If you read my last blog, you know that I have gained a new appreciation for friends and family, far and near.  You just never know what the future holds for you or those you love.  You need to take the time to let them know how important they are while you have them.  And in the past few weeks, when one of my friends "fell off the map", I was a wreck.

Those of you who read my blogs might remember that I've written about my friend Patrick - not once, but twice.  He's the art prodigy who I met while I painted murals with the U.S. Embassy in Liberia.  He's a master with pastels, painting and ink, but it's his portrait drawings with pencil that blow me away.  His work is almost photographic.  Simply amazing.

His birthday was a couple of weeks ago.  I wished him greetings, and then he went missing.  He just disappeared.

His Facebook account was deactivated.  His website was cancelled.  He stopped answering email messages.  I even went to Twitter, which I almost never do, with no reply.   He was gone. 

Like I said, I was a wreck.

I know that anything can happen to anyone at any time.  Unless you have a guardian angel as gifted as mine, it's not always good when those things happen.  In my travels, I've been in multiple bus, car and motorcycle accidents.  I've been hospitalized a couple times with weird tropical diseases which include malaria (five times).  My home has been broken into at least four times (once when I was in the house).  And, it's not just me.  I have friends who have been robbed, beaten, and a couple perished in plane crashes.  Even my friend Patrick was surrounded by four thugs who mugged him.

Anything can happen.  And, I was so very worried.

What do you do when someone disappears?  I mean, besides panic.  You say your prayers and seek all the help you can get.  I couldn't just call Patrick to see what's the problem.  First of all, I didn't have his telephone number and, second of all, my stupid phone won't call as far as Africa.  But, that didn't stop me.  I was a man with a plan - actually four of them.

Plan A -  I contacted two of his friends.  Although his Facebook account had been closed, I could still look up old messages we shared.  When I found two names, I located his friends on Facebook and sent messages.

Plan B -  The daughter of my friend Daniel, in Liberia, has been in telephone communication with Patrick.  I also sent her a message to contact Patrick.

Plan C -  Patrick has been in communication with the president of a college in Liberia.  His connection is at the top, with the president of the college, so I sent email messages to the top.

Plan D -  I had the telephone number of one of Patrick's friends.  Since I couldn't make the call, I contacted the Public Affairs Office of the U.S. Embassy in Liberia.  I painted murals for them in Zwedru and Zorzor.  They know me, so I thought this was a good time to ask a favor.

None of these brilliant ideas worked. 

Nobody contacted Patrick.

After two weeks with no communication, and a serious weekend of fret, Patrick finally +decided it was time to write to me.  His Facebook site had been hacked.  He'd been sick a few days.  He lost his scholarship to that college.  And, needless to say, he was down in the dumps.  Down in the dumps but communicating is way better than falling off the deep end of the planet and missing.  I was so very relieved that he was alive and well.  Because, I have to admit, I feared the worst.

But, I also learned a lesson and it's that lesson that I want to drive home to anyone who reads this blog.  You need to have a plan.  You need to be ready in advance.  You can't stop a hurricane, tornado, blizzard, forest fire, earthquake, flood or any other disaster that may come your way.  They come.  Life happens.  And, sometimes it's messy.  However, one thing that we can all do to prepare is have a designated contact.  When something happens, there should be someone everyone knows to call.  Someone to check in with.  Someone who cares.

That someone should also live a distance away from you.  If something terrible happened in Ohio, there's a very good chance that a close contact in Ohio might also be in need, without electricity, transportation or telephone service.  The designated contact should be far away.  Far away is certainly nowhere in Michigan, but any other place will do.

Believe me, Patrick and I have now exchanged information.

I never knew John very well.  He went to the early morning church service.  I rarely ever am cleaned up and ready to leave the house by 8:00, especially on a Sunday morning.  I preferred the later service.  However, in between those services was a gap in time when some people went to Sunday School, others mingled in the gathering hall behind the sanctuary, and those members of the congregation with taste visited the art on display in the small church gallery.  That's how I met John

He was a photographer.  I'm sort of a photographer.  I have an artist's eye and doctor absolutely every photo- graph that I take with PhotoShop.  But, John was a photographer  He didn't need PhotoShop.   He had the knowledge and all the necessary toys to take breathtaking photographs.  He loved landscapes like the barn scene included here.  But, he also did amazing things with still life photography.  I have a print of an orange and pomegranate that looks like an oil painting.  I have no idea how John did that with a camera.  He tried to show me once during a photography lesson in his basement studio.  I still have no clue.

I'm not sure which of us had an exhibition first.  But, I loved his photographs and he loved my portraits.  John retired and the plan was to pursue his photography as he traveled.  It was a great plan.  Great plans don't always happen.  Shortly after retirement, John developed cancer.

I didn't see him as much as I should have, but our loitering overlapped one Sunday morning.  He was on his way home and I arrived early for my service.  We had a nice time catching up.  At this point, John could only speak in a whisper, but he was confident that he could beat the cancer.  Throughout the entire conversation, I had an argument going on inside my head.  "This guy has cancer.  He's in the fight of his life.  Should I give him a hug?"

I didn't hug John.  And, I regretted it almost as soon as it didn't happen.  So, I emailed John and filled him in on situation.  He agreed that I should have hugged him.  Plans were made immediately to meet again the following Sunday in the overlap time between services for a hug.

It happened.

