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August 27, 2006
I was on the island of Kauai a few weeks ago.
While I was there I went for an early morning run one day as the sun was rising.
It was a beautiful morning and the birds were singing the dawn’s praise with gusto.
The quiet road where I ran is alongside a vast field that is home to a number of magnificent horses and some very cute lambs.
As I started running, one of the horses standing at the fence near the road lifted its head and snorted a horsey greeting in my direction.
I said hello to the horse and continued running.
I heard her snorting again behind me.
I turned and looked over my shoulder and said, “Wanna run?”
The horse swatted some flies with its tail as it considered my offer.
“I’m talking to a horse,” I thought. “I wonder if I’m losing my marbles.”
Behind me, the sun reached over the mountains and brushed its hand across the fields, turning the grass the richest green you can imagine.
I took a deep breath and inhaled the cool, fresh morning air.
Then I heard the horse and turned to see where it was.
Much to my surprise, the horse had galloped up behind me on the other side of the fence.
I continued running.
So did the horse.
We ran.
And ran.
And ran together for almost half a mile. Then the field ended.
The horse stopped abruptly at the fence.
I know she was frustrated. I could hear her whinny slightly.
She maintained her regal poise, looking longingly at me as I continued to run.
I know she wished that the fence did not exist.
So did I.
I turned and said goodbye softly.
She snorted.
“I enjoyed it too,” I said.
The horse lifted her head.
I raised my hand, acknowledging the connection.
I ran toward the distant mountains, my heart overflowing with an exquisite sense of euphoria.
What a magnificent gift.
Posted by trevor at 06:05 PM | Comments (4)
August 21, 2006
The Nee Nee Man
I first saw the Nee Nee Man when I was a young boy in Johannesburg, South Africa.
He was a gray-haired old African man who carried a tattered, brown leather suitcase and wore a red fez.
The Nee Nee Man walked the streets of Johannesburg spreading what he called “God’s Joy”. His toothless mouth always carried a genuine infectious grin. He handed out incense to people who stopped to hear him sing his song.
He always chanted the same song. “Na nee, nee, nee. Na nee, nee, nee.” He did this over and over again as he walked. That’s why everbody called him the Nee Nee Man.
We would get so excited when we saw him walking down our street. Kids in the neighborhood would run out of their houses when they heard him singing. He was funny and magical and seemed so joyous. He made us all feel good when we saw him. He walked through a very happy time in my childhood.
The Nee Nee Man walked hundreds of miles every week spreading the word and handing out incense. As a kid, I saw him all over town as I peered over the edge of the window in the back seat of my father’s car.
From Yeoville to Sandton, Parktown to Glendower, this materially poor but spiritually rich man walked.
He walked for years and years. I did not see him for a while during my early high school days, but he aappeared again when I was in my final year of school.
He came into the sandwhich shop where I was working during a school vacation.
I was so happy to see the smiling, toothless old man with his red fez.
“It’s the Nee Nee Man,” I said, happily welcoming him into the store.
“What can I get you?” I asked, smiling at the man who brought my own happy youth back to visit me through his eyes.
“I’ll just have some water,” he said. “I have no money for food.”
I gave the Nee Nee Man some water and a sandwich on the house.
He appeared again the next day.
And the day after.
I felt compelled to give him a free sandwich each time I saw him.
“Thank you,” said the Nee Nee Man. “I will pay you back one day.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “You made me smile so much when I was a kid. That’s more than enough payment.”
This happened every day for about three weeks. (I was finally fired for giving away the profits to the Nee Nee Man and anyone elsee who looked like they couldn’t afford to pay for food.)
One day, during my last week of work, the owner of the deli asked me to drop off the day’s takings at the bank on my lunch break.
I took the bank bag and was walking down Rissik Street when I noticed four shady-looking characters loitering on the sidewalk in front of me.
Something was no quite right, so I crossed the street.
So did the group of men.
Then they disappeared.
And appeared again from an alley in front of me.
They sauntered along very slowly allowing me to catch up to them.
By now I knew that they were up to something and I was about to cross the road again when the Nee Nee Man suddenly appeared from behind a bus shelter.
