Apparition

Apparition

On a rainy afternoon in December of 1988, UPS delivered four parcels to my office door; a dozen music books from Mel Bay Publishing, a stack of Celic CD’s from Narada Records, a carton of bubble wrap mailers and a securely wrapped box from The Pensacola Mortuary containing my father’s ashes.

As I signed for the shipment I wondered if I should have paid the Mortuary in Florida the extra $50.00 to have the last little bits of Solomon Hellman dropped into the Gulf of Mexico. In the end I elected to have his remains shipped to me, reasoning that in the near future I could take his ashes back home to New York.

After I racked the books and the CD’s I opened the parcel from Florida and wondered where I should keep the urn. It was a little terracotta sculpture with his name embossed on the side. I held it for a while with both hands. I then decided to place it by the postal scale where I could both reflect on Solomon’s life and lean my outgoing mail on it. So for a short time my dad would be part of my daily life at Gourd Music.

As the first few days passed I would gaze at the urn and think about the man who was my father for 40 years. Not a demonstrative individual but in his shy and quiet way, loving and kind. I remembered with fondness how my father would walk around our home on Sunday mornings. Dressed only in his boxer shorts, an old button shirt, a well worn fedora on his head, and an unlit half smoked cigar in his mouth he’d amble around our home with a coffee in one hand and part of the Sunday New York Times in the other. This will always remain one of my favorite images of him..

He was extremely dedicated to his work and it broke his spirit when he had to give up The Hellman Sowing Machine and Motor Company. A business and a way of life he had inherited from his father which stood proudly on New York’s lower east side for over 60 years.

We had our own funny language. When I said I had to leave he’d say, “Go, Man, go”. He’d usually finish a sentence to me with “ok bub”. He had this funny habit of counting the number of my friends I would have over. We would be upstairs playing board games; my father would enter and then just silently count the number of bodies in the room by pointing his finger at each of my friends.

Sol only made one visit to Santa Cruz but he was impressed. He was fascinated by the number of people who would sit behind The Bookshop Santa Cruz and drink coffee all day. As we’d pass through the Café Pergolesi he’d say “it’s 2:30 in the afternoon, how do they make a living?” “Dad”, I’d say “this is Santa Cruz and it’s sort of a laid back community.” To which he’d always reply in his New York way “well bub, nice work if you can get it. Maybe I can retire here and drink coffee in back of the book store, too.” “You can dad” I’d reply “ You can start right now with a double latte.” And then we both would laugh.

After a few days of contemplating my father’s urn the happier memories faded and the reality of his last few years took over. A series of operations, two failed suicide attempts, and then a brief rally as he pulled what remained of him together, and rented a small condominium on Pensacola Beach.

Just as he attained an island of sanity, the years of poor eating, alcohol and depression caught up with him and he found himself living from procedure to procedure at Pensacola Baptist Hospital.

In the last year of his life I began flying between Santa Cruz and the panhandle of Florida every few months. The doctors would always call at 4am and say if I wanted to see him before he went on I should hop on a plane as soon as possible. My father somehow kept himself breathing but with each flirtation with death he grew weaker. Then they moved him to a smaller facility where they put individuals who are about to expire. The hospital was antiquated and extremely disorganized. Two of the three times I visited my dad, they sent me to the wrong room. My father once had another patient’s chart hanging from his bed.

His skin had a yellow cast from a liver bombarded for decades with Scotch. His heart was giving out and he had colon cancer as well. Half of his teeth were cracked and there was a musty putrid smell about him. Scales were spreading across his scalp among the last strands of his thinning white hair, and crooked red lines crisscrossed through blue gray eyes.

During my last visit to the Pensacola Baptist hospital I made plans for my father’s imminent demise. I contacted a local funeral home and signed all the papers to release his body after he passed on. I never saw his body after he died

On November 5^th 1988 I spent my last morning with my father. He was in and out of consciousness but we managed to exchange a few words. He asked me to hold his hand and as I did I knew that we both were accepting the fact that his time on this planet was coming to an end. I hadn’t remembered ever holding his hand. I promised to come back but I knew this was the last visit.

“Well dad I have to go back to California but I’ll be back in a few weeks.” He uttered out a faint but audible “Go, Man, go.”

Two weeks later as I was working on a paper in my family student-housing apartment at U.C.S.C. an attendant called me from Pensacola Baptist to let me know my father had died of a cardio pulmonary collapse. He suffered so much that I felt a sense of relief when I was told he was dead.

