Welcome to to Walrus Talk.

I used to think that what I had to say needed to be read. I now know that what I have to say just needs to be written.

Some interesting and funny things have happened to me along the way.  And also some very unfunny things. 

One of my favorite hyms should be playing now - Amazing Grace sung by Il Divo.  You can turn it off if you like, but you’ll miss some great music.

I can see it now.  In business schools across the nation………. Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations will be replaced with the Quotations from Chairman Mao.

Your Majesty,

I am that Nunez Cabeza De Vaca who lately sent you a Relation of his shipwrecks and mis-chances during the eight years he was absent from your dominions. In painful doubt whether my words were clear enough, I write again. My meanings being new to your Majesty and at a hasty glance unconcerned with your prestige, you might consider my narrative a poor occasion for exercising your serene power of understanding. The fault would then lie in me, not in what I have to say. Be my forgiving reader, your Majesty. Grant me your grace.

I was at the battle of Ravenna in 1512. Between dawn and sunset that day perished a thousand score. Young as I was, Ravenna taught me something of how easy to tear asunder and destroy a man is, body and spirit. In the days that followed, in my desolation first confronted with slaughter, I saw a far off light, heard a far off strain of music. Such words serve as well as any: what can describe a happening in the shadows of the soul?

Again that far off flicker of music came to me in the disorders at Sevilla in 1521, when I fought under the Duke of Medina-Sidonia.

Seven years passed without that flash of inward fire and I forgot about it. Sevilla was then a marvelous, disturbing world. I saw the heretics burning in the arms of the iron prophets. I saw Columbus as an old man, Magellan as a young man. The sailors came ashore with parrots and gold ingots and Indian girls.

Then I too sailed across the seas, Lord Treasurer of the expedition of Pamfilo Narvaez.

All that day when we were in sight of Teneriffe I thought of my grandfather, the conqueror of the Grand Canary. In my childhood I was surrounded by the natives of that island, the Guanches, whom he brought home as slaves. I listened to their vague and melancholy singing, learned to be at ease with inarticulate people.

For the money to conquer the Grand Canary, perhaps your Majesty will remember, Pedro de Vera Mendoza had pawned to the Moor his two sons, my father and my uncle.

As I told your Majesty in my account of that journey, never had expedition more calamities than ours. Some of our ships foundered from hurricanes in the harbors of Cuba. The others we left behind deliberately in the lagoons of Florida.

Our greatest misfortune, aside from our greed and ignorance, lay in our commander, Pamfilo Narvaez himself. Pamfilo believed himself born under a lucky star, though nothing justified such a belief. Before Hernan Cortes he could have marched to Tenochtitlan. But he did not. When Cortes and his soldiers were richly quartered in the palaces of Montezuma, he could have replaced him in command. For that pur-pose was he dispatched from Havana by Velasquez. But Cortes came flying on horseback all the way to Vera Cruz, and talked Pamfilo’s soldiers away from under his very nose. Pamfilo was not without a magnetism. But he was cocksure, a braggart, and what was worse, uncertain of the line between dream and reality. He forgot that Cortes burnt his ships only after studying the jewelled emissaries of Montezuma, and becoming sure of the value of the quarry. Pamfilo had nothing to be sure of. And yet he pictured him-self another Cortes, he pictured another Tenochtitlan concealed in the fronds of Florida. Having pictured these things he was as certain that they existed as of the vein in his neck.

Your Majesty is at liberty to picture us under this aging, adipose, credulous commander. Across that steaming land we marched with our armor glittering and our horses covered with gaudy trappings, 578 of us, towards utter ruin. Believing that on the page of history we would share the glory of Cortes and his murderous band…

Pamfilo would summon the copper-colored natives and tell them with gestures that he was search-ing for a city of the size and value of Tenochtitlan. The Indians had never heard of Tenochtitlan nor of Montezuma. But they had heard of a big town and pointed northward exclaiming, “Apalachee!”

We marched and we marched, and had fevers and fevers. Yes, your Majesty is at liberty to picture us.

Apalachee was no Tenochtitlan… We found it. It was in an immense swamp, a large impoverished settlement of thatched huts, a place of unbearable squalor.

There was nothing for it but seek the sea again and sail back to Cuba. Our arms and armor made us feel like dolts, and we wished we had pierced the jungle carrying carpenter’s tools. For now, without axe, adze, or hammer, we had to build ourselves boats.

This is the tale of what men can and cannot do when they must do something or die.

We built nine open boats. During the weeks it required, some of us went with scant food, and those whose palates allowed it devoured the horses.

Our 580 men had become 400 when at last we set sail and left behind us the Indian marksmen and the snakes, neither of which in Florida err when they strike.

Day after day tide and wind washed us out to sea and then washed us in to land, along a dazzling and uncertain coast. From thirst, and from the exposure to the frightful sun, our 400 became 40.

