Listening to Life

Listening to Life
By Charles E. Kraus
Published in The Oregonian and Oregonlive.com 4/8/18


Life is composed of many elements -- events, sights, expectations, sad moments, and pleasant surprises.  Also, sounds.  These are a few of the things I've heard during the past 72 years: 

Maybe I was four or five, part of a group of neighborhood kids enjoying the afternoon.  A truck cab had parked down the block.  As exotic as it was gigantic, this was just the kind of attractive nuisance we were looking to climb.  And so, we did.  Assembled on the cab roof, one of my associates must have lost his balance.  He pushed against me to regain stability.  The maneuver worked fine, for him. Not so for me.  He remained on the roof while I sailed head first onto the sidewalk.  Dazed, bloody and suffering from a severe concussion, a bomb bursting between my ears.  I can still hear it.

A more pleasant example from my childhood was the exquisite rasp of my father's snoring.  Elongated rumbles boasting their own unique melodic scale, my father was so embarrassed by his languid elegance that he only rented hotel rooms at the farthest end of the corridor where he was least likely to get complaints from guests in adjoining rooms.  His snores may have disturbed others, especially my mother, but they lulled me to sleep.  If I awoke in the middle of the night, right there on the other side of the wall from my parent's bedroom, I listed for my father's snoring.  Hearing it, I knew, just knew, that everything was ok, that he was ok, and that therefore, all of us were just fine.

There was a fellow who sold candy and magazines on the train.  He'd come on board for a few moments working the aisle before we pulled out.  "Candy, Magazines, Chewing Gum," he'd shout in what was surely the loudest, deepest un-amplified voice on earth. 

I found myself in the armory the evening presidential candidate John F. Kennedy was  scheduled for a campaign stop. He was running really late. Inside the old brick edifice came more and more supporters. As the hour grew, maneuvering space shrank. It felt like Time Square on New Year’s Eve, and if it wasn’t exactly a new year, politically we were celebrating a New Frontier.

The sound that too many people make in a confined space, if they are excited and if their voices collide with the walls and ceiling, can charge a united mindset with massive energy. And so, if you are the candidate, the catalyst, and you wait just long enough, if you enter a rally such as this as the wave of enthusiasm reaches its peak and, accompanied by your entourage, make your way onto the stage, then take the last dozen steps, a lone man, buoyed by a rousing reception, if you are JFK, there is a roar so impossibly exquisite, only the sound of another lone man, in Dallas, pulling the trigger of his 6.5 mm Carcano can eventually extinguish the reverberation.

There were two Vietnam associated sounds.

Attached to MCB 71, our base was adjacent the Chu Lai airstrip. The concept of noise abatement did not exist, or if it did, did not apply.  Planes took off or landed every 30 seconds 24/7.  As Phantom Jets reached altitude they created an ear piercing turbulence that could have been the sky ripping apart. And thus, one of the most appalling memories I have of my war days was of a drive two of us were making to deliver parts to a vehicle that had broken down at the far end of the field. We heard a Phantom take off, that immense roar filling the senses. The fighter came so close vibrations shook our bodies. Then, all of a sudden, the noise stopped. Just quit. This was an eerie silence. Not merely because of the contrast it made with what we’d been hearing, but for a more important reason. We knew what it meant. The plane’s jet engine had shut down. There would be a crash. I do not know the next part for sure, but what we thought was that the trajectory of the fighter sent it hurling towards a small school house . The pilot could eject, allowing his plane to continue on course, or he could stay onboard and do his best to alter things. He did not eject. With all the sights and sounds of war, what I remember most is that silence, the moments that followed, and looking off in the distance where the school house remained standing.

Our battalion flew back to the States reaching Davisville, RI in the middle of a January night.  After stowing my gear and cleaning up, I set out alone through the silently approaching morning.   My peacoat offered little resistance to the numbing winter temperature.  I crossed a calm, quiet, lonely base, hearing the sounds made as my boots sank into the crust of ice that forms on New England snow, thinking that just a plane ride ago, I’d been experiencing the monsoon season and a military exercise called Vietnam.  In the span of two days, the war had become part of my past. The walk had a feeling, a feeling that returns when I recall the quiet crunch of steps through the snow, the calmest, most serene journey I believe I have ever made. 

