A Day to Remember

My father was small in stature, only slightly over 5 feet tall. My mother said he suffered throughout his life with an inferiority complex due to his size. I faintly recall a childhood vision of watching my folks dance the waltz in a hall at a resort perhaps in Wisconsin, my mother's head clearly towering over my father's. She told me later that this was embarrassing for him since normal etiquette dictated the man be taller than the woman. Nonetheless, I felt proud watching the methodical and graceful manner of their movement as they glided across the floor. I felt gladdened by the shy, gentle smiles on their faces. Unfortunately, I was to witness such moments of tenderness rarely. More often my father was irritable, unpredictable, and verbally abusive. My mother attributed his irascible behavior to psychological damage as a result of his diminutive height, growing up fatherless, and from the stress of experiencing  anti-Semitism, which like molecules of mist sometimes thick, other times veiled, pervaded the air of the provincial town in which he was raised and worked like a carcinogen on the psyches of its Jewish inhabitants. She referred to my father as a "little Napoleon" and as "Commander-and-Chief". His viewpoint on proper behavior became the rules of the household and dictated my mother's, sister's and my existence totally. Infractions were, of course, constant and created unpleasant scenes, beset with shouting, crying, name calling, and physical punishments. To make matters worse my father suffered from hay fever and, during three seasons of the year, his nose was so congested that he could hardly breathe. This condition made him even more nervous. Little bottles of neosynephrine and boxes of q-tips lined the dresser in their bedroom and the sink in the bathroom. He could be found at any time placing moistened cotton sticks into his nostrils desperately hoping for momentary relief or needed sleep. Of course this treatment would sadly cause greater rebound an hour later.  My father once joked that during an especially bad Summer week a doctor advised him to flee from Chicago where we lived and travel to Wisconsin to breathe in pollen-free air. On the train he sat down coincidentally next to a fellow hay fever sufferer from Madison who had been told by a doctor to go to Chicago to breathe in the fresh palliative breezes from the lake!

My dad's physical and emotional make-up certainly helped produce the difficult, bellicose person he was, but that was the diamond's rough edge. On the smooth side there lived a remarkably sparkling man, who possessed indefatigable survival energy, keen insight, a sense of history, artistic gift, a quick wit, and intense love and loyalty for our family and the Jewish community. It was a challenge, to be sure, to be in his presence. As is often the case, when in the aura of special individuals, it is hard to know whether at any given moment their light will provide you warmth or searing pain.

Today commemorates my father's birthday. He was born on May 21, 1911. I have written a tiny snippet about the man's life, albeit one that is not necessarily entirely flattering. It described a couple of moments of the 1950's. A few leaves do not adequately depict the enormous foliage of a massive tree, or that one part of a ring in the trunk tells the story of standing tall throughout a lifetime of amazing storms. My father was a large guy in a small man's body who found his way through incredible obstacles, including but not limited to rescuing his family from the Holocaust and becoming a successful citizen in a new country. The thought of him today brings tears to my eyes. He died when I was 29 years old. He never lived to see my children, my professional achievements, see any of my creative accomplishments, nor hear my thanks and gratitude for all that he taught me. I feel a cool wind blow through me. I ease forward to listen and remember. It is carrying a tender sound vocalizing my childhood nickname, a low tone I haven't heard for years. It whispers, "Butzen, ya, you're okay."

