Going Back into the A Shau

Sixty years after the fact, I returned to my old barracks at the Presidio of San Francisco. It was part of a journey arranged by Brian and Melanie to celebrate my Eighty years of pondering life’s ‘what ifs?’ Our journey began where my military life was born and ended on the beaches of San Diego a week later.

Fast forward two years from that Kerouac-inspired Road trip and I once again ventured back into the A Shau (pronounced A-Shaw) Valley in South Vietnam. This return journey was precipitated by a phone call from out of my past, the decision to reread the novel (part autobiographical) that encompassed that part of of my life and the thought of giving birth to yet another storyline wrapped in the same mid-Sixties environment.

Funny how things turn out. After writing the first version of “Love in the A Shau,” I assumed I had put that part of my fictional past behind me. I was done falling in love freshman year, feeling the exhilaration and angst of that first romantic entanglement, harboring wonderful fantasies of our future together and ultimately experiencing the painful realization that it wasn’t meant to be.

That long, monotonous bus ride from Minnesota down to boot camp at Fort Leonard Wood Missouri was but a dark spot on my collective memory. Yet I can still feel those emotions in the middle of the night when my sweetheart and all my friends were safely ensconced in their beds, dreaming of their bright collegiate futures ahead of them.

But much to my surprise and chagrin, my journey as author and protagonist was relived all over again with that reread. For reasons that gradually began build in my subconscious, I slowly came to realize that returning to the A Shau was an exhilarating experience and I was sorely tempted to go there again…in the form of yet another novel. Perhaps my journey back in time wasn’t over yet.

Standing in front of the barracks with my two kids brought up a plethora of mixed emotions. I was still around; a lot of my barracks buddies weren’t. Some were brought down by the conflict overseas, others made their eventual escape back to civilian life and the rest simply disappeared. But what if, I asked myself, a different scenario had played out. That thought then became the genesis for another possible novel that had long been percolated in the far reaches of my back brain.

‘Presidio Adieu’ is the working title for yet another novel from that same time period that has been percolating in my brain for some time now. Its birth is very tenable considering the numerous other projects screaming for my time and attention. While I don’t envision its creation anywhere in the near future, it has still gotten my imagination going into overtime once again.

Readers loved so many of the segments of that first book. This was especially surprising coming from my female readers. I worried that the graphic descriptions of war and the profanity of military talk would them turn off.  I feared they might see it as just gratuitous profanity used for shock value. But the opposite was true. As one friend mentioned out to me, quite pointedly. “Oh, come on, Denis, give us credit. We’re much smarter than that. We understand the violence of war and the profanity-laced dialogue that comes with the territory. It just added to the flavor of the moment and painted a vivid picture of the profound changes your protagonist was going through.”

It might be a tough trip back because I tend to get very vested into my characters. Yet it’s not often that I get to go back in time and revisit San Francisco of the mid-sixties. It was a world of barracks banter, office intrigue, sexual liaisons, cunning and stealth and all culminating in the bloody battlefields of the Nam.

To be sure, this proposed novel would have a totally different storyline with a different cast of characters. It would be more of a mystery novel than a story of combat. Yet the same emotions captured, lost, gained and lost again would be present. Whether in the post newspaper office, the barracks or the streets of San Francisco, it would be a world where only a few of the women were virgins and manual dexterity with the boys didn’t refer to their working on car parts.

It would be an interesting journey that I and my characters would love to travel. Proving once again that in fiction you really can go back to what once was and change it for the better or worse.

As I mentioned the odds of ‘Presidio Adieu’ starting anytime soon are remote. But if I do find the time, I think it would be an interesting journey well worth the effort if I can keep my fear of dying in battle and conflicting emotions of love in tack. It would be another trip back to the barracks again. Older and only slightly wiser this time around.

The Rest of Your Life

I have a friend I’ve known for more than sixty years. During the summer months, we lunch at the Monument Park in Saint Paul. We’ve kept our bond of friendship strong since first meeting at our respective first jobs out of college. Now in his retirement, my friend has chosen to spend a lot of his time in caregiving members of his religious community.

