountains, to the little village of Chembe, where Mataka's ancestors are buried and where he grew up. Precious and I took him there, but also we took Aunt Marji and Aunt Winnie, to make a jolly family expedition back to the roots. I myself, being fully and legally married into this family, was welcomed to Chembe village as a long-lost relative come home.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But let's go back to the wedding on September 1, 1997, when Precious and Frederick became united. Very quickly after the wedding, an atmosphere of deep domestic tranquility descended on our rented home at 21 Shottery Crescent. We simply enjoyed ourselves. Our spirit is displayed in this wonderful back yard photo, showing Precious and me in a standoff. This pose tells the entire history of man versus woman. She is in her bathrobe with her hair done up and wearing a pair of blue slippers --- my slippers, in fact, feeling free to borrow them. She has her arms crossed. He has his hands in his pockets. Nobody is giving an inch. These are very stubborn people. Yet it seems playful, and it was. So our life unfolded in our rented castle, as we planned the honeymoon homecoming journey to Malawi.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Editorial</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
I told you last week that we would interrupt the narrative with other things, like an opinion. I try to keep opinions out of the story and to just let things unfold. But this interlude is a good place for such argument. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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<div>
<div id="m_-5870354858265244458gmail-feed_subtitle_100000180736345:-8287972867252420243">
<div id="m_-5870354858265244458gmail-u_jsonp_6_15">
<div id="m_-5870354858265244458gmail-u_jsonp_6_17">
<a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://www.facebook.com/fred.owens.56%23&source=gmail&ust=1591117500461000&usg=AFQjCNEYcg_bf0utIjYjdscq-QplyYU3fQ" href="https://www.facebook.com/fred.owens.56#" id="m_-5870354858265244458gmail-u_jsonp_6_11" rel="toggle" style="max-width: 26px;" target="_blank"></a>I
have not studied the problem in an academic sense, but I did live in
Africa for a year and did marry and live with an African woman for 7
years, and I might have learned something. So here's my opinion on the
whole situation. African men live like kings, they get waited on hand and
foot and so they have no incentive to improve their circumstances, why
give up such a good thing? At Mataka's house the ladies sat outside the
kitchen door on woven mats on the ground. The men sat in chairs
on the front porch. I never saw a man sit on the ground on a mat. I
never saw a woman get preferred seating on the front porch.</div>
</div>
</div>
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</div>
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</div>
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<div id="m_-5870354858265244458gmail-js_rz">
<div id="m_-5870354858265244458gmail-id_5ed13cc2132f68891727919">
<div>
The men aren't going to upset the mango cart. They drink their beer and let the women do all the work. <br />
The best way to change that is to make sure that the young girls get
good schooling. If they get those learning tools from good instruction
then they can turn the entire continent upside down and make it a better place.<br />
The men
would have a little less leisure time, they might even have to fetch
their own beer, but you know, c'mon guys, it won't kill you.<br />
<div id="m_-5870354858265244458gmail-js_rz">
<div id="m_-5870354858265244458gmail-id_5ed13cc2132f68891727919">
<div>
<b>How A Daughter Loves Her Father</b><br />
<i>Grace Sibanda, a cousin to Precious, wrote this memory of her father, Smiley Sibanda. Smiley was uncle to Precious and we often visited his nice home in the Nketa Nine neighborhood. Grace writes in the local dialect of African English. I found it easy to understand and had no desire to correct her choice of spelling and grammar. I found her writing to be powerful and heartfelt. Grace is a young woman who lost her father and she expressed her admiration for Smiley and the grief she has endured since his passing.</i><br />
<div>
<span dir="ltr">Smiley dick sibanda, 3born of patrick mataka. My dad was a down 2 earth
father, he was a go 2 guy, most reliable, trustworthy and a wonderful
counselor .Smiley worked at the Kango factory as the
machine operator. He started work there at
an early age of 18. He worked there till the time of his passing. Smiley
was married 2 Catherine Phiri (my mum) who is a Zambian. Together they had
a small family, Grace and Duncan. My dad had no car but he had a bike
which by that time was the best mode of transport given 2 workers by their
employers. He would go to work and knock off 4pm, get home freshen up and
go to tavern to have a beer or two with his friends. He never liked the
traditional beer but he enjoyed his Castle, and he smoked Kingsgate
cigarettes. </span></div>
<div>
<span dir="ltr"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span dir="ltr">After whiling time with his friends he would come home watch
tv and spend time with us, and he never missed supper with us. His
favourite meal was pap and cow heels, cow insides and vegetables.On
weekends he used spend most of the time with the societies he had
formed, several clubs and burial societies. He was the secretary and in
some he was the treasury, and when his favourite team played he would go
and watch his team play. His favourite club was highlanders club. In his
family he was one man they relied on be it wedding, funeral, parties his
input was essential, a very smart man he was, and clean, he loved his
formal suits, weekends he wore jeans and t-shirts.</span></div>
<div>
<span dir="ltr"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span dir="ltr">My dad was a loving man
who showed me so much in life, he valued education and he always strived
for us to have the best in terms of education and life. I was daddy's
girl. Smiley never got sick he just complained of feeling cold. We went to
the hospital they took some test and gave him some pain stoppers. We went
back home and there was no change. On the second day he passed away. I spoke with him on that day. I left the room and after he spoke to my
mum, then he passed away peaceful. Smiley had a good fight in life. He
might have passed on when we still wanted him but he had an amazing life
which he enjoyed.</span></div>
<div>
<i><span dir="ltr"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<i><span dir="ltr">(Then I asked Grace if she remembered my visits to her home in 1997)</span></i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span dir="ltr">Yes I always loved to see
you, back in the days seeing a white man close to blacks was a rare
experience, and I know my parents loved to host you. Remember the two
trees you planted in our home, mulberry and figs, they still standing and
my mum has memories, wonderful memories.</span></div>
<div>
<i><span dir="ltr"><br /></span></i></div>
<div>
<span dir="ltr"><i>So that is how a daughter loves her father, as Grace loved Smiley. She can tell more stories about her life in Zimbabwe -- her husband, her children, her mother, her work, her happiness and her sorrows. Write back to us and tell us if you liked her story and we will pass this on to her.</i></span></div>
<div>
<span dir="ltr"><i>I would like it if Grace told us more of her story.</i></span></div>
<div>
<span dir="ltr"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="gmail-text_exposed_show">
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- </div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-59076395738557684132020-05-28T13:12:00.000-07:002020-05-29T15:05:18.259-07:00 She Wore A Red Dress<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
After
the wedding ceremony before the Justice of the Peace, we drove back to
21 Shottery Crescent in the same order, Mr. Jones driving, me in the
front seat, Mataka, Precious and Tanti in the back seat. It was a pretty
car, but small. Precious's bridal finery took up all the room. It was a
somber group driving back, as if we had done something important,
something good, and something that could not be so easily undone, as if
the continents themselves were bound together by magical strands, so we
were part of that larger binding. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Or
maybe we were just getting thirsty and it was time for a cold beer back
at the house. Precious looked calm and victorious. Mr. Mataka was
unusually quiet and somber. Tanti was smiling, like she always did.
"These dress pumps I am wearing are starting to hurt my feet," she said
and laughed. Precious said, but in Ndbele so I wouldn't understand, "I
have to pee so bad I think I will scream." I heard her say that in
Ndebele which I scarcely understood and made a mental note to find
somebody, maybe one of her younger cousins, who might teach me that
language. Frankly, Precious enjoyed speaking Ndebele in my presence as
if I might not go there, wherever she was going. Her English was poor,
along the order of "I want to watch TV," and "Are you hungry?" We had a
mutual working vocabulary of less than 100 words, which kept us out of
subtle verbal traps. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We got to the house
and the fifty cousins gave out a cheer and Precious smiled broadly, such
good teeth in her smile I had noticed many times. That was the life
span of our marriage, those seven years, when she finally got tired of
me looking at her. But she was so beautiful, what could I do? She
married a mouth breather. I was always that way, still am.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We
ate the cake, amid much cheering and shouting and the music got louder.
Precious retired to our bedroom to get out of her bridal veils and into
her new red dress, bought for the occasion and quite comfortable. Now
it was done and we could get ready to eat the roast goat, which Joseph
had been tending with slow-roasting affection in the back yard, under
the guava tree. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The roasted goat was
placed on the kitchen table and was quickly sliced and served. The beer
flowed. Beer was invented in Africa some thousands of years ago. It is
the home beverage. First the grain crops were developed, then, by divine
miracle, the grain transubstantiated into beer. They should build a
statue to the first African man who got drunk. We had a bottle of
champagne but no takers. Wine, whiskey were offered but no, just beer
and lots of it. And sadza, or pap, the heavy cornmeal porridge cooked to
the stiffness of mashed potatoes. For flavor, add salt. People say that
Zimbabwe once had an elaborate cuisine, but a century of British rule
ruined it. The British built highways, railroads, and bridges, but
British cooking destroyed the local palate. Still the many cousins were
happy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mr. T and Smiley sat together on the
upholstered love seat, not by choice. But they were brothers and Mr. T
was the oldest and it was his daughter that was married. Smiley's
daughter Grace was only eight and not yet ready. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But
Smiley and Mr. T were in conference over the bride-price. Mr. T was
short of breath and sweating, over-excited, it seems the money was not
forthcoming. Smiley soothed him saying, "But he's white and we can't
make him pay." Mr. T threatened to capture Precious and take her home
because the deal was off. "I will keep her. She can find another man.
This white man is nothing. I have seen this before." The cousins,
rejoicing, established a cone of silence in Mr. T's perimeter. They
could feel his volcanic eruption about to burst and end the party. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The newly weds huddled in the kitchen. "I'm getting bored," Precious said. "We are married now, so they should all leave." </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"But
you know they will leave when the last bottle is empty and the sadza is
all eaten. Then Mr. T. can pile them all into the bed of his old green
truck and take them back to Luveve. After they leave, we shall retire to
the bedroom and drink the champagne. We are Mr. and Mrs. Owens now and
forever," I said.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The next morning we got up
and the house was a mess. Nobody cleaned up, but at least they all left.
