The Grasshopper Cross

Suddenly, Theo was in Dakota Territory, the southeastern corner of today’s South Dakota. The train had no sooner crossed over the border than it stopped in the little farming town of Jefferson. There, like a powerful guardian spirit, an ominous presence loomed up from nowhere. It was a crude wooden cross, erected in Jefferson’s Catholic cemetery. There was a ring about the intersection of the crossbar and upright shaft like a Celtic cross. It had been erected only two years before—someone pointed out—to commemorate Divine Intervention in the recent grasshopper plagues.

Day and night, above the roar of the train, our ears were kept busy with the incessant chirp of grasshoppers—a noise like the winding up of countless clocks and watches, which began after a while to seem proper to that land. 

                    — (Robert Louis Stevenson, Across the Plains, 1879.)

Yes, Theo had finally entered the gates of Dakota, but this cross seemed to block his way and test his resolve to emigrate west. He couldn’t have failed to hear the story of the grasshoppers. It was a chilling tale of Biblical proportions. . . .

***

It was a peaceful Sunday in early July of 1874 in the quiet town of Jefferson as people emerged from churches with the usual pleasantries. For three years crops had been good and this summer another bountiful harvest was almost certain. The corn was ready and so was the grain.

As they stood in front of their churches or visited on sidewalks, someone looked into the northern sky and saw a dense black cloud. “Just a cloud,” some said. Suddenly a wind sprang up. Then an old farmer recognized the oncoming mass.

“Grasshoppers!” he shouted, “Run for your lives!”

People hurried to their homes, bolted doors, closed windows, and prepared for the most devastating siege known in modern history.

“I remember watching my father go out to our forty-acre field of wheat,” said Mrs. Alfonse La Breche. “Then the sky became dark; it blotted out the sun. Hoppers began falling on the roof and against the windows.

“It sounded like a continuous hailstorm. In one hour the field had been stripped, the heads cut off and the bare stems left standing.

“In the garden everything was taken. Onions and turnips were eaten out of the ground. The hoppers started at the top and worked down; they ate the greens, the bulb, even the roots and left a neat hole in the ground.”

Hoppers covered the earth, buildings, grain, everything. They were six inches deep on the ground. They landed on trees in such numbers they broke branches. All attempts to protect crops failed. The sound of their eating was like a herd of cattle chewing corn.

“We couldn’t keep them out of the house,” said Mrs. Margaret Connors. “They got inside and ate the lace curtains. My brother left a jacket on the fence post, and when he went to get it there was nothing left but the buttons. They would eat the shoes right off your feet.”

Said Mrs. Mary Beaubien: “Our cattle were driven insane by the gnawing of the insects. They tried to run away, but the hoppers were everywhere. My father decided to go after them. He tied ropes around the bottom of his pants and around his sleeves at the wrists. When he came back about an hour later, his clothes were in shreds, almost eaten away. He could not find the animals.

“When there was nothing left for them to eat the hoppers became cannibals and ate each other. They remained about three days then suddenly rose with the wind and were gone.”

The people of Jefferson came out of their homes and surveyed their lands. Destruction was complete. In just three short days, they had been plunged from a good and bountiful life to the prospect of starvation when winter came. Jefferson was not alone in the maelstrom. The invasion extended from North Dakota to Texas and from the Rockies almost to the Mississippi River.

The whole countryside stank with rotting hoppers for more than a week. Many raked them into piles, sprayed them with kerosene, and set them on fire. Some of the farmers pulled up stakes, piled their meager belongings on wagons, and went back to where they came from.

Those who remained, although now in poverty, were a hardy breed and vowed to try again. They stayed for what was later called the winter of corn, flapjacks, and sorghum. The next year (1875) was not much better. Again the hoppers came, but not in such great numbers. Somehow, the settlers managed to survive.

By 1876, the story goes, grasshoppers had nearly eaten out this part of Dakota Territory. Great clouds of them had come—so many the sky turned black; so many that they even stopped the trains. Some homesteaders sold or gave away their claims and went back East. Others left for the newly discovered gold fields in South Dakota’s Black Hills.

The hoppers devoured every green thing that grew, leaving devastation as complete as though fire had passed over the fields. They flew in by the billions and sounded like a rushing storm. There was a deep hush when they dropped to the earth and began to eat the crops. Turkeys and chickens feasted on them and pigs and even dogs learned to eat them. But the grasshoppers ate everything—the corn, the gardens, even the bark off fruit trees. Pioneers threw carpets and rugs on their favorite plants but they ate them, too.

