I get no Respect

Rodney Dangerfield used to say that he got no respect. Well, I get no respect, either. All my life I have been trying to do the right things. People don't know that I have an overpowering sense of responsibility, that is, I feel compelled to warn other people of a danger that I, and maybe just I, perceive. But instead of respecting me for it, people laugh at my actions. Well, sometimes I have to laugh too. What the heck, to keep your sanity you have to laugh at yourself sometimes, especially when, in retrospect, what you did really is funny. The two accounts here are examples of what I mean.

No Moo, Bull

One day in late summer my friend, her sister, our Boxer, and I went for a hike in the Swiss Alps. We wanted to show my friend's sister the wonderful hike we had taken once before with friends. Everything was green, mountain flowers were blooming in the lower portions of the mountains, and above the treeline at the very tops of some of the mountains there were some snowfields, which probably never totally melt away. We drove up a valley and parked our car. Our goal was to go to the top station of one of the ski lifts that serve that valley, then to walk along a ridge to a point above a man-made reservoir, descend to the dam that holds the water back, cross the dam, and then hike down the valley back to our car along the stream that originates at the dam. The ski lift in question was operating, not for skiers, but taking hikers up, and some back down, the mountain. Using the lift would have been the preferred method of completing the first leg of our journey, however, Kyra, our dog, was deathly afraid of contraptions that swayed freely in the air and no amount of persuasion could get her to sit still in the open chair lift - so we hiked up.

We started to walk up the side of the mountain on a gravel service road that leads to the upper station of the ski lift. This gravel road snakes its way up the steep mountain. After several curves I decided that during my previous ascent we had taken a shortcut diagonally up the mountain across some cow pastures rather than laboriously following the switching back and forth of the winding gravel road. We entered the cow pasture at what promised to be a path and followed it for quite some time before it became clear that the cows that had trodden the path weren't going to the ridge where we wanted to go but were just meandering across the sloping terrain. So we reversed course and tried another path. Again, it did not lead to where we wanted to go, in fact it ended at a water trough. Somewhere along the way my friend's sister tipped over (the mountain was fairly steep so when you fell toward the slope you more or less tipped over, rather than falling) and bruised the pinky on her left hand, which caused her and us enormous grief, because it hurt her, and her lamenting about it annoyed us. As the searching for the path continued, I wasn't worried that we were lost. Although we had been hiking for about an hour and a half by then due to all the zigzagging and reversing of direction, we were still within sight of our car, which was below us in the valley.

We finally managed to stumble upon the real path and reached the top of the ridge where we could not get lost - you could not stray from the path because on either side it dropped off pretty steeply. The view was gorgeous, valleys on both sides with higher mountains rising beyond the valleys and as far as the eye could see. The air was considerably cooler up there and we had to traverse several of the snowfields we had seen earlier from below. Kyra performed admirably, as long as her feet were firmly on the ground the height or the sheer drop-off on either side didn't seem to bother her. In my imagination I issued her the title of "Honorary Mountain Goat."

Somewhere along the line we passed a middle-aged couple having a little lunch at the side of the path. They were obviously French-speakers because in response to the obligatory greeting which I uttered in German, they responded with, "Bon Jour." Other than these two souls, we were all alone during the whole hike.

Well, almost alone. As we came to the point where we were to start our descent to the dam, we noticed that a herd of big, black, ferocious-looking beasts with horns occupied the meadow through which the path down to the dam led. One beast was lying plum across the path, another was standing with two legs on it, and the others were scattered around strategically, effectively blocking all avenues down to the dam. Upon examining the beasts from the distance it appeared to me that due to the lack of any visible milk-filled utters, these were not mere milk cows (as are often found on mountain meadows in the summer in the Alps), therefore they must be bulls. Ferocious-looking, probably angry bulls. Angry perhaps because of the absence of any females of their species.