A Voice from the Past

For what it is worth, my middle name is Morris and my Hebrew name is Moshe. I share this because the other day I began to think again about my namesake, grandfather Moritz Spangenthal. A picture of him sits in a cheap frame on a shelf above my computer desk. It shows a mustached, modest-looking man standing officiously together with a flight crew in front of a German biplane sometime between 1914 and 1918. In September 1918, just before the Armistice, he and his comrades were shot down over France and perished. My father gave copies of this treasured remembrance to other family members and me to memorialize the man he hardly knew. The plane had crashed when my father was only seven. He never spoke of growing up fatherless, nor did I have the maturity at the time to ask him his perspective on the matter. Therefore, I learned nothing from him of my grandfather's personality, his skills, or attributes. Other than this military photo, the only other document of significance about his life that exists is a copy of a war letter, written to his wife, my grandmother Frieda. It was published in 1935 in a compilation of letters penned by fallen German-Jewish WWI soldiers. I reread it recently. It expresses quietly and tenderly my grandfather's familial love and his dedication to key principles of Judaism. It has a philosophical tone which may likely be a result of stress and depression from combat, understandable in such the dark times. Then again, it may represent a certain didactic style he chose to use. It is also likely that the contents of soldiers' mail were reviewed by censors and therefore language and ideas might have been carefully chosen for security purposes. It is strangely brief, unsigned, and spartan in affectionate words to his wife. This may suggest the possibility that the letter may have been edited. I will never know the truth since the original has disappeared, like so much, into the still-lingering smoke of the Holocaust. Seventeen days after its writing, Moritz was buried in a cemetery in Le Cateau, France, among the rows of crosses commemorating thousands of the fallen. Shortly after Moritz' demise, Frieda was presented a medal by the German government honoring posthumously her husband's bravery. This symbol was also to serve as a token of gratitude for the family's sacrifice to the Fatherland. Some years later, as the story goes, after the Nazis came to power, officials visited Frieda and demanded the medal be returned. She was informed that it was now government policy based on historical fact that the Jews had betrayed the German people, and were to be blamed for the loss of the war. They were now to be considered vermin in the pure German society, and Jews such as he did not deserve any honor. Almost fifty years later, after WWII and the defeat of Hitler, Moritz' sons, the eldest, Max; my father, Fred; and especially the youngest, my Uncle Paul had his stone replaced and adorned with a Jewish star.

Today I feel the ancient symbol produces a twinkling light which beckons a visit. It points me in a direction for adventure. It marks the location of my genetic and cultural link to the past. My ancestor deserves my gratitude for his strength of character and sacrifice. On some level, the content of this post rekindles his essence. I am happy to be his medium.

Below is my translation of the letter from the original German.

30 August 1918

Still we have no solid place to live. I look forward to the next time to be able to change clothes and bathe. But I am well, healthier than all the others. These are defeated guys around me. Young people and old. They can't endure a march, they need to eat and sleep and are freezing as well. Under these circumstances, I will have to forego Rosh Hashonah (Jewish New Year). How lovely it would be if I were with you! We (would) want to wish one another the best. Thank God that he he has brought us so far, that he has let us remain healthy and let us earn so much, that we live comfortably and the children have been able to learn something. What has been granted to us, we want to transform into doing good acts, to help orphans and the sick. Always to have before our eyes to see where there are things to do and what we can and must in addition contribute.

And this all must be taught to the children and continually reminded to them. They should learn as much as possible to be tactful and pursue goodness. They should not become nor be raised like other children have been raised: to give something only to rich family members. "Whoever does not give to Jacob, has to give to Esau"

Reader's note: The story of the twin brothers, Jacob and Esau can be found in Genesis 25 though Genesis 28. It tells of a complicated family tale of rivalry and deceit which is necessary to fulfill God's will. My belief is that my grandfather arbitrarily chose the names above, not to reference this portion of the Torah, but simply to take advantage of a familiar colloquialism of the times used to describe the advantaged and the disadvantaged.  

A Line of Thought?

I am at the tea shop half-listening to conversations of teenagers at neighboring tables who are enjoying their time away from school. Almost completely unnoticed by the jovial crowd of young people, I, dressed in a fading yellow windbreaker, old blue jeans, and wearing an old fishing ball cap covering my sparse grayed hair, peer through my scratched, round-rimmed glasses about the room and at my keyboard and consider my words before writing. I recall last month's trip to New Zealand and feel the urge to express some memories, but, like little bubbles on a wandering foam line at the outer edge of an eddy, these once valuable recollections blur, fade, and slip into an indistinct swirling center, into an opaque world of minute particles existing below the surface. This is water where the drowned thoughts of past success and joy, of regret and sadness, now "swim with the fishes". The time has come again for me to trust in the future and let my imagination and curiosity keep me afloat. As I grow older though, even with experience, the river looks ever harder to wade for the tenacious fisherman. The flow of the downstream current appears to become roily and more mysterious in its prophetic westward flow to the mouth. My joints and vision, like the rest of my body aren't what they used to be. I am another crooked, brittle branch hanging over the river's shore. Nonetheless it is the day to re-bait, while I still can, find a new fly to match the ever-waning season's hatch and reach back with renewed effort to cast again into the magnificent challenge of life.

Fare Well Wellington

I a sitting in a commuter plane over Christchurch on my way to Wellington which is a stopover on my way to Auckland from where tonight I fly back to Los Angeles.
Wellington is the home of my friends to whom, in my last post, I wrote an apology for insensitive behavior. I have subsequently spoken to them and received an apology. For me, the recent days have been beset with emotional turmoil and, although exonerated, I know that the friendship, like a beautiful vase dropped to the floor and shattered and then hastily glued back together, will always feel flawed and damaged.

