July 2020

SCOTT DAVID NITZEL

My Memoir
&
Family Tree

Updated March 2024

sdnitzel@yahoo.com
 Mother, Before My Time

My father, Matt William Nitzel, at age twenty with my mother, Margy Fay McElravy, also
twenty, became pregnant with me. They had met earlier while both attending High School in
Junction City, Oregon, which is a short drive north from Eugene. My mother grew up in both
Nebraska, where she was born, and also in Oregon. My father had lived to this point entirely in
Oregon. He grew up enjoying hunting, motorcycles, and his similar rebellious buddies, and
together they raised havoc in the school and community. My mother appears so sweet to me in all
her pictures and I believe she was caring towards others. Perhaps her lack of adventures made my
father appear attractive to her. I’ve heard that my father drove a car with the devil painted onto its
side door during the time that he was courting her. My father was then employed as a baggage
handler at the downtown Eugene Grey Hound bus line and my mother was studying at a local
secretarial college.

Dad & Mom

 Upon confirming their pregnancy both my parents decided to exchange their wedding
vows (according to my father) in short order hoping to disguise my birthdate without family
counting back nine moths and calculating that they had unmarried sex.

My Parents Wedding, April 16, 1961 in Junction City, Oregon

 I was born healthy on December 16, 1961 at 3:47pm at Sacred Heart hospital in
downtown Eugene, Oregon. I’ve tried to recall my first memory, it is perhaps at two years old
pulling out a small fish, which I had supposedly had caught, from inside my front pants pocket to
show my mom, it slips from my tiny hand and fell to the kitchen floor. Also a memory of
pastures with farm animals near the back of our house, and I have a picture of myself sitting on a
tricycle with a chicken sitting on my head with both a fox and our family Black Labrador at my
side.
My ancestry is predominantly Scot/Irish from my mother’s side and those relatives I
remember listening to all seemed proud of this Irish thing even though it was at least a few
generations back when they first came over. My father’s side of the family is predominantly
German, and even though neither he nor his parents boast about this fact I thought it was
relevant and called on this genetic makeup when I needed to be strong and efficient. It was also a
few generations back when that side migrated to the States as well.
I was around four years old when the family moved into a rented house in Burien,
Washington, a short drive south of Seattle, and my father entered the construction trade,
specifically working with heavy equipment and concrete. My sister Trisha is two years younger
than myself and we were sharing a bedroom. One night I woke up to look across the room and
saw her sitting up in her bed staring out the window onto a drive-in movie theatre a mile down in
the valley, which seemed to please her even though she of course couldn’t hear anything. I was
attending “The Brown House” preschool, and my mother had difficulty getting me to leave each
afternoon because I wanted to continue pounding nails into wood instead of going home. I paid
little attention to the swings, slides, and finger painting that were provided to each of us
youngsters, opting instead to engineer and build. This was also the year that I became sexually
interested in girls, specifically the also four-year-old neighbor Carolyn. I would lure her to my
backyard and persuade her to take her pants down so I could have a look. Several times one of
the parents would catch us, which never bothered me because I didn’t get into trouble, unlike
Carolyn who received a week’s grounding. Thanks to my parents for not making sex a negative
issue, instead I can remember my father calmly explaining to me not to do that again and then
letting me go ride my bicycle. There was also Amy across the street, and a year older than myself,
who I fantasized about taking a bath with, but it never happened.
Both my parents were huggers, so consequently I grew up enjoying giving and receiving
hugs, which I’m glad for, and perhaps that was part of the reason that I enjoyed physical touch
from people and even like wrestling at this young age. In fact, my parents enrolled me into a
wrestling class which I excelled at. I was often like a cat looking for someone to wrestle with
and managed to irritate my mother and sister who I’d want to wrestle me when someone more
appropriate wasn’t handy. I was a natural at understanding leverage of the body and how to pin
my opponent.
Around my first grade we moved to Fall City, a small rural town about forty-five minutes
east of Seattle, and I had my own bedroom which overlooked several acres of raspberry bushes.
In fact, it was adjacent to a U Pick raspberry farm. There was an old man named Snyder that
owned the farm and didn’t seem to mind me grabbing up handfuls of berries each summer. Like
many boys that age I joined the Cub Scouts and participated for several years, however, I had no
interest later on in becoming a Boy Scout, which was in my opinion a bunch of sissies. I was
seven then, and my father gave to me a Honda 50 motorcycle. I quickly formed a gang called
The Blackjacks, to which I was the only member, and off I rode nearly every day. I hated going
to school because it got in the way of riding that motorcycle. During recess in school I played
football with my three best friends; Glen, Steve, and the tubby kid whose name I have forgotten.
One day I just stood up during class and walked off the school grounds several blocks to a drug
store and either shoplifted of purchased some bubblegum, and I thought nothing I was doing was
wrong. However when I returned to school a few minutes later my teacher was waiting for me
with the principal outside. I received a hack with a wooded paddle for my conduct, and will
receive several more before I complete Junior High. I believe the count is somewhere around ten
hacks. Martha and Janet were my sweethearts then, and when our teacher would turn the lights
off to show a movie I molded a blob of clay into a bridge from my desk onto one of theirs so I
could flatter them with my romantic caresses.
 While my mother was inside the gas station I was standing nearby watching a couple of
monkey’s inside a cage when suddenly one of them grabbed a pack of chewing gum from inside
my shirt pocket and I fell backwards skinning my knee, and it scared me enough that I have
always disliked monkeys, and that will come into play much later in life.
Back home there were two horses corralled in our huge backyard; King and Duchess, both
of which were given to my father by his own father in lieu of paying off a debt. Turns out that my
father was clever at making money, and even though he only had a high school education he was
beginning to provide for us well. But one day in the field King knocked me over and did a dance
on top of me, which is greatly why I dislike horses still. My sister will be the opposite and draw
pictures of those beasts as well as riding them Equestrian style in completions.
Some weekends our family would travel down to Oregon to visit my grandparents, and
this will be the norm for many years, for my parents were both close to their own parents.
Usually we stayed at the grandparents on my mother’s side, named Clance and Edith
McElravy, both of whom treated me well. Edith, an overweight smoking grandmother especially
spoiled me.

Clance & Edith McElravy

My father’s parents were divorced and both had remarried. His mother, June Caday, was
the sweetest Christian, and had married a Pilipino immigrant named Pete Caday. In my early
years they lived in Toledo, Oregon just up the hillside from a pond that we used to duck hunt
from those early autumn mornings during holiday visits.
 My Grandmother June Caday

My dad’s father, William Henry (Hank) Nitzel, was married to a charismatic and harsh
drinking woman named Dorothy. Henry was a Greyhound bus driver, as well as a deer hunter,
and spending time with him was better when I got older and could relate to his ways. I do now
regret not spending more time with him, for I think we would have gotten along well together.

Grandpa William Henry

My first grandparent to die will be Edith, from heart problems. I will be in High School
 when my mother will arrive at my classroom to pull me out and give me the sad news. My
grandfather Henry will die from a stroke when I am in my late twenties. My grandmother June
will pass while I‘m in my thirties, and my grandfather Clance will pass when I’m in my early
forties, and he lived to be ninety-six years old.

Half way through my third grade we moved into a nice house in Renton, Washington,
thirty minutes south of Seattle. It is there that I stay all the way until my early twenties. We had a
large backyard, and there was a forty acre tree farm with trails behind us that I routinely rode my
motorcycle through. Speaking of motorcycles, my father will soon buy me a brand new Honda SL
100, which I gradually modify into a racing bike and keep for years. I can still remember our home
address; 14027 SE 179th Place, in a development named Carriage Lanes, for it was a fun
neighborhood and full of kids, including a few houses down where Philip (Phil) Graves lived, and
also Hugh Miller, Jeff Schaffer, Paul Gartner, and only two houses down from ours lived David
Tinius; who was my friend and motorcycle riding buddy. David was two years older than I
and was great for pushing me to ride faster and become competitive in racing. Whatever David did
to his motorcycle I wanted to do the same to mine, because I thought he was cool. David and I will
stay close until around High School at a day when he headed out to the forest to smoke a joint, I
was shocked and our lives went into different directions. I was very anti-drug in those young years.
It will be over thirty years before David and I connect again. He’ll have raised his two children and
divorced and met his next wife to be, and I will have the honor of being in his wedding.
A secure feeling at home was always present as my parents allowed me to be a kid and not
worry, that and my mom was always there when I returned home from school. So there I was
attending Fairwood Elementary School and just having fun. Lots of slumber parties with Phil and
Hugh, croquette in the front lawn, and those rubber raft trips. Now Hugh and I both had our own
two-man raft, which was the perfect size in challenging the nearby Cedar River, but Phil’s parents
did odd things; like give him a four-man rubber raft which was big and bulky. One spring
morning after a heavy rainfall we heard the rapids were especially big, actually dangerous, and our
mother’s wouldn’t allow us to go rafting, but somehow, as sons do, we pleaded and pleaded until
they agreed to drop us off, which was almost a catastrophe, because one particular set of rapids
dumped all three of our rafts leaving me to grab onto a log sticking out in the middle of the
raging river. While those two fought for their lives I was disappointed that if I died I wouldn’t
ever be able to drive a Camaro Z28 sports car, which I so dearly hoped to have one day.
I almost always won the long licorice rope. Sometimes a special bus would pick us up
outside school during my 5th and 6th grade and take us to the indoor roller skating rink, and all I
looked forward to was the race. Several of us boys would line up and when it was time to go I
made sure I was in the lead at the first corner, and whoever won got a free licorice rope.
The propaganda against marijuana started with those short videos shown to us in class
with terrible things happening to people that smoked pot; a violent car crash was the one that
scared me and I swore I’d never smoke such an evil thing.
I had never been in a fight and I didn’t care for being around bullies in school either, but
one day while sitting in class it was passed onto me that another boy, also named Scott, wanted to
fight me. I don’t know what prompted this but I accepted his challenge and with a circle of
onlookers I met him after school just off campus in the woods. It was short; for I pushed his face
into a tree and he fell down and I got on top of him and hit him a couple of times before someone
pulled me off him. I was dressed in my Cub Scout uniform which I straightened and went back
onto the school grounds where my mother was running the scout meeting that afternoon and she
never knew that her son was just in a fight.

7th grade and the beginning of three years at Meeker Jr. High, or three years of not doing
my homework as often as I should. At no point in my life had my parents discussed with me why I
was learning and the future value of an education, so I was dangling through life with little
scholastic expectations placed upon me. I remember my mother actually doing my homework on a
few occasions, and it’s worth noting that I actually paid for a written term paper in college and had
my girlfriend rewrite it for me, which I turned in without even reading or knowing its plot and
received a B grade. During my 8th grade science class each student was to choose a disease and
give a five minute oral speech about it. I chose Hepatitis and plagiarized every word for my speech
from an encyclopedia. So there I stood in front of my class rambling on about something I knew
nothing about until I came to the symptom and pronounced it “FAT E QUE,” and the teacher
interrupted me with, “Mr. Nitzel, don’t you mean FATIQUE?

Somewhere around the 9th grade I realized that bringing my books home after school
wasn’t being true to my casual nature and I chose to leave them in my locker from that point on
and never did homework again.
My mother was a pacifist when it came to punishment and unfortunately I learned how
to outmaneuver her at this early age. It was actually her fault for one day being mad at my
behavior and telling me, “Just wait until your father gets home,” which meant to me she
couldn’t hand out the discipline. I wasn’t a mean spirited young fellow to her or anyone else for
that manner, to the contrary I was polite and courteous, but tried to push what I wanted just as
many other children can do. Punishment wasn’t doled out by my father either; in fact the closest
he got to it was on day warning me that he could spank me if he so desired. However he did
rule with fear and a loud voice. I credit my father with giving me some of the incredibly good
work ethics that I have today, for often he would give me large chores to do that took some
strategic planning, such as smearing tar under each single up on our roof, which took a good
part of my summer vacation.
When dinner was ready and I was at a neighbor’s outside playing mother would blow a
loud police whistle to call me home. Her dinners were always adequate but she was not a
gourmet cook, and I can assume her cooking simulated that meat-and-potatoes style one would
be served on a farm in her native Nebraska. After returning home from the store she would try
and hide my favorites in a cupboard, which were a bag of plums and chocolate bars, but as soon
as she would leave for another part of the house I would find them and take more than my share.
My life in Junior High often started the same way with my mother entering my bedroom to pull
open my window shades while singing me a short song; “Good morning to you, good morning
to you, we’re all in our places with bright shinny faces.” Then after my shower I would find a
warm towel from the drier waiting for me, and the clothes which she chose for me to wear that
day laid out on my bed. I suppose that I did brush my own teeth. I’d migrate to the dining area to
find a hot cocoa waiting for me, but then came the day that I forgot to remove the stirring spoon
from inside my drink and chocked on it. That was the first moment that I remember thinking to
myself that I maybe a little lazy. There was a string of mornings during Jr. High that I forgot to
even bring my books with me to school and had to telephone my mother to drive them out for
me. I had a paper route for a short while, and during that time I awoke before my family did and
made a whole pot of hot sweet coffee and broiled bacon which I enjoyed while folding my
papers to be delivered. I thought the pay was lousy and soon quit. It was the morning of 8th grade
Earth Science class when Phil Graves was holding the door shut from inside not letting me open
it to get in, but the teacher came up behind him and ordered him into the back room. The fact
that my buddy was going to get a wooden paddle hack was exciting to me so I asked the teacher
if I could watch. My wish was granted but as soon as Phil stood up from his punishment the
teacher told me I was getting one too, but I jumped forward just as the paddle hit my butt and got
 a second one for it. If I wasn’t on my motorcycle I may have been on my bicycle roaming the
neighborhood, and I was easily the fastest bike rider among all that challenged me. Now back to
that forty acre tree farm behind our house; that’s where I marked a race course and charged a $1
entry fee for any other kid to enter a race which I sponsored. I won every race by a lengthy
margin so easily that the last time I did it I had to promise everyone that I wasn’t going to
compete just to lure them into showing up. But that time there was one kid that promised to pay
me his $1 later and I let him race. Just before that race started I wheeled my bike to the starting
line and announced I would be racing.

Perhaps I heard some disgruntled contestants but I didn’t care. I won that race, kept the chocolate
candy bar which I purchased as the winning prize, and the following day showed up at that kid’s
house to collect my $1, but he didn’t want to pay me so I grabbed hold of an old typewriter that was
at their entryway and headed off to peddle away with my ransom just as him mom stopped me and
took it back. One time I entered an official BMX race and crossed the finish line first with enough
time to take my helmet off before the next rider finished. By this time I had already enjoyed many
deer and elk hunting trips with my father and his friends. My father had given me my own hunting
rifle and I truly felt comfortable out in the deep thickets and high elevations stalking big game.
Before dawn my father would wake me and we’d set out afoot together climbing far from base
camp. Once at a point which he deemed likely to see a deer he sometimes left me alone and
continued on to his own hunting grounds. I suspect though that he often just found a place to take a
nap, for I know he worked hard during the week. When I shot something I refused to get my hands
bloody and made him clean out the organs from inside the animal. Later in High School science
class I will refuse to do the required lesson of dissecting a frog and poking around its organs
because I just dislike icky things like that.
On one particular hunt my father thought his compass was wrong and relied on his sense of
direction which ended up getting us lost from camp, and we had to sleep out in the cold, and
unfortunately it snow over one foot that night. He had shot a wild bird out of a tree earlier and that
was to be our meal, only there wasn’t any water nearby to wash it, so I elected to go hungry. By
luck we came across a stranger in the morning who guided us out to safety. A strong character of
mine was being formed during this time; which was the desire to become a Mountain Man when I
got older, or even the idea of living in a small mountain community cut off from civilization and its
worries was seeming like a favorable lifestyle. In that mountain community I envisioned myself as
the local school teacher, so in my own school I began taking good notes which I could later use as
my own teaching aids. These hunting trips were formidable years for me too, for I learned survival
techniques, the serenity of being alone, the beauty of nature, an interest in Country style music, and
oh ya, the taste of wine, for one day my father didn’t want me tagging along because he said I made
too much noise shuffling my feet on the ground, so I noticed he had left a bottle of strawberry wine
in his duffle bag from which I swallowed a bid gulp. I must have liked its taste for I didn’t get far
from camp and I went back for more. I didn’t get drunk that day, no that lesson was given to me by
my mother at age fourteen, during an evening when I had Phil and Hugh over for a slumber party.
Mom poured us Vodka with orange juice and watched us get drunk, then as if three giggling kids
wasn’t funny enough for her she placed popcorn in our ears and let my dog lick it out. I hadn’t the
patients for reading books then, but I surprised myself by reading the original version of Bambi,
and felt normal that I could tackle such a thick book in just a matter of a few evenings, but perhaps
that was the only thick book that I read for quite some time. I found a likeness for writing stories at
this time and created a long fictional piece called, “Jim’s Adventure to the New World,” about a
man who is transported into the future and confronts Judgment Day. My mother had an issue with
me addressing that subject and urged me to quit. I asked my father about a career as a writer to
which he replied, “Writers don’t make very good money,” and felt discouraged to go on at that
time. It seems that anything that I wanted to get involved with my parents would provide an open
door to, such as baseball, soccer, and basketball, but one thing was not learning to play the guitar,
which they handed me and hired an instructor to come over to the house some afternoons and teach
me. I found a way out of that though; after several grueling months of hating practice sessions and
not getting better I was entered into a recital along with the instructors other students. I was to play
a pre chosen song and do a solo; needless to say I hadn’t practiced. So there I sat in the front row of
the recital, with my mother just a few feet away, with my song book at my feet slowly picking one
cord after another. I know I sounded awful, which was the point, and my mother was embarrassed,
which was the real point. Towards the end of the song I looked her in the eyes and we both knew
that this would be the last time I’d have to strum those strings. Perhaps she enacted some sort of
revenge by signing me up for Clay & Pottery classes up at Old Lady Cleo’s house on Saturday
morning. Oh how I hated being picked up from a slumber party early so I could form blobs of clay
into abstract art.
Again my mother came from a farming community in Nebraska, which was probably full
of teenage boys trying their hand at running away from home, which is what she thought was a
normal part of growing up. Home was comfortable to me, and I wanted to be there, so the
evening that she unexpectedly packed my bag and put me outside to run away wasn’t what I had
planned at all. Instead of fulfilling her idea of a normal boy and running away I pounded on the
front door and screamed for her to let me back in, and it worked. It was scary for me as a young
thirteen year old the afternoon that my parents dropped me off for a full week at my grandma
June’s house so I could work on her farm. I remember watching my parents drive away while
being surrounded by acres and acres of fields that all needed to weeded in the days ahead. I ran
the weeder tool up and down the tomato rows and picked those tomatoes until my fingers were
green from the wine, and swore I’d never eat another one again. I settled in quickly to my $1 an
hour farm job and really had one great day while in the tall corn stock amongst the several Asian
laborers, probably illegal immigrants, who were speaking their native tongue just as a helicopter
flew overhead, because I imagined I was at war in Vietnam, and what a surreal moment my
imagination provided me.
I soon found out that long distance running, about six miles per day, was natural for me.
Running became part of my routine which I carried into my forties. Besides making me in good
physical condition the running offered me a therapy and an avenue to think clearly. I ran with
such ease that sometimes I strapped on ankle weights to make it more difficult.
My mother had an older brother named Jim, who was gay, which I knew nothing about
except that my father told me it was wrong to be that way. My father didn’t like him coming over
for visits, so he didn’t, and I knew very little else about that uncle. What little feelings I had for
Jim was nothing beyond he was “fruity and odd.” I’m now glad that my parents didn’t urge me to
go to church. Oh, we went a few times, and I wore my bright red southern Baptist suit, but I had
too much energy to sit in those pews and absorb a sermon. I went with Hugh to his church a
couple of times but other than him none of my friends went regularly. My mother had the
disposition to attend church but certainly not my father.
I received a “Perfect Attendance” award, again. It is interesting that I didn’t try hard at my
studies but I had several years up to this point where I had gone the whole school year without
missing a single day.
Around the ninth grade is when my parents took me snow skiing for my first time, and
Phil was with us. It was at Ski Ares up on Snoqualmie Pass that I made those first turns, and I
knew then that skiing was going to change my life’s direction. Up to that point I had done some
competitive motocross racing, with limited success, but racing that motorcycle gave me some
lessons about body angulations’ that were helpful when skiing and I caught on fast. The second
time that I ever snow skied I had my own equipment and better yet a ski racing coach, and the
determination to be the fastest downhill ski racer. I was part of a ski team based at Ski Acres.
Sometime that early winter I entered my first Giant Slalom race held at Stevens Pass and pushed
out from the gate. I was so nervous that I tighten all my muscles and went around each gate like
an old lady.
I was fifteen years old and it was the summer before starting 10th grade when I met Mary
Shackelford; my first legitimate girlfriend. She was my same age and was born in Germany
before her family had moved to the States. Her hobby was riding her horse, named Beaver, who
she had stabled at a nearby abandoned army base. Riding on the back of her horse through the
forest she was teaching me to count from one to twelve in German. Most afternoons that
summer I’d met her at the stable and watch her groom and ride her horse. After her ride she’d
make time for me and pretty soon we started fooling around. We were two virgins that summer
day lying off in the lush green grass when we made love for the first time. It was an interesting
experience and I’m glad it all started for me on that grassy hill. I will remember that spot and
return to it thirty-seven years later and stand there reminiscing.
My father thought he should control me more now that I had a girlfriend and he made me
go to work with him many days that summer, for he had previously started his own concrete
pumping service company and was prospering at it as well. So I learned about concrete from
him and the mentality of those characters in the trade, which I found generally to be better off
ignored. He thought he had his grips on me but I fooled him by lying about a baseball team that I
was on and needed to get off work early to go to practice. But there was no baseball team for me
and I ran off to see Mary instead. The smell of hay still reminds me of that summer.
I entered 10th grade at Kentridge High School, with Mary as my girlfriend, and those
hunting trips with my father were replaced with ski racing. My father thought that I should
smoke marijuana with both my parents so they could control the environment and discourage me
from using it with my buddies, which was the last thing on my mind anyways. So he purchased a
bag of pot from one of his construction workers and proposed that we give it a try. I was pretty
cold in my delivery when I shut that idea down right away, for I was an athlete with goals and
drugs weren’t in my playbook. I was actually so bothered that he had a bag of pot in our house
that the following day I found it in his underwear drawer and got rid of it. Well, actually I
colored green some ground up pencil shavings and put them into the bag. He knew what I had
done though.
 A police car entered our driveway with my sister in the backseat, I was home with my
mom and we both went to the front door to meet the policeman who explained how my sister was
arrested for being the leader of a shoplifting group and carrying a list of items to be stolen from
Southcenter mall. I recall being rather puzzled that the sneaky gal was finally found out to not be
the wonderful character she liked us all to believe she was. That was the moment when I realized
that I had little in common with my sister and didn’t want to associate with her much.
I had a fascination for the mystery of the Alps and a strong desire to be there, and one day
while turning pages in an encyclopedia in our school library I came upon a small black & white
picture of the Matterhorn in Zermatt Switzerland and knew at that moment I had to live there; a
dream that I will fulfill many years later. Mary and I were both in the same German class each
morning. She was of course already fluent but used it as an easy A grade. Perhaps I was just bored
with her after a six month relationship, so one morning before German class I told her nicely that I
was breaking up with her, but she took it poorly and stormed out of the class crying. Naturally her
girlfriends were mad at me. It would be another thirty-seven years before I would hear her sweet
voice again and only after years of trying to find her. The girls that appealed to me were athletic
and had small bodies conducive to sports, like gymnastics. Joan G. and Cathy S. had such bodies
and were part of our High School Gymnastics team, which I volunteered to help out with just so I
could be around to them. After school I set up the equipment, like the High Bars and pulled out
the mats, but these two girls wouldn’t give me any attention and throughout never did. When the
instructor told me that I was going to get a Letterman’s Jacket for my participation I quit thinking
that it would be embarrassing to Letter for such a thing. I should have seen it coming, but I was a
bit peculiar in 10th grade; sometimes eating my school lunch alone out in the woods so I could be
close to nature. I was an extreme environmentalist, and detested car smog and progress. I even had
a fight once with my sister because she wanted to warm up the family car before a trip, and all I
could think about was the emission of pollutants. My sister and I had other fights too, sometimes
on the Tennis court, where I usually won, at the game that is. I had never taken a tennis lesson and
she was on the High School tennis team, and many days we challenged each other, in fact, we had
such a good rivalry that sometimes we skipped class and played tennis. I became a monster
competitor on the tennis court with anyone that wanted to play me, and took winning seriously
through the years ahead.
Anything that I deemed to help my ski racing I was into and it was starting to pay off for I
was beginning to climb through the ranks. I also had this odd belief that because I have German
ancestry I should be more dominate and more deserving at alpine sports than others, wow, I don’t
know how that came into me.
During the summers I had the same job of building wood forms to pour concrete into,
specifically house foundations, which gave me a little money but didn’t do much to keep my
interests. As soon as I turned sixteen my father bought me a used car, a Nova SS, which was a bit
sporty, and I had it painted green. A year later he bought me a beautiful VW Sirocco, which was
extremely sporty. I was defiantly the first in my group to get a car, and I was definitely looking
the part of the ski racer; for my hair was longer, I was tanned, and I was the first in my school to
wear Levi’s in lieu of the fashionable Bell Bottom pants. Other than a ski racer, I had no idea
what I wanted “to be” in life, and certainly no career goals either. My school buddies, such as
Phil, were slightly being replaced with my ski racing friends, who at that time were primarily
Steve Quinn and Scott McCoubrey. Through them I was discovering a different lifestyle; a
lifestyle of wealth, which came with the ski racing crowd. All of it appealed to me; the Preppy
look, the cleaner more affluent activities, the non-football mentality if you will, and I liked it
better than any other group out there. So now all that country red-neck auto mechanic stuff that
my father cherished was down to the bottom of my list, and he saw it and didn’t like it, nor
appreciate the friends that I had grown fond of. In fact during one weekend ski racing event he
told me that he couldn’t relate to the other parents.
The summer before 12th grade I was trying out for our High School football team and
purposely just using the training as conditioning for the upcoming ski racing year, for I had other
plans than to play football. Shortly after the school year began my parents allowed me to
officially drop out of school to full time ski race. I signed some documents inside the principal’s
office and walked out of my High School where I wouldn’t walk those halls again for another
thirty-five years. I moved up to Crystal Mountain as part of their full time ski racing program. I
remember how mad the football coach was when I told him I wasn’t going to be part of his team,
but I didn’t care, for ski racing was way cooler. Our head coach was intense and training began
each morning while it was still dark out with some running out in the snow. I won the first race of
the season that year, which was a Giant Slalom, and by the seasons end I had earned a spot at the
Elite level in the Pacific Northwest division. Scott McCoubrey was probably my best friend
during that time and he was not quite as dedicated as I was, and often when I strayed from
training to enjoy a beer or just hike in the mountains he was somehow involved. History will
show that many of the experiments that I will try out will be his ideas. It needs to be said that
nothing was as fun for me as wearing that skin tight downhill suit and letting myself go as fast as
possible down a mountain at high speeds, and I miss the thrill of it still today. To that point in my
life nothing was as profound in developing my character as was ski racing.
Two girls will become longtime friends; Barbie Rogers and her friend Kris Davis, both
living in Portland. Oregon. I met them at a ski race and told them that my buddy and I were
going to Sun Valley in a few days. My buddy and I didn’t know they were both fourteen years
old, maybe they lied, sure they lied, and they lied to their parents and joined us on the road trip
for a week. Their parents will later discover they went to Sun Valley with Steve Quinn and
myself on what was an innocent journey, and we’ll even become friends with their parents.
A couple of years later I will seem to peak at ski racing and sometimes start to play more
often than concentrate, which I’ll have to acknowledge as the beginning of the end for those
racing days.
I will then decide that I wanted to be a Stuntman, so I loaded up my car and moved to Los
Angeles to attend Stuntman school. It may have been the first time that I ever saw my father cry.
With a pistol that he packed under my car seat I drove off for fame in Hollywood. I was quickly
discouraged by life there, also I could have run out of money because I stayed in nice hotels, and
I guess I wasn’t as dedicated to it enough so on a whim I drove back home. Total time I was
away; just one week. I decided to ski race one more season, and to really dedicate myself. Before
the snow fell I told Scott McCoubrey, “I’m really going to train hard for this season,” to which he
replied, “Hell no, let’s have fun” and I knew then that I was doomed. Though I favored the
Downhill and the speed; my FIS points were slightly lower at Giant Slalom, which is the event
for the true skier anyways, and I want it noted that I sucked at slalom, and didn’t even like the
event anyways, in fact I placed in the top ten just once in slalom and strangely it was when I
raced at an elite level. I quit ski racing shortly before the Super G event was created and I believe
that I would have been exceptionally good at that event. Shortly before the end of that season I
was at a downhill race outside Wenatchee, Washington, when I found myself at a backyard party.
I met Lisa Consalus there, well it was her party, and we almost immediately became boyfriend &
girlfriend. I was nineteen and she was seventeen, and she came from a wealthy family with good
educations for all her siblings. She watched me a few weeks later at my final ski race, a Giant
Slalom on Mount Hood’s Timberline resort under a warm sunny sky. It was over and I didn’t
know what I was going to do with my life, until she suggested I go to college. Soon I will decide
that I want to be a Physical Therapist as my career.
 That summer I was working for my father and welding out back of his shop when he asked
me to cut some metal barrels into sections. It was just before lunch when I had forgotten to rinse-
out one of the barrels with water. That barrel had lacquer residue inside and exploded as soon as
I touched the torch to it, and wow what an explosion it was. It blew my shirt off of me and hit my
knees, which sent me to the hospital where I stayed for a couple of months. I had a skin graphed
done on my right leg covering a small hole where an undetected blood clot keep it from healing.
What a summer that was, for I was supposed to remain in the hospital, but Scott McCoubrey
would sneak me out and we’d go to the Red Robin restaurant for Bonsai burgers, Phil would
sneak beers into my room, Lisa would have sex with me when the nurses were out, and I was
sneaking off grounds in the evenings attending night classes at a local community college to earn
my GED. My favorite class was Basic Reasoning and Philosophy. The hospital staff was never
the wiser for all my activities. While in the hospital I was regularly going to my physical therapy
sessions for my knee when I learned that therapists don’t make much money, which discouraged
me and I abandoned that career choice. One day my sister called me in the hospital and was
complaining that her stomach was hurting just after finishing a horse ride. I have been blessed
with some intuitive powers that help me see problems, and I felt that she should come to the
hospital because she could have a problem with her appendix. She did come to my hospital and
within hours she had emergency surgery to have her appendix removed. It was funny that week
that our parent could visit both of us in the same hospital.
I applied to and was accepted at Wenatchee Valley College, and was near Lisa as well for
her senior year of school. I enjoyed classes like Psychology and Astrology, but my favorites were
Chemistry and Sociology.
About this time my sister was in love with an older guy named Billy Tripp, and the two of
them moved together to Duarte, California, not far from Los Angeles. Not long later the family
will caravan down there for her wedding, and that marriage will last for several years. The family
liked Billy; for he was funny and engaged in good conversation.
Lisa graduated from High School and we made arrangements to attend Eastern
Washington University together, and we even lived in the same dorm building that first year.
During the quarters which I studied I got good grades, but during the quarters that I didn’t spend
hours studying I didn’t get good marks. Basically this is a pattern in my life; when I try I do
excel, and the opposite when I slack off.
Unlike many young people I didn’t care about getting fake identity so I could get into bars
and drink, because I had too many other things to keep me interested. But for my 21st birthday I
did go out for a couple of Kahlua & Cream in Steamboat Springs, Colorado with Lisa’s father.
Lisa and I dated four or more years before I called it quits, and I have fond memories of
our time together; plenty of camping trips and other weekend getaways. Funny thing, she was the
person that told me that my parents got married because they were pregnant with me, for I had
never figured it out before then.
I was twenty-one years old and returning home for Christmas break one semester when I
realized that my father and his stuff wasn’t around the house, so I asked my mother about this,
and it was then that she told me they were to divorce. They had both decided not to tell me right
away because they knew I would take it hard, and they were right. I had always hoped that I
could bring my children home to grandma & grandpa’s house, like I knew growing up. My
mother had initiated the separation, my father had told me a few times growing up that, “One day
you’ll look around son I won’t be there,” and now it had happened, and my father was miserable
because my mother had left him, thus granting his promise. He was repetitively unfaithful to her,
and I believe that she was once unfaithful to him, and the story I tell for many years is that she
became involved in dancing and disco, which was true, and he became too involved with his
work and the growth of his business, which was true, and that they just grew apart. Wow did my
mother love to dance, most nights she danced, competitively and bringing home the trophies
from her wins, and her dancing will continue as her passion for many more years, only finally
giving it up when she retires at age sixty five. My father will soon find God as solace in the
separation and begin to form bizarre beliefs about the end of the world coming soon, and
combined with radical beliefs of conspiracy from our government that they our taking us over as
part of Satan’s work. Soon he will begin to build equipment to dig up gold in the Siskiyou
mountains of Northern California and eventually sell his company and move there, living a
recluse life as a gold miner. This wasn’t any small operation though, for he had many pieces of
large equipment for which he used to rape several acres of remote forest. The main and biggest
piece of equipment was something he invented and built to mount on top of tank tracks and was
used to drop the dirt into and at the other end spit out the gold nuggets. My father was quite the
inventor and had an engineering mind capable of solving complex problems. Unfortunately
though, he didn’t have a good business mind and was taken advantage of by others he thought he
could simply trust with a gentlemen’s handshake. It seems like every sale he made the buyer
ended up not paying him and ran off with his product, and this lesson is still something he hasn’t
figured out how to fix today.
My second year at Eastern Washington University I roomed with a close ski racing friend,
Charlie Dresen, and all was well between us until he tried to meet Megan O’Connor; who I had
met at a dance the night before. I had told Charlie about her and yet he liked her still, so the
competition to win her love was on, and I was quickly the victor. Charlie and my friendship
eroded from that point and we never hung out again. After two years at Eastern Washington
University I applied to and was accepted at the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma,
Washington. This was a private school with an expensive tuition fee. The summer before
attending there was the beginning of a wild set of summers on the west coast, beginning with
sharing a house in Tacoma with Scott McCoubrey, Bret Arsenault and two girls named Cheryl
and Dana. The music that moved me most then was the groovy 60’s music, and soon to follow
the Grateful Dead band that I will like more than any other single group. One night during that
fun summer Scott McCoubrey arrived acting very crazy and the culprit was soon displayed;
cocaine, which I tried for the first time. We all took turns cooking a crazy dinner and my favorite
contribution was chicken legs tied on a long string which I fastened to the ceiling and we had to
eat with no hands.
It was just after sunrise and I was aboard a small plane with Bret when the door opened,
we each downed a shot of Jägermeister and I jumped first. I free fell for thirty seconds before
my parachute opened and I’d say that was the best adrenaline rush I ever had.
I was in the fraternity Rush a week before fall semester began and pledged the Kappa
Sigma house, which would have been my second choice had Scott McCoubrey not already be an
active member there. I chose being with friends over my first choice; the Beta house, which
turned out to be a mistake for me because the Kappa Sigma house was the drug house and also
on academic probation for several years running. I was voted Pledge Class President, but didn’t
do much with it, and I seldom went to class and failed every course that semester. I didn’t seem
to care much because I didn’t know what I wanted to be. I had just sold my VW Sirocco for the
money because my father wasn’t helping me much with my finances when Christmas break was
fast approaching and I wanted to see a girl five hours east back in Spokane, Washington, and one
of my fraternity brothers asked me to let him park his car at my mom’s house while he flew home
for the holiday. I took his keys and drove his car on snowy roads to see this girl and with her got
into a small accident, which damaged the front of his car. I sold a rare gold coin, which my father
had given me as a child, to pay for the repair. “Let’s get a bottle of wine and just talk,” was my
introduction to a girl at our fraternity parties, and I was half serious because I was intrigued by
the female mind, and they were curious because they thought I wasn’t just trying to sleep with
them, none the less my fraternity brothers had fun teasing me with that line. After only one
semester I transferred across the state to Washington State University, and decided to study
advertising copywriting. Had I found my niche? How exciting I thought it would be to write
advertising. I roomed with two strangers and quickly became friends with one of them, and was
he funny sneaking into my room at night to turn off my alarm clock so I’d sleep in past my
morning class? So instead of class we spent hours playing tennis.
My mother sold the house, same house I lived in and grew up since 3rd grade. I wasn’t
around to say goodbye to the house and it would be another thirty years before I’d walk through it
again.
My father had given me a beautiful Honda 750 CB Custom motorcycle a while earlier and
besides tennis and drinking I pretty much just rode that thing around having fun. I even started
drinking Rum & Coke during class in a plastic cup so the professor wouldn’t know.
It was summer break and I wasn’t doing much of value in Seattle when Scott McCoubrey
telephoned me, “I’ve run into a fun crowd down here in Portland, Oregon and you should get in
on this.” So I sold the motorcycle, besides I needed to get away from the married lady living next
door that wanted to have an affair with me, and hitch-hiked over night to Portland. I was dropped
off before sunrise and jumped a fence to sleep on a lawn chair in a stranger’s backyard awaiting
sunrise and to call my buddy to come pick me up. A friend, Sung Kim, was joining in our fun,
which sometimes meant going into Nordstrom clothing store and returning clothes for cash.
We’d have someone go in first and take several items off the shelf and place them somewhere,
then the next person would go inside and return the clothes at the cash register. But real fun was
the several days we stayed on the Oregon coast living in a beach house, because Sung arrived late
one night to awake me that he had bought enough LSD for all of us, which was about eight of us.
Now I had been curious to try that for a while and was comfortable with an experiment. I stood at
the beach looking at the ocean and thought it was all big waves of green pea soup. Oh, and
catching that purple beach ball was, well, strange.
I returned to Washington State University but my father then decided not to pay for any
more of my education, so I dropped out, actually I just left campus and returned to Seattle, and
that was the end of my formal education, completing 85 Semester units.
My father’s gold mine was an interesting getaway; in addition to being in a remote
mountainous area of northern California he had built a hand held cable car over the river as the
best way onto his property. A loud air horn was there ready for me to blow so my dad would
know he had a visitor. He was always good at barbequing steaks and seeking gold was always
intriguing as well, but on one trip I was alone driving his pickup truck down a steep road when it
slid off the road and into a bank and completely flipping upside down. The top of the cab was
smashed in except for right above my head, and I had to kick the window out in order to escape.
Everything that was in the back of his truck; tools and even a metal rowboat, was scattered all
over the road, and I just started to laugh because I was fine.
Phil Graves and I reconnected, and we both took a job selling telecommunication systems
in downtown Seattle. I was the top salesman, and I was dating a work college named Kirsten
Smith who was two or three years younger than myself, and wow did I think she was pretty. She
was a recent college graduate, and her folks had a small house near the beach, but more
interesting was their sailboat moored nearby. I can’t say that I learned to sail, but those barbeques
off the stern were fun. Though Kirsten and I dated about four years, I could say that it was a
miserable relationship for me, all because she had slept with so many men before me that I just
couldn’t come to terms with it. I struggled with it most every day, for it wasn’t what I was built
for and I’m sure I made her unhappy dwelling on it as well. I cherish the getaway at the ocean
together and dancing on the sand with Otis Redding music from the tune box while drinking
Champaign under the sun. It was the perfect music and will always remind me of that day.
I will get a phone call from a gentleman (Rich) in Portland, Oregon who wanted me to
go to work at his commercial flooring company as a project manager, and after an interview I
agreed to move there. I knew nothing about reading blueprints, managing installers, or about the
various products like stone, wood, and carpet, which I’d be selling, but he was sure I could do it
well, probably because he knew me from when I was ski racing and hanging-out with one of his
kids. I purchased some nice suits and showed up to work each morning not realizing that I was
into a profession that many people may cherish and could be very profitable, but instead I had as
much fun as I could each evening. After six months he called me into his office and fired me,
which coincidentally was the day after his wife heard I had been skinny dipping with his
daughter, Kelly, at a party. The decision to learn the trade of being a construction project
manager will alter my life for many years ahead as it will become my primary source of income.
However, many years from now I will regret falling into that trade in lieu of something more
artistic or creative. This is when I should have pursued being in a Rock band or a producer of
documentary films about strange or unjust happenings. Either choice would satisfy my interests
in travel and exploring.
I took my hurt pride and my last paycheck and moved back to Seattle, where I continued
dating Kirsten, and believed I could make it in the field of commercial flooring. Like so many
other things in my life; I self-taught myself the concept of competitive bidding and learned the
products at my new company. At this point in my life I could get anything I wanted, perhaps I
was lucky too, but I remember my friends were amazed at how easily I could get a great job. I
will never have a passion for this trade; commercial flooring, and I will even feel it beneath me
as a career, but it will be the one thing that I stay with longer than any other type of work and
make the most money doing. Over the next several years I will work at different companies and
in several different cities. My weakness is that I will not stay at something if I’m unhappy, which
applies to both my job and my relationship. If someone upsets me I will do anything to get away
from them.
Kirsten and I lasted around four years together, and she was the first girl that I ever lived
with, but after a few break ups we finally called it quits. I had returned home from Karate one
evening and that was our last evening together. She had her sights on studying in Avignon,
France and eventually moved there. I moved into a beautiful five bedroom house with four
strangers and quickly enjoyed a friendship with two of them; Tony Sanchez and a girl named
Kelly. The three of us did most everything together, like drives to the coast and weekend
camping trips. After a few weeks Kelly and I noticed that Tony wasn’t coming home some nights
and that he was hanging out with some guys that seemed gay to us, so we asked him if he had
anything to tell us, to which he replied, “Do you know how hard it is to want to love a girl but
you can’t?” I decided then that I didn’t care that he was gay, for our friendship meant more, and
he was the first gay friend that I ever had. Tony and I will remain friends for many years ahead.
I heard the noise of a VW Bug without a good muffler coming up the street and I went to
my bedroom window for a look. Directly across the street I saw Sonya Scharnowske get out from
her yellow Bug and walk towards her house, and how nice she moved. I decided then that I had
to investigate this further. The following day while she sat out front reading on her steps I went
over and started a four to five year relationship with the girl that many of my friends and family
would say was the best looking and nicest girlfriend I’d ever had. Then she was still in college
studying medicine, which fit her high intellect. After dating six months we rented a small
apartment together, and I think she wanted to be away from her parents. Sonya said “Yes” after I
asked her to marry me, but a few minutes later I was sick to my stomach in our bathroom with
nerves for I wasn’t ready to give up my freedom then, and the following morning I reneged on
my proposal. Kirsten returned from France and wanted me back, but I stay with Sonya. If there
was to be a problem I had with Sonya then it was that she was a bit shy, and sometimes I would
become bored with her for that, so I started doing things to keep myself busy; such as I took a
night job at Pier One Imports retailing candles and pillows, and I also built a few dining tables
with marble tops, and coached youth sports like softball and basketball. Many of the thirteen &
fourteen year old girls in my neighborhood (Queen Anne) wanted to be on my team, in fact I had
a softball team with about 25 girls on it. I also spent a lot of time with a fraternity brother, Tim
Foster, who was wealthy from his family trust fund, allowing him to own a 52 ft. yacht, on which
I enjoyed many a cruises. Tim was busy wasting his brilliant mind as a near cocaine addict,
which carried over from his youth, and sometimes made it ridiculous for me to try and be around
him. But he was funny and had good taste in fine goods which made us compatible. One day Tim
was with me while I was shopping for a new futon couch, and we were both bored that day until
I created a way to spice things up by writing a fake sales order receipt for new futons which we
turned into their warehouse guy. Shortly thereafter we drove off with two new expensive futons.
I always had an exceptionally creative mind that could be dangerous when bored.
My grandfather, William “Hank” Nitzel passed away in 1988 and is buried just south of
Marysville, California in Olivehurst.
My favorite trip with Sonya was touring Washington D.C., and our nation’s capital, and
most interesting to me was Ford’s Theatre where I stood in the same physical space where our
sixteenth president Abraham Lincoln was shot over 100 years earlier.
Sonya’s mother traveled with us down to my father’s gold mine in Northern California.
During that trip the four of us were gambling and drinking late at night in Reno when all of a
sudden my farther said we should drive back to his gold mine several hours away. I told him that
I was tired and wouldn’t be able to help drive, but he thought he could handle the responsibilities
without my help. Through the snow and through the night he drove while the rest of us slept, but
sometime during the night he asked me to drive and I did. On Interstate 5 just a few minutes
south of Yreka California I buckled my seatbelt and noticed the sun was just about to rise on the
horizon. Buckling my seat belt wasn’t something that I had ever done before. I awoke just a split
second before we slammed into a parked car on the side of the freeway. With debris scattered I
turned back to see blood pouring from my father’s face, Sonya’s mother in the back seat with a
fractured hip, and my girlfriend with a sore forehead after hitting it against the front windshield.
My father will be in three hospitals that day including being airlifted to one in Seattle. Sonya’s
mother will remain at the hospital in Yreka for several days. Sonya and I will be fine, except for
the several months I will have nightmares about car wrecks and I will refuse to ever drive again
when it’s late.
I was twenty eight years old when the Berlin Wall came down and I wasn’t there. It
prompted me to get started on fulfilling my dream of a life in the Alps, so for the next several
months I read travel books and I purchased my Eurail train pass. I was the top salesman at my
company which made me feel like I had tasted success and earned permission for a quiet life in
the Alps, and so shortly before departing on May 18, 1990 I quit my job, told Sonya good bye,
and with a one-way ticket in hand I had no thoughts of moving back to the States.
On May 19, 1990 my plane landed in Munich Germany and I found the English Gardens,
where I drank good beer at the Chinese Tower Beer Garden, then strolled through the park where
many naked people were sunbathing on the grass; which was eye-opening to see being raised in
America. I woke up early the next morning and went to Dachau, where I had a jolting experience
while standing inside a room near the incinerators looking at an old picture of dead Jewish bodies
stacked on top of each other then realizing it was the room which I was standing in. It was later
that morning which was significant to me because I sat in Munich’s train station with my map of
Europe deciding which direction to go. The possibilities seemed endless and I selected going
south with my sights on Greece. I drank and slept that night in Salzburg Austria and walked
through Vienna the next day, which wasn’t very interesting to me. Late that evening I boarded a
train for an overnight ride exiting at sunrise in Venice, Italy. I met two American girls looking for
a room and shared a lovely suite with them for several days while we explored the town together.
Sadly I no longer know many of the people I met along the way, and funny that most of them
were American girls. Continuing South I didn’t understand what the excitement was to get off the
train in Ferenza, only later to learn that it was Florence, and kept traveling onward to Rome,
where I watched in amazement at the chaotic traffic and wondered into a communist rally
surrounded by police. They were protesting the shortage of housing. Back at the train station I
met four people who I traveled with for the next couple of weeks; two American girls from
California and a Swedish guy named Mats with his girlfriend from Colorado. Overnight train to
Brindisi. Those two weeks were great; boarding an overnight ship from Brindisi to Athens,
dinners together and explore the Acropolis, then the overnight boat to the Greek island of
Santorini, staying in a beach hotel in the village of Perissa. One of those California girls became
my first lover in Europe. Santorini had the first nude beach that I ever went to. My favorite day
on the island was when we watched the sunset from the village of Oia, which was so beautiful
that I told myself to think of that place whenever life seemed difficult. We walked up to the
ancient site on top of the hill just next to Perissa and down to Kamari, we explored Thira and
Akrotiri. If that group had wanted to stay on the island longer I would have but after a week we
all headed back with two of the girls squabbling and we began to fizzle out as a group, and once
in Italy we went our own way. I took the train from Bari north along the eastern coast to Milan. A
couple of days later I walked into a rainy Zermatt Switzerland, where I met a French girl who
made me dinner and helped me get hired at Hotel Poste as a bartender in their Brown Cow bar,
but it would take one month for my work permit to arrive, which gave me more time to explore.
Going north I explored beautiful Interlaken Switzerland, Luzern and Zurich, Basel up Strasbourg
and explored the Catacombs in Luxembourg, onto Hamburg Germany where a prostitute wanted
me, no thanks, and on an overnight train to Copenhagen Denmark, where I saw pretty women
wearing dresses and riding old peddle bikes. The music that I carried with me that summer was
Fine Young Cannibals, Jimmy Buffett, and Ziggy Marley. I slept in a boat hostel in Stockholm
and like most places I really walked around to see as much as possible. I thought that the Swedish
people were the most beautiful, it’s something about their facial structure that I adore. I took an
overnight cruise to Helsinki Finland, and sometime during that drunken night there was that
Estonian girl kissing me. I stayed at the Olympic village and didn’t like Helsinki much, and
consider it along with Athens as the two worst big cities yet in Europe. I really wanted a
traditional Finnish Sauna; getting whipped with Fig branches, but discovered that they were
privately owned and never got in one. I reached the Arctic Circle at a town called Rovaniemi
Finland, exited a bar at 2am with two American girls and it was daylight outside so we walked
several miles up a road to Santa’s house and saw the Reindeer. We hitched hiked back but an
idiot was driving recklessly; fears of the earlier car wreck scared me, so I made him let us out
of his car. I traveled over to Trondheim Norway where I was going to ask a mother walking with
her daughter for directions and the mother grabbed her daughter and moved across the street like
I was some kind of monster. During my train ride south I met an American girl that I stayed up
late with having one of the best conversations together while admiring the beautiful mountains
around us. I reached Goteborg Sweden and stayed with Mats at his mother’s house, where I
enjoyed Swedish bread; best in the world, and played soccer. In Amsterdam I took a boat tour of
the canal and met two Australian girls and we found a great “coffee shop” where we got very
stoned. That shop owner liked us and took us upstairs so we could watch a Bob Marley concert
on his television. After we came to our senses a little bit the two girls and I wondered inside
Anne Frank’s house, but because of our altered condition we laughed through part of it, which I
do regret some. I walked around Maastricht, Holland and took a train to Paris, where a pretty girl
asked me to dance at an outdoor concert, but I declined because I don’t like to dance. I had heard
stories about Gypsy’s stealing from people and I was able to witness several Gypsy children
plotting at a Paris train station one evening, which I found fascinating, and just like rumor has it
they all disappeared in the blink of an eye. I traveled south to Avignon France to see what was so
special that Kirsten had to leave me for, and found it delightful. There I met two Swedish sisters
and the good looking one became another lover. They took me into a field of flowers and told me
it was a custom to place seven of them under my pillow and I’d dream of the girl that I’d marry.
Earlier that day I was drinking beer in the town square when I saw a sign “Friseur” and decided
then to get a haircut, just a short trim though, but the Friseur lady spoke no English and
misunderstood me so she cut my hair very short. Oh well, I thought it was just part of traveling
and laughed. Those Swedish sisters showed up later in Zermatt and stayed with me awhile. From
Avignon I traveled to Cannes on the French Riviera and took an attic room; one that I couldn’t
stand up in. My month of travel was almost up so my direction was north when I hopped on a
little tour boat that sunny afternoon on Lake Geneva and I recall the clarity of the clean water like
I had not seen before and sat back to begin drinking several cold beers for my two hour voyage,
and before long I was in conversation with an American girl traveling alone with no particular
direction. By the time we reached the north shore of the lake, Lausanne, we were pretty drunk
and sunburned and I got us a room because I was tired, although it was still light out. She may
have thought I was a bit odd that day because I got us a room with two beds and fell asleep in
mine right away. That’s the way I was; absolutely not forward about sex, not presumptive. The
next morning she followed me up to Zermatt and stayed with me a few days. I don’t remember
her name but she became one of the most sensual lovers I enjoyed.
In Zermatt I had a comfortable chalet that I shared with three other guys, and wow did
the mountain life suit me. The negative side was that the Swiss locals were not attractive people
or friendly either, and not at all like the sweet wholesome folks which I stereotyped them to be,
rather many were drunks and drugs were plentiful. My best friend was a German girl named
Susanne Deutsch, who I still stay in touch with. It was summer time but I was able to ski on the
upper glaciers, and I was doing some long distance tail running as well, actually I’d run several
miles up into the mountains alone without my shirt or gear just to challenge danger. I laughed
when those clouds came in and I had miles left and nobody was around to find me. Some
mornings I would run the steep trail nonstop up to the Pension-Restaurant Edelweiss, and eat a
Rosti breakfast, and now I challenge my children to try and make that run like I did to see if
you’re as strong as your dad. I made several excursions from Zermatt, such as to Liechtenstein
and Appenzell.
Phil Graves had just finished taking the BAR exam back home and was coming to
Zermatt and wanted to travel three weeks with me. I needed an excuse to leave my job for three
weeks but I didn’t have one, so I just asked for the time off and they fired me, which was fine
because I was in the mood to see more of Europe. It was August 1st; Swiss Independents Day,
and Susanne, Phil, and I got very drunk. Later that night I was alone crawling up the outdoor
steps to my chalet when the fireworks lit up the night sky, so I rolled over onto my back and
watched the show with the Alps in the background. I remember liking the Austrian people more
than the Swiss and pledged to give the Austrian way of life a try someday. There was a pretty
Austrian girl that I had made friends with and somehow she came to my room that night for sex
but I was too drunk and passed out. I found a note the next morning from Susanne on my
bedroom door confessing that she wished we were more than friends. I guess we had kissed once
long before. But that morning Phil and I were free to go, but where? We took a train east to
Vienna Austria, and I must say that all the time that we spent together riding trains in Europe
was a blast. With great hassle we secured Visa’s for Hungary, actually paid off as taxi driver
who paid-off the border patrol guy, and we headed for Budapest, where thing were cheap and the
service sucked because they weren’t practiced to the idea of profit being a former communist
country. From there we headed north for Prague Czechoslovakia, and met a young Czech girl on
the train heading home who invited us to stay at her parent’s apartment in Prague, even though
we wouldn’t get there until after 1am. Nonetheless her folks woke up and we listened to her
dad’s Elvis records and drank beer. I remember eating breakfast with them when all of a sudden
we heard Phil scream from inside the bathroom because cold water hit him during his shower.

That night Phil and I drank a tray of beers at an outdoor square and bought candle sculptures of
Stalin and Lenin’s heads. It was early morning riding through Eastern Germany when I was
looking out my window imagining Russian tanks on the march towards Berlin so long ago. Once
we got to East Berlin we hit the Wall with rented chisels and toured around West Berlin and the
Brandenburg Gate, but my favorite was Checkpoint Charlie; which was the crossing between
East and West Berlin during the Cold War. All my youth we were taught how the Soviet
Union/Russia were our enemies so I found it fascinating at Checkpoint Charlie to learn how
Eastern Germans created ways to escape to the West. Phil and I were both irritated that our Eurail
pass didn’t cover travel through Eastern Germany so instead of buying the ticket we hid inside
the train’s bathroom until the agent passed us by, and we thought that was so funny. We were in
the backseat of a taxi riding through Paris when Phil abruptly leaned up closer to talk with the
old lady driver, what we hadn’t seen before was the dog in the front seat that got right in Phil’s
face and scared us both. We were both exhausted and went to sleep early in our hotel room in
central Spain, I believe it was Calatayud, only to be awoken by a movie being projected onto the
outside of our building just after dark, and when I moved the curtains back I saw many of the
villagers sitting outside looking at me. During the boat ride from the port town of Algeciras
Spain to Tangier Morocco I saw my first flying fish. It was our first steps on the African
continent; we rented a car and ended up that evening in the beautiful beach town of El Jadida,
where I believe we were the only two white people on the beach. Morocco was perhaps the first
time I witnessed overwhelming poverty, and dead animals lying roadside from starvation, plus
having to compete with donkey cart on the road made for intense travel. We arrive in Marrakech,
which was our most southern destination, and shopped in their outdoor bazaars, where I bought a
handcrafted leather bag, which was unusual for me in that I generally don’t purchase stuff along
the way. We had a plane to catch and we were short on time because we couldn’t locate our
rental car which we had parked outside the city walls. Phil was sick, which was why he wanted
to fly back to Spain instead of drive, and we ended up hiring a taxi to take us around until we
spotted our own car. The train ride from Northern Spain up to our destination of Brugge Belgium
was odd in that we didn’t have the correct currency to buy food on the train and we couldn’t exit
the train because there wasn’t another ride until the following day, so we were stuck and starving.
This went on into the following evening when we started walking though Brugge and spotted a
Pizza Hut restaurant. I actually had a tear in my eyes because the food tasted so good. Phil went
on to England the next morning and flew home while I went up to Amsterdam, where I watch my
favorite Classic movie; Doctor Zhivago, at a theatre, and reminisced about what a great few
months I had in Europe. Perhaps my ski racing days and this trip were the two single most
fascinating times of my life up to that point. I met a local couple that evening and ended up
sleeping at their flat. During that night and only a few blocks away the Basque Separatists made
a bomb explode. The morning sun was in my eyes at the airport while I listened to Louis
Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” on my headset. I’m transfixed on a scene half way
through Doctor Zhivago whereas the flowers are blooming and he’s taking in the pleasures of his
garden outside their small farm house, and I will forever want to duplicate that environment into
my own life. As for my favorite movie; that is The Mission with beauty, struggles, and hypocrisy
of religions. My favorite European film is the beauty of the farmhouse in Jean de Florette.
I returned to Seattle and knew immediately I wanted to return to Europe, but I first needed
to make some money and planned to eventually give Austria at try. I got back together with
Sonya, who was eager to have me back and I rented us an apartment.
About six weeks after landing in Seattle my mother and I went to Europe for her first
time. We explored the Tyrolean Alps, drank Affelkorn Schnapps, Salzburg, Venice, Appenzell
Switzerland, Grindelwald, Zermatt, and ended our two week trip together in Paris. We rode the
trains and I kept my mom going each day to exhaustion, and reminded her that she could sleep
when she got back home. I am so grateful for that experience with her. One evening while we
were in Bern Switzerland we chose a restaurant that had the MasterCard/Visa sticker stuck on its
front window and decided to eat there because we were leaving Switzerland after dinner and
didn’t have their currency. After diner we tried to pay with our credit card but they said they no
longer accepted them, even after we asked why the sticker was still on the window, but they just
said sorry, so my mom and I simply walked out and didn’t pay the bill.
Shortly after returning to Seattle I enacted a way to make some fast money, so I thought
anyways, and get back over to Europe to live; it was January of 1991 and the time of the year
when the Bering Sea off Alaska is the roughest, and so I broke up with Sonya telling her that I
was going to be a fisherman for a few weeks and take my cash to Europe. For twenty-one straight
days I was on my back in bed completely sea sick. I ate crackers and read a book the whole time
and lost many pounds. From the ship I telephoned Sonya and asked her to keep our apartment
because I was returning home to her, and she accepted, huh. There are today certain smells of raw
fish that remind me of that voyage and they bring back terrible memories.
I managed an apartment building in west Seattle that year so I didn’t have to pay rent and
saved enough money to return to Europe, and again I broke up with Sonya and told her and my
mother that I was moving to a small Austrian ski town and not returning. Sonya was entering
Law School and I flew off to rent my car and drive around to every ski town in Austria to decide
which one I liked best. It was September and the views were magnificent, and how fun it was for
me to be alone and on my own pace. Some nights I would drink too much of their damn
Affelkorn Schnapps, and some days I met interesting people, and by the end of my two week
journey I had two ski towns in mind; Kitzbuhel and Mayrhofen.
As planned ahead, Phil flew over to meet me in The Londoner pub in Kitzbuhel, and it
was time for another adventure with my friend while I decide which of the two villages to live in.
Riding the train we crossed into Slovenia, which was still reeling from its civil war after
breaking away from Yugoslavia. Tensions were high and Serbia was the bad guy at the time.
Most people would probably run from a war, but Phil and I were going right into the heart of the
battle and surrounding ourselves by killings and mass genocide. We stayed that night in
Ljubljana; the capital of Slovenia, and enjoyed drinks in the cellar of the main castle on the hill
overlooking the city. In the morning we rented a car and headed south for Dubrovnik Croatia,
where the war was still active. Several places we were stopped at road side check points where
there were military tanks and sings warning us about bombs. I was actually watching for bombs
while driving. At one check point a guard actually said, “All the best,” to us and started
laughing. Along this journey was Pristina, which was one of the ugliest cities I’d ever seen, for
there were people so desperate that they were burning fires in the middle of the streets, and when
we left our hotel the following morning a couple of Serbian military guys wanted to check our
passports while they had AK-47’s pointed at us. In Dubrovnik we had a 5 star hotel practically to
ourselves because there weren’t any other tourists crazy enough to be there. We got massages
and swam in the ocean and I understand why they call this place The Pearl of the Adriatic. My
favorite was the 15 minute boat ride from Dubrovnik’s harbor to Lokrum Island; where we had
lunch, hiked, and swam at their popular nude beach. We drove out of Dubrovnik just a few
minutes before the Serb’s started to bomb the city. We continued the coastal drive south that
day, which may have been the most scenic yet, and our stop for lunch on the tiny luxurious
island Sveti Stefan is a beautiful memory. Phil was navigating with our map while I was driving
and I can still hear his words, “Hey, I see a shortcut,” and we ended up driving through the
mountains on a dirt road with only a quarter tank of gas left and I thought surely he had us lost.
Before sunset on a remote hilltop we drove upon an abandoned wood house and planned to see
what was inside. There were no other cars around and it was still and quiet when I pushed open
the door and faced twenty or more armed militia men sitting at tables. They were as stunned to
see us as I was to see them. Instantly some sort of survival technique kicked in and I yelled to
them, “Has anyone seen Bob?” I turned back to Phil saying, “Let’s get out of here,” running for
our car and driving off down the hillside looking in my rearview mirror to see them exiting the
house. That night Phil and I tried to get dinner in one of the strangest places; a name I’ve
forgotten but it may have been Pec’, where we sat in a restaurant for one or two hours waiting
for our drunken waiter to bring us chicken, but it never came, so we went hungry. Our attempt to
enter Albania was thwarted at the border because we were Americans, even the beer we tried to
bribe them with didn’t help our cause. We returned our rental car in Skopje and boarded an
overnight train heading for Athens. Once in Athens we boarded an overnight boat taking us to
several island including Paros where we took a bus to Golden Beach and played volleyball with
some Austrians, and finally to our destination island of Samos Greece. We had planned on
Samos long before we left the States and I had done most of the research so I knew where to go
and what to do, but first we had to decide if we wanted to rent motorcycles or a convertible Jeep
for our journey of the island, and we settled on the Jeep. Our destination on the island was the
southern beach town of Votsalakia, where we had planned to stay for a few days. During my
research I had read about an old Orthodox church that was difficult to find but worth the effort.
On some dirt road I parked and we began walking through thick brush until we luckily found the
church, actually we found a large family eating dinner outside their home and got an invitation to
join them. We must have been polite enough because after dinner the oldest man, kind of a
grandfather to the family, motioned for Phil and me to follow him and he led us around back to
the church that we had been seeking all along. We were looking it over for just a couple of
minutes when grandpa began shaking a copper plate which he wanted us to place some money
into, but Phil and I weren’t much of the tithing type then and didn’t pull out our wallets which
irritated him and he motioned for us to leave.
It was the early morning hours of September 15, 1991 on Samos when we crested its
highest point in our Jeep. Again I lifted my foot off the gas pedal to quietly coast unheard
through each of the many villages before finally descending the steep winding road which we
had to ourselves.
“You know, we all have one person in this world that’s the most opposite to our self,” I
wisely informed him.
He had his coat collar up around his face blocking the cool wind, “What the hell are you
talking about now?” He asked.
I laughed. “Do you think about that person?”
“No.”
“I think about what I’d do if I met that person.”
“And?”
“I’d probably hate her. She’d stand for everything that I was against.”
He yelled, “What’s that thing up there?”

I punched the brake pedal and slid a little closer. “I think it’s a donkey.”

“Are we even on the right road?” Phil snapped. He’s a fantastic debater and a graduate of
Columbia Law School. I thought of him as a Geek while growing up but now an intimidating
force in the courtroom. We’re really quite different he and I, except our passion for playing
tennis, which is the one court where I own him. I first destroyed his game back in High School
and his attempts to conquer me have failed on four continents; America, Europe (Zermatt),
Africa (El Jadida), and later this week in Asia (Side, Turkey).
He was still irritated from an hour earlier back in the hotel when he was placing his
contacts in and hadn’t noticed the big black ant resting on a lens until it was too late and firmly
smooched into his eye. I heard his scream from outside where I was picking up my laundry off
the dirt because the German couple in the room next door had thrown my clothes down to make
room for their garments.
I weaved our way through what was a herd of donkeys and wondered how I let Phil talk
me into shortening our time here. Yesterday, in the midst of Greek salad with extra chunks of
Feta he heard that the Baltic countries of Latvia and Lithuania had opened for western tourists
and he wanted to be among the first to arrive, so after just two days on Samos he had talked me
into leaving.
Somewhere below in one of those harbors was a passenger boat. Later in the morning it
would carry tourists two hours across the Aegean Sea and into port at Kusadasi, Turkey. That
boat trip was part of our three-week holiday together.
I reached the waterfront, headed east, passing by beautiful beaches and wishing I had
more time with these sensual and proud locals. More time to eat spicy lamb while listening to
their traditional folk songs, which made me feel good.
The sun was a magnificent orange ball rising over the blue sea, “Phil, wake up and look at
this thing.” I heard him grunt.
“Could you ever live on this island?” I asked.
“No.”
Phil wouldn’t consider liking anything outside of the United States, that was home, it was
Capitalist and all else was beneath him. We rounded Vathi Harbor just as the shops were opening
for business and parked in front of Plotin Travel. Though I will never step inside Plotin Travel
that opposite I had spoken of was resting inside just a flash away from altering my happiness.
“Will you deal with the car return?” I asked grabbing my backpack from the rear seat.
“Sure.”
“I’ll find us some coffee and rolls. Meet me at the boat,” I suggested.
Phil and I huddled amongst the other passengers crowding to board the boat. The majority
of them were Germans, and we were definitely the only two Americans in the group. The Gulf
War and the Civil War in Yugoslavia had scared most Americans from traveling into this area of
the Mediterranean, which suited me just fine. I was disillusioned with American society,
believing that as a whole we were taking ourselves much too seriously, and I was looking for the
charm of the Old World, and to cleanse my sole of commercialism.
We stood out as typical American tourists with khaki colored shorts, T-shirts, white
tennis shoes, and bold smiles. While most of the Germans conjugated down in the hull sipping
coffee and smoking cigarettes I rested against my backpack and listened to music on my
Walkman. Phil just disappeared, probably to argue with some Socialism loving Europeans about
the virtues of Free Markets. I thought about Turkey; it would be a new country for me to explore
and hopefully something bizarre would happen, and I tried to select which Austrian village to
move to and finally fulfill my big plan to meet a local beauty and marry her, which was my fix
for a simpler lifestyle.
I woke up when the wind and waves started bouncing the boat. The engines were
working hard and the only place to get away from the diesel exhaust was up near the bow.
Leaning on the edge of the bow was Phil talking with a German fräulein. She looked about 27
years old, and had her long hair tucked-up under a blue baseball cap. They were alone, gazing
out to sea, deeply involved in conversation and laughing a lot. I wasn’t in the mood to meet
anyone, but Phil can be witty at times, so I moved in on these two. Phil introduced me to her as
Katharina, and I purposely forgot her name.
 “I’m Scott,” I told her.
She smiled. “Are you moving to Austria to get married?”
I laughed, “Yeah.”
“I’m moving to Austria this winter. To Kitzbuhel,” she said.
“Kitzbuhel, I might be there too,” I said.
She deliberately pulled off her baseball cap showing me how her long wavy hair would look
blowing in the wind but I didn’t feel like flirting, Turkey was now in sight, we’d say good- bye and
never see each other again, which was sensible for me because having another lover with so much
on my mind would be just something burdensome.
But she wanted me to know more; “I’m a tour guide here in the summers and in Austria
during the winters.” She pointed at the small logo on her jacket and it looked like a seagull flying
over the moon. “I work for a tour company in Germany.” She seemed proud of her job, so I nodded
and acted impressed.
She smirked, “I drank a lot last night and I’m really hung-over. I was trying to sleep
down below, but my damn tour group keeps bothering me with stupid questions. They’d be
pissed if they knew I was hung over.”
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Waldshut, it’s a little farming town in Germany, along the Rhine, it’s not even on the
map.” She laughed. “It’s the poorest region in Germany. She laughed again. “The people there
have such a stupid dialect nobody else can understand us.” I wasn’t interested in learning more
so I faded away leaving Phil to carry on.
Once the boat docked and the crowd was pushing its way down the ramp, she stepped out
and stood next to me.
“Nice meeting you, maybe I’ll see you in Kitzbuhel,” I said.
“Yeah, I hope so.”
I had my blue colored backpack swung around my shoulder, and how could either of us
have known at that time that it will one day carry the most important cargo we could ever
imagine?
She stared into my eyes, as if she was transmitting, “Don’t forget me.” For the first time I
noticed her eyes, an incredible marble blue, more interesting than any eyes I had ever seen
before. We stared at each other for a few seconds then I turned to see if Phil was ready to walk
off the boat. When I turned back she was gone, and I scanned over the crowd but couldn’t locate
her.
Later that afternoon in the ancient city of Ephesus, Phil and I accomplished what few
Westerners ever have; we successfully escaped from a Turkish rug salesman without buying
anything. Undisputedly they are the best salesmen I’ve ever crossed, and foolishly we entered
their tent, drank their tea and surveyed their endless stacks of rugs. Desperate to ease the grip he
had on us we lied about needing lunch, but he followed us through the buffet, even sat down and
ordered a meal with us. Not until we ran for our rental car and pealed-off were we free of him.
That afternoon Phil and I continued south through Turkey. Unknown to me at the time
we were touching the pathway used by Alexander The Great back in 334BC, a subject I will
become fascinated with many years later. That night we stayed in a coastal town and were
woken up in the middle of the night by the Call to Mecca. We dressed and tried to enter their
Mosque but were turned away at the door. I was in the passenger seat with Phil driving when we
first entered the city of Antalya and traffic was backed up. Suddenly a taxi driver tried to cut in
front of us so I leaned out my window swinging my empty Coke bottle threatening him to back
off, for we were Americans and not to be messed with, but he stopped next to me and in the
funniest Turkish accent yelled, “Why you do the bottle?” Phil and I laughed so hard at this phrase
and it has become part of our conversation still today. We reached Side, our Turkish beach
destination, which I selected from my research weeks before, and took a room in a 5 star hotel.
On that day alone we played tennis, and of course I won, we rented ski jets, played volleyball,
played soccer, got sunburned and drank too much at the bar.
We drove through beautiful Turkey and reached Istanbul where an American guy
intentionally mislead us with directions to their ancient steam-baths, so following his advice I
pulled open the curtains and there were a bunch of naked women scared to see me, and so Phil
and I had another laugh when the lady at the door pushed us out. We did eventually find the
steam-baths for men, where I was scrubs with corral until I bleed and had my body contorted in
ways it never had been before. The best was looking across the room and seeing my best friend
in agony too. My favorite part of Istanbul was the dark underground tour with music and finding
a stone carving of Medusa resting at the end. Pondering back to that hot afternoon; Blue Mosque
and Hagia Sophia were amazing, as was Topkapi although unfortunately I wasn’t aware of its
historical significance or anything about Suleiman or the significance of the city as a whole.
From Istanbul we boarded a train through Bulgaria and up to Belgrade; the capital of
Serbia. By this time Phil and I really hated the Serb’s, because of their aggression in the war, and
I suppose they hated us too for opposing them. At Subotica, on the northern border of Serbia, we
were in our train impatiently waiting for it to cross the border into Hungary late at night when I
pulled down the window and started singing out loud. I was wearing my sunglasses and just
didn’t care about the tense surroundings. Quickly an armed guard came into the train and was
upset with me for not respecting his war and the rules that went along with it and told us to pack
because Phil and I were being kicked off the train. Phil started packing and I got mad and told the
guard that I didn’t give a shit about his war and to leave us alone, he did, returning my passport.
We reached Warsaw Poland where we planned to get Visa’s to enter the Baltic States, but
 it was going to take a least a week to secure them and we decided that we didn’t want to be in
Warsaw that long and headed west only for Phil to get sick, and we couldn’t find a room so we
stayed on the train all the way to Zurich Switzerland where he flew home from.

Mayrhofen, Austria

I chose to live in Mayrhofen, a small village at the end of the road, nestled in the Zillertall
mountains, full of lush green grassy pastures, a popular ski area, and clean. I was promised a job
in a ski shop once the snow started falling. It seemed like a village where I could get away from
people who were trying to limit my choices and impose their beliefs on me. It also felt like a place
where I could settle in and have a family. Everything clicked; I rented a furnished apartment with
a sauna, opened a bank account, applied for an Austrian MasterCard, and the owner of the ski
shop loaned me a mountain bike.
There was only one luscious girl in the whole village. She was exceptional, skinny, a
healthy face, and long straight black hair. Most of the other girls literally looked like a product
of incest, each carrying some deformity, which is historically common in these small alpine
villages, so I was told.
I agonized trying to think of a fun first date together. I like to do things a little crazy on
my first dates, and back home in the States it would be something like cooking oysters in an open
fire and drinking rum on the beach. Finally, after two days I settled on the perfect romantic
rendezvous and rode my bike down to her office. I was sure that this lonely, small town girl
would be swept away once face to face with a real American. I was ready to swoop in and free
her of her misery. Thick with bravado I walked up to her desk and leaned in close. “Hey, how
would you like to ride up the gondola and have lunch with me?”
“No, I have no time.” She didn’t even think about what a bonus I would be to her life,
not even the shortest hesitation. I hadn’t prepared for this, so I just nodded and walked out. She
skipped her chance to hang out with a foreigner, and expand her horizons. Worse yet, the only
pretty girl in town wouldn’t be having my babies.
A couple of weeks passed and I was growing desperate for excitement. I realized how
foolish it may have looked as a grown man popping wheelies up and down the main street
weaving around cow shit, and yet ski season was still two boring months away. The rain made
me think of happier places where I should be. I started to doubt my commitment to living here.
Well, I actually have no commitment to anything anyways so I shouldn’t have been surprised. I
wondered, “Do I really want to live in a village so secluded from the material world?” I was 29
years old, which is much too young to miss out on the changing world outside this valley. The
few locals I had met were nothing for conversation, and their own opinions were just something
handed down from an earlier generation. They denounced issues like ‘Equal Rights’ and
‘Global Economies,’ and they wanted all non-Austrians out of Austria, included Americans. I
don’t think they ever got over the good ass kicking we gave them during W.W.II. I didn’t want
to be like them and I wasn’t fitting in here.
I wanted a weekend getaway and boarded a train south for Italy with no set destination, I
just knew that the Italian flair and passion for life was a cure my loneliness from the hearty Alps
people, and found it in Merano, a castle studded town with its wine grapes ready for harvest. I
walked the hillsides all day and that night found a small wine bar to enjoy the atmosphere and
while sitting up at the bar talking throughout the night with the owner a cute local girl was
flirting with me. The two of us stayed until the bar closed and she waited for me to escort her
home, but instead I said goodnight and let her leave. It was then that the owner informed me that
it was every girls plan in life to meet a man and start a family; something that I hadn’t realized
about females until that point. On the train ride back I sat near several adults talking in Italian
and each word melted like music through my ears and wished for them to keep talking. Italian is
clearly my favorite language of all to hear.
I then thought about that German girl I’d met on the boat in Greece, and all of a sudden
she seemed fun and I wanted to know her better. I had plenty of time and I relished the
challenge of finding her, whoever she is. She said her hometown was on the Rhine and I’d
surely recognize the name if I heard it again. If I could somehow find her family, surely they
would put me in touch with her. I wasn’t going back down to Greece. Tourist season had ended
there, so she had probably already left.
Early the following morning I boarded a train heading northwest towards Germany. I
knew that a small farming town along the Rhine probably meant that she came from the Black
Forest. It would take a whole day just to get there. I planned to be gone a week.
I was stopping at villages along the Rhine, searching through phone books and maps.
There were hundreds of tiny villages, the names all sounded the same and I wasn’t having any
luck. Oh, a better idea; in the diner of the train I found a clean white napkin and drew a seagull
flying over the moon on it. I switched to another train, one heading five hours north to
Frankfurt. It was a good bet that her tour company would be headquartered there.
Not fifty feet from the train in Frankfurt I slid the napkin in front of a lady at the
information desk and asked, “There’s a German tour company with a logo that looks like this,
and do you know who they are?”
“Yes, right there,” she answered pointing towards the window and out across the street.
Once outside I was almost beneath a long shiny plastic sign with a seagull flying over the
moon on it. The reception area was vacant, except for one man sitting at his desk smoking a
cigarette.
“Do you speak English?” I asked him.
 “Just a little.”
“You have a guide down on the Greek island of Samos. I’d like her name.”
He stood up, “Wait for me,” and walked into a back room. A friendly looking lady who
was undoubtedly the office manager came to my aid. It was easier to discuss my quest with a
female and I quickly switched gears, going for the softer more personal approach.
“What is it you need?” she asked.
“A few weeks ago I was down in Samos, and I met a nice girl there working for your
company. She told me her name, but I forgot it. I’d like to send her a letter.” While she
pondered my endeavor I continued, “I’ve come a long way, do you know who she is?” She
shook her head and chuckled as if she was used to the island girl getting into mischief. “I know
who she is. Give me your letter and I’ll send it.”
“Thanks, I will be back in five minutes,” I said. The hotel next door was a good place to
bum a piece of paper and began writing. It didn’t need to be long, just the basics. I reminded her
of the day we met, where I was living, and that I’d like to see her in Austria. I trusted the letter
would get there and boarded an overnight train heading south for Mayrhofen where I would wait
for her loving response.
The snow hadn’t fallen just yet. Each Monday the new edition of Time magazine would
arrive at the Bahnhof where I’d buy my copy then crawl into bed to read the entire thing. I most
like the issue that explained Christopher Columbus as an accomplished adventurer. I’m not
persuaded by those arguments that we Americans would be better off as a scattered tribal people
with sticks in their lips.
The locals in Mayrhofen would remember me as the foreigner with long blonde hair trail
running several miles through their backcountry mountains. Adventure-Running for me started
back when I was a Scout. I couldn’t stand those endless meetings to weigh our backpacks and
talk about safety, so I quit and opted for running those hills not wearing a shirt and feeling manly
at the opportunity to outpace a storm. I do get a thrill out of running past day hikers that think
they’re accomplishing a daring feat with full gear, thermo wear, and cell phones. I did see the
luscious girl with black hair again, usually she was tucked away in a cafe’ adoring and stroking
her lesbian lover, which made me feel as if this village had hope, and as if I was back in the
States again.
The Island Girl’s letter finally arrived. Was she coming or did she think I was a nut? So
that’s it, her name is Katharina Klaas, and she didn’t think she would ever hear from me again.
Something has come-up so she is staying on Samos longer than expected, no explanation, and
she will not be in Austria until January. Her letter was discouraging and it gave me another
reason not to remain here. That evening around dinnertime while watching an Austrian television
a commercial advertising chocolate came on, the camera zoomed in on the ass end of a cow, and
then a farmer lifted the tail, which gave us a close-up of the cow pissing. “That’s it,” I said to
myself turning the TV off. “I will never relate to these people and I’m leaving. I’m a city boy
and I should just accept it.” Within minutes I was packing, “Screw the whole thing I’m going
back home.”
It was below freezing when I awoke early the next morning. I drug my bags over the ice,
down to the station and boarded the train for a three-hour ride north to the airport in Munich,
Germany. My new MasterCard had arrived the day before, which inspired me to take a short
vacation and charge the whole thing.
Upon reaching the airport I reserved a one-way flight to Seattle, departing in seven days.
Then it was a toss up between a vacation in either Israel or England. Whichever had the next
flight out was the winner, it really didn’t matter, and I just wanted to be there in time for dinner.
Ninety minutes later I touched down in London, got a hotel room, ate Chinese food, and went for
beer. I thought about Mayrhofen, where I had awakened just this morning and I was already a
different people away.
A day in London was enough because I was more interested in exploring the countryside.
I rented a car, headed a few hours north to Oxford and toured its prestigious University. There
was a thrilling ride similar to Disneyland’s Pirates of the Caribbean, which portrayed the
hardships of college life several hundred years ago. I’m not much for souvenirs, but I got a really
expensive parking ticket, which I decided to save rather than pay. Stratford was a good place to
sleep over. It’s also where Shakespeare grew up. I rushed through dinner and ran down to the
theater just in time to catch the opening act of his Romeo and Juliet. I didn’t know the Roman
Empire had stretched into England, but there in the city of Bath they had constructed these exotic
marble swimming pools which were filled by underground mineral springs. I zipped around the
countryside a few more days, and concluded that England was where Snow White, Goldie Locks,
and all those other fairy-tale characters really came from, not the Alps, as I grew up believing.
What I was really learning about was the layout of England and its customs, which would come
in handy several years later when Interpol would be hot on my tail there.
I flew back to Munich for my last night in Europe. My hotel didn’t have a wake-up
service so they lent me a wind-up alarm clock. Beer seemed like an appropriate way to start the
evening. I chose an up-scale pub around the corner from my hotel. I took my place at the bar
and ordered just as a swarm of policemen ran in. Nobody dared to move. Personally I was glad
for a little extra excitement. Only this ordeal turned into an hour of questions and body searches.
I didn’t have my passport on me, which made me a suspect, and two of the policemen escorted
me to my hotel, up five flights of stairs, and into my room. I handed one of them my passport.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Someone shot a guy, ran into that pub, and he’s mixing into the crowd,” he answered.
 They cleared me of any wrongdoing and left. This seemed like a good time to just go to bed.
The noise from a delivery trucks jolted me from my sleep. The damn alarm hadn’t gone
off and now I was late. I wouldn’t have time for a shower or coffee. I bolted out of bed in shock,
which is a lousy way to start any day, threw on some clothes, jammed the rest into my backpack,
grabbed the clock and ran down the stairs. When I reached the reception area I yelled, “The
alarm doesn’t work you shitheads,” tossing the clock well up into the air. I could hear the clock
crash to the ground as I left. That’s how I do things. I wanted to be sure that no other guest would
depend on that clock.

Seattle, Washington

Being home around family and friends gave me a base to evaluate my next step. I still
wanted to be in Europe. I was hooked on its history and its numerous cultures all tangled together.
I believed that my life would be enriched if I was in a relationship with a girl from a different
country, maybe even a girl that didn’t speak English. I needed to be in Europe, but separate myself
from it economically. I didn’t want to be another taxpayer with a low paying job in their loser
socialist system.
Sonya immediately took me back, though she was already in Law School, and we lived
together most of the time. She had a nice sports car which I drove around after I dropped her off
at class each morning.
I laid out the groundwork for starting my own tour company and called it “Yodeling Thru
Europe.” I created a brochure and rented an office. With that I could spend my summers in
Europe driving a mini-van full of Americans on 21 day long trips to my favorite locations, and I
had scheduled to do four trips each summer. Now the trick was to get people to pay me money
for my tour.
Curiosity urged me to give Katharina another try, so I wrote her a second letter flirting
with her a little, lied about how I was confused over some things to let her feel like my shrink,
and described how wonderful life is in Seattle. I included a picture of myself, it was actually one
taken of me by Phil on the boat trip the day we had met.
I phoned the main office of Austrian MasterCard in Vienna and gave some lady in
Customer Service my account number.
“I moved to the States, you need my new address,” I told her.
“You don’t live in Austria any longer?” she asked.
“No, I’ve moved to Seattle.”
“You can’t have the card if you move out of Austria.”
“Why?”
She sounded worried. “We have no way to collect the bill.”
 We were both in a peculiar position, but mine was the more favorable. “Don’t you send
these things to a collection agency?” I asked.
“We don’t have them in Austria.”
I insisted she update my address in her computer, and she did. I waited for a bill, but it
never came and I’d like to thank the gracious people of Austria for my vacation in England.
The Island Girl did write back. I was in my office, and everything came to a stop while I
ripped it open. She was staying in Samos and she invited me to share her apartment there. She
described her apartment, its view, the olive trees that surrounded her place, a private beach she
knew about, and that she was fluent in five languages. She had given me a great sales pitch and I
was stunned. The only thing missing was a picture of herself. I remembered her as tall, and
blonde, but I couldn’t remember her face. Her offer was tempting I imagined myself living with
her bound in lust, but the timing was all wrong. I needed to make some money. Money was the
fuel to my spontaneity.
I thought of a way to jump-start my tour company. I had one major competitor and he
had a monopoly on budget travel in Europe, for he had been doing this for years and everybody
knew him. He was one week away from lecturing at the University of Washington to people
interested in traveling to Europe, so I called that University pretending to be him, “I’ve got a big
problem,” I said.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m very sick, and I can’t do the lecture next week.”
“Oh, shall I cancel it?
“No, can you send me the list of everyone who’s registered?
“I could do a computer printout.”
“Including their address and phone number?” I asked.
“No problem.”
“Send it to my Public Relations department and here’s the address....”
“I hope you get better.”
“If I’m not feeling better, I’ll call them and cancel it myself.”
That week I received a list of over 250 people interested in traveling Europe, and I sent
every one of them my brochure.

Half the fun of sending a love letter is choosing the perfect card. I bought one with a
waterfront view of downtown Seattle at night. Skyscrapers were a complete contrast to
Katharina’s surroundings and maybe she was looking for something different too. I wrote that
I’d probably visit her in a couple of months, even though I doubted I could. We had certainly
begun something exciting. I felt committed to nurturing it, and I knew that we’d positively see
each other again.
 I was hit with several overnight telegrams, one urging me to visit; the next telling me to
wait. She was worried about her job, so she said. I felt it was something else.
I am at my happiest when I am in motion, and comforted when endorphins and adrenaline
are surging through me. I was wrong in my planning to watch my little tour company grow over
the years, I was not ready for that commitment yet, no, I needed to get the cash now and stay
mobile. So one spring day I refunded everyone’s deposit and quit on the tour company idea and
went to work for a commercial flooring company in Seattle.
I rented a little remodeled house in West Seattle near the beach. I had a waterbed and no
other furniture; perhaps I like things too simple. Katharina and I still wrote often, each letter
more intriguing than the previous ones. I wrote her that I was definitely staying in Seattle.
Before lunch break I usually checked my Voice-Mail back at home.
“You have one new message.”
“Hi Scott, this is Katharina calling from the sunny-side of life. I want to come to Seattle.
Call me tomorrow, here’s my number.....” It was strange to hear her voice. I hadn’t heard it in
over one year. The following day I rushed home during lunch hour. With my heart pounding I
dialed her number. Her words bounced off a satellite,
“Hello, this is Katharina.”
“It’s Scott.”
“Ah, hello my American friend.”
“I’m glad you’re coming to Seattle.”
“These calls are expensive, so we’ll make it short. I’m arriving on United, October 31st,
at 8:30 p.m.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Scott, is it OK if I stay six weeks?”
“Yes, absolutely,”
Wow, she’d be here in two weeks. I liked how she had already bought her ticket before
calling me. That’s how I would have done it too.
I bought some designer fabric, and hand-sewed some curtains for my bedroom windows.
That was the only change I’d make before her arrival, except to break up with Sonya one more
time.
October 31,
1992 Sea-Tac
Airport

I looked at the situation as monumental to my future. If Katharina was the tall, blond
Scandinavian-looking girl that I envisioned her to be, then I had indeed found my dream-girl for
life. If she were something else, something less, then I’d just show her a fun time in Seattle. My
family often thought it was interesting that all my girlfriends up to this point were blonde and
were intelligent; at least on a scholastic level.
I anxiously watched her plane pull into to the gate. Inside sat a stranger with her own
expectations of me. I figured the best way to break through any awkwardness was just to walk
up and give her a hug. While the first passengers began unloading I was hit with a raging
adrenaline rush, thinking that a wild blond, freshly tanned in the Mediterranean, was here to live
with me for a few weeks. The plane emptied quickly followed by the pilot with his crew. Maybe
she missed the flight, or probably she slipped by unnoticed. After a twelve-hour flight, she
wouldn’t want to hassle trying to find me, so I scurried over to the escalator leading down to the
main terminal. Sitting on the escalator was a girl with her head buried in her lap.
“Are you looking for someone?” I asked.
She stood and turned around. It was her, but she was short and a redhead.
She smiled. “What a shit flight.”
And there it was, a big gap in her upper molars, it stood out above all her other features. I
put my arm around her shoulder. “Welcome to America.”
We took a short drive down to the pier, and boarded a ferryboat crossing over to Vashon
Island. I was eager to go on deck and point out the islands around us and show her this majestic
salt-water inlet, which we were passing through. She wouldn’t get out of the car. She had
bought two Swatch watches, asked me to choose one as a gift, and wanted to talk about how
cool it was that we were finally together.
Reaching the island I thought it would highlight the serenity by listening to jazz music.
“I don’t like jazz,” she said. Her bluntness startled me. I ejected the tape.
I turned right off the main road and headed into a remote area of this tiny island. I was
looking for ‘Sweet Brier Bed & Breakfast.’ Nestled in the forest sat our private little romantic
cottage which I had reserved for two nights. I hoped this would make her feel comfortable. It
was decorated in a ‘Laura-Ashley’ style and heated by a wood stove. It was cozy on the main
level and had just one bedroom upstairs. The cottage was unlocked. Katharina went inside while
I unloaded the groceries and her suitcases. She looked around and walked upstairs. I anticipated
her next question. “Where do you expect to sleep?” I pointed at the couch. “On that,” as if there
was ever any doubt. It didn’t matter if we shared the bed or not, I was content just being friends.
“I need a shower,” she said.
“I’ll start a fire.”
She dug out a handful of toilette things from her suitcase and disappeared into the
bathroom. The cottage was toasty warm when she walked out wearing the bathrobe. She looked
a lot better, and I could tell she was slender and had nice legs. She jumped up and sat down on
the kitchen counter.
“I’m glad to be out from Greece,” she said.
I was cutting into a mango, “Why is that?”
“They’re all fuckin’ lazy, nobody can get anything done.” She was bitter. “The locals
call me ‘The Nazi,’ because I force them to work efficiently.”
I sucked down some mango and listened to her gripe.
“Germans vacation down there, otherwise the Greeks wouldn’t have any money,” she
said. She bashed a few more ethnic groups, said good night, and went upstairs. I pulled the hide-
a-bed out and went to sleep. I was anxious for tomorrow, a full uninterrupted day together.
An overhead light came on and woke me out of my dream. Katharina was sitting on the
stairway in her T-shirt and underwear staring at me.
“I’m having trouble sleeping,” she said.
I cherish my sleep, and I hate being awakened, even for sex. If she was lonely and
restless, this was good for me, but I’d rather deal with it at a later time. I mumbled, “What?”
And closed my eyes. She pondered for a moment, then stomped up the stairs, and shut off the
light.

