Golden Bats and Pink Pigeons by Gerald Durrell: Saving Paradise

Golden Bats and Pink Pigeons: A Journey to the Flora and Fauna of a Unique Island is the entertaining story of Gerald Durrell's experience on Mauritius in the Indian Ocean where he collected rare specimens for his animal sanctuary. The Dodo had already vanished from the island and by the 1970s many more species were going the way of the Dodo.

Durrell's tales are entertaining and funny. His description of the Jak fruit as "an obscene green fruit, covered with knobs and looking rather like the corpse of a Martian baby" sent me into hysterics. My husband and I had just seen one at Kroger two days before I read this description. The Jak was meant to lure the Golden Bats and had a pungent smell "vaguely reminiscent of a putrefying body." And the produce man told us it tasted like "Juicy Fruit" gum. Glad we were not tempted.

After several delays, which involved Durrell's team eating the bat fruit before it spoiled and buying more, the team finally landed on Rodriguez island. That evening the mosquitoes attacked. "I'm rather glad we came really, I would hate to think of all these mosquitoes going hungry," remarked one of the party. "Yes it's a form of conservation, really," Durrell replied.

The party contended with other invasions as well, by giant land snails that invaded their tent and ate their food and baby Shearwaters that invaded their beds.

The descriptions of Mauritius's flora, fauna, and coral reefs are vivid and gorgeous. My favorite chapter was The Enchanted World on the coral reefs. The writing is evocative and lovely as Durrell describes experiencing the overwhelming life and color of the reef. You understand his enchantment.

As I read this chapter I experienced a tightness in the pit of my stomach, fearful that these teeming reefs are dying like reefs all over the world. I checked it out. The reef is suffering from higher temperature water due to El Nino events and is also impacted by a billion tourists a year and the agricultural runoff from the island.

Mother Earth is losing her children from human impact and climate change. Durrell strove to save species from extinction. I am glad to have read his memoir and learned about his work.

I thank the publisher for the free ebook through NetGalley in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

Read about Durrell's Zoo on Jersey
https://www.durrell.org/wildlife/visit/

Mauritian Wildlife Foundation to see the flora and fauna discussed in the book
http://www.mauritian-wildlife.org/application/index.php?tpid=30&tcid=101

News report on the coral reef
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrJUUveateg

Golden Bats and Pink Pigeons
Gerald Durrell
Open Road Media
ebook
ISBN: 9781504042833

Memoirs of Eugene Gochenour: The Story of a Friendship

Dad finished his Chrysler stories with the story of his friend's tragic end.

"Russ C.

"I worked at Chrysler Engineering at Highland Park, Michigan, from 1964 to 1992.

"Chrysler had a plant in Huntsville, Alabama, and another at Sterling Heights, Michigan where engineering and building of major portions of the Redstone, Jupiter, and Saturn rockets were done for the U.S. Space Agency. When the contract with the government ended, many of their engineers and managers moved to Highland Park. This must have been hard for them, leaving modern plants with the latest technology and going to work where the buildings and equipment were ancient. Pat McI., Vic A., Al P., and Russ C. were a few of the good people that joined our lab. At that time we were the Air Conditioning and Heater Lab.

"Russ had been a foreman at the Van Dyke facility in Sterling Heights, MI and when he came to Highland Park he was made a technician. Even though he did not have a degree I thought he was the best engineer I had ever seen.

"Russ and I became good friends, and since he lived near by and his house was on the way to work I would pick him up. He was always ready and waiting when I came. Russ had a wife named Joyce, like my wife, and she was a very fine person.

"One day Russ told me he was going to sell one of his cars. it was a 1967 Plymouth Satellite convertible. I knew Russ had always taken excellent care of his vehicles and I bought it from him for $800. Joyce and I enjoyed riding around the town with the top down in the evening during the summer. Eventually, I gave the car to my son Tom when he left high school.

"Russ and Joyce had a cabin in the northern lower peninsula on Lake Bellville near Traverse City. One winter right after Christmas, Russ, Ron H., Dick D., Terry H., Bob P., and I drove there to do some ice fishing. The cabin was a beautiful log structure and it had a clear view of the lake.

"When we arrived the snow was fairly deep, but the lake had not yet frozen. Dick and I had brought our shotguns along, so the next day we decided to go rabbit hunting. As we loaded the car, a neighbor lady called over and told us we had better not shot the bunnies that lived in the swamp in front of her cabin. We assured her we were not hunting near by and left.

We drove a few miles and found an area that looked promising and parked. After tromping through the snow in the woods for a while, and not seeing any bunnies, we left and went back to the cabin.

"While we waited for the ice to freeze we played cards and drank apricot brandy. Then the ice froze enough for us to set out tip-ups and begin to fish. It was very cold and one day after we had set up our tip-ups we went back to the cabin and sat by the window so we could watch them.

"We had not sat there long when we heard a knock on the door. When we opened it, standing there was the game warden. We asked him in and then he asked to see our fishing licenses. Lucky for us we all had bought them and set up only two tip-ups each, so we were legal. But he told us that he could have given us a ticket because the lines were unattended. But he overlooked it because we could watch from the window. We did not catch a lot of fish, but we had a great time.

"At work, when Russ brought me a work order it was always well thought out and he always provided me with everything I would need to complete the job. Russ was liked by everyone. He was one of the finest people I knew. But things were not well at home. Joyce left him, and only then did I find that Russ was an alcoholic. I never had a clue that Russ had a drinking problem. I did not know that he had joined Alcoholics Anonymous until one evening when he called my wife and I to tell us and relieve his conscience.

"Russ missed a few days of work, and one evening I went to his house and knocked on the back door. Russ only opened the door because he had ordered a pizza and thought I was the delivery man. I was shocked to see the condition he was in. He had not shaved, his hair was uncombed, and he looked like he had not changed his clothes in days. When I entered the kitchen I noticed all the clutter on the table and counter. This was not like the Russ I knew.

"We talked for a while and I listened as he told me that his wife had left and that they should have had kids, should have moved to a different house, and other excuses, avoiding the real problem--his drinking. I tried to build up his ego by telling him that everyone I knew thought very highly of him, then eventually left.

"After Joyce left Russ she would occasionally call my wife to tell her what was going on. She said she had joined Alanon. They told her an alcoholic will not stop drinking until they hit bottom, and that is why she left Russ.

"One day Russ's wife Joyce called me at work and asked me to meet her at their house at noon so she could talk to him. So, at 11:30 am I left work and when I got there I saw police cars and fire trucks surrounding the house. I parked and asked someone what had happened, and they said Russ had committed suicide. This was a shock to me, and when I looked toward the garage I saw the door was open and the interior was all black from a coating of carbon.