You would think that after they had eaten everything they would fly away. Not at all! They liked the pioneers so well they left their children with them. The mother grasshoppers pierced the earth with holes and filled them with eggs. Each one laid about one hundred eggs. Then they died and the ground was covered with their dead bodies.

It was around this time that the territory declared a day of fasting and prayer. On one muddy Sunday in May 1876, the townspeople and farmers, defeated and despondent, gathered on the grounds of St. Peter’s church in Jefferson and appealed to Father Boucher, South Dakota’s first resident priest, for help. The priest was old and “the snows of many winters had fallen in his white hair.” There was calmness in his voice.

“Have faith,” said Father Boucher. “Do as I ask and the plague will end.”

The desperate farmers said they would do anything he asked them to.

So Father Boucher organized a pilgrimage. Three big wooden crosses were erected that roughly bounded the parish. One was set in the church grounds and two others east and north of town. They called them “grasshopper crosses;” each with a circle in the middle like a Celtic cross. Religious denominations from far and wide came to have a place in the pilgrimage.  

Father Boucher, singing litanies, led a mile-long pilgrimage of Catholics and Protestants out into the countryside. They prayed and marched around the whole parish for eleven miles seeking God’s intervention. Women and children rode in wagons; men walked; it was muddy, following a rain. They went first to the cross set in Nelson Montagne’s field, two miles west of Jefferson. Father Boucher conducted a solemn ceremony and eloquently implored divine aid.

So serious and tense was the service that stouthearted muscular men who wrested a living from the earth with their hands—discouraged by gigantic forces with which they could not cope—fell to their knees in the mud of the road and prayed with a fervency they had never felt before.

Then the procession went three miles north to the cross in Moran’s field where another service was held, and back to Jefferson for a final service at the church. The pilgrimage lasted all day.

Joseph Montagne, nephew of one of the founding pioneers, later said: “Hoppers flew over many times after that, but they never landed here again. I have seen them swarm on poles and fence posts without touching the grain only a few feet from them.”

***

So Theo had been warned. He could turn around, get on the next train back to Wells Bridge, and forget the whole thing. Or maybe, past the fiery specter of grasshoppers, there was indeed a bright new future. Perhaps God would continue to intervene and the grasshopper threat would stay away.

The good news was that the hoppers tended to drive down the cost of land. They even threatened to keep the coming railroad out of Sioux Falls:

. . . "if the ‘hoppers don’t come we can afford to haul our grain to where the railroad is now [still miles from Sioux Falls], and if they do come we won’t have any grain to haul, and then we don’t want to pay an extra [railroad] tax.”                           —(upset farmers, Dakota Pantagraph, Sioux Falls, October 8, 1877.)

From my nonfiction book: 
Whither thou Goest

ISBN 0-595-17505-8 (copyright 2001)

Chapter 5:

Grasshoppers

Famous Old-timey singers you may have never heard.

My wife mentioned a singer named Skinnay Ennis one night. "Skinny who?" I said. "You know. Skinnay Ennis. My mother loved him. I loved him. EVERYBODY loved him!" So I looked him up. Sure enough, there was once a very famous singer named Skinnay Ennis. And many more I'd never heard of! 

So here are four. Hope you enjoy them. Old Timey Singers: Skinnay Ennis
Skinnay Ennis is similar to Bob Crosby – men who make the best of their vocal limitations and thus emerge with individual contributions to the art of singing. This may not be trained art singing but it’s nevertheless satisfying and comforting -- pop art at its best. Ennis started as a drummer but in the 30’s became best-known for his unique crooning with the Hal Kemp Orchestra. He’s very breathy and close to the mike, almost making love to it, as he shapes the Irving Berlin song while the band trots along in a friendly manner like so many sweet outfits of those days -- an antidote to the growing frenticism of Swing. Skinnay Ennis and his Orchestra.


