Shortness of Breath – Shortness of Time

© 2006 Brooke Allen
brooke@brookeallen.com www.BrookeAllen.com
Originally published in International Family Magazine

In November of 1995, my father, Thomas J. Allen, Jr. was admitted to Kings Hospital in London, England complaining of shortness of breath.

I flew over to see him and he seemed in good spirits though he was having problem breathing. It could have been from the 438,425 cigarettes he’d smoked in his life.

I took the train from London to Cornwall to meet up with my Uncle at my grandparent’s flat in Truro. I arrived to find a message. My dad had taken a turn for the worse.

The next day I found him in an awful state.

Every breath was a struggle.

His hands shook; a terrible thing for a sculptor.

His fever was high.

He was in considerable pain.

He told me he wanted to die.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I did not want him to die.

I began to cry so I wrote him a letter.

I wrote that I felt he was facing a choice between life and death and I wanted him to choose life.

I wrote that it wasn’t time for him to die. He did not know his grandchildren. We hadn’t spent enough time together.

I told him that I wanted him to want to live and to become healthier than he had been before. My parents lived on the penthouse floor of an apartment building in Dulwich, South London. The elevator only went to the 8th floor and they would have to climb the last flight. He would rest after every step. When he got out, I wanted him to forsake the elevator and climb all nine stories.

You might think I was too demanding. He needed sympathy, not orders. Perhaps.

I did not think it was time for him to die yet.

My mother was more direct. She shook him and said, “If you die, I will never forgive you.”

He went into intensive care that day. His emphysema had developed into pneumonia. Before the doctors could get that under control he caught a drug resistant bacterial infection. Natural selection is hard at work in our hospitals.

He stayed in intensive care for five weeks before it ended.

I felt I hadn’t been paying enough attention and now I was afraid it was going to be too late.

It was all over when he was released from Kings in January, 1996. He was feeble and emaciated, but he was alive.

He needed to learn how to use his legs. Climbing the stairs became part of his therapy. He soon stopped using the elevator.
He needed to learn how to use his hands. When a contest was held to design the “Millennium Mark” for the year 2000, my dad won. For 12 months, every piece of precious jewelry in the United Kingdom was stamped with his design. He received a 2,000 pound check as the winner. He gave the check to Kings Hospital as a gift.

When my parents moved back to the United States, we crossed the Atlantic on the cruise ship Maasdam. We went right through hurricane Cindy. It was a lot of fun. You should try it if you get a chance.

Fifty-five foot waves went crashing over the decks; seventy-five mile an hour cross winds. It was a wonderful week. Hurray for stabilizers and healing tanks. We did not get seasick.

During the hurricane the ship’s swimming pool developed massive waves. The children loved that.

They loved spending time with their granddad and hearing his stories.

My folks lived with us in New Jersey for a little while before they moved to Seattle to be near my sister. The weather in Seattle is like the weather in London. The busses smell much better in Seattle than in London.

The cigarette tar in his lungs wasn’t going to go somewhere else. Things became real bad real slow. Increasingly, he needed to exert a conscious effort to breath. Sleep meant no air. Breathing meant no sleep.

My mom and my sister went to the movies and suddenly my dad died.

It was time.

Love the living. Live for those who love you. Remember the dead.

Everyone Knows Father Moran

fathermoran© 2006 Brooke Allen
brooke@brookeallen.com www.BrookeAllen.com
Originally published in International Family Magazine

As a young amateur radio operator (ham call sign: N2BA), one of the more interesting people I spoke with on short-wave was Father Moran (ham call sign: 9N1MM). He was born in Chicago in 1906. In 1929 he moved to India. In 1949 he made his first trip to Nepal, which had just opened its borders to foreigners. In 1951 he established a boy’s school a short distance outside of Katmandu and later he was instrumental in setting up additional schools for both boys and girls.

For many years he was the only licensed amateur radio operator in Nepal, and perhaps the most famous in the world (with the possible exception of the late King Hussein of Jordan, call: JY1). I had heard of him from my high school chemistry teacher even before I passed my first ham license exam in 1966. It wasn’t until the early 1970’s that I was finally able to crack the inevitable “pile-up” Father Moran would generate whenever he’d appear on the short-wave bands.[1]

In 1979 a friend from work and I decided to take a week off and fly around the world.[2] I decided that it would be my goal to meet Father Moran in person. My friend Jack, (ham call: K2BMI), had met Father Moran a few years earlier on a similar trek.

I asked Jack, “How do I find Father Moran?”

He said, “When you arrive in Katmandu stop anyone and ask, ‘Where is Father Moran?’ Everyone in Nepal knows Father Moran.”

