Paul C. Steffy's Blog: Across the U.S. and Around the World

THE REAL GARDEN OF EDEN!

Once upon a time there lived a kind friendly man who liked people---except there weren’t many around yet and he couldn’t figure out where those few others came from. His name was Adam. He’d lived his entire life (so far) not feeling Romantic towards any woman. One day he met, at the beach and by pure coincidence, a smart, kind friendly woman named Eve. They both realized, EARLY ON, that they liked each other very much. After a few days of getting to know each other, they really began to get to know each other.

Adam had a friendly, loveable dog he called “Big Dog.” Eve had a cuddly smaller dog she affectionally called “Miss Kitty.” Soon, quite soon as a matter of fact, “Big Dog” got to know “Miss Kitty.” It was love at first sight for them too! You might call their relationship: “Inside, Outside, all around the town: sort of knowledge sharing about each other and where to find a favorite tree.

However, after a while Adam told Eve that most of the money he had had come from an aunt on his mother’s side of the family. She was very strict about her money. (This was due to her 5th husband leaving her for another woman.) The aunt had given Adam an annual endowment. The stipulation was this: He could not divorce more than two times in his life, or he’d lose her endowment. Now, he told Eve, “The rest of the story!” He’d been divorced twice already. If he did it again, he’d lose a huge chunk of his livable income. For him----- Life would be difficult.

Eve said, “It doesn’t matter! I can’t go on like this. You have far more energy than I do. I need a rest! From now on it’s going to be mostly friends only or we’ll have to part company. No more “Special Friends Status” like before. Your unlimited lifetime entry pass, within the many amazing wonders of the ‘Garden of Eden’s Earthly Delights,’ has been revoked UFN----- maybe forever! The new rule: once per year or nothing! That’s the way it must be. This is for the better for both of us----- especially in my life. But we’ll continue our public image with plenty of socializing.”

Adam felt crushed! Until now, his life had recently taken a wonderful turn for the Best life imaginable (well, it was much better than before by a long shot). Now this huge disappointment had entered his daily routine and shaken it to its foundation: the worst portion----- it might continue forever, and they’d remain only the closest of friends and as they kept spending his money---as if there were no tomorrow.

This story does have a grand positive ending for them both----- but not quite yet. Folks: stay tuned for the next gripping episode of THE REAL GARDEN OF EDEN on this same channel. Brought to you by:
LIFE----- YOU WON’T KNOW IT IF YOU DON’T LIVE IT!
THE END

Since I last wrote, I've added 9 more countries to my list of places enjoyed and experienced. I didn't mean to stay away so long, but (prior to January of this year) I was having so much fun and excitement time got away from me... Things have been well with me, and I hope it's been the same for all of you. We've moved a couple of times in the past three years and both moves proved worthwhile and my life improved at each place. My family is well--- each one has plenty to stay occupied and satisfied with their personal accomplishments.

I added another book to my Amazon list: THE SECOND TIME AROUND. A WW II Love Story between a Pilot and his college sweetheart. She's an army nurse and they reunite in England. Their love is irresistible. It's both an ebook and in paperback.

Stay well everyone. This virus situation has to improve eventually. Our thoughts are with those who, for one or more reasons, have felt the 'Social Lockdown' most severely to include job loss and worse. Hopefully we'll all come out of this with as little strife as is possible in our lives: now and forevermore. PCS

THE FLYING SUPER FORTRESS


When I was ten years old, my mother told me a true aviation story. It increased my appreciation of airplanes and flying. She explained how WW II had changed her life drastically when she was twenty-four years old. On May 11, 1945, at approximately 1 a.m. in Guam, half a world away, a flight of B29s departed North Field. They were on a bombing mission to Japan. Two minutes after one particular plane lifted off, most of the airborne B29 crews, and anyone at the airfield, saw two huge explosions in the dark sky. Altitude estimated at 750-1,000 feet above the ocean. The two-mile long runway at North Field was 600 feet above the warm pacific waters. The hard surface with its brightly painted centerline ended at the top of a steep cliff. Once airborne, pilots of overloaded planes would trade altitude for airspeed. They tried to avoid a dreaded stall. To lose an engine on lift-off, often meant there would be no survivors.