There was the sound, the sight and sound, of Jackie Wilson arriving late for his spot at a sold out rock and roll revival.  After a song or two, he stopped the proceedings.  Explained he'd been traveling all day and had not had a chance to rehearse.  Looking so weary, he vocalized with the band, exercising his voice.  And then, when he was ready, Jackie sang us To Be Loved, building and building until he reached for and slammed the final note out of the venue.

I'll tell you the sounds that made me the happiest over the years.  These took place during my active parenting phase.  It's early morning.  I'm up.  Probably pacing.  Waiting for one of my kids to come home from a party or event.  Lots of cars have driven by, their approaches giving me a taste of relief only to be followed by the fading sound of vehicles continuing down the road.  Then, finally, a daughter pulls up in the driveway.  A car door closes.  There are footsteps on the stairs and my child is home.   That's the best, most melodic, meaning full, pleasing, joyful sound known to the human ear. 

Abe Lincoln and my Dad

Abe Lincoln and my Dad

By Charles E. Kraus

Published in The Oregonian 6/17/18

Abe Lincoln was born on the same day as my father.  This was no coincidence.  My father told me to say that.  

Both these great men have ceased to walk the topsoil.  In the old days, my old days, it was handy that the state we lived in recognized Mr. Lincoln's birthday, even going so far as to make it a holiday called Lincoln's Birthday.  Signs of the approaching festivities reminded me to pick up a card for my dad.  I don't recall getting one for Abe. 

When my father drove out of New York State for the last time, heading to life in California, the  license plate on his American Rambler began with the letters HH.  Began, or ended, or had two consecutive H's somewhere in the mix.   His lady friend, who went along for the ride, speculated that HH stood for Honest Harold.  Harold was his first name, and he was easily as honest as Lincoln.  Lincoln didn't even have a license plate.

My father never registered to vote.  He claimed it made him eligible for jury duty, and though he was honest, he wasn't particularly civic minded.  Obviously, Lincoln had the urge to participate in good government efforts.  He was a state legislator, a congressman, a President. He freed the slaves.  My father freed my mother.

President Lincoln was more than just a great emancipator.  He was also a great people manipulator.  I learned this from the historian Steven Spielberg.  My father had limited social skills.  I learned this from personal observation.  Dad didn't try to persuade by means of reason or evidence.  His preferred methods involved escalating volume and increasing dramatic facial expressions. 

And still ... and yet?... these birthday boys share more than the hashtag #February12thparty.  Lincoln once walked six miles to return a few cents that he’d over charged a customer.  My father liked to walk, too. 

When I was a about seven, we were on a family vacation somewhere so exotic that residents didn’t even have New York accents.  One day I found a wallet.  This was before the invention of credit cards, so the only thing it contained other than an ID was a wad of cash.  For ten seconds I considered myself rich.   But then my father budded in.  No, he assured me, the ethical principle was not Finders Keepers Losers Weepers.  It was, Send Back To Others What They Rightly Owned.  He paid the postage.

Oh sure, it was easy for dad to be Honest Harold.  He hadn’t found the damn wallet. Reluctantly, I complied with his recommendation that it be returned.

The following week, I received a letter from the wallet’s owner.  It was probably the first letter ever addressed to me.  It contained a thank you note, plus a five dollar reward for my honesty.  It was actually a five dollar reward for my father’s honesty.  

All Lincoln did was give back three cents.  Even with inflation, we beat him by a mile.  I was allowed to kept the five spot.  

And so, with February 12th approaching, I think of Mr. Lincoln as the Great Emancipator, and my father as one of the first people to every have a personalized license plate.

