Having just written this little story below about Ed, I began thinking afresh about the plight of those less fortunate than myself. The image above resulted in that meditation. It is entitled "STOP," and can be interpreted in many ways. Stop hunger, stop injustice, stop prejudice, stop discrimination, stop thinking of yourself… and the list could go on.

In June this year the Coalition for Homelessness Intervention and Prevention, based in Indianapolis reported that Indiana family homelessness was up 78% over 2008. I of course list Indianapolis as this is the closest city to where I am living. The National Alliance to End Homelessness website has some staggering figures and many resources for those who are interested in looking further at this growing problem. Due to the economy these figures are only growing.

While I am not suggesting we all go out and find an 'Ed,' we can do something to relieve the suffering of so many people. Think about it. If you could change the life of one person, would you do it?

The image above is shown is 10.25 x 40 inches and is viewable in the FOR SALE link. If anybody would like to purchase this, 80% of the money will go towards our local Homeless Shelter Ministry in Evansville or a place of your choosing. Just let me know. I am doing this far below cost. Thanks for your consideration. Together we CAN make some difference. For any interested person who would like to see this at a larger size, please contact me and I can send you a copy of the file which shows a lot more detail.

Ed’s clothes were in the washing machine for the second time. Even after the first wash cycle was complete, the rinse water was still a slushy brownish-grey. I passed the hallway and tapped on the door. I was going to tell him that his clothes would take a little longer than expected and I would need to see if I could find some alternate clothes for him to wear while we waited. After knocking a few times with no reply, I assumed he couldn’t hear because of the shower running. I hesitantly cracked the door to make sure he was okay and speak beyond the noise of the running water. Much to my surprise, Ed was sitting on the edge of the tub while the water ran freely down the drain. It had been running for quite a while and I found myself momentarily confused. It was immediately obvious that he hadn’t even been in the shower. Giving him a slight benefit of doubt I casually asked if he was running water for the bath, instead of the shower. I then realised I was going to have to be a little more assertive.

“Ed, you really need to take a shower now. I will see if I can find something else for you to change into while we wait, but before I do this let’s start the shower. I think the water is warm now.” It felt quite awkward. Ed was twice my age and shouldn’t have needed to be coaxed under the water. I would have thought this was exactly where he would want to go. However, this wasn’t the case. I suppose it was understandable on some level.

You see…Ed was homeless.

Before I became old enough to realise that I couldn’t save the entire world, I rescued Ed. I had always had a soft heart for the underdogs and he was certainly one of the strays that needed my help. This was over twenty-five years ago and consequently some of the finer details of my relationship with Ed are long gone from my memory. I had met Ed at a local convenience store. He was begging for money and the moment I saw him I knew I had to do something. Does this make me a good person? Perhaps. Gullible? Definitely. I have been accused of being too generous at times, but felt that everybody should be doing this. Besides, I had so much; why not share?

I normally refrained from giving money, but preferred to buy such a person some food or beverage or something more useful. Otherwise, in my limited experience with such matters I was certain it would be spent on alcohol or illegal drugs. So…off to the diner we went. It wasn’t uncommon for some people to reject my generosity once they realised I wasn’t going to give them money, but Ed was different. Before I barely got the word out of my mouth he was sitting in the passenger seat of my car. His brown leathery skin and dark yellow teeth made my appetite wane. However, I was now committed and sat behind the wheel and rolled down all of the windows, trying not to look conspicuous.

