NOVELS

Someone told me that daughters at the age of 12 can be delightful. When I took a poll of twenty+ parents of 12 and 13 year olds, the result was daughters that age are rarely delightful.

Maurice Chevalier sang

Thank heaven for little girls for little girls get bigger every day!

Thank heaven for little girls they grow up in the most delightful way!

Those little eyes so helpless and appealing one day will flash and send you crashin' thru the ceilin'

Thank heaven for little girls thank heaven for them all, no matter where, no matter who for without them, what would little boys do?

Thank heaven... thank heaven... Thank heaven for little girls!

Through diligent research I discovered Maurice Chevalier didn’t have children of his own, not one 12 year old girl, and never in the most delightful way. He married a widow with three boys ……. Ah, but I digress.

Girls are soooooo much easier to raise than boys.”

“Yeah,” for the record, toss a boy a pair of Levis and a t-shirt with a strand of spaghetti embedded in the fabric and a swath of dried snot on the sleeve, and any young man considers himself appropriately attired for a game of football, a funeral, wedding or the first day of school. Try that with a girl.

Here’s another lie.

“Boys are made from snakes and snails and puppy dog tails,”

“Girls are made of sugar and spice and everything nice.”

Yes, there are differences between boys and girls. During summer vacation girls will play school, mommy daddy and baby, have afternoon tea parties and read books. Boys will do the latter but usually begrudgingly.

Girls want to play teacher, nurse and doctor. Boys want to play superhero, basketball, football, a soldier from any war, cowboys and Indians, space pirates. Though lot of us could be talked into a game of doctor, or I’ll show you mine if you show me yours about the age of eleven.

Our home was small, three bedrooms, one bathroom, nestled on the morning side of the hill in the woods of Fairfax. Our oldest daughter’s room is right off the living room. Adjacent to our dining room table.

One afternoon I was grading papers on the coffee table when she bolted through the front. I tried a ‘Hi Honey, how was…” but she was pass me in a flash. I tried a “Hey” but our little sugar and spice SLAMMED her door so hard my students’ papers scattered across the carpet. Both cats scattered through the kitchen and out the pet door. Two books flew out of the bookcase, and mortar flaked off several fireplace bricks.

I will not mention the thoughts that went through my mind at this juncture.

Bobbie flew in from the kitchen drying a Pyrex bowl with a dish towel.

“And…? What, the heck was that?”

I pointed to ‘everything nices’ door.

“Why that. . . She scared the…” Bobbie, gently place the Pyrex bowl on top of our piano. And immediately started humming quietly to herself. Humming quietly to herself was never a good sign for the humeee. Ever so slowly she folded the dish towel into ever smaller squares and finally set it inside the Pyrex bowl.

I knew that whatever I was thinking or planning to do about the explosion paled with what might happen in the next few moments.

I intercepted her before she opened the door to our adorable child’s room. I gave her a hug her and lied, “Honey, let me handle this one, I have the perfect solution.” I had no idea about what I was going to do.

She looked me in the eye. I returned a confident, ‘you have no idea how well I have this situation in hand’ look. There was a brief look of doubt, but then she smiled, gave me a smart salute, and picked up the bowl. “Okay, soldier, she’s all yours, ” and returned to the kitchen. I stared after her. I still don’t know what happened, but I knew I’d better come up with something quick. I laid my hand on the door. Lurking behind it was an angry, smug, not delightful little girl.

I quickly dismissed the idea of a full frontal assault crashing through door an into a verbal confrontation. I had an axe and thought about attacking the door and our little cute, dazzling, delicate child cowering inside, as the blade shattered the wood. When I pictured a flame thrower, I realized I was losing it. Over- the- top. I was the adult here. And then it came to me. So simple. So devious. Such a calm and mature solution.

In the garage a few minutes later, I gathered a hammer, screw driver, vise -grips and returned to the scene of the slam. Subconsciously, taking a page from Barb, I started humming ‘KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCKIN’ ON HEAVEN'S DOOR.’ Only two hinges held sweethearts door in place. I placed the screw drive under the hinge-pin, gave it a whack with the hammer and out it came. Voila! The second pin came out just as easily.

Barb joined me with a big smile, a thumbs up and joined me in the chorus of Knockin’ on Heaven’s door. I grabbed the door handle. Gave it a little jerk and slipped it off the hinges.

Our oldest gave us an angry look that quickly turned to puzzlement as Barb and I turned her door sideways and marched it out the front door and down the stairs to our garage.

