Change

I have my morning routine. It hasn’t varied much through the years.  As soon as I rise, I get dressed for a brisk walk around my neighborhood.  Out the door, I decide on the route, except on Sundays (when my walk takes me to the local 7-Eleven where they carry the Sunday New York Times) and Wednesdays (when I go to the gym to keep tabs on my walking speed and endurance).

The Sunday walk is my favorite though, crossing a golf course, over to Route 1, and then north to the 7-Eleven.  It is a good match: the store opens early and I am normally underway as the sun is rising.  The town golf course had been redesigned by Jack Nicklaus (a local resident) since I’ve been doing this hike.  Naturally it was dramatically changed by him, but in this case an improvement over what there was before.  The greens, small lakes, and undulations make it a special municipal course. Just a few weeks ago, however, the multilevel diving board adjacent to an Olympic size pool was suddenly removed.  Insurance costs forced the town to do away with the iconic high diving platform.  

Here Today

Gone Tomorrow

I’m observant during my walks and notice things out of place.  As I cross the parking lot in front of the golf driving range an older Lexus RX 350 is usually parked there, someone out practicing early.  It wasn’t there this past Sunday as I went on to get the newspaper.  I didn’t think much of it, other than maybe he’s gone for the summer.  I had never met him, only having noticed the car.

I’ve been reading the Sunday New York Times since college.  I can’t imagine getting through a Sunday without it, and I like the walk to get it.  When we first moved here, I had it delivered. But there were frequent delivery and temporary hold problems.  But as I prefer to read the physical paper, not the online edition, I was relieved to find a store in walking distance from our home that carried it. 

I entered 7-Eleven last Sunday and immediately saw some things askance.  Sale bins were where the newspapers normally resided.   They never had sales.  The lady who has so graciously handled my “Sunday business” (we’ve had a pleasant, chitchat relationship) behind the counter was joined by two other employees, ones who normally are not there at that time in the morning.  The newspaper rack – now in the back -- was depleted but thankfully there was one copy of the Sunday NYT left.

She detected my consternation and said “you got the last newspaper we will ever have delivered here – the store is closing in a couple of days.”  I was stunned.  “I’ve been coming here for about ten years, every Sunday, there’s no other store in walking distance, are you relocating?”  No, but fortunately she was being transferred to another store, some ten miles away.  So at least she was not losing her job.  For me though I have lost my Sunday routine, one I valued. I wished her the best, knowing I will never see her again.

I began my walk home, searching my iPhone for the next closest 7-Eleven, one I knew I’d have to drive to, but as I would be in the car anyway, I could consider going to the beach for my walk.  Perhaps make some lemonade from lemons?  I found one a few miles away. They answered the phone after a few rings. “Do you carry the Sunday New York Times?”  “No,” click.  I’d have to search more when home.

Crossing the parking lot in front of the golf driving range on the return, I saw that RX 350 pull in and an elderly gent got out.  “Good morning,” I said to the man whose car I had noticed for so many years.  He returned the good morning so I said “you’re late today, I usually see your car and you are already on the range.”  “Got a late start today,” unexpectedly adding, “Where are you from originally?”  (He sized me up as not being a native Floridian; perhaps the Times under my arm was a clue.)  I looked at him more carefully, a little taller than I, thin, in fairly good shape, and I thought maybe ten years older.  “New York City, you?”  “Yeah, I lived there for several years after WW II working for WR Grace.”  “Funny,” I said, “I used to deal with one of their divisions, Baker and Taylor, a book distributor, during their conglomerate days.” 

He said he was in shipping logistics after the War.  He didn’t look old enough to be in WW II, so I asked.  “I’m 92,” which shocked me.  I told him my father was a Signal Corps photographer in Europe during the War and he replied “I was first in the European theater and then shipped to the Pacific” (which my father had feared would be his fate after Germany surrendered).  He then said “I’m eligible to be buried in Arlington Cemetery.”  “Such an honor,” I replied “but I think you have at least another ten good years before having to think of that.  You’re in great shape, still teeing off every Sunday!” He chuckled.  Briefly we looked at one another in silence.  The sun had finally risen above the trees.