He strode directly toward the group of slouching men.
They quickly stopped in their tracks trying to hide behind one another.
The Nee Nee Man pointed his finger and barked at them in Zulu.
The men’s eyes grew big.
They cowered at his voice, then quickly broke up and dispersed in different directions.
The Nee Nee man smiled at me.
“They won’t bother you again, Klein Bass.” He said, and walked off chanting,” Na nee, nee, nee. Na nee, nee, nee.”
Posted by trevor at 04:23 PM | Comments (4)
August 14, 2006
I am working on a deadline for the next few days. During this time I have decided to reprint some of my favorite memories:
The Light
Vicki was absolutely beautiful. Even while she was hounded by cancer and tormented by chemotherapy, her awesome beauty radiated from within. (The picture above was taken two weeks before she died. She was fourteen years old.)
Vicki once told me she wanted to be a model. I knew she was close to the end of her life and being a model was one dream that would probably not come true for her. Or could it? I called my friend Randal Alhadeff (a wonderful photographer) and asked him if he would help. He certainly did.
We brought the photographic equipment to the hospital and turned Vicki’s room into a real photographic studio. There were wires and lights and cameras and reflectors and people all over the room.
That afternoon, we took a series of stunning and memorable pictures, including the one above. It was amazing. Here was a child, hooked up to machines, totally nauseated from chemotherapy, and still running the show, making sure that nothing in the world was going to take the moment from her.
In the middle of the photo session, a nurse came in to give Vicki a round of medicine. The picture taking was interrupted while Vicki was medicated through a tube that went directly into her heart. The nurse wasn’t very happy that day and her attitude reflected it. As the nurse was about to walk over to the bed, Vicki looked up and said,” Err, excuse me. Mind leaving your bad mood outside?”
Vicki’s mom Liz and I laughed so hard we almost collapsed. Even the nurse cracked a smile.
Sometimes when I feel grumpy or down and find myself taking it out on other people, I think of Vicki. She had every right in the world to be miserable and downright depressed, but she always found time to smile and make the most of the moment.
I hope thousands of people will get to see your picture,” I said after the shoot.
“Then I’ll be one of those people who only becomes famous after they’re dead,” she said grinning.
“You’ll be famous.” I said.
“Promise,” she said imitating a pout like a spoiled model.
“ I Promise.”
Well Vicki, because of this here blog, I might be able to keep my promise to you. My web site is read by a number of really cool people. I hope those who visit my site today will share this story with others so that you can become a lot more famous than you ever thought possible.
The more people who know about you, the better the world will be. Your light continues to shine. I hope it illuminates the path for those who might be walking in darkness today.
Posted by trevor at 03:22 PM | Comments (5)
August 11, 2006
I am working on a deadline for the next few days. During this time I have decided to reprint some of my favorite memories:
The Little One
I watched a documentary last night about endangered animals in Southern Africa. I was saddened and quite shocked by how quickly many animals are becoming extinct.
The look in some of the animal’s eyes, especially the chimps, was upsetting because without the power of speech all an animal can really do to survive is look to us for their future. (Their haunting, quiet, sad, pleading eyes reminds me of the eyes of people in refugee and concentrations camps I have seen in photographs.) All the animals can really do is ‘look’ to us because we are the masters of their destiny.
I understand that we need progress to survive, and that some of the animal’s habitat will be lost to farmlands cleared to feed starving people. But an exceptionally high percentage of endangered animals are captured or killed by poachers for financial rewards.
The documentary reminded me of an experience I had during a high school trip to the Timbavati game reserve.
The Timbavati reserve is located on a vast tract of subtropical savannah bushveld in the Limpopo Province of the Republic of South Africa. The reserve is situated on the unfenced western boundary of the world-famous Kruger National Park, a conservation area of more than 2,000,000 ha (over 5 million acres). The park borders on the Kingdom of Swaziland and abuts the boundaries of Zimbabwe in the north and Mozambique in the east.
It was our last day in the park. Six of us were sitting in the back of an open Land Rover with our geography teacher and the guide riding up front. The Land Rover was traveling toward our camp when the guide suddenly put on his brakes.
