Bleiburg, March of 2020
The
News is not good.
Radio
and Television, all day long, broadcast about “the Virus”.
Normal
Life has pretty well ground to a halt.
Everything
is shut down.
Tight.
No
Theater, Concerts, Restaurants, Coffee shops, Bars, Night clubs, ..
Everything
is shut down tightly.
You
can't visit your neighbors. They're afraid of you.
The
neighbors can't visit you. You're afraid of them.
Anybody
could carry “the Virus!”
In
fact, life, at the moment, feels like a Science Fiction Movie, where
the town, somewhere in this world, is without people.
A
stray dog here and there.
A
loose window shutter grating on rusty hinges, then clanging in the
wind.
Yesterday
I drove through the empty country side, up and into the hills, which
surround the small, deserted town in which I live.
Today
I'm sitting at my Lap-Top, idly wondering what I should write about.
To
my left, on the side of a cupboard, I had, long ago, pinned five
photographs. I glance at them and suddenly I realize that they depict
some very important segments of my 88 year old life.
First
Picture:
The
Music:
The
year was 1948. I was barely 16 and had just come from a serious
conversation with my mother.
Despite
her efforts, the family was running out of funds. My mother's pension
was barely able to keep us in food. There was not much left for
luxuries, like a new pair of pants.
High
school was 45 kilometers away and the monthly train ticket, while at
today's standards a pittance, then it constituted a considerable
expense.
Somewhat
aimlessly I wandered around the main square of our town, when fate
sent Charly R.
Although
Charly was a whole year older than I was, we were good friends. We
both had played in the local Marching Band and Charly played the
'Contra Bass' in a Jazz Combo, called “The Melodies.”
We
strolled down to the river bank. Sitting on a bolder we listened to
the hissing of the river.
“We
need a Bass player” Charly said out of the blue.
“You're
the Bass player” I said. “You want to quit?”
“No,
I don't want to quit. I want to play the Clarinet and the Tenor Sax.
But,
we need a bassist.”
He
looked at me and said: “Do you want to become our bassist?”
I
laughed out loud: “I had some Violin lessons.” I said.
“But
that's a long way from the Bass, and it was a long time ago.”
“ I'll
teach you” he said. “You have a good ear and you like Jazz”
And
that's the way it happened.
Charly
taught me the fundamentals and I practiced and practiced.
Every
week end, Charly taught me and the rest of the week, during the
evenings I practiced.
It
drove my mother almost crazy, but she knew that it was for a good
cause.
My
first “gig” was in the bar of the Cafe Post.
I
think I was shaking with excitement and a little fear of not being
accepted by the other members of “The Melodies”.
There
were three Pros: Leo F. one of the finest, wildest Pianists I have
ever known. Leo coaxed the most wonderful melodies out of an
accordion too.
There
was Peppi S. a Guitar player of dramatic proportions,who survived
Russian Prisoner of War camp, by playing Russian Folks songs, to
which the guards, with tears in their eyes hummed subdued melodies.
Now
Peppi could swing with the best.
And
there was Charly who could now play his beloved Clarinet and Tenor
Sax.
On
trumpet, Georgie G. blew up a storm and the deft fingering on the
Alto Sax came from Helmut (Heli) G.
Walter
W. had a drum set, which even then was somewhat antiquated.
He
played it with gusto, or brushed it gently, but always with this
satisfied smile on his face.
And
there was I. The youngest player of the Melodies, still feeling his
way up and down the unmarked touch points of a String Bass.
I
was fortunate to have inherited a musical sense from my parents and
therefore could find a fitting bass-line to almost any tune, after
having heard it two or three times.
As
time went on, I also tried my vocal cords on some gentle ballads and
then on some pretty hot, swinging, jazzy melodies.
I
cannot describe the initial feeling of anxious excitement, which
grew, with microphone in hand, into a bold presence on the band
stand.
To
be allowed to play the music I loved alongside some of the best
musicians I knew, and earn money while doing it, was, to say the
least, a bit of a miracle.
