Climbing Hogback Mountain

If you look at Banner County Nebraska on a highway map, you see mostly white space.  It has one "metropolitan area," the unincorporated hamlet of Harrisburg, home to 100 or so lost or hardy (or both) souls.  Another few hundred people are apparently tucked away in its hinterlands, about one person per square mile.  State Highway 71 runs north-south through it, with State Highway88 jutting eastward from it, and another dead-end highway jutting west a bit further down..  A few county and rural roads seem to snake around and die out.  Pumpkin Creek is its only significant waterway, cutting across the lower half of the county, and flowing into the North Platte River.

A topographical map is livelier, showing a lot of varying elevations.  Google photos and aerial views are even more interesting -- or boring, depending on one's point of view -- showing endless grasslands sometimes cut by small canyons and buttes  edged and topped by pine trees, etched by cattle trails, and spotted with windmills  and the occasional ranch house and outbuildings.  Some of those buttes are good-sized, rising to the title of "mountain," as in Wildcat and Hogback.

I visited Banner County a couple times when I worked as "the" reporter for the Gering (Nebraska) Courier. I went to Harrisburg once, for a reason I no longer recall, but I do remember a winter trip up into the rugged ranch country.  Seems that one of the big-time morning TV programs -- Good Morning America comes to mind -- was doing a story on miniature horses or mules on one of the ranches, and I went to cover the coverage.  I remember a long drive on winding narrow roads.  The TV folks never showed, but while waiting I got into a long conversation with the young wife of the rancher.  She and her husband had met at college, and she had come from urban New York to live with him on the family ranch.  She said she loved being there, and told me a story of how one summer day she'd been weeding her garden when she came face-to-face with a large rattlesnake, had jumped up and run into the house.

Funny how I never thought to write up that story -- instead I drove back empty-handed.

But back to Hogback Mountain.  While living in Gering, and in Bridgeport before that, I spent several pleasant days and afternoons wandering the canyons and buttes, climbing Courthouse and Chimney Rocks, as well as Scotts Bluff and Mitchell Dome.  I, too, found a rattlesnake once, a big one, just at the edge of Courthouse Rock.  I'd never heard one before, but the sound was unmistakably sinister; I kept a respectable distance and let him go back to his own business, then went on my own way.  At some point I heard that Hogback was the highest point in Nebraska, and I thought it might make for an interesting afternoon, a half-hour drive and a couple hours of rambling.

Life, though, intervened, and, in one of those choices one makes so easily and perhaps so wrongly, I decided I needed to grow up and go back East, back to Omaha and a respectable job.  As I was preparing to leave, I mentioned to a friend, Jim. that my biggest regret was that I never climbed Hogback.  "Maybe," he said, "it makes a better story if you never do."  I thought he might be right.

Now, nearly 40 years on, I know better.  I've been searching out Hogback on-line, studying photos and maps, with the sort of passion that more sane people would probably reserve for seeking out old lovers.  I know now that a big part of my soul is out there in the sage and sand and barren rocks of that part of Nebraska, and I feel, with a longing as deep as any I have known, a desire to go there once again. 

I've never been one to keep a bucket list, but I now have a list of one -- I want to climb Hogback before I die.  And if God looks out for fools, I'm hoping He will look out one last time for me, and help me find my way out there.

That is my prayer. 

Of Bridges and Bearskin

Stayed on Lake Minocqua over last week, and Rocinante (my good old Trek road bike) came along.  The weather was moderate, alternately cloudy and sunny.  Our big concern had been mosquitoes, reported to be the worst in years.  But apparently a big explosion in the dragonfly population meant an equivalent collapse of the mosquito kingdom -- I got nary a bite during the entire week.  Except when fishing, there I got lots of bites and a few keepers.  But that's another story.  This is about the bike (regardless of what Lance says).