“Elephant,” he said softly.
We all strained through the bush to see the elephant he was talking about. The bush was pretty thick and I could not locate the animal.
“Where, where?” we all whispered.
“Hang on,” he said, swinging the wheel of the Land Rover. He moved the vehicle forward and pulled around a large clump of trees.
A collective gasp rose though the air.
Right in front of us was a magnificent old elephant. My heart started pounding. I had never been this close to an elephant before. The adrenaline that surged through my veins was suddenly countered by an awful nauseating revulsion. The bull elephant was prone. Lying on his side. With horror I realized that he was dead.
“Damn!” muttered my geography teacher.
“Poachers,” said the driver. “See how they sawed off his tusks? They used a chainsaw.”
Murmurs of disgust filled the Land Rover.
“Tula,” said the driver, suddenly. (Be quiet.) “Look.”
I followed to where he was pointing and saw another smaller elephant in the thicket standing and watching. Then I saw two others. They looked like they were crying.
“There must be something we can do?” said my geography teacher.
“There is nothing we can do now,” said the guide. “I will radio the warden and let them know about this, but I think the poachers are over the border in Mozambique by now. The rangers will come and get the meat for the villagers. It won't go to waste. The Hyhena's will clean the bones.”
“This is disgusting,” said my teacher.
“You see the problem is that people pay a lot of money for the Ivory,” said the guide. “Those poachers make more money from this one elephant that five years of salary.”
“But what can be done?” asked one of the boys, sitting beside me.
“As long as there is a demand for Ivory and fur and exotic animals, then the extermination will continue,” said the guide, shaking his head sadly. “The greed is creating the demand.”
Suddenly a movement from behind the dead elephant caught my eye. Again adrenaline surged through my body.
"Look!" urged on of the boys, pointing.
It was a baby elephant, so small it had been hidden from our view by the body of the fallen bull.
The baby moved into full view and seemed to be nudging the dead bull.
“The dead one is probably the baby’s grandfather,” said the guide. “See how he is trying to wake him up.”
My heart broke watching the little baby elephant trying to wake the bull. We could hear the little one whimpering as he tried again and again to rouse the bull that was at least ten times its size. The baby was making the saddest sounds I have ever heard. (Those sounds still haunt me when I think about them.)
The baby nudged and nudged the bull. Then he tapped the big elephant on the head trying to get a reaction. The baby tried to push the elephant with his little head. It was heartbreaking. The baby was adamant and simply wouldn’t give up.
Finally two of the other elephants slowly came over and comforted the baby elephant. They touched the baby with their trunks and seemed to be stroking him in sympathy.
The other elephants nudged the little one away from the bull and with their ears and heads hung, they moved slowly and deliberately off into the bush.
The last thing I saw before they disappeared into the undergrowth was the baby elephant turn and gaze over its shoulder with a long, mournful look. I could swear the baby was crying.
And then they were gone.
Posted by trevor at 03:21 PM | Comments (1)
August 10, 2006
I am working on a deadline for the next few days. During this time I have decided to reprint some of my favorite memories:
Honest To Goodness
My mum was looking through some of my old papers last week and reminded me of an envelope I received in the mail many years ago. Mention of the letter instantly took me back to a dirt road winding through the Drakensburg Mountains in Kwazulu- Natal in South Africa.
I was driving along and enjoying the spectacular view with my girlfriend Jean when I saw an old African man on a bicycle slowly pedaling toward us up the hill. I slowed to a crawl so as not to shower him with dust. The man looked to be in his sixties or seventies. I waved out of the window and greeted him in Zulu, “Sawubona (hello).” “Sawubona umugane (hello friend),” he replied, flashing me a wide toothless grin. He waved and wobbled unsteadily on his rickety old bicycle.
A few seconds later, I saw a pick-up truck approaching us rather quickly with swirls of dust and dirt spewing out from behind the fish-tailing vehicle.
As the truck passed I noticed it was full of rowdy teenage boys yelling as they went by. I watched them in my rear-view mirror and was horrified to see them aim directly for the old man on the bicycle. The driver swerved at the last minute, enveloping the man in a cloud of dust. I saw him teetering on the bike and finally falling into the brush alongside the road.