Days passed. Barb and I avoided any comments and simply passed by the gap in our living room wall with a casual wave. Marshmallow and Smokey who were felines non grata in our daughter’s bedroom immediately had a whole new part of the house to spray their respective identifying scents and deposit the occasion hairball. Though she tried to erect a cardboard barrier, the cats went up and over or dug down and under. My side of the sofa, the cat’s previous preferred perch, was abandoned for her pillow and stuffed, Scottish terrier.

Her sister was not kind. Our youngest example of sugar and spice, would peek in to our oldest door-less room cover her mouth with her knuckles, let out sharp squeal and run down the hall giggling.

I was on the patio setting up the ping-pong table for a game of who does the dishes with Bobbie about a week later, when a very subdued daughter approached.

“Hi, Honey,” I offered. I had a feeling where this was going.

“Hi,” she placed her hand behind her back and did that foot thing that girls do. “Dad… When do I get my door back?”

I handed her one end of the ping pong table net. “Will you help me with this.”

She took the end a walked to the other side of the table. “Dad, when do I get my door back?”

I checked for tension on the net. “It’s broken.”

She looked up. “The net?”

“No, your door. It keeps slamming. Haven’t you noticed?

I just haven’t had time to fix it.”

Then she did it. “I don’t think my door will slam anymore.”

Those little eyes so helpless and appealing one day will flash and send you crashin' thru the ceilin'

Thank heaven for little girls

I put the paddles and ball on the ping pong table and said, “great, how about giving me a hand?” Together, we hauled her door up from the garage and four minutes later it was back on its hinges never to slam again.

An “If” for Girls

By Elizabeth Lincoln Otis

(With apologies to Mr. Rudyard Kipling)*

If you can dress to make yourself attractive,

Yet not make puffs and curls your chief delight;

If you can swim and row, be strong and active,

But of the gentler graces lose not sight;

If you can dance without a craze for dancing,

Play without giving, play too strong a hold,

Enjoy the love of friends without romancing,

Care for the weak, the friendless and the old;

If you can master French and Greek and Latin,

And not acquire, as well, a priggish mien,

If you can feel the touch of silk and satin

Without despising calico and jean;

If you can ply a saw and use a hammer,

Can do a man’s work when the need occurs,

Can sing when asked, without excuse or stammer,

Can rise above unfriendly snubs and slurs;

If you can make good bread as well as fudges,

Can sew with skill and have an eye for dust,

If you can be a friend and hold no grudges,

A girl whom all will love because they must;

If sometime you should meet and love another

And make a home with faith and peace enshrined,

And you its soul—a loyal wife and mother—

You’ll work out pretty nearly to my mind

The plan that’s been developed through the ages,

And win the best that life can have in store,

You’ll be, my girl, the model for the sages—

A woman whom the world will bow before.

Rudyard Kipling, wrote the remarkable poem “IF” that mostly relates to boys becoming men.

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Ah But I Digress VOL II - By TUCKER SPOLTER  

Chapter 2- The Hip Class isn’t so Hip

I’d been limping a lot. Crying out when I turned in my sleep. Bobbie seldom harps, but recently “Honey, I love you, but watching you hobble causes me pain. You need a new hip.”

She began sticking bright orange post-its in strategic locations around our house. ‘Please visit a doctor.’ ‘You’re never going to be a tight-rope walker.’ ‘Igor and I agree, you walk like Frankenstein’s monster.’ ‘Do you want to end up in a wheelchair?’ ‘I won’t push you around in a wheelchair.’ I knew these were not idle suggestions or threats.

She was right. I spent several months deciding whether I should go for the operation or continue walking with a hitch in my gait. The deciding factor? A short sojourn to the San Francisco Zoo where a flock of penguins unilaterally decided I was a member of their colony and waddled after me into the parking lot. Zoo security found no humor in the situation.

Before you’re allowed to allow anyone to slice open your buttocks with a scalpel and saw off an important part of your femur bone you must attend a mandatory Hip Class. Bobbie went with me. All surgical procedures would be explained, we were told.

“Don’t you want to be informed?” Bobbie asked. “They’ll tell you about everything they’re going to do to you before, during and after the operation.” I assured her I did not want to know what they were going to do to me before, during and after my operation.

Bobbie thought it was important that we both know what they were going to do to me. I preferred ignorance. Bobbie got on the internet. “The more informed you are,” she admonished, “the more intelligent are the questions you can ask. The more you’ll know about what they are going to do to you, the easier the whole procedure will be.”

I ran her comment through the synapses of my brain. “Why would knowing more make the whole procedure easier?”

And why did I need to know? I needed a surgical team that knew. As far as I knew I didn’t have to pass a test. I didn’t want to know specifics. Hell, I didn’t even want generalities.

