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July 30, 2007

I knew the little girl was crying even though she had her back to me. Nobody was paying particular attention to her. The nurses were at their station working and two elderly people were talking to each other on the chairs near the door of the hospital. The girl was sitting on the floor playing with a coloring book.

“Hi,” I said, crouching down beside her. “You seem to be sad.”

“Uh huh,” she replied.

“May I ask why?” I said, gently.

“Uh huh,” she said softly.

She was quiet for a few minutes. I did not push her for a reply. I remained where I was, waiting for her answer.

Without looking up she said, “I think my brother’s going to die.”

“Why?” I said.

“Because he has cancer.”

“Cancer, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Having cancer doesn’t mean he’s going to die,” I said.

“For real?” she said, looking up at me.

“Yup. A lot of kids survive cancer. To tell you the truth, more kids survive cancer than die from it.”

“They do?”

Her face suddenly lit up.

“Sure. But the he treatment is a bit yucky though.”

“I know my brother threw up in my lap the other day,” she said, screwing up her face.

“A kid once threw up on my head,” I said. “Right here in this room. I was giving him a ride on my shoulders and he barfed all over the back of my head.”

The little girl threw back her head and laughed.

“Eeuuww.”

Just then the girls mother and her brother came into the waiting room from the X-ray area.
The little girl ran over and hugged her sick brother. The mother affectionately patted the girl on the head and they made their way back to the boy’s room.

I followed behind them because I was heading in the same direction.

The mother and the boy walked into their room.

The little girl hesitated at the door and turned toward me.

She smiled.

I returned the smile and stretched out my open palm toward her as I passed.

She leaned over and gave me five. Then she pointed at me.

I pointed back at her.

We said nothing to each other.

We didn’t have to.

Posted by trevor at 09:19 AM | Comments (0)

July 23, 2007

I watched a documentary last night about the Okavango Delta in Southern Africa. The documentary reminded me of an experience I had during a high school trip to the Timbavati game reserve in South Africa.

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 06:39 AM | Comments (0)

July 11, 2007

I am often asked why I left South Africa twenty years ago. There are many reasons. I accidentally found one of the reasons (in the form of a journal entry) while looking through my filing cabinet of old notes a while back:

At first I thought it was a joke.

I mean, why would anyone arrest me? As far as I could remember I had not mugged, robbed or embezzled anyone.

It happened during basic training in the South African army. I knew trouble was brewing the instant I saw the regimental policeman approaching my tent.

"Who is Romain?" he said in a thick South African accent.

I looked around my tent. There was nobody else but me.

"I guess that would be me," I said.

"Come with me," he said.

"Why?" I asked. "I need to get ready for inspection. I'm going to get into trouble if I'm not ready"

"You're already in trouble," he said taking my arm, not so gently.

He escorted me to the little brick building at the entrance to 4th Field regiment.

The little brick building we all feared with our lives.

The little brick building where soldiers who got into trouble were dealt with.

I honestly did not know what I had done wrong. Let me rephrase that. I honestly did not know what I had done wrong that anybody knew about.

I wasn't a saint, but I could not think of anything I had done in recent memory that was an arrestable offence.

I ran through a list of possible scenarios as the little Gestapo wanna-be pushed me into the charge office.

I kept going through possible reasons for my arrest.

To be honest, I did forge a signature a few months before to get a weekend pass.

But everyone did that.

I did take some extra potatoes when nobody was looking at dinner one night.

But everyone did that.

I did fantasize about the sergeant major's daughter

But everyone did that.

I did badmouth the South Africa government's apartheid laws.

Hmm. Not everyone did that.

The door opened and in stepped the Commandant.

I stood up.

"Sit down and shut up," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder as he pushed me back onto the seat.

The man had strong hands. His thumb and forefinger grabbed the muscles in my shoulder and gripped them like a vice.

I grimaced.

"You sometimes collect blankets and food for the black kids in town," he said.

"Yes, sir. I'm hoping to help start a…"

"Why?"

"Because they are poor and it's cold, sir. Some of them don't have shoes."

"There are a lot of white kids without shoes, mampara." (Idiot.) Charity starts at home."

"These kids are very poor Commandant and…"

"You bladdy Englishman don't realize that those kids don't feel the cold man. They have leather feet. They are Africans."

I said nothing.

"The problem is, you see, is that you have been giving them stolen property."

"I'm not sure…"

"What do you mean you're not sure? It has been brought to my attention that old South African Army issue blankets have been given to these people."

"Yes, sir, they have."

""Why?"

"Because they were being taken to the dump to be thrown away," I said. "They are worn out and…"

The Commandant glared at me.

"Get out of here," he said. "I've got a bladdy camp to run."

The commandant turned to the regimental policeman who had brought me in.

"Stuur hom terug, man. (Send him back, man.) Kaffir boetie," he mumbled under his breath. (A derogatory term for black lover.)

"Don't let me catch you giving away army property again," he said.

"Yes, Colonel," I replied, pocketing a handful of mint candy that was in the bowl alongside where I was sitting.

Later that day, I gave the candy to a group of appreciative African kids who were huddled around the camp's gate, draped in old South African Army blankets.

Posted by trevor at 06:51 PM | Comments (1)

July 07, 2007

I was writing a song today and for some reason the melody reminded me of Tylor Lauck, an inspirational fourteen-year-old cancer patient whom I befriended a few years ago. He was a great kid. I'll never forget the time I went up to Ohio to visit him. Before I even sat down on the couch he asked me a question that stopped me in my tracks.

“What should I wear at my funeral?” he asked me.

Tylor was really good at trying to disarm people with his wonderful dry sense of humor. I was ready for him though.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Let’s look at your clothes and see.”