Who knows what was lost in these boats? Another Magellan, another Camoens, another Cervantes, another St. John of the Cross…

No one has so sympathetic an imagination as your Majesty. You will understand what I am not telling you; that I saw men jump overboard, mad from thirst and sun. That I saw them swell and die slowly in delirium, heard their words and songs pour out the pitiful contents of their minds. That I saw men gnaw at corpses. And that these were Spanish gentlemen.

It is curious to have so graphic a lesson in what life may become. We had been a proud band, relying on our united strength, our armor, and our horses. Slowly our strength disunited, until nothing that we had in common remained to help any of us.

As I say, it is curious when one has nobody and nothing to rely upon outside of oneself.

Yet again that music, that fitful run and flash of brightness I first heard on the battlefield of Ravenna. Your Majesty is renowned as a patron of music; here was a music it is possible you may never have heard.

Somewhere on that coast a handful of us crawled ashore, and were fed and tended by kindly Indians till we regathered nervous vitality for the hopeless voyage to Cuba. We stript and launched the boat, first putting our clothes aboard her. But a great comber capsized the rotten heavy hulk, imprisoning and drowning three of us. The others emerged mother-naked on the beach, shivering in the November wind of that overcast afternoon.

The Indians came back and found us as naked as they were, and our barge gone, and in tears. They sat down beside us and cried, too. I cried all the harder, to think people so miserable had pity for us. I have informed your Majesty of their tears and mine. These simple Indians were the first relenting of nature to us in months and months. That evening, for fear we might die on the way, the Indians made fires at intervals along the path to their village, warming us at each fire. That night and many nights after we slept beside them on the oyster shells which floor their huts, wrapt in hides against the cold winds from the sea.

While we were subjects of your Majesty, we had everything life offers, and now we had nothing. To understand what it means to have nothing one must have nothing. No clothing against the weather might appear the worst. But for us poor skeletons who survived it, it was not.

The worst lay in parting little by little with the thoughts that clothe the soul of a European, and most of all of the idea that a man attains strength through dirk and dagger, and serving in your Majesty’s guard. We had to surrender such fantasies till our inward nakedness was the nakedness of an unborn babe, starting life anew in a womb of sensations which in themselves can mysteriously nourish, Several years went by before I could relax in that living plexus for which even now I have no name; but only when at last I relaxed, could I see the possibilities of a life in which to be deprived of Europe was not to be deprived of too much.

Tempests came, we could pull no more roots from the sea-channels, the canebrake yielded no more fish. People died in the flimsy lodges. News came that five Spaniards further down the coast, men from another barge, had eaten one another up till but one remained. This deed startled the innocence of our Indians. They debated whether to kill us, to be rid of us. Instead, they made us their beasts of burden.

In April the Indians went down to the sea taking us with them; for a whole month we ate the blackberries of the sand dunes. The Indians danced incessantly. They asked us to cure their sick. When we said we did not know how to cure, they withheld our food from us. We began to watch the procedure of their medicine men. It seemed to us both irreligious and uninstructed. Besides, we found the notion of healing Indians somewhat repellent, as your Majesty will understand. But we had to heal them or die. So we prayed for strength. We prayed on bended knees and in an agony of hunger. Then over each ailing Indian we made the sign of the Cross, and recited the Ave Maria and a Pater noster. To our amazement the ailing said they were well. And not only they but the whole tribe went without food so that we might have it. Yet so great was the lack of food for us all, it seemed impossible that life could last.

Truly, it was to our amazement that the ailing said they were well. Being Europeans, we thought we had given away to doctors and priests our ability to heal. But here it was, still in our possession, even if we had only Indians to exercise it upon. It was ours after all, we were more than we had thought we were.

I am putting my words together for whatever intelligence there may be in the world. There is no other reality among men than this intelligence; Sire, it is greatly to your glory that you can incarnate it.

To be more than I thought I was — a sensation utterly new to me…

Starvation, nakedness, slavery: sensations utterly new to me, also… The last of my fellow Spaniards on the island dies… Nothing to eat after the sea-roots sprouted but the blackberries of the sand dunes. Nothing to protect me from the attack of the terrible frost, or the terrible sun. No one who knew my language… And it endured for months, for years maybe… Everyone I saw as starved as I was. The human body emaciated, the lean cheek, the burning eye — the ribs showing, each rib distinct– the taut skin, the weak loins, the shrunken haunch and pap. In the whole world there can be no poverty like the poverty of these people. I could not stand it. I ran away…

At this time, as I remember it, I began to think of Indians as fellow human beings. If I introduce this idea it is to prepare your Majesty for other ideas which came to me later, in consequence.