"As usual, Russ had done a meticulous job. He had bought some flexible metal tubing which he taped to the tailpipe of the car, some duct tape with which he sealed the doors and windows of the garage, then he started the car engine and sat in the front seat.

"Russ had called his wife Joyce and asked her to meet him at the house. When I talked to another close friend of Russ's I was told he thought Russ had planned for Joyce to arrive before he was asphyxiated because when the garage door was opened, they saw that Russ had left the car, as if he had changed his mind, but it was too late.

"And so I lost my good friend Russ. Not too long after, Joyce sold the house and moved to be near her sister. We still write Christmas cards to each other every year."

Summer, 1967

The summer after freshman year I took Algebra to 'catch up' with the other kids. Grandpa Ramer tutored me and I passed. I was the only kid in the class who hadn't flunked Algebra during the regular school year. In other words--The oddball. I had also wanted to go to summer school because I liked school. Being around other kids was fun.

Summer 1967

On the way to school one morning I found a $20 bill on the sidewalk near a park. I wanted to start a bank account. Instead, Mom took me shopping and I bought a Mod suit in a calico floral print. The money disappeared. Later, Mom and I had a fight. I wished I had started the savings account instead of spending the money. Although never talked about, in the back of my mind I wanted to go to college.

Like my 'MOD" suite but in a different print

That summer Pat invited me over to her house to swim in her built-in pool. I wore Mom's late 1950s Catalina swimsuit for lack of anything else. It had a built-in bra, boy pants, and was very modest. Soon Mom took me to buy a 'modern' one piece suit. I actually liked the 'vintage' suit but I am sure it made me look dorky. Pat would invite other girls and sometimes invited a boy she liked and his best friend to join us.

Me, summer 1967 at my Uncle Don Ramer's home

One evening Pat and I went on a bike ride and were out until 9:30 pm, making both our moms mad. I was feeling lost that summer; Pat didn't understand but then I didn't understand myself. There was something inside of me that wanted something, but I didn't know what. After I got home and got my lecture, I went into the back yard to watch the bats flying in the dusk until the stars came out.

This was the summer that Katie and Skip Marvin came from Tonawanda and Dad and Skip went to the Boundary Waters, which Dad wrote about here. Katie bought me a floppy brimmed hat to wear with my new trench coat. I stuck my brother's plastic water pistol in my pocket and pulled it out on people. I called it my 'spy guy' outfit.

When Dad and Skip returned from their fishing trip I wrote,

"You gonna go to Hurley? You ain't gonna go to Hurley? Ya gotta go to Hurley! So they went. Would you believe? 17 bars to a half block. And--er, um--prostitutes? Show girls?

"Yes, they're back. Gilford Van Marvin--Skip--and Dad. Katie and Skip leave Monday. I'll miss Katie. I remember her putting on her false eyelashes, the black hat, the shopping trips, the steak dinner. I'll miss Spooks [the Marvin dog]. Spooks jumped in the pool. Dad and Skip are all beard."

I never thought about Spooks name back then, but knowing he was a black and tan German Shepherd Now, I worry that it was a derogatory name.

My friend Lynne Martin and I went to summer dances at the ice rink near school and at the Farmer's Market in downtown Royal Oak. I was asked to dance but was too shy to even try. I'd learned the Cha Cha in elementary school, and my mom's cousins taught me the Twist when I was a kid. But I had no idea how to do these 'modern' dances and was too uptight to try. At the first dance, we saw Mogan David and the Grapes of Wrath, a local Detroit band.

At home, I listened to Mom's classical music record set. I especially liked Liszt's Les Preludes, the Eroica by Beethoven, the Mozart symphonies, and the Polovtsian Dances from Prince Igor. I bought 45s of I've Got Rhythm, Can't Take My Eyes Off of You, Twelve-Thirty, and Spyder Turner's cover of Stand By Me. Stand By Me by Ben E. King remains one of my all-time favorite songs. The older I get the more I appreciate it.

I read Desiree' by Annemarie Selinko about Napoleon's first love and Up the Down Staircase.

Gochenour family outing: Tom, Mom, Dad and Me. 

My family liked to go on picnics to local parks. In the photo above you can see my guitar case in the trunk of the car. My piano lessons had been replaced by guitar lessons. I strummed chords and sang folk songs like Leatherwing Bat, St James Infirmary, and Michael Row the Boat Ashore.

It was the summer of the riots, which broke out a few days before my 15th birthday.

Monday, July 24, 1967, at 6:30 am I wrote,

"Riot. Murder. Fire. Kill. Burn. It's madness. The whole city's center--fires reaching high in smoke-filled skies. Dad's going to work--Highland Park--it, too, is part of it all. I dread what may happen today. The army moved in. 5:30 Dad and his fellow workers left [work], just left, 'cause the bosses didn't say to go home--they were scared. The riot was so near. Tonight's supposed to be worse. There's a curfew here in Royal Oak and the adjacent counties. We've been listening to WACK all day. Some people have a poor opinion. Like the man from the grocery store, mom said he wished he could kill a couple-- At school, no one spoke about it. "Black Power" was written with black chalk on the board and a "White Power" to oppose it."

The next day I wrote,

"And it goes on. Dad went to work. Troops moved in. We--me and Pat B.--watched planes and helicopters [passing overhead] last night, heading toward Detroit. A kid was caught with a gun on Main St. My parents heard a gun shot. It's sounding over the radio--gunshot along with reporter's voices, citizens, and snipers. It's started in Toledo and Pontiac. The Federal troops landed at Selfridge in Mt. Clemens, moved to the Detroit fairgrounds. They were called in at midnight. 21 dead. Hundreds wounded, more are homeless. Thousands under arrest. Radio newscast--Maryland, New York, Toledo--where does it end? 7:30 and it continues. St. John's [Episcopal Church] had a thing going--collecting food and clothing to cart to Detroit. It's amazing how so many people think. I believe we are the only ones with a good head on our shoulders. I expect to see an ark being built. Too many people are ignorant. Tomorrow is Mom's birthday."

I wrote a letter to Nancy Ensminger, never sent:

"500 fires since Sunday. Rioting, looting, gunshots, 21 known dead. Possibly more in burned houses. People, an unnumbered unknown, homeless. Firemen couldn't fight some of the fires, they were being stoned and driven out. Stores looted and or burned. Negroes and whites aren't fighting each other. They're fighting Federal Guards, State Militias. This is the third day. How long can it last? When it's done--how to rebuild our 5th largest city? How to feed and house the homeless? Where to put the people under arrest? They've put them on buses for the lack of jails. "They" want them to be killed. Johnson blames local officials for the riot not being under control. It breaks out in Grand Rapids and Pontiac.

