On the Trail: a Day of Thanks

Tuesday, May 13, 1997: My wife Anne and I found ourselves in Gothenburg, Nebraska, a small town of 3,500 people founded by Swedes in 1882 – once a Pony Express station site. We had hoped to meet up with the Mormon Trail’s 150th Anniversary Sesquicentennial Wagon Train, a 1,040-mile hundred-day event. Someone had told us that Dawn and Floyd Sherman were aboard, a couple from Bainbridge, New York, and just five miles from my hometown of Sidney.

We arrived around lunchtime. The wagon train was already camped in a park some six blocks beyond Ehman Park. By now, it was sunny and warm but the fierce wind was blowing dust everywhere. We bought lunch from the Mormons in the park pavilion and ate outside on a picnic table under a lovely shade tree. We were told we could drive through the encampment and search for the Shermans.

An elderly man pointed to a man getting water for his horses. “There’s their wagon and there he is now,” he said. “You’ll be better for meeting him.”

I went over and introduced myself to Floyd Sherman, sixty-one, who was definitely surprised to see someone from back home. He showed me his two small ponies, Crystal and Crisco, and the small, non-authentic, rubber-tired, three-by-seven-foot wagon he had built for the journey. Traveling with them was grandson Kevin, who would celebrate his ninth birthday on the trail in about three weeks. They had joined the train in Grand Island, Nebraska, but planned to stop 450 miles later in Fort Laramie, Wyoming and return home for another grandson’s high school graduation. Just then, his wife Dawn pulled up.

Anne asked Dawn where she grew up.

“In a little town in upstate New York you probably never heard of,” she replied, “Otego.”

“Otego!” exclaimed Anne, “I graduated from Otego High School in 1958. There were only twenty-eight students in the entire graduating class.” It turns out Anne and Dawn were high school friends who hadn’t seen each other for thirty-nine years!

Dawn beamed. “Floyd and I are celebrating our fortieth anniversary a week from today. Although our real anniversary was April 20, we wanted to celebrate “happy trails” in a big way!”

So for the next two hours, in the middle of a Nebraskan campground, these two former classmates held a high school reunion, catching up on old times and the whereabouts of fellow classmates. I took several photos to remember the occasion. At last, however, we had to part and go our separate ways. Truly, it had been a miraculous day, a day to remember, a day on the trail for which we will always give thanks.

Sadly, that wasn’t the end of the story. On July 3, 1997, just three weeks after they'd arrived home, Floyd died of a stroke. At the funeral Floyd’s son, Phil, took the seats out of their little covered wagon and helped load the casket. Henry Sherman, who was Floyd’s brother, and Kevin gave “Grandpa” his last ride up to the cemetery. Dawn later called this photo I took (right) their “fortieth anniversary” photo.

P.S.—While still on the wagon train, Dawn got Kevin to promise he’d join the bicentennial Mormon Trail Wagon Train. Kevin was aghast by the fact that he would be fifty-nine years old by then, the same age as Grandma. Somehow, I think he’ll be there.

– excerpted from Whither thou Goest © 2001, by Patrick Simpson (www.booksbypatricksimpson.com)

This blog dedicated to the memory of Annette Cherie White.
In lieu of flowers, please make donations online for her young family at Friends of Annette II.

... I dream things that never were; and I say:"'Why not?"

In 1982, my daughter Patricia went to Kenya as a volunteer with Operation Crossroads Africa (OCA). In 1997, my daughter Diana followed suit and volunteered with the Peace Corps in Chad, Africa. It was a life-changing experience for both.

Were the experiences surreal? Yes. Did they struggle? Yes. Did they see the world in a whole new way? Yes.

And I'm incredibly proud of both of them.

They'd heard the clarion call of service. And – perhaps inspired by the words of President John F. Kennedy – they'd declared to themselves, "Other people see things and say 'Why?' But I dream things that never were; and I say: 'Why not?'"

American clergyman and humanitarian Dr. James Herman Robinson, while on a three-month trip to Africa in 1954, saw great opportunities for young Americans to help young Africans in need at the grassroots level.

Based on the belief that one can truly enter another culture only by living and working in it, by 1958, he'd established Operation Crossroads Africa (OCA), which aimed to "build bridges of friendship to Africa" by giving volunteers opportunities to serve. Now in its 55th year, the OCA has sent over 11,000 persons to more than 53 countries to establish teacher training programs and to help build water systems, schools, clinics, and orphanages in countless villages. The organization's motto is "make a difference for others, see the difference in yourself."

Instead of just asking himself "Why?" Dr. Robinson had taken it upon himself to find solutions by asking "Why not?"

Inspired by Dr. Robinson, President Kennedy, in his inaugural address on January 20, 1961, famously said, "Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country." With Congress's passage of the Peace Corps Act on September 21, his Peace Corps became fully authorized.

His words had stirred a nation into action. Not only had they launched the race to the moon, but they had become the inspiration for the Peace Corps. Since 1961, over 210,000 Americans have joined the Peace Corps, volunteering in 139 countries by providing technical assistance and by helping foreigners and Americans understand each other's cultures.

Kennedy, too, had dreamed of things that never were, and had said, "Why not?"

I, too, have a dream. On this 50th anniversary of JFK's death, my thoughts are with my "friends," the special needs children at Frankie Lemmon School in Raleigh, North Carolina.

What are "special needs"? "Special needs are commonly defined by what a child can't do -- by milestones unmet, foods banned, activities avoided, experiences denied. These minuses hit families hard, and may make "special needs" seem like a tragic designation. Some parents will always mourn their child's lost potential, and many conditions become more troubling with time. Other families may find that their child's challenges make triumphs sweeter, and that weaknesses are often accompanied by amazing strengths." — Terri Mauro

Two famous examples of "special needs children" who reached full potential come to mind: Albert Einstein, famed physicist; and Temple Grandin, listed by Time magazine in 2010 as one of the 100 most influential people in the world. Each had amazing strengths

The mission of Frankie Lemmon has "remained unchanged for 48 years…to help preschool and kindergarten children with special needs achieve their full potential." Eligible children, ages 3-6, rich or poor, can attend the school tuition free, thanks to generous private donations that provide 60 percent of the school's operating funds. (The state provides 40 percent.)