At least that’s what I thought.

On the fourth night following the arrival of my father’s ashes I dreamed of him. We were in a rowboat in a small lake in the Catskills in upstate New York. It was a beautiful day and the sun danced on the water creating a cathedral of broken light. We were fishing for perch somewhere near Bear Mountain. In my dream I hooked a large one and when I turned to show my prize to my father he wasn’t there. I was alone in the boat. I could feel my heart beating rapidly in my chest as I searched the water around the boat but could not find him. I heard his voice calling me from the dock, and ordering me to row the boat in. I grabbed the oars and rowed towards the shore. Just as I got there he disappeared. I then heard him say “hey bub” and there he was sitting behind me in the middle of the lake.

The next morning I gathered all my business correspondence, Which I neatly stacked between my fathers urn and my Pitney Bowes postage meter and climbed into my car to take it all downtown to the post office. The day presented itself with my favorite Santa Cruz weather— bursting sunshine but a little cool and a sky filled with towering cumulus clouds. After mailing my packages I stopped halfway down the post office steps to speak with a friend about a music project he was doing. As we said goodbye I felt a tap on my shoulder. In all the years I’ve been alive very few folks have ever tapped me on the shoulder to get my attention. It’s usually an “excuse me” or some eye contact, maybe a hand on the side of my arm but hardly ever an actual tap on the very top on my shoulder.

I looked left and then right and saw no one but felt the tap again. Whoever was trying to get my attention was standing behind me two steps up. Figuring it was one of my friends having fun with me I turned around with my hands on my hips and said in a joyful but somewhat loud voice “yeah, what’s up?

I wished I had never turned around. I felt like Scrooge seeing Marley’s face in the doorknocker, however this face didn’t fade away. It simply stared, and frozen to the steps I stared back.

Just two steps up me stood a replica of my father, looking exactly as he did just before he went into the hospital for the last time. He also smelled that musty old man smell that I remembered from our last visit. He wore a gray fedora hat tilted towards the back of his head

He smiled and I quickly noticed he had the same two cracked front teeth dangling from his gums. Lifting his head up towards the blue sky he said “What do people do around here? This is really some town you have, it seems very interesting.” His smile was so bright it almost seemed like his entire body was dancing.

As I listened in bewildered silence the only reply I could muster was “You want to know what people do?” As I spoke I could feel my self being split in two, like the lyrics of the old blues song, “The Two Trains Running” Well now there's two, there's two trains runnin'Well ain't not one, (ho!) goin' my way.

The first train was my rational self, saying “Ok Neal, he’s got those cracked teeth exactly where Sol’s were, he also has the blood shot pale blue gray eyes and yellow skin and the smell. He’s Sol’s height, and his voice is the same timbre. Take a breath, take a breath, I’m sure there are many old Jewish males of German extraction who would look a lot like your dad once they have reached his age. It’s just an amazing coincidence. It’s probably just the smell of him influencing your other senses. That must be it.

The old man continued to grin and said, “Well, what kind of things go on here?” And as he spoke he bobbed ever so slowly as if he was following a melody somewhere in his head. I licked my lips. “Well” I said “A lot of talented artists live here and there’s the beach, a giant roller coaster and many places to get a cup of coffee.”

He smiled and as he did he never let go of my eyes. I felt frozen as if I was captivated by some beam of energy coming out of this, out of this, of this what? Who is this man?

As I was forcing words out of my mouth the second train took off and said “you never saw his body, you haven’t heard from the mortuary, remember how that hospital put the wrong clipboard on his bed? What’s more, the nurse who called you did not once mention his name and the State of Florida has never sent you a death certificate.

The specter then said, “How long have you’ve lived here? What do you do here? Are you one of these artists who hangs out and drinks coffee?”

Now my mouth was completely dry and I felt like I was getting off on some kind of mind-altering substance. I too wanted to yell out like the Dickens’s character:

Mercy…Dreadful apparition, why do you trouble me?

The first train spoke again: “Come on Neal, breathe, this is not your dead father coming back to haunt you. It’s probably just another old man with a liver condition that for some reason looks like your father. Just relax, look at your watch and tell him you have to leave. Tell him any lie just go.”

I couldn’t leave. It was alarmed but at the same time entranced. He then said what to me was his coup de gráce: “Those folks in back of the bookstore, don’t they have jobs to go to or do they just sit, read and drink coffee all day?”

