Beaufort

This week's blog comes from our son David Singer.  He sent this letter to Muriel after our visit when he was living near Elizabeth City, North Carolina.  We had accompanied David to Beaufort to see him off as he led a crew sailing to a Caribbean island.

Dearest Muriel: 

What we think epitomizes your outlook on life was displayed by the event in Beaufort when you did the splits.  Once again, you quietly assumed control, as usual, gave specific instructions, and took no credit for your efforts, made the whole ordeal look as seamlessly smooth as a well rehearsed commercial.

It was May 10 of`1997.  Six of us -- Bert, you, Tiki, Tiffany, Trish, and I were disembarking from the 37 ft. sailboat “Stitches” after we had taken the obligatory photos. You know –the “These are the fine folks who saw David off on his voyage to the Caribbean” photos.

Bert had stepped ashore (actually onto the ladder float attached to the pier) with Tiki.  You handed Tiffany to him. He then stood awaiting your leaving the boat.

Then, with Trish at your port, and me, David, at your starboard, you put one foot onto the ladder float, straddling the life lines, to leave “Stitches.” The boat, not being a family member, decided independently to drift out toward Savannah.

As if in slow motion, your feet drifted apart, too, one trying to stay on the ladder float, the other glued to the boat.  Agile you are: a ballerina, not so much. So, you kept both feet planted. Tenaciously, you clung to the piling with your left hand, the boat railing with your right. It was a new version of “Twister,” except that you could go neither outboard nor inboard.  Release anything, and you'd be in the Gulf Stream.

Slowly, relentlessly, the boat inched away from the pier.

“Let me help,” offered Bert with both arms cradling dogs.

“Here, let me help,” added David, both arms now around your shoulders.

“Here, let me help,” cried Trish, both of her arms about your waist.

“No, Bert. You take care of the kids,” you told him. 

 

“No, David.  I think I can do better if you let go of my shoulders,” you advised me.

Then you leaned toward Trish, saying, “Thank you,” as you returned to the boat.

“Now,” you said. “Will somebody put this boat back so I can leave like a lady?”

       

Disaster had been one small misstep away; but you dealt with it with aplomb.  We were impressed, not surprised, though.  Of course you would leave the boat like a lady!         

                                       

Love, David 

       

        

Crater Lake

Crater Lake is one of the most visited parks in America. It is a “Natural Wonder of the World.” Just a few miles off U.S. 97, it is easy to get to, is open year round, save for occasional 14 foot snow packs, and less than forty miles from my home.  We return regularly.

 Only a handful of folks, however, shared the luck I had there one time.

My intent that day had been to photograph a special spot along the Rogue River.  My route to the Rogue took me past the Crater Lake entrance, and, on impulse, I turned in.  The lake would be especially brilliant that day at that time.  Maybe I could get one of those eye-popping panoramas that we see on calendars.

Approaching the parking lot and lodge, I saw a small crowd clustered a short distance from the lodge.  It was around a soft top convertible. A forest ranger stood nearby.  Approaching, I saw why the crowd. Inside the car was a bear. He was on the back seat eating out of two paper bags.

The bags were no surprise. People staying at the lodge often spent most of a day enjoying the greater perk area. The lodge routinely provided bag lunches.  A couple must have gone from the lodge to the car, but returned to the lodge temporarily.  Mr. Bear, ambling across the lot, having the world's greatest nose, crawled into the convertible.

As I stood by the park ranger, the couple returned. The man stopped and backed away; but the woman instantly strode up to the ranger.

“What's that thing doing in our car?” she demanded

“Eating,” the Ranger offered.

“GET IT OUT!!!!” charged the woman.

“Lady,” the Ranger said in a soft voice, “I don't give many commands to bears.”

“WELL, GET IT OUT!” yelled the woman.

The Ranger sort of shrugged, stepped over to the back of the car, then slammed his hard on a fender, making quite a bang and the, car shudder.  