Although my friends are extremely fortunate to have such wonderful teachers and staff to help them reach their full potential, there are many more children who cannot get in.

Why?

The answer is simple; there are more requests from parents than the school has openings, and more demands for additional grades. Due to the rise in developmental delays and disabilities, the school has seen an unprecedented demand for their services – and all indicators are saying the problem is only going to get bigger. But the school can't add staff until they have more space. Without additional space, they are unable to hire additional therapists and provide more therapy services.

So, our school has special needs of its own, and the waiting list will continue to grow — unless each one of us can answer the same relevant questions President Kennedy asked us some 50 years ago:

"Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country."

"Other people see things and say 'Why?' But I dream things that never were; and I say: 'Why not?'"

— "Mr. Pat" Simpson, volunteer

My Ghost Town Home in the West

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Charlie: "Grandpa, how did this town become a ghost town?"

Me: "When it died."

Charlie: "How did it die?"

Me: "Charlie, everything was just fine here until about 80 years ago. That's when they built a railroad to Heppner rather than to Hardman. The last business closed in 1968 and almost everyone moved away."

This was my third visit over the years to the ghost town of Hardman, Oregon, where my ancestors once lived. It was daughter Diana's first, as well as 4-year-old grandson Charlie's.

But first, however, we'd visited nearby Heppner and the wonderful Morrow County Museum, where I'd met old-timer Bob Lovgren. Not only had he shown me some artifacts from my family's history, he'd known them all: the Simpsons, the Bechdolts, even the Merrills!

Some of them are buried in Heppner, so before we left for Hardman, we drove high atop South Hill to Heppner Cemetery, where we got a bird's eye view of Heppner and Willow Creek Lake.

We soon found the gravestones of my great-granduncle Justus Simpson, his wife Susan, their daughter Cora and her husband, Edward Jay Merrill. But something new, a large monument erected in 2003, had been added since my last visit. It was dedicated to the estimated 238 people swept away by the deadliest natural disaster in Oregon's history: the tragic flash flood of 1903. The survivors swore "Never again," but it took them 80 years to finally build a dam "to end all dams," thus turning Willow Creek into a huge retention lake. (Note: the dam proved its mettle against two potentially deadly flash floods – BOTH in the spring of 2011!)

At last we drove to Hardman, about a half-hour drive over very barren land. It was a desolate, isolated land full of high rolling hills with no trees. There we photographed each other in front of the deserted houses.

Charlie: "Are these ghost houses Grandpa?"

Me: "No Charlie. If you look around, there are 3 or 4 squatters in some of them. They've moved in, much like Hermit crabs move into deserted shells."

The rest of our folks were buried about four miles out Hardman Ridge Road in the IOOF Hardman Cemetery. My wife Anne and I found it only six years ago, after a book-signing event in Milton-Freewater, after nearly giving up the search. After all, ghosts aren't good on giving directions. It was then that we met a nice couple backing out of their driveway, the only humans for miles. We pulled up and hailed them.

"Excuse me folks," I asked, "could you direct us to the cemetery?"

"I'll take you there," said the man. "I'm the caretaker. Follow us."

We couldn't believe our good fortune. Follow them we did!

Turns out the cemetery was barely visible on a hill behind the now-vacant TREO hunting lodge. The couple, Bob and Judy Stevens, were so kind, so accommodating. Anne stayed with Judy while Bob took me on a walking tour of the cemetery to meet my long-dead relatives. Like Mr. Lovgren back in Heppner, Bob had also grown up with them and had known them all.

We found Cora Simpson's father-in-law, Thomas J. Merrill and his wife Eudora. Cora's sister Jennie and her husband, William W. Bechdolt were here, along with Archie and Adrian, their two sons.

We had followed Justus all the way across America. Justus had followed his sister Mary Jane. Mary Jane had followed her husband Theo. And Theo had followed his dream – to settle in the West. Still others followed by the thousands. Nothing, not even the deaths of over two hundred people in a horrible flood, deterred any of them them from their dream.

Bob said they'd read about us in the newspaper but never expected us to show up in their driveway! (By the way, Bob is in the Blue Mountain Old-Time Fiddlers Association and plays a mean fiddle!). They were an unforgettable couple.

And today was an unforgettable day. Diana and I were trying to get over the recent death of her brother, my son David. And Anne had died only six months ago.

"Grandpa, I'm hungry!" said Charlie.

"We are too, sweetie."

If we wanted anything to eat, it would have to be somewhere else. It was a long and winding road back to Walla Walla.

2 Samuel 12:23 – "But now he is dead. Why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I shall go to him, but he will not return to me.” (King David speaking of his infant son who died)

Mars Attacks!

RADIO ANNOUNCER: "Good heavens, something's wriggling out of the shadow like a gray snake. Now here's another and another one and another one. They look like tentacles to me ... I can see the thing's body now. It's large, large as a bear. It glistens like wet leather. But that face, it ... it ... ladies and gentlemen, it's indescribable. I can hardly force myself to keep looking at it, it's so awful. The eyes are black and gleam like a serpent. The mouth is kind of V-shaped with saliva dripping from its rimless lips that seem to quiver and pulsate."

"... More state police have arrived. They're drawing up a cordon in front of the pit, about thirty of them ... the captain and two policemen advance with something in their hands. I can see it now. It's a white handkerchief tied to a pole ... a flag of truce. If those creatures know what that means ... what anything means! ... Wait! Something's happening! ... There's a jet of flame ... it leaps right at the advancing men. It strikes them head on! Good Lord, they're turning into flame! Now the whole field's caught fire. There's an explosion! The woods ... the barns ... the gas tanks of automobiles ... it's spreading everywhere. It's coming this way. About twenty yards to my right ... 

