First Jump by Dennis Lutz

I felt the plane banking.  It would be my turn soon.  I sat on my rump, no longer looking out the window, trying to calm down.  A blast of cold air bit into my hands and face as the passenger door opened once again.  I was shivering, and the cold only made things worse.  The engine vibration dulled and I knew it was time.

I wanted to just go back with the plane.   Pride and embarrassment overcame terror as I made my way forward, skidding on my rump.  The jump master was grinning as he checked me out.  I must have had that look that he had seen many times before.  He shouted words of encouragement, but I barely heard.

When told I sat in the door, and for a moment my fear passed.  Outside the entire state of Ohio was unfolding before my eyes.  Postage stamp fields, forests with boundaries, I had only been in a plane once before in my life.  I had never seen this sight or flown this high, nor sat in an open door with my feet dangling at 3000 feet. If it hadn’t been for the wind and the fear, I might have found it peaceful.

The jump master yelled and I bolted out onto the wing strut, almost going over it.  My massive 2 hours of instruction had briefly mentioned to me to go out strong to overcome any wind resistance.  Definitely did that.  The wind was now pushing my whole body and all thoughts of going back with the plane were gone.  From here there was only one way back.

I collected myself and looked at the jump master, who was signaling me to jump, so I just let go of the strut. No real jump, no big arch for this jumper, no pulling the fake rip cord, actually, no form at all, just falling.  No deep thoughts, just terror.  I knew I was falling, and a part of my brain was telling me to do something, but the rest of my body was not responding. 

Four seconds later with a lurch and a snap the canopy popped open.  One second pure terror, the next pure relief!!  No real wind, no engine noise, just me and the view and the parachute.  All things became right with the universe.  Like a god I descended toward the ground.

My god-like feelings did not last that long.  Things got bigger and the forests lost their definitions.  It occurred to me that I was going to have to once again put that 2 hours of intensive training to work and land.  Nervousness began creeping back, but at this stage, there were no thoughts of turning back. There were no choices.  I looked to the ground and saw that I was already traveling past the drop zone target.  Now I began to actually attempt to steer the chute.  What had been my serene, godlike descent was turning into a rush to meet up with destiny.  At the last minute I turned into the wind and executed a parachute landing fall.  Not text book, but effective.  Nothing broken, and I only missed the target by a quarter mile.  Easy walk back.  Time for a celebration.

Copyright © 2019, Dennis E. Lutz.  Material may be reprinted or distributed only with author permission.

Bundles of Joy by Judy Vandevelde

Out of nowhere into our arms

This tiny bundle of joy

A bit of heaven in human form

A precious baby boy

Beautiful tiny baby hands

Clenching at our heart

Little fingers and sturdy feet

Ready for life at the start

Bluish eyes and twinkling smile

Hair that’s touched by the sun

We watch him as he learns and grows

With love for everyone

A tiny sister comes along

As sweet as a baby can be

She loves to share a rhyme or two

While sitting on your knee

She dances as she moves about

And jumps and claps her hands

There’s kindness in that little face

As before you she stands

You give her a kiss

She blinks her eyes

Will you get my teddy bear, please?

Let’s read the rhyme about the Five Little Monkeys

My life has changed so much

Watching my grandchildren grow.

They sing and play and run around.

Gifts of love, I know

Merry Christmas by Charlie Plyter

The lady pulling the sled was my mother. Walking with her on that cold 24th of December in 1942 was my Aunt Helen. My mother was six months pregnant and my aunt was five months along. The streets of Newark were passable but snow covered, so the sisters carefully chose their way avoiding ice and the occasional drift. My father was at work at a defense plant in Rochester and my sisters and I were at Grandma’s. My aunt’s husband was in the Marines and stationed somewhere in Africa, according to what he wrote. He had devised a scheme to keep her aware of his whereabouts that somehow escaped the scrutiny and the scissors of the censors. He was in service to his country, but the sisters were on a mission of their own; a Christmas mission.

We had a Christmas tree but Aunt Helen did not, so they were off to get her one. They had a $1.10 between them, a tidy sum during the Depression days of WWII. Word had it that a farmer was selling off his inventory of trees in the parking lot of Ferrell’s Garage for as little as $1.00. It was two o’clock and, if they hurried, they might find one and get home before dark. The parking lot of Schofield’s Diner was a good place to take a breather. The aroma of coffee and fried onions filled the air and as one they said, “Wish we had money for coffee and a snack.” They did not. The dollar was for the tree and the dime, well maybe it could be used for a cup of coffee each on the way back. It was cold standing there so they moved on.

