Men of Character

Uncle Charles Larson & author (1954) 

Men of Character

memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

          Preface: Every year, between Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, I ponder the sacrifices of those who have served in the armed forces. It’s a time of year to look at our surroundings, breathe the summer air, and appreciate what we have.

          I’m a fortunate soul for having grown up around men of character. My role models were my dad, some uncles and friends of the family, and mentors who answered the call to serve during World War II. Did I understand the significance of their service or the harrowing situations they survived? No. I was a carefree kid from Kansas, spending time with my brothers and friends, with a limited view of the world. My siblings and I were the typical baby-boomers with a simple outlook on life: have fun and try not to get into too much trouble. In today’s American culture, where the idea of tight-knit families and neighborhoods seems a strange notion, I can look back now with real appreciation, and realize the impact of the love, nurture and guidance those men gave me. I feel truly blessed.

          Many of the men that I admired had stared death in the face during the war and they were literally glad to be alive. Somewhere in their darkest moments of battle, they held onto dreams of returning home to pursue a life of work and family. During the ’50s and ’60s they built on those dreams and made them real. The post-World War II economy was booming and folks were happy — happy the war was over and happy to be free to raise families in a great country.

          Over time, I saw different qualities in the men that I admired, including my dad. Partly by osmosis, and partly through conscious decisions, I attempted to emulate what I observed after spending time with my uncles and other men who were friends of my parents. In retrospect, I had a basketful of character traits to pick from, and what a basket it was!

          Uncle Charles (Charles “Shag” Larson, 1924 - 2014), my dad’s older brother, was a significant role model. He and my dad were very close. They grew up during the depression, in a family that struggled to stay out of poverty. They excelled in school, and both served in the war before going to college on the G.I. bill. For the first ten years of my life, our family and Charles’ family got together three or four times a year. This was not insignificant, because they lived in Albuquerque and we lived in Wichita. My dad and Uncle Charles always wanted to spend time together to fish or play golf.

          Charles was small in stature and soft-spoken. When he talked, people listened. He was a peaceful man, and happiest when sitting on a riverbank with his fishing pole propped up before him. Why did Charles and my dad want to be together? Dad was glad his brother was alive. In my adulthood, I learned of the war stories that he had kept quiet for so many years.

          Charles was an infantry soldier in the Army. During the Battle of the Bulge in the winter of 1944 he and his fellow soldiers were trapped in a concrete bunker in France. Cut off from the Allied Forces, they sat in the extreme cold for days, from one dark hour to the next with dwindling food and water. The Germans advanced and shelled the bunkers. Charles’ bunker was hit, and several men were killed instantly. In that moment, at age twenty-one, he became the ranking officer of the small band of survivors. The Germans shouted for them to open the bunker and exit. He had a split-second decision to make: Do they resist and die, or do they surrender and most probably be shot as they exit the bunker? Charles was the first to exit. Much to his surprise, the Germans didn’t shoot. Over the next two days they were marched fifty miles in the snow to the German prison camp Bad Orb. Many of the prisoners died of starvation or poor medical care during captivity. In April of 1945, when the allies liberated the camp, Charles weighed 85 lbs. and had to be carried to an ambulance. After he returned home from WWII, he signed up in the army reserves, and was sent to the Korean War, where he served as an officer.

          As a child, I always liked being with Uncle Charles. He always had a story or joke to tell, and he always looked out for me when we were fishing.

          Mr. Frazier, (Eugene “Gene” Frazier, 1922 - present), was another man I admired while growing up. The Frazier family was part of a large church class which included my parents. It was a very social group that supported each other as the families grew. There were many camping trips full of swimming, fishing, campfires, and exploring. Mr. Frazier was always prepared. His family would be first at the campsite, and as we arrived to set up our camp, he would provide assistance and encouragement, as well as plenty of fresh popcorn. I admired him for his creativity and resourcefulness, as well as his positive attitude. The evening campfires were always next to the Frazier’s campsite because Mr. Frazier had a supply of wood for the fire, and he refilled everyone’s bowl with  popcorn. My brothers and I became close friends with the Frazier kids. I still keep in touch with Val Frazier, in my longest-running friendship.