(CRASH OF MICROPHONE ... THEN DEAD SILENCE)

It was prime time for radio: Sunday evening, October 30, 1938, as millions of Americans listening to the radio heard something they'd never heard from the radio before ... 6 interminable seconds of radio silence.

Their imaginations ran wild – the horror was real: a real Martian invasion was underway. One of the biggest mass hysteria events in U.S. history had begun. What was first reported as a large meteor crashing into a farmer's field in Grovers Mills, New Jersey was rapidly escalating into reports far and wide of a wide scale invasion from Mars.

But the silence was not caused by a microphone and its hapless reporter, being "heat-rayed" into oblivion by Martian walking war machines.

Far from it.

Back in New York City, 23-year-old “boy wonder” of the theatre, Orson Welles, was directing the radio drama, War of the Worlds, an adaptation of H.G. Wells's 1898 novel of the same name. His Mercury Theatre on the Air had become very popular, but little did he know that many of his listeners had tuned in late – too late to hear the announcer mention that the show was fiction. The 6 seconds of radio silence were not brought on by death-dealing Martians; it came out of the creative mind of the supreme mischief maker himself.

At this "dead air" point in the radio script, the inspired Welles poised, arms raised, while his entire assemblage of actors, musicians, sound effects people and stage hands literally froze in place.

Then the downbeat . . .

SECOND ANNOUNCER: "Ladies and gentlemen, I have just been handed a message that came in from Grovers Mill by telephone. At least forty people, including six state troopers lie dead in a field east of the village of Grovers Mill, their bodies burned and distorted beyond all possible recognition. The next voice you hear will be that of Brigadier General Montgomery Smith, commander of the state militia at Trenton, New Jersey ..."

And reports of the escalating carnage went on and on and on. By now, the imagination of the listeners was running wild, with thousands desperately trying to flee. Panic broke out across the country. Perhaps as many as a million radio listeners that night believed that a real Martian invasion was underway.

When the hoax was finally revealed some two thirds into the 62-minute broadcast, public outrage was swift – and loud. The program's news-bulletin format was described as cruel and deceptive. Newspapers and public figures alike decried this "end-of-the-world" broadcast. In the end, however, no one went to jail, no one was ever proven harmed, and Welles went on to Hollywood, where he made perhaps the greatest movie of all time: Citizen Kane.

Although I was around at the time, I missed the excitement. I was only one day old!

You can read the original radio script here.

You can download the broadcast itself here.

Heads up! You can watch/DVR a 75th anniversary rebroadcast of the PBS documentary "WAR OF THE WORLDS: AMERICAN EXPERIENCE" at 4-5 a.m. Friday, November 1. See a preview here.

A State Fair Mystery Story: The Wise Man's Riddle

Note: use slideshow controls to stop/start slides.

The Power of Failure

Mary Lewis Wyche: "Florence Nightingale" of North Carolina

Mary Lewis Wyche was born on February 26, 1858 near Henderson, North Carolina. She felt a strong call to go into the nursing profession but was thwarted by both family obligations and the absence of any nursing schools in the state. After years of first taking care of her many siblings, she finally graduated from the Philadelphia General Hospital Training School in 1894. Now 36, Mary returned home to pursue her dream in earnest. She took a good look around; the standards for nursing in North Carolina were "Anything, Everything, and Next to Nothing." There were no standards. Nurses had little training or respect and patient care suffered.

Mary became Chief Nursing Officer of the newly established Rex Hospital in Raleigh and wasted no time in creating the first school of nursing in North Carolina – Rex Hospital Training School for Nurses. She would establish nursing standards herself. Armed with the latest facts and guidelines from the International Council of Nurses, she resolved to form a statewide nursing organization dedicated to improving both the profession through nursing registration and patient care through legislative advocacy.

She would have to step beyond her own setting and into the less familiar world of policy and politics. Her success would depend on summoning up not only the power, the will, the time and the energy, but the political skills needed to "play the game" in the legislative arena. Her first attempt was in 1901. She sent post cards to the Raleigh nurses with this request:

"Please meet me at the office of Dr. A. W. Knox at four o'clock p.m. Wednesday, October 10, 1901."

No one showed up.

Surely, she thought, she had failed.

It would be easy to give up – after all, she was only a woman. And how could she influence the state government if women still couldn't vote in North Carolina? For that matter, how could she influence anyone? Just who did she think she was, anyhow?

She would show them – Mary Lewis Wyche was not a quitter. Two weeks later she sent out a second post card to the same nurses:

"There will be another important meeting of the Raleigh Nurses Association at 4 o'clock p.m. Wednesday, October 24, 1901."

The "Raleigh Nurses Association" existed only in her mind. This time, indifference was replaced by curiosity. The ruse worked. Every nurse heeded the second notice. Excitedly, Mary immediately confessed her ploy to them and presented her plans for this new organization. Much to her surprise, they all wanted to join!

In 1902, with the help of her fledgling Raleigh Nurses Association, Mary set out to organize a state nurses association. They sent questionnaires and invitations to every nurse in the state whose address they could learn. The response was favorable, so plans were made for these nurses to meet in Raleigh during State Fair Week when railroads offered special rates. Fourteen nurses came and the North Carolina State Nurses Association (NCNA) was formed.

Mary was not through – not by a long shot. She couldn't vote, but she could persuade. She mobilized support and pushed for the regulation of nursing practice in the North Carolina legislature. On March 3, 1903, the Nursing Practice Act was signed into law by Governor Charles Aycock, making North Carolina the first state in the union mandating registration for nurses. Mary's dream of providing safeguards for the public and the profession had at last come true. She had literally revolutionized the nursing profession in North Carolina.

"Success is not final, failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts." – Winston Churchill

Since 1975, the new NCNA headquarters has been located in Raleigh at 103 Enterprise Street. Recently (October 2-4), the 106th Annual NCNA Convention was held in Greensboro, NC.

