Dash Stories

It was the spring of 2000 and I was traveling with my parents on a quick whirlwind tour of Austria, Southern Germany, and Switzerland. We pulled off Autobahn 6, north of Stuttgart to get directions. Snatching a map from a convenience store rack, I quickly scanned for what I needed.

“Exit 40, just 50 km west of here,” I muttered to myself.  Sticking the map back in the rack, too cheap to buy it, I left the store. I had what I needed—directions to Brettach, my ancestral village.

Brettach was the “Sensintaffar” branch’s ancestral village. And it wasn’t always “Sensintaffar.” Over the past three hundred years the surname had taken a few twists and turns. Our distant cousins in Germany were Simpfendörfers and as we drove into Brettach on that Sunday afternoon, they were who we were looking for.

All the shops were closed except for a wine shop. We stepped into the little store and after a few minutes of rudimentary German and charades, our purpose of our visit was communicated and the proprietor made a phone call. Within 20 minutes, Karin, was at the shop and she invited us over to visit her father, Kurt Simpfendörfer, the family patriarch.

Karl was about my dad’s age, an eighth or ninth cousin, best I could tell. And like my dad, he was an amateur genealogist. Excitedly, Kurt invited us into his kitchen. Reaching up to a high shelf, he pulled down a large rolled sheet of paper. Unfurling the paper onto the kitchen table, he revealed his family tree dating back to the 1500s. With Karin translating, he asked us a few clarifying questions and then triumphantly pointed down onto his tree. Looking over his shoulder, I saw my name. I was a terminal branch on his family tree. Enthusiastically, Kurt began peppering me and my dad with questions, updating and verifying portions of his family tree. He extended the branches further with names and birth dates of my children. I was no longer a terminal branch.

After the update, I asked Kurt about the name, “Simpfendörfer.”

“Where did our name come from?  What does it mean?”

He laughs and begins a long explanation (in German).  The only word I understood in his protracted explanation was “Everglades.”

Karin, laughing, prefaces her translation by explaining that her father had only visited the United States once with a trip to Miami and during that trip had visited the Everglades. And she went on . . . “It seems our name used to be Sumpfendörfer.  Dörfer is a person who lives in a dörf or village. And the closest thing dad could describe “Sumpfen” was the Everglades.”

“Oh, so you are saying Sumpfen means “swamp? And Sumpfendörfer quite literally means ‘swamp dweller?’”

“Yes!” said Karin, laughing hysterically.

So when you see a marshy area or your sump pump goes out, think of me.

July 31, 1980, 11:55 PM. I was a short-order cook at A&W Restaurant, Salem, Missouri. Closing time in 5 minutes. A carhop order came in over the speaker:

 “Papa Burger, fries, medium Sprite . . . and one hamburger patty.”

“Hamburger patty?”

“Yeah. Hold the bun. In fact, send it out raw.”

“Raw?”

“Yeah. Come to think of it, why don’t you send it out frozen. I’ll just let it thaw on the dash. It’s for my dog.”

“What size patty? 1/4 pound or 1/8 pound?”

“Big dog. Big patty.”

And so the order (with frozen ¼ lb patty) went out to our last customer just past midnight, August 1, 1980, my 18^th birthday.

15 minutes later, as we cleaned the restaurant, the man let himself through the employee entrance. His large German shepherd followed, casing the joint, sniffing every corner. The man proceeded to comment on the restaurant and what he perceived as needed repairs. He then began to regale us with his exploits: prison 4 times; mental hospital, 5. Turning to leave, he handed each of us his business card . . .

“In case you need any construction or repair work done.”

He then called his dog and walked out the door.

45 minutes later, the restaurant was clean and 2 buddies and I decided to cruise town to celebrate my birthday (that is what you did in Salem, Missouri, circa 1980). As we pulled out of the parking place in my parents’ blue 1976 Dodge Aspen station wagon (4 on the floor!), the man with the dog screeched around the corner of the restaurant in his Gran Torino, blocking my exit from the parking lot. His dome light was on. His dog was in the passenger seat. Between him and the dog, perched against the seat–a shotgun. He threw his head back and laughed hysterically–diabolically really. Like a scene straight out of a horror flick. Throwing the car in reverse, I exited the parking lot through another exit. Turning right, with all the screech and horsepower the Aspen could give, I headed downtown toward the courthouse square—a cop usually parked on the corner. The man with dog and gun tailed me closely, bright lights in my mirrors, looming closer and closer. Pressing the accelerator, my speed picked up. He stayed on my tail. Evasive maneuvers to no avail. Approaching the courthouse . . .  Nuts! The cop was nowhere to be found. I doubled back, man/dog/gun in hot pursuit. Finally, in the Walnut Bowl Restaurant parking lot, I saw the cop, pulled up next to his car window and filled the officer in on my little nightmare of an adventure. Meanwhile, the man/dog/gun circled around and pulled up behind the police cruiser. He got out of his Gran Torino and walked up to us. . .

“How old are you son?” asked the man with the German Shepherd and shotgun.  “21?”

“No.”

“When I was 21, I was in the Marine Corps. What are you? 20?”

“No.”

“When I was 20, I was in the Marine Corps.  How old . . .”

Cutting him off, I reply, “I’m 18. Today’s my birthday.”

“When I was 18, I was in the National Guard.”

He then turned to the officer and pulled out a small spiral notebook. Pulling a pencil from his shirt pocket and jotting in the notebook, he began to detail at list my various driving infractions: “50 in a 35 mph zone; wrong way down a one-way street (twice). Ran 3 stop signs.” And the list went on and on.