Skinnay Ennis and his Orchestra by redhotjazz

Alice Faye
Alice Faye (May 5, 1915 – May 9, 1998) was an American actress and singer, called by The New York Times "one of the few movie stars to walk away from stardom at the peak of her career." She is remembered first for her stardom at 20th Century Fox and, later, as the radio comedy partner of her husband, bandleader and comedian Phil Harris. She is also often associated with the Academy Award–winning standard "You'll Never Know", which she introduced in the 1943 musical film Hello, Frisco, Hello. – (Wikipedia)
Alice Faye sings Moonlight Bay:



The Andrews Sisters
The Andrews Sisters were an American close harmony singing group of the swing and boogie-woogie eras. The group consisted of three sisters: contralto LaVerne Sophia, soprano Maxine Angelyn "Maxene", and mezzo-soprano Patricia Marie "Patty". Throughout their long career, the sisters sold well over 75 million records (the last official count released by MCA Records in the mid-1970s). Their 1941 hit "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" can be considered an early example of rhythm and blues or jump blues. The Andrews Sisters - Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy Of Company B



Helen Humes
With her true young voice, Helen Humes was born in Louisville, Kentucky. Spotted later by guitarist Sylvester Weaver, she made her first recordings in 1927. She moved to New York City in 1937 and became a recording vocalist with Harry James' big band. Her swing recordings with James included "Jubilee", "I Can Dream, Can't I?", and Jimmy Dorsey's "It's The Dreamer In Me". Humes became one of the vocalists with the Count Basie Orchestra in 1938, replacing Billie Holiday as lead female vocalist. Basie, Count & Helen Humes - "If I Could Be With You"



Nick Lucas
Listening to Nick Lucas' high-pitched voice and knowing that he introduced "Tip Toe Through the Tulips" makes one immediately realize that he was a major influence on the infamous Tiny Tim in the late '60s. But there was much more to Nick Lucas than that; even beyond his singing. Born Dominic Nicholas Anthony Lucanese in 1897, Lucas was a musical wizard, learning guitar, banjo, mandolin, and ukulele early in life. He was an American singer and pioneer jazz guitarist, remembered as "the grandfather of the jazz guitar", whose peak of popularity lasted from the mid-1920s to the early 1930s. He became best known as an easygoing singer who was billed as "the Singing Troubadour". During 1925-1932 Lucas' records sold over 84 million copies. – Scott Yanow Tip-Toe Through The Tulips (1929).
    However famous Nick Lucas was, the public will never forget Tiny Tim's version of "Tip Toe Through the Tulips". In 1968 this song gave Tiny Tim his one and only top twenty hit. He appeared several times on the massively popular Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In, an American television comedy-variety show.

 

The Day I Met Saint Patrick

Monday, 10 October 1994, Belfast: Only six weeks ago, the Irish Republican Army had declared an unconditional cease-fire although, after twenty-five years of bloodshed and terror, Belfast was still a place of barbed wire, of sheet metal fences, of walls with dagger- and broken-glass tops. As Anne and I left for points south this morning, our prayers, along with those of all Ireland, were that the peace would hold firm. After all, today we wanted to meet St. Patrick himself, the patron saint of Ireland. We wanted to pray as he did: "I arise today, through God's strength to pilot me...through God's shield to protect me."

Amazingly, the sun shone strong and clear all day.

Our plan was to drive east around the Ards Peninsula through Saint Patrick’s Vale to Downpatrick (pop. 8,500). As we crossed the Narrows of Strangford Lough by ferry, I thought about the small boat that Saint Patrick and his followers steered through these strong tidal currents back in 432 A.D. They landed north of us at the mouth of the Slaney River where Patrick, first mistaken as a pirate, persevered with his dream of converting all of Ireland into a Christian nation. He ultimately became a national hero and is now a world-wide saint.

We drove off the ferry onto Lecale Peninsula, which is unequivocally Saint Patrick territory. I wondered how Patrick felt when he first came ashore. Legend says that his first conversion was Dichu, a tribal chieftain, who gave Patrick a small barn for his first church in an area called Saul. Patrick began preaching the Gospel throughout Ireland, converting thousands as he and his disciples began building churches all over the country. Kings and kingdoms alike converted to Christianity when hearing Patrick's message.

After forty years of preaching, traveling, living in poverty, and enduring much suffering, Patrick came full circle, dying in Saul on March 17, 461 where – tradition says – he received his last communion from Saint Tassach. Patrick is said to be buried in nearby Downpatrick in Down Cathedral's old graveyard.

And that is where I first met Patrick.

We drove nine miles west to Downpatrick and soon found the graveyard where Patrick is reputed to be buried, alongside St. Brigid and St. Columba (although this has never been proven). A large Mourne granite slab placed there as a memorial in 1900 marks the spot.

We found it under a giant weeping willow tree; it is inscribed with a Celtic cross and the word “PADRAIG” (Irish for Patrick). A plaque read:

“According to tradition the remains of Saint Patrick with those of Saint Brigid and Saint Columba, who is also known as Columcille, were reinterred on this site by John De Courcy in the twelfth century thus fulfilling the prophecy that the three saints would be buried in the same place.”