Tuesday afternoon I finally got on Rocinante and headed out, intending to ride the entire 18.2 miles of the Bearskin, which starts just a few blocks and one bridge from our resort headquarters.  Unfortunately, that bridge, across a narrow neck of the Lake, is on Highway 51, the main route up North,  built in the days preceding pedestrian- and bicycle-friendly engineering.  Nothing overwhelming, just disconcerting to have logging trucks and RVs rumbling past, with no shoulder at all -- there is a sidewalk, but it's raised, so one either commits to it or the roadway from the get-go.

Highway 51 Bridge -- not as bucolic as it looks.

Once past the bridge, and following a sharp left turn across traffic, tranquility reigns.   Crushed red rock on a old railroad line, bordered by tall pines and birches, the chitters, chatters, and squawks of birds framed by the distant drone of outboard motors, the soughing of the wind and the smell of the outdoors.  What could be better? 

Not much.

The Back Story

I had back surgery on Monday, a microlaminectomy of the lowest vertebra.  I'd had some pain running down my left leg and blossoming viciously in my foot.  Doctor Z  said it was a mildly herniated disc, deterioration and likely to be chronic, and suggested conservative treatment.  A steroid injection took care of it.  For awhile.  When the pain showed signs of returning after a few months, I thought I'd be proactive and get another injection.  OK, he said, but they are only temporary and wear off, and you can only get so many.  And, he added ominously, the longer you wait to treat it --e.g. have surgery-- the less effective that is.  "But it's up to you.  If you can live with it . . . ."

I decided not to go with another injection, and not to wait. 

When Mei and I got to University Hospital at 5:30 a.m. (the recommended time) the check-in was dark; apparently, the security guard said, they tell people to arrive early "because of traffic."  Not so much a problem in Madison, but I guess they wanted to be sure -- not that I was using the time to sleep or anything.  We must have priorities, can't inconvenience the staff or medical deities.

Anyway, I got into the prep room at about 6, and they took good care of me, even dressing me up, in a nice open-back gown and stylish white compression hose.  I met with the anesthesiologist, who talked about a sedative injection and an epidural, and said I'd be awake but unaware for the procedure itself -- I guess that's a bit different than my day-to-day life, but sometimes it can be hard to tell.  Dr. Z, was running late, but I was assured we'd talk in the O.R.  Too bad, I'd wanted to chat with him about the series of negative articles about his ethics that is currently running in the local press.  But maybe that was for the best, perhaps not such a good topic to raise with the man about to stab you in the back.

Anyway, I got the sedative injection, which definitely removed any edginess or suspicion, and made the world a better place.  A few minutes later I was rolling down the halls, through doorways and up and down ramps, always over a bump or two – seems to me that these modern hospitals, these temples of healing, should have found a way around those little bumps, usually an electric cord or a metal tube covered with duct tape, but maybe they have more important things to think about, like cafeteria food.  But I was off, and It seemed like a TV reality show, though I kept thinking about Daniel and how this must have seemed to him so many times, and how brave he was, so I stopped sniffling and rubbed my sleeve across my face.

Once we were there, Dr Z. still had not shown.  They transferred me onto the table and put me in a quite embarrassing posture.  Still no surgeon, and i meant to wait up for him, so I listened to the chatter among the O.R. staff and tried, unsuccessfully, to adjust my gown, to offer something less than a full moon.  Suddenly my inner light went out.

Next thing I knew I had risen like a bubble through a sea of deep and dreamless sleep.  My eyes flickered open, against my will, since the sleep had been so warm and all-embracing.  I glanced around, and it was like Dorothy waking up at the end of the Wizard of Oz.  There was Mei, and the nice nurse, the anesthesiologist, and even Dr. Z,  all smiling down at me.  I wanted to go around the circle, saying, "and you were there, and you, and you . . . ."  But I didn't.  The doc assured me all was fine and that I'd get feeling back in my legs soon, and no, I couldn't drive 9 hours to Northfield MN on Friday to pick up Anna and to be sure to take some stool softeners.  Two hours later I could move my toes -- a miracle, praise The Lord -- and an hour later Mei drove me home.