November 1992

I woke extra early the following morning. I wanted to surprise her with breakfast, and I
don’t like to share the kitchen. An omelet stuffed with vegetables, cheeses, and meat, weighing
in at five pounds was my idea of showing her an American breakfast. Americans think big, and
we do big things, so she might as well catch that from the start. I called her down for breakfast
and spooned a pint of sour cream into the omelets. “She’ll drool when she sees these,” I thought
to myself. “Take a seat,” I said placing her plate on the table. She gasped. “Blah! I can’t eat
this.”
 “No problem,” I said.
She walked into the kitchen and dropped a slice of bread into the toaster.
“In Germany we eat bread for breakfast.
“I know. It’s one of the things I don’t like about traveling there.”
I appreciated her strength for not giving in to something she didn’t like. We used the
morning to share our life stories. She said, “I was watching you before we met on the boat.”
“Really?”
“You looked so American, smiling and singing to your music.”
“I remember. I was listening to my favorite song, Vahevela. It’s about a drunken sailor
dancing with native girls in Jamaica.”
She confessed, “I wanted to meet you. That’s why I was talking with your friend Phil.”
We were open, and almost any topic was fair game. There was only one question I
preferred to avoid, “How many people have you slept with?” It’s a useless question, and I’ve
learned to avoid it. I still don’t understand why girls have to ask that question.
She was a proud German Nationalist, and she entered into an irritating topic. She snarled
with righteousness, “Germany would have won the war if the United States would have butted
out and minded their own business.”
“Would that have been a good thing?” I asked.
“It’s how I was raised. My father was a member of the Hitler Youth, and he hated
everything American.” I didn’t appreciate her opinion on the subject, but I didn’t raise a
challenge to my new guest in this country.
I told her of my recent adventures in Eastern Europe, and even about sharing a bottle of
Vodka with a Polish train conductor who didn’t have any teeth, which is odd because I have a
germ phobia and lather up with soap immediately after I shake hands with anyone. I do have a
fondness to aged blue collar workers that sacrifice for their family and still smile. I see my father
in people like that.
“You grew up close to Eastern Europe. Have you ever traveled there?” I asked.
This hit a nerve and she sternly said, “I will never set foot in any of those countries.
They treated the Germans so bad after the war.” She meant what she was saying, and I thought
she was a jackass.
“Let’s drive into town for lunch,” I suggested.
“Good idea.”
She picked-up on the friendly service and inexpensive prices, which they don’t enjoy in
Europe. It was easy to impress this foreigner on her first visit to the States. She was 28 years old
and ate her first Eggs Benedict that afternoon.
I wanted to run into the supermarket to buy some wine, and she followed me in. She
stopped just past the entrance and her mouth dropped open. “Oh, my God, what is this place?”
I chuckled. “It’s big, isn’t it?”
“I have never seen a store so big.”
“Your stores are puny, and here they’re open 24 hours a day,” I bragged.
“They could never do this in Germany.”
For nearly an hour she read the ingredients labels on the back of shampoo bottles and
cookie packages. I got my first lesson about all those terrible dyes and preservatives added to
most of our products. According to her, Red #5 and Yellow #7 were a threat to human existence.
I didn’t care before and I still didn’t care. Actually the whole subject bored me.
She was zipping through the aisles the first time I noticed that her walk was much like a
military march. Her legs were nearly straight, her arms were pumping, and she looked goofy
with her long curly hair bouncing up and down like wings flapping to gain momentum.
We drove South down Chuckanutt Drive to a secluded cove. The beaches here are full of
plant life and little sand creatures, and are fun to explore. Bundled-up in our warmest clothes we
set off for a long walk. We were checking-each-other-out a dabble but not holding hands. We
reached a big piece of driftwood in a secluded area and sat down.
“My mother is my best friend,” she said.
“She must be nice.”
“I’m proud of her. She kicked my dad out of the house and opened an organic health
food store.”
“What’s with your dad?”
“He was mean, never gave us any pocket money. I shoplifted the clothes I wanted,” she
confessed.
“My dad gave me a motorcycle when I was only seven.” I said, and like I can do so well;
I pretended to be engaged but drifter into a daydream back to when I was only fifteen-years-old
and Friday nights at Seattle International Raceway. Oh how I liked to rip-things-up with my
nobbies. The gate would drop, I’d pop my clutch and we’d all try to be in front by the first
corner. It’s who was in the grandstand watching that said as much about me as how far I could
take air. My good friends the debate club; chess club; geeks were there. In another section were
my pals from the High School football team. But my favorite fan was Mary; my first girlfriend.
A stern voice brought me back, “I hate motorcycles, they scare the animals,” Katharina
sneered.
“It was a mistake. I rode everyday, and my mother did my homework,” I told her.
“So you had it easy?”
“I absolutely had fun growing up, and I always felt secure.
“What about your dad?” She asked.
 “He started his own business, but became a workaholic and it cost my parents their
marriage.”
“When did they break up?”
“I was twenty-one. My mom got into ballroom dancing, and they just grew apart.”
“How did you feel about it?” She asked.
“I liked being a family.”
“My brothers and I threw a party when my father left,” she said.
“How long did you live in Greece?” I asked.
“Three years. I had a boyfriend from the island. What a
fool.” “What happened?”
“Couple of months ago he started sleeping with someone else.”
I looked at her, encouraging her to continue. She laughed. “I just went out and found
someone else to sleep with. That’s the best way to get over somebody.”
I kept it to myself, but I wondered about those invitations she’d written me to live at her
apartment. I realized that my new friend was assertive, but also deceptive. As with most people
who are infatuated with someone, I was blind and resisted being turned off by this woman.
I am a seeker of truth from women, and seek the truth from women because my mother
and sister would easily lie to me when I was a boy. I concluded that most women were
dishonest too, and what stemmed from that is my desire to see girls naked. Nudity symbolizes
truth. Wow are my dreams fulfilling, I mean a normal dream is I’m controlling a bridge
requiring women to be naked in order to cross.
Several glasses of wine into the evening she said, “My father used to beat me with a
belt.” I snickered, “Once my father threatened to spank me.”
She was mad. “I was sixteen, before I got enough courage to tell him to stop hitting me.”
“I’m really sorry,” I said.
“He was one of my high school teachers,” she said.
“How did that go?”
“I hated school because of him. I failed 11th grade and repeated, and after I failed 12th
grade they kicked me out.”
Now I understood why she had hardened into a feminist, and why she took pleasure in
disposing of a man not obedient to her wishes. She hadn’t had a fun childhood and I felt sorry
for her. I stayed neutral the best I could, not wanting to challenge her views. I even told her that
I understood my feminine side, and she seemed pleased by that. In fact, if I only had five
dollars to my name I’d probably spend it on Facial Scrub and Q-tips. More accurately I should
have told her that I want things clean, that I like a lot of color around me, and that I’m
interested in discussing the differences between men and women.
 The firewood had burned out. She said good night and went upstairs to bed. I tossed the
blankets onto the hide-a-bed. My thoughts were about my waterbed back home. We’d be there
tomorrow night, and maybe I should talk about it before we got home. I could share a bed with a
girl, just as friends, but maybe she felt differently.
During the ferryboat ride home, we witnessed an orange and purple designer sunset,
typical of this area. French painters would do well to set up their easel around here. I drove to a
particular spot high up on a bluff and parked. “There it is,” I said.
She walked to the edge and looked across Elliott Bay into downtown Seattle. “That’s
fantastic.”
“You can’t see it tonight, but it’s surrounded by mountains and yacht clubs.” The look on
her face told me that she was damn excited to be here. “I know a good Sicilian restaurant up the
street.”
Perhaps the entire neighborhood was eating Sicilian that evening, but I zeroed-in on a
small table near a man playing the mandolin and snagged it.
We ordered wine and looked down the menus. Before I could suggest a favorite, she
started to cry. With wet eyes, “Would you excuse me, I need to leave for a minute. I watched her
disappear down the sidewalk. My new friend had just spent two days convincing me that she
was arrogant, self-sustaining, and the center of our universe. Now something was eating at her
and she wasn’t dealing with it well. She returned looking scared, “I miss my family.”
I opened my front door, leaving her to discover the one-bed arrangement on her own,
while I went back out to grab the luggage. I figured that if I didn’t make an issue of having just
one bed, maybe she’d feel weird worrying about it. I returned to find her standing in the
bedroom next to my waterbed and poking at it with her finger. “What is this thing?” she asked.
I tried not to laugh, “A waterbed.”
She looked up at me with a smirk on her face. “Are we both sleeping on this thing?”
“Yeah, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
I was relieved. I hate sleeping on the floor.
I cleared out some closet space for her stuff and went into the kitchen. “You’ve probably
never tasted American ice cream?” Before she could answer I handed her a heaping bowl of
cookie dough ice cream. She freaked and gorged herself like a piglet. I opened the freezer, “It’s
all for you.” I had stocked my freezer with seven different pints of ice cream.
I lit a half-melted-down candle set by my bed. A new candle might have looked
presumptuous, and I didn’t want her to think that I would go out of my way to seduce her. I wore
boxers and a T-shirt, she chose her grandfather’s baggy pajamas, and we slipped into bed.
Shortly after I dozed off she lost control, “Scott, I’m lonely. Would you kiss me?”
 She was looking forward to going to the polls with me later that morning. I had promised
her she could use my ballot to vote for President of the United States. In college I was a Young
Republican, but then I was thinking about the environment.
We stepped into the voter’s booth together and she chose Bill Clinton. I then proceeded
to cast my ballot for every female candidate, regardless of their political party, and even though
I didn’t know anything about them. It was my contribution to women achieving equality.
I had bragged to her about all the live music we could find in Seattle, and now it was time
to prove it. After a Cajun dinner with numerous beers, we held on to each other and danced to
some great Rhythm & Blues. We were both comfortable enough with our own selves that we
could use dance to express our feelings. She faded away into a trance, swaying like a King
Cobra enjoying the vibrations of sound. Then, as if she reveled in contrast, she broke out of her
trance and spoke, “We need to get an AIDS test before we sleep together.”
I thought she was insulting me. “I’m OK.”
“We still need to do it,” she said.
Ignorantly I asked, “Why?”
“I’m not sure about this last Greek guy I slept with.” She was uncompromising and
honest, and I began to like her more. I was amazed with myself. In my younger superficial days
I would have been disgusted and not seen her again.
She dropped me off at my office. I wanted her to use my car and go exploring. I actually
recommended she get lost and then use my cell phone to call me for directions to get back.
Throwing open the Yellow Pages. “Where can we get an AIDS test, and fast?” I thought.
I like research and it was easy for me to make an appointment for the next day.
My phone rang, “You’ll never guess where I am.” I could hear the wind gusting through
the phone. “What have you found?” I asked.
“I’m up on the Space Needle. It’s incredible!”
She was 600 feet above ground, standing outside on the observation deck.
“What can you see?” I asked.
“Houses, snowy mountains, and islands. It’s so beautiful. If I lived here I’d never leave.
Your Sonics basketball team is playing tonight. I’ve always wanted to see a game.”
“I’ll get two tickets. Who are they playing?” I asked.
“A team called the Lakers?”
I cut my morning shower short to save her some hot water. I reached out and completely
slid back the shower curtain just as a bright flash went off. Katharina stood five feet away, “I
have a naked picture of all my boyfriends,” she said.
While Katharina showered, I straightened the bed sheets, and grabbed up her pillow to
give it a good fluffing. As I squeezed her pillow into my chest, I stared down at a six-inch Buck
knife she had hidden under her pillow. “Who was she protecting herself from?” I wondered.
“Why do you have a knife under your pillow?”
“Just something I’ve done for years.”
The clinic stuck us in separate rooms, and a beautiful stranger asked me a bunch of
sexually related questions, then drew my blood. She then led me to another room where
Katharina was waiting with a counselor. I was told that Americans have choices in new
contraceptive devices which Europeans don’t have. This was more than an AIDS test. Katharina
was looking for something new, something more user friendly. I listened to her concerns and
learned that my new friend was very in tune with her body. We hashed out the pros and cons for
over an hour before she chose.
Katharina looked at me with her steely blue eyes and delivered those Golden Words,
which any man yearns to hear, “I want to be responsible for the birth-control.” I pretended
to seriously contemplate this for a moment, even though she wasn’t really asking. I nodded
my head, “Yeah, sure.”
I was the better cook, except for fish. She had learned well living by the Mediterranean,
and she was treating me to a tasty salmon dinner by candlelight when her best idea rolled out,
“I have always wanted to go to Hawaii.”
“That’s a good idea, are you serious?” I asked.
“German’s dream about seeing Hawaii, it’s a big deal.”
“I’d like to see Kauai, the Garden Island.”
“Maui, definitely Maui. I could write an ex-boyfriend that I’d made it to Maui. Sort of
rub it in.”
“What do you know about Maui?”
“It’s the best island for snorkeling,” she said. She reached across the bar and squeezed
my hand, “You can’t. You have a job.”
“They’ll probably give me some time off,” I lied.
My imagination was rolling. I said, “Let’s drive down the West Coast. We can see some
things on the way and then fly out of Los Angeles.”
“When can you leave?” she asked.
During my young life I have met a lot of older people unhappy with the path they had
chosen. Commonly, they all committed to something too early in their life and never got the
chance to bail out and do some solo exploring. I don’t want to be one of those people. I do hope
to catch a marlin, to dive from a high cliff in Acapulco, to watch a bullfight in Spain, to argue
with Castro and free the enslaved people of Cuba, to sit high in my lifeguard chair and watch
kids play at my own daycare, to drive from Panama through South America to meet people, to
watch wine grape plants grow on my own vineyard, to build a house that’s half Alpine Swiss
 looking on the front and Greek on the back half, and to drive around the Mediterranean visiting
ancient ruins; specifically be a nomad through Israel. The only way is to simply pack up and go.
It was short and unpleasant. I locked my thoughts on a tropical beach, stepped into the
conference room, and quit my job effective immediately.
I zoomed back home, eager to pass on the good news. Katharina was dressed and
waiting, as if she knew I wouldn’t let her down.
“How’d it go?”
I ran my fingers through my hair, and nodded. “They were a little upset, but since
business is slow they gave me some time off, without pay.”
It took several tries at finding the best tickets, because Katharina demanded that our
plane have no less than three engines. She was paranoid about crashing into the Pacific Ocean.
After frustrating the ticket agent enough, we booked our tickets, departing out of LAX in four
just days. I set my sights on San Francisco. If ever there was a city that a tourist would never
forget, it had to be San Francisco. I described San Francisco to her as a place where we could
relive the 60’s music scene, then later watch two flaming gay men prepare us a rabbit dinner at
midnight, and listen to live jazz over breakfast.
Nothing can annoy a German more than putting down our freeways at 55 mph, so while I
enjoyed listening to music, she rocketed down Interstate 5. She didn’t plan on returning to the
States again, so not paying her speeding ticket was of no concern to her.
We crossed the Bay Bridge just before six o’clock the following evening. I was primed
for music and dancing, but it wasn’t meant to be. Katharina was sick, maybe with the flu. I
stood by the window of our hotel staring out at a magnificent view of the city. It was too
tempting and set to hunt for rabbit.
I feel like a chameleon when I walk through a city. One moment I’ll be in a sex shop just
to look at what kind of girls go in there. Then I’ll stroll down a back alley just to defy anyone
who claims it as their territory, then I’ll stop at a news stand to read the entire front page of the
Wall Street Journal, and then I’ll dart into a trendy cafe’ to drink some wine and eat cheesecake.
From a block away, I spotted the bright glow of candlelight shining through a big steamy
window. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a glass of Riesling. I scanned down the menu, and
bingo, there it was, rabbit cooked in a thick orange sauce. I ordered two rabbits to go. I was
disappointed that Katharina wasn’t with me, but it gave me a chance to take care of her, to sort of
go out of my way to do something nice for her.
We stopped by a homeopathic doctor the next morning, and she picked up some type of
natural herbs, to combat her sickness. She used the better part of the morning to lecture me on
the wonders of herbs, something she felt with great conviction. She detested antibiotics and
immunizations. She felt they’re dangerous to our bodies. The whole subject bored me. It bored
me as much as all those skin creams she’d been telling me about during the past month.
I planned to have dinner with Phil in Los Angeles that following evening. I was
anticipating a fun reunion. The three of us back together since meeting on that boat in Greece.
Phil had been wavering about whether to dump his live-in girlfriend, Suzie the cop, and I was
eager to assay the situation.
We all sat down in a greasy little Mexican restaurant and ordered beer, except Suzie and
Katharina ordered pop. I thought these two would get along with each other. They had so much
in common, one being a cop and the other a Nazi. What is it that the police call it; Code of Blue?
A few years earlier I drove my little sports car out of a gas station and continued on a busy road.
Within seconds a bully in a pickup truck was driving in the lane next to me yelling at me while
flipping me the bird. I tried to ignore him but his persistence and anger continued. Perhaps I
better let this guy know that I will protect myself if need be, so I brandished my Little League
baseball bat and clearly demonstrated that I was tired of being harassed and he turned onto
another street and drove away, so I thought. I was miles away in another section of town when
suddenly five police cars surrounded me. Running at me were cops and their film crew. There
was even a guy holding a big fuzzy microphone to capture all the dramatic audio. Turns out that
the road rage man in the pickup was an off duty police officer with a cell phone who need of
some lovin’ and attention. My Little League baseball bat still sits in the evidence room at the
police station, and my disrespect for the police increased.
Two days later we boarded a plane for Maui. Katharina counted four engines on the
plane and swallowed some Valium. I assumed the herbal industry hadn’t been able to concoct
anything that worked as well as that yet. She fell into a comfortable comatose just after takeoff.
I flipped the pages of magazines, wishing she would wake up and keep me company. I didn’t
have a Valium, so maybe I had the problem.
It was nearly dark when we touched down. We rented a car, bought a map, and for no
particular reason chose Lahaina as our destination.
With a bottle of champagne in hand I urged Katharina to run down to the beach with me.
I was full of boyish energy, ready to swim and stay up all night. The water was warm and
defrosted my bones, which were still frozen from the Seattle winter. Katharina was staring at me
from the beach. I swam back, opened the champagne, laid down in the sand and poured myself
a mouthful. “Are you going in?”
“No, it might make my infection worse.”
I passed the bottle to her. “Share some?”
“Wouldn’t mix with my medicine.”
The sun rose and I ran into a man with the sexiest job. Behind a large blender stood a
tanned middle-aged man with long hair surrounded by baskets of mangos, papayas, pineapples,
 bananas, strawberries, coconuts, and oranges. I walked closer to his little countertop and gazed
up at his menu of Fruit-Smoothie drinks, “One ‘Lahaina Freeze,’ please.”
I watched him cut into my fruit and drop it into his blender. He looked so content, so fulfilled.
“My girlfriend heard there’s a nude beach on the island, would you mind telling me how
to find it?” I asked. I knew this beach could be a secret, one that the locals might like to keep
from the tourists, so I needed to give him a special reason to tell me. “My girlfriend’s from
Europe, where they like being naked on the beach, and, well, I’m trying to help her have a good
time.”
I found a large guru woman working in her bead shop. I picked out my favorite ones, and
she told me the mystical meaning behind each bead. I strung a long piece of leather through
fifteen beads with the center bead resembling an ancient taboo doll. I’d give it to Katharina later.
I was driving while telling Katharina a story about my first trip to the Greek islands. I was
traveling together with three American girls and a Swedish guy down to the island of Santorini.
“It was my first time at a nude beach.”
“You liked it?”
“Fascinating. Everyone was naked, but it took the American girls three days before
they’d take their tops off.”
Katharina snorted. “What a waste.”
“After a week they took everything off.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah, but it took a couple days.”
“I wonder what makes your culture so different?” she asked.
“I blame it on those English Puritans who settled this country. Those pasty white people
died two hundred years ago, and we still have to wear clothes on the beach,” I said.
The dirt road led us to a family beach, not the nude beach, but it was so beautiful I didn’t
care.
I was well into my bottle of rum when I saw hundreds of red ants crawling up a hillside at
the other end of the beach. I sat up and squinted to keep the sun out of my eyes. What the hell is
that? Am I hallucinating? No ants, it looked more like a stream of people following a dusty path up
a steep hill, and then disappearing down the back side. I pointed, “Think those people found the
nude beach?”
She stood up, “Let’s go,” grabbing her towel.
We crested the hilltop and stopped to gaze down on a disgusting display of American
culture. Hundreds of people jammed together like a large herd of seals into one tiny section of
ground wedged between two hills. It was the nude beach all right. We started our decent into the
‘pit of sin’ without giving much notice to the two men on our left side, each looking through
 their binoculars at the crowd below.

We had one bit of unresolved business that wouldn’t go away, and we kept ignoring it…
What did we want from each other after she returned home to Germany?

We had two days left on the island when we heard about Hana, a remote village at the
other end of the island. Just after sunset that evening we arrived in Hana and walked into what
looked like a large tree house restaurant in the middle of the jungle. Just outside its bamboo
walls and wide-open windows, coconut trees swayed in the warm breeze. I dined on red-
snapper, and although I couldn’t see far out into the darkness, I imagined that Mowgley the Man-
Cub was out there swinging from trees running away from Bagheera, Kaa the Python, and Sher
Kahn.
Maybe I was looking for something to keep my mind off our future. This sure seemed like the
perfect time to open up a dialogue about ‘us.’ But why ruin a good time? The biggest obstacle
was her ego, which at times blocked us from having a sincere conversation. I decided to forget
the subject.
One of us was navigating and skillfully or luckily got us to Hamoa Beach for a swim.
Perhaps one of the most beautiful beaches I’d ever seen. All in all, Hana turned out to be one of
my favorite places on this planet, and a place that will change so little before I return again in
eighteen years.
Two mornings later we packed our bags and checked out. We found a trail leading up
through a lush green valley and started hiking. I was tossing Macadamia nuts up into the air and
catching them in my mouth when Katharina looked back at me, “My company will be sending
me to a good island, one in the Mediterranean.”
I didn’t want her to delay anything she was about to say. I just nodded. “That sounds
nice.”
“They’ll give me an apartment,” she said. Then she asked the magic words, “Do you want
to come back to Europe with me?” “Yeah, I do.”
She turned around and started up the trail. “You can live at my mother’s until we leave.

My company will pay for your flight to the island.”

A few days later, we were bundled-up in wool sweaters, saying good-bye to each other on
a cloudy-gray afternoon at Sea-Tac airport. We stared into each other’s eyes, maybe for a whole
minute, before she broke the silence. “Don’t keep me waiting.”
“It should only take a couple of weeks,” I said.
I watched her plane speed down the runway, quickly rise into the clouds and disappear.

It was Christmas Eve and I was at my grandpa Clance’s house in Junction City, Oregon
meeting up with my mother, my sister, and my father was there too, and he was of course bought
along his Rottweiler dog. It was a cold drizzly morning and my sister was outside holding a
kitten in her hands when suddenly the Rottweiler grabbed the kitten and munched into pieces
killing it instantly. That gruesome site was the final time my mother welcomed my father there
again. For the record; I find dogs dirty and annoying and prefer not to have them around me.
The majority of my friends are well educated and have excelled in their careers, and I
wanted their input about me following Katharina back to Europe. It was an overwhelming,
“Don’t do it.”

December 29, 1992

It was nine o’clock in the morning when my plane touched down in Zurich, Switzerland.
I was looking forward to meeting her mom and eating home-cooked German food.
Money would never influence the way I felt about Katharina, but I was now curious if
she came from a family with money.
Katharina met me on the other side of Customs. She had a big baggy scarf wrapped
around her neck and partly covering her face. She led me outside towards the parking lot and
instantly the cold harsh wind hurt the skin on my face. We loaded my bags into a beat-up old
red VW Gulf. “So much for the riches,” I humbly thought. She started the car and told me that
she had a bad allergy and that’s why her skin was such a mess. She removed her scarf, dug her
nails into her neck and began scratching her red lizard-like outer epidermis. The list of ailments
on this health-nut was growing rapidly.
She drove a half-hour north through some low rolling hills and then followed the Rhine
River west. On the opposite side of the Rhine was Germany, and all I could see were a few run-
down villages. We followed the Rhine for about fifteen minutes and reached a bridge which was
the border crossing between the two countries. The Swiss border guards waved us past and we
crossed into Germany. The German border guards glanced into our car and waved us through. I
had arrived in Waldshut, Katharina’s hometown. It was a misty morning with a thick layer of
fog, and all I could see were a few dreary old brick buildings on my left side and a train station
off on my right.
She turned right, taking a bridge over the tracks and drove up a long windy road leading
to the ‘Bergstadt.’ This appeared to be a small, middle-class neighborhood covering the hilltop
and separated from the town center. Every house was painted white, identically built, and
connected to its neighboring house. It was an ‘efficient’ way to house an extremely
overpopulated Germany. We passed a small playground and a kindergarten, its windows still
covered with paper Christmas decorations. At the other end of the hilltop I could see a cluster of
high-rise apartments. She whirled the car into a sharp right turn and into her driveway. It was
the end of a long trip. She sounded confident, “My company hasn’t called yet, but it shouldn’t
be too long before we leave.”
The inside was a typical German house; small, simple, and clean, except this house had
no plants or animals, and some of the floors were covered in plastic to prevent Katharina’s
allergies from getting worse.
Time enough to explore Waldshut. A trail led from the family house through the forest
and on into town. Midway down the trail offered a view of Switzerland and the slow-flowing
Rhine river below, but it also faced me into the nuclear power plant only a mile and a half from
the center of Waldshut.
Waldshut is over a thousand years old, and was first settled during the Roman Empire.
A stone wall had once surrounded and protected its inhabitants. There’s a few houses, a school,
and an indoor pool, all built out near the surrounding forest.
The town center has one main attraction; the Kaiserstrasse, a cobblestone street
restricted to foot traffic and mostly made up of boutique stores selling their wares to the
wealthier Swiss shoppers. The Swiss cross into Waldshut and usually spend lots of money,
which keeps Waldshut alive.
On any day there is a big group of scabby looking thugs roaming Kaiserstrasse and
selling a wide variety of drugs. Their operation was amusing to watch and incredibly obvious.
They would break off into small groups and take their positions covering the entrances to each
of the pubs. A buyer would approach and be led upstairs into a pool hall where the deal was
made.
When the thugs got bored, they’d rest on the steps outside the Mayor’s office, pound beers, and
yell vicious obscenities at the shoppers passing nearby.
On a back street among the other less profitable boutiques that can’t afford the high rent
on Kaiserstrasse sits one small health food store. It is owned by Katharina’s mother, Gabi. On
the mornings when I walked into town, I’d stop by her store and help stock the shelves, then
load my coat pockets full with dehydrated apples. This gave me something to munch on while I
searched for happy people.
The children that grow-up here finish school and usually move away. The locals who
have stayed behind generally look sour and unhealthy; as though years of seclusion from the
outside world have finally caught up with them.
I did my best to help with the chores, like splitting firewood. I got my first sensation of
living with an authentic German family the day I loaded the dishwasher and noticed that every
coffee mug had a big black Swastika painted on the bottom of it.
I had a special brother-sister type relationship with a German girl named Susanne,
someone I’d met two summers earlier, during my first trip to Europe. At the time I was living in
Zermatt Switzerland, bartending at night and ski the glacier during the day. Susanne was always
there, lots of drunken nights stumbling home, and lots of quiet hikes together. Now that I was
back in Germany it seemed like a good time to write her a letter.
It didn’t take long before I was bored with Waldshut, and I needed to get away. It had
been an empty experience getting to know her family. Katharina’s mother was a distasteful, over
weight man-hater, who carried a chip on her shoulder from two failed marriages. Katharina’s
older brother, Kai, was a wormy little ass, who never once had a job and annoyed the whole
family. On the rare occasion when he felt like socializing he would come outside butt naked and
join us for lunch on the patio. Her younger brother, Thor, was a sidewalk auto mechanic and
played the bass guitar in a band. He brought home the slimiest characters and secretly smoked
pot in his basement bedroom, but he was all right by me. The father, Paul, was exiled to another
village about fifteen minutes away and had little contact with the three children. The disturbing
reality of this family was that neither parent expected their children to become successful, thus
they were all nearing thirty years old and still living at mom’s house. Nobody had any ambitions,
and not a day went by without a yelling match.
Her company hadn’t called, so I proposed a ski week down in Zermatt, a hardy Swiss ski
village nestled at the base of the Matterhorn. I articulately described Zermatt so enchantingly as
a mountaineer’s village with horse drawn carriages and air that smelt of crepes and fondue that
Katharina’s mother decided to tag along.
To most Germans, skiing is a fashion statement, and with Gabi it was no exception. She
had the best ski equipment and a designer ski suit. On our first run of the morning, Gabi fell over
and couldn’t push herself back up onto her skis. She laid on her back, helplessly squirming like a
capsized tortoise, but nonetheless, a well-dressed tortoise. I’m a helpful person, so I raced to her
rescue. I pulled and pried until she broke loose. It was the kind of situation that made Katharina
die laughing, and Gabi drive home, leaving us to find our own way back on the train.
Each morning, I drew back the curtains and watched an orange sunlight reflecting off the
icy Matterhorn. I’d make a big pot of cocoa, and we’d spend the entire morning talking. We’d
ski for a couple of hours before wasting ourselves with Schnapps and beer.
In early February I sold Katharina on another get-away, this time to Beaune, the
Burgundy wine capital of France. We were just set to take off on an all-day drive west when a
letter arrived from Susanne. This letter fueled our first big argument. We insulted each other
until Katharina assured me that some guy named Mario would be getting a letter from her. This
made me laugh, and then we gave each other a three-hour silent treatment. We arrived in Beaune
just before dark, still not talking. It was that point where many relationship reach that you’re just
too tired or don’t care enough to say you’re sorry any longer.
 From our hotel room I could see candlelight flickering through a window across the
square. I assumed it was a romantic cafe’ and suggested we have dinner there. We set a terrible
precedent during that dinner by not talking about our feelings and worse yet, we showed no
interest or compassion for each other. I resented her ego, and she resented me for her own
reasons. That blissful feeling I had, when we first fell in love, had passed. We now were moving
into a different phase.
As if we had developed an overnight case of Alzheimer’s we forgot the whole thing by
morning. We toured a wine museum, where I saw several dated pictures of old naked men
stomping on huge piles of wine grapes. “Why did they have to be naked, and who could be sure
they had good bladder control?” I questioned. The clouds lifted, and we found a spot high up on
a hill and made a picnic. I cut wedges of Brie and pulled off chunks from a Baguette, while
Katharina read to me from a flier she’d picked up at the museum. It turns out that their world
class wines are actually produced from vines that were once imported from the United States. A
bit over one hundred years ago a disease had wiped out all the French vineyards, and only the
vines from the U.S. were immune to the bug. Yeah, sip on that you little greasy Frenchmen.
Katharina had grown comfortable around me by now, she had no problems coming into
the bathroom and using the toilette while I was in there. I had always used that as a marker to
when the infatuation with someone was over.
Finally, the phone call came from her company. They had promoted her to Head Tour
Guide on the Spanish island of Tenerife and scheduled us to fly down on March 5, seven long
days away.
Katharina was ecstatic as she threw open the World Atlas, and ran her finger along the
map looking for Tenerife. She found it out in the Atlantic Ocean, way down south, off the coast
of Morocco. It was one in a group of Canary Islands. It was known more for its dormant
volcano, and sadly not for its beaches.
We lined up with the other tourists, mostly Germans, and one-by-one began filing
through Passport Control. This was the first time I had ever wanted someone to assume I was a
German. The Spanish Immigrations Officer slouched in his swivel chair, casually waving
everyone through. I walked by and flashed him my American passport. He bolted forward as if
he hadn’t seen one of them in years and snagged it from my hands. After thumbing through
each page, he gave it a stamp. I was cleared for a three-month stay on the island. If I stayed any
longer, I would probably be subject to some kind of penalty.
Katharina thought we’d be on the island for six months. This stamp worried me.
The air was warm, Katharina gave me a hug, and I think we both felt happy to be away
from the cold weather. All of a sudden, I liked her more now than in the past few weeks.
We jumped on a bus heading an hour north to Puerta de la Cruz, our new home city.
During the bus ride, I took notice of all the important landmarks and stored them into my built-
in compass, which would come in necessary if the island was ever under attack I needed to direct
thousands of people to a safe exodus. At the center and top of the island was the dormant
volcanic mountain, covered with snow, and visible from everywhere on the island. From the
base of the mountain the island took a steep angle all the way down to the ocean. Everything
built on this island sat on a hillside. We passed several deep pits, each filled with hundreds of
old junked cars. The island was dry and barren, actually ugly, until we got further north. There
was lots of green vegetation in the north, but no sandy beaches. The air stunk of oil, and along
the waterfront operated a massive refinery. The bus reached the northern point and swung south
down the back side of the island.
I had to put beaches out of my mind. I had committed myself to finding a job as quickly
as possible. Puerta de la Cruz was the second largest city on the island, so I felt there would be
plenty of opportunity. I’d probably be a bartender, or, if I got lucky, something in a tourist
office. Katharina and I were dropped off at our apartment, a small two-room dump with broken
furniture and a hot water heater that didn’t work. She seemed to like the place, but I stored it
away in my mind to find us another apartment as soon as possible. Katharina was anxious about
meeting the five girls she was now in charge of and took off to her office in the city. I took the
fifteen-minute walk down into the city center to gather ideas for a job.
Katharina had her routine. She’d drive down to the airport and greet the incoming
tourists. In the afternoons all she had to do was to visit the hotels and try to sell the tourists on
pre-arranged excursions. I realized that she wasn’t a tourist guide at all.
I pinpointed a few restaurants and began searching for my successful career, but
everywhere I got the same story, “There’s over twenty-five percent unemployment on this island
and we can’t hire a foreigner.”
I entered the official employment office. It was a dingy, smoked filled, one-room office,
with two men wrapping up some kind of deal. The fat man behind the desk received a thick
stack of money that went into a well-worn white paper bag and then into a drawer. The other
man walked out, probably feeling his job was secure for another month. I should have started
off with, “I have a bribe, would you find me a job?” I did say, “I need a job, I can do anything?”
“You English?”
“No, American.”
He shook his head, “You not in the European Union, no possibility.”
I let him see my disappointment. “I come here with big dreams, I love the Spanish
women.”
He waved his finger at me, “Anyone gives you a job will pay big fine.”
To make things worse, I wasn’t living in any kind of paradise. This Puerta de la Cruz
was rather a disgusting city. It was full of abandoned buildings and dogs, lots of dogs that would
shit on the city sidewalks, and nobody ever cleaned it up. The sidewalks were smeared with
crusty brown shoe prints.
The hillside surrounding the city was crowded with ugly, gray concrete houses,
because nobody was stupid enough to paint the things. Their property was tax free as long as
the house was still under construction, which included painting the exterior.
March 11, 1993, which was our sixth day on the island, I was tanning up on the roof of
our apartment building. Katharina had a rare break in her work schedule and decided to join
me with a beer. We stayed out too long and burned ourselves red. We needed to get inside,
and besides, the heat and the beer gave us an excuse to take an afternoon nap. Instead of
napping, we made love. I lay beside her, looking at her face. She was serious, “I hope you
were careful.” I didn’t take my eyes off her, letting those words soak in for a moment. I was
stunned. “No, I wasn’t.”
“You were supposed to.”
This was confusing to me since this time wasn’t any different from the other times, and I
didn’t remember anyone changing the rules. I got out of bed and walked into the bathroom. I
wanted to stare at my face in the mirror and see what I looked like at this moment in my life. I
knew without any doubts, that I had just conceived a child with a woman I had really only known
for four months. My face looked shadowy, and it was difficult to focus.
Katharina was out of bed. We gave each other a hug and started laughing, and then
laughing uncontrollably.
We let a week pass by before I brought home a pregnancy tester and sat in the living room
making stupid conversation while the device sat on the bathroom sink working its magic. To
nobody’s surprise it was positive. She was sure the devise had malfunctioned and sent me
downtown for a second pregnancy kit.
I had no illusions of marrying Katharina. I didn’t know her very well, and I even doubted
she’d be someone I’d want to grow old with. We agreed pregnancy wasn’t a reason to get
married, at least not before the child was born.
A near majority of marriages fail, and when it came my turn to get married I planned to
beat the odds. Getting married because the girlfriend is pregnant was a mistake for other people
to make. I would be a wonderful father, supportive of Katharina, even without applying for a
marriage license and registering my commitment with the State.
Now I never cared for any perfumes and women that wore excessive makeup but almost
everyday I smelled this wonderful perfume on some of the women passing me by that I finally
had to ask one of them what they used. “Samsara,” she answered, and it’s still today the one and
only perfume that I truly enjoy.
 I was miserable watching my pregnant girlfriend go off to work, and I had nothing to do.
I was getting bored again, and that’s when my mind usually starts to create crazy scams. By now
I had three restaurants which were my favorite places to eat. I set off to try my scam on the
owner of an upscale seafood-barbecue pit down near the waterfront. “My girlfriend is the Head
Guide for all the Germans in town,” I told the owner. I continued, “She’s supposed to know the
best place to eat.”
Being a proud Spanish man, he blurted, “Here is the best place.”
“She will send her clients to your restaurant…” I waited a second so he could see all the
money coming his way. “…if you cook us dinner here once a week,” I added.
He was excited. “It’s a good deal.”
“We’ll come in Thursday nights,” I said.
Before the day ended I had arranged three free dinners per week.
One month into her pregnancy Katharina told me something that, because I am an
American, seemed very wrong, “Tomorrow I’m telling my boss that I’m pregnant.”
“Why so soon?” I asked.
“He needs to know. That’s how we do it in Germany.”
“Your company is really Swiss owned, and you know, women don’t have many rights in
Switzerland,” I added.
“It doesn’t matter, I’m telling him anyway.”
She was taking an unnecessary risk, and I also didn’t understand why a woman in her first
month felt so obligated to tell her boss.
There was nothing to benefit by staying on the island. We had already fulfilled the two
basic prerequisites before settling down; lots of traveling and lots of lovers. I wanted to leave
and start preparing for the baby.
Late one evening, Katharina stopped by her office to pick up some paperwork she
needed for the next day. She unlocked the door, flipped on the light switch, with me following
behind. During the day, this office was packed with fifteen employees, all on the phone trying
to convince Europeans to fly down to their paradise.
I was browsing through travel brochures when she yelled, “No!” She was reading a piece
of paper still hanging from the fax machine.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I’ve been replaced.”
She was reading a letter from the main office in Switzerland, faxed to her boss here.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I’m pregnant they don’t think I can handle my responsibilities.” She read more,
My replacement will be here in a week.”
 I hid my excitement about getting off this dumpy island. “Those bastards!”
“And, I have to train my replacement,” She said, ripping the letter from the fax machine.
“I can stay here if I accept a demotion.” She immediately telephoned her mother asking her to
check with an attorney if this was legal.
A couple of days later we were up high near the dormant volcano hiking on top of the
dried lava beds. “I found out my company can replace me,” Katharina said.
“Let’s go back to Seattle,” I pleaded.
“I’m going to fight this.”
“I can work in Seattle. We’ll have everything.”
She was angry. “I’m staying here.”
“Think about the child. You don’t make much money.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“We’ll have to leave this lousy island sometime.”
“You’re stupid,” She barked.
A week later, while I was playing Solitaire outside on our balcony, Katharina handed me
a small black and white picture. “I was at the gynecologist today.”
“You were?”
“Yep.”
“Why didn’t you invite me?”
“I didn’t want you there, it’s embarrassing.”
“I feel cheated. It was the first chance to see the baby,” I said.
“I didn’t think you were interested.”
I put my hands over my face and mumbled, “What am I doing here?”
“Is everything OK with the baby?” I asked.
“Everything’s fine.”
She seemed to enjoy excluding me. It was time to visit my favorite phone booth. Some
Spanish engineer decided to place a phone booth alone on a hill with a million-dollar view out
into the blue Atlantic Ocean. I stepped inside, dialed some numbers, and looked west. I
imagined seeing my voice shoot across the ocean and into Los Angeles.
A sleepy voice answered, “Hello.”
“Phil, did I wake you?”
“Buddy, how ya doing?”
“She’s pregnant. We’re not getting along and I’m coming home.”
He laughed. “Holy shit, Dude.”
“She wants to stay on this shitty island.”
“Get out of there. Think about your future.”
 “If I leave it may lure her to Seattle,” I said.
“Whatever works for you.”
“How’s Suzie?”
He let out an evil laugh, then whispered, “She’s in the other room and doesn’t know it
yet, but I got my own apartment. I’m moving my stuff out today.”
“You sneaky dog, I’ll call you from Seattle.”
Years from now Phil will marry a woman that tagged both of us as Homophobes. A label
we proudly laugh about which upsets her greatly. We will remain best friends but our time will
mainly be limited to phone conversations allowing him to tell me how unhappy and unsatisfied
he has always been with her. How can I help a man that marries someone that removes herself
from God, has some self-described deep spiritual connection with dolphins, as opposed to the
communication offered from the fuzzy tail squirrel, and highlights her day by walking the dogs
at night? On that note, I’m on to you “after dark” dog walkers, which is good cover so you don’t
have to pick up those poop droppings on your neighbor’s yard.
I wasted a couple of hours playing pool with two beautiful blonde Dutch girls who
worked for Katharina. These two were wild, and they had helped me pass some of the boredom
on the island. Unfortunately, Katharina was jealous of them. It wasn’t that Katharina thought I
was unfaithful. No, what irritated her was that I would not give up my friends just to make her
feel special. I said good bye to my two friends and headed out into the dark. I walked by the
waterfront where each morning the fishermen would pull in their rowboats, gut their catches, and
set up an open market. I paused outside a popular underground nightclub and listened to two
guys playing guitar and singing their traditional music. It was romantic and the only thing I’d
miss from the island.
She was sitting on the couch flipping through a magazine when I got back to our
apartment, and pretended that my presence wasn’t important. “I have something we need to talk
about.”
She wasted no time showing her anger. “And where have you been?”
“Playing pool.”
“And was Annetta with you. Were you having fun with Annetta?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “She was there.”
She threw the magazine to the floor. “Why don’t you just fuckin’ move in with her?” she
yelled, walking into the kitchen.
I yelled, “You’re just stupid and I’m tired of it.”
“Good, then get out of here,” she yelled, walking into the bedroom and shutting the door
behind her.
“I’m going to the airport with you tomorrow to fly the hell out of this dump. I’m going
 home.”
She yelled, “I’m going to sleep. Stay out of this room.”

I yelled back, “I have to get my clothes and pack,” heading for the bedroom. Just as I got
there Katharina swung open the door and blocked my entrance holding her Buck knife, with the
blade out, and her arm was cocked-back to her side, ready to strike into my chest. Her face was
bright red, and she was quivering with rage. She held her ground. “Try to come in here asshole and
I’ll kill you.” I wasn’t going to let her keep me from flying out in the morning, so I decided to call
her bluff. I starred at the knife, and slowly crept around her, watching her for any movement. Not
until I was far into the bedroom did I turn my back on her.
“You’re an asshole,” She said and walked out.

As usual, the alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. It was dark outside and the neighbor’s rooster
was crowing loudly. I was there to turn the alarm off because I had tiptoed back into bed during
the night. I hate to sleep on a couch. I walked into the bathroom, turned on the light, a party of
cockroaches scurried for the wall and I suffered through a short cold shower. I thought about the
long day ahead, the three-hour flight to Frankfurt, and then catching a connection on to Seattle.
She parked at the airport and disappeared inside the terminal. She didn’t say good-bye.
I found a flight leaving in thirty minutes and booked my seat. I wanted things to happen
fast before foolish compassion sat in. I checked my bags through Security and watched a
conveyor belt carry them away. I had reached the point of no return. Now it was safe to get one
last look at Katharina before passing through Security. She was partially hiding behind a post
about twenty feet away observing me and crying. I went to her and whispered in her ear, “I hope
you come to Seattle.”
I tried to get a flight out of Frankfurt, but everything to Seattle had already left earlier in
the morning. I was stuck there for the evening. My situation had suddenly become confusing. I
needed a place to sit and think which I found in a soft leather couch at the lobby of the Airport
Sheraton. It seemed drastic to keep flying farther away, and I’d probably regret it. I went for the
phone to call someone I was on fair terms with.
Gabi answered, “Hello.”
“It’s Scott. I’m in Frankfurt.”
“I heard you left her. She thinks she’ll never see you again.”
“I’d like to come to Waldshut.”
“You’re welcome in my house.”
Spring of 1993 Waldshut, Germany

Katharina lost her job and was back at her mom’s house only a week after I arrived there.
It wasn’t a good reunion between us, and during the days ahead I felt like an inconvenience to
her. She stayed busy fighting her company for another position.
To her, it was never a consideration that we could return to Seattle. If I wanted to be with
her and be part of the pregnancy I had to follow her.
I usually spent these rainy days inside the Cafe’ Journal, a tiny shop on Kaiserstrasse, and
the only place to get a warm breakfast. I’d take a deep breath before walking inside, open the
door and a thick cloud of cigarette smoke would flow through my hair. It was the best place for
drinking coffee and talking with Germans. It is fascinating to debate their views on Socialism,
and they staunchly believe their system is the best thing going. Germans are afraid of Capitalism
because of Hollywood. They watch our movies and see glorified examples of crime and poverty,
and they believe it is reality. Ironically, Germany has the same problems, only they don’t want to
hear about it, and their media does a good job of downplaying it. At that time, First Lady Hillary
Clinton was back at home pushing Americans to accept universal socialized medicine, similar to
something already here in Europe. I had a check-up at a local doctor and a local dentist.
Afterwards I concluded that somebody should schedule an appointment for Hillary with a
German doctor, then stick her butt in a waiting room for two-hours, give her an inadequate
check-up using outdated technology, and then deduct sixty-five percent from her income to help
pay for this “free” medicine.
One of the exciting topics buzzing around town was the success of a local Catholic group
in closing down the automatic car wash on Sundays. The car wash was a mile out of town, but
the Catholic group thought it was unnecessary noise pollution. The villagers rallied behind the
Catholic group, and in the end the owner of the car wash just raised his prices.
I was practicing my German one morning in Cafe’ Journal by reading bits of Sudkurier
Zietung; their local newspaper. The government had placed an article congratulating Germans
on being the most water conservative people in Western Europe by averaging only three and a
half showers per week. The two I was regularly taking everyday would surely go unnoticed.
I asked around Waldshut for a job but much like Tenerife I didn’t have the rights to work
in Germany because I wasn’t a member of their European Union. There was also a high
unemployment rate in the area, fourteen percent, and growing.
I was watching the news where an English guy was bragging about the thousands he’d
made driving a truck for the United Nations carrying food and medical supplies into war-torn
Yugoslavia. That seemed like a doable job for me. I’d driven through Yugoslavia when the war
was at its peak. I had encountered a few scary moments, probably more than these U.N. drivers
had, and I didn’t have the army around to save my butt. I was the steady kind of character that
 the U.N. needed. I figured one or two runs, and I’d be back with enough cash to rent an
apartment.
The next morning I dusted off an old typewriter from their basement, set it on the picnic
table outside, and started my resume. I included the things that might make the U.N. interested
in me. Like how I wouldn’t be afraid to shoot a machine gun, and how I was only ten miles out
of Dubrovnik when the Serbs started bombing there. What they needed was someone that could
diffuse hostile situations, and that was me. I would describe the afternoon when my buddy Phil
and I were lost driving on a dirt road through the mountains of war ravaged Yugoslavia. We
came upon a remote wooden hut, no vehicles out front and we assumed it was abandoned.
When I pushed open the front door we were face-to-face with thirty Serbian fighters, who were
as stunned to see me as well. My instincts were triggered and out I blurted, “Has anyone seen
Bob?” I had them confused and I believe one of them laughed, we ran for the car before they
could grab their guns. Accelerating downhill I looked into my rear view mirror to see them
rushing out of the hut. I was just finishing my resume when I heard the phone ring.
Katharina came outside to tell me the good news. “Who are you writing now?” She made
me nervous, and I wished she’d go away, but fat chance. “The U.N. in Geneva,” I answered.
She snapped, “Why? What do you want to do? ”I looked up for the first time,
“Drive one of those convoy trucks down into Yugoslavia.
”She walked back into the house yelling, “Jesus Christ, you’re going to be a father and you want
to get killed helping those stupid asses with their war.”
She remembered that she had something to tell me and came right back out. “My company
called. They’ve given me another job.”
“Where?”

“Austria. A place called Flachau. We leave in three days.”

Austria. It could have been worse. They’re not a member in the European Union, so
maybe I could work there. I was just thrilled to be leaving Waldshut and crumpled-up my
resume.

Driving To Flachau, Austria Late Spring of 1993

We picked up a company car from her headquarters in Switzerland and headed east into
Austria, through the Tyrolean Alps, past most of the beautiful Austrian ski resorts. Where the
mountains began to smooth into rolling hills we broke off onto a small country road leading to
Flachau. It was dinnertime when we made our first drive through the main street, the only street,
in our tiny, insignificant cow herder’s village. Signs of progress had duped me one again. I
unloaded our bags into our small apartment, which rested on top of the grocery store, and left to
use the remaining daylight to explore my new village. I walked from one end of town to the
other in just five minutes, and unless I found a job at the post office, at one of the two pubs, or at
the grocery store, I was going to spend my visit in Flachau as a bum.
I was bewildered from the first day. Nobody needed any help, and I was back in another
village full of people weary about the outside world. It was an election year in Austria. The
Presidential candidate getting the most attention was running on the campaign slogan ‘Austria is
for Austrians.’ He promised to have all non-Austrians kicked-out of the country if he was
elected. Of the over fifty countries that I have visited the people in of Austria are absolutely the
most nationalistic.
Afternoons I drank coffee and read the newspaper in the pub across the street from our
apartment. One day, no different from any other, except I was wearing plaid shorts, thongs, and a
T-shirt with pigs-humping all over it, the owner of the pub decided he should call someone to
investigate why there was an American roaming freely in Flachau. Soon two policemen and the
owner stood behind me at the bar. “Show me your passport,” one demanded and held out his
hand.
I spun around, “Howdy.”
“Why are you here?”
Being a smart-ass, “I heard that Flachau has the best coffee in the world.”

“Passport,” he demanded.
“It’s across the street.”
They followed me over to my front door, “Wait here,” shutting the door in their face,
which I knew would piss ‘em off. I waited a couple of minutes before opening the door and
presenting them with my passport. While one cop wrote my name on his notepad, the other
weaved side to side, trying to peek into my apartment. I mirrored his movements to block his
view. He returned my passport and I said, “I’ll call you if I see any Americans. They’re usually
making trouble.” I shut my door realizing how much I missed the freedom back home.
I decided it was a more fun riding around with Katharina while she drove to several
alpine villages visiting clients at their hotel. When Katharina arrived at a hotel, the guests would
gather into a big room where she’d sell them on the different excursions. This was my favorite
time. I would get all the children, sometimes up to twenty of them, to crowd around and listen to
me read stories in my broken German. The kids would howl with laughter and fight for my
attention. Sometimes these children studied me as if I were a goofy alien. They weren’t familiar
with a male taking so much time to play with them. The majority of them came from typical
German parents where the father was especially cold and distant.
 We took a weekend excursion and drove up to the beautiful Prague, Czechoslovakia, yes
the same place where Katharina ignorantly said she’d never go because of the way they treated
the German’s and Nazi’s after the war. During the drive there we were well into Czechoslovakia
on their freeway when I passed a diesel truck over a double painted line and a cop was pulling me
over. I told Katharina not to speak any German and handed my passport to the cop who wanted
money for my violation. He spoke no English and I pretended to be ignorant and not understand
him until he became so flustered and let us go without a fine.
Later that week Katharina was mad because an Austrian cop had flagged her down for
speeding and was demanding a hefty fine, payable on the spot. She was convincing, “We don’t
have any cash.”
“Wait here,” the cop said walking back to his partner.
Trying to insult me she said, “If we ever get married, I’m not taking your name.”
“For sure I don’t want you to,” I replied.
She was surprised, “Really?”
“It’s a dumb tradition, having a woman give up her identity,” I told her.
Perhaps I was experimenting with being a social liberal to see how it fit. The cop leaned
in through the window to say, “You must give me your watch.” I yelled, “Get your own watch,
Dickhead,” which made Katharina start laughing. “Will she get a receipt for that watch?” I asked.
“No receipt.”
Katharina opened the glove box and pulled out a hidden wad of cash.
Katharina was plump, and also exhausted from arguing everyday with her supervisor,
who was an identical hardheaded egomaniac. Her supervisor had received some complaints, and
she didn’t think Katharina was handling her responsibilities well. Katharina thought her
supervisor was just a bitch out to get her fired.
There was an employee meeting high up in an alpine village. I watched the supervisor
belittle Katharina and make her cry. I didn’t like people screwing with my pregnant girlfriend,
even if she did deserve it. After the meeting, while driving down the mountain we passed her
supervisor just as she was pulling off the road with car trouble.
Katharina said bitterly, “I won’t stop for her.”
“I think she has a problem with her tire.
Katharina kept driving, “Maybe.”
“I think she has a problem with two tires.”
She laughed. “You didn’t?”
“They’re just flat.”
“I’m taking you out for dinner,” she offered.
Through poverty and little control of my daily routine I had become powerless and I
needed to demonstrate that man-urge to defend my lover. I was juvenile and reckless to deflate
those tires but she was rewarded for my primal actions.
It was always a source of conflict when I talked about creating a home for our child. She
had no answers for the future, and she was sure all my ideas were dumb. It was a frustrating
situation. I found solace being away from her and began long distance running in the mountains.
I’d pocket a few Austrian Shillings and run on the hiking trails into the back country. In the
middle of nowhere, high on a mountain sat a hut with a panoramic view. I’d go inside and order
a huge piece of cherry-rhubarb pie along with iced tea. I made friends with the owner, a
wrinkled old Austrian woman, who’d sit with me and chat. I’d eat fast, because she had a
disgusting habit of waving her swatter in the air and bashing flies against my table.
During our sixth week in Flachau Katharina quit her job. She wanted to be home in
Waldshut. Early the next morning we boarded a train heading west. We left behind a small
place full of lousy memories.
Summer of 1993 Waldshut

Katharina continued with her inner struggle, battling between independence and
inevitable motherhood. As much as I wanted to support her, she did better when she was left
alone.
I had the abilities to provide us a good lifestyle back in Seattle, but she seemed to hold a
grudge against me for that. She refused to believe that a man could play a role in her prosperity.
I decided to leave our destiny into her hands. I hoped that she’d find a solution, but I had
little confidence in her. She was confused, she was frustrated, and I needed a lot of time away
from her to keep myself from going bizurk. On the warm days, I could find a game of volleyball
down by the Rhine River and I’d play for hours. It was the only fun thing happening that
summer.
We signed-up for a pre-birth class. It was a good way to become more involved with the
pregnancy. It was the evening of our first class when we entered a poorly lit room with ten
pregnant women lying on the floor. Everyone froze upon my entrance. I stood looking as
innocent as possible while Katharina spoke privately with the instructor. I was the only man in
the room, which only bothered them. I could feel myself becoming angry because I didn’t want
these backwards-ass Black Forest Germans to keep me from being involved. Katharina rushed
back. “It’s not accepted for a man to be here.”
I shook my head, “I hate Germany.”
“You have to leave.”
I left feeling defeated by a country that doesn’t even have a Father’s day. I imagined that
it would take Germany about thirty years to catch up to the way things are now in the States. My
appreciation for the U.S. was growing stronger.
My girlfriend was only two months away from giving birth, and we were still at a
stalemate. She had just finished a verbal assault on her younger brother when something inside
me said, “You’re miserable, go home,” and I then felt a strong sense of relief. Yes, I was
defeated and somehow it felt tranquil. I walked down into the village and found a travel agency.
“I’d like a one-way ticket to Seattle.”
“When would you like to leave?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
She began searching my options in the computer while I flipped through a travel brochure
for Cuba. It was full of beautiful beach shots and happy looking people drinking daiquiris by a
pool.
“Do many Germans go to Cuba?” I asked.
 “Oh yes, it’s very popular.”
I thought about how Americans can’t go there because of our embargo against them. It
seemed ridiculous to have an embargo if Germans and probably all other Europeans were
traveling there and spending money.
“I can get you on a flight tomorrow afternoon at 12:30.”

Autumn of 1993 Seattle

My mother had an old Ford cluttering up her driveway. I bought it off her for five-
hundred dollars and drove away to visit my favorite aunt, Juanita.
It was a beautiful Indian summer in the Pacific Northwest, and I resigned myself to do
nothing productive for two whole weeks. I naturally can be quite lazy, like around twelve years
old I was told by my father to get the lawn mowed before he returned home from work that
evening. What a crappy chore that would have been considering the large size of our backyard.
So while the mower sat inside the shed I masterfully tapped on its sparkplug with a hammer
until it cracked. I made sure my mother was watching from the house while I pulled on that
starter cord several times. Oh how it made me feel good when she’d say “Let it be until your
dad can fix it.”
I was now in a situation where many people may turn to their parents for advice, but not
me. My father had sold his business and moved to Arizona. He spent the first years of his
retirement driving around in his pick-up truck with his Rottweiler tied down to his toolbox while
searching for buried treasures. He’s convinced that the government will force us to tattoo our
credit card number onto our forehead and preaches the world is ending at any moment. My
lovely mother insists on eating Sushi with her bare fingers, so I don’t take her to Sushi
restaurants any longer. She’s a farm girl from Nebraska, and has the misguided courage to
inform people that she’s an anarchist. So it’s accurate to state that I was raised by parents that
don’t trust our government and that planning beyond next month is a frivolous waste of time.
Growing up though, I would proudly boast that my mother was the most attractive mom in the
neighborhood. My father’s overbearing ways to my subordinating mother was hurting me in
ways that I wouldn’t realize for years, in that I would only feel comfortable around women that
set strong parameters for themselves and didn’t let anyone walk over them. To see a woman sad
and crying made me irritable. To date a woman without strong character made me leave her
quickly. It will be another sixteen years before I come to the conclusion that neither one of my
parents has probably ever given me any good advice what so ever.
It was necessary to visit Aunt Juanita, a cheerful and thoughtful woman, who stares at
me while I tell her my story. After she’s heard enough, she’ll begin running her index finger
around the rim of her coffee mug as a signal for me to be quiet. She highlighted the anxieties
that women encounter when they’re pregnant for the first time, which again made me feel sorry
for Katharina.
She also helped me recognize my own burning desire to be responsible and help raise our
child. I left my aunt’s home knowing what direction to take next. I sent an onslaught of letters to
Katharina asking her to meet me in Seattle, saying that I loved her and cared for her.
Three weeks later she landed at Sea-Tac airport. She was bulging and in her last month
of pregnancy. It was a good revival. Most noticeably different was that she was mellow, and for
the first time she wanted to see what I could do for her. I told her that we should explore Boise,
Idaho. I heard great things were happening in Boise, and it was The Place to raise a family.
The warm weather held as we took a slow drive east, stopping at small towns along the
way. I had scheduled two job interviews, and if it looked good we’d just remain out in Boise.
As I always do before an interview, I went to get a shoeshine. It’s one of the few
bargains left. I can sit up high on a cushy bench, scan a nudie magazine, and argue boxing with
whoever is rubbing the hell out of my shoes, and all for only a buck twenty-five. I took my seat
on a well- worn vinyl bench in the back end of a run-down ice cream parlor and waited. It was
the only shoeshine place in downtown Boise. A frail old guy crammed a scoop of ice cream into
a cone for his last waiting customer then strolled my way. He looked me over, frowned, and dug
through a drawer searching for his burgundy colored polish. He held a look on his face as if he
had a bitter taste in his mouth.
“You’re not from California are you boy?” He asked.
“No, I’m not.”
“Those Californian’s are moving in. They’re messing things up.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Are you from here?”
I could feel myself conjuring up a big fat lie. “Nope, I’m here on business.”
He pressed on, “What do you do?”

“I work for Haagen-Dazs. I’m looking at retail space for an ice cream
store.” I decided to humor myself some more, “You’ve had this block all to
yourself for quite a few years, haven’t you?”
“For seventeen years.”
“Selling any frozen yogurts?” I asked.
“Haven’t got any.”
“It’s the big thing, it’s taking over. We’d go bust without it,” I lied. I noticed the old guy
was having trouble maintaining enough strength in his hand to pull out a good shine.
 During dinner we compared notes with each other. If I had really wanted to stay in Boise
and she didn’t, I was prepared to tell her about the Neo-Nazi movement in Idaho, which should
excite her. But as it turned out, I didn’t like the two companies I had interviewed with, and Boise
didn’t excite either one of us. We agreed to make Seattle our home.
Twenty miles east of Seattle, in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains I found a house
converted into The Honey Bucket Bed & Breakfast. The owners rented their entire place to us,
including the kitchen, for a reasonable fee. It was a quiet place for Katharina to relax while I
interviewed. Each day I’d drive into Seattle, knowing that I was going to be a father in less than
a month. I relished the challenge of having a job and my own place before the birth.
In the evenings we took turns looking through a big book of names. We wanted
something unique. Some of the Hawaiian and Italian names came close, as did several African
tribal names. We continued to toss names back and forth for several days, always saying,
“That’s a good middle name, but not a first name.” All we knew for sure was that our child’s last
name would be our last names combined, and without a hyphen.
Within a week, I scored a better job than I ever had before. The owner of a small, but
extremely profitable commercial interior design firm gave me the salary I asked for, and he gave
me my own office on the top floor of a high-rise in downtown Seattle. I agreed to start the
following morning.
Katharina and I rented a large, modern, two-bedroom apartment in Bellevue, just fifteen
minutes east of downtown Seattle. I bought some materials and built a big ceramic tile dining
table with wood trim and bought a few other pieces of furniture. In short time, we had turned our
apartment into an established looking home.
We signed-up for more pre-birth classes at a local hospital, and together we learned those
valuable but often ignored breathing techniques to use during labor.
Katharina and I narrowed our choice of hospitals down to two. I liked both of them, but
opted for the one that served top sirloin steak to parents after the birth. In the end, I lost to the
hospital that had a mid-wife program.
I thought back to the summer of 1990 while I was bartending at the Brown Cow in
Zermatt, Switzerland and had met a Norwegian guy with an interesting first name. I had
pocketed his name thinking I might use it one day. I waited until Katharina was in a good mood.
“What do you think about the name Espen?”
Without hesitating she blurted, “That’s it.”
“I like it for a girl’s name.”
“Yeah, me too,” She said.
Actual Worksheet Listing Our Favorites
 November 30, 1993
Born in Seattle

Katharina screamed, “Give me drugs.”

The mid-wife said, “It’s too late, the baby’s almost here.”
Katharina would scream, “I don’t care, give me drugs,” then look at me and softly
whisper, “I love you.” Even during labor she’d go out of her way to be unpredictable.
In the wee hours, on a calm starry night, a beautiful infant girl came into our lives. We
held her and stared at her in amazement, and when the sun began to rise, we both passed out into
a deep sleep with Espen tucked safely between us.
We awoke that evening, signed some papers, and took our daughter home. I built a fire in
the fireplace. My mother came over and we took turns holding Espen. Our place was alive and
dancing with emotions, it was the kind of feeling I’d like to capture and relive every night.
I woke up early the next morning and carried Espen downstairs to show her the sunrise.
She lay in my arms while I adored her little face. “I have two promises for you.” I kissed her. “I
will always be here to help you, and I will never be unemployed while you’re growing up.”

I usually unlocked the office, turned on the lights, and read blueprints before 6:30am. The
owner of the company was a jolly Catholic-Italian from Chicago who valued family above all else. I
had developed a good working relationship with him, company profits were rising, he gave me a
used company car, and he didn’t mind that I would cut out around two o’clock in the afternoon to
go home. There wasn’t anything as interesting as rushing home from work and being with my
family. I spent hours holding my daughter, talking to her, and I encouraged Katharina to take a
break and go away for a while.
I indulged myself in developing Espen’s first baby book. This was something that she’d
look back on with curiosity, so I wanted it accurate. I didn’t just write that her eyes were gray at
birth, no, they were ‘killer shark gray.’ I wrote down all the pet nicknames for her, and I
included my thoughts.
Katharina decided to become a certified language translator. She enrolled at a local
college and attended on the weekends. This was fantastic for me. She was doing something for
herself, and I was alone to do fun things with Espen.
A man needs to protect his home and family, Right? A delivery truck frequently arrived
at a nearby gas station around three in the morning and the noise would wake me up. After
getting the gas station manager’s name I secured his home telephone number as well, then at 3
am I called to ask him how well he liked being woke up at this shitty hour. Those deliveries
times changed immediately.
Discontent by the lack of instant gratification, Katharina decided not to be a translator and
dropped out of her class.
When Espen was two months old I enrolled us in a parent-toddler swim class. For two
nights a week I could be silly and bounce around in the water with her. Mostly she enjoyed it
when I would submerge us completely under. Strangely though, we had to get out after only
fifteen minutes because she developed a blue-colored ring around her mouth and it was definitely
alarming.
Spring of 1994

Espen developed a strong character and she used it to try to hide her suffering from me.
She was only four months old, and she was silently fighting to stay alive. I knew something was
wrong with her health, and I watched her every day waiting for her to give me a message. That
message came one night in bed while she lay next to me, listening to a story. Suddenly her heart
started beating so loud that I could hear it pounding from three feet away. I called for Katharina to
listen, and it frightened us both.
I asked Katharina to schedule an immediate appointment with Espen’s pediatrician. In
my opinion, there were three signs that warranted a serious investigation: the occasional blue ring
around her mouth, she seemed to be underweight, and now her heart was pounding unusually
loud.
Naturopathic medicine was a way of life for Katharina, it fit into her beliefs, and she had
convinced me that she was well informed about health care.
The next afternoon, Katharina telephoned me in my office. Her voice was cheerful.
“Everything’s all right. The doctor says she just needs more sleep.”
This rivaled my common sense and it took a few seconds before I could respond. “What
about the heartbeat and stuff?”
“That’s normal. He says it will go away.”
“That’s bullshit, Katharina. I want to talk to the doctor.”
“You’re making a big deal out of this. I know this doctor, and I agree with him.”
I begged, “Will you do me one favor?”
She inhaled and let out a deep breath as if I was boring her, “What is it?”
“Please see another doctor.”
Two days later, I returned home from work and confronted an even more insistent
Katharina.
“What did the doctor say about Espen?”
She walked away, “She says Espen is fine.”
“Fine. What in the hell do you mean?”
“You don’t need to worry. We’re just supposed to stay home on weekends so Espen can
get more rest.”
“What did she say about the heart beat and the blue ring around her mouth?”
“It just means that Espen needs more rest.”
“What kind of doctor is she, is she even a pediatrician?”
“Yes, she’s a naturopathic doctor for children.”
 “Maybe we should take her to a regular doctor.”
She gave me a fierce look, “No, we are not doing that.”
“If you don’t, I will.”
She shouted, “No, you won’t.”
“I want Espen to see a regular doctor, not some herbal freak.”
“OK, I’ll take her to a different doctor.”
Early the following week, I arrived home for Katharina to smugly tell me that yet another
naturopathic doctor had found nothing abnormal with Espen.
Together, Katharina and these doctors were insulting all forms of common sense, and it
was time to take flex my gonads.
“I’m taking Espen to see Dr. Burkebile. He was my pediatrician when I was growing
up,” I said.
She yelled, “No you’re not.”
I walked into the kitchen and pulled out the phone book as Katharina roamed around the
apartment like a caged lion. While searching for his number I received an assault of hostile
words aimed at informing me how ignorant I was about medicine. I reached an assistant to Dr.
Burkebile and told her I had an important case. She scheduled us for the next morning. The
barrage of insults continued. Katharina demanded that I cancel the appointment.
After breakfast the following day we left for Espen’s appointment. Katharina was
verbally upset during the drive, stating that this was a waste of time and even a waste of money.
I hadn’t seen Dr. Burkebile in many years, but I remembered him as a tall, strong, and
cheerfully loud man. I had remembered correctly. I introduced him to Katharina who was
standing ridged and in obvious protest of being there. He took Espen from my arms and set her
on his examining table. He placed his stethoscope against her chest and listened. “She has a heart
murmur,” he said. Those words pounded throughout my body and I started shaking.
“What does that mean?”
“Her heart’s not beating correctly, it has an extra beat.”
“Is this dangerous?” I asked.
“Sometimes it corrects itself, but in the worse cases it requires an operation.”
He pulled-out a graph and showed me where Espen’s weight was compared to other
children her age. She sat at the zero-percentile for her weight. He speculated that this was due to
the heart murmur, as well as the cause of the blue ring around her mouth.
“Is this common with children?” I asked.
“One out of every two-hundred. In many cases it’s inherited.”
He had scheduled an emergency EKG examination at the hospital next door where Espen
now sat in my lap with multiple wires running from her chest into the EKG machine. Katharina
sat quietly watching unable to muster up any words. For twenty minutes we watched this
machine read Espen’s heart beat and the stylus flipping back and forth on a roll of paper. I was
scared and found some comfort in just kissing the top of Espen’s head. When it was over we
were told to go home and to wait for Dr. Burkebile’s call later that day.
It was a sunny and warm spring day, but neither one of us could bear to go outside. We
sat quietly indoors and waited for the phone to ring. I began bracing myself for the worst
possible news. My intuition told me that this was going to be one of those worst cases. I took the
call. “I’m on my car phone, can you hear me?”
“Yes, I can hear you, Dr. Burkebile.”
“I want you to call Children’s Hospital in Seattle, make an appointment to see Dr. Jones
in Cardiology. He needs to do an EKG first thing in the morning, tell him I sent you.”
The emotions were too much, and I started crying uncontrollably. I looked across the
room at Katharina as she buried her face in her lap and started bawling.
I could barely get the words out, “It’s done.”
“If you have any trouble getting in, I want you to call me.”
“It doesn’t look good?” I asked.
“No, she has a ventricular septal defect. It’s like a hole in her heart, and she’s not getting
enough oxygen into her blood.”
“OK, I know what to do,” I said.
“Don’t wait on this, it’s serious.”
“I’m calling right now.”

The next morning, we found ourselves in a big dark room full of high-tech gadgets. For
three solid hours a group of doctors ran an echocardiogram over her chest. We sat quietly next to
Espen, watching the TV monitor display a motion picture of her heart. They found the hole in
her heart, a centimeter wide, and spent most of their time contemplating how to fix it. When the
lights came back on, Dr. Jones gave us the plan, “We need to go in and sew a Gore-Tex patch
over the hole.”
“She needs open heart surgery?” Katharina asked.
“Yes, we need to make an incision down her chest and pull her ribs back so we can get to
her heart.”
“How big of an incision,” I asked.
“About six inches long.”
“This Gore-Tex patch is all she’ll need?” I asked.
“Yeah, the heart will grow over it, and she shouldn’t have any problems later on.”
“What kind of side effects?” I asked.
“We’ll wire wrap her breast bone back together. She’ll be sore for a few weeks. Expect
it to be eighteen months before she catches up to her normal weight, other than that she’ll be
fine.”
I didn’t hesitate, “I’m for it, when do you want to do it?” I looked over at Katharina who
didn’t seem to have any objections.
“It’s critical we do it right away. I want to schedule her for this week,” He answered.
That evening Katharina called her mother in Germany and learned that her four-year-old
cousin also has the same heart disease as Espen’s condition. The parents of this cousin had to
rent a hotel room three-hundred miles away from their own home, near the closest hospital that
could handle this type of operation. While their child would lie in the hospital, they would have
to wait one-month while the surgeon’s worked their way down the waiting list.
Two mornings later we both sat nervously in a big white room, knowing that at any
moment someone was going to carry our child away and prep her for surgery with no guarantees
we’d ever see her alive again. We took turns holding Espen, and I wondered how anything so
terrible could be happening to a child only five months old.
A doctor walked in, “It’s time.”
I laid Espen into his arms, struggling to get through the tears, “Tell the doctor to do a
good job and bring her back alive.” He smiled and carried her away.
Five agonizing hours later, mostly spent in the chapel, the surgeon had us paged. He
plowed through the double doors as he was in a hurry. “Everything went as planned, she’s all
right.”
A surge of adrenaline rushed through me. I slapped him on his shoulder, “Good going.”
“She would not have lived to be a year old. Her heart would have given up by then.” He
looked at us for a moment, maybe to let that sink in.
“You can see her in a moment,” he said and left.
 Minutes later we stood beside her in recovery. She had numerous tubes running into her
chest and mouth, and a monitor reading her heart beat. She’d remain that way for a couple more
days. I adored her strength. Her little body was holding on and she wanted to live.
On that day, I developed a different attitude towards her childhood. Someone had given
her a second chance, and I was now determined that she was going to make the most of her life.
I’d be less tolerant of her not doing well in school and sports.
Those first few days at home were quiet, until I received a bill from the first naturopathic
doctor. I elected myself Espen’s spokesman and gave him a call.
“I got a big problem with this bill,” I told him.
“Why is that?”
“You recommended my daughter needs more sleep, when she had a heart murmur, a very
dangerous heart murmur.”
“How did you find…”
“I took her to a real doctor. He found it in only thirty seconds, and she needed immediate
surgery. Why didn’t you find it?”
“There’re certain things we aren’t set up for in this clinic.”
I laughed. “Do you even own a fuckin’ stethoscope pal?”
He was looking for some way to save face. “We’re not set up to detect a heart murmur.”
“Next time you examine more than a runny nose, just send them to a real doctor.” He wanted to
get me off the phone so I finished with, “I’m not paying the ninety-five bucks for your lousy
work.”
“I don’t believe that’s fair,” He said.

“I dare you to send me another bill. I’d like to tell everyone about your great work.”
He was defeated. “I’m going to remove it from our records.”
I hung up the phone and pondered over my disgust for naturopathic medicine. Katharina,
who never saw me as her equal, came over and raised her arms for a hug, “Thank you for saving
our daughter’s life.” I reached around her and pulled her in. I was shocked that her ego would
allow such a compliment.
For Espen’s sake I was with her during her check-ups with Dr. Burkebile. Katharina had
decided that she didn’t like him. She thought he was too aggressive, and she wanted to switch
back to a naturopathic doctor. At each appointment she argued against his opinion, and we were
both visibly frustrated with her. When it was time for Espen’s first round of immunizations,
Katharina raised her objections to most of the shots and refused to sign the waiver, so I overrode
her and signed my name.
Summer of 1994

Classical music was playing softly in the background. Katharina was still in her bathrobe
and eating pancakes. I sat across from her, kicking around some fun ideas for the rest of the
weekend.
“I think we should get married,” she said.
“You do?”
“I wanted to get married a few months ago.”
“This stuff with Espen’s surgery. I need more time to recover before we start making
plans to get married.”
She got up and cleared her plate from the table, not saying another word about marriage,
but I knew she’d planted a seed that wouldn’t just die and go away.
I rushed home on a hot afternoon, hoping Katharina would want to have a picnic down at
a nearby lake, but she was waiting for me in the living room with something else on her mind.
“I want to take Espen back to Germany for three months,” she said.
“Three months, does that seem fair?”
“It’s not that long.”
“You go three months without your daughter, see how that feels.”
She yelled, “Now you’re being a jerk.”
“You’re being ridiculous. A month seems more reasonable.”
“I want three months.”
“Espen will start crawling soon, I want to see that, and there are other things I don’t want
to miss.” The argument fizzled out without any compromise or agreement.
I stewed over Katharina’s demand for the next few days, upset that she was ignoring the
pleasures I got from being a father. One evening after Espen was asleep she rang the bell for
round number two. She stood in front of me and crossed her arms together. “I’m going back for
three months.”
 “You’re not going to take Espen away for so long.”
Her eyes got bulgy and her lips got tight. “How are you going to stop me?”
“I’ll call Immigration, maybe they can stop you.”
She yelled, “You asshole,” and lunged forward with both hands, digging her fingernails
into my neck. That kind of hurt so I knocked her backwards and went to check myself out in the
mirror.
I realized the bit about Immigration was probably too harsh. It was a dumb thing to say
because I didn’t mean it. Like all our other arguments, we’d quickly rationalize that it was
someone else’s fault. I was satisfied with my role in life, and though I would do anything to help
Katharina, I was not responsible for her happiness. She had spent months branding herself as a
feminist, portraying herself as a victim, and was good at seeking sympathy and pity whenever
things didn’t suit her wishes. She was armed with her feminist views, but she hadn’t
accomplished much, and she wasn’t any kind of a role model, so I fell into a routine of just
discarding most of what she was arguing for.
We were driving north through Oregon, winding down a weekend getaway when I missed
the first clue that Katharina was working on something deceptive.
It was time to feed Espen, so I pulled into a quiet place off the freeway and started rummaging
through our bags for a jar of baby food. During my search I found a piece of paper that appeared
to be misplaced. I pulled it out for a better look. “Katharina, why is Espen’s Birth Certificate
back here?” I caught a glimpse of her bolting from inside the car quickly grabbing it from my
hands and snarled, “It’s none of your business,” and tucked it securely away in her pocket. It was
an odd item to carry along on a weekend trip, but I ignored it, and I ignored how strongly she felt
about possessing it.
 While at work the following day, Katharina was busy perfecting her plan with the help of
the German Consulate in Seattle. Shortly after her secretive work was complete she made a call
to my office. She was exhilarated. “Shall we have a candlelight dinner tonight?”
“Yeah, but there’s a blue-grass concert at the zoo later, and I thought it would be fun to
take Espen there for a picnic.”
“Sounds better, but there’s one thing more,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“It’s important we make love tonight.”

Early the next morning I leaned over Katharina while she slept, kissed her on the cheek,
and left for my office. At nine o’clock that morning I took a phone call from a distressed and
determined woman, “Scott, you have to agree to marry me right now.”
I was flattered. “I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

She was quick to respond, “I need to know now if you’ll marry me.”
This was a delicate moment and I spoke softly, “What I want is to get on my knees
tonight and ask you to marry me.”
“You agree to get married?”
“Yes, but let’s do this tonight.”
We hung up the phone and Katharina called for a taxi.
I analyzed my reasons for finally agreeing to marry her, and concluded that I had given
into some moral duty that had long loomed over me.
At lunchtime I was cruising around Lake Union with my boss on his yacht. It was a
blistering hot afternoon, I cracked open a beer, and sat back to take in my surroundings. The
skyscrapers were only a mile away, kayaks were darting in every direction, and there was a
constant flow of seaplanes thrusting their engines and taking-off just behind me. I felt good being
intertwined with this busy city. My boss looked content steering aimlessly around the lake and
downing as many beers as he could before we had to return to the office. It was the perfect time
to jolt him with some good news.
“I’ve decided to marry Katharina.”
His mouth fell open and he let out a bellowing laugh, along with, “No shit. That’s great.”
He had me laughing too. He got a wicked look in his eyes, “I’m giving you the best
bachelor party.”
I continued laughing, but I knew enough about my boss that this meant trouble.
“When’s the date?” He asked.
“No idea, just decided.”
 While I drove home, I imagined waiting till later in the evening, after the suspense had
grown before popping the question. Everything we’d done in our relationship was unorthodox,
so I wanted my proposal to be traditional and normal.
Shortly before three o’clock I unlocked my door and walked into my apartment. It was
quiet and dark because the blinds were still down. Nobody was home. I proceeded upstairs and
dressed in a pair of comfortable shorts and T-shirt. I remembered seeing Katharina’s car parked
out front, which meant she was probably just outside walking around. Ten minutes later the
phone rang.
“Hello.”
“This is officer Flowers with Customs in Vancouver, Canada,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Is it all right if your daughter’s flown out of the country?”
My body froze tight and an enormous rush of anger ran through me, “What are you
talking about?”
“Your wife is here with us in Vancouver. She’s boarding a flight to Germany in forty-
minutes. We want permission to let your child leave.”
My anger turned to fear. “No, it’s not OK. I don’t want my child to get on that plane.”
“Maybe you should talk with your wife.”
Katharina came to the phone, “Please let us go.”
“What are you doing?”
She started crying. “I want to go back home.”
“Not with Espen. No way. Put that lady back on the phone.”
Officer Flowers stated, “You’ll need to fax us an order from your police before we can
stop her.”
I got her phone number, hung up, and called the police. If I were lucky they’d be here in
just a few minutes. I paced around the apartment worrying about not seeing my daughter for
three-months or maybe longer.
Officer Chung arrived and started filling out a report. I pleaded with him, “Can you please
call Vancouver and stop her?”
He’d been through this procedure many times in his career, and he knew the rules. “No, I
can’t.”
I looked at my watch. Ten minutes before the plane departs, “So who can?”
“You’ll have to go through the State Department in D.C. Call them in the morning.” He
left me with a copy of his report and I telephoned Vancouver. “Officer Flowers, please.”
“She’s left for the day,” he said.
“Shit, do you know anything about a girl trying to get to Germany?”
 “Yeah, we let her board the plane.”
I knew she’d be airborne for at least twelve-hours, which seemed like adequate time to
pull off a miracle. The State Department wouldn’t open for twelve more hours, but the U.S.
Embassy in Frankfurt would be up and running in only seven hours. Either way, I’d be up late
into the night making lots of phone calls. I was hoping that this was the kind of crisis where
authorities would stumble over each other in a mad dash to reach the airport and detain her.
Unfortunately, the Embassy in Frankfurt couldn’t do anything more than provide me with names
and telephone numbers of some American lawyers working in Southern Germany. I telephoned
two of those lawyers and asked for help. To my disappointment there weren’t any channels for
them to take any immediate action, and they both recommended starting with the State
Department in D.C.
At the first glimpse of morning light, about the same time that my daughter was landing
somewhere in Europe, I got through to the ‘Department of Children’s Issues,’ at the U.S. State
Department, “My daughter was taken out of this country, without my prior knowledge, and into
Germany.”
“By the mother?” She asked.
“Yes, can you help?”
“I’ll send you an application under The Hague Convention for Abducted Children.”
“What’s that?”
“Several countries, including the United States and Germany, signed a Treaty to
cooperate with each other in returning abducted children.”
“I fill this out and what happens?”
“We’ll forward it to the authorities in Germany. They’ll locate your daughter.”
“You can’t do anything right away?”
“I can overnight-express your application.”
“Does this happen often?” I asked.
“All the time, and Germany’s a hot spot.”
“Why Germany?”
“They haven’t been overly cooperative, but they’re getting better.”
“I’m curious. Who usually takes off, moms or dads?”
She laughed, “Ninety-nine percent the mother.”
 Later that afternoon, Katharina phoned me from her mom’s house, “I’m not coming back
until you come here to Germany and marry me.”
“I’m not going to Germany. That’s stupid, we can get married here.”
There was no diplomacy, just her demand, “No, I want the marriage here.”
Just like the year before she was blind to our financial issues, and she seemed willing to
waste our savings.
“I can’t leave my job for so long, it will destroy everything.”
She was cold, “That’s your problem to figure out.”
I yelled, “I’m not going to Germany,” and slammed the phone down.
Another week had past when Katharina phoned to set me straight. She was scoffing at
me, “The police came today, showed me your application from the Hague Convention. They
wanted to take Espen away.”
“Sorry, that’s not what I’d want them to do.”
“It doesn’t matter, I just told them we weren’t married, and they left.
“It doesn’t change a thing, I’m not coming to Germany.”
She knew the words that would hurt the most, “Espen and I are fine without you,” and she
hung up.
I didn’t want to marry her now more than ever, but I couldn’t deal with the pain of being
separated from my daughter. I couldn’t focus on people. My vision became cloudy and I was
desperate for help. I looked under ‘Attorneys’ in my yellow-pages.
The next afternoon I sat at a long marble table in the conference room of a distinguished
law firm with my new attorney. I liked her from the get-go, she was about fifty years old, smartly
dressed, and seemed to have a warm, compassionate character. I told her the details while I
struggled to hold back the tears and she scribbled a page full of notes. I had just given her all the
ammo I thought she could use when she cleared her throat and placed her pen on the table. My
entire future seemed to hang onto what ever words she was about to offer me.
“What Katharina has done is not illegal,” she said.
I realized it could be a long time before I saw my daughter and started crying. She offered
me a Kleenex, “You’re not married, and it wouldn’t matter if you were, there aren’t any Court
Orders restricting your child from being taken out of the States.”
“She can keep my daughter in Germany?”
 “We could fight in Court to get your daughter back here. It will cost you around twenty
thousand dollars, and it probably wouldn’t work.”
I could only stare at her and weep.
“My advice, treat this like a death in the family.”
“You mean think of my daughter as dead?”
“Yes, it will hurt for a long time, but it’s your best choice.”
I was sobbing out of control. “I could never...”
A quiet moment passed. I was in the presence of a wiser mind, so surely she could help
me find a better solution.
“I could still go to Germany and marry her.”
She instantly shock her head, “No, that would be the wrong thing to do.”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen many situations like yours, and they usually end in divorce.”
I took a deep breath, slowly let it out, and reached into my pocket. “Thank you,” I said
sliding two one-hundred-dollar bills across the table. I sucked all the information I needed from
her. I believed her and wouldn’t seek any further legal advice.
I hadn’t seen my daughter in a month, and that made me miserable. I was alone in my
apartment one evening digging through a drawer searching for some nice stationary. I
compulsively began writing a long letter to Katharina explaining how I thought it was wrong for
her to take Espen away, but I wrote that everything was my fault, even taking all the blame for
our fights, and that I loved and missed her. I tried to convey a message that she would want to
hear. I sent it off and planned to follow up with a bouquet of flowers. I waited a week before
calling her, enough time to smell those flowers.
I had decided, “What the hell,” but tried to be sincere. ”I’d like to come to Germany and
marry you.”
She sounded pleased, “OK, get over here.”
“I’ll talk with my boss tomorrow and try to get enough time off work.”
“When do you want to fly over?”
“By the end of the week. What about a diamond ring?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I’d like to get you a diamond, but you’re not here to pick it out.”
 “Oh no, nobody wears a diamond here in Germany.”
The timing couldn’t have been worse. I was just a month or two away from another
salary raise, and what I was asking for wasn’t acceptable to most American business owners. I
waited nervously in my office, watching the rain fall from the sky and rehearsing my lines. As
usual, my boss barged through my door with a big grin on his face, rubbing his hands together,
“What are we working on today?” He asked.
I stood in front of him, “I have to ask you for a leave of absence from the company.”
“Are you going over to marry her?”
“Yeah, and I need a month.”
That jolted him. “Why so long?”
“In Germany we can’t pick the date. We both have to sign-up to get married, and then
wait for the government to tell us when the next available opening is, which can take a month.”
He laughed. “Unbelievable. If that’s what you need to do, go ahead.”
I was surprised that he was accepting this, so I went for the real clincher. “It’s going to
cost me tons of money. Could I get my vacation pay before I leave?”
This really sent him laughing. “Christ you got some balls asking me that. That’s why I
like you.” Exiting my office, “I’ll cut you a check.”
September 26, 1994
Returned to Europe

They met me just outside of Customs at the airport in Zurich. I gave Katharina a hug,
lifted Espen out of her stroller and smooched on her a while. I made it over just in time, Espen
started crawling that evening, or so I was told.
The following morning we entered the run-down City Hall building on Kaiserstrasse.
Katharina told me, “Our wedding will be in this building.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Weddings in Germany are in City Hall.”
“Why?”
“It’s a legal thing, not religious.”
We took our place in the small, smoke filled office of Mr. Amann. He was a scrawny,
balding man, about forty-five years old, who wielded too much power. Katharina told him, “We
want to sign up to get married.” He took the application form which we had already filled out,
“You have to change the child’s last name to either yours or Scott’s last name, “He told us.
“Why?” Katharina asked.
“It’s not possible to have a double last name,” he said.
I tightened a stern look on my face, “That’s bullshit, we’re not changing it.”
He pulled out a book on German law and proceeded to read us a chapter. He was digging
in and insisting we change her name.
Katharina looked at me, “I’d like her to have my last name.”
Why was she giving in to this idiot so easily? I wondered. “No chance, I won’t marry you
if you insist on that,” turning to Mr. Amann, “Our child was born in America. Her parent’s
already chose her last name. It’s on her birth certificate and it stays.”
“You must change it,” he insisted.
“Screw you, no way,” I said.
 “I don’t believe the Americans would allow a double name,” he said.
“Call the U.S. Embassy in Frankfurt. Ask them,” I suggested.
He dug out his phone list and placed a call to the U.S. Embassy. As their conversation
progressed, I could see his expression turn from Mr. Know-It-All, to Mr. Dumb-Shit. He hung up
the phone, “I guess in America you can name a child anything you want, even a made-up name.”
I felt so good, coming from a free thinking society, that I couldn’t hold it back, “Yeah, it’s
clearly a backwards country here.”
“I agree to keep it the same, if we put a hyphen between the names,” he offered.
I didn’t give a damn if her name had a hyphen in Germany; her name would stay the same
back in America, “Fine, whatever moves this along,” I said.
“Call me in two weeks and I’ll have your wedding date.”
Katharina and I left his office, “That guy was a jerk,” I said.
“He’s the guy that’s going to actually marry us.”
Ten minutes later we walked out of a jewelry store with two identical gold rings. The
rings were cheap; we decided instead to spend our money on a fun honeymoon.
That afternoon I rented a car and we headed south. The one thing Katharina and I had in
common was the type of places we liked visiting. We needed an old village, resting along the
ocean with plenty of seafood and wine and the Italian Riviera was full of such possibilities.
Shortly before sunset, we descended from a high mountain range and drove into the parking lot
of a small train station. It was as far as cars were allowed to travel. We loaded our bags into an
old rusty train and climbed aboard. The train ran along the coastline, shooting in and out of
tunnels, and stopping briefly at each village dotting the hillsides. It was a mystical place, and I
felt we had stepped back in history. We departed at the village of Vernazza dragging our
suitcases down a cobblestone street into the center of town. There were no signs of a hotel, and a
thunderstorm was just underway. Katharina and Espen waited in a coffee shop while I set out to
find us a room. I wasn’t having any luck until I referred to the owner of a small woman’s
boutique. She had a room open, and she said it overlooked the beach. She led me through a
series of winding stone steps, while weaving her way back into a quieter section of the village. I
gave her my passport, she gave me the keys. I tossed our suitcases on the bed and went out to
find my family for dinner. We settled on a restaurant just off the waterfront in the market square
where the row boats had earlier been drug ashore after the day’s catch at sea. The menu was
seafood mixed with pasta, and white wine.
The sun greeted us in the morning. I had a belly full of latte and chocolate croissant,
Espen perched on my forearm, a pocket full of cash, a German fiancée hogging the map and
controlling our destination, and life felt good as we set out to explore. The crashing waves, kids
kicking a soccer ball against the side of an old stone church, a farmer pulling clumps of grapes
off a vine, a cat chewing a piece of meat inside a butcher’s shop, or whatever the stimuli, I took
pleasure in telling Espen a descriptive story of the event. It was my way to jump-start her
curiosity, and create a deeply inquisitive child that one day would become a leader.
After a few days on the beach, we swung south to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which
had recently boarded all its doors, because it’s a hazard to tourists. We proceeded inland to
behold Michelangelo’s Statue of David, a big naked guy ready to sling a rock at Goliath, before
turning north for cold Bavaria.
Hanging in any good travel agency is a big poster of King Ludwig’s Castle sitting high on
a mountaintop above the word GERMANY. It’s a must-see for anyone interested in castles. We
followed an English-speaking guide through each of the elaborate rooms, and heard the story of
how the crazy young king had squandered enormous amounts of money to build his castle, when
his angry people sent him into exile before he could ever live in it. I was the most fascinated
with the ceiling of his bedroom. He had someone paint a scene as if he was looking into outer
space, with the stars and a moon. It made me wonder why we leave our bedroom ceilings a
boring white.
We arrived back in Waldshut and scrambled to arrange our wedding reception. We went
all out by renting a small log hut up in the hills next to the local zoo. It was quite romantic with
several stuffed animal heads hanging from the walls.
I used a sunny afternoon to play volleyball with a group of high school students down
near the river. During a break between sets we sat around getting to know each other. One of the
guys asked me, “What are you doing in Waldshut?”
“I’m marrying a girl from here.”
“Who is it?” He asked.
I gave him Katharina’s name. The entire group groaned and grunted. “Her father is Paul,
the teacher at school?”
I nodded, “Yeah, that’s him.” “I hate him,” a girl said. Another guy said, “He’s forbidden
to be alone with girls.” “Why?” I asked.
“He was our gym teacher when they caught him doing things to girls.”
Another shouted, “He’s a pervert, he had girls stand on their desks and lift up their
dresses.”
“His nickname’s Porno Paul,” another one said. I had met him a couple of times and
thought he was creepy, and now I knew to keep my daughter away from him. I wondered if
Katharina knew about this.
October 14, 1994
Waldshut

I waited alone in the back alley behind City Hall, resting on an old water-trough for
thirsty farm animals. I felt slick in my custom tailored green tweed suit with burgundy shoes and
a belt that didn’t match anything else. Katharina arrived, she was nervous and stiff, and wearing a
white mini-skirt with fu-fu fluffy things dangling from it.
We funneled into a small room which looked similar to an old storage area. Katharina
and I sat upfront holding hands at a small wooden desk across from Mr. Amann, who began
reading from a script. I felt ridiculous because I didn’t understand anything he was saying.
About four or five minutes into the ceremony, Katharina nudged me with her elbow, and I said,
“Ja.”
We walked outside and popped open some champagne. “What was he talking about
during the wedding?” I asked my new wife.
“About people from different nationalities getting married, how they should build a
bridge so they understand each other.”
“So it was nice?” I asked.
“He wrote it especially for us.”
 Two Weeks Later
Back In Seattle

I was in the Penthouse Suite at the Camlin, sitting around with my boss and our best
clients watching two naked women doing gymnastics and waving their butts to the music.
Just as things were getting sleazy, jet lag and booze sent me spinning and I passed out on the
carpet. I regained consciousness during the night, rolled over onto my knees, and a lamp
crashed down smashing against the side of my head. Someone had fixed one end of my tie
around the lamppost and the other around my neck.
That weekend I rented a house on Queen Anne hill; an upscale neighborhood just
north of downtown Seattle. I spent the weekend moving our stuff in, and filled the new
waterbed before rushing down to the airport to claim my wife and daughter.
I closed out my bank account and began depositing my paychecks into Katharina’s
account. I had some wild illusion that she would feel my devotion if she controlled the
money.