The three remaining blocks went quickly as the brisk temperatures spurred them on. As they approached Ferrell’s they were shocked to see a sign that read, “Trees $3.00”. It stopped them in their tracks. There was a dilapidated truck parked near the remaining trees and inside was a man asleep at the wheel, as it were. He had a distinguished looking white beard and moustache. My aunt knocked on the window and he stirred, smiled and opened the door of the truck. “Ladies, you are just in time. I was just about to load up and go home. Santa’s coming tonight.”

Playing on his kind looks my mother explained about her sister having a husband in the Marines, that they had walked more than a mile thinking the trees were going to be a dollar. He scratched the side of his jaw and, with a thoughtful look on his face, announced, “Special price of one dollar for the wife of a Marine. Pick one out.” They did not need any further urging and in a minute or two and had one picked out. They gave him the dollar, he offered to tie the tree to the sled and my mother gratefully accepted. He put the dollar into the pocket of his overalls and from the cab of his truck produced some red twine. They shivered as he made a production of tying the tree to the sled, weaving the twine in and out of the branches. It seemed like an excess of caution, but finally he turned and said with a smile. “Better safe than sorry. Looks like I got you started on the decorations what with the red twine. Looks good with the green.” They thanked him for his generosity and thoughtfulness and started home.

Once again Schofield’s Diner was a good halfway point and a good place to take a rest. My aunt produced the dime she had left, held it out. Their eyes met and with a nod it was agreed they would spend it on coffee. Mother pulled the sled close to the door of the diner so they could keep an eye on it while they drank the coffee. “Sure wish we had money for a doughnut,” Mom remarked and Aunt Helen agreed. The door of the diner opened and out came Doc Johnson. “Florence, you better get home and get that tree decorated because Santa is on his way, but I see you have already started.” They looked where he pointed and there in the limbs secured by the red twine was a $5.00 bill. As they enjoyed the coffee and doughnuts they agreed that Santa had already arrived.

CONTEMPLATION By Terry Le Feber

“What ya doing, Bud?”

“Just sitting. Enjoying the universe. Staring at the stars.”

“Yeah. Beautiful aren’t they?  Someone once said, ‘there are billions and billions of them’.”

“Yep. Some dude named Carl Sagan, if memory serves.”

“Right. And like them, he too is long gone.”

“Got that right.  Really long, long gone.”

“But, you and I and the rest of us are still here.”

“Yes. Not like them.”

“Well, maybe Yes. Maybe No.  They’re still out there. Somewhere amongst the billions and billions.”

“And, eventually they’ll come back and try again.”

“Think they’ll ever get it right?”

“You mean like us?  Maybe. They keep trying. Gotta give them that.  Maybe next time.”

“Well, we are here. And, they aren’t. And…we are still in charge…for the time being.”

“Yeah. Strange how History repeats itself every 50 million years or so.”

“Yep. Well, it’s past my bedtime.  Gotta go. Goodnight, Bud.”

The Grasshopper rolled over on its side and dimmed his 1,000 eyes to sleep as his friend, the Wasp, flew back to his nest to rest.

Where to Dwell by Patrick Wegman

Geraldo Rivera.  He is well known as a journalist and media personality with a flair for the dramatic.  While not currently one of my favorites in the field, his expose’ back in 1972 of the Willowbrook State School on Staten Island would lead me to become involved in a short lived career years later in rural Illinois that would be one of the most eye opening and influential experiences of my life.  The opportunity was at the same time both heart wrenching and rewarding in the deepest sense.

For those not familiar with the expose’ Willowbrook would become synonymous with the mistreatment of the retarded and mentally ill (often lumped together as one group).  It was a situation that would lead to massive changes for how we treat some of our most vulnerable citizens today.  My story is about some people I worked with and for in the 1970s.

It is neither an indictment nor judgement of any individuals or a system that was in place back in the late 40s through the 70s (There is no value at this stage in pointing fingers). It is simply a story about hurt and hope.

