A Donkey Christmas...

We knew very little about St. John the first time we visited.  Just another beautiful island created by God with a great resort created by Rockefeller for us to enjoy some snorkeling and sun while we waited to reunite with our son after his summer sailing experience.

Our first morning there we walked the lush green grounds of the resort following a path lined by flamboyant foliage and swaying palm trees through an expansive clearing which gently sloped up to the edge of the rainforest.  The air was fresh and lightly salted.  The breeze cooled our sweaty skin on this humid tropical summer day.  It was early and we were alone.  Stirring at the forest edge, a commotion of animals headed this way, slowly at first but picking up speed. A large herd of donkeys had decided at that moment the grass WAS greener on the other side and they were headed for it.  Donkeys?  It seemed silly at first.  But we stood transfixed, directly in the path of this asinine stampede as the dashing donkeys now at a full gallop gained speed and threatened to engulf us at any second.  

Like Walmart shoppers on Black Friday, the rambunctious group of jacks and jennets converged on us too quickly.  Our survival reflexes kicked in and, as juvenile as it may seem, our only way out was to dart awkwardly behind the safety of a large palm tree.  There we stood as skinny as possible behind its protective trunk with donkeys speeding by us to either side.  Donkeys to the left and donkeys to the right, their unassuming gray and white coats shining in the sweltering sun, some snorting and others just kicking up a little dust but all thump thump thumping with their hooves on the soft turf.  And passing by us to the grassy field beyond, as quickly as they had started, they stopped. 

Today they came from the protection of the National Park territory to eat breakfast, but generations ago, they came from a land much farther away.  Donkeys don’t swim.  This is an island.  They got here by boat.  Over five hundred years ago.  By Christopher Columbus’ ship, on his second voyage to the New World in 1495, the first donkeys landed in the Caribbean.  With weathered stays rigged to a creaky mast each of the four jacks and two jennets were harnessed and lowered to this sandy soil.  Back then, a donkey was respectfully called an "ass"; far from silly or stupid, they were important companions and beasts of burden.

They were brought to work.  To carry loads and people as they went about the business of settling this new frontier and building St. John.  Since way before the days when Jesus rode one into Jerusalem, donkeys have been excellent workers.  They eat less and live longer than horses, and take up less space.  On St. John they were excellent rum makers. They hauled bay leaves from the mountaintops and sugarcane from the fields.  They turned mills to grind the cane to sweeten the rum.  They transported the coveted concoction to the docks to ship to the world’s markets an export that is to this day the region’s number one commodity. 

And they were attentive witnesses.  If they could talk they would enlighten you on the historic battles for the island, and detail for you the raucous behavior of rebellious pirates as well as the ugliness of slavery from its beginning to its end.  They would tearfully describe the horrible hurricanes and earthquakes, and the 35 foot tsunami of November 18, 1867, and gratefully explain how Laurence Rockefeller arrived to create a National Park haven for them and others over fifty years ago.

Relaxing in a two-person hammock on a Christmas visit years later, we noticed some of the wild herd again in the shade at the edge of an alabaster beach.  One of the males, the leader, broke away from the group and made his way slowly and deliberately toward us.  He approached me, closer and closer until his nose was beside my cheek.  His whiskers tickled my skin.  I froze.  I did not even breathe.  He sniffed my shoulder, then down my side to my thigh and back to my face.  Then stepping forward, he positioned himself directly between me and my island girl.  And there he stood, for what reason I don’t know.  Posing. 

Twenty-one donkey generations after Columbus, we rested under the shade of a welcoming palm tree, and enviously watched their wild donkey descendants, with no predators to worry about and no more work to do, peacefully retired and munching happily and deservedly on the dewy sweet green grass of paradise.  And we were filled with the spirit of Christmas, the peace and goodwill toward man symbolized in the harmony of that moment, thankful for this gift from our donkey friend and happy to share this gift with you.

Merry Christm"ass" To All!!

    **a friendly beachcomber with a camera walking by at just the right time snapped this shot for us.

Our Island Wedding...

Instead of writing today, I watched.    Please enjoy my daughter and her new husband's wedding video by clicking the word "wedding" in this link...