"We have trouble trying to call people. They may have to turn off the water pressure to fight the fires. Mom's been getting the neighbors mad at her! They say, some, "Why don't they just go down and kill them all off?" No pity. Do they know what they've been through, all their life, just because they are BLACK? The frustration they've felt all along. They can't have equality. They can't get good jobs. They are limited where they can go, live, work. The hate. They learn early-- They look at the whites--they can go anywhere, can get better jobs because of their color. It's gotta break out. And now their houses are gone. Their children are hungry, steal for food. And even before--for once they can go in and get anything free. I've been through the slums. Saw them. It looked like one of Mr. Ashely's civil rights films. Even when it ends, there are problems of the homeless, the ruins, getting things back to normal. Rebuilding Detroit."

My mother's indignation at the racial hatred of our neighbors impressed me. She made no compunction about how she felt.

In August Lynne asked me to go camping with her family for a long weekend. We went to White Cloud Island in the Georgian Bay, Canada. A group of Canadian choir boys was on the island. We exchanged address with the counselor, Chris. He later wrote me a letter. He said that going home "it was crowded with seven kids and the three older people plus all the sleeping bags."

Lynne and I met some local boys who invited us to go to another island by boat. We were gone hours, getting to the island, exploring it, and coming back. Lynn's folks were horrified they'd let us go. It was a stupid thing to do; we were lucky the boys were respectful.

Lynne and her father in an abandoned house

Lynne on White Cloud Island

After graduation Lynne and I both went to Adrian College. She left after our first year of college. Many years later when I was living in Montague, MI there was a horrible car accident on the expressway near us, resulting in the death of a woman. Years later I discovered that the woman who had died was Lynne. I was shocked and sad.

My Uncle Dave Ramer and his family came from Annapolis to visit. To end the summer my family vacationed at a neighbor's cottage. The Beaupied cabin was on Douglas Lake near the top of the Lower Peninsula in Michigan, close to the Straits of Mackinac. Two of the Beaupied kids came along, too.

It was a fun summer.

Dad and Pat Beaupied

The Beaupied cabin from the lake

Every morning the Algebra classroom blackboard had new messages written in chalk:

Love thy neighbor--even if it kills him

Algebra sickness pills--25 cents; test answers $5.

FREE TICKET.

It's not good for anything. It's just free.

EXIT Free flying lessons. Inquire on ledge.

DO NOT DISTURB. STUDENTS ASLEEP.

Glix on you

Do unto others before they do it to you.

God is not dead. He's merely unemployed.

EMERGENCY EXIT (sign on window)

Ray. Please come home. I.L.Y.

You Must Change Your Life: Ninth Grade and a New School, a New Me

Me, age 14

Fall of 1966 saw another change in my life: going to high school meant a third new school since 1963. Homesickness had been replaced by nostalgia for the past. Fourteen years old, and already my heart resonated to lines such as, "I remember, I remember, the house where I was born," by Thomas Hood.

Me, Winter 1966-7

Being an introvert, not one to jump in and go with the crowd, I still missed having a best friend. I was lonely. I also knew that my priggishness was keeping me back. Only liking classical music, classical literature, and disdaining the popular was a real drawback to making friends.

My resistance to rock and roll and 'liking boys' was wearing down. I was ripe for change, and high school was an opportunity for a start-over. But, at what cost? Could I betray what I had always been--in exchange for what? That road was unknown.

A few weeks into the school year my English teacher Mr. Botens told the class, "You are three persons: "The person you were in the past; the person you are at this minute; and the person you will and want to be in the future." That comment changed my life, for I understood that I held my destiny in my own hands. I could be who I wanted to be. The question was--what did I want to be?

I was very aware of leaving childhood. "I'm suddenly seeing things through different eyes," I wrote in my diary. "I found out what life is all about. The suffering, pain, and work that was ahead. But the thread broke and the dream of childhood drifted away." I wanted to write, and knew "it takes imagination to write fiction, and study, brains, and experience to write non-fiction."

Homecoming float for Freshman Class, Oct. 29, 1966

My Freshman year classes at Kimball held a mixed bag for me, academically. I actually did good in General Math, Civics, Glee, and even Gym, but ended up flunking German although I really wanted to learn. I never could memorize. In college, I just squeaked by in Latin.

Team English had three teachers and 90+ kids. I was in the highest Reading Group, but middling spelling and grammar groups. (Many years later when working in editing and copywriting, I kept my trusty grammar guides beside me.) I loved Mr. Botens.

Girls Glee Club 1966-67. I am on the center row, far left. 

I was in Girls Glee Club and was pleased when Mrs. Ballmar called me to join a group of girls she thought were some of the best singers. My training was good: I had been in chorus in elementary school in Tonawanda and played the piano. My folks bought me a guitar and I was taking lessons and teaching myself to sing folk songs with guitar. I loved the idea of 'portable music,' an instrument I could take anywhere.

The Christmas Concert was an amazing experience, with all the choirs joining in the last piece, The Song of Christmas, and the O Holy Night. Learning the alto for O Come, O Come Emmanuel was handy considering how many times I sang it in church over my life! In my four years singing in three choral groups, the Christmas concert remained a highlight of each school year. Performing was exciting. In the Spring Concert, we sang Mr. Wonderful.

1966 Christmas Concert program

I made many friends in Glee. Pat had been in Mrs. Hayden's class and we became best friends that year. If I was fearful and controlled, Pat was a free spirit who pushed the envelope. She certainly pushed me into uncomfortable areas. Even going to see Dr. No and Goldfinger at the Main Movie Theater was a push for me!

Pat took me home with her after school and we practiced flirting with the 19-year-old man who was helping to build an addition on Pat's house. We made pulled hard candy. I stopped by Pat's house on the way to school and we walked together, or her mom gave us a ride in bad weather. Pat let me borrow her parent's copy of Archy and Mehitabel by Don Marquis. Now, I wonder if her parents knew! One weekend we walked to downtown Royal Oak by way of the railroad tracks, discussing religion.

I had a mad crush on a boy and Pat encouraged and abetted me in all the wrong ways. But, I also had crushes on dozens of other boys as well. It is a great relief to know that as a teen Jane Austen was described one of the silliest and boy crazy girls in England! I can excuse myself for being normal. I had finally broken my vow to never be silly over boys.

Me and Pat, summer 1967

Pat encouraged me to lose weight, giving me an exercise pamphlet. I went on a 1000 calorie diet. Mom had already tried a high protein diet, a calorie control diet, and even 'pep' pills. I can't believe the doctor gave me pep pills! Plus, I walked 2 miles to and from school every day. I did lose 25 pounds before the end of summer 1967.

By the end of the year most of the girls I would be friends with in high school I had already met. Friendship was such a big deal to me after several lonely years. I would walk girls to their classes for a moment's gossip, and be late to my own class!