The first day ended nicely, but around bed-time the epidural wore off.  I felt a bit like a defective marionette when I walked, each motion making my vertebrae rattle and sending mini jolts of pain.  Thank god and Dr.Z. for the OxyContin.  Sleeping, or rather trying to sleep, was a matter of carefully moving around until everything settled in place, then doing it all over again 20 minutes later when my limbs fell asleep, each in its own way and time.

But time did pass, I'm on an occasional ibuprofen now, and driving some and walking almost normally.  And thank god for Ducolax.

An UnCommon Thread

An unCommon Thread

A home improvement parable.

It began so innocently. It was my lunch hour, and I was doing a bit of internet surfing. I entered "replacing bathtub drains," because our drain, which I had removed and reinserted a couple years back, had been leaking ever so slightly. I thought it might need new putty, but couldn't recall if it was threaded in or what. I pulled up a YouTube video in which the guy not only quickly unscrewed the drain and dropped in a new one, but he did it with a special "tub drain removal tool" -- and I had the same tool, right in my toolbox.

     It was as though this project and I were meant to be; a few minutes' work, the leak would be gone, and I'd have that warm inner glow of the successful handyman. I dug out the tool, even more enthused because it required the 1/2 inch ratchet I'd bought for a different project but had never used. I climbed into the tub, inserted the tool into the cross-hatching, and gave it a twist. Nothing moved. I recited the mantra, "righty-tighty," "lefty loosey", verified directions, and tried again. Still nothing. My first moment of decision. It probably simply needed sudden force to break loose. If I pulled really hard something would happen -- maybe the drain would come loose, or maybe the tub would crack, or a pipe below would break.

     Prudence suggested quitting, or calling a plumber. But this project was my destiny. I owned it and I owned the tool. How could I mess up a simple thing like this? After all, my dad had sold plumbing supplies, and he could have fixed this, so I could, too. I jerked, hard, with all my weight. The drain broke loose, and, just like in the video, it unscrewed. Beautifully, smoothly, wonderfully. And the putty had indeed hardened and cracked, so I could tell where the water was getting in. I could simply put on more putty, put it back, tighten it, and be done. But anybody could do that; hadn't the YouTube guy put in a new one? "I got it," he said, "at the local home improvement store. Just a few bucks." Maybe I could get a polished and fancier new one; wouldn't that impress the wife?

     Off to Menard's. I took the old one with me, to be sure I got the right diameter. When I found the drain display, I was a bit disappointed -- they all looked so cheap compared to the old one (but all the same diameter). At least they were new. So I bought one, with a strainer to keep hair from clogging things up. I had the cashier toss the old drain in her trash can; no sense hauling that dirty old thing around. That annoying little voice of prudence seemed to be trying to tell me something, but who listens to little voices?

     I got home and slathered the new drain with putty -- the container said to "apply liberally" and I did. I began to tighten it. When I got near the end, the drain went off at a slight angle, wouldn't sit properly, and therefore wouldn't seal. I know, because I tried running a bit of water, and when I went downstairs to check, I saw it dripping down from the ceiling tile. That's the thing about water -- it's so damned honest. Insistent integrity. Ask any shipwreck or flood survivor. They'll tell you that water doesn't care what you want or think, only where the lowest point is and whether it can get in there. And if it can, it will, without hesitation or apology. This water did.

     So I backed out the drain and screwed it in again, giving it a couple extra turns. It was still crooked, but ever so slightly. Maybe, I told myself, it will be tight enough now, especially if I jam more putty in there. No sir, said the water, as it dashed down. I backed out the drain and looked at it. Seemed okay, flat and everything. Maybe I had overstuffed it with putty, and it didn't have room to fit into the opening. I pulled off most of the putty and re-inserted the drain, with the same result, including the steady drip of water onto the basement floor.

     I backed it out again and peered down into the opening. The thingy that the drain screwed into (note the fancy terminology) seemed loose, with a tendency to move ever so slightly from side-to-side. That, I decided, was the problem; it no longer lined up. The project was now officially beyond my limited abilities. So now I needed a plumber. Or, at least a plumber's opinion. I called a local plumbing supply store that is willing to give advice.