These were days when I reassorted the pictures of my childhood, as a child tums his kaleidoscope. I saw the Guanche slaves anew, and as though I were one of them. I saw my grandfather through the eyes of his slaves. I remembered, now without laughing, how he had tricked the Guanches into slavery. He pretended to enlist them to sail from the Grand Canary to conquer Teneriffe, and when he had them below decks he battened down the hatches and set sail for Cadiz…

My grandfather’s brutality earned him the public denunciation of Bishop Juan de Frias. This too I remembered.

In this wilderness I became a trader, and went to and fro on the coast and a little inland. I went inland with seashells and cockles, and a certain shell used to cut beans, which the natives value. I came out with hides, and red ochre for the face and hair, flint for arrow points, and tassels of deerhide. I came to be well known among the tribes, and found out the lay of the land.

One day I heard someone calling me by name, “Alvar Nunez, Alvar Nunez!” It was Alonso del Castillo, one of the captains of the expedition. He said that Pamfilo’s barge had drifted ashore among unfriendly Indians, and left of its occupants were only himself and Captain Andres Dorantes, and Dorantes’ black moor, Estevanico. We hid ourselves in a thicket and laid our plans.

That summer, when the coast tribes came together for the summer orgies, we four made good our escape westward.

Thus our 580 had become 400, our 400, forty, and our forty, four.

Certain natives came to Castillo. From ribs to cleft they were having spasms, and they begged him to cure them. He prayed, and required us anxiously to pray with him. When he had done praying he made the sign of the Cross over the Indians, and their spasms left off. We knelt down to give thanks for this new amazement.

Through this region there are no trails, and I lost my way. I found a burning tree to spend that very cold night beside. In the morning I loaded myself with dry wood, and took two burning sticks. Thus with fuel and fire, I went on for five days, seeing nobody, but having the sun with me by day and Mazzaroth and Arcturus by night. These five days I felt a numbness of those organs which keep one aware of the misery of existence. When curing sick Indians, I have struggled to shut out the thought of Andres and Alonso (for we are self-conscious, knowing one another’s sins); and in the effort of praying I have felt as though something in me had broken, to give me the power of healing. But alone in this wilderness no tissue of the body hindered the mysterious power. Nothing of me, your Majesty, existed then out-side of that music I first heard at Ravenna.

The sixth day I found my companions, who had concluded that a snake must have bitten me. I told them we ought not to be self-conscious with one another. That power we had felt flowing in us and through us could not, in the nature of things, be acutely conscious of us as individuals. It must come rather as wind comes to the trees of a forest, or as the ocean continues to murmur in the seashell it has thrown ashore.

A gulf deeper than ocean yawns between the old world and the new; and what by now I was accustomed to, would startle a burgher of Madrid or of Salamanca.

At Sevilla in my youth, as I have said, I saw the heretics burning in the arms of the iron prophets. This picture was with me often. Perhaps, like me, those heretics had had to pick up their notions of the Invisible as they went through life, and without the assistance of book or priest. What I myself was learning, came from many blinding days in an open boat, while men died beside me crying for their mothers; and from living among these simple Indians, who insisted on our curing them of their ills. And so my notions of the Invisible may differ from what the books say. I mention it in passing, your Majesty.

When he assailed my grandfather openly in his cathedral, calling him coward and fiend, did Juan de Frias follow a lesson he had learned by rote? That good bishop had a heart and mind to which life itself could speak, and speak forcibly.

Indians came bringing five persons shriveled and paralyzed and very ill. Each of the five offered Castillo silently his bows and arrows. Castillo prayed, we with him; in the morning the five were cured…

Indians came from many places. But Castillo was always afraid his sins would interfere with his working miracles. The Indians turned to me. I told Castillo it was no moment for indulging the idea of being sinful, and then I followed the Indians to their ranch. The dying man was dead; Dorantes and I found him with eyes upturned, and no pulse. I removed the mat that covered him and prayed. At last the something in me like a membrane broke, and I was confident the old man would rise up again. As he did. During the night the natives came to tell us he had talked, eaten and walked about. They gave us many presents, and we left them the happiest people on earth, for they had given away their very best.

Your Majesty may by now have had enough of our cures and curing, exertions outside of Holy Church, and for the sole benefit of miserable Indians. Yet so profound is your courtesy, I know, that you will let me reveal all that is within my heart. We found ourselves so pressed that Dorantes and the Moor, who had little taste for it, had to become medicine men, too. Boys and girls, men and women, old men and women, human bodies deformed, starved, wasted by affliction (only rarely one sound and firm) . . . Their eyes followed us every moment. I do not forget those eyes . . . Your Majesty, since I addressed you first, you have become more mysterious to me and more majestic, and this increases my sense of freedom in speaking to you. To the understanding of such days and events this additional narrative becomes necessary, like a real figure to walk beside a ghost. Those eyes … they thrust me out of myself, into a world where nothing, if done for another, seems impossible.

