I Saw It In The Movies….

It was hotter than usual on St. John that day, but the beach never looked better. Gentle waves of indigo and green drifted in from the sapphire sound while the Virgin Isles sparkled beyond. The steady trade winds from the east pursued cottony clouds flying across the intense blue sky and created a strong westerly current in the main channel, but in the shallows at the shore the water was calm, cool and clear. Under the palm trees there was a public hut, a place to get a snack and escape the sun, but we were basically alone, like Tom Hanks in Castaway, alone and deserted in this tranquil place. 

We reminisced about the first time we had seen this beach and how we were struck by its beauty and nature. We waded out into water so clear we could see reef fish darting over to play, attracted by our colorful swimsuits. We watched a stingray glide by, innocently feeding on mollusks and ignoring our toes digging into the white, soft sandy bottom. To our left, tropical birds played in the waves near stands of rock that had for ages guarded this shoreline and protected its radiant reef which rested in shallow water, home for abundant flamboyant fish and a couple of sea turtles. We were in The Blue Lagoon.

Our friend had told us, though, of a day she had hiked here with her dog, who loved to swim and retrieve a tennis ball she would throw out in the water. Time after time the dog swam out to the deeper water to grab the ball and fetch it back to her. But on another throw the wet dog whined and would not go back in. She looked out and saw the dorsal fin of a shark cut through the blue surface, searching for her dog. We remembered a previous visit here with family where we had snorkeled into deeper water and seen a large shark resting on the bottom. And the theme from Jaws played in my head: Duh Dah. Duh Dah. Duhdahduhdah…

Out beyond the generous swim zone and the reef near the deeper main channel floated moorings, like oversized beach balls, each occupied by a large boat anchored to it with a mooring line tied to the ball. Their sterns all pointed west because of the strong current and they were all lined up like parked limousines at a Hollywood premier, million dollar vessels strategically spaced to avoid contact and damage should the prevailing wind or current change direction. Centuries ago this is where explorers and pirates had ventured out; any moment the Black Pearl might sail by, with Captain Jack Sparrow posed on the mizzen, bellowing "Why is the rum gone?" But now there were only yachts and several 45 foot catamarans.

We recognized one of the catamarans tied to a mooring ball, upstream from all the others. It looked exactly like one our family had lived on for a week, years ago. As we talked, I noticed it changed positions. Had the wind shifted? Had the current changed? We talked more but the boat diverted my attention. The other boats downstream were still in their same positions, but this one seemed to have moved a bit more with the current. We studied her more closely. I could not see any mooring line or anyone aboard. No sails were deployed. No sounds from a motor. This 45 foot sailboat had come loose from its mooring. It was definitely adrift and slowly moving toward the other boats and the reef beyond them. Two hundred yards off shore, adrift, and on a collision course. 

While I started swimming, trying to take a course to intercept the boat that now seemed to be picking up speed, Toni, recognizing imminent disaster, headed to the beach to find help. 

I swam hard. 

Pathetically, in my mind now I was Tarzan, crossing the Congo River, unfazed by the crocodiles and sharks, swimming recklessly to rescue Jane and Boy from the cannibals. My long dark locks flowing and my sinewy, bronze muscles glistening with each stroke, my family implored me to swim harder. Stopping to wrestle a shark, but somehow not losing my loincloth, I would press on, grab the line and pull myself on board, then start the engine. 

I swam harder. 

Now, I was James Bond, jet black hair with a little gray at the temples, wet but still perfectly combed, determined to save Fedosia, the gorgeous and sultry Russian princess held hostage on that boat which had been hijacked by pirates carrying a nuclear bomb. Once I had saved her, I would put on a tuxedo and some cufflinks, have a martini and then perform equally well in the love scene to follow. “Oh, James…” 

I swam faster.

Now, I was Indiana Jones, clenching my firm jaw and wearing my iconic hat, beaten up from all the fighting but doggedly swimming to overtake the submarine and recover the stolen Ark from the Nazis. “Boat? What boat? You can do it, Dr. Jones!“ 

"I can do this." I thought to myself. "I saw it in the movies.” 

I was gaining on my target only twenty yards ahead and on course to intercept her. But, in the middle of the channel with the other boats and rougher water surrounding me, fatigue set in. And I realized with the wind causing the drifting boat to pick up speed, I was not going to make it. 