I'm not a saint – just a sinner who keeps on trying. But I'd finally found my namesake, a man of peace indeed.

My Mom, the Writer

My Mom, Alma Ready, LOVED Arizona! In fact, she loved everything West. And she loved to write. She passed that love on to me, even though I barely knew her as a child. My parents divorced when I was only five and my father moved back East, taking my brother Jim and I with him. I didn't see Mom again until I was twelve and then again when I was eighteen when – for a short time – I lived with her and Teddy, her fourth (and last) husband.

I’d always resented having to grow up 2,400 miles from her. But we always wrote to each other. And sometimes called each other. She sent pictures of the West and I would look at them. She wrote stories of the West and I would read them. She was a photo-journalist – and a good one I might add. She contributed to newspapers such as the Arizona Republic, the Nogales International and – most spectacularly, I must add – Arizona Highways Magazine, the "official source for Arizona travel information, stunning Arizona photography & unique feature articles."

One day, while trying to put together a portfolio of pictures of Santa Cruz County for the Arizona Republic, she learned from a Nogales librarian that – much to her surprise – the county's history had never been written. So, "to do the job right," she wrote, "I needed to live in Santa Cruz County!"

So, at age sixty, she moved south from Tucson to Nogales where she researched, wrote and photographed everything West, even doing a series of picture pages for the Arizona Republic's Sunday Magazine, "Days and Ways." She published her county history, Open Range and Hidden Silver, in 1973. It was followed by Calabasas: A True Story in 1976 and A Very Small Place in 1989 – as well as much more.

Nogales never knew what hit it. Soon after becoming president of the Pimeria Alta Historical Society, she realized it needed a great deal of space for a museum. After learning that the old Nogales City Hall was available, she ram-rodded a successful effort to move in. Today it occupies the entire bottom floor!

Meanwhile, after years of separation, I’d actually written a draft version of my first book. Not knowing what to expect, I called her and asked, “Mom, would you proofread it for me?” Without hesitation and much to my relief, she said “Yes.” So I mailed it to her and she returned it, section by section, with all changes, suggestions and errors meticulously written or underlined in red. From that moment on, we became “buddies.”

I would visit her while on business trips from Raleigh and we even did the three-mile round-trip hike at Fort Bowie National Historic Site. (She was in her eighties!) She wanted to show me her West and did so over the next few years. My wife joined me more than once as I drove while Mom navigated – from Nogales day trips into Mexico to overnight trips north to Navajo country and Lake Powell. Mom was tireless! And by now, Teddy had died but she already had a new boyfriend.

The last time I saw Mom was at a nursing home in Nogales; she was 95. But, on May 29, 2003, Mom died. I’ll never forget her memorial service, held on the bottom floor of the very museum she’d helped found. Even though she’d outlived most of her contemporaries, over forty people – friends, admirers, co-workers, several young people – came to pay their respects. The museum’s large research library was dedicated and renamed the Alma D. Ready Library. In a special presentation a beautiful stone plaque, created by Mexican artist “Alonzo”, was mounted at the library entrance. It featured a windmill taken from one of Mom’s photographs.

I’ll be forever thankful to then society president Axel C. F. Holm, who did an incredible job of arranging the service.

Mom had many friends and was a lover of art, music, poetry and everything Arizona. She will be deeply missed by her family and the many people whose lives she has touched over the years. About Nogales she wrote: "I have been very happy here. The country is beautiful, the 'Border Culture' fascinating, the people friendly, and the climate near-perfect. This is where I feel at home."

They say that home is where the heart is and Mom's heart had indeed found a home – in a place called Nogales. And my heart has found forgiveness – and love. In the words of Jesus: "honor your father and mother..." (Matthew 19:19, NIV). I love you Mom!

Tara! Home!

Wednesday, 12 October 1994: 

Remembering Scarlett’s “Tara” from Margaret Mitchell's novel, Gone with the Wind, we planned to visit a place we'd always wanted to see, the fabled Hill of Tara, seat of the High Kings of Ireland.

We drove (crawled) endlessly that morning through fat rolls of fog. Suddenly the sun broke through and there it was – Tara! We were excited.

But it looked very closed.

We found a path leading up to a place marked on my map as Saint Patrick’s Church, used as a visitors center next to the site. The car gate was locked but the footpath was open so I lifted Anne's wheelchair over the wall and we were on our way. A young man greeted us at the church.

