“Misfits Abroad” tells us “Adventures in Love, Language, and Foreign Lands.” it is a delightful read for anyone who has ever traveled to Europe and wondered. In a collection of essays spiced with humor and insights, Martine tells us her unique perspective of learning by immersion. It’s an enriching, amusing story.
All-American girl Martine takes an Army crash course in German. Coming from Fort Huachuca, she dives into the foreign land. Mind you, her Volkswagen rabbit is transferred to its home country as well. The first action in Bremerhaven is to push start the groggy yellow rabbit. No push-pull-engage-the-clutch gets it going. Rabbit needs mechanical help.
Settling in with Zwetschgenkuchen
And so the adventures of discovery continue. The new apartment has no ceiling lamps or appliances, but everywhere there is a “Schrank” (wardrobe). And how exactly do you behead a boiled egg? It takes a perfect swipe with a knife. Finally, the neighbors bring Zwetschgenkuchen, only to demand perfect quiet time in the afternoons.
Life in Germany shines a new light on Martine’s American upbringing. She learns the Army wife privileges of clearance and PX, appreciates the discounted souvenirs at the base, but also ventures out to Wertkauf. She has stories to tell about German men doing “Kegel exercises,” confused Army brats coming to America at age 22 for the first time, and managing her involuntary “alone time” by going to Disney movies or surviving the Autobahn.
Martine (left) and AnnElise at the Tucson Festival of Books
Martine has a different and elucidating take on the then sparse German TV programs, the desperate attempt to make sense of the dubbed over American movies, and the mechanics of the German language, where Spiel-zeug is a play thing and Werk-zeug is a work thing. But be careful of your English such as “fix it.” It could be heard as a four-letter expression in German.
Language Troubles No More
The intricacies of the German language provide Martine a wide playing field of pitfalls, errors, and humor in this delightful book. No wonder she wanted everybody to speak at least correct English. Aside from a mass communications professor, formerly with the Idaho State University, she is also a certified instructor of English as a second language.
Martine is not the only misfit within Army reach. A whole set of misfitted characters gave her material for sometimes tender, sometimes ironic, but always insightful behavioral studies of people blown over to Europe by the US Forces. She introduces a microcosm of assembled players that could make a Robert Altman movie.
Final word, the unique perspective that Martine takes on a number of things that we are familiar with makes her book valuable. She reflects back on the end of the Wall and Ossies pouring across Checkpoint Charlie. She bites, against mother’s advice, the bullet to give hitchhikers a ride and discovers a whole new explorer self. And she also analyzes the underlying ideology of the world famous Oberammergau Passion Plays.
Altogether an enlightening and fabulous read for anyone ever lost in another culture. When in Germany, do as the Germans do. Martine tried her best and lived to tell her stories. You can order “Misfits Abroad” here at Amazon:
Fritz Häber, 16 Months in an American POW Camp by Bernd Häber (grandson) is a remarkable document of WWII history. In it, Bernd shares the complete war diary of his grandfather Fritz, born January 22, 1910, in Leipzig (40 years in GDR). The historical assessment in the Foreword by Björn Krondorfer and the commentary in the Introduction by author Bernd Häber frame up the historic context.
Surviving on Animal Farm
In May of 1945 the war was over for the Germans. Fritz Häber, an anti-aircraft unit commander, by then a father of 7 children, surrenders to the Americans in late April. He and his comrades are taken on a miserable odyssey from one gargantuan make-shift prisoner camp to another. No shelter, no clothing, barely any water or food, no sleep. Men lost strength, muscle and mind. Some didn’t survive the torturous conditions at what can be best compared to “Animal Farm.” Eventually, the situation improved and Fritz did what he knew to do best: he made himself useful. At last, in the Metz (France) POW camp he worked as mechanic/welder/blacksmith for the American military. Whatever was thrown at him, Fritz took as a learning opportunity. Being a true-to-life socialist, Fritz also noted his reflections on the wrong turns the Reich took.
Fritz Häber, as is apparent in Krondorfer’s Introduction, lived through Orwellian times. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, he plowed through his daily responsibilities like so many. But unlike the majority, he let his heart make the call whenever there was wiggle room. He never lost circumspection or humanity.
Bernd Häber & AnnElise at the Treffpunkt
The biggest lesson we can learn from Fritz’s life story: a strong conviction may always put you on the wrong side of any regime. Fritz was imprisoned in the 1930ies for being a Communist. Paradoxically or not, the Reich wanted him as a soldier anyway. In the end, Fritz ends up judged as a Wehrmacht “Nazi” prisoner. His socialist conviction would have also been troublesome with the Americans.
Disgraced Communist
Finally, the Communist party expelled Fritz as well for having been a member of a Wehrmacht shooting squad. Even Fritz’ son Herbert, who became a prominent member of the GDR Politbüro, could not get Fritz reinstated. Herbert himself fell victim to a high-power conspiracy and lost his party position. In the end, after Germany reunited, Herbert was indicted as a Politbüro member by the Berlin courts in 1990 for being responsible for several killings at the Wall. Fritz was cleared of all charges and was fully rehabilitated. Fritz and Herbert were men of strong convictions.
Different Planets
Author Bernd Häber and myself grew up on different “planets”: he in the Democratic Republic, I in the Federal Republic. Maybe we were raised on different versions of “Mitschuld.” Krondorfer in the Foreword discusses the idea of “co-responsibility” in clear terms. I learned at my Bavarian Gymnasium about “Kollektivschuld”. That “Schuld” (guilt) didn’t go away with the Marshall Plan. We kids were prompted to ask our parents: Why didn’t you do anything? They told us at least one reason why. Even listening to the wrong radio station (BBC) could get you into a concentration camp too. And yet our parents often risked their lives by flying under the radar in the name of kindness.
What about us now? Have we learned anything? When will we speak up about nations taking all the wrong turns? We should not wait until NPR becomes the “wrong” radio station.
A Tiny Piece of Blue, cast in 1934 rural Michigan in the winter months, tells the harrowing story of a dirt-poor girl abandoned by her parents to fend for herself during the Great Depression. In the course of Silstice’s struggle for survival, she comes into her own. “Silly,” technically orphaned after her parents’ house burns down, gets on with a kind farm woman, Edna, who dotes on her but who is powerless in getting her husband on board to help the kid. One cannot fathom how crustaceous and heartless the old man Vernon is. He may not know any better, and his farm may be down the hill too.
Poverty Close Up
It’s a heart-breaking, close-up look on destitution and poverty. Penny-pinching pain. Charlotte gets into the heads of all three at-risk main characters: Silly the destitute, the kind woman, the self-righteous man—all three shine a light on the plight each from their own perspectives. The pace, the writing, the research, the sensitivity—are awesome! Charlotte does a wonderful job of bringing a critical part of American history alive in this close-up. Child trafficking adds to the wild adventure. Many lost boys roamed the country on cattle wagons during that time. That’s why Boystown came into existence.
Resilient Characters
And what a juxtaposition of characters: Silstice, the matter-of-fact orphan who struggles for survival, takes on Vernon. The tight-wad, heartless curmudgeon does not seem to know any better than to subjugate his wife. In contrast, the kind-hearted, do-gooder wife Edna, in lieu of not having children of her own, takes a gaggle of 4-H girls under her wings. As the story takes one breathless turn after another, the prospects change, mostly getting more dire and haphazard. And the characters change too. Is there yet a spark of kindness in Vernon or is he all business with the girl?
The pairing of a life-wise, hardened curmudgeon with a young girl facing the realities of life is a crafty presupposition for Charlotte’s character development. She stages her characters at a farm, a library, and the county fair at a time when the survival power of one dollar is another week.
A Tiny Piece of Blue (find out what is blue) is a wonderfully gripping read. I couldn’t put it down until it was finished. A Tiny Piece of Blue is available on Amazon.
Dear Mr. Bezos, bringer of all things possible and impossible, maybe TikTok as well, please do another good thing: Deliver us from the beverage drudgery. Yes, hauling our daily bottled water or soda or juice or beer or Red Bull all by ourselves from the store to the car is hard.
Dear Mr. Bezos, the beverages are heavy! Help us out here, these are modern times. Wouldn’t you want to make a buck or two with ultramodern beverage service vans? Do you remember when milk was delivered in glass bottles all across the US of A? I believe Schwan’s is still carting around frozen foods. And, no lie, in Germany they are doing such a truly beneficial beverage service. They drop your crate of beer or soda right at your doorstep. And they take back and refill the bottles too.
Here Is How to Set Up Your Delivery Service
Dear Mr. Bezos, please realize there is a beverage delivery market gap. You can fix this easily. How?
Step: online ordering like we always do from Amazon. Piece a cake!
Step: fill up your beverage warehouses a little taller than Total Wine and Beer.
Step: I will be the first one to purchase a cooler box with a hinky-dinky digital key and put it by my garage.
Step: just dump my drinks into the box and pick up the empties. Yeah, the bottles have a deposit on them.