I turned my car around and went back to see if he was okay. He seemed to be fine, albeit a little shaken. His bike was not so lucky. The front wheel was totally bent and buckled.
The old man looked so sad. “Haai eh-eh,” he said, shaking his head. “What is wrong with those kids?”
I popped the man’s bicycle into the trunk of the car and we took him to the hotel where he worked. I asked if he wanted me to take him to a doctor and he said he was fine, just that his ‘happy place’ was bruised.
As we we’re leaving, I gave the man about eighty rand in cash that I had in my wallet and a few rand Jean had in her purse. (About fifty US dollars.) “It’s to fix your bike,” I said.
“I can’t take your money,” he said.
“Nah, it’s okay,” said Jean. “He would have spent it on beer anyway and that’s not good for that stomach of his.”
The old man chuckled and told me I had a wise girlfriend. “I must pay you back sometime,” he said.
“That’s okay,” I said.
“It’s what I want to do,” said the old man. So I gave him my address.
Jean and I continued on our trip and thoughts of the old man and his bike drifted toward the back of my mind and hung out with many other experiences that were hoping to be retold sometime in the future.
The battered and scuffed envelope arrived at my apartment exactly one month later. In the envelope was one very crumpled and often used one-rand note and twenty-five cents. It was from the old man.
Religiously, at the end of every month, an envelope arrived with a one-rand bill and twenty-five cents in it. No note, no return address, just the money the man was repaying.
An envelope arrived each and every month without fail.
Almost a year later I went back to the Drakensburg to shoot a television commercial.
The filming took place very close to where we had met the old man and I decided to look him up and thank him for being true to his word. I also wanted to tell him that it was really fine for him to stop sending me money every month.
I discovered that he had retired from the hotel and I was directed to his hut in a nearby contoured, thatch-roofed village that hugged the side of the hill near ‘Champagne Castle’.
I was sad to discover that the old man had passed away a number of months before. I also discovered that his wife, who was the sweetest old lady you could imagine, was still repaying her husband’s debt, and sending me one-rand twenty-five every month, even though he had died.
I told her not to worry, that the money was just a gift, and to please keep it for herself. She was very thankful. I gave her a little more money and got back into my car. As I drove away I gave thanks for having the good fortune of having met such humble, good people.
In my life I can only hope to have a fraction of the integrity, honesty, goodness and sincerety that the old man and his wife had.
Although they are long gone, and are merely grains of sand in the dust of time, I hope the echo of their absolute sinecerty and righteousness will travel from this site and reverberate through the ‘world-wide –web’ by virtue of their simple but powerful story.
“Iganekwane qhubeka funzelela phambili” – May their goodness survive and continue to inspire.
Posted by trevor at 03:16 PM | Comments (1)
August 09, 2006
I am working on a deadline for the next few days. During this time I have decided to reprint some of my favorite memories:
The Blossom
I had a wonderful experience at a school the other day. I was speaking to a class of second graders about making a difference in other people’s lives. I dared the kids in the class to stand up for those who are being put down and include those who are being left out.
“Have any of you been left out or put down?” I asked.
A little girl named Rachel slowly put up her hand. Rachel was sitting on the side of the class and was all but hidden in her sweater, except for her nose and eyes.
“How did it feel?” I asked.
“It was bad,” she replied.
“Thank you for having the guts to say that,” I said. “You are a real brave person for speaking up. For that I need to give you a hug.”
I went over and hugged her. I could not believe how tiny she was.
“You don’t deserve to be treated like that,” I said. “You are one cool kid.”
I went back to the front of the class and continued speaking. As I spoke and asked the class questions, I noticed Rachel emerging from her sweater like a flower growing out of the ground. She began to sit up and later, she even raised her hand when I asked questions. It was heartwarming to see her pale little face fill with color as she blossomed right in front of me.
After the class was over the teacher told me that Rachel hardly ever asks questions and mostly hides in her sweater.