We don’t talk about it a lot but he is comforted in knowing that he’s making a real difference in his patient’s lives. There’s a strong religious component to the care but it’s never pronounced nor a banner in his relationship with his patients. He does it because it is the right thing for him to do and it brings a comforting presence to his patient’s lives.

My friend’s devotion to others got me to thinking about how other folks I know, now also in their retirement years, have chosen to spend the rest of their lives. I’ve often complained about the ‘old men at the coffee shop.’ These are the retirees whose lives have descended into gathering each morning at the old watering hole simply to complain about life in general. Most communities have a McDonalds where the disenfranchised gather each morning. Their rhetoric is usually the same. It’s a steady stream of grousing about local and national politics, other nationalities, young people, employers,

Fortunately, there’s another group of folks who have chosen to be more productive in their remaining years here on the planet. Whatever their profession in their other life, they have now gone in another direction which brings them newfound satisfaction.

There’s an old girlfriend of mine who has traveled the world and continues skipping around the globe with her husband. Several other women I know have embraced their passion for the arts; painting, acting, and other creative/theatrical ventures. Another couple decided early on to have a major presence in their grandchildren’s lives and have done just that. Another fellow at 89 years young is still doing taxes and loving it.

Richard J. Leider in his book ‘Power of Purpose’ talks about what researchers are discovering about how an increased sense of purpose can improve our health, healing, happiness, longevity, and productivity. The book has a definite spiritual bent about it. But Leider, without apology, sees this as an important component in his approach to life-satisfying ventures.

Leider goes on to explain that ‘Purpose is an active expression of our values and our compassion for others-it makes us want to get up in the morning and add value to the world.’ His book, details a graceful, practical, and ultimately spiritual process for making it central to your life.

With or without a spiritual angle, finding purpose for the rest of your life is certainly a worthwhile venture in living. I found mine almost by accident. While easing out of my business ventures, I encountered an irascible jerk who pushed me to the limit. I’d had enough and decided to close up shop. That left me with the next big challenge. What to do with the rest of my life? Retirement wasn’t an option. So, what was I going to do until my tour of duty here on earth ended?

Two western novels, written back in 1972 and 1973, were still gathering dust and growing gray with the ages. They were born in the snapping keys of my faithful LC Smith typewriter and an overactive imagination. Each evening, I would escape into our home in Reisterstown, Maryland, close the door and travel out West once again.

Each typewritten page was born, editing, retyped, and set aside. After a year and two hundred and fifty pages for the first novel, it was set aside and a second one begun. Another year later, it was also finished, set aside, and forgotten as my first-born son captured my full attention.

Fast forward fifty years and I went back to those tired old binders of graying pages of threatening Apache smoke signals, a fiery redhead; and a grizzled travel-worn scout and their adventures in the hot Arizona desert.

After scanning that first novel onto a floppy disc and then transferring it into my new Macintosh computer, I was off to the races. It took three more self-published novels before I would let myself admit that perhaps I had become a writer. After that, the plays, movie scripts, novellas, poetry, children’s books, comic strips, song lyrics and more than 700 blogs came bursting forth.

For me the journey is never ending. Fortunately, there’s no time limit on writing. That is, until the words lose their meaning and the story becomes boring. Until then, I’ll just keep pounding away on the keyboard and spin my tales of imaginative folks and (I hope) interesting storylines. It’s become ‘the rest of my life’ and I’m loving it.

Artichokes, Aprons, and Art

For years now, Sharon and I have been brainwashing our grandkids every chance we get. It has always been unapologetic and unbridled in Nana’s attempt to influence. The kiddos, as Amy likes to call them, were roped into kitchen duties, art classes and learning table manners. Later on, theatrical ventures became a part of their time spent in the desert. All under the guise of: ‘you need to learn this now so you can use it for the rest of your life.’

Now, none of us adults have any illusion that our grandchildren are going to become world-class gourmet chefs, New York gallery artists or a modern-day version of Miss Manners. But they darn well will become comfortable around a frying pan, a paint brush and learn how to prepare an eight-course meal. And it ‘will be fun’ in the process….so says Nana. If any of them catch the artists/acting bug, Papa will also be thrilled beyond words.