On the other side of Immigration at the airport in Katmandu was a card table to which was taped a hand lettered sign. “Tourist Information.” Behind the table sat a young woman.

I asked, “Where is Father Moran?”

“Ah.” She nodded, and began to unfold a map. She inspected it carefully and then drew a small “X” alongside a road outside of the city.

“Is that where Father Moran has his school?”

“No. That is where you stand at two o’clock this afternoon. It’s Monday and Father Moran goes shopping on Mondays. He will come by this road at a little after two and you just wave him down. He will be driving a blue Volkswagen Beetle. He will take you home.”

“What?” I was flabbergasted. “I don’t want to see him right now. Could you tell me how to find his school on my own?”

“Well, how long will you be in Nepal?”

“Four days.”

“OK. You will want to hire a taxi for your time here. It’s the best way. Just don’t pay more than $20 a day.” She smiled, “Ask your driver to take you to Father Moran. Everyone knows Father Moran.”

Our driver would arrive at the hotel at 5:00 AM and sleep in his taxi until we would wake him and ask to be shown around.

Wednesday morning I asked, “Do you know Father Moran?”

“Of course; everyone knows Father Moran.”

At his school in Godavari, I gave Father Moran the gift I’d brought from the States; a pair of 12JB6 final amplifier tubes for his Drake transmitter. They tend to burn out and they weren’t to be found anywhere in Nepal.

He let me operate his radio and then he invited me to join him for lunch with the other priests.

He asked me to sign his guest book. This was a standard hotel registry with space for perhaps 1,000 entries. I was to sign volume 6. It appeared that my trek was not unique. He had met Edmund Hillary who he helped in becoming oriented to the country before his climb of Everest. Queen Elizabeth II had visited along with King Juan Carlos of Spain (ham call: EA0JC). The entire crew of an Apollo mission visited to present him with a photo of Nepal taken from space. There were thousands of entries from people famous and unknown.

Father Moran died in 1992 after 40 years in Nepal. He seldom left the country that he loved.

If you meet someone from Nepal ask them if they know Father Moran. I know the answer. “Of course; everyone knows Father Moran.” If they are over the age of 30, they have probably met him in person.

You can travel the world to find worthy people, or you can be a worthy person and the world will travel to find you.


How to Leave a Legacy

In June of 2006 I was attending a hedge fund conference outside of London. I would have an entire Sunday, and two weeknights with little to do. I found a group of people on the Internet (www.hospitalityclub.org) who were dedicated to acting as hosts to travelers, providing everything from simple conversation to free accommodations.

I began writing to members with interesting profiles, asking if they might join me for a meal or a drink.

One member, Hem, was from Nepal so I wrote to ask him if he knew Father Moran.

Yes. I know Father Moran. I was a student there in St. Xavier’s School in Godavari, Kathmandu.

Let me know about the suitable time to meet up.

Thanks,

Hem

Even though he died 13 years earlier, everyone still remembers Father Moran.[3] At lunch in London, Hem brought a photograph of his grammar school graduation. There, in the upper left corner stood Father Moran.

It was clear from our brief conversations that Hem was well educated and had good values and habits.

Father Moran’s legacy was fondly remembered for he had done something in common with many other great people.

If you want to be remembered by people, teach them something. If you are really ambitious, start a school.


[1] A “pile-up” is ham slang for a large number of people calling simultaneously.

[2] No, we weren’t rich. We both worked for an airline and we could fly at greatly reduced fares.

[3] You might argue that you’ve never even heard of Father Moran, but by now you have.

How to Complain to the Government

OPD 08/01/2006

© 2006 Brooke Allen
brooke@brookeallen.com www.BrookeAllen.com
Originally published in International Family Magazine

I once had a run-in with a shopkeeper in New York City so I wrote down his license number and began calling the consumer affairs hotline.

The line was busy.

I put the number on speed-dial.

The number was busy for months.

Since their office was only a few blocks away from mine, I decided to pop by. Four employees sat in a room with all the phones off the hook.

I decided to complain about them to their boss. Using a penname, I wrote the following letter:

August 14, 1989

Ed Koch, Mayor

Mayor’s Palace

City Hall, New York, 10007

Dear Ed,

Recently I have begun considering establishing a branch of my business within the New York City limits. I am writing to you to get your assurances that if re-elected, you will continue to provide the same positive environment for business growth that has persisted for the last few years.

A business like ours is sensitive to consumer perceptions. Frankly, our main concern about past expansions in your direction has been your reputation for tough consumer protection laws and a complaint enforcement system rigged in the consumer’s favor.

However, on the suggestion of a friend, four months ago I began calling your consumer complaint number (212-577-0111) three to five times a day. I got busy signals every time I called except for twice when the phone was picked up and then disconnected immediately.