Over two days last week, these people drove me around showed me most of the important sites of New Zealand's capital during which time I asked incessantly my hosts questions about geography, history, politics, health care. and demographics, all of which were patiently answered.  

Since I hadn't read about the city in my guide books, I was surprised when my first glimpse of Wellington showed,a clean, bright metropolis lying up against and upon steep verdant hills, which surrounded a large aquamarine-colored bay. Many of the residential houses were either bayfront or commanded stellar views  The scenery of the towering green rocky cragged mountains of The Hobbit was to be found elsewhere. Nonetheless, here was a hint of its grandeur and the magic. That fairy tale world lay just offshore on the South Island which was visible across Cook Strait The downtown was peaceful, yet clearly economically robust, and offered an unusual and sometimes humorous juxtaposition of both modern and historic buildings. This was most poignantly demonstrated by a peculiar building called the Beehive sitting next to a stately late 19th century stone parliament building with its manicured green lawns and accompanied flower gardens. While taking photos of the spot, teenage girls from a nearby parochial school, dressed in neatly ironed dark uniforms and walking in groups of twos and threes, passed by me. I listened to their indistinct chatter and laughter and watched their wholesome intelligent expressions. The scene felt serene and almost picture book. It was as if the rough-edged world of so many inner cities I have toured was missing. Absent was turbulence, noise, litter, and artifice. It was another reflection of the relaxed environment I had experienced on my travels here, of a people living on a large Polynesian island, separated by amazing distances over water, whose positive character I have attempted to capture in previous posts.

I am now in the departure lounge of the Auckland airport and have only minutes before I my flight is called. I say good-bye now and wonder as usual about the place my adventure has taken me. I ask  myself whether I will ever return. There are countries and people and historic sites I have not seen and wish to experience before I die. Yet, somehow New Zealand lures me. It speaks more to my love of the mountains, the sea, and the rivers more than any place I've been. It is a "Call of the Wild" to my essence frrom the South. It is carried on a soft and gentle wind. It draws me nearer and soothes me as I am about to leave.

My Thanks and Apology to Malcolm and Lynette

After completing the last post and feeling so positive about my experience in New Zealand, I learned sadly I had committed a gaffe of monumental proportion for not acknowledging in writing the terrific hospitality shown me by my friends who cared for me in Wellington last week.  Worse than that, a previous post, which I had written in a solitary mood during a brief period of physical and emotional discomfort several days after leaving their house, gave them the impression that I was having a dreadful time in New Zealand. Worse yet, the incredible congeniality and kindness they so graciously provided me, I had marginalized by my negative tone in which I spoke of feeling lonely and disoriented.

I write this addendum tonight embarrassed and regretful for my lack of sensitivity that the words in that post expressed to them and as a heartfelt apology for all of my readers to see.

In point of fact, Malcolm and Lynette Chapman showed me incredible kindness and gave me an amazing amount of time and energy in order that I saw and experienced their world. They opened up their home to me and treated me with such deference that I felt we had truly become lasting friends. As I left their house and thanked them, I believed I had experienced a profound meaning in the value of world travel, namely, that it bridges gaps across miles and cultural differences and helps bring people together who would have otherwise never have known one another. It can link humanity in such a positive way. I believe their effort was also a reflection held by the majority of New Zealand's people to welcome visitors to their beautiful country with a genuine attempt to make guests feel comfortable and valued.

Like so many moments in life I wish I could undo what I have done. It is pointless to explain away my shortcomings or my lack of manners or predilection toward carelessness. The damage has been done and this wrongdoing will remain in me a poignant reminder of my stay and my fallibility as a person. I take this opportunity to restate to those who follow me to know how sorry I am for having hurt these people's feelings and apologize directly to them for my actions and to publicly thank them for their fantastic hospitality.

Fantastic New Zealand

I am sitting at an outdoor cafe at Lake Wanaka adjacent the Southern Alps on the South Island of New Zealand. The air is tranquil, the temperature is in the low 70's, and there is a gentle breeze blowing across the lake. I am wearing shorts and a short sleeve shirt. Other vacationers are enjoying the sun as well. A couple from the Auckland is sitting next to me. Upon realizing I am from the States, they asked me what I had liked most about my trip to New Zealand.

