Prologue: We live in an over-55 community in Mesa, Arizona. The name of our park is Venture Out. There are two areas in the park containing large open-top dumsters. Residents take their trash there for removal. The areas are also where residents go to find stuff to take home.

You know what they say: One man’s trash is another man’s treasures.

This poem is about the treasures that can be found at the Venture Out (VO) malls . . .

Life is full of wondrous treasures.
Heartfelt gifts and simple pleasures.

Gifts we’ve received from those we love.
A shiny ring, a baseball glove.

Fine china from Japan.
French perfume from Iran.

German beer from Pennsylvania.
Cornish hens from Transylvania.

I have lots of things, me and my wife.
Enough things to last a life.

But I want more, I want it all.
So off I go to the V.O. Mall.

Just look on or in a bin.
To leave empty-handed is a sin.

Pull up close to the garbage bin.
Open your trunk and load stuff in.

Get there early; look around.
There’s gifts for all; look on the ground.

Once I found some good canned food.
I didn’t want to be too crude.

I took ‘bout half; I left plenty.
Who cares it expired in twenty-twenty.

PCs, printers, cords galore.
Enough to open a BestBuy Store.

My wife started to make a stink.
Till I said, “This printer has paper and ink.”

One morning I heard Sparky bark.
He wanted to visit the dog park.

I took him there; he took a pee.
We came home with a color TV.

One time I had some yard debris.
Fronds and bark from one big tree.

I loaded it in my car one day.
Off to the mall to it throw away.

I gathered it up and worked non-stop.
Over the side into the big open-top.

From in the bin I heard such dread.
I threw it on my neighbor’s head.

Times now are looking grim.
Our house is loaded to the brim.

My wife says it’s time to quit.
I know she’s right, I must admit.

“No more stuff” to her I swore.
But Sparky barked, we’re off once more.

Thomas David Jones sat in the hard fiberglass chair, surrounded by numerous instruments and controls. The tin can that housed him was smaller than the kitchen in the base housing in Florida where he and his wife lived.

Tom was a Major in the United States Air Force, and one of the first astronauts chosen by NASA for space exploration. As Tom sat strapped into the seat of the cone-shaped Mercury module, he thought about his mission, and the need for the United States to catch up and pass the Soviet Union in the so-called ‘Space Race’.

The race began in 1957, when the U.S.S.R. launched Sputnik, the county’s first satellite. In 1961, Yuri Gagarin became the first person to fly into space. Alan Shepard, an American astronaut, flew a sub-orbital flight soon after, but the U.S. had a long way to go to catch up with the Soviets. NASA formed and the race went into high gear.

The U.S. got closer when John Glenn orbited the Earth in 1962. NASA’s goals were to have the first person perform a space-walk, followed by putting the first person on the moon. NASA slated Tom for the first space-walk.

Tom woke early on Wednesday morning, April 17, 1963. His historic flight would begin in two hours. He had butterflies in his stomach, and didn’t feel like eating breakfast. Instead, he swallowed a few protein pills. At precisely 4:00 AM EST, an Air Force jeep picked him up and drove him to Cape Canaveral. He was briefed, and then led to the top of the launch pad. Launch engineers led him to the capsule and strapped him into the seat. Just before the hatch closed, Tom said a quick prayer and donned his helmet.

Through the speakers in his helmet, he heard the countdown for his historic flight. Another engineer in Ground Control counted down . . .

“Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two, One, Liftoff.”

Eight minutes into his flight, the Ground Control engineer spoke to Tom again.

“Tom. You made the grade.”

Tom knew this was code for making it out of the earth’s atmosphere. Twenty minutes after that, Tom was in space, safely orbiting Earth. For the next twenty-four hours, as Tom prepared for his space-walk, he and the Ground Control engineer communicated about Tom’s health and capsule’s conditions. At one point, the engineer asked Tom, “We have a bet going on here regarding what shirt you’re wearing under your suit. I bet one hundred dollars that you’re wearing an Air Force shirt. Most think you’re wearing a NASA shirt. Which is it?”

Tom replied, “You’re all wrong. I’m wearing a Rolling Stones shirt.”

The next day, April 18, at 12:34 EST, Tom became the first American, and the second person, to exit a spacecraft and walk in space. Just prior to him exiting the module, the Ground Control engineer spoke with him.

“It’s time for you to leave the capsule, if you dare.”

Tom grabbed and pulled the lever that opened the capsule door. He replied to the engineer. “I’m stepping through the door, and floating in a most peculiar way.”

“How are your visuals?” the engineer asked.

Tom responded, “Different from an hour ago. I’m over Africa now, and the stars look very different today. The world looks very blue.”

Tom’s space-walk was supposed to last only twenty minutes. Catastrophe struck at the nine-minute mark.

“Tom to Ground Control. I’m untethered from the capsule. It’s moving away from me, but I’m feeling very still.”

“Ground Control to Tom. Your circuit is dead, and there’s something wrong. Can you hear me?”