At the class, Bobbie insisted that I raise my hand and ask my teacher questions. Dutifully, I raised my hand and asked my teacher a question. “Have you ever had a hip replacement?” Her long, steady frown was my answer. Her glare warned me not to raise my hand anymore and ask asinine questions. I didn’t… at least for a while

I wondered. How had this woman, in a matter of minutes, been able to intimidate a whole room of people. Her eye brows were plucked into perfect V’s and her eye lashes carried an inordinate amount of mascara accentuating deep green eyes, but it had to be something else.

Ten of us squirmed in our hard, steel, putty colored folding chairs. Very uncomfortable furniture for those about to get new hips. Ten of us were getting new hips. The other ten people were our “supporters.” Our operational jock straps so to speak. They would be there to hold on to vital parts and keep a firm grasp on any appendages that might dangle, drop, or sag.

“I am here to inform the class,” shrilled the red haired, slightly balding, slightly overweight, informer. She batoned a warning finger. “Getting a new hip is never easy.” Sage advice from the person who’d never gotten a new hip.

“You,… well half of you are here for a Total Hip Arthroplasty…” She grinned. I swear, she grinned “… and… depending on your surgeon some of you will be having an ANTERIOR ARTHOPLASTY … this term rang a bell ….. an Anterior Arthoplasty was the type of hip operation I was going to have…. She continued….

“After you’re strapped down a trained team of experts will take you by your ankle and bend your leg behind your neck and there will be a humungous SNAP………...and the ball socket is dislodged from you hip bone….”

Okay, in the Informer’s defense, Barb assures me she never said this…. But this is what I heard…. This is mental image I held weeks later while being rolled into the operation room and being greeted by hot lights and waft of antiseptic.

The woman’s voice faded. I turned to Bobbie “I don’t want to be informed anymore, no more,” I whimpered. It sounded like a lyric from a Bob Marley tune.

The woman disappeared… then reappeared pushing a Safeway shopping cart full of artifacts. I asked Bobbie if she thought the Safeway Corporation donated their shopping carts to this class. I was summarily ssssssssssssshed. I wondered how many Safeway Corporation grocery carts have been absconded by the Kaiser Organization.

The items in the cart were a macabre array. Some were vaguely familiar. Others, I remembered first seeing while researching torture implements from the Spanish Inquisition. Tom Miller and I were discussing tattoos and body piercings ……. Ah, But I Digress --- check out: “Hook Aren’t Just for Fishing ,” in this section.

Our informer, who I now believed was a graduate of the Nurse Ratchet School of Nursing, reached into the cart and pulled out a packet with half a dozen syringes. When I was a kid we called these shots. Shots included big blunt needles. I could never become addicted to heroin; I hate needles. I thought I’d said that to myself, but apparently I blurted it out loud. There were a few grunts of agreement from the assembled and another glare from The Informer.

I doubt Ratchet ever rehearsed her spiel. Since WE who were about to get new hips had to attend a hip class; why not a college class for potential Hip & Knee class instructors? With special emphasis on congeniality.

Her opening salvo, though to the point, seemed harsh and insensitive. She extracted a syringe from the twelve-pack, held it aloft, paced back and forth before her captive audience and said, “Now, after your operation you’ll be injecting these little devils…twice a day…into your stomach.” I swear she grinned. “Do any of you have a problem with sticking a 37 inch long needle into your abdomen?”

This sounded like great fun. Actually she didn’t mention the size of the needle I just stuck it in here for the record and I may have exaggerated the length.

Pacing dramatically, Ratchet plucked the small plastic condom off the tip of the needle, pushed the plunger and a strong stream of liquid squirted from the end. She watched until the syringe depleted; then spun to the class and in a drill sergeant voice declared, “Needle disposal is of the utmost importance. Do we all understand?” Ten heads nodded in unison. “Good. Very good.”

I really didn’t get it. I turned to the guy behind me. “Think she’s afraid we’re going to save all those cool needles and shoot up heroin with our friends at our next cocktail party?”

The guy behind me laughed. “Man, you folks must throw some good parties. When this is all over, be sure to invite us.” Bobbie elbowed me back to attention.

Gathering steam the Informer continued the class with explanations of the catheter. I was informed that someone I’d never met would be inserting this up the urine channel of my penis into my bladder. I broke my vow. I raised my hand. The Informer gave me a reluctant nod. I explained that I was rather shy and asked innocently if there was any possibility that the sticker-inner could be the same person as the puller-outer. She gave me a look of disdain and turned to Bobbie. “Is he always like this?” Bobbie nodded with chagrin. Traitor.

Ratchet enthusiastically brandished a shiny, chrome bed pan . “The bed pan has more than its obvious use.” She sidled to the far side of the room. “It’s also quite useful for emergency oral use. “ This mental image did not bode well with my stomach. She continued, “Morphine can cause unexpected waves of nausea.” She stuck her head in the pan to show us how to stick our heads into a bed pan. She gave us a few good retches for emphasis.