In my diary I wrote about the overwhelming newness and awareness of just starting life, but also the lack of a purpose in life. I was still seeking the faith in God I had observed at the altar call when I visited a Baptist church in Sixth Grade.

"I think some people don't have a point of life to make it worthwhile. You may be having a grand time, but what is it worth if it doesn't have a point? A goal, a purpose, something to achieve. I don't have a point in life. I'm just living it. Seems a pity to just waste it. I just go on and on, every day. As much as I love life--my life--it doesn't appear to have much of a point." I continued, "The best point to have, I think, is God. It must be. Our point is to worship God, to believe in and love God. To serve him, and not we ourselves. No, not ourselves. We should do God's bidding. That seems like a good point in life. It really does."

I was not "there" yet, and my language reflected what I had heard, not what I had personally experienced.

Christmas came and went. Our consumer, throwaway values upset me when I saw the Christmas trees at the roadside. I wrote,

"I was thinking about all the little Christmas trees at the side of the roads now. How can people just toss them out in the snow? To think--a few days ago, they were decorated and "oohed" and "ahhed" at. Now, no one cares beans about them. They were beautiful, and loved, but once used, they're tossed away. Trash. People kick at them while walking. No one now thinks of how beautiful they were. People use them, then just throw them away."

I also wrote a poem, full of mock pathos:

The Tragedy of the Ever Green Tree

ah, once pretty ever green tree
with strands of tinsel
still hanging among your branches
of brown, falling needles;
the season's over.
ho-ho-hos and presents are gone,
safely tucked away in drawers and rooms
and memories.
your work is done, ever green tree.

once pretty ever green tree,
laying in the once fresh sparkling snow
now dirty and gray
next to tin cans full of
residue and refuse from the holiday--
the garbageman will come for you,
children kick you on their way to school,
and cars splash black melt on you
as you sit by the roadside.

once grand and regal
in the warmth of the livingroom,
decked in lights and donned in ornaments,
now you lie in the cold,
on the street
to be taken away.
grandeur has left.
all fame leaves with the turning
of calendar pages.

I was in my e.e.cummings phase. I later read this poem in speech class but gave an alias for the author. It was not the only poem I was to write about a throwaway society. When I was in my early twenties I wrote,

I am an old Bic pen,
an empty tube of colorless plastic.
Bought cheap.
Used.
Discarded.
The consumer's whore.

Mr. Botens had to get our parents get permission to read The Catcher in the Rye. I had never read anything like it. The last book I had written about reading was Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad. In January I wrote, "I picked up some good sayings from Holden. Good ole' Holden," adding it helped me 'express' myself. I also admitted that the 'sex' stuff in the book was pretty embarrassing to discuss in class. I took to introducing myself as Rudolph Schmidt, the alias Holden used when he met a fellow student's mother. I went on to read everything I could by or about Salinger.

Other books I noted reading that year included Uncle Tom's Cabin, Ethan Frome, Death of a Salesman, The Oxbow Incident, Inherit the Wind, In Cold Blood, and The Great Gatsby.

The first 45 record I ever bought was Sound of Silence by Simon and Garfield. I was now spending most of my allowance on a 45 record a week, which I bought at the Kmart store in Troy. Records I bought included Michelle, Ebb Tide, Homeward Bound, Message to Michael, Sloop John B, Monday, Monday, Paint it Black,  Red Rubber Ball, and I Am A Rock. I even bought silly records like Little Red Riding Hood! So much for pledging to never like silly music like Itsy Bitsy Teeny Tiny Polkadot Bikini!

I kept the Top Ten record sales lists in my scrapbook

Easter 1967

But that other side of me was still there. At home, I played classical music on the piano, drew, and filled notebook after notebook with my writing.

In March I wrote, "It's fascinating, even at my age, to see a butterfly land on your finger, spreading it's golden-orange wings in the breeze as if it were keeping time to some unheard song. Sitting peacefully and calmly without at care. Only to fly away in a moment. Up and away it goes, off to another place. Gaily it circles in the wind, to land on a flower or a green leaf." But I also envisioned a dark future, "Perhaps it will land in a spider's web. Carefree, happy and gay--it's caught. It struggles to get away, but alas, it is too late. He turns gray and soon our pretty butterfly is no more."

Dad in our back yard. 1967

May 21, 1967, my family went to see dad's friend who lived in Windsor, Canada. I documented the whole trip minute by minute. I wrote,

"We went by the tunnel. We stopped at a Hi-Ho restaurant for a hamburger. Customs took about 2 seconds. On the way back to Detroit, we saw a whole pile of smoke. Dad thought it was from a factory. But as we got close, we decided there was too much smoke to be from smoke stacks. It was a fire, a tremendously big one. The flames went up so high in the air, and the gray smoke swirled upward in the wind to form big billows of gray clouds. Beautiful--yet deadly and sinister. A two-story building was on fire, and [there were] houses all around. People emerged from everywhere and nowhere, all watching and talking. We heard on CKLW it was the third time for that building to be on fire this year."

Then, Dad got lost.

"We had to travel until we found Woodward. We went through the heart of Detroit and the slums. The slums I've seen in movies all year in Civics, they were right there in front of my eyes. The crowds of people in front of porches, talking, leaning on cars, sitting on steps. The mutilated buildings boarded up. Why doesn't someone do something? I wish I could. I don't blame them for hating us. I think we're half-sick. Why can't everyone feel the way I do? Why so much prejudice? I think there should be more propaganda to get sympathy for the Negroes, and booklets telling how you can help them fight for their rights. And if anyone says we're traitors--no--we aren't. It's the patriotic, right, Christian thing to do. To put them down should be a sin or something. I don't know, I swear, I don't know or understand anything. Nothin."

I ended by writing, "Born Free is playing on CKLW. We're all born free, and yet some can't be free. We are born with rights and then somebody comes and takes it all away because your skin's the wrong color. Hate--violence--the one to blame is the one who won't give citizens their rights."

My teacher Mr. Warner taught us that there is only one race--the human race.

Most of my diary is filled with an obsession with friends, boys, and the agony of typical teenage angst over friends and boys. I hardly recognize the girl I had become during those teenage years. At fourteen I had an idea that people change continually, evolving, and named each change an 'era'. I suppose I still believe that for looking back I can see myself becoming different people as experience and wisdom shaped me.

March 21, 1967, Detroit Free Press story with Kimball boys.

April 11, 1967, Detroit Free Press. Hemline wars.

Homer the Ghost and other Juvenalia

After we moved from Tonawanda I was lonely and created an imaginary friend, Homer the Ghost. Now, I was cognizant that Homer was a fiction of my imagination, in many ways a continuance of the make-believe play Nancy Ensminger and I enjoyed. I was still spinning tales. I was story telling.