Tom did not respond right away.

“Can you hear me?” the engineer asked, several more times.

Tom could do nothing but float away into space. The last messages from Tom were faint and distant.

“It looks like I’m past one hundred thousand miles from Earth. I’m far above the moon now.”

“Please repeat.” The engineer asked Tom.

Tom’s last transmission came at 1:20 PM EST. “Tell my wife I love her very much.”

On June 3, 1965, Air Force Lieutenant Colonel Edward White became the first American to walk successfully in space. His time outside of the Gemini capsule lasted twenty-three minutes.

The plane landed late on a Sunday night. It was near midnight by the time I picked up my duffle bag. I scanned the arrival area of the Hat Yai airport for my name on a sign. No one was there to greet me. For the first time since my trip around the world to work rigs started, I was alone at an airport with no knowledge of what to do next.

The drilling company that hired me as a consultant always had someone at the airport to greet me. Not tonight. I had the contact number for the rig superintendent in my phone. He lived in Bangkok, almost one thousand kilometers to the north. I dialed his number. He did not answer. I waited twenty minutes and dialed again, but still no answer. I had to make a decision regarding my next move. I needed a place to sleep, knowing I had a boat to catch in the early morning out to my next assignment.

I decided a hotel room was in order. I grabbed my bag and headed to the curb, and flagged down a cab. Climbing into the back seat, I said hello to the driver. My grasp of the Thai language was limited – I knew no words. The cab driver spoke more English than I did Thai, which was good.

“Hotel, please.” I said.

“Which?” was his brief response.

I shrugged my shoulders and said “Near harbor.”

The cab driver smiled and pulled away from the curb. I sat in the back, hoping he was taking me to a hotel and not a place where stupid tourists go to die.

Ten minutes into the ride, my phone rang. The superintendent’s name displayed on the screen. I answered.

“Gabby. Where are you?” he asked.

“In a cab, going to a hotel. There was no one to greet me at the airport.” I told him.

“Which hotel?”

“I don’t know. Wherever the cab driver takes me.” was all I could reply.

The superintendent sounded a bit worried. “Where are you now?” he asked. “What do you see?”

I looked out the window of the cab. I spotted a bar on the right. Outside of the bar, I saw a small elephant and a group of prostitutes. “I see an elephant and a hooker.”

“Christ! That can be anywhere in Thailand! Just call me when you get to your hotel.”

I made it to the hotel, and not the tourist boneyard, shortly after one. I called the superintendent to let him know I was safe. I told me a car will be waiting for me at four to take me to the shipyard.

Welcome to Thailand.

I found the Little Creatures brewery on Mews Road, facing the harbor where Australia won their first America’s Cup race. Blue skies and a gentle breeze filled felt good on a hot Australian day. I had been in Freemantle for two days, and had two days left before flying out to my first rig. Knowing that I couldn’t have any alcohol in my system to board the helicopter that would fly me out into the Indian Ocean off the western Australian coast, I decided I should enjoy one last beer before heading out to sea.

Finding a table on the outdoor patio, facing the sea, I ordered a pint and sat by myself, a stranger in a strange land. I overheard two local chatting about this and that. I knew they were locals because of their distinct ‘aussie’ accent. I listened for a bit, and then walked to the bar to order a second beer. On the way back to my table, I nodded to them and said hello.

“Hello mate.” One of the guys answered. Welcome to Freemantle.”

“Mind if I join you? I don’t know anyone here.” I asked.

“Come on over. We don’t get a lot of seppos here.”

I joined them for a beer or two. We had a great time making conversation about America, Western Australia and beer. More than once, I heard both guys refer to me as a seppo. I had no idea what they meant, but it didn’t bother me a bit – possibly because of the three beers – so I let it go. I was enjoying my last days in Freo. Two days later, I boarded a plane to the northern coast of Western Australia, followed by a helicopter, which took me out to the drilling rig, somewhere off Barrow Island.

The rig was my home for the next two weeks. Although I worked with many locals, I never asked what a seppo was or if I should be insulted by the term. A fortnight later, I left the rig the same way I got there; a helicopter ride to Barrow, a plane ride to Perth, and a taxi back to Freemantle. I was in my hotel by early afternoon. Time to head out to Little Creatures.

I found the brewery and ordered another beer. My two friends from my last time there were not around. I did find, however, three other locals sitting at a table outside. Once again, I took my beer outside, said hello, and asked to join them. Once again, they let me join.

“I was here a couple of week ago, sitting at this very table, talking with a couple of locals. They called me a seppo. Not once, but several times.”

One of the guys spoke up. “Well mate, that’s ‘cause you are a seppo.”

The other two guys laughed. I laughed with them, not knowing if I should be laughing or leaving.

“I’m pretty thick skinned.” I said. “I won’t be mad if you tell me what it means.”

Dave, the first one to talk, gave me a lesson on Australian vernacular.

“It’s like this mate. We call you a seppo ‘cause it rhymes with Yank.”