Seeing two men on a nearby boat now within earshot, I stopped, gathered my breath and yelled at the top of my lungs. “Captain!” They turned, surprised to see a swimmer this far from shore, and did a classic double-take. “That boat is adrift!” And seeing two boats now only a few yards apart, they sprang into action like lifeguards in the Titanic. 

On shore, Toni scrambled to the beach hut and told the attendant there about the drifting boat. Sara came out and looked. 

“Who is that guy out way out there?” she asked. 

“That’s my husband.” Toni answered smugly, leaving out adjectives like “crazy” or “psycho”. 

“What is he doing?” Sara asked, more excited now. 

“Trying to save the boat,” she replied, trying to sound as if I were just going to check the mail. 

I was now two hundred yards out, in shark-infested waters, fighting the relentless current and partially obscured by other boats. And the catamaran was now just a few yards from colliding with the next moored boat, and then our blessed coral reef beyond. 

“He’s swimming down the catamaran?” Sara muttered, dumbfounded.

With much urgency, Sara immediately placed a call to the harbormaster who dispatched a rescue boat at full speed. I could see this boat coming, heading straight for me, and as I bobbed breathlessly in the water, I watched the two guys I had alerted jump into their dinghy and speed to the drifting boat. 

The two guys arrived first. The boats were now only a few feet from colliding. Snagging the loose mooring line, they used their boat to stop the catamaran and begin to turn it just in time, and then tug it out of harm’s way back to its original mooring. The rescue boat circled the commotion and, determining all was under control, headed back to shore. As the two guys returned to their yacht, they looked at me and gave me Two Thumbs Up. Then left me. 

Now two hundred yards from land, alone, and pretty tired, I began the long swim back to my amazing wife. 

“What were you thinking?” she asked worriedly, as I stumbled back onto shore. 

I thought of telling her about Tarzan, and James Bond, and Indiana Jones. But instead decided to keep it simple. 

“Don’t ask.” 

When we returned to the hut the following day, Sara interrupted her staff meeting to recognize us and thank us for saving the boats and the reef. She shared a picture she had taken of me from shore, a tiny dot in the middle of the sea, and introduced an embarrassed me to scattered applause as “that guy who swam down the catamaran”. 

Now, I was Tom Cruise, accepting the Academy Award for Best Actor in Mission Impossible. Stay tuned… 

The Penny….

As far as I could see in both directions there was a train track.  To the east the tracks made a gentle curve before finally disappearing behind a stand of tall, leafy trees; to the west the tracks vanished straight into a tunnel beside a warehouse under the highway.  

The main road crossing this track had four lanes, along with sidewalks, and the crossing was marked by obtrusive black and white signals on each side of the road which stood tall, like armed sentries protecting the train’s territory.  Traffic on this busy avenue would sometimes slow but the cars still made a hypnotic, bump-de-bump sound as they crossed.  Hard rusty steel gleamed on its surface, kept shiny by the passing trains.  A pungent diesel odor escaped from the gravel-filled spaces between the timber ties, blackened with tar.

Ridiculously close to the train’s path, no more than ten feet from the tracks at it closest corner stood a tiny, red brick building, defiant and courageous, with a sign out front that read Branner Shoe Service.  When my parents would leave me there, the track was the first place I explored. 

Branner Shoe Service, owned and operated by my grandparents, was a busy place on Saturdays, a day off for most people to run errands, but Bill and Allie worked as a team six days a week to keep their business successful. Shoe repairs had to be completed so people could be ready for church on Sunday and work the next week. Customers kept the bell at the front door tinkling as it opened and shut.  It was their business and they rented this tiny space for years, walking honorably in their well-worn shoes to work each day from their home three blocks away, on Sunnyside Avenue, a street appropriately named for them and their decent and admirable attitude.  Sometimes, to give my parents a break, they watched me.  And I watched them.

I watched my grandfather, his gray hair combed neatly back and donned in a full gray apron with blue stripes that enhanced the color of his steely blue-gray eyes, operate with ease fantastic machines, devices that pressed and cut leather, machinery that sanded soles and sewed in stitches on delicate pieces of pedestrian art while spitting out clatter and clang that demanded the attention of a four year old boy.  So I watched.