Some of the names were Franklin, Gladys, Doug, Gene, Roberta, Emory and Manning, who were brothers, Elizabeth and so many more too numerous to list here.  They came from places in Illinois with names like Alton State Hospital, Chicago State Hospital, Dixon State Hospital, The Neuropsychiatric Institute and many more.  While initially the goals of these “hospitals” were somewhat laudable, or at least well meaning, (the history of these types of places varies from state to state and country to country) in most instances they ended up becoming holding pens, places to control and hide a segment of the population that most people did not want to deal with.  In many instances conditions deteriorated to the point of mistreatment or outright abuse that often led to premature deaths as was the case at Willowbrook.

Barb came to us (the staff at a sheltered workshop in central Illinois) with a severely bent frame which included a deformity where she could not raise her head up straight.  We learned that it was because of hours and hours of sitting in a hallway with nothing to do for days and weeks and months and years.  Yet she could still warm your heart with a smile. 

Elizabeth was another sad story.  She was forced into an institution by relatives who found the required number of doctors to sign forms that indicated she should be put away.  We soon learned she had not been retarded or mentally ill and yet she was sequestered for decades with people who were and subsequently she took on the persona that was the norm in order to get by.  Yet she could still smile and often did.

There was Franklin who, like many others had been put on Thorazine and other such “medications” that left him pacing up and down all day repeating many of the same phrases over and over (I remember one  was about helping his dad with a Chevy when he was a kid) and constantly rubbing his head. Often he would look for cigarette butts on the floor.  The withdrawal from these powerful drugs is very painful for the person on them as well as those who observe the withdrawal, for different reasons.   In most cases the effects of these drugs were irreversible.  Yet Franklin could smile as well and give a quick hug as he passed you while pacing. Actually any kind of caring human touch was more than welcome from most of our friends having been in places where human contact was mostly in the form of being herded from one place to another, often in a manner that was abusive, within the institutions from whence they came.

            Doug was, by most standards, unattractive and made strange noises.  Gladys babbled on about nothing thinking she was being quite eloquent.  Gene was abnormally quiet.  He, like many others coming from the institutions, was not trusting of those in places of authority.  Yet (you guessed it) most had very engaging smiles.

For the most part social skills were non-existent.  The reason for this could sometimes be attributed to legitimate, verifiable conditions but for the most part it was because no one treated them as beings worthy of verbal exchanges.  They were mostly spoken at instead of to or with.  

When they came to the sheltered workshop in the morning they all seemed happy to be there. They had somewhere to be that was at least somewhat stimulating and as a staff we were determined to make their lives a little better hoping to help them find a sense of purpose, pride and fulfillment.   Of course we were underfunded, as was the case at that time for most programs trying to handle the flow of people being de-institutionalized, but we had amazing staff that could make a little go a long way.

There was Cookie and Jimmy a hippie couple who constructed their own yurt and did quite well living off the land.  But they didn’t just “turn on, tune in, and drop out”.  They took their skills and talents and ran the arts and crafts part of the program getting people who never created anything to fashion some great pieces of art using pasta, yarn, glue and other types of media associated mostly with kindergarteners but to these folks were items that let them express themselves for the first time ever and they were quite proud.  It was for most of the people the best part of the day.

There was Cindy who led the daily living skills class, no small task as many of our folk had never even been taught even basic hygiene.   She was 70ish, sharp as a tack and could relate to these people as well as anyone I had seen up to then and since.  It was a beautiful thing to watch her interact with them treating them as equals and beings of value.  She was everyone’s Grandma in the best sense of the moniker.

Susan was the nurse par-excellence.  Distributing pills was her main responsibility (not easy as there were many to pass out).  Her demeanor, while carrying out her job was her best medicine.  Then there was Carol who taught speech both individually and with small groups.  Trying to teach “speech” to older people with tremendous impairments is almost hopeless (I know because I would fill in for her on occasion) yet somehow with her skills and upbeat personality she was able to help her clients communicate on a level most would consider basic but for many we served was a great accomplishment.

I could go on and on about the individuals who were cared for and their caregivers.  For me it was an experience which even today, some 40+ years later, I find myself getting emotional over.  Both from the sadness and hurt our friends endured physically and, even more so, emotionally and psychologically but also because I do remember the triumphs (as small as most were) and the feeling that what we all experienced was something special.  Then, of course, there were the smiles, wonderful smiles emanating from people who had every reason to remain angry and bitter but who chose instead not to dwell there.