The second train whistled, “They might have gotten the charts mixed up, perhaps he went into remission and then just got dressed and left the hospital. He wouldn’t be the first person to do that. He then hiked over to his bank, and withdrew his remaining money. After all it was his dough. He probably got a hotel room, rested up and then he flew to San Jose and presto, here he is.”

The first train then asked the second train “Well, why didn’t he call?” And the second train replied, “He’s probably not being very rational. After all the last time he saw his son, he was leaving him for dead in a run down hospital in Pensacola, Florida. I then announced to both trains that I did what I could for him and I don’t feel guilty.

I wanted to bust out of myself and say to this ghost, this spirit, this eidolon “Listen, man, I just lost my dad and you look a lot like him and it’s really starting to get to me so, please enjoy your visit here in Santa Cruz but I have to leave now, OK? Goodbye.” I wanted to say it, but I didn’t.

Just then the old man started pointing towards the street and began silently counting. “What are you doing?” I anxiously asked. “Oh I’m counting the number of people who are drinking large cups of coffee in those take out containers.” All I could do was nod.

“Hey Neal,” a voice called to me. It was my friend Elise, leaving the post office. Just seeing someone I knew was a relief, “Thank goodness” I thought, a friend. Elise made a beeline for me and immediately gave me a hug and said she just heard that my father had died and how sorry she was for my loss. “So how are you holding up Neal?” I was tempted to say, “Well Elise, I’m somewhat faint and approaching a massive anxiety attack but before I collapse I want you to know that my father has come back from the dead and by the way he’s standing right next to you.”

What I did say was, “well I’m ok.”

Elise glanced in the direction of the old man who politely nodded to her. Could she see him? Did she feel a presence? For three seconds there was a deafening silence. Elise dropped her car keys, she quickly retrieved them, reached out to me and said “I’ve got to run, call me, let me cook you dinner.” She made her way down the steps to her vehicle waved and drove away.

The old man then said: “Is she your girlfriend? She’s very pretty. Do you ever sit in back of the bookstore and drink coffee with her? What kind of coffee does she like, do you both like the same kind of coffee?”

“Were just friends but yes sometimes we have coffee together.”

He smiled and nodded and then lifted his head up at the sky and said, “What a beautiful day. Nice day to be out on the water, what do people fish for here in Santa Cruz?” “Oh sand dabs, cod, albacore and sometimes people like to go out on the water to look for whales.” “Have you ever seen a whale?” the friendly apparition asked?” “Well yes I did. I once was on a boat out of Moss Landing and I saw two grey whales.” “Moss Landing, what’s that like? Are there green and grassy banks there?”

Oh Jesus I thought he busted my chops when he was alive and now that he’s dead he’s still toying with me. Perhaps he just showed up on his way to the next dimension to say goodbye in his own weird Sol Hellman fashion.

I then realized what day it was, December 21^st, the Winter Solstice, the day of the longest night. A day that ancient cultures viewed as the time when the veil between worlds becomes translucently thin, a time when a deity would escort the dead from the underworld.

I didn’t notice any deities standing with my father. The idea of some type of Drudic spirits leading an old Jewish man form Florida to the next level of existence somehow just didn’t work for me. However the resemblance was so strong, I could only look at his face for a few seconds at a time. It was like staring into the sun. I was now convinced that this was my father’s spirit saying goodbye to me. I had an urge to heave logic to the wind and just embrace him. But I didn’t.

I finally mustered up enough courage to say “ I really have to go” and he replied, “Well, go, man, go” and sort of saluted me. I sort of saluted him back and said, “Enjoy your time here in Santa Cruz” and began to descend the steps. After I crossed the street I turned around figuring as in most ghost stories he wouldn’t be there. But he was, and he waved to me again. I waved back and smiled, he waved back and called out in a raspy voice, “Take care of yourself bub, and buy that pretty girl a latte for me.”

Ultimate B.L.T.