“Adele should sound so good,” I laughed. So did the guy behind me. Ratchet’s head exploded out of the bed pan like a Jack-in-the-box and gave us THE GLARE.

It took several long minutes for her to regain her composure and then she breezed through “IMPORTANT” information on pre- and post-operational exercises. She held out a pair of ugly white knee socks guaranteeing that they would halt the spread of varicose veins and blood clots. The socks were obviously too late for a woman to my right and she wasn’t even there for an operation.

Next out of the Safeway cart came a two foot long triangular piece of dull purple Styrofoam. She held it above her head like a weight lifter with a bar-bell. “This is a leg separator. After your surgery your legs should be spread apart as much as possible."

I turned to the man behind me. I was starting to like this guy. I whispered, “Bet you’d never hear a Nun telling that to a class of high school kids.” He snorted and roared with laughter. “Would you like to share that one with the entire class, Mr. Funny Man?” Ratchet asked.

My head snapped around like a taut rubber band. Another pregnant pause, THE GLARE and then she pulled out a Grabber. I wanted out of there. She showed us how to manipulate the claw-like contraption. It’s used for picking up discarded briefs and sox. But the way she wielded it, it looked like something out of her S & M catalogue. And I felt she would enjoy S&M-ing me.

The Informer pushed a walker across the room, showed us how to fold and unfold it. We all had a chance to hobble across the room with different length crutches. Then finally….. “And if there are no further questions?”

I was up. I made it halfway to the exit when Ratchet caught up with me. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Mr Spottler.”

“It’s pronounced, Spolter.”

“Yes, Mr. Spotteler. I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”

I was puzzled. “Why?”

“I’m the nurse in charge of post-op therapy.” She grinned. “It’s my job to continue to keep you informed.”

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Ah But I Digress VOL II - By TUCKER SPOLTER  

Chapter 3- The Dread Pop Quiz II

An old teaching friend read the above and sent me the following.

THE NEW REVISED – UNIVERSITY OF WHERE-EVER

COLLEGE ATHLETIC ENTRANCE EXAM

Time limit: 3 weeks

1. What language other than United States is spoken in France?

2. Give a short dissertation on the Ancient Babylonian Empire with particular reference to architecture, literature, law and social conditions – or give the first name of Pierre Trudeau.

3. Would you ask William Shakespeare to:

a. build a bridge

b. sail an ocean

c. lead an army

d. write a play

e. throw a javelin in the Olympics

4. What religion is the pope.

a. Jewish

b. Catholic

c. Hindu

d. Polish

e. Agnostic

Please check only one.

5. Metric conversion --- how many feet are in 0.0 meters?

6. What time is it when the big hand is on the 12 and the little hand is on the 12? In fact both of the hands are on 12.

7. Within ten, how many commandments was Moses given? (Approx)

8. What are the people in America’s far north called?

a. westerners

b. southerners

c. easterners

d. whyareweherers

e. northerners

9. Spell the names of the following presidents: Bush – Clinton – Obama - Trump

10. Six kings of England have been called George, the last one being called George the Sixth. Please name the previous king.

11. Where does the rain come from?

a. Macy’s

b. 7-11

c. Canada

d. THE SKY!

12. Can you explain Einstein’s Theory of Relativity?

a. yes

b. no

13. What are coat hangers used for?

14. The Star Spangled Banner is the national anthem for what country?

15. Explain Le Chateliers principle of Dynamic equilibrium OR

spell your name in block letters.

16. Where is the basement in a story building located?

17. Which part of America produces the most oranges?

a. New York

b. FLORIDA!

c. Canada

d. Wisconsin

18. If you have 3 apples, how many apples do you have?

19. What does NBC (national broadcasting co.) stand for?

Extra credit Home Box Office is known by what initials?

20. Many Asians come from what continent?

a. ASIA

b. Europe

c. California

d. Antarctica

A minimum of three questions must be answered correctly in order to gain admittance.

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Ah But I Digress VOL II - By TUCKER SPOLTER  

Chapter 4- Can I take care of your Nuts

Close friends moved to Hawaii. The “Big Island.” Their new home would include the Pacific Ocean, deserts, rainforest, waterfalls and an active volcano. Into this new home would move Kathy and Keith. Kathy is kind, gentle, a loving woman who savors life.

Whether the natives of Hawaii were warned or prepared for the immigration of Keith K., also kind and gentle and always full of love, is still up for conjecture. But with this move to Big Island his haoli friends left behind on the mainland knew the legends of Keith would grow.

