Tuesday, March 12, 2024

My Obituary

How we got on the subject, I have absolutely no idea. Sharon was talking about somebody’s obituary and said it wasn’t very good. “If you don’t want someone else writing your obituary, “She said to me, “You need to write your own.”

Not surprised or shocked, I thought it was a good idea. What the hell, I know myself better than anyone else (even my wife who thinks she knows everything about me) so why not me writing it instead of a family member or relative.


With that thought lodged firmly in back of my mind, I gradually became more aware of obituaries and what they told me about the person who had just passed. I still don’t read them religiously like some folks but every once in a while, my eye will catch one and I’m hooked.


Not that long ago, I stumbled across an obituary from an old high school chum who had disappeared from my radar several years ago. I was shocked to read that he had passed away almost a year earlier. One always feels sad knowing that we never had that last chat, final good-bye or chance to reminisce about lives well lived. Yet, while reading his obituary, I was so impressed by his generous work on environment issues, charitable causes, etc. He was a modest man but very accomplished. I’m proud to say he was my friend.

There was another fellow acquaintance who passed recently. His obituary didn’t tell me anything new but reaffirmed his commitment to his church, community and family. He was an all-around nice guy.


Then there was a local business owner in my hometown. He was rich in land and purported to be the fourth richest man in the state. Over the years, through his involvement in local organizations, I got to know more and more about him. Little of it was nice. He was rich, arrogant, combative, and in a perpetual grudge against someone or something. Chaos seemed to be his breakfast of choice and he relished the battleground of public opinion on almost a daily basis.

When he passed, there was a citywide silence followed by a few smatterings of ‘something nice to say’ where there was little to draw from. He had led a life of unhappiness and held on to his crown of ‘that old curmudgeon’ all of his life. It followed him to his death. Sad, to say the least.


Then another ‘notice of passing’ caught my attention. This from a local real estate mogul who had acquired numerous properties around town. I read about his passing in the local newspaper. It wasn’t his obituary but could have been. It described his many properties and the fact that he was well known and feared for his combative stance against anyone and anything that threatened his bottom line. He would fight with city officials, county officials, state officials, and any group that (he thought) posed a threat to his financial holdings.

What’s interesting about this observation is that a person’s obituary is probably the last piece of information anyone will ever have about the just deceased. It can be good or bad, depending on who’s writing it. Most are flowery descriptions of a life well led, a perfect marriage, idealist children and grandchildren and ‘isn’t life grand’ kind of fairytale. Sometimes true, sometimes not.

The obituary of the recently passed Rosealyn Carter is a great example of someone who lived her life by her own standards of love, compassion, and caring. Her husband, Jimmy Carter, will have the same kind of ‘final thoughts.’ They lived their lives as true Christians and I say that without any religious denomination in mind. They walked the talk and their obituary’s will show that.


I have a favorite quote I picked up in Maryland from the best boss I ever had. It’s simple and complete and (for me) says it all. If there is a legacy here, it’s that I tried the best I could. I’ve been so blessed with the woman I married, the two children we raised and the five grandchildren who fill our lives with happiness. It doesn’t get much better than that.

In the end, and for all of us there will be an end, wouldn’t it be nice to have something true (and honest) said about our lives. Not the wealth accumulated or the battles won or the great achievements society wants to add to our laurels. But rather the fact that we lived our lives as truthfully and honestly as we knew how with the limited time we had here on earth. And our legacy lives on in the lives of our offspring; simple as that.

Now that would be an obituary worth reading.

Tuesday, March 5, 2024

After the Howling Monkeys

I can still hear them, almost 40 years later, scrambling above us and howling at our presence down below. It’s like a musical refrain cemented in my brain; haunting yet so familiar. The jungle can do that to you. It can enlighten, threaten and even kill you in a heartbeat.

In our case, that could have come in the form of six different varieties of poisonous snakes, anyone of which could have killed us with just one small nick of their fangs. Yet on we trudged through the nearly impenetrable jungle in search of some great cinematic shots, which unfortunately, we never got.

In hindsight, the trip could have easily cost me my job. I returned without a script, a good shot list and no discernable story to tell of our venture. My interpretation of the trip wasn’t the television special my boss had hoped for. Fortunately, other distractions took his attention away from my ‘failure to deliver’ and l lived on to work another day at the television station.

This jungle venture began when I was asked to headed up a small film crew that was part of a group of photojournalists invited by the Costa Rican government to explore Corcovado National Park in Costa Rica and (hopefully) write or create television programs to promote it.

