Four Pictures on the wall:

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?