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whew !!!

IN THIS ISSUE

• Dixie continues her description of their trip to Alaska and the Yukon
• Rafiki forwards a story of a remarkable coincidence
• Catherine Green sends a joke about blondes
• Kate Brookfield posts a story of a burglar and a parrot
• Gerrit de Leeuw´s story is about a hazardous dinner date
• Bruce Galway tells the tale of an heroic fire department
• Burke Dykes puts a new twist on an old story

Dixie Augustjein has reached Dawson in her description of their

ALASKA/YUKON TRIP

We did our own exploring - saw the old Palace Grand Theatre and Yukon Hotel; the Westmark Hotel where one summer the youngest granddaughter had worked, and among comfortable-looking houses backed up against the hill, the homes of Pierre Berton, Robert Service, and Jack London.

In the evening we went to Diamond Tooth Gertie´s to take in the cancan show. This show is put on three times a day and the girls must get very tired having to do the same routine over and over throughout the season.

The next morning with the sky still dull and overcast and with a hint of rain, we were early at the ferry crossing looking forward to our first step on the Top of the World Highway. This ferry crossing, connecting Dawson City with West Dawson across the river, is only open during the summer; in the winter the residents of the two towns cross on the ice. There is some talk of a bridge, but so far it is only talk.

We crossed in the rain to West Dawson and to the Top of the World Highway, well-named as it skirts the crests of the hills and gives wonderful expansive views across and into deep valleys. For the few miles before the American border and the Taylor Highway, we did an inventory of our food supplies. When we got the RV and later when buying groceries, they stressed that many foods could not be taken across the border - Bush would not approve - and this included any meats, eggs, potatoes, and pet food. The pet food was no problem and we did our best to use up banned articles, but still had things we thought they might confiscate.

When we came to the immigration booth at Little Gold Creek on the Canadian side, Poker Creek on the American, they stamped our passports, asked if we were bringing in any guns - didn´t mention food - told us to put our watches back an hour, and sent us on our way. This immigration booth is one of the few jointly-owned customs immigration ports of entry along the Canada/American border and is outside a place marked on our map called Chicken.

Settled by miners in the late 1800s, it was not named until the post office arrived, when they had to call it something. Someone suggested "Ptarmigan´, after the state bird, but there was such confusion about the proper spelling it became "Chicken´ instead.

The Highway in the Yukon from West Dawson is seal coated, but once past the border it is gravel. Both Top of the World Highway and Taylor Highways are only open from October to April and when snow arrives they are closed down for the winter. The Milepost advised "some mountain driving experience is helpful." True, there were some deep drops, with no guard rails, and probably in wet weather there would be danger of skidding, but I didn´t find it particularly scary. For most of our journey the roads were excellent, with little traffic and with magnificent views.

When our friends made this same trip last year, fires were raging along this area, and there were miles and miles of burned forest, but even so soon showing, here and there, spots of yellow birch or aspen among the blackened skeletons. Someone told us that the seeds of aspen are spurred into growth by fire.

When planning the trip, and with the help of the Milepost and knowing some things were only open on certain days or would be closing down for the season, Chris and Elizabeth had mapped out our various stops and the mileage we would make each day. When doing this trip one should have unlimited time, there is so much to see and so many interesting places to visit, but our time was limited so at times it needed many miles between stops.

To be continued.

Unlike many of the stories that are passed around the internet, this one sent by Rafiki is true. It tells of an amazing coincidence in the life of Herman Rosenblat, who now lives in Miami Beach, Florida:

GIRL WITH AN APPLE

August 1942. Piotrkow, Poland. The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men, women and children of Piotrkow´s Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated.

"Whatever you do," Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me, "don´t tell them your age. Say you´re sixteen."

I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as a worker. An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He looked me up and down, then asked my age. "Sixteen," I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other healthy young men already stood.

My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children, sick and elderly people. I whispered to Isidore, "Why?" He didn´t answer. I ran to Mama´s side and said I wanted to stay with her.