Maximum authorized take-off weight for the B29 was 129,000 pounds. Many flights calculated at 133-135,000 at take-off. On that fateful night, the B29 in question was 4 miles from Guam. It flew in formation with other B29s over the vast open ocean towards Japan. Unexpectedly, in the blink of an eye, the unfortunate B29 and everything onboard disappeared in a gigantic fireball. Aircraft in the vicinity felt the tremendous shockwave. The once dim moonlit sky became, in that region and for an instant, as bright as the sun. Tons of bombs and thousands of gallons of fuel had contributed to an unforgettable moment in time. Several crews witnessed the blinding flash that night. The next morning at first light a second and more thorough search found the co-pilot floating in the warm waters, wearing his life vest. He had not survived. As the days passed, no debris appeared on the ocean surface or washed up on Guam’s lonely shore. The entire aircraft disappeared in 500 feet of calm water and all of the brave, young crewmembers enroute to face the enemy perished; destiny changed everything. The flight engineer, my mother’s high school sweetheart and loving husband, was on that plane. It was his crew’s first mission. The next morning, mission completed, all other aircraft returned.

In 1980, I placed an ad in Air Force magazine. From it, I made contact with a man who was an Army Air Force mess sergeant in WW II. He was on duty that night at the Guam airfield. He told me that aircrews ate a meal before their ten-hour flights to Japan. While dozens of men stood in the chow line, he heard and watched as a young crewmember, on the ill-fated mission, jokingly told his buddies, “Eat up fellas, this might be our last meal.” Less than ninety minutes later, his innocent comment in jest became their tragic reality. The mess sergeant told me he’d thought of that night and what the young man had said many times.

Thirteen years after my mother’s terrible loss, and while she told me what had happened, I saw tears in her bright blue eyes. She finished her story, turned and walked away quietly. Some of the photos of her and her husband, Jack, named John R. Robinson, Jr. were visible in their partially filled album. They, or their friends, took several pictures of them within and around the training base in New Mexico. Their marriage, which took place on the base and by the chaplain who married many others in the same circumstance, was shattered after only four months. Two of the months, they were many miles apart. The album was open and on the table. Four months prior to his death, my mother and the other young wives of the men on that fateful flight, along with a hundred or so other wives arrived to live with their husbands for up to two months. The flyer’s departure date was not yet established; the War Department in Washington made those decisions. The tiny, drafty tarpaper shacks, known as “Hutments” which housed each married couple were located on a B29 training base in Alamogordo, New Mexico. On windy days, desert sand would accumulate in their coffee cups stacked within the cupboard. Tumbleweeds would block the front door. Jack would climb out a window and pull them away. Their uncertain days passed quickly. All too soon, the aircrews departed for Guam. The wives rode the train or one of the many busses to their homes. They lived throughout the U.S. After the war, my mother stayed in touch with two of the wives for several years. She stood in front of me, unable to tell me more. Then, she went into her bedroom and closed the door. She didn’t come out for half an hour. I had never seen her do that. She remarried but, I think her one true love died in that B29.

BICYCLING ACROSS THE GOLDEN GATE BRIDGE

In early August of 1970, I arrived in San Francisco: the free wind in my hair. I had returned from Vietnam several months earlier. My Army enlistment had ended and I wanted to make a fresh start. I was anxious to see the world and after 4 months in Miami including two drives to Key West, San Francisco remained my next prized destination. But first, Penn Central railroad hired me for five months as a Fireman. The $3K per month salary was the most I’d ever made—I couldn’t turn down those great paychecks. I worked on freight trains out of Indianapolis. After the railroad’s anticipated bankruptcy in June 1970, followed by my furlough (layoff), San Francisco beckoned. I expected to stay a month or two in the picturesque Bay Area. I had no idea I’d be there for seven remarkable years. My future travel plans included the remaining, and still unvisited, thirty-eight United States. I felt certain that someday I’d make a few international trips too. When on foreign soil, I enjoy learning the local culture, cuisines and rudimentary regional histories. After my first European visit, two years later, I decided that my two favorite world- class cities are San Francisco and Paris. For me, each has its own special magic. I sense a undeniable cosmopolitan flair and a distinctive magnetism from each place that draws me from afar.