Why the Caged Bird Sings

Each of these "disabled celebrities", along with countless others, were once thought of as "caged" by their disability. But they had teachers who cared, who recognized their abilities, who applauded them warmly from the wings. They were once "special children" who, with the help of someone who loved them, taught them, mentored them, became – if you will – "special disabled celebrities." Their teachers played a large part in helping these "caged birds" to sing.

Poet, actor and playwright Neil Marcus has dystonia and describes himself as a "fantastic spastic". He challenged conventional ideas about disability in his play, Storm Reading, voted one of Los Angeles' top ten plays of 1993. Harvey Jackins was the teacher that influenced him the most.

"The caged bird sings with a fearful trill" *

Helen Keller was blind, deaf and mute. Then "miracle worker" Anne Sullivan became her private teacher and changed her life forever. Helen Keller became an American author, political activist, and lecturer – the first deaf-blind person to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree.

"of things unknown but longed for still" *

Albert Einstein, thought to have Asperger's syndrome, developed his Special Theory of Relativity with his famous equation "e = mc2". He unlocked mysteries of the Universe previously unknown. But he had help along the way. As a student in the University of Zürich, his German mathematics teacher, Herman Minkowski, had a major influence on his ideas.

"and his tune is heard on the distant hill" *

Andrea Bocelli is perhaps the greatest singer in the world. Celine Dion once said, “If God could sing, He would sound a lot like Andrea Bocelli.” Blind since the age of 12, someone always guides him on stage to the waiting microphone – always to uproarious applause. Famous Italian tenor Franco Corelli was not only his friend and mentor, but his teacher. Click to hear Bocelli now!

"for the caged bird sings of freedom." *

Think back. Who was your favorite teacher? I have more than one. They are the teachers at the Frankie Lemmon School in Raleigh. I got to know them quite well during my 4 years as a volunteer there. In my opinion, they are more than teachers – they are saints in charge of teaching "caged birds" to sing. If you have a special needs child between the ages of 3-6, run, walk or crawl your little one to see for yourself how they'll interact with both teachers and students. Meet the staff. Take a tour of this fabulous school. You won't regret it!

Watch this utterly fascinating video of famous people with disabilities.
Careful! You may learn that some of them have the same disability as you!

* Maya Angelou ― I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

When Bluegrass Came to Earth

Headlines: Big UFO blitz in North Carolina's baffling "Bluegrass Triangle"

Several pulsating, multicolored UFOs were tracked for hours by Raleigh police in the latest sightings in North Carolina's bizarre "Bluegrass Triangle," where a baffling series of UFO encounters are taking place.

People in the area are convinced they're the target of a "UFO blitz" – and the latest sighting by resident Pat Simpson has strengthened that belief.

"Wake County is noted for its UFO sightings," said Simpson. "There are too many by too many people to explain it away. The number of encounters goes on without end...we've been besieged by UFOs. We're talking about a UFO blitz!"

Simpson came upon his UFO September 27 while walking along downtown's Fayetteville Street. He said the craft was hovering over a food truck when he first spotted it. "It hovered overhead long enough for me to grab a camera and take pictures of it," he said. "And then it landed – right in the middle of the street. At this point, several alien beings came out of the craft and began moving toward the food truck."

The incredible events that followed will never be forgotten – neither in Raleigh nor in the world beyond. But survivor Simpson, an accomplished linguist who also keeps a written or tape-recorded diary, was not only able to record that fateful day, but he was able to communicate with the strange, but beautiful creatures that had suddenly entered our world.

Here, for the first time, he reveals their improbable story – a story beyond belief.

"These creatures," he said, "were on a mission to invade our planet and had just finished a 75-year journey to Earth. But many years ago, they'd heard Bill Monroe and the Blue Grass Boys on their space radio. They fell in love with our music, so rather than destroying Earth, their crews decided to form bluegrass bands instead. In fact, their musical prowess is very highly advanced. Now they are among us. They came for our planet, but when they heard our music they stayed to pick and sing."

"They mean us no harm," said Simpson. "In fact, you might say they are close encounters of the charming kind. But you decide. Watch this video and judge for yourself."


I told you it was beyond belief!

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

Sadako & the Thousand Paper Cranes

Saturday, 20 August 1994, Japan: Shortly after 1994's Peace Day commemorations in Hiroshima's Peace Memorial Park, we happened upon a wonderfully poignant scene. Thousands and thousands of folded paper cranes had been laid around the Children's Peace Monument. The heap was as high as our heads and

fifty feet long. Atop the domed memorial a likeness of Sadako Sasaki reached skyward, her arms holding the metal outline of a paper crane high above her head.

Twelve-year old Sadako Sasaki had a dream – to be the best runner in her class. They say she never lost a race. But one day, she started to get sick. At first she tried to keep it a secret from her family, but that didn't last long. They took her to the hospital to get the most frightening news…

Sadako was only two years old when a sudden explosion near her home blew her out of the window. Thinking she was dead, her mother ran out to find her, but found her alive. She looked up to see about a mile away a giant mushroom cloud boiling six miles up into the sky. The landscape was utterly devastated – flattened houses, snapped trees, bent flag poles – with flames already licking the air. People were crying and dying before her eyes. Sadako's mother fled, carrying her daughter, but they couldn't escape the "black rain."

It was August 6, 1945, the day an atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima – the day when everything changed, not only for the world, but for Sadako. Only she didn't know it…

She'd also been exposed to a radiation time bomb.

Nine years later, lumps began to develop on Sadako's neck and behind her ears. She began to suffer from dizzy spells when she was running until the day she collapsed in front of teachers. Her parents took her to the hospital where she was hospitalized. The prognosis: leukemia with – at the most – a year to live. The lumps slowly grew bigger, making her look as if she had the mumps.

One story recounts the day her best friend Chizuko brought her some paper and showed her how to fold it into a paper crane. She told her about the legend of the origami cranes and the Japanese belief that if you could fold 1,000 cranes, you could have a wish granted. "I wish to live," said Sadako as she began trying to fold her 1,000 cranes. She folded as many as the sickness allowed. Then she would string thread through them and her brother would hang them from the ceiling. She would say, "I will write peace on your wings and you will fly all over the world."