          I learned that Mr. Frazier had been a pilot in the Army Air Corps in the South Pacific during WWII. At twenty-one years old he was commander of a B-29 crew, in a bomber that had been designed and built in just a few months. Although it was designed with a pressurized cabin, the plane had a lot of quirks and flaws that required constant attention and maintenance. The pilot and the additional ten crew members had to know how to adjust and adapt the aircraft systems during their flights. The prospect of not returning had to rattle the minds of the crews each time they lifted into the air to fly low-level raids over Tokyo. Those who did survive had to cope with the knowledge that some of their fellow airmen in the other planes didn’t return from their missions.

B-29 (public domain image)

          The mentoring I received from men who served in WWII continued on through college and graduation. For my first architectural job, I was hired in Topeka, Kansas as an intern at the firm of Kiene and Bradley. Mr. Bradley, (Jack R. Bradley, Jr.), was a true professional and a born leader. When I first met him, I was shocked at the appearance of his face, which was disfigured and covered with skin grafts, but I observed a man whose focus and energy was channeled into running a high-quality design firm in downtown Topeka. Some employees told me that Mr. Bradley was a bomber crewman in WWII and had sustained his injuries and burns in a plane crash. He met client after client and brought in business to the firm as if his disabilities didn’t exist and the war had never occurred. He never talked about his war injuries and he went about each day with encouraging words and a smile on his face.

          After graduation, I was hired by a prominent architect, Sid Platt (Sidney S. “Sid” Platt, 1916-2012) in Wichita, Kansas. Sid had a commanding presence when he entered a room, standing over six feet tall, with curly hair, a Roman nose, jutting jaw and piercing blue eyes. He looked like he could have been an admiral in the navy, but he was a pilot and a Major in the Army Air Corps. During morning coffee, he shared some of his adventures in the war as a P-38 fighter pilot, flying sorties out of England and into Germany and continental Europe.

P-38 (public domain image)

          It was hard for me to picture big Sid squeezing into the small cockpit of a P-38, and I remember him telling us how cramped it was. He didn’t go into too much detail about the missions, but he said there was one time when he had to clean out his cockpit after returning to base from a dogfight and with the Germans. He had to burn his clothes and the seat cushion because he’d filled his pants during the heat of the battle.

          Sid was quite a people person, always working a room to make others feel at ease. He had a balance of creativity, honesty and work ethic. It seems as if it were yesterday . . . he'd pull into the parking garage in the morning in his tiny ’72 BMW, looking like a cramped fighter pilot. On our walk to coffee, if he saw my collar or back pocket unbuttoned, he’d stop to button it for me, then he’d poke me with his shoulder as we’d start walking and say, “Ya gotta look sharp!”

          My dad (Wallace E. “Wally” Larson, 1926-2007) entered the war in 1944, joining the Navy to become a signalman. He never saw combat, but he was assigned to a Merchant Marine ship, to receive and send orders for the captain. He told me his worst fear during the war occurred in San Francisco harbor when he received the Morse code message through the flashing beacons with orders for the captain to proceed the next day in a convoy to the South Pacific. Dad said he figured he would meet his fate somewhere along the way, because the supply ships were like floating buckets and were easy targets for the enemy. Lo, and behold, the next morning he received new information that the atomic bomb had been dropped on Hiroshima, and they were given orders to sit in the harbor for several days. He spent his remaining Navy days on the beaches of Hawaii, selling his cigarette rations and training for bantam-weight boxing matches to earn some additional cash.

          Dad’s middle name should have been Tough Guy. He was straight-laced but unafraid in any situation. After receiving an accounting degree in college, he went through FBI training and became a U.S. Treasury Agent. He was my A-number-one mentor for learning right from wrong. Early in our childhood he began to teach me and my siblings how to take care of ourselves and become productive members of society.

          One of the traits he passed on to me was how much he could see through simple observation. That must have been his law enforcement training. He also gave me advice on how to deal with stressful situations with influential people by telling me, “Greg, you have to remember they get up each morning and put on their pants just like you and me."

          He spent a lot of his free time taking us fishing, teaching us golf, and volunteering as our Scoutmaster. He never learned another language, but he knew Morse code backwards and forwards.

Wally Larson 1962 (author's dad)

          While I watch the Fourth of July fireworks this year, I’ll reflect on what these men did for me and for our country. I’ll remember growing up around them and understand they taught me so much without saying a word. It was their actions, these men of character, that showed me how to live.