The Park is located on the Osa Peninsula in southwestern Costa Rica. National Geographic has called it “the most biologically intense place on Earth in terms of biodiversity.” My boss, the CFO, thought this would be a great opportunity for our station to produce a documentary on Costa Rica and enlisted me in that effort.


We flew into the park after arriving in San Jose, capitol of Costa Rica. Our base camp consisted of a park ranger’s station and separate bunkhouse carved out of the surrounding jungle. The bunkhouse was full so we opted to sleep in tents on the ground nearby.

Every morning after breakfast, we hiked a different route through the jungle. The rules of jungle hiking are quite simple. First, jungle terrain is seldom flat. That only happens in Tarzan movies. It’s hilly, rugged and laced with jungle vines that can send you sprawling down a slope in nothing flat. Caution is the word.

Secondly, we were told to watch out for spider monkeys. They love to pee on you as you pass underneath. Howler monkeys just yell a lot. Most frogs are poisonous so don’t touch.

The third rule is also pretty simple. Snakes will kill you if they can. Watch where you step or be prepared to die. Never step over a log or object on the ground. Never lean up against a tree. Always step on top of the log then step over to the other side. Look at the tree first before you lean against it or sit next to it.

There were many species of venomous snakes in the park. The Fer-de-Lance and Bushmaster were tops in their game. One bite…thirty minutes…hello, heaven. Even the poison dart frog could do you in.

On the first day of a long hike, I casually asked our guide if he had snake bite serum with him after he described the numerous poison snakes that abounded in Corcovado. He said no, he’d left it back at base camp, a four-hour hike away. I guess when your time comes, it comes. We all walked a little more gingerly back to camp that day. And made sure he had it with him every time we went out after that.

On almost every hike, we’d have to ford some river or inlet to the sea. Always at low tide since the currents were so strong at high tide that it was very easy to get swept out to sea no matter how strong a swimmer you might be.

When we came upon some backwater pool, in the middle of the jungle, five hours into our hike, taking off our clothes for a dip seemed surprisingly logical, rational and very appealing. I can’t remember who suggested it first. Probably the eccentric professor from out east. He always had great ideas.

The men took off their clothes first…boring. Then the two women in our group…no Brazilian trims there. Suddenly I felt very foolish hiding behind my sunglasses. It had quickly become apparent that the soothing coolness of the water, that magical pond in the middle of the steaming jungle, and the lively banter going on was more interesting than body parts seen or imagined. And after a few glances, seriously, who cares?

One time, at the end of our gallivanting in that backwater pool, came with an announcement from one of our more eccentric travelers. It seemed that he had a rubber raft in his backpack and was looking for someone to float with him down the river to the sea, approximately four miles away. Strangely enough he got no takers. We just stood there, putting on our clothes, wondering if he was really serious.

Undaunted by the silent stares he got, the eccentric one tossed his clothes bag into his backpack, gave the pack to someone else and proceeded to inflate his rubber raft. Then with his hat and flip-flops on and nothing else, he began floating away. We all looked in astonishment as his snow-white ass got smaller and smaller in the distance. Then it was gone all together.

Somehow it all seemed perfectly logical at the time. I think we just collectively shook our shoulders, agreed that the eccentric one would find that a normal thing to do (floating down an unknown river in the middle of the jungle, in the nude), and wondered if or when we’d ever see him again. I know it’s stupid, dumb and illogical but I still wonder what it would have been like if I’d taken him up on his offer.

He showed up that evening sporting his torn flip-flops and beet red ass. Then over warm beer, he regaled us with stories of the sights and sounds that greeted and then followed him down the river all the way to the sea.

About the second night back in San Jose, one of our fellow travelers (I think it was the red-butted floater) who said he’d found a quaint bar in town. They had American beer, the women there were all beautiful, and they played American rock and roll every evening. Sounded like a great opportunity to check out the local pub scene and mix it up with the locals.

I was surprised that the pub wasn’t in the commercial part of town. Instead, it was a little further out of town in what looked like a huge plantation house. There were lots of cars parked outside and loud music was coming from within.

Upon entering, we saw a huge bar, beautiful women dancing with the locals and beer taps that spelling out our favorite liquid refreshments. The women were all smiles and their clothes (or lack of) weren’t hard to look at either. We grabbed several tables to put to-gether and ordered the first of several rounds.