Holiday Season

Early Christmas morning Espen played in the living room while I filmed her with my
video camera. I heard Katharina shuffle into the kitchen and grind some coffee beans for the
espresso machine. I continued filming as Espen pulled herself up the side of a chair.
“Merry Christmas Katharina.”
I heard no response as Espen looked into the camera, “Can you walk to Daddy?” She
lifted her hands from the chair and began walking across the room. Out of shock I yelled,
“Katharina, come quick! She’s walking.”
“I’m busy.”
Espen reached the couch, turned around, psyched herself up to do some more walking,
and took off. I yelled into the kitchen, “She’s walking.”
“I’m busy.
The New Year

I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Burkebile. Espen’s weight was only at the five-
percentile and he recommended trying fattier foods. He suggested we call the King County
Health Department and get their list of recommended foods. I was obsessed with making Espen a
little fatter, so on many evenings I took the family down the hill to Pacific Deserts and treated for
three big helpings of chocolate cake. It was only a five minute drive from our house and was
usually spent arguing about those dangerous ingredients used to bake such an evil desert.
I was silently a bit depressed that I wasn’t married to a blonde, Scandinavian-looking
woman. I had been infatuated with that image since I was a kid, and now I had blown my chance
to fulfill that desire. The thing that I missed about Katharina was her ability to have fun, so we
took a rare night away from Espen and went to a party. We were downstairs in a stranger’s house
drinking beer when a bong was passed through the crowd. Katharina and I both took a hit, and
looked at each other laughing. I found her a short time later downstairs taking yet another hit of
pot. I put my arm around her shoulder. “Do you feel OK?” She had big bug eyes. “We should
get out of here,” She urged. We floated outside, where she ducked down yelling, “Did you see
that blue light? “It almost hit me.”
I laughed, and she yelled, “They’re everywhere. Get me home.” I helped her into the car,
and played some Van Morrison. She swayed to the music, babbling, “We really have this
marriage on track. It’s working out.”

Espen at home in Seattle (Queen Anne neighborhood)

Espen in Seattle
 I wanted to expose Espen to more children, so I enrolled her in a Tuesday night
Gymboree class. For an hour-and-a-half I followed her through mazes and tunnels, rolled around
on big rubber balls, and introduced her to sharing. It turned out that one night a week of that was
not enough, so I signed her up for another playgroup. I had learned that watching my daughter
was far more exciting than closing any business deal.

February 27, 1995

Molly Brick was once fun to chase after, but years prior she dumped me on the same day
that I convinced her friend that it was my birthday, when it really wasn’t. I didn’t expect her
friend to buy two-inch steaks with beer and throw me a huge surprise party. Molly had since
forgiven me and was at the house for a visit. Katharina was showing her a pillow she had stuffed
with wild herbs and expected Espen to sleep on. Molly took a whiff of the pillow and shortly
after excused herself to leave. At the front door she whispered in my ear, “Scott, you got to get
rid of that pillow, it stinks.”
I’d deal with the pillow later; it was dinnertime. Espen sat in her high chair and refused
to eat the mashed eggplant which Katharina had prepared. It was painful to watch my daughter
pass up another meal, “She doesn’t like mashed egg-plant,” I said.
Katharina snapped back, “She’ll eat what I give her.”
“I want to try some things from that list,” I said.
“You’re not giving her any of those things.”
On the refrigerator door I had stuck the list of food items sent to us by the King County
Health Department, “There’s things on here I want to try.”
She yelled, “No, I don’t want that.”
I picked up Espen, “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” We drove to the grocery store and
also picked out a Winnie the Pooh movie before returning home.
I boiled water for macaroni and cheese, separated the frozen fish sticks with a knife, and
placed them in the oven. Katharina grabbed the box, “You’re not giving her this shit.”
I felt as she was making another bad decision, one that could hurt our daughter again,
“Yes I am. She needs to eat.”
“You’re an asshole.”
I yelled, “Get away from me.”
She screamed back, “I forbid you to do this.”
Still holding the knife I turned to her yelling, “Shut up or I’ll kill you with this knife.” I
wanted her to stop yelling at me, and it worked. To my delight, Espen ate well. I read her a story
and later Katharina joined us on the couch to watch the rented movie. I thought she’d be happy that
her daughter ate well, but she wasn’t. The movie had finished and I was playing on the floor with
Espen when I heard footsteps tromping up my wooden stairs outside. I pulled back the curtains to
have a look, “Katharina, there are two policemen here,” I said while opening the door.
Walking by me she said, “I know, I called them.”

The two policemen entered. Katharina said, “I’m afraid of him now.”
One cop asked me, “What’s your story?”
“I don’t have a story.”
I gave Espen a kiss good-bye and was escorted from the house.

March 1995

Tony Sanchez was leaving on vacation and asked me to housesit for him until I found my
own place. Tony liked me because I am heterosexual and accepted him without judging his gay
lifestyle. However, several years from now he will decide not to be my friend any longer because
I vote conservative and republican, which he feels is an attack on his gay choices. Up to that
point I had not “judged” him, but once he judged me for the way I voted I instantly denounced
homosexuality, and in the future took great gratification in removing the entire stack of the “Gay
& Lesbian” weekly magazine from its roadside box and tossing them into the garbage, then
notifying the editors of my action daring them to do something about it. Their last email was a
scare tactic that they have notified the D.A.’s office of my doings. I also participate in any anti-
gay measures that come up such as voting against gay marriage rights. I do recognize that my
dislike for gays will be the last hurdle I have to finding true peace with all others.
Katharina refused to let me see Espen, and my health took a nosedive. Sleepless nights,
days without eating, I lost ten pounds the first week.
I called Katharina one morning, “I’ve done some research, found a marriage counselor,
are you interested?”
“No. I don’t want counseling.”
“Counseling would be a good idea.”
“I just want to take Espen away so she will forget about you,” she said hanging up the
phone.
 Later that afternoon, I received a one-page letter in the mail. Katharina had filed an Order
that the Court restrict me from seeing Espen for one-full-year. If I wanted to contest her request,
I needed to appear on March 20th and show ‘Just Cause’ why the judge shouldn’t sign it.
The rain poured and thunder shook the city when I walked into my boss’s office. “I don’t
know what to do,” I told him.
He chuckled and began dialing the phone. “I got a lawyer friend that’ll set you up.” Then
he looked at me with one fist clenched, “You squeeze someone until they’re just ready to pop,
then you release them. That’s how you get respect.”
He had the lawyer on the phone. “Hey pal, I need your help. First let me put you on the
speaker phone.”
“I got an employee getting jerked around by his wife,” He said.
A voice bellowed through the speaker, “There’s a partner in the firm, Ted, he’s the best.
He’ll stick a knife in her back and she’ll think it feels good.”
“How much?”
“He’s expensive. I’ll talk to him and call you back.” My boss tapped the off switch, “I’ll
cover you on this, just pay me back.”
The following morning I sat in the lobby of a huge downtown law firm waiting for Ted.
All I brought with me was a picture of Espen and a five thousand dollar retainer. Ted came out
and introduced himself, then led me through a maze of secretaries, and into his corner office. He
looked about forty-five, impeccably dressed, and had a killer look in his eyes. I gazed around his
office. The walls were covered with artifacts that he brought back from vacationing in exotic
countries. I was probably the youngest and poorest client he would represent. He pulled out
some blank paper, “What’s going on?”
“First. I don’t want a divorce.”
“What do you want?” He asked.
“A Legal Separation.”
“Why?”
“My wife will have problems with Immigration if we’re divorced.”
“I’ve only done a few of those, but it’s the same procedure.”
“Second. All I care about is having a lot of time with my daughter. I think we should
each have her half time, like Joint Custody.”
 He shook his head. “Do you think your wife will agree?”
“I doubt it.”
“Can’t happen unless you both agree, so we’re going for Sole-Custody.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Has the child lived in this State for the past six months?”
“Yes. Why is that important?”
“Jurisdiction.”
We spent the next three hours going over our history. He was meticulous and wanted
every detail.
“Will your friends write a Declaration for you?” He asked.
“Sure they will.”
“Tell them to write down their occupation, how long they’ve known you, what they know
about you, and if they’ve seen you interact with the child.”
“Anything else?”
“Call Dr. Burkebile. Ask him to write a Declaration. We have to hurry to make your
deadline. I’ll have everything ready for you to sign in two days.”
He walked me back out to the main lobby and called the elevator. “There’s one more
thing, start keeping a journal.”
The next morning, following my intuition, I walked downtown to the corner of 4th &
University and into the ticket office of United Airlines. I acted dumb, “My wife and I are flying
to Europe next week. I forgot which day we’re leaving, would you be able to tell me?”
“No. I couldn’t give out that kind of information,” She said.
Across the street I entered British Airways, “My wife and I are flying to Zurich next
week. She sent me down here to pay for the tickets, but I forgot which day we’re leaving.”
She chuckled and logged onto her computer, ”What’s your last name?” I gave her
Katharina’s last name and sat back in my chair.
“Here it is. Three tickets leaving Tuesday March 21st,” she said.
I was stunned but tried not to show it, “Three tickets?”
“Yeah. Katharina, Espen, and Gabi. They’re already paid for.”
I was proud of myself for discovering this and dropped a quarter into a nearby payphone,
“Ted, she’s flying out next Tuesday.”
 “How’d you find out?”
“You don’t want to know.”
He chuckled. “I’ll get a judge to sign a Restraining Order that Espen can’t be taken out of
the State of Washington.”
The next morning was Friday the 17th, the last day to file anything before I had to appear
on Monday. I entered Ted’s office carrying a Declaration from Dr. Burkebile stating Katharina
was uncooperative and had made poor decisions. A Declaration faxed up from Phil, one faxed
from Tony, two more from other friends, one from an old girlfriend who’s a Prosecuting
Attorney for the State, and one from another old girlfriend who’s a business owner in Tucson.
Ted handed me a thick stack of papers, “This is your Declaration, read through it.” He
had two secretary’s running back and forth making copies and scrambling to get everything
ready. The energy was intense. As I read through the first few pages the words stung as he
ripped and shredded Katharina character. I flipped to the last page and signed it.
He handed me a stack of papers. “You have to get someone to serve her today.”
I needed someone reliable and called my longtime friend Scott McCoubrey, who was able
to meet me on short notice.
“Will you serve this on Katharina?” I asked him.
“Yeah.”
“Do you know how to do it?”
“Done it before.”
“If she refuses to take it, just throw it at her feet and she’s legally served.”
“I’ll hide it behind my coat, maybe she’ll invite into the house.”
He left, and I knew he could get the job done better than anyone. No doubt Katharina
would invite him inside, because all girls like to talk with Scott, for he’s a short preppy with
beached blonde hair and a magnetic personality. He’s my first friend who ever married and my
only friend with a child; his young daughter Bret Ashley. He’s also my only friend who ever
divorced, but he and his wife agreed to do the best thing for their daughter and go joint custody.
Way back in our youth, Scott was a founding member of the Virgin Hunter’s Club of
America, VHC we called it for short. Points to be added up at years end, and when Scott
restructured the club calling for extra points for special circumstances; such as if her dad was at
home, and to give all participating girls honorary membership, the club grew significantly.
 The telephone rang, “Hello,” I answered.
A voice screamed, “You asshole.” It was Gabi Klaas yelling at me.
“What?”
She screamed, “I will kill you within the hour.”
“What is your problem?”
She screamed over and over, “I will kill you within the hour.”
While she screamed and I laughed, Scott returned, “Listen to this,” I told him. Gabi’s
voice rang out, “I will kill you within the hour.”
Scott laughed, “She was yelling the same thing when I left your house.”
Katharina then yelled into the phone, “How could you do this?”
“You’re trying to take Espen from me.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you.”
“You brought Espen into this, not me,” I said and hung up the phone.
I asked Scott, “Did you see Espen?”
“Yeah, Katharina and Gabi started yelling and it freaked her out.”
Grabbed my keys, “Let’s get out of here. Maybe she will try to kill me.”
Later that evening I drove down to Sea-Tac airport and showed the police a copy of the
Restraining Order.
“They’re booked on British Airways this Tuesday,” I told him.
He was too casual, “We’ll watch to see if they check in.”
“What happens if they do?”
“We wait until they board the plane, then bring ‘em out.”
“Don’t you want to enter their names into your computer?”
“Nah. We’ll keep an eye out,” He claimed.
Monday morning I walked into the King County Superior Courthouse, through a metal
detector, took the elevator to the third floor, walked through another metal detector, and into a
big room where Ted was waiting.
“Is she here?” He asked.
“She’s sitting behind us, back by the window.”
We turned back to look at her. Anger and terror were written all over her face. I felt like
telling her we should share our daughter and not fight this out in Court, but I knew she wouldn’t
listen. The room was full of a sickening hate, groups of people huddled together plotting to
destroy someone just a few feet away. An hour past and another two hundred dollars of the
retainer was wasted. The judge finally called our names, and we walked to the podium. I stood
next to Ted and Katharina was alone. The judge raised a thick stack of papers above his head and
spoke to Katharina, “I’m sure you haven’t had time to go through all this.”
Katharina whole body was shaking. “No.”
“Choose another date,” the judge said pointing to a big calendar on his wall.
Katharina was too shaken to select anything.
“We’ll reschedule for this Friday at nine o’clock. Is that OK with you?” he asked.
She nodded. I turned to say good-bye to Ted, but Katharina was standing behind me,
“They’re waiting for you at the airport tomorrow,” I told her. She gave me an evil glare and
stormed out.
I rented my own place and Katharina hired an attorney who served me a venomous stack
of papers that hurt to read, including a statement that I forced her to come to the United States, a
declaration from Gabi, and that letter I had once written accepting all the blame for our fights,
which was a damn good move on her part.
Friday morning Ted and I took our places in the back of the big room. A fat lady walked
over to us and introduced herself as Katharina’s attorney.
She looked at Ted, “Can we talk privately?” They both walked over to a corner and
started chatting. Katharina’s attorney was about sixty years old, balding with short curly red hair,
diamonds on every finger, and gold bracelets running up her wrists. There sat Katharina just ten
feet in front of me, frozen still and staring at the wall. I used the moment to reflect back, “We’re
a long ways from that beach in Maui.”
Ted whispered in my ear, “They want to cut a deal.” The judge called our names.
Katharina’s attorney said across the room, “Your honor, they’re talking.” The judge called the
next case.
Ted continued, “They want to give you every Wednesday overnight, plus every Friday
afternoon till Sunday night. That’s three nights a week with the child.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“That’s more than the judge will give you.”
“Let’s do it.”
 “She wants half of your salary.”
“Sure, it’s worth it.”
“You need a place to exchange the child?”
“There’s a coffee shop on Queen Anne, Starbucks, she knows it.”
“We’ll include mutual Restraining Orders.”
“Meaning what?”
“You and Katharina are not to contact each other except to exchange the child.”
“What happens next?”
“A child psychologist will interview you, your wife, and the child, and later make a
recommendation for custody to the judge.”
“How long do we go on like this?”
“Several months, probably a year.”
Starbucks was on a busy street corner. Several people were seated outside enjoying
coffee when Espen emerged and ran into my arms. Katharina scowled and scrutinized my every
move. I knew any mistake would quickly be reported to her attorney. Before driving out, I
looked at all the faces in the crowd. It was time to familiarize myself with anyone Katharina was
using as a plant to eavesdrop on any conversation.

April 1995

We quickly began breaking our Restraining Orders by meeting each other at the park and
sharing meals together.
Tranquility was being alone with my daughter at a comfortable little cabin in the northern
Cascade Mountains. We’d arrive each Friday afternoon loaded down with groceries and toys.
When it came to meals I treated Espen as if she were a first date, every serving was gourmet and
twice as much as she would eat. I discovered she liked meat when I cooked it with sherry.
Each morning we’d head up a different trail, which took me away from the lawyers and
custody battle. Often the terrain was steep, and Espen enjoyed reaching out to grab a handful of
huckleberries, playing by a river, touching a tall tree, or plucking a flower and placing it in her
hair. We’d go in as far as three miles, have a picnic and nap in the fresh air at four-thousand feet.
I headed downtown for my first meeting at Family Court Services. The caseworker
assigned was Dr. Ray Willis, a child psychologist who preferred the lights to his office turned
off. I assumed it was more relaxing for him that way.
“I met with your wife yesterday,” he said.
“Ah, yes.”
 “She wants to return to Germany.”
“That’s stupid,” I said.
“She’s strong about this.”
“There’s no life for Espen there, it’s better here. I don’t want to talk about her. I want to
focus on Espen and me.”
“How would you settle this?”
“I want to work out a schedule so we both have quality time with our daughter, but I want
custody, and we stay here.”
“Why do you believe you should have custody?”
“My daughter responds to me better.”
“If you had custody, what would you give your
wife”? “Half time.”
He seemed curious. “How would that work?”
“I’ve seen it work. Moms are better off if they get out of the house, get a life, get a job,
and share the kids with the father. It’s better for the kids anyway. Hell, I have a lot to offer my
daughter.”
“You can’t make your wife work.”
“It would make her happy. Also, I want the education and medical decisions.”
While he was writing notes I said, “You’ll see what kind of parent I am when you come
out to the house.”
“We don’t do that. Everything’s done here.”
“How will you know about the quality of life I give her?”
Still writing his notes, “We’ll take a walk downtown, maybe get a coffee.”
It was our first date, and I was sitting across from Rebecca, a sexy twenty-one year old
from New Zealand wearing tight white jeans. We were drinking Chianti and eating Focaccia
bread at Cucina Cucina’s overlooking Lake Union.
“You should know I’m married, actually separated,” I offered.
“Yes, I know. I even know where you live.”
“How would you know?”
Embarrassed, she started laughing.
“Come on, how would you know?”
“I work in the Insurance Commissioner’s office.”
“So you looked me up on your computer?”
“Sorry.”
“It’s OK, but where’s my house?”
“On Queen Anne. I could drive to it.”
“Bull shit, let’s go.”
 She drove my brand new company SUV up to Queen Anne and directly into my
driveway.
“How did you find it so easy?” I asked.
“I drove by earlier today.”
“My wife moved out last week, let’s have a look inside.”
I had illegally broken in a few weeks earlier to confiscate my personal files, but it still felt
eerie going inside that house. I opened the front door and a hollow sound echoed throughout the
rooms. I flipped on a light and we walked in. The entire house was empty, except oddly enough
for the waterbed, which was half drained but adequate to end a great first date.
On the morning of Thursday the 13th, Espen was enjoying a cocoa and a blueberry muffin
when Katharina entered Starbucks. She was so serious, “We gotta talk.”
“OK.”
“I could never take Espen from you. I see how much you two need each other. I want us
to make a parenting plan.”
“Me too.”
“I want to do it without the Courts,” she said.
“That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“I want to find a way for both of us to have easy access to our daughter.”
“It’s best for her.”
“This Sunday is Easter, shall do an egg hunt?” she asked.
“Yes, sounds fun.”
Just five days later my secretary transferred Ted’s call into my office. I got a surge of
fright through my body and answered, “Is it good or bad?”
“She’s filed for divorce.”
“When?”
“Last week. I was served this morning,” he said.
“What does this change?”
“Your Legal Separation is out. She has one-upped you.”
“She wants to get herself kicked out of this country,” I said.
“I read through it. She wants to give you three weeks a year, supervised, and only if
you’re willing to fly to Germany to see the child.”
“We were together last week. She told me she wants to settle this out of Court.”
“You’ve been together?”
“Yeah, we shared Easter.”
 “I need to advise you, with those Restraining Orders if she got pissed and called the
police, it’s a felony.”
“Anything else?”
“The usual, she accuses you of living out of your car and bringing the child back in dirty
diapers.”
“She borrowed diapers from me last week, and I have camping gear in my car because I
do things with Espen rather than drag her down to those stupid groups.”
“What kind of groups?”
“She says she lonely, but it’s really a man-basher group.”
“How do you know where she goes?”
“I drive her to the dumb things.”
“Why do that?”
“Because then I get to watch Espen.”
I skied off the chair lift, turned around to adjust Espen’s sunglasses, and pushed off. I
stopped on a knoll to ask her if she thought the blue sky, the green pine trees, and the white snow
looked beautiful together.
She just said, “Bumps, bumps.”
So it was the rest of the afternoon. I skied over the bumps, while she sat in the harness
laughing herself silly. I had escaped reality for the weekend and turned my daughter onto a
wonderful sport. Walking into Starbuck’s I was determined not to waste any more time talking
with Katharina.
“Do you know what this Friday is?” She asked.
“No.”
“It’s the anniversary of Espen’s heart surgery.”
“Oh, you’re right.”
“Let’s meet at the hospital and drink some champagne,” she offered.
“Absolutely.”
May 1995

I was telling my boss about the funny movie I’d seen together with Katharina the night
before when Ted called.
“I received a letter from Katharina’s attorney,” he told me.
Another surge of panic hit me. “What now?”
“She wants you to surrender your passport or else she’ll go to Court and force you to.”
“Katharina’s the one that would take off, not me.”
“We’ll have her surrender her passport too.”
On Friday the 5th, instead of eating lunch I enrolled in an intermediate German language
course. I had spent countless hours studying that hideous language and I was now determined to
conquer it. I was reviewing the schools contract when Katharina paged me. She was extremely
excited, “I know what I want to do with my life.”
“Yeah?”
“I want to be a travel agent, and I found a night school that will teach me.”
“Way to go.”
“But I need your help. It starts next week and it’s every night for two months.”
“OK.”
“But what about Espen?” She asked.
“Well, of course she’ll be with me.”
“OK, thank you.”
The German classes were off and I met with Katharina for lunch near the waterfront to
rewrite of Parenting Plan.
“I want this plan only for the two-months I’m in school,” she said.
I agreed and started writing, “Espen cannot be taken out of the State of Washington...”
when Katharina interrupted, “I was hoping you’d forget that one.” I continued writing,
“…without written permission from the other parent.”
 The final paragraph read, “This Parenting Plan expires on July 8th, 1995.”
Katharina was often giving me something to complain about. Our exchanges were very
tense moments and full of mood swings. If there were a significant development, I’d write it in
a short letter and fax it off to Dr. Willis. I wanted him to know what was happening, and I
wanted my name in front of his face as often as possible. Sometimes Willis would get three
faxes from me per week.
The captain cut the engines and announced over the intercom, “If you look off starboard
you’ll see a pod of orca whales.” It was a clear day, the water was smooth, and it must have been
strange for Espen to watch these big black things popping up and down in the water. Sitting near
the bow and looking into a beautiful sunset, I turned to Katharina, “Maybe we could work out a
Parenting Plan and move to Germany.”
“I feel trapped in this country,” she said.
“It would just have to be near a city so I could find a job.”
Shaking her head, “I need to be in Waldshut.”
Ironically we were passing through the San Juan Islands in an area named Deception
Pass.
I was in a rush to get out of the office for the three-day weekend when Katharina
telephoned me from the hospital. She was panicking, “I have big bruises on my body.”
“What’s happening?”
“They’re doing blood tests.”
“What happened?” I insisted.
“I don’t know. I’m scared.”
“Espen and I are heading north for the weekend,” I told her. “If you don’t want to be
alone you’re invited.”
We were alone at the bottom of a tall waterfall and snapping pictures of our daughter
playing naked in the creek. It was a remote spot, and we found it by following a deer trail up
from our camping site. Katharina was wearing shorts, and those bruises on her legs were radiant
like tattoos. We wound down the evening next to a campfire, sharing a bottle of wine and
laughing. It was the first time I had alcohol while Espen was under my care, and the first time
we’d all slept under the same roof since we separated, be it a tent.
 Three days passed and I got a rare call from Dr. Willis. He said, “Katharina contacted
me, she says she afraid of you.”
“What?”
“She’s sick and wants to go to Germany as soon as school is over.”
“Did she tell you that we’ve been doing things together?”
“No, she didn’t.”
While driving to get Espen that afternoon, I pledged to move on with my life, and not to
include Katharina in anymore of my fun activities. I waited for her inside Starbucks. She arrived
smiling, rubbed my shoulder, and asked, “How ya doing?”
“Why did you tell Dr. Willis that you are afraid of me?”
She started crying, “Can I have a hug?”
I gave her a hug and tried to leave.
“Can I have another hug?” She begged.
I hugged her and she asked, “Can we spend some time together in the park tomorrow?”
June 1995

I wasn’t wealthy enough to hold onto Ted, so he bumped me down to his associate Cleo.
She was about thirty-five, impatient, and trying to finish my Financial Declaration that was due
in Court. She mulled over my IRS tax statements, asked me questions about any property I
owned, and probably wondered how a traveling ski bum like me got into her big league firm.
It was the middle of the month when Katharina asked me to buy her a latte. She was near
tears. “I’m dropping out of school tonight.”
I rubbed her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s too much. I can’t concentrate.”
“There’s only two and a half weeks left.”
“I cant’ go on.
“I’m sorry.”
“I want Espen back,” she stated.
“Just write your ideas for a schedule and I’ll look at it.”
She got angry, “I never should have agreed to this plan with you.”
The police were waiting along with Katharina the following week while dropping off my
daughter outside Starbuck’s. She knew we were returning from Dr. Burkebile’s office and
running late, none the less she painted a story of my negligence and hoped for my arrest. I had the
police laughing in minutes which infuriated Katharina trying to hide around the corner.
Most afternoons my daughter and I could be found at Alki beach. We’d be fifty yards
from our blanket collecting seashells when she’d see another kid moving-in on her toys. She
would rush back, and everyone on the beach could hear her coming to reclaim her property.
Katharina’s idea of a new Parenting Plan was to give me every-other-weekend and a
couple of afternoons a week. She was a long ways off meeting me half way. I telephoned Dr.
Willis.
“Our Plan expires in a few days.”
 “OK.”
“We’re not agreeing on a new one.”
“Then the Plan stays as it is now,” he assured me.
“That’s great.”
“Ask Katharina to call me, I’ll tell her myself.”
I met up with Katharina later that afternoon at Starbucks, “I want half time,” I said.
“You’ll never have half time.”
“I spoke with Willis. He says the Plan stays and he wants you to call him.”
“He can’t do that.”
“I wouldn’t go against him...”
I had a family reunion approaching down in Eugene, Oregon. It was the same weekend
that our Plan was scheduled to expire. I wanted to take Espen along, but this meant getting
written permission from Katharina to take her out of the State. I met her at Starbucks and handed
her my permission letter.
“Would you sign this, please?”
She read it and handed it back, “No.”
Espen and I walked away while a friend of mine came out of Starbucks and had served
her. I had earlier in the day filed a motion for permission to travel out of state.
July 1995

I showed up alone for court on Wednesday morning. This was not something I wanted to
waste several hundred dollars on to have my attorney present.
My case was bumped to the end because Katharina no-showed and the Judge wanted to
give her more time to arrive. After a two-hour wait my name was called, and I stood alone at the
podium, “Your Honor, I asked Katharina for permission to take my daughter to Oregon for the
weekend. She said, ‘No,’ and she probably thinks it’s funny that I’m here using up our
morning.”
“Was she served?”
“Yes.”
He scanned over the Parenting Plan. “You will have the child back Sunday night at eight
o’clock?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Motion granted.”
I handed Espen over to her mom that Sunday evening, and drove off thinking about the
fun weekend we had in Oregon, then I stopped at the store and made catering arrangements for
Espen’s Baptism.
I waited at Starbucks the next afternoon, but Katharina didn’t show. The Parenting Plan
had expired and I started to believe that she had left the country. I waited for three hours until it
got dark and I headed to Molly’s house. I called Katharina’s apartment a couple times, leaving
the message, “I just want to know if you’re OK, call me.”
A couple more hours passed before I called the police. I was standing outside, looking up
at the sky and believing my daughter was already on a plane flying overhead when the police
finally arrived.
 It was 11:30 when the police drove me out front of Katharina’s apartment, strangely there
was already another police car there. Ten minutes passed and one cop returned and leaned in my
window, “She’s inside with the child.”
“Good.”
“She’s says you’ve been making harassing phone calls.”
“That’s bull-shit.”
“She showed us the Parenting Plan, it’s expired, so we’re not taking the child.”
The next days were tense while Katharina held Espen hostage and our attorneys haggled.
On the third day Cleo telephoned me, “You can have your daughter this afternoon and just for
one day.”
“When I get her, maybe I should keep her too.”
Cleo snapped, “We’re not doing it that way.”
“OK, I was kidding.”
“I had to sign their fax that you agree to bring the child back.”
“She covers herself.”
“They’ve offered two afternoons a week and every other weekend.”
“Shit. Why should Katharina have her for a weekend? She doesn’t go to school or work,
everyday is a weekend to her.”
“Do you accept their offer or not?”
“Hell no.”
Hours later with seven of my friends in a secluded grassy area surrounded by lupines
near a Ming tree under the blue sky we sat in a tight circle with Espen inside. Preacher Jim read
verses from the Bible that I had selected, touched Espen with the Holy Water he had brought
back from the Dead Sea in Israel, and baptized her.
My most difficult thing about accepting Christ is that there is a choice we have to make.
Why won’t God show us proof? Or, why are there so many scientific explanations to convince
me there’s no heaven? I played it on the safe side and got her baptized. Years later the Holy
Ghost surge through my body for the first time, but when I opened my eyes the minister talking-
in-tongues was feeding his fax machine. That’s vexing still to this day.
We couldn’t agree on a new Parenting Plan, which left the door open for Katharina to file
yet another Motion to leave for Germany. This time she really went all out. She included two
written job offers in with her Declaration. One job offer was from Gabi to work in her health
food store for an outrageously big salary. The other job offer was from a family friend to work
in her bookstore, also for an inflated fake salary. She even included a false Declaration that I had
coerced and manipulated her into signing the previous Parenting Plan.
Cleo requested that the Court reinstate the previous Parenting Plan, which had expired.
The Court date was set for July 31st, and Katharina requested to fly out the following day
with our daughter.
I telephoned Dr. Willis, “Will you write a letter to the judge stating that you wanted the
Plan to stay as it was?”
He was defensive, “I won’t write anything.”
“I took your word, now look what
happened.”
“I won’t write anything until I make my recommendations.”
I discovered the biggest hit of all when we ate at the Sushi Man restaurant. Nobody
would have believed it, but there was my daughter with her chop sticks, scooping up spinach
salad covered in a ginger dressing. She liked it enough that I ordered a second helping for her.
She enjoyed the tempura, but the special winner was the Sushi. I knocked out the hot Wasabi
paste, and she downed four pieces of the raw fish. It felt good to give her something so fresh and
healthy.
We waited our turn in court, listening to the case before us. The father was nicely
groomed, and he was a police officer. He was asking for custody of their two teenage sons. The
mother was a flake who was guilty of domestic violence against the husband. After hearing
arguments the judge made his order, “I’m awarding temporary custody to the mother.” The
mother threw her arms into the air, turned around to face the crowd, and began a victory dance.
The judge yelled, “That’s absolutely inappropriate behavior.”

The mother turned around, and the judge said, “I order you to have a psychological review
and to report back within six months.”

I mumbled to myself, “Great, now the judge is pissed-off.” I still felt confident, because
he was the same judge who had given me permission to travel to Oregon. Maybe he’d
remember that Katharina was a no-show at our last court appearance. Cleo and I stood at one
podium while Katharina stood with her attorney at the other. Fifteen minutes later, while I waited
for an elevator, I turned around to see Katharina standing in another elevator smiling and
laughing at me. I made my way outside and began walking the several blocks back to my office.
The judge didn’t allow Katharina to return to Germany, which wasn’t a big surprise. What was
hurting was he gave me ‘every other weekend.’ Then he looked at me and said, “I’m going
beyond the guideline and giving you every Tuesday afternoon.”
I would cherish all the time I could have with my daughter, but this token Tuesday
afternoon seemed like an insult. My daughter was used to being with me nearly every day. Now
she would see me only eight days a month. She would be sleeping at my house only five nights a
month. She would be sharing a sit-down breakfast with me only four times a month. I was
devastated and I felt useless.
August 1995

All this extra free time opened up my schedule to visit friends like Tim Foster. I missed
my daughter which made me miserable, and his palace was the best remedy. Foster had a genius
mind and a million-dollar inheritance. He threw parties on his 52’ Chris Craft moored in Seattle,
raced a cigarette-speedboat in South Florida, and had a music studio inside his big house. But
what made him interesting to me was his ability to hibernate inside that house for many days
straight, cook gourmet meals, share his seven-hundred-dollar bottles of wine, and not expect
much from his friends.
Foster had suffered through years of severe migraines and back pains, and as a result
knew as much about drugs than a well-trained pharmacist. Everybody knew he had his own
well-stocked pharmacy upstairs in his bedroom.
I was hanging-out with him one particular evening listening to my favorite musical group;
The Grateful Dead, drinking my favorite adult beverage; Rum & Coke with a lime squeeze, and
talking about my loneliness and my fears of losing my daughter.
“Here,” he said, handing me a small blue pill.
“What is it?”
“Xanax.”
“What will it do?”
“Take the edge off.”
From that evening on I began to spend a lot more time with Foster.
I could tell when Katharina wanted me to stay around longer during those exchanges.
She’d buy some food and let Espen eat it so I couldn’t take off with her right away. This was one
of those times when she had me trapped into talking with her.
“How are your bruises?” I asked.
“It doesn’t look good.”
“What’s wrong?”
 “I’m seeing a hematologist who specializes in cancer. He can’t find the problem.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The Cortisone is making me crazy.”
“Do you want more help with Espen?”
“No. We’re fine.”
Maybe it was the Cortisone or perhaps it was her inner hatred, but her face looked
contorted. I started to feel sorry for her again and thought about making a change.
On a warm afternoon I began to create a permanent Parenting Plan contract for us to live
in Germany. It included my daughter living with me half-time. I had heard the results of a recent
study put out by some child psychologists that concluded children living with their father half
time are fifty-percent less likely to drop out of school and fifty percent less likely to join a gang.
Katharina was hungry to win ‘custody,’ which was just a meaningless title to me, so I offered to
give it to her. I entered a clause that we’d agree to move to a city, not Waldshut, where I could
have job possibilities. What to do with the three major decisions, which are medical, educational,
and religious? Those were going to be difficult to find an agreeable solution.
I went to the German Consulate and picked up a calendar listing all their holidays. I
worked out a rotating schedule on which holidays Espen would be with me. I concluded the
contract with a one-month vacation each summer when Espen and I could return to the States to
see my family. I dropped my written offer off with the secretary of Katharina’s attorney.
I had made my mind up to leave everything, and move to Germany to help raise my
daughter, but I still consulted a couple of friends. Phil Graves, my right-wing conservative, big
pay checks buddy said, “Hell no. You’re throwing your life away.” On the other end of the
spectrum was Scott McCoubrey, who himself left a high paying job and is thrilled to care for his
daughter three-and-a-half days a week, said, “Absolutely, I’d do it for my daughter.”
Espen and I returned from a fun weekend hike in the mountains and met up with
Katharina at Starbuck’s.
She asked, “Have you heard from your attorney?”
“No. Why?”
“We’ve rejected your offer.”
“I thought you wanted to be in Germany.”
“You can’t have Espen half time.”
 “I want her full time,” I replied.
“I’m the mother, she needs to be with me.”
I laughed, “A feminist holding to tradition.”
“And I want to be in Waldshut.”
“If I’m going to that dumpy town, I want my daughter at least half time. Someone has to
let her know that the sun still shines.”
“Screw you.”

Hiking Crystal Mountain

September 1995

I restructured my offer agreeing to live in Waldshut, but only if someone there found me a
job prior to us leaving Seattle. If her family couldn’t find me a job, then I certainly couldn’t
either, and someone needed to find me a place to live. These terms seemed reasonable
considering what I was giving up so Katharina could be home. Again I delivered my proposal to
Katharina’s attorney.
 We were at the midpoint of our divorce case, and it was time to stop the madness because
it was affecting our daughter. During an exchange, Espen would put one arm around my neck
and her other arm around Katharina’s neck pulling us together. One evening Espen was looking
through my photo album and grabbed a picture of her mom and me together, she cried, saying
“mommy, daddy.”

Two weeks later inside that Starbucks Katharina handed me her proposal and started
rubbing my shoulders while I tried to read it.
“I want to be partners in parenting,” and continued with, “You’re the greatest father.
Espen can’t be without you.”
“Why do you write that I’m a manipulator into your declarations?” I asked.
“This is a game, and when you’re fighting you have to play the game or you lose.”
“I read here that you agree to share her half time.”
“Yeah.”
 “Then I’ll write up a Permanent Parenting Plan that we can sign.”
“I’m not signing anything.”
“I’m not moving to Germany without a contract...” Our negotiations fizzled out.
The forest was a quiet dense of pine trees and the trail became steep. I could hear the
waterfall and broke a sweat just as we had arrived. I undressed us and we stepped into the natural
hot springs surrounded by stones and mortar forming several shallow pools capturing the hot
water flowing out from the cave above. We splashed each other, ate kiwis, and ventured up to
that dark cave. “Some gold miners dug this out, do you want to swim in?” She rode on my back
while I swam towards the end of the cave twenty feet in and almost completely dark. We rested
quietly amongst the smell of sulfur while drops of hot water fell onto our skin. It was the
weirdest place she’d ever been, and she enjoyed it.
I was still married to a German, which gave me the same rights to live and work there as
if I was a German. But I discovered some discouraging news that needed to be shared with
Katharina, “I have to be married to you for three years or I can’t stay in Germany.”
“Why?”
“Your government will reduce me to ‘Alien’ status.”
“Meaning what?”
“Means I’m the last one hired, and with no permanent rights to live there.”
She became irritated, “You’re not keeping me here.”
“We could stop the divorce here, live in Germany for a while, and then get divorced over
there.”
A surge of excitement hit her, “I like that idea.”
“But I still want a Parenting Plan before we go.”
“Why?”
“You’ve told me that sometimes a German father must wait a whole year before seeing
his children during a divorce. I don’t want to get screwed by you.”
“You’re over reacting and I’m not signing anything.”
October 1995

I was on a vacant floor of a skyscraper talking marble and ceramics products with a client
when my voice pager went off, “It’s Katharina, call me right away.”
She had talked Dr. Willis into mediating a Parenting Plan for us. Now I hadn’t seen Dr.
Willis since my first meeting with him six months earlier. There never was any walk through
town or a cup of coffee. The wife and I sat in his little office and he opened up our file, it was
five inches thick, and I could see that Katharina had bombarded him with letters as I had. I
quickly set the stage, “I want to make it clear that Katharina asked for this meeting. I am here to
mediate a Permanent Parenting Plan for Germany. And I do not agree to move to Germany until
we have a complete agreement and a signed contract.” I then removed a stack of file cards from
my jacket. I was prepared and taking this meeting seriously, “I have many issues that I want to
resolve today.”
Willis looked at my file cards and frowned. It wasn’t going to be as easy as he hoped. He
grabbed his notepad, “What have you agreed on?”
Katharina answered, “Moving to Germany and fifty-fifty with our daughter.”
I said, “I want a one month holiday back in the States.”
She said, “I want joint decision making.”
I said, “I want joint custody, otherwise I can’t stay in Germany.”
Willis asked me, “Why not?”
“The German Consulate told me that I need at least joint-custody or German Immigration
will kick me out.” I began scanning through my thick pile of cards when Willis stood up, “That’s
all the time I have.”
I was shocked, “But there are more issues to go over.”
“Leave the cards and I’ll look at ‘em.”
“What are you going to recommend?”
He smiled, “It will be a surprise.”
 I was frustrated about going to mediation and getting tricked into arbitration.
It was nearly two weeks before a copy of Willis’ report was sent to my office. I nervously
opened the envelope and removed the five-page letter written to the judge. The first two pages
summarized our backgrounds, including a statement; Katharina has worked to continue her
studies in education. I assumed she had misrepresented herself and knew that a government
employee was too busy to check on it. It was on page four where I reached the juicy stuff. Both
parents have worked positively towards the child’s well-being… There is talk of dismissing the
divorce in King County Superior Court so both parents can reside and parent the child in
Germany… This evaluator recommends/endorses the following… A shared residential schedule
with the child… All three major decisions made jointly… Without the interference of the other
parent, each parent will make ordinary day-to-day decisions in regard to the child while the child
is with him/her… Holidays will be on a rotating schedule… Child will be with mother for
Mother’s Day, with father for Father’s Day, and parents will share the child’s birthday…
Vacations will be on a rotating schedule… The residential or receiving parent will be
responsible for providing transportation. I reached the end and felt disappointed because it wasn’t
a complete Parenting Plan with an exact schedule when our child would live with the mother or
me. His recommendations hadn’t taken us any closer to a final agreement.
My daughter was dressed in overalls, with red cheeks, big freckles, and two ponytails.
She knew something big was about to happen, then Katharina called, “My mom’s managing a
restaurant near Waldshut and she needs my help.”
“That sounds exciting for you.”
“I want the job, and I want to go soon.”
“I still need someone to find me a job, a place to live, and we have to finalize a Parenting
Plan.”
“I want to use Dr. Willis’ report over in Germany.”
“Yeah, right, like you’ll agree to it after we get there.”
“My mom really needs me.”
“We were just leaving, we’ll talk later.”
“Don’t let her eat too much candy.”
My daughter picked up on it fast. Hold out the bag and they’ll drop candy inside. I
wanted her to have a good memory of this Halloween; probably her last.
Ending Out 1995

I read to Espen twice a day and her vocabulary was up to fifteen words.
Thanksgiving and her second birthday were approaching but neither day fell onto my
schedule to have her. Now Thanksgiving shouldn’t mean squat to a German but Katharina
wanted her anyway, stating, “I’m kind of an immigrant to this country, so I want to celebrate it
with her.” Only after I begged would she agree to let me see her for half the day. We cooperated
together and rented a room at the Children’s Museum for Espen’s birthday. We had a long guest
list and Katharina threatened to cancel the event if I went ahead with my plans to hire a clown.
We finally agreed that Espen would live with me from Thursday evening through
Monday morning. That was four nights per week with me. But she refused to put it onto a signed
contract, and her family hadn’t found me a job or a place to live, so we weren’t going anywhere
soon. It was an interesting phenomenon. Our trial date was in three months, and if we went to
trial neither one of us would get what we wanted. I was her ticket back to Germany, and she was
my ticket for more time with my daughter. We had an incentive to resolve this before trial.
It was warm, the sun was bright, and Espen had on her first pair of skis. I tucked my
hands under her armpits, pointed my skis downhill and pushed off. Katharina skied in front and
filmed us with my video-cam.
“Is it fun Espen?”
“Yeah,” she screamed.
The entire afternoon we traded going up the rope tow and skiing down carving smooth
round turns.
Katharina skied down to me, “Thanks for inviting me.”
That evening Espen was looking at the ugly brown thing in my hand, “This is a lobster,” I
said.
“Lobster.”
 “Do you know where it comes from?” “No.”
“It swims around on the bottom of the ocean.” “Swims.”
“I’m going to drop it into this pot of boiling water.”
“Water.”
“We can dip it in butter and eat it. It’s very tasty.” She gave me a look of disgust,
“Pocahontas loves lobster,” I lied about her hero. But now she wanted to eat it.
We were back on the ski slopes the next morning, just the two of us. But this time we were
riding the chairlift. I guided us down the slope in round arching turns while she yelled, “Faster,
faster!” On each mogul I lifted her into the air like a rocket taking off, and she’d yell, “More
bumps!”

January 1996

“I agree to sign our Parenting Plan contract,” she said.

“Great. Anything about a job?” I asked.
“My mom thinks you can get a job driving taxi.”
Fuck, I’ll find my own job.” “When can we leave?”
“I’d like to take Espen to Disneyland before we go.”
“OK.”
“But I definitely need a place to live.”
“I’ll call you back,” She said.
I sat down at the computer and started writing a well-organized and Final Parenting Plan
based on everything agreed and using terminology from Dr. Willis’ report: joint custody …child
lives with me Thursday 5 p.m. to Monday 10 a.m. …with mother Monday 10 a.m. to Thursday
5p.m. …all major decisions made jointly…we’d agree on a doctor and a school and stick with
those decisions…holiday’s and special occasions were rotating… one month each summer to
visit America…and an extra one-week vacation with the child per parent.
The contract was four pages long and included a final section entitled, ‘Additional
Agreements.’ We have agreed to this Permanent Parenting Plan… We will continue to use the
plan and it will not be a negotiable issue to our divorce in Germany… We will incorporate the
plan into our divorce… Neither parent will interfere with the other parent’s rights to an equally
free and independent lifestyle… We will not begin the German divorce proceedings until both
parents have secured permanent rights to employment and residency… Neither parent will
request any passports to be turned over… If either parent wants the assistance of a mediator to
resolve a conflict then the other parent will comply with that wish.
There it was - the perfect plan. Both parents would be equally responsible for our child,
and both parents would be accountable to provide the best we could for our child.
Katharina called back, “My mom found you an apartment.”
“That was fast.”
“It’s in Rheinheim.”
“Where the hell is Rheinheim?”
“It’s a village ten miles east of Waldshut.”
“I suppose that’s fine, and I have our contract ready.”

The following morning while approaching a bank together Katharina said, “I don’t know
how to deal with Espen when she’s having a temper tantrum, sometimes I really blow-up at her.”
I opened the door to the bank, “I believe you do.” I figured that the contract could get lost during
the years ahead so I made five originals. We signed all five and had each one of them notarized
at the bank.

Disneyland… I released Espen from my arms, “There he is.” She ran up to Mickey
Mouse and gave him a big hug and pulled on his big black nose. Mickey jumped and someone
yelled, “Thank God Mickey’s insured.”

We dismissed our divorce and I broke the first promise that I ever made to my daughter,
but would do my best to get another job as quickly as possible.
February 1st, 1996
Returning to Germany

We landed together at the Zurich airport in a snowstorm. I had no idea what to expect of
the days ahead, but I felt confident I would make myself successful. I didn’t know for sure, but I
believed that Katharina wanted me to fail and eventually just return to the States.
Gabi dropped me off in Rheinheim, my new home, and I was led to my room. It was an
unpleasant surprise. The entire apartment was no bigger than a normal bedroom, and the two
single beds had to be pulled down from the wall.
“Where’s the rest?” I asked Katharina.
“You’ll like it here.”
I laughed. “Five-hundred dollars for this?”
“I’ll bring Espen back in a couple of days.”
I slipped into my Sorrels and tromped around through six inches of snow and wondering,
“What the hell am I doing in Rheinheim?” There was only one store, a bank, a cluster of houses,
and nothing to do.
I was deep asleep when a sick grinding noise awoke me. I stared into the darkness, the
grinding didn’t cease, and my digital clock read 4:00. It sounded like bones being ground into a
powder. I dressed to find the source of this madness and paced the hallways unable to find the
culprit. Outside in the snow I peeked through a basement window and saw twenty Germans in
white clothing, “Son of a bitch,” I yelled, for I had moved in directly above a noisy bakery. I
couldn’t fall back asleep and ended up staring out my window into the darkness watching the
long traffic jam of Germans at the border crossing entering Switzerland. The German economy
was weak and the locals were driving into Switzerland for better jobs.
I opened up a bank account for myself and a separate account in Espen’s name. I
deposited seventy-five dollars into her account and pledged to do the same every month until she
was eighteen. What a great college gift that would be, I thought.
I jumped on a bus in Rheinheim and bought a round trip ticket for the twenty miles to
Waldshut and back, which cost me six dollars. My same bus was also picking up children for
school and each child had to pay a bus fare. I wondered who these Germans thought they were
kidding when they brag about their social system taking care of them.
I met up with Katharina to get her signature on some paperwork, which German
Immigration had given me to fill out. When I brought it back to them, they would stamp my
passport giving me permission to live and work in Germany for one year. When the year ended I
would have to fill out another form for permission, and repeat this for two more years until my
status was permanent. We wrote on the form that we were still married and living at the same
address. We would have to pretend that we were still happily in love until we filed for divorce at
a later date. Katharina also had some paperwork, “Sign this one too,” she said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I’m signing up for unemployment.”
I was shocked. “You’re not taking that job with your mom?”
“Do you know how much money Germany will give me?”
“I thought you wanted a job.”
“Just keep your mouth shut and I’ll give you some of it.”
Throwing my arms in the air, “It’s your country!”
My daughter was with me four mornings a week. I cooked her more meals than
Katharina did, dressed her more mornings a week than Katharina did, and basically had the more
difficult schedule, and I relished in it.
Every Thursday afternoon at 5:00pm I was at the Mona Lisa Ice Cream Store to pick up
my daughter. The Mona Lisa was the perfect place for an exchange. It was an ice cream store on
the Kaiserstrasse where adults could drink Cappuccino and kids could lick ice cream cones. On
warm days the owner would set out tables on the Kaiserstrasse making it a popular hangout.
On Monday mornings, Espen and I would share a warm omelet inside the Cafe’ Journal.
At 10:00am Katharina would arrive and we’d have a short conversation before she left with
Espen.
There’s a small private language school hidden behind some buildings just off the
Kaiserstrasse. It’s a beautiful space with new carpet and marble floors, and two separate
classrooms off from the reception area. An elderly woman was sitting alone at her desk when I
entered, “I want to sign up for German lessons.”
She heard my accent and smiled, “Where are you from?”
“From the States.”

“I can teach you German, but how would you like to teach English?”
“I would.”
“I just fired my English teacher and I prefer someone with a native tongue.”
“That’s me.”
“Can you start tonight at six o’clock?”
“Yes, but I can only teach three-days a week.”
“I can pile all your classes into three days.”
“Who are the students?”
“They’re all professionals who speak good English but want to make it perfect.”
“I’m ready to start.”
 “My school is the most expensive in the area so you need to be good.”
“I have a lot of practice at English, I think I can do it.”
“Here are your books and a key to get in.”
I met a wealthy German couple who were retiring and moving to Switzerland. They were
leaving their family home in Waldshut to their nineteen-year-old son who was off doing his one-
year mandatory boot-camp in the Army, so they offered to rent the house to me. They drove me
up a steep hill past some gorgeous homes to the most exclusive residential area of Waldshut. At
the very top of the hill, at the end of the street, nestled in the forest sat their home, fully furnished
with a sauna, and a huge bedroom for Espen and me on the top floor. Just off our bedroom was a
large balcony overlooking Waldshut below. I was on that balcony thinking about all the
barbecue parties I’d be having when the lady said, “We don’t need the money, you can have it for
two-hundred a month.”
“That’s fine,” I said.
“Maybe that’s too much, so I will include the water and heat.” I couldn’t get the cash out
of my wallet fast enough.
March 1996

Teaching English to a group of Germans was entertaining. I’d toss topics to debate for
ninety-minutes and we’d go at it. I’d argue for capitalism, and they’d insulted me back. I asked
them things like, “Who’s responsible for not allowing anyone to buy milk on Sundays, the
Catholic Church or your Unions?” They’d argue back that Americans were irresponsible. I’d
ask, “Why it was acceptable for German girls of fourteen to be allowed to sleepover at their
boyfriend’s parent’s house?” They’d point back that Americans are prudes. I must have been
doing an adequate job, because I started getting inquiries from parents who wanted me to help
their children with their English homework.
On a back street near Gabi’s health food store sat The Irish Mermaid Pub. The upper level
was a dark room with lots of oak furniture, and was staged for the adult crowd. Down a flight of
stairs was an underground cavern set up with a massive stereo system and a separate bar for the
younger crowd. Several hundred years prior this cavern was the butcher’s slaughtering room.
The owner of the Pub, Jackie Ferrell, was a retired boxer from Ireland who was amassing a small
fortune opening up Irish Pubs throughout Germany. Kids of any age can sit in a bar in Germany
and at sixteen order beer and smoke cigarettes. His bar was the after-school hangout, which
made him irritable, because the kids would buy just one Coke and sip on it for an hour. He
would watch them like a hawk, and as soon as they slurped their last sip he would dart over to
their table, “Order another or get out.”
Jackie and I became friends, partly because we could get away from Germans and speak
English together, and partly because we had a mutual dislike for their arrogance. If he had to
make a run to the bank, I’d watch the bar for him. If he had to leave town for the day, I’d run the
pub for him. On those days, I’d turn off his Irish folk music and blast some rock, which further
packed the joint with kids.
While sitting on a bench in the Kaiserstrasse watching Germans in alpine clothes and
rushing to look important, I caught a glimpse of something strange heading my direction. It was a
very tall girl with long black hair, wearing a leather Harley jacket and dark sunglasses, and
strutting like Queen Shit as she weaved her way through the people. I had to laugh as she got
closer because she absolutely didn’t fit in here. Just as she strutted past me I blurted out, “Where
in the hell are you from?”
She came to an abrupt stop, “California, Santa Monica.”
 I laughed, “Another American.”
“Why are you here?” She asked.
“I live here, and you?”
“I just moved here for a year.”
“Let’s get a beer.”
She was strutting again as I led her towards The Irish Mermaid Pub, and thinking to
myself, “This girl will never last a week here.”
We waited for our Killkinney’s, “I’m Scott.”
“I’m Jo.” (Josie Meugniot)
“Why are you in Waldshut, Jo?”
“My friend is German. She got kicked out of the States so she came back here for a year.”
“Your friend?”
“Yeah, my girlfriend. OK, I’m lesbian.”
“Have you been here before?”
“This is my first time out of California.”
“What are you going to do here for a year?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have much money, not even enough to get back home.”
“That’s Jackie behind the bar, maybe he’ll give you a job.”
“As far as getting money to get home, open up a bank account, get a German MasterCard,
and I’ll tell you the rest later.”

Jo – Waldhsut 1996
 Jo and I quickly became the best of friends. Every morning that Espen wasn’t with me, I
was at Jo’s apartment watching CNN and drinking coffee. We’d walk around Waldshut together
and complain about Germans. We’d usually have a beer together each afternoon at the Irish Pub.
Jackie did give her a job working nights, and nobody else knew she was lesbian so she got better
tips if the guys thought they could hit on her. She received her German MasterCard, and began
building her account depositing her tips.
Every Saturday morning I opened up my school and Espen would take her seat. My two-
and-a-half year old would watch me draw letters on the chalkboard then try it herself.
April 1996

Espen and I were finished eating breakfast by ten o’clock on Monday mornings so that
Katharina didn’t have to wait. During one exchange she wanted me to adjust my schedule,
“Would you wait until ten o’clock before starting breakfast from now on?”
“Why?”
“I’d like to start having breakfast together.”
And so it was, every Monday morning Espen and I would hike down to the village and
share breakfast with her.
We both agreed that the kindergarten up on the Bergstadt, near where Katharina lived
with her mother Gabi, was the best kindergarten in Waldshut. I picked up the application
booklet, filled it out, we both signed it, and I met twice with the teachers to make sure I liked
them. We decided to wait until the following year for her to begin, and we agreed to split the
cost of the school.
Espen and I were playing in a big grassy field when we took a short rest laying back to
look up at the blue sky. Because we were in central Europe the sky was frequently full of jets
crisscrossing each other and heading in all directions leaving white jet streams to appear like
spaghetti noodle inside a blue bowl. Espen was sitting on my chest, and I was telling her where
each plane might be heading when I noticed a small black tick burrowing into the side of her
neck. I knew of one doctor in town, Dr. Wolfe, where we had to wait the usual two hours to get
in. As it turned out, the Black Forest is the most common region in Europe for tick bites, and my
daughter needed was a shot. It was an easy call, it fell within my rights to make day-to-day
medical decisions, but I still wanted to inform Katharina. It was how I would like her to treat me.
We both discussed it with Dr. Wolfe and agreed to let Espen have the shot. When we left
the doctor’s office I asked Katharina, “Shall we use her as Espen’s doctor?”
“Yes. I like her.”
May 1996

I delivered Espen her first tricycle. It was shiny red and I installed a Mickey Mouse bell
on her handlebars. It was a big occasion, so I invited Katharina to come over and watch our
daughter make her first peddles. Espen pushed off with both feet, figured out the steering system,
and soon began peddling like the bigger kids. I stood next to Katharina admiring our daughter,
“Are you still going back to the States this summer?” She asked.
“I plan to, why?”
“I don’t have enough money to go.”
I pondered for a moment. “If you can’t go, then I’ll wait until the next summer.”
“Thank you.”
“How have you been?”
She sighed, “I’m seeing a specialist in Freiburg, and still using Cortisone.”

Espen with her first tricycle

June 1996

Sardinia is an Italian island in the Mediterranean, and a place I’d never visited. I
researched flights, hotels, beaches, and planned to take Espen there for our one-week holiday.
According to our Parenting Plan, I just had to give Katharina the dates we’d be gone and the
phone number to our hotel.
It was five o’clock Thursday and Espen was enjoying an ice cream cone with her mom
outside the Mona Lisa. “I want to fly down to Sardinia in two weeks with Espen,” I said.
She wrinkled her face, “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m planning to take her down into the French Alps. I think that’s too much traveling for
her.”
This kind of reasoning irritated me. “What?”
“Maybe you can change your plans?” She urged.
I realized that a beach was just a beach to a two-year-old child, so it didn’t matter where
we built our sandcastles. Soon after I was traveling alone through Switzerland, switched trains in
Geneva and continued south towards the French Alps.
I jumped off in the resort town of Annecy France without knowing anything about it
except that it was on the shore of a huge lake. After playing a competitive game of soccer in the
park I came upon several students holding onto the railing of a bridge and leaning out over the
water forty-feet below. Being the American I made sure that I was the first to jump. I was
soaking wet when I started my walk back through the park towards the city and spotted an old
woman swinging her purse into the air and yelling at a group of teenagers. I could see the kids
were skateboarding around her, and taunting her. She was a short woman, maybe seventy-years
old and wearing a peasant dress. She was angry and trying to stop the kids from skating up on a
wooden bench and breaking it. A crowd of adults had gathered around but nobody would step in
to aid the old woman. That European adults would stand by and “do nothing” was typical of my
impressions of French passiveness, these little greasy sausage people, but me being an
American; a “problem solver,” I am raised to resolve this kind of conflict. I weaved through the
crowd and the woman was still swinging her purse at the kids skating by her yelling into her ear.
They had already knocked over one bench and were working on a second, “Fuck this,” I
thought. Just as I reached the old woman, one of the kids skated by yelling at her and I threw a
well-stabilized body block into him which sent him flying. His momentum carried him ten feet
before he cart wheeled onto the blacktop. I took hold of the old woman’s arm, “Are you OK?”
“Merci, Merci,” she said.
I pointed at my chest, “American, no speak French.”
She continued to babble in a language I knew little about. A group of policemen began
working through the crowd, and the old woman gave me a hug before shooing me away with her
hand. I disappeared through the crowd and into the city. What a rush! I hadn’t been in a scuffle
since sixth grade. I found a quiet square, took a seat outside in the hot sunshine and ordered a
beer. The buildings around me were very old and all made of a dusty orange brick. I downed
that cold beer and let the sunshine burn into my face.
I met up with Katharina and Espen further down south in a small village popular with
rock climbers. It was now our turn for fun and we boarded an old train heading south. We crept
along, chugging our way up the Alps, winding through valleys then descending on the
Mediterranean Sea. We reached the French coastline, turned until we reached San Remo, Italy.
Carrying a backpack full of clothes and Espen on top my shoulders, we worked our way
down the waterfront. I broke off down a quiet back street, leaving the mopeds and congested
traffic behind and found the Albergo Marina Hotel. This little family-run two-star joint would
serve us well for the next five days.
On the fifth day we made a short excursion back across the border into France and
jumped off in Monte Carlo, Monaco. Being new to the place I just followed the crowd up some
steep brick steps to the old part of town where we shared a big plate of seafood spaghetti, wrote a
postcard to Katharina, and toured the Royal Castle. We boarded sightseeing bus which wound its
way down to the waterfront, and Espen and I pretended we were racing a Formula 1 Car in the
Monaco Grand Prix. I like to make sound effects when I’m telling a story, and this was an
opportunity to simulate my favorite sound of all; an accelerating Formula 1 race car. Gives me
shivers.
 Heading towards home on a northbound train through Italy, Espen chose to sit with a
group of American college girls and tell stories about her adventures. They would laugh
together, and occasionally she’d run back to make sure I was still waiting for her.
I’d say, “I love you, Sweetie.”
She’d raise both her hands and say, “Wait here, Dad,” then rush back to entertain her
new friends some more. I would have enjoyed sitting with the group, but she had established it
as her territory and I respected her needs to make her own friends.
We switched trains after crossing into Switzerland, and weaved our way up the Alps
into Zermatt, where we dipped and swirled chunks of bread in our cheese fondue and later fell
asleep under a thick feather blanket.
A week later we were at the intersection of Germany, Switzerland, and Austria, walking
along Lake Constance entering an open air stadium to hear a Neil Young concert. We endured
several lousy warm-up bands and danced around on the stadium floor. As darkness set, Neil
finally took the stage. He had just brought the crowd back to life with his first song when Espen
leaned down from my shoulders and said, “I’m getting tired.”
We were nearing the season when the smaller villages host their festivals. There were
usually grilled sausages with sour-kraut, a big band playing traditional German music, adults
drinking beer, and kids running free. They were the Essberger family, the husband was a student
in my class, and he with his wife became my good friends. Espen and I joined them at one of
those festivals. This would be exciting for Espen, and for me it would be a blind date with a girl
named Ingrid Mutter. Frau Essberger had the whole thing arranged and the only thing I knew
about Ingrid was that she was wild and usually stayed out too late. We approached a table full
of Germans drinking beer, typical. Two of them were twins, and one of them was Ingrid. She
had long blonde hair, playful and pretty, but she didn’t speak one word of English. Using what
little German I knew I tried to get to know her. She was the youngest in a large Catholic family,
twenty-six years old, and had lived her entire life within this valley. She was an activities
director at a retirement home, had her own apartment, and she agreed to meet me at the Irish
Pub the following Tuesday for a date.
Our first date was white wine at my favorite table in the back. She was funny and I liked
her from the beginning. Only one thing bothered me that evening; she smoked. Thoroughly
drunk, she offered to drive me up the hill to my home. She reached the end of my street and
turned her car off, “Can we kiss for five minutes?” she asked me in German.
“Ok,” I said leaning her way. She was the first smoker I had ever kissed. My head
became nauseated and started to spin, so I broke the suction and gasped for air, “I’ll cook you
dinner at your place tomorrow,” I said banging the door open with my shoulder.
I spent much of the next afternoon shopping Waldshut finding all the right ingredients.
Jackie gave me a half-downed bottle of Tequila, which I slipped into my bag and caught a bus.
Seven miles west along the Rhine in the village of Luttingen, I spotted the big orange Catholic
church. That was my landmark to exit the bus. Just behind the church I was to find her inside her
second level apartment.
She hung out by the window, blowing her cigarette smoke outside and looking good in
the sunset. I cranked up the blender and prepared two frosty Margaritas, and we spent much of
the time flipping through her English-German translating book trying to piece a conversation
together. I had taken over her kitchen and went to work creating some tasty Mexican tacos.
These babies were dragon-breath hot and she loved ‘em. I liked her more with each passing
minute, and later that night with the passion thick we made love.
It was a warm Monday morning at ten o’clock when Espen and I arrived at the Journal
Cafe’ for breakfast. Katharina was already sitting outside at a table. I picked up a menu and
Katharina said, “I don’t have time, we’re leaving.”
I looked at her in shock, “You could have called and told me earlier.”
She was angry, “I don’t ever have to call you.”
“But Espen’s hungry, so we’re staying,” I said.
“I’m hungry,” Espen said.
Katharina stood and yelled, “Will someone help me here?” The other quests must have
thought there was a death occurring.
“We’ll be down at the other Cafe’,” I said picking up Espen.
Katharina ran after me. “I’ll call the police.”
“There’s something fuckin’ wrong with you,” I said handing Espen over to her.
Katharina took hold of her saying, “If daddy can’t remember to feed you breakfast, then
mommy will.”

In San Remo
July 1996

Our exchanges were quick, mostly just hello and good-bye. Katharina wouldn’t tell me
anything about her experiences with Espen, but did inform me about other things that I absolutely
didn’t care about.
“My unemployment has run out,” she said.
“What are you going to do?”
“Take Welfare.”
“Don’t you want a job?”
“My mother’s paying me under-the-table.”
Espen and I continued a productive and active lifestyle that included afternoons at the
pool and indulging in more village festivals.
My daughter spoke both English and German fluently. More impressively, she could
speak English with me and then turn to her mother and switch to German.
August 1996

Ingrid was now my girlfriend. Damn it though, I was still married. So on a sunny Monday
morning outside the Journal Café I met up with the wife, “I think it’s a good time to start the
divorce.”
“I’ll rewrite our Parenting Plan into German and we’ll file for divorce,” she offered.
“OK.”
“If this causes you any problems with Immigration we can stop the divorce.”
Another week passed when she told me that she had problems with her computer and was
using the wrong software.
I withdrew enough money to make a deposit on a brand new apartment and signed a
contract to move in at the end of the month.
From a distance I could see Espen licking an ice cream cone. Katharina saw me coming
and quickly stood up to leave.
“Have you finished with the Plan?”
She nodded her head, “Yes, but now I’m having problems with the printer.”
The month was winding down and I met up with her again at an exchange, “Is your
printer working?”
“I found an attorney that will help us file.”
“What?”
“He knows the process and will help us do it right.”
“Why would you do that?”
“He’ll work for both of us.”
I woke up the next morning feeling a little wiser and decided to check up on Katharina.
Outside the town center near the train station sat the post office, the police station, a travel
agency, and the courthouse. The courthouse was a decaying three-story building without any
security. I found a room with two secretaries working through piles of paperwork and an elderly
man wearing a bright ski sweater standing behind them, “I’m wondering if a divorce was started
in my name?” I asked.
The man asked me, “Are you the American?”
“Yes, I’m American.”
“Just this morning we received your wife’s request for a divorce,” he said.
“You’re kidding.”
“Here’s your copy,” he said, handing me a three-page letter. The heading of the letter had
Katharina’s name together with an attorney’s name, and it was written against me.
I looked at the man, “She said this attorney would help us both.”
He laughed. “That’s not possible.”
“Are you the judge?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t believe she did this.”
“This case will be sent to Berlin for registration, and then you’ll receive a copy in a week,
but now you already have it,” he said walking away.
The letter was written in German so in desperation I found a friend to translate.
Katharina had requested sole custody and requested all decision making to be hers. She stated
that I had made decision-making impossible by arguing with her at every exchange.
I couldn’t believe that she was willing to throw us into another sick custody battle,
especially with the effects it had on our daughter the last time. I had no doubts that German law
would give her sole custody, which meant I wouldn’t be allowed to stay in Germany.
Katharina believed that it would take another week before I’d find out what she had done,
which would give me enough time to decide on a strategy. But knowing her past history I had
little assurance that she would bring Espen back to me on Thursday, which was just two days
away.
My instinct were to return to the States, which would hinge on whether or not Katharina
was clever enough to serve me with a restraining order requiring Espen to remain in Germany.
I randomly chose an attorney out of the phone book, a Mr. Keller, and told him about the
contract and how Katharina had recently broken it.
“Now she has asked for sole custody,” I said.
 Without hesitating he responded, “I have thought about it. You must take your child back
to America, because you have no chance here.”
“Will it get me into any trouble?”
“Don’t worry about the police, nobody will come after you.”
It was a warm summer afternoon, just minutes before five o’clock when I strolled down
Kaiserstrasse towards the Mona Lisa. I was literally praying that my daughter would be there,
and that I could escape without being served a restraining order. From a distance I could see my
daughter and Katharina sitting with another woman. I assumed that she was there to have me
served or any of the other fifty people sitting nearby. I introduced myself to her and sat down
trying to be calm and natural. Katharina was unusually nervous, wearing her sunglasses and
unable to look me in the face. It was time to make my move, “Shall we leave Espen?”
“Wait a minute, I have something for you,” Katharina said reaching into her purse. Her
hands nervously shaking while she pulled out a bottle of cough syrup, “Here, Espen needs this.”
Her hands were now shaking out of control while she attempted to read me the directions,
suddenly the bottle slipped from her fingers and shattered on the cobblestone at her feet.
“Never mind, I have cough syrup at home.”
Quick through the crowd we were, on down Kaiserstrasse, “We’re going back to Seattle
to visit Grandma.”
“Yeah, Grandma,” she yelled.
I unlocked the door to my school, called a travel agency in Switzerland, and booked two
tickets from Zurich to Seattle leaving Sunday morning. I wrote a letter to the director of the
school saying that due to an unfortunate family matter I had to quit. I wrote a two-page letter to
Katharina and went to see Jo.
“Will you slide this under the door of Gabi’s store late Sunday night?” I asked Jo,
handing her the letter written for Katharina.
“What does it say?”
“That we’re at my mom’s house in Seattle, and how much I think she’s a jerk.”
We stopped by the bank where I canceled the deposit on my new apartment and closed-
out my account, then invited Ingrid for dinner. I was telling her that my return was definite,
though so many things depended on when. She leaned across the table and whispered, “I’m
pregnant.”
No matter what I said it would be wrong but I managed to come up with, “Really?”
“I saw the doctor this morning. Stay here.
“I can’t. I didn’t come here to lose my daughter.”
“I’m going to have this child,” she said.
“It’s your choice.”
September 1st, 1996
Returning to Seattle

I showed him my American passport and Espen’s American passport and he waved us
through.
The plane roared down the runway and lifted into the sky. I had to chuckle knowing that I
landed here exactly seven months earlier, and during that time I cared for my daughter and was
more successful than Katharina, plus I did it in her country. I was also a bit mad because all my
progress was now thrown away.
It was Sunday evening, Seattle time, when we arrived at my mother’s home. She owns a
big house with lots of bedrooms, in a quiet area. Espen and my mother were good together, so
this was a treat for them.
I had figured in the time difference between Seattle and Waldshut, and when Katharina
would get my letter. She would probably call in a few hours, around one o’clock in the morning,
but I decided to get some sleep anyways. I was woken by the phone ringing, and glanced over at
the digital clock which read, “1:05.”
“Hello.”
“Scott, what are you doing?” She asked in a playful voice.
“I can’t believe you woke me up,” and laughed.
Then she got serious, “What do I have to do to get my daughter back?”
“Reinstate our Parenting Plan.”
“I’ll do it today.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I really will.”
“I’m going to file for divorce in Seattle.”
“I’ll fix everything here.”
“You do that and send me a copy, I’m going back to sleep.”
 She hung up, called her attorney and requested joint custody. She then went to the police
and filed parental kidnapping charges.
It was a beautiful morning to be downtown in a funky little coffee shop. Espen was eating
a raspberry scone, I was listening to jazz and watching the assortment of people. A lawyer
cruised in, plopped his briefcase down next to the cash register, stared up at the menu, and
ignored the crowd of people lining up behind him. A homeless drunk Indian stumbled against the
side of the glass entrance, gained his composure, headed my direction, and stopped at my table,
“White Man, give me some change,” he demanded.
“Sorry, don’t have any.”
“I hate White-Man,” he said leaning in closer.
I pointed to the Barista, “That’s my brother. Order anything you want, today it’s free.”
He groaned and cut in front of the line. I took Espen across the street into the courthouse,
purchased a Divorce Packet and a copy of a Restraining Order to prevent her from being taken
out of the State of Washington.
Comfortable we were in the Court Library where Espen could draw and I fill out the
Proposed Parenting Plan section, writing it out with exactly the same time schedules as our
contract, and I included a paragraph that all parties agree to reside in Germany.
The clerk stamped the packet with a number, which I wrote onto the other copies, and
headed down to Ex Parte.
“Good morning, your Honor.”
He reached over his desk, “What do you have?”
“I have a Restraining Order that I hope you will sign,” handing it to him and lifting Espen
onto my arm.
“Where’s the mother?”
“She’s in Germany.”
“And I suppose she didn’t know you were coming here with the child?”
“No, she didn’t.”
He was wavering whether or not to sign it, “Your Honor, she’s taken the child out of the
States before without my consent. I’m concerned that she’ll try it again.”
He signed it.
 We walked to the post office, where I sent a copy of the Divorce Packet and Restraining
Order to Katharina. All my work was behind me and we took off for the beach.
Espen was telling her mother how much fun we were having, then it was my turn.
“My attorney has applied for joint custody, you can trust me on this,” she said.
“In a few days you’ll get my divorce papers in the mail. Just sign it and send it back to
me.”
“Why?”
“As soon as I get them back, we will return to Germany.”
“But it takes a year to get a divorce.”
“If we agree on everything, it only takes ninety-days.”
“I can’t wait ninety-days to see Espen.”
“You don’t have to. I don’t need to be here at the end of the ninety-days. I can have a
friend show up in Court for us, and show the judge our signed copy. Then we are instantly
divorced.”
“I’d rather have the divorce here.”
“Just sign it and send it back to me, and we’ll be home in two weeks.”
“I’ll have a look at it.”
“I want a divorce, Katharina. This is the quickest way.”
“Do you have a girlfriend over here?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so.”
“Have you contacted the police about this?” I asked.
“No.”
“I want you to send me a letter stating that you have not filed any legal action against
me.”
“OK.”
Another two weeks passed and Katharina swore that she had not received my mail, which
I knew was a lie. I told her the ball was in her court, and that I was taking a short vacation.
We landed in Phoenix and met my father and his wife, Donna, at the airport. As it was my
first trip to the desert; my dad’s property, in Bouse Arizona, was a strange environment full of
cactus and pomegranate trees surrounded by a wire-mesh fence to keep out the rattlesnakes. The
real surprise waited for us inside his garage, where he proudly displayed his assortment of Quad
motorcycles.
I secured Espen’s car seat onto the back of my Quad, wiped her down with sunscreen and
drove off into the desert. We followed my father who had his big muscular Rottweiler riding on
the back and his little Chihuahua riding up front in a basket.
Those sandy riverbeds went on for miles and with one hand steering I filmed a home
video of Espen smiling and laughing with the other hand.
We were watching the sunset from my father’s porch while eating watermelon and
spitting the seeds over the railing. My father shook his head, “You really want to go back to
Germany?”
“No, I hate it there. But I have to.”
“I don’t like thinking about you in that place.”
“I do it to be with my daughter.”
“This One-World Government is taking over, I just don’t think Germany is a safe place to
be.”
“Dad, I have a girlfriend over there...and she’s pregnant.”
Shaking his head, “What are you going to do?”
“I can’t marry her, I’m already married and I don’t want to marry another small town
German girl.”
“Yeah, you’d be going down the same road again...”
Part of visiting my father is that every Sunday morning we go to service at a small church
about fifteen minutes from his house, and it’s where he and his wife first met. Going to church
there has become an important ritual for my father and his wife.
I stayed up late that night to call Katharina, “Did you get the paper work?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Are you going to sign it?”
“I don’t know. It’s difficult to decide.”
“We’re heading into Mexico tomorrow.”
“What?”
I laughed, “Just for the day.”
“You had better not let any Mexican’s touch our daughter.”
 Espen and I held hands and walked across the border into Algodones, Mexico. She
picked out a straw hat, and we said good-bye to my father and his wife, who were visiting a
chiropractor for a five-dollar back adjustment. The streets weren’t paved, the buildings were in
shambles, the locals looked desperate, and I was walking around with my two-year-old, a video
recorder, and a pocket full of cash. I found an outdoor restaurant; more of a wooden shack, and
we sat up at the bar. While the chef prepared what I hoped was some kind of beef, Espen and I
rubbed our thumbs with lime juice, sprinkled salt on top, then licked it off and downed shots of
7-UP.

Espen at Alki Beach in Seattle

The month was nearly over when Katharina called me at my mother’s house, I agree to
have the divorce in Seattle,” she said.
“Good. Have you sent the paperwork back?”
“No, I’m flying to Seattle with them. I want to sign them when we’re together.”
“Whatever.”
 “I’ll be there Friday the 4th. Your girlfriend called me.”
“I told her she could.”
“Why?”
“She’s pissed that you’re taking so long to straighten this out.”
“I’ll see you in a week.”

It was three-days later when I asked my mother to baby-sit for the evening, and the first
time in five-weeks that I had gone anywhere without Espen. I returned home at 10:30 and my
mother met in the driveway, “We’ve got to talk.”
“What’s wrong, Mom?”
“They came and got her.”
“No! Who was it?”
“Katharina, and her mom.”
“You didn’t have to let them take Espen.”
“A policeman was with them, they showed me papers.”
My mom showed me a thick stack of papers, which I began reading through. Included
was a five-page letter written by the German judge with the bright ski sweater, which Katharina
had translated into English. It stated that Katharina had requested sole custody, then joint
custody, and switched again to sole custody. He had awarded her custody for the one-year
separation period, and made that decision because the child had been living exclusively with the
mother and the mother had breast fed the child. He said it was imperative the child develop a
bond with just one parent. It was signed, Judge Affolter, who was the old man wearing the
bright ski sweater. Wow, Katharina had really sold him some shit.
The next clump of papers was from the same Seattle attorney that Katharina had used the
year before. Together, they had seen a judge earlier in the day, told him that I was emotionally
unstable making this an emergency situation. The Seattle judge signed an order that I had to
immediately turn over the child. I was ordered to appear in court on October 3rd, in three days
because Katharina was requesting that my case be dismissed, and she was asking for permission
to leave with the child.
Within their declaration it was written that I had absconded with my child from Germany,
and they requested that the court “send me a loud message.”
They had caught me completely unprepared. I hadn’t written any Declarations in my
defense, and I didn’t have a lawyer. I didn’t know where Espen was, except she that she had to
be somewhere in Washington State because the Restraining Order was still in place.
I crafted my Declaration included all the relevant facts and a copy of our Parenting Plan
contract. I built my argument around the decision from Judge Affolter awarding custody to the
mother based on some lies, and that a father has no chance of winning custody in Germany.
Therefore it was in the best interest of the child for the court to ignore the German judge and take
jurisdiction of the child. I suggested that if the court was interested in the well-being of the child
they should stop the custody-battle by reinstating our old Parenting Plan so we could return to
Germany and move-on with our lives.
I was at the courthouse first thing in the morning filing my Declaration. I also picked up
a form that would award me temporary custody and headed down to Ex Parte for a judge’s
signature. “What’s going on in this case?” The judge asked.
“It’s a divorce, and I’m afraid the mother will flee with the child.”
“I want you to wait here. I’m going to call her attorney to come down,” he said, picking
up the phone.
It took a half-hour for her to arrive. I handed her a copy of my Declaration and for some
reason shook her hand. Then time for battle. We argued, and occasionally yelled at each other
until the judge raised his hand. He wrote on the form, “Father’s request for temporary custody is
denied.”
Katharina’s attorney shut her briefcase, “Sorry to waste your time.”
The judge looked at me, “You need an attorney.”
It was the next morning when I first met with my new attorney, Robert. He seemed
aggressive, and would represent me just one day for a fee of five-hundred-dollars. I asked him,
“What do you know about The Hague Convention Treaty?”
“Not much.”
“Neither does any other attorney I called.”
“I’ll review it tonight.”
Next morning I was in the court library with Robert, “I’ve reviewed The Hague Treaty.”
“Good.”
“This whole case is based on jurisdiction.”
“Can we get it?”

“The divorce was started in Germany, you can’t have two cases going.”
“What about her breaking the contract?”
“Those are merits. You clearly have her beat on merits, but the judge will not hear
merits...We have to get the judge to take jurisdiction away from Germany, otherwise your case is
a sunken ship.”
We took our seats in the rear of the courtroom. Katharina wasn’t there, and her attorney sat
directly in front of us with a big colorful book on her lap, and she was tapping it with her
fingertips. I leaned forward enough to see its title, Hague Convention for Abducted Children.
She was trying to intimidate us.
Our case was called and we headed for the podium. Katharina’s attorney started, “Your
Honor, have you read Scott’s Declaration?”
“Yes I have.”
“I request that you throw it out.”
“Why?” the judge asked.
“He signed it, but he didn’t write ‘under penalty of perjury.’
The judge yelled out, “That’s ok, he will before he leaves.”
I had escaped a bomb and took a deep breath. Robert made a short statement and
concluded with, “Jurisdiction, we just don’t know, we just don’t know.”
The judge asked Katharina’s attorney for comment. She stood there silent. The-Fraud
had no idea what was inside that book of her.
The Judge said, “I order the mother to surrender her passport and the passport of the
child. I’m continuing the Restraining Order not to remove the child, and I’m sending this case
upstairs to be heard by IC Judge Learned.”
Victory was mine, oh sweet victory how it felt good! Katharina’s attorney yelled out,
“Your Honor, the mother has already returned to Germany with the child.”
“I don’t care, my order stands.”
 I rush to the next elevator wanting to be the first person to IC Judge Learned’s office to
schedule our court date out as late as possible.