I drew pictures of Homer and the ghostly gang and wrote stories.

Homer!
First you must know who Homer is. He is a ghost friend of mine. He's about 1,500 years old. Homer has three cousins, Greta, Herman, and Gertrude. His best friend is Irving.

Homer is nice but sometimes troublesome. Like the time he rode my bike without asking me. It was 4:40 pm when he rode it. How would you like to see a bike going by itself! Well, I'll tell you what Mr. White did.

Mr. White was very superstitious and read lots of science fiction books. He was reading Invaders from Pluto in his living room. He read out loud to himself; "Suddenly, the creature disappeared! He turned invisible, said Capt. Monroe." Mr. White looked up and out the window saw a bike going by itself! Of course, it was just Homer.

"Help! Police! Help!" yelled Mr. White. He ran into the next room and dialed the phone. "Police give me the operator! I mean, operator, give me the police!"

"Soon the police where on. "Yes," said Mr Blocker, the Captain.

"There's an invisible bike, er, man, I mean a creature from Pluto riding a bike!" said Mr. White.

"What?" said Capt. Blocker.

"An invisible creature from Pluto on a bike!"

"What? A creature on an invisible bike?"

"No! A thing from Pluto!"

"I can't understand you, calm down! Talk slower!"

"Details! This is of national concern! We've been invaded! I just sighted an alien creature in the street!"

Capt. Blocker made a face of exasperation at the phone, and to humor the man, replied, "I'll send a car over to investigate..."

This story ends there. I also wrote many more stories including A Martian Fairy Tale, "The Three Gooks," Adventures on Atom, To Mars! Sail On!, The Creature from Beyond, The Very Last Goodbye, and Eve of Destruction.

I have a letter written by classmate Mary W. that reads,

Dear Homer,
Hi! Do you remember me? I am Rudolph the Reindeer. I came down to see you on Xmas evening. You were asleep and I didn't want to wake you. Did you like what you got for your Xmas presents? Don't forget to write me back, OK? Give my letters to Mary W. I am 2 years old in Reindeer life, and 14 years old in human life. Are you human? Or what are you? Love, Rudolph. PS this isn't the way I really write [all caps print] by I want you to read it.

I found my Larry Peterson mystery story. It begins,

"I was walking in a wood, near a riding stable. It was a beautiful day, and would be perfect for horseback riding, but I didn't have any money. I was 16 and didn't have a job and I spent my allowance on a mystery book.

"Just that morning my mother had told me, "Larry Peterson, if you spend one more dollar on a mystery book, I'll swear you'll have 2,000."

I had quickly added, "I spent my allowance on a $3 mystery book today. Now I have 345 and a half."

"A half?"

"Me and JR put our allowances together to buy a mystery book so we each own it until I pay him for the other half."

I heard a noise behind me and turned to see a leopard frog sitting on a slab of limestone. As I watched it I saw something behind it--a garter snake? Yes, it was. He came closer and closer. He was just about to strike it when I heard the loud noise of a horse.

I turned around. There stood a sorrel horse with a white mane, tail, and socks. It was saddled, but no one was in sight. I remembered the frog and turned to see the snake with a big lump in him. "Frog legs, huh?"

The horse nuzzled me. "Where did you come from, boy? The stable? The horse pawed the ground and neighed.

"Well, seeing your rider left you, I'll return you. Come on."

I took the rein and led him in the direction of the stables. As we approached I saw a group of people talking with the owner.

"That's her horse!" said the woman.

"Where's Diana? What did you do with her? Where is she?" the man cried.

"These people say their daughter came here and took this horse to go riding, then she just disappeared."

And so started my mystery.

One of my first poems was named The Poem, perhaps written for school.

I stand here packing up and down
and walking all around
thinking, "What, oh what, should I put down?"

I'm no good at poems,
no ideas have I,
so I pace up and down
with an occasional sigh.

What should I write?
What should I say?
Should I write about a horse
or a girl named Kay?

Or what about a sunset,
a bird or a plane?
How about a teacher
who won a basketball game?

So after about three hours or so
at 10 o'clock and time for bed
it came to me --
just what I read.

Another early poem was written in 1967.

Black is Black.
White is White.
They will always be that way.
For nothing can change them,
They are what they are to stay.

Love is love.
Hate is hate.
It will always be that way.
With one for good, and one for bad,
They are what they are to stay.

I am I.
You are you.
It will always be that way.
I love you; you love me not.
It will always be this way
And I regret that I must say
We are what we are to stay.

I had told Nancy Ensminger when we were nine that I wanted to be an author when I grew up. I had earlier wanted to be an art or music teacher, and for a few days a nun, but in the wisdom of age had decided that authors were the most powerful influences in the world. For they could make one cry or laugh, change their ideas, and reveal new visions.

Nancy Writes a Story: Eighth Grade at Jane Addams

In 1965 I turned twelve years old. My homesickness was diminishing. My Eighth Grade school year was one of my best ever in terms of personal growth. Teachers exposed me to the arts, choral singing became a source of achievement, and I was writing my first stories.

Nancy in Eighth Grade sporting a 'flip'

The summer of 1965 included many visits with Tonawanda friends and family.

My Aunt Alice and Uncle Kenny and cousins Dave and Bev visited the summer before Eighth Grade. I wrote that I read The Adventures of Benjamin Pink by Garth Williams aloud to my cousins and brother. It was a book I read to my brother Tom many times; later my husband read it to our son.

In July we returned to Tonawanda. I documented the entire trip:

"4:20 here we go! We're on Main St. We are going to pass Gardenia now. We will be there in about 7 hours, 12 AM. Good luck.

"Woodward Ave ahead. We just passed B'wana Don's Pet Shop. Here's the start--Palmer's Park--and now the end. Turn left to Merrill Plaisance and then left again to Third. We've passed Ginera and Florence, Moss and Puritan, Pilgrim and Midland, Sear and La Bell, For and Pasadena, Grand W. and Davidson, Waverly, Tyler, Buena Vista, Avalon, to GLENDALE! (and those aren't all of the streets.)

"Now we're going down a ramp to the John C. Lodge highway. The speed limit is 44-55 so everyone is going 69-75. Then in the distance, above the trees, are the tops of the big buildings that make up the Detroit Skyline. Beautiful. Off a ramp to Vernor's highway, greeted by a sign with a giant tire about 10 feet high, turn off to Vendor. On the left is Tiger Stadium. Ahead is the Railroad station. 18th St now, left again to 22, and the Ambassador Bridge is towering up over us. Now we are towering over the Detroit River, full of boats. Goodbye, US. Goodbye Detroit. Goodbye Skyline. Hello, Canada. Hello, long ride."