As Ed swallowed his food in three bites I attempted to make light conversation; things you always say or want to say to a homeless person. “Nice weather we’re having.” Surely this would be a good topic of conversation. For a homeless person they would have an extra appreciation for nice days. Ed began telling me about some of his travels, catching trains, hitchhiking from coast to coast (which he claims seldom worked) and the numerous miles he had walked. From looking at the state of poor Ed, I know most people would certainly not stop for him. In fact, as he continued talking with food falling from his mouth I was having some doubts about why I had done so. He talked about more than thirty years of cold winters or hot summers and how he was forced to move all around the country to help him endure the uncertainties of the weather. After a while I felt the weather perhaps wasn’t a good topic and tried to change the conversation. I was finding myself becoming more and more depressed over my scrambled eggs and subconsciously guilty for not inhaling every crumb on my plate or leaving that extra strip of fat on my bacon.
Now that I had fed him, knowing it was the only meal he would probably eat for the day I wasn’t sure what to do with him. I know this is probably a bit of a cliché but he really did ask to be taken to a nearby bridge. It was getting on up in the day and he preferred to stay beneath the bridge where there was protection from the sun. As I unrolled the windows again and started up the car, something surprisingly came out of my mouth. “How would you like to come back to my house? You would be able to freshen up a bit, I could wash your clothes and make a sandwich to take with you.” I attempted to make it sound like casual conversation; something I often said to people. As the words came out of my mouth I realised I didn’t have a home myself. Oh my God, I was homeless. I was living with a family. It was their shower. It was their home. It was their washing machine and dryer. It was their bread and jam. Those who know me may appreciate the fact that I sometimes have the habit of speaking before engaging my brain. As I sat waiting for a reply, I thought of my friend Linda and how she would react to a homeless man in her shower, smelling her toiletries or – Oh my God – using her washcloths and towels. I retained a positive look on my face, but realised I hadn’t really thought this through very well.

He wasn’t as keen on this offer and I could have probably gotten out of it easier than when I offered to take him for breakfast. As I reversed the car I realised I could simply drive him to the bridge and bid him a farewell. It would be easy to get out of my ill-thought offer. I could make some feeble excuse that I had forgotten an appointment or something. However, there was no escaping the stench as the wind now blew in my direction from the open windows. Consequently I became more convinced this was the Christian thing to do. Poor Ed. He stank. He really stank.

I can’t recall if anybody was home at the time, but again, everybody should be doing this. Right? So what if the family had two children in the home. What harm would it do to give him a bar of soap and insecticide? He could use my towel for showering if Linda wasn’t keen on the idea. All I knew was Ed stank and I was going to save him.

I returned with some spare clothes in hand. I don’t think they were mine for Ed and I were different sizes. Anybody would be more than willing to let Ed wear their clothes. Wouldn’t they? It was, after all, the Christian duty. This time I didn’t knock on the door, but wanted to surprise him and see if he was in the shower. Thankfully he was and I didn’t have to look on his homeless naked body for the second time. “Ed, here are some spare clothes. You can come out when you are ready,” I shouted above the noise of the water. I didn’t think it important to mention that his clothes were needing a second wash. It was a victory to hear him under the shower and I didn’t want to break any concentration that might be happening at that moment. “Take your time though. Don’t get in a hurry.” Closing the door I had a sudden urge to run back in there, strip down to my knickers, fling open the shower curtain with a heavy-duty scrubber in hand, jump in and scour his back. Thankfully I resisted the temptation and went on to the kitchen.

I’m uncertain to this day exactly what the family I was living with really thought, but they were incredibly generous nevertheless. I think they were used to my odd ways and went along on the journey. It may have even been them who took it to the next step. If I were going to save Ed, he would need a home. I know asking them to let Ed sleep in the garage was not an option so I didn’t even suggest it. Even friendship has its limitations.

Linda, her family, and I went to a local church and I decided perhaps they could come up with a good solution. Excusing myself from awkward conversation I went to check on the clothes. After the second wash they could still have used a third washing, but I decided to go ahead and dry them. Conversation with Ed was becoming a little stilted and it was probably best to not inconvenience my host family more than I had done so.

A couple of months later Ed was in his routine. The arrangement we worked out with the church was that in the evenings he would be locked up in a small room inside of the church office. We fitted him out with his own little room, a twin bed and bedside table. He seemed to enjoy all of the attention from the rest of the church and consequently became involved in the church activities. Everybody was speaking about dear Ed. I had done my Christian duty and saved him from the streets; in fact saved his very soul. Surely I was on speaking terms with God at this point. However, much to everybody’s surprise one day when the church staff entered the building and unlocked Ed from his room, Ed wreaked of alcohol.

We weren’t sure how he got it and were quite surprised. Ed was not only in church at every opportunity, but sat in the front row beside Granny Walker. If she couldn’t keep him on the straight and narrow, who could? Now we had to make sure he wasn’t bringing alcohol inside and had to check his room before the evening came around. After a little heart-to-heart chat Ed got the message, and claimed he would never do this again. He wouldn’t drink in the church and said it was a momentary set-back.

Unfortunately, very little time passed before it happened again. Ed no longer stank, but he was definitely drunk!