My grandfather remained serious, his strong chin firm and focused on the job at hand but he lit up when he saw me, taking a break long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow with his sinewy hands and place one reassuringly on my shoulder.  Then back to work and with the help of Willie, his assistant and the first black man I had ever seen, he repaired the stiff outer coverings for the feet of the thrifty and fashion-conscious.  As he labored, I worried that the great and raucous machines might at any moment turn on him but he deftly kept them at bay, probably at times daydreaming a bit, putting himself in the shoes of the doctors and lawyers and bankers who owned them.

My attention fading, I returned to the front of the shop, just a couple of steps away, where I watched my grandmother. Effusive and sparkling, she hosted the waiting customers like a hummingbird at a flower shop.  She flitted and fluttered between the boxes of orders lined up on shelves behind her, to the next guest in line, to the cash register, and back again. Each time a fee was paid, the cash register made a proud and singular ring.  And my grandmother would sparkle again. 

She would bend over, putting her smiling face as close to mine as her aging flexibility would allow her and placing both hands on my cheeks, she would coo, and give me a playful squeeze and a hug that would last me all day.  And sometimes, she would slide a few pennies to me to begin a familiar and welcome routine in which I would happily visit the nearby gum machine, make a deposit and receive a sweet reward.  Chewing that gum and with an extra penny in my pocket, I would sit quietly in a vacant vinyl chair reserved for customers, feet not reaching the floor, and wait. 

It started slow at first, a faint whistle from the east, but growing louder and louder with each blast.  My heart quickening, out the door I dashed, straight to the tracks.  Courage building and putting fears aside, I stomped to the base of the closest signal.  The train thundered faster now and triggered the signals to erupt.  Traffic stopped.  Pedestrians paused.  Lights flashed like lightning.  Bells tolled like a cathedral on Sunday.  The ground pulsated, the guardrails banged lower, and the train pressed on, blaring its warning whistle again and again.  I grinned.  It was a rowdy storm and I was its center.

Grabbing the penny, I spit the gum into my hand and reached onto the cold, vibrating rail, placing the sticky combination onto the shaking surface.  It held.  The heavens shook now, as the beast roared and electricity filled the air.  My ears split and my chest thumped.  Boom! Boom! Boom! rumbled the engine, spewing smoke and scattering rubble.  Time to go.  I retreated a few steps, and just as I had done all morning, I watched. 

This time the train was the one working hard.  Like my grandfather and grandmother, it rumbled on, responsible and industrious, serious about its work but making a happy fuss along the way.  Doing what trains do, they clattered along the tracks of life and before disappearing into a tunnel, flashed by me in an instant, never to be seen again, but leaving me with memories that would last a lifetime. 

And one flat penny.

Cruz Bay, St. John, USVI. circa 1920

A Charleston Fish Story….

It was a perfect June morning, even by Charleston’s standards.  The air was crisp and salty, and the constant sea breezes fanned away the summer humidity.  Blue sky surrounded the oldest city in the South as it began to stir.  Spanish moss dangled from the trees and swayed in the warming mist.   With their blossoms, bright and white, bursting open like birthday candles on the cake of an aging antebellum gentleman, magnolia trees shaded the rising sun peeking in our bedroom window.  This was my first Saturday without clinic duties since beginning my one month internship at the Storm Eye Institute and we would make precious use of this day together.

Toni and I had answered the ad reluctantly.  We were fortunate to have been selected for a month away from medical school in Chapel Hill to determine whether ophthalmology would be the right career choice for me.  We were excited to celebrate our first wedding anniversary in a place where Southern romance blossoms, and to visit the beach where my parents had lived when I was born.  But all we could afford was a bedroom in an aging widow’s home.  The ad had read  “Near Charleston harbor. One bedroom, double bed, bathroom privileges.  Nice neighborhood.  $75/week.”  Well, the price was right.

So here we were, lying in a too small, too soft bed in old Ms. Windmere’s spare bedroom, waiting to hear her flush the toilet so one of us could go.  She was nice enough, as pleasant as one can be, I suppose, when entering into a contract with strangers who are going to live in your home for a month.  “Windy” was skeptical at first about my roommate, not wanting to condone extramarital relations under her roof, even if it were for her profit.  “You’re pretty young.  Are you really married?  My dear departed Mr. Windmere would have wanted me to ask that.” she probed delicately.  To reassure her, and to keep Mr. Windy from rolling over in his grave, I made sure she saw our wedding bands.  “One year.” I answered, wondering if she would next want to see our IDs.  “But we’ll be quiet.”