I threw open the door to her courtroom just as a lawyer was making his closing argument
to a jury. The judge scowled at me from her bench and her clerk quickly weaved her way back
to me. “I need to schedule a court date,” I urgently told her.
“Wait in the hall, I’ll get the calendar.”
The clerk brought out a thick book. “Can I schedule a date two-months out?” I asked.
“Let’s see. November is busy, and she’s on holiday most of December.”
“How about January?” I asked.
“You can’t book so far out.”
I saw Katharina’s attorney rounding the corner and asked, “When is her latest date?”
“November 1st, nine o’clock.”
“Good enough,” handing her the case number.
Katharina’s attorney was fast. She had already typed out a petition to be signed
requesting the case be dismissed. But she wasn’t fast enough. She’d have to wait nearly a month
to be heard.
October 8th, 1996

From my window in the plane I could see the eastern edge of the American continent and
the Atlantic Ocean out in front. I was carrying the recommendation from Dr. Willis, and the
order for Katharina to surrender her passport. I was intensely focused on returning to Germany to
win custody.
Ingrid gave me just one drawer for all my stuff, told her that it was dumb to smoke while
she was pregnant then fell asleep from jet lag. I woke up the next morning and made a pact with
her, “I just need time to resolve this custody thing.”
“How long?”
“A week or two.”
Judge Affolter had a large but dismal corner office with a cheap metal desk for himself
and several rickety wooden chairs for clients tucked against the back wall. There wasn’t any
courtroom and all his cases were heard inside that office. He recognized me and he looked
surprised that I had the nerve to show my face in Germany again. I laid out my paperwork in
front of him, “The child has been living with me more than half time, not exclusively with the
mother.”
He seemed nervous and started rubbing his face, his arms, and the back of his neck,
perhaps hoping some wisdom may seep out, “I’ve sent this case to Mr. Zimmermann for review.”
“Who’s Mr. Zimmermann?”
“A social worker, he’ll make his recommendation to me.”
“Here’s the recommendation from an American child psychologist. He spent six months
on the case.”
Affolter started laughing and stood up, “In Germany we take a year.”
“Yeah but…”
“Go see Zimmermann.”
 I drove up the hill to Espen’s future kindergarten where I met with the director, “Do you
remember how often I was here before I signed-up my daughter?”
“Yes, several times,” she answered.
“As often as my wife?”
“More than your wife.”
“My wife has convinced the judge that she made all the decisions. Will you write a short
letter to the contrary?”
She turned on her electric typewriter, “OK.”
I caught Dr. Wolfe’s returning from lunch, “I was at every one of Espen’s appointments,
do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember me always calling Katharina and cooperating with her?”
“Yes.”
“Will you write a letter confirming that?”
“I don’t want trouble.”
“It’s just a letter.”
“Have the judge telephone me, I’ll talk to him.”
The Federal Building sits on the opposite end of town from the courthouse, it’s three-
stories tall and occupied by Immigration and Social Workers. On the second floor halfway down
the hallway I found Zimmermann’s office. His door was slightly open and I gave it a quiet tap
with my knuckles. He recognized my name, and I gave him both the letter from the kindergarten
and Dr. Wolfe’s telephone number. He seemed impressed with my effort, and I reached into my
coat pocket, “I want you to hold onto something,” pulling out Espen’s American passport.
He shook his head, “There’s no need.”
“I won’t try to take my daughter out of Germany.”
He nodded and took it.
“That passport is for you and is not to be given to anyone else.”
“All I have is this desk and these drawers don’t lock.”
“It’ll be safe, now I want to see my daughter.”
While he dialed Katharina’s telephone number I noticed a closet full of children’s toys.
Zimmermann himself was courteous and pleasant. He looked nearly fifty, with long gray hair,
and for some reason had completely lost use of his right arm. He hung up the phone, “I got their
answering machine.”
“I’ll call the health food store,” I said dialing picking up the phone. Katharina’s younger
brother answered, “Hello Thor, where is Katharina?”
“I don’t know.”
I handed the phone to Zimmermann, “It’s her brother.” They chatted for a moment and
Zimmermann’s face looked confused. He hung up, “She’s in Canada.”
I strolled down Kaiserstrasse chuckling that Katharina didn’t know I had returned to
Germany, and perhaps she was hiding in Canada too afraid to leave because of the Restraining
Order, plus her attorney had perjured herself in open court over the whereabouts of her client. I
assumed she’d quickly return after she discovered I was here making friends with Zimmermann.
I went right back to Judge Affolter, “Will you honor the contract so I can see my daughter half
time?”
“That plan is no good, you can’t break her into two pieces,” he said.
“Will you put a visiting schedule together?”
He sneered, “No,” stood up and showed me the door.
“You don’t want to help me?” I asked.
“I’ll talk with the mother.”
Over the next two days I interviewed three different attorneys. All three had represented
Katharina’s family in other legal matters so it was a conflict for them to help me. On my fourth
try I sat in the office of an attorney I had never met. I introduced myself and asked if we could
speak English.
“Yes we can. How were things in Seattle?” he asked.
“How’d you know I was in Seattle?”
“I’m Keller, you called me before you left.”
“Things were great in Seattle. But I lost my daughter and we’re back here in Affolter’s
court.”
“This is bad for you.”
“Worse, I can’t find a Family Law attorney.”
“Who is your wife’s attorney?”
“Jurgen Kuhr.”
 “I’ve gone-up against him before, he’s weak,” and placed a call to Uta Ebner thirty
minutes west in Sackingen.
Sackingen is a small historic village on the Rhine known for the turning point in beating
back a Swiss invasion five-hundred years earlier. The stench of burnt sauerkraut accompanied the
entrance to my attorney’s building. Uta was pretty for fifty, and I adored her long silver hair. She
finished reading the Parenting Plan contract and said, “This isn’t valid.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not signed by a judge, so it’s useless.”
“Affolter won’t give me any time to see my daughter.”
“I’m not surprised. He always sides with the mother.”
“That’s just bullshit.”
“He’s retiring in two weeks, and we’ll hopefully get a younger judge.”
“When?”
“Things move slow, maybe a month or two.”
“I can’t wait that long to see my daughter.”
“I’ll petition the Higher Court in Karlsruhe to overturn Affolter’s decision, and we’ll ask
for the Parenting Plan to be reinstated.”
I was home that night talking with Ingrid about life, pregnancy, and how we needed to get
cable TV, when I answered the phone, “Hello, Daddy, I love you.” Katharina was in the
background telling me to be at Zimmerman’s tomorrow at three o’clock.
I arrived a little early and anxious to see my daughter. Zimmerman took a phone call from
Katharina and I overhead her say, “I had to deal with the American court, now Scott can just deal
with ours.”
Zimmermann was shaking his head, “But he’s the father.” He looked disgusted after
hanging up, “She only wants you to see your daughter one hour a week, and supervised.”
“I will not accept that.”
“The visits will be here in my office, each Wednesday at two o’clock.”
“This is sick.”
“She has the child so perhaps she’s feeling powerful,” he said raising his arm and flexing
his bicep.
I returned to Ingrid who told me that the police were looking for me.
 Detective Oswald and I were getting nowhere, because he didn’t speak any English, so I
demanded an interpreter. In walked Martin and Ralph, two young detectives of serious
demeanor.
“We’re here to talk about the kidnapping,” Martin
said. “I didn’t kidnap my daughter.”
“That’s what we’re calling it here,” he said.
Mr. Oswald handed him a list of questions to ask me, and I pulled from my pocket
a hand-written letter, “Read this Martin, Katharina sent this to me while I was in Seattle.”
He read out loud, “I have not filed any criminal charges against you for taking our
daughter out of Germany, and I never will. I understand why you took our daughter away and I
accept the blame.” He translated it into German for Mr. Oswald, who then laughed and left the
room.
“Looks like you’re in the clear,” Martin said, “but we’ll have to send this over to the
Prosecutors Office, but I wouldn’t worry.”
I hung around to chat with Martin and Ralph, and we agreed to meet that evening for a
sauna and then go out for beers.
I would pack as much fun into my one-hour visits as possible. I’d read her a book, share
a snack, and talk about anything she liked. At the end Espen would plead with me, “I want to go
home with you.”
She’d beg her mother, “I want to stay with daddy.”
Katharina would say, “No,” and take off with her.
Zimmermann wrote a long letter to the court, “The child has a remarkable bond with her
father…The child has complete trust with her father… The child needs to be with her father.”
Unfortunately, Judge Affolter had retired leaving the bench empty and nobody to read the letter.
Their Prosecutors Office dropped the kidnapping charges because I had consulted with
that attorney before I left, so I decided to start playing dirty by writing a letter to the Welfare
office informing them that Katharina was working for her mother and receiving benefits. Hitting
her wallet seemed like a smart way to minimize her ability to use an attorney.
Jo accompanied me back to Mr. Oswald’s office where I attempted to file charges
against Katharina for taking Espen out of Washington against the Restraining Order. But
Oswald said, “It’s a problem for the American’s, not for us.”
I mailed a Declaration to IC Judge Learned arguing why she should take jurisdiction, and
requested that she order Katharina to reimburse my attorney’s fees and my airplane ticket. Two-
thousand-eight-hundred dollars sounded justifiable to me.
 Jo and I organized a Halloween party at the Irish Mermaid Pub with an open invitation to
anyone in Waldshut. Jo dressed as the lead singer from the rock group Kiss, and I as a woman…
November 1st, 1996

Ingrid watched me pace around our apartment worrying that thousands of miles away, in
a courtroom in Seattle, my best chance to win custody was being decided at that moment, and I
didn’t have anyone there to represent me. My case was dismissed.
I stopped in at the language school to ask for my job back, but the Director was on
vacation and one of Katharina’s best friends had been hired as the new secretary. She smirked at
me and said, “Business is slow and we don’t need an English teacher.”
Everything went through Zimmermann. At my request, he convinced Katharina to let me
swim at the indoor pool during my visits. She agreed, but only if he promised to be there and
guard the exit. I’d lay out a big towel, set out a book and some candy, blow-up Espen’s
inflatable boat, and nervously hope that Katharina wouldn’t find an excuse not to show up.
Zimmermann was always at the door, something he detested having to do and Katharina was
never far away watching my every move.
Jo and I would walk Waldshut like a couple of aimless nomads without anything
productive to do, until we met Claudia, a beautiful Italian who owned a shoe store on one of the
back streets. Jo and I spent most of two-weeks helping her cart everything across town into her
new space on the Kaiserstrasse across from the Mona Lisa. Payment was a pasta dinner each
evening.
I was allowed to visit Espen for two hours on her third birthday, but only supervised in a
restaurant. When my visit was over, Espen said, “I’m angry with you, mother, for not letting me
go home with daddy.”
December 1996

The Higher Court in Karlsruhe rejected our request for a hearing, which prompted Uta to
file our request back in Waldshut, but this time asking for sole custody.
Katharina began canceling some of my swim-days using various excuses like the water
contains too much chlorine, or my favorite, Espen has the Japanese Flu.
I intentionally looked lost while pacing the hallway of the courthouse, “can I help you?” a
nice lady asked.
“The new family law judge told me to meet him but I can’t find him.”
Pointing across the street, “he’s in that building over there.”
“Maybe I got the wrong person?”
“Mr. Haefner?”
“Yeah, Mr. Haefner.”
I took my new discovery across the street and found Haefner on the third floor. I’d guess
he was only thirty-years old, but a professionally nice looking guy.
“I heard you’re the new family judge.”
“Who told you?”
“A secretary across the street.”
“Nobody’s supposed to know.”
“Will you write a visiting schedule so I can see my daughter?”
“I can’t do anything until I officially move across the street.”
“When will that be?”
“In March.”
“That’s three more months!”
Jo and her German lover were desperate to get back to California. She had discovered
that if she was accepted to a college she could live in the States for the entire four years. We had
a conference meeting at my special table in the Irish Pub to review her high school transcript.
“You have no chance to get into a college with these grades,” I told her, “You have three-years
full of D’s and F’s.”
“I never studied.”
“There’s not even one C on here.”
“Well, I know how to fix that,” she said confidently.
My birthday was approaching, but Katharina denied my request to take Espen skiing or to
a movie. My frustration turned to desperation.
It was a moment starring at the moonlight on my bedroom ceiling when the voices
shouted the rumor into my head, “The only way a mother can lose custody is if she’s a
prostitute!” and, “The only way to win is if she’s a narcotic using whore!” I had nothing to lose. I
wasn’t going to win custody here and Germany would eventually kick me out anyways. I would
keep it an absolute secret, except for the one person I could trust, Jo. She had become addicted
to Rosti’s, a Swiss specialty of hash browns with ham, cheese, and an egg on top. I treated her to
a Rosti and told her to listen up. “I need drugs, like cocaine.”
“For you?”
“No, I have a four-part plan to get Katharina busted.”
Ingrid and I had visited the Gynecologist and then spent the afternoon working on her
parents’ farm. Her father was a sweet old man who drove his antiquated John Deere tractor from
village to village delivering burlap bags of potatoes. At each delivery he’d introduce me as, “The
American,” refusing to use my name and graciously allowed me to unload the potato bags from
the front end loader. I never saw him take any money for his potatoes, but insisted we both drink
a glass of wine with each of his customers. Heading home at sunset, I’d sit on the wheel well
holding on for my life, while the drunken captain would sing heroic songs of valor. During the
war he had hid in the mountains so he wouldn’t have to fight for Hitler. I probably respected and
enjoyed him more than any other German elder I ever met. Ingrid decided to sleep that evening
at her parent’s house, and I borrowed her car. The cellar of the Irish Pub was packed with
teenagers, the music was blaring, and Jo was mixing drinks. She slid me a cold draft and nodded
to the blonde sitting next to me, “I think you’re looking for her,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
Jo snorted through one nostril, “Drugs.”
 The blonde was having trouble holding her head up and was whispering with the guy
sitting next to her. I learned that guy was Marcus, who loved America, and who use to race
mountain bikes in Arizona. He was a short skinny guy whose lips were always wet and spitting
at me when he talked. The blonde was his ex-girlfriend, Patty, who was having serious
problems. Marcus downed his beer and took off, and Patty plopped her head onto my shoulder.
“What are you on, Patty?”
“Heroin,” she said, now swaying from side to side.
“I’d like to get something.”
“Like what?”
“What can you get me?”
“Heroin, Ecstasy, Speed, whatever you like.”
“What can you get me tonight?”
“Speed would be easy.”
We got into my car and I followed her directions up to the Bergstadt, past the bedroom
where my daughter was sleeping, down three more streets, and made a right on Ahornstrasse,
which turned out to be a cul de-sac. She told me to park in the middle of the road and stay in the
car. I looked in my rear view mirror, nobody was watching, and handed her forty dollars. I
watched her run up to the far right house at the very end of the street then dug through my fanny
pack, found a little black plastic Kodak film container and popped the lid. She held up two small
paper packets, “This is all he had.”
I held out the container, “put them in this.” I snapped the lid back on being careful not to
touch the paper.
I was at the Irish Pub the following evening, again talking with Patty. I had decided that
two packs of Speed weren’t enough to make a difference in a custody battle, but that three packs
would be the sign of a real drug abuser. I told Patty that my drugs were used up and she agreed to
get me more. She gave directions while we once again drove up to the Bergstadt. This time she
led me to the front of a tall apartment building just one block from the kindergarten, and near the
entrance to some underground parking. I watched her enter at ground level and the lights in the
stairwell came on. I could see her through the windows as she started running up the stairs all
the way to the fifth floor and disappeared inside an apartment. She dropped one paper packet into
my little Kodak container.
 How to get those three packs hidden inside Katharina’s purse? I had visions of cutting
open a secret compartment in her purse, then settled on buying an identical purse and planting the
drugs in it before making a switcheroo. But after searching through most of the boutique shops I
came up empty.
Perhaps her coat was the next best option. She had two that she wore quit frequently, her
favorite being a thick black wool one which reached down to her knees, and the silk lining made
it perfect for the operation.
Zimmermann had negotiated a deal with Katharina where I could see Espen for two hours
supervised on Christmas morning inside the Lamm restaurant on Kaiserstrasse, but Katharina
said, “Take it or leave it.”
On Christmas morning I stood on Kaiserstrasse with the freezing wind chapping my face
excited to see my daughter and hoping Katharina wore her black coat. I heard Espen’s voice
echoing from a back street, and Katharina rounded the corner wearing her black coat.
I lifted a big paper bag, “These are presents for Espen, do you mind if we stop in at Jo’s
where I can wrap them?”
It was especially warm at Jo’s place, so I removed my coat and laid it on a bench at the
entry. Katharina slid off her coat and laid it on top of mine. Jo toured us through her apartment,
and ended with the view from their balcony into Switzerland. “Katharina, will you keep an eye
on Espen while I wrap her presents?”
Back at the entry I unrolled some wrapping paper and took out some Scotch tape. While
Jo was kept Katharina busy, I slipped on a pair of thin knit gloves and reached into my fanny-
pack bringing out my Swiss army knife. Knowing that Katharina was left handed, I cut a four-
inch-long slit into the right bottom lining of her coat. I flipped off the lid and quickly one-by-one
slid the three packets down into the bottom of her coat. Her coat felt thick enough that the
packets could rest there undetected, then finished wrapping the gifts.
Because Jo was having another fight with her lover, she opted to join us at the Lamm. I
also think she just wanted to be where the action was. My time was up and I watched my
daughter walk away.
Jo asked, “Did it work?”
“Part two is complete.”
“Fuck dude, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
 “I need to go for a walk, I’ll see you later.”
I zipped-up my jacket to the top, pulled on my ski hat, and headed towards the Rhine fully
energized. The streets were deadly quiet, and the air was full of mist. I followed a cobblestone
path down to the river, where I watched a family of ducks paddling towards me for food. I
followed a dirt path along the river’s edge for a quarter mile and stopped at a place where the
current was swift. Directly across from me in Switzerland was a man standing alone blowing
through a long Alp Horn. His sound was calm and peaceful while I tossed the empty little plastic
Kodak container into the river. I waited to see it sink, but it just floated out of sight. I threw in my
pair of knit gloves and watched them slowly float away.
January 1997

The undercover police were circulating throughout the bars trying to cut down the drug
traffic in Waldshut. Jackie was paranoid about getting a fine, so he began kicking a few obvious
dealers out of his pub. Marcus was the first one to get the boot, which up-set him, and he was
pleading with me to convince Jackie to let him back in.
It was around midnight and I had wondered through an area of Waldshut that I was
unfamiliar with searching for Judge Affolter’s personal residence. I wanted to see where that
bastard lived and perhaps it would help me understand him better. I strolled into his side yard not
finding an adequate window to look through and found myself across the street looking up at the
stars when I noticed his silhouette at his front door. Was it him? Does he see me? We starred at
each other for some minutes, the wind blowing both our hair into swirls. Should I charge him
like a bull right now? Have I frightened him? Have I made a statement? I will never know.
Jo and her lover invited me to eat tacos and to review some paperwork. Her lover spread
out some impressive, multi-colored sheets of paper in front of me, “This is my new high school
transcript,” she said.
“And all A’s and B’s.”
“I didn’t know I was so smart.”
“How’d you do it?”
“On my dad’s computer.”
“What’s this one?”
“I made a bank statement showing that I have twenty-thousand dollars in a secured fund.”
“Why?”
“The college wants it, in case I drop out and can’t pay tuition.”
“I doubt anyone in America will know if it’s real or not. Who put this official stamp on
it?”
“I stole it from the Notary Office when everyone was out to lunch.”
 She will use these falsified statements and transcripts to gain acceptance into the
University of California, Santa Barbara, taking away a spot from a student more deserving. Her
acceptance also gives her a three-year Visa back into the U.S. However, before the end of her
first semester she’ll find college too difficult and quit.
I began waking-up early each morning and finding my way through the snow and into
Waldshut. I positioned myself inside of a grocery market where I could look out the window and
see the entrance to Gabi’s health food store. At exactly nine o’clock, Katharina would drive by
in her mother’s car and begin looking for a parking spot. These were the precious moments that I
waited for, eagerly hoping that she chose to wear her black coat so I could call in the law and
watch a team of cops drag her away. Day-after-day my heart would sink because she would wear
every coat except the black one. I started to wonder if she had found the drugs and was
intentionally not wearing that coat just to frustrate me.
I tore open from Uta and my heart sank again. It was written by Katharina’s attorney and
included a paragraph stating that Katharina had only signed our Parenting Plan contract as a
means to leave Seattle and that she had no intentions of ever honoring it. Katharina had thrown a
shovel full of coal into my burner of anger making it more exciting to trudge through the snow
and wind and waiting for her to wear that damn black coat.
She sprinted from the car towards her mom’s shop while wearing that narcotic carryall,
and I believed she would stay there for at least four hours before a lunch break. With a surge of
adrenaline I sprinted like a deer all the way to Marcus’ apartment.
He leaned out his window, “Ah, Scott.”
“I have a favor to ask you.”
On the outskirts of town we found a telephone booth where I handed him script and said,
“Just make your conversation go like this.”
He was studying my script when a female at the police station answered.
Marcus translated in a stern German voice; “I’m not giving you my name, but I’m angry. I
caught my son doing drugs with his girlfriend last night. They told me where they bought the
drugs, and that’s why I’m calling you. Do you want to know where the drugs are coming from?
They bought them from a girl named Katharina working at the health food store on Wallstrasse.
She stores the drugs down inside her coat. I drove by the store with my son this morning. He
says she is in there now. I want you to put a stop to this. No, I’m not giving you my son’s name,
I will deal with him. You just deal with the drug dealers, good-bye.”
I sat alone inside a coffee shop with my heart pounding with excitement ready for a green
and white police car to stop in front of the health food store. It was during my first sip of coffee
when I spotted a cop slowly driving its way up the street. I grabbed my coat and scarf readying
myself to evacuate the area if my plan had succeeded. The cop car coasted on by and didn’t even
brake until it was well past the shop. An hour later another one cruised by without stopping.
Another hour passed and Katharina closed the shop and drove away.
Martin was working alone in his office when I entered, “I just need five minutes of your
time,” I assured him.
“Take a seat.”
“I believe my wife is dealing in drugs.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“Yes I do.”
He turned on his hand held tape recorder, stating my name, Katharina’s name, and spent
several minutes recording all the history that he remembered about us. He was preparing a full
report, which was much more than I expected. I decided that I had better get my shit together and
my story straight or I was headed for deep trouble.
“Why do you think she’s involved with drugs?”
“I’ve seen drug use in the family house, but I thought it was only her younger brother,
Thor. Then a few weeks ago, I began hearing rumors that you can buy drugs from Katharina.”
“Rumors from who?”
“Young people in the pubs.”
“But we need proof.”
“That’s what I wanted too and started asking in the pubs if they could get me drugs. If
they said yes, then I’d ask where do we have to go? If they answered up to the Bergstadt, then I’d
offer them a ride up.
“Did this work?”
“About two weeks ago I met a man, and we took a ride up.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Ah…in that heavy-metal bar, ah…the Tequila Bar.”
 “What did he look like?”
“Short black hair, a mustache, about twenty.
“Where were you sitting?”
“At a table in the back corner.”
“Was he sitting on your left or right?”
“My left.”
“What time was it?”
“About six o’clock.”
“What was he wearing?”
“A blue jacket and black pants.”
“Go ahead.”
“We drove up to the Bergstadt. I wanted to see where he would take me. It was dark out
but I remember turning right on Ahornstrasse and stopping at the end of the street.”
“What drugs did he say he could get?”
“Heroin.”
“Then what?”
“I told him that I changed my mind about the drugs, but he wanted some for himself, so I
waited while he went inside this house.”
“Which house?”
“It was the last one on the far right. Then about ten days ago I met another man who had a
connection up on the Bergstadt.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“In the Pool Hall, above the Lamm.”
“What did he look like?
“Tall, about thirty, with long brown hair. He had an Eastern European accent, and he was
dressed with ratty clothes.”
“Did you know his name?”
“I never asked.”
“What drugs could he get?”
“Ecstasy and Speed.”
“Tell me what happened.”
 “He drove me up the Bergstadt, and…”
“He drove you?”
“Ah…yeah.”
“In what kind of car?”
“It was a VW.”
“What kind?”
“It was small, but I don’t know the model. I remember his head was touching the
ceiling.”
“What color was the car?”
“Dark gray.”
“Go ahead.”
“He took me to the front of this tall apartment building near the kindergarten. The one
near the underground parking.”
Martin looked surprised. “We know about this one, we’ve been watching it.”
“The man walked up the stairs to the fifth floor.”
“Did he buy you drugs?”
“No, I had told him I was scared and back out, but he went in for himself.”
“Then what?”
Last week I met a girl who could take me up to the Bergstadt for drugs.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“Upstairs in Cafe’ Oberle. She was broke so I offered to split a gram of cocaine with her.”
“What did she look like?”
“Long greasy black hair, medium height, ugly.”
“Where was she sitting when you met her?”
“Near the window.”
“Did you get her name?”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember.”
“Go ahead.”
“I was following her directions when she told me to slow down right before Katharina’s
house. She told me to park and I backed-in directly across the street from her house.”
“Then what happened?”
 “I got nervous that Katharina might see me with her, so I told her that I changed my mind
about the drugs. I’m sure was looking right at Katharina’s house.”
“That’s still not enough to go on.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Then yesterday while visiting a friend in her new shop…”
“Which friend?”
“Claudia, she moved her shoe store over to the Kaiserstrasse, just across from the Mona
Lisa.”
“OK.”
“I was upstairs looking out her window when I saw Katharina out the corner of my eye.”
“Where did you see her?”
“She was coming from the other end of Kaiserstrasse. I noticed her because she has this
fast-paced military walk, her arms were swinging, and she was bouncing up and down...she stuck
out from the crowd.”
“What time was it?”
“Just before two o’clock.”
“What was she wearing?”
“A thick black coat.”
“What happened?”
“She was walking along the other side of the street when she suddenly and quickly turned
into a small alcove just next to the Mona Lisa. I saw her walk up to a guy, and it looked like she
handed him money.”
“Did you see the guy?”
“Not very well.”
“What was he wearing?”
“A red coat.”
“Did he take the money?”
“It looked like he did. Then he handed something small to Katharina, and she quickly
shoved it down inside her coat.”
“Where into her coat?”
“On the right side, near the bottom.”
“Then what?”
 “She took off.”
“Which way?”
“The way she came.”
“You think it was drugs?”
“It looks that way.”
“I’ll give this tape to my secretary, and she’ll write-up a report.”
“I just want someone to talk with Katharina, so she stops.”
“You should talk with her.”
I spent the next week close to home, thinking of baby names, and watching CNN from
our new satellite dish. Early Friday morning I was finishing my one required chore of washing
the dishes when Katharina called, “You are not going to see your daughter again.”
“Why don’t you quit playing games?” I asked.
“Until I straighten this out, all swim days are off,” slamming down the phone.
February 1997

Lining the reception area of Immigrations stood Turks, Russians, those who fled war torn
Yugoslavia, and me; a guy seeking permission to stay another year. Ms. Schranowske was
reviewing my file while I tried to understand just how her Jeans kept from popping loose while
holding in that enormous fat ass, “Are you still living with your wife?” She asked me.
“No, we’re separated.”
“Why are you still in Germany?”
“I’m helping to raise my daughter.”
“Does she live with you?”
“No, not yet.”
“You’re wife has custody?”
“Yes, but I’m trying to get custody. There’s no judge to hear the case.”
“You cannot stay here without custody.”
“Are you going to kick me out?”
“We have no treaty with the U.S. allowing you to stay.”
“The new judge starts in March.”
She started filling out a short notice, “I’m giving you until March 25th.”
I was having a heart-to-heart talk with my very pregnant girlfriend, “I have no chance to
win custody here.”
“I know.”
“And I’ll never leave without my daughter.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Do you want to live in Seattle?”
“No. This is my home. I wish you’d think of this child,” she said rubbing her tummy.
“It sounds terrible, but I’m afraid to get too attached to this baby, because I probably
won’t be a big part of its life.”
 “Do you want to know why I liked you so much when we met?”
“Yeah.”
“Because you were a great father with Espen.”
The alarm rang at 4:45 the next morning. I was out the door ten-minutes later looking up
at the stars when I whispered, “Only for you Espen.” I entered the back door of Dorflinger
Bakery, and a wave of heat hit me in the face. The bakery was full of Germans in all white
clothing, running around with bags of flour, and pulling loafs of hot bread out of the oven and
placing them onto wooden shelves. I hung my coat on a hook to begin my first day on the job
when the foreman handed me with a stack of orders to fill.
There are over sixty different types of German bread that I’m aware of, only two of which
I can name, and for the next hour I guessed at which were which. I filled several containers with
warm loafs before loading them the delivery van.
My first delivery was adjacent a butcher’s shop. And each morning a flatbed full of
squealing pigs was kick off and the butcher would zap each pig in the head with an electric prod.
I also endured obese Germans yelling at me for being slightly late all so Katharina wouldn’t have
the satisfaction of telling the judge that I was unemployed.
I was a recipient of a letter from said judge, who had scheduled our case for March 11th,
still a month away, in his office at 3:45pm, and I needed to notify him ahead of time if I required
an interpreter. Something about the 11th of March kept baffling me, until I realized what it was.
We would be fighting-it-out over custody of our child exactly four years after conceiving our
child.
I stood with my thumb out watching the sun disappear on the horizon when finally a car
weaved over to pick me up. It was Ralph the cop. He peeled-out like we were in a race, “Where
are you going?” He asked.
“Home.”
Ralph and I had tipped a couple of beers during the past months and we’d always gotten
along, but I sensed something was bothering him.
“I turned on my computer at work this morning and your name came up,” he said.
“My name?”
“Your wife was in. She had three packets of white powder that she found in her jacket.”
“Yeah.”
 “She thinks you did it.”
“That bitch will say anything to get me in trouble.”
“You didn’t do that?”
“Of course not, this pisses me off.”
“She said there was a tear in her coat. I think she’s lying.”
Now the nice thing about Ralph is that he’s married to Ingrid’s twin sister, which gave me
a man on the inside.
Espen telephoned me late that evening. My English confused her, and she was mostly
speaking in German. She told me that we could swim together tomorrow, and that her mother
would be giving us two-hours together. She finished by telling me that she wants to stay at my
house. I promised her soon.
The editor of the Sudkurier Zeitung was a regular at the Irish Pub. He was reading a two
page letter I had completed, “Dear Judge Haefner, I am only three years old and I used to live
with my father. We had a nice life together having everything a little girl could want, and I was
happy. My mother took me away from him, and…”
The editor finished my letter, “This will be a first,” and agreed to print it. I telephoned
Uta to share my luck with her, but she got upset, “That will put too much pressure on the judge.”
So I unwillingly called off the press.
I wrote up a questionnaire for Zimmermann. I asked him twelve specific questions like,
“Has the mother shown any positive parental characteristics that the father does not have?
Would the child be better off living primarily with the mother or the father?” I left enough space
under each question for him to write in an answer. But like many other gutless social workers he
was uncomfortable being so specific opting to write his own updated report to the judge.
March 1997

I raised my wineglass and shared a toast with Jo. We were taking in the view from her
balcony and relaxing in the sun. She had returned from Switzerland where she charged two plane
tickets to Los Angeles on her German MasterCard and one additional ticket for her cat. Once
back in Waldshut she withdrew all the money from her bank account, then slid her card into the
ATM and withdrew the maximum allowed one-thousand Deutsch Marks per day. She was proud
of that big wad of cash rolled-up in her front pocket, and before leaving for the airport in the
morning she’d use the ATM again for another thousand. “Do you really think this will work?”
She asked.
“Looks like it already has.”
“I’m screwing the Germans, so why do I care?”
“I would guess that you’ll have two weeks to use the card before the bank realizes that
you’re back in the States.”
“What if they try to find me?”
“I didn’t expect you to clean ‘em out, so I imagine they will.”
“What should I do?”
“I don’t know...Have someone tell them that you died in a car accident.”
We finished our wine, “Are you going to be OK?” She asked.
“I suppose so.”
“I would have gone crazy here without you.”

Jo and me on her balcony saying good-bye

 Jo and her credit card furnished the new apartment in Los Angeles and bought a new
drum set for her band before the bank could cancel it.
It was a nervous moment waiting for Ingrid to translate Zimmermann’s report, “Is it
good? What does it say?” I demanded.
Ingrid started chuckling.
“Tell me.”
He’s says, “The situation is ridiculous, and the mother is too hard.” She giggled some
more, “Child needs to be with her father.”
“So it’s positive for me?”
“Katharina will worry when she reads this.”
Espen held onto my arm as we swished across the water, “I have a surprise for you. I’ve
finished with that house I’m building so next week you can come live with me.”
 I prepared Espen’s bedroom, unpacked her toys that had been in a box for five months,
and had two hours left before court. If Katharina thought she had a bomb to drop on me over the
drug thing, then I would be ready. I took my file-cards outside where it was sunny and warm to
begin rehearing my lines.
Business suits don’t work in the Black Forest. I shoved my ties aside and pulled down a
bright green sweater and my Khaki colored slacks. I grabbed Espen’s car seat on the way out,
and headed for battle.
My car was parked out front with Espen’s car seat strapped down inside. Judge Haefner
had five chairs lined-up facing his desk, one for my interpreter followed by Uta, Mr. Kuhr, a
poorly dressed man wearing a brown sweater with a large tear in the shoulder and finally
Katharina. The two attorneys had just taken their seats when Kuhr spat out, “My client is leaving
on the Mother-Child-Program tomorrow.”
I whispered to Uta, “What’s that?”
“When mothers are stressed they can take a three-week vacation with the child.”
“No way,” I yelled to the judge.
Ignoring me he entered our case number and names into his hand held tape recorder. Kuhr
interrupted him, “We believe that Scott has planted drugs on Katharina.”
Uta in surprise, “Drugs?”
“And how do you know this?” Judge asked.
“My client felt something unusual down in the lining of her jacket, she pulled out two
small packets with a white powder inside. She was shocked and immediately took it down to the
police.”
“When did she do that?” Judge asked.
“Three weeks ago.”
“When could Scott have done this?” Judge asked.
“He was alone with Katharina a couple of times back in December.”
Uta laughed, “So she carried drugs around for two months? I don’t think so.”
“The only way to know is if Scott gives his fingerprints to the police,” Katharina
suggested.
Judge looked at me, “What do you say?”
 “Judge Haefner, the first time I came to Waldshut I saw drug use in their home. Katharina
even bought drugs when we were in Seattle so we could use them. It’s a common rumor that you
can get drugs from their house up on the Bergstadt. I even talked with the police about it. They
told me that I should talk with Katharina directly, so I did, twice. The first time was about a
month ago when I saw her outside the office-supply store. I told her then it was obvious what
she was doing, and she should be more careful, but she laughed at me. The second time was two
days later outside by that Turkish deli. I told her that I was onto her drug dealings, and if she
didn’t stop I would talk with the police and Zimmermann. Then she got really mad and said I’ll
fix you. Well, it appears that she is trying to fix-me.”
Katharina burst with anger, “Who did you talk with? Me? She asked tapping her chest.
I glared back at her, “And now you’re going to deny it?”
Both attorneys sat stunned and the judge broke in, “At this time I am not qualified to
make a decision about custody, this case is too difficult. I will give you my decision in one
week.”
I spoke up, “Mr. Haefner, Katharina has side-tracked this whole thing with her drug
game, and I came here to talk about my life with Espen.”
“I know you’re a good father, that’s all for now,” he said.
Katharina and Kuhr scurried out into the hallway, and I could hear her griping that her
bomb hadn’t destroyed my case. I strolled out with Uta, “What do you think his decision will
be?” I asked.
“He’ll decide to get a recommendation from a child psychologist.”
“Ah shit, how long will that take?”
“Maybe three-months.”
I was led to Detective Maier’s office, a man who didn’t speak any English and I
pretended not to know any German. A big clear baggy with three purple and blue pieces of paper
inside of it were sitting on top of his desk between us. They were unfolded and flattened, and
looked odd to me. I picked up the bag, “So this is it? So it’s three now? Katharina said in court it
was two packets.”
He pushed his fingertips onto a piece of paper.
“Yeah, I’ll give you my fingerprints,” I told him.
 Another cop pressed my fingertips onto a pad of black ink and then rolled ‘em onto a
white card. While I was washing up I said to Maier, “I did not buy any drugs.”
“It wasn’t drugs, just white powder,” the other cop said.
Pretending to be a victim I blurted out, “After my prints don’t match, I want an apology
from someone.”
A letter from Haefner arrived. His big decision was only one sentence long, “I’m turning
this over to a child psychologist for recommendation.”
Again I was facing-off with Schranowske from Immigrations, “I need more time because
the judge hasn’t decided about custody, and it’s not my fault it’s taking so long.”
“I can’t give you more time.”
“I have a child here, doesn’t that matter?”
“No.”
“I have never asked for money from this system, and I have never received money from
your system. I’m not like these other foreigners, I’m self supporting.”
Filling out another form, “I’m giving you one more month, until April 25th to show me
that you have custody. That’s it.”
April 1997

It was during my fifth and final session with a local psychiatrist, a refreshing young
woman who specialized in depression, when things began falling into perspective, “Espen is the
first constant thing in your life,” she said. “That’s why you’re so devoted to her.”
“She’s like an anchor!”
“You will never be happy here.”
“Why?”
“Katharina will always be controlling you through Espen.”
“You think I should leave?”
“What do you think?”
Leaving her office I found a quiet spot on the bank of the Rhine. The warm sunshine felt
soothing while I skipped a few stones across the river. I missed the beach back home, the sound
of waves, and saltwater on my skin. A strange thought entered, “I was standing in a place where
once Jews had often tried to escape from Germany and seek refuge into Switzerland, and now I
too felt like a prisoner.” I got a rush of adrenaline believing that if my daughter was standing
along side me I could put her on my back and swim across with such raw force that I’d leave a
wake slapping the other shore.
It was nearly five o’clock and most employees had left the building. I knocked on
Zimmermann’s door and checked to see if it was locked. The knob turned and I slowly pushed
my way in whispering, “Mr. Zimmermann, are you here?” All was quiet but for a lady
vacuuming at the end of the hallway. I closed the door part way behind and noticed a stack of
plain white paper sitting on his desk. Sitting in his chair I took the top sheet with my heart
pounding and began writing, Mr. Zimmermann, I stopped by to ask you. I opened his left top
drawer and frantically swished his paperwork from side to side, but I couldn’t find it. I shut the
drawer just as the cleaning lady barged in. To her I was just a person writing a letter, maybe I was
Zimmermann, but maybe not. She gathered the trash bag and left, and I slid open the second
drawer down and began rifling through paperwork. His drawer was a mess, so I grabbed a
handful of papers and lifted them up and there rested Espen’s passport. I gazed through it for a
moment while adoring her sweet picture. I placed it back under the pile of papers, crumbled the
letter and stuffed it into my pocket.
There was a message from Zimmermann on my answering machine to be in his office at
two o’clock that day. I was promptly there and Espen ran into my arms. We hadn’t seen each
other in five weeks, and I didn’t want my visit at Zimmermann’s. “Katharina, can I please take
Espen alone for a walk?”
Espen yelled, “Yeah.”
Katharina told Zimmermann, “I don’t want him outside of this building, he can’t be
trusted.”
I yelled, “Screw you, don’t ever talk about me like that. It’s a sunny day and I’m taking
my daughter outside,” pulling out my wallet and handed it to Zimmermann, “My credit card’s
inside, we’ll be back in two hours.” After seven months of supervised visits I was prone to do
crazy things. Near the Rhine under a big willow tree, I began reading from two books while she
closed her eyes listening to my voice.
It was the 25th and I was squaring-off with Schranowske at Immigrations again, “Please
just give me one more month.”
“I can’t.”
“Please, just two weeks.”
She completed another form, “No, you have one week.”
On the 28th of April I was sleeping on a hospital bed at five o’clock in the morning when
the doctor shook my shoulder. I awoke and saw Ingrid lying in another bed smiling and only half
coherent, “Is it time?” I asked.
“Almost,” the doctor answered.
I rubbed Ingrid’s forehead, “Glad you took the drugs?”
“Yes, much better.”
Our son Matthew was born beautiful and healthy, and following German tradition
remained in the hospital for another week. Zimmermann tried to work out a deal so Espen could
meet her brother, but Katharina refused saying the two should not meet.
May 1997

I was back with Schranowske, who was irritated with me because I had called her last
week pretending to be sick and delaying the inevitable, “Do you have custody?” She asked me.
“No.”
“I will not give you another extension.”
“I have two children here, what’s wrong with you?”
“You must be out of Germany within six weeks.”
Desperate for the judge to quickly grant me time with my daughter, I telephone Haefner at
his office, “What about my weekend visits?”
“I will decide soon.”
“Katharina wants me out of Germany?”
“I think you’re right.”
While hidden away in the basement of the Essberger’s house I began writing what in the
end would be a twenty-one page letter entitled, “Petitioner’s Declaration and Request to Prevent
Further Danger to Child.” Included would be the nuts & bolts of my legal argument if I could
ever get back to the Seattle with my daughter. I included three reasons to justify bringer her back
with me, which was the written statement from Katharina that she only signed the Parenting Plan
as a means to get to Germany without any intentions of honoring it, and because of that
Immigrations was days from ordering my extradition, and finally because Katharina’s father,
Porno Paul, had occasionally babysat Espen, so I had learned. The secretary at the High School,
Ms. Kligele, personally told me that my daughter would be better off if he wasn’t alone with her.
Acquiring new identities for both Espen and myself seemed necessary should I need a
backup plan once in the States. I pondered several variations and decided that I would become a
German man who had married an American woman currently living here in Germany, and that
we had a daughter. Being married to an American woman meant that I could apply for U.S.
citizenship under my fake name. I needed a stack of German documents that supported my new
identity, and include the name of an American woman on each document. Once I got back to the
States, I could easily find a single older American woman, maybe in her fifties, and use her name
and social security number on my paperwork without her ever knowing. Eventually, I would
send all these German documents to some Vital Statistic’s office in probably Oklahoma, along
with an explanation that we didn’t apply for a Birth Certificate for our daughter after she was
born in the U.S., but that we needed one now. I might get a genuine birth certificate with Espen’s
new identity sent to me.
Creating a new identity for Espen seemed easy. Now I had to become a German. As a
commercial interior designer I roamed buildings freely. With a tape measure in hand, secretaries
would let me wonder through their offices unsupervised. This illusion had worked well the
afternoon I entered a furniture mill on the outskirts of Waldshut. It was in the employee lounge
that I came across several personal bags beneath the lunch tables and had a peek. The first one
was an old green denim bag with a German flag stitched into the side of it, and nestled next to a
change of clothes was a beautiful red colored German passport. I chuckled at my good fortune
and stuffed the passport into my back pocket. This was way too exciting and I was still out
walking in public when I pulled out the passport for a closer look, and the added bonus of his
driver license fell out. My new name would be Norbert, I just became two-years younger, a little
fatter, and the passport wouldn’t expire for several more years, perfect. But now how to get my
picture onto this passport? I only had to make the passport good enough to fool an American. I
could use it to get a U.S. drivers license. I would go to some small farm town in the Dakota’s,
some place that German tourists would never visit and take the driving test. I doubted that the
police working at D.M.V. there would know what an authentic German passport should look
like. Once I had a valid U.S. driver’s license in my new name it would become easy to remain in
the States.
Two months earlier Haefner had requested help from a child psychologist, and I was just
now having my first meeting. Dr. Folberth, a sixty-year old woman who didn’t speak any
English. She had driven over an hour to meet at a coffee on Kaiserstrasse. We were nearly
finished with our cappuccinos when I said, “If you recommend custody to Katharina I can’t stay
in Germany.”
“Why?”
 “Your immigration requires me to have joint custody, and they’ve given me notice to
leave.”
“How long can you stay here?”
“Five more weeks.”
She shook her head. “I’m going on vacation until June.”
I picked up a hitchhiker. His motorcycle had broken down, and he was wearing a full
leather body suit, and holding his helmet. Turns out he was a policeman, so I asked him what
would happen if I tried to stay beyond the date immigrations gave me to be gone. He told me that
they will find me on my final day and arrest me before taking me to the airport. I found it funny
to learn that Germany would pay for my flight.
It was the morning of the 21st when Katharina angrily telephoned me, “There will be no
swimming today.”
“Yes, there will.”
“The judge has given you weekends.”
“Good.”
“I am protesting this, I will fight against this,” she yelled slamming down the phone.
I found it strange that after eight months I was getting my first unsupervised visit about
the same time I was being kicked-out. I waited until that evening to call her back, “I’m giving
you the choice,” I said.
“What?”
“We can begin this Saturday or next Saturday.”
“I have plans this Saturday.”
“Then it’s next Saturday, where shall we meet?”
“You must give me your passport.”
“No I won’t. I also received Haefner’s letter today and my visits are unconditional.
“I don’t know where to meet.”
“Cafe’ Gamp.”
I purchased an art kit containing different glues, watercolors, a sharp knife to cut out my
passport photo, and some green thread. Working on this project was slow and tedious, and I only
dared work on it when Ingrid and Matthew were away visiting her parents.
 My difficulty with duplicating the first page of my German passport would be the
background, which is full of squiggly lines and a mishmash of colors, and further complicated by
the squiggly ripples in the laminate. I knew of two Kodak color copiers in town, one at the office
supply store, and the other hidden under the stairs at Sedus Stoll, a retail furniture store. I split
my time between the two locations pushing the passport hard onto the glass and hope for a clean
copy, but the rippled laminate made white-spots on the copy. With over one hundred copies I
successfully cut and pasted enough sections together creating a good background. Then I glued
my black and white photo over Norbert’s picture. I took a deep breath and pushed the start button
on the copier, and out came a very real looking first page to a German passport. Thirty minutes
west of town, where nobody would recognize me, at an office supply store, I told the young girl
behind the counter that I was just trying to reproduce this passport as part of a bet with a friend.
She believed me and neatly laminated my new work, which I sewed into the existing passport
and marveled at how authentic it looked. Not good enough to fool a German, but definitely good
enough to fool someone in the Dakotas.
June 1997

I needed one more bit of proof to convince the Americans that I was a German. I would
need my own German birth certificate in my new name, Norbert.
Ingrid had shown me her birth certificate, which was a simple white piece of paper with a
red border, and all the vital stuff had simply been typed onto it using an old typewriter. On the
bottom right corner was a small official stamp in blue ink. It looked like something a sixth
grader could duplicate.
I made several copies of Ingrid’s birth certificate, and using White-out I removed Ingrid’s
name and birth date from the copy. I used an old typewriter to fill in Norbert’s name and birth
date. Then one more trip under the stairs and I possessed an impressive looking birth certificate.
I entered the unlocked office of the Notary, just down the hall from Judge Haefner’s
office, and stole a handful of rubber stamps that were just sitting on top of her desk. I smooched a
stamp into her blue ink pad and then onto my new birth certificate. I brought all those stamps
home with me incase I needed more documents later.
The last missing piece to the puzzle was a marriage certificate. I dug-up my real German
marriage certificate to Katharina, and laughed at the simplicity of Germans, because it was a
simple typewritten piece of paper much like the birth certificate. By this time I was getting good
at this fraudulent activity.
I entered the final arguments into my Declaration on why an American judge should
ignore the German courts and take jurisdiction stating that Katharina’s attorney had perjured
herself saying that her client was in Germany when in fact she was in Canada, thus I flew to
Germany and lost my chance for a fair trial back in Seattle. I stated that it was ridiculous for the
United States to have signed the Hague Convention Treaty forcing them to accept the laws of a
lesser progressive country such as Germany, and suggested that if the mother was Iranian; a less
progressive state than the U.S., and an Iranian court awarded the mother custody because I was
an outsider or maybe because I was not Shiite Muslim; and then I flew back to Seattle with the
child asking the Courts to take jurisdiction they would do it. I went on to define Germany as a
country less progressive in human rights, equal rights, and choices than the U.S. I cited the
differences between jurisdictions as another example of our differences in family law, whereas in
Washington State a child must reside there six months before the court assumes jurisdiction, but
in Germany the court will take jurisdiction in one day. A child could live many years in the
United States when suddenly a German parent could fly to Germany, file for divorce and the
German courts would control that child’s destiny. I described how no German authority would
ever contact me in the United States if Katharina died, and they would not even allow me to
know the whereabouts of my daughter. In Germany, preference would go to adoptive parents,
which is contrary to the U.S., where since 1973 every State in the Union gives paternal rights to
the father, even the unmarried father, before considering adoptive parents. I also described how
the German court would not honor or even consider the report from Dr. Willis of Family Court
Services. I included arguments that Espen would be at a disadvantage without her father citing
recent studies showing the positive effects that fathers have on their children, and stating that
without my guidance, my daughter would probably not get into chemistry and mathematics
classes which are generally reserved for boys and potentially lead to the higher paying jobs. I
argued that my daughter was very progressive while with me able to count to fifteen and recite
the alphabet when she was only two-and-a-half years old. I argued that Waldshut does not have
any sports for young girls, there are no computers in their schools, and the public library is only
open ten hours a week. I wrapped it up with a section titled, Unavailable, stating that I will be
unavailable until our court date, or until I have an attorney, but that any documents could be
served at my mother’s address. I explained that I was unavailable because I wanted to avoid a
repeat act of what happened last October when Katharina surprisingly showed up at my mother’s
home and removed the child. I hid one copy of the declaration above the coat closet in Ingrid’s
apartment.
On the afternoon of June 10th I slipped into Zimmermann’s office and wrote, Mr.
Zimmermann, I stopped by to ask you, I then slid open the second drawer down on the left and
removed his paperwork, but the passport wasn’t there. I searched through the top drawer, the
bottom drawer, but there wasn’t any passport. I looked in obscure places like under his flower
pot, behind the wall heater, and in his closet full of toys, but no passport. I had really blown it,
because without her passport I could not buy her an airline ticket. Outside Zimmerman’s office I
knew of a conference room with a telephone, which I used to call the U.S. Embassy in Frankfurt.
I was forwarded to the passport section of the Embassy, “I’m in the Black Forest, and I’d like to
get a passport for my American daughter.”
“Did you lose her original?”
“No, I’m in a divorce and I can’t get it back.”
“Why do you need another?”
“I want to take my daughter back to Seattle, and try to get the courts to take jurisdiction.
My daughter was born there and has spent most of her life there.”
“You had better do it while it’s still her habitual residence.
“What does that mean?”
“If she’s been living most of her life in Seattle then that’s her ‘Habitual Residence.’
I gave her Espen’s name and she punched it into her computer, “Oh, we have a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Does the mother still have custody?”
“Yes.”
“She was up here last November showing us her Custody Order from the German Court,
and she signed a form that prevents anyone from applying for a passport for your child.”
When my son was born, nobody cared who the father was because we weren’t married.
There was nothing for me to sign, and my name wasn’t mentioned on his birth certificate. So I
visited Mr. Boehler, just three doors down from Zimmermann, “My son was born here last
month, and I want to register as his father.”
He read through my son’s file, “Your son’s first name is Matthew?”
“Named after my father.”
“His middle name is Graydon?”
“Yeah, after a French ski racer I saw on TV last winter.”
“None of these names are German, don’t you want to change one of them to a German
name?”
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s not normal, but OK.”
 I thought about the layout of European airports preventing people without an airline ticket
beyond the first set of metal-detectors. Without her passport there wouldn’t be a ticket, thus no
way onto a plane. What a dilemma!
I had two large cardboard boxes, each about a square yard in diameter, and filled one with
books and clothes. I left the second box empty, except for placing a soft quilt in the bottom of it.
I envisioned arriving in the States, gathering the two boxes from baggage claim, placing them on
a push cart, using my Swiss Army knife cutting a doorway into the empty box and Espen
crawling in unnoticed through Customs.
Haefner was willing to hear oral arguments from Katharina on why my weekend visits
should be taken away. My worries were that she’d ask Haefner to hold my passport during my
visits, which would be a reasonable request and surely one he would honor.
It was Friday the 13th and Katharina vanished just as we were all being seated. Kuhr started in,
“We want his weekend visits taken away because he is calling Katharina terrible names over the
phone.”
This was absolutely untrue and I challenged him to prove it, but he just sat there looking
dumb so I took the stage, “Mr. Haefner, I have a son here, a girlfriend here, a job here, and
everything is wonderful for me. I’m secure here and I’m staying here. Tomorrow is my weekend
with Espen, and I know she wants to see me.”
“That’s all I want to hear, I’ll fax my decision in two hours to both attorney’s.”
I swiftly left the building before Kuhr thought to ask for my passport.
That afternoon I contacted every airline that flew out of Zurich. I would get Espen at ten
o’clock in the morning, making it 11:30 before we could reach the airport, and all flights to the
States would already be air born. I could fly out on Sunday morning, a risky choice because I
would still be over the Atlantic when Katharina discovered my exit, making me easily traceable.
There was one flight departing Saturday at noon for London with a connecting flight to New
York, which meant I would have to somehow smuggle her through a second time in London, but
I considered that my best option and reserved one ticket.
Uta notified me that my weekend visits were still on, and drove out to the airport where I
pre-checked the two boxes and explore the security.
It was a rainy Saturday in Waldshut and my rental car was hiding on a back street while I
waited outside Cafe’ Gamp. At exactly ten o’clock I saw Katharina’s younger brother, Thor,
suspiciously walking by in the distance looking at me through the corner of his eye. I waited
twenty minutes before going to the health food store, “Do you know where Katharina is?” I
demanded from Gabi.
“She left town.”
I met with Zimmermann to whine about Katharina defying the judge’s order.
“She can do this game for a few weeks before the judge will penalize her,” he told me.
“For how long?”
“Three or four weeks,” then offered to call her.
He hung up, “She wants you to deposit four-thousand dollars into her account as a
security.”
While Espen sat on my lap, Katharina argued with Haefner, “I want four-thousand dollars
from him before he gets Espen.”
“I don’t have that kind of money,” I said.
“Last Saturday my brother Thor got an anonymous tip that Scott was planning to fly out
from Zurich that day.”
“Not true, and I want to have Espen this weekend as a replacement for getting screwed
out of last weekend.”
“I trust him,” Haefner told Katharina.
“I will be at Cafe’ Gamp this Saturday,” I said.
I telephoned Uta the next afternoon, “Isn’t there anything you can do to make Katharina
bring Espen to me?”
“I can request Haefner to fine her.”
“Can you make it a big one?”
“How’s six-thousand dollars?” She asked.
“Good.”
“I’ll get it into the mail today.”
It was another rainy Saturday morning but this time I saw Katharina walking towards me
hidden under an umbrella. She was alone, “I have good news for you Scott.”
“Where’s Espen?”
“She has an ear infection, will you drink a cappuccino with me?”
 The Mona Lisa was crowded, smoky, and steamy, she began blabbing, “Unless you feel
like you’re going to win custody, why don’t you give me custody, and you can have her more?”
“Maybe.”
“My other alternative is to just move away with her, change our names, and have no
contact with you.”
“You’re not thinking about what’s best for Espen.”
“You’re right, I haven’t been. I’ve also wanted Immigrations to kick you out of
Germany.”
“Why?”
“To be rid of you. But I don’t want that anymore.”
“That’s good.”
“If they did, I believe you would kidnap her.”
“Why did you sign that Parenting Plan?”
She laughed. “My attorney said just sign anything, get back to Germany, and then decide
what you want.” She continued, “we’ve both done some unfair things, like that drug thing
you...”
“Sorry about that. I know you’re not using drugs.”
“It’s behind us now.”
“I’m sad that I have never seen Espen at her kindergarten. Would it be OK to pick her up
there next Wednesday and spend a little time with her?”
“Shall we call our attorneys together next week and make arrangements to give me
custody?”
“I’ll see what her schedule is.”
“Me too.”
“Can I pick her up at kindergarten?”
“OK, Wednesday at three o’clock.”
I hid during the day incase the police came to deport me, and locked myself inside
Ingrid’s apartment during the evening with a large map of Europe spread out in front of me. A
German airport like Frankfurt made it easy and fast for the police to enter my name into a
computer and shut me down. I needed better choices, perhaps Geneva or Strasbourg, but they
didn’t have direct flights to the States. Paris, a five-hour drive, and Amsterdam, a seven-hour
drive away seemed doable. I needed a flight that wasn’t completely booked and a flight that
would depart the same day that I got Espen. I also wanted to minimize the amount of time we
were in the air by flying into the east coast like New York or Montreal, but those flights were
booked.
It was possibly the one-hundredth long distance telephone call that I made that week
when I reserved two tickets on KLM leaving Amsterdam direct to Vancouver, Canada. It sucked
being so vulnerable on a twelve-hour flight the day after I took her, but it was the best
opportunity available. I placed the two tickets under my last name, but changed the first letter
from an N to an M believing that if anyone traced my real last name in the computer it wouldn’t
show up. I reserved two tickets so the plane couldn’t fill up leaving her seat less.
Being as I’m a little excessive, I held a few more seats with KLM so we couldn’t board a
full plane and be caught. I reserved a room at the Ibis hotel on the airport and my work was
complete. My only concern being that the police could trace those telephone calls, but hopefully
we’d be touching down in Canada before they could get organized.
I wrote in my journal that evening; “Dear Espen, I do not know under what circumstances
you will see or read this book, but I do hope I will be there to give it to you myself. Please
forgive me if my wishes to return with you this week go wrong and it places me away from you.”
On Monday evening Katharina telephoned me just before I was leaving to hideout in
Waldshut, “Haefner does not want us to write a Parenting Plan giving me custody.”
“Why?”
“He want a recommendation from the child psychologist first.”
“Darn, I was hoping to get it over with.”
“I’ll be at the kindergarten on Wednesday,” she said.
“I can’t wait to see her classroom.”
“And I want you to bring her back to me Wednesday evening.”
Tuesday was a good-bye dinner with Ingrid and Matthew. I knew the police would
question her, so I didn’t tell her any facts instead leaving her with, “Tomorrow I’m going to the
U.S. Embassy in Frankfurt for help.” I used the last of my cash to pay for dinner, leaving me with
just my American MasterCard to finance my escape, and unaware how quickly anyone could
trace its use.
 Wednesday morning June 25th was cloudy and it looked like it would rain. When passing
through the airport tomorrow I wanted to look trustworthy and a little like an American just
traveling home from a vacation, so I ironed my white button-down Oxford shirt from Nordstrom,
ironed my Khaki colored slacks form Nordstrom, and selected my tan leather boat-shoes. I chose
a T-shirt for Espen, a jacket and her running pants, placing everything else went back into the big
box.
Ingrid, Matthew, and I drove an hour west to Lorrach, near the French boarder, where I
rented a new red Mercedes station wagon. I wanted a fast car for my six-hour drive up the
German Autobahn. I mailed my journal to my sister in Los Angeles, and bumped in Dr. Folberth
on our way to lunch, who was quite shocked to see me.
“You’re back from vacation?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Should we continue with the meetings?” I asked.
“How’s next week?”
“Tuesday at two o’clock?” I asked.
“At the pool?”
“I’ll be there.”
At three o’clock I walked upstairs and found Espen jumping up and down on a couch in
her classroom. She showed me her classroom before we returned downstairs, where I could hear
Katharina talking with a teacher. Katharina was in a happy mood while we walked outside
together, and steadily aiming for Ingrid’s car.
“What are your plans today?” Katharina asked.
“To have a good dinner together.”
We reached the passenger door, “Would it be OK if I brought Espen back here in the
morning?” I asked.
“Well…”
“I’ve never brought her to school.”
I opened the door and Espen rushed into her car seat, “Look at her go, she really wants to
be with her daddy.”
“Komm Daddy,” Espen said.
“I suppose it’s OK.”
 “Is it nine o’clock when she starts?”
“Yes, can I have a hug?” She asked.
We hugged and I opened my door.
“Have fun with Daddy.”
“Bye, Mom.”
“She wants to get rid of me already.”
I drove out of the parking lot, looked in my rear view mirror to see Katharina walking
away.
While I switched cars Espen met her little brother, the sorrow on Ingrid’s face was
immense and I kissed her and my son good-bye, and I will not see either of them for over nine
years.
We crossed over the border into Switzerland heading west along the Rhine. The highway
was straighter and faster, compared to the winding-side-streets on the German side of the Rhine.
The highway ended at Basel and we had to re-enter Germany, my first test. The border crossing
was busy and the traffic backed-up to a ten minute wait. We crept forward and I had to worry
about a border guard asking me questions and discovering that I was American he might want to
see my passport and Espen’s passport. We were waved through, and at the southern end of one
of Germany’s beloved Autobahns I punched it and my speedometer quickly reached 200kph. I
was just keeping up with traffic but occasionally a Porsche would blow-by so fast it startled me. I
held Espen’s hand, “We are going to see Grandma.”
“Aber Mommy sagt nein.”
“It’s OK, I talked to mommy.”
“Ich liebe Grandma.”
“She loves you too.”
We continued racing north up the Autobahn. My daughter spoke German, I spoke
English, and we understood each other fine.
In Karlsruhe, at a quaint little French restaurant I treated to a big pasta dinner while she
danced in the middle of the restaurant. The waiters were glad to see us leave.
It became dark at the midway point and started to rain, “I missed being with you these last
months. I wish your mother would have let me see you more.”
“Mommy war nicht nett.”
 “Sometimes she isn’t nice. Did you like living at Grandma Gabi’s house?”
“Aber nicht mit Kai.”
“You don’t like your Uncle Kai?”
“Nein. Er ist nicht freundlich.”
“He’s not friendly?”
“Nein,” she said seriously.
I rubbed my hand over her forehead and through her hair, “I promise you will never have
to see Kai again.”
While singing to my Jimmy Buffett and Neil Young cassettes and getting ever closer to
the border with Holland, Espen told me she was saving her last M&M for Grandma.
“We have to take an airplane ride to get to Grandma’s,” I told her. Using my right hand I
simulated an airplane, “We go up, and over this big ocean, then when we land we’ll see
Grandma. It will take a whole day to get there.”
She pretended her hand was an airplane and I thought about the border. Holland and
Germany were both members of the European Union and they had stopped checking passport a
couple of years ago, but occasionally they were out there looking. I got excited about leaving
Germany and swore I would never set foot inside it again. The old guard station at the border
was dark and abandoned so we drove through.
It was midnight when we reached Schiphol airport just south of Amsterdam. I could see
the Ibis Hotel sitting alone just off the airport. It looked to be four or five stars. In our quiet suite
on the second floor Espen fell asleep while I stare at the ceiling with my stomach rumbling from
fear, for the time we finish breakfast Katharina will be talking with the police, and I’d still have
another five hours before my plane even took off.
From the window I could see planes landing and most of them were blue and white KLM
planes. My stomach continued rumbling from frayed nerves, and I told myself to concentrate on
the task at hand. We gorged ourselves on their massive buffet and I encouraged Espen to drink
three glasses of juice because I didn’t want her catching-a-cold and sneezing while I was
smuggling her through.
She was jumping up and down on the bed when I pulled out the blue backpack, “I have a
game for us to try...I only have one ticket, but if you will sit in this backpack only for a minute, I
can get us on our plane. Will you try it?”
 I held the backpack upright, and like a trooper she stepped inside and sat down. She
thought it was funny, and I showed her the two handles above her head that I had built with
climbing rope. I stuck my head inside and saw that light got through the backpack in full force.
“Now I’m going to zip this up about three-quarters of the way.” “Now I’m going to put the
backpack on.” I looked in the mirror and decided that the bulge in the pack didn’t look unusual,
“Can you feel me tapping your butt with my fingertips?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll keep doing that so you know that I’m right here. Are you comfortable?”
“Ja.”
“One more thing, when you’re in the backpack, you can’t talk.” I tossed our clothes from
the day before into the garbage can.
I was telling the KLM clerk, “My wife isn’t sure she will make it, but hold her
reservation and she can pay for it with her own credit card.” She looked at my passport and
didn’t notice the name was slightly different on the ticket. I handed her my credit card and the
misspelling still went unnoticed.
“Is the child flying with you?” She asked.
Whispering so Espen couldn’t hear me, “No, her grandmother will be here to pick her up
shortly.”
With an hour and twenty minutes before departure I watched those two large boxes
disappear on the conveyor belt.
Walking hand-in-hand through the main terminal I noticed the overhead cameras
positioned about every twenty feet. Scouting for the best location to put Espen inside the
backpack was my objective, and I located the one entrance to passport control.
Sitting on a windowsill near the entrance to the terminal seemed the best location for her
to climb in except there was a constant flow of people walking past us, and not allowing me to do
this unnoticed. I was sweating and accepting this may not work when I saw the restroom ideally
located only a hundred feet from passport control. There was a men’s restroom, a women’s
restroom, and even better a large handicap restroom that would lock from the inside. Two
minutes later I walked out of the handicap restroom with my daughter securely inside my
backpack, “OK, don’t talk until I say it’s time,” tapping the bottom of the backpack against her
butt with my fingertips. There were three people already in line and I came to a stop behind the
last one, when immediately a gentleman got in line behind me, so I slowly swerved the backpack
from side to side, hoping to cover up any movement he might see coming from inside my
backpack. The young agent checking passports was sitting up in a booth and I stepped over the
yellow line offering up my passport and ticket but he just waved me through. I entered into a
huge lounge area quickly scanned my surroundings for a place to let Espen out, but it was too
packed. I saw an escalator leading up to my right and jumped on. Hidden in another restroom,
she shot out and I gave her a hug.
My biggest worry was the security measures that lay ahead. I checked the TV monitor,
KLM to Vancouver Gate G7 and began our long walk down the G Wing. We stopped at Gate G1
so I could observe the layout, which looked bad because the two men checking passport stood
only five feet behind from the x-ray machine and metal detector, which wasn’t enough space for
Espen to go in and out of the backpack unnoticed. The layout and security were the same at Gate
G3 and Gate G5.
We reached Gate G7 when the flight attendants and security were setting up with a large
crowd of passengers eager to board, and I saw that this gate also had its own x-ray machine and
metal detector. I decided then that the five feet between anyone checking passports and the metal
detector was doable within a crowd of passengers hiding what I was doing.
Just as they started letting passengers through we headed for a restroom.
“If you go in one more time I will buy you the biggest bag of M&M’s, I told her.
“OK,” working her way inside the backpack.
Approaching Gate G7 I walked past two different groups of policemen each harnessing
machine guns. I told myself to be strong and to forget about fear, and that fear would force me to
make a mistake. I walked past the unorganized crowd and cut in at the front holding out my
ticket for the agent.
“You’re at the wrong Gate, you’re on KLM,” he said pointing to the other side of the
wing, “You need to go to Gate G6.” The plane outside his gate was an orange color, not even a
KLM.
A surge of panic overtook me as I scurried towards Gate G6. I saw the plane was still at
its gate, but all the passengers had already boarded leaving me without a crowd to hide behind.
Five security members were resting against the glass window and jumped to attention, “Is this
your flight?” One asked me.
 I stopped running and twirled half around, “Yes, but I can’t find my wife.”
“Maybe she’s already on the plane.”
“No, I just saw her. I need to find her,” I said walking away. An enormous feeling of
failure hit me and my shirt felt soggy from all the sweat. In a mad rush I went to the initial
passport booth, “I missed my flight, can I go back out through here?”
“You must go back around and exit through Customs,” he said.
At the entrance leading to Customs was another passport control for arriving passengers. I
flashed him my passport, “I missed my flight,” and he let me pass. I ran down a short flight of
stairs entering the large baggage claim area, which was completely empty of people except for
two passengers arguing with one Customs agent at the other end of the room. I walked past the
baggage carousels and interrupted their argument, “I missed my flight.”
“Go through.”
Another twenty feet further and two big glass sliding doors opened and I was safely back
to the main terminal.
Later at the ticket counter of KLM, “I missed my flight,” I told the agent.
“Shall I reschedule?”
“When is the next flight to Vancouver?”
“We have one flight each day.”
“Same time?”
“Yes,” he said typing at his computer, “but tomorrow’s flight is fully booked.”
“What a day this is.”
“I can put you on our waiting list, we usually have cancellations.”
My two boxes had made the flight taking my escape plan with them. Once back at the Ibis
Hotel we checked into the same room and I purchased a big bag of M&M’s at the gift shop.
We woke up to another cloudy morning and dressed in the same clothes that we had worn
the day before. Espen wanted to know where Grandma was and I told her we should see her later
that night. While riding the shuttle bus out to the airport Judge Haefner was officially revoking
my weekend visits.
Cancellations enough to give me a ticket on the flight, and we headed for the handicap
restroom where a cleaning lady was preparing to mop-down the room but allowed Espen and I
use it first. Two minutes later when I walked out she was still standing there so I smiled hoping
she wouldn’t notice the missing child.
There were five people in line before me. I took comfort knowing that the police would
be looking for a man and a child together. Passport control waved me through and I headed for
the bathroom upstairs.
I had a ninety minute window before departure and checked the TV monitor. My flight
was leaving from Gate G5 and I took a second look this time to make sure I was reading it
correctly.
We had gate G5 all to ourselves and I stood plotting in the five-foot-area trying to pick
the best angle to block out security from seeing Espen exiting the backpack. I got a good laugh
because there was a sign above the x-ray machine stating, No human or animal bones allowed
through machine. I selected a spot near the window where I could unzip the backpack and
pretend to look outside while she crawled out. We walked through the unplugged metal detector
and explored the secured waiting room. I scanned for a hidden corner where Espen could
discretely reenter the backpack and settled on a tall plant in the corner as my shield. I noticed a
camera on the wall.
I headed towards G5 tapping the bottom of the backpack and quietly humming a song to
Espen while trying to suppress my fear. There seemed to be a delay and nobody was passing
through yet. I positioned myself towards the back of the line and a middle-aged Asian woman
was suspiciously staring at me from her seat. As I began moving away from her Espen said, “Ich
habe angst.”
“You’re afraid?”
“Ja,” she said just as security started checking passports and the crowd moved forward.
“Can you stay in just a couple more minutes?”
“Nein, Ich will aus.”
“You want out now?” I asked backing away from the crowd.
“Yeah.”
Not willing to push her into anything that was scary, I found a vacant corner to let her out
and gave her a big hug. I decided that the security was too tight and it probably wouldn’t work
anyways.
Inside a small Chapel just off the lounge I said, “This will be the last time in.”
 “Nein.”
“If you go in one more time I’ll buy you a bag of M&M’s.”
“OK,” working her way into the backpack.
I rushed down the stairs and baggage claim was vacant except for one Custom’s official.
“I missed my flight.”
“Lets run your bag under the x-ray machine,” he said walking towards it and expecting
me to follow him.
“I want to wait for my wife, I should go get her,” leaning back towards the stairs.
“Come see me after you find her.”
Halfway up those stairs I began back down. The Custom’s agent was inside his office and
didn’t see me coming. I continued down past the carousels heading for the nearest corner where I
jumped over a security chain, walked around a partition, through the two big glass sliding doors
and into the main terminal. I headed for the restroom wondering if someone above was protecting
me. She exited the backpack and I asked, “Want to go shopping?”
“For candy?”
On the opposite end of the terminal is a mall where she filled a plastic bag with as many
candies as would fit, and I charged it on my card. I bought her a new pair of Nike tennis shoes,
some clothes, and a toothbrush. She would wear clean clothes, but I wouldn’t waste my credit
card on myself.
I rented a sporty white hatchback, they loaned us a child seat; and we checked into the
same room at the Ibis.
We were both getting a haircut that evening, which gave me time to think. If airports were
too difficult then maybe I should consider boats. We were near the coast so maybe I could find a
ship heading to Iceland, then one to Greenland, then one to Canada. It would take several weeks
to get across, and surely I’d be sea-sick the entire time.
I waited for Espen to fall asleep before calling Katharina. It rang several times before her
voice came on the answering machine, “If this is you Scott, I’m trying to help you, please call me
back.” Their was such sadness and sincerity in her voice. “Yes, this is Scott, I’m still in the area,
and I’m trying to find a way to keep Espen in my life.” I looked out the window and cried. I
cried because I wanted Espen to have two parents that could get along with each other.
 We woke up around nine o’clock and I threw open the curtains, “Look Espen, it’s a sunny
day.”
We walked out into the sunshine and a heat wave hit us, making it a fantastic day for
exploring the coast. Heading off towards downtown Amsterdam, Espen’s picture was coming
across the fax at airport security just a mile away.
I wound my way over a few canals and side streets until I saw the first mast swaying in
the air. I scanned the horizon for a big ship, but I couldn’t see anything bigger than small cruise
boat. Continuing another five miles down the coastline I spotted a huge military warship tied at
dock. There were a hand full of sailors loading supplies onto the ship with a crane, and I carried
Espen in one arm and held onto the rope while hiking up the gangplank. An officer met me at the
top.
“Can we come aboard?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever let civilians ride with you?”
“Not too often.”
“I’m trying to find a ship going over the Atlantic.”
He pointed at his blue and yellow flag, “this is a Swedish ship and we’re not going over
the Atlantic.”
“Do you know where I can find such a ship?”
“No.”
While driving back towards the center of Amsterdam with a half eaten apple in my mouth
and a woman tailgating me, I began taping my brakes and pointing at Espen so she could see I
had a child in my car. She honked her horn so I rolled down my window and I motioned for her
to go around. She sped up and drove beside me cursing me with her ugly face and flipping-me-
off, so I chucked my apple at her window, which scared her and she sped away.
Amsterdam central was just the way I remembered it, beautiful women wearing dresses
while riding junky bicycles, young tourists from all over the world looking for hash, and a tourist
office on every street corner selling boat cruises. We stepped into such a tourist office where I
asked, “Do you sell cruises to Iceland or Greenland?”
“No, we don’t go outside the harbor,” she answered.
“Where do the big fishing boats take off from?”
 “From Jmuiden.”
Jmuiden at first look appeared to be a rugged fishing port and the only big ships that I had
seen were both in dry-dock. I past a couple of grimy beer bars and saw the first flag of Iceland
above a massive cargo ship. I waited for a young guys welding rod to run out and for him to flip-
up his face shield before yelling, “Excuse me, do you speak English?”
“Some.”
“When is this boat leaving for Iceland?”
“Maybe one month.”
“Do you know of any other boats going to Iceland?”
“No.”
Another mile west we came to the end of the road and the end of the boats, and at a small
restaurant with a magnificent view of the sea we dined on fresh salmon and potatoes.
We played down on the beach gathering a handful of small seashells. After several
months of the Black Forest I enjoyed the contrast. While she continued combing the beach I sat
to consider my situation. I looked at the ocean as nothing more than a physical mass of water that
needed to be crossed. People crossed this ocean hundreds of years ago and they didn’t need a
plane to do it so neither should I. Every few minutes off to my right a big tanker would pass by
heading out to sea, and eventually disappear over the horizon. I didn’t know where these tankers
were coming from and it seemed like a long shot that I’d ever find out. How do I get us across
this big pond? I just wanted to keep going west towards America. One thing I knew for sure was,
and it haunted me a little, that if I made it to America I doubted my life would ever be the same.
Espen unloaded her seashells at my feet and asked me what I was doing. I held her in my lap and
pointed out to sea, “That big thing out there is the ocean, and I’m having a little trouble figuring
out how to get us across, but I will.”
The office of marine biology was strangely open on a Saturday. I interrupted a couple of
men talking in their office, “Do you know of any boats leaving for Iceland?”
“Not from here,” one answered.
“Where would be my best place to look?”
“Probably up in Copenhagen.”
“That’s a long drive,” I said.
“Try Rotterdam, it’s only two hours South.”
 Espen is now three and one-half years old which awards her the right to select the color of
her own clothes. No regrets after she selected a bright orange and lime green striped pair of pants.
Around six o’clock we exited to Rotterdam and drove west along a canal leading out to
the waterfront where I’d look for big ships, but the best I could find were sailboats. We stopped
at a group of people working on a beautiful yacht whom informed me that I could catch a boat to
England from a village called Hoek Van Holland twenty minutes west from there.
I believed that the English dislike the Germans so I thought perhaps I could find a
sympathetic sailor to get us across the Atlantic, and I’d be in a country that spoke my language
making negotiations easier.
Surrounded by trees and beautiful fields of flowers we drove upon a gravel road leading
to a small municipal airport. I asked the lady at British Airways, “When is your next flight to
London?”
“Tonight at eight o’clock.”
“What’s the price for my three-year-old child?”
She tapped into her computer, “You both have passports?”
“Yes, but do we need ‘em for England?”
“Yes.”

While driving back on the gravel road I realized there was an extra bonus being in
England. Since everyone knew that I didn’t have a passport for Espen the police would never
look there making it like a safe-base for me while they searched the European mainland.
From the perimeter, Hoek Van Holland looked to be an inviting little tourist town. With a
couple more hours of daylight left I chose to explore the security inside the ferry terminal. Ours
was the only car parked out in the lot but the building was unlocked. The ticket offices, currency
exchange, and the gift shop were closed for the evening, but we were free to roam. I studied their
security system complete with a metal detector, x-ray machine, and passport control.
Part of my car rental agreement was not to take the car out of Holland. I was beyond
caring for such matters.
We took a room on the top floor of Hotel Kuiperduin. It had four single beds and a stack
of children’s games stacked in the corner. The owner of the hotel offered to call the Terminal in
the morning and make my reservation. Across the street is Roma Antica, a small pizza parlor. I
sat alone at the table while Espen took a seat at the bar next to two Dutch boys her same age. The
three of them laughed and stared in amazement while watching the pizza maker toss his dough
into the air. The two boys would talk to her in Dutch, she would tell her story in German, and in
their own way they seemed to understand each other quite well. Nine months had passed since I
last seen her interact with other children.
The church bell started clanging in the morning. Espen found the packages of coffee,
sugar, powdered creams, and milk that I had hidden from her in a cabinet, and had produced an
usual concoction in a cup and was trying to get me to drink it when the phone rang.
“There are two boats leaving for England today, but they are both sold-out.”
“Oh no.”
“It’s better if you leave from Oostende.”
“I’m looking at my map, where’s Oostende?”
“Down in Belgium.”
I jammed one stolen pillow from the hotel into my backpack and within an hour we
crossed the border into Belgium. It started raining and while Espen was busy drawing I ran the
dial through the different stations until I found the English BBC, “…Mike Tyson bites off a piece
of Evandor Holyfield’s ear in last night’s heavyweight boxing match….” I started laughing and
couldn’t believe what I had heard. Espen wanted an explanation, “These two guys were boxing
last night, and one of them bit the other in the ear,” I said. She shook her head and tried to make
sense of it.
I purchased one ticket on the hydrofoil departing at 4:15, skimming over the Channel for
two hours before porting at Ramsgate, England.
While she lay on the pillow under the hatchback I continued creeping forward towards
passport control.
“You can pretend that you’re inside of a fort,” I told her.
“OK.”
“I’m going to flip the back seat up for just a minute,” I said reaching behind me, and no
talking.”
With my passport and ticket in hand I stopped next to the security officer who looked
things over for a second before handing me a card with a big number ‘1’ written on it.
 “Hang this from your rear view mirror and follow lane number 3,” he instructed. A man
wearing a bright orange jacket waved me into lane number 3. I parked and noticed the area was
full of orange jackets walking up and down the lanes and looking inside each car. I reached back
and pulled the seat down and Espen crawled forward. I figured the card with the ‘1’ on it meant
one passenger was in the car, and I didn’t want the orange-jackets to see Espen.
“Come on sweetie, let’s go for a walk.”
We played video games in the Duty Free shop for an hour while the orange-jackets
frequently came inside for coffee making me nervous while trying to prevent them from seeing
me with another person. I was happy that Espen could race her motorcycle in the World
Championships and gun down a few space invaders while remaining hidden from the orange
jackets.
We were a half-hour from Ramsgate when a crew member announced over the intercom,
“All passengers must complete a Customs form before docking, if you’re a member of the
European Union use the blue form, if you’re a non-member of the European Union use the pink
form.”
We were the last car off the boat, I reached behind and flipped the seat up, turned the
radio on softly to cover-up any unexpected noises from the back, and held out my passport and
Customs form.
“How long will you be staying in England?” She asked.
“Four days.”
“Are you here on business?”
“No, I want to see London and that place where Shakespeare grew-up.”
Stamping my passport, “Enjoy your stay.”
I breathed easier and started forward just as a man jumped out raising his hands for me to
stop. I rolled my window back down.
“Are you visiting anyone here?” He asked leaning close to my window.
“No, I’ve just wanted to see London for a long time.”
“How many days will you be here?”
“Four.”
“And where are you from?”
“Seattle.”
 “What is your work?” He asked just as Espen coughed.
“Interior architecture.”
“Follow this road out.”
Ramsgate appeared to be a small town, and just perfect for a quiet sleep. I continued a
mile up the hill where I saw an airplane descending into a nearby airport. We checked into the
Grove End Bed & Breakfast. The owners were a husband and wife team in their sixties.
The window wouldn’t shut completely, it was raining and a cold breeze was blowing in,
but worse, the electric fan in the bathroom wouldn’t shut off, and it made an annoying screech.
The carpet was old and the whole room stunk of mildew. It was the kind of place where the
owners took the money and never put anything back into the hotel. It was the first dump that we
had stayed in and it still cost me sixty dollars. I felt mistreated, so while Espen slept I pulled out
my Swiss army knife, unscrewed the fan and cut the electrical wires.
The owners had an assortment of food for us and joined in for some conversation.
“Do you know where I can catch a boat to Iceland?”
“I don’t think you can do that from anywhere around here,” he said.
“Darn. I have two more weeks’ vacation and I’d like to see it before we return to the
States.”
The wife asked Espen, “Are you having fun traveling with Daddy?”
Espen answered in German, which confused the woman.
“We’ve been living in Germany a few months and she’s forgotten her English,” I said.
“Where is your Mommy?” The wife asked.
Again she answered in German, which made the wife suspicious.
“She’s waiting for us in Seattle,” I answered.
We drove up the hill and into a small airport lined with many propeller-planes parked off
the runway. My confidence rose when I saw International Airport painted on the building. We
entered the small gravel parking lot and circled around to face the building just as I saw a police
car pulling up behind us. I froze stiff while the policeman pulled in near. They had found me and
I wondered if this was the last I’d see of my daughter. I stepped out and met him half way.
“What are you doing here?” He asked.
I shrugged my shoulders, “Just looking at planes.”
 Raising his hands a bit, “Don’t worry, you’re not in any kind of trouble, do you have your
passport.”
“Yes,” I answered heading back to the car.
“Hi, Sweetie,” and smiled at her locating my passport. “Here it is,” handing it to him.
“We just got a report of an American National trying to get to Iceland.”
I shrugged my shoulders again and he began scribbling my name and passport number
onto a piece of paper. I could see the words American National typed on the paper along with
some other information.
“Are you staying here in town?” He asked while another police car drove in.
“No.”
“Wait in your car,” he said walking over to the other policeman.
They chatted and I prayed that he wouldn’t ask for Espen’s passport. They looked over at
me, chatted a bit more, then he came back, “It must be a coincidence,” he said handing me my
passport. I was at the end of the road when I looked back to see they weren’t following, and the
moment I was out of their sight I punched the accelerator, not knowing where I was going I made
a left, then a right, and continued zigzagging to get the hell away from the area. They could radio
ahead and spot me easily because I had a car with bright orange Dutch license plates and I was
the only one with a steering wheel on the left side of the car. I raced down a backcountry road,
wound my way through another little village, and followed the street signs for London. I had
learned that it was stupid to be asking people about boats, and I was mad at myself swearing not
to trust anyone for the rest of the trip. I estimated it would take two hours to get into London and
planned to return this car as soon as possible
This had become too difficult without a passport for her, and I considered buying her one
on the black-market. Regardless, I wanted to hide out in London for a few days and have fun.
It was around noon when we first entered the city, and I was lost. London was bigger
than I remembered it and I had mistakenly entered into a seedy part of town. I circled around for
an hour, searching for any kind of historical landmark, and for a gang of immigrants that might
know where I could get a passport.
Wimbledon was in full swing and most of the hotels were fully booked with tennis
fanatics, but with Espen riding on my shoulders we came across the Academy Hotel just seconds
ahead of two weary travelers with backpacks also looking for a room. The lobby was gorgeous
and Espen started eating fresh strawberries from their complimentary fruit bowl while I inquired.
The clerk was a skinny gay guy who fancied the way I looked, “I need a room for two nights.”
“I have one room left.”
“How much?”
“One hundred and eighty U.S. per night.”
“Wow! Can you recommend a cheaper hotel?”
He did a flippy-thing with his wrist, “I always save this room for special people and you
can have it for half price.”
“Can I see it first?”
At the end of the hall, the door with the animals painted on it is our beautiful Victorian
Suite.
“Do you like this room?” I asked Espen.
“Let’s stay here.”
“Oh, you’re speaking English now?”
While Espen slept in the evening I laid out a map of England under a small lamp and
began to plot and piece this puzzle together. Perhaps I would continue working northward
looking at various airports for one with minimal security and a flight to the States.
It was the morning of July 1st and we were returning from the Laundromat with a bag full
of clean clothes over my shoulder when I saw a squirrel running through the park, “Hey Espen,
do you want to go to the zoo?”
We playing hide-and-seek in the Zoo’s rose garden, looked at all the animals, talked with
some children in the playground before she spotted a white pony in the distance and her mouth
dropped open.
“Do you want to ride the pony?”
Before bedtime we watched tennis on the television while I explained the basics of the
game, and she seemed interested and focused on each rally. I looked forward to a couple more
summers when she could stand on the opposing side of the net from me and pound a few balls
back.
It was eleven o’clock that evening when I finally narrowed my airport choices down to
Birmingham, three hours to the northwest, and Manchester, five hours to the north. With that
choice made, I called Katharina. She sounded friendly, “Are you alright?”
 I was friendly too, “Of course, we’re both fine.”
“Where are you?”
Still in the area looking for help.”
“From who?” She demanded.
“The U.S. State Department and my Consulate.”
“Don’t try to go back to Washington, the police are waiting for you there.”
“Your Immigrations has kicked me out thanks to you.”
“Who kicked you out?”
“Ms. Schranowske, give her a call.”
“Just come back and there won’t be any problems, we can go to the Prosecutor’s Office
together and talk with them.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You know, I’m thinking of going back to school, and getting my own place, and you
know...”
I realized that she was trying to keep me on the phone long enough to trace my call,
“That’s interesting, I said and hung-up.
We drove out of London in our little blue rental car and headed northwest. The sun was
shining, we listened to music, and talked about life. For every one of her WHY questions I gave
her the best answer I could. She had finished asking me an assortment of questions about trees
and animals when I slowly raised my hands together and then spread them apart saying, “This is
your world, so I will tell you anything you want to know.” She slowly raised her hands together
and then spread them apart, “This is my world,” she said finding pleasure and strength in
repeating this over and over.
Around two o’clock I drove up to the airport in Birmingham and coasted past the
terminals. I could see that the airport was broken off into two sections, one for British Airways
and the second for all other airlines.
We stood next to the security entrance in the British Airways Terminal and peeked-in.
Passengers entered the secured zone, their tickets were checked their bags run under x-ray while
they walked through the metal detector, then had their passports checked. Unfortunately all that
took place in the same location and not giving me the room I needed.
 Up an escalator in the second terminal next to the gift shop I found the security entrance
staging two doorways next to each other, one for citizens of Northern Ireland and the door on the
right side for everyone else. There was one pulpit outside the door with a woman only checking
for airline tickets. Passengers continued through soon placing their bag onto a conveyor belt and
walking through the metal detector. I could see a few feet beyond that point and there wasn’t any
sign of passport control. I thought to myself, “Bingo, I found my airport.”
I bought two children’s books, The Lion King, and Cinderella, and headed out for our car.
From a distance I could see a police officer writing me a parking ticket. I chose to let him finish
and leave, rather than let him see Espen and I together.
I was only a mile from the airport when I carried my sleeping daughter into the Arden
Hotel & Leisure Club, and granting myself two days here to plan out a perfect strategy.
I purchased a bathing suit from the gift shop for me and I let her run around in her
Tweety-Bird underwear while we swam in the pool and splashed each other in the hot tub.
While she napped, I telephoned every airline with flights out of Birmingham and ended
up with a long list of schedules. I saw the city of Glasgow up in the north of Scotland on my map
and through an airline learned that I didn’t need a passport to purchase a domestic-ticket.
American Airlines had the only flight to the States, it was direct to Chicago O’Hare
departing daily at 11:30 a.m. I reserved one ticket and altered my last name with an M, and
requesting a seat towards the back of the plane so it would be easier to watch the flight attendants
if they started doing a passenger count. Later I would make several more phone calls to American
Airlines and reserve a few extra seats towards the back of the plane using names of several of my
former girlfriends. I then reserved two cheap tickets on Jersey European airline’s 9:30 morning
flight to Glasgow altering my last name to begin with an M. We rounded out our evening with a
swim, ordered two steak dinners through room service and a wake-up call.
6:30 was the earliest that I had been awake for weeks, and my stomach rumbled and my
nerves were shot in anticipation of the day ahead. I then remembered that it was the 4th of July,
and found some positive energy when thinking that I would be declaring my independence from
England later today, just as my forefathers had. I pulled back the curtains to let the sunshine in,
ran a bath for Espen, and dressed into my white shirt and Khaki pants again tossing our extra
clothes into the trash.
 We arrived at the Terminal around eight o’clock and purchased the two tickets to
Glasgow before the American Airlines ticket counter had opened. It was only a few feet away
and I didn’t want them to see me purchasing something from another airline and become
suspicious. I was the first one in line when they opened giving her my name and handing her my
passport. She tapping into her computer, “Will you be checking any baggage with us?” She
asked.
“Nope, just a carry-on,” handing her my credit card. I was nervously running my fingers
through Espen’s hair when she returned my credit card, “I’m sorry sir, but your card was denied.”
Out of panic I quickly pulled a wad of old receipts from my wallet, “That’s not possible, my card
worked fine this morning, look at all my receipts,” I said waving them in front of her face. She
grabbed a blank receipt and wrote my credit card number onto it, “Fine, just work it out with
your bank when you get home.”
We rode the escalator, turned left at the gift shop and queued in a long line. With my two
tickets for a flight leaving to Glasgow in thirty-minutes in hand we slowly eased towards the
security officer. She briefly scanned over the two tickets and let us through. The room we entered
was dimly lit and packed with security officers and other passengers. I laid my empty backpack
onto the conveyor belt, and we walked through the metal detector. When I picked up my
backpack an officer asked me, “Where are you flying?”
“Glasgow.”
“Go left down that hallway,” she said pointing down the hallway. We walked away from
the crowd to where I saw an arrow pointing left for all domestic flights and right for International
flights. When I turned back the woman was busy with another passenger so we quickly
disappeared heading right. We entered Duty Free and looked through the candy selection long
enough for me to calm my heartbeat. I ripped the Glasgow tickets into a few small pieces tossing
them into a garbage can, bought Espen a chocolate bar and wondered if anyone was watching us
on camera. My last name was announced over the intercom, “Your flight to Glasgow is set to
leave, please board your plane immediately.” We were still in Duty Free when they announced
our name for the fourth time, “This is your final boarding call.” I was relieved to hear that they
would finally shut-up, but I did get a kick out of listening to them pronounce my misspelled last
name.
 We entered a large seating room with a Cafe’ and a children’s play area back in the
corner. Espen took off her shoes and started crawling through the big pit of plastic balls. I was
keeping an eye on the clock above the restroom and thought over which would be the best time to
move forward. At 11:10, just twenty minutes before our flight, I walked out of the men’s
restroom with my daughter riding in my backpack, and finding a steady pace that was quick
enough to be efficient, but smooth enough not to bounce her around. We entered a hallway
leading downward and around a corner. We were alone and I was flashing my eyes from left to
right continually looking for passport control. The hallway opened up into a wider hallway and
fifty feet in front of me were two men flashing their passports to an officer standing behind his
booth. They had actually stuck passport control in the middle of nowhere and I chuckled at my
good luck holding out my passport and getting waved me through. Continuing down the hallway
I first saw our airplane through the windows on my left side and a camera on the wall to my right.
The hallway turned left and when I rounded the corner I was only twenty feet from my gate and
another security checkpoint. I began tapping the bottom of my backpack and held out my ticket
for the young man standing behind the podium. He scribbled something onto my ticket and
handed me a boarding pass, “I need to see your passport, please.”
I raised my passport over the podium and my hand began trembling, which was
completely vibrating my passport up and down and I couldn’t get it to stop. He snagged it from
my hand, “Did you pack your own bag?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone asked you to carry anything onto this plane for them?”
“No.”
“Has your bag remained in your possession since you packed it?”
“Yes it has.”
“Enter through the doorway behind me,” he said.
I stepped around his podium and saw an x-ray machine unmanned and turned off. I shot
into the waiting room in search of a place to let her out but the small room was thick with
passengers. I spun around twice looking for a secluded area spotting an open corner next to the
window and slid the backpack off my shoulder resting it on the ledge facing it towards the
window. I knelt next to the backpack blocking the view of a couple only five feet from me and
unzipped it fully spreading the material open as wide as possible. I whispered, “Sweetie, don’t
get out yet.” The sunshine was beaming in through the window, “Can you stay in there for just
another minute?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, that’s our plane.”
I was only two minutes into humming a song when they announced the first boarding call. I was
blind to everything happening around me and concentrated on the ticket clerk ahead. I flashed
him my boarding pass and followed the crowd down the last hallway. I avoided eye contact with
everyone and eased my way onto the plane where I rushed for the nearest bathroom behind first
class. I found my seat three rows from the back of the plane, an aisle seat and I gave it to Espen. I
heard the main cabin door slam shut. The plane was only half full and the captain was preparing
to back out. A flight attendant walked past us checking that our seat belts were fastened and I felt
the plane nudge backwards. My heart was pounding and I felt my first sense of relief because
there was nothing more that I could do. We had nearly reached the runway when the Captain
said, “We are still waiting for clearance from the tower.” We sat still for ten minutes and what
seemed like an hour. Had they discovered that I was on the plane? Were they calling the plane
back? Please go forward. “We have been cleared and we’re third in line.” The engines roared
and I took my last look at European soil. We raced down the runway and when the plane made its
first upward surge I wanted to jump out of my seat and start dancing.
During this time, Katharina was meeting with a reporter from the Sudkurier Zeitung, and
in a short story that would soon be published she stated that I was extremely suicidal.
Two hours after taking off we were flying at thirty-three thousand feet over Iceland. It
could have been a good time to sleep, but I had something new and urgent to worry about,
Immigration and Customs were only seven hours away in Chicago.
An hour before landing I completed my U.S. Customs Form stating that I had only visited
France and England during my vacation.
4th of July, 1997
Landing in Chicago

Around three o’clock in the afternoon we departed the plane and began walking down
hallways, we were hand-in-hand with an empty backpack slung over my shoulder. We were
walking slow enough to stay in the back of the crowd, but fast enough to keep the flight crew
from catching-up with us because I didn’t want them to notice that my daughter was about to
disappear. The hallways seemed endless and each had a camera positioned to see every
movement of every passenger. At each turn I would look ahead, trying to locate Immigration
before actually reaching it. Seven minutes and countless hallways into our walk I guessed that
Immigration must be close, and we entered the next restroom. While Espen wiggled her way into
the backpack, I wondered if any security person watching through the camera would see two
people walking in and only one person walking out.
I continued down the hallway at a quick pace to minimize the time she’d spend in the
backpack. I cruised past Duty Free, through a big doorway smack into the Immigration’s where
the shortest line was twenty people and easily taking fifteen minutes to reach the front, which is
much to long for Espen. Several security officers with walkie-talkies were standing behind each
line and watching for anyone acting suspicious. With a painful look on my face and rubbing my
stomach I walked past two of the officers and into the men’s room. An elderly man was busy
cleaning the sink as I passed him into the handicap stall. I helped Espen out of the backpack and
not wanting the cleaning man to hear two voices and then run out to get security, so I whispered
to Espen and hoped she would do the same to me.
We reentered into a now quiet Immigrations area and headed for a line with only two
people in front of me. With the Customs Form nicely placed inside my passport I stepped
forward to greet my Immigrations officer, “Where are you arriving from?”
“Birmingham, England.”
 Flipping through the pages of my passport, “How long were you out of the United
States?”
“Fifteen days.”
He turned back to the first page and slid my passport through his scanner, and I was about
to find out very quickly if they are looking for me or not. My name came up on his computer and
he tapped his keyboard. He flipped to the middle of my passport and stamped Admitted,
“Welcome home.”
I was halfway across baggage claim when I noticed one of my shoes was untied and the
leather lace was flipping side to side. Did it look sloppy? Would it make Customs more likely to
question me? I chose to ignore it. There was one Customs Agent standing behind his podium
and another one digging through a bag. I was smiling when I reached the agent.
“Is that all you have?” He asked.
“This is it.”
“You’re clear.”
I walked the longest thirty feet of my life, pushed open a door, and squeezed through a
crowd of people. I was moving faster now and my eyes were rapidly searching. We were outside
now, and a bus drove away, leaving the bus stop empty and a good place to get her out. Success.
My instincts told me to get away from the airport, but I opted for the easy way home. Two
women were working the counter at United Airlines, “Do you have any cheap flights to Seattle?”
I asked them.
She tapped into her computer. “I can route you through Salt Lake City, leaving in forty-
five minutes.”
“How much?”
“For you and one child?”
“Yes.”
“Two-hundred for each ticket.”
“Perfect,” I said handing her my credit card and giving her my real last name.
“I need to see your I.D.”
I handed her my driver’s license while the other woman ran my credit card. They were
both staring into the computer screen and looking puzzled. My credit card was approved and an
electronic receipt was being printing. I was waiting for them to hand me the two tickets, but they
just keep staring at the screen and whispering to each other. One of them picked-up a telephone
and placed a call, the other asked, “Is that your only bag?”
“That’s all I have and it’s empty.”
The woman hung-up the telephone and looked back into the screen.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“No, we just need to have security look inside your bag.”
Looking down the terminal I could see an x-ray machine and pointed towards it, “Don’t
they check it over there?”
“This is an extra security measure that we take,” she said looking for security to arrive.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
They looked at each other and were confused about what to do.
Grabbing my credit card and I.D., “I need to go really bad,” picking up my backpack.
We walked towards the restroom but quickly cut outside where I lifted Espen with one
arm and rapidly made my way towards a shuttle-van unloading passengers. We were at its door
when I turned back to see two security officers walking away from their car to a man standing
next to two young children, and quickly took us to the rear of the shuttle-van. “Are you a hotel
guest?” The driver asked.
“Yes we are.”
We drove away from the airport and onto the freeway towards some hotel unknown to
me.
I could see the skyscrapers of downtown Chicago in the distance, which made me excited
for my first visit to the city, but the van exited the freeway far short and dumped us off at a hotel
on the outskirts. I saw a huge car rental billboard about a hundred yards down the street and
plopped Espen up onto my shoulders. The garage-boy whirled around the corner in a new purple
car and handed me the keys. I drove off with four hours of daylight remaining, and still confused
about that mix-up at the airport.
A toll station ahead! I didn’t have any U.S. coins and I didn’t feel like a toll was
significant considering where I’d been the last nine days, so I coasted through tossing my last
remaining English coins into the basket. A man ran behind me frantically trying to read my
license plate. He looked pretty pissed-off so I punched the accelerator.
 We checked into the Howard Johnson in Rockford and ate our first American dinner in
months. Friendly waitresses and cheap prices, we were a long ways from anything German. I
could hear fireworks blasting off in the distance and young children screaming with excitement.
It felt so good to be home.
We entered Minnesota and I was blown-away at its natural beauty. Most of what I saw
was either green or it was a lake, and I decided that someday I should live there
Espen with her new Crayons, and we continued west. I drew the outline of a car, an ice
cream cone, or a rabbit, and she passed the time by coloring them in. We entered South Dakota,
where just outside of Sioux Falls I turned off the freeway and drove a mile down a dirt road.
With the sun beating down on us and the sound of crickets and a whispering wind she sat on my
shoulders while we looked out over a huge golden wheat field. Several years from now a
psychiatric friend of mine will administer a Career Test to appraise what a suitable job should be
for my personality. A farmer will be atop the list. I was not insulted by this, and perhaps it will
explain my compulsion and fascination with watering plants and simply watching them grow. I
could also get revved-up about driving a Combine that poops out bails of wheat while my
sexually-deviant sweaty wife sits on our porch wearing a short silk skirt gazing at me with pride
while stirring us glasses of lemonade. Add in that sexy Georgian accent and I may not mind
getting yelled at. As a kid I thought pigs rooting in the mud were fascinating to watch, so one day
while my father was away, I cut up a bunch of his lumber and dug holes in our beautiful
backyard, and I had all the fence posts in before he got home. I remember the sorrow I felt when
he said, “No son, we aren’t getting any pigs.”
We were half way to Seattle when I spotted the Badlands, the Black Hills, and then
Mount Rushmore on my map. I gave the decision to Espen, “Would you like see four faces
carved into a big rock mountain?” She looked at me as though I were a dork and opted instead
for Frisbee in the park.
I can recall the fascination I had with Switzerland growing up and to see the castles of
Europe and to live in the Alps and to escape the commercialism of the United States, but now I
was wiser; for I had lived in Socialist Europe long enough that I was appreciating my own
country now, I love all the “conveniences” that make life enjoyable here in the U.S., and as
important I felt like a patriarch again because I understood all that my country has done to help
the rest of the world fighting against aggression and tyranny; even stuff like airlifting food into
Berlin so the Germans could eat after World War 2.
While dipping our feet into a cold Wyoming river we noticed a dead deer lying off in the
grass. Perhaps that moment was Espen’s first attempt at understanding death for she was
unwilling to remove herself from the deer’s side, or perhaps she found some power being so
close with untamed nature, I won’t know. That wasn’t the first dead deer that I had ever seen, for
when I was only thirteen my father rented mules to pack us in several miles up into the high-
country to blaze away at big game. It was customary for him to leave me alone on some point
overlooking a meadow and disappear for hours. I believe that it was those formidable hunting
trips that made me so independent and generally fearless later in life. I have sat on a rock with my
rifle aimed at a wolf passing by and daring it to come closer when suddenly a chipmunk scurried
in the leaves behind me and I screamed. One morning I broke from camp alone and forged trail to
bring down a prized seven-point elk. From one-hundred yards away I saw a brown-thing and
shot with my rifle which didn’t have a scope. It disappeared behind the brush and I saw another
brown-thing. The brush didn’t move anymore for I had shot two moose dead. I am a good shot.
I knew Eastern Washington well from my University days, and I knew where the police
liked to hide between the freeways to do their surprise-attack on speeders. University was a time
when I received four credits one semester for playing soccer, and a time when my fraternity
considered impeaching me as pledge class president for being too lazy. Apparently it was my
responsibility to buy liquor for the Spody party we were throwing for our sister Sorority. Perhaps
I was too busy to make it to the liquor store, but I did fill the large plastic garbage can with fruit
punch and wedges of real fruit and placed some empty hard liquor bottles along side the alcohol-
free Spody creating the perfect placebo drink for the fifty naïve sexy scholars. I watched them
one-by-one giggle drunk throughout the evening. I can’t even remember if I was impeached or
not.
There was something special about walking up the steps to my mom’s house with Espen.
These were the steps that she walked down with Katharina nine months prior on her way out, and
I now completed the circle bringing her back.
I paid one-hundred-twenty dollars at the courthouse and started yet another divorce case,
and my first appearance wouldn’t be until clear out in November, then headed down to my
grandfather’s in Junction City, Oregon. My grandfather had shot his own Platoon Leader during
World War 2 in the Pacific fighting the Japanese because he thought the bastard was crazy. My
grandfather was a heavy equipment operator and I was told he cleared runways for landing. I was
watching the evening news with him when a story about the Eugene Country Fair aired and he
blurted out, “Nothing but a bunch of dope smoking God damn hippies go to that thing.” The
following morning I was surely there with Espen getting our faces painted and eating organic
something.
I trusted only one person back in Waldshut to carry out my next slimy mission and gave
Marcus a call. He informed me that I had become very popular in Waldshut and the police were
still looking for me. He agreed to pick up the envelope above Ingrid’s closet and serve it
personally on Katharina. Back in Seattle I paid a stranger riding a bicycle five dollars to cross the
street and serve Katharina’s attorney with a copy of my Declarations. About the same time she
was being served I was in the office of the Washington State Bar Association filing a grievance
against my wife’s attorney for perjury in open court over the true whereabouts of her client the
year earlier.
I called the U.S. State Department back in D.C., and was talking with someone in the
Children’s Issues Department, “Have you heard of the Hague Convention Treaty?” He asked.
“Yes and because my daughter has spent most of her life in Seattle that is her habitual
residence.”
“Not necessarily, habitual residence is not determined by where a child has lived most
often.”
“But a lady at the U.S. Embassy in Frankfurt told me that Seattle would be her habitual
residence since she lived here most of all.”
“She was wrong.”
“What determines habitual residence?”
“I can tell you that the Treaty doesn’t offer a definition, and that’s intentional, so it’s free
of technicalities.”
“I am trying to get a court in Seattle to take jurisdiction.”
“The purpose of the Treaty is to prevent what you’ve done by starting a second divorce in
another country.”
“I have to try.”
“There are a few cases that you might want to look at, and they’re not good news for
you.”
 It was the next afternoon when Espen and I returned home from ice-skating when I
noticed the answering machine blinking. I pushed the play button, “It’s Katharina, I received
Scott’s divorce papers so he doesn’t have to hide any longer, please have him call me.”
I telephoned my former girlfriend Sonya who is now a Prosecuting Attorney for the State
of Washington, and good counsel for me. She started laughing when I told her it was me,
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“I never know what to expect when it’s you,” and started laughing some more.
“Screw-you, are you still sleeping with that judge?”
“Listen, man, nobody’s supposed to know.”
“Not that you’re breaking any code of ethics, but is he still married?” I asked having a
good laugh.
“Yeah, but he’s going to leave her.”
Sonya assured me that I wouldn’t need to worry about anyone coming to my door and
arresting me.
Espen and I met Brad, my new attorney who admitted he knew nothing about the Hague
Convention Treaty, but neither did any of the other lawyers I had called. Brad believed that I had
two things going for me, one being that I didn’t have a forum, or a place to be heard back in
Germany because I had been kicked-out, and two that Katharina had committed fraud by stating
that she never had plans to honor our Parenting Plan.
August 1997

“No matter what, I will return to Germany with her. It may take a week or a month, but
you can never trust me,” Katharina told me over the phone.
“I need you to stop the divorce in Germany,” I insisted.
“No.”
During the next two weeks Espen sat through three of my job interviews, visited two pre-
schools, and spent nearly every afternoon swimming at the pool. One afternoon she asked about
blood so I donated while she watched it flow out with amazement.
I picked up the phone hoping for a job offer, but instead it was Brad, “Well pal, if you
were planning a trip to California, now is the time to go.”
“What happened?”
“Back on the 5th somebody got a judge to sign an order giving custody back to
Katharina.”
“Ah shit, how did this happen?”
“Somebody snuck one in on us.”
“The 5th, wasn’t that the time when Katharina’s attorney told you she wasn’t going to
court?”
He ruffled through some papers, “You’re right.”
“That was over two weeks ago, and this whole time somebody could have just come to
the house and taken Espen away?”
“Yes.”
“Can you get this order overturned?”
“Here’s what I want you to do. I’m going to be on vacation next week so why don’t you
go south until I get back.”
 It was Saturday the 30th, a scorching hot day and I was riding in the back seat heading to
the Oregon coast with my mom up front laughing with Espen. I was changing for the worse
mostly thinking and uninterested in talking. My daughter turned around saying something, but
not until she yelled, “Daddy,” did I snap out of my trance, “What, Sweetie?” I responded.
“What’s wrong, daddy, can’t you talk?”
I would dive under the small waves waiting for a big one, and when it came I would let it
carry me towards the shore and spit me out onto the sand. I thought about sitting on that beach in
Holland while thinking of a way to get across the Atlantic, and how I was now all the way over to
the Pacific. I could see Espen and her grandmother putting the finishing touches on their
sandcastle, they were playing in the middle of a beautiful beach and I thought of places like
Tahiti and how I could just go to a place like that with my daughter and stay there never letting
anyone find us. I could snap my fingers and Espen would be learning French on a small
Polynesian island and I’d be in the sunshine running a chain of fruit-smoothie bars. Was it time
to use all the fake I.D. I had amassed? I knew that in a few years I would regret making the
decision to run. I watched my daughter playing on the beach and it was an easy call to stay and
fight-it-out in court.
We were nearly back to Eugene when we heard on the radio that Princess Diana was
involved in a car accident in Paris. Espen watched the story unfold on the news, which set off
another flurry of questions about death. She was quite worried about her own death and told me,
“When I die, I want to be in your grave, Daddy.” I responded, “Absolutely,” which made her feel
better about the whole thing.