During a business trip, I actually stopped by to observe the operation. I was told that there were 10 lines, but the room I was shown only had four people in it. One was on a telephone and the other three were reading magazines, filing nails, and chatting. I called the hot line number from a nearby desk and got a busy signal!

Excellent! This is the kind of environment in which I can thrive. I see the wisdom of your plan. Provide tough laws since this keeps the public off the law-makers’ backs. Establish a hot-line to appease the cranks and complainers. And then don’t answer the phone.

I tried calling your office to congratulate you and ask my question directly, but a secretary told me there was no one who could answer my call. (Of course! I should have thought of that myself!)

I anxiously await your assurances. We are ready to begin our business expansion immediately.

(signed)

P. S. I enclose $2.00 to help pay the return postage and to help with your campaign. If all is okay, there’s more where that came from.

Somehow, just by sending this letter to the mayor, I began to feel much better.

When complaining, your goal is to make yourself feel better, not to make the other person feel worse. Humor helps.

How to Respond to a Citizen

OPD 08/01/2006

brooke@brookeallen.com www.BrookeAllen.com
Originally published in International Family Magazine

After sending the mayor the letter, I felt so much better. The consumer affairs hotline still didn’t pick up their phone but that no longer mattered. I had so much fun thinking up the letter and I was proud of myself.

A few months after I wrote the letter, Ed Koch lost his re-election bid. I hadn’t voted for him. I hadn’t voted for his opponent either. I went into the voting booth, pulled the curtain, and did nothing. I took the time to vote my abstention.

Unexpectedly, at the end of December I received a most lovely belated Christmas present in the form of a letter that I will cherish forever.

City of New York

Office of the Mayor

December 28, 1989

Your letter of August 18 was misplaced and only recently made its way to my desk. I was very troubled by what you had to say and apologize for the delay in responding to you.

The consumer hotline was not established as a public gesture with the intention that, in reality, it would not serve the public or investigate its complaints. Though my administration is about to end, I have asked Consumer Affairs Commissioner Angelo Aponte to look into the charges that you raise. I have asked him to take immediate action, where necessary, to make sure that the hotline is fully staffed and responds expeditiously to all complaints. Moreover, I have asked him to make sure that the next administration is aware of any problems with the hotline.

Further, I am returning the two dollars that you sent to me. I am disappointed by your insinuation that personal financial gain would be a motivation for helping you.

If you are sincere in your interest to establish a branch of your business in New York City, our Office of Economic Development (212-NY-MAGIC) and the Office for Business Development (212-513-6400) may be able to assist you, and I encourage you to contact them.

My administration has sought to create a climate in the City where businesses can flourish and at the same time one where the interests of the City’s consumers and residents will be safeguarded. Arbitrating these interests is no simple or enviable task — but I, and members of my staff, have done that on every day of our watch — and in as just and far-sighted a manner as possible.

All the best.

Sincerely,

Edward I. Koch

M A Y O R

Wow!

As soon as I received the letter, I called the hotline. They picked up on the first ring. I couldn’t remember what had been my complaint the prior summer so I said, “Just checking,” and hung up. From then on the line was answered immediately every time I called.

When responding to a complaint, think WWED.[1]

[1] “What Would Ed Do”. Ed Koch published a collection of his letters in a book called All the Best: Letters from a Feisty Mayor. The man could write.

How I Learned to Wiggle My Ears

OPD 07/01/2006

© 2006 Brooke Allen
brooke@brookeallen.net www.BrookeAllen.net
Originally published in International Family Magazine

You might be amazed to know that you have muscles that don’t get wired up to your brain unless you work at it.

When I was nine we moved to a new house that had a large field that had been used by a farmer to grow hay. Because we wanted to convert it to a lawn we had to remove many large rocks. We piled them behind the barn.

Ah hah,” my dad said one day, “We can paint the stones white and use them to line the driveway.”

He gave me a can of white paint, a brush, and the mission.

I began by painting one stone behind the barn. Then I carried it to the edge of the driveway. I did this a few times. It was a cumbersome process because the stones were quite heavy. And, it was annoying because the paintbrush kept drying between each use. And, it was messy because I wanted to get done that day so I didn’t wait for the paint to dry before moving each stone. A good deal of paint made its way from the stones to my hands and clothes.

After observing my efforts, my dad took one stone and the can of paint from behind the barn. He placed the unpainted stone beside the driveway and place the can of paint next to it.

I hadn’t seen him do that and it took me quite a while to discover what he had done. Who asked him to do that? Sometimes my dad would play cruel tricks.