I bade the ladies to stay where they were, took Kyra on a short leash, and decided to reconnoiter the scene. My heart was pounding and Kyra was shaking from excitement (the smell of the beasts rather than the sense of any danger excited her). The meadow had been cleared of most of the rocks, which were piled neatly in several piles scattered throughout the meadow. I hoped at first that the piles of stones would serve as a measure of protection, but I soon discovered that the piles were only about two feet high, hardly serving as an obstacle for a ferocious, charging bull. Furthermore, there was no way to skirt the meadow - some more rock had been piled at the sides and the natural mountain environment made it impossible to go around the meadow that way without engaging in the sport (or art) of mountain climbing. So, the only alternative was to follow the path right through the herd of beasts.

As Kyra and I approached to within about ten yards, the beast standing on the path turned its head toward us, stared at the dog and me (we having stopped dead in our tracks), and uttered a low sound that sounded like, "Humm!" Immediately all the other beasts turned their heads toward us and uttered, "Humm!" That was enough of a warning for me to gingerly retreat backwards up the mountain to where the two women were waiting. I had to practically drag Kyra with me, because she definitely wanted to make closer acquaintance with the beasts. As I got further up the mountain and away from the beasts, I dared to turn around to look at the two women who were sitting in the grass enjoying the spectacle of me and the dog inching our way toward the beasts and then retreating at first cautiously, then "post haste." Much to my irritation, I thought I perceived a touch of amusement in their faces, which was rapidly dispelled when I ordered my friend to immediately remove her red hat, because everyone knows that bulls become infuriated when they see red.

As we deliberated what to do, down from the ridge came the French-speaking couple we had passed on the trail. It was without question, I had to warn them of the danger that lay ahead. Since I knew that they spoke French, I invoked my best "Pidgin-French" and said to them, "Attention, no moo, bull," with the emphasis on the "bull," while pointing downhill at the great beasts that were still staring uphill at us. The French-speaking couple looked at me as if I had dropped in from another planet, so I tried to explain with pointing and another French word that came to mind, the word for dog, "chien," to indicate that the dog and I had tried to go past the beasts. The French-speaking man said, "Oh, chien," and then in French-accented German said, "Kommen Sie" and started down the hill toward the beasts. I took a firm grip on Kyra's leash, determined to let her go and fend for herself at the slightest sign of danger, nodded to the ladies, and followed the man. My two companions and the French-speaking lady followed. When we reached the most threatening of the beasts that was straddling the path and which seemed to be somewhat of a leader because whenever it turned its head all the others seemed to do the same, the courageous stranger leading us to what I thought was our certain doom, reached out, grabbed the bull by one of its horns, and pushed its head aside, upon which the beast uttered, "Humm," and ambled a few steps away from the path, totally ignoring the parade of humans, but keeping an eye on the dog. As the man reached for the horn with his large, weathered hand it occurred to me that he may have had some experience in handling great beasts such as these - a farmer on vacation, perhaps. It suddenly also became clear to me what he meant by, "Oh, chien." The great beasts were reacting to the dog rather than to my lowly presence when we had first approached them.

I felt a little chagrined all the way down to the dam, yet still a little apprehensive until we reached the bottom of the meadow where there was a flimsy fence that would not have stopped a charging bull, but kept the obviously docile animals in the meadow from ambling down to the reservoir and possibly falling in. Having reached the dam, we parted with the French-speaking couple without much ado. When they were out of earshot and I had regained some of my composure, I called after them: "If you ever come to Boston, I'll be glad to help you across the street, which is a heck of a lot more dangerous than the crossing we have just made!"

By the way, the big, black beasts are called "Eringer Rinder" in German and according to Wikipedia are called "Herens" in English and are a breed of cattle named after the Val d' Hérens region of Switzerland. Wikipedia also describes them as small, an opinion I cannot share - from my vantage point they looked huge!

Fire at the Dance Recital

When our oldest daughter was a teenager, she took part in a modern dance class at a dance school which taught all ages from kindergarteners to adults. As is customary, the students wanted to periodically show off what they had learned and the teachers wanted the parents to see how effectively they had spent their money and to advertise their school, therefore, a recital was scheduled.