Today I received an e-mail from Rachel. It made me cry:
Dear Mr. Trevor. Thank you for making me famous. When you visited our school last week you gave me a hug and everyone wanted to be my friend. I felt really happy when they all said I was cool. It was very nice of you to care about me.
“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.” -Leo Buscaglia
Posted by trevor at 03:16 PM | Comments (0)
August 08, 2006
I am working on a deadline for the next few days. During this time I have decided to reprint some of my favorite memories:
I Will Never Forget...
I took this photograph of a father and his son playing in the surf during my vacation a few days ago. I was so touched and inspired by this man’s overwhelming love for his child. The way he cherished his boy reminds me of my dad.
I wrote my father the following letter a few years ago:
Dear Dad,
I just wanted to thank you so much for the fantastic childhood you and mom gave me. I often want to be a child again so that I can feel the love, warmth, joy and security you always gave me.
Although money was very hard to come by while we were growing up, I never felt deprived of anything. Your love has given me more wealth than money could ever buy.
I will never forget the time you held me in your arms when I was so badly stung by the Jelly Fish in Durban.
I will never forget your tears when I went into surgery at six years old to have my severely squint left eye repaired.
I will never forget the one single tear that ran down your smiling check when you took me to Linksfield Primary School on my first day.
I will never forget you adjusting my tie before the high school dance. (I will always remember your smile and wink as I turned to say goodbye to you at the front door.)
I will never forget you passing me a care package through the barbed wire fence after our twelve weeks of basic training. (I can still feel your hand ruffling my hair as I sobbed, begging you to take me away from the two years of military training that ripped my childhood out of my soul and left it whimpering alongside the road to Fourth Field Regiment.)
I will never forget waving goodbye to you when I left South Africa. Not knowing if I would ever see you again. In my mind I still see the slow motion image of you with your arm around mom waving goodbye to me as I boarded the plane.
Thank you dad for giving me the best childhood a person could ever hope for.
Trev
My mum says my dad cried as hard as she’d ever seen him cry when he received my letter.
The letter took me months to send because I wanted to add so much to it and didn’t know how to end it. Eventually I sent it as is.
I’m so glad I did.
Two weeks later my father passed away suddenly. Stunned I flew home from America to be with my family. (The flight from Atlanta to Johannesburg was the longest 18 hours I have ever experienced in my life.)
At home, while helping my mum sort through my dad’s belongings I found the letter in his wallet.
He died with my letter in his pocket.
He died knowing how much I appreciated and loved him.
If you want somebody to know how you feel. Don’t wait. Tell them today because tomorrow might be too late.
Posted by trevor at 03:15 PM | Comments (2)
August 07, 2006
I am working on a deadline for the next few days. During this time I have decided to reprint some of my favorite memories:
Jump For Your Life
I made a call today that stunned me. I phoned the mother of a child who passed away from cancer a number of years ago. I wanted to speak to her about including a story about her son Sean in a book I am writing called “If You’re Going Through Hell Don’t Stop”. The book is about the inspiration and motivation I received from terminally ill children during my time as a Doctor of Mischief.
I was rather nervous about the call. I didn’t want to upset Sean’s mother by bringing up the death of her son. I believe there is nothing worse than losing a child and I didn’t want to add to her grief, even though he died six years ago.
Saying goodbye to Sean was especially difficult for me because he reminded me of my nephew Rhett. The last time I saw Sean was at a Candlelighters Childhood Cancer Foundation family meeting. Sean’s mother told us the doctors said for her to call hospice because there was nothing more they could do for Sean. He already had two bone marrow transplants and his body could not take any more chemotherapy. They gave him six months to live.
Sean’s family decided to move out of town to live with Sean’s grandparents for support during the last weeks of his life.
It was really tough saying goodbye to Sean that night because I knew I probably wouldn’t see him again. I cried all the way home in my car. I remember “The Long And Winding Road” by the Beatles was playing on my car radio.
That was almost six years ago.
I located Sean’s mother’s telephone number on the internet. I finally plucked up enough courage to call her this afternoon:
“Trevor, oh my God. How are you?” she said, warmly.