With the introductions done and the deal completed, our first two weeks went smoothly.  Windy pretty much stayed out of our way, and we gave her plenty of space.  I worked days, studied nights, and Toni commuted some.  When we had time together, we walked the streets of Charleston.  We strolled through markets, peering hungrily into restaurants we could not afford to enjoy, compelled to appreciate lighter fare and any free entertainment we could find.   Some days we admired the architecture of mansions on the Battery, and other days we learned about the region’s history of slavery.  We toured old museums and churches, with their timeworn graveyards inviting us to speculate on what life was like back then for these early Americans.

But today was special.  We were going to Mount Pleasant, where I was born, and its beach, Sullivan’s Island, to go fishing.  Dad had told a story several times about a June Saturday morning twenty-five years ago when he and Mom had headed to Sullivan’s Island for a day at the beach.  Mom rested on a blanket, with six month old me in a crib, and an umbrella overhead, camped safely in the sand while Dad stood knee deep in the surf, clutching his fishing rod, with pride and anticipation, waiting on that first bite.  To his left and to his right, at a polite distance, were two other fishermen, each wet and bored and more than a little frustrated at the lack of action.  “Any bites?” Dad hollered at them.  “Been here all morning.  Not a nibble.” they each replied.  

Suddenly Dad’s rod jerked and curved dramatically forward, and to the shock of his fellow fishermen, Dad reeled in two good-sized bluefish, one on each of the hooks he had baited carefully with fresh frozen shrimp.  Mom cheered as Dad proudly returned to the camp, put his catch in a bucket of water, rebaited his hooks, and sauntered back to the surf to cast out again.  Boom!  The rod jerked again, this time Dad fighting the pull into the sea by the creatures struggling on his line, finally reeling the catch in.  Two more!  Mom cheered!  The fishermen groaned.  More fish for the bucket.  More bait.  Hurrying back to his spot this time and trying not to look at the pathetic anglers now watching him, Dad cast out again.  Bang!  Reeling in faster now, two more bluefish grin back at him from his hooks.  Mom cheered!  The embarassed fishermen looked away.  Fish in the bucket.  More bait.  Cast again.  Snap!  More fish.  Mom cheered!  The fishermen quit.  And Dad continued to catch fish until he could do it no more.  

At least, that’s the story.

So, Toni and I loaded the car with our essential gear.  Cooler.  Check.  Towels.  Check.  Sunscreen.  Check.  Blanket and umbrella.  Check.  Baby.  Not yet.  Fresh frozen shrimp for bait.  Definitely check.  Bucket for catch.  Probably too optimistic, but Check.  And Dad had let me borrow his surf fishing rod for this trip, the same one he had used 25 years ago.  Double Check.  We drove to the street near where Mom and Dad had enjoyed their beach day so many years ago, parked the car and set out.  We followed the precise directions they gave us to a specific spot on that beach, between two homes that we were not even sure existed anymore, and thirty paces east of the Beach Entry sign, just past a large sand dune.  We set up camp there.

While Toni rested on a blanket with umbrella overhead, camped safely in the sand, I set out exactly as instructed, directly out from that point into the sea and stood knee deep in the surf, clumsily clutching Dad’s fishing rod, with hope, faith and very little skepticism, waiting on that first bite.  To my astonishment, to my left and to my right, at a polite distance, were two other fishermen, each wet and bored and more than a little frustrated at the lack of action.  “Any bites?” I hollered at them as I felt inclined to do.  “Been here all morning.  Not a nibble.” they each replied, obviously lacking any sense of déjà vu. 

Suddenly Dad’s rod jerked and curved dramatically forward, and to the shock of my fellow fishermen and me, I reeled in two good-sized bluefish, one on each of the hooks I had baited ritually with fresh frozen shrimp.  Toni cheered as I proudly returned to the camp.  We were stunned. I put my catch in a bucket of water, rebaited my hooks, and sauntered eerily back to the surf to cast out again.  Boom!  The rod jerked again, this time I fought the pull into the sea by the creatures struggling on my line, finally reeling the catch in.  Two more!  Toni cheered!  The fishermen groaned.  More fish for the bucket.  More bait.  Hurrying back to this sacred and clandestine spot, this time giddy with the excitement of knowing a secret nobody else knows, and trying not to look at the pathetic, dumbfounded anglers now watching me, I cast out again.  Bang!  Reeling in faster now, two more bluefish grinned back at me from my hooks.  Toni cheered!  The embarassed fishermen looked away.  Fish in the bucket.  More bait.  Cast again.  Snap!  More fish.  Toni cheered!  The fishermen quit.  