We straightaway learned dear Ed was removing a ceiling tile and exiting one of the church windows after everybody was gone in the evening. His room had no windows. He made sure he was back before the secretary came in the morning to let him out and the ceiling tile was back in place. Unfortunately homeless people are not always good about putting back ceiling tiles without drawing attention, especially after a long night of drinking. The mystery was solved.

I suppose the weather was about to change, but before I got to say goodbye Ed was gone. We dearly loved Ed, so I drove by the bridge a number of times hoping to see him, but with no success.

I almost saved the world…but not Ed.

We had just finished entertaining some young people at the main house and only the team was inside when it occurred. Had we any glass in the windows it would have all been blown out. As it was, my back was against the window, leaning on thin plastic, when a sudden noise and flash of light filled the room. The plastic slapped violently at my back. It is all a blur now, but I do recall my team members running outside (out the very door from which the flash occurred) to investigate. I wasn’t as bold. I stayed indoors. Perhaps I had seen too many films, but I imagined this was a ploy to get us outside and then mow us down with an Uzi. Gunshot and bombs were not uncommon in this place, but never so close. After a few moments when the guns didn’t sound, I peeked my head around the door and gingerly walked onto the porch. The villagers were running towards our home. It was then that we realised the noise and flash were in our front garden and not the centre of the village as some team members had suspected. Yes, our garden and the small wall that surrounded our home was the target. Who would want to harm or frighten us?

News of the US Marine bombing in Beirut filled the shortwave radio in 1983. Though we were not all Americans on the team, everyone was considered to be so. British, South African, American…we were all the same– we were American. With such animosity and fear, anything foreign was held in question.

Our village was Maronite Christian. The church services there were held in Aramaic, the language spoken by Jesus. Like the Latin services of the Catholic church, nobody really understood the majority of what was being said. They came partly out of devotion and partly to remember the dead. Before we had arrived, everyone who could not escape was taken to the church, opposite our home, and massacred by Palestinian terrorists. They were the innocent victims caught in one of the many Middle East conflicts that unfortunately, decades later, still exists. Their village just happened to get in the way. We had nothing to hide. We were only there to help the victims recover from the terror and bloodshed. Our only purpose was to offer hope and bring some slight relief to their suffering. We lived on the outskirts of Aishea; in fact the men of our team lived in the last house on the way out. Perhaps the explosion wasn’t an anti-American statement at all. Maybe it was purely because we lived on the edge of the village. It might have been that we were caught in the middle of Muslim and Christian hatred.

By the time we arrived in Lebanon we had all lived in Israel for some time and consequently spoke Hebrew. Was this considered suspicious by the local villagers? Probably. The Israeli tanks would barrel past our doors and on several occasions would stop to check on us to make sure we were safe. We would offer them coffee and biscuits and chat away in Hebrew. The soldiers could never figure out why we were there. None of them wanted to be there. Why would anybody in their right minds choose a place like this? Did the Israeli soldiers hold us in suspicion? If not, they were at least confused by our presence.

We had many friends in Aishea, especially amongst the younger generation. However, it was assumed we weren’t always welcomed by some of the older, more wise in the village. There were of course, exceptions to every rule — Jidde and Sitte (Arabic for grandmother and grandfather). I don’t recall their real names, for this is all we ever called them. They embraced us like their own grandchildren. In fact, once we realised it was a cultural faux pas to have a co-ed home, they offered their chicken coop for the ladies to live in. While it doesn’t sound very appealing, once we cleaned it and put kilis (whitewash) on the walls, it became nicer than the main house.

We also made friends from a nearby Muslim village. We would go and visit, drink tea and eat with them. After all, everybody was a victim in this conflict; not just the Christians. Was this suspicious? Most definitely. Because we lived on the edge of Aishea, our Muslim friends would come to our home and visit after dark. This was considered the safest time for them to come to our home. Scuffles would break out between the local Christians and our Muslim guests. This of course raised more suspicion towards us. How could we call ourselves Christian and have Muslims in our home? Why would a Christian speak Hebrew, the language of the Jews? Maybe the bomb was something more sinister after all.