I said, “Memorial Day is next week and my father will be very much on my mind, and I, for one, am grateful for your service.  Just want you to know that.” “Thanks,” he said, “it’s a sad day for me, remembering my buddies, some who died during the war and then the others who I’ve simply outlived.”  As he gathered his clubs from the back of the car he cheerfully said, “well, hope to see you around another Sunday.”

No sense telling him that this was probably my last Sunday walk by the golf course, but it put my inconsequential change issue in perspective.  “Yes, see you around,” I said as I walked across the golf course, with the last paper delivered to a store that is vanishing and Memorial Day on my mind.

 

The Other Side of Memorial Day

Previous Memorial Day entries have been about what the "holiday" really means to me, and it still does --  what our service men and women sacrificed to make this country great (in spite of our problems).  It makes me think of my father who fought in WW II, and friends, Ray, Ron, Bruce, who served in Vietnam.  I've always abhorred the other side of the day, the commercial part of it, but it does signal the "start" of the summer season and I suppose one has to accept that along with the true meaning.  So contrary to my other entries, this is mostly a photo album of a trip we took yesterday around Peanut Island, which has become a party island during the Memorial Day weekend. 

There seem to be two groups of boaters there, young families and then large groups of young people who are there to "seriously" party.  Ironically, Palm Beach County has an new ordinance that makes drinking on the island itself a misdemeanor, so that is the safe place where the families can congregate.  But it is legal to drink "off the island" so hundreds and hundreds of boats are anchored, beached, rafted around the island -- mostly party hardy types -- downing booze like there is no tomorrow.  No Memorial Day thoughts there and amazing, these same people get in their boats and go back to wherever they came from that same day.  So it's not OK to drink on the island, but OK to pilot your boat home drunk (there are marine police about, but how many boats can they check on their way out?).

The partiers look at us, two old folk in a boat, as a relic species, a societal vestigial organ, and perhaps we are, although when we were that age, we might have thought the aged eccentric, but always treated them with respect.  Perhaps that is a word (respect) that has become extinct in our society in many ways. 

Is it any wonder that a study by the Yale School of Public Health of entries in Facebook by individuals in the 20-29 age range found:

     74 percent berated older individuals

     41 percent mentioned physical debilitation

     27 percent treated the elderly as children, and

     37 percent advocated banning them from public activities such as driving and shopping.

One group even advocated facing a firing squad when one turns 69. Guess my time is up!

So, with that in mind, we planned a trip to reconnoiter the scene, choosing to leave our home during the noon hour, knowing that we would be returning well before the worst of the mayhem. (In fact, this year some fights broke out while "under the influence.")

Even though we left early, the boat traffic was already heavy and some Florida boaters don't seem to be aware that even in "speed zones" such as Lake Worth, they are responsible their own wake.  Entering the Lake, immediately south of the PGA bridge I try to time my run so I am either well behind or well ahead of the big sportfishes and yachts that run the Lake as if they own the water and everyone else be damned. This still puts us at the mercy of these large vessels approaching us, the greatest danger being when we are between two markers and can't run outside of them.  I'm amazed that these boats don't slow down to give a smaller boat a safer passageway, but most don't.  I had a 41' Hatteras approach us at full bore which left six foot wakes, tightly spaced and with curlers on top, ones I had to take on my port quarter.  Although we took these off of plane, there were a few anxious moments.  We knew the Lake would be rough and I knew our boat could take it, but the boat seems to take it better than our backs.  Unfortunately, between piloting our boat and hanging on, it is impossible to get photos of these inconsiderate, dangerous boats or their wakes. 