He took me back to where his clothes were and showed me a nice shirt.

“That’s cool,” I said. “Which pants do you want to wear?”

He pulled out a pair of shorts and held them up to me.

“You can’t wear those,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Dude, you’re going to meet God for goodness sake. You can’t be wearing short pants!”

“Oh yeah,” he said, and burst out laughing. The look on his face was priceless.

He had that same look on his face when I flew up to Findlay to say goodbye to him for the last time.

He had been telling his mum and dad for weeks that he thought I was going to surprise him with a visit.

After hearing from his parents that he was not doing very well, I decided to make the surprise visit come true.

And what a surprise it was.

Tylor’s mum and dad took him to his favorite restaurant. This was a tough task though because Tylor has lost the use of his arm and he only has one leg so he could not move around very well. And because of the tumor pressing on his brain, words were hard for him to find, which frustrated him terribly.

Through the window I could see the hostess seating the family. Once they were settled, I called Tylor on his cell phone. I could hear in his voice that he was frustrated at not being able to form words very well. He had a hard time speaking to me.

“Hey Tylor.” I said. “How are you doing?”

“Okay I guess.”

“What are you doing?”

“Outback. Umm.”

“Oh you’re at your favorite restaurant. The Outback steakhouse.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

“When should I come and see you, buddy?”

“Anytime,” came his reply.

“How about now?” I said, tapping him on the arm.

He turned and looked over his shoulder and saw it was me. Although he could not smile very well because of partial paralysis, his whole face lit up and his eyes sparkled as they danced with excitement.

I will not forget the look of joy on his face as long as I live. It was one of the most memorable moments I have ever experienced.

We could not stay for long because Tylor was too weak, but he held my hand for the rest of the meal and kept on looking at me and shaking his head with smiling eyes. I know if he could have found the words he would have given me all kinds of nonsense spearheaded by his incredible wit.

I spent a heartwarming, loving, wonderful weekend with Tylor and his family.

It was so incredibly hard to say goodbye to Tylor because I knew I would not see him again until the next surprise visit, this time at the Pearly Gates.

He died very soon after that.

(Tylor. I think about you often my friend. And I know your wonderful family does too.)

Posted by trevor at 04:34 PM | Comments (1)

July 04, 2007

I hope the next year brings you less war, less Paris Hilton, less political nonsense, more money for teachers, more PE at schools and more compassion and caring for those in need both here and abroad.

Posted by trevor at 07:26 AM | Comments (1)

July 02, 2007

The Writing Life Revisited

Okay, okay, I’m NOT going to give up writing!

I was, you know, until ten minutes ago. I was never going to write again. I was about to retire. Throw in the pen. Turn my back on my muse.

See, writing is tough. You get to sit alone in a room all day until the words swim. Then you’ve got to deal with the Word Thief. He is the guy who pretends to be your ‘in-head’ editor. He likes minimalism. He wants no fluff. He wants bare bones sentences.

I have fired that stinking Word Thief three thousand two hundred and twelve times. That’s right. Three thousand two hundred and twelve times and he refuses to go. How can someone not leave when they are fired?

It’s lonely writing. You sit all by yourself in a room while other people in office buildings stand around the water cooler gossiping and spreading awful rumors about infidelity.

You sit all alone in a room while people in cubicles discuss things like ‘pay checks’ and ‘insurance’.

Back to the point. So, you spend hours alone writing. Then you spend hours looking at the words you have written and wonder what made you think that you could write in the first place. I mean, people are not ‘chosen’ as writers. There’s no certification. There’s no test. They just decide themselves. I just decided. “Mmm,” I though. “I’m going to be a writer. It sounds romantic.” And after my decision, at least three teachers turned in their graves. Twice.

Then there’s the submitting process. Talk about putting your face out there and waiting to be punched. I mean, we actually invite, yes, we INVITE people to criticize us and tell us that our work is “Just-not-that-great-and-thank-you-for-submitting-it-and-good–luck-in-placing-it–elsewhere-hee-hee-hee.”

Then if you are lucky enough to have a book published, you face the next hurdle. Your publisher loves your book but… “I’m sorry we are putting out four-hundred-and sixteen other books this season we can’t possibly send you on a ten city book tour and we definitely can’t take ads out in local papers and we certainly can’t PAY for your book to be on a HIGHLY VISIBLE shelf in the book store because the money is reserved for Peter Straub and Danielle Steele. We suggest you start by filling up your trunk with books and visiting your friends for impromptu book signings in their driveways, garages and dens. Yard sales work well too.”

Then everyone you know says they love your book and they are going to buy a copy and then …’Aww…sorry dude, I forgot to get a copy of your book. I swear I’ll get one next time I’m in the bookstore. What was it called again?”

Then your mother asks you to help her out with a little cash because she’s tight…due to the fact that she secretly bought seventy-two copies of your book without telling you so that you’d think seventy-two people loved your book so much that they bought it.

So, today I decided to pack up the old Remmington typewriter and trade in the tweed jacket with the real leather elbow patches.

Yes, I was about to give up writing forever when I saw a young boy at lunch this afternoon devouring the book he was reading, just like the large gentleman next to him was devouring his Pastrami sandwich. Except the boy did not have half-eaten words all over his face.

The boy was enjoying his book so much he could not put it down. Not for a second. I mean you should have seen the look of pleasure on the kid’s face.

I saw him reading in the car as it pulled away from the curb.

Seeing the boy reminded me of why I started writing in the first place. Because I LOVE reading!

So, to repeat myself. I’m not going to give up writing! I was, you know, until ten minutes ago. But I’m not anymore.

Posted by trevor at 06:59 AM | Comments (2)