Song of Life and Death

Sing me a Song of Life and Death

Make it a ballad—not a dirge

Don’t let Jagger or Tyler

Write the lyrics

Or compose—or sing it!

No!  I want a collaboration—

Hank Williams, the Eagles, and Dylan

Should be perfect for MY song.

For Life and Death are not two

It takes outrageous courage

To face these identical twins.

Sing my Song with words I can hear—

Verse one on Hank’s acoustic

Lonesome train whistle for backup

Second verse, full electrics

Eagles’ “Hotel California” flavor

Dylan gets verse three—for clarity.

ROBBIN’S REST

You were only three                        

or four at most

At bedtime tucking

you in I’d lie down

Every night the same

“Dad, tell me again

about how they nailed

Jesus on the cross.”

 

You never asked why

Just wanted to

hear me tell the story.

How your young mind

took it in was beyond

my understanding then

And continues to

mystify me today.

 

Fast forward to twenty

The demons kept coming

And I couldn’t stop them

(God knows I tried).

Life’s lessons came hard

for both of us

Yet never did you

ask: “Why me?”

 

Now at fifty-one

I try to tell your story

It makes no more sense

Now than then.

But it is yours

You lived it demons and all

And finally, finally,

You can rest.

Celebration of Completion of Life of Robbin Roy Hamilton

The week began with the shock of learning of our son Robb’s death on Sunday morning, having to call our daughter Leslea who was in California on a driving vacation trip with her husband Jim, making arrangements with a cremation service to pick up his body from the Riverside County Coroner, notifying friends and family members, and trying to plan a simple but appropriate sendoff for Robb.  We held a “Starbucks coffee and doughnuts” memorial on Wednesday with a dozen of Robb’s housemates at M2J House, the group boarding home where he lived for the past three years.  It was touching to hear how many lives Robb touched and how many of his friends spoke of how much they would miss him.  Robb was one of Starbucks’ best customers due to the weekly gift cards we had been delivering to him for several years.  When we went to pick up the urns of coffee, the store manager and assistant manager came over to tell us how sorry they were for our loss and that they would miss Robb sitting at his regular table.  Friday night we invited a few of our “gang” over for a Happy Hour and pizza celebration and a sharing of stories about Robb.  I made an 8 minute video slide show which I am attempting send a link to in this E-mail.  I am also posting and linking to it on my Facebook and Google Plus accounts.  I hope John Lennon and Simon and Garfunkel will forgive me for including them as background (not to mention Facebook and Google).  Robb is being cremated and Linda and I will be taking a bit of him up to Oak Glen, at Los Rios nature trail where we plan to have our remains scattered.  Then he will go back to Minneapolis, where he spent his pre-teen years, to be at with his mother and Uncle Jack, who struggled with schizophrenia as did Robb until his death.  Some have asked about a memorial for Robb and we have suggested that any donations should be sent to the National Association for the Mentally Ill (NAMI), an advocacy organization for mentally ill people and their families.  Linda and I thank all of you who have sent E-mails and Facebook responses and wish you all a safe journey through life.  We are glad that we could share these years with Robb and now release him to the mystery that contains all life and death.  Grace, Peace and Love, Milan and Linda

(If you can’t access the link below by clicking on it, try copy and paste into your browser)

https://www.dropbox.com/s/ma902gnzvcd2xpo/Journey%20of%20Robb.flv?dl=0

Celebration of Son Robb’s Life

Linda and I and Leslea and Jim want to thank you so much for all the kind and thoughtful responses and wishes in response to our son Robb’s February 15 death.  We celebrated Robb’s life the week following with a morning coffee and doughnuts appreciation with Robb’s housemates and friends in Riverside, then a Friday afternoon gathering with our Redlands “gang” to tell stories about Robb and watch a short video of his life journey.  Last Sunday Linda and I scattered some of his remains at Oak Glen, which was the last “outing” we took Robb on and he made the comment “I really like it here.  I should get out in nature more.”  The rest of his remains have been sent to his sister Leslea in Minneapolis where she and her husband and Nephew Tony Wilson will take them to be interred near where his mother and Uncle Jack are buried.  Thanks to everyone who sent cards and E-mails and to those of you who sent a donation in Robb’s memory to the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill (NAMI).  Most sincere appreciation.  Milan and Linda