Get it? Mr. Bezos, your beverage delivery system will be the best in the world because it creates zero trash. Have you heard that bottles can be washed? Even sometimes the plastic ones. Did you know that aluminum cans are a valuable resource? Aluminum recycles easily.
Spare Us the Garbage
Your beverage delivery system will create a real cycle, not a “recycle”—because why should our municipalities pay for disposing of the trash that vendors make money on in the first place? The garbage mountains are growing, as you know. So, I am hoping that you can fix this situation. I know you can. But I am not sure you are too busy or nice enough.
This is how the rest of it works: you (Amazon) return the empty bottles and containers (perhaps in crates or sixpacks) to the producer (brewery, manufacturer) for refilling. If the bottles are damaged, the producer sends them back to the glass (can) factories. And those either melt the glass/metal or dispose of the materials in a responsible way.
Please give us our daily beverages, Mr. Bezos. I promise, it won’t be much more trouble than your minimalistic cardboard recycling at the moment. You have brought us so much, Papa Amazon. But don’t only bring bring bring! You should also take take take the burden of beverages and trash away.
Oh, Papa Amazon, do a good thing and bless us with a beverage delivery system. And also deliver us from unnecessary garbage. Amen
It’s the best of time in Arizona! Temperatures are languid and mild, bunnies and squirrels frolic on the lush greens of a recent rain, and the colors pop out of the fragrant earth: wildflowers–it’s spring time. I took pictures on my recent hike to Wind Cave. Which of these flowers do you know?
(Ssh! There is a cheat sheet here at Southwest Desert Flora BUT: test your memory before you peek)
Florian is a tough little boy battling leukemia, quite a hero
By Renate Mousseux
Once upon a time there was a house named “Loretto 8,” a great three-story home to three different families.
On the first floor lived a family who had a grocery store. The family had two daughters, Uli and Margie. On the second floor, the owner of the house lived with his beautiful wife Rita and two daughters Gabi and Suzie. On the third floor lived a lady with her niece, Renate, “moi.”
Everybody got along great, all the girls were friends, and are still friends to this day! I moved to America, but we are all still in very close contact.
To my great joy, they all visited me on different occasions in the States. In the USA, I became a foreign language teacher, German and French. Usually, I traveled to Germany once a year at the end of my guided Educational Tours. I have retired since and not traveled because of my health conditions.
Uli married, moved to Switzerland, and became the owner of a successful dental laboratory. Margie took over the grocery store. Gabi graduated with a doctorate in Indology. Suzie moved and worked in another city, married, and had a wonderful son.
That great son is now an adult, successful, and has a family of his own. And low and behold, they have a beautiful son, Florian. He is lively and very intelligent, well spoken, and just an all-around great boy.
Suzie, the grandmother, is so very proud of Florian. Every long-distance phone call we had, she told me wonderful stories about her grandson. Until this one day: she called and related to me that Florian, 6 years old by now, has developed cancer, Leukemia.
We were all extremely touched and saddened by this sad news. He is in and out of the hospital and receives chemotherapy. The parents and family deal courageously with the situation. But the real hero is Florian who still smiles and submits to all treatments as required.
The nurses love Florian and are so impressed. They insisted to take a photo with him because he is such a wonderful young patient. He explained in detail to his parents and grandmother what medications he needs to take and their effects. Florian is amazing, he pays careful attention to all instructions given by the doctors. In the recreation room he has a tricycle, which he loves and uses. He races around with it so fast that the father has the hardest time following him with the transfusion stand.
There is also a girl who was also just admitted with leukemia. They befriended each other.
I thought maybe a bandana would cheer Florian up a bit, he could be a little “German Bandana Cowboy.” I live in Arizona, where I see many cowboys. I sent him a red bandana like theirs, and yes, I was right: he did like my present.
My friends sent me a great photo of Florian proudly wearing the bandana. What a joy!!!
If I win a prize for this true story I will forward the entire $ amount to little Florian to fulfill any wish of his.
My wish is also that this story will have a happy ending like all stories beginning with “once upon a time.” The great difference is: The above is a true, real-life story and not a fairy tale!
For all of you who pray, please do so.
For people with strong mental abilities, send positive energy please.
My cover designer ghosted me. I can’t blame him. He has had enough of my pet peeves. The last cover we worked on took long to get finished based on my special requests. Little did the designer know that this book and its cover had history. It was the debutante novel of a novice novelista. And as such, having been through many hoops, I took a critical approach.
Now I hope I haven’t lost a valuable artist and designer. Especially since one of my next books (Cowboy story) could be an interesting series, which all would need a cover. I should have known better. When I worked in the textbook production business, we had a “team.” In various status meetings, the acquisitions editor, developmental editor, the permissions people, the production editor, and the art department checked through the timeline and brought production challenges to the fore. And sometimes these meetings didn’t go without a spat.
After one such meeting, I stepped into the cave of an especially irate art director. What happened? In our process, the cover design thumbnails were circulated through the various departments to have everyone sign off on the draft. In my position, I would have to screen for any and all typos, regardless whether it was just an initial blurb. No problem with that. However, with this one design I had a bone to pick. It was for a modern language textbook and showed the arches of a gothic church window. What was modern about that? I wrote that on the comment sheet.
Boy, was I in trouble. I did get the evil eye and a sermon from this female art director that we are a “team” and we don’t publicly criticize each others jobs. And also, she said, I overstepped. The esthetics were her domain. All right. She had a point. I deferred and we became friends again.
Why did I overstep? Because I am a photographer with a good visual sense and because I have a brain with a good common sense. And I later put together one or the other cover myself, for better or worse. Yes, I now realize, I can mess too much with other people’s work. Because I am a little pedantic.
Now I don’t know whether my wonderful cover designer will ever pick up any of my jobs again. Apologies—I mean it. That last book and I had too much history. I will behave myself next time.
Yes, the same book with three different covers. The difference is clear. Maybe I can put aside my nit picking attitude and go with the flow of the art.
We left on election day, having cast our vote by mail, to escape our civic detachment (disillusionment). In Kerala, India, we enjoyed a tour to paradise. We drove from Dharmathupatti to Munnar, from there to Kumily (Periyar National Forest), and on to Mariar Beach, where we stayed in the Abad Turtle Beach resort on the coast.
We didn’t see wild elephants but we took note of this reclaimed plastic artifact in Munnar.
Along the serpentine ways through the Western Ghats we saw lush tea and cardamom plantations; farther down towards the coast, rubber trees, pineapple, mangoes, coconut, and extensive rice fields in the backwater region. We also took one of the famous houseboat trips on the coastal backwater canals.
Kerala is under communist leadership. From driving through the land, catching fleeting impressions with my tourist eyes, I thought that individuals, even the lowliest street hawkers, feel more like a part of society than any of us in the US of A. People in India know their roles, rights, and entitlements. Participation in the community in Kerala appeared to be much stronger than in the US, where half the population doesn’t even vote. We saw a communist rally march, noticed many campaign posters, and spotted numerous calls for recycling and other public service announcements.
A government can certainly make people feel as a part of the whole. Take for example the Periyar National Park and Tiger Reserve. Since its inception in 1982, the Periyar National Park has enrolled its local villagers as guardians of the preserve. That was a smart move, because now the locals have gained not only a source of income as guides and rangers, they have also dropped what one official brochure called “poaching.”
At the Gavi safari headquarters, at least a dozen guides met up with their tourists in small groups; breakfast and lunch provided at the cafeteria. Vijay, our guide who lives in the ecotourism village of Gavi, took us on a small hike from the ranger station to the top of one of the 18 hills in the park. All hikers had to wear gaiters up to the knee to protect us against leeches.
The hike was short but quite scenic. At the peak of the hill, Vijay directed our attention to the Sabarimala temple, nestled in the valley’s jungle. The famous sanctuary can only be reached on foot via a trail and nevertheless the temple attracts 10–15 million pilgrims annually, although it has restrictive opening seasons. A military station has been built next to it to watch over the ever increasing amount of gold in the sanctuary, as well as to monitor the religious fervor. Holy passions have a history of getting out of hand in a land of many faiths. Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity are all running their strong agendas.
At Periyar National Park, you can’t go hiking on your own. First of all, about 800 elephants live in the area. Although we saw plenty manure on the narrow road, we unfortunately didn’t spot an animal as such. Second, the park is home to an estimated 40 tigers and some hundred leopards, who may be looking for an easy meal. Third, there are few trails and, as anywhere in the wild, you could get lost and bitten by one of the 300 species of poisonous snakes. Dead tourists are no good advert. Bottom line: don’t go hiking without a ranger. Last but not least, tribals live in the forest too. And they also want to be left alone.