       

The bear went straight up through the soft top.  As the bear strolled off toward the trees, the crowd exploded in laughter. It also gave the bear plenty of clearance.  The Ranger held his hands out, palms up.

Shanghai Shop

The most wonderful people you often meet by chance.  You aren't looking, and they're just there.

I guess sixty plus years is a long time to recall details of  a casual meeting. But, when I think about the several minutes I spent in that modest shanghai shop, I'm so glad that I can recall it so well.   What the gentleman did in 1945 still seems like last week.

Shanghai was at last no longer several million cowering victims of Imperial Nipponese  conquest. Street intersections were no longer monitored by Japan's soldiers. Now turbaned Indian Sikhs, hired mostly because they were giants who could see over everybody.

Bit by bit, shops were reopening  to masses daring now  to look into them.  What money there was could be circulated openly. As I passed by people, a few actually smiled.

Bored with looking down from the deck of my stop-over railing at the filthy Huang Pu River,  tired of my temporary bunk neighbors as they were of me, and having an entire day to spend my boredom, I went ashore.  At least I could exercise a little.  Downtown Shanghai beat listening to other bored navy guys repeating how bored they were.  By evening mess, I'd at least be tired and maybe hungry.

       

Wandering among the scurrying crowd, every one of them tightly focused on something ten inches beyond their noses,  I found it best to at least pretend to be shopping. If I seemed to be looking into a window, at least people quit brushing into me.

 

Without anything in mind, I paused before a pleasingly arranged curio shop window.  It looked better cared for than others.  It wasn't just  there: it was pleasanter, cleaner, its wares thoughtfully arranged.  Going in seemed natural.

Inside, was jammed with what else?  Curios.  Yet, somehow, it didn't look  so crowded.

My ignorance of curios was (is)  abysmal; but what I could understand was far above the stock junk of nearly every other layout I'd seen over the several days I'd spent in Shanghai. Also, taking time here beat more aimless meandering.

 

Little more than a month had passed since “The Bomb,” had leveled Hiroshima. It was a marvel that this shop could this fine a display in such a little time. The proprietor had to have carefully and cleverly secreted his curios from the Japanese for years, and even then had to have been very lucky.

The sound of a throat cleared turned me toward the back of the shop.  My host was a person you automatically call ' “gentleman.”  His suit was no longer fresh, having little worn spots at the lapels some re-stitching, wonderfully done, but impossible to completely disguise. His shoes were brightly shined, but showing little cracks betraying their age.

I asked, “Do you speak English?''  Foreigners often indicate that they do, and promptly reveal that they don't really. They'll happily fake their way through mutual frustration.  Bargaining with our pet, Tiki, worked better.

Some admit, with embarrassment, that they know “a little.”  That means  lots of hand waving.

This gentleman shook his head slowly, sadly.  He could, he indicated, read a very little English. I relaxed. We would understand each other, slowly, yes, but we would come out the other end okay, both of us.

I decided to take my time.  I liked the place. And, when I pantomimed would he mind if I touched things, he nodded, smiling, touching a few things himself, then stepping back.

One piece jumped at me.  I'd passed it several times without stopping; but, after awhile paused in front of it.  It was a teak boat, a mandarin's pleasure river craft with poles, long, bent rudder, and extra levels for a crew to propel it without troubling the mandarin.

Turning to the gentleman, I pointed at the boat.  He picked his way among doo-dads, lifted it down, and presented it to me.

Close up, this was a masterpiece.  My superb ignorance of this kind of art didn't keep me from recognizing the skill and patience required to form such a beautiful miniature. And I did know a little bit about teak.  I'd grown up with it all around me, because of so many missionary relatives who'd spent their careers in China, India, Southeast Asia, and the Philippines.

It also wasn't too big for me to tote it the many months before a leave and the many thousands of miles back home.  I nodded, handing it back to the gentleman.