Some days she just didn't have the strength to fold them. Her friends would visit and say, "It's time to rest. You can make more birds tomorrow." Unfortunately, she only made it to 644 before she died, surrounded by her family. Following her death, her friends finished the remainder of the 1,000 cranes and buried them with her.

Her story was picked up by newspapers and published in Eleanor Coerr’s children’s book Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes. Later, inspired young people from all over Japan raised funds to build the Children's Peace Monument in the new Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park. It was dedicated to Sadako and all of the children who had died from the effects of the atomic bomb. In 1958, a statue of Sadako standing on the Mountain of Paradise holding a golden crane was unveiled in the park.

Sadoko lost the race to save her life but she won the hearts of millions. To this day, children all over Japan and the world fold paper cranes and ship them to the park by the box load. On Peace Day (August 6th) thousands of them are placed at the statue's base. At the foot of the statue is a plaque that reads:

"This is our cry. This is our prayer. For building peace in the world."

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

The Mascot

The word mascot has been traced back to colloquial use in Provence and Gascony in France, where it was used to describe anything – animal, person, or object – which inspires and brings good luck. Even a garden!

September 11 is not only a day of remembrance, it has also become known as a "Day of Service", commemorated this year in Raleigh's News & Observer's front-page article: "Doing some good while doing time". It reported how inmates at Johnston Correctional Institution in Smithfield NC work the soil as their part in the "Plant a Row for the Hungry" program. They are learning gardening techniques and using them to raise food for charity. By eating what they produce, you may literally be taking – to quote McGruff the Crime Dog – "a bite out of crime!"

One prisoner said, "It’s like when you’re here, you’re not in prison. It’s like you’re on a little farm, for a couple of hours a day. It gives me something to do, keeps me out of trouble. And at the end of the day, I feel like I’ve done something to help somebody.” The garden has become his inspiration – his mascot.

Around that same time, Fox News reported a similar story from the other side of the world – Japan. The Asahikawa prison, located some 560 miles north of Tokyo has just become the first Japanese prison with a life-size mascot!

"Katakkuri-chan" is a 6-foot 6-inch humanoid with a huge square face and an enormous purple flower for hair. The mascot wears the uniform of a prison warden, (A female version has the same name). Katakkuri-chan made its recent debut at an annual weekend fair at the prison. On Sunday it played with 1,700 children and visitors (up from 1,200 last year) who were able to buy handicrafts made by inmates, ranging from barbecue parts to TV stands and aprons. Katakkuri-chan is spearheading the jail's efforts to warm up their chill and forbidding image.

Tokyo Metropolitan Police has had its own crime-fighting mascot since the 1980s. Pipo-kun is well-loved across the nation and appears on posters and in crime prevention videos as well as on cell phone cases, notepads, erasers, mouse pads, T-shirts and key chains. A combination of several animals, he takes the best parts in order to be the best law-enforcement officer: his large ears help him hear people in trouble, an antennae to catch quick movement and large eyes to watch every corner of society. He even has a stirring song on his website.

Now that's thinking "outside the box". Maybe these are ideas other prisons can try!

Can you think of a way to do your own Day of Service? Here are three ways to think out of the box:

• Draw a picture. Drawing a picture is more right-brained, and can help break your logical left-brain’s hold on a problem.
• Work backwards. Start with a goal and think back through the steps needed to reach it until you get to where you want to be.
• Ask a child for advice. Ask a child how they might tackle a problem in a way they can understand it. A child thinks and speaks with an ignorance of convention that is often helpful.

Think of it – You may solve world peace. You may come up with a new mode of transportation. You may discover a cure for cancer.

You may even come up with a cure for autism.

Now that, my friends, would be a truly extraordinary day of service. And you would be one humdinger of a mascot!

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

The Big Debutante Ball

The annual North Carolina Debutante Ball, which presents debs from all over the state, continued its tradition Friday night at the Meymandi Concert Hall in Raleigh.

For 87 years the debs have been chosen based on their families’ contributions to North Carolina economic, cultural, social and civic life.

Long considered the premier social event in the state, it originated in 1923 as the "Raleigh Fall Festival," sponsored by the merchants of the city. Prominent young ladies from throughout the state were presented as candidates for Queen of the Festival before a queen was crowned by the governor. In 1927 the Terpsichorean Club was formed and held the first North Carolina Debutante Ball. The purpose of the club, which derived its name from the Greek mythological muse, Terpsichore, the goddess of dancing and choral song, was to "sponsor annually a ball for the presentation of North Carolina Debutantes to be held in Raleigh on the first weekend after Labor Day."

My wife was once presented there. In fact, she was leader (and "spoke of the wheel") of the ball.

And now it was my granddaughter Raven's turn.

She was one of the 162 young ladies who received invitations this year. They were selected by more than 200 nominators located throughout the state. The final approval of the Debutantes was made by Terpsichorean Club members.

For most debutantes, the excitement starts in the spring, when the invitations – or "bids" – arrive. The season gets into full swing around the first of July and culminates with the Debutante Ball the weekend after Labor Day. In between, there are numerous brunches, barbecues, buffets, cocktail parties, mother-daughter teas and father-daughter cookouts to attend. A young woman who accepts every invitation may go to 30 parties or more in a season.

Last weekend there were eight functions held in Raleigh honoring the debutantes, their families and their escorts. But the ball on Friday evening was the focal point of the weekend. And my eyes were on Raven, my granddaughter (seen here with rose corsage). I have never been so proud of anyone in my life.