Espen and me at grandpa Clancy’s

 We sat on the shore of the lake behind grandpa Clancy’s house eating pretzels and
watching for the plastic bob to start bouncing up and down, and to my surprise it did, “Espen,
you caught a fish,” lifted an eight-incher to the bank. She examined the one flopping fish in the
dirt, “Shall we put it back into the water?” I asked.
“No, I want it.”
“It will die if we don’t.”
“OK, but you pick it up.”
September 1997

Two old people had capsized in Lake Washington, and Espen and I paddled over in our
rental canoe to help. Ironically it was just a few weeks earlier that I had settled on staging my
own boating accident before running off for a life under our new identities.
It was on the 9th when Espen first asked me, “How are babies made?” I gave her an
accurate explanation using the words penis and vagina, and she seemed to appreciate my
thoroughness.
The leaves started turning color and the weather cooled off so I signed her up for swim
lessons, where she was placed into the Starfish group.
Brad had never appeared to me as a Big Hitter in the courtroom, or even all that
organized, so I telephoned him demanding a game-plan. He told me that in one week he’d be
ready to file a Motion to Dismiss the Order giving Katharina custody. I wondered how time could
pass so quickly for it had been three months since we drove out of Germany.
It was the evening of the 29th and we had just finished kicking the soccer ball around my
mother’s front lawn when my sister called me from Los Angeles. She stated that a well-dressed
man had come by the house earlier looking for me.
October 1st, 1997

Usually Espen liked feeling my face in the morning and reminded me to shave, but today
I felt lazy.
It was 10:30 a.m. and the only other swimmers in the pool were two elderly women with
the life-guard wandering by informing me that Espen was almost ready to advance into the next
level. Around 11:30 we were at the deep end and I suggested we stop swimming for the day
pushing off towards the shallow end. My left arm was extended for her to hold onto while
kicking her feet behind her. I said to her, “I will always love you, unconditionally,” reaching the
middle of the pool and looking over her shoulder to see a policeman entering. We reached the
shallow end and he was there to meet us, “We have to take the child away,” he said.
“No,” Espen said grabbing onto my neck.
“OK, but we’re going to do this right and not upset my daughter.”
“You agree to turn her over to us?”
“Yes, but first we’re going to take a shower and then I’ll dress her,” I said heading for the
edge of the pool. Four policemen followed me into the dressing room and began searching
through our swim bag.
“What’s going on?” Espen asked me.
“We’re going to go talk with some people about mommy and I think we’ll be seeing her
soon.”
With Espen in my arms I telephoned Brad, “The police want to take Espen down to City
Hall.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
I could see five police cars in the parking lot, and told a cop, “I’m going to stay with my
daughter so she doesn’t get scared.”
“We’re supposed to separate you,” she said.
“No way!”
 The woman officer knelt down and offered Espen a stuffed teddy-bear and said, “Espen,
you can come with us and we’ll take you to a place…”
“I’ll explain it to her,” I demanded.
“Sweetie, these people are friendly and I want you to ride with them and I’ll see you
shortly,” and walked her to the front door where one officer said, “This is far enough.”
“Can I have a kiss, Sweetie?” I asked kneeling down. Espen turned back and gave me a
kiss, “Oh, daddy has a beard.”
I had driven alone to City Hall and stood fifty feet away from my daughter out in the
parking lot. She stopped near the front doors and looked at me, the wind was blowing her hair
and she was clutching onto the teddy-bear. We smiled and waved at each other, then a policeman
stepped in front of me to block my view, “Your attorney should be in that building up there,” he
said. I looked around him but Espen was gone.
The detective was about sixty-years-old and reasonably friendly considering the
circumstances. He told Brad and I that we had a court appearance that afternoon at 1:30 with
Judge Ramerman on the 9th floor. On the way out I asked Brad, “What do you know about Judge
Ramerman?”
“He’s the old man of the courthouse and doesn’t answer to anyone.”
I entered the courthouse that by then seemed like a second home and took the elevator up
to E-942. Katharina’s attorney was up front talking with the detective and I handed Brad my
passport, which he stuffed into his briefcase.
“I’ve read through all twenty-one pages of your client’s Declaration. I’ve even read the
complete file from 1995 and ‘96. Do you have anything to add?” Ramerman asked my attorney.
“Your Honor, my client is simply in search of a Forum. He doesn’t have a Forum in
Germany and that’s why he has brought this case to you...”
Ramerman raised his hand, “Wait, did he have an attorney in Germany?”
“Yes he did, but…”
“If he had representation he had a Forum.” Ramerman searched through some paperwork
and I realized Brad didn’t know what he was talking about.
Ramerman held up a piece of paper, “This order was signed back on August 5th…”
Brad interrupted him, “This whole thing has been handled poorly. Back on August 5th I
got a phone call from this attorney over there, and she told me she had better things to do with
her time than come down here. What she had time to do was to make sure that my client didn’t
have representation and sneak down here…”
“This case has not been handled poorly,” Ramerman said with authority.
“What I meant your Honor was…”
“Do you have anything else to add?”
“Yes, I believe that if you make a decision in this case that you will be taking jurisdiction
over the child.”
Ramerman pondered for a moment, “No.” He asked Katharina’s, “When is the mother
arriving?”
“Tomorrow evening at 7:30, your honor.”
I leaned in closer to Brad, “I’d like to tell the Judge something.”
“Your Honor, my client would like to make a brief comment.”
“Go ahead.”
“Your Honor, my daughter has done very well while living with me and she is happy. If
you let her go back to Germany she will be living with a mother on Welfare and she will be
without her father, for I cannot return to Germany.”
“You brought your daughter back here last year and Judged Learned dismissed your case,
and I just don’t see anything different this time,” he said.
“My wife’s attorney lied in court when she said they had already returned…”
Katharina’s attorney cut me short, “Your Honor, recently Scott has filed a grievance
against me with the Bar and they have decided to throw it out...”
“That’s a lie,” I yelled. “I called the Bar two days ago and they had not made any
decision, and I know I did the right thing by bringing my daughter back here.”
Brad whispered to me, “You don’t want to piss this guy off,” then said to Ramerman,
“We ask that you allow the child to remain with her father until we can sort through this…”
Katharina’s attorney yelled out, “Can I say something?”
I yelled out, “Your Honor, please let her come home with me so I can take care of her.”
“Where is the child now?” Ramerman asked the detective.
“She’s been transported downstairs here in our office.”
I began worrying about the fright my daughter must be going through and I began fading
in and out only hearing fragments of the argument around me.
 “Your Honor, I guess there was a problem at the pool, where the police thought they were
going to have to jump in after the child…” Katharina’s attorney lied.
“Your Honor, I was with my client at City Hall when they shook hands and nothing was
said about any incident at the pool.”
Ramerman again raised his hand, “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m placing the child in
the custody of DSHS until the mother arrives here, when she can return to Germany with the
child. And there will no contact between the child and the father, while she is in the custody of
DSHS.”
I could see Katharina’s attorney starting to write his order onto a piece of paper when
Brad nudged me, “Follow me out.”
“Is my daughter Espen in here?” I asked a lady at the front desk in the sheriff’s office.
“She’s such a sweet kid, we’re having so much fun listening to her.”
I handed four of Espen’s workbooks to her and asked her to pass them along to her, “And
tell her that her daddy loves her?”
“I sure will.”
Every step I made was one step further away from my daughter and the pain was
immense.
Nearly another eight years past before I saw Espen again. Those eight years are all
recorded in my journals for my son and daughter to share with each other and read whenever they
become interested in my life. I still write in my journals today and there are now many of them.
Shortly after losing Espen I immediately began writing part of this memoir, which took several
months.

Baby Matthew
 I eventually located down to Los Angeles where I hung out at Phil Graves’ house for a
while and played a lot of basketball on Venice Beach. Soon after I moved to Miami Florida and
hung out with Tim Foster at his new home for a few weeks, and the highlight of that trip was
my solo drive down the Florida Keys and my sunset snorkel off Key West, which was the day
after Tim had me check him into a drug rehab clinic.
Ingrid with Matthew
 From Miami I moved here to San Diego on May 5, 1998 and started working in the
commercial flooring trade once again. Towards the end of that year I met a girl two years older
than myself, Leslie Bunney, and we got married (February 14, 1999) in Las Vegas after only
knowing each other three months. I was crazy for her and it was the first time that I thought I
was in love. We were actually on a camping trip in Joshua Tree National Forrest, when one
evening while eating steak and drinking beers at a memorable establishment called Pappy and
Harriet’s, when Leslie told me, “I made a promise to God not to have sex with you again until
we are married.” Was it the beers and the live music, or just her pretty face? But consequently I
proposed to her early the next morning, and we drove to Vegas and got married the following
day. She had been engaged to another guy whom she dated for nine years just before meeting
me, and as it turned out I was once again the “Fallback Guy.” Our marriage, and our infatuation
with each other, only lasted 4 ½ months, because I lost interest after discovering her secret
lunches with several x boyfriends. I have a long history of getting together with women that are
not yet over their last boyfriend, which is something I try to avoid but haven’t had much luck
with. It was emotionally difficult for me to move-on from Leslie and one day during that time
Phil came down to visit me and we ended up on the tennis court. Troubled by my feelings for
Leslie I was not playing well and Phil was just a point or two from probably beating me when
suddenly he ran to hit the ball and rolled his ankle and broke it. He couldn’t claim victory as I
tried not to laugh, and to commemorate my many victories over him I had a large trophy made
for myself and inscribed some of the locations which I have dominated his game. Several
months after I left Leslie she was driving by my house late at night probably missing me.

My Parents

I was at Scott McCoubreys’ second wedding, which will be one of the more interesting
events for it took place outside near Crystal Mountain ski area and we all burnt Sage to ward of
the evil spirits and later gave thanks to the salmon down by the river, which were both native
Indian customs. Afterwards there were many of us staying in a ski chalet when I wrote a funny
script and got two youngsters to play Scott and his wife, and it was many embarrassing things
about Scott, which made everyone laugh a lot, such as personal things that he had told me about
his wife before he married her.
I was also Best Man at Phil Graves’ wedding, which will be a massive elaborate event
near Los Angeles. I was told by some people that the “roast” I gave during the ceremony was
the best/funniest they had ever heard, but I know that it embarrassed Phil too much, because
they were also personal things that he had told me about his wife before he married her. The
moral of this is that I’m a very good listener and I don’t forget things that are said to me.

My First Cuban Trip

 For a few years from then on I will enter the “Ocean Waves” part of my life; (those
waves keep pounding night and day no matter what I try to accomplish) not settling down to
long and moving a lot, including back to Seattle for a while, to Miami once again, and back and
forth between San Diego and Seattle again, eventually landing in San Diego and staying longer
this time, and going through too many relationships. I believe my journals will paint the picture
well.

In December of 1999 my sister was divorcing from her first husband, Billy Tripp, and
she asked me to ride from Los Angles to Oregon with her to visit family in Oregon for the
holidays. My sister had been going through a phase of drinking too much and I would state that
she had demonstrated being an UGLY DRUNK. I agreed to accompany her on this trip if she
promised not to drink at any time for the several days away. She agreed. Confined to my
grandfather’s small house on Christmas December 25, 1999 she began drinking and drinking a
lot and quickly became verbally abusive towards Hildred (my grandfather’s wife). I asked her
to leave the house and she became irate and confronted me holding a knife while inside the
kitchen. She hit me on the side of my head while I grabbed the knife from her. I handed the car
keys to her and kicked her out of the house. She continued yelling at Hildred on the way out the
door, she was drunk and drove off in her car not to return for the duration of my stay.
My sister divorced Billy Tripp and become a registered nurse and married Chris and
eventually move down to San Diego, however, her and I don’t spend a lot of time together.
Occasionally I will get an unwanted phone call from her when she has found heightened drama
that she feels she needs to include me in, such as her finding out that her new husband is
cheating on her… On Wednesday September 24, 2008 my sister stabbed her husband three
times in the left shoulder using a pen. He ran from the house. She then contacted me in a panic
requesting me to accompany her to the police station to see if he had filed any charges against
her. I did accompany her to the Mira Mesa area police station. She was so concerned with the
trouble she could get into that she soon filed for divorce in the City of San Diego so as to create
a façade that she was a victim. She requested that I Serve the divorce papers on her husband. I
agreed. A few months later they decided to stay married.
Skiing will continue to be important to me and even now well into my forties I must be
the fastest skier on the mountain, not only the fastest skier but the one that goes the fastest
while carving the best turns. I think I will be sad when my day comes that I’m not the best on
the slopes.
My lovely mother will be diagnosed with a benign brain tumor and need surgery to
remove it. My sister and I will be at her side before surgery, the surgery will be a complete
success. A couple of days after my mother is released from hospital my sister will return to
California and not return, but I will remain with my mother caring for her for another six
weeks, during those weeks I will literally become her physical therapist and reteach her how to
walk again, I will feed her daily, and I will sort out all her financial paperwork. I found it
pleasurable
to be alone with my mother and she was nice to be around, as she is a calm person by nature.
My mother on June 27th, 2005 had notarized me to be her Power of Attorney and Executor to
her Last Will and Testament. Her wishes would be to divide things equal amongst my sister
and myself. I left my mother in stable condition and she was able to return to work at that time.
Upon returning to San Diego, I joined a Pentecostal church, got baptized and feel the
Holy Ghost enter my body, and began reading the Old Testament. For years I was curious who
the Holy Land belonged to; Israel and the Jews or the Palestinians and I looked to the Old
Testament or a historical answer to a current problem, and I side with the Jews as the rightful
owner. After several years of trying to be a devoted Christian I quit the church because I
became annoyed that people brand themselves with a certain religion, and I see too much
evidence with fossils and anthropology to buy into the Adam & Eve thing completely. The
Bible is too strict and it doesn’t teach enough “love” for me.

Summer 2005

Those eight years without seeing Espen ended when she ran into my arms outside my
home in San Diego, California. She stayed with me for two weeks while Katharina and her
boyfriend Mario, and his son, stayed at a hotel. Those two weeks were fun showing Espen my
city. During that trip is when a Stingray hit my right foot while I was swimming in the ocean at
Moonlight Beach with her, and during that trip I discovered that Espen was artistic. While
sitting alongside my swimming pool Katharina told me that she works at the University of
Frieburg teaching women conflict resolution and family friendliness; to which I had to laugh at,
followed by her admission that she lied on her resume and during her interview in order to win
the job.

Grandpa Matt, Espen and Grandma Margy (summer 2005)

Espen (summer 2005)

 Espen at Sea World (summer 2005)

Katharina, Espen and me (summer 2005)

 Later that same year, Christmas time, Espen will fly alone to San Diego and stay with me
again for two weeks, and during that trip we skied in Deer Valley, Utah, watched a San Diego
Chargers football game, and played for a week on Maui, Hawaii.

Me, Espen and grandma Margy in San Diego (winter 2005)

 Espen

Espen and Me
Frosty and me
 The following summer (2006) my mother retired from her job as a secretary and I rented a
large U Haul to use moving her from Bellevue to Junction City, Oregon. During those summer
months I renovated my grandpa Clance’s house for her to live in, and I mean the entire house I
remade like new, and even added on two rooms. Later that autumn I flew from Oregon to
Germany to stay with Espen in Ehrenkirchen. Several years earlier Ingrid married and she now
has a daughter named Lara, and they live in Uhlingen. Ingrid has always remained in contact with
my family and I can absolutely state that she is one of the nicest people I know, for she stays in
regular contact with me so we can talk about Matthew. We always laugh together at our
circumstances about having a son together who she wants me to be close with. She is quit the
opposite of Katharina in this regard. During that trip to Ehrenkirchen, Espen and I drove to see
my son Matthew and Ingrid for lunch at the Bodensee, which would be the first time I had seen
him since he was an infant. Watching my son and daughter play together was the best day of my
life. I remember them disappearing during lunch to play ping pong downstairs at the resort and
somehow breaking the table. While sitting at the lunch table I frequently noticed Matthew
looking at Espen with curiosity, and also the two of them racing to see who could eat their ice
cream the fastest like two pigs. Later the four of us rented a small paddle boat and played on the
lake where both my children undressed to their underwear and swam together, and I get a small
tear in my eye as I write that memory. Ingrid looked so beautiful, and I learned that she had
stopped smoking and had taken up running.
That trip was not without pain, specifically the day that Espen and I went to see her
school, which was located a long thirty-minute drive from Ehrenkirchen. Espen, just like her
mother, had formally been removed from the school system for disruptive behavior. Now Espen
was living with other rejected children on a farm, where there’s minimal homework and they
milk cows. While Espen proudly gave me the tour I thought to myself, “Has Katharina fucking
lost her mind?” Not surprising; Katharina has found someone else to primarily raise our child;
the State. During the few phone calls that I have had with Katharina, she has complained about
how difficult Espen can be to raise, and my requests to have Espen attend school here have gone
unaccepted. From Germany, Espen and I flew to Colorado where I had rented a big house for
sixteen days in Breckenridge. We went white water rafting, rode horses, golfed, and were visited
by my mother and my father. We golfed twice and the deal which Espen and I made together was
that if she focused and tried then she could drive the golf cart. She held up her end of the deal,
and I believe she had more fun driving the cart than the actual golfing. From there we flew down
to Costa Rica for a few days joined by my former girlfriend, Jamie Blose, whom I nicknamed,
“Midget Cracker,” because she’s short and white. Now back to those monkeys’ that I have
always disliked all my life; and by now Espen and Jamie knew of this and naturally Costa Rica is
full of those damn Howling Monkeys up in the trees and often those two would tease me by
making the sound of monkey’s just to scare me. After a day in Miami and on the Florida
Everglades I took Espen to the airport where she flew back to Germany.

Espen in Tamarindo Beach, Costa Rica (autumn 2006)

Espen in Costa Rica (2006)

Scott and Phil (his wedding)

Vera
 I’m not placing pictures of girlfriends onto my memoir, except Jamie, because we dated
for five years and we are still many years later friends. Sometimes she called me her best friend,
many years ago, Jamie had no money and was traveling to begin her life at a university, when on
that drive during a hot night she rested inside her car with the windows up for security and
breathed cooler air through a straw sticking out her window. I tell you that’s where she came
from, now she has a Doctorate Degree and two Master’s Degrees and is wealthy and owns several
houses, at age fifty-one she will earn her law degree and I will attend her graduation ceremony.
During that ceremony I will see pure-joy on her face maybe for the first time. In a way she
reminds me of my friend Phil in that they both hold tight onto their possessions with fear of losing
them and they are both closed to change.

Vacationing with my mother in Kauai, Hawaii – Jamie and I took our mom’s

I yearned for a lifestyle change; one where I could see the alpine and run in the
mountains. Eventually I ended up living and working in Breckenridge, Colorado, again in the
flooring trade, but it was winter and too cold; I mean it is at 10,000 ft. and often well below zero
degrees. It was not at all like I enjoyed during the summer with Espen. While I was still in
Breckenridge I received a letter from Frau Mohr with the German government demanding that I
pay child support directly to them for Espen. Yes, the same government that helped separate me
from her. What an insult, I felt. Katharina had given her my address and I didn’t know that the
letter was coming.
 My opening paragraph to Frau Mohr was, “I woke up this morning and ate a tasty omelet,
pulled my pants down and took a big shit, then wiped my ass with your letter, which I’m sending
back to you.” The rest of the five or six page letter was the history of why I would never pay
Germany money and what a loser I thought Katharina was. I also sent a copy of the letter to
Katharina. Consequently and predictably, I won’t see my daughter for a long time, it will actually
be another four years before I do.
During this time I discovered what I thought would be a great career move; selling large
concrete boom trucks for a Canadian company as a rep in the Western U.S, and left Breckenridge
to hit the road selling. I spent a lot of money and time traveling all over several States and ended
up resting at my mom’s house in Junction City, Oregon. I thought I was only going to be there for
the short while until I made a sale and received a big commission. Those weeks turned into
grueling months of pain and agony as the Canadian company was fraudulent and lost their
dealership. I was broke and was scheduled to go visit my son Matthew in Germany and go hiking
in the Alps or bring him back to the States. Ingrid was approving with whatever I wanted to do.
One week before leaving I had to make the hardest phone call ever and tell my son that
because I was broke I couldn’t come to see him. I had been praying to God that he would help me
so I could go see my son and because I couldn’t I clearly decided never to give God praise again,
Oh I believe in God but no more thanks, and I have kept to this pledge still.
While still at my mom’s house I will watch the Space Shuttle Atlantis lift off from Cape
Canaveral on her television, and as it rose far enough so I could see the curvature of Earth I
wondered; “Why do we all think our own little personal problems are so big?” And the truth
about me is that I am infatuated with Cuba, meeting Castro, and personally resolving our
(U.S.A.) conflicts with them, thus liberating eleven-million Cuban people. So I spent hours out
back in my mom’s backyard swinging at weeds with a golf putter and trying to think of a
compromise that both their Foreign Minister, Senior Perez Roque, who won’t know that I’m
coming until I show up at his office, and Castro would accept, and that I would expect the U.S. to
accept. The final result is that the United States lifts the trade embargo against Cuba, both
countries agree to cancel the lease at Guantanamo Bay, the United States leaves Guantanamo
Bay, and the probable millions of dollars in financial aid will flow into Cuba, as well as, Major
League Baseball in the United States “strongly considers” the Cuban National Team as an
expansion franchise in Havana. The Cuban Constitution is revised to allow other political parties
to discuss ideas with the Communist Party, allow more housing options, some free speech, and
eased travel restrictions in the near future. Any and all debt believed owed by either country is
voided.
* The U.S. lifts the trade embargo: The embargo isn’t benefiting anyone, and simply it’s
the right thing to do for both our countries. I think the embargo is more of a nuisance then
effective because thousands of Europeans, Canadians, and even Americans vacation there every
year. Human Rights groups should not successfully argue against this, for China is a major
trader with the U.S. and in 2007 China executed the leader of their F.D.A.
* The U.S. leaves Guantanamo Bay: The U.S. has done some good things with this base;
such as helping Haitians in exile, Cubans in exile, and maintaining peace in the region. But this
site is a bad reminder of our hostile history together, so the U.S. will deconstruct this site before
leaving.
* The U.S. sends financial aid: Americans are generous people that like to give money to
good causes. The financial aid already being discussed in the U.S. Congress is significant.
* Baseball in Havana: Professional sports create a bond between our cities here in the
United States. To include Havana is truly a warm gesture that will begin healing our differences
and show a mutual respect towards each other. This should also bring in large amounts of tourist
money for development in Havana, just as it does for U.S. cities. The talent is there, in fact, it’s
inaccurate for the U.S. to call the winner of the World Series the World Champions, as we do,
while Cuba kicks-our-butt in international tournaments.
* The existing Communist Party remains the basic political system in Cuba, and the only
party in power. There will be an experimental six-year period during which other political
parties can participate in the discussion of state affairs, under the leadership of the Communist
Party. These parties will have the legal constitutional right to organize independently, and
participate in discussions on political, economical, cultural and social issues with the Communist
Party. The aim of each group is to share positive ideas to advance Cuba. At the end of the six-
years the Communist party will vote to continue this status-quo, or to give full electoral
privileges to the one party that cooperated with the most positive ideas. In essence, each party is
competing to impress the Communist Party. These groups are now working against them, but
will now be working for their approval. Cuba will not become a democracy overnight. We must
help them inch their way there.
* Cuba sets-up a way for citizens to have improved options for their living spaces. Both
the U.S. and Cuba have housing problems. I am prepared to defend their housing system to that
in the U.S. by comparison. The U.S. has Section 8 subsidized housing, many homeless, and
2,000 sq. ft. rundown homes selling for a ridiculous one-million dollars in Southern California.
However, Cuba must begin allowing families to move to a bigger apartment, and more easily
purchase building materials to renovate, without penalty.
* Cuban people have some free speech: They must offer the “dissident group” in Cuba
the right to publish their views in a monthly newspaper. I have to hear dissident views all the
time in the U.S., and I find it irritating, but I block it out and it is no-big-deal. End
“neighborhood-watch groups” that report free speech.
 * Both countries lift travel restrictions in twelve-months: Incentives should be created so
scientists, doctors, nurses, and other professionals choose to stay in Cuba rather than take their
free education and work elsewhere. I propose that if a Cuban citizen receives a free university
education, that they are required to work in Cuba for a minimum of two-years before they can
have their passport renewed for travel. The United States is now struggling with immigration
laws, so there should be a twelve month period when no Cuban can travel to the U.S.
* Any debt believed owed is voided. Without this we will just have people complaining
about their “past” grievances, and stalling our future friendship.
I included a couple more caveats that should encourage the Cubans to accept, such as,
proposing that their Health Minister, Jose Ramon Balaguer, speaks in the U.S. about their
Nationalized Health Care system. Universal healthcare is currently a big topic in the U.S. and I
figured that listening to him on the subject would show my fellow Americans just what a bad
idea it is. I also offered to publicly request that the wealthy government of Switzerland finance
and set up a thorough banking system in Cuba, that the wealthy German government and its
people, who advocate Green-House emission controls; to finance a commuter rail system in
Cuba; to reduce the need for cars. I will also call on the Vatican, with all its wealth, to directly
fund the rebuilding of churches throughout rural Cuba. Soon the Pope will insist that the
worshipers be loyal to Rome, so the Vatican should accept this as a fair trade. I want to ask for
these things knowing that they will not be fulfilled, but noting that the U.S. will probably be
paying for everything and still get labeled as Imperialistic.
I wrote all this up into a formal looking document with a colorful picture of the Cuban
flag and the U.S. flag on the header. If I can get the Cubans to agree to this compromise I would
offer to hold a live press conference announcing to the American people that the Castro brothers
have agreed to give eleven million people more choices in their lives.
It’s autumn of 2007 and as it’s been for nearly fifty years it’s illegal for U.S. citizens to
travel to Cuba, but this Earth is mine too, and I will not have my government telling me where I
can and can’t go. If another country will have me, I will go. I do giggle a bit conjuring up a lie to
U.S. officials that I slept in a sleeping bag and only ate trail-mix purchased here in the States,
since the embargo is all about not spending our dollars in Cuba.
I finished some work for my mother and scratched a few dollars together and drove all the
way down past San Diego and into Tijuana Mexico to purchase my ticket to Havana Cuba. This
would be my second trip to the Cuba, and in fact during that “lost period” in my life I had
continued to travel internationally to such placed as Indonesia (Bali), China (Hong Kong),
Austria (Vienna), Czech Republic (Prague), Switzerland (Zermatt) and Greece (Santorini) all
with Jamie Blose; my sometimes girlfriend at the time. I still think Hawaii is my favorite place of
all to vacation, and I even took my mother to Kauai, Hawaii for a vacation. On that return trip to
the Greek island of Santorini we ate a steak dinner in Oia while watching that amazing sunset
like I had seen about fifteen years earlier.
After flying all night I finally reached my Cuban bed at 6:30 in the morning in Hotel
Verdado, room #801, and I don’t recommend it. Three hours of sleep later I’m up walking
around Havana as a tourist. I don’t want to be a travel writer, so describing the crumbling
buildings, filthy surroundings and paralyzed conditions doesn’t interest me. I will just describe
Havana as a Shit-hole and leave it at that. Castro has failed this country at every street corner.
Numerous times during the day I am asked, “Where are you from?” I tell them California, and
they always asked me for money to buy milk for their baby, or if I have some clothes that I will
give them, and the barrage is endless. It’s so hot and humid that my passport actually warped
inside my pocket. I entered Cathedral Square and a girl’s voice yelled out, “Where are you
from?” I turned to see one of the more beautiful girls here in Havana looking at me. This young
half Cuban half Jamaican beauty and I drank two Mojitos under a shady tree. Her name is
Serami, and all she wants is to be free to go to New York, and for tourists to stop asking her for
directions. While walking around with her I stole two smooches. She is the first black girl that I
have ever kissed.
Day two. Taxi to the Foreign Ministers office only a mile away, passing a school with
children wearing their uniforms, and a park where adults are doing some organized stretching. I
walked into the ten story building at Calzado No. 360 where I was met by armed police whom
led me to the reception desk. “I’m here to see Senior Roque,” I told her and handed her a copy of
my cover letter with the flags on it. She told me to take a seat in the lobby and started making
phone calls. Two minutes later the Foreign Minister also entered the building and headed for the
elevator. I recognized him from his pictures during the time I had researched his character. The
receptionist noticed that I had seen him and motioned for me to remain seated and not to
approach him. Soon a young man named Angel introduced himself to me as the Foreign
Ministers interpreter and sat with me for a chat. He was open and friendly and shared with me
that he accompanies the Minister on his trips up to the United Nations. We talked about the
basics of my proposal and he promised me that he would turn it over to the U.S. section for
review. If my idea was approvable it would get kicked up to the Foreign Minister himself. I
gave him my contact information back at the hotel, and he asked me to call him in the morning. I
pressed him for a meeting with the Minister, but unfortunately he was booked in other meetings
all week. I returned to my hotel feeling good that my idea was being reviewed by the Cuban
government.
My testosterone was on full throttle, so I redressed in my Khaki slacks and caught another
taxi to the Plaza de la Revolution. I was intent on trying to meet Carlos Lage Davila; the
Executive Secretary of the Council of Ministers, and believed by most to succeed Castro as
President. I was dropped off outside of a heavily guarded compound with police stationed every
fifty feet or so. Not one of these police will speak a word of English. I presented my cover letter
to one of the guards. They took my passport and began telephoning some people while I stood in
the blazing heat. I was outside of the main political hub of the Cuban government and thought
back to a few days earlier when I was listening to ESPN radio; and the announcer was describing
the dream of big league pitchers to play in New York City. But when they get there and the
pressures on and shots are being fired they break down into two groups; those that say this is why
I chose to be a pitcher, and those who decide that they don’t want to be there at all. So who am
I? I definitely want to be there. I actually got clearance to walk through the compound. I
enjoyed this moment being alone where so few people are allowed to wonder. I paused at the
platform where Fidel has given so many speeches. On the far end of the compound I found my
entrance and a man who was waiting for me. He spoke no English. He led me to an office where
a woman took my written proposal and wrote down my passport information and my contact
information back at the hotel. Were they really going to let me meet the Executive Secretary, I
wondered. No, I was led back to the front door and dismissed to leave. I tried to convey the idea
that I wanted to meet Carlos Lage, but I just got a shake of the head. I now had two departments
reviewing my idea. During the taxi ride home I passed a few posters of President Bush being
labeled as a terrorist.
I’m back being a tourist in Havana when a man on the streets tells me about a big party
that evening, and he’ll give me a free invitation. I follow him up into a restaurant where he
begins writing out the invitation. But then a girl shows up and wants to order drinks for the three
of us. Now I have traveled the world enough to know that they will expect me to pay for those
drinks, followed by the proposal that if I pay more I can have sex with the girl. I tell them that I
don’t want a drink and begin to leave. Then the pressure starts, “Oh, just one drink”, and the girl
begins rubbing my hand. I don’t buckle, and a minute later I’m out on the street tossing the
invitation into a garbage can.
 I ran into a group of twenty church ministers from the U.S. heading to the thirty-fourth
floor of a new building for a 360 degree view of Havana and joined their excursion. Down by
the waterfront I could see the U.S. Embassy, apparently we rent it from the Swiss, but it’s all
ours. Recently the Embassy added a large reader board on the top floor so they can spew out
anti-Castro truths about how he doesn’t care about human rights. At night the big red letters can
be seen from a long distance away. This really pissed Castro off, so he had a bunch of large
black colored flags built to block the view of our truths.
I meet a Cuban who wants to practice his English with me, and eventually he informs me
that his rations of hand soap have run out, and he wants to have my soap from the hotel. I don’t
want to be burdened with him following me all the way back and disrupting my adventure to
meet pretty girls, so politely I tell him, “Goodbye and I want to walk alone”. But he says, “That’s
OK, I’ll go with you”. So I fake looking for a toilette and dash behind a building to quickly
disappear. I can’t care for everyone’s problems so helping one person is a waste of time.
Fidel has succeeded in making everyone equal. But everyone is piss-broke. I believe that
the U.S. should lift the embargo just to take away his last excuse for failure. It would be funny if
we did lift it and nobody found it useful to come down here and deal with this mess.
Day three. I telephoned Angel, but he doesn’t have an answer for me yet. He asks me to
call back between three and four in the afternoon.
So often in my life I have let my imagination get away from me. So today sitting in a
Havana café I imagine that Raul Castro walks past me and to a nearby public square to begin
speaking. I think about raising my American passport into the air as I make my way up to the
stage where I begin debating him. I would only push it enough to keep myself out of jail. I get
“charged” thinking about doing things like that.
I stood at the waterfront knowing one-hundred percent that if I were a Cuban I would
build something that floats and be out of here, no doubts.
I am afraid that the Cuban government wants no change, I mean zero. Perhaps even
proposing small changes has doomed the life of my proposal. There is an image that they would
like to keep with the international community that their revolution is working, and I don’t think
they have it in them to let others see that their image is failing.
It’s quite possible if Cuba became an instantly open and democratic society that the
country will slip into massive corruption, crime, and an all-out drug haven. They are so poor that
I think riots would be the main headline. Perhaps fifteen years of riots and corruption would be
worth a future stable economy.
Somehow I have met enough people here that I’m being recognized. “Hey Scott from
California.” Now when people ask me where I’m from I answer, “Deutschland.” Perhaps that’s
not so interesting to them because they are leaving me alone.
Perhaps I should start a revolution here by going into a TV station or radio station and
insult somebody. I just know that I hate to be ignored.
Inside of a small grocery store I discovered that many of their products come from Latin
America. I am now sure that all of South America and the Cuban government do not want the
Embargo lifted, thus making them compete against our products.
Angel tells me that my proposal is being reviewed but that it may take several days for an
answer. He refers me to another office that can get my proposal up the food chain faster; her
name is Maria Requeiro, head of the Office of Affairs of Population.
While swimming in the hotel pool I met some people that invited me to their house for
dinner. In a cramped apartment eating pork and rice we talked about the neighbors that will turn
you into the authorities if they spot you doing something forbidden. Inspectors can kick you out
of your apartment with only forty hours notice. Around 9pm a Belgium girl named Wendy
announced to the group that she was tired, then looked at me and said, “Can you walk me back to
my hotel”? Once outside and alone together she asked, “What do you want to do tonight”? This
Belgium is only twenty-two years old and has a flawless face of perfection, perfect bright white
teeth and is wearing a short black skirt. We migrate poolside at my hotel where we settle on
Rum with ice. I ask her what her friends would say about her, and she answers, “Wendy is the
best looking girl in all of Belgium.” I would have to agree with them. During the first Rum we
made an agreement not to end up having sex together. During the second Rum she talks about
massage. I am 45 years old and well practiced at not moving on girls. I prefer to let them set the
pace and decide what they want, and it’s worked well. I feel good about my luck. Now Wendy
is lying on my bed stripped down to her swim suit. I untie her top and begin the massage; her
skin is so young, tight, and golden tan. I brush her long blonde hair aside and begin working her
shoulders. Before I reach her lower back her body is moving is ways that I know we’ll break our
first agreement.
 Day four. There are two specific taxi drivers that are out front of my hotel each day and I
have shared with them my political reasons for being here. Today one said to me, “I am so happy
when I see you. Is it working out?” The Cuban people want change so badly.
Dressed in my nice slacks and sweating like the fourth quarter in a basketball game I
found Maria’s office. Unfortunately she’s out ‘til 2pm. I found an outdoor café blasting the
music of Sade and while I sat there relaxed it became apparent that without clout nobody will
listen. I returned to see Maria at 2pm, but she must be too much like me because she didn’t
return to work on this hot afternoon. There were two other women in the office that took a copy
of my proposal, which I had addressed to Fidel and Raul Castro, and they offered to get it to
Maria. I requested they telephone the Castro brothers and tell them that an American was here to
meet them. They did not accept. So much for helping eleven million people.
Day five. After talking to as many people as I could about the embargo; I am convinced
that nobody in power wants it lifted. This is certainly contrary to what we here from Cuba back
in the States. Cuba sure likes to call us evil for not lifting the Embargo. Now I have changed my
opinion and must certainly abandon hope that my proposal will be seriously considered. The
U.S. should lift the embargo just to take away their excuse to blame us for their woes. However,
U.S. firms wishing to do business in Cuba should be advised, “seller beware”. We should not
abandon Guantanamo Bay because it’s too strategic a military base for us.
Just who did I think I was anyways believing that I would be celebrating change with the
Castro brothers over beer and a barbeque on their balcony? I thought it would be interesting for
old-man Fidel to be watching me, an American, prepare his T-bone steak to perfection.
So now months of my work and preparation will not be successful, and like being in a car
accident and your body goes into a protective shock, I’m lying in a fetal position on my bed
sweating with a bad fever. The hotel nurse says that she has no aspirin for me.
Day six. The fever has broken and I awake stronger and wiser. Many that want to be the
next U.S. President have come here and asked for less than I did and every one of them has gone
home with nothing. Havana and much of Cuba is literally decayed, crumbled, and what has not
fallen down is about to. I think about those politicians from the U.S. coming here to negotiate,
and their biggest chip is promising boat loads of money, in fact Congress has recently set aside
millions in aid for Cuba after the Castro era is but a bad memory. Why should we literally
rebuild an entire infrastructure for this country? We will just be paying for their mistakes. I have
never been to Detroit, but I have heard things. I have been to Toledo, Ohio. I thought that most
of the people there had no pride. Send the money there instead and teach them what landscaping
and flowers look like.
I explored Havana with the intentions of getting into places that I shouldn’t. I entered the
main clinic for eye surgery and learned that all surgeries are free for Cuban citizens. I entered the
main clinic for Therapy and Rehabilitation, and again everything is free. I came across
Television Cuba; Castro’s main propaganda machine, and entered. I told the guard and the
receptionist that my job back home in California is being a sports broadcaster on TV, and that it
would be interesting for me to see their newsroom. They let me continue inside alone. The first
office is payroll, where I chatted with four women. I moved along to Human Resources, where I
shared a laugh with people. Nobody is stopping me from continuing in further. Inside the office
where commercials are written I tell a man that I’m an American, and he doesn’t seem interested
in security either. I start to imagine that if I make it all the way down into the newsroom I will
grab a microphone and announce to all of Cuba that the revolution has failed and that is over, and
then run like hell. I spoke with people in their International Division before continuing down the
hallway where I found the Directors office, and stopped in to say hello. He is surprised to see me
and just how far I had made it into his building. I am at the end of my adventure as far as he’s
concerned. Back at the entrance a man of sixty-years old stops me to chat, and his English is
quite good. He hates Castro, like Capitalism, and he want to go for a drink together. We had to
create a code name for him because he wants to discuss politics. He decides to be called The
Spirit of the Black Bird. I could smell the liquor from his breath, and he’s open to sharing things
with me that are forbidden to speak about. Hip Hop and Rap videos have sadly conquered TV
here too and are blasting in the background of our bar. They are a gift to the young, the
uneducated, and definitely for those without imagination. I would be flattered if a Rapper filmed
a video in my honor while he grabbed his crotch, called me obscenities, pointed a gun at my
picture, and had fat girls shaking their booty in the background. Throw in a gang-banger sign
with a car that bounces up and down and you’ve made the world a better place. The Spirit of the
Black Bird also confirms that the Cuban government doesn’t want the embargo lifted. He is like
a chest full of treasure for me, and I find the richest piece of gold his knowledge of the Cuban
Neighborhood Watch Program; where every block of every city there is an official observer of
the Cuban people and their activities. That is how Castro can maintain absolute control over
everyone. He stole this idea from Hitler, who used it during the World War Two. But now Hugo
Chavez, the President of Venezuela, sends several hundred people each week to Cuba to learn
this system. Perhaps Venezuela will be the next Cuba. We should therefore keep our base at
Guantanamo Bay open. Just look at a globe to see how close they are to each other.
The Spirit of the Black Bird has invited me to meet his family for dinner. For more than
three months the general population of Cuba has had no proof of Fidel Castro being alive or
dead. My hosts this evening describe the Cuban people as “dead fish in the market for sale.
We’re dead, but our eyes are open.” During our dinner, Fidel Castro was giving an interview on
television. The Spirit of the Black Bird told me that they have no idea just how old the interview
was. I watched as Fidel discussed excerpts from various books published in the U.S., such as a
recent one from the C.I.A. Finally Fidel picked up a book just out this week from Alan
Greenspan. I informed my hosts that Fidel is alive and that the interview can only be a couple of
days old, much to their disappointment.
Flying Home. Didn’t they want baseball in Havana? Naturally I would have wanted to be
the guy that threw out the first pitch, and it would have gone like this; I would walk out onto the
field, the stadium would have erupted with cheer, an ESPN announcer would say, “Wow, they
really love him here.” Another would say, “A real hero around here. Did you see the bronze
statue they built of him out front of the stadium?” I would take the mound and rub the ball.
Blinded by flashing bulbs I would begin my windup. The announcer would comment, “Did you
see that leg kick? Absolutely amazing”. At that split second, with my tongue out, my picture
would be taken that would eventually end up as a poster on every teenage girls wall throughout
the Western world. The strike I throw has such velocity that the announcers are speechless at the
94 mph reading from the radar gun.
I returned back to San Diego where I still live and seldom miss a day to walk to the store
in my neighborhood to purchase some fruit and eat them with the sun warming my face. Those
simple things are what pleases’ me now at 47 years old. I have traveled through many countries
which enables me to walk my own neighborhood and instantly find calm in my sole and make me
feel like I’m on vacation right then. On that note, my personality at this point in life is such that I
could probably fit well into a society like a Caribbean beach town where people are lazier and
enjoy life more than here. I cherish mornings more than any other part of the day, in fact
mornings are sacred to me and I live them as quietly as possible. From the moment I awake I
absolutely look forward to reading my newspaper while sipping a good latte.
I like to go on long walks with no particular destination, and stop in at art galleries and
book stores, probably because they remind me of the two things that I have not accomplished in
my life, which are to be an artist or a well known writer. I have spent a lot of time writing a full
length feature screenplay, called Anchors Away, and my dreams of being a Hollywood film
writer are fading because it’s so difficult and competitive, but I can honestly say that I gave it a
good try.
Perhaps there are two ways that I express my artistic side the best; one is the thrill of creating
scenes in a movie script, for I enjoy spending hours creating the perfect action and writing
dialogue. The second is designing and building with my hands; such as landscaping an entire
creek for water to flow through. A good day for me is building something with wood or concrete
during the day and then writing a scene that evening.
I don’t want to be part of a group, it’s not healthy, and what I mean is that I don’t want to
be a Christian (live in fear), or green environmentalist (so much anger and hypocrites), or
Republican (unsympathetic). I don’t enjoy people that need to be a liberal (forgot their history),
or Muslim (just doing what you’re told), a Catholic (live in fear and a hypocrite), or communist
(has nothing so needs to control others), and believe that their way is how others should live. No
I say to people with extreme positions, and yes I say to people that just try to love others.
It’s now worth noting that a pendulum has been properly placed above each of my seven
Chakra areas, and that the stone spun clockwise at each area. This is to inform all you spiritually
minded people that you are reading the adventures of a reasonably balanced individual. This test
was performed by my girlfriend at the time who is a relationship counselor. Yes, she was
awestruck with the perfect score which I received.

Espen (2009)
 In April of 2009 I wasted a whole day driving to see the Grand Canyon, South Rim. There
were so many people jockeying for a photo opt and constant blah, blah, blah, in tourist Japanese
and German that I found no serenity. I prefer small weird places instead to see how other people
live; such was one following day in Arizona slowly driving my SUV while Mozart loudly
bellowed from its speakers… Oh, I see a dead carcass of a coyote maybe, there’s some sheep, so
I make sheep’s sounds to wake them up, same with the chickens’. Those chickens’ cope is an old
van with its doors propped open. A dog, I must bark, to which he argues back, but I must have
the last bark. I’m laughing with joy for this is so much fun and it makes me content. Have I lost
my sanity? OK, onward.
In August of 2009 I took a Stress Test at a hospital to check my heart… Before I started
running on the Treadmill I asked the doctor what the current hospital record is, to which he stated
that 17 year old soccer boys have lasted 16 to 17 minutes tops before they quit. I instantly knew
what I intended to accomplish and began running. After 17 minutes the doctor turned off the
machine, and hell, I could have gone another minute. I had ownership of one record, and because
I had accelerated my heart rate to 180, he was also able to conduct a Ratio Test; normal being 10
points and those soccer boys reaching 14 points was the record. My score was 17 points, yet
another record bagged, which was all the more remarkable considering the fact that I was only
ten days out of surgery repairing two hernias.
I was inside of a CHASE bank in San Diego, facing the teller line with no less than ten
cameras watching me when I yelled at the top of my voice, “Stick ‘em up, this is a robbery.” I
enjoyed that adrenaline rush for a few seconds before yelling it again. No, I wasn’t out-of-my-
mind, I wanted to know how real bank robbers must feel, and at that moment I was alone in the
bank, as my career is now a Project Manager and responsible for the remodel of many CHASE
banks throughout Southern California. I have keys and access codes to many banks, and one
night I hugged a safe with over a million dollars inside, ya’ know, just for the feeling. When I
started this job I didn’t know how to read electrical or mechanical blueprints, in fact, I didn’t
know much about those trades, but I taught myself on the job and nobody ever knew. For much
of the next five years I will travel on business and many nights stay in nice hotels throughout
California managing my projects.

December 31, 2009

Matthew’s first day in the United States

My son, only twelve years old flew alone from Zurich, Switzerland to spend his two-
week vacation with me in San Diego. Our personalities connected right away; he’s polite,
dislikes his teacher’s, flipped off a cop, and wants to explore. Micro waving a nectarine for two
minutes to find if it tastes better, or wishing to ax down a big cactus to see how it looks was his
way. Everyday I had exciting things planned together, including a few days skiing, and also
riding Quad’s in Arizona with my father. Whatever he wanted for dinner I would cook, including
one night’s request for lobster tail, oysters, and tacos. Before returning home he confided,
“Germany is shit”, and that he wants to live with me. Cool. I will later get several phone calls
from Ingrid who is shocked by this.

Matthew & me (January 2010)

Matthew, Grandma Margy & me (January 2010)
Matthew & me (2010) Coronado

Me & Matthew
 Throughout the Spring Matthew and I will talk almost everyday.
Sometime in March, Espen, now sixteen, will be in the cold, snowy, forest with her
friends trying to make a fire to stay warm by. A bottle of alcohol will enter the scene and its
contents splash into the fire and onto Espen’s face and head, with the inevitable flames burning
my daughter’s hair off. Her friends will throw her into the snow and call for an ambulance. I will
not hear about this or the week she will spend in the hospital for a few more months.
Miraculously she will not have any physical scars, and her hair is growing back. Unfortunately
she can add the fear of fire to her many other fears, such as the boogieman could still be under
her bed at night. Honest, she told me that.

May 2010

I saw a picture of Katharina on a web site… Ugly and bitter, so I thought to myself. I
think years of selling herself as a victim and hating so many things that are good have taken their
toll. Now there’s some things happening in the world such as a massive oil spill in the Gulf of
Mexico with tar balls splashing up on some beaches, rioting in Kingston, Jamaica between the
government and supporters of a cocaine dealer, and both of these situations were colliding with
my plans to vacation with Matthew in South Florida and Negril, Jamaica in a few days. Was that
oil spill going to ruin the beaches off Miami while I was there? Someone heard on CNN that
there was a travel advisory not to go to Jamaica. Well damn it, I’m going. I’ve been in war zones
before and it actually spiced things up a bit. There are some creeds to my life that I need to state
before I go on… I still despise homosexuals, I don’t smoke marijuana, and I’m including loud-
fat-black-women-with-attitudes in with cum-swallowing homo’s that should be airlifted out to
sea and dropped in.
Matthew and I meet up and went straight to South Beach, Miami. No oil spill, yet. He’s
loving the warmth after months of cold rainy Germany. To me, Miami Beach has become a third-
world chaos, and other than the good swimming I can’t wait to be elsewhere. We did sample
alligator jerky out by our Everglades airboat ride. Matthew has a fascination with the Hip Hop
culture and likes to pose as a gangster, and none of this sits too well with me, so on our drive
down to Key West I made him listen to Jimmy Buffett while I explained why the Black Hip Hop
way is a dead end path.
I gave Matthew a cheap snorkel and mask at our Key West hotel pool and told him he had
ten minutes to figure out how to use these things before our real reef tour begins in an hour. Later
and seven miles out at sea we both hovered directly over a large sea turtle for minutes watching it
bite small pieces off the coral reef. I finally had to do it, and reached out touching the turtle’s
shell. Awesome moment for me.

Jamaica
At the western most point of Jamaica lies Negril, my choice destination, and the Riu
Tropical Palace all-inclusive resort, also my choice after much research. It was the promised laid
back, casual, and once popular with hippies that help seal this deal.
Our first day was a long beach walk where Matthew and I shared our first beer together.
We found the worlds famous Rick’s Café where we both jumped from a 33 foot high cliff.
During our taxi ride back to the resort I asked of the driver, “Is there a place around here where I
could see a big field of marijuana plants”?
“No problem,” he said turning the taxi another direction.
A good half-hour later up in hills he called his buddy, who came down on his moped to
meet us. We followed him up a steep trail and there they were, hundreds of marijuana plants. All
I wanted was a picture. I explained to Matthew how he’ll hear many arguments about this plant
during his life; from those who hate it and from those who believe it’s a medicinal cure. While
standing inside this field I thought back to my own plants back home and wondered how they’re
doing without water while I’m away. A couple of months back I planted twenty small marijuana
plants into the ground alongside a major freeway in San Diego, and they were doing fine before I
left on this vacation. Again, I enjoy watering plants, and I like the fragrance of this weed. I have a
win-win doing this, as I think it’s just funny to see them grow, or if they’re found then a funny
media story it will become.
I think Matthew’s favorite activity was the Zip-Line canopy tour.
The recent news about Jamaica being dangerous was grossly exaggerated. Typical pussy
U.S. outlook. However, there are too many big-ass black people from the States here, and they
love to text while they’re in the swimming pool, and they probably won’t leave the resort the
whole time that they are here.
I agreed on a price with a taxi driver and away we went through the backcountry roads.
He called it, “Ganja Country,” because the red soil was ideal for growing marijuana, and deep in
an uncivilized area we found what I set out for; the Blue Hole Mineral Springs, where Matthew
and I jumped down a 25 foot hole into cold water. This awesome environment came with a small
hut with beers and locals smoking ganja. So Matthew lay in a hammock and shared a Red Strip
beer with me. Driving back to the resort I kept my eyes open for some of that roadside Jerk
Chicken, which I had become addicted to eating.
Matthew got to drive a Jet Ski alone, and of course he had to go really fast, which worried
me the whole time. I learned that day that he doesn’t believe in God, nor does he know what a
University is for.
Of our many snorkel trips out to a reef, a highlight was holding a piece of bread in our
hands while fish ate from it.

June 2010
This was cool to me; paddling down a Jamaican river in my kayak during a rainstorm
with the thunder cracking through the canyons. Gotta love the bush. All those frequent smells of
marijuana in the air, which reminded me of growing up and coming across a Stoner party in the
woods.
Our Jamaican vacation was capped off with a five hour Catamaran tour outfitted with
loud Reggae music, rum, and more cliff jumping at Rick’s Café. Everything I wanted happened
on this trip and the bonus is that my son and I are very close.

Thriller Miami – May 2010

 Where?

The man who sold us our first beer together - Jamaica

 Matthew – Jamaica – June 2010

Matthew jumping at Rick’s Café – Negril, Jamaica

 Scott jumping at Rick’s Café

Surrounded by hundreds of marijuana plants – Jamaica

 Matthew in Jamaica

Matthew jumping into the Blue Hole Mineral Springs – Jamaica

Matthew - Jamaica
Me in Jamaica – June 2010
 July
Ok, so my hair is thinning a bit, and I did what I have said I would do in this case… I had
it all cut off to be bald. I actually liked the way it felt, but the sun burnt my head and maybe I
looked older, so I’m growing it back.
 August 14, 2010
San Diego

I just flew both of my children home after only eight days into our five-week summer
vacation together for unacceptable behavior. Let me back up a month or so… Matthew and I
have continued almost daily phone calls and planning his summer break to be with me here in the
United States, then onto Ireland with grandma Margy coming along, and a final week hiking the
Alps in Zermatt. In late July, Espen and Matthew began a Facebook relationship where she
discovers all the fun that he’s having with me, and consequently she reached out to me via
emails, which become very positive and personal. Within a handful of days she was part of our
summer vacation, which then changed to exclusively to the western United States. I asked them
both what they wanted to do and see. Matthew simply didn’t care except that it just had to be the
U.S., and Espen asked for Orange County (between San Diego and L.A.) because that’s where
her favorite television program; O.C., was filmed. She also wanted to see the hospital in Seattle
where she was born and the Sushiman restaurant in Issaquah, Washington where she ate sushi as
a child. I suggested lots of concerts during our vacation and asked them to tell me all the names
of groups which they liked. The final plan was to stay in a beach house for one week here in San
Diego and join surf camp. So I rented a house on Mission Beach to serve our needs. Concert
tickets purchased, T-Time at a local golf club reserved, and a wad of cash for them to take daily
to give them freedom of choice. Then our plan was to drive up to O.C., specifically Newport
Beach for another week, so I rented a house on the beach just a few feet from the pier. From there
we’d begin our journey north up the beautiful coast, stopping to hear more concerts, and a visit to
the campus of Berkeley, where Espen wants to study journalism. North again to the Oregon coast
and another beach house where we could visit with grandma Margy, and onto our most northern
point, Seattle. Working our way back south was to include Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon,
both Espen’s picks. Before they had arrived I had already spent about $10,000 cash. Then the big
moment, August 6th, when my two kids came off the same plan and hugged me… Espen with her
short blonde hair with purple colored bangs and her belly piercing, and Matthew, well he’s just
the same and ready for fun. It was pleasurable to see how well they bonded, and so it would
remain so, actually they were inseparable. It was on the third day of surf camp that I wanted some
pictures of my kids riding a wave, so I stood on the shore with my camera poised, and there was
Espen fighting with her surfboard when she saw me and angrily yelled out that it was not OK to
take her picture, then went into a rage, “It’s my right, no, don’t do it.” Perhaps the entire surf
class was on notice as I confronted her stating that she can’t yell at me that way, so she ran off to
find shelter from the situation. “It’s my right,” still ringing in my head, as I realized she’s a mini-
Katharina, oh shit, my daughter’s a righteous mean girl. Later at lunch I will tell her that it’s not
OK to yell at me in such a way, and if she thinks that she can’t stop herself then she has the
option to fly back to Germany, if she thinks she has a better deal there I taunt her with. I then turn
my discipline to Matthew for discussing out loud the sex videos on his iPod of women getting
fucked in the ass, so he exactly put it. My two children decide to team up and not talk with me
anymore. I later give Espen the plan to either show a good example of how to resolve problems
to Matthew, or if you take the other path and make the problem worse you’ll end up back in the
Schwartzwald sooner than planned. My boundaries were set, there was no way that I was going
to spend the next month with bratty, unappreciative, disrespectful children, what would they do?
Sadly the disrespect continued and I opted to send Espen home, and my son had decided that
wherever she was going he was going to follow. With the flight arrangements made I opted for a
fun last dinner together by taking them to Joe’s Crab Shack on Mission Beach where they could
enjoy King Crab and lobster tail. Oh, we laughed and had good talks last night at dinner… We
covered the U.S. Civil War and slavery, Espen discovered that I have all her baby clothes, books,
toys, and her original Baby Book and Birth Certificate. I felt their teeth, which are straight on
both of them, which they got from me, not their mother’s. I will share with Espen something that
she didn’t know about me, and that is that when people yell I can’t get away from them fast
enough. I go onto to tell her that is partially why her mother, who is a yeller, and I didn’t get
along. I also told Espen that is why her and I have trouble getting along too, as she’s also a yeller.
We all agreed that King Crab dipped in warm butter was the best tasting food on earth.
I didn’t give my daughter a straight answer, well, I didn’t give her an answer at all… She
asked me, “Did you ever love my mother?” I should have just answered, “No, not at all,” and let
the truth fall where it may.
August 14, 2010 – Woke up early and took my children to the airport in San Diego.
Among the many sad things bothering me was that I didn’t have a picture of the three of us
together, so outside the airport I found someone to take the only picture of us together, and I
think I will post it below. I watched them walk to the plane, Matthew lost in the moment, and
Espen turning back several times to see me. I think she got the gravity of the situation. Oh yes I
will cry many times today, I will be angry at Matthew for turning away from me, and I will be
sad for the many things that I wanted to share with Espen that are lost to another heart wrenching
goodbye with her. Will they learn anything from this terrible ordeal? Ingrid blames Matthew’s
decision to return home on Espen, and she vows that Matthew will not have contact with Espen
anymore. Matthew has a brain, he made his own decision, I honored it, now he can just be bored
the whole summer. Espen, I so much wanted to connect with you.

Espen & Matthew - San Diego – August 2010

Espen & Matthew – Surf Camp – Mission Beach (San Diego) August 2010
The only picture of me together with Matthew and Espen
August 14, 2010
San Diego Airport
 It’s been just a few days since I sent them home and in hindsight I believe the vacation
was “loaded” for disaster before it began… I mean… Five weeks together with teenagers,
especially a sixteen year old girl, and I’m not the anchor in either one of their lives.
It’s such a change how I feel about Matthew now; as I have no current interest in his lazy,
gangster/rap loving, failing in school, punk, personality. I mean he actually laid down in the
middle of the fairway and announced that golfing was the most boring thing he’d ever done in his
life, all while his sister was nearby swinging away like a champ. His mother thinks he’s fine and
won’t make a shift in his life, so the trade off for me is that I won’t listen to her tell me anymore
about what a lazy kid he is. I know that he’s lacking confidence, but I find him generally to be a
bad boy, and predict he’ll have some police interaction in the near future. Nonetheless, he’s
going to have to do a lot of changing before he gets another invite from me.
Considering who Espen’s mentors are I expect her to learn very little from being sent
home, and I have resolved that it will probably be another handful of years before I see her again.
Someday I hope that she will become aware that her mentor; her mother I’m speaking of, is not a
beautiful person, is not genuinely friendly, is not an example of success, and I hope that someday
Espen will break away from the mold she’s living in. I suppose being back home where she
works part-time in a coffee shop will allow her to make the necessary money she wants to fulfill
her goal of getting a tattoo. I recall that morning years ago when she was in my arms after
recovering from open heart surgery and I was sure that she’d grow up playing softball here in the
States while pulling in fantastic grades at school and going to Prom dances. Now I’m satisfied
and actually laughing at my good fortune not to be involved with my daughter, I mean what a
turn of events from the struggles with her mother to now ridding myself of any concern. Oh yes,
just leave me alone and let me laugh at you.

November 2010

I know now what my favorite nut is; it’s a Heather. Shortly after sending the brats home I
was racing down Mammoth Mountain on a bike imaging I’m winning some kind of speed record
when I flipped and crashed over the handlebars onto the rocks and dirt. All that blood smeared
into my leg made me enjoy being crazy and I had to laugh. On August 21st I arrived alone at
F&P’s (Phil and Faith’s) Baby Shower in North L.A. I say alone because it was my earlier
intention to have my kids there with me. As the event progressed into the night I was having the
most fun with Heather. She will later tell me that I asked her to leave together on a spontaneous
road trip. Later like a puppy, I followed her into the kitchen where she sprayed me with water so I
threw a bowl of pasta onto her. The following evening I will be with Heather for dinner with
F&P when she will unexpectedly discover my preference for women’s restrooms in lieu men’s.
I’m sure she tried to push me back into the woman’s but I successfully wrestled my way out. If
she didn’t know I was a nut before she surely knew then. In a few months I would find myself
together with her on the other side of the planet.
For over a decade I have wanted to visit Savannah, Georgia believing that I will meet a
wonderful lover there, oh yes bizarre, but I am quite intuitive, and who takes me up on my invite
to meet me there? The nut does. It just happened to be a long Halloween weekend in what’s
registered as America’s most haunted city. Picnic in the sun, and just after the haunted tour I
heard her whisper into my ear, “Parks at night, “later on with, “I love Tequila.” We’re dressed in
our costumes inside a loud bar and she’s drinking shots of Tequila and I’m matching her shot for
shot. Every shot she foolishly downs I discretely pour one onto the floor.
What to do for Thanksgiving? Solution made when I booked myself a last minute flight to
Maui, it being my third time on this piece of paradise. First direction was to Hana where I
rented a big beach house just above Hamoa Beach. Alone but satisfied I glistened in the sun and
sparkling waves each afternoon feeling at peace. My most prominent adventure was the hiking up
Pipiwai Trail to Waimoku Falls, which was highlighted by the Bamboo Forest and my
imagination pretending to be King of the little bamboo people, to whom I was of coarse saving
from all means of inner tribal squabbling. Rounding off the second half of my island adventure I
directed myself to Lahaina and to the familiar; checking into the Royal Lahaina Resort on
Kaanapali Beach, same site where I took Espen several years back. It’s pretty much what I do
now as a tourist; I go T-shirt shopping, purchase a bag of indigenous coffee beans, and some
local music.

December of 2010: I was in Baltimore, Maryland staying at Heather’s for a couple weeks
when she told me about her plans to be in India soon. I needed my birth certificate in a hurry so I
could apply for the required Visa. My sister offered to enter my storage unit and retrieve my birth
certificate, but once she received the storage keys in the mail from me she demanded that we sort
out our differences first. Wanting to avoid the necessary drama that it takes to include Trisha in
my life I opted for telling her, “Please never contact me again,” and I hung up. Instead I chose to
apply for a birth certificate on line.

January 2011
India and Nepal

It was our final morning in India (other side of the planet) when I was reading a local
newspaper article; it was actually the cover story, written by an Indian journalist when I felt the
need to share my displeasure with his argument. Right after coffee I began composing my email
to him hoping to stir up a debate. So what happened during the past two weeks that I felt that I
was somewhat of an expert on Indian affairs?
 My journey began in Delhi, and the first morning I toured Gandhi Smriti, which includes
the assassination site of Gandhi, and most fascinating to me was that he was shot by a fellow
Hindu. My day included a tour of Red Fort, and the Muslim Mosque Jama Mayid. I didn’t like
having to remove my shoes to enter religious sites, especially because the courtyards are so well
covered in pigeon shit. My favorite site in Delhi is the Hindu temple of Birla Mandir, and it’s
there where I was blessed by a priest or monk, not sure which, with the red dot on my forehead,
and I thought it was quite spiritual. I’ll make my best purchase at that temple; a big necklace,
which I’ll wear everyday of the trip, and it turns out that the necklace is like those worn by
Buddhist priests, and not a day will go by without someone commenting about how they like my
new beads and am I someone spiritually blessed they ask. With my eyes burning from the smog
we return each evening to what I’ll call our Western Compound, which is just our nice hotels
away from the madness of India.
We hire a driver and begin our journey of The Golden Triangle heading for what’s
supposed to be a five-hour drive Southeast to Agra and a visit of The Taj Mahal. The mighty Taj
is my second favorite site in India.
Another day and another driver, this time five hours West destined to Jaipur, the capital
of Rajasthan. Before reaching Jaipur we toured the abandoned medieval city of Fatehpur Sikri,
and because I was wearing short pants the Muslim’s required me to wear one of their rental skirt
wraps to appear more respectful, however upon returning the wrap I refused to give them any
money. Jaipur is my favorite of the three cities making up the Golden Triangle, and it has the
most sites to offer; Hawa Mahal (Palace of Wind), City Palace with a great restaurant in the
sunshine and perfect for our long mid-day beer drinking sessions, and my favorite site in India is
Amber Fort, wow, so many colors, and my first elephant ride. Returned to Delhi only long
enough to fly out to our next freak show.

Fatehpur Sikri, India

Hawa Mahal (Palace of Wind), Jaipur, India.
Albert Hall Museum, Jaipur, India
Water Palace, Jaipur, India
 The next freak show was Kathmandu, Nepal, a city with scheduled electrical blackouts.
Our hotel, designed more like a monastery, had to turn off the lights and heat from 8pm through
midnight, and how nice it was to function by candlelight alone. Even the stores were operating
without lights, which made shopping and even walking around a unique adventure. The
highlights of Kathmandu were Swayambhunath (Monkey Temple) and Durbar Square.
An hour South we walked through Bhaktapur, which is one of three medieval cities in
Nepal. That stimulating day was capped with a drive to the hilltop village of Nagarkot, where I
had my first panoramic view of the Himalayas.

Kathmandu, Nepal
Durbar Square, Kathmandu, Nepal
 It was an amazing trip with so many visuals, smells and noises that I’m sure it’s all
permanently sketched into my memory.
I sent my email to the journalist…
Dear Yashwant Raj,
On the same day that Starbucks contracted to sell coffee in India, not TATA coffee
selling in the U.S., you have written an article boasting that Chindia, “is pulling the global
economy out of the recent crisis,” and that it is for the Big Boys (U.S.) of the world economy to
show their “responsibility.” I ask you if you are pandering to your millions of Indian readers a
false sense of pride that won’t feed a single one of your begging children? Chindia is populated
with millions of slaves each suppressed by your caste system, so isn’t your 7% growth in 2010
meaningful to just a small percentage? Also written into today’s newspaper is the cover story that
Delhi’s only three landfills are full, and there’s no place to take the mounting trash rotting and
pilling along every street, and no new landfills are opening. I’m still dwelling on your comments
that somehow the U.S. needs to become “responsible.” I’m finishing today my two week tour of
India; a land which I need to swallow a Malaria pill each morning because your country hasn’t
sought out a means to eradicate that disease yet, responsible? Your article boasts that Chindia
will lead the global recovery in 2011, and I feel that a society without “style” should never be a
dominate power, and I say that your society has no style because I just toured the most disgusting
area (The Golden Triangle) that I’ve ever seen in the forty plus countries visited; your people
openly piss on the sidewalks and they are as filthy as farm animals. This isn’t to say that I didn’t
like the people, contrary, they’re beautiful, it’s just that the ruling elite should be taken out to the
fields and shot for their greed and arrogance. My Nepali taxi driver said it best, “India, means I
Never Do It Again.” I’ve wondered since my first day here in India how your supposedly,
“Spiritual Hindus” keep smiling amongst the chaos of beeping horns, rule less traffic, and the
smog that’s probably already shortened my own life’s expediency, but then there was that other
article in today’s newspaper about the growing problem of road rage. So I looked hard for some
Hindu or Buddhist spirituality away from the road rage and sleeping traffic, only to discover that
it usually came with a tourist fee at each temple. Well, I’m off to the U.S.; a country with a
middle class and water that I can safely drink, responsible.

Scott Nitzel
San Diego, California, U.S.A.

I awoke with Heather at the Hilton in smoggy New Delhi and walked her out front to her
taxi going to the airport, good-bye. I just spend many weeks getting to know you Heather, you
can’t be forgotten, though are lives go apart, why I decided I couldn’t date someone from the east
coast, regret, I must live with that. You were amazing each day.

Late January 2011 – I’m traveling with Scott McCoubrey for an overnight at Borrego
Springs and he’s driving while loading his bong, not just any bong as he shows me its stylish
double-water-filtration system designed to clean out any impurities. Currently there’s a law in
California against using a cell phone while driving but nothing specific about a bong that I’m
aware of, and I can’t knock him for enjoying what has become a regular staple in his life since
his recall and memory of our youthful events far exceed that of my own. He did explain to me his
theory of the three sexual phases that women go through in their life; the twenty-year-olds in
their spider web phase when they fuck anywhere and anytime to catch their man by misguiding
him into believing that this is how sex will always be, then for women in their childbearing
thirties sex becomes primarily a means to get pregnant and the lusty sex has dissipated to a level
frustrating for men, and finally when women turn forty-six they find sex a blissful thing and want
it often. Currently his wife is only forty-four and he’s eagerly anticipating her reaching this third
stage.
On our way to the trailhead Scott asked me, “So does that company of yours check for
mushrooms too?” I think many of Scott’s philosophies are either sound or healthy in that he uses
a cup of coffee and two cough drops in the morning as a dietary means to stay thin, and states, “If
you’re fat then you’re just eating too much.” I mean isn’t it just that simple? Also he goes on to
say, “When is the time to get high? When you’re not high anymore.” I really like his angle to life.

Scott McCoubrey and me

Scott McCoubrey
 Sung Kim, an internationally ranked Freestyle skier back-in-his-day and my friend for
about twenty-five years and we had never skied together until now. Each run was an adrenaline
speed fest and each chairlift ride was an opportunity for me to discover his passion, which is
primarily creating or maintaining a sex harem. He knows enough about strippers in Portland,
Oregon to explain that they’re more interesting than the strippers he knows in Los Angeles, and
that the best opening-line to meet a girl is to compliment her about the shoes she’s wearing, and
if he wanted to call up a girl for a Blowjob by the trees on the slopes he feels that one Coach
purse should be gift enough for her to accept this endeavor and once she completed the task he
would offer her a Gucci purse if she returns for seconds.
There was “an incident” on the slopes our first day skiing in which one of the local ski
coaches didn’t want me skiing through their gates and he was skiing next to me trying to perhaps
intimidate me until that made me mad and on a steep section of the hill at a high speed I plowed
into him sending us both cart wheeling with skis flying off. After I threw his skis into the rocks
while skiing off he used his radio to mount a posse of officials to meet me at the bottom. I’m
bringing this up only because I’m adding my “Last Will & Testament” to this entry and being of
sound mind is relevant and I believe that my mind is sound, however, I didn’t take the situation
with the posse seriously and informed them that I had been “drinking heavily,” which was a lie
because I hadn’t had drank anything that day, but it amused me to mislead them. There wasn’t
any doubt about the outcome that I was going to have my lift ticket removed and be kicked-off
the slopes for the day, which did happen, however, I just couldn’t let it end like that and changed
coats and hats and Sung and I went up for a couple more runs.

My Last Will & Testament

Pull the plug… Don’t keep my vegetated soon to be quadriplegic body on a long-term life
support system. Give all my stuff to my mother, and if she’s deceased then give it all to my two
children.

Sung & me – January 2011

August 24, 2011 – The sun will settle from Los Angeles in a few hours cooling it off enough for
my last run in many months to come. I relocated here earlier this summer as my company
promoted me to Project Manager of L.A. working on the Chase bank remodels. Besides my
distain for that mega evil financial institution; I don’t much like my intense corporate life either,
oh the twelve hour days are such a grind and so far away from the corn fields and meadows I
yearn for. I want to snap this situation in two and trade it in for a hut to meditate in while
watching worms crawl.
Matthew and I have been emailing each other for several months and he said he was sorry
about what happened a year ago. That apology was a big move and made me feel better. Thank
you son. Again though, it would be nice if you smiled in your pictures and tried not to look like
you’re a gangster ready to blow up a High School.
A couple months back both of my legs went numb because my vertebrae #4 & #5 are
pinching the nerves, so tomorrow morning I’m having major back surgery to correct this, ohhhh,
a fusion, so no running for a while and a good ski season is iffy.
I told Phil Graves that he was being a lousy friend to me and I was more than happy to
not be his buddy any longer, I mean he wouldn’t go out of his way to visit me and when I made
time to play tennis in his area he always brought his helpless-whining-wife along, so I stopped
liking her. For years he shared the pitfalls of their marriage in detail with me, sucked, he stole her
money, separate bedrooms, and he stopped being my good friend. He shared that his wife insists
he’s home during any of his free time, feel sorry for him, after we met for dinner and as we
walked our separate ways down a Santa Monica sidewalk I knew I wouldn’t be reaching out to
him again.

September 25, 2011

I left Los Angeles a couple weeks ago and moved back to San Diego, and I hope my work
never makes me move there again. The list of things I dislike about LA is long. My first two
weeks back in San Diego already seem like a weird phase; I had to get myself off the pain killers
prescribed after surgery, that was easy but those nights of being drifty and watching movies were
fun.
My surgery was a success, I have four screws and hardware in my back, and I managed
only to take two days off work and still continue working sixty hours a week. My work has
forced me to leave the carefree style I enjoy and become responsible by managing a few people
and several high profile projects. I should almost capitalize these words; I’ve become responsible
in my career. I can’t wait ‘til it’s over.

Vera & myself

September 2011

I created something good… Matthew and I are planning something together for
Christmas. Well actually it’s me planning it as he just wants to get the hell out of Germany and
come here and be with me.

Autumn 2011
My work schedule is busy because I’m flying up to San Francisco each week for projects
as well as my projects in Los Angeles so I have little free time to plan a holiday, besides planning
a two-week journey for my fourteen year old son and my seventy year old mother. Regardless of
the pressure I will plan something fun and memorable as I know I’m good at doing.
 Holiday’s In The Desert
December 22nd… I flew both of them to Las Vegas where we all met to begin our
journey. We saw both The Blue Men Group and KA shows while there. It was quickly obvious
that Matthew had matured since his last trip to the States and the added bonus was he’s moved
on from the gangster-rap crap he used to admire. He’s actually chosen to one day be a chef and
own his own restaurant somewhere in California.

All together in Las Vegas

After a couple nights in Laughlin, Nevada we drove on down to Palm Springs for a four
night stay. It was there that one morning while alone getting everyone there Mocha’s that I
realized that I like what I’ve become, meaning I’m comfortable and feel that I’m a good person.

Matthew – Joshua Tree

Matthew & Me
 Our journey continued onto Borrego Springs where besides some great hiking we
celebrated the New Years. Throughout this trip together my sister is leaving voice mail messages
on my mom’s cell phone trying to convince her that I’m a lousy person. My sister wishes that my
mother didn’t have contact with me and it frustrates my sister that my mother and I are close.

New Years 2012

Grandma Margy & Matthew
 Our final destination was San Diego, which like every day on this trip was warm and
sunny. Well I did it… I walked the tight-rope of keeping a teenager and a senior citizen all happy
and comfortable and I had a great time as well.

Matthew in San Diego – January 2012

 For the months ahead I will keep flying up from San Diego to Northern California almost
weekly to oversee my projects, which is still the focus of most of my time leaving little for play.
One week I land in San Francisco, the next it’s San Jose or Oakland. Talking with Matthew has
become fun for me and I drop everything when he calls. He’s determined to buy a Scooter and
find the freedom that it would offer him. I can’t say I really support this purchase as I think it’s
dangerous but I do realize he’s thinking similar to how I did at the same age. We have been
making vacation plans for later this summer around late July as I plan to fly to Europe and have
him hike out of Zermatt with me for a few days. It’s the second week of our vacation that we
have not settled on yet as it started with touring Rome and Sicily, but Egypt has also been
mentioned. I have sensed that I may have historical linkage to ancient Egyptian civilization as
though I lived there in a past life.
It’s a three-day-weekend and I want to use some of my Frequent Flier miles to getaway,
so on May 25th I landed in Omaha, Nebraska. I had never before been to Nebraska and I
discovered that the Old Market District of Omaha was charming and full of good restaurants, but
my purpose of this exploration was to see small farm towns and stay off the main road as much
as possible, probably because I spend most of my time in large cities and I yearn for smaller
places.
Day 2: It was my first chance to talk with Matthew about him drinking so much alcohol
last week at a party before passing out and needing an ambulance to get to the hospital and
consequently having his stomach pumped.
Now I’m driving West listening to Elvis songs on the satellite radio and concerned that I
may not be able to obtain my comforts like a latte or even a nice hotel, so I have to remind myself
that I’m not in another country, it’s just Nebraska, so I should be OK. I reached David City, a
place I believe that my mother lived in during part of her youth, oh, it’s a perfect small town, so
green and quiet. I try to image my mother as a little girl being here, what did she see? What did
she feel? Oh ya, I was sort of with her as just an egg inside her embryo so long ago. I telephoned
my mother from David City and what made it special is that we have not spoken in months
together, but being here overwhelmed me and I had to share my location with her. Her voice
sounded strong and caring and I was glad I was talking with her. She informed me that she was
born here and also went to Kindergarten here too, but that her family actually lived closer to
Rising City about ten minutes away. I drove into Garrison because my mother had told me that
my grandfather Clancy was a barber there for a short while. It was at the Garrison cemetery that
an elderly couple I was chatting with shared the cost of housing in this part of Nebraska, and it
seems that the same house for $775,000 in San Diego would list at around $40,000 here. I
continued driving to Rising City, driving slow with my widows down to feel the wind, and all the
locals would wave at me, this I was not used too but certainly missed. It’s 95 degrees and humid,
oh how I think I’d like to see a tornado. Odd, I don’t see any hotels in these small towns, and I
conclude that farm towns in Nebraska are just for living and not for tourists. I’m thinking about
how I don’t believe there’s God as there’s too much science to support the Big Bang theory. I’m
fascinated that I can give my DNA to a lab and learn where my ancestors came from. I started
researching these labs recently to find the one I most trust, and I have a suspicion that they will
confirm that my linkage did migrate through ancient Egypt. For any kind of hotel I must leave
beauty and enter a larger city and I settle on Columbus, where I read that the Glur Tavern is the
oldest operating bar west of the Missouri River. Upon entering Glur Tavern I’m invited to join in
a small group near the bar which is actually the High School class of 1987’s twenty-fifth class
reunion. I find these corn-feed girls quite pretty and the beer keeps pouring and their amusement
that I’m there from San Diego doesn’t stop. One named Christine starts rubbing on me, “Walk
me out?” I ask her. As I’m opening the back door to my car I remember her saying, “You know
this is Columbus?” I think I know what she meant. Oh backseats! Buffalo Bill used to hang out at
this bar. Was he as lucky as I?
Day 3: Morning coffee and studying my map on which direction to go. I settle on South to
Kansas using 81. Driving along I find it easy to spot the next small town ahead as I just look for
the tall grain silo above the tree line. I stop at most of these towns, perhaps it’s just a drive
through or to get an ice cream cone.
I once wrote that San Francisco was our funnest city, and now I’d like to retract that
statement. I’m trying not to move up there and instead chose to fly up weekly as I find it dirty and
I’m annoyed with all those liberal-asses that germinate up there, and what’s with all those
homeless? I’m thinking about that because it’s so contrasting to here; so many flags here, so
clean, so quiet, parks with memorials to the fallen soldiers. What made this country strong? Well,
it wasn’t the liberal sucks in Northern California.
I miss seeing my mother. I reach Kansas for the first time ever. I found a spot under some
trees where I could see the green fields blowing with the wind and a wonderful sense relaxes me
knowing that I found a place where I would like to have a house and make it my life. I like seeing
windmills, and eating nuts with dark skin, oh, no thanks to cashews and peanuts.
I take a room in Beatrice, Nebraska for the night. After a quick shower I’m off to see the
#1 historical site around here; the Homestead Heritage Center. It was the Homestead Act of 1862
that gave individuals the opportunity to claim free land and the first person to do so was Daniel
Freeman, claiming the spot on the site of this monument center. I found it fascinating to look out
over the fields and imaging him with his family trying to grow food and prosper here. I wish I
could go hang out with a native Indian tribe and smoke a peace pipe with their chief.
Day 4: Staying on side roads I approach Adams and see the town folk gathering in the
cemetery for the Memorial Day ceremony. I join in and am surrounded by guns, more flags, and
they go to prayer, sorry but I won’t do that anymore, instead I have my eye on a beautiful girl
sitting with perhaps her grandfather. Her smile is lovely and she’s so polite to the elders, her long
blonde hair is blowing in the wind, and oh how I want to meet her and know her purity. The
ceremony is underway, why don’t I go talk with her? I’m more at ease when a girl talks to me
first. She doesn’t seem to notice me. The ceremony is over and she leaves. I overhear the town
folk saying that breakfast is being served in town at the V.F.W, this is maybe another chance to
see her. I’m talking with the old people over Sloppy Joe’s and red, white, and blue Jello, but the
girl doesn’t show, and for hours to follow I‘m upset with myself for not meeting her.
Switching back and forth from Elvis to Reggae on the radio and my surroundings are
picture perfect. Nebraska, I loved it.

June 2012
On a flight from Oakland to San Diego I was hoping for my ritual of eating pistachios and
reading my newspaper in peace but regrettably I got caught up in a conversation with the woman
seated next to me, Tracy, whom was eating a share of my snacks. She never had children and it
would later become obvious that she wasn’t comfy around them, thus the end of our two-year
relationship began when Matthew will ask me if he could move to the States to finish High
School, and Tracy will put me into a position where I have to choose either him or her. Only a
few short weeks after the plane lands I will begin my residency in Walnut Creek, California.
Tracy grew up in Maine and has a summer get-away cottage in York near the beach. I
find myself there a few days after meeting her. New things for me are crab cakes and lobster
rolls. I have never been with a woman so anxious to get us through and out of that romantic
stage. She actually told me the day that she decided it was time to move to the next stage. In
hindsight I’ll think back to her wanting my pistachios inside that plane, which was her character
throughout our relationship as a taker and penny hording cheap. During my two years together
with Tracy I will reaffirm my distain for volunteering and being connected with cheap or frugal
people.

July 2012
I need to see Europe this summer and hike in Zermatt on my favorite trail. I book all
travel arrangements with Matthew in Zurich and travel together for two weeks.
It’s hike day in Zermatt. I told Matthew months ago to be in shape, but he didn’t prepare.
I told him that we’d be back before dark. Over eight hours later we return. Matthew laid down in
the grass a couple of times to pass out. Other than that hike my favorite was sitting in the outdoor
hot tub at Hotel Zurbriggen and looking at the Matterhorn.

Matthew early in the hike – still smiling

Matthew in Venice
 After some days we began going North, a night in Bardelino and a swim in the lake, and
onto St. Anton, Austria.
The two weeks in nearly over and we’re picnicking up on a grassy hill in Appenzell. It
was during that picnic that I realized that I won’t be seeing Matthew again after tomorrow until
months later. I have so much fun together with him; he’s becoming a good guy.