Thank you Nazareth Road Productions, US Virgin Islands, for making this day even more special with your creativity.

It's Four O'Clock Somewhere...

Each day my staff and I set aside our four o’clock appointment for a person in need of eye care who does not have insurance and cannot afford to pay.  Eligibility for this is determined by a local free clinic and those patients are then referred to us.  Our surgery center donates the time, the operating room, and the anesthesiology staff.  We donate the care.

Many of these new patients are foreign nationals who have immigrated to America to be with their families and to find a better life. Because we have been doing this for years, we have accumulated a significant group of international patients.  Too many to list, they come to us from five of the seven continents and represent many of Earth’s 193 countries.

We look forward to what our four o’clock patient may reveal to us about the world, and many do not disappoint.  Liberians and Congolese arrive proudly wearing their traditional, brightly colored African kaftans and boubous and kufis.  Japanese display less flamboyant attire but rise and bow ceremoniously each time we enter and leave the exam room.  Appreciative South and Central Americans greet us with grateful, toothy smiles while Europeans communicate more with gesticulations and body language, but they always convey the same hopeful and obvious message:  If they could only see better, they could do better.

Because most speak little or no English, and we cannot possibly understand or speak the hundreds of languages and dialects they do speak, we require only that they bring a family member or friend who can translate well.  And what we hear them say is they are grateful to be living in one of the best countries in the world.  They feel free to pursue their dreams, happy to be in a place where they are protected equally in the eyes of the law to do so, and fortunate to have a support system to help them create a better life.  They are proud to be in America.  They are proud to be American.

I arrived at the surgery center on this day feeling especially thankful for my American heritage and proud of the position our country plays in this cumbersome world game, because we have been in the news a lot lately, solving humanity’s problems.  Ebola virus spreading through your country?  We have our own domestic health care problems, but sure thing, we’ll be right over with more medical and Marine support than you can ever imagine.  Tired of seeing the environmental deterioration?  Our air is now cleaner than ever, and our President will get the Chinese to agree to controls that will keep our coral reefs and polar caps safe and healthy.  Got some ISIS varmits in your Middle Eastern backyard?  Count on Mother Liberty to send you a military crew to help you exterminate your pest problem.  Want to go to Mars?  Maybe you can hitch a ride with the good ol’ USA on Spaceship Orion, which blasted off recently, and we can get you there like when we went to the Moon fifty years ago.  Being attacked by Communists or harassed by Socialists? Last year we spent $37.6 Billion in foreign aid, much, much more than any other country and much more on a military trained to defend those countries and protect humankind from savagery; I am sure Uncle Sam has something for you.

In the preoperative holding area were my patients, lining up as usual for a chance to see better, but today the activity was more frenetic than usual.  The privacy curtains for each patient cubicle were bulging, each crammed full with a patient, some family members and an interpreter.  Behind curtain number one were the Japanese, their questions being answered by a compassionate nurse.  Curtain number two shielded the Congolese family, chattering and interpreting to our tolerant and kind anesthesiologist.  Curtain three sheltered the Argentinians, comforted by a concerned staff.  The discord was disorienting.  Fifteen patients today and so far, it was International Day at Charlotte Surgery Center.  As Walt Disney liked to say, ‘It’s A Small World’.

In the operating room, my staff was waiting, our first patient prepped and draped, my familiar anesthesiologist and circulating nurse team ready and able.  But my surgical assistant was a new face.

“Hi, Doctor. I will be assisting you today.”

“Good.” I replied brusquely. “We are busier than usual.  Lots of needy people from other countries are counting on us.  I hope you’re up to it.  We are their only hope.”

“I’m sorry,” my Southern etiquette taking over, and I asked, “What is your name?”

Her strength and confidence shined through her surgical gown.  Her red hair hidden by a surgical cap and her nose and mouth protected by a white surgical mask, only her kind blue eyes were visible and, like stars, they twinkled as they met mine.

"My name is 'America'."**

** Her name really was America.

Another Duck Dynasty...