End of Our Son Robb’s Journey on February 15

Our son Rob did not wake up yesterday morning.  When he did not show up for breakfast, which he seldom missed, his house manager found him in his room.  He had died sometime in the early morning hours, February 16.  Rob was a courageous fighter with the demons of schizophrenia for 35 years.  He is 51 years old.  Monday he spent all day with his dad (me) getting a new social security card and a California ID, and at the end of the day said “Dad, thanks for spending the whole day with me to get those things done.  I really enjoyed it.”  On Wednesday when Linda and I took him to get his every other week injection and dropped him off he remarked again how much he enjoyed it.  He spent the last few days surrounded by his M2J friends and housemates (15 of them), all with some degree of mental illness.  It has not always been easy for the rest of his family to deal with his particular version of mental illness, but especially in the last few years it has been a delight and privilege to spend time with him and be his parents.  His sister Leslea and husband Jim are in Redlands this week, just happened to be on a vacation trip.  So we will have a small family and friends celebration of Rob’s life before they return.  Rob will be cremated and the family will be disposing of his ashes after a little consultation.  Rob, it has been an honor to be your Dad and we are going to miss you greatly.  Rest now in the peace that passes understanding.

Hamiltons 2014 Happenings

The year was one for us of ups and downs with a sense of a quiet steady underflow, kicked off with our tradition of three foreign films per day with friends the Butchers at the Palm Springs International Film Festival.

The first quarter of 2014 was taken up largely with assisting Milan’s Mom to prepare for her final life transition.  Visits by daughter and son-in-law Leslea and Jim Sullivan and cousin Jan O’Grady and phone calls from other relatives and friends filled her last few months with happy memories, and the April memorial service at her church, followed by burying her with her colorful beads showered over her casket, made for a most appropriate celebration of Opal’s life.

Leslie Temanson’s two-month “furlough” from Thailand is always a trip.  This year our gang got to help celebrate his niece Rebecca’s marriage to Moshe. No sooner had he returned to the elephant camp where he now lives, we learned that he began building a house nearby, and has bought an elephant, name of Loong T.

We capped off the first half of the year with our annual celebration of our anniversary (38^th) and Linda’s (?) birthday at Hotel California in Palm Springs.

The summer found us hosting granddaughters Sami and Kayla from Iowa.  Highlights for us were Sami’s American Girl tea party and creating a “fairy garden” with furniture built by Grandpa Milan, and several author book-signings with blogger Kayla, who we found was known to many of the authors because of her reviews of their books.  A special day trip to Los Angeles allowed us to visit the Museum of the Holocaust for the first time.

Celebrations included Frank Knutson’s 80^th, Thanksgiving in the mountains with our gang and a surprise birthday for Frank’s son Kyle, our usual Christmas Eve at our house playing charades and “Balderdash,” and New Year’s Eve at Tomi Olson’s, watching the Times Square ball drop at 9 p.m. and in bed by 10.

Other activities during the year included trips to Portland to enjoy our fun granddaughters Katy and Grace (and their parents), Linda’s Tai Chi teaching, regular Tuesday night meditation group, Milan’s weekly memoir writing class and blog postings, Linda’s volunteer facilitation with Corazon, a terrific organization working with poor families in Tijuana (Milan even helped out with their Christmas party attended by 450 people).  Milan was especially gratified that he helped elect a Democrat to Congress from our district (first in history he thinks).  He also was elected to the board of directors of our Braemar Cooperative Apartments, which Linda was appointed to chair the newly formed landscaping committee.  And we were especially happy to welcome friend Maxine Nacsin, who finally moved into her Braemar apartment.

Finally, we share some favorites:Movies-“Pride,” an inspiring 1984 story of gays and lesbians of London supporting a community of striking coal miners; “The Imitation Game,” and “Ida.”TV mini-series: “Grand Hotel,” “The Roosevelts.”TV shows:  “Madame Secretary,” Bluebloods,” “Major Crimes.”Books:  Linda is reading prequels to “Dune” and Milan is catching up by reading “Dune.”