          This link is to a video of Gene Frazier remembering the dangers of flying over Japan in the B-29 during WWII:  http://www.witnesstowar.org/combat_stories/WWII/991

The Unusual Commute



Fast Old Guys

The Unusual Commute
memoir
by Gregory E. Larson

 

           A trip on the bicycle is a sensory experience. That’s why I’ve always felt so alive while pedaling down the road. Just the memory of various smells takes me back to strawberry fields in Wisconsin, or to minestrone and pasta flavors hovering in the stone alley ways of small villages in Italy. Over the years I’ve pedaled a swath past uncounted lemonade stands, delis, pubs and grocery stores. Did you ever drink an orangina or a gassosa when you were really thirsty? Powerful stuff.

          My longtime cycling buddy, George, asked me recently (for old time’s sake) to get up early and ride with him to where he works, something we did together once a week for ten years from the suburbs to Crown Center in Kansas City. Although I’m retired, I decided to do it for the exercise (and for old time’s sake), so I set the alarm for 5:20 AM.
          The body creaked and groaned while I pulled on my bike clothes and spooned down the bowl of maple-flavored instant oatmeal. I asked myself, “Why am I doing this?” but once outside, I pedaled down the street and the world came alive.
          We saw each other’s flashing headlights at our designated Park where we blended together in the pre-dawn grayness, pedaling the familiar route. That’s when the memories came flooding back.
          As we picked up speed down a hill, George reminisced. “Remember the time I hit the rabbit in the dark on this stretch?” The vision came back from years ago, of the rabbit bounding out of nowhere, right into George’s wheel and flipped into the air, just missing me as I followed behind. Anything bigger than a twig on a bike tire at thirty miles-per-hour could spell disaster. This time we both stayed upright and continued on, letting nature take its course with whatever remained of the rabbit.
          Riding through Mission Hills brought back visions of foxes wandering the creek by the country club, and raccoons peering from storm inlets in the dark of the morning.
          As we rode through the Country Club Plaza, I thought of all those early December mornings when the Christmas lights illuminated the fog. In the eerie quiet it was a magical spectacle, one which we had to ourselves as we rode the empty streets.
          Weaving around the delivery trucks, I smelled the coffee as we passed Starbucks, then began the climb out of the Plaza towards St. Luke’s Hospital. In the old days, we rode past the main entry and the chapel on Broadway, stopping at the crosswalk for the doctors and nurses in their blue and white coats, where they walked to the entry of warm air that billowed out from the building — the draft giving us just a hint of the antiseptic interior beyond the doors.
          The route now curves around the hospital — the Broadway entrance shut off from traffic years ago. North of 43^rd Street, George said, “You gotta see this . . . you’re not going to believe it.” My mouth gaped open as I looked at an empty field of grass next to a parking lot on the south side of Westport.
          “This is where the St. Luke’s Fitness and Rehab Center was!”
          “Yes, they tore it down. It’s gone.”
          For years, whenever I rode past the building, I thought of the pain and torture I endured inside when I went for rehab on a pulled hamstring. My leg winced every time I looked at the building. Now there’s just a field of grass. In the back of my mind I could hear the voice of the physical therapist as she rolled the muscle-massage machine next to the cot where I lay on my side.
          “Lie on your stomach and relax. I need to work over the damaged area with this massager.” She tried several settings but nothing seemed to stimulate the hamstring. Finally she announced, “I guess I’ll have to turn it up to the Russian setting.”
          “No way! Is there really a Russian setting?
          “Yep. Here it is.” She pointed to the dial and the final position on the far right, labelled Russian.
          “Okay. Have at it.” I buried my face in the pillow and grabbed the corners of the cot with a tight grip. She flipped the switch and I screamed a silent scream at the inner-most part of my being. I screamed and screamed. The only thing worse would have been if a robust Russian lady in a white coat had put all of her body weight into the massage. The memory seemed like a figment of my imagination as I rolled past the empty field where bricks, mortar, and therapists once filled the space.
          The dumpster odors from the alleys in Westport quickly flipped my mind back to reality. As we passed Kelly’s, the smell of stale beer filled the air as sunlight shafts began to peek over the treetops. We rolled on, through the Valentine neighborhoods with stately homes built in the ’20s, the houses now looking a bit tired.
          I said “good-bye” to George as he rode to his office building at 31^st and Broadway, and I turned around for the solo trip home. We had a lot of good memories from our commutes. It was a time to visit, like riding in the car and sharing graduations, illnesses and proud father moments.
          I skipped the final stretch I used to take when I rode to work at Crown Center. The cresting of hospital hill was the strongest memory of all. Every time I topped out on Wyandotte St., the Liberty Memorial loomed in the sunrise and the city skyline twinkled before me, while the theme from Rocky played in my head. It was the finale, a cue that told me I would coast the rest of the way to work, knowing that after a hot shower, I’d stop by the cafeteria for a cup of coffee and a sticky bun — my reward for fifteen miles of exercise.
          This morning, though, my reward was reliving all those past rides through the city I love, winding my way home along the familiar streets.
          Thanks George, for the memories (and for old time’s sake).
 

