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There are events in life, seemingly insignificant when they occur, that loom large when examined through the rear-view mirror of destiny. One such event in my life occurred in 1991 as our family prepared to travel by train from Paris to London.

It was our first trip to Europe that included our children. A whirlwind 2 weeks that took us to Italy, France, the Netherlands, and England. Our children ranged in age from 8 to 12 years old. As we waited for the train to depart Paris, a woman approximately our age with a young teenage girl in tow entered the train car. “Are there any English-speaking families aboard?” She had a perfect English accent and after a moment’s hesitation I caught Christine’s eye. Chris nodded her affirmation to my unspoken question. I raised my hand to the woman. “Oh, thank you! Would you mind terribly if my daughter accompanied you to London? Friends will be meeting her there at the station and I had hoped that she would not have to travel alone.” After brief introductions we made Bryony a temporary member of the family.

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I recall her to have been 13 or 14, a year or two older than our son Peter. She and the children hit it off immediately. Our journey that day took us to the coast of France where we would board a ferry to cross the Channel. On the English side we were to board another train that would deposit us at Victoria Station in London. It was there that Bryony was to be met by family friends.

Over the course of the trip we learned that Bryony was fluent in 5 languages, a duel citizen of England and France, and had the ambition to be educated in law in both England and France. We were captured by her engaging personality and sense of humor. At the beginning of the journey a train attendant had identified her to be a native. Referencing our children, he had made a remark about the American habit of saying “Have a nice day!”. Later, as he passed through the car she addressed him with a perfectly imitated American accent saying, “Have a Nice Day!” to which our children joined in chorus.

When we arrived at Victoria Station Bryony’s friends were nowhere to be seen. It turned out that there had been a misunderstanding about the time of her arrival. We were not about to leave her there alone, so we enjoyed extending our visit until they came.

That chance encounter with Bryony set in motion a series of events that changed the course of life for our family. We marveled at the impact that even a brief intercultural exchange had on us and our children. Upon our return to the States we began exploring options for hosting an exchange student. That school year we hosted Andre’ from Germany and for each of the 5 years that followed we became “parents” of other children from Europe. Christine and I became representatives for AFS, the international student exchange program. Our children went on to each spend a year living abroad with families; Peter in Spain, Renee’ and Alexis each in France.

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In 1993 we returned to Europe and were guests of Bryony’s family in Lille, France. Her parents and brother were every bit as warm and engaging as she was. We have maintained contact with Bryony now for nearly 30 years and we look forward to seeing her during our upcoming journey. It is a marvel how a one-day encounter with a child on a train in France has impacted our lives, the lives of our children, our exchange student children, and so many others, including you who are reading my “Thoughts”.

Peace Everyone! Pete

The “good old days” were not so good.

In the United States life expectancy around 1888 was less than 50 years, and infant mortality approached 200 deaths per 1000 births. That’s 1 in 5 children being buried by Mom and Dad before the age of 5. Death among children came primarily due to various infectious diseases such as diarrhea, diphtheria, scarlet fever and tuberculosis. (statistics from the Journal of Pediatric Research)

The impact of vaccinations and modern medicine has been significant. By 1990, life expectancy in the United States had increased 50% to 75 years. Infant mortality fell an astounding 97% to less than 7 children per 1000 births.

Some folks do not develop immunity as well as others when vaccinated. However, there is a “herd effect” that confers protection because those who are unvaccinated or who have less immunity from a vaccine are surrounded by those who have vaccine acquired immunity. As more members of the “herd” forego vaccines, the herd protection declines and threatens everyone. Infectious processes again have a fertile population to run rampant within.

The human tendency is to examine one’s current circumstances and surroundings and fail to understand that it has not always been the way it is now. Look at your children’s (or grandchildren’s) classrooms, soccer teams, gymnastics classes, playgrounds… and imagine that 1 in 5 of those bright precious faces were suddenly dead. It is modern medicine that has saved us from the face of a horror once common to our grandparents and great-grandparents. Paraphrasing an old TV show, let’s decline to follow the invitation of the anti-vaccine, anti-science folks to: “Return to those thrilling days of yesteryear…

Peace Everyone. Pete

PS: There is an outbreak of measles in the Kansas City area that has experts very concerned. This “childhood” disease killed over 2.5 million people worldwide in 1980. Vaccinations have reduced that number to less than 100,000 by 2014. It only takes an epidemic of blind ignorance to reverse that trend.  The following obituary was found tucked within my wife’s family bible.