Vijay rowed us in a boat to the Gavi waterfall, which also provides the water for the ecotourism center. He pointed out various species of birds and spotted an orchid called Dancing Girl. He took us on a walk through the arboretum, where we learned about wild mango, chiku (sapodilla), guava, plantains, and allspice. He lit up the resin from the Boswellia serrata tree (frankincense). He was very knowledgeable and proud to share the natural beauties. His forebears may have been poachers, but Vijay now had become an advocate and protector for his paradise.
And there are lots of animals in it. We saw monkeys of several species, herds of gaur (bison), sambar (deer), mongoose, and birds of all kinds on an afternoon boat trip on Lake Periyar. And Vijay and the other rangers had a proud stake in all of this. They enjoyed protecting and sharing the forest at the same time. Of course, we missed out on the tigers, perhaps good so. And we also didn’t spot an elephant. But their droppings were plenty.
Kerala, like all of India, is densely populated. Nothing goes without collaboration because you depend on it. We eventually arrived at our final destination at Abad resort. Even the beach bum dogs of Marari Beach understand this. The packs of mutts wait patiently every morning for the fisher boats to return. The symbiosis between fishermen, dogs, and restaurant trash has deep roots.
Kerala, a true garden state, seems like an ecological paradise. (Duh, close your eyes when there is dust over the tea plantation. Pesticides are are a common practice.) Yes, there is occasional trash, but less so than in other parts of India. Then there are plastic bottle hunters who pile up sacks mile high on their bicycles. Imagine, the cow poop will be dried and serve as fuel for cooking. There are coconuts of which every part can be put to use, even the coir from the husk to make fibers to stuff mattresses. To find out more, visit the Coconut Museum near Marari Beach. There is no part in a coconut that can’t be used.
In the old days, a whole house could be roofed with palm leaves. There is much reuse and recycle going on based on the scarcity of materials but also new inventions such as paper straws have made their way to market. In our resort, Abad Turtle Beach, three miniature bovines were kept on premises, not for milk but for lawn mowing, their manure serving to fertilize the vegetable garden.
Our Kerala trip gave us one of the best flavors of eco-tourism. When the locals are collaborating to preserve their natural treasures, this kind of business is an enrichment for all involved and does (hopefully) the least harm. Tourism will never take off with “no harm” involved. But in the national parks in Kerala the flow of people is strictly controlled. It has to be. With a population of about 1.5 billion plus some tourists, the pristine lands for wildlife are precious and irreplaceable. We don’t want to trample them down.
GRMC alumni at front entrance (left to right): Dr. Sunil Mathew, Dr. Inder RS Makin, Dr. Praneal Sharma, Dr. Kayemba-Kay’s Simon, Dr. Jaspreet Brar, Dr. Shahin Nooreyezdan, and Dr. Jay Maharaj
Seven distinguished medical professionals returned to their college tracks at the Gwalior Medical College, Madhya Pradesh, India, after 45 years in international career tracks: Reconstructive Surgeon Dr. Shahin Nooreyedzan, New Delhi; Radiologist Dr. Praneal Sharma, Sydney, Australia; Psychiatrist Dr. Jaspreet Brar, Pittsburgh, USA; Hepatologist Dr. Sunil Mathew, Kochi, Kerala; Pediatrician Dr. Kayemba-Kay’s Kabangu Simon (native of Democratic Republic of Congo), from France; Biomedical Engineer Prof. Dr. Inder Raj Singh Makin, Phoenix, Arizona; and Family Physician Dr. Jay C Maharaj from Durban, South Africa.
The international group of doctors, most accompanied by their supportive spouses, retraced their college experience. They visited the various departments at GRMC campus, where college Dean Dr. R.K.S. Dhakar received the alumni in his conference room. The international group also chanced upon a dear colleague from the old days, Dr. Ranjna Tiwari, Professor of Community Health and expert sitar player.
“I had to take this young man under my wings back then, because he didn’t speak a word of Hindi,” Dr. Tiwari said about Dr. Maharaj, from South Africa. The Gwalior professor was bowled over with affection.
A number more surprises were sprung on the seven Gwalior alumni. Jaikishen (a.k.a “Jack”) chai stand was now surrounded by high volume traffic and the trees were missing, but the pakora, samosas, and chai were still delicious. A memorable photograph was recreated at the Talkatora pool location after 45 years, each doctor modeling the former pose of studious interest.
During the course of two days, the medical professionals went down memory lane swapping stories of mischief and accomplishments. The city had changed a lot but eventually each alumnus sleuthed out their former abodes. The seven GRMC exes, who had been planning this joint outing for the last five years, bonded even more strongly over this exciting endeavor.
“I can’t get over the fact that this feels like yesterday. But we are sure glad not to be staying in the dorms any more,” Dr. Nooreyedzan joked. Whew! His colleagues agreed with him wholeheartedly. They all had accomplished their specialties coming from the rigorous training ground of GRMC’s medical degree program.
Its rustic charm was irresistible. The Crofting Inn put forth a Hallmark lumberjack façade. The bed and breakfast in Cloudcroft, New Mexico, offers 7 quaint, old-fashioned rooms. Just what my friend, Bandanaland Princess Edda, had been looking for. She was planning to get away from the Texas heat for a summer outing to this ski resort village with her Prince Helmut.
Hostess Gail at your service
“The price was right for that amount of ambience,” Edda said. “The old house, built in 1919, appealed to me because I like historic locations.”
But they couldn’t decide on the exact days because a mouse had chewed up a wiring cable and this car problem had to be fixed for the road. “It was wonderful that the landlady was so accommodating about our back and forth with the dates,” Edda recalled. What joy, the last-minute deal worked out.
When they arrived, the door was locked. “Just type in the code and go up to your room,” the woman in charge, Gail, instructed them on the phone.
The house was decorated with an abundance of old-fashioned trinkets and antiques. The room offered plain accommodations with a bed and bedside tables, no wardrobe or storage for clothes. No TV or air-conditioning either, but the little balcony let plenty of clean mountain air in. It would have been perfect enough, except the tub looked whacky.
“No problem!” the hostess said. “We will move you into another unit.” Those showers were totally up to date.
“I also chose this Inn because it advertised a gourmet breakfast,” Edda said. She likes fancy fare in the mornings. “After a home-baked blueberry muffin and a bowl of fruit, I asked myself, what’s next.” But nothing came forth. So, the hostess served additional toast and extra hot milk to thin Edda’s coffee. On top of that, she offered advice on outings to the famous train trestle, the beer brewing company, and the elegant Lodge with its resident ghost.
Gail minded every minute request with unaffected hospitality. “She was a little like me,” Edda said. “She liked to cook but it had to go fast.” The conversation in the dining room between the different guests flowed merrily from one to the other, a fact that Prince Helmut really liked.
A couple from Kerrville, Texas, shared their discovery of mega croissants from the best bakery in the 950-souls-strong little western town of Cloudcroft. They talked with an astoundingly sprite 90-year-old woman who celebrated her birthday with a family reunion. And a good-looking couple was planning a flashy wedding.
Why flashy? Another interesting fact surfaced at this point. Innkeeper Gail and her husband, math professor Scott, got married on their lunch break, just like Edda and Helmut did. No flash at all, but the bond lasted.
Crofting Inn had many cozy corners. Coming from Bandanaland, Edda felt right at home with the rustic paisley patterns all around. The whole house was decorated with bandanas: as table cloths, as fireplace décor, and dangling from the ceiling as garlands.
“We get many guests from Texas up here,” Gail explained. “They are very fond of Western themes, in which the bandana plays a pig part.” So, she made her place extra comfy and welcoming for cowboys and cowgirls. This goes to show again that there is creativity in bandanas to no end. The sky hangs full with bandanas at the Cloudcroft Inn.
Thank you, Bandanaland Princess Edda, for the lovely photos and story
Contribute to the Bandana Book III
“Sung and Unsung Heroes” Stories deadline: December 1st
Everybody knows a hero. Could be your parents, neighbor, school mate etc. Send in your hero story, regardless of a Bandana! Heroes don’t necessarily wear bandanas, but they might suit them well.
This is archaic, I know. I should have done this on Instagram or Snapchat or at least Facebook. But here is a collection of snaps, match ups of regular people with famous people. These images from US Magazine (I am kidding) are no selfies either.
Why do we take pictures with famous people? We want some of the stardust fame rub off on us too.
I remember how cranked up I was about meeting Alice Cooper in person. As a teenager in Germany, I had his Bravo poster up on the wall, blackened eyes and all. On that day, Alice was promoting a friend’s sandwich shop. Alice Cooper, bad boy rock’n roller, is now a celebrity for saving the youth with his program Solid Rock. He has a music studio each for budding musicians in Phoenix and Mesa.He gets the youngsters engaged and off the street. I have visited Solid Roch with my student groups. A neat place!
I am certainly not a stage hog. But—The most famous picture, which I had always wanted, would have been with Elvis Presley. I was only a teenager when he died, cried my eyes out. But Gisela Solms-Wildenfels got a shot with Elvis when he was stationed in Germany. I stumbled into Gisela at a flea market in Wolfratshausen, where she was selling Hummel cups and other trinkets. She is of that Elvis generation. And this one encounter gave her joy to last a lifetime. She gifted me a copy of her Elvis picture.