But, thankfully, it is slow speed all around Peanut Island and although we had boats on both sides, and ones approaching from all angles, it is fairly easy to navigate, although, again, many Florida boaters seem to lack knowledge of the rules of the road and what it means for the burdened vessel to give way or for the privileged vessel to maintain course and speed.

So here are a few photos of our trip.  First, leaving the placid waters just south of the PGA bridge..

Entering Lake Worth, traffic coming at us, going south...

After passing under the Blue Heron bridge, one beholds Peanut Island on the North Side....

Looking east, rafting on the northern sandbar of Peanut....

 

This is what the rafting looked like on the Northwest side of Peanut...

Heading south along Peanut's west side....

Tent colony on Peanut's west side (overnight tenting is permitted in designated areas and they are immune from the law that does not permit drinking on the island...go figure)

On the south side of the island, the old Coast Guard station and the West Palm ferry...

Larger boats on the northeast side of Peanut....

Passing Sailfish Marina which is to the east of Peanut -- home to some large sportfishes...

And the rafting goes on and on -- here on the northeastern sand bar right near the narrow channel...

There are some derelict boats near the Island, but this one is someone's home...

Finally, home, and our safely boat in its lift, a paddler surfboarder goes by with a doggie on the bow (wow!)...

Memorial Day Photo

I have been saving this photo from a few weeks ago, when our Pink Bougainvillea were in full bloom, for posting this Memorial Day weekend.  It expresses the day's meaning instead of what is so often associated with it, barbequing and shopping.  This site has some interesting quotes concerning the day and patriotism in general.

Patriotism is supporting your country all the time, and your government when it deserves it.

Mark Twain

A GI's WW II Scrapbook

Soon, Memorial Day sales will be shouted from every newspaper and TV ad, overshadowing the true meaning of the day.  To many, it's just another holiday, a day off from work

My father was a WW II Signal Corps photographer and when I think of the sacrifices of our service men and women on Memorial Day I honor him as well.

Upon his death in 1984 he left me the contents of his desk, actually the only inheritance I ever received from either of my parents.  My mother, who passed away some twenty years later, essentially became estranged from us after his death.  I feel more sadness than anger over this as she missed seeing her only two grandchildren grow up.  

But on a Spring day in 1984 I remember ascending the stairs into the attic where my father had lived separately from my mother, in my old childhood bedroom, and from my father's desk I recovered some of his photographs, family memorabilia, his silver pocket knife which I still use and cherish, some letters he wrote to my mother and his brother during the War (onecan be read at the bottom of  this entry), and his scrapbook from the army.

That scrapbook reveals my father as a young man, a person I did not know.  The person I knew as a kid went off to work, returning to a home of discord each evening.  He aged before his time.

He almost never talked about the War, but as his scrapbook attests, he was justifiably proud of his service to his country.  Until recently, it hibernated in a closet.  My son and I recently photographed its contents.  Only a small portion of the scrapbook is incorporated here, but it is fitting to post this as Memorial Day approaches.

It begins with some of the insignias he wore.  I think he was particularly proud that eventually he joined the 101st Airborne Division—the "Screaming Eagles:

Dad's order to report for induction:

His records and ID cards:

  

Each GI was given a pamphlet "When You are Overseas:"

 

 

The call went out for "mentally and morally sound" women to join the WACs:

He took several leaves in Switzerland as my mother was half Swiss. There are a number of brochures covering the places he visited: 

 

 

 

 

 

Some other kinds of R&R:

 

WW II European currency:

A couple of the men he served with were artists, in addition to being photographers, and a few of their sketches even include my dad:

 

Naturally, there are hundreds of photos in the scrapbook, and these are just a few, but they give a sense of his time there:

 

 

This particular page had two photos of Marlene Dietrich who had become an American citizen and toured with the USO overseas:

 

 

 This document covers executions at Bruchsal and he was probably there at the time:

A sad letter mentioning my father from the parent of a fallen comrade:

 

Finally, the letter our service men and women received from President Truman. Indeed, "the heartfelt thanks of a grateful nation:"