As the sun was setting, still numb with emotion, we slowly returned to our home and the villagers back to theirs. There were no telephone lines. This was before e-mail, mobile phones or text messaging. But because we were under Israeli protection, we were given a small hand-held two-way radio that communicated to Israel. It was to be used only in the event of emergencies. It didn’t take long before the team agreed that a bomb in our front garden warranted such a call. As there was war all around us, we had to talk in ‘code’ so our communication didn’t get intercepted. We were known as ‘mountain-folk.’ The call would have been answered in the northern-most city in Israel, Metulla. I can’t recall the exact wording, but the call went something like this…

“Mountain-folk calling home. Mountain-folk calling home.
Come in home.”

After a few false starts, a lot of crackling noise, unintelligible sounds, and several pauses, we finally made contact.

“Go ahead mountain-folk. Over.”
“This is mountain-folk. We have a tossed salad and would like to invite you for dinner. Over.”

Early the next morning, we found ourselves regretting the call we had felt was so important to make. How prophetic was that last word in our call to home. It was believed by our leaders that it was no longer safe for us to be in Lebanon. Vehicles arrived from Israel and seemingly within moments we were whisked away. We loaded our personal belongings and left the houses vacant. Our two tortoises who lived in our back garden, named Jidde and Sitte after our adopted grandparents, were released into the woods to fend for themselves.

As we sat in our vehicles now pointing towards Israel, we slowly crept through the village. One-by-one they came from their homes and lined the road. Our hands were pressed against the glass as they banged on the windows and cars and begged us not to go. George, the shopkeeper’s son who was convinced he looked like Superman, stood silently beside the only shop in the village. Hadi, a young boy whom I had befriended, stood by his parents, not daring to look up. Miled, one of our best friends, stood along the road, wiping tears on his handkerchief, hand-in-hand with his younger sister. Someone reached in through an open window and pressed a small blue amulet into my palm, to protect me from evil. We had spent months preparing, learning Arabic in Majdal Shams, a Druze village in northern Israel, and learning about Arab culture. We were ready to invest our lives with these people. To have us pulled out before we were ready to go was devastating far beyond my simple words or uncontrollable tears could ever explain.

For us, there was an escape. We could go back to Israel, where there was running water and electricity. We could stand beneath the warm showers for as long as we wanted. We could go to the stores and buy whatever we desired. Fresh vegetables, meat, an unlimited amount of basic necessities were there for us to take. We could travel without fear of being robbed or held hostage. We could live without a cloud of suspicion following us wherever we went. We could buy an aeroplane ticket and fly anywhere in the world we wanted. We were indeed free.

For those we left behind…they could do none of these things.

“Who threw the dynamite?” – a question that had riddled my thoughts since the bombing, was now unimportant. It was over. And so were our dreams.

I can't recall how many times a day I tell my students to save their work. I almost want to have a push button that belts out the message on a regular basis. On my home computer I have it set up to save automatically but it is not possible on the University computers. Ultimately I get busy and forget to remind them until suddenly a hand goes up and a look of desperation is staring me in the face. Yes, it happens.

This is the frustrating part of working with computers. Thankfully it isn't an everyday occurrence. I recall once working for over a month on an illustration and had indeed saved it. I was putting the last finishing strokes on the image when the little rotating ball started its dance on the screen. No problem, I thought.

I'll simply force quit the programme or reboot the computer and we'll go back and be done. In this situation, it wasn't that easy. The entire computer crashed. When I say crashed, perhaps the word implosion would be more accurate. I couldn't get it to open anything, anywhere or at any time. I should have been paying attention to the signs of slagging times it took to do elementary tasks. However I kept ignoring it until the CRASH. It was trying to tell me that I was pushing too much information on it and not enough memory, but I kept on pushing. Some of my images can become very complex and eat up a lot of memory. This was one of them and it unfortunately tipped it over the scales.

I was doing a commissioned illustration and was nearing the deadline. To save all of the incredibly boring details I had to rebuild the computer, lost all of my work that wasn't saved in another back-up device. Guess what? I had only saved this illustration on my hard drive. It was irretrievable. What had taken me weeks to do, I now had to do it within hours. Lesson Learned.

So now the phrase SAFE OFTEN, probably needs an addendum— SAVE EVERYWHERE!