Kurt Warner & Susmita
And on the story goes. I am not a sports crack, but I could pick out Kurt Warner (Arizona quarterback, 2005-2009) on our flight back from Omaha to Phoenix. We had attended a country music festival in Le Mars, Iowa. The football legend agreed to a photo with the cutest of us, Susmita. She didn’t know who we snapped her with, but it made me happy. Old reporter soul. Can’t ever switch off my scanning mode in an airport.
There are many more incidents of brushes with fame. Sometimes we don’t even realize when a celebrity passes by. I missed my chance to take a selfie with Max Raabe from the Palast Orchester. Oh, well. Better luck next time.
AnnElise arrested by TV cops Hubert & Staller (Christian Tramitz, Helmfried von Lüttichau)
Arduino co-founder Tom Igoe, remote controlled man Josh, and Priyanka Makin
AnnElise, AZ Attorney General Kris Mayes, Jeanne Devine, Randy Miller (SRP Board)
AnnElise, Kate Earley, and painter Jack Earley on Valentine’s Day in Loveland
I have many reasons for being unable to break out of anonymity. But the most telling one lies in my childhood.
When I was four years old, my parents took us to the zoo. It was spring time. Somewhere around the miniature goats, there was a green activity patch: May bug hunt. Instead of Easter eggs, the activity team had laid out lifelike chocolate bugs wrapped in printed tin foils. At a shot gun start, they let a bunch of us kids inside that corral. I picked up a bug and proudly showed it off to my parents.
“Run,” they yelled. “Get more!” But I was too slow for that. In 30 seconds, all the bugs were picked. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could take more than one treat. My parents were disappointed. I should have gotten at least five chocolate bugs for the 1 Mark fee they had paid.
This childhood May bug story only just starts to describe my predicament. I thought about it long and hard and came up with at least 13 reasons why I can’t be famous:
I am in a slow, contemplative gear by nature.
I am a perfectionist and my projects take a while to get them just right.
I am too nice and let other people go first.
I was raised to take turns and believe other people would do so too.
I was never taught to be greedy.
I abhor risk and gamble.
I hate bragging and lying.
I dislike small talk and public appearances in general.
I cringe at social media and the commitment to post.
I am bad at business and calculating my profit.
I missed the boat 20 years ago because now everybody is famous.
I am too old to spark the flame of fame.
I get stage fright.
My comfort zone gets disturbed easily.
Who’s got time for this?
I got better things to do. Maybe I don’t even like being famous.
NOTE: This poem by Priyanka, written in 2013 in high school, floored me when I rediscovered it in the keepsake box. Proud parent thinks, Little Genius in the Makin’
As I wander through the forest,
The warm sun rests on my shoulders;
The playful blades of grass reach up to my ankles.
The tall, tower-like trees stretch upward
And tickle the lonesome sky;
The sky has no friends to chase
On this cloudless day.
I see the flowers lean left and right
To get a good look at the magnificent trees;
The pine needles from above
Sprinkle down their spicy smell like fairy dust.
The mountain breeze climbs up my spine
And weaves through my hair;
He races through the trees
As all the leaves cheer for him.
A scripted butterfly lands
On the trunk of the tallest tree,
Basking in its glory;
The baby trees, standing straight and proud
In the shadows of their parents,
Know they can also, one day, achieve their greatness.
And as I witnessed the small trees
Standing as straight as can be, I thought to myself
No matter how small I start off, I can achieve magnitude.
Charlotte cherishes her blue bandana. This type of bandana is often associated with western attire, do rags and country folks. No doubt about that. But this one is truly extra special for its history.
“You ought to get rid of this ratty old thing, mom.” Carlene Davis leveled the large plastic frame that held a badly faded, formerly deep blue bandana.
The old thing was ratty with wear and tear and tears and snot from decades of overuse. A hole burned into the lower right edge was exactly the size of a 7.55 x 53 mm Mauser cartridge. The only thing not overly faded was a hand-sewn letter T in the center and a couple of dark reddish-brown stains. Apparently, the only thing holding the piece of cloth together was the smudged glass in the frame.
Carlene was a doting daughter, a member of the Southern Baptist Women’s Missionary Union, the Library Volunteers, and half a dozen community organizations in the small town of Token, Arkansas. She was 54 years old, portly in appearance and always slightly overdressed in style. Her gray hair was poorly disguised by whisps of light green, purple, and red streaked through-and-through in an attempt to recapture a youth she had never really experienced.
Her mom, Charlotte Tetrozoa, was the picture postcard image of a modern-day granny. She also was on the portly side, something she never tried to disguise. Her gray hair was pure gray, something she would never have thought to disguise either. She stopped her knitting and pointed a needle at her daughter. “Your granddaddy carried that ‘ratty thing’ into the trenches back in the Great War. Some German sharpshooter put a hole through that bandana and right into his chest. That blue rag plugged the hole and saved his life, young lady.”
“Mom, I’ve heard the story a thousand times.”
“Not enough times, I see. Your daddy took it with him all the way through the second great war.”
“I know, mom.”
“He took it to Korea.” She paused and sniffed. “That’s your daddy’s blood in the corner.”
“I know all that, mom, but it’s so . . . Well, it’s ratty, mom.”
“It’s yours when I’m gone. Do with it as you want, then.”
“Mom!”
“Enough of this. I got to fix supper. You staying?”
“Of course, mom.”
A week later Carlene burst into her mother’s home. She was practically giddy. Charlotte said, “What’s got you so agitated?”
“The university wants to expand their collection of historical artifacts and they’re really wanting stuff from World War I.” She waited for a specific response that never came.
“Mom!”
“That’s interesting.” Charlotte continued stirring her pot of pinto beans. She never looked up.
“The bandana, mom. That’s just what they’re looking for.”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’d be in a museum, mom.” Charlotte, focused on her cooking, didn’t see the rolling of her daughter’s eyes. Carlene looked over to the framed source of her grief and seemed to be imagining a paint-by-the-numbers substitute.
“That bandana is family. It’s right where it’s supposed to be.”
“They’re paying money if they like something–real money. They got a grant.”
“You don’t sell family, darling.”
“It’s an historical artifact.”
“You’re trying too hard, daughter.”
Carlene took a moment to take in a deep breath. “They have an appraiser. I’ve met him.
“I’m sure you have.”
“He’s real interested in that bandana. Can I at least bring him over to look at it?”
“Of course, dear.” Charlotte waved her right hand over the top of the bubbling pot and breathed in the earthy aroma. Her glasses fogged up and she took them off. “That’ll do. Are you staying for supper?”
Carlene showed up the next morning with the appraiser. Charlotte was waiting with a tray of coffee and cookies when she heard the knock on the door. Stedson Alborty was not exactly what she expected. Instead of a “university type,” he was a large, handsome man dressed in blue jeans and a work shirt. He wore a baseball cap emblazoned with LSU, Louisiana State University, in gold on a dark purple background. His eyes went immediately to the framed bandana.
“May I examine the—”
“Not to be rude, Mr. Alborty, but let’s chat a bit first.” Charlotte gestured to the couch and chairs around her coffee table. “Why are you so interested in what my daughter calls a ratty old thing, Mr. Alborty?”
Carlene looked away.
Alborty finished a sip of coffee. “Stedson, please. Call me Stedson.”
“Certainly.” Charlotte tended to be more formal than her nature when meeting people for the first time. She was not standoffish, merely observant.
Alborty was very polite and he made a fine and only a mildly passionate presentation. He spoke of the need for preserving history. He called it “real history,” the memories and artifacts of people who were really “there.” Charlotte eventually began nodding in agreement. Carlene nodded so vigorously that she was in danger of pulling a neck muscle. Alborty said, “I have a substantial budget. More than that, if I don’t spend it all, I’ll never get a bigger acquisition budget next year.”
“What exactly does that mean to me, mister . . . Stedsen?”
“It means I pretty much have to offer you more than top dollar for your bandana.” He smiled and scribbled a dollar figure on a notepad he carried in his pocket.
“This is quite a sum for a ratty old thing.”
“Mom!” Carlene reached over and took the notepaper. “Oh, my!”
Alborty said, “Like I told your mother, this really is a one-time offer.”
“Oh, mom, you have to. You just have to.”
Charlotte leaned back into her couch and thought for a long moment. She looked at her daughter. “This will make you happy?”
“Me. And a lot of other people. A museum, mom!”
Charlotte looked over to the bandana in its cheap plastic frame. It had slipped again and was hanging at an angle. She sighed and said, “If that’s what you want . . .”
Alborty sat up straight and seized the opportunity. “Thank you, Mrs. Tetrozoa. For me and the university. And for the people who will see this in the museum. I will be by in the morning with a check and you can hand over the bandana then. Is that all right?”