The
biggest thrill was always, when the dancers stopped dancing, crowding
around the band stand, dreamy eyes looking into nowhere, swaying and
clapping in rhythm and just listening to the music.
As
I write this, only Charly and I are still among the living.
I
regret that there is no recording of the beautiful music we made.
We
played mostly in the bar of the “Cafe Post.”
Every
Wednesday, Friday, Saturday from 8PM until the last paying guest had
left the bar, (which sometimes could be the early morning hours), and
for
“5
O'clock Tee” on Sunday afternoon.
We
also had “gigs” in various neighboring towns. One
three-week-stand brought us to Mayerhofen in the Valley of the
Ziller.
What
wonderful times they were.
These
were also exciting days.
Not
only did I earn some badly needed money, but, and this was even more
important to me, I could play the music I loved.
Hearing
Jazz was a deeply moving thrill, but playing it was an almost
spiritual adventure.
Yes,
these were the days of “The Melodies”
Yes, you guessed right: I am the Bass player, and
the band's vocalist.
Second
Picture
Willowdale
United Soccer Club
Much
happened in the intervening years.
I
immigrated to Canada
I
married the woman I loved.
We
had children who brought unbound joy and deep sorrow into our lives.
The
year was 1966.
It
was late afternoon on a Friday in July, a typical Mid-Summer day.
I
had come home from work. Ten year old Steven, our Son, was playing
“Street Hockey” with some of the neighborhood boys. While
normally this game was accompanied by much calling, jostling and
speedy up and down,
it
must have been the heat of the day, because they seemed listless and
a bit tired.
Gladys
had just brought them a big jug of Lemonade. I joined them on our
front lawn, sitting in the grass, some of the boys sat on the curb.
Out
of this “gang” I formed a youth soccer team, with which I finally
joined the “Willowdale United Soccer Club,” a Club concentrating
exclusively on “minor soccer”.
Young
boys, however, have the habit of growing into young men and so, many
years later an “adult” team was formed out of this ever changing
group.
It
was registered for competition in the Third Division of the “Toronto
and District Soccer League.” (T&D)
The
end of the first year found WUSC in first place and promoted to the
“Second Division.”
Another
successful year and WUSC was promoted into the First Division of the
T&D.
1974:
Throughout the year our team engaged in a fund-raising effort, the
details of which I shall spare you. Let me just mention that many an
underground parking garage in North York was painted a brilliant
white and that sufficient funds were generated to finance the
following undertaking:
18
Flight tickets, Air Canada, from Toronto to Frankfurt, Germany and
return.
A
comfortable bus, plus driver for three weeks, overnight accommodation
in youth hostels and/or hotels in various locations, two meals per
day, (breakfast and dinner).
Throughout
this period Six Soccer Games were played in six locations:
We
won the first of these by a score of 2:0.
After
this victory we could have flown home without Air Canada.
We
won another game by a score of 4:2, but lost 4 games, 3 of them by
the narrowest of 1 goal margins. Only the “under 21” team of
Innsbruck, who were Austrian champions, in their classification,
defeated us, under particularly adverse circumstances by a score of
7:2.
This
was “The A Team”
(from
Left to Right)
Bert
(The Coach) Reitter – Guntars (Tank) Tanis, -Tony (Rio)McNichols,
Jimmy
(Dad)Breslin, Bill (Shep) Sheppard,
Ian
(Duke) Searl, Steve (Mits) Mitro, Bob (Butcher) Stevenato,
Paul
(Hollywood) Stevenato, Raman (to the far post) Bhima,
kneeling:
Carlo (Sledge)Orrico, Nat (The Juggler) Capitanio,
Steven
(Keeper)Reitter, Frank (Sio)Vessio,
Joe
(Brute)Baker.
(missing
in this picture, why?): Moses (with you) Benaim); and the red headed Greek, Gil Kokinos. Two most valuable members of the A-Team)
But,
why am I writing about scores and results? None of this is, in
retrospect, of any importance.
Important
is only the friendships which have resulted and remained in place for
45 years and which, I am certain, will last for many more years.