"And debutantes, after all, still wear white. They still carry roses. And for at least one breathtaking moment, when they descend the staircase and extend a long white glove to reach for their fathers' hand, all the money it took to get them there must seem worthwhile."
– The News & Observer 9/6/1991

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

Autism Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

Autism Yesterday



Autism Today

Where can I get help today?
Let me suggest three resources:

1. On the web: AutismToday.com In 1996 Karen Simmons (author, keynote speaker, and businesswoman in autism-related endeavors) had a vision to simplify the information gathering and evaluating process for families dealing with Autism Spectrum Disorders for "help you need now." This amazing website seems limitless, featuring such diverse topics as:

• Resources
• Employment
• "Ask the Expert"
• Article Library (with over 2,500 pages of content)
• Help packages for anyone who needs help for a special needs child
• Much, much more

2. In North Carolina: For over 43 years, the Autism Society of North Carolina has worked to address areas of need and expand services for the autism community in North Carolina. ASNC is a statewide organization, supporting North Carolinians affected by autism. Every dollar that they raise stays within North Carolina, helping people who live and work in our local communities.

I have been fortunate; their headquarters are just three blocks from my home at: 505 Oberlin Rd #230, Raleigh, NC 27605. I have visited these kind, professional people many times for advice on a loved one. They have many resources, including a media library and a huge bookstore. Give them a call at (800) 442-2762. Their magazine, The Spectrum, is published in January and July.

3. In Raleigh: For pre-K children (ages 3-5) with special educational needs and their families, the Frankie Lemmon School and Developmental Center provides life-changing education and support that leads to successful participation in family and community life and achievement of the child’s full potential.

For over four years I volunteered here as "Mr. Pat" until my age caught up with me. So now I restrict my activities to those my body can handle. But with all my heart I can truthfully tell you that this school is truly blessed to have such talented and loving teachers, assistants and staff. They are all saints and I love every one of them. I'll never get these special children – my "friends" – out of my heart; nor do I want to. They'll grow up to be very special adults thanks to this very special team.

The Frankie Lemmon School: Looking Back 20 Years
by Jordan E. Harrell, video editor extraordinaire

Autism Tomorrow:

According to the website Autism Speaks, there's "A Future Full of Purpose and Dignity for Adults with Autism." I agree. My own loved one is living proof.

In other words, there's hope!

Again, according to Autism Speaks,

"Over the coming decade, 500,000 individuals with autism will leave school and enter adulthood. This is in addition to the millions of adults with autism who already live throughout the United States. Many of these individuals will need to access the adult services system, a system that already has exceedingly long waiting lists and few autism-specific supports."

Autism Speaks is among the top 10 autism websites listed in Autism.About.com.

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

Lost in "The Village"

Saturday, 10 September 1994: We had intended to drive directly to the Llechwedd Slate Mine but Jack, owner of the Coach Househotel in the Welsh market town of Ruthin, had recommended a detour to Portmeirion. “What’s Portmeirion?” we asked.

Jack smiled. “Do you remember a British TV series from the sixties called The Prisoner? It starred Patrick McGoohan.”

“I certainly do,” I said. “It was one of my favorite shows.”

“Well, Portmeirion is "The Village", where the series was filmed. And it’s right on your way.” Portmeirion immediately shot up to the top of our list of places to see. In just seventeen episodes (1967-1968), The Prisoner, a British and American television series, had become a true cult classic. The story – a spy, the nameless Number Six, resigns for an undisclosed reason and is abducted to a mystery village for debriefing. Starring and co-created by Patrick McGoohan, its roots were in Cold War paranoia and growing concerns about the involvement of the state in the daily lives of its citizens. It was part spy fiction, part science fiction and part psychological drama.

Today, as Jack pointed out, Portmeirion is a vacation fantasy village in North Wales neatly hidden away on the coast of the Irish Sea. It was designed and built piecemeal by Welsh architect Sir Clough Williams-Ellis between 1925 and 1975 in the style of an Italian village. He was a leading conservationist of his day who, as creator of this resort village, fulfilled his dream for "a fusion of conscious art with nature". Portmeirion has served as the location for several films and television shows, most famously as the "Village".

Ninety-minutes due west from Ruthin we found Portmeirion neatly hidden away on a secluded peninsula. Anne got in free because the place was not supposed to be suitable for the disabled. The journey from the ticket booth to the end of the village was all downhill, but the ticket clerk said he would drive us back if we couldn’t make it. We did just fine.

The same could not be said for the unnamed protagonist of The Prisoner, so aptly played by Patrick McGoohan. In the plot he is a high-ranking intelligence agent who unexpectedly resigns. Upon doing so, he is drugged and taken into a mysterious and isolated community known only as “the Village.” Everyone there is cheerful, but not the type to ask questions, and the shadowy leaders keep control with closed-circuit television and brainwashing devices. The protagonist is made into a prisoner and given the title of “Number Six,” which he fervently rejects at first. In each episode, he matches wits with Number Two, who always wants to know the same thing: “Why did you resign?” It is only a question then of seeing who breaks first, the individualist Number Six or the conformist Villagers.

In its one-season run, The Prisoner created an enduring phenomenon, partly because it remains open to continual reinterpretation, partly because Number Six's symbolic battle against faceless state power is as potent today as when the show was first devised. The series was also greatly helped by its location at Portmeirion, with its bizarre jumble of architectural styles. To this day, the "Six of One" Prisoner Appreciation Society still holds its annual Prisoner convention there.

We visited The Prisoner Shop for souvenirs and a map. The shop's operator would have been a Trekkie had the show been Star Trek; he knew more about The Prisoner than anyone had a right to know. He said Prisoner fans by the hundreds still make the pilgrimage to this surreal spot to relive scenes from the series’ baffling story. But even if you had never seen the show, Portmeirion was an intriguing place to visit.

The tourist-oriented Llechwedd Slate Mine had already closed by the time we got there. Anne, nevertheless, said she'd already seen the abandoned slate mine back in her hometown of Walton, New York; she'd never, however, seen anything like Portmeirion!

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

My Most Unforgettable Aussie

15 May 1994, Sunday: After a wild eight-mile ride on the ferry M.V. Valerie Jane, Anne and I docked at the Penneshaw ferry port on Kangaroo Island, rented a car, and headed west; our goal was the Attarak Homestead (see map), a farmstay B&B we'd booked sixty miles in on Mount Taylor Road.