Months went by as in a dream. The nerve of vision no longer rendered plausible that European world of which we had been a part. That world grew fantastic, and fantastic our countrymen there. We ourselves were only too real. From lack of clothing we had big sores and deep skin fissures on our backs and shoulders, and it hurt us to carry the hides we slept in. And it hurt us to find firewood among the cactus. My thighs and arms bled so much I stood it only by remembering-and yet whom or what did I remember? Was it a Person-was it a quality of life-was it an emotion? Was it even a remembering, was it not perhaps a listening?

Often for a time it rained gently at dusk. soothing our thighs and arms. In one such dusk we encountered squinting women in an opening. They were afraid to run away from the three pale figures and the shadowy black moor, for they us took to be gods floating about in the mist and rain. They led us to a village of fifty huts. Here we cured, and cured…

Our journey westward was but a long series of encounters. Your Majesty, encounters have become my meditation. The moment one accosts a stranger or is accosted by him is above all in this life the moment of drama. The eyes of Indians who crossed my trail have searched me to the very depths to estimate my power. It is true the world over. It is true of a Spaniard meeting another on the road between Toledo and Salamanca. Whoever we meet watches us intently at the quick strange moment of meeting, to see whether we are disposed to be friendly.

Seeing our bodies, seeing my own, and Alonso’s, and Andres’, and the black Moor’s, sometimes I think how once I was different, and we all were. What would Dona Alonza Maldonado and her husband Dr. Castillo of Salamanca think, if they could see their little boy Alonso today, striding here ahead of me, lashed by starvation, scorched and baked by the sun, his hair and beard unkempt, small about the flanks, his body shriveled like a mummy?

In youth the human body drew me and was the object of my secret and natural dreams. But body after body has taken away from me that sensual phosphorescence which my youth delighted in. Within me is no disturbing interplay now, but only the steady currents of adaptation and of sympathy.

Your Majesty’s piercing mind glides pliantly through what is interstitial and hidden. But upon me it was dawning only slowly that I had it in my discretion to grant life and health to others . . . Imagine me then perturbed; you are aware of what my training had been as one of your Majesty’s soldiers.

Dark clouds rise to the south. To the west a great rainbow spreads its double arc. Alonso strides sturdily towards it. After him comes the Arab Negro from Azamor, whose black limbs endure every privation and still shine with superfluous sweat. For this black moor am I specially grateful. His reflections on our suffering do not reduce him to apathy. No adverse heats and chills deprive his loins of their strength. He is a sight to see, carrying a copper rattle in his hand, and on his shoulder a green and orange parrot.

There was the afternoon we crossed a big river, more than waist deep, as wide as the Guadalquivir at Sevilla, and with a swift current. I speak of it again because I loved it.

There was the village where each Indian wished to be the first to touch us, and we were squeezed almost to death in the sweating crowd …

…the village so solicitous to be blest that Alonso fainted of exhaustion…

…the village where a new custom began: the Indians who came with us took from the villagers all their bows, arrows, shoes and beads. From that time on, those who accompanied us took tribute of those to whom they brought us. It made us uneasy, but the victims reassured us. They said they were too glad to see us to feel the loss of their property and besides, they could make good their losses at the next village, who were very rich Indians…

… the plain where first we saw mountains, very low, like white sheep lying down…

… the village where they were so pertinacious about touching us all over that in three hours we could not get through with them…

… the village where many had one eye clouded, and others were totally blind from the same cause: which amazed us…

To clarify the same occurrences, words can be arranged differently, as no one knows better than your Majesty. It was a drunkenness, this feeling I began to have of power to render life and happiness to others. Yet I was concerned about it. The concern was the important thing-not the wondering about the nature of the power, how widespread it might be, how deep, whether Andres or Alonso or Estevanico had it in equal measure with me. What occupied me was whether I myself knew how to use it, whether I could master it, whether indeed it was for me to master — perhaps being a self-directing power that came through me. But after one accustoms oneself to the idea, it is good to be able to give out health and joy whether one man have it, or whether we all have it. Had this thought occurred to your Majesty? Never before had it occurred to me.

I said to Andres, “If we reach Spain I shall petition His Majesty to return me to this land, with a troop of soldiers. And I shall teach the world how to conquer by gentleness, not by slaughter.” “Why then a troop of soldiers?” asked Dorantes, smiling. “Soldiers look for Indian girls and gold.” “Perhaps I could teach them otherwise.” “They would kill you, or tie you to a tree and leave you. What a dunce you are, Alvar Nunez!”

“And what will you do if we reach Spain again?” I asked Andres. “It will be enough to reach Mexico,” he answered. “I may look about for a rich widow, and spend the rest of my life as a rancher.” “I could not care for such a life,” I said. “To each his adventure,” replied Andres.