I was struck by the beautiful women all around me. Costa Rican women don’t show the Mayan influence that women in a number of Central and South American countries do. Their skin has a light brown or chocolate tone, beautiful dark hair and facial features that would rival even the most glamorous of Paris models.  Several came up and asked some of us for a dance. Fortunately, my introvert nature kicked in and I demurred.

Several of our group jumped at the opportunity to take their turn on the dance floor. When they finished, the girls would ask for a drink to which these guys happily obliged. Being an introvert and principally cheap didn’t hurt me that evening.

It was only when one of our group began chatting up the locals that we realized where we were. It seems there was a whorehouse upstairs and these beautiful women were really working professionals. The women were amorous with intent (relatively speaking) expensive (in their currency) and aiming to turn a quick profit (oh, that explains their charm).

In reality, our quaint happy bar was a Central American Wild West saloon. And there were gunslingers about. We suddenly became the tenderfoot tourists venturing into unfamiliar territory. And those guys in tight jeans and bulging t-shirts weren’t just a part of the scenery. We finished our drinks, smiled at the locals and got the hell out of Dodge.

Foresight isn’t my forte. Yet, even as I was trudging through the jungle, I knew this was the chance of a lifetime. I tried to soak up as much of the atmosphere as I could. That included the stifling heat, humidity, insects, poisonous snakes, sharks in the rivers, strange sounds day and night, sleeping on rocks, listening to the barking of the Howler Monkeys and drinking warm beer.

Those three weeks in Corcovado produced many wonderful experiences and great memories with some fascinating folks. I should be so lucky to hear those howling monkeys ever again.

Tuesday, February 27, 2024

I Have Seen the Elephant

The phrase: ‘I have seen the elephant; I have heard the owl’ is an American colloquial phrase that refers to gaining experience of the world at a significant cost. It was a popular expression in the mid-to-late 19th century throughout the United States beginning with the Mexican-American war and beyond.


Pioneers would speak about ‘seeing the elephant’ in their journeys west. James Michener in his novel ‘Centennial’ made it a key point in the life of one of his characters. For that young adventurer, it was an experience that left him shaken to the core and uncertain about his future.

Over the years, the phrase has become immersed in western novels, war stories and more poignant story-telling such as Margaret Craven’s wonderful novel ‘I Heard the Owl Call My Name.’ It’s been referenced in many bible stories highlighting those watershed moments and end of life experiences some biblical characters have faced.


It’s been argued that you don’t really know who you are until faced with a catastrophe or a near-death experience. Some will say that our best life experiences come through affliction and challenges we never expected to encounter. It might be an athletic event that stretches your abilities to their absolute maximum. It could be a personal struggle with health issues, personal or social relationships or any number of personal challenges.

Now to take that argument a step further I might also suggest that for many people the very act of planting one’s feet on a theatrical stage could be akin to ‘seeing the elephant.’ Over the years, there have been a number of octogenarians and their younger compatriots who agreed to do just that in several of my plays.


Creating plays has always been part of my writing arsenal. RAAC, the Rosemount Area Arts Council, in Minnesota and Script2Stage in California have both provided wonderful venues for me to showcase some of my plays. Actually, it started in the early Seventies in Tennessee.



My first experience with Community Theater started back in Tennessee in 1972. I had left public television in Minnesota to spread my wings in the Deep South. The Chattanooga Little Theater became my refuge. I crewed on the first play of the season and then acted in three more. Around the end of our fourth play, I was offered a new job in Maryland and my brief, ever exciting career as a thespian came to a sudden halt until years later.



I think a lot of my fellow actors found their true selves on stage. Much like politicians whose only claim to fame is their small town title, these folks truly embraced their new pretend persona. It made them feel accomplished and whole and fulfilled. I never reached that level of self-satisfaction. I was always more interested in the story-telling aspect of the theater and not the acting part of it.



Artists of another ilk have found refuge in an old building in downtown Palm Springs. The Palm Springs Art Center hosts a revolving gallery, art classes, etc. Some of those seniors may ‘see the elephant’ while others might ‘hear the owl.’ But either way, vision or not, it proves to be a great experience for them. They took a chance and risked the fear and trepidation for a chance to do something challenging, something exhilarating, something that many of their colleagues could only hope to accomplish.


The Palm Springs Writers Guild has, for years, been guiding, encouraging and educating hopeful authors in the craft of writing and publishing their own works of art. One could easily equate this group of vernacular warriors with those ancients seeking the Elephant and listening for the Owl. Each and everyone of them on their own personal quest to face their fears and solidify their future.


And always on the lookout for the elephant and the owl. In my case, it might be a skinny little hippo.