"No," she said sternly. "Get away. Don´t be a nuisance. Go with your brothers." She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: she was protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of her.

My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany. We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night weeks later and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued uniforms and identification numbers. "Don´t call me Herman anymore." I said to my brothers. "Call me 94983."

I was put to work in the camp´s crematorium, loading the dead into a hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a number. Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald´s sub-camps near Berlin.

One morning I thought I heard my mother´s voice. Son, she said softly but clearly, I am sending you an angel. Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream. But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And fear.

A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily see. I was alone. On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone: a young girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was half- hidden behind a birch tree. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in German.

"Do you have something eat?" She didn´t understand.

I inched closer to the fence and repeated question in Polish.

She stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life. She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence. I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say faintly, "I´ll see you tomorrow."

I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day. She was always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread or, better yet, an apple. We didn´t dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both. I didn´t know anything about her; just a kind farm girl except that she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life for me? Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.

Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia.

"Don´t return," I told the girl that day. "We´re leaving."

I turned toward the barracks and didn´t look back, didn´t even say good-bye to the girl whose name I´d never learned, the girl with the apples.

We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed. On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 a.m. In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I´d survived. Now, it was over. I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.

A 8 a.m. there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers. Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone was running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I´m not sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival. In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person´s goodness had saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none. My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.

To be concluded.

Burke Dykes isn´t the only one who forwards blonde jokes. Catherine Green is guilty of this one:

BLONDE DETECTIVE

Three blondes were all applying for the last available position on the Texas Highway Patrol. The detective conducting the interview looked at the three of them and said, "So y´all want to be cops, huh?" The blondes all nodded.

The detective got up, opened a file drawer and pulled out a folder. Sitting back down, he opened it and pulled out a picture and said, "To be a police officer, you have to be able to detect. You must be able to notice things such as distinguishing features and oddities such as scars and so forth."

So saying, he stuck the photo in the face of the first blonde and withdrew it after about two seconds. "Now," he said, "did you notice any distinguishing features about this man?"

The blonde immediately said, "Yes, I did. He has only one eye!" The detective shook his head and said, "Of course he has only one eye in this picture! It´s a profile of his face! You´re dismissed!" The first blonde hung her head and walked out of the office.

The detective then turned to the second blonde, stuck the photo in her face for two seconds, pulled it back and said, "What about you? Notice anything unusual or outstanding about this man?"

"Yes! He only has one ear!" The detective put his head in his hands and exclaimed, "Didn´t you hear what I just told the other lady? This is a profile of the man´s face! Of course you can only see one ear! You´re excused too!" The second blonde sheepishly walked out of the office.

The detective turned his attention to the third and last blonde and said, "This is probably a waste of time, but...." He flashed the photo in her face for a couple of seconds and withdrew it, saying, "All right, did you notice anything distinguishing or unusual about this man?"

The blonde said, "I sure did. This man wears contact lenses."

The detective frowned, took another look at the picture and began looking at some of the papers in the folder. He looked up at the blonde with a puzzled expression and said, "You´re absolutely right! His bio says he wears contacts! How in the world could you tell that by looking at his picture?"

The blonde rolled her eyes and said, "Well, helloooo! With only one eye and one ear, he certainly can´t wear glasses."

Kate Brookfield posted this story about

THE BURGLAR

A burglar broke into a house one night. He shone his flashlight around, looking for valuables, and when he picked up a CD player to place in his sack, a strange, disembodied voice echoed from the dark saying, "Jesus is watching you."

He nearly jumped out of his skin, clicked his flashlight off, and froze. When he heard nothing more after a bit, he shook his head, then clicked the light on and began searching for more valuables.

Just as he pulled the stereo out so he could disconnect the wires, clear as a bell he again heard, "Jesus is watching you."

Freaked out, he shone his light around frantically, looking for the source of the voice. Finally, in the corner of the room, his flashlight beam came to rest on a large parrot. "Did you say that?" he hissed at the parrot.