    When I talked to the guy there, he said he doubted my diagnosis. "That's not likely to happen. More likely, the new drain might not be threaded the same as the tub shoe."

    "Tub shoe?"

   "That's the thing the drain screws into."

    "The threads are not standard?" The YouTube guy hadn't mentioned that; of course, neither had he said anything about plumber's putty.

    "No, especially with older houses. Places like Menard's only stock the most common threaded one. Why don't you compare the new one to the old one, and you'll know."

   Silence on my end. "Um, I can't."

   "Why not?"

    "Well, I threw the old one away."

      Silence on his end. "Oh. It was broken?"

     "No, I just thought I'd put in a new one."

     "That might be a problem." He didn't say, but he didn't need to add, "You're screwed, dummy." He did sigh. "Well, then you just need to try different ones; I have several here, but I close in ten minutes. And you might have to replace that shoe if you can't find a thread to match. Really too bad you don't have the old one to put back in."

     "Yeah. Okay, thanks. Bye."

      What to do, what to do. As I looked up plumbers, a vague thought flickered in the back of my mind, then burst into flame. All might not be lost. I unscrewed the new drain and drove back to Menard's, where I fished through the trash bins until I found the old one.

     I brought it home, slathered itup with putty, and screwed into place. It fit as if it belonged there. I went downstairs, mopped up the water, picked up the pieces of ceiling tile that had soaked up water until they folded up like wet cardboard, and set a bucket under the place where the water had come down. I went upstairs and ran some water in the tub, and hurried to the basement door, and listened.

    And heard a steady plink of water, the sound of water was telling me how inadequate I was.

    I could have cried. Maybe I did.

     I sighed and resolved to call plumber. I went up to the bathroom to pick up my tools. Then, with one last burst of inspiration -- or maybe desperation -- I grabbed the drain tool, put it in place and gave it a solid twist. It turned -- the drain wasn't in tight enough. I made sure it was tight as it could get, ran more water, and ran to the basement stairs. Where I heard . . . nothing.  The water went where I wanted, for once.

     Two days later, two showers later, and the pipe is dry as bone. Tomorrow I'll replace the ceiling tiles and all will be good as new. Or I guess, good as old, since it's still the old drain with new putty. Just as I planned it.