For the last seventeen or so years, Sharon and I have been fortunate enough to be able to host both families; the LaCombs and the McMahons in Palm Springs for either the Thanksgiving or Christmas holidays. From the very start, when Maya was just a toddler, Sharon felt it was important to introduce her grandchildren to the culinary arts, painting in many different mediums and basic table manners.

The kiddos very quickly went from baking cookies to more complex recipes. Pretty soon, they were preparing side dishes and desserts for many meals. Art classes began with alcohol ink then graduated to more complex mixtures of acrylic paints and other formulas to get some interesting results.

All of the grandchildren helped set the table at night, learning proper placement and table etiquette. They learned to wait until everyone was served before beginning to eat. They understood that a simple prayer and acknowledgement of life’s graces was also part of the ritual. It was family time and family was/is everything for us.

As the years passed and the kids grew older, Papa began writing short plays for ‘staged readings’ that the kids could perform. The first props were puppets and loveable ‘Cash,’ their Colorado dog. Their parents and an ever-growing audience of friends and neighbors were in attendance for their performances.

Over the last several years, music has been added to the mix and Maya singing, accompanied by Samantha on her ukulele, has entertained the crowd. It’s just another example of our pushing the grandkids out of their comfort zone.

When you’re at Nana and Papa’s house, it’s part of the package. The kids have grown to understand and (I think) like the ritual, the process, and the pushing of comfortable boundaries. It’s become part of overall experience of time spent in the desert. I think we’re all the better for it. I know I certainly am.

Generational Wealth

In our society, hot topics come and go; each generating a lot of press, hype, concern and historical secrets finally revealed. Generational wealth is the latest in a long string of painful reminders of our past which has recently surfaced into our consciousness.

The market crash of 2008, George Floyd incident and other reveals brought a new level of understanding of wealth building, societal success and life style enhancements available to some and yet leaving many others behind. We were told that generational wealth was the culprit. If only it were that easy to explain away. Now to be sure, generational wealth transfer is a real thing. Sharing liberally from the internet, I found some interesting facts about the subject:

“In the United States, a survey from the Federal Reserve shows that the top 10% of the population holds 74% of the country’s wealth, while the bottom 50% holds just 2%. A major reason for that disparity is the transfer of wealth from generation to generation.”

“A 2018 analysis by the Federal Reserve reported that “the bulk of intergenerational transfers are flowing to families that already have substantial resources.” It found that nearly 40% of intergenerational transfers went to households in the top 10% of the population in terms of income, while only about 20% went to families in the bottom 50%.”

Other types of intergenerational wealth transfers may come into play here. For example, education is highly correlated with greater earning power and wealth. Thus, a family that can afford to pay for the next generation’s college education is giving them an edge in accumulating more wealth of their own.

“The 2022 Survey of Consumer Finances by the Federal Reserve documents racial disparities in financial well-being in the country. According to the report, the average White family had approximately six times as much wealth as the average Black family and five times the average Hispanic family.”

The report goes on to specifically state that "because of continued barriers and the inter-generational nature of wealth, it is very difficult for individuals or families to overcome the gaps."

While facts can’t be disputed (except in today’s political climate) I think there are mitigating circumstances in this discussion that are often overlooked. Hence, it’s never as simple as it’s been painted.

One of my family members and I have a different perspective on generational wealth. Our conversations sometimes make me think I should apologize for being born white. Not privileged, not well educated, nor wise to societal norms and nuances, just plain white. And she has a point there.

My mother (as many of my past blogs have mentioned) was born and raised on a farm in Sterns County, Minnesota. She had a sixth-grade education, no marketable skills, no family support system and no encouragement to leave the nest.

Yet she somehow found the wherewithal, determination, guts and perseverance to succeed on her own. As a young woman she traveled the country, visited the World’s Fair in Chicago and settled in Carmel, California. That is until her father’s declining health brought her back to the farm she so desperately wanted to escape from. Then a chance meeting at the Twin Cities Arsenal (tough work but good pay) brought my future father into the picture.

After that marriage failed and with two toddlers to support, she somehow found the focus and determination to build her own home and enroll my sister and I in a Catholic grade school in downtown Saint Paul. Her focus was on the Catholic part, not necessarily the educational angle.