Ultimate BLT
Oh praise be to the sun, our bright shining ally in the center of our solar system. For you, you are the eternal fire in our universe, the keeper of the light, and the giver of life.
In September of each year our fiery orb crosses the celestial equator from the north to the south, a journey celebrated by many cultures on this third planet from the sun as the Autumnal Equinox. To astrologers it’s the day the sun enters into the sign of Libra, the constellation of the balance. The Mayans were dazzled by all the colors forming into triangles of light on their pyramid at Chickén Itzá. The Japanese celebrate Higan, also known as the six perfections: perseverance, effort, meditation, wisdom, observance of precepts, and giving. They also believe that this special day is an opportune time to reflect on life’s interior meanings.
I celebrate this day of equal light and darkness by creating the ultimate bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich.
It all starts with a journey to the fertile fields of Corralitos, where my destination is the much-heralded Corralitos Sausage Company, to acquire the “B” of my Ultimate BLT. While it is true that my ancient ancestors would frown on my current choice of savory, in my own wonderful, compassionate soul I forgive them. For if my great grandfather Israel Kennett could only have sampled this tasty piece of piggy, surely he would have understood why I journey south to purchase a two-pound slab of swine. It’s a lean bit of bacon, light on salt, no artificial ingredients, and smoked on the wood of an apple tree. Yes, the very tree that tempted Eve is now sacrificing itself to the flames to add just the right flavor to our dearly departed omnivorous, domesticated, hoofed mammal.
This venture to the south is followed by a Wednesday afternoon trip to the farmer’s market to purchase Molino dry-farmed tomatoes and Route One lettuce.
Dry farming utilizes soil moisture from the prior winter’s rain as the only form of irrigation. The advantages are a concentrated flavor and a sugar-acid balance that make this pomodoro the ultimate, most blissful, most flavorful little red beauty that ever sprouted from God’s green earth. I am a personal friend of Joe Curry, and he saves his very best tomatoes and puts them aside just for me. As Joe places the ripest of his harvest in my bag, I sing out, “bella, bellissima pomodoro.”
With the lettuce I keep it pure and simple. None of this radicchio or arugula stuff, just pure and crisp romaine lettuce is all that’s needed. I place the lettuce in the same canvas bag as the Molino tomatoes, for it’s good they get acquainted before they start working together.
Ah, the bread—the proper bread is a great source of debate with many lovers of the BLT. Shall it be rye, brown, francese, plain white, or ciabatta? The choice of bread has been, and I’m afraid will always be, a source of debate among lovers of this classic sandwich. The answer for me is as follows. What we have going on is a very delicate balance of textures and flavors. The crisp lettuce, the juicy but not too loose tomato, and the warm and crunchy bacon. A bread with too much body mass will overwhelm and stifle the wonderful trio of bacon, lettuce, and tomato. Making a BLT on a francese roll would be like experiencing an intimate scene of dialogue in a film and having the music on so loud that the words are lost. The bread must act as both a platform and a vehicle for our lovely trio, one that will only enhance the experience and not in any way, shape, or form (and I do mean this literally) negate it.
A great BLT is a complex edible symphony, one in which all the parts maintain their individuality, yet at the same time surrender their tasty nuances in the true spirit of gastronomic gestalt and dwell as one. This equinox I choose Sumano’s Bakery ciabatta bread. Though I am skeptical about its naked and pale texture, I feel it will toast up well, and its many crevices will add some fun places for the mayo to dwell.
With the mayonnaise choice I have to stay with tradition and of course go with Hellmann’s, though for some reason it’s known west of the Mississippi as Best Foods. I don’t waste my time with some kind of safflower oil concoction or other type of healthy alternative.
My ingredients are now all together, but the critically intense work has just begun. For now without the correct timing and the correct application of all the ingredients, my ritual could easily plummet into a spiritual abyss.
All ingredients must sit together at room temperature as I invoke the spirit of all the great BLT makers in all the luncheonettes in New York City. I heat my cast iron skillet (using a Teflon pan would be heresy) to a comfortable medium heat.
I then lay the bacon down four strips per sandwich, and as I do, the strips greet the metal with a friendly sizzley “hello.” As they are slowly cooking, I cut the tomatoes, neither too thin nor too thick, and place them down ever so gently on a plate to await their glorious marriage.
The lettuce has been carefully washed and spun with all traces of ribs removed. The mayonnaise is open and eager to join this eatable canvas.
Once the bacon has been turned, the bread swings into action. It has to be brown all the way but with no traces of crusty darkness. As the toast is finishing, I remove the bacon and gently pat it down with a paper towel.
Now it’s time to assemble my edible equinox creation. Mayo on both pieces of toast, then the tomatoes. I then place the lettuce between the tomato and the bacon, for I feel it’s texturally more secure that way. I don’t want an immediate confluence of tomato and bacon; I like the lettuce to work as a buffer. Here’s where many folks really go askew: they push the bread down so hard that the bacon is crushed. One must gently, ever so gently caress the concoction together. Then I take a sharp knife and make a diagonal cut. A straight cut is what people from small towns in Nebraska and Ohio execute. I place the masterpiece on a plate, where it waits for the consuming mouth to enjoy the warm and crunchy (yet still pliable) bacon, the exploding sensation of a dry-farm Molino tomato, the joyous lettuce, the condiment-ing mayonnaise and ever-so-supportive bread.
My first Ultimate BLT goes to my neighbor. With this offering I realize that I am truly invoking the Japanese Equinox celebration of Higan, illustrating the six perfections: perseverance, effort, meditation, wisdom, observance of precepts, and giving.