Later I hope to fully expound on further famous/infamous moments in the life of Keith. Time constraints prohibit me from telling the full story of:

A crucial golf tournament when Keith insisted on smoking a Cohiba cigar.

As Keith and I sat in a golf cart waiting for the foursome in front to vacate the third green, Keith

sucked in and puffed out smoke, I became nauseous. He ignored my looks. The ash end of his stogie grew. From the next fairway someone shouted “fore” Keith ducked. So did I. You could hear the whoosh as the golf ball flew through our cart. A few inches either way would have caused serious damage.

Keith and I exchanged glances and then shared a nervous laugh. “That guy has a serious shank or hook.” I offered.

Keith tried to suck in more smoke. The red hot ash at the end of his cigar had disappeared. And then I smelled it. Vinyl burning. Or melting. Or both. A puff of smoke appeared between Keith’s legs. Keith screamed. His purple and white polyester golf shorts were on fire. A man of quick decision, Keith dosed his genital area with my Heineken Beer. …

For the next eleven holes – each time Keith had to pick his ball out of the hole he exposed the charred remains of a five inch space …. Oh, I’ll leave it to your imagination …..

I’ll leave for another time the ‘never attack a healthy female bear that has ripped out the driver-side window of your car and is sitting comfortably in the front seat defecating’ story.

Disclaimer: This latest Keith adventure is NOT approved by -- or sanctioned by Keith or any member his family living or dead.

After several years on the Big Island, Keith and his bride Kathy bought a Macadamia Nut Farm on the northern end near in the rustic town of Kapaau.

The plan was to build a bed & breakfast unit and retain the farm. Hand Keith a hammer, saw and nails and he can building anything. I’ve seen him do it. He’s a genius.

As it turns out Keith’s Macadamia Nut farm, which we will here after refer to as Keith’s Nut Farm, is very prolific. His nuts are big and healthy. They droop from the branches in small clusters, though they seldom reach the ground.

One week after their arrival in Kapaau, in the produce section of the local store (we aren’t not talking Safeway here) a Filipina woman stopped Keith and asked, “You da man dat bought the Macadamia Farm up on Kapaau Road?”

Keith nodded.

“Den who gonna pick your nuts?”

Keith hadn’t really considered WHO would pick his nuts; so he shrugged.

“I can pick your nuts. Gotta good crew. We all pick your nuts. We’ll clean ‘em real, real good. Give you good price.” Together they walked down the frozen food aisle. Keith burrowed through the frozen TV dinners.

“Mista, a real good price. Real clean nuts.” She persisted.

Being a new macadamia nut farmer, Keith had no idea how many nuts his farm would or could produce; or how often he would have to have his nuts picked and cleaned. More important, if he was going to have his nuts picked, how much do you pay macadamia nut pickers to pick and clean your nuts?

In the deli section, they continued to negotiate. “How much would you and your crew charge me to pick and clean my nuts?’ Keith, though a novice macadamia nut farmer, he wasn’t a nut.

She quoted a price. Keith balked. “Mista, your nuts won’t be no good laying on de ground or hangin’ from da tree. You got have fresh nuts or nobody gonna be wanta dem. All de buyers want good strong nuts. No soggy, spongy nuts at all.”

At the check-out counter they compromised and reached a fair price.

Keith assures me that his nuts are some of the cleanest and freshest nuts in the entire Hawaiian Island group. Hopefully, on your next visit to the Islands you’ll have an opportunity to heft and bite into one of Keith’s & Kathy’s Macadamia Nuts.

Better yet stay at their B & B and the nuts are complimentary.

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Ah But I Digress VOL II - By TUCKER SPOLTER  

Chapter 5- Rappelling Part I

My brother and his wife, D’Anne, live by the adage, “When was the last time you did something for the first time?” So we went to Utah.

We received an invitation to D’Anne’s fourth “fiftieth” birthday party. We were promised horse back riding, golf for me, white water rafting, kayaking, hiking in Arches National Park, Scrabble by the pool at the Gonzo Inn, lunch on the Colorado River and rappelling. Our adventure would culminate on our last night with a sunset ride in a 12-passenger open-air Hummer, which gave new meaning to the word ‘hummer.’

Bobbie fingered the invitation, took a sip of Cline zinfandel and looked at me? “Kinda stirs your emotions, doesn’t it.” She wiggled her shoulders. “Sounds like fun.”

It did sound like fun. Though, as we get older there are some adventures that we might avoid such as parachuting into a live volcano, polar bear wrestling or running naked through a clump of poison oak. Only an ignorant person would be dragged into a new adventure with only a vague comprehension of what one of these new adventures might entail.