“Oh, yes,” he said, almost sheepishly. “We’re open. Must’ve forgotten to unlock the gate.” He was friendly enough, but I think he was taking a nap. “The church is no longer a church,” he said, “but a visitors center. The tour includes a good audiovisual show as well. I’ll start it up for you.”

We sat in one of the church pews and he disappeared into the church somewhere. Suddenly, long black window shades began to lower on all the windows at once, shutting out the sunlight. Simultaneously, a movie screen lowered to the altar in front of us and, when all was ready, the show began. It was a good audiovisual indeed: Tara, Meeting Place of Heroes. The story unfolded like a dream; we learned that nearly two thousand years ago, Tara was the seat of the most powerful rulers in Ireland. Here the high king and his royal court lived in their ceremonial residence while they feasted and watched over the realm. They were gone now, but the sense of their commanding presence remained.

The show was especially good for Anne because it gave overall aerial views of the place and was about the only way she could see it. The Hill of Tara was grass-covered and bumpy, as we could see from the film, and not friendly to wheelchairs. Afterwards she looked longingly at the gentle sloping hill from the church door. She sighed “If I only had wings …”

The young man sensed her yearning for two good feet. “Sorry about that,” he said, almost inaudibly. Then he smiled. “Here, let me push you back to your car while your husband has a look around.”

I wandered out into the wide meadows. We were together, Tara and I, three hundred feet above the plains of Meath. After fifty centuries of pagan rulers and powerful kings, I alone was left standing here this day; among the grassy mounds and depressions that once were Stone Age passage tombs, Iron Age forts, and ruined houses of kings. Fifty centuries of living had once filled the air with wild shouts of war and pagan revelry – later to be stilled by St. Patrick’s reverent voice of prayer as he baptized thousands here. Tara’s influence declined soon after Christianity took root in the country but more recently, in 1843, Daniel O’Connell, the “Liberator” and leader of the opposition to union with Britain, held one of his “monster meetings” here and drew a crowd of 750,000 people.

All were distant memories now. I stood alone with the fading echoes of the past. After one last look, I too, was gone.

(Excerpt from Wheelchair Around the World, by Patrick Simpson)

American Indian Heritage Celebration 2013: We're Still Here

Warning: My bit about the Cherokee "Trail of Tears" may tug at your heart.


I was inspired to make this video after my visit to the 18th annual American Indian Heritage Celebration at the NC Museum of History on November 23rd. Did you know that there are over 122,000 American Indians living in the eight state-recognized Indian tribal communities in North Carolina?

All eight were well represented here: the Coharie, Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians, Haliwa-Saponi, Lumbee, Meherrin, Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation and the Sappony and the Waccamaw Siouan. All told, approximately 33 Native American tribes have resided in North Carolina during the state's recorded history.

It was actually a giant powwow, a large social gathering with lots of dancing, drumming and singing...a place where the people practice their identity and want to be proud of their identity. Parents and children alike shared the dance circle and the singing circle. There was a feeling here, a real spirit of friendship, love, open arms and hospitality — a feeling that no matter who you were or where you come from, you could stand together and dance together in one circle.

People from all walks of life come to this event.

Why?

Lots of reasons: Some people want to enjoy the beautiful outfits. Others just want to look at all the people because it's a very big event. People watch and say "Wow! What's that dance about? Why are they dancing this dance? What are the songs saying?"

So watch, listen and learn...most of all, ENJOY!

Coharie http://www.coharietribe.org/index.html
Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians http://nc-cherokee.com/
Haliwa-Saponi http://haliwa-saponi.com/
Lumbee http://lumbeetribe.com/
Meherrin http://meherrinnation.org/
Occaneechi Band of the Saponi Nation http://www.obsn.org/
Sappony http://www.sappony.org/
Waccamaw Siouan: http://www.waccamaw-siouan.com/

Note: The Trail of Tears is a name given to the ethnic cleansing and forced relocation of Native American nations from southeastern parts of the United States following the Indian Removal Act of 1830. The removal included many members of the Cherokee, Muscogee (Creek), Seminole, Chickasaw, and Choctaw nations, among others in the United States, from their homelands to Indian Territory in eastern sections of the present-day state of Oklahoma. Many Native Americans suffered from exposure, disease and starvation on the route to their destinations. Many died, including 2,000-6,000 of 16,542 relocated Cherokee. — Wikipedia

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