We were happy together. We began a period of domestic tranquility over
the next six weeks. Nobody bothered us. We talked about going to Milawi
for our honeymoon. To Chembe village, which was the ancestral home of
the Matakas. It was Precious's true home and we must go there and talk
with Amina.</div>
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"Who is Amina?" I asked her many
times, because each time I asked she gave another answer. "Amina is the
sister of Mataka. She has lived in Chembe village her whole life. She
has never worn shoes. She has never sat in a chair."</div>
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<div>
The
story makes a natural break right here. Precious and Frederick settle
down for a few weeks of domestic tranquility. Meanwhile the folks at
Frog Hospital headquarters -- Eugene and me -- are working on some
changes to the format and content. Nothing too radical and we will be
making mistakes as we experiment. So stick around and as we make changes
be sure to send us an email saying if you like it or not,<span style="color: #888888;"><br /></span></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-30523726509682214262020-05-21T09:49:00.002-07:002020-05-21T09:49:32.208-07:00 I Do, I Do, I Do<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>I Do, I Do, I Do</b></div>
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<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
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Something about her quiet determination got my attention. That morning of the wedding day, we got up and made tea as always. Precious talked about her mother Matilda who had passed away at an early age. Matilda had flown away from the brutality of her husband, Mr. T, going back to her Tonga village and family alongside the Zambezi River, in the hot country. The Tonga were a small traditional tribe and very poor. Precious had only one small wallet-size photo of her mother, as if Matilda had traveled through her tragic life and left no trace, only the photo. Even so Matilda's mournful face moved me. Even today I can see her face and hear her voice although I never met her. She had the soul of every African woman. Precious shared that soul and today she would redeem it. Today was for Matilda, although per her normal custom, Precious did not say those words, having just a wan smile and telling a story about how Matilda went to the market every day to sell tomatoes. "My mother was very kind to me," she said. "Her life was too hard and she died, but I think about her every day. She sold her tomatoes every day and bought me candy when I was a small girl. I can never forget."</div>
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Someone was rattling the chain at the gate of our rented house on 21 Shottery Crescent. Cousin Tanti, the Maid of Honor, had come by herself, without any of her seven children, to do Precious's hair. "It's Tanti," Precious said, "Go let her in." "What are you going to do with your hair?" I asked smiling. She said, "You go and leave this bedroom. You will not see me now. Go over the fence and help Mr. Dlhwayu with his broken motors."</div>
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Fair enough. I took my suit and shirt and shoes to the other bedroom and went for a shower. I had a fresh haircut from the white barber in downtown. This may seem obvious once it has been pointed out, but black people and white people don't go to the same place for their hair. Eat the same food, go to the same school, play hopscotch by the same rules, but hair is the difference. My white barber was gay, he seemed to enjoy brushing up against my leg. He complained to me, a perfect stranger, about being harassed about his collection of pornography. "It's my business if I want to look at art photos. You have to be so careful in Bulawayo. The natives -- and I don't mean just the black people -- are very conservative."</div>
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"I hear you, and you better be careful who you trust," I said, looking around the room, seeing only white men reading magazines -- old Rhodesians, the remnants of a banished tribe. I was not and never could be a member of their club. A white man could sleep with a black woman anytime, but quietly, or talked about in code words. You couldn't marry one, in the open like I was about to do. But it never came up in the conversation, because we never talked. I just knew it was a waste of time. The old Rhodesians were famous for being close-mouthed to strangers. But I got a good haircut. I did want to share my story with the gay barber because he had his own persecution to face, but I did not have the chance to tell him that the haircut was in honor of my wedding in a few days. I said nothing, but gave him a very large tip, which was typical of Americans in Africa. We were loud, we banged into furniture, and we left vary large tips. I thought Zimbabwe could use a few hundred American immigrants --- things I might have said to the old Rhodesians if they had given me the slightest welcome. It didn't matter. </div>
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My shoes were shined in the spare bedroom. My suit and shirt were fresh from the store. I even bought a red tie. "Who is bringing the goat?" I shouted through the closed bedroom door. "That man is bringing it," she said. "What man?" I asked. "That man who brought us together, Joseph from the Palace Hotel. You don't remember?" she said. "How could I forget Joseph? He changed my life. He made me a prince among men because he brought you into my life ..... but will Joseph bring the firewood for cooking the goat because we don't have any?" "Don't concern yourself with that," she said with irritation. "Go back to Dlhwayu and help him fix his car."</div>
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Well, I didn't have anything to do and it was too early to drink beer. Stand around and wait. That's what grooms do. I was finished thinking about it. I could have grabbed my passport and credit card and fled out the back door, and gone out to the airport and caught the next jet going to Johannesburg and then back to America. I could still escape. She would never find me......Nah.... Nah.... I'm staying. I'm doing this. It's like Wyatt Earp at the OK Corral. I'm going to face those demons and start shooting. Maybe die. </div>
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All right, I won't die today but why does a wedding feel like death? The death of a dream? The ruination of fantasy? And where the hell is Mr. Jones? I was expecting Colonel Clifford Jones, retired, Zimbabwe National Guard and my Best Man, to show up with the rental car. Precious was not going downtown in her gown all smashed into my pretty white Nissan diesel truck. We had to pay for a new car rental. </div>
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Three cigarettes later -- I must have been nervous -- Jones drove up in a shiny new rental Honda. He parked it in the driveway and walked over to my vigil spot, my pacing chamber under the pepper tree. He formed a languid figure in his sport coat and tie, sort of a charcoal grey-brown light wool jacket, suitable for hunting foxes. Jones could have hunted foxes, if he had wanted to, he gave that impression, a mixed race warrior and he had nothing to prove. "It's your big day, kid," he said. "Kid? No one calls me kid. You can call me Freddy if you want," I told him. I had scouted out this pepper tree in our front yard a hundred times. With the result of deep research I chose just the right Wedding Day tree limb to lean against while I awaited the bride. If you know anything about trees, you can't just lean against any branch. Men do this the world over. In 1972 in Manhattan in the Lower East Side, at 3 a.m. in the morning, outside a smoky tavern, on a hot and humid August night, I chose the rear fender of an old green Chevy to lean against. I was really cool and then I realized that the guys gathered towards the front of the same car, breathing the same air as me, smoking the same smoke as me, were beatnik poet Allen Ginsberg and his coterie. That's when I realized how cool I really was. Leaning on the same car with those guys. So don't tell me a pepper tree in my front yard in Bulawayo was any different. I chose my leaning limb and struck a pose. And Mr. Jones, without even trying, chose a leaning limb just as cool as mine. That's why I picked him to be Best Man. Let Precious and Tanti do their magic in the bedroom. We had the car ready and we waited, and it was going to take a long time. </div>
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You still going through with this?" Jones said. He looked up and down the road and gave me a chance to reflect. </div>
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"I don't need to think about it anymore. I thought of just running to the airport and catching a plane, but I'm staying," I said.</div>
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"Well, I got the car and I'm your man. You want to fly, let's fly. Cause they're in there right now planning to take over your life."</div>
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"You're against marriage but I'm not. My Mom and Dad had a happy life together. I want that same thing. I always thought I'd be married. I never soured on it. I never blamed myself when it went south. I like being married because it focuses the mind. Precious is who I'm going to deal with, just her."</div>
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"Is it too early for a beer?"</div>
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Guests were floating in. The uncles Ronnie and Milton, both bachelors. Milton was gay. He went to Jo-burg for work and ran with the wrong crowd and got shot and killed a few years later. That kind of thing happens in Joburg. Ronnie came with the usual sad story. Smiley came with his wife and daughter. Maphuto, Patrick, Francis and Christopher were bachelor cousins. Mr. and Mrs. Ndlovu. All kinds of lady cousins all dolled up. I didn't know their names. The house filled up and the crowd spilled over to the yard under the shade of the pepper tree. But people were still quiet and the music was soft, waiting for the bride. Mr. Mataka and Mr. T came in Mr.T's old green truck, or maybe he just borrowed it. Aunt Marji rode in the back with various younger children, Prince, Johnny and Juliano. The Dlhwayus walked over from next door. Bill and Mary Collier, the nasty white people down the street, were invited, but we knew they wouldn't come. Clyde, the cashier at Solomon's fancy grocery store, came with his girl friend. The goat was already roasting. Someone in the back was fixing another fire to boil a big pot of sadza, that heavy cornmeal mush that Zimbabweans never get tired of. </div>
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I was glad to see Mataka and not glad so see his oldest son Peter Lovemore, the one we called Mr. T. Coming for the bride-price. I'm thinking ten cows at $500 each. The cows to be delivered one year at a time, or the cash instead, and people nowadays usually took the cash, which made it a lot less interesting. </div>
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Less the cost of the wedding, which I was paying for. Less a discount for her advanced age, almost 35. Less a discount for already having children, but that was a plus too because it proved she could -- have children. </div>
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I was just not too interested in this discussion. Mr. T would have to wait. I had this advantage because I was not of his culture. He could not make me pay, or shame me or embarrass me. Besides I was already paying for this and that. I paid for school fees and over due water bills and groceries. I was prepared and willing to keep making small payments on a sustainable scale. And not because I owed the bride-price, but because I came from America. For some reason, Americans have a lot more money than Africans. So why not be generous? Later on, years later, Mr. T. got a large chunk of my money, but that was too his ruin. I will tell that part at the end of this story.</div>
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Precious emerged in slow procession from the house, coming out the front door, with Tanti holding her train up from the red dust of Africa. She gave a confident laugh at the crowd of relatives, a laugh that said you thought I couldn't do this, but I can do this and today is my day.. The crowd of relatives parted like waves on the Red Sea. She was beautiful and regal. She looked at me but did not wave, walking slowly to the driveway and the waiting car. Mr. Jones took his position and kept the door open. Precious eased herself into the back seat followed by Tanti. Mr. Mataka came in the other side. I rode up front while Mr. Jones drove downtown to the travel agency.</div>
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We climbed the stairs to the judicial chambers. The agent seated Precious and me at an elegant table where we signed papers applying for a civil marriage. We all stood up and the agent, now acting as Justice of the Peace, read the vows and we repeated after him, that we promised to love one another, cherish and care for one another until death do us part. I thee wed and you may kiss the bride. It was very simple and not overly solemn. It was a good day. Africa and America were united in marriage. We would float down the river of chance and die or not die, but together, and we were bound to each other and what was hers, from the pyramids to Capetown, was now mine, and what was mine, from Virginia to San Francisco, was now hers. And her family joined my family, from the lowest earth to the highest stars above. It was a good day. Outside, maybe ninety degrees and clear skies. Not too hot. We rode in silence back to our rented house at 21 Shottery Crescent, now married, and what would my parents think of this? Surprisingly my father, who died in 1974 and harbored racist views that would never change, told me, in my dreams, that he had a change of heart since he died and went to heaven. "I like that Precious girl. I think she will be good for you." But my mother, who died in 1996, had her doubts. "Don't say I'm prejudiced, but she has no education," mom said. "How can she make a living except to be a housekeeper?"</div>