Herr Obit

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Spring on the prairie welcomes the return of the grasses, flowers, and crops. Their emergence is steady and persistent, flooding the landscape with verdant life that will flourish for months until ended by the first killing frosts. Upon the tundra that is found at altitude or in sub-arctic latitudes, plant life is confronted with the challenges of limited opportunity. In order to survive, plants seize the first moments of thaw to explode into life upon the ice crusted fields. The season there is short, but the plants have adapted to compress an entire life-cycle into a matter of weeks. Nature adapts to what circumstances require for life to flourish. Nature abhors a vacuum.

As with life on the prairie and life on the tundra, friendships form and flourish differently at home and “on the road”. Friendship tends to grow slowly and with care in our neighborhoods and workplaces. There is caution in what we share until trust is well established. Friendships formed “on the road” do not have the luxury of time and contemplation. I have found that we, and those who we befriend, are quick to share the details of our lives. We are heedless of the cautions that would otherwise be in place at home. An evening at the campfire, or a day walking lockstep with a stranger upon a pilgrim’s path are sufficient to cement a new friendship that is every bit as dear as those cultivated over time.

Remaining connected to others may be as necessary for one’s emotional health as food and water are for the body. Christine and I count ourselves among those who thrive on the company of others. We embrace the wonder of the new sights and experiences of travel, but without the rich reward of new friendships travel would become 2 dimensional and lose much of its luster.

We know that a friendship forged “on the road”, or on the Camino, may be like paths that are destined to intersect only once. However, we focus on the moment of the intersection and not the regret that there may never be another crossing. When we walked the Camino in 2013 we formed dozens of these sudden deep friendships. The strength of those bonds is not dependent upon what the future holds but what was cemented in the richness of the brief experiences that we shared.

The next 3 months promise a pallet of wonderful sights and extraordinary experiences. However, it is the promise of renewing old friendships, and embracing new ones that excites me the most.

Peace Everyone! Pete Schloss

At about 9:45 a.m. on August 6, 2010, 25 miles north of Vicksburg Mississippi, John Bodie drove his small pickup truck south on Mississippi Highway 61. John is an older gentleman who bears a passing resemblance to the actor, Ed Asner. John is of retirement age. One of his joys in life is fishing. On this day he is pulling a trailer and his small green flat-bottomed fishing boat. The highway closely follows the course of the Mississippi River. It is a warm day, hot by usual standards, but only warm by the measure of the last few days. Highway 61 is a typical secondary highway in Mississippi, two undivided lanes of concrete and asphalt with only a narrow unpaved shoulder of gravel and debris. The speed limit is 65 miles per hour, but passenger cars, logging trucks and farm semis often push the limit a bit. As he navigates a long bend in the road, his attention is drawn to a line of similarly clad bicyclists. John’s pulse quickens as he maneuvers his truck and trailer into the oncoming lane in order to provide a margin of safety for the cyclists. He looks into his rear view mirror and is haunted by the face of the lead cyclist… it has been over 20 years. “Don’t let it happen to them.” he thinks, over and over. John begins to look for a place to pull off the road. He feels compelled to act by a ghost from his past… a painful reminder.

As I lead our line of cyclists south on Mississippi Highway 61 an older pickup truck pulling a fishing boat passed us on our left. This courteous driver had given us more room than most drivers, which was especially noteworthy on this well traveled but narrow stretch of highway. On highway 61 we are denied the refuge of even a small shoulder at the side of the road. A few minutes later I see that the truck, boat, and trailer have come to a stop on a flat area of grass far to the right of the roadway. The driver, a heavily built older man, wears loose fitting faded jeans, an equally faded western style shirt and a sweat stained wide brimmed straw farmer’s hat. He stands next to the driver’s side of his vehicle. He is flagging us down… I am the first to come to rest next to him. Is he in trouble? Is his scowl a sign that he angry with us? His face gives no clues. His wide tooled leather belt has multiple images of the Confederate “Stars and Bars” … I am apprehensive.