My Uncle Wayne Died . . .

. . .this year, 2014, in the Spring, just a couple of months after we had buried my mother.  He was only 80 years old.  We found out when we received an E-mail from his wife, Betty after she got one of my blog postings and realized we didn’t know.  Linda and I had stopped to have lunch with the two of them in Ankeny, Iowa when we were on our summer trip to the midwest last year.  According to Betty’s message it all came suddenly.  He went to the hospital and did not return home.  In just two weeks he was gone.  Betty communicated her grief and also her struggle with Wayne’s last request that there be no memorial or special funeral commemoration for him.  “We are trying to honor his request,” she added at the end of her message.

Well, I am sorry, Uncle Wayne, but I made no such promise.  I remember many of our times when we were both growing up.  Don’t forget–I was only three years behind you.  You may not remember the times your mother made you take me along with you and your friends on my summer stays at your house in Charles City, Iowa.  The many nights we put up the old metal bed frame in the back yard and slept under the stars.  The night-time trips to the outhouse with a flashlight.  Sneaking your Dad’s old black 1938 (?) Willys out of the garage, pushing it down the alley so your Mom wouldn’t hear us cranking the engine to take it around the neighborhood for a spin.

Then when I was in junior high and living in Charles City with Grandpa and Grandma Williams, you let me tag along with you and your buddies, just like I was one of you.  Sitting beneath the old railroad trestle that was just a couple of blocks from your house, feeling the shaking and the steam from the old engine spraying over us as the freight train rolled across it.  The summer when you let me be part of the “pit crew” for a couple of stock car races at the track just outside of town.  And the thrill of the one race our driver actually won!  It was a dirt track and we came home covered with it.  As you got closer to graduation and discovered girls, you even shared with me some of the ups and downs of that learning experience.

When I moved back to Minneapolis for my high school years, you graduated and came to stay with us for the summer.  I remember you were so grateful when my Dad took you to Juster Bros. to buy a suit.  And he even got you a summer job at J.Olson machine shop where he worked.  I think it was soon after that summer you enlisted in the Air Force, married Betty, and started a family.  I know my mother kept in touch with your family through the years, but I was off on my own life and only kept up through her.

I remember that you came for my Dad’s funeral and burial in 1976.  You were working for the phone company at the time, I believe, your career after the Air Force years.  I remember a few years ago when Linda and I and Mom were on another midwest trip, you and Betty invited us to stop for lunch and you shared your sorrow about having lost your connection to your grandchild.  And then losing son Michael, so young, added to the burden you and Betty carried.

I was grateful to reconnect during Mom’s last days.  The messages you sent expressing your appreciation for how she was so kind to your mother and how she brightened your lives with her Christmas goodies and craft items was especially heartwarming.  The last phone call you had with her just days before she died meant a lot to her and us.  It was special that son Scott was there to be in on the call.

I could go on but I know it would make you uncomfortable.  But I wanted you and your family to know that you are remembered.  You were at various stages of life my hero, my mentor, my tor-mentor, and my friend.  And you were and are and will always be MY UNCLE WAYNE!

Transport in Surat Thani

Surat thani is a small city of 200,000 in southern Thailand where Linda and I and Frank and Sally spent two weeks teaching English. Geographically, the city seems to be spread out more like Los Angeles. There is no real town center or “downtown.” In order for us to get to Nii Kom, the school where Linda and I were assigned, we had to take “public transportation.” This consisted of hailing a “Tuk Tuk,” so named for the sound their little engines make as they weave in and out of traffic on their way to deliver kids to school (there are no school buses), people to work, and everyone else who doesn’t own a motorbike to their destinations. These tiny pickup trucks have room for about eight bodies seated facing one another. They are driven by men or women who are free to charge whatever they can get, within reason, usually between 15 and 40 bhat (50 cents to $1.15) for a one-way trip. They drive no established routes and speak little or no English. Tuk Tuk drivers are free-lance taxi drivers. There are few auto taxis in Surat, unlike Bangkok.