A Trump parable: Guest opinion

A Trump parable: Guest opinion
as published in the online Oregonian 1/18/18
and print version in the Sunday edition 1/21/18
Note: an earlier version of this essay appeared in Otherthannow in 2016.

A car salesman sold me a lemon. It reminds me of Trump's presidency: Guest opinion

By Charles E. Kraus

A year into this presidency, I'm thinking about the time I mistakenly purchased a Chevy Corvair.

In 1968, I was just back from Vietnam. Shortly after arriving at my duty station in Norfolk, I sold my rather dilapidated Opel Kadett. It made a horrendous squeal when turning left. I was pretty sure if I kept driving the damn coupe, a wheel would fall off leaving me dead or wishing I was.

I headed for the nearest dealership. The salesman saw me coming even before I left base. He was a hot shot. I was a target: A city boy who knew about subway routes, but not much about cars. He was a salesman.  He knew about needs and desires.

 I'd been in ‘Nam, other occupied and not particularly interested when Ralph Nader's book, Unsafe at Any Speed, knocked the socks off Chevy Corvair sales. Dealerships were doing their best to dump inventory. I could get a new car on the cheap. 

The salesman assured me the vehicle was safe, reliable and affordable. Don't believe the bad press, he said in his confident-demeanor disguise. Dealers couldn't sell them if they were dangerous. Right? And keep in mind, the guy said, cars were not forever. You didn't like one, you traded for another. What was there to lose? Other than your life.

I could have a new model for only $1,700, coincidently, just the amount of my savings. I was being offered an opportunity to drive off with that new car smell filling my nostrils, seated in a new vehicle, steering wheel controlled by my very own hands.

Mr. Trump has me thinking about that car. About the attitude I had when I handed over the biggest wad of cash I'd ever held, and in exchange received promises and the keys to a vehicle that ended up just about killing me. 

The Corvair was an outlier, different than any of its American-made counter parts. Uniquely designed to shake up complacency -- the engine in the rear and the trunk in the front. There were Corvair clubs and Corvair motorcades, the salesman told me. He forgot to mention there were Corvair lawsuits. Corvair fatalities.

The car shut down suddenly while I was on the turnpike causing quite the commotion. Lots of skids, horn blasts and a few thuds.  On another occasion, it became so unmanageable while I was driving cross country that I ended up stranded in Lordsburg, New Mexico. For days. Awaiting parts. Lordsburg, New Mexico!

I'd sunk my bank roll, hopes and expectations into what was supposed to be a solution to previous car problems. But, I'd misjudged, hitching a ride on a sales pitch, an illusion rather than the genuine thing.   

Poor decision.  Didn't get me where I wanted to go.

I've been thinking about that.  About flamboyant salesmen and poor performance.  On what's promised and. what's delivered.

SANTAS I HAVE KNOWN

SANTAS I HAVE KNOWN

By Charles Kraus (aka: Charles The Clown)

“Is this the line for cheeseburgers?”  

"NO!  It’s for Santa!"

That’s a kid responding to my question.  I’ve been Charles The Clowning my way through life —  more than 50 years of performing for children, including hundreds and hundreds of Christmas events.  That means I’ve introduced, worked with, and/or helped to sober up hundreds and hundreds of Santa Clauses.  Evidently kids are not particular about who is wearing the outfit.

I finish my show, making the final extra gigantic balloon reindeer.  My puppet and I are saying good-bye when suddenly we hear something. 

"Hold on kids."  I look up.

Could it be … ?

"I think Santa might be up there."

Puppet:  "Santa Monica?"

"No … that’s to the south."

Puppet:  "Santa Barbara?"

"To the North."

Puppet:  "Santa Who?"

"Santa CLAUS!"

I point to the door, the prearranged door, for the prearranged entrance.  I’ve said my line … now Santa is supposed to come rushing in.  

Not yet?  Where is he?

"OK.  Kids, maybe he’s having trouble finding a parking spot for the sleigh.  Perhaps his GPS isn’t working and he can't locate us.  Why don’t we shout “Hello Santa!” 

