4. WAR COMES; THE LAST LEG: This is CNN

January 14, 1991.  Monday morning.  Sunny, slight breeze from the north.  Some high clouds.  Visibility is spectacular.

Yesterday evening we had book club, Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut.  The conversation (not very favorable to KV) eventually turned to the prospect of war with Iraq.  I was surprised at the feelings expressed that this would be a short war.  Perhaps I am too stuck in Vietnam, but I find it hard to believe the government's assessment that this or any war can be a quick fix.  Almost everyone is behind the president.  I felt as if I were back in high school, listening to issues and facts and feeling out of my league, the same way I felt after a sporting event, when I could remember one or two plays, not half the plays others remember.  All I seem to remember is a sense of the game, the excitement, the near despair, the valiant effort, etc.

I was not at all willing to predict an air victory or attacks on Israel, etc., or whether there would be a preemptive strike by Iraq.  All I thought of was all those people being killed.  Consensus had us bombing Baghdad and other civilian centers.  I thought of mothers and children going to market.  It does not compute.  Now that Bush has rallied everyone, however, I suppose we can't give in.  As I left book club, I had a strange feeling: life goes on here as normal.  We are not sacrificing for our country, we are still living our lives as though nothing out of the ordinary is going on.

January 17.  Home.  Breezy, clear, visible vapor trails. 

The last 18 hours have been filled with television as we have watched reports of the U.S. air invasion of Iraq.  The CNN reporter in Baghdad just got cut off at 7:59 a.m., at the request of Iraqi intelligence.  Up to then, three reporters had been looking out the windows of their 9th floor hotel room.  No video but, as always, the best pictures are those created by words, not the camera.  I have mixed feelings over what appears to have been a largely successful commencement of the war. 

We had the TV on yesterday at the office.  Unfortunately we do not get CNN, only the networks.  Peter Jennings was pretty good and had a reporter in Baghdad on the telephone for awhile. 

The other morning I was remembering the feeling of sitting in the Albuquerque airport with Cathy last month.  We were alone in a new group: made few connections with those around us.  The windstorm blew outside; it was Sunday evening, the TV football game on, people coming and going, and waiting.  I had a strong feeling of being alone.  We had just said goodbye to our friends; they too were headed home, in the car, perhaps feeling a little tired, a little blue.  I also thought about seeing and leaving my sister, Jan, in Los Angeles last weekend and saying goodbye to Fran upon her retirement and return to Florida.

Leave-taking makes travelers feel incredibly alone, different than the rooted feeling one has, even in a strange city, where a hotel room is still your hotel room.  Once you check out, you are rootless again, destined to be quickly forgotten and replaced by another like yourself; perhaps you will come again, but most likely not and, if you do, you will not be remembered or stay somewhere else.

Come the end of a journey visiting friends, there is a group that stays behind and a group that returns home.  If I am leaving on a trip, the excitement and anticipation at the prospects of the trip outweigh the fears and apprehension associated with traveling.  Returning is different, harder, until one actually arrives home.  Not only does the traveler risk not making it back home (something I do not worry about at the start), the traveler may never again see the places or friends he just left; if he does, things will likely not be the same.  (Why are things always the same, however, on return?)

Death is like coming home.  We take a true leave and things will be changed, literally forever, the next time we meet.

January 18.  Friday.  10:15 a.m.  TV on mute.  We are settling into war.  Meanwhile the desert is clear, warming, sunny as usual.  Probably not much different than Iraq.

11:35 p.m.  I am listening to CNN in bed on the headphones.  I can still hear the train blow its whistle over on Oakey, a mile away.  Cathy said the other night, in the dark, "Ooo!, I love the sound of that train!"  On the hour James Earl Jones says: "This is CNN."

January 21.  Martin Luther King Holiday.  Office.  Clear and windy.  Cold (40's).  The war goes on.

6:30 p.m.  It's now dark, has been for some time, and the office is very quiet.  I am getting ready to pack it in for the day, but thought I would take a moment to reflect on my day's work.

To any outward sign, I did not accomplish much.  I simply read journals, wrote letters, made notations in this journal, had lunch; but I feel as if I have made some kind of a dent.  The fact that the magazines were pre-Christmas and I now (over the weekend) have managed to shelve virtually all of my books in the den and put the Christmas things away for a few years seems, together with the few letters, to have advanced me forward, perhaps just a little, closer to the sabbatical.  Back to work tomorrow.  A lot has happened in the last two months, in fact the last year; so much so that I have found it hard at times to remember.  I picked up the pictures at SavOn and looking through them found it hard to remember the trip to 29 Palms for Doc's funeral and the trip with the Sanborns across Mt. Charleston.  Those events seemed to be minor details in the grand picture of the fall, yet they clearly were not: death and a day's journey on a rugged mountain road, somehow they go together well and should not be forgotten.  In truth I had not forgotten them, simply misplaced them, like the sprinklers I turned off at my parents' under Uncle Jules' watchful eye on New Year's, which did not get turned back on again until yesterday.