“I’m fine,” I replied. “More importantly how are you?”
“I have been meaning to call you…”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I understand.”
“Actually. I need to speak to you.”
"You do?” I replied.
“Yeah. Sean’s doing a project on South Africa and he wanted to ask you some questions...”
“Sean?”
“Yeah, it one of those geography assignments.”
Silence.
“Trevor?”
“Yeah, hello. Sorry, it’s my cell phone,” I said, making an excuse for my inability to process what she was telling me.
“I love the book you and Nancy did for kids with cancer.” She said.
“Chemo, Craziness and Comfort,” I said.
“You guys did a great job.”
“How is Sean? I asked.
“Aw, he’s wonderful. What a great kid. He’s our little miracle boy. Did you know they gave him only live six months?”
“He proved them wrong huh.” I chuckled.
“Yeah. He never gave up. Not for a second.”
Everything is okay in the end. And if it's not okay, then it's not the end
Posted by trevor at 03:12 PM | Comments (3)
August 04, 2006
I am working on a deadline for the next few days. During this time I have decided to reprint some of my favorite memories:
Sad Girl
I was out having a cup of tea today and I noticed a sad girl sitting at the table next to me. On my way out I heard one of the employees of the coffee shop mention the girl and how miserable she was. “I’d hate to be her,” said the employee. “She is so damn grumpy. She needs more than caffeine. Just look at her. The girl needs some damn happy pills or something.”
An acquaintance of mine was also having coffee at the time. I saw her later and mentioned how I couldn’t shake the image of the sad girl from my mind.
“Yeah,” said my friend. “The poor girl is having a real hard time. Her brother was injured in Iraq. He lost his arm and I think he might have been blinded in one eye. Apparently he swam for Texas Tech. He’s being treated in Germany I believe and he’ll be back in the US in a couple of weeks.”
To the sad girl in the coffee shop, I hope and pray that your brother will have a speedy recovery. I’m sorry you are going through such a painful time. You and your family are in my prayers. (A few of us wanted to come over and see if you were okay, but you seemed to need your own space and we respect that. I hope you felt the group-hug we silently sent you.)
To the employee in the coffee shop, I hope and pray that the next gift you receive in your life is the gift of kindness and compassion.
Posted by trevor at 03:09 PM | Comments (0)
August 03, 2006
I am working on a deadline for the next ten days. During this time I have decided to reprint some of my favorite memories:
The Hands of Time
Today I had the distinct privilege of painting on a one hundred year-old canvas. It was an incredible and memorable experience. This antique canvas imparted some of the most inspiring tales and truths I have ever heard. Actually, it’s the first time a canvas has ever spoken to me. (In spirit, many canvases have whispered ideas to me, but this was different.) To tell you the truth, it’s the first time I have ever painted on a canvas that was actually alive.
The canvas was Bess Wilson (a one hundred year-old friend of our family who lives at a retirement home here in Austin) and I was painting her fingernails during a visit today. (By calling Bess a canvas, I am not inferring that Bess has rough skin, on the contrary, she is the quintessential Oil of Olay girl. You can see by the picture taken on her one-hundredth birthday.)
The way it happened was quite sweet really. Her nails were in bad shape and she needed them painted. I volunteered. Hey, painting is painting, right? I have never painted nails before, but I love to learn new painting techniques, so I painted Bess’s nails while she spoke about her life.
What an honor to hold her bony, soft, loving, fingers and paint the nails on hands that have seen one hundred years go by.
Hands that have been wrung for the death of two husbands and her only son.
Hands that held the wheel of a Model T. Ford.
Hands that begged for scraps during the depression.
Hands that bled while picking cotton in Alabama.
Hands that held an amazing new invention called a transistor radio.
Hands that held a stillborn child.
Hands that prayed during World War One, World War Two, The Korean War, Vietnam, the death of President Kennedy and the fall of the World Trade Center.
Hands that ache to be comforted by other hands.
Hands that clasped my hands today and made me appreciate how far a little love can go.
Bess passed away this week. My her dear old soul rest in peace. I love you Bess Wilson!
Posted by trevor at 06:01 PM | Comments (0)