With Ingrid & Lara – Dropping Matthew at Home in Germany

 2013
Matthew plans to drop out of school later this year after completing his tenth grade, and
that Germany accepts this as normal for people in Real Schule. As much as I discuss with him
the lack of insight into his decision I can tell he is firm on this. In fact, he is withdrawing from
most of sports as he now has his first girlfriend; Tara, who he’s giving most of his attention to.
My mother has decided that she wants to sell the house and move into more comfortable
surrounding more suitable for someone her age, now almost seventy-three, such as a retirement
home. I don’t blame her as she’s been splitting her own kindling for her wood burning stove and
she lives a couple miles outside of town and not near her social network.
Grandma Margy’s House & Car
 Just a few days after deciding to put the house on the market and signing with a realtor
she suffers a sever stroke to the left side of her brain, this happened the morning of March 4
while home alone. She is ambulanced to the hospital at Riverbend in Springfield. I fly up and I’m
at her side that evening. She is surprisingly coherent considering the area of her brain now dead
is the size of a golf ball. She recognizes me, also my sister who arrives later that evening, but
most noticeable is her speech impediment, as she’s not able to complete full sentences and
forgets words. I left home in such a haste that I forgot to bring the Power of Attorney form that
mom signed over to me back in 2005, so I call in a Notary and have mom sign another POA, this
way I can work with her realtor on listing her house, I also begin working with mom’s tax
consultant making sure her papers are signed and filed. I don’t want my sister to be able to
access any of moms money so after this form is Notarized I added a line that she could not get
into any of mom’s money, this will cause Trisha great angst, but I am just duplicating authority
already given to me years ago. My favorite times are when my mother and I are alone and it’s
calm and we laugh together, but when my sister arrives she brings along tenseness and it’s no
longer enjoyable to share time together.
My mother & I enjoying some time outside hospital
 On March 9, I say good-bye to my mother still in hospital and fly home. My mother will
have successful surgery in a couple of days but she will probably never be able to care for herself
alone again. The evening just after her surgery my sister gets my mom to sign Power of Attorney
to her, or I could reword this as the fact that while my mother was partially brain dead and
incapable of making clear decisions my sister was party to coercing my mother into signing
paperwork. This is something I could challenge and most likely have overturned but my desire to
not have contact with my sister outweighs all. Later that evening my sister will contact an
organization that protects elderly people and lie to them that I have stolen from my mother and
that I’m wrongfully holding some of her property. Using my power of attorney I opened the safe
deposit box at mom’s bank, which used to be my grandfather’s box, and removed all items. The
value of items in this box were of no monetary value, but some simple memorabilia was the
source of conflict as now nobody but myself will know what was in there, so to satisfy these false
claims that I had stolen items I simply sent a couple meaningless trinkets to my mom’s hospital
room, the rest of the items I will just hold onto. I will continue to talk with my mother nearly
everyday under circumstances with my sister trying to divide my mother and myself so she can
control my mother. Eventually my sister will put my mom into hiding somewhere and hope that I
can’t find her and shut off communication with her. My sister has long told me about her
financial woes and extreme credit card balances, so I can only hope that she doesn’t find the
impulse to use my mother’s savings for her own use. At this time my mother has almost a-quarter
of a million in equity, and I have all her financial paperwork to back this up, however, after
calculating my mother’s savings against her life expectancy it is clear that my mother will most
likely outlive her expenses, which is another concern if Trisha does tap into her funds for
personal use.
During a ski trip in the Lake Tahoe area with Tracy, my sister; whom I have long felt
deserved to be discovered on the Jerry Springer television show along with similar White-Trash,
decided to email Tracy and desperately try and convince Tracy that I was a terrible person by
manufacturing dislikable things about me. The lunacy of this attempt was punctuated by the fact
that Trisha had never met Tracy or had any prior contact with her. I will later discover that this
slew of hateful emails came on the afternoon that my sister and father had a blow up on the
phone together, and consequently our father has avoided contact with her.
I will write this email to my sister a few days later:

Trisha, I want to thank you for bringing Tracy and I even closer together as you gave us
something intriguing to discuss during our drive up to ski Lake Tahoe last Friday. She was
already well briefed about the history and dislike we have for each other so it was fun for her to
place you in context of the character I had been describing. She’s very practical and intelligent,
much more than you and I are, so her analysis is, “Trisha is not a happy person and therefore
hates to see you happy,” seems spot on. She went onto describe you as someone not happy in life
and thus there’s a quenching desire for you to attack me because I’m happy. The solution is for
you to make yourself happy and not worry about others that have found their way to true
happiness and peace. So we’re driving up to the slopes and we continued dissecting your,
“Attention is requested,” about how I had shared her financial success with you about her savings
and her investment-cottage in Maine, and we were perplexed as to why you wrote this as
boasting was wrong about her success. Well, I’m very proud of her accomplishments, as is she,
that she’s stable, confident, and practical. In fact her response was, “Why didn’t she bring up the
condo in Aruba too!” She has done very well for herself and relishes in the fact that she is
financially and professionally ready for retirement. Perhaps it’s time that you look at your own
life and see how satisfied, stable and ready you are for retirement and learn from your decisions
to marry a man that earns little money, has a child support payment that you have to scrap-by to
pay, that you change jobs yearly, or that you have to live in El Cajon. These were you choices,
and if you are not happy with your position in life then change it; get rid of the dead wood. It’s
time I let you in on a little secret; a year ago I completed writing my entire life story and posted it
on the web for anyone and everyone curious to read. When someone Google’s my name they will
find it under, “My Memoir” and I occasionally update it. So when you wrote this great masterful
novel to Tracy “Confidential Information” that I didn’t have a college degree and about my
children it was not any surprise to her as she had read my memoir months ago. So, I did get a
chuckle out of you writing her that this may be overwhelming to her, well, she already knew it
all, sorry. So Tracy and I both decided at that time, hey, let’s each call our I.T. guy back at
corporate and simply have Trisha’s emails blocked. Tracy knows all about me as we conduct our
relationship in an honest manner without secrets. A couple months ago, Tracy and I had dinner
with Billy Tripp, which was fun as it always is, and we do keep in touch and try and see each
other yearly. During that dinner he once again asked me why you frequently call him. I remember
a few years ago you told me that you had no contact with Billy, however, he had just called me
the day before saying you had just called him. I remember how uncomfortable you were with me
on the phone admitting to me that yes you do contact him. It’s just that if you don’t want to be
honest with your current husband then that’s your business, but not how I handle my relationship,
so butt out. What’s the big deal about you busting my chops for not finishing my four year
college degree anyways? Like Citrus College is a big deal on a resume? At least I went to a real
university. It feels to me that you have graded yourself in comparison to me all your life and
jealousy is what makes you so determined to hurt me. I mean, I’ve done some pretty remarkable
things in my life such as my ski racing, my travels to now fifty countries, my career and respect I
have in my work community. I’m proud to say that mom has two grandchildren, both from me,
and by my count that’s two more than you ever had, regardless. So I have a nineteen year old
daughter that I chose not to have contact with due to respect issues and boundaries I set, so what?
At least I respect myself enough to have boundaries and I chose peace over anxiety. I have an
almost sixteen year old son that worships my every word and counts on my direction in life, so
what, I do my best. I try to figure it out as to why you want to isolate mom and control her and I
wonder if it’s because you didn’t have any children to raise and somehow mom is a replacement
for someone to care give the way you want them to be. I don’t know this but I sometime
rationalize this as possible. I have no interest in controlling mom and making her see the world
through my eyes, which is why it’s sad to see how uncomfortable you become when I’m making
mom laugh. If I recall several years ago when mom had a brain tumor removed; you and I were
both at her side for five days, then you flew home and didn’t return, whereas I stayed behind for
nearly two more months working with her to walk again, I fed her daily, arranged her paperwork
and paid her bills from my pocket, so I find it irrational that you text me last Friday that I
couldn’t handle caring for mom long term, so I will chalk this one up as you just being angry
again, so no worries. I was having a Mia Tai and fish tacos last Friday night alongside Lake
Tahoe and you were sitting home on a Friday night texting me drool and calling me Chicken
Shit, I mean, wow, and you like throwing out names like manic and I‘m supposed to think you
got yourself under control? To the contrary, I see you as a woman without boundaries or grace.
Several years ago when mom decided to sell her house in Bellevue and move to Junction City it
was me that rented the U Haul and moved her down, I ask where were you? When grandpa’s
house needed remodeling so mom could live there, it was me that spent an entire summer and
autumn remodeling that house, partially with my money, so I ask where were you?, Not one time
did you show up and help. So if now you have the need to take on all this responsibility alone for
caring for mom then I say give-it-a-try, but I have seen how you come-on like a bright light then
burn out fast and then rub us out with your stress. I will not fight you for control of the physical
mom, as I know she loves me and I love her, but if that’s something you need to do to make
yourself happy then I won’t stop you, wish I could as it’s sad, but I have to live on and be happy,
because years from now when you and I are both old then none of this will matter. I don’t know
where you and I went so wrong together, perhaps it’s my fault because I’m the eldest, but I do
know where it started weird for me… When you were about fifteen years old you were brought
home by the police and were found carrying a list of items to steal from Southcenter Mall along
with items that you had stolen, and I remember the police talking with our parents and I was
thinking how I just can’t relate to you. I know you and I had little to do with each other growing
up as we were both busy with our own activities, you and your horses and me and my sports , but
for you to hate me because I’m happy and you’re seemingly not is just too out there. Perhaps
what so different about the two of us is that I don’t care what you think about me and haven’t
cared for years. I have not saved anything we had together, no emails, deleted your contact
information, and not inquired about you for several years, but on the contrary you seem to be
fascinated enough to of had my most recent cell phone number and you have saved emails. Even
when we talked up in Eugene you seemed to be proud to let me know how much about me you
knew as of recent. I relate you to any former girlfriend from years past that kept hoping that one
day we’d reconnect, so she holds on. I was sitting around our outdoor fireplace last night with a
lovely red wine to drink thinking how perhaps we should have you up for a dinner, but reality is
that neither of us wouldn’t have much fun so I forgot that idea, and so it is with us. I received
from Arleta a pathetic email Monday that she needs the I.R.A money released or mom will go
homeless. Well even you would have to laugh at that. I have lots of money, thus mom has
choices, but she’s headed for you and lovely isolated El Cajon because you have decided that’s in
your best interest, which is just sad that unlike other seniors she will not be living with people
her own age and participating in activities designed for her. I know you have a tendency to burn
out and then complain, so if and when it all becomes too much mom will have choices. I would
arrange for mom to be in a retire community but not live long term with me, as that is certainly
not the natural state I would want for myself, nor should mom want. Mom loves being around
 and talking with people – she is very social and to cut her off to live in your house is shameful.
Not that I desire for you to read my memoir but if you did you’d realize that within the three-
hundred or so pages you are inconsequently mentioned but maybe twice, which is a testament to
how we are not a factor in each other’s lives. So it’s perplexing to me that you would write that I
was falsifying a birth certificate in order to go to the Himalayas three years ago, when the facts
remain that I requested that you get my birth certificate out of my storage and send it to me in
Baltimore so I could apply for a Visa, which you accepted to do. Once you received my keys to
the storage unit you then held it ransom until we sort out our relationship I recall. It wasn’t a deal
worth it to me and I told you not to contact me again, again. I still made it to the Himalayas and I
didn’t need to play your game to be successful. What I take from this is that you have a desperate
need to get me to relate and understand you, which I hope you know by now isn’t going to
happen. I can still hear you whining from previous phone calls, “But you’re my brother and I’m
your sister,” which you never understood is meaningless if you’re not happy. Tracy knows you
and I have a poisonous relationship from years ago. She doesn’t like it but she knows ‘it is what
it is’. She also knows that my concern is my mother and her living happily and making sure she
lives to the full extent of HER money. We would be sure she is in a retirement community close
to us that you could come visit and talk with her anytime. But instead you chose to isolate her. I
am truly sorry for that choice of yours, sister. If you have read this far down then I tell you want I
want most of all, which is for you to be happy, just not around me. I wish that each day you
would wake up in harmony and have no stress. I want that for you. Knowing you as well as I do I
believe you’re instinct is to fire back an email telling me how you are this amazingly happy
person and that I’m all screwed up, but I wish you would just take it that I do wish you happiness
and no suffering. Just wondering; when you send out emails saying, “Our family sends their
condolences,” and “Our family viewed this as strange,” I’m wondering just who you think your
representing or speaking for. You have no family to speak for as the Nitzel group is a fragmented
and dysfunctional core that never elected you as their leader. I know you don’t speak for mom
and dad has his own opinion, which usually sounds like this about you, “She just can’t shut up
and is so stressed that I have to hang up on her.”

After sending that email I will choose to move on and be happy by not having my sister
involved with me. Tracy will diagnose this as; “Your sister is not a happy person and it upsets her
that you are happy, so she is trying to hurt you.” Another angle that I consider is that my sister,
having no children of her own, has a physical need to parent something, thus my mother needing
her care quenches that need.

Spring of 2013
For years I have envisioned painting with acrylics on canvas at home while listening to
opera and enjoying a tasty red wine. So I bought a record player and purchased several of the best
known operas, then I signed up for art classes. I have now painted several paintings and I can say
that I plan to keep this passion going.
Painted in Walnut Creek
 May 2013 – Matthew comes to Northern California for the first time.

It was a fun couple of weeks together. I taught him how to shoot a basketball correctly,
put him into Kickboxing class each morning, and we attended a cooking class one evening as
that’s his goal to become a chef. During his visit here he did share with me that Espen and my
sister are chatting on Facebook.
 After Matthew returned home I contacted Espen, which was the first time in about three
years. I wrote:
Espen - I'm not trying to make contact with you but it's troublesome to me that my sister
is recently trying to be your new friend. I absolutely hate my sister, and she feels the same about
me, I wish she would stay out of my life but she won't. I'm a very happy person and I love my
life, she is not happy and she likes to call my friends, and my girlfriend Tracy, and say terrible
things about me, which makes only her feel good. I asked her several years ago not to contact me
again but recently our mother became sick and my sister found that to be a reason to contact me
again and then start telling my friends again terrible things about me. I really don't care anything
about my sister and decided not to speak with her again but recently Matthew told me that she is
contacting you on Facebook, so I feel like asking you not to talk about me with her. My sister is
psychopathic and here is how she will get you to become her friend... First she will tell you what
a wonderful Aunt she is and start giving you advice on how to be happier and then she will start
telling you things that she will protect you (Kick butt on other people that hurt you), and all this
psychopathic behavior is just so you become trusting of her so she can get to the next phase of
her plan, which is to start telling you how terrible I am. She really has no interest in you or
anyone else, it's just her interest in being mean which makes her feel better. Our own father will
not even talk with her any longer because she's so mean. Whatever you decide to do with her is
now your business, I just feel bad that she wants to include you in her games, and take care.
 Espen writes back: What the hell do you want????? You don't even care about me. Trisha
is a good human she's being nice to me and helping me. Scott... Please, leave me alone. Thanks
for telling me But I can decide who's good ore not on me one Maybe you don't know but I'm an
adult now and I have my one mind. You never talked to me in the last few years. So tray out if
my life!! I really don't know what you want. Trish is wonderful. And I don't want contact to you
don't worry. I really don't understand why you telling me that.

I wrote back: Yo Esh – You have anger. You asked me what I want, nothing, I don’t care
what you do with my request about Trisha or what she says about me, I just don’t like her. You
think she’s wonderful, then why doesn’t she have friends? Why does she have to get a new job
every year? It’s now six new nursing jobs in six years, and the reason is because at each new job
she has problem with the other people she works with. Then why does she have no money? Why
is she married to someone that has no money and cheated on her? I know this because she then
asked me to help her file for divorce. When you say that my sister is helping you I must laugh. I
question why become a nurse when it’s a lot better to be a doctor? Don’t you think you are smart
enough? You stated that I have not talked to you for years; in fact the last time we talked was
when I sent you home early from a trip because you were a bitch to me, and now I don’t think of
you as a good quality person. You came here and during surfing lessons you started yelling at me
for taking a picture of you, which was just a stupid reaction and so I decided that I don’t think
you’re a good person for me to be around and sent you home. My friends then told me, “It’s just
the mind of some sixteen year old girls and someday they will develop their brains and become
better people.” But later you made things difficult for Matthew because he and I decided to stay
together and you told him some mean things because he was coming back to visit me; and this is
something that I will not forgive you for. Matthew told me he was sorry for his behavior while
here with you three years ago and since then he enjoys many fun trips together with me.
Sometimes I see American teenagers doing really fun things here and it makes me sad because I
know you missed out on a lot of what they have, such as having parents with money so you can
have nice cars and go a great university or whatever they want. I know that your mom is some
kind of hero to you but you don’t have many of the things that money can buy because of her, not
because of me, so don’t direct your anger at me, it was her that doesn’t have a profitable career,
which kept you from having nice things, it was her that decided to go to some university while in
her 40’s rather than make things better for you. Most of us attend college as teenagers, it was her
that married a loser without much money and tried to get me to give them some, you think your
mom is a fantastic person but really she is one of the most physically ugly people I ever knew, so
I decided if contacting you meant dealing with her then I no longer wanted that. I have money,
love, friends, fun, and a life I always wanted for myself, and you portray a person that is angry
and a bitch, so are you surprised that I don’t contact you? No problem, Esh Klaas. I’m someone
that never did a mean thing to you and you’re a bitch to me, huh.
Espen writes to me: I am a bitch and a whore. Thank you. I am not sorry for me behavior.
And you’re an asshole to me. I don’t care what you think Scott Nitzel. You behave like a little
boy. I don’t care about money. There is so much more than money. Gosh your laughable haha.
Stay out of my life asshole.
Well, I kicked that around for a couple of days and realized that Espen has become just
how I thought she would.

I have become a golfing fanatic and it began with lessons at Boundary Oaks earlier this
summer and I’m scheduling T Times every week. I have a passion to get good at that sport, I’m
waking up from my sleep and thinking about how to hit that little white ball better. Just yesterday
I golfed 18 holes in the morning and then another 13 holes that afternoon. Several weeks into my
new golfing adventures I become obsessed with being out there on those warm summer days
about five times per week. I can par a few holes here and there but my goal will be to hit my first
Birdie.
 A little psychological probing… I blur the differences between realistic thoughts and
fantasy thoughts more than average. I imagine the circumstances around making whatever I want
to become possible and really happen, even what most would say is outlandish. I role play in my
mind for example the total seduction of any women I chose to imagine being with and play out in
my mind every detail. It’s that I believe each event could be possible which the “concern” is so to
speak.
I’m eating lunch with Scott McCoubrey when I share this insight about myself with him.
He replies how he has understood this about me always and how he finds it an advantage that I
use this imagination to really get things done that he would find impossible, like smuggle Espen
out of Europe in my backpack.
 I have been curious about Vietnam for many years, and what the Vietnamese would think
about me. I’m doing research on the Vietnam War and the U.S. involvement. The answers I’m
seeking are; why did the North Vietnamese attack South Vietnam? Where were the big battle
fields? Who was supplying the North Vietnamese with weapons and supplies?
It’s August of 2013 and I’m soon vacationing to seek those answers to my questions.

SCOTT’S SIAM TOUR

I have this trip so dialed-in that I should sell its itinerary to anyone wanting the best of
Siam. I recommend this exact trip except in hindsight I would skip Saigon for being seedy and
lacking in interesting tourist sites.
Just hours before I departed from San Francisco I checked into a nearby hotel to prep
before the dreaded flight, and took special care to also book a massage and feast on steak and
yummy Mai Tai. Upon boarding the plane the final order was to ensure not remembering much
so I downed sleeping pills and muscle relaxers, and oh ya it worked perfectly, hell, I was almost
there before I awoke.
Saigon, Vietnam: Checked into Renaissance Riverside Hotel, so perfect. Just one block
off Dong Khoi Street, which was good for shopping. I’m already sweaty from the heat and my
boxers are sticking to me. Rex Hotel was fascinating for me to sit at the famous roof top bar and
imagine the military news briefings that used to take place here discussing the war. Saigon
Square and also Ben Thanh Market were just cheap malls selling junk and I’m sorry I wasted my
time finding them. Le Cong Kieu Street was the only highlight searching for antiques even in the
rainstorm. The Reunification Museum was a waste of time, which was as propagandist as all the
Ho Chi Mihn posters placed throughout the city reminding them how much he did for the people.
Caught the noon flight on Vietnam Airlines.
DaNang, Vietnam: Checked into Furama Resort, right on the beach, so perfect. I would
swim in the warm ocean and imagined how many years back our troops landed right there. Short
taxi ride South to Hoi An to walk around. Best was stopping in at one of the many tailors and
having two shirts custom made for me out of silk. Oh I love listening to the soft voices of these
petit Vietnamese girls, and I wished girls back in the States would come here and take voice
lessons. Visiting Ba’ Na’ was a stupid bust as it resembled a small Disney Theme Park. Early
morning taxi up North to Hue (skip Hai Van Pass and use the tunnel) to walk around the Imperial
Citadel, Khai Dinh Tomb, Royal Tomb of Tu Duc. Thien Mu Pogada, and most definitely do
find Ancient Hue Restaurant for lunch as its amazing setting and food. A full day and back at the
hotel around 7pm. In central DaNang is the wonderful Cham Museum with artifacts from that
ancient civilization dating back around 875 AD, well it displays carvings of gods; then it was
superstition like today we have religion. Caught the 1:05pm flight on Vietnam Airlines.
Hanoi, Vietnam: Checked into Essence Hanoi Hotel, located in the old quarter, so perfect.
Walked around the old quarter, I’m sweating from the heat, stopped in the Green Mango
restaurant; AC is on high. Took a long four-hour bus ride through more shit-hole poverty,
pollution, and chaos, to reach Ha Long Bay for a boat tour, amazing. Back in the States I was
told, “Oh, Vietnam is so beautiful,” and I wonder if those who had told me that had ever traveled
before. Walked through Hao Lo, which is more famously known as Hanoi Hilton prison. Caught
the 12:15 flight on Vietnam Airlines.
Luang Probang, Laos: Checked into Mekong Riverview Hotel, so perfect, and ideally
located near many of the best Wats (temples). Lao people are relaxed and accommodating.
Rented a Scooter for our stay and booked a massage. It’s OK to talk with Monks and they liked
practicing their English with me. Young Buddha Monks everywhere. Booked a Mekong River
Dinner Cruise. This place is wonderful, and I’m sweating in my boxers again. Caught a 2:10
flight on Vietnam Airlines.
 Siem Reap, Cambodia: Picked up at the airport by my assigned Tuk Tuk driver, Sok, and
checked into Siddharta Boutique Hotel, so perfect. Walked around 900 year old Angkor Wat,
Angkor Thom and Bayon. I’m sweating again, I brought plenty of boxers. It was that physical-
space thing again whereas I enjoyed touching one big stone used on a temple wall and imagined
the person who worked to install it in that location, and how he surely never thought that I would
be there to look at his stone. Sok takes me anywhere I want; continued with Ta Prohm, and Preah
Khan. Booked a massage.

Back at it in the morning; Banteay Srei and Banteay Samre, followed up with another
massage. The river is polluted with sewage and filth and the children swim in it, don’t they know
better? I can only endure this poverty because I know there’s a wonderful hotel room waiting
upon my return. Actually I’m fascinated most with this place of all listed on Scott’s Siam tour. In
the early mornings with my cappuccino to drink I’m all over the Web reading about The Killing
Fields and how Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge emptied Phnom Penh and killed so many people.
Well, I’m also fascinated at how all those people walked out of their city into the farms like
sheep. How delightful it would have been to punch Pol Pot in the nose, twice. Caught a 3:50pm
flight on Bangkok Airways.
Bangkok, Thailand: Checked into Courtyard by Marriott, so perfect. Easy Tram ride to
the river and a pleasant boat ride to Wat Arum, the Grand Palace, and Wat Pho. I have Buddha
coming out my ears, no more Buddha’s. In each of the countries I have bought a necklace that I
liked and still wear. I have a good collection now, and I’m sure they should be put on display
after I die, or will someone want them?
 It was a sunny afternoon at Buchanan Field Golf Course on September 24, 2013 when I
swung my driver from hole 4, which happens to be a par 4, and that ball went long and straight. I
made a phone call while walking up the fairway just for a casual chat. I said good bye and pulled
out my Pitching Wedge; good contact and the ball landed up on the green. My putter had made
contact and I watched the ball roll straight towards the hole. Could this be the moment I had
worked so hard to achieve? The ball dropped in and I had made reached my goal of hitting a
Birdie. Now what?
After My First Birdie
 Saturday October 26, 2013 and the sun in just breaking through the morning fog outside
my sister house in El Cajon, California where I happen to be waiting inside my minivan looking
for my mother. During this wait I have good talks with both Ingrid and my father. The sun is
warming my face and I wonder just how long until there’s action, then thirty-feet in front of me is
my mother walking alone my direction, she is walking strong, she looks good, her hair is colored
a reddish blonde, she looks happy. She walks in front of my car and as she passes my window.
“Hi mom,” I say to her with a jovial voice.
She appears shocked.
“It’s your son.” She smiles. I hold her hand as we begin walking together. Her speech is articulate
and I’m immediately pleased at her progress from the stroke just over seven months ago. We talk
about my passion for golf, my recent trip to Asia. She seems content living where she is but she
hopes to get her own small place. I’m surprised at how far she goes on her walk and how many
turns she makes throughout the neighborhood as it was around a half hour we spent together.
Being with mom
 Late autumn cold days haven’t changed my lust for golf, in fact I’ve hit three Birdies now
and I’m saving each ball like a precious trophy.
On November 29th my mother telephoned me, first call from her since her stroke, and she
wanted to tell me that she loved me, and that was planning on getting her own place to live soon
at a retirement facility. One week later she called me again to share her love for me, and she
asked if I had any contact with Espen, to which I shared how Espen had reacted last time I
contacted her and I also stated that I didn’t have an interest in Espen. Four days later my mother
called me again to tell me that she loved me. Then the very next day mom telephoned again and
said, “I’m not supposed to call you ever again.” I prodded why, although I knew who had
perpetrated this act upon her, but she wouldn’t elaborate beyond I’m not calling you anymore.

December 16, 2013

I’m fifty two today and I’m picking my son up from LAX for a week together, some of it
with my father whom I’ve invited to join us. We headquarter in Palm Springs and launch from
there for hiking Joshua Tree, riding horses, which hurts my butt and still bores me, nine holes of
golf, which turns out to be my favorite memory watching my dad swing away. I get a call from
Ingrid and learn there’s another police involvement with Matthew back home; this time a BB
Gun and a broken window. On a funnier note the bathroom usually smells like a hair gel and he
takes great care in getting his style just perfect, and nobody is to touch the sculpture of
perfection.
Three Generations Hiking Joshua Tree
 We did drive out to grandpa Matt’s for a Quad ride. Before taking my little man to the
airport we enjoyed a long beach walk at Paradise Cove in Malibu.
My mother lives in a trailer court in Lakeside, California. She calls me occasionally to tell
me about the highlight of her day being a walk and being lonely for more people to talk with.
After a while she will begin attending a church and make friends.

Spring 2014
Anxious to compete more I joined a golf club, handicap at 24 and played in my first
tournament. It was early morning, which is not my favorite time to be physical, when I teed off at
Callippe Reserve, but surprisingly all was going well, a par here and there, then somewhere
around the seventh hole I lost my 8 Iron, my favorite weapon in the bag, and become upset and
my game when crappy. I posted a lousy score.
 Out in the serenity of a lush green golf course has become my favorite habitat.
Unknowing to me right now I may be having one of the best times of my life; I work from home
as a PM building banks, my job is easy and I can escape to the sun and golf many times a week, I
paint when I feel, and I live in warm California, but deep inside I wonder just how long I will be
able to keep this up, I mean my company is almost out of projects in Northern California for me
to run and I just know that they will have to let me go sometime, but when, I don’t want this to
ever end.
 April 2014
A work trip to Seattle. I made the time to recall the past and found that exact spot where I
had made love for the first time, it’s now a park and I stood there thinking of that episode thirty-
seven years ago that summer afternoon, and I tried to imagine her laying there naked and we so
innocent. I have tried to find her through the internet without any luck. I would like to meet her
and hear what happened in her life. I then drove by the house where I grew up and found the
courage to knock on the front door, an old lady let me come inside and walk around and
reminisce. The house seemed smaller than I remembered. I then drove out to my High School,
but it was after hours and the doors were locked. I found a janitor that let me inside whereas I
was able to walk all around the hallways and recall good memoires.
 Tuesday, May 13
Matthew asks to move in with me and finish High School here in the States. His
motivation is that he’s tired of being the bottom dweller at his work and finally wants to improve
his situation. I offer him my rules, which are to make school a priority, he must play sports, he
can’t smoke or even sample drugs, if he earns a 2.8 GPA the first semester he can get a driver’s
license, and a discussion about my distain for the Rap Culture and how I have no room for it
around me and thus he must grow up and stop idolizing it, and he agrees to all these terms, so I
immediately start preparing his applications. Three weeks later I will get laid off from my
wonderful job of five years and need to find my own place to live because Tracy doesn’t want to
live with a teenager.

This is the last time I spoke with my father for a long time, perhaps a really long time. I
do not feel he’s a man of honor, he talks behind peoples back, and I don’t have enough good in
common with him. His wife will share the secret with me that my sister is arranging a trip for
Espen to come to San Diego soon and I’m not supposed to know about the trip. My father is
actually financing a portion of the travel expenses. I have taken and paid for many vacations for
my father to enjoy both his grandkids and that he would now be a part of this secret is too much
for me to accept of his poor judgment. Espen was a raging bitch to me last time I saw her and I
see him working behind me now supporting her behavior.
It’s at this time that I decided to give my sister a taste of her own meanness... She
believes that she is untouchable… so I created a fake FB account and using it I was able to send
out a short blurb to her friends about her behavior, so it felt good, and after doing that I
changed the passwords to something I wouldn’t remember and so I never went back to that site.

Summer of 2014
After years of being part of something big and cool, I was laid off from my
company because they lost their client. I met many wonderful people during this phase.
So with no job, no residence, and my son planning to move here at the end of this
summer I need a plan… On The Road With Sung: My longtime friend Sung knows Cannabis,
knows how to grow and plans to supply those in need of medicine, but he doesn’t know how to
market or sell, so we began our marketing expedition by meting other growers and collecting
samples, many samples, of their precious product to show buyers, so now we’re pot brokers
trying to profit. With a large bag of samples we’re on the West coast meeting the Big Players that
we believe need to buy large quantities. I ask Sung to calculate some numbers but unknown to
me is the fact that just a few minutes earlier he consumed some marijuana chocolate and thus he
can’t focus, issue being he doesn’t have focus normally so now it’s compounded. I’ll check the
numbers later. We end up in Washington State riding around with a Big Player who just had two
of his dispensaries raided the day before, he’s nervous, he knows he going to jail later in the
week. I determine there are too many people growing and the profits not there.
It’s been so many years since I’ve visited my uncle Peter Caday or seen the farm once
owned by my late grandma June outside Corvallis. I find him working in the garden and share in
a pleasant conversation surrounding by his sprawling walnut trees.
Matthew and Ingrid both frequently call me asking when he’s to fly over and where; the
pressure on me to get organized has reach a critical level as I don’t want to let him down.
Back in Northern California I went into the Siskus Mountains to find where my father
once mined for gold back in the 1980’s. Feeling somewhat sure I was close I walked across the
river and began pushing through brush on a dirt road once made by my dad and his bulldozer, it
was remote, quiet, many areas of the road washed away or vanished and I wasn’t sure of my
direction, and my thoughts were of my father, “You staked your claim, how were you feeling?...
Were you lonely?... How did you pick up the pieces and move on after the car wreck and all
those months in hospital and care?... Why didn’t you ask me to help you? I did reach the area of
his once mighty operation now mostly overgrown with trees. Just down by the river I saw that
several very large salmon were pausing in a still spot so I jumped in and swam with them. Sung
joined in and we tried to force them up river to the shallows so we could try to catch them.
I was on the back nine somewhere in Palm Springs under 113 degree heat when I
spontaneously decided to move back to Seattle and that same evening I was already driving North
on Interstate 5 and making calls to set up job interviews, in my mind I was finished with
California for a while, or did I get excited about Matthew seeing the Northwest where I grew up?
I stopped to get a business hair cut so I would look professional, suck, I can’t wait until it grows
out again. Within the next two weeks of arriving in the Northwest I accepted an good job as a
Project Manager, but suck, I will have to go to an office every day, bought an SUV, flew
Matthew into Seattle, moved us into an upscale condo next door to Botanical Gardens, and
enrolled him at Bellevue High School as a Junior. Turns out that Bellevue High is one of the top
public high schools in the country for both academics and sports.
In my mind I believed I would recreate my son to be someone he’s never been; that of
someone whom thrives on homework, decides to be organized, a stud in school sports, and
disciplined with good character. I will take him to the arts and he’ll want to be cultured.

First Day of 11th Grade

My evenings after work are helping Matthew with his homework, which is magnified
difficulty because there are many vocabulary words he hasn’t seen before. From day one I
explain that his main goal here is not only to graduate in a couple of years but to finish with
decent grades. One month in he has all A’s and B’s.
Espen, stop texting Matthew complaining about what a terrible person I am. Mathew just
blocked your texting.
While it’s still summer we take weekend road trips; one to Orcas Island, one to Ocean
Shores, some hikes, I want him to know this State he now lives in and to appreciate it too, and
another trip up to Crystal Mountain.
One Saturday I bought him running shoes and took him to his High School track
explaining that we will run around it eight times. I figured he’d quit on me somewhere during the
two miles and that I’d cruise to an easy victory, well, he lapped me on his seventh lap. I was
proud of him. I’ve considered calling my running days over now.

Top of Crystal Mountain with Rainier Background

The rain has started to fall, and I want to try and duplicate a lifestyle that I used to have, I
want to move back to California because I like the culture and I only want to see sunny days, I
want to golf year round, and I want to be inspired to keep painting. I would say that I must have
those three things in my life, so I set out to get it back.
Matthew likes all six of his teachers and he’s doing well in every class. However, he
doesn’t want to do all his homework telling me one evening, “I need my Chill time.” He actually
believes that when class is over he should be able to relax and not stress. I believe differently and
win each debate. Back to the rain and now cold too… I miss my lifestyle of being warmed by the
sun, I miss golfing whenever I want to play, I miss good wine and my painting on canvas. The
days are short and cold; I’m indoors too much so I’m starting to make our plan so we can go back
into California.
 Note to my son: When you’re older and reading this and have any questions about why I
would take you out of your fantastic school and move us to California I want you to remember
what’s going on in your head right now… You have told me that after graduating from high
school you plan to move back to Germany anyways, and that you don’t plan to go to University
here, and you are not studying very hard right now. In short, I have provided for you an ultimate
environment for studying and to turn your life into something prosperous, and you do not work
hard to excel towards a career choice.
Matthew is dedicated to body building and he is lifting weights almost every day, besides
looking stronger; he seems unknowledgeable about the world so I have been picking out several
stories from the newspaper and requiring him to read and give me his opinion. I believe he has a
long ways to go before he understands why these current events are happening but down the road
this effort should pay off. I usually find the parenting easy because I have the rules and even a
contract about what’s required of his grades and when he dips below he loses his IPad and cell
phone until he gets his grades back up. The contract was my best idea as it takes the unknown out
of it. I love my son and living with him as a teenager is great, especially me cooking dinners for
us and having him around.
Thanksgiving 2014

This is Matthew’s first dress shirt and I insist he wears them on holiday functions. His first
time putting it on he said, “Dad, do I really have to tuck this thing in?”
 “Son, if you wear your pants so low in public it will cost you $5 every time I see your
boxers.” I have never had to collect on that so far as you know I’m serious and will always follow
through with my word, and so it is with my parenting technique always explaining responsibility
with a firm voice and values and respectful behavior with unwavering expectations of you. When
you try to take the easy path and ignore your responsibilities I quickly pull you back over onto the
right trail and never hesitate to squash any bad behavior. I will remember these times as being
strong with you but fair, your eyes have watered during times that I have been absolute in
correcting your bad behavior, and I’m sure you will be the better for it one day.
It surprises me how naive Matthew is about our global society, its politics, and how
economies work or fail, so to open his brain a bit I have a routine each Saturday and Sunday
morning of warming up croissants and having him read articles from the morning newspaper that
I have preselected and we discuss the issues. I hope that one day he will benefit from this effort.

My childhood friend is marrying a fantastic woman and I get to prepare the toast.
Dave Tinius Wedding Day
December 20, 2014
 David’s Bachelor Party included a stop off at a strip club, however I was wearing a $300
shirt, a $300 pair of trousers, as well as shoes priced over $300, so when those scanky dancers
started rubbing there well used butts on my clothes I scooted them away and even had to resort to
lying that I am gay to keep them off me.
It was late in December when Matthew sent me a text sharing he knows what he wants to
do after completing High School, but that I had to wait until I got home to find out. I admit
thinking he was going to be a smartass and tell me he had found a commune in some distant land
whereas he could take new kinds of drugs for experiments or something like that, but to my
pleasant surprise he wants to be in banking and start out as a teller, and he had even done some
research on the matter.

January 2015
Matthew has completed his first semester; an A grade in Weight Training and also
Culinary, B’s in Psychology and U.S. History, and C’s in American Literature and also
Chemistry. Oh ya, I’m proud of his accomplishments.
I hear from my mom about once a week, which is good. In hindsight it’s disappointing
that my family was dysfunctional as a unit together by comparison to many other families.
I found my vehicle to relocate back to California (after Matthew finishes his Junior year)
with my new job as a Project Manager with JLL on the Union Bank account. I’m again building
banks throughout California and the Pacific Northwest. To add to the thrill of this endeavor is
that I’m working from home again, and earning a six-figure income. Trying to replicate my
former lifestyle is almost complete, just need my golf clubs and paint brushes. The truth is that I
distain corporate life and its motto, “That’s just the world we live in,” crafting perfect emails,
jumping down someone for being less than perfect, forecasting budgets of millions, Earned
Value up my butt, reviewing leases between brokers and landlord so they don’t make mistakes,
and I want to trade it in for a life on the farm and loving people.
I’m walking into a sporting store with Matthew when he explains how he needs new
shirts because his arms are getting so big his shorts won’t fit him any longer. I will be sending
him to Germany for his summer break and I think his mom will be shocked at the size of her son.

End of Winter 2015

I’m really good at this; what I mean is single parenting. I take my son to school every
morning, even though we live within a mile of the school, I return home to handle some big work
responsibilities, go shopping for dinner, and make some surprisingly tasty dishes, patiently put up
my son’s needs to be social on the computer for hours, allow his lazy butt to sleep in on
weekends, drive him to the gym, drive him to soccer practice, and still have some fun for myself.
Back to soccer, I did tell Matthew that he needed to make the school team or that I would take his
cell phone and IPAD away, he made the team. It’s important to me to watch him play, to watch
my DNA compete.
Uncle Gary, you died much too early. I recall riding motorcycles with you when I was a
kid, and I remember your big smile and laughter when we played basketball together.

Happy 75

March 16, 2015 my mom is 74. It was nice to give you gifts. She complains of the heat
and misses the cooler weather of Oregon.

April 2015
It’s torturous to watch my son’s soccer team lose every game as they have so far. Five
games in and the score is 25 to 1 with my son the forward having one job and that’s to score
goals, and nothing yet. Son, you’re stinking up the field. His favorite food is Alaskan King Crab
so before game 6 in an effort to motivate him there’s a promise of King Crab if he scores a goal.
It was a quick rebound shot and Boom it hit the back of the net, a rush of astonishment and relief
hit me, my son had done his job that evening and his team claimed their first victory.
I have a son! I hope you become something of good character and have a family of your
own. I have a daughter! I hope you have a fantastic and happy life.
I tell the story to mom about Matthew scoring his first goal for his High School and she
get very choked up and weepy. I feel she is lonely and wishes for family connections. I certainly
feel for her.
Thanks for the wilderness forest and mountain and my ability to appreciate your ominous
beauty and wildness. I’m Old School on my mountain hikes, I like the quiet privacy, solid pace
up a trail, what you bring to my thoughts when I brush past your wet and solid trees, sometimes
scanning for untamed big and small things with teeth. My admirations is deep rooted because of
all the hours that my own father took me to you and helped me understand your unforgiving
grace. I’m sorry you’re not being taken seriously by fat people talking on their cell phones, may
they trip on your stumps. I spend too much of my time sitting at a computer screen and dissecting
emails and regurgitating them back out, all for income, that you thickets of green for being so
opposite of that unhealthy way to live.
Matthew, I have tried to introduce you to golf. We played 18 holes yesterday and you got
mentally tired too soon, complained and wanted to pass out in the cart. You are so not
competitive and I don’t understand, “Dad, I will play 9 holes.” For me, I’m in love with
everything when I’m golfing and that’s how I want to spend my days. Maybe I will witness a
bank robbery and chase them down for the loot so that I can just golf while that money lasts.
Mathew collected on his eighteenth birthday with my gift of him getting to jump out of an
airplane and free fall for thirty seconds. The smile and his face upon landing and, “That was the
best feeling in my life,” were my reward.
 Did I tell you how comforting it has been to have a marijuana home test kit around and
my son knows I could make him use it any time that I chose? I feel it helps keeps him in check.
Ya son, you go on all those “Forest Walks” you want, but come home with big pupils and I’m
bringing out the pee cup.
Weekend May 16th - Matthew is the only blood relative of mine that has never been to
Oregon until today. Portland for breakfast and a wonder, “I haven’t seen anyone that looks
normal yet,” he says. I also see a lot of grungies and no beauties, perhaps our year in Bellevue has
distorted our perspective. Then it’s straight to my grandparents’ old house and more recently my
mother’s former house in Junction City, once the epicenter of my earliest days, how will it appear
to my son now? I’m hoping he makes his own connection of my family during this short
discovery of Oregon. The new homeowner lets us inside for an inspection, wow, the center
stairway has been torn down and relocated to a much better place, but much of my own work
from a few years ago remain as I had built for my mother. Then we drive a few miles away to
where my grandfather Henry had his home alongside a beautiful rolling green pasture. Eugene for
a nice hotel, open markets, protests, angry liberals, same as it has been for too long. I enjoyed
giving my son money and time to look around for his interests. I want to get as close as I can to
the room I was born inside. Conflicting reports, one lady says the birthing place fifty three years
ago was on the fifth floor, another reassures me it was the second floor, regardless that wing is an
abandoned attachment to the newer hospital. I looked through a glass window down the hallway
where I was probably born inside one of the many decrepit rooms pondering my mother carrying
me out past the very spot I now stood as the beginning of it all, had it been good, what would my
answer be? I will need more time to be sure. Thank you mother for bringing me here. Walking
back towards the hotel I strolled through the now abandoned Grey Hound Bus station where my
father once loaded bags into buses. I wish I could see my parents back then with a now coherent
mind, I would hug you both. My son and I tried to find one thing to watch on television in our
room, we scrolled through forty channels several times and found nothing. I purposely didn’t put
a TV in our home in Bellevue, and I would conclude that we have not missed a thing. Our final
historical landmark was a stop in Corvallis at my grandmother June’s farm and a visit with my
uncle Peter who is beyond interesting and I’m grateful for each connection we make together.
I may be at a picnic years from now conversing with someone over what
happened with Matthew during his Junior year and maybe too much time will have
passed to recall it accurately, so before it gets muddled through time here I scribe,
and besides, my teenage son will forget and decide someone did him wrong, so this
is to keep him straight too. Regardless of what I write, I do love you son.
I should not have worked harder than you this past year, but disappointingly
I did. I held down the responsibilities of a six-figure job which paid for many nice
things, then when my workday was over I turned shopper, cooker, most importantly
father, and tried my best to get you excited about many new things. The Seahawks
football games where you stood in the back of the group so we could all see how
much you were disinterested, the warm croissants on the weekend mornings when I
would have you read some articles in the newspaper to learn about the world, to
which you didn’t appreciate, to the hikes to which you announced, “I don’t like the
mountains,” to insisting you play school soccer on to which you made the 3rd team
and chose a position which you thought you would have to run the least, to teaching
you how to play Chess, however you said, “I don’t like board games,” and trying to
share golfing together to which you concluded, “That’s for old white people.”
During your first semester I pushed you to study and taught you how to
schedule your time, and you earned all good grades in each of your six classes. Then
the second semester you wanted to control your destiny and told me you could
handle the responsibilities, unfortunately you tanked right out of the gate with
three D’s, so I took away the toys that were distracting you, and created what we
would talk about often, “Tell me when you only have A’s, B’s and C’s,” which was
your ticket to more freedom. I informed you early this semester that I will not take
on this roll again next year if you cannot come to me with only A’s, B’s, and C’s, and
yet your lousy study habits never improved. Unfortunately several months later
and with only three weeks left in school you have not corrected those three D’s. I
had privately wondered if I would put myself through another year if you were not
making school your priority. Your priorities are sleeping in, being lazy, and having
fun with friends, just anything but hard work.
As you know I distain the Rapper Punk Gangster culture, distain their
clothing, don’t want to hear that lousy music, and I certainly won’t financially
support you as you continue your fascination with that lifestyle, so was our
agreement before you came here, but you are obsessed with this culture and I would
say it keeps you from being good at anything. I believe that because you came from
a small village without many opportunities that you found this culture as
something that likes you without trying, and asked nothing of you but to be a lazy
punk. So it was during our recent trip to Oregon while waiting for our light to turn
green when a young black rapper punk walked in front of my car and you
commented on how he looks pretty good to you is when I more conclusively decided
that my efforts have not paid dividends as of yet. Anyways, now I can have a beer at
that picnic and know the real reasons cannot be lost.

Hole 8 at Enumclaw Golf Course is a par 3 and teeing with my 6 iron landing close to the
pin I accomplished my daily goal of Birdie #5.
My company demands that I remain living in the Bellevue market for one more year,
which is not what I agreed to upon signing on. In the end I will not agree to this and feeling the
whole corporate thing sucks and I need to free myself mentally, physically, and for better health.
My mother calls me frequently and she’s anticipating me showing up at her house soon,
she tells me to expect a lot of hugs. I learn that she doesn’t have any way to listen to music and
offer to buy her a turn table and some opera records.
June 17th – My son has had a girlfriend for a few weeks and it’s tonight that I will take
him to dinner and meet her. This is monumental to me as a father to learn about the tastes of my
son, what type of woman has he chosen, is she nice, is she nice to look at? I arrive first and order
a glass of wine, then Matthew enters and having to pull his girlfriend, Paula, through the door as
she’s shy or embarrassed, then shock and disappointment overwhelms me as she’s obviously fat,
not tubby, but borderline obese. I endure this painfully boring dinner with round-girl, who in
addition is also stupidly boring and unattractive. The following day I feel obliged to call
Matthew out on this disaster and discuss with him the benefits of shooting higher. Sitting in an
ice cream shop I ask, “What the hell are you thinking?”
He responds, “Because she’s fat?”
“Have you told her that you love her?”
“Yes.”
A few days later he has finished his last day of school and I send him home from
Vancouver, Canada. I myself have my condo cleaned out and I’m ready to begin my journey to
find a lifestyle away from the corporate. I want to be around artistic people, I want to build
things that I enjoy working on, I don’t want to sit at a PC for hours a day getting fat or wasting
my health. I need to awaken and fulfill my spiritual being. I will travel with my golf clubs, my
record player and opera records, cloths, and my art stuff for painting whenever I see a worthy
visual.
I leave Bellevue feeling proud that I did well providing for my son. I talk with Kelly
Mattern, the girl that I went skinny dipping with so many years ago and got fired by her dad for
it. She confides that she had a crush on me. I did not know that at the time. Mount Shasta: Art
Gallery’s and organic health food stores, my journey is off to a good start. For much of the past
winter I had dreamed about getting back to Boundary Oaks Golf Course for a round which
would mean I had come back full circle to where it had all began for me, so on June 22nd I hit
my sixth Birdie there, on hole #3, which is a Par 5.
I looked up Matthew’s final grades on line, and wow, he corrected much of his disaster.
He finished his second semester with two A’s, two B’s, two C’s, and a D+ in U.S. History,
which gave him an 82.01% or B- average. For the entire year he earned an 83.27% or B-
average. Success, and I’m proud of him. I don’t know how he did it without studying very much.
June 25th – I arrived outside San Diego at my mom’s house. She didn’t answer her door,
left her a message and prepared to drive out but remembered that she had told me about taking
swim aerobics classes with other elderly women, so I went looking and found her group in the
pool. It has been one-and-a-half years since I have seen her and at first I didn’t recognize her as
she now has blonde hair, she’s tanned and is frail. We had awesome hugs and she was giddy to
be with me again. She showed me around her home and through a few photo albums too. It was
a pleasant time to be with my mother again. I took her out to dinner at Ocean Beach and we
watched the sunset. On her cell phone contact list under my number it reads, “DO NOT
ANSWER,” wow, how creative Trisha! Before sleeping on her couch we made plans to go to her
church on Sunday and afterwards go shopping for a stereo and music, but what she really wanted
was a TV, so we added that to the itinerary. She was soft spoken and wanted to keep sharing
with me things about her current life, and especially how much she misses being in the Pacific
Northwest, not caring much for her current location, much to do about the heat and not being
around relatives in Oregon.

At Ocean Beach with Mother

I wish that my mother could have the dignity to make her own decisions and travel as
most seniors are able, but that dignity and freedom has been taken away. The following
afternoon I receive a call from my mother telling me that I’m not allowed near her anymore,
which is being forced on her by my miserable sister. Yes, my sister is twisted enough to force a
74 year old woman to say such mean things. I will call my mother several times throughout the
day but her phone has been taken over by my sister and no messages are returned. I go to see my
mother at her home but she has been taken away by my sister to her house for some
brainwashing about why my mother should keep saying more mean things to me. I call my sister
but she is too scared to answer her phone and deal, it’s easier for her to manipulate and
incarcerate a senior citizen and more gratifying to her as well.

Painted in Middletown, CA.

I purchased a new old-fashioned turn table and added a stack of my opera records and
dropped them off at the front door to my mother’s house. This should be a nice surprise when
the dictator decides to let her return home again.
On Sunday I went to mom’s church to greet her there, but unfortunately I couldn’t find
her participating.
July 1 – Unknown to me for several more weeks my sister will petition the court in San
Diego for a restraining order so I cannot see my mother.
July 5 – I arrived in Nevada City, CA. and instantly knew I should spend time here and
consider it to be important to my spiritual awakening. In other words, it’s the best place of all so
far, so much music, art, awesome people interested in me, and I found a place to keep painting.
July 9 – I returned outside San Diego to see if my mother is OK. She answered her door
and saw me, an unhappy scowl on her face. I was joyful in saying hello to her. She said, “You’re
a shit, go away.” I tried to be warm and happy but she said, “I know what you’ve been doing,”
and she shut the door on me. I was sad. I returned to Nevada City to settle in some more, and I
had a spiritual retreat coming up the next night.

Painted on the Miranda deck at National Hotel in Nevada City

July 10 – Will the Rainbow Snake ask me for a commitment? What will be my journey?
Do I have set intentions? Yes I have two set intentions… One is to forgive my sister as she is
ignorant and it’s frustration of an unhappy person lashing out, and two is to seek where I should
go in my immediate life. Late afternoon I receive secret directions to a location up in the
mountains. A group of twenty people are on mats seated around the circumference inside a tee
pee like structure, there are candles and large drums, looks native American Indian in décor, the
sun is setting behind the pine trees and hill tops, I’m keeping my anxiety in check, the prettiest
girl has chosen to spend the next few hours nesting next to me, we all have our bucket within
arm’s reach for purging into, then one by one a spiritual powder mix is blown up each of our
nostrils by the shaman. I’m expecting the purging to begin anytime. Then from his backpack he
pulls out another powder from a vine in Peru, called both Ayahuasca or Yage, and begins mixing
it into a drinkable solution and explains that this is the “medicine” and we should be respectful
and thankful for having. This medicine along with his individual help throughout the night and
into the morning will allow us to move things out of our way that are blocking us from our
potential. My journey begins with darkness, intense and I want light, why must I be in darkness?
Did I do something wrong to deserve this, why can’t it be euphoric like a good trip? Then comes
the snakes, vibrant colorful snakes, and so many of them, they crawl around disappearing and
reappearing, one of the members begins playing a drum and chanting, his song is beautiful, the
leader is walking around with a large Condor feather and touching our heads with it, fragrances
are plentiful, the pretty girl next to me lays down and goes away into a trance state, why are
there still snakes into my second hour? I get tired of them and no daylight, “just bite me or
strangle me and get over with it,” I instruct those slithering things. Someone is pushing their
fingers deeply into my stomach and chest as part of my healing, then I purge into my bucket, all
is better now and perhaps I’m rising up to some light. I see a Grizzly Bear down by a river
amongst trees, I’m standing right next to the bear and he’s standing on his back paws and licking
his front paws clean so I lick my hands clean. We are communicating and friends. The medicine
starts to wear off and I’m comfortable just riding this intensity out by watching others, wow, no
more, that was too much. Others have been purging around me, some uncontrollably, there’s a
girl over there heaving her purge with loud painful grunts into her bucket. I start to miss the
journey and wonder if I should be stronger or wiser and go deeper. I play with the idea of taking
more medicine or not. Girl offers me more medicine, I tell her I feel good but yes I will take a
second round. Crap, it’s now darkness again and too many spiral colorful things shooting
around, then the light again and it’s a Water Buffalo next to a muddy creek staring at me. He has
a long multi colored tongue and he wants to touch my arm with it, I resist, me carrying a bit of a
germ phobia makes this creepy, but his tongue continues to leap out from his mouth farther and
closer to me until it licks my left forearm, and it wasn’t so unpleasant. 3am and trying to sleep,
but cute girl Lea next to me want s to share her experience, another girl angry with her father.
Lea and I spend that afternoon down by the river swimming and refreshing. I will research my
spiritual animal to discover their meaning. The snake is me shedding my old skin, the grizzly
bear is strength and confidence, to awaken the intuition, and the water buffalo is fully in-tune
with itself and fully aware that it is a mere facet in the diamond which is the world and universe
as a whole.

Painted in Navoto, CA.

 I have met more fantastic people around Nevada City in such a short time than anywhere
else. It’s blissfully paradise up here. However, my paradise is populated with many people that
are content making existence-like little money. Trade, communion, bartering all seem to be the
norm, and I’m awakening again to how much money satisfies my needs to travel more countries,
eat all the wonderful tastes in the world, be comfortable, and pondering the benefits of corporate
life again.
Late July: I spent one week helping Scott McCoubrey prepare for a 50 mile trail running
race near Crystal Mountain Ski Resort. About 300 racers poised at the 6am starting line. It was
one of the summer highlights for me being around athletes and roaming the mountain
wilderness. There were sweaty and muddy girls popping out of trail heads. I got an email from
Matthew that he now has a tattoo. My favorite was watching the runners cross the finish line
with smiles of delight. Again, I met some amazing people that reminded me how wonderful life
is, and concluding that week I was saddened to drive down to the rural spread of humanity and
join in its yuk. I want to be in the mountains.

Painted at Crystal Mountain Resort

 With David Tinius at the Blue Angels

A group of nine people at the trailhead leading to Blanca Lake in the Cascades. They
start with Selfies and chatter, I need to break away and quickly decide I’m going to hike up this
relentless climb in a fast pace as part of my new conditioning to lose weight. I’ve already lost
fourteen pounds in the past six weeks. I calculate passing about 75 people and reach the lake in
one hour and forty-five minutes, which was two hours ahead of my good buddy David Tinius.
This was another summer highlight.

Blanca Lake
Painted in Mt. Shasta

Painted in Phoenix
 Matthew is still working on getting his U.S Passport from the Consulate in Frankfurt, and
I’m sending him lots of my documents, such as college transcripts and my birth certificate.

Painted in Phoenix

I plan to leave for Seattle soon to attend my High School’s 35th Class Reunion. This will
be the first one and I doubt I will remember many people, nonetheless, I want to be around the
people with whom I walked the High School hallways, probably because I want to feel
connected to that time in some way.
I weighed in at only 173.6 pounds, thus I have lost nearly 15 pounds during this summer
vacation of healthy choices.

Painted in Phoenix with a glass of cabernet and opera playing in ninety minutes

I am mentally excited about my class reunion this weekend and in occupies most of my
happy thoughts. I golfed 9 holes, and wow, my game really sucks because I don’t play as often
as I used to.
August 21 – I am still not aware of my sister petitioning the court for a restraining order,
however, it is dismissed by Judge Salina Epley. I would imagine this is a great frustration to my
sister. My sister will ask the court for a restraining order three separate times before this summer
is over.
My sister will contact my mother’s cell phone company and have my number blocked so
I can’t call her nor can mother contact me. Was this desperation and losing control?
I injected myself into each small group at the reunion and asked each person to tell me
their story. I felt connected with most of them and am so blessed to be a part of this wonderful
group of people. I will miss them; these people I grew up with.

35th Class Reunion at Lake Wilderness

August 26, 2015 – Matthew got his U.S. Passport and I’m elated with joy for him and all
the possibilities that it opens up for him. He is officially a U.S. citizen. He flies into Seattle
tomorrow to begin his Senior year starting next week.
On my drive through Oregon heading to San Diego a get a voice mail from a Sherriff in
San Diego, however, when I tried to call back his number didn’t work.

September 2015

On September 3rd I contacted the court and discovered that my sister had filed for a
restraining order as beginning groundwork so that I couldn’t see my mother but that it was
dismissed almost two weeks ago. I will not read her statement or reasoning. Regardless, I wrote
and filed with the court on September 4th the following declaration so that it would permanently
be on file as public record. I also went into the Sherriff’s office and filed with them a copy as
well.

SAN DIEGO SUPERIOR COURT EAST COUNTY

CASE NO. EV23793
DECLARATION of SCOTT DAVID NITZEL

Thursday, July 9, 2015 was last time I saw my mother, Ms. Margy Nitzel, now age 74, and it was at

her house in Lakeside, California. She answered her door with a look of unhappiness upon her face. I was

excited to see her and she said to me, “You’re a shit, go away.” I asked her why and she stated it’s because,

“I know what you have been doing to Trisha,” and then she shut her door on me. I drove away realizing

that my sister has successfully isolated my mother, brainwashed her into believing that I have done some

evil deeds upon her, and has manipulated my mother into turning against me.

It was only two weeks prior to having my mom’s door shut in my face, June 25th, that I arrived at

my mother’s house as she was expecting me, and I found her at her community swimming pool taking

water aerobics lessons for what would become a wonderful visit together. The class of approximately ten

women at the pool watched as my mother saw me entering the pool area and embraced me for several

hugs. The ladies at the pool in her swim class were all amazed at how happy my mother was to be with me.

After swim class concluded my mother took great pleasure in showing me around her house, then I took

my mother to the Ocean Beach area for a nice diner outside near the waterfront. During the rest of the

evening we chatted together at her house and made plans for me to drive her to her church that Sunday

and to join her at church as well. We also made plans to go shopping for a new television, as I offered to

purchase her one since she currently does not have a TV. I slept on my mom’s couch that evening. She

looked skinny to me, tanned, and her hair was much blonder that I had ever seen before. I felt so good to

spend time with my mother and I find her to be sweet in character. During that evening she told me

several times how she didn’t like living in her current residence and that she missed her native Oregon

along with her friends up there. The following morning I left and it was just two days away until I was to

pick her up for church and then go shopping.

This picture just below is of my mother and myself after dinner at Ocean Beach June 25th
 The following evening, June 26th, I received a voice mail from my mother, “Don’t come here

anymore, your sister is going to make trouble for you if you come here.” I knew that my sister was behind

this as she has several times in the past forced my mother to leave me such a message. I felt bad that my

mother cannot have the dignity that she deserves to enjoy her senior years without my sister forcing her

White-Trash behavior upon my mother. I telephoned my sister and it went to voice mail, to which I stated

that I thought she was sick for forcing a 74 year old women say such a thing to me.

The next morning, June 27th, I did reach my mother by phone, and she explained to me that Trisha

was running around telling everyone that I did her wrong and trying to prevent me from coming near my

mother. That afternoon my sister will literally remove my mother from her residence and take her to her

house for several days and not allow my mother to answer her phone. I did go to my mother’s church that

Sunday to see her, but sadly my mother was not there as she was still not allowed out by my sister. I will

call my mother several times during those next few days but my mother will not be allowed to answer her

phone or let me know how she is doing. My sister has complete control over my mother’s lifestyle and
finances, and she controls my mother’s movements as she has taken my mother’s car away. During the

next few days my sister will skillfully manipulate and brainwash my mother that she is not to see me

anymore and to force her to say things to me that my mother does not feel. I would like a court ordered

psychological review of my mother without the presence of my sister or her influence to determine how

my mother truly feels about me. The manipulation is so dramatic and sever that my sister will force my

mother to sign documents that she not only does not understand but that she would not agree with either.

On June 30, 2015, I purchased for my mother a new record player and dropped it off at her house

along with some of my opera records; my mother has always enjoyed the Classics. My sister was still

holding my mother captive at that time so I left those items at her front door along with a greeting card.

I will continue to call my mother several times but she will not be allowed to answer her phone.

Then on Thursday, July 9th, I knocked on my mom’s front door and that’s when she said to me, “You’re a

shit, go away.” My sister’s sick manipulation and brainwashing was complete.

For several weeks before I meet with my mother at her swimming pool on June 25th she had been

calling me and telling me how excited she was to have me come down to see her and she kept referring to

all the hugs she was going to be giving me. At that time I was living in Bellevue, Washington where I was a

single dad putting my son, Matthew, through his Junior year of High school. I was also employed with a

large international firm as a Project Manager working from home and earning a base salary of $103,000

plus bonuses. I bring up my salary because Trisha (my sister) has accused me of stealing from my mother in

the past, which is untrue and just a baseless way that she can try to gain favor within anyone that she can

try and get to believe her erroneous stories. In late June of 2015 my son was finished with his school year

and I resigned from my company to set off on a summer vacation of my own and to try and find a lifestyle

outside of my corporate traditions. I was planning to and have traveled the Western United States for over

two months now and am simply enjoying myself, typically golfing and painting my art work. To travel is a

norm for me as I have traveled in forty-five countries and I have lived in several of them too. I like to

explore new cultures and to understand people’s different ways of living. By contrast, my sister has done

very little traveling and it seems to be one of the points in which she is jealous of me and why she

continues to attack my character.

Last Will and Testament – Power of Attorney

 Way back on July 8, 2005, that’s over ten years ago, my mother signed and had notarized her Last

Will and Testament, as well as, Power of Attorney, appointing me as her Executor and general power of

attorney, both are included in this declaration as Exhibit A and Exhibit B respectively.

Many years later my mother will suffer a massive stoke and inside of one week of that stoke and

still unstable in the hospital my sister will get my mother to sign another POA, which is basically in my

opinion fraudulent by I have never contested that because I felt that if my sister, who has never had any

children of her own, was so desperate to take charge of my mother’s affairs then I decided to allow this. I

have never been completely comfortable with my sister managing my mother’s finances because both her

current husband and herself have usually had large outstanding balances on their credit cards.

My Relationship with My Mother

I have always had a healthy and bonding relationship with my mother, until the past two years

while my sister has literally hidden my mother from me, actually relocating her from Oregon down to San

Diego County and tried very hard to keep me from knowing where my mother lives. My mother even as of

today doesn’t know her own home address and cannot receive any mail directly to her house as it is all

monitored by my sister.

I have always maintained good contact with my mother and some of the highlighted areas of our

mother-son relationship would be: (1) I took my mother on a two week vacation in Europe, just the two of

us, back around 1991. (2) When my mother had a benign brain tumor removed in 2005 it was me that

suspended my employment in San Diego and spent over one month with my mother in her house literally

working with her as a Physical Therapist teaching her how to walk again. To the contrary, my sister, who

was an RN at that time made an appearance for only four days and then went back home to Los Angeles.

(3) When My mother decided to sell her house after retirement it was me that flew up for two weeks and

rebuilt her exterior deck and some interior remodeling, then I flew back up and helped her load up a U

Haul and moved her down to Junction City, Oregon to take over the house that her parents had Willed her.

My sister did not participate in the work at all. (4) Then I spent several months completely renovating that

house in Junction City because it had fallen into an unlivable condition. During those months I paid over

$13,000 of my own money to pay for a hotel for us to stay in until the house was comfortable enough, and
of that $13,000 a hefty chunk went into the expense of the remodel. During all those months of

remodeling and even adding two rooms to the house with my own labor and sweat not once did my sister

show up to help, not one day. (5) I flew my mother to Colorado where she stayed with my daughter and I

up in Breckenridge for several days hiking and just being together. (6) I have taken my mother on several

vacation with my son Matthew, just the three of us, and all at my expense, which includes ski trips and

other vacations around the Western United States. During those trips it has been common practice of my

sister to call and leave mean messages with my mother about what a terrible person I am and how she

thinks I should have an intervention done. To my knowledge she has never taken my mother on a real

vacation at all.

My Sister – Trisha Martin

Since our childhood I have not spent much time around my sister because it was usually volatile

and even dangerous. When she was in High School she was arrested at a mall and drove home by the

police, I was there when she got out of the car and the police were telling my parents how not only was

she shoplifting but that she was the leader of a shoplifting group and was carrying a list of jewelry that she

was organizing to have stolen. Her first real job as a RN was at City of Hope in Duarte, California where she

was fired because she was using equipment on patients that she was explicitly told by the doctor not to

use. A couple of years later while still living near Los Angles she had overdosed on prescription pills and fell

asleep driving and hit another driver, and as she explained it to me there was police involvement that time

too. Several years ago my sister called me in a panic because she had just stabbed her current husband

three times in the shoulder with a ball point pen, he ran out and she was scared that the police would

arrest her. At the time her husband was sleeping and she was reading his texts and discovered he was

having an affair. Consequently, she filed for divorce in San Diego County, but they resolved their

differences and stayed married. During one Christmas vacation with my grandparents inside their house in

Junction City, Oregon my sister got so drunk and then threatened me with a knife while standing in the

kitchen. I kicked her out of the house that same evening, but on the way out she was yelling at my

grandfather’s wife (Hildred) about how much she hated that women. That women was in her 80’s and

wheelchair bound, but that didn’t stop my drunk sister from verbally abusing her. Several years ago my

sister lied and told several family members that I had struck my grandfather, but what my sister didn’t
know is that my own father was also visiting my grandfather at the same time and called my sister out on

her lie, much to her embarrassment. My sister has even contacted my last girlfriend, who she has never

met, and gave her a list of all the things my sister hates about me. I would say that I have tried several

times over the past ten years to keep my sister as far away from me as I can, even telling her that I do not

want any contact with her, but she keeps finding new things to complain about and contacting me with her

grievances. I would like a court ordered Restraining Order in place so she cannot contact me anymore. I

have often thought that my sister should be on a Jerry Springer show just to go public with her White Trash

antics. Her latest tactics are to tell anyone from our relatives to even my daughter that I’m a terrible

person, she likes to tell people that I’m Bi Polar simply I believe because she likes the way it sounds coming

out of her mouth while she cries for help and plays some sort of victim. Her latest trick is to ask my twenty-

one year old daughter to come over from Germany to visit her and tell the whole family not to let me

know she’s coming over and to keep it a complete secret from me. I do have an estranged relationship

with my daughter as I sent her home early from a vacation several years ago for being verbally abusive and

basically just being an intolerable bitch. A decision that was supported by my friends and family.

My Mother has a Stroke

On March 4, 2013 my mother suffers a sever stroke to the left side of her brain, this happened

while she was home alone. She is ambulanced to the hospital in Springfield, Oregon, and I fly up and I’m

at her side that evening. She is surprisingly coherent considering the area of her brain now dead is the

size of a golf ball. She recognizes me, also my sister who arrives later that evening, but most noticeable is

her speech impediment, as she’s not able to complete full sentences and forgets words. I also begin to

work with her realtor on listing her house as my mother had just recently decided to sell her house, I

also begin working with mom’s tax consultant making sure her papers are signed and filed. My favorite

times are when my mother and I are alone and it’s calm and we laugh together, but when my sister

arrives she brings along tenseness and it’s no longer enjoyable to share time together. One evening my

sister actually gets upset with me because I’m feeding my mother her dinner with a spoon, my sister

wants my mother to do it all on her own.

On March 9, I say good-bye to my mother still in hospital and fly home. My mother will have

successful surgery in a couple of days but she will probably never be able to care for herself alone again.
The evening just after her surgery my sister gets my mom to sign Power of Attorney to her, or I could

reword this as the fact that while my mother was partially brain dead and incapable of making clear

decisions my sister had coerced her into signing paperwork. This is something I could challenge and most

likely have overturned but my desire to not have contact with my sister outweighs all, and I decide if she

thinks she can handle my mom’s affairs so well then she should just try it. Later that evening my sister will

contact an organization that protects elderly people and lie to them that I have stolen from my mother

and that I’m wrongfully holding some of her property. I will continue to talk with my mother nearly every

day under circumstances with my sister trying to divide my mother and myself so she can control my

mother. Eventually my sister will put my mom into hiding at a nursing facility in Eugene, Oregon and

instruct the staff not to talk with me or confirm her whereabouts. My sister has long told me about her

financial woes and extreme credit card balances, so I can only hope that she doesn’t find the impulse to

use my mother’s savings for her own use. At this time my mother has almost a-quarter of a million in

equity, and I have all her financial paperwork to back this up, however, after calculating my mother’s

savings against her life expectancy it is clear that my mother will most likely outlive her expenses, which

is another concern if Trisha does tap into her funds for personal use.

Soon after; during a ski trip in the Lake Tahoe area with my girlfriend, my sister; whom I have

long felt deserved to be discovered on the Jerry Springer television show along with similar White-Trash,

decided to email my girlfriend and desperately try and convince her that I was a terrible person by

manufacturing dislikable things about me. The lunacy of this attempt was punctuated by the fact that

Trisha had never met my girlfriend or had any prior contact with her. I will later discover that this slew of

hateful emails came on the afternoon that my sister and father had a blow up on the phone together,

and consequently our father has avoided contact with her. In general people that know my sister have

explained to me that they feel my sister is just an unhappy person, to the contrary I am a blissfully

happy person, and for that reason she is obsessed with attacking me and trying to make me feel bad,

and because I continue to ignore her she continues escalate her acts of meanness and deceit.

It is easy for me to provide actual dates of circumstances as I have kept a journal for twenty-

one years now and I update my Memoir regularly and post it online. It is the fact that I post my Memoir

on line for anyone to read and my sister’s obsession with following me that she gets her most updated
 information about my doings and whereabouts. I truly wish she would do just some amazing things on

her own and be willing to find her own spiritual peace outside of dwelling on me. My journals are so

comprehensive that I could even tell you the exact date that she stole from me the two leather couches

that are currently sitting in her front room. I felt sorry for her as she was struggling financially so I

decided to let her keep them. They are probably the only two nice pieces of furniture inside her house.

Signed the _______ day of ___________, 2015 in the State of California under the penalty of
perjury.

______________________________
Scott Nitzel

Also on September 4th, I left a copy of the above declaration at my mother’s house and
also left a copy at my sister’s front door.
Perhaps one of the vacations that I didn’t mention above was being able to take my
mother to Kauai, Hawaii and watch her enjoy beachfront views from our condo, the helicopter
tour from the front seat, and the peaceful beach walks together.

Painted in San Diego

 I wrote a one page letter to several of my mother’s immediate neighbors basically asking
them to look after my mother and introducing myself to them as someone concerned for her
wellbeing. I added that letter with a copy of my declaration and dropped it off with those
neighbors. On September 23rd at 5:30pm I will get a telephone call from one of those neighbors
asking if I will talk with her about my mother’s situation and the control my sister has over her.
My mother is standing with her and has been trying to reach me using her phone that has me
blocked. This neighbor describes my sister as, “out of control, hurtful, plays games with my
mother, left alone too often, won’t let my mother have a TV, won’t get my mother a better
hearing aid, and won’t buy her fruit and vegetables. She goes on to tell me how my sister has
yelled at her and other neighbors. She goes on to tell me that several people in the community are
scared about how my sister “neglects” my mother and that they want to meet with me to discuss
this. She also says that my sister has told people that I have stolen from my mother. This is such a
lie that I must now battle this preposterous and ridiculous accusation. Later that evening I show
up at my mom’s house with lots of groceries and enjoy a wonderful visit with my mother. I also
contacted my mom’s phone company and had my number unblocked, along with changing all the
passwords so hopefully it remains unblocked. I tell my mother that my number is now unblocked,
which made her “jubilant.” The following evening I take my mother out to a wonderful dinner
together. She would like my next painting.
 September 24 - Enjoying Dinner with Mother

September 25th – In preparation for my meeting with “those neighbors” I have contacted
Adult Protective Services (APS) and initiated an elderly abuse case against my sister. Hopefully,
the system will look into my mom’s financials and any misuse by my sister as well as her
stripping my mom of her dignity. Also, I have plans to take my mother up to Julian tomorrow. I
painted the WAVE picture and gave it to my mother. While painting this picture I recalled the
several times over the past two years that my sister has literally forced my mother to call me and
tell me never to call her again.
 Saturday, September 26th – Driving mom to the little tourist town of Julian. She is
fascinated with the changing surroundings, it’s like nobody has taken her on a trip for quite some
time. We made a short hike on the same trail that I used to run through. We went into almost
every shop in town, she wants Dark Chocolate. Upon returning to her home we share stories, and
most remarkable to me was her recall of her glory days as a dancer, “I really lived,” she says. I
noticed a large file card stuck to the side of her refrigerator, written by Trisha…

… And she made my mother sign and date it. I am appalled that my mother would be forced
to sign such a condescending item. My sister has stripped her of most her dignity, which
would make anyone angry, but then to treat my mother like such a child is despicable and
cruel.
 October 2015

On Thursday October 1st I meet with Deputy Sanchez and stated my case how my mother
was being abuse and neglected by my sister. With twenty minutes of me leaving two Deputies are
at my mother’s house. The refrigerator is full so they are satisfied. Incompetence.
On Friday the 2nd I leave this letter on my sister’s windshield:

Ms. Martin,

Due to your neglect, abuse, and bullying of my mother, Ms. Margy Nitzel, and witnessed by several

of her neighbors that are willing to testify to this fact I have contact Adult Protective Services and the

Sheriff’s department, and you are hereby being investigated for financial misuse of money, emotional, and

psychological abuse to Ms. Margy Nitzel.

If I or anyone familiar with this situation again witness continued abuse, neglect, or you even

yelling by you at my mother then I will contact the police immediately. If you interfere with the

relationship with my mother again then I will contact the police immediately and I will use whatever

means necessary to protect myself and subdue you until the police arrive. If you abscond or remove my

mother from her residence against her will, or block any communication (i.e. phone) between my mother

and myself then I will contact the police immediately. If you approach either myself or my mother and

interfere in anyway with our activities I will deem this to be a threat against myself and her, and I will use

whatever means necessary to protect myself and subdue you until the police arrive. If I have plans with my

mother and you again remove her against her will from her normal flow of life then I will immediately

contact the police and have them arrive at your residence.

I then go on to pick up my mother. We are enjoying lunch at Hotel Del when Adult
Protective Services contacts me. A caseworker has been assigned; Ms. Kelly Moore. She
schedules an appointment to meet with my mother alone for this Monday at noon at mom’s
house. After lunch I enjoy an awesome Coronado beach walk with mom, the water is a crystal
colored turquois. Later that afternoon we are exploring the Presidio with laying on a blanket at
the nearby lawn, good conversation. On the way home she says she is hungry again and would
like pizza, we find Momma Rosa’s Italian restaurant and agree to make it a regular stop. Upon
reaching my mother’s house I see that my sister is parked in her driveway, so I turn us around and
call the police, who agree to meet us. Deputy Sanchez arrives and my sister launches into an
aggressive posture, “I want my mother out of his car,” she yells at the now two Sheriffs. I see my
sister for the first time in 2 and one half years and I’m shocked at how fat she is again, but most
noticeably how bad in her face she looks, she looks possessed and sick. My mother sitting next to
me in my car is agitated and sad that the police are having to intervene. The police are caught off
guard by Trisha’s hostility and yell at her to shut her up, then then discuss with me the possibility
of getting an emergency restraining order signed against her. It’s getting dark and she’s still
looking through her paperwork trying to burn me, she fails, and I drive mom home and spend a
good hour calming her down while we listen to opera music. My mother puts the noon
appointment with APS onto her calendar and she actually looking forward to that discussion.
Sunday October 4th mom is with me most of this rainy day watching football and eating
lunch cooked by me, spaghetti of course, then we watch Key Largo with Humphrey Bogart. I
dropped her off back home around 7pm. Later that evening my sister will arrive and force my
mother to leave her house with a suitcase as witnessed by a neighbor. My sister will post a No
Trespassing sign on the front door.
Monday October 5th around 2:45pm I will get a call from Kelly Moore that she was at my
mother’s house but not my mom. Trisha has defied the process and kept my mother from meeting
with Adult Protective Services. I will contact the police and eventually they will trace my
mother’s cell phone and suddenly my mother will be returned home and call me. Trisha has made
my mother so emotionally dependent on her that Trisha will continue to play a victim and tell my
mother that I’m trying to get her in trouble.
Tuesday October 6th I’m at the court house to petition for a restraining order and petition
to prevent abuse of an elder.

SAN DIEGO SUPERIOR COURT EAST COUNTY

Request for Immediate Restraining Order and

Petition to Prevent Abuse of an Elder

Scott Nitzel Case Number EV 24228

Petitioner
-v-
Trisha Martin
Respondent

Declaration of Scott David Nitzel

Adult Protect Services

 I want my mother to have her dignity once again. Adult Protective Services; Ms. Kelly Moore, is

currently investigating the Defendant, Ms. Trisha Martin (my sister) for wrongfully confiscating my

mother’s finances from the sale of my mother’s house in Oregon, her I.R.A., and funds from my mother’s

monthly Social Security payments, as well as investigating why my mother is living with so little that she

complains to her neighbors that she cannot go on a vacation or travel at will because Ms. Trisha Martin has

taken over her money.

Ms. Trisha Martin has tried to hinder this investigation by absconding my mother from her home in

Lakeside the evening prior to my mother’s scheduled appointment on Monday October 5, 2015 at noon

with A.P.S. and wrongfully taken my mother “on the run” with a packed suitcase, leaving a NO

TRESSPASSING signed taped to my mother’s front door, as witnessed by neighbors, and not until Deputy

Gastrich and Deputy Moser both attempted to contact both my mother and Ms. Trisha Martin and

eventually traced my mother’s cell phone was my mother rightfully returned to her home. My mother was

very much looking forward to meeting with A.P.S. and had it marked on her calendar. The Sherriff’s

Department has begun investigating emotional and psychological abuse and it has been assigned to a

detective, and to my knowledge the case number is 15151013. Adult Protective Services asked me if my

mother has a doctor, to which my mother has told me she does not and that she has not seen a doctor for

two years. My mother lives alone and is 74 years old. My mother is not legally incapacitated, however she

does not have control of her money and Ms. Trisha Martin has prevented my mother from seeing me and

she prevents my mother from going where she wants by keeping her money from her. Ms. Trisha Martin

has told my mother, “If you keep seeing him I’m going to stop coming by,” as reported to me by a neighbor

and friend close to my mom. My mother is extremely frail and neighbors have been bringing groceries to

my mother’s house for her. My mother has recently said to me, “I want Trisha to stop thinking she’s God

over me.” My mother only has one form of government issued ID and that is an expired Oregon State

Driver’s License. I have in my possession and can provide all financial statements showing my mother’s

wealth prior to her stroke 2 ½ years ago. Ms. Trisha Martin has sheared with me in the past that she has

large credit card debt and that her current husband has difficulty covering his own child support payments.

My Request

I request an immediate Restraining Order be signed keeping Ms. Trisha Martin residing at 8331
Rockview Dr., El Cajon, CA. 92021 from contacting me, interfering or harassing with me or my family

members to include my mother and two children, or harming me in anyway. I want a restraining order to

ensure my safety as Ms. Trisha Martin has demonstrated her ability to physically harm others, including

stabbing her own husband three times using a pen on September 24, 2008 and lashing out aggressively

against others when she is angry, including me, as well as placing people in fear with her tirades. A listing

of her brushes with the law are listed in both Exhibit C and Exhibit D enclosed. If this Restraining Order is

not signed then Ms. Trisha Martin will continue to confront me and interfere with my daily life as well as

my mother’s; Ms. Margy Nitzel, as well as continue to sabotage my relationship with my only daughter. I

also request that the court order all Power of Attorney’s naming anyone other than myself be vacated and

order that the original Power of Attorney dated June 27, 2005 (Exhibit B) be recognized as the only valid

P.O.A as that was my mother’s intent prior to her stroke March 4, 2013 as well as recognize my mother’s

Last Will & Testament (Exhibit A). I want the court to send Ms. Trisha Martin a LOUD MESSAGE that she

cannot continue to harass me or prevent me from seeing my mother. Ms. Trisha Martin took my mother

from hospital after her stroke and hid her from me for over two years.

Continued & Frequent Harassment from Ms. Trisha Martin Towards Me

My mother suffered a massive stroke on March 4, 2013 in Oregon and within days of that stroke

Ms. Trisha Martin had relocated and has hidden my mother from me and she still makes frequent attempts

to prevent my mother and me from seeing each other. Ms. Trisha Martin recently called my mother’s cell

phone company (Sprint) and had my phone blocked so that I could not talk with my mother nor could she

call me. My mother actually had to go ask a neighbor if she could use her phone to call me. Ms. Trisha

Martin instructed the neighbors near my mother not to let me find my mother here in Southern California.

It was one of those neighbors that telephoned me earlier in 2015 with my mother’s address in Lakeside. I

was living in Bellevue, Washington at that time.

On June 25, 2015 I first arrived at my mother’s house in Lakeside , she was expecting me and we

had a terrific dinner together near the beach that evening. We made plans to see each other two days

later, unfortunately Ms. Trisha Martin learned I was there and she removed my mother from here house

for several days and would not allow my mother to answer her phone.

Recent Police Involvement

 On Friday October 2, 2015 I was notified by A.P.S. that they were in fact investigating my sister.

My sister has a long history of physical confrontations, so much so that I felt it was necessary to inform her

that the next time she confronts me or wrongfully removes my mother so that I cannot see her that I

would protect myself against her striking out at me as well as contact the police. On October 2, 2015 I

wrote Exhibit G and left in on the windshield of her car parked in her driveway. I then went on to a

wonderful day with my mother in Coronado. Upon returning my mother to her home I saw that Ms. Trisha

Martin was at my mother’s driveway. I had just informed her earlier that day that would contact the police

if she intervened and yet there she was, ready for confrontation, so I drove away and immediately

contacted the police in order to protect myself from Ms. Martin’s outbursts. Detective Sanchez arrived as

Ms. Martin drove up, yelled at the police, “I want my mother taken out of his car.” During the next few

minutes Ms. Trisha Martin was so aggressive and hostile that the police actually discussed with me the

idea of seeking an emergency restraining order. Eventually I was able to return my mother to her home.

On Sunday October 4, 2015 my mother was with me at my house for most of the day. I returned

my mother to her home around 7pm that evening. The following day at noon she was looking forward to

her meeting at her house with A.P.S. However, later that night Ms. Trisha Martin entered my mother’s

house and made her leave with a suitcase and placed a NO TRESSPASSIG sign on her front door. Ms. Trisha

Martin did not want my mother to meet with or talk with A.P.S.

The following day around 3pm Ms. Kelly Moore of A.P.S. called me asking why my mother was not

at her home for the meeting. I immediately contacted the police, Deputy Gastrich went to my mother’s

house, she was not there. Deputy Moser traced my mom’s cell phone and I contacted the clinic where Ms.

Martin works and asked if she was on staff that evening. I wanted to know if she had my mother there at

that time. The search for my mother was successful and my mother was returned home that evening. My

mother called me to let me know she had been returned home and the NO TRESSPASSING sign was taken

down.

Mom’s Stroke

On March 4, 2013 my mother suffered a severe stroke while inside her home in Oregon. She was

taken to hospital that same day. Her mental capacity to understand some issues has diminished ever since

her stroke. She cannot decipher between good behavior and Ms. Martins manipulations, however, she can
state that she does not want Ms. Trisha Martin to “get into trouble with the police.”

Power of Attorney

Power of Attorney and Executor of her Last Will & Testament, Exhibit A & B respectively, was

granted to me over ten years ago by my mother and legally notarized. At this time she was completely

cognizant, in fact P.O.A was signed on June 27, 2005 and notarized that same day. At that time my mother

was still working at New York Life Insurance in Bellevue, Washington, and she continued working until July

8, 2005. P.O.A was filled out by my mother, signed by my mother, and notarized and I was not even

present, I was still living in San Diego at that time. My mother’s Last Will & Testament was signed July 8,

2005 and notarized that same day. My mother has surgery to remove a benign brain tumor July 12, 2005,

DAYS AFTER SHE TEMPOARILY LEFT WORK AND SIGNED BOTH DOCUMENTS. She returned to her work at

New York Life Insurance within a month of having that tumor removed.

There were no other P.O.A or Last Will & Testaments signed until AFTER my mother suffered a

severe stroke ten years later. A stroke she has not ever recovered from.

Ms. Trisha Martin’s Network of Hate

Ms. Trisha Martin spend considerable energy building a network of hate with not only my two

children and my own mother, but with many relatives and neighbors that will listen to her spiel, in fact, she

even contact my girlfriend on March 22, 2013 (just three weeks after my mother’s stoke) while we were on

vacation and texted her a long list of impassioned and erroneous dribble about why I’m a terrible person,

including that I was a loser, that I was not educated, that my family hates me, and stated to her that I was

a Chicken Shit. What was particularly fascinating to both my girlfriend and myself is that Ms. Martin had

never met or spoken with my girlfriend. Shortly after my mother had a stroke in Oregon two years ago; Ms.

Martin actually contacted an Elderly support group and lied to them that I have been stealing from my

mother. During this terrible time because my mother was in hospital my sister enjoyed emailing me vicious

statements. No charges were ever brought against me from that ridiculous claim.

I Want No Contact with Ms. Trisha Martin

For the past several years I have tried to keep Ms. Trisha Martin “out of my life” as I find her spirit

to me mean and vindictive, and I have even told her to stop contacting me. I absolutely do not want

contact with Ms. Trisha Martin and I want her to stop interfering with my life such as her repeated efforts
to prevent my mother from seeing me by hiding my mother from me for over two years, from literally

forcing my mother to telephone me and instruct me not to call anymore just after we had a lovely day

together, from Ms. Trisha Martin blocking my number on my mother’s cell phone so that we cannot talk,

from trying to brainwash my mother that I’m some sort of terrible person. I have always had a wonderful

relationship with my mother as described in Exhibit C and Exhibit D, as well as having Last Will &

Testament and General Power of Attorney signed to me way back in 2005, Exhibit A and Exhibit B

respectively. Shortly after my mother suffered a massive stroke in March of 2005 Ms. Trisha Martin took

my mother to Sothern California and prevented me from seeing her for over two years, she actually placed

my mother in her current residence and instructed the neighbors not to let me know where my mother is

living, until earlier in 2015 when one of the neighbors contacted me with her address. Ms. Trisha Martin

has complained twice that I have called her place of work; once on October 5, 2015 looking for her

because she had absconded my mother the night before in an attempt to prevent Adult Protective Services

from talking with my mother. I would say that if Ms. Martin is going to be so offended by me calling her

work then she should simply restrain herself from “going on the run” with my mother. Ms. Martin goes

onto state that I left her a voice mail on June 26, 2015 calling her a fucking piece of shit. This is a lie and I

challenge her provide any such voice mail in court. The facts are that she had once again forced my mother

to call me and say to me, “Do not come around anymore, your sister will make big trouble.” I in fact called

Ms. Martin just after talking with my mother and left a voice mail stating that she must be sick for making

a 74 year old woman say such a thing. I would state that if Ms. Martin is going to be so sensitive about me

leaving her a voice mail calling her sick for intimidating a 74 year old woman then perhaps she should just

stop bullying my mother. Ms. Martin states that she was shocked to learn that I knew where she worked

when in fact she told me where she was just starting this job over two years ago when we were together at

hospital after my mother’s stroke.

Ms. Martin’s Trail of Physical Abuse

In December of 1999 she was divorcing from her first husband and she asked me to ride from Los

Angles to Oregon with her to visit family in Oregon for the holidays. Ms. Martin had been going through a

phase of drinking too much and I would state that she had demonstrated being an UGLY DRUNK. I agreed

to accompany her on this trip if she promised not to drink at anytime for the several days away. She
agreed. Confined to a small house on Christmas December 25, 1999 she began drinking and drinking a lot

and quickly became verbally abusive towards Hildred (my grandfather’s wife). I asked her to leave the

house and she became irate and confronted me holding a knife while inside the kitchen. She hit me on the

side of my head while I grabbed the knife from her. I handed the car keys to her and kicked her out of the

house. She continued yelling at Hildred on the way out the door, she was drunk and drove off in her car

not to return for the duration of my stay. Family member also there were my mother and my grandfather.

My grandfather thanked me for intervening and having her removed. Ms. Martin’ statement that I just

entered a room and began strangling her is a lie, and I believe that she is trying to dilute my earlier

statement about this fact as stated in Exhibit C & D.

On Wednesday September 24, 2008 Ms. Trisha Martin stabbed her husband three times in the left

shoulder using a pen. He ran from the house. She then contacted me in a panic requesting me to

accompany her to the police station to see if he had filed any charges against her. I did accompany her to

the Mira Mesa area police station. She was so concerned with the trouble she could get into that she soon

filed for divorce in the City of San Diego so as to create a façade that she was a victim. She requested that I

Serve the divorce papers on her husband. I agreed. That violent nature and spirit of misusing the court is

the type of behavior that makes me fear Ms. Trisha Martin and want to secure my safety from her.

My Only Son

My son, Matthew, now eighteen years old, has not seen my mother for nearly three years as a

result of Ms. Trisha Martin hiding my mother from me. The three of us; my mother and son, used to

vacation together and my son would like to be able to continue as a family. This picture below is the three

of us on one of our many vacations. He misses seeing his grandmother. During this vacation Ms. Trisha

Martin took it upon herself to leave mean messages on my mother’s voice mail, which I heard, describing

how someone should start an intervention on me. Ms. Trisha Martin just absolutely hates that I am a

happy person and can take my mother on vacations.

 Another Angle to Keep My Mother from Me

My sister has tried to have restraining orders placed against me recently and my fear is that her

reasoning is to use it as a sword to limit my time with my mother, so I have no issue with this court issuing

mutual restraining orders and written so that there is no limit to me seeing my mother. I want specific

language that both parties are required to contact our mutual mother prior to our arrival and request a

visit with her. Language stating that Ms. Trisha Martin cannot relocate my mother’s residence would be

appropriate. Because I have no interest in seeing Ms. Trisha Martin it concerns me as to why she wants a

restraining order, and I want one so that I have protection from against her continued confrontations. I

request that the Restraining Order also include Ms. Trisha Martin from her continued contact with my only

daughter, Espen, who she frequently contacts and spreads terrible lies about me so as to ruin that

relationship. Several years ago I sent my daughter home early (to Germany) while on vacation together

here in California because of her behavior and we have not spoken since, but Ms. Trisha Martin enjoys

contacting my daughter and sabotaging my relationship further to the point that my daughter does not

want to talk with me any longer. Ms. Trisha Martin has no children of her own. This picture is from one of

the many vacations I have enjoyed with my daughter and son.

 Case # EV23793

This case was dismissed, however, it was apparently a request by Ms. Trisha Martin to have a

Restraining Order against me signed. This case was dismissed before I ever heard about it, in fact, it was

my own follow up to discover that it was ever presented to the court, and upon learning about it I files a

response Declaration, which is Exhibit C included, with the Court on September 4, 2015 at 11:55am, and

then I went to the Sherriff’s Office on the ground floor and tried to find anyone connected with that case.

They only took a copy of my Declaration but I did not get to review it with them. On that same day I also

dropped a copy of my Declaration at Ms. Martins front door because I wanted her to know that I was

aware of her attempt to have a restraining order as I felt it was another angle for her to keep me from

seeing my mother, I also made a hand written note on top of my Declaration that I am going to let

everyone know that you have failed to hurt me. This was very satisfying to push back a bully.

Why am I in San Diego?

During the past year I have been residing in Bellevue, Washington where I am a single father to my

son attending Bellevue High School. He carries a 3.2 G.P.A. and this High School is ranked among the top

20 in the country. He plays on the school soccer team. During this time and several months prior my

mother was being hidden from me by my sister. It was of great stress to me that I was having difficulties

staying in contact with my mother because of the continued cruelty brought on by Ms. Trisha Martin. So

last June I left my job, making $103,000 salary as a Project Manager representing Union Bank, so that I

could come down here and see my mother and find relief from what my sister was doing to my mother
and me. I have spent much effort and money trying to get help and this is a great hardship to me, thank to

my social network down here I am able to stay and hopefully seek this out to its conclusion.

Friday, September 25, 2015 – I contacted Adult Protective Services.

Thursday, October 1, 2015 – I met with Deputy Sanchez at the San Diego County Sherriff’s Department in

Lakeside, CA.

Character Witnesses

I brief overview of the people I surround myself with and call friends would be Lawyers, Doctors, a

Sitting Judge, business owners, and even the former Mayor Sanders of San Diego has sat and discussed the

world topics with me as we were neighbors.

Documents Included

Exhibit A – Last Will & Testament, dated July 8, 2005

Exhibit B – General Power of Attorney, dated June 27, 2005

Exhibit C – Declaration of Scott Nitzel, dated September 3, 2015. This was filed in the San Diego

Superior Court East County and given to the Sherriff’s Office on the ground floor in response to Ms.