This is a little bit of an experiment! I have been told recently that I should write some of my memoirs of my life. My first immediate comment was, "Who would be interested in my ilfe?" Well, I have written two short stories and am placing one of them out here. If you think I should write more, please let me know. I have lived an exciting life and enjoy the thought of others reliving some of my experiences with me. So, if you read this and think I should write more, please send me a note. I am eager for your thoughts.

---

His sneer is something directly out of a film. In fact, I often feel a spectator whenever I am in his office. This certainly isn’t my first visit, but each time I am summoned here I get a slightly uneasy feel in the pit of my stomach. I notice the oversized image of Islam Karimov, the president, which hangs proudly against the dark cherry paneling on my right. If only I could go straighten it on the wall I might be able to concentrate on what he was ranting about. Behind the captain’s desk is a hodge-podge of photographs in mix-and-match frames. The captain was surprisingly handsome in his younger days. You would never know it now as he has put on at least 50 pounds and has salt and pepper thinning grey hair. His uniform, though neatly pressed is at least 2 sizes too small for him. I don’t think I have ever seen him clean shaven. It often looks like he just returned from a long night of too much vodka. I know he drinks quite heavily as I have often smelled it on him. Is this look he is giving me now something all KGB officers practice before joining? As I sit there my mind drifts further and I imagine a room full of KGB men and women, all looking into hand-held mirrors. Their eyes are slightly squinted. One corner of each mouth twists upward while the rest of their lips clench tightly closed. I can see them single-file walking back and forth in a row, clacking their heels. Did they all practice the quick turn-around and that glare of disgust that my host so often does? His shoulders pushed back and firm made him look more severe. I had heard the “tsk-tsk” and snapping of their tongues so often that it comes across slightly humourous. Unconsciously a smile forms.

“Why you laugh? Is this one thing funny?” he attempts in broken English. Most of the time he speaks Uzbek, but sometimes he tries to speak English, mostly I think as an attempt to make himself appear smarter than he really is. I compose myself and motion a silent ‘no.’ Tohir-jon and another young officer near the doorway stare in my direction and say something in Russian to the captain. They know I don’t speak Russian and therefore this always unnerves me a little. What lies are they telling? What untold charges are being made up?

It mystifies me that after the collapse of the former Soviet regime and the expulsion of the KGB that these native Uzbeks would steer the vehicle with more fierceness and recklessness than their predecessors. Sure, they were not called the KGB, or Kuh Guh Buh. They changed their name. But everyone still refers to them as such. They want control of every movement. They still bug homes and follow your every move. Everybody lives in fear, unable to speak openly or honestly about their lives. Nothing has changed…only the drivers.

Again, the same questions come. Over and over we go with the same information. Why am I here? How do I know the British ambassador in Tashkent? Who am I? Where have I been? Who did I speak with? Who do I know at the American Embassy? What was I doing in Margilan? What work am I doing? Who gives me money? Who are these other foreigners? Who do I know in Andijon? Why do I have two passports? The last question seems to be the most interesting to them.

With each round I become more weary. I tell them the same thing repeatedly. Maybe this really is a spy film and I am an uninformed actor playing the part. Again, my mind drifts as I think of being stretched on the rack or having hot wax dripped on my genitals. Perhaps they will use the old Chinese water torture I had seen in an ancient film. Hopefully they won’t touch my fingernails. That would be real torture. I wonder if they will swap me out on a foggy night with a real spy from former Soviet days. It will undoubtedly be on a bridge. I will be stuffed into the back of a black Lada and told that I will have to leave my daughter and wife there. She will meet up with me when I arrive in London. Maybe they are going to torture them as well. What will happen to our house? Belle, our dog?

Thankfully reality persists and I am startled by the slam of the door. Nobody is left in the room but the young Uzbek, who routinely follows me. I have often seen him at the airport, or in the market in Margilan. I’ve seen him in the bathhouse. I’m pretty sure I even saw him in Tashkent, eight hours away by the mountain pass. Tohir speaks the best English of them all. He sits beside me in the grey straight backed chair with the ripped cushion. His smile under other circumstances would appear friendly. The light hits his one gold tooth in front and distracts my attention.


“Erkin-jon, (my name in Uzbek) pay no attention to Nodir-aka,” his right hand now on my left knee. “He is always so angry. He means so little harm. If you tell me why you have American and British passport, I will speak to him and he will let you go home. Would you like some tea?” Again, his gold tooth catches my eye. He places the cup of green tea in my hand. “Bread?” In exasperation I repeat myself. Hoping for something different, his smile slowly turns sour and slinging the leftover tea from his cup into the corner, he puts the cup on the low table, stands and turns away. “Stupid British,” he mumbles, shaking his head, as he walks out of the room.