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<br />-- <br /><div class="gmail_signature" data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr">
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Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /></div>
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My writing blog is <a href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-52630405159197306342020-05-13T11:05:00.001-07:002020-05-13T11:05:26.123-07:00 Precious and Frederick Get Married<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Precious and Frederick Get Married</b></div>
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<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
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We decided on Saturday, September 1, 1997 as the date. That was our plan, but it was not in our plan for Princess Dianna to die in a car crash the day before. This tragic news rocketed through Africa, for Dianna was a beloved figure. Many a humble home had her framed photo on the wall in an honored spot, next to a photo of Reggae star Bob Marley. People were devastated about this unexpected death. And it would have been selfish for the bridal couple to exclaim "What about our coming joy tomorrow?" Spirits were dampened but we took it as no bad omen, for each day has its own story and our story would be told on September 1.</div>
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The owl was a different matter. We heard it softly cooing in the pepper tree in the front yard on the evening of the big day. "Look, Precious, an owl in our tree, how wonderful, what a good sign!" She looked at me with astonishment. Speechless with fear. "They are witches. They are bad luck. We must chase the owl away." But I refused to just switch sides on this matter. Immediately I saw the problem -- where we see owls as symbol of power and wisdom, Africans see them as dangerous bad luck, bewitched and devilish. I quickly suggested an agreement. "I think owls are a good sign for our marriage and you see them as trouble. Let's agree with both. We'll have wisdom and we'll have trouble too." I was pleased with myself for this solution, but I could see that Precious was already bored with the idea, just too much witchcraft in her life anyway, bad spirits. My view indicated that we had a choice, to welcome the owl or not. Her view was fatal. There is no choice, the owl is here and it is bad.</div>
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Do you think we could have talked this over? Do you think we talked over anything? The fifty cousins would descend on our house tomorrow, all happy and ready to party. I had nobody but myself, if you could picture the groom's side of the aisle. Just Mr. Jones, standing for me. And we had Joseph, the waiter at the Palace Hotel, who introduced Precious and me to each other. He got this whole thing started so he took a master seat, on a crate, in the shade of the guava tree in the back yard, near the fire where the goat was roasting. Did I have doubts about all this? I had no compelling reason to get married. We already lived together harmoniously. But I wanted the full catastrophe, to be chained up forever with a wild full-blooded African woman, a most dangerous creature. We would fight to the death, or love each other until death do us part. Somehow death seemed to be involved. </div>
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That evening, Precious was busy with wedding stuff. I didn't ask, but I think it meant a lot to her, to be honored by her family, as first among the fifty cousins, to wear the pearls and lace and gauzy veils of a proper bride. Tanti, the maid of honor, had been over earlier in the day, helping to clean the house and she worked on Precious's hair. My unspoken instructions were to get out of the way and not ask stupid questions. But the cake was already out on the dining table on a cake stand and covered by a veil to fend off flies. We could not store beers on ice because we had no ice or coolers to hold it. Instead, we would send boys over to the Plumtree bottle store, to buy many cold bottles as needed.</div>
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All was well that last evening, and instead of watching TV from the couch, I stepped out into the back yard for star gazing and quiet contemplation. Bulawayo had a half-million residents, but most of the housing was lit with 25-watt bulbs which did not overwhelm the natural stars of southern Africa. Many stars, and quiet sounds. Mr. Dhlwayu, my next door neighbor, was putting his car tools away. I bid him good night and looked forward to his attendance at the reception. Then I paced back and forth by the garden, viewing the rows of strawberries and the tomatoes in cages.And looked up. There was something about the starlit African sky that made all the suffering worthwhile. I mean the suffering of the African people, a land of constant decades-long civil war, a land of ignorance and disease and hopeless poverty. Why could they not develop their country and become prosperous and democratic like us? Why were they taken in slavery, and then overwhelmed by colonial powers, and now, in 1997, ruled by heartless dictators? But they had those stars and that sky. They had nothing but that sky. God it was vast.</div>
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Growing up in a suburb of Chicago, I had the usual interest in black culture, which is to say, I liked the music. Motown, Sam Cooke, Marvin Gaye and Ray Charles. One summer in high school, Doug Serwich and I got tickets to see James Brown playing at Soldier Field. This was adventuresome. Over 25,000 fans came to this show and I believed Doug and I were the only white boys in the crowd. The music was electric. No one sat down from first note to last. James Brown was over the top like I had never imagined....</div>
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Another time we went to the Arie Crown theater downtown, seating 3,000 fans, for Ray Charles. That was cool. But what really blew me away, may have planted the seed in fact that got me to Africa, was when the Raylettes strutted on stage. They were so big and power-packed, big hair, big everything. Forbidden fruit. Not for me. My world was white. I lived in a prosperous leafy suburb. I had a drawer full of nice sweaters and a seersucker sport coat in the closet to wear on hot summer evenings. And I was progressive and modern in my developing views on race. I was not going to be like my father, who some times spoke his prejudice against black people. But I have to put a word in for my Dad here. Yes, he had a bad attitude, but he never expected his children to adopt his views. He grew up poor in St. Louis and he had to fight with black kids on his way to school and fight them again on the way home. And my Dad's whole life was about getting out of that neighborhood and getting to the leafy suburb where he raised five kids, all with nice sweaters, all bound for college, and all ready to correct his language at the dinner table. </div>
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My older brother and I went to the civil rights marches in Chicago that summer of 1966. We walked along side Jesse Jackson and Martin Luther King. My mom approved, but my Dad was furious. It was like that everywhere in Chicago that summer, an argument in every kitchen.</div>
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But it felt awkward. I didn't really know any black people. My high school was all white. The neighborhood and the parish church was all white. There was a prosperous black family in Kenilworth that I had heard about. Otherwise it was Benny the cleaning lady and LC the mechanic at the Shell Station who would go buy us six-packs of Country club malt liquor for drunken binges. Why did I ever drink such swill? But I didn't have any black friends.. It was awkward, but I already said that. I left it at that. My father's way was overcome and so we moved on. And I loved the music. </div>
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But I never dated black girls. Or sought them out. All my fantasies were about white women. It never occurred to me otherwise. I looked at Playboy magazine. All white. Except I did have a thing for Nancy Wilson, the jazz singer. I bought her album just so I could look at her photo on the cover.</div>
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I went to college. I got to know some black fellows from Jamaica. They were nice guys and really good at Ping Pong. I went out West after college and lived for 25 years next to a Reservation and got pretty involved with Native American people. Later, I moved to Boston for six years and joined a Jewish study group. Why Jews? Well, why not? They became good friends. And it wasn't awkward. </div>
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But I never got to know any black people. I mean, it's not like I had a check list, but still, when my mother died in 1996 and I went back to Chicago to straighten up her affairs -- that's when I started to think about this. </div>
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Any reasonable single man, who had buried his mother, had sent his two kids off to college, paid off his debts, and still had some coin left from the estate -- that reasonable man would have booked a flight to Jamaica, to idle in the shade of a palm tree, smoking doobies and sipping rum in the company of a very beautiful Jamaican lady. I could have done that for six weeks and come refreshed and enlightened.</div>
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But no, I had to go all the way to Africa, to Zimbabwe, to meet and marry a totally fearsome African woman named Precious. That was more than taking the plunge, that was taking on a hurricane from the Third World. No baby steps for me, but whole hog. I was enjoying the calm starlit African evening in the back yard of my house -- rented, but still very much mine. I had somehow transferred my life and existence half way round the world to cast my lot with a woman who I did not really even understand. So of course I married her. Because I didn't want her to get away. </div>
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<br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr">
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Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1589318336841000&usg=AFQjCNHQr-AR_xxwj6smofflu6PazS0rfw" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /></div>
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My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1589318336841000&usg=AFQjCNF_4ZooQgFt1WwWSQyoJQ0JrcitRQ" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-71961895208958917052020-05-09T12:15:00.001-07:002020-05-09T12:15:58.266-07:00 Do You, Mr. Jones?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Do You, Mr. Jones?</b></div>
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<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
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Do you know something is happening, Mr. Jones?" I said that to Clifford Jones, Retired Colonel Clifford Jones of the Zimbabwe National Army, currently residing on Plumtree Road one block from our house on Shottery Crescent. Jones I call him. Owens he calls me. His wife Audrey and my bride-to-be Precious are fast friends, apt to get loud and raucous after a few beers, turning up the music loud and trying to get us to join them, but Jones and I retreated to his back yard.</div>
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"I don't like all that noise," he said. "Those two are trouble. Why are you getting married anyway? You see my trouble here. Do you want that kind of life? If you marry Precious you will be chained. You will have to feed all of her family. Every single cousin will come and knock on your door. And be very humble. And sit on the couch in your living room. Until you feed them. So you feed them. But that's not enough. They want beer. Then they want a bed for the night unless you give them bus fare to go someplace else. This is what my life is like with my family, all these cousins.</div>
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"Go look in my refrigerator. It's empty. We have no food. All my relatives ate the food. None left for us. These days we only go out to eat at a restaurant. So my advice to you is that if you get married to Precious you move far away from her family. Otherwise they will take every penny. Believe me."</div>
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Jones stretched out his lanky frame in the lawn chair in his weed-full, unkempt rag-muffin of a back yard. "You're not inclined to smell the roses are you?"as I noticed the squalor of dead flowers and creeping weeds.</div>
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"No, I leave that to Audrey. She is my little pumpkin. She can fix the garden if she chooses, but she doesn't choose to dabble in dirt."</div>