I was dumbfounded. “How does seppo rhyme with Yank?” I inquired.

“Dave responded. “Seppo is short for septic tank, which rhymes with Yank. And we call Americans that ‘cause you’re all full of shit.”

They waited for a response. I held up my glass and laughed, even harder.

“It’s not just you, mate.” Mike, one of the others added. “It’s all Americans. It goes back to World War II.”

“I’m not offended. In fact, I know several seppos back home.”

Four days later, after exploring much of the Freemantle and Perth area, I boarded a plane for Malaysia and a new rig. I was a proud seppo in a strange land.

Linda and I had a game we played. A fun game amongst two adults; a game that included our child. The game went like this.

Our son’s name is Jerry. He’s not our real child, nor is he adopted. I bought and paid for him. Jerry is a frog. A small, green, stuffed frog. Small enough to sit on the dashboard of our car when we travel. Small enough to fit in Linda’s knapsack when we go hiking. Small enough to be hidden around the house by each other, from each other. That’s how the game started.

Linda and I have kids of our own, but none together. We have no pets. Jerry became our de-facto child and pet, all rolled up into one soft, squishy action figure. Jerry partook in many action-adventures. He never complained. He played along. He played by letting us hide him from each other.

The first time Jerry hid was when I strategically placed him in Linda’s side of the bedroom closet. Cleverly and delicately placed between two garments, one eye peeking from his hiding place, Jerry peered out, waiting for Linda to find him. It took almost four hours for Linda to find and rescue Jerry.

The second time, Linda hid Jerry from me. Jerry crouched behind a box of cereal in a kitchen cupboard. Unfortunately, my breakfast consisted of eggs and bacon for two days, and I didn’t rescue him until the third day. He was happy to be free from the cupboard and happier not to be poured into a bowl and eaten.

We continued this game for close to a year. Sometimes we found Jerry quickly. Other times, a week might go by with Jerry out-of-site. The game finally came to a stop on a Friday evening. Playtime was over.

Linda and I were going out for dinner and dancing. Before we left our house, I hid Jerry in the nightstand light on Linda’s side of the bed. We were heading to the door to leave when Linda remembered something in our room. She ran upstairs, turned on a light, grabbed a pair of gloves, and came back downstairs. We donned our coats and headed to the car. As we opened the door to exit, I stopped. I smelled smoke. It seemed to be coming from upstairs. We both ran upstairs and turned on the ceiling lamp, just in time to rescue Jerry. His two hind legs were sitting on the bulb in the nightstand light. A faint whiff of smoke floated from the lampshade. Jerry was on fire!

I grabbed Jerry by the neck. Linda turned off the nightstand light. She grabbed Jerry from my hands, ran into the bathroom, and submerged both feet in the sink. Other than two holes burned into the bottoms of his feet, he survived. We almost lost Jerry along with our home and everything we owned that evening.

Jerry does not play hide-and-seek any more. He sits in a chair in the living room, glad not to be a pawn in our silly games. Our silly games in time ceased.

Last Christmas I bought an Elf on the Shelf figure for Linda. Let the games begin.

He grew up near Colby, Kansas. He worked on his family’s farm all of his young life, sowing, raising, and harvesting corn, never traveling far from the fields, never seeing what lay beyond the corn stalks and sunflowers that stretched forever in all directions. The farm was seventeen hundred miles from the Pacific Ocean; sixteen hundred to the Atlantic. He’d only seen images of beaches in stories he’d read in National Geographic. His one wish was to see a beach, if only just once.

His wish came true. In March of 1944, his eighteenth year, he received word from his uncle about an overseas job. He left the farm one cool spring morning. His first stop was North Carolina. He learned a new trade. Twelve weeks later, he left for England, a place he’d only read about as a boy.

He was not a boy anymore. He was a man. Ready to do man’s work. Soon after arriving in England, he boarded a boat. Ten hours later, the door of the boat opened. He saw his first beach.

I love you. I hate you.

Come sit at our table. Go back to where you came from.

Words are powerful.

You look beautiful tonight. Look what the cat dragged in.

We all have the power of words. More power though, depending upon who speaks them.

“We fight like hell. And if you don’t fight like hell, you’re not going to have a country anymore.”

“For the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life . . . . “

Politicians often use lies – powerful words to those that believe them. Religious leaders use words of fear – other forms of power to rein in their flocks.

Give peace a chance. Let’s bomb them back to the Stone Age.

Words can be optimistic or terrifying. Soothing or painful. Soul warming or icy cold.

Sometimes, the most powerful words are those not spoken. I have defused many arguments with silence and a smile. Last weekend, my wife and I made a trip to Tucson. Because of my loathing for Interstate highways, I drove backroads. At one point, I steered our car down a muddy country road, surrounded by cotton fields. I knew we were not lost, but my wife disagreed. She didn’t say anything. She kept quiet and shot me ‘that look’. I understood. I turned left onto the first paved road, made our way to the Interstate, and arrived in Tucson on time.

Powerful words, indeed.