About 90 miles long and 19 miles wide with only 4,000 year-round inhabitants, Kangaroo Island was cut loose from South Australia's mainland some 9,000 years ago. It is truly where the wild things are, a veritable Noah’s Ark of Australian wildlife. Australia's renowned lost world of endangered furred and flying species, including kangaroos, wallabies, koalas, emus and the elusive platypus and echidna, the world's only egg-laying mammals.

It was late afternoon by the time we arrived at the homestead, a large, sprawling ranch in the middle of the island. We had just entered the enchanted world of Rodger Borgmeyer, owner and host.

Rodger was about fifty-two and looked and acted like a thin version of movie actor Gene Hackman. He said that his wife, Val, was a schoolteacher. She was taking part in a horse show and had gone for the weekend. "When I moved here with my parents in 1955," he said, "I was fourteen years old and I could ride more than twenty miles in every direction on their farm and not see a fence. It was a great adventure, even though it was hard work picking up stumps and milking cows by hand." — (The Islander: "My Island Home - Rodger Borgmeyer - Best years of my life", by Catherine Murphy Aug. 8, 2013).

We couldn't help but notice several large photos on the walls that depicted Rodger with some of his prized thoroughbred horses. He made us comfortable in front of a large, warm fireplace in the living room and went off to the kitchen to make tea. Almost absent-mindedly I leafed through a large coffee table book entitled Three-Cornered Jack. In it were several articles and color photo spreads on notable characters of South Australia. Suddenly before me was a five-page article on Rodger with several action photographs. There he was on horseback hurdling a fence; and there he was again, jumping through a ring of fire.

Rodger came back in the room, bringing our tea on a tray.

I said, "You're quite a horseman I see."

"Yes," he smiled. "The man that did that article stayed here a week. I race thoroughbreds and keep them at stud when they retire." He pointed to a picture of himself on a magnificent horse leaping a log fence. "This one is Trumbee. He lives in the paddock out front."

When Rodger left the room again to make our Aussie "tucker" for dinner, our attention was caught by three or four volumes of bush ballads. "Bush" is the Australian equivalent of "forest" and is also applied generally to any locality away from a large city or town. Bush ballads, as we later learned, have outlived most forms of Australian poetry, for a ballad simply sets out to tell a story in easy, rhythmic language, with or without a tune. These narratives are all in simple verse and deal with bush characters or their way of life in the tradition of European folk stories.

I learned that the heroes of Australian bush ballads are known as drovers, diggers, bushrangers, rouseabouts, ringers, shearers, swaggies, sundowners and other equally colorful names. The ballads celebrate "mateship" and feats of individual bravery and endurance over loneliness, heat, floods and distance. Most verses are good-humored, mocking or self-mocking in true Australian fashion; many remain moving and unforgettable, even when they preach.

This was my introduction to that story-world. Suddenly I was swept into life in the bush by the likes of Australian poets such as Adam Lindsay Gordon, W.H. Ogilvie, H.B. Boake, H.H. Morant, Henry Lawson, C.H. Souter and Victor J Daley (A Ballad of Eureka). One book was entitled The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, by A.B. (Banjo) Patterson. It turns out Patterson is the same man who wrote Waltzing Matilda, Australia's unofficial national anthem.

Rodger rejoined us as I put down the book.

"I'm fascinated," I said.

"We get together now and then, my mates and me," he said. "We have a few drinks and sing a few songs and swap stories. I know a lot of 'em by memory, much like the 'cowboy poets' in your country. Some of them were passed along by word of mouth from generation to generation, just like in the Old World. Others sound Irish or Scottish and that's because they are. All of them tell a story and maybe that's why they're so popular."

By now I was captivated. It seemed as if all of Australia – its history, its character, its people – had been boiled down into one essence, one life force. And that life force had a name – Rodger. I suddenly realized that the elusive "real" Australia I'd been looking for was right here, right across the coffee table. Rodger was the sum total of his people – of all that went before him. Eons ago, our ancestors could have been neighbors, but one sailed to America and the other sailed to Australia, evolving into people that were, according to Rodger, "the same, but different." I studied the flames in the fireplace for a long time as dusk settled outside.

Our "tucker" was garden-fresh wonderful and so was the nighttime "ute" (pickup truck) tour of his 1,400 acres. His strong hand-held "torch" (flashlight) lit up the eyes of literally dozens of opossums, wallabies and other critters of the night. His property was alive with them!

We awoke next morning to a Rodger-prepared breakfast of eggs, tomatoes, toast and tea. Afterwards he went out to take care of his animals and I went with him. The cacophony of sound that greeted us was indescribable. Intermingled with the quacking, clucking, crowing and gobbling of hundreds of farm birds, which now came running from all over the place for their breakfast, was the warbling, trilling, cooing and singing of hundreds of wild birds greeting the dawn from the trees overhead. I told Rodger it sounded like an orchestra. He threw another handful of corn to waiting beaks and said, "It's more like a little symphony – and I'm the pied piper!"

He let me take a final picture of him with Trumbee and then it was time to go. Rodger packed us a lunch and we reluctantly said our goodbyes. This was Rodger's private world and we were sad to leave it, but our memories of it will live forever.

It's the bush that exerts its tenacious hold on the Australian character and it was in the bush where English attitudes and language slipped their shackles and escaped, evolving into something brand new and wonderfully personified by Rodger Borgmeyer, my most unforgettable character in all of Australia.

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

LINKS:
Kangaroo Island
Rodger Borgmeyer
Waltzing Matilda

The Birdmen of Singapore

"I knew that bird singing contests were common in South East Asia, but nothing had prepared me for the scale of the spectacle in the Bird Arena Café: a roof of railings with hooks on which dozens of identical 20-inch round bamboo cages were hanging, one bird per cage; competitors, almost exclusively male, sitting in a row of chairs parallel to the line of cages above, sipping a mug of coffee; waiters bringing drinks, collecting dishes and taking orders; judges walking around making notes; and spectators sitting at tables..."
       — from Singapore Swing, by John Malathronas

24 July 1994, Sunday: Travel writer Paul Money once remarked that "China is probably the only place where people walk their birds and eat their dogs." But we weren't in China; we were in the former British settlement of Singapore. Chinese Singaporeans make up 75% of the city-state's 3.5 million population and, as in China, keeping song birds is an old tradition. Emperors used to keep song birds; the more beautiful the song, the more colorful the bird, the more it valuable it was.