The Douglas Dogwood

The Douglas Dogwood

non-fiction memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

           I felt the December chill in my bones as I grabbed the rough-split pieces of firewood from the stacked cord and scurried back into the house. Gone were the warm days of fall when it was a joy to linger outside on a golden, sunny afternoon. The smoke from the chimney curled into the air and spread throughout the neighborhood, the smell provided a seasonal clue that colder and darker days were to come. The oak logs fueled the crackling fire in the hearth, and my spirits lifted. I completed the task of stringing the Christmas lights on the soft, green fir tree carefully positioned to the side of the living room.

          Douglas, our fourteen-year-old Cairn terrier, was ill and uncomfortable. He had slept most of the day, but once I illuminated the Christmas lights, he appeared from the corner. Poor guy. He was weak, but I sensed he was glad to be in the warm, inviting space. Over the next hour, he found no less than five different places to curl up for a nap, including a spot directly underneath the lighted tree which was void of ornaments and presents. In his restlessness, he stopped and laid his head at my feet. It was unusual for him to seek out my attention. I stroked his head just to let him know I cared.

          In the dark before dawn, Douglas had a seizure and my wife, Gretta, and I rushed him to the animal hospital. The staff did their best, but he couldn’t be resuscitated. He had reached life’s end. We signed papers, and with tears in our eyes, drove home to a cold, dark house, which matched our mood.

          The loss for Gretta, the true master for Douglas, was greatest. She always made sure he had the right diet, and she kept schedules of his medications. Her attention and care helped the dog stay fit and happy. I remembered many mornings when I’d hear Gretta cheerfully chatting to Douglas as she went about getting his food and water, then coaxed him to be still for his numerous eye drops.

          It helped our mood to talk through the memories of him.

          “Remember the times you bounced the big red ball in the back yard, and he jumped to hit it with the end of his nose? He’d push it and chase it all around the back yard!”

          “How many times did he hunt for mice in the woodpile or trap chipmunks in the downspout and harass them until we dragged him into the house? He really loved the back yard, especially when you were cooking on the grill.”

Douglas on a mouse hunt

 

          We were overwhelmed by kind notes and cards from those who knew Douglas. Lorraine, our friend who cared for him when we traveled, came by to comfort us and reminisce. She was our dog-whisperer because she connected with Douglas at a level I couldn’t comprehend. She taught him how to fetch a ball — something even Gretta couldn’t teach him. He was always excited when we told him “your Lorraine is coming.”

          She brought a poinsettia and a sympathy card, and we drank tea and coffee while sharing anecdotes of happy times with Douglas. She gave us some money and said, “Buy a plant in the spring in his memory.”

          In March, as the temperatures warmed, I struggled with what to plant. I wanted something that was a befitting memory for our regal, happy dog — then it hit me: sweeten the pot and buy a dogwood tree. The shady area in the back yard was a perfect spot.

          The nursery was unloading the trees on a warm, sunny day and I selected a four-foot Cherokee Princess dogwood. In the late afternoon, I prepared the hole in the backyard. Then Gretta and I took turns pouring the ashes of Douglas’s remains before I lowered the small, burlap ball at a spot where Douglas used to sit and watch the children play in the park beyond. At that moment I could see the look in Gretta’s eyes that reflected the healing of our loss and the memories of all that was good in Douglas.

          As she looked at the tree, she summed up her feelings. “This is a happy tree, and Douglas was a happy dog.”

          The tree grew and flourished from the first day it was planted, adding two additional feet in less than two months and rewarding us with nine, white blossoms.

          We see the Douglas Dogwood out the kitchen window every morning, as well as the increased, spring activity at the bird feeders in the ash tree. Our excitement always rises when the first goldfinch arrives at the finch feeder (which is another Gretta project). She has taken it as her mission to be the benevolent provider to all the neighborhood birds in need. Recently, a female goldfinch began to show up each morning. It was another sign of glorious spring.