Gorilla

Our landlord was a black man and we helped him hoe his tobacco. He charged us $50. a month to rent a beat up old farmhouse, a few out buildings, a chicken coop and 80 acres of land. We’d usually work our rent off by helping Lewis with his tobacco allotment. Occasionally when we were all out in the field Lewis would joyfully shout out, “If you don’t have a college degree you can’t how my tobacco and that’s all there is to it.” He’d often wonder why we all studied so hard just to harvest leaf for an old black man in Virginia. If his wife Ella were around she’d answer Lewis’ question by saying “because they all doped up, that’s why.” We thought we were living a counterculture lifestyle, at least that’s the way it seemed to a bunch of citykids trying to enjoy a pastoral dream. However in a very real sense we went native. There was always a number of cars up on blocks in our front yard, we drank PBR Longnecks and at night we sang a lot of country music on our out of tune guitars. We fancied ourselves as some new American vanguard, but in reality we were emulating the locals —hardly an act of revolution.

During our three-year “back to the land experiment” we encountered group that was living more of an altered existence than an alternative one. They came to the piedmont area of Virginia each spring in an unholy procession of junked out cars and beat up old trucks. They used expressions like “center-joint”, “hey rube”, “mark”, “G-top”, “lugen” and “lot-lizard”. They were gypsies gone wrong, a subculture traveling on the edge of society, they were carnies and they never stayed in one place for long.

These were hard-core people who were living more of an altered existence than an alternative one. They didn’t smoke pot, play Grateful Dead songs on their guitars, plant vegetables, and run away from wild roosters. Their lifestyle showed on all parts of their bodies. From the long scars on their faces and backs to their missing fingers and teeth, here were the souls who had been cast away by society. Each year when they’d pitch their big top on a nearby farmer’s field, it was more an attempt at survival than entertainment.

Once a year for our three years living on a farm outside of Lynchburg our counter culture lifestyle would come in contact with their sub culture to earn a few dollars. They would pay us $10. each to help them raise the big top and at the end of the run take it down and help pack it up. While we were putting up the tent they would ask us if we had any drugs for sale. We’d reply that Bedford County Virginia was not good place to deal illegal items as possession of one joint could lead to five years behind bars. “Oh come on” they’d reply “just give us sell us some whites, you know uppers to help with those long nights barking our wares on the midway.” We would offer them a few joints and they would always reply, “We don’t want any of that candy assed weed, give us something we can really get off on like bennies or some meth.” The conversation would usually end there or with them saying, “then what the hell good are you freaks anyway.”

In 1971 there was not a lot to do around Altavista, Virginia, and for the one week that the carney operated it was quite the local hit. For just a few dollars an individual could experience the freak shows, bearded ladies and lion-faced men, games of chance, the hootchy-kootchy show, a ram with four horns, a fire eater, a five-legged horse, a giant rat, a house of mirrors, odd looking life forms in a bottle and one very old, sad-looking gorilla named Congo.

We always made it a point to tour the midway during their short run in our area. It was seedy and ratty but it offered a combination of carnie types and local Christens mingling together which all seemed to very entertaining to us. Simply stated—it was a trip. We liked to listen to all the barkers shooting their lines to the local marks and always got a kick out of the dog acts.

That year as we helped them strike the midway we were offered an additional job. They needed two people to drive a large pick-up, one with a tattered old camper on back, up into the Blue Ridge Mountains and dropped off in Staunton, Virginia.