The Giant Tire

We visited my Guenther cousins for a picnic on Sunday. The next day we visited the Levant Becker family. My cousin Debbie took me to visit Myra and Larry Peterson, whom I had met on another visit. I wrote, "I used that name for a fictitious character in one of my stories." The story was a mystery with Mr. Robinson, Jay Robinson, and Larry Robinson. It was only in my head, but I drew pictures of the scenes and characters.

drawing of character Larry Peterson

characters from my story

In August our Rosemont friends the Randalls visited us. They came in a camper and slept in it in our backyard. We went to Greenfield Village. The oldest boy and Mike went to the Henry Ford Museum, but the rest of us were tired and went for a ride and waited in the car. I was too shy to talk to Mike, although as kids we played together. I wrote, "I'll miss them."

When school began in the fall I was feeling more at home. Mrs. Hayden was my Eighth Grade homeblock teacher for English, Social Studies, and Communication. Mrs. Hayden saw my strengths. She encouraged my writing and art instead of making me feel bad for being introverted and shy.

I wrote my first story, The Saucer in Her Yard during Seventh Grade. I worked on it all year, adding to it and rewriting it. It was inspired by Star Girl, a book I'd read at Philip Sheridan Elementary school.

Janiel Corniel Zwiskan, an explorer and prince from the planet Prism, is stranded on Earth and needs to refuel his spaceship. He is discovered by children when he is filling his fuel container with water from their backyard hose. Once back home, Janiel is court marshaled for breaking the no-contact rule, not knowing he was set up by enemies plotting a power takeover.

my space ship

Janiel bravely stands trial knowing he faces a death sentence. But the king has arranged an escape: Janiel is provided a one-way ride back to Earth. I started Book Two of the story, entitled "Amnesia," with Janiel awakening on Earth with no memory. The children see and identify him as the man from the saucer.

I thought Janeil's homesickness and separation from his people were extraordinarily sad. But when I read my story out loud to my parents and grandparents there was laughter just when there should have been sighs and tears. I was mortified. I stopped sharing my stories with anyone.

Mrs. Hayden read aloud to class from The Hobbit and a book called Dorp Dead. The Hunter was a character in Dorp Dead and I was fascinated by the book.

The Hunter from Dorp Dead

Other books I read this year included The Great White North about the Scott expedition, Edgar Allan Poe's poems and stories, and Les Miserables. I read Les Miz over and over, as it was over my head, determined to understand the novel upon which my favorite Classics Illustrated Comic Book was based.

My entire homeblock class was in Glee Club. I had asked for Journalism as my elective; somebody told me that only the 'popular' kids got in. I was glad to be back with Mr. Henckel.

Mr Henckel and the Glee Club

That fall my childhood dog Pepper, who had lived with my grandparents, was old and cranky and suffering from tumors. I came home from school one day to learn that she had been euthanized. I was upset. My family wanted to spare me, but I never got to say 'goodbye'.

I discovered was that my friend Gail M.'s cousin Joe was in my class. I took out a church bulletin to fan myself during lunch and Joe, who was sitting near me, saw it and noted it was from his cousin's church. I told him she was my best friend. Gail and I went to youth group together a few times.

The Glee Club gave its first performance at a school assembly. I wrote, "We sat in the cafeteria until the orchestra was in the middle of the first piece. Over, up, onto the bleachers. Shaking, scared, nervous. The audience clapped. Mr. Martin announced us. The curtains opened. What a difference--same gym, only filled with people. It made it look larger. Mr. Henckel smiled; we began. I was shaking and smiling and singing. And that's hard to do all at once. Mr. Henkel kept making faces to make us smile. I almost broke out laughing. Silent Night, O Little Town of Bethlehem, Joy to the World. He told us it was our best performance ever."

Mrs Hayden and Mr Henckel arranged for our the class to experience the arts. It was the greatest experience for me! We visited the Detroit Institute of Art, saw a film with ballet stars Nureyev and Fonteyn, and visited the Detroit Symphony. It changed my life. I begged to go back to the art museum and finally, Dad took me.

Mimeographed letter from Mr Henckel and Mrs Hayden
asking parents to have their children to watch an opera on television

I was taking piano lessons. Along with classical pieces, I learned piano versions of Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass hits and some pops pieces like Baby Elephant Walk.

I was listening to Motown hits on CKLW.

I went to church with my Grandfather Ramer. I knew a few of the kids in my Sunday School class.

I did not have a best friend like Nancy E. and I still felt different from the other girls. I had a few mild crushes on boys, nothing I talked about. It was more like 'noticing' them. Mom bought me white Go-Go boots that I would NOT wear. She hung Big Eye Children pictures on my bedroom wall.

my Big Eye kid drawings

I was already using writing to record my world and explore my inner life, and I dabbled in fiction. At the end of my diary for the year I wrote something that begins as self-exploration and a look at who I was after the move, but then turns into a fictionalized projection.

"She was in love, and she knew it. But with who, you ask? And here is the answer: with books. Peter Pan and Wendy, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Lord Jim. With people: Joan of Arc, Mark Twain, Nancy C. Ensminger, make-believe Red Scott Collie, Philip the boy from Mars, Homer the Ghost, and many others.

"She has many friends: Gail M, Janet L, Nancy E, Linda Guenther, but also enemies. Normal. She used to live in Kenmore, NY but now she lives in Royal Oak, MI. She would cry at night because there was not a person she could call a friend. Except for Gail.

"She wished she could be in NY again with Nancy E.

"She wished she had someone to walk to school with. It was a long walk. She would get four books out of the school library every Friday and Wednesday. She loved horse stories.

"Her greatest wish was she would become and author and be rich. She'd give lots of money to Care, Save the Children, and organizations to help needy people. She felt sad when she saw how some people live here and overseas.

"She wasn't prejudiced against people who were different. A person is human no matter what kind of person they are, they're all the same, she thought. What's the difference between a Japanese and an American? Color? Religion? So, they're still human and have should have the same equal rights.

"She thought it would be cruel to kill even an ant, a bee. To you, a tree in winter is bare and ugly, but to her, they looked like black lace against a white dress in the sky.

"She played a game: if she heard or saw a bird she would try to identify it. Her favorite bird was the Robin, which she considered good luck.

"She feels as if she isn't one person, but many. She acts one way at home, another at school, another when alone. She acts differently at with a friend than she does with a cousin.

"She was also afraid to grow up. She's afraid she will lose her imagination and ideas for stories. Maybe she would not face reality. She lived in a dream world.

"I know that girl. I am that girl. My name is Nancy Adair Ensminger. I can't get Peter Pan, Joan of Arc, Lord Jim, Hank Morgan out of my head. I am 11 years old. The End."