"HELLO SANTA!”

Eventually, when he, or she, is ready, has gotten up the nerve, refastened the beard, and figured out the cue has been given … and given ... out pops Santa.

The person in the red suit is young, or old.  He’s fat or skinny.  He’s Black, Hispanic, Asian, Filipino.  There was the Santa with the very French waxed handlebar mustache, the ends twisted into swirling curlicues.  It might be time for Mrs. Santa.  Santa in a wheelchair or using a walker.   I’ve worked with gay Santas, with lesbian Santas, and in retrospect, possibly with transgender Santas.   

One of my jobs is to travel the line, keep the kids entertained while they wait for a turn to tell The Claus what they would like for Christmas.

“I’ve got my list,” I tell them, waving it around.  I start to read …

“Bread, Milk, Swiss Cheese … hold on, that’s my shopping list.”

Sometimes I ask children what is on their Christmas list.  Occasionally, having sized up the Santa they are about to meet, I’m thinking the best thing the kids could ask for would be a change of venue.  

The meet and greet is a right of passage that most kids take in stride.  Some may be fearful, but I’ve heard few complains regarding authenticity.   It does strike me that most Santa impersonators have been cajoled into donning the suit. There is a reluctance.  Perhaps an embarrassment aspect.  

A little Ho Ho Ho.  The official questions:  Been good?  And what do you want for Christmas?  Not a demanding script.

The trick is to listen to the answers.  

The better Santas help children put the gift thing into perspective.

“I’ll try to get you that, Harriet, but if the elves don’t have time make one, I promise to get you something else you’ll enjoy.”

Say it like you mean it, Santa.  And, oh …. pull down that sleeve.  Your Grateful Dead tattoo is showing.  

CUT AND DRY

CUT AND DRY
By Charles E. Kraus

Sometime in 2010 ......

For a while there, say the first twenty minutes, when the blood was seeping through the towels, I was the least happy clown since Emit Kelly played the Garden.   Until the accident, I never knew you could use Mehron Clown White grease paint as a coagulant.

You may not consider my show business career very high end.  When I'm not writing, often, I'm performing.  Just a kid's act.  Clown, magician, more clown than magician now because the make-up reduces comments about my age.

Kids-show people either stay in town and entertain at birthday parties or they move from school to school, library to library, recreation center to state fair, from festivals of the arts to festivals of the darts.  It's quite a circuit.  They get in their cars, drive three hundred miles, unload, set the stage; the "stage" might be a field, a room, or just a portion of a busy library with the kids seated on the floor.  They amaze, possible amuse, strike the set, drive to the next gig or find their motel, then dine at McDonald's.   OK, make your demeaning comments.  Just keep in mind, during my summer road trips -- if I do a show or two a day, I can make a living.

I hit the motel in San Jose one night late summer. I'm about fifty-five years into my career.  Not many "new" customers.  But the regulars still like me.  They phone my wife, and using just enough tact to avoid direct questions such as, is he still alive and vertical, ask if I'm available for a performance. San Jose calls.  I respond, and so here I am yet again.

I'm scheduled for the Cambrian Library, on Hillsdale Avenue.  The program is not going to attract Silicon Valley's affluent tec-tots.  Most likely I'll face a room full of Hispanic and Asian children from hard working everyday families.  Deal me in. Doing shows is my therapy, my self esteem, possibly my ticket to a Heavenly venue.

I reach the motel the night before, coming in from two library performances in San Francisco.  Shows are easy, but you try parking within blocks of the Chinatown library. You try the 101 South during rush hour.   Hitting San Jose feels like a milestone.  Before exiting the car, I glance at the dashboard temperature gage -- the one estimating how things are doing outside, beyond mobile air conditioning.  Hundred and twelve.  Hundred and twelve?  Naw ... Chinatown was in the eighties.  I open the door.  Hundred and twelve.  Confirmed.  By the time I reach the room, nothing much is left in me.  Uncle.  Enough.  You win.  Go away. Leave me alone.  See you in the morning.  We are currently closed for repairs.  Lights out.  Is the unused portion of the day returnable for a full refund?  I'm think the Motel Six air conditioner was purchased from a bankruptcy sale at the Motel Four and a Half.  The only thing cool about it is the retro 1980's design.