          “Gosh, she’s eating enough food for a small army!” I exclaimed. Then I realized she was preparing for nesting time. “She’s gonna be a mama goldfinch. There’s no possible way she is consuming all those calories for herself.” The brave little bird showed up every morning, undeterred by the nasty group of blue jays and grackles trying to shake and raid the seeds. She landed in a nearby maple tree, then flitted onto closer limbs and swooped down to perch on the feeder.

          Yesterday, in the cool of the early morning, a bright flash caught our eyes as the brilliant-colored male goldfinch darted through the air to perch on the feeder. Mama goldfinch was probably at home in her nest, warming and protecting the eggs.

          Beyond the finch feeder, the Douglas Dogwood grows taller and leafier by the day. We cheered one morning when a red cardinal landed in it for a brief moment, the bird’s legs deftly clinging to an angled branch.

          Hmm . . . if we see a goldfinch land in the dogwood some morning . . . well, that will be a happy moment for all of us: Gretta, Douglas and me.

 

 

Too Taxing

Hell on Earth

Too Taxing

commentary

by Gregory E. Larson

          My least favorite activity is preparing a tax return. That’s why I hire someone else to do it. Don’t get me wrong—I believe in paying whatever is required by law, but life is too short, time is too precious, and going through the bureaucratic legalese of endless forms and numbers is pure hell on earth. Thank God for those people, who are good at it and enjoy the journey through Line #14 on the 1040, which came from Form 4797, line 18b which represents the total gain or loss in the sale of a limited partnership, including deferred depreciation, which was calculated on lines 20 through 29.

          Thank God for those people who slave away at the computer screen while the shades are drawn, crunching numbers to infinity, and rounding them to the nearest dollar.

          As for me, I’ll be riding my bike in the April sunshine.

Galveston - A Texas Lady in the Rough

 

Galveston — A Texas Lady in the Rough

travel memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

          The drive along the big, flat, multi-lane highway from Houston to Galveston on a gray afternoon in February 2015 was pretty boring. The view was the basic hum-drum frontage road establishments sprinkled with blue collar communities. I had trouble picturing our vacation in Galveston where we had booked a bed and breakfast inn, one that was within a historic district of stately houses and quaint bungalows. The refineries of Texas City gave a bleak, industrial feel to the area, and the Galveston harbor with its barges and oil tankers added to the grayness.



Oil tanker arriving in Galveston Harbor



          Why had I picked Galveston as a vacation spot? It was winter, and my wife, Gretta, and I wanted to go to a warmer place than Kansas City. I had read the historical account of the 1900 Hurricane, specifically Erik Larson’s book titled Isaac’s Storm. It piqued my interest to see what Galveston looked like today. The hurricane was one of the worst to hit the United States, a calamity of massive proportions causing an estimated 6,000 deaths, almost wiping out the entire city. It survived and rebuilt, but it would never be the same bustling city.

          We drove over the long bridge to Galveston Island, and then curved onto Broadway to find our path to Avenue M and The Coppersmith Inn. I specifically picked the bed and breakfast house because it was located right on the edge of the area that was completely wiped out by the hurricane. I pulled the rental car to the curb and we viewed the stunning Victorian-style mansion, with massive porch columns and intricate cut-outs, railings and trim.



Greg & Gretta check in to the Coppersmith Inn

          Ellen, our host, graciously checked us in and told us some of the history of the house. “This house was one of the survivors of the hurricane.” She grabbed a framed picture and held it in front of me. A black and white historical photo revealed a partially demolished, two-story house perched at an angle in the front yard of the house we were standing in. “During the storm, the entire first floor was under water. A house from across the street floated over to our front yard. That fact, along with a nearby wall of debris from houses that had been levelled by the wind and the storm surge are what may have protected this house.”

          I glanced at the twelve-foot ceilings on the first floor, and walked over to put my hand on one of the tall doors to the parlor. The oak door and jamb were solid as a rock, straight and plumb. They don’t make houses like this anymore.

The Coppersmith Inn, Galveston, Texas

          “When the city was raised after the hurricane, this house was put on jacks and lifted five feet above the ground and set on a new foundation. The engineers designed a system of pipes to pump sand slurry over several blocks at a time to permanently raise the ground level.

          She told us there weren’t any written accounts of how many people were in the house at the time of the hurricane. Several houses of this size had as many as fifty people on the upper floor during the height of the storm, which had winds exceeding 130 miles per hour. In the devastated areas, smaller houses were blown to pieces while masses of people huddled in the attics or upstairs.