A Bird Named Big

For mom, who’s waited long enough. Spring has been cold and late this year, so it makes sense that a pair of robins should decide to make their nest under the eaves, just above our back door, jamming a haphazard wad of sticks and weeds atop the back porch light. The nest is so low that I could almost reach in and grab a baby robin, and so precarious that I half expect to see one or two fall out before they are ready. Which reminds me of another nest, and two other young robins, that fell into my life one long ago spring morning. That year spring had burst out the way it was supposed to, so that by the start of May it was already hot, muggy, and sometimes stormy. I had just about finished my Saturday Cheerios when my five-year-old sister Laurie appeared at the outside kitchen door, breathless with excitement. "Hey you guys,” she shouted, “birds!" Then she was back out the door and dashing across the yard on her own bird-like little legs. I followed her to a spot beneath a row of Chinese Elms at the back of the yard. Two half-feathered young robins sat on the ground, not far from the wreckage of a nest, apparently knocked down during the past night’s thunderstorm. The birds were hunched up, staring with an air of bold innocence, an ugly mottled mix of pink skin and stiff black feathers, beady eyes and bright beaks. I sent my sister to get a something to put them in, and she came back with a shoebox. I picked one bird up, careful about those light little bones and surprised at the lack of weight and by the feel of warm flesh and stiff feathers. I set him down on the soft tissue bed, and got the other one. They were quiet for a few moments, but soon both opened their mouths wide and cheeped loudly, staring at us with an air of exasperation, as though we didn’t understand the obvious. But we did. After a quick consultation with dad – the family expert for all things animal – we got some raw hamburger. After a bit of experimentation and determination, we figured out how to gently push small chunks of slimy cold meat down those tiny throats. A few seconds of careful and deliberate swallowing on behalf of the each bird, and each mouth was again open and each tiny voice demanding more. A couple more bites and each closed his little eyes and hunkered down into the wad of paper. Until a few moments later, when the eyes popped open, and the cycle began again. Once it was clear that they would survive, the question became what to do next. Since the nest was gone, there was no chance of returning them – even if we could have somehow climbed that high into the trees. So they would stay. The question of names followed, but was quickly and simply resolved; the birds were of clearly different sizes, so the larger one would be known as Big, the smaller one, Little. No confusion there (and of course Big Bird of Sesame Street fame was still years in the future). Big and Little ate well and often, and before long their piebald and spiky bodies became rounded and bird-shaped, their gestures and postures smoothed out, and they took on the appearance of real robins. Not quite flying, but thinking about it, and well able to perch, on the edge of the box, on fingers, and on shoulders. And filled with the fearlessness of youth and innocence. One never really knows what a bird is thinking, perhaps, but it seemed clear that these two regarded themselves and us as family. They graduated to a bigger box, which sat in the room I shared with my brother. They fell mercifully silent as soon as the room went dark, but they were awake and demanding food as soon as the morning light filtered in. One fine afternoon we took them outside and set them on the backyard clothesline. They sat quietly, their heads moving as their beady eyes took in the bright landscape, bobbing a bit on the line, wondering, perhaps, whether to risk a test flight. A couple neighbor kids, Ray and his kid brother Mark, wandered over to see what was going on, accompanied by their dog, a big, ancient, arthritic, and friendly collie named Copper. As we stood around talking, Little apparently decided to test his wings, and fluttered to the ground in a gentle spiral, no doubt smelling faintly of raw hamburger. Copper dashed over, moving faster than I’d ever seen, snapped up Little, and swallowed him, all in one smooth motion. No one spoke for a few moments. It was obvious Little would not be reappearing anytime soon, and never again in a presentable form. I grabbed Big. Ray mumbled an apology of sorts, and left with his brother, with Copper contentedly following behind. I carried Big, suddenly bigger than nothing, and seeming so small and vulnerable, into the house. We put the outside adventures on hold. Big became an adept and fearless indoor flyer. We kept him in his box in daylight, and in a small birdcage at night. He didn’t seem to mind that life, but it didn’t seem right. Finally, we decided the time had come to set him free. We took him outside on another fine weekend day, after lunch, put him on the picnic table, and stepped away. He cocked his head and studied the sky, and us. He launched himself into the air and into a nearby tree. Gone, we each thought, and watched him for a while, formulating final goodbyes before turning to step back inside. Big would have none of that. He flew down and settled on my shoulder, chirped happily, and gave me a beady stare from a cocked head. I folded my hand around him, held him lightly, and tossed him carefully into the air. He circled, and came back, the same welcoming chirp. The pattern was set, he ventured further into the air and into the trees, but always came back. And so it went, though each time he seemed to venture further and stay away longer. Eventually we went inside without him. When I stepped out again, maybe two hours later, he seemed gone. The air and trees were filled with the usual occasional chirping of vague birds, and robins sometimes flitted by. I turned to go in, and heard a fluttering, followed by a burst of air and a gentle weight on my shoulder. Sunset was approaching, and it seemed more prudent to bring him in than leave him at the mercy of the night, since he likely had nowhere to go. I took him out again the next morning, and the next. He flew further each day, but always came back a few minutes later. Until the day he didn’t return by dusk. When we went inside that evening we didn’t expect to see him again. Which, we told ourselves and each other, was all right. He was where he should be, and it was time to get rid of that cardboard box