After bringing the can and the stone back to the barn I continued to paint the stones and carry them to the driveway Then, for no apparent reason, my dad took a wheelbarrow out of the barn and parked it squarely on the path between the stones to the driveway. Navigating my way around an obstacle placed in my way was even more annoying.

Finally he put the wheelbarrow, inverted, over my pile of stones. I became infuriated. I angrily grabbed it by both handles and flung it a few yards out to the side. What was he trying to do to me?

It was back breaking work and I was exhausted by the time I was finished.

That afternoon my parents had a guest who stayed for dinner. The guest congratulated me on how hard he saw me work. He said I must be very strong.

My dad said, “He was working a lot harder than he needed to. He’s got to learn to use the muscle between his ears.”

That angered me. I wouldn’t have had to do any of it if he hadn’t made me do it.

As I went to sleep I thought about his comment about the muscle between my ears. I knew some of the kids in the school could wiggle their ears. Perhaps that is the muscle he was talking about. It took me a very long time to find that muscle, but eventually I did.

I was so excited and could hardly wait till morning when I would wiggle my ears and tell my dad that I finally figured out what he was talking about.

My dad had a really good laugh.

Years later so did I.

Time to Get Married

OPD 06/01/2006

Time to Get Married[*]

© 2008 Brooke Allen
brooke@brookeallen.com www.BrookeAllen.com

 

We had been dating for a year when I began to wonder to myself, “Is this the woman I should marry?”

I started asking everyone I came across, “How does one tell if someone is ‘the right one?’”

A young female squealed, “When you speak baby talk to each other. Isn’t that right daadeee?”

“Goo goo.” He replied.

Yuck.

“When your hearts join as one,” was the simultaneous reply of an old couple on a bus. I was enthralled… until a fight broke out between them. “I was speaking.” “You always interrupt me.” “Oh, shut-up.”

“You’ll just know.” A common but useless answer.

“Chemistry.” Another.

“When you can picture yourselves doing absolutely everything together.” I thought about that. I could even picture it. It wasn’t attractive… surely not everything?

“When you don’t have eyes for any other woman.” Not me. I have eyes for every other woman.

“When you think she is the most beautiful woman in the world.”  Nope. I’d rank her an 8.

I asked the most beautiful woman I’d ever met, “Gina, I’m thinking of getting married. How do I know it is the right thing to do?”

She said, “I wish it were me.”

“I didn’t realize marrying you was one of my options.”

“That’s not what I mean. I wish I were the one getting married. I can picture it perfectly… the house… the children… I even know what my kitchen will look like.”

She seemed to be in the advanced stages of something. I asked, “Does your boyfriend share your vision?”

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

I talked about this to Jack, a friend at work. He said, “It is a mistake to imagine your future with someone.”

“Why?”

“You’ll be disappointed. Besides, you’ll close off the opportunity for lots of adventure.”

I asked, “How did you know your wife was the right one?”

“Lack of imagination. I couldn’t imagine a future without her. That is why I had to marry her.”

On our wedding day I could not have imagined the children we’ve raised, the things we’ve done or the places we’ve been.

But it would have all been unimaginable without Eve.

I have no idea what the future will bring, but I still can’t imagine it without Eve.

Jack was right.

When you can’t imagine a future without a certain person, you have to ensure you have that person in it.

You can leave everything else to chance.

 

 

 


[*] Note: This photograph was not taken at our wedding (which took place at City Hall in New York) but two days later at a Fake Wedding conducted by Alan Abel, an internationally renowned prankster (but that’s another story). Alan’s shenanigans and my goofiness should have given Eve ample warning of what she was getting into. But I fear it has not.

How Grandmother Won Granddad in a Beauty Contest

by: Brooke Allen
brooke@brookeallen.com www.BrookeAllen.com

OPD 05/01/2006

My Grandma Anne was a southern belle born and raised in Dallas. Granddad Tom was raised in Chicago and sent from home at 14 to earn has way as a man. They met in New York City.

Anne had entered a beauty contest. In those days (before the bikini) young ladies were judged on poise, grace and intelligence. She won.

First prize: a week in New York. All expenses paid.

At first she was excited. Then it occurred to her that she didn’t know a soul in that Yankee city.

A friend set up a blind date for her first day in the Big Apple. She was to meet him under the big clock above the 42nd street entrance to Grand Central Station.

She leaned against the western wall as she inspected the young man standing across from her.

“Gawd,” she thought to herself, “let it not be him.”

It was.

At first they weren’t attracted to each other but they were both desperately lonely, for Tom had no friends in the city either. What’s more, on Sunday he was to be shipped out to Cuba by the United Press International, his employer.

They spent all of that week together and on Saturday Anne decided not to return to her life in Dallas.

That is how it came to be that my father was born in Havana.

They had picked the path that promised the most adventure.