          Galveston had a significant harbor in the late 1800s, and thousands of European immigrants came through the city on their way to a new life. Cotton and lumber were the exports of the region, and the proud citizens believed they — not Houston — were on their way to becoming a major U.S. port city like Philadelphia or San Francisco. Although some of the houses of the financiers and cotton barons were built of stone and brick, most of the new construction was built of relatively cheap yellow pine, which was readily available from eastern Texas or Louisiana.

          Ellen smiled. “Did y’all come for Mardi Gras?”

          Gretta and I felt like deer in the headlights. If we’d known the city was celebrating Mardi gras, we probably wouldn’t have come on the weekend in early February.

          “Galveston celebrates Mardi Gras in a big way. We’re like New Orleans, and celebrate it for two weekends before Fat Tuesday. If you want a good seafood meal, you’ll want to go downtown tonight, because tomorrow is Friday and it will get wild down there. They block off the streets on the weekend and charge admission to get into downtown. If you aren’t into the partying, but would like to see a parade, they have a really big one during the day on Saturday, and I’ll give you directions for good places to watch.”

          We noted her recommendations for a good seafood restaurant and continued to look around the parlor. Standing there, it was hard to imagine the powerful storm that filled the first floor of the house with seawater, and then blasted it with wind and debris.

          In 1900, Galveston was a hurricane disaster waiting to happen. There were many factors which caused it to be horrific. Weather forecasting at the turn of the century was part science, part mumbo-jumbo speculation. Communication was limited to wires used on land for Morse code. The radio was not yet fully invented or used by seamen. There was also a false belief that hurricanes rarely had the strength to travel west across the Gulf of Mexico, all the way to Texas. If the storms did make it to the Texas coast, it was believed they would be too weak to cause much damage.

          When the hurricane hit Cuba, it was growing and full of energy. The U.S. Weather Service erroneously “guessed” it was turning north towards the Florida panhandle and would travel up the east coast. That was the forecast which was tapped out through the wires to the weather offices around the country.  Isaac Cline, in charge of the weather office in Galveston had a storm warning flag raised at the Galveston station on September 8, 1900, but he had no idea of the magnitude of the disaster that was about to unfold. By early afternoon, the storm surge had filled the streets, and the winds increased above fifty miles per hour. In late afternoon, the water began to pour into the first floor of the buildings and houses in town, and residents scurried to be with neighbors and ride out the storm on the upper floor of the larger houses. Water and wind became so strong the houses began to float off the foundations and the 130 mile-per-hour wind tore apart the houses which were already weakened by the storm surge.

          We climbed the curved wooden stairway to the second floor. Ellen gave us a tour of our room and then handed me the skeleton key to the door. As we settled into the room, we admired the large windows and the balcony. The room had a ten-foot ceiling, and the bed and mattress were so high I thought Gretta might need a step ladder to climb into bed. I peered into the bathroom which revealed a big, freestanding bathtub with claw feet.

Stepladder anyone?

Taking a break on the generous balcony

           I lifted the lower section of the eight-foot high window to the large front porch. The old window, counter-balanced with hidden weights in the wall lifted with just two fingers. Gretta and I ducked under the upper half of the window and walked out onto the full front balcony. The massive railings, columns and trim made me realize the significance of the skill and craftsmanship required to build a house of this size and detail. I pictured the German craftsmen, scraping the edges of the trim boards with large hand planes and crafting the solid joints that have survived 125 years. I imagined the foreman shouting instructions to crank the jacks to lift the house a fraction of an inch at a time in 1904 to satisfy the property owners in doing their part to raise the city to a safer level.



          Ellen told us to look near the door of each house to determine if the Galveston Historical Society had identified it as a 1900 Hurricane survivor. She showed us the diamond-shaped medallion by the front door of the Inn, designating it as a pre-1900 structure. She encouraged us to walk around Galveston and look for the medallions. As we strolled through the neighborhoods around the Coppersmith Inn, we could still see the effects of the storm which occurred 115 years ago. The houses seemed to have survived in small groupings, creating enclaves of mansions and bungalows with large trees, palms and gardens. Between these groupings were newer, smaller and more nondescript houses. We learned that if we took the time to look deeper, the bland appearance of a blue-collar town revealed a richer existence of neatly trimmed bungalows and stately homes. I called them the ‘red-velvet cake’ areas of Galveston. On many blocks we heard the noise of contractors rebuilding the interiors of the old homes, including the house across the street from the Coppersmith Inn, the one that had floated to the front yard during the hurricane.