anyway. But when I stepped outside the next morning, he swooped down and landed on my shoulder, same as always, except perhaps a bit more demanding about breakfast. I took him inside for a few minutes, then back outdoors. He took off and vanished into the trees, returning time to time, for snacks and, apparently, for conversation. At dusk he was gone, but in the morning he was back. And so went the first few weeks of summer. I’d step outside and scan the trees, wondering if the occasional far-off speck of a bird was Big. And sometimes it was. Sometimes he’d come if I called, sometimes I’d be surprised by the sudden weight on my shoulder. But I knew he was there. Big didn’t limit his visits or attention to his immediate family. Any passing person might be subject to a sudden swoop and demanding chatter, and the neighbors grew accustomed to him. One day, though, a utility crew was working in the field across from our house. As the day waned, Laurie came charging into the house, the same way she had the day she found the birds, only this time with serious concern in her voice. “They’re taking Big!” Mom followed her outside, and found that Big had been hanging around with the workmen all afternoon, cadging bites of lunch and supervising their work. The men were fascinated by this odd bird, and one of them had, indeed, decided that this he would make a nice pet. But the man was courteous when mom explained the situation, and watched, bemusedly, as she took Big into the house. Big spend that night inside, but the matter had to be addressed. He might never become a fully wild bird, but neither was he suited to be a house pet. He needed to be outdoors and away from us, and from crowds of people. The solution seemed obvious. That coming weekend we were going on a camping trip, to Verdon lake, a small recreation area in southeastern Nebraska. A simple reservoir with a wooded campsite, Verdon was rarely visited and not near any town. The perfect place for a liberated bird. So we loaded the bird cage, with Big inside, into back of the Chevy station wagon, between the tent and the cooler. I kept an eye on him and, though he seemed a bit flummoxed by the sense of motion, he took it all in stride. Once at Verdon we set the cage on a picnic table and opened the door. Big stepped out, fluffed his feathers, studied the scene, and took off. He never went far, though. He spent the weekend flitting from nearby tree to nearby tree, coming down, as always, for meals and conversation. When Sunday arrived, he watched the packing with interest. It seemed the time had come for goodbye. Or not. I won’t say that he hopped into the cage when I set it on the table, but he didn’t take off when he saw it – nor did he resist when I put him back inside. A quick family conference, and the consensus was it was not yet time. So we brought him back home, released him into the backyard, and all was as it had been. Including the question of what to do with this bird who didn’t know quite how to be one. A few weeks later we went on our annual family camping vacation to the Johnson Shut-Ins state park, in the wilds of southern Missouri. Rather than leave Big outside our home, subject to the various risks of being kidnapped by utility workers or eaten by an arthritic collie, we decided to once again take him along. The drive went all right, though it soon became obvious that the 15-hour drive, along sometimes winding and hilly highways, was a lot harder on Big than the 2-hour quick trip to Verdon had been. To the extent that a bird can look unhappy, he did, squatting on the bottom of the cage, with his eyes half-open, and with less shine than usual. When we got to the campsite he hurried from the cage and up into a nearby tree. After a few minutes, though, he seemed the same as always, hanging around to cadge a bite or share an observation with whoever was around. On one afternoon, the only one around was mom; the rest of us were off swimming. Big sat on a low branch over the picnic table, watching as mom bustled around, arranging things and getting ready to cook dinner. As she did so, she chatted at Big, sharing various thoughts and observations as she would with anyone sitting nearby, and Big from time to time chirped in with his own comments. As this went on, unknown to mom, one of the park rangers came walking over. He must have paused a good long while, watching and listening, wondering if this woman always talked to herself, or if there was another person tucked away somewhere, perhaps inside the tent or behind the woodpile. Eventually he cleared his throat and stepped forward. Mom fell silent, unsure whether to explain things or to exercise her right to remain silent; she wasn’t sure what the law was with regard to keeping wild birds as pets or bringing them across state lines, and unsure whether the ranger would believe her anyway. Finally, though, she did come clean, explaining to a doubtful audience both how Big came to live among us, and how we had decided to take him to Missouri in a final attempt to set him free whether he wanted it or not. After a few moments, fortunately for mom, Big decided to join in the conversation and hopped down onto the table. The ranger smiled, no doubt convinced he had now seen it all, and let the bird perch on his own finger. He assured mom that not only was he not going to bust her for robin-smuggling, he would make it his responsibility to keep an eye on Big for the rest of the summer. And so our life with Big came to an end, with reluctance on both sides, the human side of the family hating to let this guy go forever, and with Big resolutely refusing to get anywhere near the cage. We packed up the car, the ranger stopped by to see us off, and Big watched from a nearby tree. I like to think he followed the car for a bit, but I don’t really think he did. Summer went on as summers do, though this one seemed a bit empty. It took a while for me to get used to walking around the backyard without the reasonable expectation of a sudden swooping presence. But eventually I did. Still, for the next several springs I watched the return of the robins with special interest, wondering if, Big, the bird who didn’t know better, would manage the miracle of migrating home, and finding, once again, this backyard. As far as I know, he never did. Even now, fifty years on and 400 miles further north, I still watch the spring robins with special interest, wondering if one is a descendant of that little Big fella, who fell into our lives on a long ago morning. Stranger things have happened.