It occurred to me that Andres might be afraid of the great power at this period within us. I inquired of him. “Yes, I am afraid — who would not be?” he answered, earnestly.

Another day, after he had been silent a long time, Andres said to us: “If I could always heal these people and help them, I might be willing to stay among them. I don’t know. But our present relation to them is caused by our novelty, our transiency, and the surprisec at our good works. That state of things would wear off. Besides, it is not miracles these people need. They need everything fate has stript us of in bringing us amongst them naked and on equal terms. Yet not quite equal. We can remember childhood and youth in a land where people live in stone houses, till the same fields year after year, build barns to store the harvests in. The towns are related to one another and support the mutual good. Each nobleman and alcalde is an avenue leading to the king; and king, alcalde, thief, and village all bow to the will of God through Holy Church.”

I take my time thinking these words over. They are true and yet I cannot assent to them. Then I answer Andres: “When these Indians call upon us to have mercy and heal them, is the power they feel in us derived from stone houses, barns and tilled fields — from alcalde or nobleman, or from Holy Church, for that matter? Let the truth be said, Andres: All that we learned across the water we have had to throw away. Only what we learned as babes in our mothers’ arms has stayed with us to help others.”

“And what did we learn in our mothers’ arms, good dunce?” asked Andres, putting his arm around my shoulder.

… a mountain seven leagues long, the stones of which were iron slags…

… a night when the moon was round, and in its light a multitude of dwellings beside an unexpected and charming river…

… a man who some years since had been shot through the left side of the back with an arrow. He told me the wound made him feel sick all the while. I observed that the head of the arrow lay in the cartilage. I prayed for an hour, and then grasped the very sharp thin stone which served me as a knife, and cut open the breast. Feeling for the arrowhead, I thrust my hand into the palpitating tissue of the body. Your Majesty, that we human beings should be made of limp wet meat appeared to me as strange as that we should be also air and spirit; and in that hour nausea and a quick curiosity mingled with my pity…

This cure was a misfortune to us; it gained us fame in every direction. We soon had with us three or four thousand persons. It went past human endurance to breathe on and make the sign of the Cross over every morsel they ate. In these parts mountain deer, quail, birds, rabbits abounded, and what they killed the Indians set before us. They would not touch it and would have died of hunger had we not yielded the blessing they asked for. Besides, they asked our permission for various things they felt like doing, and it soon wore us out. Even doing good, it appears, can lead to ennui, even the sight of the happiness one causes can satiate. And yet your Majesty will rejoice that heaven vouchsafed us a weariness such as this, perhaps never before experienced by a European.

Tribe after tribe, language after language nobody’s memory could recall them all. Always they robbed one another, but those who lost and those who gained were equally content.

Estevanico, the good black, the good link between the aloofness of white men and the warm spermatic life of the Indians. Men, women and children joked and played with him. What matter what he did, he was not wearied of it. What matter what he did, the mystery failed not to act through him to heal and restore.

… fifty leagues through a land of desert, with nothing to eat and little to drink. Through villages where the women dressed in white deerskin and people lived in real houses. . . people the best formed we had seen, the liveliest and most capable, and those who best understood us…

… moonlight in another adobe village, and we four alternately standing or lying down in the center of the plaza, and the Indians running to us from all the houses with gifts, touching us and running back to their houses for more gifts, running to us again and touching us-a living glistening cobweb of runners in the moon-keeping up for hours this naked flash to and fro from center to periphery, periphery to center.

Your Majesty, such were the scenes in which I found myself treating all human beings alike. I screw up my courage to confess it. Perhaps it is the secret thing which life has it in itself to become–a long, long march on the road, meeting people, thrown into relations with them, having to meet demands often terrible and without the aid of mysterious power impossible: demands of healing and understanding, and constantly the exorcism of fear.

With a reasonable man and a timorous man and a carnal man as my companions and even part of me. And who is any of us, that without starvation he can go through the kingdoms of starvation?

And seventeen successive days of starvation.

And a sunset, on a plain between very high mountains, with a people who for four months of the year eat only powdered straw…

And more starvation …

And permanent houses once more, where maize is harvested, and where they gave us brightly decorated blankets. For a hundred leagues good houses and harvested crops, the women better treated than anywhere else. They wear shoes, and blouses open in front and tied with deer string. At sunrise these people lift their clasped hands to the horizon and pass them over their bodies. At sunset they repeat the gesture. As I watched them at these devotions, I recalled a youngster from Cadiz, one of those who died of thirst beside me in the open boat. That boy drank in the beauty of Florida, watched palm and headland along the coast even in his final delirium. I was sorry he had not lived on to see these natives laving their golden figures in the gold of dawn.

At last we found a sign of our countrymen — what through months and years we had been praying for. On the neck of an Indian a little silver buckle from a sword belt, with a horseshoe nail sewed inside it … We questioned him. He said that men with beards like ours had come from heaven to that river; that they had horses, lances, and swords, and had lanced two Indians.