So the first leg of our trip was grabbing one of these little blue tuk tuks, being sure to settle on the price before getting aboard, down to the bus station, where we caught a “Song-kau,” a slightly larger pickup truck. These were orange-colored trucks and kept to the same route each trip. We just had to make sure we caught the one going by Nii Kom. The fare is the same for a one-way trip, 15 bhat.

Song-kaus have a two-foot wide platform on the back of the truck. I discovered the reason for this on one return trip from our school when there were already twelve or fourteen people on board. The driver motioned for Linda to ride in front with him. We were not about to wait for the next Song-kau. I jumped up on the rear platform as the driver took off and got up to about 50 mph. Fortunately there were bars on the top and sides of the pickup to hang onto. At the next stop two more young men jumped on and I wedged myself inside on a sort of “bar-seat” that ran between the rows of knees.

Linda thought this would be a good chance to engage a local in conversation. Of course he spoke not a word of English so they both ended up laughing. There usually was not much conversation going on during these rides. One memorable Song-kau trip I remember was when an older lady got on and began to talk to Linda. No matter that we could not understand a word she was saying. She just went on as though Linda was a younger friend, or a daughter. She would pat Linda’s leg and hold her hand. She noticed our gold wedding bands which were much like her own. This beautiful lady bonded with Linda in a ride that lasted only fifteen minutes.

My favorite Tuk Tuk story was of our last evening in Surat, the night of the torrential downpour and my fateful trip to the hospital with a head laceration. The evening started out as a pleasant, partly cloudy one with no indication of the impending storm. Leslie T. gave me the name of the restaurant where we were to have our closing celebratory dinner. It was on the other side of the river. He said to give the Tuk Tuk driver the name of the restaurant and he would know where to take us. Well, these guys are programmed to just nod and say “OK” even when they haven’t a clue where you want to go, which turned out to be the case on this particular evening.

We drove around Surat thani for about twenty minutes and then stopped in what seemed to be an alley on the edge of an empty lot. The driver was motioning to get out and go to our restaurant on the other side of the lot. I looked around and there did not seem to be a river anywhere nearby. So I pulled out the map and tried to show the driver where we wanted to go. It became obvious that besides not understanding English he did not read maps either. After some making of meaningless sounds back and forth between us, something clicked as I pointed to the map and he realized where we wanted to go. Now the price negotiation had to begin again. He suddenly remembered his English. “Seventy-seventy-seventy-seventy” he said as he pointed to each of us. I responded in my most forceful Thai with “Mai-ow, mai-ow, pang, forty-forty-forty-forty” as I pointed.

We made it to the restaurant and had a wonderful last evening beside the river. Our Tuk Tuk driver even came back and was waiting for us after dinner to take us back across the river to Swenson’s Ice Cream parlor for dessert. This was before the deluge
and the fall and the experience of the wonderful Thai medical system.

My wife is impressed with how proficient I became in just two weeks at negotiating the transportation system in Surat thani. I’m just a little impressed as well.

Milan Hamilton
February 6, 2014

Monkeys for Hire

Joop, our Thai volunteer coordinator while we were in Surat thani for our two week teaching gig, took us on an outing on our one weekend off. We visited a fishing village on the coast and spent a couple of hours at a “Monkey Training School.” This turned out to be one of highlights of our month in Thailand. The school was actually a side business of the monkey “trainer,” who lived on a coconut farm outside of Surat with his wife, daughter, mother-in-law and several “monkeys-in-training.” His real business was “renting out” his monkeys’ services to other coconut farmers.
Coconut trees can grow quite tall and they have small round trunks. It can be hazardous to humans to climb to the top to cut the ripe coconuts. So certain kinds of monkeys, spider monkeys, are trained for the job. Mr. Trainer (I did not learn his real name and could not pronounce it if I had) takes young monkeys and over a period of years, spending countless hours in “school,” educates them in the art and practice of harvesting coconuts. This includes a few weeks of teaching them to spin coconuts while Mr. Trainer holds them, then suspending the coconuts from a cross bar, until finally they go up in a tree for the real deal. The monkeys are even able to pick out the ripe brown coconuts and leave the green colored ones alone.
Spider Monkeys are the best and most trainable, we learned, since they seem to be more intelligent. Mr. Trainer claimed that they reach the level of about a three-year-old child. For some unknown reason, long-tailed monkeys don’t take to the coconut picking occupation and are not as easy to work with. We asked Mr. Trainer how he got into this line of work and were told that it was a family business. He learned from his father. We also wondered how he picked which monkeys to work with and he said he could tell by looking them in the eye how they would take to the training.
Following the lesson and demonstration of monkey training and coconut picking, we were treated to a class on coconut-husking and shredding by Mrs. Trainer, using both the ancient tools, a pike-like blade on a tree stump which could easily impale a person, and a more modern electric shredder. We got to taste the fresh coconut and the coconut milk, which was a bit of a disappointment. I had thought it would taste much sweeter. I guess I have become accustomed to sugar-laden processed foods.

