A Not So Boring Life

  Never take for granted that you are reading this.   When Sam was 14 years old, he dropped out of school and went to work in the Homestead Steel Mill in Pittsburgh. During his time in the public school system he never learned how to read. He was considered “slow”, so they just kept shuffling him from grade-to-grade. During his 30 years as a laborer in the mill, reading wasn’t that important – he was able to get along by following verbal instructions and, if unexpectedly faced with a written document, he had his tricks: casually get a co-worker to comment on the document or, if it was urgent, call his wife at home and read it out to her letter by letter so that she could read it back to him. Sometimes he would use the excuse that he had left his eyeglasses at home. Much of his energy and innate creativity went into hiding from others the fact that he didn’t know how to read.   Then, after more than 30 years of getting by, the mill shut down. Sam found himself with

PA BOY, THROUGH AND THROUGH On seeing an article about the upcoming regular deer hunting season in Pennsylvania, I was whisked back to my own, not so glamorous (or successful) experience in stalking the white-tailed deer in different places around Danville.   Being a regular old PA boy, I of course was indoctrinated into a sport hunting culture at an early age.   Having a dad who was the local Deputy Game Commissioner and who was known, both affectionately and, at times derisively, as “Birddog Weaver” (we always had at least two German Shorthair dogs trained to sniff and point out wary pheasant hiding in the underbrush of overgrown fields around the area) cemented my expected introduction into sportsmanlike conduct. Unfortunately, I was not, nor would ever be, a natural born hunter.   I had other interests, and while spending hour upon hour looking for adventures in the woods and farmland surrounding Danville was an enjoyable part of childhood, tramping around with a rifle or shotgun

  ADVENTURES IN MOVING A friend just commented “that moving must be a nightmare for me.”   She was referring to my penchant for accumulating things based on a philosophy of “Hey, that’s pretty cool. Why don't I get that?”   She was right, of course.   Especially given the fact that for the last 30 or so years of my life, moving has primarily involved travelling between multiple countries by air transportation.   There is just so much stuff you can fit in two suitcases and a carryon (no matter how liberally you stretch the concept of “able to fit into an overhead compartment or under your seat.”) Never have I come up against moving challenges and airline strictures more so than when I first moved to Nicaragua from the U.S. in 1988.  I had just gotten married to a Nicaraguan national who was in the U.S. completing a Master’s Degree on a Fulbright Scholarship.  We were returning to Nicaragua (I had been there a few years earlier for an independent internship as an undergraduate st

In the summer of 1975, while pursuing a degree in Theatre Design at Penn State University, I headed to Dayton, Ohio to work as a stage carpenter at Wright State University.   The summer theatre season put on by the University included six productions:   the musical Man of La Mancha based on the story of Don Quixote; the psychological thriller Veronica's Room (by Ira Leven –author of Rosemary’s Baby); the classic black comedy “ Arsenic and Old Lace ”; “ After Magritte ”, a surreal comedy by Tom Stoppard; “ The Real Inspector Hound ”, a one-act audience participation ‘whodunit’ also by Stoppard and, finally, Shakespeare’s “ Twelfth Night”.   You can well imagine the craziness of pulling together SIX plays over a four month period, all on the same stage!   The set designer, whose name is lost both to me and the internets) was considered one of the best of his time.   In order to meet the heavy schedule, we first completed the first set – in this case for Man of la Mancha , and

As I hear from friends and family in the U.S. regarding their experiences hunkering down into government mandated and/or self-isolated protection from the Coronavirus pandemic - working from home, limiting their excursions to markets and other locations in search of basic necessities, avoiding contact with other than immediate family and household - I cannot help but reflect on the situation in Nicaragua (where I live now) and dozens of other countries where I have worked as an International Development Specialist. These countries are normally classified as "underdeveloped" or "emergent" (adjectives that tend to focus primarily on economics). In the context of these nations, where a significant portion of the populace survive on a day-to-day basis through their participation in informal business and markets, “social distancing” is a whole other ballgame. In Nicaragua alone, an estimated 2.4 million women and men (@1.7 million living below the poverty line) leave

I travel a lot.   I have for most of my adult life.   Home (childhood home) has become mixed into a multitude of places where I have lived long enough to put down roots of some kind.   Home (childhood home) has become a place that I visit every couple of years to spend some time with family.   Family, with the passing of my parents and oldest sister, has shrank (if it is “shrunk” then Mr. Googles steered me wrong) to one younger and two older sisters, along with a healthy smattering of nieces and nephews, in-laws and cousins once or twice removed.   Many live in or near where we/they grew up.   My son, born and raised in Nicaragua, emigrated to the U.S. a few years back, and now lives a distance away, but close enough that I can combine visits. Growing up with four sisters was, at times, challenging.   Don’t ask them, because they will say that I lived like the king of the castle while they toiled and troubled over household chores and picking up after their pain-in-th