And I continued to catch fish until I could do it no more.

The Wind From An Eagle's Wing….

       The wind, which had long ago brought the spirit of the Arawak Indians and the wisdom of the European settlers to these island shores, had also driven the strength of the African slaves into this melting pot.  Over three hundred years had passed since this unassuming structure had been erected on St. John as The Nazareth Lutheran Evangelical Church, where people persecuted for their religious and racial differences and forced to leave their homelands could gather and worship in freedom. 

      Standing strong in the breezy tradewinds that in hotter months could easily accelerate into a tropical storm and rip into this tranquil village to transform the island into a third world mess, majestic palms were mere coconuts when they witnessed these events.  Now towers of success and strength, the trees displayed their fortitude and guarded the front entry, like holy knights waiting for the service to begin.  These same winds now massaging the mature palm fronds also cooled the backs of our sweating necks as we walked the last few blocks to enjoy another Sunday service, to be part of this small but established outpost, to give thanks for our blessings, and to pay our respects.

       Three days prior the only communication I had received from my father in weeks was a text message to inform me that Leroy “Pop” Miller had died, and his funeral would be today.  Isolated on an island with no airport and erratic phone service, a thousand miles away from home and unable to attend, my regrets of not being there tickled my heartstrings like the sound of an out of tune mandolin.  The message had read like an old telegram: “Pop died today.  Funeral Sunday.  He was 92.” 

       "Pop" meant much more to our family than a simple obituary could summarize and we all knew that.  Much like these palm trees we were walking by, he was a tall and stalwart educator called to demonstrate his strength during the storms of desegregation and civil rights, when my generation was attending school.  He was an African-American, a black man, with nine brothers and sisters who despite the winds of racial turmoil blowing against the youth of his generation, had sprouted and risen with his siblings to attend colleges, complete degrees and educate others.  Pop had finally been planted as Principal at East Mecklenburg High School, home of the Eagles, just a few years before I attended there, soon to be followed in their turn by my three sisters, and thousands of other rudderless and adrift students, safely protected under his disciplined branches.

  

       Forty years ago, his influence had guided our lives, steering our school to a success and spirit few Eagles before had ever known.  East Meck Eagles had winning seasons in basketball and cross country, won State Championships in football and volleyball, and all the time coexisted in class and on the field in racial harmony. Eagles won academic scholarships; no school had ever had two Morehead Scholars in one year, but that year he guided us Eagles to two, one of them mine, and to my eventual decision to become a doctor.  He had kept in touch with many Eagle graduates, attending our wedding reception, allowing me the great honor of doing his cataract surgery after he retired, and meeting at Eagle reunions to swap stories and exchange hugs. And every year, I exchanged Christmas cards with my pal, my East Meck Eagle high school principal. 

       Seated in this church, embraced by swaying palms and ocean breezes, and serenaded by crowing free-range roosters and chirping bananakeets, we meditated.  We were joined in worship by strangers - the ancestors of the Arawak, the descendants of the Europeans, and the offspring of the African islanders, and they welcomed us in racial harmony with their spirit, wisdom and strength, like family.  On this poor little island a thousand miles from home and as beautiful as heaven itself, named by the infamously religious Christopher Columbus after John, who according to scripture was Jesus’ “favorite and most beautiful” disciple, we prayed in a serene silence, wishing we could be a part of Pop’s funeral.  

       The quiet was finally broken when a tall African islander with graying hair and creases in his face entered the sanctuary.  His vibrant and deep voice commanded attention. Looking directly into my eyes, our pastor welcomed the service to begin with Hymn 137:  “On Eagles’ Wings.”  As I gazed down at my old high school ring still fitting snugly on my finger, I recognized the hymn.  It was the same music sung at my high school graduation.