The Monkey Training School was a wonderful learning experience for us. I am not sure how the monkeys experienced it but they were good teachers.

Milan Hamilton
January 31, 2014

Amazing Creatures

Our friend Leslie, who was largely responsible for us going to Thailand last fall, spent a month in an “elephant camp” as an apprentice Mahout. He spoke with reverence of these lumbering, majestic and often challenging animals, of riding them up a mountain to a stream for their morning bathing ritual, of feeding them their 300 pounds of foliage a day which they required, of cleaning up after them, of sleeping near them in case they had a bad dream in the night. He talked of their intelligence and of how the younger ones are just like looking after teenagers.

We, his “stateside” friends, began to wonder if we would ever see him again, his fascination with the elephants and the culture of the Mahouts seemed so strong. But then he mentioned that he is 65 and it is not so easy climbing up and down off their 10 foot high backs, even though they are taught to lift a leg to help. Leslie would really like to move to the forest of northern Thailand and live in a little cabin in the woods, and be a “part-time Mahout.” We are all continuing to remind him of what it must be like to be an aging part-time Mahout.

Leslie made a strong pitch for us to include the Maesa Elephant Camp on our tour itinerary when were on the way from Chang Rai to Chang Mai in the north of Thailand. We are glad we took his advice. As it worked out, our day at the camp was scheduled the day before we arrived in Chang Mai. Leslie had just completed his month at a different elephant camp and was to meet us at our hotel so we could debrief and share stories of our trip thus far.

We arrived at Maesa Elephant Camp just as the Mahouts were taking the elephants, about twenty of them, to the river to bathe. We tourists stood on a bridge to watch and buy bananas to give the elephants when they reached out their trunks as they were being splashed by the Mahouts. The elephants, young and old, seemed to delight in rolling in the rushing waters and being rubbed down by their Mahouts. A Mahout literally lives with his elephant, and many of them sleep next to their charges, or nearby them, every night. One Mahout to one elephant, and these animals live almost as long as humans.

Following this opening ceremony was the “show.” A parade of elephants with Mahouts mounted on their shoulders carrying a big welcome sign, showing us how their Mahouts get up and down, bowing, kicking soccer balls into a net, playing a dart game with one of the men from our group, one giving his Mahout a “massage,” and the grand finale, demonstrating their artistic abilities. These are the elephants who paint watercolors. When Linda and I had seen that TV program on the “painting elephants” a few years ago, we had some questions and a little skepticism, and we were not alone. I think 60 Minutes did a segment on them. We watched as two of the elephants painted. The Mahout would dip the brush in the color for them and then one painted a flower arrangement and the other a cartoon picture of . . . . an elephant!

We still are not quite sure how they are trained for this, but we are now believers!

At the end of the show we got up close and personal with elephants. We took a long walk to see the newest addition, a one-month old baby with his mother. Along the way we were enticed by two young ones to sit on their knees while being patted and kissed, which was a surprise.

We learned a little about elephants. They were mainly employed as loggers in the heyday of the teakwood industry, dragging huge fallen trees out of the mountain forests. Now that the teak cutting has been outlawed, they are unemployed. Three thousand of them are still in the wild and the other 3000 still in Thailand are in these private camps, highly regulated by the government, and supported by private donations. The royal family supports many of these efforts to hold on to the environmental and cultural values of their country. We loved our time in this beautiful land. We loved our day touching elephants. We do not plan to move to the forest and become part-time Mahouts.

Milan Hamilton
January 24, 2014