WHEN EAST MET WEST

I first saw my future wife as a splash of exotica on an otherwise uneventful April morning. I remember the day she stepped into our church, a petite Asian woman, with shiny black hair pulled back into a long braid, wearing a floral print dress and a sincere, nervous, smile. Ours was a small church that demanded much of a small congregation, which was why I, a nominal Lutheran and uncertain Christian, was leading the adult Sunday school class, which was about to begin when she quietly took a seat by the door. She was greeted with enthusiastic welcomes well-intended questions, about her hometown and her American experience. As the questions continued and became more complicated I realized her textbook grasp of English wasn’t yet up to the task. I cleared my throat and steered the class back to the topics of the day. She didn’t speak again, but she stayed. After class I stopped her at the doorway, and talked briefly with her, welcomed her, apologized for the noisy start of class. I learned she was Chinese, a doctor working at the nearby University Medical Center, had arrived a few months earlier, had come to the church to practice her English, liked America very much, and hoped to stay. When she left I hoped to see her again. The next two Sundays she did not come. I felt a mild sense of loss, that something that could have been special was not to be. Sometimes I blamed the class members for making her uncomfortable with relentless questions, but mostly I blamed myself. Maybe I’d showed too much interest when she wasn’t interested. She probably had a boyfriend or fiancé or even a husband. But she did return the following Sunday. This time the class members mostly left her alone. Afterward, I recall that she lingered in the doorway – she would say I kept talking with her as she tried to leave. In any event, we did talk. She thanked me for helping her in the class, smiled, and said goodbye. Somehow I knew – or maybe just hoped – it wasn’t goodbye for good. The next few Sundays were more of the same, polite conversation and pleasantries. I learned about China, she seemed to learn a lot about America. We smiled a lot. One Sunday the church had a typical Lutheran potluck meal, jello salad, sandwiches, and the like. I was delighted to see that she had stayed, and so, paper plate and plastic cup in hand, I walked over to the table where she sat, and asked if I could sit across from her. She smiled and said yes. As I settled in and we began to make small talk, our knees touched, briefly, accidentally, under the table. I felt an honest-to-goodness jolt, like a mild electric shock. I could tell by her expression she felt it, too. Neither mentioned it, and we settled back down smiles and salami sandwiches. But I gathered up the courage to ask her for a date the following Friday. I expected her to say no, and half-expected her to disappear again. But she smiled that inscrutable smile and said yes. I said something about dinner and a movie, she gave me her address, and we set a time. It was up to me to fill in the details. First, the dinner. Obviously not Chinese or otherwise oriental, that would be too obvious. Not classic American, either – too plain. Greek seemed best, a bit exotic for both of us. Next, the movie. Something light but interesting. “Groundhog Day” had just come to town, and Bill Murray could be funny, I hoped, in any culture. So it was set. At the door of the small apartment I was greeted by her mother, a tiny, sharp-eyed gray-haired woman. Perhaps greeted is too friendly a word. More of a muted glare, a suggestion that there was something the mother wanted to say, but didn’t know the words. My future wife appeared, said something to her mother in Chinese, and we were off. She said Greek food was “fine,” and smiled as we entered the restaurant. She politely surveyed the menu and, a few minutes later, she ordered . . . a single glass of milk. “You’re sure,” I asked, pointing out the various choices. She smiled again. “I am sure. I am not hungry. You eat.” I began to suspect we had come up against some cultural divide, wondered if she was being too polite to make me pay, or thought I lacked the money to pay for the dinner, or had some other Chinese reason for not eating, but I saw no point in arguing. Besides, I was hungry. So I ordered a gyro platter. I kept offering her bites, but she kept refusing. She just drank her milk and watched me eat. Then the movie. First, she refused any popcorn or soda. The movie seemed all I had hoped it would be, clever, sometimes touching, and sometimes funny. I laughed, but noticed a distinct lack of sincere laughter from the seat beside me. Maybe, I thought, Chinese think it’s rude to laugh out loud. After the movie I drove her home, where, after a polite exchange of goodnights, I made a quick nod over her shoulder to the glaring mother a few feet back of the doorway. Then I was off, into the night, wondering exactly what had gone wrong. The evening had been everything I’d hoped for (except perhaps the sharp glares of her mother), but my date obviously hadn’t had a good time. Well, that’s it, I thought, we tried and it wasn’t meant to be. I was convinced I’d never see her again, that she’d probably changed churches already. Why, I asked myself, had I not at least gotten her phone number? I did see her again. Many times. Two years later we married and had a pair of wonderful twins. But it was long afterward that I learned what had gone wrong that night. My wife-to-be had never heard of Greek food, and at that time couldn’t tolerate the idea of feta cheese, but was too polite to say so. And, growing up in China, she had never heard of Groundhog Day, so that the entire premise of the movie, so obvious and funny to me, was lost on her. For her, the evening had been one of sitting hungry, for two hours in the dark, watching characters she did not know doing things she didn’t understand for reasons she couldn’t comprehend. It was as though we were each lost in our separate worlds. Which of course we had been. But we somehow managed to find that universal language of shared humanity and, eventually, love, which made it all work – despite that rocky beginning. I now realize that our first date was the real test; if we could survive that night out, our relationship could survive anything. And it has.