The officer turned to me quizzically, “Well”?

“Officer, all are true, I’m sure. I’m sorry! But I did those things to get away from him! He did the same and more! He was trying to ram me and run me off the road!”

The officer turned to the man, “Well?”

“I’m practicing,” said the man matter-of-factly.

“Practicing?” inquired the police officer incredulously.

“Practicing.” The man with dog confirmed.  “I’m running for sheriff of Dent County and I’d appreciate your vote.” He then handed me and the cop each one his business cards, got in his car, and drove away into the night with dog and gun.

Cop then turned to me—“Happy birthday, young man. Haven’t you guys had enough fun for one night?”

“Yes sir!”

I dropped my friends off and drove home.

It was the spring of 1993. My daughter, Hannah, stood on the starting block. She was five years old—one of the youngest and tiniest members of the Bluewater Bay Barracudas, a community swim team in Niceville, Florida.

She was racing her very first event: the 25-meter freestyle—one full length of the pool.

Hannah was in lane six, the slowest lane of the slowest heat in the 8-and-under girls’ freestyle. The girls in lanes one through five were easily a head taller and a year or two older. Her blue one-piece swimsuit hung loosely on her small frame, at least a size too big. A blue swim cap was pulled low over her ears.

The gun sounded.

Bang!

She plopped into the water with a splash and something resembling a forward dive, then began stroking as hard as she could. I walked along the pool deck, cheering her on.

By the time Hannah reached the backstroke flags, her competitors were already climbing out of the pool. As she stroked the final meters, the crowd erupted in cheers. By then, she had the pool entirely to herself.

She tagged the wall, and I reached down to pull her up onto the deck, congratulating her on finishing her first race. The cheering continued.

“Did I win, Daddy? Did I win?” she asked, wiping water from her eyes with a towel.

“No, honey, you didn’t win—but you did come in sixth place.”

Hannah began to celebrate.

“I came in sixth place! Yay!”

Then, pausing mid-cheer, she looked up at me.

“Daddy, that’s good… right?”

“Oh yes! Hannah, you did great!”

Still celebrating, she suddenly stopped. Her expression shifted as she began to count the buoyed lanes of the pool—small, wet fingers pointing as she mouthed the numbers silently.

“One… two… three… four… five… six.”

Her face moved from joy to concentration, then to dawning realization—and finally to anguish.

“Oh, Daddy,” she said softly. “I lost. I came in last.”

She collapsed into my arms, sobbing.

Holding her wet little self, I whispered, “Yes, Hannah, you came in last—but you did a great job. You swam the entire length of the pool. And in your next race, you’ll do even better.”

And she did.

February, 1988. 2 AM.

I was working the 11-7 night shift as a mental health technician in an inpatient psychiatric hospital at the Eastern Virginia Medical School in Norfolk, Virginia. The charge nurse handed me a patient chart and asked me to take it to the 4th-floor pre-adolescent inpatient unit and give it to the senior psychiatry resident, Dr. Saunders.

In my mind’s eye, I had an idea what this Dr. Saunders looked like: male, young, white coat. Entering the unit, I looked around and he was nowhere to be found. Asking the unit nurse, she pointed to an activity table in the middle of the common area, “SHE’s over there.” Dr. Saunders sat in a tiny youth chair writing in a chart, her knees uncomfortably flexed to accommodate her frame, the chair, and table. She was much older than I expected. Rumpled clothes. Glasses perched on the tip of her nose. Graying hair pulled back into a bun. She looked exhausted. 

I handed her the patient’s chart and with time to kill, we began to chat. Small talk initially. I discovered she was 62 years old and would finish her psychiatry residency in June. During the course of our 15-minute conversation, I finally asked her the question at the forefront of my mind– how was it that she was just embarking on a new career as a psychiatrist when most of her age-peers were preparing to retire from theirs?

Her story was compelling. She had been a pre-med sophomore co-ed at the University of Virginia after World War 2. Life happened. She met a GI. They were married. She dropped out of school and raised seven children. In her early fifties, she’s divorced and found herself a single woman again. Kids were grown and had their own lives. Grandchildren were a continent away. A big, lonely, empty house. A big, lonely, empty life. No direction. No vision. She sunk into despair.

In the midst of her despair, a friend and confidante asked her: “Is there one thing you wish you would’ve done differently with your life? If there were ‘do-overs,’ what would you change?”

The answer had nagged her for decades. “I wish I would’ve stayed in school and become a physician.”

“Well, why don’t you go to medical school?” inquired the friend.

“By the time I  finish undergrad, med school, and residency, I’ll be in my early 60s!”

“True,” responded the friend. “But how old will you be in 9-10 years if you DON’T do what you’re supposed to do with your life?”

And with that compelling logic, she launched back into her studies and was looking forward to 15-20 years as a psychiatrist, health permitting.

I was 25 years old at the time. Married. 3 young boys and a newborn daughter. Scraping by on a dollar above minimum (late night shift differential), I could barely see meeting next month’s rent, much less pursue my dream–a career in medicine. But somehow, after my short, late-night conversation with Dr. Saunders, the idea of going to medical school did not seem so daunting or crazy. Maybe it wasn’t a pipe dream. I went home that morning after my shift, went to bed, and that evening I cracked open a dusty MCAT study manual. 18 months later I started medical school at the University of Missouri-Columbia.

I tried to track Dr. Saunders down years later to thank her but I was never able to find her. I’m sure she had no idea how pivotal our late night chat was for me.