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"Jones, if she is happy, then what else matters. So, you must know that I came over here to ask you a favor. This is not what you expect. Not about money. What I need is for you to stand with me next Saturday when I get married. I will be making promises and I need somebody strong to stand with me. But don't answer right away. Don't say yes you will do it until we have more time to talk."</div>
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Jones yawned and then gave a small cough. He did not seem a soldier, not all stiff and proper, or tough and corrosive in bearing. Jones was easy-going in posture and in principle. He smiled too easily. I didn't trust him. He sent men to their death during the Revolution against Rhodesia..... But I did trust him to stand as Best Man. I was not looking for a paragon of virtue. </div>
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Precious was inviting her family to the wedding, the fifty cousins. She had more cousins than friends, but friends were coming too. What about me? I was starting to feel like the loneliest white guy. I had no cousins, no comrades. If I could find just one man to stand with me, then we could face the black horde. </div>
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"You see, you're coloured. You're a coloured man, you know, mixed. Your father was Irish" </div>
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"No, he was Welsh. And my mother was Kalanga from Plumtree. They never married. The law would not allow it."</div>
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"So, do you feel mixed? Are you at odds with yourself or are you blended? Because you look like a mocha."</div>
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"A mocha?"</div>
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"Yes, light brown. You don't see too many coloured people in Bulawayo. Do you guys all know each other?"</div>
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"What!"</div>
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"Sorry, bad joke."</div>
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"Ugly fucking American! ... I was there in your country years ago. What I could see is that all the American black people are not black. They are coloured, like me. They are not African. The slave masters raped the African women and from that you get Muhamed Ali. He is not black. He is coloured like me."</div>
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"Yes, I see it in the bones of your face. But you are a little like me. I am white. You are part white. You can stand with me. Do you agree?"</div>
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"I do agree. Audrey and I will come to your house on Saturday for the wedding. I will be your Best Man."</div>
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"Good, because you can do it, and no one else can understand this," I said. </div>
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<b>The Cake Stand. </b>Meanwhile we were shopping for a wedding cake. In Zimbabwe they follow the British tradition, of a dense fruit cake baked months ago and soaked in brandy. You buy the cake and they put the icing on. I should have taken a photo. The cake was beautiful and Precious and Fred Love Each Other, it said in the letters of pink frosting</div>
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"And we need a cake stand," she told me. "What is a cake stand?" I asked. "It holds up the cake for all to admire." "But we don't need such a cake stand. I have never seen one." Precious looked at me as if I knew nothing about weddings, which was true. And she had that quiet way about her, not being the talkative type. "Otherwise we need a cake stand." I quickly agreed to that purchase. "Of course we need a cake stand, " I shouted with joy. "A big beautiful expensive cake stand." That's why you can see that I wanted to get married. Because it was my pleasure to give her things that she wanted. This is why Colonel Jones loved his wife Audrey and called her little pumpkin, even though she was far from little in size.</div>
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And a gown for her, rented, elaborate, traditional, that is European-style, white and lacey, very pretty. And I bought a suit, black, too big and baggy, for $100, with a white shirt and a red tie. </div>
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And a goat, to cook and serve to the fifty cousins. and two trays of anti-pasta from a downtown deli, which no one ate at the reception, no on but me. Everyone else wanted the goat and the sadza.</div>
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A truckload of beer, and a reservation to visit the Justice of the Peace, an Asian man who ran a travel agency and maintained judicial chambers of polished wood on the second floor of his building. This Asian man would preside as we made vows.</div>
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And a rented car to carry the wedding party. Precious would bring Mr. Mataka and Tanti, Aunt Janet's daughter. Mr. and Mrs. Jones would come in their own vehicle. </div>
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And wedding announcements to mail back to America.</div>
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Suddenly we were in a big hurry to get it done. As if someone was chasing us, and we better keep running. </div>
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<b>Do You Need Me? </b>People asked me why did you marry her? Did you love her? They should ask her too. It's patronizing to think hitching up with me was the best chance she would ever have, although she did have a smile on her face like she hit the jackpot. Precious, did you marry me because I am a rich white man who can take you to America? "Yes," she answered, "but there was more than that. I married you because we both like that Don Williams' song on the casette. I married you because you showed me how to skip stones on a pond of water." Is that all? Any other reasons to stay with this guy until death do you part. "You're a white man, you won't beat me or have another girl friend, and you're cute, kind a old, but cute." </div>
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But you Fred, why did you marry Precious? "I married her because I was lonely. My mother died and there was no one to look after me, My mother used to make me breakfast and iron my shirts, but she died, and there was no one to take her place. So I went to Africa and met Precious. You remember that first day when we were together in the rented room on Airport Road? She fixed my breakfast and ironed my shirts. So I wasn't lonely any more. I fell in love. Plus she had a really great ass.</div>
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I'm skipping her faults. She had a full range of bad habits and a history of bad choices, equal to mine. Tales of moral depravity that you can find in any cheap novel. Her drinking habit, her assault conviction, her inability to tell the truth, her tenuous grasp of monogamy. her failure to understand delayed gratification when making financial decisions. It's a rich topic. My own pathetic needs -- ironing shirts? weird -- lack of responsibility closely allied with a lifelong sense of entitlement and privilege, my failure to plan and make long-term goals, my twisted understanding of what women want based on 16 years of Catholic education. I could continue.</div>
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Oh, we were a pair of mangy dogs all right and neither one of us as good as we might be, but it was my life, it was her life, and we decided to get married just because we could. Our favorite song was I Believe in Love by Don Williams, the American country singer. When she wanted to make love to me she said, "Do you need me?"</div>
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<br />-- <br /><div class="gmail_signature" data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr">
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Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /></div>
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My writing blog is <a href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-45986114239208640852020-04-29T10:29:00.001-07:002020-04-30T16:06:56.186-07:00 On the Way to Smiley's House<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>On the Way to Smiley's House</b></div>
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<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
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Details and depth do not come easily to me. I could write about the chain on the gate. Next to the mailbox on Shottery Crescent. The chain held the gate shut, but it also served as a door bell. A visitor would grab the chain and give it a shake. It was so quiet in Bulawayo that we could hear that distinctive sound of a rattling chain out by the street. That meant we had visitors. And the heavy manilla rope we used to make a swing for a limb of the pepper tree. It lasted only a few days before it was stolen. That's how you learn. Nobody steals a rope in America, it's not worth the trouble, but the will steal it in Africa. Same with the garden hose -- which must be put in the house at night. Of course lots of the neighbors had five and six foot walls for security, and some had dogs to scare off intruders. Our yard was openly fenced all around with a light wire mesh,.......... I could write about the poinsettia hedge that lined the driveway, with so many bright red blossoms..... The lantana bush was on the other side of the front yard. The lantana, which is grown in appreciation in Santa Barbara becomes an invasive pest in Zimbabwe, covering thousands of acres with impenetrable brush. ..... These are details, as for depth, that is coming. My daughter said to me before she flew back to America. She said, I don't think you really love her. Or maybe it became a question, Do you really love her? I could not answer. But Precious swept the yard almost every day with a twig broom wearing a pretty wrap skirt, seemingly without effort. She swept the yard like a poem. So gracefully. The bare red-clay ground was smooth and hard as a rock in the summer heat. </div>
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I loved her, but I didn't want to marry her unless I could distinguish her in some way from her cousins. They all blended together. Too many cousins, strong and pretty, more modest in bearing than Precious, who was the oldest and first of her generation, first born of Peter Lovemore who was first born of Grace and Patrick Mataka. Grace, who was deceased but clearly full figured or, as they say in Botswana, traditionally built. Mr. Mataka himself was of a smaller size, and not tall. So you could see who inherited the larger physique -- Molly was a big woman, the oldest daughter, and Peter Lovemore who was a big man, and he was very black, the blackest of all Mataka's children. And the smartest, that was Peter Lovemore's tragedy. He had a brilliant mind and no way to put it to use. He should have had an education or some path of advancement. Instead he worked at a foundry and stole small loads of scrap metal when the boss wasn't looking. Unless the boss was looking and was in fact implicated in the theft. So Peter Lovemore used his big size and impressive brain for petty crime. And womanizing. And spousal abuse. And violence against small dogs and children. He was a hateful man who scarred Precious in ways that were not visible. She might have this sullen look on her face at times, caused by an unconscious memory of her father's brutality. We called him Mr. T because he only drank tea and never drank beer, which is unusual in Africa where everybody except the church people drink too much beer. </div>
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From our house it was a twenty minute walk to Nketa Nine, home of Smiley, Precious's uncle. You took the walk out the front gate, left down Shottery Crescent to Wellington then right a short distance to the Plumtree bottle store, a big and busy market with its own bakery for fresh bread daily, and a butcher shop next door where hung a half a cow on a chain, ready for your steak order to be cut fresh. Cold beer, shoe polish, fruits and vegetables. Whatever you needed. Then past the Plumtree bottle store, down a slanting side road, with country-side blonde and grassy fields on the left, and a row of modest houses on the right side -- houses with garden growing chimolios, although that did not distinguish these houses because every garden in Bulawayo grew chimolios, which were a kind of collard green growing on a stalk. They grew abundantly and carelessly and you just picked a few leaves before dinner to make your relish. Hardly ever saw it sold in the market because everyone grew it, but did see many tomatoes sold in the market and few in gardens -- trickier growing tomatoes, what with pests and the need for constant watering and few people had hoses, it was bucket by bucket of water for thirsty plants. And sweet potatoes. Don't forget the sweet potatoes. Everybody loved them. And the baobob tree -- in that we were unusual because they don't grow in the climate of Bulawayo, it's too cool at 4,400 feet. But I planted one baobab from seed just to see if I could. That was in 1997. I like to think it's still there growing, but frost probably killed it after we left.</div>