So Bobbie and I followed my brother Jerry, D’Anne and ten friend’s, people who would never pass the Mensa exam, to Moab, Utah where we would try something for the first time: rappelling

As a high school graduate you would think that I might have made a few inquires of the rappelling company; perhaps a quick e-mail, a short phone call or hell, even an old fashion letter. If I had had any intelligence, my intelligent questions might have included:

Dear Sir, I’m terrified of heights; from what height might we

be rappelling for the very first time? Will our first and second practice rappels be higher than eight feet?

Dear Sir, I’ve grown quite attached to my wife. Would my wife or any of us ever be in any real danger?

And then the one question I never considered asking, “How often have you personally been rappelling?”

I did telephone and asked, “I just got a new hip. Would my hip be in any jeopardy? There are certain angles where my new hip could possibly explode out of its socket and I could be crippled for life.” I heard a smug snicker from the other end of the line.

“Man, we take seven year old kids on these trips. And I’m certain you can keep time with a seven-year-old.”

A seven year old kid I could contend with, I was reassured. But it turned out he was a liar, liar, lair pants on fire hanging from a telephone wire. If this was not a telephone conversation, if we were face-to-face, I’m certain his nose would have rivaled Pinocchio’s.

Two weeks later the twelve of us found ourselves in downtown Moab climbing into a van. We laughed. Expectation filled the air. Jokes were exchanged as our van climbed up the ridges and bounced through ravines and along the canyon rims of the desert. Up we went over “Big Slick,” a mountain bikers Eden. We laughed some more. Up and up we went. Only a jackass doesn’t realize that what goes up must come down. Hee-Haw.

Curt and Mitch, buffed and tanned, were our guides, our leaders, our personal Lewis and Clark who would instruct us in the fine art of mountain descent. Regrettably, Curt and Mitch would soon be playing God with one dozen lives. Our lives

Finally, the van rolled to a stop. Our guides leaped onto the desert floor and began doling out rappelling gear. We each got a cool belt contraption to step into. It fits snugly around your legs and then you pull two straps up through your crotch and tighten them around your waist. What this does to accent the male genitalia, would make a ballerino (male ballerina) green with envy. My wife had hers on in two seconds. She looked like she was ready for Mount Everest. Patronizingly, she was nice enough to help me with my gear.

Next we each got a hard hat to protect us from falling rocks, I thought. It didn’t occur to me that they might be to protect our heads when falling head-first from great heights onto large, jagged boulders. We got descenders and belaying devices for the “fast-rap” and the “simul-rap” I thanked them like an idiot, not bothering to ask about either “Rap.” Though I suspected their raps didn’t rhyme or have a cool beat.

Mitch and Curt wore well-worn elbow pads, knee pads and gloves with the tips of fingers poking out. Apparently, the route we newbies would be taking would be much easier, because none of us got any of those useless items.

Curt, our older guide, handed some of us blue nylon bags with lengths of coiled line inside. Real mountaineers do not call rope, “rope.” Mountaineers call rope, “line.”

Right there – right then, I could have asked a question that would have saved me much embarrassment and tremendous amount of wear and tear on my psyche. ‘Hey, Curt,’ I might have asked ‘Why is there one long length of blue rope. . I mean line? And one long length of pink rope?’ If I’d asked that question and if he’d responded honestly, right then I would’ve hopped back into the air-conditioned van, rode back to the hotel, ordered a gin and tonic and sat by the pool with a good book.

Mitch, the youngest member of our “seasoned” mountain climbing duo, asked us to gather our gear as we were heading off to the “hole.” In the van, I’d heard both guides make several references to the “hole.” I innocently assumed that since we were in the desert the “hole” must be some sort of oasis. I was wrong. I was also wrong about Mitch. I would find out too late that Mitch was NOT a seasoned member of our rappelling team.

We gathered our gear and trekked off. Moab and its desert are magnificent, with arches, upheavals of sandstone and precariously balanced columns that Wiley Coyote would be proud to perch on in his never ending battle to get the Road Runner.

Again idle chatter and a mood of expectation rippled through our group. I was certain that we would stop on our mile hike to the “Hole” for some impromptu training with our new gear. Then my mind rewound thirty years.

In the Marine Corps, we NEVER went on a twenty mile hike without going on a series of one mile hikes, then three mile hikes, etc. As a Marine my fear

of heights was less pronounced and I’d actually done some rappelling. Our drill instructors doled out line and grappling hooks and told us to toss them over the lip of a ramp inclined at 45 degrees and about ten-feet high. We practiced until we all got the hang of it then we pulled ourselves up and rappelled back down. Two hours later my whole company confidently dropped out of the windows of a four story building and went back for more. Of course I was 19 then and in the best physical shape of my life.

As we trod along I looked around at our group. No one was close to 19. Though a few of them were in pretty good shape.