The recital took place in a fairly large "multipurpose" hall with folding chairs and a stage with a curtain. The hall was filled to capacity with parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends of the performing students. Proud fathers had set up their cameras in the center aisle, preferably close to the stage. Other spectators were standing in the center aisle and in the two aisles at the walls. Our family was represented by mother, father, two sisters, and grandmother. The performance went as expected, small girls in costumes hopped across the stage to fairytale music, somewhat older girls in Tutus did arabesques and other ballet moves to classical music, and yet older boys and girls contorted their bodies to jazz music. Our daughter belonged to the latter group.

My interest lay mainly in seeing my daughter complete her stage appearance without any major mishaps, such as a strap or a leg breaking. The little kids weren't able to capture my full attention, therefore, my eyes wandered about the hall, observing all the people enraptured with the performance and that the exits were blocked by the audience either filming or trying to get a glimpse of their darling flitting across the stage. My eyes occasionally returned to the stage, there in the corner of the stage, half hidden by the drawn-back curtain, was what appeared to be a spotlight that was lying on the ground, presumably to provide illumination from an obtuse angle, which was emanating a small rivulet of smoke. Those spotlights get hot! That curtain was awfully close to the spotlight! My attention was aroused. I had heard stories about the Cocoanut Grove Nightclub fire in Boston where 492 people died and the circus fire in Hartford where 168 people died, in both cases partly due to the ensuing panic. My attention was aroused to the point that I had to do something, but not to cause a panic, which, as experience had shown would result in many more victims. Therefore, I decided to make darn sure that my perception was correct and then to take the appropriate steps.

I worked my way to the front, near the stage - no easy task with all the people in the aisles. As I came near the stage, I could see more smoke billowing from underneath the curtain. It was time to act! I could have stood up waving my arms and screaming, "fire," but that would have caused an immediate stampede for the exits, not allowing me to round up my family, including my daughter backstage, and ushering them outside safely. I had to notify someone in authority. I looked around, saw no figure of authority in the hall, but spied a door next to the stage, unfortunately, on the other side of the stage. I bent over so as not to block the view of the stage (after all, the performance was in full swing) and made my way to the door. The door was unlocked and led into a hallway that led unto the stage. There in the hallway, awaiting their stage entrance, was my daughter's dance troupe. I did not see my daughter, but sitting on the extension of the stage (not visible to the audience) was an adult with in tights who looked like an instructor. Since he seemed to be in charge, I revealed to him the fact that I thought that the spotlight on the stage was setting the curtain on fire. He leaned over, looked across the stage, and said, "Oh, that," and turned back to whatever he was doing before. I was stunned! Not a sign of any intention of doing anything about this imminent threat. But, I had done my duty. I tried to warn them. It wasn't my fault if the place burned down and hundreds of people were harmed. I decided to return to my seat, wait to see what would happen, and then rescue my family, including the daughter backstage, when disaster struck. And disaster would strike, I was certain - well, almost certain.

When I made it back to my seat, my daughter's modern dance started. When the curtain opened the stage was covered by fog about a foot deep. This swirling mass of vapor gave the dance a mysterious touch as the dancers seemingly floated across the stage. Could this be the smoke I saw rising from the spotlight? Was that really a hot spotlight as I imagined it, or was it a fog generator that was leaking slightly before it was called into action?

Although my family saw me making my way across the auditorium and across the front of the stage, they were too wrapped up in the performance to notice anything peculiar and I didn't mention anything at the time. All would have been well and no one would have known about my well meant quest, except that my daughter, who was in the performance, said afterward that her instructor, when critiquing the performance, mentioned that some guy (I think he used a different term which I refuse to remember) had come backstage and had pointed out to him that one of the fog machines was setting the curtain on fire, ha, ha. My daughter had an idea who that might have been and hid her face in her towel lest a family resemblance be discovered.