Charlotte nodded.
Alborty and Carlene stayed only long enough to be polite before leaving. As she heard them drive away, Charlotte leaned back and took in a long look at the frayed and stained bandana.
Alborty arrived at ten a.m. the next morning. Charlotte was not in the least bit surprised to see her daughter with him. When they entered the house, Charlotte was nearly frantic.
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry, Stedson. Carlene. I am so, so sorry.”
“Mom, what happened?”
Charlotte motioned them farther in and led them to the kitchen table. An old cardboard box rested on the edge. “I . . . I wanted to make sure our bandana would be, you know, proper for a museum.” She wrung her hands nervously.
“Mom?”
Charlotte ducked her head and reached into the box. “I wanted it clean and pressed for you, Mr. Alborty.” She pulled out what looked like a large white handkerchief.
Stedson leaned in for a closer look. He saw a hole the size of a WWI German bullet in one corner. A badly washed-out letter T dominated the center. The blood stains were completely gone. “I am so sorry.”
Stedson’s shoulders sagged just a bit. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, Mrs. Tetrozoa, obviously . . .”
“Of course. I understand. I really am sorry. I just wanted to—”
“That’s all right. Things happen. Your loss is our loss, but I understand how you must feel. I, too, am sorry.” He seemed anxious to leave.
Charlotte folded the white cloth. “Well, at least I still have something.”
There was not much left to say. Carlene had bummed a ride with Alborty, so they left together. When they were gone, Charlotte walked over to the wall where the framed bandana had been. She reached behind the nearby couch and retrieved a paint-by-the-numbers painting of a farmhouse on a rural road. It was something she grabbed at a neighbor’s yard sale the afternoon before. She hung it and stepped back, nodding with appreciation.
That evening before going to bed, Charlotte pulled open a bottom dresser drawer in her bedroom. She pulled out the old plastic frame still holding in the old bandana. She wiped off a fingerprint smudge, smiled with approval, and placed the heirloom back in the bottom drawer.
Social media are sometimes full of surprises! I am not a frequent player, but somehow I got on Align. In the process of many notifications flitting by, I almost overlooked Kris Keppeler’s message. She offered to read and record a Bandana story for me–and here it is. Now you can listen to my bandana berry experience.
Kris Keppeler is a much requested narrator and voice over talent. You can contact her at her website
The Bandana Book II was well received at the launch party. Thirty guests with international backgrounds celebrated the UNUSUAL ENCOUNTERS in the newest Bandana edition. With 24 delightful stories, the new Bandana Book is bigger and better than the first. Hopefully, it keeps going.
People came from just as many countries as backgrounds. We had a lot of amazing talent from India, Sri Lanka, Germany, Peru, Finland, Colombia, Latvia, cross-USA, and even home-grown Arizona talent. Let’s see where all the bandana stories and guests come from.
DAN BALDWIN, Bandana Author
is a prolific Mesa writer, ghostwriter, author, public speaker. He has two new titles out:
“My new how-to book on writing, I’m Looking for People Who Can’t Write Good – Random Brilliance, Brainstorms and Blogs on Writing is now available in ebook, paperback, and hardcover.
My latest paranormal non-fiction book will be released by the end of June –The Sky People and Our Ancestors. I’ll be appearing on podcasts Conflict Radio,on Shifting Paradigms In Medicine, and on The Typical Skeptic in June.”
is a writer, cowgirl poet, and reenacter of the Western glory days of the Wickenburg Marshals in Arizona. She teaches art and gives art therapy in her art studio or behavioral centers. She spends as much time as she can writing. You can find all her meanderings and writings atwww.americancowboyjournal.com or at www.jeantolle.com
RAINE (KEYA HUNTS-IN-WINTER), Bandana Author
Raine won the Imakinations “Totally Young Writer” Award. She is at her young age–going to be a sophomore in high school–a prolific writer of fan fiction and fantasy stories. She likes to dive into online platforms and has gotten an amazing response in cyber space.
NOEL ALVAREZ, Bandana Author
Noel is a longtime school counselor with Mesa Public Schools and over the years has served many families in the Native American Education Program, until she recently transferred into another position. She is Navajo and Muskogee Creek. She has improved many a student’s outlook in life. She makes anyone feel better with her gracious smile.
BETTY MERMELSTEIN, Bandana Author
“My latest publication: This is Fetch, an illustrated children’s book published by Pegasus Publishers. My books for children and adults can be found at Punkynotes, including published poetry and short story links.”
Tuula, now living in Henderson, NV, is a native of Finland and a world traveler. She has enjoyed encounters with Jane Seymour, James Patterson, and other celebrities. She likes to read true crime stories and mysteries along the lines of Patterson. She has written about two suspicious or criminal incidents.
UTA BEHRENS, Bandana Author
Uta Behrens has made her career as real estate investor. She has sponsored many educational and community organizations. In her golden years, she has authored 7 books: The Truth Seeker, Journeys in the Lifeboat, Journeys Into the Past, Ultimate Betrayal, Journeys into Foreign Lands, and Journeys as a Landlord. I enjoyed helping her produce the last two volumes.
TIM HUNTS-IN-WINTER
Tim is a member of the Lakota Standing Rock Reservation. He has been an advocate for Native rights and has worked as promoter and coach for Native youth in Mesa school system. He is also an excellent story teller and a treasure trove of Native American history. Lately, he has specialized in researching the Lakota code talker history of WWI and will soon publish a paper about his findings. Timothy Hunts-In-Winter
SRIANTHI PERERA
Srianthi is a professional, international journalist and book author with roots in Sri Lanka. She entered the book world with her well-received coming-of-age story, A Maiden’s Prayer. Srianthi recently published a humorous and educational travel story book that she coauthored with her childhood friend Romany, Two Friends on Many Roads.
INGE McKEEVER
Inge, with German and Latin American roots, has been a successful business woman, a Jill of Many Trades. She has the drop on fashion trends and is currently dealing in themed costumes. Special events and Halloween are keeping her real busy. As she has had much multilingual experience with the preschools she ran earlier, she is now working on a bilingual curriculum for children. It could be the next Rosetta Stone.
PATRICIA SAUNDERS
Patricia is the older sister to Inge (above). She recently documented her incredible life story in a memoir. Her journey led her from Ecuador to Colombia to finally Portland, Oregon. She overcame many challenges and professional obstacles to become a successful woman with great trust in God. Faith alone didn’t get her to the top; she worked hard for her success. A woman of her word, Patricia directly speaks her mind. Read up on her journey in From Surviving to Thriving.
MATT & MAYA KELLER
Matt (from New Mexico) and Maya (born in Lima, Peru) Keller are our long-time serendipity friends from church. Matt and Maya are expert trailblazers, and we enjoy their encyclopedic knowledge of hidden paths. Matt is a horticulturist and shares his experience with domestic and foreign fruit trees on his blog Phoenix Tropicals.
SANDE ROBERTS
Sande has been a mitigator for public organizations and a life/success counselor in schools and private practice. Her motto is “You can be the difference!” She now teaches workshops in suicide prevention, PTSD, Emotional Freedom Technique, and financial personality. Her book We Need to Talk about Suicide has received great attention. Recently, she also published a children’s book, Blake’s Great Day.
JEANNE DEVINE
Jeanne, our activist friend and founder of the grassroots organization Unlimited Potential in Phoenix, always inspires us to seek new adventures in humanitarian efforts.
as well as Dr. Inder Raj Singh Makin (host), Sarah Bohrer, Ruth Ann & Jerry Thacker, Rita Rucks, Debosree & Tamas, and everybody.
AUTHORS celebrating with us in Spirit:
ELISABETH SHERWOOD, Payson, AZ
Elisabeth is the inspiration and creator for the Bandana cover image. Her cowgirl, and now cowboy, collages are mysterious and humorous at the same time. You can see more of her art at INSTAGRAM.
CHRISTIAN BAUDY, Hamburg, Germany
Christian is a poet, painter, activist, and author. His German debut poetry collection Blättern unter Bäumen (Turning Pages below the Trees) appeared in 2021. In 2022, Christian published his first bilingual children’s book, Robert’s Teddy/Roberts Teddy. Sometimes Christian’s poems are coupled with paintings. His recent INSTAGRAM.
GISELA BAUDY, Hamburg, Germany
Gisela is a trained editor, and long-time freelance journalist, focusing on ecological and socio-economic change. Many of her poems can be found online and in her poetry volumes Worthaut (Word Skin), Blaues Ufer (Blue Shore), and Winter im April (Winter in April). She writes eco-social haikus, eleven-word poems, prose poems, and epigrams with her husband Christian Baudy. Follow her INSTAGRAM.
EMILY TOADVINE, Kentucky
Emily is this year’s first prize winner. She spent 25 years in journalism, mostly as features editor at a newspaper in Danville, KY. She now works in Kentucky’s bourbon tourism industry.