The country grew more and more doleful. The natives had fled to the mountains, leaving their fields. The land was fertile and full of streams, but the people were wan. They told us our countrymen had burnt all the villages, taking with them half the men and all the women and children…

Then a day when Indians said that on the night before they had watched the Christians from behind some trees. They saw them take along many persons in chains.

Our countrymen, these slave-catchers, were startled when they saw us approaching. Yet almost with their first words they began to recite their troubles. For many days they had been unable to find Indians to capture. They did not know what to do, and were on the point of starvation. The idea of enslaving our Indians occurred to them in due course, and they were vexed at us for preventing it. They had their interpreter make a fine speech. He told our Indians that we were as a matter of fact Christians too, but had gone astray for a long while, and were people of no luck and little heart. But the Christians on horseback were real Christians, and the lords of the land to be obeyed and served. Our Indians considered this point of view.

They answered that the real Christians apparently lied, that we could not possibly be Christians. For we appeared out of sunrise, they out of sunset; we cured the sick, while they killed even the healthy; we went naked and barefoot, while they wore clothes, and rode horseback and stuck people with lances; we asked for nothing and gave away all we were given, while they never gave anybody anything and had no other aim than to steal.

Your Majesty will remember my indignation in my first narrative, that Christians should be so wicked, especially such as had the advantages of being your subjects. I did not at the time understand the true source of my indignation. I do now, and I will explain it. In facing these marauders I was compelled to face the Spanish gentleman I myself had been eight years before. It was not easy to think of it. Andres and Alonso agreed that it was not easy. What, your Majesty, is so melancholy as to confront one’s former unthinking and unfeeling self?

It was many days before I could endure the touch of clothing, many a night before I could sleep in a bed. Shoes were the worst. In the Spanish settlements I dared not go barefoot, for provincials are the most easily shocked of Spaniards. I had not valued enough the pressure of earth on my naked feet, while permitted that refreshment.

At first I did not notice other ways in which our ancient civilization was affecting me. Yet soon I observed a certain reluctance in me to do good to others. I would say to myself. Need I exert what is left of me, I who have undergone tortures in an open boat and every privation and humiliation among the Indians, when there are strong healthy men about me, fresh from Holy Church and from school, who know their Christian duty? We Europeans all talk this way to ourselves. It has become second nature to us.

Each nobleman and alcalde and villager is an avenue that leads us to this way of talking; we can admit it privately, your Majesty, can we not? If a man need a cloak, we do not give it to him if we have our wits about us; nor are we to be caught stretching out our finger in aid of a miserable woman. Someone else will do it, we say. Our communal life dries up our milk: we are barren as the fields of Castile. We regard our native land as a power which acts of itself, and relieves us each of exertion. While with them I thought only about doing the Indians good. But back among my fellow countrymen, I had to be on my guard not to do them positive harm. If one lives where all suffer and starve, one acts on one’s own impulse to help. But where plenty abounds, we surrender our generosity, believing that our country replaces us each and several. This is not so, and indeed a delusion. On the contrary the power of maintaining life in others, lives within each of us, and from each of us does it recede when unused. It is a concentrated power. If you are not acquainted with it, your Majesty can have no inkling of what it is like, what it portends, or the ways in which it slips from one. In the name of God, your Majesty,

FAREWELL

Citation of Condolence

Whereas, Bob Anderson, a devoted husband, loving father, and friend to the fatherless, was not only a hearer of God’s Word-which teaches us to love one another, to do good to those who hurt you, to forgive as you want to be forgiven, and to love God with all of our hearts, souls and minds-but also a doer of the Word; and

Whereas, Few know the story of the extremes to which Bob Anderson practiced his faith: his restorative justice pursuits that led to the redemption of many, but to two people in particular, one of whom is here today (almost a free man), and another who is successfully recovering daily, living in another state and, thanks to Bob Anderson, is now giving back to society as a counselor to others enslaved by addiction; and

Whereas, Bob Anderson’s life represents a model of ethics and behavior that can change the world if we are all able to achieve his level of passion and commitment to restoration of our fellow humans; and certainly this is a life that is supremely deserving of the respect and admiration of the Oklahoma State Senate for a job well done by a good and faithful servant.  The Senate extends heartfelt sympathy to his widow, Helene, and commends her to place her trust in the same God who guided her husband’s purpose and path.

Now, therefore, pursuant to the motion of

Senator Constance N. Johnson

The Senate of the Great State of Oklahoma hereby extends to

The Family of Bob Anderson

sincere condolences and directs that this citation be presented.