Seven years later, when I moved from San Francisco to San Diego, I had visited fourteen European countries in two visits. On my first trip, my loosely planned itenerary included three interesting and scenic countries. Of seventeen countries total, the Army had paid my travel expenses for three of them. From all my travels, Morocco remains my most exotic and mysterious destination. The bus ride through the wilds of the Moroccan countryside/desert enroute to Fez was utterly unique. In Casablanca after another bus ride, I thought of the inimitable Rick’s Place, his Café Americain: long gone, but not forgotten in the imagination of my generation.

Now, I lived comfortably in San Francisco in a cozy studio apartment in the outskirts of the Noe Valley district: price, $125 per month. As a tourist, I’d spent my days either driving my car or riding Muni, the efficient citywide mass transit system. I went from one amazing sight to another: Fisherman’s Wharf; Chinatown; Coit Tower; Lombard Street; the old Ferry Building; Seal Rock; Grace Cathedral; Broadway district; plus several cable car rides along California Street, or to the terminus of the other two cable car lines. When I lived in San Francisco busses, streetcars and the cable cars cost 25 cents to ride including a free transfer. At that point, I chose not to leave the City – it was my new home. I continued to visit other additional places of interest, on both sides of the Bay. With two weeks of sightseeing behind me, I’d need a job to remain. On a wild urge, I applied for a Federal job.

Three days later, a government agency hired me as a teletype operator: pay grade, GS-3. I had never touched, used or stood near a teletype machine; I’d heard them in the background on the TV evening news, but that’s all I knew about them. However, I could type fifty words per minute with a high accuracy rate. Was the agency that desperate? Perhaps, I had an honest face. As an employee, I was a friendly example of prompt efficiency. Also, I did not abuse my sick leave; once they’d hired me, they got more than their money’s worth. I learned the job in three days and it was an interesting way to pay my bills, and best of all, I got to stay in San Francisco. Three months later, the teletype had lost its glitter, so I switched agencies to the US Forest Service. The Regional Office was in the financial district. Four years later, when the Transamerica Pyramid building was competed, it was one block away. The Forest Service provided me more job status and besides, I wore a Ranger uniform when on duty. The work amounted to answering the public’s questions via the telephone and in person about National Forests, fishing and camping rules and regulations, I sold maps and did general public relations work as my primary duties.

While I lived in San Francisco, I continued to visit many of the City’s interesting sights: although appealing, some were obviously touristy. However, the locals had their own eclectic places to visit and I found a few of them too. Even today, the unique ones still evoke their own vivid memories; their special distant meanings forever etched into my thoughts. In total, wherever I went, I met and talked with countless diverse and fascinating people. While some were visitors, others lived nearby or across the wide windswept bay: north to Sausalito and Marin County or eastward towards Berkeley and over two dozen East County communities.

When I lived in San Francisco one of my favorite Saturday bike rides included crossing the Golden Gate Bridge. When the weather offered blue skies, and pleasant warm temperatures, I would leave my apartment about 10 am. I went with or without friends along to ride with me on these all-day scenic rides. I cycled to the bridge through what is now the Golden Gate National Recreation Area. The pleasant ride usually took less than thirty minutes. I arrived at the northbound, south end of the bridge full of youthful energy. Then, I would stop for a few moments to enjoy the breathtaking view of San Francisco Bay. From its completion in 1937, the world famous bridge remains painted in its magnificent ‘International Orange’ color. The unobstructed view from the visitor automobile parking area includes Mt. Tamalpias, Marin County and Angel Island. Within the same view a few miles eastward are Alcatraz Island (opened in October 1973) and the eastern portion of the bay. The first year Alcatraz was open 50K visitors saw it. Last year, 1.3M curious travelers took the tour. The gift shop is a busy place.