"Yep," the parrot confessed, and then squawked, "I´m just trying to warn you."

The burglar relaxed. "Warn me, huh? Who in the world are you?"

"Moses," replied the bird.

"Moses?" the burglar laughed. "What kind of people would name a bird Moses?"

"The kind of people that would name a Rottweiler Jesus."

Gerrit de Leeuw sends this one about

DINING OUT

A man and woman were having dinner in a fine restaurant. Their waitress, taking another order at a table a few steps away, suddenly noticed that the man was slowly sliding down his chair and under the table, but the woman acted unconcerned.

The waitress watched as the man slid all the way down his chair and out of sight under the table. Still, the woman appeared calm and unruffled, apparently unaware that her dining companion had disappeared.

The waitress went over to the table and said to the woman, "Pardon me, ma´am, but I think your husband just slid under the table."

The woman calmly looked up at her and said, "No he didn´t. He just walked in the door."

Bruce Galway forwards this story about the gallant

UKRAINIAN FIRE DEPARTMENT

One dark night outside a small town in Manitoba, a fire started inside the local sausage plant and in a blink it exploded into massive flames.

The alarm went out to all the fire departments for miles around.

When the volunteer firefighters appeared on the scene, the sausage company president rushed to the fire chief and said, "All of our secret formulas are in the vault in the center of the plant. They must be saved and I will give $50,000 to the fire department that brings them out intact."

But the roaring flames held the firefighters off. Soon more fire departments had to be called in as the situation became desperate. As the firemen arrived, the president shouted out that the offer was now $100,000 to the fire department who could bring out the company´s secret files.

From the distance, a lone siren was heard as another fire truck came into sight. It was the nearby Ethelbert rural township volunteerfire department composed mainly of Ukrainians over the age of 65.

To everyone´s amazement, the little run-down fire engine, operated by these Ukrainians, passed all the newer sleek engines parked outside the plant ... and drove straight into the middle of the inferno.

Outside the other firemen watched as the Ukrainian old-timers jumped off and began to fight the fire with a performance and effort never seen before. Wwithin a short time, the Ethelbert old-timers had extinguished the fire and saved the secret formulas.

The grateful sausage company president joyfully announced that for such a superhuman feat he was upping the reward to $200,000, and walked over to personally thank each of the brave, though elderly, Ukrainian firefighters.

The local TV news reporters rushed in after capturing the event on film, asking, "What are you going to do with all that money?"

"Vell," said Nick Sputski, the 70-year-old fire chief, "da furst ting ve gonna do is fix da damn brakes on dat truck."

Burke Dykes forwards this old story with a feminine twist:

THE HOMELESS WOMAN

A woman was walking down the street when she was accosted by a particularly dirty and shabby-looking homeless woman who asked her for a couple of dollars for dinner.

The woman took out her billfold, extracted ten dollars and asked, "If I give you this money, will you buy some wine with it instead of dinner?"

"No, I had to stop drinking years ago," the homeless woman replied.

"Will you use it to go shopping instead of buying food?" the woman asked. "No I don´t waste time shopping, " the homeless woman said. "I need to spend all my time trying to stay alive."

"Will you spend this on a beauty salon instead of food?" the woman asked.

"Are you NUTS!" replied the homeless woman. "I haven´t had my hair done in 20 years!"

"Well," said the woman, I´m not going to give you the money. Instead, I´m going to take you out for dinner with my hubby and myself tonight."

The homeless woman was astounded.

"Won´t your hubby be furious with you for doing that? I know I´m dirty, and I probably smell pretty disgusting."

The woman replied, "That´s okay. It´s important for him to see what a woman looks like after she has given up shopping, hair appointments, and wine."

You can also read this newsletter online at http://members.shaw.ca/vjsansum/ and http://www.nw-seniorsonline.org/stories.html

WHERE HAVE ALL THE FLOWERS GONE... Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron. - Dwight D. Eisenhower