Trisha Martin’s request for a Restraining Order, but was dismissed before I even heard about it.

Exhibit D – Declaration of Scott Nitzel, dated September 29, 2015. This was sent to Adult

Protective Services, Ms. Kelly Moore.

Exhibit E – Advanced Directive, dated March 8, 2013. This was signed just a couple days after my

mother suffered her stroke and was still in the hospital. I agreed to sign it because I had hoped

that finally Ms. Martin could cooperate in the care of my mother with me.

Exhibit F – Power of Attorney, dated March 7, 2013. This was also signed shortly after my mother

suffered her stroke and was still in hospital. I already had P.O.A at that time but because I left for

Oregon in haste to see my mother in hospital I forgot to bring a copy of the P.O.A dated back in

2005. Ms. Martin didn’t want to believe that I ever had P.O.A so I felt it was best to have another

one created so as to squelch her doubt. After it was notarized I added the statement that Trisha

Martin may not withdraw or transfer any of my mother’s funds, and my mother signed under that

inclusion. What’s alarming to me is that when Ms. Trisha Martin discovered that she could not

control or access my mother’s money she became ballistic and contacted the Notary and yelled at
 her. The Notary will tell me that Ms. Martin was quit threatening to her.

Exhibit G – Letter that I wrote on October 2, 2015 informing Ms. Trisha Martin that was finished

with her harassment and would be contacting the police next time she interfered with me or my

mother.

As Teenagers

When Ms. Trisha Martin and I were both teenagers living with our parents I was once a

passenger when my sister was driving us towards our home when suddenly while at a stop light

she became angry and started yelling at me, so I exited the car and started walking home when a

framers hammer that she had just thrown at me covering a distance of about twenty feet narrowly

missed me skidded off the sidewalk striking a car passing by. This incident is indicative of being

around Ms. Martin. Several years ago while my grandfather Clance McElravy was still alive, my

father and myself were visiting him in Oregon at his house. Shortly thereafter that visit Ms. Trisha

Martin will tell various family members that I struck my grandfather during that visit, but what Ms.

Martin did not know is that my father was also with me during that wonderful visit and was also

dismayed that my sister would create such an erroneous story. No such thing ever happened and I

include this into my Declaration as an example of Ms. Martin’s frequent and erroneous

accusations.

Psychiatric Review

I request that the court order Ms. Trisha Martin to undergo a Psychiatric Review to

confirm “IF” my mother is safe around her or not, and based upon that report a court

determination as to freedoms Ms. Martin has with my mother.

While in queue my sister arrives to also request a restraining order, again. We are
both notified at the same time that both of are requests are denied. Trisha starts arguing with the
clerk helping her, I instantly ask my clerk to schedule a court date, to which she does for October
23rd. Case Number EV 24228 is assigned. I even had the satisfaction of having a Sherriff serve my
sister as defendant while she sat in the courthouse in dismay. This is a fight my sister brought on
herself and seems to have wanted, not me, so welcome little sister.
The venue of my court date to stand against my sister is in El Cajon, the armpit of San
Diego County, not downtown but out East where Trisha lives, I will bring this to her doorstep, a
filthy region of town with just one tall building standing alone in the center; the courthouse.
Trisha will write a declaration and my father will sign it. I will not see this letter until it
appears in a court filing in September of 2017, two years from now. My father will say that I must
be on drugs, a thief, and basically a bad guy. It’s fascinating to me that I just took a high school
drop out and put him through school in Bellevue, but my father sees me in such a bad way. He has
bashed me for years to relatives, so pretty much when I read this letter two years from now I will
finally understand what a waste of time it is developing any relationship with him. So I won’t be
paying for any more vacations for him.
I see arguing in front of a judge as THERAPY. She hired a lawyer. It would have been so
fun to go up against her in court, oh well, maybe she’s scared. I have two wonderful declarations
from my mother’s closest friends in the complex describing the abandonment, neglect and abuse of
my mother at the hands of my sister.
Wednesday October 21st – Mom spent the afternoon at my place. I had a treat for her, to
look at a large stack of documents that were inside “the safe deposit box” back in Junction City
when she had her stroke. She was so touched going through old letters, birth certificates, Deeds
from her parents and correspondence from the War Department about my grandfather being
wounded in Okinawa during World War Two, and receiving a Purple Heart.
I’m prepared for court. I’m pulling inner strength to see light of this in visions of my
grandparents in fields to be farmed.
COURT DAY, Friday October 23rd. Some sips of Rum before entering the House of Hate. I
can really talk after a Rum & Coke. My mother is there with my sister; very Jerry Springer, my
mother ignores me today. My sister’s attorney meets me in the hall. Trisha wants to dismiss her
case if I will too. I do not agree. Once in court they ask for a Continuance. I object to the judge and
state that I must be in Washington State on Tuesday and that I don’t have plans to return anytime
soon, which is a bit of rouse to see if I can move this thing along, and I do have a legitimate
interview that day. Doesn’t matter, Judge says they have a Right to a Continuance, Crap, I wanted
this to happen today. Judge tell me that this is not the court of arguing over Power of Attorney.
That would be a civil case. She goes on to tell me that language in a Restraining Order pertaining
to my mother being kept from me cannot happen because my mother did not petition for a
restraining order. Judge says to go out in the hallway and try and make a deal. In the hallway my
sister is trying to intimidate me by staring at me. I told her that I didn’t want to see her stupid
looking face, she walks away. Her attorney and I make a deal. Back in court on microphone so
recorded and typed by the clerk I get the best deal, not a homerun but a victory… We dismiss our
cases and my sister cannot interfere with my relationship with my mother, she cannot block her
phone to prevent me from contacting her, we will not contact each other’s employer, we will not
have mom sign anything without the other seeing it first, and if either one of us changes our email
or phone number we will let the other know. Then the fun one; Trisha want me to inform her where
I’m living and if I move, I do not agree to this, she tells the judge, “He knows where I live.” I told
the Judge I don’t want her to know where I live. I win that one. Leave the house of Hate. Trisha
believes that I will be leaving the State before Tuesday, should be a good day to try and have lunch
with mom. The investigation of Adult Protective Services, well I believe those Bozos are inept, and
I have my freedom to see mom wherever. Neighbors of my mom’s congratulate me on this
outcome. Well, I arrived earlier this summer with nothing, stirred up the bees nest, got the court to
recognize the situation, pushed back a bully, reconfirmed she’s still an unhappy person, and spent a
lot of time with my mother.
It’s troublesome to me that my mother does not have proper identification, one it was illegal
for my sister to move her here and not properly register her and let her license expire, plus my
mother loves politics and she’s not registered to vote here in California, which is afforded in our
Bill of Rights. I will soon correct this by taking my mother to DMV with her birth certificate and
obtaining her new California ID and register her to vote in my precinct. I will also help her obtain a
new passport so that she can board airplanes and travel.

Painted in San Diego – November 2015

Exploring Parts of South America and also Egypt. When will I do these adventures? Is it
now time to wonder and find out what’s happening out there? It’s bothersome to me that I just
don’t cut the comforts here and let myself go. The decision will be to go to South America or drive
up to Seattle and see my son. I chose the drive.
Dinner with Matthew in Bellevue. We could talk politics together as he seemed to now
have opinions about restricting immigration and keeping the Syrian refugees out, low taxes, and
generally we confirmed that he’s a Republican. He has also decided that he wants to attend college
next Fall. All god stuff with me and a mixture that he still makes some bad decisions lead me to
conclude that my son is still searching for his identity.
Returning to Corporate Life… After six months of playing I have decided to accept a
wonderful offer from my previous company; JLL, and return as a Sr. Project Manager in San Diego
on the Bank of America team. Long hair needs to be trimmed.

Painted in Seattle

I wanted to paint an Iguana

The sound from an EhRu has for a long time pleased me and created an image of
somewhere far away and wonderful. My intent was to paint a man playing an EhRu.

Painted in San Diego

 2016

I would like to make a camping trip with friends this summer whereas we include
panning for gold along a river. That inspired me to paint this one that is a Tsunami viewed from a
safe distance.
 I usually have my mother over two or three times per week to cook for her, watch football,
take a stroll, or go to the movies together. She does share with me that my sister still puts pressure
on her not to see me and evens threatens not to come around if she continues to see me, fortunately
my mother is now capable of ignoring her. My sister has recently even gone a whole week without
bringing any food over to her clamming to be too sick. My mother does not even get close to the
amount of food that is cashed from her Social Security each month. It is still a possibility to sue my
sister in court, although the correct court this time, and have POA turned back over to me as the
rightful person.
I had a dream that I was driving a truck over a bridge that had just collapsed into the ocean,
just as the truck was entering the cold water I was preparing to step out and noticed that the boat
captain passing by was not going to stop to offer me a ride, thus was the inspiration for the next
painting with Medusa ignoring my plight.
 I’ve been taking notice of other people’s unhealthy appearances, most notably chunky
Americans, they are a turn off to see, why did they let themselves become a blob of fat? I still like a
small ass. Another prevalent turn off is the person that habitually takes a Selfie picture and posts
that same face over and over. I feel that with all the beauty around that a Selfie is uncreative, so I
decided on the following painting as my next work of art being a protest to the fat and Selfie.
 It’s election season and I’m enjoying having my mother over to watch the Caucuses. Mom
is a staunch Conservative so we enjoying these events together as much as watching a football
game.
I joined a Southern California golf club and entered my first tournament with them at
Rancho Bernardo Inn. February 13th I scored my 7th Birdie, hole 8 and a par 5.
 Matthew has realized that his girlfriend being fat bothers him. He thought making her hike
a steep trail with him would get her attention.
It’s time to file my tax returns and while I didn’t have health insurance for the last half of
last year I could be penalized by the government, and no way am I going to pay for socialized
medicine, so I did up some old German paperwork from my days falsifying documents in Germany
and fill out something stating that I lived in Germany for the last half of the year and had health
insurance over there. My bullshit documents for Obama’s bullshit program worked and I didn’t
have to pay any penalty.
I regularly have mom over for dinner and watching politics on television, she gets excited
when Liberals lose, we share beach walks, planting things in her garden to water makes her feel
good, and an occasional movie, this all means I spend two or three days per week with her and I
enjoy sharing time with my mom.
Birdie #8 on February 28 at Balboa Park, hole #6 is a Par 4, the highlight of my afternoon
on this cruddy coarse.
 My Family Tree

My Family Tree is covered over the next 34 pages. I most wanted to discover where in
Europe my blood-line migrated from, in addition I was fascinated to learn the geographical
migration across America of my ancestors, and how most of them were farmers and a few of
them Yankees.
I have broken this family tree out in sections per each of my four grandparents.
 My Grandmother - June Frances Schmidt

In 1662, Jacques and Lydia Cossart, along with their three young children, left Amsterdam
and braved two dreary months aboard the “Pumerlander Zerck,” to come to America. The name
Cossart was later changed to Corsault.
In America, four additional children were born to Lydia and their births are recorded in the
New York Reformed Dutch Church. Jacques and Lydia joined the Church on April 1, 1663.
Around 1673 Jacques moved his family to Bushwick, later known as Brooklyn. The tax list
from the time shows that he acquired about ten acres of land, which he was later able to increase
to about forty acres. In 1683, Jacques owned two horses, five cows, one hog, and eighteen
morgens of land, one morgen being equal to about 2 acres.
David Corsault (sheet C) was born almost ninety years after his great-great-grandfather,
Jacques Cossart passed away. He was born in 1775 on his father’s farm in Canadaiqua, New York.
He married Catherine Vandercook (sheet C) near the turn of the century, and it is through David
and Catherine that I can directly trace my family line.
The Vandercooks were also from Amsterdam, Holland. The first Vandercooks in America
were Heinrich Vandercook and his wife. They arrived in America in 1667. Heinrich and his wife
had ten children. Catherine Vandercook is their descendant and my great-great-great-great-great
Grandmother.
David and Catherine had a son, James, born June 11, 1799, and eventually moved to the
Niagara Falls (Canada side) area. James is my great-great-great-great Grandfather. James
eventually moved to London Township, Canada and bought land to farm.
Ebenezer Farrar (sheet C) and his family settled in London Township the same year as
James. The Farrar family moved to Ontario from Connecticut with their nine year old daughter,
Millicent.
Millicent and James were married on August 19, 1826, in St. Thomas, Ontario. Millicent was 17
years old and James was 26. The Farrar family came from England, but I don’t know when.
John and Mary Hunt (sheet D) living in Devonshire, England left for Canada with their
fourteen year old daughter; Annie Hunt. (Annie is the correct name, but some journals go by
Anna, so I’ll use Anna). Anna was the future wife of Eben and my great-great-great Grandmother.
The Hunt’s settled in London Township, Canada a couple miles from James and Millicent.
Eben proposed to Anna that they marry and move to Michigan so he could attend
University, Anna agreed. Eben was twenty when they married and Anna was nineteen.
Eben and Anna had several children, including a daughter Ida who is my great-great
Grandmother, and continued to live in St. Clair County in Berlin, Michigan for several years then
moved to Iowa.
 Anna Hunt Eben Corsault

Ida Corsault in back-right.

Walde Anderson (sheet A) is my great-great Grandfather, born February 7, 1865 in

Denmark. He was a young boy when his family left Europe and settled in Jewell Hamilton, Iowa.
(There is mention that his name was Waldo, but Walde is correct). His father is Anders Anderson
and his mother is Chris Rasmusson.
Walde and Ida were both twenty-two when they married on July 3, 1887. Shortly after
their wedding, Walde and Ida moved to Omaha, Nebraska where they raised their three children,
Orin, Ida, and Clarence. Ida is my great-grandmother. The family remained in Nebraska until they
moved to Oregon in 1909 by train, and that is when the below mentioned diaries were written by
Ida.
My Great Grandmother; Ida Frances Anderson, wrote two diaries dated 1909 and 1910.
They were written between the ages of eighteen and twenty. The diaries record her family’s move
from Omaha to Oregon and tell the story of her courtship with my Great-grandfather, Hubert
Oscar Schmidt. I have saved copies of these diaries to share, 146 pages.
 Ida Frances Anderson, 1908

My grandma; June Frances Schmidt was twelve when her mother died in childbirth. She
did not know the diaries existed, and did not see them until she was sixty-five.
Peter Jurgen Schmidt and wife Dorothea (sheet A) (two of my Great-Great- Grandparents)
both were born in Germany and migrated to the United States in 1881.
Ida Frances and Hubert Oscar Schmidt married in March of 1910 in Oregon, they settled in
with Hubert’s parents, Peter and Dorothea Schmidt (maiden-Weinholdt). They later lived for a
year on a Hood River (Oregon) fruit farm, in which the Andersons had a financial interest.
In 1914 Frances and Hubert packed up their children and headed to Northeastern
Montana, to own land and farm with the intent to Homestead.
The homestead was located about 30 miles north of Poplar and was accessible only by
travelling a dirt road that linked Poplar with Scobey. My grandma, June Francis Schmidt was born
in Poplar on June 14, 1917.
Times were tough and one season’s harvest only produced about 400 bushels. That didn’t
bring in a lot of money. The last year was particularly rough, and Frances made candy to sell in a
Poplar store.
After seven years the family of six loaded everything that would fit into their Model T and
headed back to Oregon. The roads were dirt and gravel and the trip was two weeks long and
exhausting. They camped along the way and bought milk and eggs from farmers when they could.
In 1924 Hubert and Frances purchased fifteen acres in North Albany (Oregon) for $4,000.
The down payment was $2,000 and the remainder was paid as money became available. The
buildings consisted of a small house, a chicken coop and a barn.
It was around 1929 when Ida Frances became pregnant again, against doctors’ orders.
Frances had been born with a heart problem and childbirth was very strenuous for her. She
almost hadn’t survived her last birth. The Doctor told her she must not have any more children, as
she could die from this. Frances did die from giving birth.
My Great Grandparents’ Ida Frances Anderson and Hubert Oscar Schmidt, wedding picture, 1911

Witten by my grandmother June Frances Schmidt into her memoirs, “On June 11, 1937,
Henry Nitzel and I eloped to Chahalis, Washington to be married. When we parted the week
before we had agreed to this plan, “If it rained and he couldn't do his farm work, we’d go". Well, it
rained and, he appeared and off we went, telling our parents we were going to the Rose Festival
in Portland and that we would spend the night at his brother Fred's home.
All this we did but instead of watching the parade we drove north to Chehalis, a little town
"where no one would know us". On the way we stopped and bought a pretty flowered dress and
sandals for me.
We were married at 11:00 AM in the Methodist Parsonage by Reverend Owen J. Beadles
and witnessed by his wife, Alta and daughter, Joyce. Reverend Beadles entreated us to go home
and tell our parents but instead we kept it a secret. Four or five weeks later a friend of Henry's
sister Rose, who lived in Chehalis wrote to ask Rose if the marriage news item could be of her
brother.
Why we chose to do it this way is more puzzling as I grow older. We had nothing to hide
and our parents would not have objected. In fact, we had made some ceremony plans but
decided this way suited us best.
Our first home was a little house on a dirt road somewhere between Shedd and Peoria,
Oregon. I made the drive to Corvallis each morning to work in the O.A.C. seed lab. One morning I
quit my job there to stay home and prepare for the coming of our first child. Donna Gail was born
August 1, 1938, in a private hospital in Albany, delivered by Doctor Jordon, a chiropractic
physician. We had made the hurried trip into Albany twice in the early morning hours before she
finally arrived.
 There was never a more beautiful baby, until the next one arrived. Matt William arrived
about 4:00 P.M. Oct. 31, 1940 on Halloween, delivered by Dr Jordon at the home of Mother
Nitzel.
It had been a long day with Dr Jordon staying at the home the entire time. His bill was
$25.00. After the new baby was properly cared for we all listened to Major Bowles, M.C. of an
amateur music hour on the radio.
Our beautiful little blond daughter, Katharine Elaine was born Aug. 28, 1942, also at
Mother Nitzel’s. This is the daughter who died of leukemia at the age of 11. This marriage
terminated April 27, 1946 executed by Orval N. Thompson of Albany.”
I have a complete copy of my grandmother’s memoir to share, 46 pages.
My grandmother June will remarry and her family name will be Caday.
I will ask my father to describe his mother to me. His first thought was, “Sweetheart,” and
what followed was how she thought it had to be true if it was in the news, she looked for the best
in everybody, she was a hard worker and truthful. He went on to tell me for the first time that he
had to repeat his first grade because he wasn’t interested in school, and she felt it was best for
him to have a second try at it. He was more interested in playing marbles, he was good at marbles
and had a big collection from his winnings.

My grandparents; June Frances Schmidt and William Henry Nitzel,

wedding picture and eloped June 11, 1937
 My Grandfather – William Henry Nitzel

My Great Grandfather; Eduard Henry Nitzel (sheet E) was born in Misslareuth,

Vogtlandkries Sachsen, Germany, which is near Plauen between Leipzig and Nuremberg, near the
Czech boarder, on June 6, 1871. The correct spelling of his first name is Eduard, but to make it
more English after arriving in the America he went with Edward.
The Nitzel name was only used so after arriving in America, so the big news on my family name as
its proper use in Germany is Nützel or written in English as Nuetzel.
Eduard had six siblings; Albert, Alfred, Anna, Idda, Minna, and Emma. Sheet F lists five
Nützel generations back from me to Johann Adam Nützel with his wife Eva Katharie Stöhr, and
Johann Kaspar Gerber with his wife Johanne Christiane Sophie Brendel.
 Eduard left Germany at nineteen years old for America as either a stowaway on a ship or
left with a relative. He arrived in America in 1890 and made his way to Minnesota, where he work
on a farm owned by his relatives with a family name of Norman. He will legally add Norman into
his name making it Edward Henry Norman Nitzel.
He will eventually move to Oregon where he will meet and marry Jarda Augusta Swanson
(sheet E).
My Great Grandmother; Jarda Augusta (Svensson) Swanson was born in Östra Ljungby,
Sweden, (Southern Sweden in Skane County) on September 2, 1879. Her father is Johnnes
Svensson born September 21, 1854 in Strövelstorp, Sweden, and Jarda’s mother was named
Christina (birthdate and place unknown.)
Again, Jarda had a father with the name of Johnnes Svensson, and he had a father named
Sven Johansson who was born Decemebr 7, 1827 in Sweden. Whys did those two men have
different last names? Answer: Sven’s son is called last name “Svensson” son of Johan and hence
the last name.
When Jarda was two years old she left with her parents for America. They were Svensson
in Sweden but changed their family name to Swanson in America. They settled in Oregon, and
that is where she met her husband to be, Edward. Jarda died on August 4, 1971.
My grandfather William Henry Nitzel was born in Millville, California, and I don’t know why
he was born there since his parents were primarily living in Oregon. My grandfather will have a
“colorful history” as some would put it describing his passion for women throughout his four
marriages.
My grandfather William was a good hunter with a rifle, he had dogs to help with his bird
hunts, and during the depression he charged money by taking people on such hunts. In his young
adult life he lived near Lebanon, Oregon at a placed called Snow Peak. He was also a logger during
his youth, and he did not serve in the military.
Grandpa William will live in Shedd, Oregon when my father is born. He later moved his
family to Brownsville, Oregon. After my grandparents divorced he moved to Harrisburg, then onto
Junction City, and later onto Marcola where my father moved in with him as a teenager.
My father tells me the story that he himself acquired many keys as a teenager, keys to his
school and local businesses, keys that he should not of had, and how grandpa William found them
and confiscated them as my grandfather particularly did not like thieves. My grandfather was firm
and tried to help out my young father, as such the time that my father was only fourteen when he
negotiated the purchase of a Model A car, it was parked in the driveway when my grandfather
returned home and he paid the balance due but instructed my father to keep it off the road, a
rule that my father broke more than once.
My grandfather will move back to Junction City near Fern Ridge Dam, and that is the house
where I would visit him as a child. That house was on many acres in the countryside with horses, a
big barn, and rolling hills good for deer hunting. My grandfather’s last job was that of a
Greyhound bus driver out of the Eugene station.
I remember my grandfather William as outgoing, a drinker and smoker, loud and laughing.
I asked my father to describe his father to me. “Popular,” came first, popular with friends
and people he worked around, followed by his dislike of thieves, and how grandpa didn’t tell lies.

My Great Grandparents Edward Henry Norman Nitzel & Jarda Augusta Swanson
(baby in picture is not my grandfather)
 My Grandmother – Edith Lu Ellen Gibb

The Wiley (sheet G) line came from Scotland. The Gibb (sheet G) name was already in
America five generations before me without a known connection to Europe.
 I have traced this blood line back to William Grubb of Scotland born in 1720 (sheet G3),
Nicholas Randall of England born 1670 (sheet G4), Benoni Griffith of Wales born 1695, and
Catherine Owen of Wales born 1700 (sheet G4).
My Great Great Grandmother; Nancy Seekimd born 1825 in New York (sheet G) has a
father named John Simkins, and I will presume that during immigration to America this name was
heard and written down incorrectly as Seekimd.
Generations of ancestry placed this blood-line in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Iowa, New
York, Virginia, Massachusetts, Ohio and Vermont, with their children migrating to Illinois and
Iowa, then onto Nebraska where my grandmother Edith Lu Ellen Gibb was born July 5, 1909 in
Greeley County. My grandmother Edith died September 27, 1979 while I was still in high school.
My grandmother Edith was overweight and that directed to her health issues before her
death, but I remember her as a sweet woman who genuinely cared for me.
I asked my mother to describe her mother to me. “She loved to cook for others,” was the
first thing my mom recalled. She enjoyed being around her kids, she liked colors, specifically the
color of things, she felt good around people, especially she liked watching youngsters, and she
liked being in her garden.

My grandparents; Edith Lu Ellen Gibb and Clance David McElravy,

wedding picture February 23, 1928
 My Grandfather – Clance David McElravy

The McElravy name originated in Scotland as MacGregor, the family moved near
Balyleese, Northern Ireland and changed it to McIlravy. The name will be changed to its current
McElravy after arriving in America.
 Sr. Hugh McElrevy (sheet I) (born McIlrevy – a new spelling) born in Ireland, will marry a
Dorithy (sheet I), also born in Ireland, and they will have a son named Daniel McElravy born April
4, 1798 in Balleyleese, Ireland. That family will migrate to America, boarding a two-mast ship
called The Brig Mary from Colerain harbor and arriving two months later in Staten Island, New
York on June 20, 1812. Two days prior to arriving in Staten Island the United States Congress
declared war on England. The family will settle in Pennsylvania.
My ancestor Daniel McElravy (sheet H) will meet and marry Mary Margaret McComb
(sheet H) about 1824 when he was 26 years old, both living in Mount Pleasant Township,
Washington County, Pennsylvania. They were farmers in that county the first four years of their
marriage. In 1828 they moved to Harris County, Ohio hearing that farming was better there, and
purchased 160 acres in Archer Township. They had many children and the youngest was named
Franklin Washington McElravy, born December 31, 1843 is my blood-line.
When young Franklin was only 16 years old his father traveled by horseback some 800
miles to purchase land in Southwest Missouri. He purchased several sections around Carthage
and Joplin. The trip took six weeks and Daniel developed pneumonia upon his return and died
April 28, 1860 at the age of 62. One year later the Civil War began.
On December 24, 1863, just shy of his 20th birthday, Franklin signed on with the 52nd Ohio
Regiment as a Private and was immediately shipped to Tennessee where the regiment prepared
for battle. Franklin was shot by musket in his neck and shoulder one day during battle while on a
bridge at Peach Tree Creek. Frank McElravy was with his Fourteenth Corps when they reach
Savannah, Georgia on December 9th and 10th and within three days they had cut off supplies for
the Confederate army. Frank may have been injured again because he was sent home and
discharged with disability on February 8, 1865.
Franklin Washington McElravy married Louisa M. Dickerson (sheet H) at her parents’
home on January 24, 1867. The Dickerson name goes back ten generations when William
Dickerson (sheet K) migrated from England between 1623 and 1643, then settled in Maryland.
The Dickerson blood-line will remain in Maryland for four generations before moving West for
Ohio, then Iowa and Nebraska.
Louisa M. Dickerson’s mother was Sarah Barricklow (sheet H) and not much is known of
her parents other than her father was Derrick Barricklow (sheet M).
The McElravy blood-line will migrate with new children to Ohio in 1823, into Iowa, and
settle long term in Butler County, Nebraska in 1885. Eventually Franklin and Louisa obtained a
farm near Millerton, in Union Township, Nebraska, and that is where James Albert McElravy grew
up. My grandfather Clance McElravy will be born in Nebraska, and he will meet and marry his wife
Edith Lu Ellen Gibb in Nebraska.
Clance and Edith McElravy will have one daughter, my mother Margy, and they will leave
Nebraska and move to Oregon at the end of World War 2.
This blood-line also includes the Witten(sheet L) name from England, when eight
generations back they migrated to Maryland, and remained in Maryland.
As far back as five generations the Cullison family (sheet M) was in Maryland, then Ohio,
and eventually onto Nebraska.
The Godfrey blood-line (sheet N) was in Maryland as far back as 1762, and the Bailey
(sheet M) and Cook (sheet M) ancestors were in America as well in the 1700’s.
Enoch Godfrey (sheet H) and his wife Sarah Cook (sheet M) left Pickaway County, Ohio
and migrated to Illinois about 1835, which is about ten years after they married. Enoch’s parents
were James Godfrey and Keziah (sheet N) born in America. They named their son Enoch after an
ancestor who lived in England during the 1600’s. The Englishman’s son, Charles, immigrated to
Maryland sometime in the late 1600’s. The Godfrey descendants remained in Maryland for over
100 years, then James and Keziah moved to Pickaway County, Ohio.
 Enoch and Sarah had several children. Eliza Ann Godfrey was born October 13, 1841 and
she married William Cullison Simkins (sheet H) at the Godfrey home on April 21, 1864. How the
Simkins name was added to Cullison is explained later as he was a deserter hiding from the army.
John Cullison married Nancy Towson (sheet M), and John was a circuit riding preacher in
Maryland. After several years of this work he wanted to stay at home more with his family, and
they moved to Coshocton County, Ohio, where he was a Methodist minister in Perry Township,
and he also farmed. His congregation built him a church where he served for many years and he
and some relatives are buried in the churchyard cemetery. John and Nancy had a son named John
T. Cullison who married Matilda Miller (sheet H), and they had seven children, lived in Ohio,
migrated to Center Township in Greene County, Indiana sometime before 1860. Then one year
later came the Civil War. One of their seven children was William, my ancestor, who was
mustered into the Union army on December 26, 1861 in Company E of the 57th Illinois Infantry.
This William will change his name from Cullison to Simkins as story tells it he had harsh words
with his religious parents before enlisting to the army, which prompted the change. Records show
however that he changed his name after serving in the army. This William however was an army
deserter, and deserters were to be shot if found, so this is the more likely reason for him to
change his name from Cullison to Simkins. William’s brother was injured in battle, which may
have been traumatic to William, so he deserted on May 1st by hopping on a freight train in the
night heading for Memphis, Tennessee, then boarded a boat going north and working odd jobs
until he reached St. Louis. He took a job there with the circus driving a panther wagon. He
eventually ended up in Galesburg, Illinois where he worked as a stable hand for Enoch Godfrey.
There he fell in love with Enoch’s daughter, Eliza Ann (sheet H), and married her two years later
after his desertion. William and Eliza lived with her parents after their marriage until they were
kicked out. William had not contacted his own parents for several years after the war and they
thought he was dead. William and Eliza eventually moved to Millerton, Nebraska in 1870. On April
11, 1874 my ancestor Rebecca Jane Simkins (known as Jennie) was born.
In 1885 the Franklin Washington McElravy family arrived in Nebraska from Iowa. William
Cullison Simkins made friends with the McElravy children. In later years one of the McElravy
children, James Albert, would marry William’s daughter Rebecca Jane (Jennie).
However, when James Albert was still only 14 years old his father’s barn (Franklin) was set
afire but a younger brother and all the equipment was destroyed. Franklin gave up and heard that
the economy was good out in Washington State and that there were job opportunities out there.
Young James Albert stayed behind to try and run what’s left of the farm as his father boarded a
train for Tacoma, Washington.
Franklin found work in Seattle as a carpenter rebuilding the city after the Great Seattle Fire
of 1889. He lived in Washington for several years, military records have him in Centralia in 1890,
and although he never divorced a census record has him listed as single. In 1897 he moved to
Alaska to participate in a gold mining venture.
The years went by for James Albert without his father who never returned home and just
basically disappeared. Louisa was also abandoned by her husband, and the farm was failing and
her mismanagement of money sent her into despair. Writings portray her as a tyrant and mean
towards even her own children. She wrote the government asking them to send Franklin’s
pension checks to her. She learned from the government that he had an address in Tacoma and
Juneau, Alaska. Any attempts by her to get his pension checks or to reach him failed. Louisa will
die on December 30, 1906 without ever hearing from her husband again. She had even had one of
her grandchildren write him a letter, but Franklin suspected she was behind this and didn’t
respond.
Years later Franklin will correspond through mail from Alaska to his grandchildren. He was
still a miner. Story has it that he was planning to return to the States with his gold to share it with
his family, however upon returning there was a shipwreck and as he held onto a plank of wood all
the gold sank to the ocean floor. He gave up ever returning to the States. In 1909 Franklin married
another woman, and I wonder if he ever told her that he was still married. They lived in Skagway
district of Alaska around Haines. In later years Franklin became ill and suffered dementia. Franklin
died March 29, 1922 and was buried in Alaska. He had lived in Alaska 25 years. He received a
military funeral with full honors.
James Albert McElravy married Rebecca Jane (Jennie) Simkins on April 19, 1896 when they
were both 22 years old. James had little money and couldn’t afford a home so they moved in with
his mother, the Tyrant Louisa, and still had to continue to give her all of his earning.
James Albert McElravy died of a massive heart attack while eating with family at the
dinner table. He died January 2, 1942, at the age of 68.
My grandfather Clance McElravy was born December 15, 1906 in Millerton, Nebraska. He
had many siblings. He was 36 years old and infuriated by the Japanese attacking the U.S., so he
lied about his age and joined the Marine Corp Reserves as a Corporal. He was sent to boot camp
in North Carolina. At this time he was already married and my mother was about three years old.
During boot camp my grandfather punched his Drill Sergeant and broke his jaw. Grandpa spent a
short time in the brig but the case was dismissed. Grandpa Clance fought in the battle of Guam
and Okinawa. There he mostly ran heavy equipment and maintained roads for the troops. He was
awarded the Purple Heart. He was sent back to San Diego and discharged December 1945, before
returning home to David City, Nebraska.
My grandparents Clance and Edith left Nebraska soon after the war and moved to Junction
City, Oregon along with my mother.
Grandpa Clance will outlive all his siblings, dying September, 12 2003 at the age of 96.
I have a copies of “The McElravy Story” to share with others, 45 pages.
I asked my mother to describe her father to me. “He was loving,” came first. He liked being
funny, liked working with tools and building, liked animals especially horses, and he liked caring
for his garden.
 The red circles mark the areas in Europe where my ancestors from the Family Tree above
lived before migrating to America.
 On the map of the United States I have illustrated an elementary path of my ancestors as
they migrated westward and eventually to my birthplace in Oregon.

My grandmother June is colored in red

My grandfather William in dark blue
My grandmother Edith in yellow
My grandfather Clance in teal

Interesting to me is that they all stayed north and didn’t dip down south.
 Building my Family Tree took many hours working on it almost every day for one month
and I’m glad I took this endeavor on in great part as it brought to me closeness and bond with those
ancestors of mine. I’m thankful for each one of them for being what they were and finding their
mate for without that exact story I would not have been born.

Mom at 75 showing her young spirit

 Painted in San Diego

What if something happened to me? I have signed Power of Attorney to my longtime

friend, Jamie Blose, as well as made her Executor to my Last Will & Testament.
Lesson learned: I never want to be with a group of women again as the only guy around. I
just got back from the worst ski trip with women and daughters… “Can I bring my dog?” Slow
drivers, daughter’s texting, girly music, estrogen and drama, X husband rushed to hospital last
night because of alcoholism, and the topper was approaching the chair lift when they told me they
wouldn’t be skiing with me and were heading to their lessons instead.
My mother has music in her house because I bought her a stereo and opera records, I buy
her most of her groceries each week, I planted a garden with blueberries, grapes, raspberries,
strawberries, roses, and flowers for her, and I built her a large outdoor deck.
I’m driving up Interstate 15 early one May morning when I realized that I have several
prejudices to include other drivers with Oregon and Utah plates as they typically drive slow in the
fast lane, also liberal men as I see them as misguided sissies and not courageous, dog owners and
dog walkers, generally blacks as I see them as counterproductive to a sane society, slow teenager
drivers while texting and I just want them out of my way, bike riders that crowd my lane, and
arrogant people. I see all these people that I’m prejudice against each day and it makes me
guarded.

Voting 2016

After watching politics for several months together with mom it was finally our turn to
vote.

Eight Days on the Road with Mother in June

The date to depart San Diego for the Northwest is set, then mom falls and sprains her right
wrist, so she’ll need additional care in the shower as she’s a fall-risk.
Dinner in Sacramento with friends of mine. We reach Oregon and mom is happy, we stop
in Junction City by the house on Prairie Road and search around. Most important to me is the
sacred walk that mother used to take along the creek leading to the rail road tracks. I’ve imagined
walking that path again with her for a long time.
The Sacred Walk
 A wonderful dinner with an old friend of mom’s, Don, at their house in Issaquah.
Caring for all of mom’s needs is easy for me I discover. Took mother by her grandson’s high
school, and by her old house in Bellevue and we were invited inside by the new owners.

The house that I grew up in on Carriage Lanes

 Mom wanted to see some of her former co-workers at NY Life in Bellevue. They had
moved offices but I was successful in putting a meeting together with three of her favorites, which
turned out to be very emotionally for mother. Drove mother through Seattle and over to Alki for a
mocha. Dinner with David Tinius who is someone of course that my mother knew well while I
was growing up.
Lunch in Bellevue with Matthew. He has graduated High School and plans a career in
Finance. He broke up with his girlfriend the night before but seemed fine. He has a new tattoo; an
Egyptian Mythological goddess, and he’s taken a personal interest in Egyptian history and
hieroglyphics. He’s working at a nearby restaurant and plans to return to Germany for two months
this summer then return back to Bellevue.

Matthew with his Diploma

 Drove to Gates, Oregon to meet with McElravy relatives that mom is close with. Two
days with them and mom is so happy.
Back in Junction City we have dinner at grandpa Clance’s favorite pizza spot, and to visit
the cemetery where my grandparents are buried, but first breakfast with mom’s closest high
school friend, Maxine.
July of 2016 after reading a book on Egypt at a coffee shop I was driving back into my
neighborhood in San Diego when I saw an attractive blonde sitting with someone I knew outside
of Starbucks, a rush of curiosity about her overwhelmed me so I went over to connect with her.
This will be the beginning of my summer dating the two best looking woman of my long dating
career. I’m sitting with Kristen listening to her Bostonian accent. She declined my breakfast idea.
I thought about her for the days to follow and planned to somehow find her, which took a week
and there she was outside my Starbuck’s and this time she did go to breakfast with me.

Painted in San Diego July 2016

 Over the following two months I will waste my time with Kristen as she’s much like dating
an alcoholic who also is void of good thoughts about themselves and developing positive
emotions. Weaving in and through her pretend world that her X would someday return to her, and
so sure that her life was complete enough that dying today would be satisfying. Long before I met
her I was prepared for her worst, not being emotionally available, I’m not living in that shadow
with you. Why do I write this stuff? So in the future I won’t need to remember. You brought me to
your favorite hangout and wanted your drinking buddies to think that we were just meeting, in fact,
I didn’t learn anything new from you, you will go on many getaways with me including hiking by
Mt. Rainier and a fun opera, Count Ory, in Seattle, why did we get to cut to the front of the long
line at the Space Needle?, sunsets in La Fonda, Mexico, but not create anything new for me. I
retract that as you did show me that Gluten free food is not all that bad, and that Tequila isn’t so
bad either as you drank it often. I did also learn the Tequila is best poured into my Corona and then
drank, but I didn’t learn that from you just while I was with you. You were skilled at sabotage by
your insensitiveness to tell me that you are “trained” by your X and don’t know anything else, and
that you wish you could turn the clock back to before your divorce like it never happened. I am
now paralyzed from expanding my feelings for you.
But because I was innocent of your history I planned for another date.
 Kristy has her first meltdown in front of me over her divorce from nearly five years ago and
acknowledging she’s “screwed up in the head.”
Kristy has her second melt down with me over her divorce.
Birdie # 9. August 13, 2016 at St. Vicente hole #4, which is a Par 5.
Kristy has her 3rd or 4th, who is counting, meltdown missing her divorced X. It’s too sad for
me and I called it quits.

Painted in San Diego

I wanted to pint a sliced open red onion floating on the ocean, but would turn out to be my
most frustrating painting yet would be an elephant in waves and hiding most of the red onion.
I got rid of my car and decided to try life without one or being hassled with the many
errands that I’m called on to accomplish with having one. I do not like driving any longer because
I’m competitive and I become stressed with people in my way. A friend said to me, “You cannot
date a pretty girl without a car.” Well, I decided to prove that theory false.
I finally decided to hire a personal trainer to do some body building. Showing up early for a
session I was sitting next to Tracy and then it started, struck by her sweet beauty and I fell into a
trance listening to her soft voice. A former military person that worked in Law and now retired
early and set to keep traveling on her adventure.
 Matthew lands in Orlando, Florida to find a job and to start school in late January. He
doesn’t yet have a driver’s license but wants to buy a car.
My first getaway with Tracy, she’s driving me in her car, wonderful, to Borrego Springs for
hiking and golfing, actually her first golf outing, a lot of fun. She is an awakened spiritual person,
part human and part from a moon, with an endless energy to share her stories and keep moving,
she is the female version of myself in her past and present, and I’m dedicated to our plan. Well I
was dedicated until I spent time with her eight year old son; quit honestly the most annoying and
misguided child living, a boy obsessed with his Barbie Doll collection, adding to his doll
collection, carrying those dolls everywhere he went, he crapped his pants more than once in public,
fantasied about being a Ferry with actual wings, spoke like Tinker Bell, and imitated being a girl
throughout the day. I blame his mom as she enabled that behavior. Though it was a short
relationship I did learn that folks that whip out those Tarot Cards are ridiculous, as did she reading
that one of us killed the other in our past life together.
Trump wins the Presidency and I’m so happy that I can ignore liberals for the next few
years. In fact, as sad as they are I’m equally pleased.
 Well into November 2016 and Matthew calls to tell me that Orlando is “ghetto” and his
plans are failing and that he wants to move to San Diego and attend college. I book his ticket to
land in San Diego November 28th.
Still November and I’m talking with Kristy who still looks so good. I’m holding onto two
completely paid for tickets to Kona, Hawaii in March including the beachfront resort thinking that
maybe I should invite her, anyways, she tells me that she has had a “Major Shift” in her life and
that she has moved on from missing her X and that she has learned how to, “Live in the Now.”
Matthew arrives in San Diego, broke and nineteen, but looking good. It will take almost
two weeks for him to find a decent place to rent, one time he had me arrive with my checkbook to
pay his rent but the bedroom had three small beds in it with two guys sleeping during the day, this
is not happening, I’m shocked at when he believes is acceptable. He got a Mohawk haircut and he
doesn’t have a job yet, first impressions isn’t something he understood. He may have a job
downtown soon and left his Passport and Social Security card at the restaurant to make a copy
because they were too busy to copy it while he was there. I put him on a bus to go back and get
them right away. My friends say to me often that he’s nineteen and his brain is not developed. The
bonus to his craziness is that he’s planning to go to college.

Matthew 2016

Next week I will be 55 years old. I will be the age of an interstate speed limit.

January 2017
During a dinner with Kristen she shares with me her hatred of our President elect Trump
and also shares with me that she’s troubled being around me as a Republican. Game on. I will
share that her anguish for anything he does will be my pleasure, a feeling I will carry against all
liberals, the more pain they carry the happier I will be.

Much of my time is shared with Matthew setting up a foundation for him to prepare for his
future. He now has a Driver’s License, he secured a great job at a local organic grocery store,
enrolled in an English class at a community college, joined a martial arts gym where he likes to
practice kicking people in their ribs, and is establishing credit with his first credit card. Together
we talk a lot about the world and he has become a Republican.
The Western Woman is destroyed into something I don’t like. I blame it on our media and
entertainment showing woman being bitches as acceptable behavior. The Western Woman today
wants to be taken care of and cherished but in return they don’t respect men or seem them as equal.
Screw that as I have as much right to enjoy life as they do.
My sister telephoned me in January 27th quite agitated.
“I need you,” she said, followed with, “Are you going to be my brother or stab me in the
back”?
She will go onto to tell me that she needs my help finding a divorce lawyer. She tells me
that she has a boyfriend and that they got caught yesterday by her husband, then she goes onto tell
me that her husband later that afternoon had raped her, but later in the conversation she
acknowledges that it was and not rape because she consented to sex. She was actually trying out
the rape accusation on me to see if she could make it stick against him, she was going to try to
accuse him of a felony in order to win a battle in court.
My sister telephoned me the following morning, “I got him in jail”, she boasted as if a
planned mission was now complete. She goes onto tell me that last night her husband was upset, I
assume upset as anyone would be to just learn they were being cheated on, and she stated that he
was yelling at her and scaring her and that he put his fist into the wall leaving a hole through the
drywall, and these things I believe, but then she goes onto tell me that he shoved her, and this I
doubt as I felt she was falsely fabricating more against him. I don’t want anyone harming my
sister, and I do feel that if Chris was too dumb to know when to walk away before serious
consequences happened to him such as police intervention then he got what he deserved, arrested,
but I do feel sorry that he’s sitting in jail now and still hurting from his wife cheating on him. It is a
beautiful sunny Saturday and I woke up deciding to either play golf or walk the beach, but I’m
bothered that my sister has helped create this situation and I told her that I was not proud of any of
this, so I’m not going to play golf or walk the beach, but what I will do is follow up next week to
see what Chris is charged with and if there is anything about rape then I will talk with the
Prosecutor and I would even defend the accused in court. Trisha goes into a crying fit trying to
convince me she is scared for her life if he finds her, which was a charade of shameless self-victim
crud and again I’m embarrassed of her. After a few weeks Chris will call me stating that the
charges against him were thrown out of court for lack of evidence.
Once again my sister sets off to deceive various people. She tells one story to my dad but a
different one to me. Dad and I compare notes and somehow her actions still surprise him.
Matthew returns from his first college class, which happens to be English. He likes his
professor because she swears and told the class that swearing shows creativity. Of course
everything about that I disagree with.
I have accumulated about three weeks of paid vacation and plan to make my trip to the
Middle East in late March. There’s so much violence happening in that region but I believe it will
never in my lifetime be safe so no reason to wait. My prime objective is to see Egypt, then Israel
and Jordan, but why go all the way there and not expand the itinerary? So I’m considering the
possibilities of adding in Medina and Mecca in Saudi Arabia, but those sucks won’t let me into
those holy cities because I’m not Muslim, so probably not adding that in, but how cool to walk
around the Black Stone in Mecca? I’m even playing with the idea of Duhok or Erbil in Iraq, but
terrorism may be too close and there are no commercial flights available. Also planning to add
Cyprus and Romania.
Matthew reached his peak in early March 2017, I will explain, he was stabling good credit
even though I paid his bills, he started a second part time job for extra cash, I helped him secure an
interview with a bank as a teller, which would be his first professional position, I offered to match
his financial contribution towards his first car, and I offered to buy him suits for his future
wonderful appearance, so I would say he was on track, then like poof he collapses by quitting a job
and moving to the armpit (El Cajon) of San Diego with a tattoo buddy.
I have designed my own personal vacation leaving March 26 for Egypt, and onto Jordan,
Israel, Cyprus, and Romania. I have planned every detail, including every temple to see, every
historical site on wonder, every beach or sea to play in, and castle to amaze my understanding. I
have purchased myself one white T Shirt for each day of my trip and will throw it away at the end
of each day so that I’m not burdened with dirty clothes, same with underwear. Ease and hassle free
has become paramount.
I landed in Kona, Hawaii last week for a mini vacation at a luxury resort on Hapuna Beach.
This was my fifth trip to Hawaii but my first to The Big Island. I did get a fun day of golf in with a
group, some swimming in the waves, many Pina Coladas, but I did learn about myself that I’m not
interested in sitting by a pool and drinking as I prefer “competing.” I want to play sport, even just
volleyball or croquet, anything to be playing.
March 16, 2017: Today my mother is 76 years old. She got what she wanted; a tall flag
pole with an American flag blowing in the wind. My mother is absolutely the sweetest person and I
usually have her stay over at my place once a week for dinner and we watch a movie. I find
satisfaction in feeding her. Well, I find satisfaction in feeding anyone.

Scott’s Tomb & Temple Tour 2017

After extensive research hours of each site, hotel, and flights I would recommend this trip to
any adventurer willing to wake up early each morning by 7am with a passion to seek knowledge
of ancient civilizations and not wish for a honeymoon trip of relaxation but rather a drive to
understand our past humans while walking through dirt under the hot desert sun and smile and
love those strange other cultures that are also fascinated by you. During this twenty day tour I will
leave San Diego and catch many flights before returning home and thankful I am that each flight
was on time, and also most of my tours were reserved and paid for before leaving. In most cases I
will hire a private tour guide along with a private driver.
Egypt
Evening of March 27th I landed in Cairo and check into The Marriott Cairo and Omar
Khayyam Casino, which is located on the Nile and eat a yummy dinner. Up early in the morning
with a latte on my balcony watching Cairo come to life, or more accurately watch Cairo continue
its decay. It won’t take long for the constant sound of car horns and the relentless smog to remind
me that I’m in another big disgusting city without charm or decencies. I meet my guide, Heba of
EMO Tours at 8am and away we drive through filth and poverty for an hour until we reach
Dahshur about an hour’s drive from hotel and stop close to The Red Pyramid. Up some stone step
and enter my first pyramid, descending into the ancient until I reach the tombs, I’m imaging the
workers constructing this site and the final act of carrying a dead king into his resting place. Of
the pyramids that I will see today this one may be my favorite, though the three in Giza coming
later in the day that are bigger I liked the tranquility of this one best. Near The Red Pyramid is
The Bent Pyramid but for me not so impressive. We drive to Memphis, which was an ancient
capital, but rather small and not so impressive. Then onto Saqqara Pyramids, which were OK but
not a big blow out deal. During lunch with Heba we shared stories of love, romance, and tragedy
together, she is an Arabic women willing to talk openly. Onto the three pyramids at Giza
including walking up into the tomb of the Great Pyramid of Cheops, the big one where I’m inside
something 5,000 years old. Then down into Pyramid of Menkaure, the smallest one. I included in
my tour seeing the Solar Boat Museum, which is located next to the big one, and an impressive
find. Took a look at The Sphinx and returned to my hotel. My muscles in my legs are sore from
hiking up and down tight tunnels inside pyramids. The next morning I taxi to Khan Khalili Bazaar
to perhaps do some Arab shopping, but I’m not impressed. Tahrir Square, site of their 2011
Revolution is also a disappointment. A walk through the Egyptian Museum was a fantastic
experience as much of the treasure of ancient Egypt are now on display there. It’s a very large
museum and a couple of hours are needed to absorb the many mummies and artifacts housed
there.

In hindsight, because Cairo is a terrible city to walk or even be in, I recommend seeing the
pyramids and the Cairo Museum only and then leave Cairo a quickly as possible. Like every other
Muslim city I know of they live more like animals than any other major religious group with trash
piles and no regard to pleasantries of any kind. Every piece of territory that the Muslims capture
or control decreases in value from how it was under ownership of Christians or Jews. You cannot
tell me one city controlled by Muslims that is advanced in medicine, human rights, has clean air or
clean streets, or has a thorough education system.
Fly Egyptair south from Cairo to Luxor and check into the Steigenberger Nile Palace hotel,
located on the Nile and enjoy a dinner. Leave a 6am wakeup call, but why bother because at 5am
the Call to Mecca or Call to Prayer blasts loudly from a nearby Mosque. It’s a rather intrusive
noise and the ancient civilization that I’m here to explore were not Muslim so I do not feel this
noise is an addition to their civilization or in any way a benefit to my experience. The noise
continues and I lay in bed waiting for the sun to rise wondering if I did have a rifle would I try to
shoot the speaker into an inoperable state. Perhaps the ancient civilization that I’m here to
discover worshiped a quieter god like Ra the sun god and perhaps they were able to sleep in a bit,
then I remember that I did pack earplugs. Then there’s the argument about Arabic woman hidden
inside a vail and the opposite of corrupt western woman. The men here tell me that they like to
keep their woman wrapped up like a treasure and not cheaply exposed for other men to enjoy,
which is not a care for me as I don’t find Arabic woman beautiful. The real questions I’m
pondering are, “Did my ancestors travel through this area?” and, “Were they part of this
civilization?” Tourism is low ever since their 2011 revolution, which is my benefit.
7:30am and my private Egyptologist named Ayman and driver are both waiting for me in
the lobby, which I booked three straights days through EMO Tours. Today we explore the West
Bank starting with Temple of Queen Hatshepsut, which was a rewarding stop to learn about this
woman pretending to be a man to rule Egypt for twenty years. Then we drive to The Valley of the
Kings where I will enter four tombs, starting with Tutmosis III which is wonderful and I snapped
a couple of forbidden pictures, then into Ramssess IV, then into the most famous tomb of Tut-
Ankh Amun, more commonly known at King Tut, and finally into Ramssess IX which impressed
me the most. Now it is time to connect by walking alone in a quiet area without tourists and feel
those people 3,500 years ago walking in the same space as me. I connected for a brief moment to
them which was satisfying. I looked at the surrounding hills, which was a shared visual between
myself and them. This connection is the most important part of my journey on this trip, it’s the
main reason for this trip, and the connection was made. That civilization was as concerned with
the afterlife as much as their earthly life and preparation and gathering all their toys were critical,
so it must be for me too, I bought a necklace from a street vendor as I do in most countries I’ve
recently visited, so in my coffin I want all my necklaces, my skies, my cat, my flip flops, an
espresso maker, and Q Tips. Then we are onto the Valley of the Queens and into three tombs
including Titi, who fascinated me for being so cunning. My Egyptologist has been explaining the
meaning of the many hieroglyphics to me and how to read them and the meaning of their stories,
which perhaps is as interesting as the temples and tombs. Then onto Valley of the Workers (Deir
al-Madina) where the paintings inside the small temple offered some bang for the bucks. Then
onto Habu Temple for some more learning and my West Bank tour is complete. I have had a cold
for two weeks and my coughing needs to stop so on a back street I found a pharmacist who
telephoned a doctor who together agreed to sell me two different pills and a nose spray. I have no
idea what they are but the unknown is part of the adventure.
Woke up, the medicine worked as I feel much better. My same Egyptologist and driver are
waiting to share the East Bank with me and off to Karnak Temple we drive. Day two of learning
hieroglyphics and understanding the meaning of these symbols and the ancient culture is getting
into my head. The designers left nothing to chance as it all has meaning; gold reflections during
the day and silver reflections by moonlight, the key of life symbol, Lotus on the south and
Papayas on the north, two goose feet on the head, columns have an open flower top but some are
closed, left leg forward, profiles of the face but frontals of your enemies, the goose next to the
birth name and the Queen Bee next to the coronation name, and it just goes on and on. Definitely
Ramssess II was the most amazing king. Then onto the much smaller Luxor Temple but packs a
powerful punch. It is outside Luxor Temple that I am able to describe with some accuracy the
hieroglyphics story to my guide.
6:30am and again my same Egyptologist and driver have arrived for a long trip south to
Aswan. As usual I have on me my passport and small gold-colored coin purse with a lot of cash
inside its zipper pouch. We drive two hours through more endless filthy villages, and the filth and
dirt begin to annoy me as I don’t understand any humans living in these conditions. Out my car
window I can see down dirt side streets through mud or shabby brick shacks and nothing is
inviting and it’s an endless nightmare of dirt and garbage. Driver weaves past donkey carts and
commercial trucks spewing out clouds of diesel fumes and I start to wonder if the temples I
aiming for will be worth the hassle. We reach Kom Ombo Temple where I see the first animated
drawings ever made by people, which is a small carving of four lions depicting movement, which
is just one lion moving its head. Then the carvings of the surgery area showing the surgery tools
used, some similar to what we’d find in today’s operating rooms. Add in the crocodile museum
and the views of the Nile and this temple made for good memories. The drive back north an hour
through the same filth and Muslim men wearing gray colored dresses often just sitting doing
nothing chewing on a raw sugar cane or walking the road as if they have something to accomplish,
but certainly very little is getting done. There are no garbage cans or trash pick-up and it just
decays in the piles along the road or pushed into the nearby canals to sink or float away. I’m
thinking about the men in gray dresses surrounded by trash and conclude that this life on earth is
not important to them but by religion they care and prefer to arrive in heaven. I’m not a religious
man, don’t believe in heaven, instead I buy into science and we just die and that is the end, so
perhaps that is why life on earth should be clean and important. We reach Edfu (Idfu) and this will
be the last stop on my Egyptian tour. I enter the Temple of Edfu, also known as The Temple of
Horus, and I am instantly impressed by its size and while standing next to the huge exterior wall I
am once again able to spiritually feel and connect with ancient Egypt. I learn about the falcon and
the two interior stairways, one being spiral like the falcon ascending, and the other to walk down
being straight like the falcon descending. I’m inside the temple in a room where the priests would
have inserted garlic into a woman’s vagina and wait until the next day to smell her mouth. If the
priest could smell garlic from her mouth then it was determined that woman could make children,
however, if he could not smell garlic then he said that her organs were blocking the smell and thus
she could not become pregnant. Men had a right to know this before committing to her. We are
still in Aswan province driving north to my hotel still one hour away when we must stop at a
security checkpoint with maybe six or seven armed police. The driver shows his ID and
announces that the guy in the backseat is an American tourist. We are ordered to drive into a
roped off area and wait. The police are on their phones doing something official and I slip my
gold purse down into my underwear and decide that I will be confrontational if they try to hustle
me for money and I begin looking for escape routes. Ayman the guide tells the driver that he
should have told the police that I was English or German but not an American. Forty-five minutes
later a police escort arrive from another town and inform us that because I’m an American we are
to follow them to the Luxor Provence boarder to insure that I’m not kidnapped, certainly news of
that would hurt tourism. I want the danger but I find it intriguing that they are so concerned with
my safety that they will escort for many miles. OK, hate to have an international incident started
over me. I am ready to leave Egypt in the morning. I recommend Valley of the Kings, Temple of
Queen Hatshepsut, Karnak Temple, and Edfu Temple and the rest is fluff.
Early morning flight to Cairo and connect on Royal Jordanian Air to Amann, Jordan.
Jordan
My driver meets me at the airport and we begin our trip three hours south through the
Jordanian desert. I instantly see Jordan as much cleaner than Egypt. My driver tells me his views
on Arabic families and how his wife must telephone him asking permission from him to leave the
house or to visit family. He wants her to stay in the house and raise their children and if she needs
something like clothes then he will bring such items to her. Later in the desert he tells me how free
Jordanians are to go wherever they want and the respect that the king wants them to show all
people visiting Jordan. I guess though the freedoms and respect don’t apply to his wife. I have
heard that they measure a society by how well it treats their women and by that measurement
Islam could be at the bottom. Upon reaching the town of Petra my driver shows me a large rock
that is supposed to be the same rock that Prophet Moses struck and water appeared. Checked into
my room at the Al Rashid Hotel in central Petra.
Up early, just dawn. Walk a mile down the hill to have breakfast at the Movenpick hotel,
which is just outside the Petra park entrance where I’m going to explore on foot all day. I enter
and quickly realize that I’m inside of something special, well, it is a World Heritage site. I have
beaten the crowds and the temperature is still pleasantly cool. I am in an area called Al-Siq, which
is colorful tall and narrow canyons. I’m a mile in and determine this is like the Grand Canyon and
Joshua Tree Park together but now I have ancient history, rock carvings and tombs to go with it
all. I am actually walking on The Silk Road, part of the ancient route between China to Egypt and
onto Europe, and I connect and feel those people in their movements. There it is just in front of
me; The Treasury, a large carved out gorgeous tomb that once housed the money and I have it
almost all to myself. I continue walking and the colors and carved tombs astonish me. I buy my
Jordanian necklace and continue walking. I’m invited for a cup of tea by a local Bedouin girl who
also just wants me to buy something from her jewelry selection, but nope, one necklace is enough.
“No, I don’t want to ride your donkey,” will leave my lips multiple time today as that’s pushed on
me by other Bedouin’s trying to scratch out a living. Climbing up many rock steps past many
vendors and about five miles from the entrance I reach the Monastery, which is another rock
carving tomb, but this one is bigger and I feel more impressive than the Treasury.

The Monastery was made in 50 A.D. so now about 2,000 years old. I purchase an orange
and pomegranate juice drink from a vendor and gaze in wonder at this structure and also decide
that the trail up here is now my second favorite hike ever. I descend to a lower level and enjoy
lunch at the Basin Restaurant, which turns out to be a wonderful treat. I gather enough information
to learn that there is another trail leading back to the Treasury and decide to take it, which will be
a great idea after all as I pass through more colors and tombs and climb steeply to what is called
the High Point and an ancient area where animal sacrifices were performed. I descend down a
long path leading to the main trail and upon arrival am shocked to see how massive the crowds
have grown, must be thousands of tourists but certainly none of them enjoying tranquility like I
had hours before. I’m asking myself why they waited. My hike was ten miles and I enjoyed every
step.
7:30am and my new driver and I leave Petra through magnificent mountains to the West
and along the Dead Sea until my three hour ride has reached The King Hussein Bridge which
links Jordan to Israel.
Israel
After a long and somewhat frustrating border crossing out of Jordan I enter Israel and
immediately recognize how much more beautiful the Jewish youth is compared to that Arabic
look. Lots of armed Israeli soldiers and I’m happy to see them. Needless to say that I have not
ever heard good things about the Palestinian’s who claim the West Bank Territories that I’m in at
this moment, so seeing the heavily armed Israelis in quite fine with me. In fact, I would be fine if
they just took the whole damn thing back from the Palestinians, who by the way are not allowed
to have guns. Not far from the boarder I reach Jericho and check into Oasis Hotel Jericho. I agree
with a young taxi driver to pay him to take me to three nearby spots that I want to see. First stop is
Qumran, where an ancient civilization once lived but is now famous for the cave in which the
Dead Sea Scrolls were hidden in and later found. Then a short drive to Kalia Beach, which is on
the Northern shore of the Dead Sea, and where I will float on top of such salty water that I cannot
sink, and also is the lowest point on earth. Then my third stop will be a mile outside of Jericho to
the oldest city on earth; Tell es-Sultan (ancient Jericho) and known to be 10,000 years old.
Early morning taxi from Jericho to Jerusalem where I check into Arthur Hotel, which was a
perfect location just a short walk to Jaffa Gate. I enter the old city walls and quickly begin
exploring starting with Herod’s Tower, mistakenly called Tower of David, and right away I
realize that coming to this holiest of cities was a fantastic idea with its overwhelming history all
here for my taking. I move deeper into the Christian Quarter and enter The Church of the Holy
Sepulcher, location of Jesus’ crucifixion, where he was laid to be cleaned, and where many
believe that he was buried and three days later rose. I then found the visually and spiritually
amazing St. John the Baptist Church. Then into the Armenian Quarter, where not much happens
and the main attraction is St. James Cathedral holding the Tomb of St. James the Apostle but is
closed most hours of the day. I exit out of the Zion Gate and enter Mt. Zion and the Room of the
Last Supper. On a lower level is King David’s Tomb. Then into the Jewish Quarter where I went
to the Western Wall (Wailing Wall) and placed my mother’s pray written onto a small piece of
paper rolled up into a crack between stones. The placing of my mother’s prayer was a wonderful
gift that I was so pleased to do for her. I moved along and explored Ophel Archaeological Park
and used some of the same steps that Jesus walked on. I wondered into the Muslim Quarter and
made my way to Lion Gate, I visited St. Anne’s Church and started my walk on the Via Dolorosa
pausing at each of the nine stops leading to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, noting that my first
stop was the Church of Flagellation, where Jesus was flogged and first had to pick up the large
wooden cross. Back at my hotel where the receptionist named Aya, a beautiful twenty-four year
old Jewish girl tells me that she had been looking at my passport and wanted to know if I was
truly fifty-five years old. She recommend an outdoor market further up Jaffa Street that I should
visit to witness Jewish life in Jerusalem. I follow her advice and determine that I like the Jewish
people that I have met, I like that they are clean and have structure, which is the opposite of my
experiences with Islam. Islam, spread by the sword, and I’ve grown tired of being around them. I
learn that it is compulsory for Israeli’s to join the military at eighteen years old, girls for two years
and boys for three years. I also determine that because of that experience they are equipped to
solve problems.
Up early to beat the long lines into Temple Mount, which is the most sacred religious site in
the world to both Christians and Jews, but unfortunately it is inside of the Muslim Quarter. The
Dome of the Rock or Golden Dome, which is now a Mosque, resides right on top of the Rock and
the Muslim’s only allow Muslim’s to enter. This issue will create my most perplexing question of
Jerusalem to the point I will have to start asking later on, since the Israeli Jews have the power and
have the guns why don’t they say, “Hey Muslims, you are going to open that door up for all to
enter?” That solution seems simple to me to resolve.

Then I’m outside the walls and find The Garden Tomb, which is another possibility to
where Jesus was buried and three days later rose. At 3pm I’m back in the Armenian Quarter to see
a Mass inside St. James Cathedral, which was closed yesterday when I strolled on by. The Church
was spectacular inside and when Mass ended at 3:30 I was on my way into the Jewish Quarter
where I have a reservation at 4pm to tour the Western Wall Tunnels. Before leaving the old city I
purchased my Israeli necklace.
Next morning I’m on a trolley heading to Mt. Herzl to meet up with Aya and an early date.
We taxi down to her village of Ein Kerem, dotted with ancient stone walls, and now full of lush
gardens and making for a beautiful natural hiking area. After lattes, chocolates and lunch we begin
our hike until we come across a lush grassy hidden area surrounded by trees, she proposes this
spot for a rest. Soon my point of view is her sitting on top of me with the blue sky and sunlight
gleaming through her long brunette hair while we are making out. At 2pm I’m at Jaffa Gate to
meet my tour group, booked with Sandeman’s, to explore Mt. of Olives, starting on top of the
hillside in Church of the Ascension, the group moves down to Pater Noster, which is the cave
where Jesus taught his disciples The Lord’s Prayer. Onto Dominus Flevit Chapel, site of where
Jesus wept, walking further downhill we learn why Jew’s place rock on top of burial sites rather
than flowers, over there is Church of St. Mary Magdalene, which also marks the location of why
we color Easter eggs, then down to Garden of Gethsemane and Rock of Agony where Jesus
prayed, was betrayed and arrested. We ended with the Tomb of Mary, which was absolutely
impressive. I will conclude my answer as to why the Israeli’s don’t force the Muslims to open the
Dome of the Rock to all as the Jews don’t feel holly enough or clean enough to go there anyways
so they don’t care, but I believe that is just an excuse, but by allowing the Muslims to have their
way it supposedly should keep them satisfied to not cause any further trouble. Apparently my
suggestion that they force the Muslims to open to the door to all would cause World War 3, so
Christians just get screwed by the current status quo.
Next morning a taxi to Tel Aviv airport and a flight on Aegean Air to Larnaca, Cyprus.
Cyprus
A one hour taxi ride from Larnaca to Proteras, my beachside hangout in the Sunrise Beach
Hotel on Fig Tree Bay. Aqua blue colored water inviting me to swim. I book two tours from an
agent across the street and went to dinner. Proteras is a tourist town without any historical culture
or meaning to me outside of a good swim.
Up early with a coffee on my balcony watching the sunrise over the blue Mediterranean
Sea. A short swim symbolic of washing two weeks of desert of my body and soul. Joined in a
small group traveling about one hour north and crossing the border into the Turkish Republic of
Northern Cyprus with our destination the dead city of Famagusta, which was invaded by the
Turk’s back in 1974. Today I’m able to see several miles of the most beautiful beach line with
what was many big hotels on that day back in 1974 full of tourists enjoining the beach and
breakfast when suddenly the political tensions between the Turk’s and the weaker Greeks boiled
over and the Turk’s invaded with Tanks and their Navy. Some 30,000 tourists and locals
immediately evacuated south for their safety. The Turk’s fenced off the entire city and beachfront
and have still not allowed anyone to return. The hotels after being bombed have remained the
same. My tour group moved along to a nearby village where I explored Othello Tower, written
about by Shakespeare in 1604, and I visited St. Nikolas Cathedral, which is now a Mosque, than
you Turkish Muslims. Bought my Cyprus necklace.

Garra Rufa Nibbling My Feet Smooth

Up early in the morning for my Jeep Safari Tour for an all-day drive up into the Troodos
Mountains where we reached a small ski resort. The drive took us through the port town of
Limassol then north into the mountains stopping for coffee at an artist village called Lania. After
reaching the top we descended to the village Platres where we enjoyed a great lunch at To Anoi
restaurant. We never got to order as they just brought us food. The highlight of the trip was
stopping in the village of Omodos, which was a blast just walking around and peeking into shops.
After a morning swim I found a small church atop a hill and pondered inside enjoying the many
painting telling their story. I will miss seeing ancient culture when I return home to my country. I
prepare to leave for the airport and my Aegean Air flight to Athens and connecting flight to
Bucharest, Romania.
Romania
I check into the Rembrandt Hotel inside the old city of Bucharest, eat some dinner and walk
around after dark. Romania is now the 50th country that I have explored. During my walk around
the old city I’m reminded of Germany many years ago when I started traveling as I’m seeing the
youth sit in outdoor café’s smoking and drinking because maybe there’s nothing more interesting
that they can think of doing. It’s all quite sad and ugly to me. A man approaches as he has just the
woman for me if I want to pay, I give him no attention. It’s noted that Bucharest is clean and kept
so by city employees and is emerging with many pockets of modernism from its tragic communist
years not so long ago.
Up early to explore and quickly I notice there’s many old and small churches throughout
the old city that are just inviting me to enter. My favorite church visually was Stavropoleos
Church built in 1724. I take a paid tour of Parliament Palace, which is the 2nd biggest building in
the world after the Pentagon, and cost three billion dollars to build as it almost all marble inside.
The cost of this building was just one of the reasons for the Revolution in 1989. I saw Revolution
Square, which is now a sad spot that is graffiti and broken marble tiles used for skateboarding
youth and has no beauty any longer and was a disappointment as a tourist that watched the
revolution on TV as it happened in that square where so many lost their lives fighting for the
overthrow of Ceausescu. I took a City Walking Tour, which was a two hour explanation of the old
city which Ii found valuable. The most beautiful smiling woman in the large group had dinner
with me afterwards, she is Stella from Spain, and beyond what would normally be a best date out
and connecting I did not ask her for her email address when saying good bye as I just thought it
would be a hassle to engage with another European. That decision will be my only regret my
entire trip.
Up early to meet my tour group, booked through TravelMaker, for a twelve hour getaway
into the Romanian countryside and up into the Carpathian Mountains to go inside Peles Castle
(1875) and admire the beauty of this magnificent and still furnished German style castle. My
curiosity about Gypsy’s and the origin of gypsies was peeking, did it all start here? I think so. We
passed by a gypsy village where the guide said that even the police will not enter. Then into
Transylvania and onto Bran Castle, more famously known as Dracula’s Castle, built in the 12th
century.

Bran Castle
 The tour then went onto the city of Brasov where we had dinner and could shop. This city
reminded of walking Kaisserstrasse in Waldshut, as it had similar architecture and feel. I was not
able to find a necklace that I liked in Romania.
At 5:15am while it is still dark outside I met my taxi drive for a ride to the airport when a
drunk teenager jumps onto the hood of the car, the taxi driver pummels him in the face several
times. Some orange colored spray is shot into the punks face but also my driver gets in on his face
and he’s screaming while trying to drive. This is all just entertainment for my final hours before
flying home to California.

Painted in San Diego

 Matthew wants to work in finance, so through my connections I helped him get hired as a
Teller at Bank of America, and his first day will be May 30th. I also purchased for him many suits
and showed him how to tie a tie so he can look the part. So remember son, I got you started in this
industry.
 Within a couple of days after sending this letter my sister will try to prevent mother from
visiting me, and I will again contact Adult Protective Services.
I see “my family” as my mother, my son and my cat, and we three are usually together two
or three days each week. They all have many needs and I offer to them everything I am able, and I
am fortunate and exhausted at the end of a work day.
June 6th at Buchanan Golf Course in Concord I earned my tenth Birdie while on the 7th
hole. This is the first hole that I have birdied twice.
I am laying the groundwork for my next adventure and hope to see the three Baltic States,
ride the Trans-Siberian Railway for six nights from Moscow East through Russia dipping into
Mongolia and arriving in Beijing, flying to Tibet and hanging out with Buddhist, and hopefully
getting to Bhutan.
 Trisha has refused to share the financial status of mother. The reason is obvious. She can’t
show that she has not misused mother’s money. APS is involved, interviewed mother at least
twice. The police contact Trisha and she scrambles to have mom sign some hastily handwritten
letter, which I saw.
It’s off the Oregon with mother to see relatives for the 4th of July holiday. The trip is all
about giving mother what she wants and that’s to see McElravy’s. To see joy on the face of
mother is all I need.
As I do every Wednesday, I go over to visit with mother at her place, and it’s a sacred time
that we both look forward to, such is the same on Wednesday, July 12th. It’s around 2pm that I
arrive at mothers home, who is watering her garden, and we soon leave a favorite restaurant. It’s
during lunch that I propose the idea that we both go to Ireland later this summer, an idea that she
quickly decides is a good one. We return to her place and listen to an opera record and share some
laughs about our recent trip to Oregon together. I’m standing next to mother looking at a picture
she’s sharing with me when suddenly Trisha walks in announced and without even a knock at the
door. She walks up to mother next to me and I say to Trisha, “Kindly leave, I don’t want you
here,” to which she says, “I don’t care what you want,” and with an open hand smacks me on the
left side of my face with enough force to knock me into mother who herself falls onto the couch.
I’m lift mother up from the couch and remove my cell phone from my fanny pack and dial 911, I
will put my arm around mother to shield her as Trisha begins a barrage of yelling, all caught on
the 911 tape, I will ask mother if she witnessed Trisha hitting me and three times she will answer
into my phone affirmative. Trisha grabs mother by the shoulders once and said to her, “What is it
you think you saw?” Trisha is trying to intimidate mother so I sit mother onto the couch and sit
next to her with my arm over her waist to shelter her from Trisha. The barrage of yelling
continues from Trisha, so loud that the 911 operator thinks it’s me and tells me to stop yelling. I
walk outside per the instructions of the 911 operator and wait for the sheriff, who both arrive
quickly. Statements are made and Trisha is cited by the police for Battery. In hindsight, Trisha
must have been looking for a fight when she decided to come over there as she knows my
schedule with mother. The next morning I will request and receive a temporary restraining order.
That Friday mother is at my place expressing her frustration with Trisha, then we agree not
to talk about it for the rest of the weekend together and went to the beach with Matthew.
 I get a TRO (Temporary Restraining Order) against Trisha and she does the same against
me. I hired two lawyers; Kurt to demand that Trisha be accountable for all of mother’s money that
is missing, and Stanley to represent me with the TRO.
On July 20, while sitting out front of my house with mother three police cars arrive. They
are to perform a Welfare check called in by Trisha stating that she is unsafe, it’s ridiculous and the
police soon leave. The following day I take mother to her new doctor, Buchner MD., who
interviews mother for a Capacity Declaration. He determines that she does not have dementia, as
Trisha now wants to claim.
July 26, I get a call from a detective that Trisha has files a report that I was at her front door
and knocking on it. Her boyfriend and her both claim that at 5pm two days earlier I was positively
identified, ponytail too, as knocking on their door and then walking away. I am able to show the
detective, that through video surveillance and a credit card receipt, that I was many miles away in
my neighborhood at that time. She had files a fake police report on me.
August 8, Trisha will show up at mother’s house unannounced and become angry with her,
even threatens to take mom’s cell phone away from her. Trisha walks outside and calls the police
stating that mother is a danger to herself, called a 5150, and three sheriff’s respond and interview
mother for an hour and half. They determine that mother is not a danger to herself, in fact, she is
exercising, the house is clean, her son visits regularly, and they leave without forcing her to leave
her house and be placed in a holding cell, which is what Trisha wanted. My sick twisted sister
wanted my mother removed against her will so that she can continue to control her. That will be
followed up a couple of days later with Trisha trying to force my mother to leave with her to go
“somewhere,” but my mother will refuse.
August 11, mother will hire an attorney and get a TRO against Trisha. That same day she
will hire another attorney and have all Durable Power of Attorney, financial and medical, in my
name. She will also make her new Last Will & Testament. She is sick of her own daughter and is
happy that she cannot come around her and bully her.
August 19, mother and I wrote a letter to Espen inviting her back into the family.
Using the new DPOA mother and I updated her Social Security benefits, whereas she
named me her Representative Payee. I also closed out her US Bank accounts.
During these autumn months I have been dating Greta, a thirty-six year old super hottie
athlete with an actual creative personality. In some ways I sum this time as reliving my glory
days.
August 23, Kurt has enough information about mother’s finances to send Trisha a demand
for all mother’s accounting since her stroke. Trisha has sixty days to respond.

Painted in San Diego

 Much of my autumn will be research on just how much money Trisha has stolen from
mother during the past four years. The sum is at least $58,000. It will be quite gratifying when she
is court ordered to pay mother back.
Mother is completely happy without Trisha being able to visit her. It will be at least three
months since Trisha can stop in and bully her around and mother is pleased. I have also
discovered that Trisha had mother taking an anti-depressant pill, to which there is no good
explanation.

Painted in San Diego

 The 60 day demand letter for Trisha to show us “where the money is” will pass without a
response.
On November 2, 2017 a case will be filed in Probate Court in San Diego that on behalf of
my mother I claim that $58,000 is missing.

Painted in San Diego

 Early this year there was a doctor that was mother primary care physician and Trisha got
him to write that he diagnosed mother with dementia. This was part of her big plan to conceal the
theft of her money, well, that doctor has now removed that diagnosis from mother’s records.
The morning hours of December 12, 2017 will be mother and I inside Probate Court in
downtown San Diego whereas the judge will order Trisha to submit the accounting that she has so
arrogantly refused to do so far. It’s a gratifying victory that Trisha will be held accountable for the
money I claim has been stolen.
What I’m grateful for at this yearend is how wonderful my son has become as a person and
now my mother lives with me. I will protect them both.

2018

In January both my mother and I moved into a house on a golf course in Chico, California,
and we both joined the county club for social events. Small town living surrounded by lush green
hillsides, almond and walnut trees, and being out of Southern California has been a positive move.
 Mother’s Ancestral Trail

Today is mother’s 77th birthday and we arrive in Edinburgh, Scotland for a fifteen day
journey through areas that her bloodline once called home. I planned every aspect of our trip and
would recommend this itinerary to anyone considering a historical adventure in Scotland or
Ireland.
We stayed at The Dunstane Houses, our room in the Hampton House was marvelous, and
looking out our window it’s snowing. We took an historical guided tour of the Royal Mile and
Edinburgh castle, perhaps the most besieged castle in the world. Mom is loving this town, we are
surrounded by the many whiskey shops and cashmere retailers. We take a guided underground
Ghost Tour.
Our rental car has GPS and off I drive north through some snow flurries, stopping in
Colross for a look, then to the small village but historically relevant Dunkeld, and check into The
Atholl Arms Hotel. In the afternoon we drive up for a look at the town of Pitlochry. The snow has
finished, and I find a corner pub where a pretty girl is playing the violin.
Blue sky and warm for our drive north into the Highlands arriving in Inverness, checking
into Kingsmills Hotel, and our room overlooks the golf course. A short drive from town we explore
Culloden battlefield, where in one day 1746 the English soundly defeated the Jacobites, which
would be the final big battle the Scot Clans fought before submitting to their place in history. I got
nine holes of fun at the Inverness Golf Club while mom napped.
We boarded a guided tour boat on Loch Ness and set south for a history lesson at Urquhart
Castle, which was a glorious day for photos.
Driving south through the beautiful Glencoe Mountains, still snow on top, wide open
unspoiled raw nature, and perhaps the most dramatic section of this whole trip. We stop of a look at
Kilchurn Castle, which was the most mysterious of all castles. We reach of village of Inveraray and
check into The George, which was the center of everything happening that evening, best pub, best
food, best hotel. We toured the Inveraray Jail, and took a walk to the amazing green colored
Inveraray Castle.
Driving through Loch Lomond mountain region listening to opera from our radio, it’s
glorious to be sharing this with my mother. We catch our short flight out of Glasgow and into
Belfast, Northern Ireland for another rental car, and drive north for Portrush, and check into the Inn
On The Coast hotel.
A short drive east from Portrush and explored The Giants Causeway, which are unusual
rock formations on the beach. More opera and continue east along this amazing coastline turning
back west at Ballintoy, stopping in at Old Bushmills Distillery for lunch and a sample of twelve
year old scotch. Take a tour of Dunluce Castle and imagine its inhabitants from so long ago. Drove
to Londonderry for a look of the walled city and St. Columb’s Cathedral.
We entered Ireland for our first time, which is my 51st country visited, and reached
Westport, checking into The Wyatt Hotel. Walked around this cultural village full of color and
character, and toured the Westport House.
Driving west along the coast to Louisburgh then south through the amazing Murrisk region
stopping at the monument to The Famine Walk, reach Leenane, turn east to the village of Cong,
lunch in the quaint famed village and explore nearby Ashford Castle. Drive down to Galway,
checking into Park House Hotel. Explore the old town, which is pedestrian only.
Drive the coastline south into The Burren Mountains stopping at the Cliffs of Moher, more
panoramic coastline views. Folk Irish music on the radio driving through the countryside, there’s a
castle there, there’s a monastery over there, listening to that Gaelic accent the whole drive. We
reached the village of Dingle, our destination for the evening, and checked into the Greenmount
House, and went for a walk and dinner in one of the more traditional regions in Ireland. Mom sips
whiskey and makes such a funny face. We are often eating seafood chowder along this journey.
Drive direction Milltown and touch into Killarney National Park, jump onto the N22
direction Macroom, a backroad less traveled, exit the N22 at Crookstown and routed my GPS for
Kinsale, checking into Trident Hotel. Explore nearby Charles Fort and learn about the Irish
teaming up with the Spanish in the early 1600’s to war against the English. Walk through this
amazing village full of color and learn its once important trading routes.
Drive to Cashel and explore the Rock of Cashel being ready for another history lesson. By
the time we reenter the highway heading for Dublin we had a better understanding of the Vikings,
the Normans, the English oppressors, the angst between Catholic and Protestants, and the Plague.
Arriving in Dublin we checked into The Croke Park hotel, and set off for old town for another
lesson provided this time at the Christ Church Cathedral. Walking around the area Temple Bar
provided the most colorful culture, explored St. Michan’s Church, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Little
Museum of Dublin, a favorite to most is Kilmainham Gaol, which is a prison used by the English
to lock up those rebellious Irish, and anyone caught begging, including children, and last on our list
is the nearby Irish Museum of Modern Art.

April 2018
My sister has submitted her accounting of mother’s finances during the four years after
mom’s stroke, and to say it’s fictitious and inaccurate would be an understatement. Multiple
massages, expensive gifts for other people, concert tickets, yard supplies and furniture while living
at Trisha’s, many erroneous cash withdrawals, $600 outing with neighbors, $700 box seats at Del
Mar Race Track, $800 Christmas fun, $200 shoes, $800 vacation rental in Malibu and this list goes
on for several pages. None of this was with my mother’s consent, my mother has lived frugally and
minimally with effort on saving her money. I think of it as how much money do you Trisha really
want to steal of your mother’s hard work.
Brought Matthew up to explore Chico, and took him skiing Northstar at Lake Tahoe on a
blue sky warm weekend. He has found is connection with nature and has been going into the
woods for camping. He is understanding how technology can kill off the human spirit if not
balanced with nature.
Matthew is staying with us for the summer before returning to college, and of course I’m
planning a family vacation. Oh, here’s another declaration from my sister stating, “I want no
further contact with Mom and intend to have no role in her care.”
June 8, 2018: I visualize texting my son, “Victory” when it’s finished.
Entering a large courtroom that is for the moment vacant and reserved just for our case, oh
ya, for the next two hours I will argue for a permanent domestic violence restraining order against
Trisha, and she the same, which will all be public record for anyone to read. Trisha will deny her
allegation stating her x husband had raped her, she will testify poorly, stumble, and appeared not to
believe her own story. My father will testify against my character stating that I’m the cause of all
these issues, he being the same man that was cheating on my mother when I was only one year old
and my mother pregnant with Trisha, who told me several times, “I thought I was going to have to
bury her,” referring to the woman he was cheating with. The statement that I made back in May of
2014, “If Trisha was dying alongside the road I would not help her,” was today altered by others to,
“I could kill her and not feel bad about it.” I will take the witness stand and rise to the moment, the
tension will not alter my convictions, I transcend into a moment when I’m actually hoping this
continues as I like arguing with her attorney who bluffs and when I begin proving my statement he
then concedes, twice. I felt him tricky but weak. Nearing the end the judge says of me,” I find him
very believable.” He does not offer that of my sister. We are awarded the three-year restraining
order. I drive away, windows down, wind in my hair with the sweet sensation that I will never have
to deal with her in a social setting again.

Birdie #11. June 17, 2018, which is Father’s Day and I’m golfing Table Mountain with my
son. I generally don’t mix alcohol with sports but around the fourth hole the Cart-Girl comes by
and beers seem like a good idea or is it that I want to numb my brain in order to capture that next
Birdie that I have worked so hard at for nearly a full frustrating year, so preparing to T Up at the
sixth hole, which happens to be the most difficult of all eighteen, I kiss the ball and my son laughs
at me, but I drive it far. My second shot plays it right over trees and off the fairway but I tell my
son, “I will make that work for me.” After Matthew sprays his ball back and forth and even finds a
way to hit it backwards I line up for my 80 foot chip shot which at its apex is over a tree and lands
onto the green and rolls into the cup, which is my best shot ever.

Matthew transfers and moves to Chico.

Let’s spend eleven days exploring. It’s loose and generally unplanned as my mother and
son begin driving north with me. Up on Mt. Shasta for a walk and remind our senses of summer
alpine. A swim in the river near Happy Camp, a tour inside the Oregon Caves, crab dinner and
several days beach walking in Yachats. I still feel young, so how am I a father and teaching a
twenty-one year old, feels natural but throws me off sometimes how every moves needs to have
purpose. Mom likes the speed of our buggy racing over the sand dunes. Mom sees “her people” in
Monmouth, who are fourth generation cousins to Matthew. Returning to Junction City we find the
door open to mom’s High School and enjoy a walk through the halls and into the classrooms where
she once studied. We were also invited inside her old house on Prairie Road, which was good
medicine for mother. My son prefers the 60’s music and learning about how the turmoil and
freedoms that generation made so mainstream. We are roaming outside Autzen Stadium through
Terrapin Station where he’s getting a firsthand feel of the hippy movement. “This is as close to the
60’s that you’ll ever get,” I tell him as the man with the hash brownies is nearing us. Dead &
Company, formerly Grateful Dead, would be my son’s first concert and early on I see him feeling
everything going on and start to dance, which to me is pleasing. I see a tie-dye shirt pass by and
disappear into the crowd, the music makes me move, I have felt this before, concerts are a back and
forth of dark and wow moments, look at something new and start over. I took my family up to
Timberline Lodge for the views of Mt. Hood and an evening in Government Camp where I used to
spend those summers ski training on the glacier, but today’s highlight would be riding the alpine
sleds down the mountain, which was more of a race to me against my son and somehow I would
always beat him by a long ways. He didn’t grown up learning how to compete as I did. For two
adrenaline filled hours we all white-water rafted down the Clackamas with waves of cold water
splashing grandmother in her face.
 Ah those elusive Birdies, I treasure them and work hard for them, and back where golf truly
started for me; Boundary Oaks, I secured my twelve Birdie, on hole number ten July 16.
My mother and I have decided to dismiss the case of the missing money against Trisha for
several reasons including the added stress and expense to our daily lives. On August 27th the judge
sided with me in that she has not provided accurate accounting and also granted my request to
dismiss the case. Through our own accounting Trisha has taken $52K of my mother’s money for
her own use over the past four years, erroneously tried to tag my mother with dementia as a route
to hide her theft, and tried unsuccessfully to have my mother foreseeably removed during a 5150
Hold. My mother never speaks or asks of her.
 In late 2018 Trisha will have this case reopened and petition to have my mother pay for her
accounting fees. This will continue into much of next year.
“I’ve made a lot of bad decisions,” Elizabeth shares with me during our first date. “She’s
dated a lot of frogs,” says a hair stylist that’s known her for years. But, I will love that beautiful
Italianesque for the next four months, show her Seattle while she fights with her business partner
on the phone, and played on the beaches of Southern California while she text-wars with him too. I
will be kept in the clouds of suspicion as to why he speaks to her so condescendingly and why he
orders her to spend more time working and not off playing with me. I will eventually realize that
Elizabeth has a master and he’s willing to manipulate her. He’s an old man in his late sixties and
physically ugly, so what does he have on her I continue to ponder. She is stealing from me my most
basic male instinct and that is to protect her from other people, but she won’t let me protect her. My
frustration is growing and I find it difficult to be proud of her, worse yet, how can I rely on her to
make good decisions about us. The angry phone calls continue and I even wake up at 3am to find
her text-waring in the other room. I drive with her through Chico wondering how many stories she
keeps from me, did she sleep with someone in that house, how about that house. She was homeless
many times and I’m sad about that. How can something so beautiful be used by so many? I feel
like I’m going through their break-up and divorce, which is not fair to me since I’m investing so
much emotion and time into us. It’s like she is cheating on me and I don’t feel safe in this
relationship. She finally tells me that long ago she was homeless and he took her in in exchange for
cleaning his house and cooking, but that it became sexual, of course it did, so now he still controls
her and I must blow this whole thing up and end everything we had together. During the past
handful of years I got lucky dating my best looking girlfriends, but this Elizabeth was the sexiest.

I will be leaving at the beginning of September for what has been the most complex trip I
have planned yet due to Visa requirements and supplemental Visa requirements and total distance
traveled.

Scott’s Circler Earth High Complexity Tour 2018

Departing San Francisco to Beijing and stay at Kerry Hotel where my private driver takes
me to walk on The Great Wall then it’s off to The Forbidden City, which is my real reason to stay
in Beijing at all. An evening subway over to explore Houhai district, which is near the Bell Tower
and Drum Tower and a great walk along the lake finding a restaurant.
Fly to Lhasa, Tibet and get ready for altitude headaches for a day. Not the quaint little
serene village I imaged but rather a loud city. My tour takes me to Drepung Monastery, Sera
Monastery, Jokhang Temple, and finally to the whole reason to be in Tibet; Potala Palace,
definitely my favorite and something so mysterious to me for years.

Potala Palace, Tibet

 Flight to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia and check into Springs Hotel. My guide takes me to
Gandan Tekhchelen and Bogd Khaan Palace. So about now I have seen too many Monks and
Buddha’s.
Flight to Irkutsk, Russia and check into Courtyard Irkutsk City Center, and start exploring
on foot with my map. First stop is “130 Quarter” then Holy Cross Cathedral and the best was
Kazan Church. I just realize that I’m in Siberia.
Flight to Moscow and check into Mercure Moscow Baumanskaya hotel. Quickly taxi over
to Red Square, go inside St. Basil Cathedral, and get a ticket to go inside the Kremlin. I imagine
seeing Stalin up on that wall watching the military parade. A short walk away I do some shopping
on Arbat Street, so worth a look.
My taxi driver to whom I had befriended agreed to take me a couple hours NE of Moscow
to visit Sergiev Posad, which is one of the small towns that make up the Golden Ring. I’m seeing
lots of those Onion Domes that I wanted.
High Speed train from Moscow to St. Petersburg at 225KM with breakfast and a window
view of the countryside and forests through beautiful Russia. Check into Domina Prestige and start
walking. Tour the Hermitage Museum, takes hours and is overwhelming. Boot tour on the Neva
River. My favorite tour was that of Peter and Paul Fortress and learning about the last Czar and his
family buried there. Now I’m fascinated about the Bolshevik’s and Russian history. More walking
and cathedrals; Church of the Savior on Blood and St. Isaac’s and I’m exhausted.
Flight to Tallinn, Estonia and check into Merchant House Hotel. My first Baltic country and
so beautiful. Everyday I’m sharing pictures and stories with Elizabeth. Explore Toompea Hill.
Luxury Bus ride (LuxExpress) for four hours south through forests and countryside along
the Baltic Sea and into Riga, Latvia, check into Neiburgs Hotel, and start walking old town. So
many shops and energy, could be my favorite city so far, rented a bike and just cruised. Learning
about their history and fight for independence was consuming.
Another four hour bus ride on LuxExpress through green farm land and into Vilnius,
Lithuania, check into Congress Avenue hotel, grab an old city map and start walking. My first
direction was up to Vilna Ghetto where the Nazi’s starved or murdered so many, but now it’s a nice
area full of boutique shops and cafes. Took a 2.5 hour walking group tour to learn more. The city is
preparing for the Popes arrival tomorrow.
Flight to Reykjavik, Iceland, my 57th country explored. Took an eight hour group bus tour
into Thingvellir National Park where those pagan Vikings used to meet, saw geysers and waterfalls
and took a long swim I the Secret Lagoon. The natural beauty is the best part of Iceland. Fly home.
My mother has made friends in Chico and everyone she encounters absolutely loves her.
My son has begun piano lessons.
Painted in Chico

Birdie #13, October 16, 2018, I was singing the Grateful Dead song, “They Love Each
Other,” which placed me into a mellow golf mode on the first hole at Diablo Hills.