RENATE MOUSSEUX
Renate, originally from Freiburg, Germany, has been a lifetime educator in foreign languages, foremost German and French. She has documented her harrowing life story that ultimately led to great success through tenacity and ingenuity in her memoir, Renatle. After retirement, she has also become a body language interpreter and has evaluated witness behavior in famous criminal cases for TV stations. Her humanitarian activism is exemplary. She certainly has earned the Totally Humanitarian Trooper Award.
ZARCO GUERRERO, Mesa, AZ
Zarco Guerrero is an eminent figure in the Valley’s (Phoenix) cultural life. He is most well-known for his masterful masks that he carves or creates with papier maché, fabric, and other materials. He is also a community activist, philanthropist, story teller, performance artist, and historian. Zarco researched a much philosophical background behind the bandana, which is included in this collection. Find out more about him at Zarkmask.com
RUSS YOUNG, Kentucky
Russ is a photo historian who has researched a number of historic processes, such as cyanotypes and kalotypes. He gets called on many professional conventions that study the evolution of photographic chemistry. He has a keen eye for landscape photography. And he is a keeper of tradition to the point of reenacting parts of the same.
EDDA BUCHNER, Texas
Edda is a journalist and German correspondent living with her husband, Helmut, a sculptor, on a homegrown ranch near San Antonio, Texas. Edda has for many years shared her farm experience in her First Hand Living column in the New Braunfels newspaper and later collected her stories in a book called Texas Kaktuswein, Leben aus erster Hand. She continues, painting, writing stories, and gardening.
KATHERINE ZAWADA, Pennsylvania & Montana
Katherine is a first-year student at Swarthmore College by Philadelphia, PA. She earned herself a tennis scholarship and continues on the college path with top grades. If she keeps up the good writes, we will see a book from her soon.
BETH DOTSON, Kentucky
Beth won a prize in the first Bandana Book, but got too busy with her first novel. “This year, I will finally see one of my dreams fulfilled—my debut novel, Rooted in Sunrise, will be published and released into the world on September 17, 2024,” she writes in her newsletter. Aside from writing and publishing, Beth likes to get her hands dirty while gardening. bethdotsonbrown.net
VICKY LESCOE, Mesa, AZ
Vicky is a much cherished educator in the Mesa Public Schools system. She was recruited by her friend Noel to write a story about her hiking experience and knight in shining bandana. We hope she will write more for us.
HAPPY TRAILS to all of you writers! Keep up the good writes!
That’s why I wrote Random Accident in Sector Noah 135/56 or the story of The Last Book on Earth. I can see it coming. Can’t you?
I have been in publishing since Gutenberg invented the printing press. Or rather, I got my hands dirty with linotype and ink. Remember? That’s when the lines of lead type had to be read in reverse? Yes, you can learn to detect typos reading upside down, from right to left, with letters mirrored. And then came the revolution of the photo paste ups. How easy was that! Boy, and now we have the Adobe full page layout programs. It’s magic!
I started daily reporting with linotype in high school (now you can guess how old I am). After college, while working as an editor at a weekly paper, we waxed up the filmsetting paper strips. And eventually, after another master’s degree, I had all the publishing technology at my fingertips with Office and Adobe programs through the Amazon’s “Every man and woman’s press.” It’s called self-publishing. What a revolution!
Books have always been my passion. Since I was ten years old, I had wanted to write a book. Back then I was dreaming of concocting another volume for an Enid Blyton adventure series about twin girls in boarding school. And now I do write books.
With a deluge of social media and self-publishing platforms, everybody is their own printing press and broadcasting station. One question is, how good is that? Another question is, who needs books? I do. Because I still want to write them.
Sandy’s world is shattering–then what?
Are you still with me? It will get easier from here on out: ChatGPT will hammer out my next prompt into a flawless manuscript. This will be put through the Amazon AI machine to publish it in triplicate as paperback, hard bound, and Kindle with a dashing cover. Then all I have to do is sell it. Right!
Yet no matter how much self-publishing keeps Amazon awash, books seem to be doomed. The ones printed on paper for sure. Such was my assumption for my picture book Random Accident.
Now imagine a world without books.
In this ancient (written 20 years ago), far future, retro-story, where everything is under control—except for earthquakes, the weather, and random accidents—a little girl chances upon an old-fashioned book. Sandy has never seen a book in her world of monitors, projections, and mood balancers. She tries to make sense of the pictures and wishes for what’s in it: a garden. Bob, the all-knowing caretaker of this solar system and Sandy’s planet earth, will only go so far to help her.
Sandy has to help herself. And so, she does.
Random Accident, illustrated by my daughter Priyanka Makin, is a humorous, futuristic picture book for all ages. It is built on the exercise of kindness and discovery.
Random accidents never get old because nature always has the magic of surprise.
Once upon a time . . . or let’s say yesterday, Princess Edda, who lives in a faraway land in the remotest castle’s tallest tower . . . no, sorry, in Bandana Land on Bat Cave Road, took repose in her crystal castle. Maybe it wasn’t a crystal castle, maybe it was rather a tea house. Right, she wanted to test out her itty-bitty barn, or tree house—or did she say tea house?—for a sleepover. She was looking for adventure. It was in the air. Heavy clouds were billowing, the wind howling, heavy drops splashing, thunder rolling, and rain drumming on the metal roof. The storm roared like a lion.
And yet Princess Edda left the safety of her Rainy Castle for the tea house, cozied in her covers, pulled the blanket up to her nose, and admired the strength of the swaying trees outside. This was such a noble fortress, with Saltillo tiles and stained-glass windows and a bed. But it rattled like a mousetrap. The pelting rain noise felt like being inside a drum.
Princess Edda rolled her eyes. Why did this thunderstorm have to happen on her first sleepover in the tea house? She wouldn’t get any shut eye here.
So, she said, “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Angels watch me through the night, and wake me with the morning light.”
But the morning was still far away and the wind howling with no mercy. She decided to read herself to sleep. It got later and later. It got so late that it was almost early again. Yet the lightning kept flashing through the glass door, and the wind howled even worse. No use trying. So, Princess Edda decided to admire the power of God’s nature instead. This was better than a movie.
Kaboom, caramba, catastrophe! Something crashed outside. The rain still drumming on the roof. Princess Edda pulled the blanket higher. Was there a creek or river running by her side? The tea house was shaking something awful. Dorothy in Kansas? No, only Little Edda in Texas. She didn’t have visions of sugar plums in her head, but saw witches flying by on a broomstick. She thumbed her nose at them. And finally, the dawn, not the window, broke. Sigh, what a relief! Princess Edda stepped out into the sunrise, inhaling the fresh, cleansed air.
And she was still alive. A tree had crashed only a foot from her tea house. Oh, miracle and wonder! Not quite. Prince Helmut had sent his Bandana Gang to the rescue. Who else could have heaved the tree away from its fateful destiny? And so Princess Edda escaped the storm unscathed. The Bandana Guard kept watch all night.
Princess Edda looked around: Sea Shell Covid, Two-Face Janus, Old Man Woodhead, Spanish Moss Guy, Hippie Girlfriend, Hippie Boyfriend, an eclectic bunch. Princess Edda bowed to her protectors. No knight in shining armor on a noble steed could have accomplished this: distract the lightning. He would have been roast inside his armor. But Prince Helmut’s wooden guard withstood the storm and saved the princess.
Helm_TurbanGuy_small
Helm_SpanishMoss_small
Helm_MidEast_sm
Helm_girldfirend_small
Helm_boyfriend_small
Helm_Covid_sm
Helm_WorkerDude_small
Helm_JanusOther_small
Helm_bird_sm
Helm_KamaSutra_small
See, I told you so, there is still nobility in sacrifice. The Bandana Gang kept watch for Princess Edda.
Environmental Day at the Capitolearlier this year, struck my memory chord like a gong chiming in my head. Activists from all corners had gathered on the Arizona Capitol grounds in Phoenix to lobby for water protection measures and have a word with their District reps.
Water rights are a hot topic in Arizona. All the Southwestern states’ livelihoods depend on their secure water resource, mostly the Colorado River share quotas.
The Colorado River is so dammed up that none of its waters reach the Gulf of California any more. Lake Mead, in 2023, was at its lowest since the Hoover Dam (1 of 15 Colorado River dams) was built. 2023 was another heat record year with 50+ days over 110F. It’s a damn’ dry situation. For many Native Americans, Navajos included, water has always been scarce.
My friends took me to Gallup. More precisely, a rural lot outside town on the Navajo reservation. I had been cautioned: there is no running water. So bring a pallet of bottles. For that part, there would also be no royal flush. I got it. Outhouse. No worries there. I had grown up on a farm with a Plumpsklosett.
A couple of miles on the north side of Gallup, my GPS turned me onto a dirt road. I made it across the narrow bridge, but was soon stopped by a curious horse in the middle of the road. Anyways, the rainy spring had made the road rutted, but after I got the hang of it, the tracks became quite passable.