About 40 minutes later we arrived at the entrance to the “Hole.” Our total training time with our new harness, belaying devices and descenders was nada, zip, zero. Curt pointed to a black slit in the ground. “This hole is the entrance to the ‘Hidden Chambers.’”

The ‘Hidden Chambers?’ I felt like I was about to climb into a Harry Potter book. And a lot of nasty things occur in Harry Potter books.

The Desert Dozen paced gingerly around the hole. It was dark. It felt deep. Very deep. I did the movie thing picking up a good sized stone and flipping it into the abyss. I counted, “One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand.” I quit at four one thousand. None of us heard the stone hit solid ground, though, we thought we heard a splash. Collectively we looked at Curt and Mitch.

“There’s a pool of water about ninety feet down,” Curt smiled, trying to assuage our misgivings.

I was not assuaged. “How deep?” Mitch looked at Curt for an answer.

“We’re never quite sure until we get there,” Curt shrugged.

“Oh, you guys will be going down first and then we come down after?” Bobbie asked politely.

“Nope, we’ll be up here holding the belaying line.”

A terrible, uneasy feeling slowly enveloped my body.

Curt encouraged everyone to tighten their gear and asked, “Who would like to be first to descend into the crevasse?”

Not one hand was raised. No one volunteered. In fact, two members of our group opted for walking back to the road and back to town. I was one of them.

Curt and Mitch pleaded, cajoled and promised us the thrill of a lifetime. I figured my thrilling life would be over in a matter of minutes.

My brother went first. Hell, it was his stupid idea in the first place. He wanted to do something for the first time. As I watched him step toward the hole, my thoughts went into fast forward. ‘Go for it, Bro. Go do something for the first time. If you died doing something for the first time then we wouldn’t have to do it for the first time.’ Ugh, guilt washed over me. Negative thinking. “Go for it, Bro!” I said proudly.

I went second for three reasons. If I didn’t go second I would never have gone and if my brother fell I’d have someone to land on. And if somehow I did make it down to the bottom and Bobbie fell, I could try to catch her.

The drill was to fight every human instinct and lean over backward, push a rope through the chrome rings of something that looked like a pygmy xylophone, step off a wall of stone, descend into a black hole, like backing off the roof of a ten-story building on a pitch black night, descending into a pool of water – who’s depth fluctuated after each cloud burst -, then wade through the pool of water – our guides were not sure for how long - climb out, turn around and rappel off that wall another forty feet to the cavern’s floor.

“How’s everyone up there?” My brother’s voice ascended from the bowels of the earth. He hadn’t uttered a word for five minutes. And now the words he did utter had none of his macho Marine Corps bravado. Jerry was an officer and a gentleman; I was enlisted and a ‘grunt.’ The Major sounded pitiful. Sure I was out ranked, but as his older, tougher, though shorter brother, I would do better.

Curt gave me the conspiratorial aren’t-we-going-to-have-fun look. I returned the universal up-yours look. I don’t know the current world record for human heart beats in a minute, but I do know that my heart shattered it. Snail slowly I leaned back forcing my foot to step off and down the wall of stone. I pushed a few feet of line through the xylophone, TOO much! My elevator was out of control. I felt like I dropped sixty feet. I bounced off the wall and did a 360. My knuckles scrapped against the jutting rocks. My sweaty hand slipped off the belaying rope. I squeaked. I had no breath to SCREAM. I dropped another foot or two.

“Everything okay?” came from just above me as I hit rock for the second time. Flailing about, I found the belaying rope, dangling in the Hidden Chambers, I braced my boots against the sandstone and gasped for air. I decided to hang there. Maybe for a week or two.

“You’re doing great,” my brother cried from below. He was full of it! The only way he could see me was if he had somehow smuggled a 60 foot periscope inside his jockey shorts. Then I thought about my brother. I didn’t know if he was a boxer or a jockey guy.

“Go on down,” Curt’s voice echoed off the walls from above. “We have people waiting.”

Right. Curt was now running a Disney concession. Ladies and Gentlemen, move right up, step into the turnstile of death and of your own free will, plunge backwards into the Hidden Chambers.

I ignored him. I hung in space. There was more light than I expected. Rays of sun shone through a series of irregular cracks. I finally caught my breath and then looked down. MISTAKE! VERTIGO! My heart revved up. My breath disappeared. I started to drop and spin at the same time. I jerked the rope. ERROR. I plunged. My body smacked the wall again and again like a ball in a fast paced game of racquetball. Abruptly, I stopped in the pool of water. It wasn’t deep. But my knees collapsed. My belaying rope didn’t belay and I fell face down in about two feet of water.