       When confronted with something mysterious like this, it is said people break down into two groups.  The first group sees this as something due to chance, a coincidence.  It creates for them a sense of anxiety and unease.  For them, everything is random and death is something to fear, for they are alone.  The second group, they see this as a sign.  For them, it is a symbol we are not alone, reassurance that there is some greater power out there watching over us, connecting us.  And the second group is filled with hope.*

       On that day, on that island, in that church, because of a belief in a greater power out there, we realized we were at Pop’s funeral.  And we were filled with hope.  With tears in our eyes and tingles on our arms, we connected with our family and friends back home, and sang with great gratitude “On Eagles’ Wings”.  

       Then, in the stillness that followed, on the back of my neck, I am sure I felt the wind of an eagle’s wings.

The Eagle is the symbol for the island of St. John

*attributed to Mel Gibson's monologue in the movie Signs. M.Night Shyamala, 2002

In The Blink Of His Eye....

Six million years ago, it happened.  Not that God wasn’t happy with all He had created, but He wanted more than what His wonderful Earth displayed for him. The continents, the seas, the palm trees, the multicellular life were not enough. He wanted a unique creature that could change its environment, would be self-aware, and social, and could create abstract ideas, and would speak.  So He made it happen.

Perched in a tree in sub-Saharan Africa rested an ancestor common to apes and humans who sported 24 pairs of chromosomes in its small, hairy, speechless body.  It spent each day with its group searching for food, avoiding predators, and making babies.  The genes on its chromosomes dictated precisely what it could do.  And that is all this primate could do until He saw this opportunity.  He created a mutation which we now call a Robertsonian translocation. This change in genetic hardware is not uncommon, happening without negative effect in 1 in 1000 births, but this one was special because it caused a fusing of two chromosomes, reducing the number of the chromosomes of its offspring to 23 pairs.

Fewer chromosomes do not indicate less complexity as demonstrated by the chicken who has 78 chromosomes or the butterfly who has 268 chromosomes.  With fewer chromosomes, this creature could now do more.  The effect of gene mutation SRGAP2 was not immediate; it took millions of years yet only in the blink of His eye in His universe.  But through adaptation and genetic drift, the viable offspring behaved differently than the others. They walked. Their brains grew. They began to change their environment. They became self-aware. Their brains grew more.  They communed socially. Their brains grew more. They created ideas and solved problems. And eventually, they spoke.

The genetic changes were small.  Still sharing 98% of the same genetic code, they were still very similar to the others.  The others became gorillas, and orangutans and chimpanzees. But now genetically isolated, these new creatures congregated only with others of their own kind.  And their numbers grew.  Their fossils were left in the Earth and when discovered were given names like Toumai, Karabo, and Lucy.  They became human.

Last month, it happened again.

This year’s regular staff outing promised to be fun.  Everyone looked forward to a day at the zoo.  I had organized this trip because of my experience as a college intern at the Ape House at the National Zoo.  Fifteen staff members and their families followed me through the proud gate of the Asheboro Zoo to explore the animals exhibited in this expansive park.  We strolled past zebras and giraffes, stopping to enjoy the lions and laugh at the seals, all very well cared for by attentive zookeepers who took time to answer questions from our large group.

Ahead lay the chimpanzee exhibit and we could already hear the cacophony of primitive chatter echoing among the natural rocks that served as a fence to keep these apes contained.  As I turned the corner I witnessed one large chimp flinging himself repeatedly at the enormous glass window wall that allowed us some safety while we watched.   The agitated chimp commanded our attention as he occasionally tossed a small stick or rock over the window at our group. 

“Perseus is pretty distressed right now,” the attendant explained.  “He is assuming the dominant role in the group.”

As the new leader of our group, I knew how he felt.  So I carefully approached the window.  Slowly crouching as I walked, I avoided eye contact and kept my face downward, eventually sliding up against the glass with my back turned toward Perseus.  I was the portrait of submissiveness.

While the other chimps watched Perseus, he displayed again, rushing the glass boisterously and brashly banging it with his fists.  The window vibrated with a thud.  I did not move.  He did it again.  I held my spot, peeking at him but still avoiding eye contact. 

While my staff watched their fearless leader embarrass himself, Perseus did something that shocked us all.  He stopped his alarming behavior and inching toward me, sat facing me less than a foot from the glass.  His brown eyes studied me.  He pursed his lips.  And then he gestured with his hands.

“Was that sign language?” I asked the attendant.  “Can he sign?”

“Yes,” she replied calmly. “He is the only one who has been able to learn sign language.”

Amazed, I turned my body slowly, facing Perseus now and looking at him but still averting my gaze so as not to stare.  He gestured again.