A well-detailed home on M Street

          We opened our eyes on Saturday morning to golden patches of sunlight streaming into the room through lace curtains. Ellen told us at breakfast that it was the first warm weather day of the winter, which was unusual. The sunshine and Mardi Gras created an infectious atmosphere in which everyone was ready to celebrate. People were excited and friendly wherever we walked. Many houses were decorated with the Mardi gras colors of green, gold and purple, decked out with arrangements of beads, door wreaths and ribbons.

          On the parade route, we watched the party get in full swing. Residents were grilling in their front yards, drinking beer and listening to loud music emanating from inside the houses. In one yard, a group of men had strung lights, and were hanging small umbrellas for decorations. They hurried to get the umbrellas hung before the arrival of the parade.

Decorations for Mardi Gras

          Finally, the police motorcycles led a mile-long procession of marching bands, double-decker floats, drum corps, dancers and party-goers. Some floats had kids, others had a full working bar, some had Mardi Gras royalty and others had senior citizens who sat in chairs and threw beads to the crowd.

The parade marches through Galveston.

          “Shake it for me!” screamed one of the bead-throwing float ladies. I did a little boogie and we got showered with beads. Every float threw us beads. We had so many draped around our necks that I started decorating shrubs and fences along the street. It was one of those days where the sun kept shining and we didn’t want to go inside. After quesadillas and beer at a family-run Mexican food establishment we sat out on our balcony at the Coppersmith Inn. Folks were on the sidewalks all over town, a part of the celebration atmosphere.



          Before the sun went down, we wandered the neighborhoods, inspecting the decorations on the ornate railings and porches. As we walked closer to downtown, we passed a church with historical plaques mounted near the sidewalk. The church, which had survived the 1900 Hurricane, had been the first German-speaking Catholic Church in Texas. On this night, a wedding was about to begin. The procession lined up at the front steps and we noticed the bride and her father standing together in an alleyway on the side of the church, anxiously anticipating the start of the big occasion.

          With the sun going down, I looked at the well-lit church full of people. The streets were busy and the crowds walked by on their way to more Mardi gras celebrations. Galveston appeared vibrant once again, ready for future generations to live and thrive. The citizens are resourceful, persistent and full of energy. They’ve survived many hurricanes including Ike, a vicious storm in 2008 that left several feet of water standing across the city. I think they’ll continue to celebrate their city on the gulf and handle whatever is dealt to them by Mother Nature.

Hot Air

 

Hot Air

travel memoir

by Gregory E. Larson

          The desert moon had not yet set onto the west horizon when Gretta and I walked across the resort grounds. We were like kids on Christmas morning, wide-eyed and ready for our sunrise balloon ride above the desert. I gazed at a nearby peak, and could see the hikers’ helmet lamps as they climbed in the dark. It wasn’t yet 6:30, the time the balloon service said they would pick us up.

           The driver and van pulled into the resort and we started to buckle the seat belts in the dark, but some of the belts were missing. Hmm. I’d hoped everything would be top-notch with this outfit. Details are important. This company is going to dangle us thousands of feet above the earth. The driver patiently threaded the belts through the seat so that we could get strapped into the van, and we were on our way.

          Phoenix was beginning to wake up. The busses were running and traffic was picking up on the thoroughfares. I noticed a large advertisement at one of the bus stops, identifying a local personal-injury and accident lawyer. The thought crossed my mind to write the number, just in case we survived a balloon mishap. Once onto the freeways, which were clogged with incoming traffic, we sped out of the city to a rendezvous point where we picked up more passengers. Our final leg of the van journey took us to Anthem, Arizona north of Phoenix amongst the barren patches of desert and miscellaneous mountains.

          I noticed we were following a truck, which had the balloon and basket packed in the back. They turned onto a frontage road that soon changed to dirt and then became little more than a jeep trail. All of a sudden, the van driver had his hands full, just keeping us moving and upright. We started glancing at each other in the van as we jostled and bounced along.  

          Gretta spoke out, “The van ride must be part of the adventure!”

Inflating the balloon

 

          After a couple of miles, the dusty landscape made it seem like we were on the surface of the moon. Wild burros peered over the cactus scrub to see what was causing the commotion. The crew hopped out of the truck and began to unpack and inflate the balloon. They jockeyed the 1200-pound basket to the ground, began unrolling the fabric of the 900-pound balloon, and cranked up the engines on large fans to blow the desert air into the fabric corridor. The balloon began to inflate, and a giant flying unicorn appeared on the side. Yes, Virginia, Unicorns do fly! When it was three-quarters full, the pilot fired up the burners and the balloon slowly tilted upright.

