Chichen Itza

I have returned from a fifteen-day trip to California and the so-called Mayan Riviera near Cancun, Mexico. Those all-inclusive stays at ocean-front five-star hotels such as the Grand Bahia Tulum are everything that they are made up to be – great food, free drinks, no tipping, and shows every evening, not to mention perfect weather for January and daily walks along the Gulf of Mexico beach. Most impressive was a visit to the Mayan ruins at Chichen Itza, featuring the incredible thousand year-old pyramid honoring the Mayan sun god Kukulkan (feathered serpent). Our knowledgeable guide, who joked that some tourists call the site “chicken ‘n’ pizza”) pointed out the amazing mathematical and astronomical calculations that went into designing it. For example, during the spring and autumn equinoxes the afternoon sunlight causes seven isosceles triangles to form near the pyramid's main stairway imitating the body of a serpent that creeps downwards until it joins the huge serpent's head carved in stone at the bottom. Other notable sites include a ball field (the game ended after one goal after which there was a ritual beheading as sacrifice to the gods) and columns where market was held. While in Los Angeles with friends Kate and Jim Migoski, we stayed with their daughter Suzanne, her husband Kris Kallin, and their delightful kids William and Julia. William has a really winning grin, and Julia has remarkably penetrating eyes that appear to take in everything that is happening.

Did some reading during the vacation, thanks to finding “The Great Gatsby” in Kris and Suzi’s bookcase (was even more impressed with Fitzgerald than the first time I read it) and “The House of God,” a book about interns set in the 1970s that was satirical and pretty raunchy. My favorite novelist John Updike compared it to Joseph Heller’s “Catch-22.” Author Samuel Shem (real name Stephen Begman) is someone Kris knows personally.

Unlike a year ago, when we arrived back from California to discover that the furnace had stopped, all was well on our Maple Place hill even though a fire had destroyed the house across the ravine from us. A dozen or so phone messages awaited, including updates from the Arredondos and Sheriff Dominguez on our book projects. While we were gone, son Dave had been named Lake County teacher of the year, and we will be able to go to a reception in his honor to be held at the Horseshoe Casino (it will be my first visit to one out the Region boats).

At the university more than 350 emails were waiting to be read and/or deleted, including New York Times updates on the catastrophic earthquake in Haiti and the shocking loss of Ted Kennedy’s Massachusetts Senate seat to Republican Scott Brown (once named America’s sexiest man by Cosmopolitan magazine). I got invitations to join several Facebooks, with the message that so-and-so wants to add me to their list of friends. The most touching email came from the parents of Robin Hass Birky, who died last year when a truck plowed through a red light and crashed into her car. They must have heard that I mentioned her in my retirement journal and requested a copy. Her mom wrote, “ I spend time looking up things about her as it gives me peace knowing her efforts in life.” In my letter I directed her to the Index. In a section entitled “Grieving,” I wrote that on September 2, 2008, Vice Chancellor Kwesi Aggrey set aside two hours where people could share thoughts over her death and how many people could barely control their emotions. Kim Hunt emailed me that day that “Robin was one of my academic inspirations. She motivated us to enjoy and want to learn more about our language, just as you motivated us to enjoy and learn more of our history.” On September 3 I wrote how I passed where Robin had died on my way to the packed service. In church Mary Russell called her “our Rockin’ Robin.” Kwesi sang a Ghanian song in her honor that was unbelievably moving. DeeDee Ige mentioned that when she went back to teaching, Robin gave her a book. Inside was a photo of the three of us dancing at my retirement party (it’s one of three photos in volume 40 that Robin is in) and a note telling her to keep joy in her life. Before going to the cemetery the funeral procession wove past the Valparaiso firehouse, where Robin’s husband worked, the firemen were out front at attention. Back at school was this email from a stunned Paul Kern: “Robin’s son Cole played basketball for Morgan Township. I’d check the bos scores to see how he did and mention it to Robin. The heartfelt tributes were deserved. What a lot of enthusiasm snuffed out.”

High school classmate Gaard Murphy Logan reported that the Tacoma Art Museum where she is a docent has an exhibit featuring animals in artwork and that she and hubby Chuck “did our first motorcycle ride of the year last week. It was sweet to be back on the road.” She had been ill but claims to be 97 percent well and back to jogging and visits to the gym. I replied in part: “I checked out the information about the animal exhibit on the Tacoma Art Museum’s website. Sounds like April 25 will be fun with folks dressed in the favorite animal outfits. There’s a guy on our campus who often dresses as a cat with whiskers, a long tail, and mittens. He is a ‘furry,’ part of a cult group partial to the novel ‘Watership Down.’ Let me know if you see any furries while you are a docent.” A telecommunications professor from Bloomington, Ronald Osgood, who used some material from my “Brothers in Arms” Shavings magazine, wants to send me a DVD he did called “My Vietnam Your Iraq: Eight Families, Two Wars,” Sounds intriguing. Got this email, which I passed on to Dave: “This is Aaron, the bass player from Drena's jam night. Thanks for the kind words on your blog. The kind words should be coming from me. David did a great job. I wish to jam with him again real soon. It was very invigorating.”

At bowling rolled three games in the 170s, well above my average. Relaxing at home with a quart of Miller High Life, started planning my February 16 appearance before the Portage Historical Society. I’ve decided to have some 17 people read excerpts from my oral history of Portage (Shavings, volume 20, 1991) covering the years from World War I through the 1920s. In an article entitled “Portage in Three Stages of Its Growth,” former student (and good friend) Bruce Sawochka called the time between the 1880s and the 1945s “The Quiet Years” to distinguish it from the previous half-century (the pioneer period) and the past half-century (in his words, “the Big Bang”).