“How much?” I asked.  He didn't have to know any English to understand my question – with my palms up and eyebrows raised.

He said something.  It might have been, “Blessings on Japan,” though probably not.  Words wouldn't get us very far.  I'd show him some money.

I dug into my Navy jacket, pulling out a wallet.  Fishing in it, I found some ones, a ten, and a twenty.  These I displayed. The gentleman considered the several bills.  At last he pointed to the ten.

I separated out the ten, but also showed him the twenty again. He smiled, slowly shaking his head.  At least that motion is universal.

He took the boat to a desk where he placed it on a large piece of wrapping paper.  Then he went back to the shelves.  He bent, rummaged, and came up with a paper bag.  He returned, placing it alongside the boat.  He found a bit of twine somewhere, tied the stuff together, presented it to me, and said something with a sweet smile.  He did not have a business card.

Back at the ship, in my quarters, I opened my prize...and got a surprise.

My Chinese gentleman had added almost a dozen pieces of tiny furniture, mats, and trappings to the boat.

Maybe there are not all that many “Shanghai gentlemen” everywhere; but there are some, and I've sure had the good fortune to have met some of them. (In 1950, I asked an auctioneer I knew what value he would place on my boat.  He said he would open the bidding at $200. That's nice to know; but it would take a ton more than that to pry it loose from me today.

Tokyo Rose

None of the G.I.s I knew in the Pacific in WWII were angry with Tokyo Rose.  She was too entertaining.  She recited  lots of nonsense, but we were pretty sure that her trash talk was essentially for her own people, who probably wanted to believe most of it.  We certainly didn't have to. When she was telling us that an aircraft carrier floating a hundred yards off our stern was being sunk, we didn't have to ask CINCPAC if “Rosie” was mistaken.

           

The thing was that, for all of her silliness, her radio program was the easiest to receive, and  she played all the best contemporary LP's.

           

Broadcasts from the States was usually like listening through a fish tank, wavering, and often interrupted by bad weather.  Ships could have relayed stuff, but that would have been an invitation to Japanese subs.  Rosie was reliable, and tuning in was secure.

Australia wasn't all that great to tune into, and they played "Aussie" stuff.

           

Rosie had to have been working from a monster station.  Bad weather and sunspots never spoiled reception.

           

One of our favorite pastimes was hearing her recite ships “sunk” by the Japanese fleet, and then seeing who would be first to identify those ships.     

Once Rosie named a C.V.E. we were alongside getting some supplies from. But she must have been an elitist, as she didn't mention our ship, just the big one. 

Security in war time is important, of course, but its effectiveness was at best moot.  When my brother-in-law's B-17 was shot down by the Germans in Rumania, the plane's crew were taken to an interrogation officer who pointed to each crewman and, in acceptable English, identified each by name, rank, home town, and prewar job. 

           

In the Pacific,  we always had a pretty good idea where the Japanese were, how many, how well equipped, and if they were readying any action.  We just couldn’t tell people at home that we knew. Which meant that Rosie's real effect was on her own country.

           

Once I wrote a long letter.  I dressed it up with cartoons of airplanes in the margins, palm trees, and wings on a steam boat. A month or so later, a response arrived.  My letter had been censored ... sort of. A censor had very neatly razor bladed out each drawing.  But, he, or she, had also left every clipped sketch inside the envelope. 

Some people at home actually knew things about my ship and schedule that I didn't.  I did not know when my first leave would begin until the day my leave papers arrived on board.  I only learned the name of my home bound ship by reading the bow on it as my exec and I were being motored to it.  Yet I was met at the pier in San Francisco, and my uncle in Berkeley had a reception waiting for me.  Maybe Tokyo Rose knew it, too -- but she didn't like to tell good news.

  

We loved her LP's.  Wouldn't you tune in Rosie when she was playing “Begin the Beguine,”  “Contrasts,” and “Don't Get Around Much Anymore”?  Oh, I forgot.  You weren't born then.