It was a beautiful scene out here in the afternoon. The horizon started to take on an amber glow, the boulder mountains toned into a warm ochre, the blue zenith sky darkened to let the stars out, and the scarce pine trees poked their spiny arms into the fresh air. All was quiet out here, except for the dogs.
My friend’s house had a warm, cuddly, welcoming air to it. It was very much ranch-style in its decor with blankets, Native art, and the occasional antler. This was a much privileged outing for me, because a group of strong Native women shared their time and space with me. And I finally would get to see Window Rock, the Navajo capital, as well.
We had the most comfortable picnic with fine mattresses to sleep on. We were glamping on many things, television included. However, there was no running water. And you feel that right away. The kitchen had two large water containers by the sink, but, unlike rare wine, the water in it had not improved its taste since its delivery. It was only old and best used for washing dishes. And still, it seemed to be too precious for that as well. We used paper plates all the way through.
I learned fast: keep the hand sanitizer and wipes on the cabinet by the entrance for the bathroom trips, don’t drink too much, so you don’t have to go too often, and save your paper plate for the next meal. I learned to brush my teeth with bottled water and spit each mouthful into the desert bush. I had this urge–when preparing breakfast, making a sandwich, getting sticky fingers–to go to the sink. But the sink had no water. A long time ago, when the family still lived here, they carted in their water on a truck to fill the tank outside. But that was the old days.
Many Navajo families have no water lines going to their houses. Imagine, any and all water has to be hauled over long distances and bad roads. Imagine how hard it will be to maintain proper hygiene. Imagine how health-compromised individuals might suffer. Or what about elder and infant care? Staying well and healthy requires a reasonable amount of water.
Yes, on the second day I felt the dearth of water. My armpits got stinky. I wetted a Kleenex and went to work. But what about the long range? How would I keep clean, wash up, brush off the dust? I don’t think there was a creek nearby and many hopes for rain in the Southwest are in vain. All you can do, really, is drive to the next truck stop on IH 40 and use their public showers.
I wasn’t ready to do that just yet, but on the third day I hit the pedal to the metal to get home to my own comfort.
Back to the Environmental Day. One Native organization, Tó Nizhóní Ání (“Sacred Water Speaks”) from the Big Mountain community on the Black Mesa Plateau in NE Arizona, protested the industrial abuse (hydroelectric project) of water: The Black Mesa Pumped Storage Project.
Pumping groundwater to the top of a plateau to make it generate electricity—a questionable project. It would seriously endanger the aquifer. As of this February, three of such proposed pumped storage projects were fortunately denied. A remarkable victory for the Navajo environmentalists.
Native activists are fighting for the Earth and US ALL. Water is so precious. We think we know that. But that’s not enough. Someone needs to make us FEEL its preciousness.
Therefore I propose a universal
No-Water-Running Day
Switch off the water main in the evening and see how the next day goes. And touch no faucet at work or school either. Toilet included. Don’t flush. How will you get through the day? You will be allowed to prepare for the water emergency by your own design. But don’t forget: No water will run for you on tap. And why should it? Water needs a break too. It runs all the time.
Kreuzfeuer in Texas (Crossfire in Texas), a Western, is based on a true story. It happened during the Civil War (1861-1865) in Fredericksburg, Texas, Gillespie County. The German settlers, who had arrived 15 years earlier with the German Adelsverein emigration project, were against slavery. Therefore, in 1861, almost all Fredericksburg citizens voted against secession and for remaining in the Union. That was the beginning of a calamity. Immediately, all immigrants had to swear an oath on the Confederacy or be hanged, the Union Loyal League was disbanded, the young men sent to war, the old men recruited for the home defense. And the Comanche kept in check by the Frontier Regiment. Worst of all, in August 1862, a group of 61 German Unionists was slaughtered by the Nueces River on their way to Mexico. Their remains weren’t buried until after the war. Germans were afraid to draw more wrath on themselves.
Vereinskirche in Fredericksburg, TX
The hunt on the Germans was on. Self-declared partisan rangers pressed the settlers for money, food, goods, and valuables. Fredericksburg was terrorized by the Hängerbande for years. The top rabble rouser was a certain Captain Waldrip. He led especially vicious attacks on German citizens. In February 1864 the teacher and merchant Louis Schütze is murdered. His brother Julius Schütze reports that incident and the events following the murder in his 1886 Texas Vorwärts account “Meine Erlebnisse in Texas”. Julius initiates the prosecution of the murderers, which spawns off the Grape Creek massacre. I read Schütze’s account while researching German history in Texas. It made such an impression on me that 25 years later I decided to make a novel out of it.
Engelbert Krauskopf
We kept as close to the story as we could. My coauthor Georg Unterholzner and I introduced several Native American (Comanches) characters to the mix. They spruced up the points of view in this murderous tale of redemption. The real life model for our protagonist was the pioneer Engelbert Krauskopf. He was a pioneer, gun maker, business man, explorer, and master of many trades, as well as a community leader. He also kept friendships with Comanche chiefs.
Here is the Kreuzfeuer story: Eberhard Kohlkrug, the gun maker of Fredericksburg, is an ordnance officer for the Frontier Regiment. But he rather delivers his percussion caps to the Germans and their home defense. The Major presses him to produce more ammunition, his wife Rita becomes wary of their Comanche maid, the Indian raids are increasing, but Eberhard always plays it safe. Until his friend Louis is abducted. Eberhard gets his friend Matasane involved to recapture Louis. Too late. Louis body is still warm when they cut him from the live oak.
Julius Schütze rides up from Austin. He demands justice for his brother. The wolf pack does not like to be dragged in front of the judge. Now the events take a dramatic spin for the worse. One of the Waldrip gang, Gibson, threatens Eberhard several times about his ammunition, raids his shop, and rapes his Comanche maid. Eberhard is a reluctant hero, but Gibson had it coming. From this point on, Eberhard’s life spins out of control. Done with playing it safe.
Eberhard swore three oaths in his life: never again to make a coffin, never again to shoot a man, and to do away with this scumbag. He broke all three.
Now the Western is out. In German, of all languages. It will be a while until it’s translated. But I will keep you posted.
A Tiny Piece of Blue, cast in 1934 rural Michigan in the winter months, tells the harrowing story of a dirt-poor girl abandoned by her parents to fend for herself during the Great Depression. In the course of Silstice’s struggle for survival, she comes into her own. “Silly,” technically orphaned after her parents’ house burns down, gets on with a kind farm woman, Edna, who dotes on her but who is powerless in getting her husband on board to help the kid. One cannot fathom how crustaceous and heartless the old man Vernon is. He may not know any better, and his farm may be down the hill too.
Kerala is under communist leadership. From driving through the land, catching fleeting impressions with my tourist eyes, I thought that individuals, even the lowliest street hawkers, feel more like a part of society than any of us in the US of A. People in India know their roles, rights, and entitlements. Participation in the community in Kerala appeared to be much stronger than in the US, where half the population doesn’t even vote. We saw a communist rally march, noticed many campaign posters, and spotted numerous calls for recycling and other public service announcements.
A government can certainly make people feel as a part of the whole. Take for example the Periyar National Park and Tiger Reserve. Since its inception in 1982, the Periyar National Park has enrolled its local villagers as guardians of the preserve. That was a smart move, because now the locals have gained not only a source of income as guides and rangers, they have also dropped what one official brochure called “poaching.”
At the Gavi safari headquarters, at least a dozen guides met up with their tourists in small groups; breakfast and lunch provided at the cafeteria. Vijay, our guide who lives in the ecotourism village of Gavi, took us on a small hike from the ranger station to the top of one of the 18 hills in the park. All hikers had to wear gaiters up to the knee to protect us against leeches.
The hike was short but quite scenic. At the peak of the hill, Vijay directed our attention to the Sabarimala temple, nestled in the valley’s jungle. The famous sanctuary can only be reached on foot via a trail and nevertheless the temple attracts 10–15 million pilgrims annually, although it has restrictive opening seasons. A military station has been built next to it to watch over the ever increasing amount of gold in the sanctuary, as well as to monitor the religious fervor. Holy passions have a history of getting out of hand in a land of many faiths. Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity are all running their strong agendas.
At Periyar National Park, you can’t go hiking on your own. First of all, about 800 elephants live in the area. Although we saw plenty manure on the narrow road, we unfortunately didn’t spot an animal as such. Second, the park is home to an estimated 40 tigers and some hundred leopards, who may be looking for an easy meal. Third, there are few trails and, as anywhere in the wild, you could get lost and bitten by one of the 300 species of poisonous snakes. Dead tourists are no good advert. Bottom line: don’t go hiking without a ranger. Last but not least, tribals live in the forest too. And they also want to be left alone.
Vijay rowed us in a boat to the Gavi waterfall, which also provides the water for the ecotourism center. He pointed out various species of birds and spotted an orchid called Dancing Girl. 