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<b>Nketa Nine</b>. I never asked the obvious question, Why do they call it Nketa Nine and where is Nketa Eight? Well. I never asked too many questions -- that doesn't work in Africa, in my opinion. We could walk to Smiley's at a slow saunter in twenty minutes. He was the uncle of Precious, maybe the favorite. Smiley was small like his father and not big like Mr. T, his older brother. He was a tough little bastard. I imagined him walking home at night in the dark from the beer hall. No one disturbed him. He walked with strength and confidence and he was well known. His mustache fit his face, and he did smile, but not that often. He worked at the tire factory and rode his bike there, saving his bus fare so he could drink his beers at the open air beer saloon near his house. I like to think he was faithful to his wife which means, in Africa, that he didn't fool around outrageously. That's another question I never asked -- who is sleeping with who. I just got the distinct impression that monogamy was honored in the breach, and the women strayed too, except they didn't have bragging rights. And this lack of fidelity caused a lot of pain. But that's me talking.</div>
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Smiley had been an athlete, had played for the Highlanders, the Bulawayo football team when he was younger. He had the fierceness of a good runner. His house was tidy and warm. Set just aside the railroad tracks at the end of the development. You could see the freight trains, not very often, heading for Plumtree and over the border into Botswana. And he grew fruit trees in his small yard, probably guava, I don't recall. His wife, <i>mamazala </i>to me, or mother-in-law, was a generous women, quiet, but not too quiet. I imagined that she would even stand up to Smiley at times, when no one else around, at least she seemed respected in her home and did not cower, like Mr. T's wife. She baked scones in her small oven and sold them to neighbors, making the small money that was so important. She would fix eggs and toast for Precious and me when we visited, and we would sit in her tidy living room, resting our plates on the doilies of upholstered chairs. She served tea, and Smiley would be present, but not commanding. I thought they were a good couple. And she was the same size as Smiley, not too tall or too wide, but like him, only softer and not so wiry. </div>
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Their daughter Grace was my favorite child, about eight when I knew her in 1997. She had beautiful eyes and a sweet smile. We liked each other a lot. In fact, we still like each other, because Grace and I are still in touch and she reads all the episodes of this family memoir and sometimes provides information, and often provides encouragement.</div>
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Ronnie, the youngest Mataka brother occupied the back bedroom. He was an unhappy man. He worked for the Indians at their store in an upscale neighborhood. They treated him badly and paid him poorly. He could not seem to find a girlfriend. I felt sorry for him.</div>
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<b>Gosh. </b>Gosh, this is getting to be long enough. Just picture Precious and I walking slowly back from Smiley's house to the Plumtree market, to buy steak and beers for dinner, and then two more blocks to our place on Shottery Crescent.</div>
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-- <br />
<div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr">
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Fred Owens<br />
cell: 360-739-0214<br />
<br />
My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1588114454757000&usg=AFQjCNGPROK5Pl1dkmZ7XSjVLJFNZVGXTQ" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a></div>
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My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1588114454757000&usg=AFQjCNFGqwggyRNVVsq-NzopQq29VGfOtg" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-72430422992158925192020-04-26T10:53:00.002-07:002020-04-26T10:53:24.867-07:00 Why Do They Call Me Zodwa?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Why Do They Call Me Zodwa?</b></div>
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<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
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<span><span>But Precious and my daughter Eva did not look alike. Except for the matching green shorts. There was just the two of them -- two very important women in my life, playing dice with my heart. I feel like I could have described Eva better.. I'm reading short stories by Somerset Maugham and every story starts with a description of the main character -- full lips, sallow skin, perfect teeth, a stiff back, stern icy eyes. I wish I could do that. But all I can do is write Eva, you know, Eva, my daughter, can't you tell what she looks like? Can't you imagine what she looks like? Can't you fill in the details yourself? </span></span></div>
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<span><span>Precious never hinted at wanting to go to America. It was after we got married and I began to feel very homesick that I asked her. Do you want to go to America, and she said yes. That was the whole conversation. But I warned her it can get very cold and there are way too many white people there. But then we went through the visa process, which took a few months but was not terribly complicated. It turned out to be much simpler that we had married in Zimbabwe. The US recognized that as a legal marriage and Precious was eligible for a green card. So then it was just a matter of assembling documents -- which is not that easy in Zimbabwe. Then a criminal background check. It seems Precious had once gotten arrested for assault. Gosh dear, how did that happen? I asked her. Other complications too. Basically once we decided to go back to the states it became inevitable and she never bugged me about it. I figured if she could take the rafting trip she could handle a trip to America. And I wanted to go home. </span></span></div>
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<span><span>The truth is that Precious, when I met her, was simply not fitting into life at home. She was at loose ends. No husband, no home of her own. Like she really didn't belong there, like she had some future but she didn't know what it was. Then she met me. She was my trophy wife, sure, but looking at it from her side, I was the horse she rode in on. It seemed like a good match. She lives in Scranton, Pennsylvania now. I have not heard from her in several years. </span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span>She had a daughter age ten, named Bathabile, who lived with Precious's uncle, in a very nice but modest house. It was a good home for that child who nevertheless felt somewhat abandoned by Precious and not on my account. More than once I told Precious to bring Bathabile around thinking that she would become my step daughter. Bathabile would visit us for a few days, but then Precious would send her back to the uncle. The maternal connection was not strong, but in such an extended family not necessary. Precious herself was raised by her grandparents.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span><span><span><span><span>I'm forgetting, her name, Zodwa, or Zotwa. You can spell it either way. This was not her legal name, but her family name. I never used it. I tried calling her Zodwa a few times, but then she would give me this look, like a laugh with half a quiet snort. That's the you wouldn't understand look. I explained this a little bit with the skin and the hair. I could understand black skin, but I could never understand black hair -- unknowable. Not in this lifetime.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span><span><span><span><span>Same with her family name, Zodwa, which means Too Many Girls. The name was Mr. Mataka's idea. He named her Zodwa. Let him explain this in his own words:</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span><span><span><span><span>"You see, I had five daughters, all good children, Molly, Margi, Jennifer, Janet and Winny. And four sons, Peter Lovemore, Smiley, Milton and Ronnie. That was my family and my wife was Grace from down by Plumtree. She was a fat woman and very strong. People see my first daughter Molly and ask how she got so big. They didn't know Grace. Grace was too big even until she died. When Grace died her people in Plumtree came to Luveve to claim her body to be buried. You see, I never paid all the <i>lobolo </i>for her. This is how we do it in Africa. You pay for your wife. But I never finished all the paying so they came and took her back to Plumtree. She is buried there.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span><span><span><span><span>"Then my children grew up. Peter Lovemore was the oldest. His wife had a baby, which is Zodwa. Too Many Girls. Because I wanted a boy. I had five daughters. But I wanted my first grandson to be a boy. So I named her Too Many Girls. And she is my first grandson, like a man in strength. Like a strong boy growing up. This is how we do things in Africa. You understand?"</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span><span><span><span><span>No, I did not quite understand, but it wasn't like I was going around taking notes. I just saw what I saw and heard what I heard. I hardly believed anything. Mr. Mataka had a strong grip on reality, and we were sitting together in the shade of the mango tree in his front yard in Luveve. But his reality -- sometimes it didn't make sense. </span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span><span><span><span><span>They all called her Zodwa. That's who she is. And no secret, just not easy to understand.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span><span><span><span><span><b>Note. </b>Roger Barcant grew up in Trinidad, went to college in Toronto, where I met him years ago. He made a career and a family in London and he has become a devoted follower of this African story. He asked me the biggest question that I have heard from any readers about where this story is going. He said, "Can you tell us how you got from Precious to Laurie Moon?" That's a big one. Laurie Moon is my life partner of nine years. She is the beach bunny I've been searching for all my life. And she is now outside watering the flowers at her home in Santa Barbara. Precious was my second wife. I have been writing her story because I want to redeem my emotional investment. For years, after the divorce in 2004, I thought to myself that marrying Precious was the biggest and most expensive mistake of my post-50 life. But I did not like looking at this so bleakly. It seemed I got nothing out of it, which is why the working title of this story is "I wish I had never gone to Africa."</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span><span><span><span><span>I figured that if I could at least get a good story out of my year in Africa, then we could say I redeemed my investment. Yet I paused. There is nothing new or unique in the story of my African venture -- white man goes to Africa and gets involved with a native woman. And I have to admit, while I have enjoyed very much the writing of this story and many readers have encouraged me to keep going, that there is nothing new here. It's an old story, told once again. But I like old stories, don't you?</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span><span><span><span><span>So, how did I get from Precious to Laurie Moon? Stay tuned and you will find out.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span><span><span><span><span><span><b>The Pandemic Blues. </b>It's getting to me these past few days. I'm slowing down in the writing. I'm about two thirds finished with this African story. Maybe fifteen more episodes. The wedding, the trip to Malawi and then we get her visa and head for the states. Good bye Mr. Mataka. Good bye Mr. and Mrs. Elephant. Good bye Mr. Dhlwahyu -- I has happy to be your neighbor and give you fresh strawberries. I can see that day coming, the last day in Bulawayo, heading out to the airport, and now Precious started to get excited because we got to the airport two hours early. Taking off for Jo-burg on her first plane ride. Cool as a cat. Then waiting in the international lounge in Jo-burg. We took the escalator, which terrified her...... The airplane she could handle, but not the escalator. It goes on .....</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr">
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Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1587843719842000&usg=AFQjCNH5-iwxE5AdhpeQfmLuP46HH9Hbww" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /></div>
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My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1587843719842000&usg=AFQjCNGDMxUh9rEO3NqA2HJExySD-pmq_w" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-9442913855533112472020-04-23T10:38:00.000-07:002020-04-23T10:38:12.584-07:00 Two Women in the Canyon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
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A reminder, we are in Africa, in the year 1997, in the country of Zimbabwe, far away from the current troubles. </div>
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When we left the story last week, we had completed our whitewater rafting adventure down the Zambezi River, a series of boiling rapids in the deep canyon below Victoria Falls. Here the river forms the boundary between Zimbabwe and Zambia. The Zed Countries I call them. One country is poor and the other is very poor. The young Zambian men who help carry the raft to the launch site are not wearing shoes. That's Zambia, they don't even have shoes. And their currency is called the <i>kwacha </i>and their capital is called Lusaka. No tourists go to Zambia. They don't have toilet paper.</div>