I learned the hard way that my round-trip bike ride was easiest when I departed the city at the start of my ride. From there I’d ride north across the bridge to Sausalito rather than take the ferry first. Strong westerly late afternoon winds continuously crossed the bridge, and they brought much cooler temperatures; for me, the certainty of cold winds took the fun out of it. The cold unforgiving winds continued until I had crossed the long suspension span and entered into the Presidio. There, among the trees and hills, the wind gusts finally subsided. Riding northward on the bridge in the morning towards Sausalito, I’d take my time and pedal onward in a lower gear (morning temperatures were usually warmest before 2 pm). At mid-span, the prevailing ocean wind velocity was always greatest. I’d usually stop on the bridge at least twice, to gaze at the 746-foot tall towers from different angles and to observe the noisy, bustling auto traffic. The view south and eastward towards the incredible City skyline was unparalleled. Pedestrians and bicyclists who faced the fierce and cold ocean winds (especially cold when skies were overcast) would have appreciated a warm jacket (many of them weren’t wearing even a thin one). In the continuous cold stiff breeze, I’d never lost my baseball cap. Some of the walking tourists soon lost anything loose. Today, the easily recognized Transamerica Pyramid Building and the 980-foot tall Sutro communications tower, adjacent to twin-peaks and positioned on a hill 940 feet tall, are easy to locate. Bowed upward, the middle of the bridge roadway has the highest elevation above the water (235 feet). In either direction, once beyond the bridge center, if the winds were moderate, I could ride, and sometimes coast for a long distance before I’d need to pedal again. Another advantage to riding northward first, due to wind quirks, included more downhill places to stop pedaling and coast. While still on the bridge, I’d take my time to enjoy the view (from the bridge ships are visible 18 miles at sea). Once off the bridge, the partially graveled and descending dirt road sloped steadily downward to sea level. At the bottom, the waves lapped upon large rocks or sandy beaches. I once saw a two-foot long baby shark stranded on the sand. Waves only a few inches away from him made his a watery escape impossible. I stopped, parked my bike, grabbed his tail, and quickly cast him into the water. His mouth was already wide enough to swallow a baseball. Then I continued along the narrow asphalt road, which now was on government owned land. The Navy base allowed bike riders and pedestrians to pass freely although the road was between a tall chain-link boundary fence and the waters of the bay. On each trip, around noon, I usually arrived in Sausalito on the same back street. In the waterfront area, there were plenty of quiet places to sit in shade, relax, eat lunch and enjoy a bayside view. Plenty of lunch places sold sandwiches and drinks and prices were reasonable. After lunch, and because there were several further into Sausalito, I’d stop at a bookstore or maybe two—new or used and sometimes both, it didn’t matter. I’d stay sequestered inside, often with classical music playing softly in the background, and spend an hour casually browsing the stacks; if I liked a book, I’d buy it—once I bought a new book on mountain climbing by a French guide (I still have the book). It has several color ‘how to’ photos on equipment usage plus breathtaking views of the Swiss Alps. Another time I purchased a thick used paperback about British Statesman Winston Spencer Churchill. While browsing bookstores, time for me passes so quickly. My small red nylon backpack carried my spontaneous book purchases safely back to my cozy apartment. Along the way, I’d take a few minutes to stop and admire my newest purchase—then I’d carefully slide it back inside the backpack, pull the drawstring and tighten the slip-lock . I’ve always enjoyed great biographies of people I admire, and as the days passed, I finished the 544 page Churchill book in record time. Bookstores, old or new, have a special attraction for me: I choose books about WWs I and II aviation, biographies, world history, travel, and well-written descriptions of ancient historical places. Poignant descriptive stories with meaningful and believable personal relationships where people triumph in spite of hardships and adversities to accomplish something valuable in life are enjoyable too—non-fiction more often than not.

Later during my ride, with the afternoon sun in slow descent, when thick scattered clouds would float slowly away painted in a collage of oranges, pinks, and yellows or in warmer shades of layered vermillion, I’d watch ever so intently almost unobservantly, while they’d fold in upon themselves to created marvelous indescribable shapes—continuously. These scenes were always uncommonly pleasant for me. From my vantage point in Sausalito, I appreciated those few moments of solitude amid the pleasantry of the late afternoon. I’d straddle my bike frame, a few yards off the wide path, to relax and experience a brief, late afternoon reverie. Then, I’d finish my ride to the Sausalito ferry landing. There, I’d purchase my ticket and stand in line for the thirty-five minute ride across the frigid, and always choppy waters to San Francisco. People watching, is still an interesting pass-time for me. So are unexpected conversations with pleasant strangers. Occasionally, a spontaneous exchange would carry us through the ferry ride. This was the easy part of my roundtrip tour! The fare was $2.00 for bike passengers and .50 for bicycles. Pedestrians paid $2.25. The ferry fleet cannot transport automobiles. On weekends, usually between 10am and 5pm, weather permitting on most trips, the ferry carried the allowed limit of 225 passengers. I enjoyed the passage in cloudy, cool or even rainy conditions.