It was a pretty small truck, so why (we asked them) did they need two? “We need two because you’ll be taking Congo up to his next performance. It wouldn’t be a good carnival without a gorilla, now, would it, boys?” The old carney spit tobacco through the gap in his front teeth as he spoke. “He bites a bit, but he’s a good old soul.” He then held up his right hand to display his two shortened fingers, which he claimed were bitten off by Congo. “Try not to drive too fast and watch out for bumps and please don’t let anyone know there’s a gorilla in the back of that camper as we really don’t have that type of legality if you know what I mean.”

I looked at my friend; we both nodded. There was no room for any type of negotiation when you dealt with a carny. They would put their weathered face in front of yours and made sure you knew who was dictating the terms of whatever deal they were cooking up. They always smelled like cheap liquor, no matter what time of day it was. They seemed to be chomping at the bit for a chance to confront us, an opportunity to let us know who was boss. The combination of their aggressive nature and our stoned self always gave them the advantage. There was just no future in getting into an argument with an American gypsy.

Sure, we thought, $50.00 each for driving a gorilla up into the mountains, yeah great, it’ll be a trip. They also agreed to give us a little extra money for the bus ride back to Lynchburg.

My buddy David and I awoke at sunrise the next morning and we joked about our upcoming adventure over toast and coffee. We both mentioned that the gorilla in question seemed to be a tame one so there was little need to worry. We jumped into one of our many beat-up vehicles and drove down to the carney camp. The first thing we noticed was how frightening these folks appeared in the daylight without the tents of the carnival as their backdrop. Many of them looked like convicts, and all of them seemed desperate. The light of day did not agree with appearance of a vintage carnival person.

Our welcome greeting went something like— “Don’t either of you jack asses even think of opening the back of that pick-up to check out Congo, ’cause if anything happens to the ape it’ll come out of your ass . . . get it? Remember we know where you freaks live . . . OK?” All of a sudden the humor of the day was extinguished with the tone and the nature of Vince who seemed to be one of the main carny bosses.

We nodded a nervous nod, jumped in the pick-up, and started our three-hour journey to Staunton Virginia, with a full tank of gas, a gorilla in tow, and our minds full of apprehension. David and I decided that smoking a joint with a gorilla in the back of a truck would not be in our best interest. We did wonder what the jail term would be if the police pulled us over. How would I ever explain to my parents, the same parents who paid for my college education, that their recently graduated son was busted for driving an unlicensed gorilla down an interstate?

We tucked our hair under our hats, and tried to look like two good old boys driving their camper down the road on a Sunday morning. We took 460 West to Bedford then 132 to 501; from 501 it was a straight shot to Buena Vista and highway 81 north, which would take us into Staunton. We were a little worried on the small roads, concerned that some cop with nothing to do on a Sunday morning would jump at the chance to pull over two guys with beards and check out what might be in the back of their truck.

We soon found ourselves on the outskirts of Buena Vista. We could hear Congo as we headed down the road. He would make grunting sounds, and sometimes he almost sounded like a young child.

We wondered if he had ever been free, if he had known the life of a highland gorilla. Had he ever mated or journeyed through a rain forest, or was this carney life the only reality he had known? Through the cab window we could make out his shape; we noticed he hardly ever moved at all.
When we finally hit the interstate, a wave of relief and confidence came over us both. I then mentioned to David that the poor thing must be hungry. We decided to stop in Mint Spring and treat Congo to lunch. Hell with what those carney people said, the gorilla has a right to eat and we just had to see him. We pulled into a Safeway parking lot and purchased a bunch of bananas and peanuts because that’s what we saw gorillas eat in the movies. Then we drove down an old dirt road and carefully opened the back door.

There he was huddled in the rear of the camper like a ragged child, no great silverback, just a large, very frightened life form that was high up on the evolutionary scale. We stared at him for a while and tried not move. We then made eye contact with Congo and sent out our best vibrations. He gradually sensed that we were friendly and had something to give. He then leaned just a little bit closer to us, which was our cue to dispense some food.

We gently tossed the bananas and peanuts to him. He ever so cautiously gathered the offering and retreated back to his corner. He sat there and munched away and never moved from his spot.

While most of the population of Mint Spring, were turning the pages of their bibles and giving thanks to the Lord, two hippies and an old gorilla were on the side of a nondescript Virginia road communing with each other over a midday meal. David and I exchanged glances and sensed correctly that Congo and we would never pass this way again.