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But that is just an observation. After we finished floating down through this incredibly steep canyon we pulled up to a sandy beach where the water was calm. We stepped out of the raft and wanted to kneel and kiss the ground for having made it safely through this devil's grist mill of white water.</div>
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I saw Precious and Eva standing together talking. They looked alike. No, they did look alike because they were both wearing green shorts. "I don't know why she bought the same color as mine," Eva said with some exasperation. "Now we look like team mates." "Maybe it's just that Precious wants you to like her. She flatters you by buying the same outfit." I was stumbling for words. This was female territory. But they did look alike. Eva, 18, with a dewy pink complexion, and light brown hair playfully tossed, with the freshness of an American teenager. Precious, mid thirties, rounder fuller, stronger, of black coffee skin and firm black hair. Precious of the doe eyes, deeper than the ocean. Eva with the sunshine in her smile. But both optimistic. Precious had overcome, had ignored, the tragedy of African existence. She had a trust in human nature that human nature did not deserve. Eva had that same trust but only because she was young.</div>
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Yes , they looked alike. I kept that image because it was true. Sure, I had to stretch this a little to make it fit, but I could do that, even though they didn't always get along. Why should they? Eva was raised to be outspoken. I might have had words with her, but there was never that sullen adolescent silence, that disconnect, close the bedroom door and don't talk to me. No, that never happened when she was growing up. Instead she was in my face, telling me with exquisite intelligence how wrong I was. And me coming back at her, saying you don't do what I say because I'm right, you do what I say because I'm your father, and being right is just a part of it.</div>
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But aside, to myself, I would think that I never expected obedience, and considered disobedience to be a small error. After all, I was not often obedient myself and did not respect it too much as a virtue. But she would talk to me, and always had. So, she was talking that day with Precious after this rafting trip which was a bit of bonding for the both of them.</div>
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Which one of them had the advantage? Eva with an American passport and a ticket to ride. That was the great privilege of American and European visitors to Zimbabwe --- they could leave.</div>
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Not Precious, she had no way out. Her life was African from birth to the end. But that was her strength, she was on the ground as firm as the old stones of this old continent. Her people had always been there. Had never been any place else. That gave her a lot of strength. </div>
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Without ever admitting that she saw me as a way out -- a ticket holder. I was touchy about that. I was glad to buy her things, modern appliances and clothes and good restaurants. But I was not going to dangle the Green Card Vision in front of her longing eyes. We were both too proud for that. If her dream was to go to America, she never hinted at it for me. Unless she was playing the long game. </div>
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Eva didn't know what she wanted. This three-week trip to Zimbabwe was her first venture overseas, and it was quite mind opening.</div>
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After the rafting expedition, we drove back to Bulawayo and when we got home to Shottery Crescent -- and it was home -- I asked Eva what Precious and she were talking about. </div>
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"Hair," she said.</div>
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"Hair, you were talking about hair?"</div>
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"Her hair is different than mine."</div>
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"I'll say...black hair is a mystery to me.," I said, beginning to discourse on the topic. "We always talk about skin color because it is the most obvious difference between black and white people. And we strive to overlook skin color and not pass judgment on that basis. So we are taught, but black people have the richest skin tone, from capuccino to espresso, from mahogany to copper, from darkest velvet to almost tawny white. It is a rich variety of hues. And so much smoother and hairless. White people have skin like sandpaper in comparison, and gross amounts of hair almost everywhere. But that doesn't matter..... What really matters is hair."</div>
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"I know that, Dad," she said. "We're going to do our hair together tomorrow."</div>
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"Do?"</div>
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"Yes, Dad. Do our hair. You know, wash, comb, brush, weave, braid, trim. She has some beaded extensions she wants to try. This will take us almost all day."</div>
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"Well, be my guest, I can go to the bookstore downtown. They have a good cup of coffee."</div>
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When I left the two of them, they were sitting under the guava tree in the back yard. One sitting in front of the other, braiding and talking. When I came back from the bookstore they were still at it. I didn't ask.</div>
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Eva went on her own venture a few days later, trekking to the ruins and to the mountains. I can't believe I let her travel alone in that country, but she did all right, except she got off the trail in Chimanimani and had to camp out overnight unawares of where she was supposed to be. But she came back a week later, refreshed and ready to fly back to America, ready to start her second year at Oberlin College.</div>
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We took her to the airport and off she went, back to the world. She broke my heart. She did that every time I saw her.</div>
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And what was I going to do? Growing up she used to be in my life every day and all day and now she was gone. I looked at Precious and I said, "Baby, what do we do now?" She said, "We go back to Shottery Crescent. I fix you some dinner, we drink some beer and watch TV. I like to watch that man."</div>
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"What man?" </div>
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"That man on the show, you know, Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Is it like that in America?"</div>
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<b>Next Episode. </b>Precious is her name. That is what I call her. On her passport, on her birth certificate, on her school records, that is her name. But that is not what her family calls her. They call her <i>Zodwa. </i>Next time I will tell you about that.</div>
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take care,</div>
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Fred</div>
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<br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr">
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Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1587490372686000&usg=AFQjCNGnfPLmw6DVXiCc1GncWDsCT63OTQ" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /></div>
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My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1587490372686000&usg=AFQjCNF9HFfpWwBxj8i-vI4U4IzqMrnl3A" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-60127411173830384702020-04-17T09:28:00.001-07:002020-04-17T09:28:22.673-07:00 Africa is a Latin Name<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>Africa is a Latin Name</b></div>
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<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
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Africa is a Latin name. Africa was the name of a province in the Roman Empire, an area that is now called Tunisia. Likewise Asia is a Greek word. Asia is the name of a province in the Roman Empire, an area that is now called Turkey. </div>
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Australia is Latin too, and America is really Italian -- the entire Western Hemisphere is named after a not-well-known Italian Navigator, Amerigo Vespucci.</div>
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So the Italians got naming rights for the whole world. Well, that doesn't bother me. Take Marco Polo, he didn't really discover China, but he did find out about noodles. "What shall we call them?" Marco Polo asked. But still nothing happened until the Spanish Conquistadores found out about tomatoes growing in the New World. Brought the tomatoes back to Italy. Combined them with the noodles that Marco Polo brought from China, and what do you have --- Pasta. And realize this, until the noodles from China and the tomatoes from the New World were combined by Italian cooks, there was no pasta in all of human history. That's why we call it progress and that's why we believe that discovery, adventure and exploration can lead to better things.</div>
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I discovered Africa in 1997. The very first minute that I got off the plane in Capetown I realized that it was a very old country, and the New World is correctly named, because it is new. America is much newer than Africa. You just look at the stones at your feet anywhere in Africa and you can see how old they are.</div>
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Precious and I visited a cave in Matopos Park near Bulawayo. Former inhabitants, many thousands of years ago, had painted hunting scenes with men carrying spears in search of antelopes. So, this is funny in a cosmic way, a Rhodesian farmer in the late 1890s came upon these cave paintings that had lasted for thousands of years, and decided, with the best of intentions, that what they needed was a good coat of varnish, which he did apply -- coated those ancient drawings with varnish, and thus ruining them. You cannot get any dumber. The dude was trying to help. That illustrates the downside of discovery as it devolved into tourism. So in Egypt some Turkish soldier fired a cannonball at the Sphinx and blew off his nose. <i>Sic transit gloria</i>.</div>
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But the Sphinx without his nose adds to the mystery. Because you need to imagine what he really looked like. The Sphinx is the gateway to Africa and his expression to a white man like me is blank. Precious had a look like that, about a thousand years deep. I used to call her Queen Nefertiti. "Who is this Queen Nefertiti, is she your queen?" she asked. "She is my queen and she is you," I told her. "So bring me a beer," she said, "because you must do what I tell you."</div>
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<i>Masr </i>is how the Egyptians name their country. <i>Mitzrayim </i>is how the Israelis name it, and that is quite nearly like <i>Masr </i>and that name goes back to the origins of the Bible, some 3,000 years ago. The Book of Exodus is what put Egypt on the map. Egypt was a bad place and you wanted more than anything to just get out of there. Thank God, we are no longer slaves in Egypt. I appreciate that sentiment but if you take Egypt as the gateway to the continent of Africa, it kind of puts a slur on things. Egypt is probably not such a bad place. </div>
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You can look on a map and understand the dream of the British colonials, to conquer and subdue all of Africa, from Capetown to Cairo. Let's look that up. Wow, it's 10,300 miles from one end to the other That's huge. Up the Nile, across the Great Lakes region, down through Malawi, down to Zimbabwe, then Botswana, across the fearful Kalahari Desert, and then Capetown at last. All where the first humans walked the earth. All where civilization began. And the place we call Africa doesn't get too much respect for that. </div>
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They had a lot of nerve, those British, dreaming of a railroad across the continent. I don't hate the colonial regime that preceded my coming to Africa. Our House on Shottery Crescent was built by the British colonizers --- called Rhodesians. It was built for the white people who managed the Zimbabwe Railway. Built strong, built to last a hundred years or more, and reserved for white people, until 1980 when the white people were shown the door. And they left, but they left behind the railroad, the highway and the house we lived in. It was a beautiful strong home, so how could I hate the people who built it? "Precious, do you hate the British people who lived here?" I asked. "No, I don't hate anybody," she said. "But they all left after Mugabe took power. Are you glad they left?" "Yes, but I don't hate them." "But what about me. I'm white. you don't hate me, do you?" "No, I don't hate you. People do what they do." </div>
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The only white people left on Shottery Crescent, besides me, were Bill and Mary Collier. He was a tough old bastard and so was she. They had a generous contempt for native culture and made no bones about it. Their swimming pool was empty except for a puddle of rusty, muddy water at the bottom. Mary grew nursery plants for sale and made a few dollars. Bill sat in front of the TV and drank gin. You'd think the new African authorities would throw out the Colliers and send them packing. But they were left cawing and crowing, powerless now, penny-pinched, but still wild. I disapproved of their attitude, so why was I in their living room drinking their gin? Precious would never go over there. Maybe that's why I went there, to get away from her, to get out of Africa for a while, to knock back the spell of Queen Nefertiti. </div>