Painted in Chico
 Birdie #14, December 22, 2018, on the ninth hole at Bidwell Park, which is a par 5.

May of 2019

Scott’s 2019 Inca-Me Tour

Drinking a cold beer in Medellin, Columbia while thinking this is another chaotic large city
without an artist district to find. My hotel is Novotel Medellin El Tesoro. My driver takes me to El
Penol for coffee, then a hike up the third biggest rock; Piedra Del Penol, and onto the highlight is
my private tour through the jungle to the historic village of Guatape.
Landing in Lima, Peru I arrange transport from my hotel to the Barranco district, which is a
small slice of pleasantry in what is otherwise a terrible disgusting city, perhaps one of the worst
I’ve seen. I do get some local Ceviche in me. Flight to Cusco, taxi to Ollantaytambo, ride the
rocking back & forth PeruRail to the wonderful mountain village of Aquas Caliente for a night
stay, where I will eat Llama for dinner with amazing views. My hotel is room 510 at Jaya
Machupicchu. Morning bus ride up to Machupicchu for a walk around. Learn about the Inca’s and
why they scrambled to leave after they learned the Spanish were looking for them.

I will be back in Lima and fly to La Paz, Bolivia.

Bolivia has been a mystery to me for many years and my desired destination is Sucre,
which becomes a great walk around through a historic city. My early morning tour guide picks me
up from my hotel, Samary Boutique, and off we go for several hours into the frontier first reaching
Tarabuco then to our destination village of Candelaria for an afternoon of a step back in time and a
chew on some Coca leaves just after lunch.
I land in Santiago, Chile. The autumn leaves are falling and everyone’s a brunette. Room
402 at Le Reve is perfect. I find my way to Plaza de Armas for an afternoon stroll and quickly feel
that this city and its people are my favorite in South America. In the morning my tour takes me
over to the coastal and historically important towns of Vina del Mar and more impressive was
Valparaiso, an artist’s paradise. Took a morning walk over to Patio Bellauvista area of downtown
Santiago.
Flight over to Mendoza, Argentina for a Malbec wine tasting tour. My rooms name is
Jazmine at Casa Glebinias. I am absolutely the happiest when I’m in motion exploring and seeing
new areas.
Flight back to Chile and up to Calama, Chile to eventually end up in San Pedro de Atacama
for some exploration of this little dirt road Pueblo village. Casa Solcos Boutique B&B was my
place. I do get a Telescope night tour to see the Southern Cross plus Jupiter and its four moons.
I now realize that when the British Empire explored and settled vast areas a couple
centuries ago that I was an absolute positive thing for civilization with its spreading of their
customs and laws as opposed to other countries that could have spread their ways.
I find myself walking through the Casco Viejo district of Panama City drinking Passion
Fruit Mojitos on a sweltering hot night. Panama makes it country number 63 explored by me.

Painted in Chico

Now it’s summer 2019 and what about my mother and my son? My mother changes so little
and has routines that she follows such as her breakfast menu, her walks, her church, and her happy
infectious smile and contentment with her garden and friends. Every morning that she walks out of
her bedroom is a blessing to me and another day that I can honor her. My son, whom I do many
activities with is growing into a good man and is focusing on his career choices, sometimes.
I just had surgery on my right shoulder. I’m sure that the scar will be a wonderful looking
wound that represents the fantastic life I have been having. I will take a large portion of this year
away from work to recover from surgery before returning to my corporate life at years end, and
besides all those new books to read and I will enjoy being under water in the creek behind my
house dogging and panning for gold, oh yes, with a snorkel and dredge I will bask in the sunshine
and fantasize about pulling out that big nugget. When I need a break I bring my mother and son
down to what I call Scott’s Island and BBQ them some lunch.
Twice this summer I have taken mother to see relatives in Oregon but I want my family to
play on a beach for a week so we (Matthew, mother and myself) selected Dominican Republic for
our getaway. Frankly I didn’t know much about that country but with some research I became
fascinated that it was the first European Colony in the Americas.
Punta Cana, Dominican Republic
July 2019
From our all-inclusive suite #1112 at Paradisus Palma Real Golf & Spa, on the beach, we
launch into many excursions. Mother and especially Matthew are so happy at Monkeyland with
little two-pound monkeys jumping on top their heads and feeding them from their hands, myself I
still don’t like monkeys. The catamaran and snorkel tour with a pile of lobsters for our dinner. We
are all loving this paradise.

I look out into the sea and imagine the first Spanish ships to arrive and the wipeout of the
local tribes. Those that learned to work with metals first certainly won. Another all day catamaran
tour to Saona Island where we find the beautiful turquoise color water to swim in while drinking
Pina Coladas.
On July 25, the day we three are on the beach at Saona Island, the judge in faraway San
Diego Probate court will make her order as to Trisha Martin petitioning of reimbursement for
attorney’s fees and accounting fees against my mother. The judge will enter that Ms. Martin spent a
great deal of time re-creating the records when it should have been simple. I say no kidding, how
else to hide the large sum that she stole from mother. Judge said Trisha’s request totaling
$52,806.86 is not reasonable, however she is entitled to something. Judge ordered mother to pay
Trisha $5,500 reimbursement for attorney fees and $9,000 reimbursement for accounting fees.
That’s $14,500 to someone that attempted a 5150 Hold to remove mother from her home, who
stole her money, and who wrongfully got a doctor to write that mother has dementia, same doctor
that retracted that finding in writing the following year. It’s no wonder mother doesn’t want any
contact with her own daughter. I would assume that Ms. Martin is quite upset by this court order.
This in no way exonerates Trisha from the fact that she stole mother’s money but simply that she
provided accounting for the money, although that accounting was fictitiously thick with pages of
erroneous entries which mother did not authorized, the judge didn’t rule on that fact. It should be
mentioned that there was a desperate although unsuccessful subplot that Thief wanted the judge to
order me to pay these fees. I could image the posture of said Thief in court as a victim. Her
anecdote is that someone must be at fault for her misery, preferable it must be the greatest imaged
advisory inside her skull, namely me. Was her pleading face contorted with exhausted anger as the
only possible justice would be to bring me from the atmosphere lying on the ground with her foot
on my throat? “If I could get a judgement against him then my entire life’s stigma that I could have
been better will be imagined and realized by all,” would be her motive. I wasn’t there. I was here
swimming near the beach. I ordered everyone another Pina Colada mixed inside of a hollowed
pineapple and cherished this earth with its offering.
 I took a long bus tour over to Santo Domingo and explored the historical old town where I
learned that in 1502 it became the first colony compliments of Columbus. I was most fascinated to
learn how the Brit, Sir Francis Drake, out-witted the Spanish and captured the village.
 Once again we have successfully played together on a trip; an older woman that is not
walking too well any longer and a young man absorbed in his own imagination. Me, I’m just happy
to keep learning and exploring.

I flew up to Sun Valley, Idaho to visit a few days with my friend Scott McCoubrey, who is
unemployed and well behind on his mortgage, so he tells me, but he has plenty of good weed, the
camping and hiking is nice, I pay for all the dinners, but out of nowhere his wife starts in about
President Trump and Scott also joins in with his misguided criticism, they sound like idiots the
both of them. I ask them to provide any facts about their statements, which they are unable to do.
Hanging around with big mouthed liberals is just a waste of my time. Like a disease I shed him
from my repertoire.

It was eight months ago that I agreed with my son to pay for his piano lessons, a segment of
his life that he talks about regularly, so while writing another check I told him that he had to invite
mother and me over to his house for a recital. He had found a good deal on an old piano and
somehow got it into his bedroom. I was surprised at how well he was playing and with enthusiasm.
Money well spent.

The shoulder surgery I had a couple months back did not relieve any of the pain in my right
arm & hand because it was misdiagnosed as the real problem is now learned to be my C5/C6 in my
neck pushing against my spinal cord. Perhaps another surgery in the near future. Hope so.

I have completed my research on Japan and booked my flight, and because I will already be
in the area, South Korea was a last minute add-on.

September 2019
Seoul, Korea, my hotel is Grand Mercure Ambassador, but now I’m looking for a noodle
house that’s perhaps cleaner than a mechanics’ garage. I am hungry and I need courage. I’m in the
back of a bus with a small group hearing about the Korean War of 1950 through 1953, which is
exactly what I need to start this journey; who bombed who and why. There’s a Buddhist temple in
the center of town and we investigate, then onto Deoksugung Palace before lunch and shopping in
the Insadong district. In the back of the bus going to the top of a big hill with a stop at an
observation point to see Seoul as a whole, we move to another area; Bukchon, full of traditional
houses, then onto the Meongdong area for a stroll around this crazy shopping district, and boom I
have seen many of the best sites.
Flight from Seoul to Osaka, Japan.
 Scott’s A Huge Slice of Nippon Tour

On the train (JR – Japan Rail) from Osaka to Kyoto. As usual I have planned every detail of
my journey so the fact that most everything in Japan runs on time is helpful to an organized person
such as myself.
Kyoto. I come here, as my sixty-sixth country to explore, with a clear head without demons
to remove. Yes, I was raised to dislike and distrust the Japanese because of their history and World
War 2 against the U.S.A., but I have removed myself from that as it was a long time ago. I walk the
streets and find good and respectful people, streets and shops so clean and organized.
From my hotel, the Cross Hotel Kyoto, located in a wonderful district, I explore the area
Higashiyama to see many temples, shrines, and pagodas. In the afternoon I take a guided tour bus
to the ancient capital of Nara, 710AD, and explore the huge Todaiji Buddhist Temple built in
752AD.
I also take a full day guided tour which includes Kiyomizu-dera temple, which however I
had visited on my own just yesterday, and learn more of their superstition such as if I was to walk
under that gate I will get good love or a longer life, blah, blah, blah. My tour group moves along to
Sanjusangendo Temple built in 1266 and houses 1,001 Buddhist statues. Moves along to Fushimi
Inari Shrine, 711AD, and is known for 1,000 Tori (gates). Worth knowing that a temple is for the
Buddhists and a Shire is for Shinto, the other main religion here. Through the heat and humidity we
stop at the Bamboo Forest and Tenryu-ji Temple, with our final stop at Kinkaku-ji Temple, also
known as the Golden Temple.
Leaving Kyoto by train, partially on the Bullet Speed train, bound for the mountains and
traditional village of Tsumago. Train first stops in Nagiso and then a short taxi to my old traditional
house called Kohsinzuka, which is located right on the famous Tsumago-to-Magoma trail, which I
will hike in its entirety that same afternoon, then back for a traditional dinner at 6:30 to include the
house owner signing old songs. By now I’m liking cold Sake. I’ll try the remote mountain resort
nearby called Fukinomori and rest in the hot springs before another traditional dinner wearing my
robe, and I was hiking earlier in the day wearing a required bell to scare off the bears. I’m laughing
with joy at how long I’ve actually been traveling like this, which started for me all the way back
when I was twenty-nine and set of for my first trip to Europe. Tonight I watch Sumo wrestling on
TV.
Train ride up to Takayama, which is a well visited traditional town, and I stay at Oyado
Yamakyu. I walk so much that my legs hurt at night. I think about my age and how long I can keep
this going. Up early to catch a bus to the historical village of Shirakawago, which is stunning with
thatched roof houses anf large yellow rice fields. Once back in Takayama I walked to “Hida No
Sato,” which is a folk village replicating the ancient way of life in this area. I learn in Takayama
that adding slices of white peaches to Caprese is a tasty change.
Bullet train to Tokyo to sleep at Tokyo Stay hotel, and explore the nearby Shinjuku area,
where I believe that nearly every fetish thought of by humans could be satisfied. Robot restaurants.
Time to return home. I’m no longer interested in eating gushy strange things for breakfast
that once squirmed or slithered.
Mother has brought back a section of her youth with pierced ears and a daily change of
dangling artwork from each lobe, as well as a daily coating of red lipstick and also manicures and
pedicures when out with girlfriends.
Birdie #15 on September 14 at The Links at Rolling Hills on hole #17, which felt
particularly wonderful because although I had shoulder surgery it was a misdiagnoses and didn’t
relieve any arm pain because it’s now known the problem is my neck, but I still swung well at that
ball through the pain.
Painted in Chico – The Sagittarius
 Resting back in my leather recliner on a Sunday autumn afternoon with glistening red and
yellow tree leaves of what we call beauty but actually signifies death and hibernation of foliage
while I watch my son and mother nearby. Are either of them hungry? How long before he pops up
announcing her has to meet his sweetie? Is he really going to try hypnosis to solve his dilemma of
being angry at slow people? I never met anyone that can talk so much as him. Mother sure is quiet
and of course content. Until recently she had so much pain in her right leg but now it’s gone. Can
she remember all the visits to her doctor? I can. Dexa Bone Density tests, Mammograms,
Melanoma removal. I am the rock that keeps her upright. I could read one of the two books at my
side. I’m fascinated with The Black Death. The reading is good. Then that thicker book about the
Renaissance. Ye Ha, we people awoken and made things good again. Mother is done reading for
the moment. Her Cataract surgery was so good sometimes she doesn’t use her glasses. Her reading
is contemporary politics or biblical history. My son informs me that he has signed up for Pilipino
Knives & Sticks fighting classes. Is he really taking seventeen units in college I wonder. Mother
goes mobile with her new total-right-hip-replacement. She is pain free. I think I will get up and
cook my family BLT’s.
I walk into my garage, a favorite place as there’s where my toys are waiting for me, and
there’s Espen’s tricycle, not far from a large suitcase holding all those baby clothes I once dressed
her in, and yet another box with her baby books is just resting over there. So many books that I
once read to her in hopes she would like reading and let her imagination unlock hidden places. The
box over them is full of her art kit, which she used to draw pictures. I have packed those items
around all these years. One day, perhaps, she will see them all again.
With certainty I believe that when a heartbeat quits that human will have reached their end
without any greater being or heaven to comfort them, so from this scientific fact I am in love with
each day. I love earth with all its offerings of nature, colors, foods, and history. I am in awe and
fear of my end, oh how it will suck as the world bounces towards eternity without me ever seeing
light again. I laugh and play each day now on earth and unlike so many others I won’t hurt now
waiting for my gifts in an afterlife, which has fooled countless others forever. As I say with my
voice to others; I am happy to be surrounded by law abiding Christians because they typically
create a safe society better than any other group available at this time, though I find them benign
and outdated.

Painted in Chico

Years from now when you, Espen and Matthew, are debating political history I do want you
both to know that I absolutely believe that our current U.S. President, Trump, is the best president
of my lifetime. I agree with seemingly all his policies, and both myself and your grandmother
Margy enjoy listening to his speeches.
 For longer than a decade I have built retail banks, Chase and now BofA, as a Sr. Project
Manager, while working from my home, I have hired and coordinated architects, engineers and
contractors with multi-million dollar budgets for the completion of buildings all designed to
enhance the experience of customers while inside their financial institutions. My career has paid
me handsomely and allowed me time away to travel the world almost unlimitedly; for those are the
only two reasons I still continue this path, however, the idea of doing something different has
entered my brain. I want to complete more accomplishments, Should I write again? I have already
started a new fictional piece entitled The Oosik. Shall I help others organize around-the-world
trips?
Who is my son, the enigma with a touch of anger, the road rage, the loner, it’s someone
else’s fault, ready with a quick story to which I usually doubt the veracity of his explanations,
forgets his grandmother’s Christmas gift, and won’t defend our country if attacked, “I will let
someone else handle that,” but thanks for the school loans. I need a break. Are enough of my
lessons getting inside that head? I don’t know.

Woo Hoo the ‘20s, a New Decade

2020

The conscience realization that I like to ride my bike through the slums coasting past the
homeless man squatting on a sidewalk counting his small handful of dirty coins or the homeless
angry woman without shoes trusting no one are all certainly more essential to a stimulating proper
bike ride than a non-vibrant ride past little castles. Had enough of reality then peddle out for a
gourmet warm lunch.

January: I have booked and paid for my next around the world trip to begin in late May and
last for several weeks, and to include many countries that I have only dreamed about visiting. I will
start in Yangon, Myanmar and visit Shwedagon Pagoda, and also fly up to Bagan to rent
motorcycle and see many temples, and fly to Mandalay to tour the city and see Shwenandaw
Monastery. Then I will fly high into the Himalayas to Bhutan, which is a Kingdom that I want to
see perhaps more than any other country at this time, and visit Punakha and also Tigers Nest, then
onto Darjeeling, India where I have wanted to visit for many years, then onto Manama, Bahrain,
then onto Muscat, Oman with a tour out to Nizwa, then onto Yerevan, Armenia for a night at the
opera and tour to Areni with Khor Virap and Noravank, then a onto Tbilisi, Georgia for a guided
tour of the city, a wine tasting tour to Kakheti, and a tour to Uplistsikhe and Gori-Jvari, then onto
Kiev, Ukraine for a city guided tour, as well as train ride over to Lviv, Ukraine, then go hiking in
Zermatt and eat fondue, and finally over to Lisbon and Porto, Portugal.
Within a couple of weeks after booking this trip, the China Covid-19 virus will spread
internationally, and consequently shutdown all travel, and I will spend the next weeks working on
refunds.

I can function like a high-tech machine working all day until its shut off. I carry a full time
corporate job all while managing the life of my mother. She wakes up to symphony music and all
the freshest fruits with an omelet. I escape to grocery shop and coordinate her outings. I have long
hair, remain in great cardiovascular condition, and I have a world map next to my PC which makes
me the happiest.
How did I get to this whereas I can focus on the things important to tasting happiness? In
great part I removed those from my bubble whom are a disease, such as my father, should he pass-
on then bury him and don’t even bother me with the news, such as my sister and her dramatic need
to suck in the worst of life then share it like a fungus milkshake. I would say the other part of the
trail I follow has been luck in combination with clever planning and absolute clarity on my
priorities. I agreed with my brain that it’s time to become a long distance runner again, something
natural to my muscle memory because I’ve been a runner since thirteen years old, but I am again
pounding out those miles on trails. Why did my brain tell me to start getting back into shape and be
prepared for something? Is there a disaster coming our way? Yes.
March: We are well into this Covid-19 or Coronavirus and the required shelter-in-place
rules. Well, I have already been working from home for many years so this is not a major
adjustment. I was instinctual to stock up early on food and supplies, so as I sit at my home office
looking out the window at our world shutting down I have some feeling of security. I have been a
smart germophobe for so long now that preventing the spread of this virus to myself or onto my
mother has become commonplace. I do look forward to this pandemic being over so that I can once
again be an Earth Explorer.

Painted in Chico
 My doctor drew my blood, an IgG, and I am Coronavirus negative but it would have been
OK to have been positive and had antibodies.
Almost as satisfying as sex, a Birdie in golf, and on May 8th I earned my sixteenth Birdie
on hole 4 at Bidwell.
It’s July and I cannot bear the news; the coverage is still consumed by this hoax of a
political pandemic, masks and social distancing, and it’s so wrong and if there was a better place to
live other than the U.S. I would move there, but I cannot think of such a place, and then came the
worst scum of all to tear down the statues of our American history, a history that I will always be
proud of, and these anti-fascists condemning all that is sacred and white, yes white like me, and I
will always be proud and unapologetic to be a spinoff of something Anglo Saxon white that
adventured out and produced a better life. I feel that all people should see themselves in a similar
manner.
What did I accomplish during this Coronavirus fiasco? I run every day, I still have not eaten
a cookie or chip, and I am half way through completing The Oosik, which of course I had to make
as difficult as possible by creating a trilogy of stories that are intertwined.
I think a lot about my son. He’s an interesting one, sometimes a bit effeminate, especially
when it comes to physical work or sports play; he’s still never won a single tennis point against me,
and I have questioned his honesty as of late, and among all his character wonderfulness’s, I so
enjoy his company.

In August of 2020, I completed writing The Oosik, a story that I needed to create, well any
story would have been fine as I just needed to write, but this one I am proud of the whole endeavor.

On a Wednesday morning I awoke to blackened skies and the source was from many fires
raging throughout California’s mismanaged forests, and I quickly decided that my mother and
myself would not stay around and breath-up the hazards and wait for the ash to stop falling from
the sky, so I evacuated us go drive north to better circumstances, and I planned on being gone at
least one week. We arrived in Oregon, where I hoped to play on the beach a few days, but the
situation was the same if not worse, in fact the headlines were Oregon Scorched as their forests
were burning too. Not until we arrived into Washington State did we see blue sky, and settled into
Seattle where we drove around the neighborhood in which I grew up. In the morning the smoke
made the skies as reported, “worst air in the world,” so we drove east and settled into Coeur
d’Alene, Idaho under clear skies and to my delight I found a state where almost nobody was
wearing their face mask, a Covid-19 prevention measure, and for that evening everything felt back
to normal, and then there was a Trump parade on the main street of this little town and everything
felt so wonderful to me again. The wind had blown the smoke east overnight and so I drove us
further east to Butte, Montana where we enjoyed the historical part of town and learned about the
mining days which made so many wealthy. I love the history of my country, which only deepens
my dislike for liberals who want to do-away with its great past, maybe if all the ignorant misguided
liberals were just dropped into the ocean alongside me all alone in the only rowboat, and I could
paddle away and watch them splash and scream and become fatigued, well, all that would suit me
just fine. We drove south on the 15 and shortly after Pocatello, Idaho we found Lava Hot Springs,
and a true paradise for us to enjoy. Relaxing in the mineral hot springs each evening was a
highlight, as well as visiting the historical Mormon ghost-town called Chesterfield, maybe a half
hours drive from Lava, and there I could imagine the pioneers arriving in their stagecoach’s on the
way west on the Oregon trail, and again I appreciate the hard work and effort from those that
settled this country, and by contrast I despise how weak and feminine and dependent the urban
culture in my country has become today. I was “on the road” with my mother and taking care of
her needs, and by the time I returned home with her the air was breathable again in our little town.

Scott’s Mayan Tour 2020

November: There was a hurricane pounding Central America, then it was over and I landed
in Guatemala City with private tours picking me up at my hotel, Hyatt Centric. It was sunny and
hot every day. First journey to the historical town of Antiqua, another day; an early morning flight
to Flores and onto the Maya Ruin of Tikal, abandoned in 900AD, which will be the best
exploration of my entire trip.
 Another day to the mountain town of Chichicastenango and wonder through their amazing
outdoor market, and finish off with a visit to Lake Atitlan.

Fly to Belize, country 68 explored by me, and rest my head at the beach resort, Caribbean
Beach Cabanas, in Placencia. One day private tour on a boat up Monkey River, and a snorkel trip
off Laughing Bird key. Fly up to Belize City and settle into a new room #7 at The Great House,
and take my private boat ride up the river and walk the ancient Mayan ruin of Lamanai. Due to
flooding from the hurricane, my tour of Xunantunich was canceled, so instead I took a boat trip to
the island Caye Caulker for a walk-around. The day after flying home the region was hit with
another hurricane.

Birdie #17, on a warm autumn morning, November 21, Bidwell Park, hole number 13, a par
four. No matter what, the rest of the day will be fantastic.

2021
I purchased my sons’ flight back to the United States where he is continuing his college,
this time in Seattle, with the plan to enter medical school. He wants to become a Neurologist. I also
bought him a car.

Painted in Chico
 I took mother on a vacation to see her grandson in Seattle, which turned out to be one of my
favorite memories of my son because he was a good man to be around, and we skied Alpental on a
blustery cold day.

I built this armoire for my mother’s eightieth birthday, and to be passed down to Matthew’s
first born child and so on. It took me several weeks of handcrafting each piece and with painted art
onto each side.
 I join the mega large international firm Cushman & Wakefield on their Citibank account
and secured my largest salary to date. The world is still shut down to travel so I just use this time to
make money and dream about future explorations.
Matthew has his job and college courses, he’s all comfortable, except he wants to meet a
girl. I explain that this time he should find someone his equal, someone who is also studying
towards a profession, no more idiots, someone preferably hot who would be a challenge for him.
So he goes onto a phone ap and quickly has a date with an Au pair and tells me that she’s just OK
looking, and truth be told she’s a friggin’ babysitter just out of high school, I mean not even old
enough to drink a beer. With summer approaching I message suggestions to find concerts in which
we can fly to together, I suggest going to Hawaii, I suggest whitewater river rafting, all these things
are super fun, and their things my father never included me into.
June: My three year restraining order against my sister is expiring and after consideration I
have decided, and I hopefully won’t regret this, but not to renew it, and for a plethora or reasons I
intend for that reckless trash heap of a blob of blubber to never knock at my front door again. She
stole money from my mother over a three year timeframe, oh ya like mom would agree pay $3000
for box seats at Del Mar racetrack out of her bank account, and after being caught it tried to have
my mother forcibly removed from her home stating she is a danger to herself and when the sheriff
said no to you then it had an outburst of anger, and two days later you assaulted me.
Matthew is not getting back to me about summer plans. “Son, why are you not calling me
back?’ I ask him. A surge of panic probably overwhelms him as his brain conjures up this shameful
response which I’m about to receive, “I was at the beach and the sunshine made me sick.” What a
sissy. I write this stuff because it’s interesting to me, interesting in the way that some of my friends
complain about their kids behavior and they can be quite miserable about it, not me, I mean I have
a daughter that I don’t really care about any longer as I doubt I would enjoy her company, I
actually think she’s a misguided fool so I won’t waste energy towards that, I prefer to just keep
having fun with my friends and to travel, that’s satisfying and is meaningful, and while my son
continues to pretend to be something he’s not, it’s much a façade he plays, then I will let him swim
in his pool of poor decisions. Don’t care beyond a certain point, gotta live.

Scott’s Summer Tour 2021

I earn a lot of money, stay in five star places if I chose, eat in whatever restaurant peaks my
senses, and I’, old enough to not give a shit about most anything I deem unhealthy or uninteresting:
it’s a great way to live. In August I flew out of San Francisco.
Kiev, Ukraine: My hotel, Senator Maiden, is at Independence Square, perfect location.
There was a big military parade on a nearby street marking their anniversary of independence from
the former Soviet Union. One of the days I took a wonderful guided walking tour of historic Kiev. I
took a flight to western Ukraine. I’m asking myself why do I travel like this as it takes so much
detailed planning, I mean everything must go as planned or big hassles ahead, but I’m a lucky guy
and it keeps working out for me. One day, long away I hope, I will not have the energy for this type
of exploration and I will have to be satisfied to sit bored on a beach.
Lviv, Ukraine: My hotel, IBIS Styles, is right off Rynok Square, which is the wonderful
place to walk around. It’s several blocks big and besides being of historic importance, it’s no cars
and lots of people enjoying the market. I made it a priority to be here and I feel fortunate to have
experienced Lviv. I took a six hour train back to Kiev followed with a flight south.
Yerevan, Armenia: My hotel, IBIS Yerevan Center, another perfect location for
exploration. Got my flip flops on and a latte in hand and I’m ready to walk this historic town.
Outside of a museum I bump into a guy about my age named Hamlet, who is an unofficial tour
guide looking for work, so we agree on a price and he drives me a couple of hours up to Sevan
lake, where I treat us to a seafood lunch on the shoreline, and the whole thing was a great way to
see more of Armenia. I get dropped of back in town and I head over to meet my private guided tour
of downtown, specifically Republic Square, Vernissage Flea Market, Freedom Square, and my
favorite was Cascade Complex and fireworks for another celebration of something independent
form Russians and the Soviet Union. The town really came alive after sunset, it was so festive I
kept walking until I couldn’t any longer. Later that evening back in my hotel I logged onto my
work computer and joined a video conference. They think I am still back in California. The time
zone difference and technology made this trip possible to play and work consecutively.
The requirement for travelers to carry with them not only a covid immunization card but
also a piece of paper showing that you have taken a covid test and are negative within the past 72
hours is a big and profitable business nowadays. Up to this point I had paid several nurses to arrive
at my hotel and swab my nostrils in hopes of receiving my negative result via email in time to enter
my next country, however today, the van parked along the street has a nasty woman sitting inside
and ignoring the long line waiting on her, and when I ask her a question she rudely dismisses me so
I call her a fucking bitch and I decide not to get my test for entry into my next country.
9am tour: My private driver, who spoke absolutely no English, took me several hours south
where I saw Mt. Ararat, ya know, the story about the Ark, and I walked around Khor Virap
monastery. Then onto Areni Cave, also known as Bird Cave, where homo erectus man lived inside
of over one million years ago, and also where homo sapiens dwelled 6,000 years ago. Then onto
my favorite stop, Noravank, which is a 13th century monastery with an amazing mountain
backdrop. I am now close to the border with Iran. Then wine tasting and lunch at Areni Wine
Factory. I liked my driver so much that I bought him lunch and insisted he sit with me at my table.
A good guy, that’s me I’m talking about.
I took a five hour private ride north through the Caucasus Mountains with a driver that
spoke no English but he knew German, so for the first time in maybe ten years I regurgitated that
hideous language and we held good stories together. I reached the border to the Republic of
Georgia and showed the border patrol police my negative covid test, this one I has made back in
the States with a photo shopped date, in short it was a fake document, but one which he glanced at
and opened the door for me to enter Georgia. Actually I had made one for each country just in case
I found myself in exactly that predicament. By the end of this particular journey I will have paid
hundreds of dollars for negative covid tests.
Tbilisi, Georgia: My hotel, Amante Narika, sits on a hillside and my balcony overlooked
the capital city. I took a private city walking tour, made it up the hill to Narikala Fortress, and
learned that most if not all Georgians are raised to be knowledgeable about wine making, which I
found impressive.
I had a private guide take me far away to the Kakheti wine region, the most fascinating
thing I was looking forward to back when I first planned to come here over 1 ½ years ago, because
this is the region where we first starting making wine over 8,000 years ago. I sat on a balcony
overlooking this beautiful area eating food and drinking their amber colored wines. This experience
met my expectations. I liked my driver so much that I took him and his lovely young wife out to
dinner once we arrived back in Tbilisi. I do believe that Georgian cuisine is the best tasting I have
ever experienced. OK, it’s known to be and I agree.
9am full-day small group bus tour: Driven up to Uplistsikhe, which was a 5th century BC
are with many caves that were inhabited by humans. Then onto the historic town of Gori, where my
group entered a family’s hidden backyard and given a wonderful lunch with music and traditional
dances. I sat at table with Jews, Christians, Muslims, a Pilipino woman, a Russian, two Hungarian
guys, a Portuguese guy, a German couple, a Syrian, an Indian guy, and it was a most festive
afternoon. We went to the Stalin museum, because Gori is where that asshole grew up, saw his
childhood house, very tiny, and a train he used to ride in on his way to becoming the second
biggest murderer in the world. Then onto 7th century Jvari monastery and finally to the ancient
capital of Mtskheta with the amazing Svetitskhoveli cathedral. My life is so rich and I feel my glass
of knowledge is pretty full. Caught an early morning flight.
Lisbon, Portugal: Made it to my 3pm Electric Bike Tour where I cruised through old
winding roads and up & down the Alfama district. I almost immediately find this city to be one of
my favorite. My dwelling, Hotel Da Baixa, was perfectly centered in old town. Portugal will be my
#72 country explored.
9am tour: My small travel group heads north for the beach town named Nazare’ which is a
place I have been wanting to see ever since I learned that the world’s tallest waves at over 90 feet
high come here every winter along with the annual surfing contest to set the record. The waves are
tiny this time of year but it’s while I’m gazing into the crystal clear ocean water that I categorize
Portugal as one of my top places to be, and it’s because of the people, the food, the green
agriculture, that I say to myself and my tour guide that I could live here. As my journey will
continue, my love for this country will grow immensely. I think there are four places that life is
just so wonderful: Hawaii, Greek Islands, Swiss Alps, and Portugal.
My tour continues to the historic and picturesque town of Obidos, which was founded by
the Celts 500 BC. Here I do the unusual for me, I bought a large colorful ceramic plate, unusual
because I don’t typically buy “things,” as material items don’t typically gratify me, but this one
was too pretty to not bring home.

Obidos
 It’s now September. I took a three hour train ride to northern Portugal.
Porto, Portugal: My hotel, Portobay Flores room 503, is another perfect find in the heart of
the good stuff. I met my guide for my 3pm Electric Bike Tour, and was blown away at her beauty
and fit body, a young stunner named Karolina, and she was to show me her city. It became
apparent early in our ride together that she was flirting with me, old man me, and later we went out
together for a romantic dinner and late night drinks, which was good for my soul to think that I still
have charm. I prefer the variety pack instead of the idea or set-up to be with just one woman all my
life, well absolutely no way and how boring one mind and body would be, and to think just one
body could satisfy me for many years is absurd and unnatural. I will not see a better looking girl in
Porto than Karolina.
9am tour: My small group tour to two historically significant towns, first Braga and later
Guimaraes, both full of monasteries, castles, and good shop.
8:30am tour: My small group, mostly other Americans, rode up to the Douro Valley region
for a Port wine tour, which was the main reason for me to come up here. I sat on various balconies
sipping Port and loving the views. As much as I love Portugal overall, this Porto area is my favorite
as I think it’s the most fun city to walk around. I would come back here for sure, which is an
unusual thing for me to state. Coming back here or anywhere in Europe is unsure as I believe I’m
finished here as I have more interesting destinations in Asia and the South Pacific to explore.
 Birdie #18… October 2, I took mother with me to Table Mountain and with my new clubs
on the second hole, which is a par 5, I sunk that long awaited and cherished Birdie.
Birdie #19… October 5, and this is how my job does not define me… I need to be down in
San Jose for a business meeting the next morning, so I get to my nice company paid hotel early
enough in the day, go to a nearby golf course, this time Los Lagos, on the 9th hole, which is a Par 5,
another successful event, then I’m at a steak house with a Mai Tai talking with people, all expensed
on a report, so corporate I can be, and loving my life. In the morning I conduct a successful
meeting before returning home. I think I’m good at turning things into a fun event.

My Life as a Rat

Surmising these rodents as the most undesirable, I have tried my best to avoid contact with
them, however this past year one such rat was plaguing my happiness so now I will tell you about
this particular androgynous creature with its nasty tongue and feminine little-bitchy temper.
This particular specimen I write about telephoned me in a panic just under one year ago that
it had to flee from Germany for Seattle right away because it hated Germany and disliked its family
for being stupid by not supporting its continuing education, his words, not mine, and also shared
that its mother, “Can be mean drunk”, that’s the rats words, not mine, I also recall his whispers
coming through my phone about a physical altercation with a loser uncle, well, I had heard enough
and purchased that wounded-infested thing an airplane ticket away from its hole, again.
At that time, I knew this parasite had a long history of striking out with venomous anger
when its own life was collapsing into a perilous poop hole and that it needs to viciously attack
everyone important around it and absolutely no way would it ever take blame for its poor decisions
that had led up to its own peril. Oh yes, this same damaged scoundrel had come to me six years
earlier trying to improve himself up the food chain. This rat’s history of anger towards other people
became paramount to its personality so intensely that I had told it not to come over to my house
again unless it only had happy stories to share with me, for I had heard enough of its road rage
stories and it wanting to punch other people in their face stories.
This same rat, after landing back on U.S. soil where it wanted to be, went skiing with me,
invited its pear-shaped girlfriend to dinner with me, and I bought it a car and continued to pay for
its health insurance. Apparently afterwards and for about six months, I didn’t have anything that it
needed, so I went one different while it sniffed around for a small crumb of life to enhance its
survival on a separate path than mine.
I don’t know if you have felt what it’s like to get an emotional letter from a girlfriend
during a breakup, but girls can write some wicked shit, typically stuff that’s meant to be hurtful,
well this scruffily little character, I’m writing about whom I used to think of as my son of course,
has trouble managing the feminine and stupid side of his emotional imbalance, whereas after six
months of not dealing with his spite, I received a letter from him, now this letter could have been a
wedding announcement, or maybe even an scan showing brain cancer, but regardless it didn’t
qualify as a matter of concern to me any longer, so I didn’t even open it but rather just mailed it
over to his mother to deal with, however, a week later he insisted that I hear from him about how
angry he is at me, so it came to me in an email, now it’s beautiful November and the colorful
leaves have fallen, which the contents of I briefly scanned over had such words as I hate you,
You’re not my dad, You were too critical of me (meaning he can’t follow a path to success), You
come from a lousy family, I’m German not American, resentment and raging anger were the theme
spewing out from this squealing pest. I could only assume that its life has again collapsed, perhaps
lost another job, failed several more classes, had more fights with his latest girlfriend that he
romanced over a dating ap, just don’t know for sure, but what I have resolved is that I get to keep
on not including him into positive things happening with me. Just not worth the hassle. I have tried
and given everything I could in order to get him started and pointed into a productive direction,
now I’m done. I mean the family unit can really be a waste of time, specifically the wrong family
like mine.
So, I have blocked his email and called it quits. Sometimes I must chuckle at what might
have been if he had truly wanted people to be proud of him, which by the way he once told me
wasn’t important, and I’m perplexed at how there’s absolutely nothing he was great at doing, not a
thing truthfully. I remember watching him play soccer in 11th grade and he was a dirty player by
kicking others legs from behind, I remember taking him bowling with my mother, and my mother
outscored him, not once did he ever win a point off me in tennis and I’m talking about when I was
old in my late fifties, and trying to teach him to shoot or dribble a basketball was a comedy, he was
worse than a preteen girl at both, at skiing he has absolutely no style or form and no interest to
improve either, and those things are just sports, as worse are his work ethics, I mean one time I got
him a job as a landscaper and on his first morning a little bug flew into his eye so he came home
and called it quits as a landscaper, then I bought gold dredging equipment so we could share in
panning for gold flakes, and on the first afternoon he got a tummy ache and had to go home. When
I overture him as a twenty-four year old immature metrosexual rat pussy it’s partially because he
will, and did, call his mommy for help in diagnosing this plethora of explanations as to why he
should have thought twice and three times about matching wits against me. Oh, I got his mom
straightened out about who really called her a mean drunk. I have noting but love for Ingrid. I want
the rat to leave my country, a country that gives him lots free money and he has stated that he will
not protect it if it was invaded, as he put it, “I would leave that to others.”
 I recall one of his rants buried into that email: It was his resentment towards me for leaving
his mother just after he was born. Well, it was just a couple of years ago that I explained the
circumstances to him and told him I was sorry for the outcome, to which he told me in return that it
did not bother him. So, it was him that has been living the façade of a lie.
My final sweeping it under the rug and regaining my independence will be at the end of this
year when I won’t be paying for his health insurance any longer and he won’t be the beneficiary of
my life insurance.

A few details that I want to enter in this memoir about my book, The Oosik, which is will
be mentioned below in a page or two… Everything about that book is my creation, the writing, the
poems, the music, even the font (Garamond) was my selection, and to go further with my creation,
I handmade the actual Oosik by taking a bar of steel and bending it just so, then forming clay
around that bar, and also the stains making the various colors, and even all the engravings into that
clay was my artistry. Finally, the various photos throughout the book were my planning, evening
getting my local museum to allow its display in the glass case was my endeavor.

I recently read Grandma June’s memoir and was most charmed by her accounts as a young
girl in Montana with her excitement of getting a new dress and shoes. I would say that some of her
feelings as an older woman were not so striking to me as she had really warped-liberal views
specifically about the U.S. and Japan at the start of WW2 and comments that we baited them into
that war and treated them wrongfully. OK, grandma was misguided, and I’ll take this opportunity
to call out her siblings, those being my aunts & uncle, as they’re forgettable in my life’s endeavors.
There was a time in which I tried to connect, but I believe that today I would not enjoy their
company because we have no relevant commonality, which also includes my cousins from both
sides. Again, most of what I do care about is international cultural exploration, playing sport, and
art, none of which they have demonstrated an equal participation.

I am now sixty years old. I am no longer sure that I want to live to the one-hundred-year
mark.

2022

Two years into this coronavirus pandemic and my thoughts are straight and clear… These
masks are for idiots and I’ve stopped wearing one many months ago. I’m immunized, no way to the
booster as it would never be enough, and many of my close neighbors have tested positive this
week, and I absolutely believe I may be positive today after intentionally hugging those infected
neighbors, as well and I have very little symptoms, my tongue was numb and I had a headache for
an hour, in fact I rode my bike several miles today, and most notably I wanted to “get it” in order
build natural immunities as I am a believer that herd immunity is our best way past this
ridiculousness. I absolutely detest those people who are in love with their masks and their fear and
when they blindly do whatever they’re told to do by a politician, and I blame them for postponing
our recovery.

I am now five years into taking care of my mother full time and I would say that she eats
healthier that probably any other senior in the world. Sometimes I allow myself to imagine what it
will feel like when I don’t get to plan dinners for her any longer and I am sure I will remanence
with satisfaction and wish I could bring to her one more plate of food to the table and hear her say,
“Oh son, that’s too much.”

Painted in Chico

I have completed my book project The Oosik and created the cover. The ebook is available
January 3rd, 2022 through Kindle & Amazon, and the book will be available in stores starting
January 7, 2022.
 The ugly Putin & his Russian military have begun their invasion into neighboring Ukraine,
and as someone that was traveling throughout Ukraine just a few months ago and loved the people
and as someone with a great empathy for people and human freedom I find this invasion absolutely
maddening. I see pictures of churches and streets where I stood in the sun so recently, I see pictures
on television of Independence Square in Kyiv where I waited for my morning latte to be made at a
Kiosk, which are now abandoned and threatened by bomb strikes.

I flew up to Fairbanks, Alaska for my first Author book signing inside the Barnes & Noble
book store. 100% of every customer that approached my display and engaged me in conversation
about my book purchased a copy.

I want so much for my government to bomb Moscow into submission as they have never
for decades been on the good side of history, always on the evil side, and with that bombing, finally
end their evil menace from the world stage, unfortunately we currently have a weak president
(Biden) which will not lead but instead waits and reacts after it is too late to take the momentum. I
say bomb Moscow with the understanding that I would sacrifice everything, even a nuclear war, if
that means preserving freedom for what’s left at the end rather than a dictator from a ruined
economy like Putin & Russia from expanding their influence further with more civilian in a
communist state. With particular I would actually laugh if first Russia lobbed a few of their bombs
specifically and only into Germany, which is a land of green-fools whom used my own country and
our wealth to defend their freedom. There is nothing in Germany that I would feel sorry about if it
went up in a puffy smoky inferno.

Southern Caribbean April 2022

What’s left of the West Indies which my own feet have not touched? This is an area which I
knew so little about, plus my mother is due for a swim in the warm ocean waters. I did ask my
girlfriend Stacy Jo, a Nurse Practitioner, if she wanted to come along but her schedule is booked so
its mother and I on a Caribbean cruise when we first arrived in Barbados where we would explore
for a couple of days before boarding our bid cruise ship. Each day the ship arrived at a new port, a
new country, and with each new morning there was an excursion for mother and me to be
transported for sightseeing with a white sandy beach for play on. In Grenada we toured a spice
factory, a rum factory, and swam. In St. Kitts we took a boat over to Nevis for beach and
swimming, and both drank rum punch, in fact there was rum punch drinking every day.

In Antigua, we docked at St. John and were taken to two wonderful beaches with turquois colored
water. On St. Vincent and the Grenadines we took a guided tour bus up into the hills through
small villages and down to a lovely volcanic black sanded beach for more swimming and a
Catamaran back along the coastline. It was by now a favorite moment of mine to wake up early and
be on the bow with my hot latte in hand to see the port town which we were about to dock at and to
use that space of time for my usual morning stretch and yoga routine. On Dominica we took a
guided tour south to Scott’s Head where I snorkeled before we both were driven high into the lush
green hills to tour and taste at an old chocolate plantation called Bois Cotlette. Our final new island
country was St. Lucia, which was country #79 for me to explore, was filled with a long coastline
Catamaran tour down to see the Pitons, which is a couple of mountains rising high above the ocean.
It was a wonderful journey with mother with forever memories. I am forever glad I took her down
there.
Any thoughts I ever had about retiring in the Southern Caribbean are vanished as I don’t
want to live amongst the all-black communities which are in shambles & poor. I wouldn’t even
want to be one of those Americans who gets a big house up on a hillside overlooking that dense
human squalor that must have been something special back when the Brits or French controlled its
destiny. Is there just one black controlled country in the world where its own government invests
heavily in its own infrastructure, I ask?

I did another author book signing for The Oosik, which this time was up in Anchorage,
Alaska at their Barnes & Noble store.

Stacy Jo has become my favorite person to be around. She perhaps has a crazier sense of
humor than even I can present. She even has three little grandchildren, and yes I do have a favorite
amongst them, he’s little Rhett, he reminds me that life is good, and when I get to play pseudo-
grandpa it’s wonderful times. My world is currently complete with happiness. Stacy Jo and I will
have eleven wonderful months together and then suddenly for no apparent reason we will stop our
routine and go our separate ways for a short time and reunite as friends.

Birdie #20 came together for me on June 3, 2022 at Bidwell Park on a hot afternoon just
after devouring a large bacon cheeseburger at the turn. It was hole 10 and a satisfying second shot
which I place just a yard from the cup.

Stacy & Scott’s Muslim, Big Five, and Wine Tour June 2022
Everything is arranged for twenty days together on the road when we arrived in Muscat,
Oman, which is a conservative Muslim country, and checked into our beachside resort
Intercontinental Muscat, and it’s well over 100 Fahrenheit at midnight, and I love it.
There were lots of fully dressed Muslim beach walkers early in the morning, I remember
Stacy Jo eyeing them through her binoculars from our balcony, anyways we joined them, not sure
why we did this but she wore a bikini bottom while strolling along the sandy beach, definitely we
were probably being gawked at and scorned by many, and we will use that as our funny starting
point to this journey.
 We taxi to the Mutrah Soug for some shopping, which is the oldest market in Oman, and
where I purchased a white Kaftan and hat, and for the remainder of the Oman journey I will wear it
and be frequently complemented for looking more like a local than like a western tourist.
We did a full day private guided tour out into the interior and reached Nizwa by mid-day,
and that’s where we both ate camel and goat meat for lunch. The camel was tasty.

That excursion also included lots of off-roading miles up into the mountains for views. Our
major impression of Oman was how obviously much money the residences must have to build such
large houses.
We flew to Nairobi, Kenya, where we were picked up by our personal safari guide in his
Land Cruiser with a pop up roof designed for standing & viewing wild animals all to ourselves for
the next ten days. We slept that first night near Lake Naivasha at an awesome place called
Enashipai Resort & Spa.
Monday, June 20th, our true safari began with a drive west into Maasai Mara where we
began seeing animals right away, and I will begin classifying them into two separate groups, the
grass eaters and the predators. I will wish for the next nine days to see a Cheetah at 70 mph take-
down a grass eater. For three nights we will sleep inside a luxury tent with hot water shower and be
not just the only guests but also the very first guests at this new camp called Enka Kenya located
inside the Maasai Mara Park. It was absolutely ideal. We had our own staff and our chef preparing
meals just for us. After dark and after drinks sitting by the open fire they would escort us back to
our tent using flashlights because there were lions and hippos somewhere just out in those shrub
bushes waiting hungrily for a meal.
 We would wake at 5:30am and be ready to leave for our morning safari by six, which was
still in the dark but giving us a beautiful sunrise over the plains. We did arrive shortly after the
lions has killed a large hippo and were ripping it apart, we could hear the bones being torn off.
What was amazing was we could be within fifteen feet of this slaughter and feast and the lions had
absolutely no interest in our nearby presence. We were usually within views of giraffes, a leopard,
or an elephant, or some kind of exotic bird, maybe a warthog or an ostrich, I mean it was endless
nature. We treated ourselves to an afternoon visit inside a Maasai Tribe where we were treated to
dance and singing.

Those huts are actually filthy cow-dung built structures housing happy people. By the time we left
Kenya we had seen four of the Big Five animals.
A long morning drive west and south and into Tanzania, where we meet our new guide and
again we got another private Land Cruiser fitted with a pop-up roof. We entered the Serengeti Park
and immediately started seeing more wild animals. We had still not seen a take-down, but I felt
good about our chances because we were in an area known for lots of cats. Maybe it was mostly
me hoping for this take-down and not Stacy Jo as much, for she was busy noting all the various
birds through her binoculars. We stayed two nights at The Hippo Trail camp, which are luxury
tents with amazing views. We drank red wine from our deck and listened to the nearby hippos in
the river. Those hippos came one night just outside our window and made a lot of unsettling noise
while grazing. As I couldn’t get to sleep I started to dislike the hippo.
Friday, June 24th – We saw two of the rare Black Rhinos and thus we had completed seeing
The Big Five.
Olduvai Gorge, The Cradle of Mankind, where it all supposedly began for us Homo
Sapiens living together, which was a special request by myself to add this stop into our tour as I
had been fascinated and written about this area in The Oosik. We actually got permission for our
guide to drive us down into the gorge and take us to where the oldest know human skull was
discovered. We spent that night near the Ngorongoro Crater at Marera Valley Lodge.
Ngorongoro Crater is the largest crater on earth and roughly one million years old and a
wonderful place for our full day game drive. I was sure I’d see the cast take down something,
finally, but that did not happen. We stayed that night at Ngorongoro Coffee Lodge, which was
super upscale and had outdoor showers under the starry night.
Our game drive took us through the jungle on the western shores of Lake Manyara where
we got within ten feet of a large elephant, but no grass feeder take down today. We stayed our final
night of our safari at Lake Manyara Serena, which was again super upscale. We ended our safari
without seeing a major take down.
We landed in Cape Town, South Africa, which is country number 83 for me to explore,
and took our room at Four Rosmead, a wonderful boutique hotel near the base of Table Mountain.
We walked down to the Bo-Kaap neighborhood before it got dark, which is a small section of the
city and now an unsafe colorful housing area where slaves and Muslim where housed in the past.
Our private guided tour drove us south to Cape Point and most notably for me we went to
Cape of Good Hope, which was the furthest south either one of us has ever been.

After our tour ended we made it up the cable car to the top of Table Mountain, which was
great for a short hike and views.
Our first group tour of this adventure happened with two other couples when we drove out
to the famed wine region called Stellenbosch and tasted our way through four wonderful wineries.
On our final day of this amazing trip we walked through the rain, wearing our jackets for
the first time, every other day was pleasant, and explored the historic V&A waterfront district for
some shopping.
 Our trip was perfect and I would not have changed a single thing. How amazing it was to
laugh everyday with Stacy Jo.

Painted in Chico

Summer of 2022 included the usual itinerary with mother up to Oregon but this time Stacy
Jo came along to see those important places in Junction City & Eugene. We also went over for a
couple of nights to Yachats. Perhaps my favorite was the wine tasting in Roseburg.
Stacy has cabernet sauvignon wine grapes growing in her backyard, lots of clusters in fact,
so we bought all the equipment, including an oak barrel, and we have produced our own bottles of
wine. We have enough for twelve bottles and we had our own labels made too, calling it The Loud
Hippopotamus.
Stacy Jo & I went to New Orleans where it was my intention to eat as many unusual and
spicy things as possible, and we did.
It’s now only about a week before I can arrange outside all my Halloween decorations. My
life is great. I do what I want. I think sometimes about how so many people have limitations and
how they try to push those limitations onto others, and how blessed I am to recognize this typical
human feature and not allowing it to happen to me.

Birdie #21 – Throughout my golfing in the Chico area I had heard that a favorite course
among many was Bailey Creek, which is just off Lake Almanor up in the Alpine, so on October
2nd I decided to take the drive up and see what it had to offer, and it was as beautiful as I had
anticipated. It was the fourth hole, a par 3, which I sunk a long twenty-five foot putt.

Much of this discussion about Psilocybin, which is the ingredient in a magic mushroom that
offers the psychedelic trip, was prompted by Stacy Jo’s position as a NP specializing in mental
health and pharmaceutical treatments along with the studies that Psilocybin may be a cure for
many patients with varying disabilities, which in my opinion offers a more fruitful outcome than
pills that only mask the problem and not solve it, anyways this topic has resurfaced as her peers
are becoming aware that this new alternative may become legal soon and they all need to get on
board, and my purpose for this specific entry is that I hope it does become available. I think it
could help a lot of ignorant and angry people, such as my sister & father, become more tolerant. I
specifically mention those two because they both expend a lot of their energy creating a web of
meanness and evil within our common relatives, and I think it would be valuable for them both to
orchestrate a better lifestyle with an outcome of love.

OK, my mother was not a great cook in the kitchen, she used minimal spices, maybe only
salt and pepper, and our meals were just something we had to do to stay alive, there was no fun
and family get together with mouthwatering tastes at our table, so maybe that’s why I usually
make a meal that’s exceptional in taste, and more recently I have brought back exotic spices from
my travels and I really get off on preparing a meal that others savor while at my table. I certainly
won’t use a receipt book because I like to rely on my own senses telling me to be creative and
don’t hold back. I love food.

In late October I got to hear the iconic rock group, The Who, with friends in Sacramento.
That was a big thing for me to see one more influential musical group before they got too old to
keep performing. I plan to see more groups next year with Stacy Jo.

Painted in Chico
 On December 16th, which was my 61st birthday, I was interviewed inside NPR (radio
station) about my book, The Oosik, by Nancy Wiegman for her podcast Nancy’s Bookshelf, to be
aired in January. It was a super fun experience and I believe I presented my book quite
professionally.
After the NSPR interview I was whisked away by Stacy and taken up to Bend, Oregon for a
beautiful fun day of skiing on Mount Bachelor followed by an equally fun day of snow shoeing
through the forest in Swampy Sno-Park.

2023
Mother, I kept you upright for many years while I lived with the fear of you falling. Old
ladies fall and break bones, and now you did, your femur.

January 11, 2023 – My book interview aired. There was one other author on today’s
segment and my time came after hers around the 23 minute mark. Found on this web address:
https://www.mynspr.org/show/nancys-bookshelf
Nancy's Bookshelf: Pam Warfield shares recipes & Scott Nitzel details a special
collector’s item.

I advocate for my mother, almost a full time and exhausting job, as I will not let her be a
“hallway zombie” slouched over in her wheelchair with nothing to do. Lots of rehab, will she
walk again? I built ramps in my home to push her up & down stairs.
 We humans, do we outlive our bodies? This experience with my mother has me convinced
that I will choose my own death before I become a hallway zombie. Before my mind is gone I will
prepare a fun cocktail to go into that deep, deep sleep. My choice is dignity.

Painted in Chico

I have a large unused block of clay inside my garage, and when I saw ancient erotic
sculptures on a television show I knew I had to create something with it. This is my work for
about two or three hours one evening at home in Chico. Afterwards I kilned it inside my fireplace.
 Painted in Chico

I spent a meaningful amount of time analyzing the “Black Issue” in my country combined
with the terrible manner in which they were first brought to the Americas, of course I mean
slavery. Continuing with my thoughts I could look at a map of the world and focus on Africa,
which is such a large continent and within that continent there is not one place that is awesome,
that is a democracy, that does anything wonderful geopolitical.
I am taking a look at whom I want to be our next president and right now Nikki Haley is my
frontrunner, so on February 21, this is the body of a letter which I sent her.
“This idea would redirect the African American Reparations argument to a positive
direction, and at the very minimum it would give credence to the republican view that throwing
money to the black segment in our country is not the best solution.
We as United States citizens should offer & finance blacks in our country with the option of
repatriating to one of seven African countries that are currently democracies, and which may very
likely be within one of the regions that their ancestors with taken into slavery.
What a beautiful bold idea to combat that historical wrong; to be given the option of
returning to your roots, with money, and to help stabilize one of the seven African counties with a
new workforce and democratic values. The seven African countries would need some negotiations
but it could be a win for all, including a winning option for those that just don’t want to be here.
The seven African countries that are currently democracies just happen to be in West Africa
and South Africa, which are regions where this tragedy began. Those specific countries are as
follows; Senegal, Ghana, Benin, and Nigeria in the west and in the south are Botswana, Namibia,
and South Africa.
It would certainly take someone that thinks big and wants to solve an enduring problem to
wrap their thoughts around these possibilities.”
 8 Weeks

For eight continuous weeks I have advocated for my mother while she is in hospital and a
rehab clinic surrounded by nurses and hallway zombies. Each time I entered that facility the
stench of poop nauseates me. Each morning I brought her coffee from home with fresh fruit,
brushed her teeth, made sure they gave her a shower, brought her dirty laundry home to clean,
often took her out to lunch, made sure the TV channel was on her favorite choice, and then I
returned every afternoon to do more for her, which quickly became a routine, the same people, the
same pills, the same smells, that bed is suddenly empty so perhaps that person died overnight,
when will this end? During those eight weeks I have visited her over 100 times and most of
which she won’t remember and generally shows me little appreciation.
At eight weeks she plateaued (a term PT uses for not getting better) with her rehab, so I had
her discharged and brought her back to the comforts of home. For weeks now I have had a
revolving front door with social workers, physical therapists, occupational therapists, nurses,
speech therapists all coming into the house to work with mother and myself. This is a difficult job
and every one of them reassures me, “You’re doing a great job.” Soon I hope to have in-home
care to help.

Mid-March: The goal has been to never let my sister back into my life, hence the restraining
orders. After nearly six years of no contact she telephones me while I am out to dinner
celebrating my mother’s 82nd birthday with her favorite seafood dinner. Her voice mail is the same
demanding bully, “I want to talk with mom.” Has she not learned anything to improve her tact
since having this long separation? What’s the urgency? She will telephone me several more times
tomorrow, leaving messages, before I call her back.
There are consequences to your attempt in having mother removed on a 5150 Hold, which
is well documented in court filings. You actually demanded that my sweet frail mother be placed
into the back seat of a sheriffs car and removed from her home, and the sheriff told me that you
were furious at them for not. This was your rouse to keep mother from holding you accountable
for the large amount of money you stole from her. These things mother has not forgotten. After
you were questioned about the money you misused of mother’s you fled from an appointment
with Adult Protective Services and went on the run with mother only to be tracked down by GPS,
and consequently mother was awarded a TRO against you. Where is your apology?
You used a significant amount of mother’s money for your own entertainment and there are
consequences. I did the forensic accounting and know how much you misused. Your accounting
was a fraudulent list of cash donations and ridiculous gifts that were lies, and after we dismissed
the case against you, your reaction was to sue mother for fees, which you were awarded $14,500.
 Your accounting was a slap in mother’s face; $3,000 for box seats at Del Mar Race Track, so I ask
where is your apology? How do you dare think you can contact mother after taking her money and
then suing her? Think that through and explain how you plan to make that right.
There are consequences to you hitting me and subsequently your arrest, and to you lying to
the police that I was outside your house stalking you, which I proved in court with photos that I
was miles away at a sandwich shop, so where is your apology for that? You have a myriad of
violent acts against me and others over many years, all documented in court filings. When I was
awarded my three year restraining order against you I was relieved that I would never have to deal
with you again.
There are consequences to continually lying to my daughter that I am a bad person, in fact
that has been your whole objective is to destroy relationships, you have no children, what possesses
you to harm my relationships, or those of relatives that tell me you have insisted that they don’t
have contact with me to appease your sense of hatred for me. What could I have done during our
childhood to make you continually try to harm me? There are consequences to falsely claiming to
me that your x-husband raped you just after he found you in bed with another man.
Immediately after mother had a stroke ten years ago, you snuck into her ICU late at night
and wrongfully had her scribble a signature on a document because you wanted POA, which was
already in my name, and then continued to make my life miserable and hid her from me. This is in
part why you cannot be trusted to be alone with her any longer. Where is your apology for that?
So at that moment when my sister answered my return call last weekend I was very clear in
stating that I will never let you back into my life and that I give no shit about what it is that you
want as far as talking with mother, anyways I explained to you that mother would be confused by a
call because she cannot really talk well, so at that point I offered you the most rewarding gift
possible at this time, “The best is that you come up to Chico, alone, get a hotel, and I will set up a
lunch somewhere to be together.” Strangely this offer was met with your resistance. My friend
Stacy heard your messages and she was also alarmed at your aggressiveness. I don’t know why I
was willing to let my guard down with you and offer you such a gift. Maybe it was compassion.
The most important thing is what mother wants, so the next morning I asked her if she
wanted to talk with her daughter. Mother wrinkled her face in displeasure, shook her head and
answered me, “No.” And with that I will not have to receive any more threatening calls as I have
had Trisha’s number blocked. I never gave you my number to begin with. I will not jump to your
attention every time you have a mood swing and decide to use me or mother as a conduit for your
hate.
In hindsight, I just don’t trust your intentions that you want to talk with mother as genuine,
you always have a motive and it’s usually vindictive, most likely to record a conversation and
misconstrue a comment. By example when I offered you the olive branch to see mom in Chico I
was on speaker and a man in the background had to tell you what I had said, so I ended the call.
So understand this… If you show up at my house unannounced then I will have the
Sheriff‘s office remove you.
I will kindly extend this offer to you once more on March 21: If I have one weeks’ notice
that you, and you alone, will be in Chico, I will arrange a luncheon with the three of us where you
can visit mother, that’s if she is interested. You will not be allowed at any moment to be with her
without my presence; no alcohol, no purse, no recording devices or asking her to sign anything,
but only a happy attitude that you’re seeing mother, and if I sniff out that you are gaming the
situation for your advantage then the luncheon will abruptly end. Emails work fine.
March 22, that offer will be revoked if you chose to do something that mother or myself
deem harmful and not in our best interest.
This evening Trisha leaves me a voicemail that she proposes be in Chico with a couple of
dates in April. Somehow blocking her phone number didn’t work.
Stacy asks me, “Why I would try and help her”, which sent me thinking deep for the
evening, and I will conclude that it would be nice to get along.

It’s now a rainy morning in Chico and after spending the usual ninety minutes getting
mother ready with a cleaning, which includes getting her on the toilet, cleaning her butt,
showering her, putting on a brief and dressing her before wheeling her to a warm breakfast. She is
at peace. I am currently trying to teach her how to walk again, for the third time in my life.

Thursday, March 23, at 10:18am I telephone Trisha. I have a warm vision for her arriving in
Chico for a luncheon and all goes nicely for an hour or so, but she answers with an abrupt, “What
do you want?” I wonder to myself why I am trying to do her a favor. I politely tell her that either
of her proposed dates to be in Chico are fine. You can choose either a luncheon or dinner,” when
she interrupts and yells, “This is not a smorgasbord.” I am shocked that she is choosing to argue
and I hang up. She calls right back and I clearly say, “You correspond with me via an email,
don’t telephone me again,” and I hung up. It was a mistake to try and help her. I will now
involve both of mother’s social workers into this matter, both of whom are knowledgeable with
her tactics against mother.

Trisha Martin <trisham555@yahoo.com>

To:Scott Nitzel
Thu, Mar 23 at 12:37 PM
3/23/2023

Scott:
Please email all that you wish to say regarding me wanting to see Mom.

Trisha

Friday, March 24, at 3:15pm, I will respond to her email listing the above mentioned
comments from the past week and conclude with, “You are simply not a nice person, you are
demanding of me to do something that you have proven over time that you would not do yourself
for me, so at this time and until you fix the above mentioned issues the idea of contact is not going
forward. What is it that you believe you have to offer that mother could benefit from?”
Another piece of relevant history is the time long ago when my father and I were both
visiting with my grandpa Clance at his house in Junction City, and Trisha just happened to
telephone my father to fabricate a story that I had hit my grandpa. Little did Trisha know when
she called was that my father was also visiting and was able to catch her in one of her lies.
Unfortunately that example of her behavior has been parlayed into multiple lies that she has
spread to the vast majority of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and whomever she can control, thus today
I don’t have a sound relationship with them because of her hatred for me, that reason and I truly
don’t care enough about them to correct the stories is why they don’t know me. If I found any of
them interesting I would step up and share this story. My uncle Gary had three children. I only
slightly knew the two boys and I am not impressed with them at all. There is a cousin named Jill,
to whom I have thought of as an idiot for a long time, then she wrote a lie into a declaration, on
behalf of my sister, about me that I was, “chocking my mother with a spoon,” while in hospital
after her stroke. Why lie, I don’t even know you well? I have an aunt Jan, Judgement Jan, who has
a daughter that twice robbed a bank, felon somebody, don’t know her either. There is what is left
of the McElravy clan homesteaded in Independence, Oregon, I don’t even bother calling them
anymore, waste of my time. That pretty much sums up The Family compliments of Trisha, but
there is a bright side of this for me; I would rather be golfing on a blustery day than hang out with
any of them for just one day.
I have said this once before many years ago and I will say it again exactly how I said it
those many years ago so that no troll can misinterpret this while sitting on a witness stand, “If
Trisha is ever lying injured in a ditch alongside a roadway - do not call me for help.” And for
further clarity, don’t call me to ID the body or perform a burial ritual as I don’t care any longer.

Back To Now: One of the in home nurses was wrapping up her time with mother and me
when she said of my efforts for mother, “Nobody else could do better.”

Painted in Chico, April 2023

My Birth Chart
with a few
notable traits
 My Birth Chart shows that of the four elements (Fire, Earth, Water, and Air) that I am Fire,
Fire, and Fire, with a few notable traits being, I have had a life of giving a great deal and I still to
give with the expectation that I won’t have to hear your problems or I will get rid of you, I am
self-made meaning I have designed my own world around me that is my comfort zone, balance is
what I care about, I am built to recharge myself, I have to learn to slow down to learn a lesson and
learn the lessons that will follow that one, everything is here to teach me to slow down so that I
don’t miss anything, I have a big bounding generosity, I have had enough of other people in my
life because I want my plans to go as I laid them out, I am not into crowd pleasing, I plan my trips
and pack in with my luggage a time bomb to go off meaning you better see it my way or else, I am
House of self, I am giving, giving, giving to generate for myself to get back, and I should learn
that I don’t need to clean muddy water, which is other people’s problems, as it will eventually
cleanse itself.
I did not own my life for the first few years of it because I was being taught & directed by
others. Unfortunately for me, one of those teachers was my father, and why do I plan my
excursions today with such great detail is because he was not able to do that himself, my example
being that during those hunting trips when I was between 13 to 15 he would often forget important
things like even our sleeping bags so consequently we had to stay up around the fire for warmth,
he would also forget good walking boots, and he would hand me a candy bar at sunrise and
expect that to me enough nutrition to make it for several hours while roaming around the
mountains burning off calories. So today I plan the heck out of things and always, always know
where my next meal will be.

Stacy’s Birthday Tour to The Dead

Bryce Canyon, Utah: Our first hike was of Navajo Trail together with Queen’s Garden Trail
around the many colorful hoodoos. Our second day hike was the 8 miles on the Fairyland Loop
Trail around different rock formations.
Page, Arizona: Our guided tour of Upper Antelope Canyon inside an amazing slot canyon
with vibrant colors. We are still laughing at each other for the frequent need to food that I have
and the lack of interest in food she has – only a salad at a nice restaurant, really?
Phoenix, Arizona: Stacy’s first Dead & Co. (Grateful Dead) concert, which was one of my
favorite of all time. This is their last year of touring and I will miss having this wonderful event to
be a part of.

May 2023: After Trisha emailed me asking to call her, I put mother on the phone – went
well answering Trisha’s many questions about mother – it was a mutually respectful event and
probably therapeutic for Trisha who began crying, so I again invited her to come visit mother here
in Chico.

June 23: Birdie #22, which happened for me at Bidwell Park golfing with Stacy when on
the 9th hole, which is a par 5, I sank a long 40’ putt. This is the second time I made par at that
same hole.

Stacy & Scott’s Sacred Washington

July 2023

We laid out a map of Washington State and each circled our most sacred places to go visit
over a one week vacation. Stacy circled only Bellevue, where she grew up, and nothing more,
that’s because her youth was drinking in some bar or disco dancing, consequently all the other
circles where my sacred spots, which fortunately she was excited to see for herself.
After we shared the houses we grew up in and our schools we were off to Sunrise on Mt.
Rainier where we hiked DeGe Peak and reconnected with nature.
Many times I have jumped off the cliff into the river at La Wis Wis campground near
Packwood, but today it was closed so we found another cliff into the same river a mile away,
super cold mountain water but the same thrills.
Rode the gondola up to the top of Crystal Mountain for lunch and views, and hiked down
through Henskin Lake, which turned out to be several wonderful miles through alpine. It was fun
sharing all my ski stories with Stacy from when I used to live up there.
Parked at the very top of Chinook Pass where it crosses the PCT and made the same hike
south which I have made so many times before to that beautiful little lake surrounded by
mountains.
Hiked the trail alongside Bumping Lake, perhaps one of my most sacred areas, where we
took a wonderful swim.
Drove east all the way to Soap Lake where we lodged for two nights at Soap lake Spa &
Resort, which positioned us to play several hours at the Surf & Slide waterpark in Moses Lake
before going to our very last Dead & Co. concert, which was at The Gorge.
Our final hike of this trip was from the parking lot at Alpental taking the trail up to Snow
Lake, which is maybe my most visited trail, unfortunately this time it was super crowded, but
once we reached the top we were rewarded with a great view.
In all, I find Washington State much more conducive to the outdoor lifestyle which I like
more than where I live now in Northern California.
 Painted in Chico
July 2023 on a large canvas
Unfortunately, this painting will keep with Stacy & not returned.

When I first started dating Stacy 1 ½ years ago I specifically inquired, “Do your children
respect you?” This was super important to me because in the past I have dated mothers of lousy or
angry children, and I won’t stay in that situation ever again. Stacy assured me at that time that she
was respected and not pushed around.
The problem with me being the only creator in a relationship is that I get tired from using
all that energy for two. In the time of Stacy that was a problem, but what really doomed it for me
was the fact that I don’t like her two adult children because they don’t respect her, and
consequently they saw me as in their way to using her up more. It was Stacy’s unwillingness to
stand up for herself or her inability to push back on them that I couldn’t respect or accept. After 1
½ years we are just finished as a couple. It was no longer a good deal for me. Over the next few
days and weeks I realize that I did not learn enough quantifiable new stuff from Stacy, but rather it
was me sharing new ideas to her, such as music, cooking, psychedelics, international travel, and
even planning events for her grandchildren. However, I am proud of myself that I did the best I
could do; I was attentive, respectful, loving and creative. I “got along” with her better than any
other girlfriend and she was fun.
I sum the ending up this way, “She took me to a doorway called, ‘my kids aren’t likable,’
and pushed me right through it,” only thing I just keep walking out of her house.
I will look back on the summer of 2023 and remember all the Pickleball games I played in
and trips for swimming in the river at Butte Creek under the old Honey Run Bridge.

Painted in Chico, September 2023

Early in October 2023 my sister arrives in Chico with the primary pretense of seeing
mother, getting photos with mother to post on social media, and I help promote this by opening
my house to her. I cook dinners, I let her lay around on my couch for hours each evening, I give
her open access to mother, I show her around Chico and offer tips for sightseeing, I take her to
play her first game of pickleball, which was a short-lived disaster as she struggled to hit the ball
and she even fell and hit her head with the racket. She no longer has any resemblance of an
athlete. I took her hiking which was like walking up a hill waiting and waiting for a sloth to catch
up. All in all it was challenging for me as I already knew we just don’t have much in common and
shared time together is a waste and frustrating. She has never traveled, which is a sure sign that I
won’t relate to you. One evening I made it clear to her that I no longer care about “family” and
will not rely on family again as mine has been disappointing. She should share much of the
responsibility for years of sabotaging my relationships with family. I don’t know if she understood
how serious I am about that because she continued to telephone me. I will put an end to that soon,
except I will still help her see mother. I was glad when she left as the scars are too deep for me to
forgive. I will not have a relationship with her.
Friends will ask me why I think she made contact back in March, which at the time she was
ending a relationship with someone she had been living with in the state of Missouri. I believe she
was lonely and thought mother would be an easy target to complain to. Trisha also went to great
details to explain to me that she likely has breast cancer and also cervical cancer and more tests
are being done. Suddenly though in just a couple of weeks these made up issues will disappear
from her conversations. Did the habitual liar try to play me for more sympathy? I took all her
phone calls and treated her respectfully and made many suggestions on how to move forward,
unfortunately she will misconstrue my kindness for wanting to rebuild a relationship. I will not.
Then comes the, “Why don’t you call me?” She has realized that mother cannot offer enough
family warmness due to her mental incapacities so she makes it about her and me, big mistake.
The night I again tell her that I do not want a relationship but that I still support her being around
mother she turns mean and nasty against me. It was like all her hidden anger had to come out and
I’m glad it did. I knew her anger was there and I won’t play with her time bomb ever again. She
said I was delusional about her ever saying negative things about me to the family. Also when I
told her that I still support her being around mother and that’s more than she ever did for me
(hiding mother from me 2013 through 2016, she stated that it was her need to keep mom safe from
me (while stealing her money). So her hidden anger coming out was a good thing as I can march
forward without factoring her in to my decisions. It’s funny to me why I write this shit so that I
don’t have to remember. Trying to insult me is definitely the wrong approach when negotiating
with me, especially if you’re an overweight bulldog that has never traveled. When I walk the
streets I notice people, and if you’re overweight and physically ugly then I most likely won’t like
you.

Scott explores Bhutan and Myanmar 2023 Tour

In October I had finally put everything together to explore those two countries which were
so important to see just before the pandemic arrived over three years ago, so now it was time to
get off my butt and get over there.
Meeting my guide and driver at the Paro, Bhutan airport would be the beginning to a
fantastic week, and I was driven a few hours east to Punakha Valley where I got my first look at
400 year old Punakha Dzong (temple), which would be one of two most important sites in Bhutan
for me. This is country #84 for me to explore. I hiked up to Khamsum Valley Namgyal Chorten
temple and concluded that Bhutan has many similarities to Switzerland in look, both are
mountainous and clean, both are favorites. Throughout Bhutan I was listening to my Buddhist
guide explain Bhutan to me but at the same time my eyes were looking at all the many pretty
slender girls wondering in my view. This was the first time that I realized that these local girls had
everything they wanted here and had no need for following me back to the States for some kind of
improvement. Nope, I was no longer an upgrade. A couple of days later I’m back west in Paro,
which was a pleasant surprise and maybe my favorite town, great antique shopping and the takeoff
point for hiking up to Tiger’s Nest, which is the other most important place for me to see.

Typically it’s a three hour hike for most to reach Tiger’s Nest and it’s a steep hike up all the
way, well my guide and I made it in 1hr. 40min., so if anyone want to beat that.
When my plane landed in Mandalay, Myanmar, it would become country #85 for me. I took
tours of the Royal Mandalay Palace, Mandalay Hill for views, and various other temples, it’s hot
and crowded and filthy and I don’t much care for this place. The next day I take a day trip to the
ancient capital Innwa, which was my favorite so far, the tour did include Sagging with its 900
monasteries and Amarapura with its old wooden bridge as well. Also here I was spending as much
looking at local girls as I was ancient sites, again so slender and attractive.
I am thinking about the benefits of High School sports, like teamwork and competition, and
how they don’t have that structured format in so many developing countries and it shows in their
lousy driving techniques, like my driver today, he is gutless and afraid to pass, probably never
played on any team his whole life. Well, mark that a good one for my country.
It was a four hour taxi ride south from Mandalay to my favorite, Bagan, specifically Old
Bagan, where I drove aimlessly around hundreds of 12th century temples and pagodas on dirt
roads under the hot sun. Ok, I don’t mind the attention of being the only white-guy in the area and
getting lots of looks and smiles and some requests to have their picture taken with me. Why is my
tour guide flirting with me? She tells me during lunch that she’s married. Maybe I am an upgrade
in this country. Anyways, she’s Buddhist like everyone here and she tells me Buddhist beliefs, I
think it’s so much superstition, anyways, I have been to almost every Buddhist country in Asia
 and I have had enough seeing of his statues for one lifetime. It’s scary and worrisome for me to
see young children so devoted, brainwashed and praying on the floor to any religion.
I put together another perfectly planned getaway and every flight and excursion went off
just liked I planned.

Birdie #23 – November 9, 2023 – Hole #12 at Bidwell is a par 3 and has always been my
nemesis as I have never landed on the green. Today I stood at the T Box and reminded myself
how this hole has always been such a disaster, but with my six-iron I placed a wonderful shot near
the pin. It’s nice how good I feel each time I make a Birdie.

Painted in Chico
November 2023

November 30, 2023

Today is my daughters 30th birthday and not a particularly wonderful day for me as I don’t
get to celebrate with her. I recall her informing me many years back to “stay out of my life,” and
my letters returned unopened, as well as her and my sister in cahoots on a secret trip to California
in which I was to be excluded. So I have maintained the posture of “fuck you then” and gone on
ahead to enjoy my life without her.
 My Interests have a Nucleus
It was during one of my recent mountain hikes when I was able to understand why I do
much of whatever it is that I am doing to have fun, which is mostly reading history or reading
about explorers or traveling our planet, and what I can write is that I have a long burning passion to
understand, “How we humans got to where we are today.” There was the beginning with early
humans and their eventual migration and exploration, so with my reading and traveling I use that
knowledge to direct my decisions about humankind today; which groups do I support? Who is
wrong? What outcome do I push for? What kind of world do I want to live in and with that what
people do I want to remove in order to have my utopia, are among the many questions that I seek a
satisfactory answer.
A couple examples of my beliefs based on my research: 1) White Expansion. I am proud
and unapologetic that my white European ancestors were in the birthplace of technology and
exploration, that they advanced themselves with science and medicine and had a curiosity to
explore and trade with others for profit, this in lieu of coming from a primitive village somewhere
in Africa and stuck in time. Slavery was wrong; but that aside I am glad my ancestors conquered
new lands and brought civilization together. I mean, it took white European topographers to map
out Africa as the blacks didn’t bother to map out their own continent, I mean what the hell. 2) I like
Israel and I like Jews, who are under constant attack from Arabs/Palestinians. I saw Jews in Israel
as clever and attractive, and I saw the Palestinians as terrorists and I don’t mind them being blown
up if it makes for a safer world. I see Palestinians as animals, not our equal, and until they begin
worshiping humans and life then my opinion won’t change.
I am predicting that my future utopia, later into my senior years, will be the serenity of a
habitable hut near a beach in some tropical land surrounded with lots of fish for me to catch. I will
walk a dirt path through the mangrove to access a little town when I want to be around friends. I
could not live this way now because I am in fear, even a panic, of spending even one night without
a comfortable bed and insulated from external noises.

Mother in December 2023

Not well. She is mentally & physically limited to the depths of nearly helpless. She goes the
whole day saying but just a few words. She has lost much of her ability to use the right arm and
right leg, she is barely walking and without assistance she wouldn’t make it a step forward. It takes
all my strength and newly discovered patients to keep her comfortable each day. My original
objective seven years ago when taking her away from my sister to under my care was to restore
mother’s dignity, which is still intact today, but much of the beauty that life has to offer oneself is
passing her by as she is usually confined to what great movie I can find for her to watch on
television only interrupted for one of the gourmet meals I prepare for us. When I refer to mother
without dignity back when Trisha was handling the affairs, I exactly describe her condition as set
forth by Trisha; stuck alone in Lakeside (the worst shit hole of all San Diego) stuck in a trailer with
no AC, stranded with no car, no TV, no music, and left to warm up whatever leftovers Trisha had
supplied her to warm up inside the microwave. It was deplorable, and on top of that, there’s all the
money that Trisha was misusing for herself. It was at this critical juncture that I asked myself why
mother was living like this when I knew she had money to live better, and that’s when I begin
probing into her financials and ended up with a comprehensive accounting, to which I was left
concluding that Trisha was stealing her money.
Thing is, Trisha doesn’t have the constitution nor the stamina to care for mother on a
fulltime basis. The memory that I have of my mother’s situation back them makes me sick with a
dose of anger towards my sister.

Two weeks ‘til Christmas

I am in a small vortex of uncertainty as it will be Christmas in a couple of weeks and my
sister has been asking me if I will host her up for two nights. I hosted her on Thanksgiving and I
was hoping that would be enough for some time, meaning a few months, she’s not getting that. I
have settled on offering her just Christmas day with a meal, but then some of those things about the
past arise and I just can’t make that offer. Today it’s the fictional story back a few years when she
was saying that she was so in fear of me that she had to be escorted under protection while leaving
work – Truth, I couldn’t have cared less about where she worked or interfering with that, so just the
fact that she spread such a malicious lie about me is the issue today that’s keeping me from happily
allowing her inside my house. Yesterday it was the time she telephoned me seven years ago and
lied about her then husband, “Chris raped me!” Anyways, I will have to make a final decision
eventually.

When people have tricked a government for an innocent good cause…. During my readings
about ancient explorers there is a theme that brings me to bursts of laughter, and that’s when
someone has dramatically altered their appearance in order to sneak into a village unnoticed. There
was the young French guy, Caille, who dressed as a Muslim and learned their language well
enough to enter ancient Timbuktu and reside. To be discovered could have resulted in death.
There’s the Swedish guy, Hedin, who wanted to enter the Forbidden City of Lhasa, Tibet, so badly
that he disguised himself as a Mongol and painted his face dark.

I did let my sister into my house for a few hours on Christmas. Afterwards, after she was
driving south, I thought to myself about her, “She is a klutz.” She managed to hurt her finger while
damaging a nice piece of my furniture. She thought nothing of my imported woodwork but
anguished plenty over her knuckle. I remember her motif, that she has not had nice imports in her
procession, and still today doesn’t get the concept that personal items can be important to others.
As I look across the room at my sister sitting on my couch, who has never apologized for any of
her evil deeds towards my mother or myself, one thing is always clear to me; and that’s if she
could, without being caught, she’d stab me dead, take my possessions and grab control over
mother’s affairs once again, all that she would do in an instant of rage, which is why there is
nothing beneficial for me to have her inside my house. It’s not fun. I should rest easy, because in
the act of stabbing me she would probably fall down and severely hurt herself and thus hinder her
escape, and after two days of caring for mother, she would return mom at my front door. I recall
shortly before I left on my trip to Bhutan, I asked Trisha if she wanted to live in my house and care
for mother while I was away. “No, I want to get a job,” she answered. I am now glad she turned
down two weeks with mother, for my house would have been a wreck and mother would have been
a disaster.

In wrapping up this year 2023, I am working on or trying to understand “going slower,” and
what I mean is that my typical pace is fast with each movement planned for maximum efficiency,
which may be blinding me to miss some beautiful things in life, however, I don’t know how I will
get all those tasks and chores competed without performing at my normal pace. If I leave things
unfinished then I am uncomfortable. Humm, what to do? I have been contemplating converting to
Judaism. Think of it, “Scott the Jew.” I just like the Jews over in Israel so much that I want to be a
part of a tribe. I am already circumcised, got that out of the way just after birth, I could learn some
Hebrew and qualify to live in Jerusalem. I believe I would like all the excitement of the uprisings
and I would already be on the winning side.

2024

I pause at mother’s bedroom door and remind myself, “Her brain is gone and it doesn’t
work any longer,” then turning the door knob I inhale a deep breath, “What will I find this
morning?” I ask myself.
On the mornings that I find her still resting, I myself find calmness, but on the mornings
which she has crawled half out of bed and she seems disturbed, well, that is a rough way to start the
day. So many of her motor skills have vanished leaving me to work harder than the week before. I
am tired with several sore ligaments. How many more ways will she find to make herself less
functioning? It’s been a full year today since she broke her femur and hasn’t walked independently,
which she will never do again, but I have managed to keep her home and not a Hallway Zombie, so
far.

There is nothing in it for me!!! What I specifically mean is, there’s nothing in it for me to
have Trisha around. So I emailed her the following on January 2nd:
I have my hands full. I am busy. In the evenings I just want to relax and not be bothered with extra
arrangements, so I don’t want to look down at my phone and see I am getting random or
unexpected calls from you. I can offer that you call on a set schedule so that I don’t have to make
adjustments to accommodate. I am not your personal phone operator to coordinate calls whenever
you get the urge to reach out. Call once every two weeks on a set day and time, such as every other
Monday at 6pm for example, and I can make sure to be available to place the phone where mom
can hear you. Say whatever you need to say and then hang up. When it’s just you asking, “Mom,
are you there?” over and over then please just hang up.
It was okay for me a few months ago to help you plan where to live and discuss the pros and cons
of your viable options, however, I was clear with you then and after that I don’t care about family
and relatives, I have greatly enjoyed not having any of you around for years, and that is what I still
will have, my house, my life, my rules, so it would be in your best interest to not try and bring
yourself into the fold of whatever I am doing or be wherever I am. Though I had wished for better,
the bad and violent history between us will not be forgotten or ignored. I was a good host to you
three times last autumn and you wanted the holidays, so I gave you the holidays, though I was
reluctant, and that will have to do it for quite some time. Two additional things that come to mind
that I want to put in writing are, don’t come to my house uninvited and don’t get it in your mind
that you should take mom on a trip as that won’t happen because she can barely get around as it is,
I must look out for her safety, and I would be the one having to deal with her ailments, not you.
And another thing, don’t leave me a message and at the end ask me to text you that you go it.
Looking forward to not getting some snarky response, as I restrained from not saying many of the
things that I would prefer to say, but rather just a text stating the schedule in which you want to
call mom.

For the first time I feel like I have a grasp on understanding “humankind,” specifically
where we came from historically, which satisfies me greatly. Now, things just make sense to me. I
feel like the rest of anything I learn will simply be filling in some blanks, but no longer is there a
large mysterious cloud of confusion. I feel like I can tell you why.

Irrelevant of politics I am a supporter of a person’s right to have an abortion. However, this

issue is huge in politics, it being one of the most fought after issues within my country, and being a
republican, they mostly disagree with me on this subject. The other party, the Democrats, is
winning votes because they support the rights to abortion much more than my party. I want to be
on record as saying that as long as Republicans continue to strongly oppose abortion rights that
they might keep struggling. The only issue that I agree with Democrats on is this one, and if
Republicans can change their tune on it then there is nothing left for Demos to boast over.
 Of particular interest to me this mid-January is my research of the indigenous people
(Indians) already living in North America when the white European’s were immigrating here and
their westward expansion, and the collision of the two groups, simply put, and what would be my
argument? In my current social paradigm of 2024, white guys are getting a back look, they “did
that” to the natives Indians, how terrible. My argument is rational, “What were they (white settlers)
supposed to do? White Christians wanted homesteads with farming, the Indian wondered for food.
The whites considered education, the Indians didn’t. The list of differences goes on and on. The
Indians didn’t value permanent housing, didn’t value jobs, nor have a monetary system, in fact
some of their Chiefs rebuked all three of those. So white guys won enough wars against them and
forced changes, yes, too many changes, didn’t need to outlaw their customs, but that’s what
Christians have often done throughout history. So white-guy forces them to attend schools and
dress like westerners. I am all for societies not remaining stagnant. So today many Tribes have
gambling casinos, which I feel is a sad rebound or rebirth of these once great people, as I wish I
could visit them in their historical surroundings and witness their customs, but this casino thing is
bizarre to me. Some tribal leaders now argue that the casinos bring in wealth, which allows their
members to have housing, jobs, and money. The same three things their ancestors fought against.
In wrapping this up… I would have enjoyed an Indian vacation whereas I did peyote, did their
dances, ate their dried smoked meats, hunted game with a bow & arrow, and listened to their
stories. I would pay a lot for such an education.

I did a glassblowing class

Painted in Chico
 “I would like to volunteer as a head coach,” was the voicemail I left with Chico Youth
Soccer League. I was called back within a minute, and it turned out that one team was without a
coach. It was a week before the season’s first game. How old are the players on my team? I asked.
“They are eight years old.” And so it began with my eleven kids on a team named Condors. I
scheduled a practice to see what I had for talent. Half my team had played a little and the other half
would literally jump away from the ball, frightened of getting hurt. I decided to turn them into a
loud, aggressive and rowdy team, suits my character, with well-structured but intense practices.
They bonded, and won the first game. By the second week I was preaching defense, which for me
as a longtime midfielder wasn’t natural, and they won the second game. During the pre-game of
week three they were so out of control body-slamming each other that my goalie had sore ribs and
another player had a bloody knee, and by my design their energy transferred onto the field and they
won. In fact we got so far ahead that the ref asked me to pull a player. The highlight for me, so far,
has been hearing them scream in joy “We Won” at the conclusion of each win. This Saturday we
are playing a team that has scored more goals than we have.

February: Mother has quit walking, or even standing, not even a little bit, thus I had to get a
Hoyer-Lift just to move her around the house. If it wasn’t for my daytime hobbies and having a
genuine love for her I believe that I would lose my mind over my predicament.
 I got to add another Birdie ball to my collection. On February 21, hole number 2 at Bidwell
Park, which is a par three, I putted in Birdie #24 while wearing snow boots on a muddy coarse.
I am not aware of a better marker for tracking my accomplishments than scoring the grand
total of each accolade, which is obviously what I do to measure myself. I have those twenty four
Birdies, each symbolizes my favorite twenty four moments in golf. I have painted seventy times on
canvas, each having a personal meaning to me and proudly hanging on my walls, except one. There
are the eighty five countries that I have explored, which have all helped me make sense of the
purpose of civilization. Then there are the over one hundred and sixty women, I lost track after
160, that I have shared an intimate bond with, either for years or a passionate passing in the night,
which as a cumulative total represents to me good fortune and luck, which very few others could
obtain.

The fourth soccer game, against that super offense, went as I had envisioned, we scored
quickly and won 5 - 2. At the end of the afternoon we were the only team in our division that had
won every game. The season is half over. Certainly this experience has been my highlight of the
winter. Why is it that the mother’s whom screw-up, handicap, or place their own limits onto their
kids have created my worst and least contributing players? I have two such mother’s, it’s sad, one
walks her son to practice holding his hand while his teammates are kicking the ball and trying to
climb the pecking order, and my other worst player has two large lesbian mothers, and their son
actually did a ballet pirouette while playing goalie, and is a waste of space on the field as he is
afraid of getting hurt so he will literally jump out of the way to allow the other team to pass by him.
His mother’s believe he should be in more often and I predict they will complain to the league.

The Condors, just before playing an inferior team, made a team goal to win 6 to 2, and at
halftime I pulled a player and went with only six on the field, and we won 5 to 2, so we feel good
about this victory on a cold morning.

Game 6 was to be the big one, us against the second best team. I had suggested to all the
parents throughout the week to feed their son a proper breakfast so that they would be the team
with the most energy during the second half. That paid off. It was 0 to 0 at halftime. We scored first
and won the game 3 to 1, leaving us with a perfect 6 and 0 thus far. We have still never trailed in
any game. This whole thing is quite satisfying to me.
 The weather turned hot for our seventh game, which was against the last place team and the
confidence of my team was high during practice. I game them the choice to dominate the other
team in a beat-down or we could switch positions for a fun change. They voted for the beat-down.
The heat sapped my players of energy and we started slow, actually 0 – 0 at half, then two
of my players scored their first goals of the season and we were off to our 5-1 victory taking us to
perfect 7-0. Just one game left. I will miss those little guys. I’m a bit envious that they have their
whole long life in front of them and I’m now so old. The field where we practice is the same as our
games and I will miss what has become a sacred ground, a special spot, for me to enjoy. We only
know victory. My mother watched this game as it was also her 83rd birthday.
Our seasons final game was against the same team which we had beaten 2-0 in week one,
but they are in third place, so no push around. For the first time we fell behind and then again they
scored on a penalty kick. We were down 0-2 at the half. We rallied hard and scored twice. A tie
was now on our record. No of us were too disappointed. We finished the division in first place and
the boys had learned many good lessons along the way. I had done my job well. Afterwards I was
given a bid card and a gift certificate, then I gave out custom made medallions to each player.
I now need a new project.