John addresses the cyclists. “I saw you all, and I just had to stop. You see, around 1987 I was driving my semi down this road, loaded with grain. I had a new canvas tarpaulin cover over my load. I saw a bicyclist who was dressed just like you all and as I passed him…” Here John hesitates, draws a deep breath and looks directly into my eyes. “Well, as I passed him, the cover and frame over my load tore off and struck that boy in the head… he wasn’t wearing a helmet like you all, but I doubt that it would have done him any good. He was struck in the head and he died.” Another deep breath and John’s eyes intensify their focus on me. “Please, please, please be careful.”

The driver handed me a simple white business card, “John H. Bodie, trucking”. He took my hand and held it longer than is common for most handshakes. I said that I would be careful… my words were repeated by the other cyclists. There was relief in the way that John’s brow relaxed and his hard eyes grew kinder. He got back into his truck and repeated to all of us, “Please be careful”. Another embrace of my hand through the open window of his truck, and we parted. John’s painful memory returned to his past and became a part of ours.

Peace Everyone. Pete Schloss

The old man floated in a field of stars at the boundary of his dreams. It was a wonderfully pleasant sensation that slowly dissolved with the arrival of morning and departure from night’s sleep. His eyes broke the crust that had formed upon them in the night. The stars that had surrounded him resolved into spots of light on faded wallpaper, projections of dawn through the moth holes of a tattered curtain. The serenity that had been his night gave way to the reality of a small grey one room apartment.

He lay for a moment organizing his thoughts. The tubular bed, once bright brass but now the patina of an old penny, was barely wide enough to accommodate the slow turn of his body. It creaked as he extended his hand toward the window that was the room’s only link to the sights and sounds of the street below. Sliding the curtain to the side the room exploded with Fall light that overwhelmed his senses. Sight slowly returned to eyes that drew focus upon his hand still holding the edge of the drape. The skin, once thick and full, had become paper thin and translucent. Light pierced his fingers like an x-ray, illuminating veins and bone. Beyond the hand he saw through the panes of dust etched glass to the street that ran before the storefront below. The park beyond was a network of sidewalks woven between the trees that cast their branches skyward.

Getting up in the morning, once a fluid and unconscious movement for him, had become a daily challenge that began with the act of grabbing the headrail of the bed with one hand and slowly pushing his body to vertical with the other. Legs extended over the side of the bed as knees audibly creaked the first bending that took his feet to the floor. The arches of his feet were like the rusted leaf springs under a tired old truck, function diminished by thousands of miles of road and the burdens that they had carried. His feet had tread uncounted millions of steps, carrying a body that was once large and powerful, but now shrunken and fragile. The pain of placing his feet upon the cold linoleum floor gave way to pressure as he slowly stood with the uncertainty of a man on a tightrope.

Taking a moment to steady himself he surveyed the room. Overhead was a single unshaded porcelain fixture with sockets for three lightbulbs but now holding only one. It was an accommodation to the economy that an inadequate retirement income thrust upon him. Across the room was a small painted wood table and a single bentwood chair. They were the only furniture that he owned save for the bed. The chipped surface of the off-white table revealed colored layers of paint that gave hint to its age like the rings of a tree. A counter with white sink and hotplate served as his kitchen. Separate hot and cold water spouts were pitted chrome with crazed porcelain handles that bore “H” and “C” respectively. They mocked him daily as corrosion had long made them inoperable. The drain still worked and a walk down the hallway outside his door to the communal bathroom served the sanitary needs of his body and gave him access to water for his pitcher.

He stood at the sink and faced the faded mirror above it. He plugged the drain with an old rubber stopper that was secured to the sink by a length of string. He poured tepid water from the pitcher into the sink to continue his morning routine, preferring the privacy of his room to the running water of the bath down the hall. The sink in his room served for washing his face, brushing his teeth, and the alternate day task of shaving. Today was an even numbered day. Shaving would be his purpose tomorrow.

Peace Everyone. Pete Schloss