My Easter Prayer (Belated)

One of my son Daniel's few and great passions is visiting the library, though he much prefers to check out books than to return them -- fortunately there's no fine on kids books, just increasingly-irritated letters from the library. We have negotiated a rule that on each trip he must return one more book than he intends to check out (once the stockpile gets smaller, it'll be one-to-one). After a bit of resistance, he has enthusiastically signed on, and heads for the library box as soon as we can agree on a trip, carefully selecting the ones he can give up. Last night we went to the Ashman Library (he rotates between two of them) with three books he had selected for return. When we got there I lagged hehind in the car, fishing around for CDs of my own to return, and gathering up the books he had selected. I looked up to watch him make his own way, wobbling a bit because of a serious limp on his left side (shortened leg after several surgeries to fix his hip), a bit unsteady anyway because of low muscle tone, and very small for 16 -- not yet 5 feet and pretty much finished growing. He made his way to the disabled access button, pushed it, went in, and was momentarily lost from my sight. I was proud of him for that show of independence, but I was struck by three other observations -- first, his determination to get what he needs and can get for himself; second, his easy, uncomplaining acceptance of his limitations, and the reasonableness of his demands; and, third, his absolute vulnerability -- he reminded me of a wounded minnow working his way through a pond, absorbed in his own progress, doing what he can, oblivious to, and virtually helpless against, any serious threats from outside. I realized how much I want his life to be a good one, but also by how little I can really do to ensure his future, nothing beyond our limited resources and the limited days of my own life. Of course, the same could be said -- and is said -- by all parents for all kids, and, if we admit it, by each of us for ourselves. But I think it's especially true for kids like him, the epitome of innocence, adrift in the solitude imposed by autism. I pray that God will look out for him, but when I look around, I don't see much hope, at least in this world. I see the sort of hope promised by spring and rebirth, and by Easter's story of ultimate resurrection -- but I certainly don't see much assurance for my little guy in the only life he and I know. I can only do what I can, we can only do what we can do, and I can keep praying. Please God, for him, not for me.