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Precious was too strong for me. She had the power of 500 million African woman, going back many tens of thousands of years. She built the pyramids and crossed the Sahara. She swam with crocodiles ..... hold it, hold it, my imagination is getting away from me. Precious did not know how to swim. Like many Africans she was afraid of the water, for good reason -- crocodiles. Nothing romantic about crocodiles in the local swimming hole. you just don't go.</div>
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Or take elephants, please. Nothing funny about elephants if you own a farm near to Hwange National Park. What can you do if an elephant leaves the park and decided to wander across your field of corn? Elephants can walk through any fence. They trample your corn. You can't stop them and you don't love them. But you can kill them and eat them. Nature's balance. Nowadays, under the best circumstances, programs exist that compensate the farmer for the damage done -- better than killing the elephant. Progress.</div>
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So am I going to reform Precious, be Prof. Higgins to her Liza Doolittle? No. My plan was to stay out of her way. I went to Africa in search of a trophy wife. No, I did not, but who is going to believe me? People will see her and see me and think whatever they want to think in America, if we ever go there. </div>
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I was trying not to think about that. Except my daughter came to visit during her summer vacation form Oberlin College in Ohio. Because I missed her, hadn't seen her since Christmas, and she missed me. A nice reminder that I still had family obligations. I had earned an extended break, having gotten Eva and Eugene both landed in good colleges.</div>
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But there was Eva at our front door with her backpack (actually we met her getting off the plane) meeting Precious for the first time. Precious was too pretty, too young and in bare feet. I don't know what Eva was thinking. I don't know what Precious was thinking. They started talking to each other, probably negotiating a truce. Eva stayed for three weeks. She had been an outspoken opponent of the previous woman in my life, and she was right about Nira. Nira was simply not going to work. Eva knew it and I knew it. But Queen Nefertiti in the African-beautiful-barefoot flesh was another story. It was not approval from Eva, it was that things were beyond her 18 years and we were going over the waterfall.</div>
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Which we did. I rented a car, and we piled in, the three of us, to Victoria Falls, a day's drive. To see the falls of course, but the test was the wild rafting excursion down the Zambezi River at the foot of the falls. Continuous Grade Five Rapids, one of the toughest rides in the world of commercial rafting. We held on for dear life. Eva fell out of the raft. They fished her out. Precious was fearless. Afterwards I asked Precious if she would do it again. "Yes, I like it," she answered. And then it occurred to me, because I knew she couldn't swim, to ask this question. "Have you ever been in a boat before?" "No," she answered. </div>
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"That was your first boat ride. Force Five Rapids. The roaring Zambezi River. Were you afraid?"</div>
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"Yes, I was a little afraid, but I remembered what Mr. Mataka said. You only die once."</div>
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<b>Note. </b>Does Eva get a good introduction here? I don't even describe how she looks. But she is my daughter and to me she looks like the morning sunshine. And how do I feel about my daughter? Ask me how do I feel about being alive.</div>
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take care,</div>
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Fred</div>
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Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1587225698205000&usg=AFQjCNG89rj0G2pIAuHUYK9f4pIEVdvzvQ" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /></div>
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My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1587225698205000&usg=AFQjCNGbqWHw-WlV06Y4acZ6tk-dwUFNNA" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-41690819211982237022020-04-13T10:21:00.002-07:002020-04-13T10:21:49.925-07:00 You Only Die Once<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>You Only Die Once</b></div>
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You only die once, Mr. Mataka used to say. He was nearing eighty when I knew him. He could walk many miles in a day, to see his children, to see his daughter Winnie in Lobengula on one day or to see his son Smiley in Nketa 9 on another day. Walking and always dressed right, in a sport coat and tie over a dress shirt and pants, with black polished shoes. "I wear these dress clothes to tell you of my work as a legal clerk. I worked for 25 years as a clerk for Justice Charles Daniels. When I retired from that position, Mr. Daniels paid off my house in Luveve and so now I only pay the taxes. You see I am a free man because I get a small pension and I have my house. Everyone stays here, even my daughters Molly and Margie </div>
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"You have five daughters."</div>
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"Yes, I have five daughters. Molly is the first."</div>
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Aunt Molly was a course and beefy woman who spent most of her time in a separate bedroom built off the kitchen. Was it just me that didn't like her? I think not. She had ashen-brown skin and a surly expression. Hefty, stocky. You wish she had been just a little pretty, but that never happened -- men never noticed her and she became hardened to it. She sold boiled cow hooves at the open air beer hall. She obtained large sacks of cows hooves from a slaughter house. She boiled the hooves for hours in a large back yard kettle over a hot fire. A dreadful odor. The finished hoof was gelatinous and much appreciated as a snack by drunken men at the open-air beer hall where she kept a stall. A rough business selling boiled cows hooves to drunken men. But her daughter Maureen was the pretty one, almost as hefty, but in a nicer way, with almond eyes and a honey voice. </div>
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"But I will tell you about my children some other time," Mr. Mataka said. We sat many afternoons in the shade of a mango tree on his front porch. Aunt Margie would bring us tea. I called him <i>Sekuru </i>which is old man or grandfather. He called me <i>Umkunyani</i> which is son-in-law. "<i>Umkunyani </i>which means he who pays for everything," I said and we laughed. But it was true, if the son-in-law had money he would pay for everything. There were too many hungry children running about. Johnny and Prince were small boys, 8 and 10, and they often scampered in the mango tree where we drank the tea.</div>
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"So I will tell you my story. I was born in the mountains of Malawi a thousand kilometers from here, even further. Chembe village it was called and we were very poor. Even my father was poor. He was the chief of the village and he had two wives..."</div>
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"Two wives?"</div>
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"Yes, because we were Moslems. The Arabs came through here long back and stole our people for slavery and made us pray to Allah, so we still do that. There was a mosque and no church in Chembe. But even my father was poor and we had no shoes. Until one day when I was becoming a man we walked three hours to Dedza town where the highway is and the bank for money. And the Christian missionaries. I talked with the missionaries and they could see I was clever. They said you will never have money in Malawi, you must go to Rhodesia. You can find work there. My father said to go to Rhodesia and make money. So I walked there..."</div>
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"You walked to Rhodesia, over one thousand kilometers."</div>
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"Yes, it's a long way, but that's when I began to say -- you only die once. I will walk to Bulawayo and make money on the farm or in a mine. I will never give up. So I came here and worked. I married Grace and we had all these children, so now I sit here and drink my tea."</div>
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When the fish were biting in the lake, the fishermen would go out all night and catch them, small fish, but many. Then Mr. Mataka would get up at four o'clock in the morning and ride his bike one hour to the lake, to buy the fresh fish and bring it home. When he brought home the fish, he would nail one fish to a post and the neighbors would see it and come to buy them. So Mr. Mataka made small money here and there.</div>
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We enjoyed many days on his front porch. He might read the daily newspaper and he might tell the small children to be a little quiet, but they knew he didn't mean it. One day I asked him, "Will you ever return to Chembe village where you were born?" "Yes someday I will return because it is where my father and mother are buried. I will go there and visit my sister Amina. I have not seen her since I was a young man."</div>
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"If you come back to Chembe village will they still know you?"</div>
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"Yes, they will still know me. They will never forget me. It is my home. I will go there one more time and die."</div>
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"No, you cannot die, <i>sekuru</i>, not now, not this time. But I want to see your home. Precious says she has never been there. Can we go? I will pay for the train ticket and the bus ticket, and you won't have to walk the whole distance. After Precious and I get married we will bring you to Chembe village."</div>
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"Yes, and you will pay for the journey, <i>unkumyani</i>," he said and we both laughed.</div>
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"Yes, you can take us to Chembe and I will pay for the tickets, after we get married."</div>
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And so Mr. Mataka and I made this arrangement. When I went home I discussed this with Precious. She agreed that it was a good plan. But we needed to set a wedding date. I don't know why we decided on September 1, but that became our wedding day. And for our honey moon we would go to see her home in Malawi on a journey with Mr. Mataka and Aunt Marji and Aunt Winnie.</div>
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<b>Note. </b>I could write a lot more about Mr. Mataka and his large family. And the garden! We grew so many tomatoes. And sweet potatoes, corn, strawberries and beans. Week after week passed in working mornings, before it got hot, and idle afternoons. Often we sat on the front stairs which were tiled and cool, we sat on the stairs and just looked at the pepper tree and the slow street. Sometimes Precious would hail a young boy passing by. "Little brother, I have a small job for you and I will pay you ten cents." The boy would stop and come to the fence in a respectful way. "Here is some money, take it to the bottle store and buy three cold Cokes. And make sure they are very cold." So she would give the small boy the money and he would run to the store and come back in a few minutes with three cokes. "One Coke is for you, little brother, and here is your ten cents." So that was lazy living on Shottery Crescent, like room service at a fancy hotel only better.</div>
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<b>Eva came to visit us. </b>I am not sure how her visit fits into the story. Eva, my daughter, had just turned 18 and had finished her freshman year at Oberlin College -- that same summer that I spent with Precious in our rented home in Bulawayo. I missed Eva and sent her funds to buy a plane ticket. Eva, being impressively competent, bought a ticket, got a passport and hopped on the plane to Africa. I was very glad to see her and I kind of hoped that she and Precious would get along. Meaning that if my daughter and bride-to-be were at odds, then my life would become very unhappy. To make this short, Eva issued a Certificate of Tolerance for the proposed union of Precious and Frederic. Daughters have that power. Then she packed up her kit and began to explore Zimbabwe. She got lost in the mountains of Chimanimani, trekking by herself. I cannot believe that I let her do that, but she did all right. But this is part of Eva's story and maybe she will write it some day.</div>
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<b>Back in Santa Barbara in the year 2020. </b>The African story will likely continue for as long as we are self-isolated against the plague. That's just a guess -- that I will complete the story when the quarantine is lifted. I don't know why I am worried about how the story will end. I have lots of good character and dialog and scenery, but I'm way short of a plot and a proper plot-driven ending. This is where I can use some help.</div>