January 23.  Colder, haze settling in after a bit of a breeze on Sunday and Monday morning cleared it out.  Tossed and turned last night, short of breath.  Which is it?  Do I toss and turn and get SOB for worrying about things, or do I get SOB from all the pillows, etc. and then toss and turn?  I think it is the latter.

The war threatens our leave taking in an as-yet uncertain way.  The war is no more real than our trip and therefore cannot threaten what itself remains untouchable and unknowable.  I saw a picture of a tank at Heathrow. 

We shall have to continue to watch the news carefully.  The word so far has been that beefed up security at airports means that air travel is safe.  (As I told Cathy, one of the most unsafe places to go is Disney World!)  We have a long way to go and much will have changed by the summer.  Europe is closer to the action.  Two ideas if the war continues:  First, we must diminish our traveling about Europe as American tourists.  We would be better off staying in one place, and we will be better, I think, in the rural areas than in the cities.  Second, we could travel in the U.S. until we are ready to go to England, then go directly to our home.  The U.S. would probably be a little safer, but I doubt any place will be completely safe.

January 25.  Friday, 8:40 a.m.  Another SCUD attack on Israel,  Live.  We all know the times in Israel (6:40 p.m.) and Saudi/Iraq (7:40 p.m.).  Our building just shook. Nuclear test?  Huge oil slick in Kuwait/Persian Gulf.  Are we nuts?!!

January 28.  Work becomes more irrelevant as I think and think about scattered pieces of our trip to Europe and attempt to piece together the big picture.  The big hole right now is the place to stay.  It seems that once we work that out the rest of the things fall into place.  The scary thing is the budget.

Information is lacking, but then information is not what I need.  I just need to decide.  It seems every day, as I drive to work, I remember that I must be patient, that all of these things will come to pass, that soon all of the familiar will become unfamiliar, and I will be alone with my thoughts in England, wondering what to do with myself.  The hard part right now is weaning myself from all of the material things to which I have become attached.  I still think of Mercedes and BMWs, books and clothes and fine hotels.  How will I ever get myself out of this quicksand?

I notice that it is easier to be distracted with bits and pieces of information and readings, darting here and there.  With a more steady gaze I'm able to think more productively about things and get things done.

 I looked out this morning from my office and saw the shadow of the cross atop St. Joan of Arc on the wall of the county garage, a sign I used to see each morning as I worked on my book.  Now, with my back at the window, I notice the cross only when I happen to look at the right time.  And so it comes and goes, a shadowy presence in my life, like religion itself, bumped out of my consciousness with the slightest provocation.

January 30.  The weather will begin to change as soon as we get into February.  I suppose even now we are past the worst of winter.  I keep telling myself, I will get to work early, I will have all that time to write, and that will be wonderful.  But then I read The Wall Street Journal, I think about Europe and do a little planning, I read a magazine; and I don't get to work that early anyway and I am trying to relax and let my mind be open to thoughts . . ..

Wrote a letter to Pasqual thanking him for offering to make us an interest free loan for our trip (he hadn't spoken to Tara yet and would need to, but . . .).

February 2.  Saturday.  Den.  Streaks of orange in the sky.  Had terrific dreams last night after watching "The Next Voice You Hear," about God on the radio:  There was a presence in the air.  I felt whooshes and bumps, noises you can't identify.  I was feeling a bit nervous and scared, as if a burglar were in the house.  Then I found out it was my grandfather (also my godfather), Harry Johansing, looking just like the pictures I've seen.  (He died when I was four.)  He was quite happy and in my dream this was my secret: I had a friendly ghost as my companion.  We never got around to discussing why he was there, but I enjoyed it.

Sunrise (Frenchman's) Mountain to the east, with little, if any, vegetation, often stands out almost white, especially in the afternoon.  It is unlike the darker Sheep Mountain Range to the north with their nooks and shadows, beautifully darkened and lightened by the sun.  Sunrise's combination of  actual color, together with its location at the east end of the Valley, with only direct light in the afternoon, must explain the difference.  Sometimes Sunrise looks like an artificial mountain, lit with too many flood lamps.

February 4.  Clear, warming.  Received the application from Warren Wilson College re their writing program.  Enter in fiction or poetry.  As I perused the application I realized that, as much as I think of myself as a writer, I have written little if any fiction.  So I resolved to work on this in the mornings until we leave. 

I need to take long walks and think about things.  Last night, my walk at sunset resulted in the following notes:

1.         Recalled how my father used to make me button my top button to keep out the damp air, and how I hated to do so and unbuttoned it whenever I could.

2.         Opening line: "Perhaps it was the fact that I have been mistaken for others so frequently that . . .      ."

3.         Thinking how I would like to meet up once again with old friends from Malibu, not because I miss them, but because they were a part of me.

4.         Writing is a defense against death, like the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose.  There's always something more I've got to say.  "Don't take me yet, Lord, I'm not done!"

            *  *  *

The application for part time writing class puts my sabbatical in sharper focus.  When I tell people, in response to their questions, that I will pretend to be a writer for a year, I am not taking up the challenge.  I should be saying, "I will write for a year."  If I write I will produce a result which will either be good or bad (possibly mediocre).  If I pretend I am a writer the result should simply be whether I had a happy pretense for the year, not whether I wrote well or did anything constructive.