                                                                              Sen. Constance N. Johnson

                                                                             Sen. Mike Morgan, President Pro Tempore

Oklahoma State Senator Connie Johnson

Retired Colonel Robert “Bob” Anderson passed away Sept 9, 2008 in Oklahoma City.  He was born June 3, 1929 in Topeka, Kansas to Theodore Cryder Anderson and Winifred (McCollough) Anderson.  Bob spent most his childhood in Tulsa, OK graduating from Will Rogers High School in 1947.  He received a degree in aviation and space engineering from Oklahoma University.  Bob married Helene Wyatt and together they were the proud parents of four wonderful children: David, John, Fred, and Marjean. 

In addition to his accomplishments as a husband and father, Bob had a commendable 30 year career with the United States Air Force.  He was a fighter pilot serving missions in Korea and Viet Nam and was the left wingman in the USAF Thunderbirds during the 1954/1957 tour.  After serving his country and receiving numerous medals and awards, including two distinguished flying crosses, two silver stars, and ten air medals, Bob embarked on a second successful career as a life insurance salesman in Oklahoma City. 

In addition to his business career, Bob was active in his church and civic activities, including Oklahomans for Children and Families (OCAF), where he served as president for over a decade.  Bob was an active member of the Daedaleans, whose mission is to encourage young people in aviation careers.  He was also involved in Bible Study Fellowship, a Monday morning prayer breakfast, and was an active member of the Life Builders Sunday school class at Crossings Community church.  In addition, he was an active worker in the Republican Party for many years. 

Most recently, Bob has been involved in the rewarding work of prison ministry.  Bob loved playing golf and had many wonderful days on the golf course with his foursome, “three Bobs and a Stan.” 

Bob was preceded in death by his parents and his children David and Marjean.  He leaves behind his wife Helene, son John and daughter-in-law Linda, son Fred, and six grandchildren: Christopher, Brian, Kimberly, Justin, Matthew, and Jonathan, and six great grandchildren.  He is survived by his two brothers, Ted of Las Vegas, NV and Don of OKC. 

Donations may be made, in Bob’s memory, to Oklahoma Family Policy Council, 3908 Peniel, Bethany, OK 73008, phone 787-7744, or Citizens Caring for Children, 3317 Wynn Dr., Edmond, OK 73012, phone 359-2695.  Visitation will be held Sunday from 12 to 6 at Smith & Kernke, 14624 N. May Ave., Oklahoma City.  Services will be at Crossings Community, 14600 N. Portland Ave. OKC, Monday, Sept. 15, 2008 at 2:30 pm, followed by interment at Memorial Park Cemetery.

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It seems a man in Topeka, Kansas, decides to write a book about churches around the country. He starts by flying to San Francisco and working east from there.

He goes to a very large church and begins taking pictures, etc. He spots a golden telephone on the wall and is intrigued with a sign which reads “$10,000 a minute.”

Seeking out the pastor, he asks about the phone and the sign. The pastor answers that this golden phone is in fact, a dirct line to Heaven, and if he pays the price he can talk directly to God. He thanks the pastor and continues on his way.

As he continues to visit churches in Seattle, Boise, Milwaukee, Chicago, New York, Denver, and on around the United States, he find more phones with the same sign, and the same answer from each pastor.

Finally, he arrives in Oklahoma City. But THIS time the sign reads “Calls:25 cents.” Fascinated, he asks to talk to the pastor.

“Reverend, I have been in cities all across the country, and in each church I found this golden telephone, and I have been told it is a direct line to Heaven and that I could talk to God, but in the other churches the cost was $10,000 a minute. Your sign reads 25 cents a call. Why?”

The pastor, smiling benignly, replies, “Son, you´re in Oklahoma now. It´s a local call.”

Our saga begins on October 15, 1971. I was on my way to an accountants’ convention in Spain. This was virtually the last year that the IRS allowed national associations to hold conventions outside the US, and we were not going to let the opportunity pass. I took a flight to Detroit and there I was to join other charter groups going to Spain. We were to board a DC-10 and take a direct flight to Spain. But the weather was bad in parts of Ohio and Michigan and some of the other connecting flights had been delayed. In fact, one of them had been cancelled.

The group that almost missed the flight because of that cancellation was a group of Hadassah women from Columbus, Ohio. Close to 40 of them as I recall. This was the problem: this DC-10 was not a regularly scheduled flight. It was a charter. So when a substantial number of passengers were at risk of missing the trip, they had to find some way to go get them. Otherwise no profit……otherwise no flight.

The solution (concocted about 2 hours after we should have taken off for Spain) was to bus the ladies from Columbus to the Mansfield, Ohio, airport. And the DC-10 would make a quick jump there before heading off across the Atlantic.

It looked good on paper. So the rest of us off took off about 11:00 pm to rescue the women of Hadassah.