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.  After moving our young family to the country to enjoy the peace and tranquility of a new home on a private three acre retreat backing up to a large pond, I had surprised the kids with six baby ducks rescued from a nearby farm.  They were Muscovy ducks, Brazilian in origin and known as adults for their ugly faces, bulky size, sharp talons, the hissing sound they make when threatened, and their tasty meat, but as baby ducks they disguised themselves as cute little yellow feathery fellows who just wanted to come home with us.

My mind clouded with heavenly images of us sitting on the back porch sipping lemonade and enjoying the scene of herons, deer, geese, hawks and raccoons playing in our backyard now joined by friendly ducks who would thankfully eat from our hands. Thinking the nature surrounding our new home could use a little more ambiance, I paid little attention to the fact that the ducks were free, as in no charge, and even less attention to the tiny voice on my shoulder pleading “don’t do it”, and brought them to live with us.

They immediately imprinted on our dog who seemed to enjoy his new role as Mother Duck, and we laughed at the parade of ducklings following Casper wherever he went.  We named them.  We fed them.  They grew.  And they became big, scary, taloned, ugly ducks who constantly patrolled our property like a pack of redneck hoodlums, hissing and pooping and mating and laying eggs over and over again.  The scene from our back porch metamorphosed into the National Geographic channel in 3D.  Female ducks filled their clumpy nests with dozens of eggs in the manicured hedges lining our beautiful home while male ducks sunned on our poop-covered driveway and coons stole eggs and hawks dove to attack and eat the surviving hatchlings. 

With our defiant duck population swelling to 13 and growing, we tried to fight back.  Using Will’s lacrosse goal net I tried to trap some of the surly creatures but my poorly thought out plan did not offer safe means to transfer the hostile, hissing fighters from the net to the van, so I released them.  During bow season, I secretly offered hunters a free chance to hunt and kill and take their tasty meat but even the hunters backed down when seeing their truculent talons.  We even contracted with a crocodile hunter type who claimed he could catch and release them all.  He arrived in a field truck equipped with an assortment of unusual equipment and shared stories with us about coons and possums and snakes he had successfully removed from people’s homes.  We watched our paid duckslayer run around our backyard in a safari hat wearing matching khaki bush shirt and shorts and knee high socks but after an hour of trying to toss a net over them, he was only able to catch some new ducklings and left abruptly, saying he needed reinforcements. He never returned.

We were called before our Home Owners Association Board to answer to our neighbors’ charges of farming and breeding livestock, but got those dismissed when we explained all that we had already tried to eliminate them and that the ducks were wild and doing a splendid job of keeping away the hundreds of even messier geese that used to flock to the neighborhood pond.

So our ducks stayed.  Some disappeared, probably thanks to a few overzealous neighbors or their very brave dogs, but the original six remained.  And we developed a peaceful coexistence with them, in harmony, like a barbershop quartet.  Or a toe fungus.

Then one day, as Toni arrived home, neighborhood kids rushed her car, pointing and shouting about a hurt duck.  Toni spotted him in the neighbors’ front yard near a small pond, writhing on its bank, his wing and chest covered in blood.  Jeffrey had a large chest laceration. He was unable to fly.  He had probably been attacked by a dog but somehow survived.  Hissing and flopping on the muddy bank, the duck suffered while my island girl of 30 years retreated to the house and returned with a large beach towel.  Without much thought, she wrapped the towel around the 40 pound duck, and bundling him up, brought him into our house, and placed him in our shower stall.

No vets would agree to see an injured duck, so our shower became Jeffrey’s private hospital.  She fed him corn and water and kept him quiet and warm and confined in the glass enclosure.  Kids dropped by to peek at him.  Jeffrey remained passive but slowly regained his strength.  And I bathed in a different bathroom.  For two weeks.

His lacerations and injuries healed, Jeffrey began to do the things ducks do when confined.  Like poop everywhere.  And strut.  And try to escape.  Wrapping him up carefully in a towel again while we watched proudly, Toni caringly took Jeffrey back to our pond to reunite with his five brothers and sisters. As we witnessed this blissful moment, the duck gently slipping into the water and his siblings gliding from the other side of the pond toward him, something changed.