Today, in San Francisco, the ferry still docks along the Embarcadero at Pier 41 near the historic Ferry Building. The streets in this part of the City are level, a good place to begin my ride westward to my apartment. From the foot of Market Street, I’d ride westward upon any of the adjoining streets. I’d pedal my way to the wide and busy Geary Boulevard. Traffic moves quickly on this street, day or night. The two mile ride to my apartment took about ten minutes. During my seven wonderful years in San Francisco, I bicycled many miles around the bay area; I took so many rides that I’d bought a bike rack and attached it to the rear of my car. It made travel with a bike a lot easier. Forty-four years ago, I remember riding my new bicycle for the first time across the unforgettable Golden Gate Bridge. I always felt fortunate to be there, to see and appreciate the vast and beautiful landscape and feel the memorable freedom of the out of doors. On each ride, I knew that the strong, unforgiving west wind was there along the bridge’s 1.7 miles—a 8,981 foot span. Yet, it didn’t dampen my wish to complete the ride. I treasured each trip across the world famous Golden Gate Bridge, which happens to be in San Francisco, my adopted hometown and part of the gigantic Bay Area. A remarkable variety of magnificent local views, in one location, are there and on a grand scale. Living there was part of my destiny. I wanted to experience life in the City and I needed to meet hundreds of people along the way. I can only hope I have gained wisdom and a better understanding of my life. I wish to appreciate with greater clarity the changing, ever-demanding world around me. I shall never forget my grand adventure so many years ago and those unforgettable and rewarding years when I lived, worked and played in San Francisco.

GOODBYE MISSY

When I was seven years old, my aunt and uncle gave me a puppy. I named him Mickey. I lived with my parents in a city and to keep him with me was not practical. He stayed with my aunt and uncle in a community of less than one-hundred fifty people, twelve miles from my home. A year later, he wandered onto the roadway and he did not survive. I cried my eyes out.

Within the month, my aunt and uncle saved a lost puppy from the same fate. He had large brown eyes and floppy brown ears. He was mostly a beagle and on that day, he roamed aimlessly along a different section of rural high-speed roadway. My uncle stopped the car and opened his door. He leaned out with his left hand, lifted the young, frightened dog off the road and sat him on the front seat next to my aunt. He drove home while she held the small cuddly dog. Soon, on my aunt’s lap, the puppy was fast asleep.

I named my new dog Lucky and I hoped he would enjoy a long and happy life. When I stayed with my forty-something and childless relatives on weekends, most holidays and during summer vacations, Lucky followed me constantly.
During a thirty-year period, my aunt and uncle took care of me, two of my cousins and another young boy. His single mom needed daily child-care too. My aunt, a widow now in her early fifties, was more than glad to take him. With my uncle gone, she needed the extra money.

After high school, I joined the Army – to do my duty. Within a few months, I went to Vietnam for my twelve-month tour. During my year (1967-68), thirty young men in my battalion of 450, that I knew personally, including three from my high school class in other units, died in Vietnam. When my year ended, I returned to the U.S. I was at home three days when I heard shocking news on the radio. A high school classmate had died in Vietnam. We had talked and laughed only two weeks before in the PX in V.N. It was purely a chance meeting and I told him I was going home in two weeks. We met under similar circumstances six months prior. He had just arrived in V.N. Now, he too, was gone. At the funeral home, for the evening viewing, I suddenly felt a panic attack. I knew I would break down and embarrass myself should I try to console his parents. Luckily, for me, they had not yet arrived. I viewed his closed casket, saluted the flag, turned and, in growing haste, departed the solemn building. I hurriedly walked to my car, started the engine and drove out of the parking lot -- tears rolled down my face. I felt a heavy burden of many memories.

The next day, I drove my mom’s car to my aunt’s house. My dog, Lucky saw me from the front yard. He recognized the car and then, he saw me. He began to howl, whimper and whine. He jumped into the air and ran in circles while I opened the car door. My eyes were moist when he jumped on me while I rubbed and petted him. I was glad to see him too! By this time, my aunt stood on the front step. Moments later, it was her turn for hugs and a kiss.