Cambrian is a 10:00 a.m. appearance, meaning I have to arrive by 9:00.  Such arrangements are stupid, always.  Libraries DO NOT OPEN until 10.  You'll find me pounding on the door at 9:30 hoping my paradiddling will remind staff I'm not some street guy asking to use the facilities. 

Actually, the setup begins the night before.

Motel Six, at least this one, does not provide an ironing board.  You free a pillowcase or two from other responsibilities, spread these on what passes for a nightstand, apply your travel iron and perfect your costume.  Ironing a clown outfit on a two by two table, you assume that each time you rotate the pants, the pillowcases will shift, bunch up under the garment, or fall on the floor.  You are correct.  Don't forget to prepare the scarves for the flag trick.  "Here I have a red scarf, a blue scarf and a white one.  Bingo Presto .... what's the magic word?   READ!  The silks blend into a genuine American flag!"  The scarves are a little threadbare.  I've taken to waving them around; in motion they look just fine.

Not trusting the front desk, I set my cell and the radio-alarm clock for Seven.  No.  Seven sounds awful. Seven-thirty. Plenty of time to wash, shave, load the car. Breakfast.  Not McDonalds.  Not again.  Subway has the egg thing sandwich.  Not so much "egg," sort of a flat, circular yellow disk microwaved into edibility. The route has been looked up on Google Maps.  No printout.  No printer.  This is before GPS.  I write the route down and put the scrap of paper into my puppet's mouth.  I take the puppet, I have the route with me.  Unless Biscuit The Dog eats it.

Next it is morning.  Man I hate early shows.

I have a laptop.  A cheap one.  Acer.  Its old enough so the battery is permanently deceased.  If you hook the unit to the wall current, you can still run things.  I plug it in, navigating to NPR.com.  The bedside radio only picks up Country stations.  Also revival meetings.  The Acer, even when it was in its prime, full blasts audio by whispering.  You listen standing still, devoting your attention.  The cord is short and the only working outlet over by the TV.  I want to hear the news and shave.  Simultaneously.  From the bathroom, NPR sounds like a trace element.  I catch the gist of stories, but need to fill in details with imaginary facts.

I retrieve my razor and dollar store foam.  Let's light up the place so we can catch a glimpse of the old unvarnished -- pre-clowned - face.  Little stubble removal before applying the white.  Clown makeup is my version of a reality distortion field.  Eat your black heart out, Steve Jobs.

Turning on the bathroom's florescent creates its own distortion field, a sort of hum/crackle further degrading NPR's meek audio feed.  Strangely, the Acer can broadcast the static at a much greater volume than mere conversation.  So, OK, I'm flexible.  The military taught me how to assemble an M16 while blindfolded.  Surely, I can shave without benefit of the bathroom light.  Despite my fading memory, I recall where I put my face.

I'm scraping the razor through the lather as Bob Edward's replacement -- many replacements, years of them, but each time I listen, I'm still expecting Edwards, helps me feel I'm informed.  It's early.  Not paying much attention to my facial maintenance, I'm alternately catching the news and taking a mental inventory of my puppet routines. "These kids are members of the Summer Reading Club." "Oh," says Bones The Dog, "I though they were part of the summer eating club."  I'll use that.

As I rinse away the lather, instead of a harmonious complexion, I'm finding blood.  Not, Oh, I cut myself while shaving blood.  I'm talking about a massive, serious, unnerving gusher.  Several of them.  My face, my neck, my chin;  I thought I was listening to the radio, but it appears I was actually participating in a knife fight.