Our feelings of pride transformed to horror as Jeffrey’s brothers and sisters began to attack him.  Two of them displayed their large wingspans while another jumped on his back and another grabbed his neck in its bill and tried to push his head underwater.  Jeffrey fought free and retreated to another spot on the pond.  But the relentless siblings followed and struck again.  We yelled at them and waved our arms, but nothing could break the harsh mob’s ruthless attacks now at the center of the pond.  Poor Jeffrey could not fight back and tried again to flee.  But he was slowly being drowned.

Jumping into a nearby canoe, I paddled straight into the frenzy.  Arriving in the cacophony of splashing water and hissing ducks, I swung my paddle into the head of one surprised duck, who cleared out of my way, and then connected again with my weapon, this time to the head of the crazy sibling on Jeffrey’s back trying to drown him.  He relented and Jeffrey half swam and half flew to a distant part of the pond.  The hooligans swiftly pursued and launched another attack.  I followed in my canoe, paddle primed, and played whack-a-mole with the criminal duck band, while Jeffrey, temporarily free again and seeing Toni on the bank, shot toward her.  She was ready and waiting with a large orange bedspread.  When our frantic feathered friend got to the shore, she jumped on him bedspread first and swooped him away to safety.

Reintroduction was no longer an option, I am sure Jeffrey would agree.  Luckily, our kids’ school, Charlotte Latin, had a large pond on its property, so the next day Toni and the kids transported Jeffrey to school and placing him on the bank of the pond, introduced him to his new home.

Eight years later, Jeffrey has lived the good life in his private pond paradise.   He still recognizes Toni and her car, and like an archangel communing with a seraph in a Christian sacrament, he swoops in from his sanctuary to share a snack when he sees her.  For years Jeffrey has peered patiently through the windows of the MAC swimming pool, watching her teach her morning water aerobics class. The MACFIT program ladies even pitch in to provide him a steady supply of corn they store in their cars.  Kids have adopted him as their unofficial mascot and Mary Cerbie, Latin PE Teacher, became his official advocate. Summer campers share their lunches with him and coaches keep a bag of dog food just for him at the nearby equipment room. They tried to change his name to Elvis because the Headmaster’s son is named Jeffrey and because he shakes his tail feathers when they come by.  

And Jeffrey?  He has outlived all of his siblings. No doubt grateful to others for his advanced age and happy to demonstrate his spirit of survival and what a little kindness can do, he just keeps on swimming.

Dog Day Thanksgiving

     Seeing most of our family gathered around a large, partially dug hole in a remote spot far away from my parents’ house and the greenery of Grassland, I knew this Thanksgiving promised to be different.  As a group we had always looked forward to a feast at Mom’s table with a fervor the Pilgrims would have admired.  My sisters’ children and my kids were conditioned to start salivating on Monday, their mouths reflexively reminded of the memories of Thanksgiving Thursdays past.  Salmon and cream cheese paired with garlic dip and celery would start the ritual, followed deliciously by fresh vegetables, ripe fruit, and homemade potato salad, topped off with your choice of a sweet ham, chicken and dumplings, and a giant turkey.  And a serving of canned cranberry sauce for me.  All the fixings waited patiently each year as we clasped hands in a family circle to pray for each other and share thanks for our blessings. 

     But this year had been a tough one. For our dogs.  We had been alerted during the drive over that in the middle of the night, Tigger, the last of my parents’ twin golden retrievers, had wandered off.  Sacrificing any sleep or preparation for the big day tomorrow, Mom and Dad had frantically searched for him, finally discovering him in the woods, barely breathing.  Somehow my two aging parents in an act of teamwork and bravery that will forever be legendary, wrapped their timeworn friend in a blanket and dragged his 120 pound body in the darkness, through rough terrain and wet grass, uphill and back to the house.  And there, in their arms, he had died.

     Earlier in the year, our dog Casper’s kidneys were failing miserably all over our house so tragically we were forced to put him to sleep.  Three sad days later we picked up his cremated remains, then, it being dinnertime, noticed an Italian café nearby.  “Do we leave Casper in the car?” I wondered out loud.  “No, we can’t just leave him.” pleaded Toni.  So, with some trepidation and Casper under my arm, we entered the restaurant.  “Table for three.” I demanded.  The hostess searched unsuccessfully.  “Will someone be joining you?”  “No.” I replied blankly.  Seated by our puzzled waitress, we placed Casper in the chair between us, saluting his life of faithful companionship over some pasta and a vintage bottle of Sangiovese.