My idealism was already set. I spent my teen years endeavoring to live up to these ideals of loving and accepting everyone as they were, to do no harm, to encourage imagination, and to see beauty in nature.

1965 Newspaper article on Jane Addams School graffiti 

Eugene Gochenour's Memoirs: Life Goes On: Moving to Royal Oak

Dad continued his memoirs to include his new life in Royal Oak, MI. It is a story of the American Dream of the 1960s, a time when we believed that hard work and short-term sacrifice would lead to financial security.

Dad a few years after we moved

My Ramer grandparents and Mom's brother and sister were already living in Metro Detroit. Mom wanted to be near her family; Dad dreamt of a job in the auto industry. Dad was 34 years old and without retirement, life insurance, or health care. Working for the auto industry meant benefits, especially health insurance for Mom's psoriatic arthritis that was destroying her joints. 

Here is Dad's story.

Life goes on.

During the early 50s Joyce's family moved to Detroit where her father went to work for General Motors. Her sister Nancy was married and her husband Joe moved there also. Joyce's brothers Don and Dave were still living at home so they went, too. Her only relative living in the area was her grandmother, Delia Greenwood, who lived on Englewood Avenue in Kenmore.

We made a few short trips to Detroit, but I really did not like big cities. Occasionally, Joyce and Nancy would take a train to Detroit to visit Joyce's parents. Joyce had a serious skin disease called psoriasis and while she was there she would go to the Henry Ford Hospital in hope of finding a cure.

In 1959 our son Tom was born, so now there was Joyce, Nancy, Tom, my mother and I living together. Running the garage was a hard life, and I thought I had better make a change before I grew too old. I knew the mental and physical stress was wearing me down. Even with all the hard work and time spent at the station all we ever did was barely make a living. So, Joyce, Mother, and I started talking about selling the hose and business. We talked about buying a motel in the Adirondacks, or my going to work at a factory, or working as a mechanic at a car dealership, but I really didn't like any of those options.  I knew I did not want to go into another business.

Joyce wanted to be near her family and since my mother was living with us we decided we would move to Detroit where I would get a job with one of the major car companies. I hoped to get work at General Motors where my father-in-law and brother-in-law Don worked.

We put the property on the market but real estate sales were slow and we did not get any offers. When it was found out we were selling the business we lost some customers because they decided to find another place to service their cars. it took many months before we got the first offer and it was much lower than the price we were asking, but we decided to take it. The man who bought the house and business was named Harper and he used the station to run his gutter business.

Mother continued living in the same part of the house after my father died. Joyce and Nancy and I lived in the same upstairs apartment but we all agreed it would be better for Mom to have company and we moved to her apartment. At the time we sold the business Mom had lived with us for six years, and Joyce and Nancy and Tom loved her dearly, so we planned to all move to Detroit together. After the offer on the station was accepted I had to sell and give away many things to get ready for the move.

it was decided with Joyce's family in Detroit that we would move our things in and live with them until we got our own home.

My Grandparent Ramer's home on Gardenia in Royal Oak

I made several trips to Detroit, hauling my boat and other things, but our furniture and appliances were hauled there by a moving company we hired. I remember the day they loaded the van. All our furniture and possessions only filled about a quarter of it. It cost four hundred and fifty dollars for the mover.

When we finally moved in with Joyce's parents, their basement, attic, and garage was packed full. They were probably surprised by how much we had brought. It was a pretty big house, but we sure did fill it up!

Grandpa and Grandma Ramer with a relative
in back of their home on Gardenia, RO.
While we lived with them I slept in the second story
screened porch off the master bedroom.

My mother did not come with us when we moved in with Joyce's family. We planned to bring her when we bought our own home. In the meantime she lived with my sister Alice and her family in Tonawanda.

One day I went to General Motors employment office and had an interview for a job, then went back to Joyce's family's house, expecting to get a call saying I was hired, but it didn't happen. After about a week or so I decided I should look elsewhere for a job.Then my brother-in-law Don Ramer told me of a shop that needed a mechanic. Louis Scott worked with Don at the General Motors Tech Center and his father Paul owned Scott's Garage which was located on Hudson Street in Royal Oak. So I went there, talked with Paul, and was hired.

The building looked like a garage from the thirties. It was deep and dimly lit. I remember that we had a radio there and I was listening to it on the day John Kennedy was assassinated. I was the only mechanic, and Paul did not have many customers. I knew only Joyce's family in Michigan and since it was not very busy, I had lots of time to think. One day I was sort of depressed and thought to myself, "What am I doing here, away from all my relatives and friends?" Back home I had dozens of relatives, many friends, and hundreds of customers. Here I knew almost no one.

But the feeling soon passed and when I would meet new people I would think, "that person reminds me of someone I knew back home." It was like a game, and many of the people I met did remind me of customers or friends form the past.

Paul did not always have a full weeks work for me, so I decided that I had better look for another job. One day Joyce saw an ad in the newspaper for a job as a mechanic at a Shell station that was located at Lincoln and Main Streets in Royal Oak. I went there and was interviewed by the manager whose nae was Bob Cupp. Bob was a fine and likable person and he told the owner about me, and I was hired.

I had worked for Paul for about a month when I told him that I had to have a full weeks work to live on and would have to quit. There were no bad feelings, because Paul understood.

I started at the Shell station at a weekly pay of 60% of the labor on the jobs I did with a guarantee of $126 a week. Harvel Akins was the name of the owner, and he was a fine person, and a good and honest boss. Harvel had served in the US Navy and the station was always spic and span.

He and all the station attendants were from Kentucky or Tennessee. They all had a Southern accent and the station attendants told many redneck and hillbilly jokes. This is one of the jokes they told:

Mother had a cat and every day when she walked into the bedroom she would see the cat sleeping on the bed next to a pile of cat poop. She told a friend about her problem and the friend said she knew how to cure the cat. She said the next time that happened to grab the cat by the neck, push its head into the poop, and throw it out the window. Well, the next day when she went into the bedroom the cat was again sleeping next to a fresh pile, so she grabbed it by the neck, stuck its head into the pile, and threw it out the window. Then on the following day when she went into the bedroom, the cat saw her, stuck its head into the poop, and jumped out the window.

She sure solved that problem!

I was the only mechanic and repaired any problem on any vehicle that came into the station. I overhauled engines, did wheel alignments, brake work, exhaust systems, tune ups, etc., on all makes and models. Even though I had power tools it was hard physical labor.

I had told Harvel when I started that I felt I had to go to work for a major car company because at 34 years old I needed to find a job with a good retirement plan.

All during this time Joyce and I were talking to real estate agents trying to find a house we liked and could afford.