A quick examination of the razor indicates that after years of using these devices then throwing them into my toilet kit, sans the little plastic sleeve you are supposed to slip over the blades, I've finally run out of lazyman's luck.  The edge is mangled, contorted, jagged. It's become miniature dagger.  Under protective cover of hot water and foam, the device silently shreded my face.  My neck is sliced.  My cheeks peeled.  My chin suddenly has a cleft.  I'm Kirk Douglas, in red.  Dad told me clowning was a cut throat business, but I don't think he had this in mind.

Using tissues and toilet paper faster than you can say 'bleed to death," I'm making absolutely no healing progress.  While applying pressure, I'm also thumbing through my belongings just in case I still have the first aid kit.  Also, I'm eyeing the clock.  Show time, or at least arrival time, is less than an hours worth of bleeding from just when I've run out of paper compresses and begun working the towels.

I have to get to a drug store.  Calling on skills I never knew I had, I manage to load my props into the car without dying, and head for a nearby strip mall.   Part of me is face focused, another aspect of my consciousness wonders how the Motel Six housekeeper is going to react to the cheery cherry accents that have been added to the bathroom walls, the counter and especially noteworthy, the Jackson Polk blood red treatment on the linoleum.  Does she call the authorities? Perhaps I should have left a tip.

No pharmacy, but thank Heaven for Seven-Eleven.  At only twice the price of a case of beer, I become the proud owner of a package of gauze.  Damn.  It is so late. This is when I should be pulling up to the library, not sitting five miles away grinding assorted dry goods into my face.

After a while, I'm either out of blood or have induced coagulation.  If I don't move at all, I don't bleed.  I blast the car heater hoping to dry the evidence.  A union man who loves scabs.   Reaching Cambrian, I sit in the car applying massive doses of Clown White, power it, and repeat the process until I've built a grease barrier that discourages bleeding while hiding the more grotesque aspects of my current effigy.  I create lips, redden my nose, add colorful freckles, draw a large heart on my left cheek, and blue arches over my eyes.  I take a red scarf from my prop case, twist portions around my neck, teasing the silk higher and higher then tuck the ends into my collar.   If you didn't know what had transpired back at the motel, you'd merely suspect I had applied my clown persona with my eyes closed.

There is little point in trying to explain my new look.  If the librarian suspects I'm camouflaging the results of a bar fight, or even a mugging, she's going to report me to some committee.  Not only will I never again perform for her, I'll probably never again perform for any library in the San Jose Public Library System.

The children's librarian is not a morning person.  She looks worse than I do.  At first she barely nods hello.  But as we walk to the community room, I catch her assessing her guest artist.  To distract, I point here, there, waving my arms, telling funny stories, remembering the program I presented last year with the kid who raised his hand in the middle of the show and asked, "where do I pee?" To which another kid responded, "in your pants."  All of this is met with silence. 

I am left alone to set the stage, a glance in my hand mirror reveals several of my wounds have uncoagulated.  Nothing exotic, but lots of oozing.  More dabs, more white.  Will the dam hold?  Will the show go on?  Will I succumb to iron deficiency anemia?

The kids enter.  Fortunately, their focus is on the balloon comedy and the puppet routines.

"Here we are, Bones, in the library."

"I thought we were in a strawberry."

You had to be there.  Unfortunately, so did I.

It was not my best performance.  It was also not my worse.  You might say it was a cut above the usual.  And then, it was over.

Exit the kids.  Enter the librarian ... my check in hand.

She spends a moment staring at me.

"That's amazing."

I wasn't sure how to respond.  What exactly was amazing?  My disfigured, slightly swollen face?   My show?

"Very creative," she continues, handing over the fee.

Exit the librarian.

I dare not de-clown until I've left the premises, or perhaps the state.

I cram my props into cases, load the car, pull out with all deliberate speed, driving just far enough to park in privacy.  Am I a wreck?  Does my face look as bad as it feels?  No.  I'm more or less OK. 

Interestingly, blood has mixed with grease paint forming designer swirls, multicolor, iridescent, textured patterns on the clown white.