The question caught me off guard. First, it made me realize that my mind-set had changed. No longer was I telling people that I had just arrived. Now I was announcing I was leaving soon. I fumbled with my words and told them I had to think about my answer. I reviewed where I had been and began considering the highlights of my journey. I'm not sure they meant what geographical location I was most enamored with, but superficially, it seemed that way. Imagine if you asked a New Zealander the same thing after they had spent three weeks in the western part of the U.S. Could they have preferred the Grand Canyon more than San Francisco with its Golden Gate? Was the rocky Pacific Coast prettier than the painted desert? If they are people like me who love to travel as much as I do, such a question is like asking a person who adores fresh fruit salad, whether he enjoyed the succulent peaches better than the juicy plums. From the Northland to the South where I am now, I have seen countless breathtaking landscapes and unique geological features. Even the cities of Auckland and Wellington have their unique charm. The totality is  mind-boggling. It is like a tapestry woven of wool,(of course), of intricate patterns of alpine mountains and volcanoes, pine and beech forests, verdant meadows and high desert, a border of crystal blue oceans and lines of the clearest rivers imaginable.

Second, perhaps my neighbors meant by their query what cultural characteristics impressed me the most. Could I make some statement about the people and their traits that I found most desirable. As I struggled to answer this to myself, the people left and some new guests sat down next to me. These people were from a locale on the North Island's Corumundel Pensinula, a place where I had spent a night. They were excited to know what I thought of their region and hometown. As part of my response, I told them that I was writing an article and that I was attempting to synthesize what I liked most about the cultural climate of New Zealand. As we chatted, they extolled the beauty of the country over and over. It became clear to me that, other than the recent immigrants from Asia who are adjusting to their new home, New Zealanders, it seemed, love to tour and tell about about hiking spots, special lakes and favorite roads. They really take pride in their country not from a political, goofy patriotic perspective, which is common in other countries, but from a genuine respect for their land.They derive a sense of well-being because they live in such a splendid environment. This deep feeling of connection with the land in turn creates a relaxed mood. This attitude is even reflected by the way people drive, which is slow, polite  and with virtually no honking. I think this is what I enjoyed the most about the people. Conversation seemed to be less on money, competition and world affairs and more on outdoor activities, environmental issues,and sports.

On another note, although each town has its quaint or stately Anglican and Catholic churches, I have enjoyed the sense that religion stays quietly and unobtrusively in the background of daily life. Fundamentalism doesn't seem to be pervasive either nor play a role in politics as it does in America. I found it refreshing to not feel the annoying presence of the clergy or of self-righteous people.

On Saturday, I return to Los Angeles and then drive back to Bend. By this time next week I may be home. By then, I know I will feel irked by the fact that memories and ideas gained during this adventure will have faded. This post will serve me as a reference to remind me of the fun I have had and, in spite of doubts, how good it was to have chosen to have visited beautiful New Zealand.

Changing Weather

Blustery northwest winds and choppy seas buffeted the ferry while I crossed Cook Strait. The sea presaged the coming of a front. I leaned up against the rail to steady myself to take pictures and eventually had to give up using my cellphone's camera  for fear it would blow out of my hand. Now I am on the South Island. What began first as a gentle rain born in distant Southern climes has changed into a downpour and is drenching the long dry summer's parched ground. The mountains, so abundantly covered and surrounded by pine and beech forests, are being thoroughly soaked. Shrouded in thick misting clouds, it is hard to tell that they even exist. The once brilliant sunny sky has turned a leaden gray. The weather is telling me there is no sense in continuing my journey. It would mean venturing through narrow gorges on slick windy highways and missing vistas of what is reputed to be some of the loveliest landscape in the country. Therefore, I have decided to spend several days in a little river town named Murcheson where I will pass time with reading, writing, and drawing.

It became clear to me that I needed a respite from traveling and  to release tension built up by constantly making spontaneous decisions about where to go, where to sleep, what to eat, and a myriad of other choices. What better way to accomplish this unwinding  than to allow imagination and fantasy to work in productive ways. So in  the quiet of my room, hearing only the forming of puddles and the rhythm of my breathing, I begin. First though  I must overcome distracting doubts and worry and  reassure myself in a series of staccato-like thoughts that  I'm alive, I'm doing okay, and I'll make it back home. I repeat this to myself. I'll be okay. I'm only a little lonely. I'll be okay, now Lee, Start writing!

I shut my eyes. I am a distant traveler recording thoughts. It is Fall 2013 or is it really now Spring for me? My journal is my blog. Each entry is like a buoy marking a spot in time, a moment  preserved from the fate of  being  jettisoned into a sea of forgotten events. The posts are waypoints which I share with those that care. They show my course through life.