I splurted out a stream of Hidden Chamber’s water. Believe me they’ll never be bottling the stuff. A new thought went through my mind - How humiliating would it be to drown while rappelling. A three hundred foot tumble, a frayed rope that slowly came unraveled, crushed bones, a severe concussion had that certain je ne sais quoi. Drowning in two feet of water did not.

I pulled myself up and sloshed across the underground pool. I peered over the rim down to the cavern floor where my brother waited expectantly.

“How are you doing, bro?” Jerry called.

Saving face with my brother became more important than begging him for a ladder. I gave him a big thumbs-up. I wanted to use another digit.

Resigned, I turned, leaned over backward and started down the wall. Oddly, I felt better. I wasn’t 007, but I kind of glided down the wall. The bottom of the abyss came closer, closer and I was down, I was wet, exhausted, but I was down. The ordeal was over, finished, done. Never again! I’d made it.

“Fun wasn’t it?” My brother asked tentatively.

I don’t know what my face looked like but my brother’s was ashen. And then I made the stupidest, most inane statement I’d ever made. “Bro, that was great.” My mind flipped back to childhood. The sibling taunts. Dare ya. Oh yea, double dare you. I grabbed my brother’s hand, looked him right in the eye and said “Too bad it’s over. Bro, I wish we could do it again!”

I heard a female sigh. My brother and I were still loosening our crotch harnesses when Bobbie a lit on the cavern floor. She heard my last comment and gave me the LOOK. Every married guy knows the LOOK. The how-can-you-be-such-a-stupid-ass LOOK.

It took another hour and a half for everyone to rappel to the bottom of the Hidden Chambers. We descendees munched on trail mix and craned our necks as the rest of the canyoneers climbed out of the underground pool and pin-balled their way back to solid ground. I thought I’d had a bad time, but a few of the others looked like they’d bellied through a mine field. More than one face was white, sweaty and pasty. Two of them resembled the trunk of a petrified tree.

Curt and Mitch ricocheted down. Damn, these boys were good. A circus act! Curt pushed off the cliff, circumvented Mitch and hit the cliff again. A group of Olympic rappelling judges would have given them a minimum rating of a seven, maybe 7.5. The tandem landed in a congratulatory mode; high-fiving and butt patting. Dutifully the assembled applauded.

“Wasn’t it great?” Curt’s voice echoed enthusiastically around the cavern.

It didn’t register then but neither Curt nor Mitch ever attempted to remove their mountaineering gear.

“Aren’t you glad you came?” Mitch went for the ego stroke. “You guys are the best group yet; especially considering your age.” Way to go Mitch! His latest book is titled: How to Piss off a Flock of Baby Boomers available now for a buck ninety-five on amazon.com. Mitch had committed a major faux-pas. All of us with AGE exchanged a look.

I don’t know if Curt picked up on Mitch’s blunder or simply wanted to move our expedition on. “Now some real fun,” Curt enjoined. “If you’ll help us get the gear outside, we can get on with your second adventure.”

We watched stunned as Curt and Mitch back-cast the belaying ropes from the top of the cavern. The line ricocheted down the wall and flopped to the ground. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I realized our last avenue of escape had just escaped.

A gentle hush enveloped our group like a dank fog. Immediately we all knew. It wasn’t over. As the old song went: “We’d only just begun.”

With an odd foreboding, I watched Curt coil up the long blue rope, while Matt slipped the roll of pink rope over shoulder.

Mitch rubbed his hands together. “I’ve really been looking forward to this.”

“I thought we were done.” A tentative female voice bounced off the rock.

“Aren’t we done?” A genderless voice queried. I didn’t even know we had anyone who was genderless lurking in our cave. I looked around for its source.

My wife went up to Mitch. “I thought you said our adventure would be over by noon.” She pointed to her wrist watch. “It’s almost 1:30.”

“This is a big group.” Mitch looked carefully around at each of us. “And most of you guys are a tad bit older.”

Strike two for the young guys. Their tip was growing smaller and smaller.

“Our first rappel took longer than we thought,” Curt apologized. “Besides, you folks are going to get to rappel off of Morning Glory Arch.”

“Yeah,” Mitch gushed. “It’s so cool. Twelve stories high.”

A edgy murmur went through our group. Bobbie and I stared at each other. On a fluke, two days before, we had hiked the two miles to the bottom of Morning Glory Arch. It spanned and entire valley. Large chunks of stone which had once been integral parts of the formation lay crumbling on the desert floor.

Like lemmings we followed Curt and Mitch out of the cavern. Rodents returning to the light of the sun.

t the cliff again. A group of Olympic rappelling judges would have given them a minimum rating of a seven, maybe 7.5. The tandem landed in a congratulatory mode; high-fiving and butt patting. Dutifully the assembled applauded.