Centered on my chin, appearing as if by magic, most likely droplet by droplet during the course of the show, a bright red star.

Wipes and makeup remover at the ready, a Motel 6 towel standing by just in case.  Let the de-clowning process begin.

DEATH IN THE DESERT, 50 FEE FROM HOME

My father died in September of 1985.  I wrote about him that December.

DEATH IN THE DESERT, 50 FEE FROM HOME

Other Views, LA Times 12/11/85

By Charles Kraus

My father died in the desert.  Actually, he died just at that point, 50 feet from the house, where the coarse, hot Nevada plains meet the man-made oasis called Las Vegas.

To the coroner, and to many who heard the details but who did not know the man, this was simply a case of an old guy walking too far and too fast through the rugged, sparsely populated, sun-beaten outskirts of town.

He’d lived in the area quite a while.  He knew or should have known, better than to chance a three-mile hike from the car stalled out in the desert.  His wife was waiting in the passenger seat.  She had counseled that tight money or not, it was better and safe for them to get to the pay phone up the road and call for assistance.  He rejected this.  He was determined to walk back to the house, and to his other vehicle.  He’d return for her shortly.

These facts are true, but limited, for my father died of something quite different than bullheadedness. He had pulled 71 healthy, hearty years out of a will to pack each with adventure, respect for the common-sense approach, a rejoicing in nature and a loyalty to his family.  He was unusually stubborn, but usually right.

A dabbler, a tinkerer, a sometimes writer, a sometimes inventor, and a serious naturalist, the last three decades of his life had been devoted to the reading,  experimenting and practicing of health conscious habits.  When health food consumers were called faddists, he qualified.  When the 1950s, ‘60s, ‘70s and ‘80s saw an ever increasing awareness of the effects that diet and lifestyle played on the span and quality of a person’s years, he seemed to be ahead of the popularizers.  Always into the new and also into the old, as interested in long-lost remedies as the most recent speculations, he was fit and energetic, anxious to find out what was on the other side of the hill, and ready to climb it to learn the answer.

But now the guy who lay in the desert, dead, quite hidden from the nearby house, was my father - the health foods, the supplements, the well-toned muscles, neutralized by hot sun.  His wife had gotten to a phone, called a cab, and exhausted the roads and her pocket money directing the driver up and down each possible route looking for him.  All the while, his body waited for her across the road from the house.

Yes, he miscalculated.  He probably underestimated the length of the walk.  And he forgot that the relatively mid morning temperature would give way to a focused, diligent sunshine long before he could reach the protective shade of home.

It could easily be argued that determined old men, double-timing it through the desert on hot September mornings, are apt to over-tax their hearts.  The thought must have crossed dad’s mind once he’d gone far enough to know he’d let himself in for a more arduous trip than he had anticipated.  We’ve all had such realizations — in a car traveling a windy mountain road, on a airplane, on a ski slope, or perhaps in the desert — moments when we became aware of the commitments we’d just made, of the control we’d so willingly relinquished to destiny.  Somewhere out there in the back lands, along the dusty roads, or cutting through the hostile Nevada boondocks, five miles from the nearest casino, halfway between his waiting wife and his waiting home, my father discovered his situation.

And yet, I add up the details and reject the textbook total reached by others.  I think the man died of something noble and cherished, not of obstinacy or disregard for the obvious.  He died because he held fast to a particular set of beliefs, the ones that defined his uniqueness and his special earthly niche.

He was never an old man, not sickly, not diminished, not worn out or locked in.  His spirit had that ageless quality, one that gave him good reason to believe he could handle the walk.  Such thoughts had never failed him — and even at the end, they only missed their mark by 50 feet.

The Silent Treatment

The Silent Treatment
By Charles Kraus, alias Charles The Magician/ Charles The Clown
[published 2006]

Up until the time I stopped talking, my professionally trained voice was one of my proudest accomplishments. Over the years, the hair went, the stomach went, a lot of physical characteristics suffered the effects of age and use. But my voice seemed to improve.