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Laurie Moon said she stills enjoys my company after one month of co-confinement. </div>
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Health is good here,</div>
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take care,</div>
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Fred</div>
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<br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr">
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Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1586818087114000&usg=AFQjCNHqQ8atRwFLU8ynkbsnSJE2L9MpLA" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /></div>
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My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1586818087114000&usg=AFQjCNF8kj7jP0TZyQG5_pdN6V88C8zx9w" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15804352.post-55211805642825763962020-04-09T10:33:00.000-07:002020-04-09T10:33:51.913-07:00 The Wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Elephant<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b>The Wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Elephant</b></div>
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<b>By Fred Owens</b></div>
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Mary was the first human being. She was barely four feet tall and she lived somewhere north of Lake Malawi. That is the point of this whole expedition, to meet her, or at least to commune with her remains somewhere in Malawi, where the first human being walked the earth, where we all came from. That was my quest. The house on Shottery Crescent in Bulawayo was a wonderful home in its own way, but in the plot of this story it becomes the base camp. And Precious, my bride-to-be, becomes my guide, because she was from Malawi, knew the language and the terrain, had family there. She could take us home. They have a tourist slogan in Malawi, which is Welcome to the Warm Heart of Africa, and they don't mean welcome, they mean welcome back, because this is where we all came from long, long ago. I wanted to visit my original home.</div>
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Our ancestors came from that area many thousands of years ago. Our ancestors wandered off and peopled the continents. But some people never left. They are still there near that spot where Mary stood up one day and she had a look in her eye -- that moment when she realized she was a human being and like no other. So all this story, going back to Chicago when my mother died, and I flew to Capetown, and took the bus to Bulawayo, and met and became engaged to Precious and we rented the house on Shottery Crescent -- all that story was the first part of of this journey to before the beginning of time, to meet Mary. </div>
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We are at the interlude now, so we will tell more stories about the garden and the Mataka family.</div>
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<b>The Wedding of Mr. and Mrs. Elephant</b></div>
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Bulawayo is the capital of Matebeleland where the spoken language is called Ndebele. It is a branch of the Zulu nation. You remember Shaka Zulu, the great Zulu warrior who organized large armies of steel weapons to conquer many neighboring tribes. His chief general in this combat was Mzilikazi Khumalo, a mighty warrior in his own right. But Shaka Zulu was a jealous man and he began to fear that Mzilikazi wanted to over throw him and become king of the Zulu empire. Shaka Zulu planned to kill Mzilikazi, as simple as that, but Mzilikazi got wind of the plot and planned his escape. He gathered his own army and fled to the north of Zululand, north across the Limpopo river to what is now Zimbabwe. There he was safe from Shaka Zulu, although this was not so good for the Shona people who actually lived there, to have thousands of Zulu warriors occupying their land. And, as things often go in Africa, Mzilikazi and his warriors decided to stay, and take over, and find wives and build houses and so that became Matebeleland, and the language of Ndbele was a dialect of Zulu, and the capital became Bulawayo, which means killing field, where the original Shona tribe members were slaughtered and conquered. That is the founding myth. </div>
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But Mr. Mataka, the grandfather of Precious, was not Ndebele although he spoke the language. He and his family were Malawi immigrants and lived according to Ndebele culture to some degree. This is where we meet Mr. and Mrs. Elephant. They were distant relatives of the Matakas. In Ndebele they would be Mr. and Mrs. Ndlovu ...... Surnames in Ndebele are often from animals, so you might meet Nkomo or Mr. Cow, or Mr. Lion or Mr. Monkey. </div>
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Mr. Ndlovu worked on highway construction. He sometimes operated the bulldozer and made lots of money doing that, but just as often there was no work and he was too poor. He had a very round shiny bald head, a very shy man who often looked at his shoes while talking, a chestnut skin tone, a warm smile, a stout figure, about forty in age. He lived with his partner, Mrs. Ndlovu. She was a harsh, scowling woman, thin figured, shattering teeth, wiry hair, muscular, resentful. She was smaller than her husband, but I think she hit him now and then, and scowled some more when there was no work and he brought home no money. </div>
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That sounds too grim. The truth is that they had been living together for 12 years and had 6 children. The affection was there, you just didn't see it. </div>
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In 1997 the government of Zimbabwe launched a program of low-interest mortgage loans to married couples. A reason to wed! Ndlovu proposed to his sweetheart. She accepted, but refused his offer of a quick trip to the Justice of the Peace. Despite her age and 6 children, she would have a proper wedding with a gown and bridesmaids, a cake, a reception and a feast. </div>
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Ndlovu bowed his head, or it was already bowed and he bowed it even lower. She would have her wedding, she would finally become Mrs. Ndlovu, or Mrs. Elephant to you. </div>
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In the days preceding the feast, we attended the rehearsal of the bridesmaids dancing in matching gowns. A professional photographer took photos. A wedding gown was rented. A cake was ordered. All that was left was to bring a huge amount of beef for the reception because people in Zimbabwe did not care for dainty appetizers, they wanted beef.</div>
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Ndlovu came to visit us two days before the wedding. Bowing his head, we saw the sun gleam on his golden chestnut pate, holding his hat, he wanted to ask me a favor.</div>
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"Good morning, Mr. Owens. I am happy to see you," </div>
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"Yes, I am happy to see you too. Please come in and have some tea."</div>
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"No, I will stand here by the door because I wanted to ask you one small favor to help with our wedding plans. Because you have a truck."</div>
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"Yes, I have a strong truck."</div>
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"With your strong truck, we can drive to Kezi and pick up the beef for the wedding feast."</div>
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"Well, that will take one hour to drive to Kezi town, and pick up the beef, and drive back, so only two hours -- yes, I can do that because I am not too busy and it would be our wedding gift to you and Mrs. Ndlovu."</div>
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"But there is one more thing, Mr. Owens, we need to find the ranch because it is down some dirt track and not in the town."</div>
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"All right, we can find that ranch on the dirt track. We will ask for directions, it will only take a little longer. Then we can load the truck and come back."</div>
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"But, you see there is a small problem. You see it is a cow, it has not yet been slaughtered."</div>
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"Oh my, that will take some time, to slaughter the cow and cut up the beef, and load the trucks and drive back."</div>
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"And we need to find the cow, because it is out in the field some where," Mr. Ndlovu declared. </div>
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"That is all right. I am not too busy tomorrow. We can leave early and make the day of it, to find the cow, and lead it back to the ranch house. Then slaughter the cow and load the truck, and drive back to town."</div>
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But then Mr. Ndlovu scrunched his hat very tightly and pawed the ground with his feet, and tried to make himself smaller although he was such a big man.</div>
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"We have to pay the man." Long pause. </div>
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"You want me to pay for the cow? All of it?"</div>
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"Well, you see the money is gone after we bought the cake and the dresses for the brides maids and rented the hall and there was so much to pay, so if you help me to buy the cow .... "</div>
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I said no. That is too much. I reached into my wallet and gave him US$50 for the wedding gift. Mr. Ndlovu thanked me and left. The wedding was a success. Mrs. Ndlovu looked beautiful in her white bridal gown despite her scowl. Mr. Ndlovu looked handsome in his suit. And the brides maids danced like angels, but there was no food at the reception. Mr. Ndlovu had borrowed and begged almost everything but no one brought the beef.</div>
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That was the only time I saw Mr. Mataka get mad. He said, "How can you have a wedding without beef?"</div>
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<b>A brief summary of global, local and family news.</b></div>
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Harvey Blume of Cambridge, Massachusetts, wondered if he ought to feel sympathy for virus-stricken English PM Boris Johnson. I told him he already had plenty of compassion for other people. Boris Johnson has people who actually do care about him. Senator Bernie Sanders retired from the race for President. It was an act of true bravery and humility, to take that long, last walk. And it's not over. He may never become President but his agenda has wings. And Joe Biden will have something to say -- you can count on that.</div>
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We weep for the suffering and courageous people of New York City. I cannot enjoy the quiet solitude in Santa Barbara because I cannot forget about these very strong people and their powerful leader, Andrew Cuomo. They are doing us a a big favor here in Santa Barbara, because we have been given time to get ready for the viral surge that is coming our way. Time to get ready. The public spirit is strong here, social distance has quickly become established custom and we will get through this.</div>
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Our family members, most of us, are still employed and working from home. Nobody is sick or showing symptoms. Laurie is busy right now disinfecting a shipment of InstaCart groceries from Costco. I am taking the cardboard that it comes in, taking it with gloved hands out to the trash. Then washing my hands. We are getting good at this. Plugging up the holes, as it were, knowing that we should have started sooner -- but that is like almost everybody else.</div>
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Happy Easter and Good Pesach to every one. Please email back to me and tell me if you like the story and tell me what you didn't like in the story, and tell me what you want to hear more of --- tell me anything because I would love to hear from you.</div>
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take care,</div>
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Fred</div>
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<br />-- <br /><div data-smartmail="gmail_signature" dir="ltr">
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Fred Owens<br />cell: 360-739-0214<br /><br />My gardening blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://fredowens.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1586536527293000&usg=AFQjCNH8WrB9dOtibspKD8Mh4ASCp_sVOg" href="http://fredowens.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Fred Owens</a><br /></div>
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My writing blog is <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/&source=gmail&ust=1586536527293000&usg=AFQjCNE7sHm_eulKYcdOsMjb92vMyZIkxw" href="http://froghospital911.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Frog Hospital</a></div>
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Fred Owenshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00253351572198330886noreply@blogger.com1