After my twenty-day leave was over, I had seventeen months to go in the Army. In my final month, my aunt phoned me with sad news: Lucky was dead. He chased cars occasionally along a lonely gravel road. This time, he ran to close and ended up under the wheels. I wept silently for my second dog.

Thirty years later, in 2001, I retired and we moved to Montana. Two years passed. We decided to get an adult dog. We adopted a six-year old twenty-six pound orphaned dog. Her colors and markings resembled a Boston terrier. Time passed quickly. The next thing I knew, she was fourteen years old. She suffered from hearing, vision and mobility problems. We made a heart-rending decision. I called the vet and scheduled an in-home appointment. Missy would be relieved from her pain and suffering. On that fateful day, the vet arrived with her medical bag. It contained an injection and it changed all three of our lives. The overwhelming grief hit me suddenly, when I held Missy’s head for the last time. Her sad, nearly blind eyes looked up at me. She was comfortable on her bed and she seemed completely relaxed. She had no fear of anything. I knelt beside her, numbed with sadness. The vet leaned forward and spent a moment to whisper quiet words, inaudible to me, into Missy’s ear. When she finished, she picked up the syringe. The procedure took only seconds. Quickly and silently, Missy’s heart stopped and she went to sleep. Somehow, two minutes later, I pulled myself together to walk with the vet to our down-stairs front door. I thanked her for coming to the house. She gave me a knowing smile, nodded her head and then, departed. Upstairs, we faced the sadness and the loss of our faithful, happy and friendly dog. Except that, age had rendered her physically worn-out. We had planned for Missy’s cremation.

The next morning, I drove the three of us sixty-five miles to the pet crematorium parking lot. There was a sad stillness inside our car when I turned off the engine. Missy was in the back seat, wrapped in her blanket. Suddenly, once again, I felt overwhelmed with grief. Inside the office, the attendant asked me a question. I could not utter a word. My wife had to speak for me. It took a few days for my feeling of loss to diminish. Memories of Missy and the quiet walks we took around our hilltop, or when she would ride in the front seat of my pick-up truck as if she liked having a chauffeur, and how she would sleep quietly in our living room next to my chair, will always be with me. We spent many happy hours together – the two of us and the three of us.

At this point, we do not want another pet. Perhaps, later, we will change our minds. I don’t want to face such crushing emotional loss anytime soon – and maybe never. Goodbye, Missy… Lucky and Mickey. I knew you each at different stages in my changing life. During our friendships, you taught me several things I did not know about myself. Including, how closely attached a human can become to a kind and loyal animal. I will never forget you.

As an author, I'm not one of the literary blessed. Some fortunate writers finish their first manuscript, send it to an agent, maybe two if their luck is down, and wait for further assistance, i.e. cover artistry, expensive editing and various levels of P.R. However, I'm among untold millions of others who, after investing hundreds of hours in solitary thought, often have only a sore neck and tired eyes at the end of many writing days. Eventually, I'm blessed with a miracle and I finish my newest manuscript. Soon, meaning the next day, I reluctantly face the realization that this is just the beginning! A book in print requires many hours of research, thought, writing and editing. Then, the P.R. begins.

For anyone who needs constant interaction with people, writing may not work well for you. Unless one is willing to invest several uninterrupted hours of frequent daily solitude, the work may never see completion. Or, the amount of time spent each day will diminish -- until it stops. Finally, to clear the desk, it goes into the closest empty drawer.

After thirty-five rejection notices, in 1980, the days of sending printed pages w/return envelopes and paying excessive postage, my first story was hidden away. Thirty years later, after six rewrites, I published. Fortunately, I had brought it each time I moved. Initially, I wondered why. Now, proudly, it is on display for all the world to see, read and perhaps, if I'm lucky, they will click: Add to cart!

For those of you raised on computers, you may never realize how fortunate you are today. Computers, email and ebook publishers are a tremendous improvement to the by-gone era of mailing a manuscript and waiting two or three hideous months to receive the returned manuscript damaged in the mail. Often the bent or torn pages were rendered useless. An enclosed, unsigned memorandum often stated: Thank you for sending your manuscript. We cannot use it at this time...

Long live ebooks and ebook publishers!!!