“What did he say?”  I asked the attendant shyly, my heart racing.

I turned more, now gazing into his brown eyes, grateful to get a glimpse into the soul of this thoughtful creature.  Perseus could change his environment and be social.  He was self–aware.  With language, he could create abstract ideas.  And he could speak?

Perseus gestured to me again.  I could not believe what I was seeing.

“What did he say?” I asked again, trying to remain calm.

The attendant paused.  “He says  ‘I like you.  You can stay.’”

I grinned, careful not to show my teeth which would be threatening to a chimpanzee.  My skin tingled and my eyes welled with tears.  Acceptance!  Looking directly into Perseus’ eyes,  I gestured back the only sign I know. 

“Thank you”.

Our group was speechless.  Until a phone rang.  It was my daughter calling, sad that she was missing the outing. 

“What are you doing?” she asked Christa, who answered the call. 

        “Watching your father talk to a chimp.”

The Spirit Of A Woman....

       
        Flashing like lightning on a hot summer night, bright white light more intense than the sun exploded at her feet. Dust from the compound joined thick smoke to fill her lungs and spread slowly around her like venomous bees disturbed from their hive. Suddenly silenced by the explosion, the camp now looked like an old black and white movie. She could not hear the screams but she felt the heat radiating from its core just a few feet from her face, expanding, burning, melting everything it touched. Then, there was nothing.
        Even in concentration camps, a four year old girl wants to play outside. She had been relocated to this place in Germany with her Jewish parents just a month ago and the dusty yard outside was her new playground. The refugee boy had found something buried in the yard and yelled for her to come see. Then, the explosion, and he vanished. Now she was in a room with a doctor and nurses. Her father's face appears, then fades; she cannot hear what he is saying.
       Over half a century passed by. She had adapted well, thanks to her plastic surgery; her hair style and makeup strategically hide the scars. Her husband and children know her story but she looks normal to them.  No one can tell she has only one eye, unless they look closely.
       Until this year she has been able to see well enough. Doctors in Hitler's Germany in 1942 had no technology to repair the damage to her only eye so rather than risk making it worse, they had simply left it alone, hoping it would heal enough for her to get by. They were right. But now she can no longer read. The faces of her family are slowly fading like her father's did over fifty years ago.
       Seated in my exam chair, Hanna was prim and proper, like Mary Poppins with a German accent. And I liked her from the start. "Good morning, doctor." She spoke with a slight smile, her posture perfect, her etiquette formal, and her tone determined. "I have been researching my problem. I think it is time for surgery on my eye."
       I sat transfixed as she recalled to me her childhood memory of the concentration camp in Nazi Germany and described the land-mine blowing up, her injuries, and her family's immigration to America. "And I want you to do it."

        My schedule now falling apart but humbled by her request, I carefully examined her eye. Flash burns and random scars covered her cornea like raindrops on a dirty windshield. Through this I could barely see a couple of traumatic holes in her iris, and her aging cataract which had progressed to make her vision even worse. It was ready to come out. But the challenges were obvious. Could the eye tolerate more trauma from surgery and could I work around the scars and see well enough through them to fix her problem? There were risks, but she had been putting this off until technology progressed to repair her injuries. Five decades was long enough and she was determined to do it now.
       At surgery, I proceeded with my incisions, and began to emulsify the cataractous lens with the ultrasound device. My view was limited by her scars but by using plenty of irrigation fluid I was able to make steady progress. Then without warning, a piece of hard plastic appeared in the front chamber of her eye. With microforceps, I grasped it and removed it from the eye.
       In my forceps was now a piece of history, a fragment of a bombshell from Hitler's Germany, a remnant of the chaos of WWII. Trying to control my excitement at the significance of this surprising find, I placed it in a clear plastic specimen cup and closed the lid. 
      The next morning, Hanna's gratitude for restoring her vision gleamed in her eye. Somehow, despite the scars and the trauma, she could read again. She reached to clasp my hand. And I showed her the contents of the specimen cup while trying to understand what was going through her mind.

      "I want you to have it.", she responded decisively.

      I had hoped she would say that. Now, the fragment sits quietly on a shelf in my home. It is a reminder of how much technological progress we have made, but more importantly, it is a symbol of the resiliency of our human condition, the triumph of good over evil, and the spirit of a woman who would never give up.