I
look back to about 20 years as a player and then another 13 years as
a coach, and hope that I have had some positive influence,
particularly as a coach.
Moe,
The Duke and Shep.
Third Picture
Algonquin Park
And then there is
Algonquin Park:
This
8000 square kilometers of wilderness, with its 2,500 lakes and 1,600
km of Canoe routes lies a scant 250 kilometers North of Toronto, and
was for many years my “El Dorado.”
I
truly lost count of the number of times I went to “The Park.”
Many
times alone, sometimes with John or Andy.
In mid afternoon I
prepare a soft cushion with the life jackets for my cameras and
lenses in the canoe and carefully I cast off.
With a few strokes of
my paddle I am out of the little bay and in open water.
The gentle breeze has
lost its “gentle” but has not yet become “stiff”
I hear a Loon calling
from far off. The almost uncanny sound, one of three I can
differentiate, comes closer with each call.
Then there is an answer
from quite close.....
Sometimes
it is sheer luck which makes a shot like this possible.
The
wind just pushes me closer and closer to this “Lesson in Dining”
image.
The
parent bird seems to coax the chick with a freshly caught fish.
“Come
on, try it! You'll like it. It will be your staple for the rest of
your life.
*********************
The
aluminum Canoes of the early days were difficult to carry over the
portages.
Then
came the “Kevlar”... what Joy...
Beside
the Canoe and Paddle, I carried tent, sleeping bag, food, cooking pot
and, of course, 2 or 3 cameras, 4 or 5 lenses and a heavy tripod. No
wonder I had to do each portage twice. Which meant that a 2 km
portage, done twice, became a 6 km chore.
Sometimes,
during a three day trip, I would see maybe one or two other
voyageurs.
Being
alone in Algonquin was never a burden. Always it was a joy.
Then,
of course, there were “the Moose.” The cows and their calves and
the mighty bulls.
We are sitting on a
rocky outcrop, watching a Moose Cow, below us, up to her knees in
water, foraging near the shore line.
The willow bushes and
birch trees seem to sway in the wind. But, it isn't the wind!
It's the biggest Bull
Moose I have ever seen. Slowly he makes his way through the brush. He
too is searching for his favorite meal: Water Lily Roots.
The
Grand Daddy of them all !
Fourth
Picture
A
F R I C A
During
my first Safari in Kenya, I fell in love with this part of Africa.
I
fell so hard, that I went back to this wonderful part of the World a
total of 13 more times.
After
Kenya's Masai Mara, Amboseli, Tzavo and more, I traveled the length
of Tanzania's Serengeti, down the Chobe river into the Okawango Delta
in Botswana. Twice by Canoe down the mighty Zambezi River.
Several times I roamed Zimbabwe's and Zambia's
incomparable National Parks.
I
became a two-timing lover: Algonquin Park or the Kalahari!
Canoeing
in Lake Opeongo and portaging into Merchant Lake,
or
canoeing down the Zambezi, camping at Mana Pools.
Did
I say: “Two timing?” Not true! I remained faithful to both my
loves.
Down
the Zambezi River.
Sleeping
for three nights on a small sandy island,
or
on the banks of this exciting river
A
mosquito net draped over my tripod,
tucked
underneath a roll-up sleeping pad!
My
Safari hat on top.
Overnight accommodation
on a sandy island in the Zambezi River.
This Crane should know better:
Don't fool around with an angry Hippo.
A black maned Lion of the Kalahari
A Cheetah mother and her four offspring.
The rare Black Rhino
The Hippo, almost totally submerged,
has her nose, eyes and ears above water.
This way, she doesn't miss a thing.
A morning ablution in the neighborhood pond.
Almost extinct: The Black Rhino.
He's not sure what to make of us
Don't worry! He's just yawning!
Our
Campsite in the middle of the “Central Kalahari National Park”.
.
This
was the shortest possible summary of my four loves!
Ranking
right behind my family, in time-order, they are:
The
Melodies
Willowdale
United S.C.
Algonquin
Park
Africa
What
more does a man want?