Since I had never heard from General Motors about a job I decided to try Chrysler. One morning I went to Highland Park to their employment office and was interviewed for a mechanic job. They gave me many tests and when they finished they told me the would hire me for $113 a week. I accepted the offer that Monday and they told me to start on the following Monday. So, I went back and told Harvel that I had the job and had to quit. I told him I was sorry for the short notice.

But then on Wednesday, Chrysler called me and told me they could not hire me because one of their union members wanted the job. So, I told Harvel that the job had fallen through and he was happy and gave me a raise. But I told that sooner or later I would have to leave.

Photo of 211 W Houstonia from realtor

After checking out many houses we finally found one we thought liked and could afford. It was on Houstonia Street in Royal Oak. So we moved all out things from Joyce's parents' house after we cleaned and painted the inside of our new home.

Houstonia house, 1963

Since my mother was to live with us we wanted a house that could accommodate us all. The house we chose had two bedrooms downstairs and two upstairs. It had a two-and-a-half car garage and a large backyard. We paid $12,000 for it and put $3,000 down.

Then we called Mother to tell her about the house and I drove to Tonawanda to bring her and her belongings back to our new home to live with us. Joyce and the kids were very happy to see her. Moving out of Joyce's family's house must have been a happy day for them! While Mother lived with us she was very homesick.

Me, Tom, and Grandma Gochenour. Christmas 1963, Houstonia,
You can just see part of the remodeled kitchen on the right side.

This photo shows Nancy, Tom and Mother. It was taken at the dining room of our house on Houstonia Street in Royal Oak, Michigan. Not long after, Mother went back to Tonawanda, New York, to live with my sister Alice. This broke Joyce's heart, because Mom had lived with us for six years and she and Joyce were very close. She was closer to my mother than to her own.

Houstonia was a very nice street to live on, and we soon got to know most of the neighbors. At the house west of us lived John and Jerry Voight. At the home east of ours lived Mr and Mrs. Reynolds, an older retired couple. Next to them lived Laura and Irv Beaupied and their six children. Then came Jean and Gordon McNab with their two boys. On the corner of Houstonia and Main Streets lived Ruth and Bud Brehm and their two children. Across the street from them on Houstonia lived Edna and Art Lentner and their two children. So, because of the children, we all got to know each other.

Dad painting the Houstonia house

After we moved in we put in new cupboards, kitchen counter tops, a new oven, and remodeled the kitchen. I painted the outside, put shutters on the windows, and a wrought iron railing on the front steps. We also put in an above ground pool in the backyard.

Grandma Gochenour in the kitchen during remodeling

Here I am in the kitchen Dad was remodeling.
It had light orange painted walls and the Formica
countertops included an orange boomerang motif.

I worked five and a half days at the Shell station, on the house during the evening, and repaired cars in my garage on the weekends. That did not leave much time for play.

Here are photographs of our first Christmas in our new home. Mom painted the walls light turquoise, still a trendy color in 1963.

Dad trying on a new robe while Tom checks out what Santa left him

Dad, me on the couch

When Breath Becomes Air: Finding Purpose While Dying

Patient: one who endures hardship without complaint.

I know about cancer. My parents died of it.

Mom had psoriatic arthritis and psoriasis that had been controlled by Methotrexate, allowing her a better quality of life during her last years. But she always feared an dependent old age, unable to take care of herself.
She had been a lifelong smoker until the birth of my son when she decided to give it up. It turned out to be easier than she ever imagined.

She was fifty-seven, recovering from a broken knee, when she convinced her doctor that her excruciating back pain was not normal. A CAT scan revealed cancer spread through her body, in her lungs, pancreas, brain, and bones. She had weeks or months.

After her first chemo she came home and called all her friends and relatives, calming chatting and telling them the news. She instructed me on the value of her Depression glass collection and what jewelry was 'good'.

She wondered if I remembered my grandparents who had died before I was three, hoping that our two-and-a-half-year-old son would remember his doting grandmother. It was her only regret, for she had given up hope of ever having a grandchild and had found joy as a grandmother.

Two weeks later she was in the hospital, choosing morphine over pain, leaving behind a weeping family and devastated husband.

Fast forward sixteen years. My father had found a girlfriend and was enjoying life when his Non-Hodgkins lymphoma came out of remission. Whereas Mom accepted the news, Dad was determined to fight the cancer. I stayed at the hospital with him during the day, and my brother came after work. He held on for ten weeks before the oncologists allowed his removal to Hospice. Dad was 78. My brother and I were now all that was left.

I have uncles and a grandfather who died in their early fifties. It is hard to lose someone 'before their time'. I feel for my cousins whose dads passed when they were young adults. What is harder to accept is when death comes to people under forty, or thirty, or even as children.

*****

"I was driven less by achievement than by trying to understand, in earnest: What makes human life meaningful?"

Paul Kalanithi was driven to understand the most basic question of life: What makes life meaningful? What kind of life is worth living? Can a life cut short, on the cusp of reaching its potential, still hold meaning? He studied medicine, biology, philosophy, literature, and poetry searching for understanding. He attended Medical school to "bear witness to the twinned mysteries of death, its experiential and biological manifestations: at once deeply personal and utterly impersonal." He realized that physicians must understand their craft intellectually but also morally.

Had I been more religious in my youth, I might have become a pastor, for it was the pastoral role I'd sought.

At age 36, soon to graduate and begin his career as a neurosurgeon and planning to start a family, Paul was diagnosed with terminal cancer.

        "And with that, the future I had imagined, the one just about to be realized, the culmination of             decades of striving, evaporated."

The cancer could be managed, held off, for an uncertain length of time. As a doctor Paul understood his case, the options and the probability of their effects. He was also now a patient, needing to make sense of his options and potential, finding what would give meaning to his time left on earth.

I began to view the world through two perspectives; I was starting to see death as both doctor and patient.

His love for language, writing, literature, and deep medical and scientific knowledge allowed Paul to express and probe his experience as a dying cancer patient, leaving behind this memoir.

Paul tells us about his patients and what they taught him, and about being a patient and what he learned. We hear about the rigorous and crushing work of residency and how a slight touch with a scalpel can be irrevocable. As a cancer patient, he had to decide how to live--oriented towards life or death--and whether to have a child he won't live to see grow up.

...even if I'm dying, until I actually die, I am still living.

Paul did not live to finish his memoir. The moving epilogue is written by his wife. The Forward by Abraham Verghese warns us, "Be ready. Be seated. See what courage sounds like. See how brave it is to reveal yourself in this way. But above all, see what it is to still live, to profoundly influence the lives of others after you are gone, by your words...Listen to Paul. In the silences between his words, listen to what you have to say back. Therein lies the message."


When Breath Becomes Air
Paul Kalanithi
Random House
Published January 2016
$25 hard cover
ISBN: 9780812988406