Unicorns do fly!

 

          “Everyone come on over and climb into the basket,” announced Tommy our pilot. There were twelve of us, plus Tommy, and he positioned us to balance out the load. I was lucky and was able to stand at the corner of the basket.

          “How long have you been flying balloons?” asked one of the passengers.

          “Oh, about three days,” Tommy replied. Then he grinned and began a big belly laugh. Actually, his title was Key Pilot. He was an expert who was allowed to fly all thirteen balloons owned by the company. Hmm, thirteen balloons — an odd, disconcerting number.

          “Now everybody listen up. This is the most important instruction that I’m going to give you,” shouted Tommy. Then he hit the burner switch. During the blast noise, we couldn’t hear a word he said. He turned off the switch and began to laugh again. “Enjoy the flight!”

          With more blasts from the burner, we began to slide along the ground. Finally, the balloon and basket lifted into the air. Everything was quiet while we watched the shadow of the giant balloon get smaller. It was so peaceful we began to whisper as we spoke.
 

          Tommy told us the balloon held 275,000 cubic feet of air, and cost about $180,000. The company had a larger balloon, almost twice the size of the one we were riding. It had a basket that held twenty people.

          It was hard to perceive we were even moving, but we began to see the haze on the ground, and noticed the mountains below us. Our ears popped as we moved upward. Someone pointed out a small airplane flying below. Tommy said we were at about 4,000 ft. altitude, or about a half mile above the desert floor.

High above the Arizona desert

 

          A big complex came into view on the other side of a mountain. “What’s that?” someone asked.

          “That’s a federal prison for white collar criminals,” Tommy said.

          I leaned my head outside the basket and peered straight down as the complex passed beneath us. Glad I’m up here and not down there.

          Pop. Pop. Pop. The noise began echoing off the mountains.

          “What’s that?” another person asked.

          “That’s the prison guards practicing at the target range.” Tommy chuckled with a big smile, “I’m sure the prisoners can hear them shooting.”

A federal prison below us

 

          Someone else pointed to a lake to the west. “What lake is that?” they asked.

          “That’s a reservoir called Lake Pleasant.”

          During our flight, which lasted about an hour, I felt removed from the madness of the world below. Everyone in the basket seemed relaxed, as hushed conversations transpired between one another. I could see the cars on the interstate, traveling towards the traffic jams in Phoenix. The sun had risen through the haze, and I noticed another hot-air balloon several miles away. The breeze was very slight, so we only traveled about five miles before the pilot began to look for his landing site.

Looking for a landing site

 

          We noticed how the wind blew from different directions at different altitudes, and Tommy seemed to be an expert at guiding the balloon to the area he picked for the landing. There was one small detail that concerned me. Power lines crossed the landing field in both directions.

           He announced, “We’re going to cross over Carefree Highway and drop down on the other side. I’m not yet sure on which side of the power lines we’ll land.” He radioed to the chase crew and told them to head into the field.

           Carefree Highway . . . near Lake Pleasant . . . it sounds like a peaceful place for a balloon accident.

          The winds were almost calm as we dropped lower towards the field. Coyotes began to scatter.

          “Bee-hive, bee-hive,” Tommy radioed the crew, “that’s where we’ll land.”

          I noticed some old bee-keeper’s boxes stacked in a clearing in the cactus — on the OTHER side of the power lines. The trucks raced to the clearing and the crew jumped out. We passed over the power lines by about thirty feet and the scrubby plants became visibly closer to the bottom of the basket. The other side of the basket scraped and cracked against a dead branch of Cholla cactus, just as the crew grabbed the sides. The plop to the ground was almost imperceptible. We were ten feet from the van. Pretty good, I thought.

Floating past the power lines

 

          Mother earth, beneath our feet once again! I’m alive!

          The desert clearing took on a party atmosphere as the crew set up tables and we ate a gourmet breakfast of quiche, apples and Gouda cheese. We savored the moment while Tommy gave us a champagne toast and recited the balloonist’s prayer:

“The winds have welcomed you with softness.

The sun has blessed you with his warm hands.

You have flown so well and so high,

That God has joined you in your laughter

And set you gently back again

into the loving arms of Mother Earth.”

          Nice prayer. Hmm, I’m also glad I said a silent prayer BEFORE we lifted off!

Sunrise breakfast on the desert