Firm, strong, unique enough to be a kind of trademark. Then, it stopped trading. The doctor’s theory was that I had a slight hemorrhage during a performance. As a protective measure, my body decided to grow a polyp - a small nodule sealing the tender spot. Once established, this mass changed everything I said into a rasp.  The more I tried to work around the vocal distortion by altering my pitch, the worse my tonality. Eventually, every utterance sounded as if it has come out of the mouth of a truck driver who'd smoked for thirty years and sang heavy metal three nights a week in a bowling alley. Surgery was proposed. Then it was performed. Next, I was allowed to say absolutely nothing for two weeks. This was followed by four weeks of progressively increasing increments of dialogue. Progressive incrementation is easy. Silence —  that’ll make you scream.

To help me interact with the world during those first two weeks, I carried around a slip of paper, a proclamation: I JUST HAD THROAT SURGERY AND WILL NOT BE ABLE TO SPEAK FOR A FEW WEEKS. The information was to be shared with anyone who needed to know — cab drivers, waiters, cashiers. Additional conversation was accomplished via a writing tablet. The world would talk. I’d send it little notes.

Some folks were sympathetic. They’d pout when reading my proclamation, or screw up their faces in a show of compassion. A few pushed my hand away, assuming I was asking for money. Standing on line at the bank, I began to wonder what the teller would think when I gave her my note. Isn’t that what bank robbers do? Would she press some sort of panic button summoning the FBI? A Starbucks barista took my note, thanked me, and put it in her pocket. Perhaps she planned to save it in case she had a vocal cord operation. When I offered a copy to a Nordstrom salesman, he turned it over and wrote, “that’s too bad."

It was impractical to present my disclaimer in situations calling for passing remarks. If you look a stranger in the eye, you’rc apt to get a “hello, nice weather.” If you wait on line at McDonalds, the guy behind you might want to kill the time by chatting. It was just too ridiculous to respond to, “I think I’ll get the fish sandwich,” by offering a note about my recent medical adventures.

I did offer the written explanation during a rather lengthy ride on the Bank of America Tower express elevator that travels non-stop from the 1st to the 40"‘ floor. The women to whom I showed it, read my words out loud to the other passengers. They stepped away from me. Perhaps vocal nodules are contagious. Give him room.

On one occasion, when l’d forgotten to take my little note with me, I chanced upon an old acquaintance. We sat down together over coffee. He told me about his new CD burner, about a lucrative business deal he might be making, and about one of his kids needing to have a set of tonsils removed- There was a lot I wanted to say regarding doctors removing things from a person’s throat. But, of course, I said nothing. The guy never noticed. He talked for twenty minutes, proclaimed his joy at running into me, and went off to pick up his dry-cleaning.

Pen and paper proved hopeless substitutes for the spoken word. My wife would explain why she planned to hang the new painting over there. I’d get out my pen and paper, set to address aspects of her pronouncement, ready to state why I thought the painting belonged in the dining room. But, by the time I‘d gotten half a dozen words into print, she’d have started on her second burst of discourse. It wasn’t just my wife. Everyone had more to say than I could reply to. It was folly to try more than a “yes” or “no.” Even if I could have written faster and spelled better. my thoughts would lack nuance. Spoken words are presented. They come out loud, or sofi, with a hint of skepticism, filled with joy, relief, compassion. This doesn’t happen on paper.

I missed speaking. When I talk, I hear myself. It’s a kind of self‘-feedback that helps me know I’m alive. Fortunately, the silence is over. I’m all healed and can talk as much as I’d like. Of course, there are precautions. The doctor wants me to stay away from aspirin or other blood thinning products to help avoid any more hemorrhaging. In other words, I have a choice, I can keep my voice healthy, or I can keep my heart healthy. I’ll probably opt for maintaining my voice. Hell, if I do have a heart attack, at least l’ll be able to scream for help.