Some background now. Hadassah is a Jewish women’s organization. Probably a lot like the United Methodist Women, with a few obvious exceptions. And then there is the matter of my seat on the plane. It was my first (and, as it happens, last) European trip. I was 24 and eager to please. So I indicated no seating preference. I was rewarded with quite possibly the worst seat on the plane. It was on the front row right next to the entrance. My row only had two seats and there was no place to put my attaché case.

The first omen of bad things to come came when the stewardess took my attaché, tagged it, and loaded it on the tiny elevator to send it down to some dark place in the belly of the plane. I was close enough that I heard it fall off the lift and hit the bottom. And I also heard the elevator smash it 15 seconds later. The stewardess soon came back with it, holding it in her outstretched arms like a sacrifice to some Babylonian god. “Perhaps you’d like to tape this up before we put it back,” she said, simultaneously handing me the duct tape and a damage claim form.

Would that the story ended there.

As irritated as I was, I actually had a good seat to watch the story that was about to unfold. We soon landed at the Mansfield airport and I could see the crowd at the terminal. I found out later that Mansfield was chosen because it had a landing strip long enough (and thawed enough) to handle a DC-10. I also found out later that only a few weeks before, a DC-9 had landed and it made the front page of the paper, it being the largest aircraft ever to grace their airport. And now here comes a DC-10. Thus, the crowd at the terminal. In addition to the 40 or so travelers, we had uniformed fire department officers, uniformed police officers, the entire city council and, of course, the Mayor. And all were also accompanied by their respective spouses. And it was about 1:00 am and stunningly cold.

The plane door was opened (the one right in front of me), the stewardess stuck her head out and the terminal crowd waved.

As you might guess, this particular airport did not have those wonderful telescoping boarding ramps. They had one of those rolling staircases (hey, it’s good enough for the President), and they began to roll it out. And I had, literally, a front row seat. I watched it being slowly pushed toward the plane. I watched it as it reached the plane. And I watched the faces of all concerned when they realized it was a full story short.

One by one, the Captain and all his crew came to the door and looked down at that staircase, shaking their heads. And then they looked at the group of Hadassah women gesticulating furiously.

What happened next is almost unbelievable, but you really can’t make this stuff up. Some genius (and compared to that shining star that decided to take us to Mansfield, he WAS a genius) figured out how they could strap a ladder onto the top of the stairs. And that’s what they did. I don’t know if they used rope, string or rubber bands, but soon the upper rungs of that ladder appeared at the open plane door. A hale and hearty airport official made the first trip up the ladder to check things out. He did not fall to his death, so they decided to proceed.

Now comes the march of the Hadassah women. Single file, snaking from the terminal to the staircase in the freezing cold. And now also comes the indelicate part of the story. Lovely women, all, I’m sure. But their average age was pushing the highway speed limit and their weight surely averaged, well, ……………….

But up the stairs they came. Then up the ladder. Each was met by two additional hale and hearty types to help them into the plane. Each man reached down and grabbed an arm and then hauled the ladies on board. I will never be able to get those images out of my brain.

These women were braver souls than I. I applaud their courage. But happy campers they were not. As the song says, I heard words I never heard in the bible. And most of them were in Yiddish. Some in Hebrew. The muttering began as each reached the first rung of the ladder and would finally fade only as they marched down the isle to their seats. No doubt, their grandchildren still tell the story.

That all took about an hour. A very long and a very cold hour. I should have known what was coming next, but I was an inexperienced traveler. Unless there’s an emergency, you can’t land a plane that is nearly full of fuel. So on our little junket to Ohio we did not carry the fuel necessary to get to Spain. We had to “filler up” in Mansfield.

Just like there were no telescoping boarding ramps, there were no tankers of any useful size. They weren’t prepared to fuel up a DC-10 going to Europe. And thus began the “bucket brigade”. Every vehicle with a tank and at least three wheels was pressed into service. And each made multiple trips. I didn’t actually see a red wagon with buckets, but I saw just about everything else. So for about another hour, the procession proceeded.

And we can’t forget about the VIPs. While fuel was being loaded into the plane, so too were the firefighters, policeman and political dignitaries. And their spouses. And they all began their unforgettable 15 minutes of fame right in front of me. (By this time I had my own blanket, my own tissue box and my own cold.) Oe by one, two by two, four by four, the crew showed them around the plane. Heard more than once: “Goooolly, Martha, look at the size of this thing.” Up the ladder, through the plane, down the ladder. All with that open plane door. I always suspected that one or two of them just stayed on board. By this time nobody would have noticed and nobody would have cared.

And thus ends the saga, but not the story. Other situations developed concerning Sangria punch, Spanish potatoes, 80 proof accountants, tourist trap nightclubs, Mediterranean beaches, the Casbah, Moroccan rugs, belly dancers, camel rides, cobra thrills, and Bangor, Maine. But it is Mansfield, Ohio, that takes the prize for my most interesting travel experience.

Shalom.