         That same year, my sister Vickie and her family lost their golden retriever, Sandy.  Their replacement, a tiny, long-haired chihuahua named Bambi died of a brain injury when she accidently fell down a staircase.  Sister Patty’s dog, a yorkie named Lucy, barely escaped death after eating too much beach sand.  Our other dog, Rocky, had to have all his teeth removed, forever left with a tongue that would not stay in his mouth.  Sister Becky’s family dog, Kitty, could no longer walk and had to be put to sleep as well.  And Tigger’s twin, Ginger, had succumbed to cancer earlier in the year.  And now Tigger was dead.

     My dad, arms crossed, shoulders slumped and head down, stood at the hole’s edge.  Brother-in-law Pete, armpits sweating and soil stains on his Thanksgiving shirt, leaned on a shovel as Vickie’s new boyfriend Dave took his turn at the tree roots in the bottom of the hole.  Dave wiped his brow, a little out of breath and his clothes a mess.  This was Dave’s first Thanksgiving celebration with the Branners, and I nodded to him gratefully as I approached the cemetery’s border, silently wondering whether it would be his last.  No one knew what to say.  Normally a talkative Christian group, nieces Lauren, Cameron and Brooke quietly ministered to the other family members gathered around the grave.  The morning sun’s electrifying massage of the golden leaves of autumn veiled the solemn sadness of the moment.  

     At that moment there were no tears.  Just a hole to dig.

     Dad broke the silence.  Pointing out imperfections in the quality of the grave, he recommended Dave dig a little more here and Pete trim a little more there.  Then he sent the two back to the house to drag the unwieldy coffin to its final resting place.  The hole now complete, I said a private prayer of thanks that I had arrived a bit late.  Dad volunteered few details of the experience.  “Don’t know where your momma is.” he wondered. “Cooking, I guess.”  “Tigger was old.” he said.  “Best dog I ever had.” he said.  “Snoopy was buried there,” he pointed out,  “and our cat was buried there – twice.  I buried her myself on a Monday morning, then got to work and had the horrible thought that maybe she was just sleeping.  So I rushed back home, dug her up and put a mirror in front of her dirt-covered nose.  No fogging.  So I buried her again.”  The family group tittered awkwardly.  “Really, I did.” he chuckled.

     Mom was back at the house.  Cooking.  And crying. Toni and Vickie had jumped in to help our visibly upset matriarch prepare the traditional feast.  Watching her cook is fun and inspirational, but helping her cook is impossible.  She uses no recipes, just moving gracefully from pot to pot, knowing exactly what to add to make it perfect.  Adjusting this burner, uncovering that pot, adding an unmeasured ingredient or a special spice.  A pinch of salt.  Some oregano.  A little nutmeg.  “Ginger!” she suddenly exclaimed, throwing open the spice cabinet door, while my wife and sister watched helplessly.  What does she use that for?  “I need ginger.”  Rummaging through the pantry she pulled out a small, unassuming cardboard box, taped closed, and labeled “Ginger”. “Hurry! Take this outside and put it in the hole.” 

     Back at the pet cemetery, Dave and Pete muscled the stuffed blanket into the hole.  Our growling stomachs reminded us of how hungry we were, and we shared impatient glances about when the feast would begin, but we steadfastly stood witness, then recoiled as Dad started to pour Ginger’s cremated remains into the grave.  Thinking better of it, he lovingly placed the unopened box by his loyal old buddy, and the two were buried, promising Tigger he would for all eternity be with his twin. 

     We clasped hands while Brooke preached a short message and prayed a simple prayer of Peace and Thanksgiving.  All because of a dog, our family of brothers and sisters, and children and parents, uncles and aunts and in-laws and cousins and friends and grandparents had gathered together this year to experience Thanksgiving in a different way, and receive again the message handed down through generations from the Pilgrims in their New World in 1621: 

     Be thankful for the blessings of the harvest, the rewards of hard work, the salvation we receive from catastrophe and terrible events, and the sanctity of life.