He took us on a walk through the arboretum, where we learned about wild mango, chiku (sapodilla), guava, plantains, and allspice. He lit up 
the resin from the Boswellia serrata tree (frankincense). He was very knowledgeable and proud to share the natural beauties. His forebears may have been poachers, but Vijay now had become an advocate and protector for his paradise.
And there are lots of animals in it. We saw monkeys of several species, herds of gaur (bison), sambar (deer), mongoose, and birds of all kinds on an afternoon boat trip on Lake Periyar. And Vijay and the other rangers had a proud stake in all of this. They enjoyed protecting and sharing the forest at the same time. Of course, we missed out on the tigers, perhaps good so. And we also didn’t spot an elephant. But their droppings were plenty.
Kerala, like all of India, is densely populated. Nothing goes without collaboration because you depend on it. We eventually arrived at our final destination at Abad resort. Even the beach bum dogs of Marari Beach understand this. The packs of mutts wait patiently every morning for the fisher boats to return. The symbiosis between fishermen, dogs, and restaurant trash has deep roots.
In the old days, a whole house could be roofed with palm leaves. There is much reuse and recycle going on based on the scarcity of materials but also new inventions such as paper straws have made their way to market. In our resort, Abad Turtle Beach, three miniature bovines were kept on premises, not for milk but for lawn mowing, their manure serving to fertilize the vegetable garden.
The international group of doctors, most accompanied by their supportive spouses, retraced their college experience. They visited the various departments at GRMC campus, where college Dean Dr. R.K.S. Dhakar received the alumni in his conference room. The international group also chanced upon a dear colleague from the old days, Dr. Ranjna Tiwari, Professor of Community Health and expert sitar player.
During the course of two days, the medical professionals went down memory lane swapping stories of mischief and accomplishments. The city had changed a lot but eventually each alumnus sleuthed out their former abodes. The seven GRMC exes, who had been planning this joint outing for the last five years, bonded even more strongly over this exciting endeavor.
Its rustic charm was irresistible. The Crofting Inn put forth a Hallmark lumberjack façade. The bed and breakfast in Cloudcroft, New Mexico, offers 7 quaint, old-fashioned rooms. Just what my friend, Bandanaland Princess Edda, had been looking for. She was planning to get away from the Texas heat for a summer outing to this ski resort village with her Prince Helmut.
“No problem!” the hostess said. “We will move you into another unit.” Those showers were totally up to date.
A couple from Kerrville, Texas, shared their discovery of mega croissants from the best bakery in the 950-souls-strong little western town of Cloudcroft. They talked with an astoundingly sprite 90-year-old woman who celebrated her birthday with a family reunion. And a good-looking couple was planning a flashy wedding.
“We get many guests from Texas up here,” Gail explained. “They are very fond of Western themes, in which the bandana plays a pig part.” So, she made her place extra comfy and welcoming for cowboys and cowgirls. This goes to show again that there is creativity in bandanas to no end. The sky hangs full with bandanas at the Cloudcroft Inn.
Why do we take pictures with famous people? We want some of the stardust fame rub off on us too.
I am certainly not a stage hog. But—The most famous picture, which I had always wanted, would have been with Elvis Presley. I was only a teenager when he died, cried my eyes out. But Gisela Solms-Wildenfels got a shot with Elvis when he was stationed in Germany. I stumbled into Gisela at a flea market in Wolfratshausen, where she was selling Hummel cups and other trinkets. She is of that Elvis generation. And this one encounter gave her joy to last a lifetime. She gifted me a copy of her Elvis picture.
When I was four years old, my parents took us to the zoo. It was spring time. Somewhere around the miniature goats, there was a green activity patch: May bug hunt. Instead of Easter eggs, the activity team had laid out lifelike chocolate bugs wrapped in printed tin foils. At a shot gun start, they let a bunch of us kids inside that corral. I picked up a bug and proudly showed it off to my parents.
is a writer, cowgirl poet, and reenacter of the Western glory days of the Wickenburg Marshals in Arizona. She teaches art and gives art therapy in her art studio or behavioral centers. She spends as much time as she can writing. You can find all her meanderings and writings at 
Noel is a longtime school counselor with Mesa Public Schools and over the years has served many families in the Native American Education Program, until she recently transferred into another position. She is Navajo and Muskogee Creek. She has improved many a student’s outlook in life. She makes anyone feel better with her gracious smile.
Tim is a member of the Lakota Standing Rock Reservation. He has been an advocate for Native rights and has worked as promoter and coach for Native youth in Mesa school system. He is also an excellent story teller and a treasure trove of Native American history. Lately, he has specialized in researching the Lakota code talker history of WWI and will soon publish a paper about his findings. 
ELISABETH SHERWOOD, Payson, AZ
Zarco Guerrero is an eminent figure in the Valley’s (Phoenix) cultural life. He is most well-known for his masterful masks that he carves or creates with papier maché, fabric, and other materials. He is also a community activist, philanthropist, story teller, performance artist, and historian. Zarco researched a much philosophical background behind the bandana, which is included in this collection. Find out more about him at 
Edda is a journalist and German correspondent living with her husband, Helmut, a sculptor, on a homegrown ranch near San Antonio, Texas. Edda has for many years shared her farm experience in her First Hand Living column in the New Braunfels newspaper and later collected her stories in a book called Texas Kaktuswein, Leben aus erster Hand. She continues, painting, writing stories, and gardening.
Beth won a prize in the first Bandana Book, but got too busy with her first novel. “This year, I will finally see one of my dreams fulfilled—my debut novel, Rooted in Sunrise, will be published and released into the world on September 17, 2024,” she writes in her newsletter. Aside from writing and publishing, Beth likes to get her hands dirty while gardening. 
That’s why I wrote Random Accident in Sector Noah 135/56 or the story of The Last Book on Earth. I can see it coming. Can’t you?
I have been in publishing since Gutenberg invented the printing press. Or rather, I got my hands dirty with linotype and ink. Remember? That’s when the lines of lead type had to be read in reverse? Yes, you can learn to detect typos reading upside down, from right to left, with letters mirrored. And then came the revolution of the photo paste ups. How easy was that! Boy, and now we have the Adobe full page layout programs. It’s magic!
Books have always been my passion. Since I was ten years old, I had wanted to write a book. Back then I was dreaming of concocting another volume for an Enid Blyton adventure series about twin girls in boarding school. And now I do write books.
Random Accident, illustrated by my daughter Priyanka Makin, is a humorous, futuristic picture book for all ages. It is built on the exercise of kindness and discovery.
Now available on 
And yet Princess Edda left the safety of her Rainy Castle for the tea house, cozied in her covers, pulled the blanket up to her nose, and admired the strength of the swaying trees outside. This was such a noble fortress, with Saltillo tiles and stained-glass windows and a bed. But it rattled like a mousetrap. The pelting rain noise felt like being inside a drum.
But the morning was still far away and the wind howling with no mercy. She decided to read herself to sleep. It got later and later. It got so late that it was almost early again. Yet the lightning kept flashing through the glass door, and the wind howled even worse. No use trying. So, Princess Edda decided to admire the power of God’s nature instead. This was better than a movie.
And she was still alive. A tree had crashed only a foot from her tea house. Oh, miracle and wonder! Not quite. Prince Helmut had sent his Bandana Gang to the rescue. Who else could have heaved the tree away from its fateful destiny? And so Princess Edda escaped the storm unscathed. The Bandana Guard kept watch all night.
Environmental Day at the Capitol earlier this year, struck my memory chord like a gong chiming in my head. Activists from all corners had gathered on the Arizona Capitol grounds in Phoenix to lobby for water protection measures and have a word with their District reps.
The Colorado River is so dammed up that none of its waters reach the Gulf of California any more. Lake Mead, in 2023, was at its lowest since the Hoover Dam (1 of 15 Colorado River dams) was built. 2023 was another heat record year with 50+ days over 110F. It’s a damn’ dry situation. For many Native Americans, Navajos included, water has always been scarce.
My friend’s house had a warm, cuddly, welcoming air to it. It was very much ranch-style in its decor with blankets, Native art, and the occasional antler. This was a much privileged outing for me, because a group of strong Native women shared their time and space with me. And I finally would get to see Window Rock, the Navajo capital, as well.
Many Navajo families have no water lines going to their houses. Imagine, any and all water has to be hauled over long distances and bad roads. Imagine how hard it will be to maintain proper hygiene. Imagine how health-compromised individuals might suffer. Or what about elder and infant care? Staying well and healthy requires a reasonable amount of water.
Julius Schütze rides up from Austin. He demands justice for his brother. The wolf pack does not like to be dragged in front of the judge. Now the events take a dramatic spin for the worse. One of the Waldrip gang, Gibson, threatens Eberhard several times about his ammunition, raids his shop, and rapes his Comanche maid. Eberhard is a reluctant hero, but Gibson had it coming. From this point on, Eberhard’s life spins out of control. Done with playing it safe.