Today, on our second full day in downtown Singapore, we saw no one "wokking the dog", but we did have the opportunity to hear and see the song birds for ourselves.

We'd read that one of the nicest things to do in Singapore was to go to a Sunday morning “Bird Singing.” So, before church, we decided to do just that. After breakfast in our new digs at the graceful Miramar Hotel, we took to the wheelchair and hastened over to the nearby "bird corner" at Tiong Bahru and Seng Poh Road. Here we found, in a veranda under a translucent roof, a traditional outdoor kopitiam (coffee shop), the center of life for many Singapore neighborhoods. We sat at the one remaining table, a fretful little man materialized, and I said "coffee". He grunted, sped off and soon returned with two cups of kopi, served very sweet, very thick, and with more than a hint of butter. We nursed them and watched while the locals dined on saucers of watery soft-boiled eggs and crisp slices of toast slathered with thick yellow butter and kaya (coconut egg jam) — Singapore's answer to a Devonshire Tea.

Above us were the singing birds, not in lofty tree branches, but hung in cages. The beautifully-crafted ornate wood and bamboo bird cages were hung on wires strung overhead while their owners lined the walls or congregated around tables sipping kopi. We joined this charming scene for over an hour, watching the men take care of their lovely pets and listening to a truly musical bird chorus. Most bird-fanciers are middle-aged or elderly men who want a companion for their daily walks.Dozens of them had brought their beloved well-fed caged thrushes, merboks, shamas, and mata putehs – all treasured for their singing ability – all for the bird-singing session.

Listen to the White-rumped Shama, "that most beautiful and melodious of songbirds."
    — David De Sousa

I later learned that bird singing contests are often held on Sunday mornings, with the winners being the birds that can sing the highest number of different songs in 15 minutes. Bird-singing competitions are serious business in Singapore as champions are worth up to $3,300 (U.S.). Hours are spent training them.

Sadly, in the name of "progress" the cafe was torn down in 2007, along with entire city blocks to make room for the new Link Hotel. The bird corner was preserved and renovated (see photo).

Currently, the bird corner boasts more than 320 hooks with number tags, but no bird cages are to be found, not to mention the song birds. Despite spending $200,000 by the hotel in the renovation, the corner failed to regain its former glory. Gone were the enthusiastic owners with their songbirds.

Today, the corner is quiet and deserted, unnoticed even by the passers-by. Perhaps it no longer has the feeling of "home."

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

LINKS:
White-rumped Shama

Brigadoon Again

10 August 2001, Friday: A funny thing happened today as my daughter Diana and I made our way to the small Irish village of Cong …we discovered Brigadoon! Remember the story? Brigadoon was the legendary Scottish village that went to sleep 300 years ago but was set to reappear for one day every century. But Cong, seemingly asleep for only 50 years in Western Ireland's beautiful Lake District, was due to reappear as Innisfree. Unknown to us, today was the very day!

But first things first …

We planned to visit Ireland's beautiful Connemara National Park today, but I'd been to Cong before and wanted to show it to Diana. It's where many scenes were filmed for one of my favorite movies The Quiet Man (1952), nominated for seven Oscars and winning two.

We first visited the replica Quiet Man cottage at Maam Cross and then drove east nearly an hour through a "soft" rain. And there, hidden in the misty hills, rose Cong.

We tarried at Cong Abbey and the Quiet Man Heritage Cottage and then stopped for a breather in the Quiet Man Coffee Shop. (Notice a common theme here?)

The waitress said, "Will you be staying over?"

I said, "No, just passing through."

She said, "Too bad. This very weekend we are holding the Quiet Man 50th anniversary celebration. The full dress rehearsal is tonight and the public is invited."

My jaw dropped. We had arrived on the very day all this was supposed to happen! Cong would reappear as the movie town of Innisfree this very night!

But we had places to go; we couldn't stay tonight – or could we?

The tourist office said we could! There was but one room available – just out of town at the Ashfield House B&B. Diana agreed to stay, even though the movie was "before her time". The Connemara would have to wait until tomorrow.

The re-enactment rehearsals began at 7:30 in front of Cong Abbey, a former Augustinian abbey whose ancient ruins date to the 13th century and earlier. The persistent rain let up just before the events began.

It was street theater re-enactment of scenes from the movie. Townspeople played the parts of John Ford, the makeup man, the cameraman and others, who pretended they were filming stand-ins for John Wayne, Maureen O'Hara, and the rest. The first was a courting scene on pony and trap by the abbey; then there was the fishing scene in the nearby creek; next, John Wayne pushing and dragging Maureen O'Hara to a wagon; then a fight scene by the wagon; next two ladies from a second story window across the street from Pat Conroy's bar. By now, two or three hundred people had gathered in the street for the grand finale: a reenactment of the big fight scene where Sean and his nemesis Will Danaher (aka Victor Mclachlan) burst out of the bar through a closed door into the cheering crowds.

Fight over, everyone – cast, crew and many of the original cast of extras – headed over to Lydon's Lodge, where the "Launch of the Quiet Man 2001, Cong Celebration" was being held. Free wine, food, lots of laughing and singing. The place was packed and so are our memories.

Innisfree, a fictional village in Ireland; you will always be real to me.

Author Patrick Simpson and his wheelchair-restricted wife Anne uncover their experiences exploring historical and cultural experiences around the world. Visit now to learn how independent travel for disabled persons is not only possible, it can be fun!! www.booksbypatricksimpson.com

LINKS:
Cong
Brigadoon
The Quiet Man
Cong Abbey
The Quiet Man (full film)