            *  *  *

February 9.  11 a.m.  Potosi Park.  It is a lovely, calm sunny Saturday.  The man just called "Number 165".  The 10 year olds are having their tryouts, 3 pop flies, 3 ground balls and throws to first base.  Robert was number 15 or so; he did fairly well.  We are awaiting the batting: 3 swings at three pitched balls.

As I think about our trip and our absence from Las Vegas for the year, I do think I'll miss the desert sunshine: the days and days of cloudless blue days with beautiful vistas to the surrounding mountains (discounting for the moment the air pollution).  But, as I walked from the bleachers over to my car a few minutes ago, I thought, not for the first time, that I already miss the desert.  Near my car I see brown grass, naked, twiggy Chinese elm trees, a rough road without curbs and a house, clearly one of a kind.  Farther down the street are five or six pink multi-family buildings, fronting on a newly paved street with curbs and gutters.  The old street runs into the new street; side by side are the old and the new.  It's like this all over Las Vegas.  I've missed the old Vegas for a long time.  We live close to the center of town, where the desert has been almost completely obliterated, covered up, for the most part, with homes and asphalt.  The rare surviving evidence of the desert is a vacant lot strewn with garbage.

I'm sure I'll miss the desert; but the fact is that I already miss the desert, much as I continue to miss the ocean and the green of England.

February 12.  Days are warm.

 The dollar sinks lower.  The last time I looked it was right at $2.00 to £1.00.  This is apparently because our interest rates are so low.  (Prime is 9%.)  Britain is also in a recession, so I suspect its interest rates will soon begin to fall; if not, perhaps rents and other costs in Britain will go down as demand falls.  Airfares across the Atlantic are already 50% off on tickets purchased through next Monday.

February 18.  Monday.  Cold, clear, windy, though more of a stiff breeze than a wind.  Some new snow in the mountains.

It will be hard not to come back to Las Vegas.  Coming back is such an easy choice in spite of: (1) I die in the spring with allergies; (2) I will miss rain and the ocean like the Dickens; and (3) as much as I like suburban Las Vegas, I do not like being a part of the "Las Vegas" identity, i.e., gambling, shows, etc.  Because of friends, reputation, community ties, etc., however, returning is a natural.  Cathy shares my feelings.

Certain images will disappear in England: thrashing palm fronds in the wind, the clarity of a day like today when one can see, it seems, forever.  Violence as a way of life, a national trait, is something I hope to miss in our year abroad.  I have an image of a world of talkers, not shooters.  Americans are cowboys; our motives are good, but our sense of history is too short for own good.  (Maybe Europe's sense of history is too long for its own good.)

February 20.  Reading my latest issue of Poets and Writers, I feel low and humble, wondering if I have the stuff to make it as a writer.  The big picture, success if you will, is so far off and I am so little worthy of it that I might as well expect to be on a spaceship to Mars next year as have a successful book published.  One thing I can do, however, is write every day and diligently pursue the creation of one or more wholes, rather than the few fragments I have put together.  So I sit here at my desk feeling cold and lonely as I consider the dual possibilities of fame and failure.

March 4. 

British Consulate - General, Los Angeles.

Dear Sir or Madam:

My employer, Jones, Jones, Close & Brown Chartered has approved my taking a one year sabbatical beginning in June, 1991.  My wife, Cathy, and I, and our four children, Robert (age 10), Mara (age 8), Jeffrey (age 7) and Thomas (age 2), propose to reside in England during my year off, from approximately July 5, 1991 to approximately July, 1992. 

It is my understanding that our extended stay will require a visa.

By way of further explanation: I have been a full time employee of Jones, Jones, Close & Brown since May 1975, and, since 1979, have been a partner in the firm.  From June, 1958 to June 1959, I resided in England with my mother and father and six brothers and sisters.  (During this period, my father, a physician, completed a year of residency at the Maudsley Hospital in London.)  Our family resided in Horley, Surrey and I attended the second form at St. Hilda's school (now defunct).  (My sister, Hilary, was born in London in January, 1959).  Since that time, I have returned to England on a number of times, for tourist reasons as well as to renew old acquaintances.  Our three older children attend Our Lady of Las Vegas Catholic Elementary School in Las Vegas, and we hope to find a comparable school in England in which they may enroll.

Prior to our departure, we shall each have round trip air tickets with an open return.  During our residence abroad, we intend to buy an automobile and travel, and during spare time I intend to read and write (creative writing and travel memories), as well as to do some private study of law, particularly English common law in the area of real property (I have taught real estate law at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas).

We do not yet have a permanent residence in England, but have contacted several firms and individuals in this regard.  Our intention is to lease a home for up to a year, within 40 miles or so of London.

I hope the enclosed is sufficient for your needs.  Should you have any questions, please do not hesitate to contact me by mail or telephone.  Should it be necessary, a personal visit can also be arranged.