Now, I will be the first to recognize that while her situation was dire at times and incredibly difficult, it would have been exponentially harder had she not been born white. Simple as that.

Where I sometimes come to mental fisticuffs with my relative on this subject is the self-determination angle. I know I sometimes sound like an old conservative codger but I do believe in mental fortitude, self-determination and nurturing a hunger to succeed. That desire to get ahead is color blind, deaf to negativity and strong enough to overcome whatever is placed in front of it.

While I can’t now nor could I back then clearly explain why I had a different vision for my life; I know I did. Being raised as good German Catholics, my mother, sister and I never talked about anything or anyone in a negative manner. Yet, even by eighth grade, I knew which family members drank too much, couldn’t keep a job, had low-end jobs and not much of a future. I also knew which extended family members had carved out a different vision for themselves.

One Sunday morning, during a very long and painful sermon about ‘who the hell knows what?’ I decided to mentally divorce my relatives. I knew I meant nothing to them; they meant nothing to me; we were related in name only.

Getting accepted into Cretin High School put me directly on a path I knew I was going to follow. I’m pretty sure among some of the relatives that was known as ‘risen above one’s raisin’ and always began with ‘So, who does he think he is?’

My point is simply this: I know it would have been more difficult for me to succeed had I not been born white. But the color of my skin would not nor could not have erased the hunger I felt inside to succeed. That was true for me and can be true for anyone today. While color can be a determining factor in so many angles of life, there are still many avenues to success for generational wealth.

Helping your children with educational expenses, medical expenses, and a solid, mentally healthy upbringing are all steps toward financial freedom for them. Of course, the best gift any parent can give their kids are learning useful life skills followed by a good educational foundation and/or good trade or job skills.

Yes, generational wealth is harder to attain nowadays but still possible for many. It just takes a lot of work – hard work to succeed.

Welcome to the real world.

American Ramble Adieu

Not long ago, an old man of eighty-two peddled his electric bicycle along the same route he took seventy-five years earlier as a first grader in downtown Saint Paul. Most everything had changed along the way including himself. But it was a comfortable ride and let him dream a little dream as the miles rolled by.

The old brick school house is long gone but the little French church next to it remains. Most of the folks he knew back then have also faded away with the decades that followed. After he left downtown, he seldom stepped foot back there ever again. An effort for an all-class reunion died before it was ever born.

After the hill climb to St. Louis Catholic Church, I retraced my old street car ride back along West Seventh Street then up Randolph Avenue to the little house my mother built there seventy-six years earlier. It was a nostalgic return to a time of vapid images still etched in my gray matter. A wandering return to a place that no longer exists except in my memory.

Neil King Jr. in his wonderful book ‘American Ramble’ truly captures the age-old concept of wanderlust in all of its many forms. He writes: ‘As fine a start to any walker’s reading list would be Rebecca Solnit’s history of walking and the literature of walking, Wanderlust, which delves deep into the Western history of wandering and its influence on art and the human mind.’

More recently, there has been an abundant enchantment in Patrick Leigh Fermor’s trilogy on his 1933 walk from Holland to Constantinople, which begins with the incomparable A Time of Gifts. The long list of literature celebrating the wandering soul goes on and on.

A long time ago, when I was raising a family and only had time for daily runs and weekend bike rides, I immersed myself in travel books of a more circuitous nature.

Even before that, feeling constrained by the confines of youth, I fully embraced the wild idea of traveling around the world in a tramp steamer. That idea was brought on by a paperback book found at the drug store.

I never did go tramping around the world. I did manage to live in Europe for a while and returned there often. Through the decades, I’ve done South and Central America, the European thing and Asia included. I know it’s only been a fraction of what others have done. But it satisfied my soul and taste for the unexplored.

Yet as fascinating as these jaunts have been, it’s the closer to home, more leisurely rambles about town that bring the most enjoyment now. In my simple mind, there’s nothing more relaxing, eye-opening, and satisfying than a petal-assisted ride wherever in town I want to roam.

My new e-bike makes the ride even easier on back and limb. I may be too old to bike across the United States but I can settle for a tour of Twin Cities instead. Granted, it’s not quite the same but it satisfies my curiosity and lets me pretend I’m that kid once again.