Fifteen or twenty minutes pass as I sit alone, waiting.

Nodir-aka returns, crashing the door closed behind him. Clack…clack…clack, his heels strike the dingy green linoleum tiles. He walks behind the large maple desk and sits, never taking his eyes off me.  “You must tell us when you leave Ferghana, when you will return and where you are going,” comes the final threat again. There are a few words in Uzbek which I don’t quite understand. Perhaps he mingled them with Russian, which was often the case. He hesitantly hands me my American and British passports and keeps his glare on me.

I quickly place them into my pocket in case he changes his mind. Then comes nothing but silence. After a few minutes, which seem much longer, I ask if I may go. “Go,” is his only reply. His face is now red and swollen.

I grab my chapan and wrap it closely around my body. I turn and walk towards the door, with my hat in my right hand, not daring to look back. I gently close the door behind me, waiting for the click of the handle and look right down the wide hallway. My uncontrollable heavy sigh is the only noise I hear in this darkened passage as I begin my exit. There are black-and-white images of KGB officers lining the hallways, with dates beneath their names. It feels as if all of their eyes are on me, but I know this is only my paranoia. In the centre of this hallway is a large medallion with Russian inscriptions which I cannot make out. One hallway, turn right– another hallway, turn left and finally I see some light. Before I leave I have to sign out and walk through that heavy steel door.

There is a lady who barely looks up at me, her Atlas silk dress glimmers by the sunlight coming in her window. Her scarf, which clashes with her dress, is tied neatly around her hair. She pushes the clipboard in my direction with a grunt and goes back to her work. It is then that I notice her sullen face, the black outline around her lips, the blue eye shadow, and her one thick eyebrow created with the help of an eyebrow pencil. I try to make light conversation but am ignored. “Rahmat,” (thank you) but still no reply.

I walk out into the bright sun and squint as it stings my eyes. I put on my warm fur hat and adjust it, making sure I have it on the correct way. Through the dusty courtyard I walk, towards the high metal rusted gates and past the guards on my right. One of them stops me and demands to see my paperwork. He’s young. These are often the worst ones. They love the power of their badges. I only show the British passport and tuck it back into my chapan. Satisfied, he lets me through.

There’s no way in hell I’m going to tell them when I leave town, I whisper silently, as I walk home to my family. Two passports, indeed. I can’t remember how the KGB ever saw the American passport. Oh well, just another day.

If you are alive, you have undoubtedly experienced at least to some measure the frustration of new technology. Though it is often thought of as an "age" thing when frustrations occur, I know from working with university students that they too have problems figuring it all out.

It is like the quote, often referred to the opposite gender (you fill in the blank)…"_______, you can't live with them. You can't live without them."

So it is with technology. As soon as I figure out my old 35 mm. I am given a digital camera. As soon as I learn how to use my cell phone and make an outgoing call, I am told I need to text. I finally make sense of this software and they update it and give me something new, moving around all of the palettes. And the list goes on. This is even more true for those who work in such a field as mine.

I lost count on the number of self-tutorials I have had to do over the years. How many '______ for Dummies' books can one hold on their shelves? I suppose I will just have to build new shelves as somebody out there is never satisfied.



While giving a lecture recently I came across a slide I had inserted into the Powerpoint which noted information about the first Apple computer, The Apple I, introduced in 1976. It had an initial price of $666.66, it used a cassette tape and had about 4KB of RAM. Hmm…I wonder if anybody else picked up on the significant numbers for the price tag? Can anybody say "BEAST?"

A regular television and a keyboard were the only additional accessories that were required to operate this computer. Thinking of 4KB of RAM makes me roll with laughter. A simple e-mail uses more than this. It is amazing that we have computers at all. I am surprised somebody didn't give up. I read somewhere that this would have been around $2500 in today's market. Apart from its incredibly low memory capacity, the high price made it unthinkable to most people; especially the ordinary consumer. WOW. We have really come a long way in such a short time. I wonder what is next?

(Don't get hung up on the BEAST comment. I'm sure it was purely coincidental.)