And then, he took a quick turn for the worse.  The cancer flared up.  He rapidly withered away.  And before I knew anything about the turn of events, John died.

I learned my lesson.  And, unfortunately, it seems that I have to learn lessons the hard way to actually learn them.  When given the opportunity to hug someone you care about, do not let the opportunity pass you by.  When I attended John's funeral, his niece was my main contact.  She saved a photograph for me that I wanted and I shared my "John story" about the hug with her.  And as soon as she heard the story, she opened up her arms for a hug.      

I wish I completely learned my lesson the first time around.  But, sometimes life has to hit me over the head a second or third time to let the message fully sink in.  And, that's what happened to me this week. While I was on Facebook, I saw a suggestion to "friend" one of my friends in Morocco.  I didn't know Lahcen had an account, and I was thrilled to send off the request.  I hadn't seen him in almost two decades.  What can happen in that amount of time?  or even a week?

I'm very blessed in my travels.  I tend to meet the most wonderful and gracious people along my path.  Lahcen was one of the best and dearest.  And, really, seriously, it was a friendship that probably should never have happened.  At least, it wasn't too likely.  If you ever take the bus from Marrakech to Ouarzazate, you have to cross over the Atlas Mountains.  And, the bus stopped for lunch in Taddart.  (If you ate what you should eat, there were piping hot bowls of tagine along the roadside.  Tagine is a stew made of potatoes, onions, tomatoes, carrots and some kind of meat.  In Taddart it was often goat heads.)

If there were places to eat, it makes perfect sense that there were also souvenir shop with exotic treasures.  It may surprise you, but I preferred souvenirs over goat heads.  And, that's how I wandered into Lahcen's life.  Lahcen spoke Arabic, Berber and French.  You may notice that English was not included in that list of languages.  That's why the friendship was a little unlikely.  My three years of high school French helped me some, but not enough to really communicate to any satisfaction.  I usually traveled with one or two Moroccan friends who spoke English.  They did a lot of translating.  But, a lot of words were not really needed to like Lahcen.  He had such a warmth and kindness about him.  I liked him immediately.  So, I came to Taddart frequently.

Whenever I needed to escape from the busy city life of Casablanca, I headed to Taddart.  At first, I stayed in the local hotel.  Nothing to write home about.  Eventually, I was adopted into Lahcen's family and stayed at his home.  No plans or invitations were needed.  When I showed up in town, I was taken home.  There was no road to his little village.  The trail lead down the valley from Taddart and then up the side of the next mountain.  The family lived among a cluster of adobe homes.  The dirt from the mountain was used to build the blocks and the village blended perfectly into the landscape.

It was always a trip back in time.  Lahcen's home had no electricity.  There was no running water.  Bread and butter were made by hand.  In the evening, when it got cold, we wrapped up in homemade blankets.  And, when I told Lahcen I wanted a hand-woven Moroccan pullover gown called a djellaba, I bought one that someone in his family made.  It was about as close as I've ever come to getting the shirt off of someone's back.  Lahcen had been wearing the gown.

Lahcen not only welcomed me into his life, but he also welcomed my family and friends.  On occasion, co-workers from school ventured off into the Atlas Mountains with me.  And, when my mother, sister and brother came to Morocco, Taddart was a "must see" destination.  On that occasion, I guess Lahcen's home was considered too small.  We stayed in the mayor's home.  Both Hassan (the mayor) and Lahcen thought my sister was a "gazelle".  I guess that's considered quite a compliment.  The mayor was heartbroken to learn my sister was married.

As we hiked around the mountains, Lahcen always held my mother's hand to guide and protect her.  She adored him.  We all did. 

The last time I saw Lahcen was at the end of 1999.  If you are old enough to remember then, it was during the Y2K scare.  Nobody knew what would happen to the world and it's computers as we entered the new century.  Some people felt the world would end.  I decided if computers failed, technology crashed and the world was coming to an end, I might as well be in my favorite location on the planet which happened to have neither computers nor technology - Taddart. 

At this point in time, Lahcen had a new souvenir shop about three miles north of Taddart.  We walked there.  Upon arrival Lahcen set about to prepare tagine. His recipe didn't have a goat head, but it was stuffed full of guilt.  This was the season of Ramadan when Muslims fast all day until sunset.  The last thing I wanted was my friend preparing a meal for me when he would have no part of it.
 
There is no arguing with Moroccan hospitality.  I was going to eat and feel so very guilty.
 
While I watched Lahcen prepare the tagine, my friend Salah rode the bicycle two or three miles down the mountain to get me some bread.  Yes, all of this was done just for me, the non-fasting Christian among Muslim friends.  Lahcen set the table up outside but we waited inside the warmth of his shop while the tagine cooked.  When the meal was about to be served, Lahcen frantically searched around for the bread.  It was gone!  A passing dog snatched it away.  I said it wasn’t a problem, but apparently you don’t eat tagine without bread.  It just isn't done.  Lahcen sent one of the nearby kids home for a loaf of bread.  When it arrived, Salah said it looked like a baseball glove.  It was about as tough as one and probably tasted the same, but I had bread.

Since those days, Lahcen moved to Marrakech to run a beautiful hotel.  I have friends now studying Arabic in Morocco and I directed them to Marrakech for a wonderful weekend.  And, this week, another contact new to Morocco was given the same advice.  If you want a wonderful experience in Marrakech, drop my name at the Riad Honey Hotel when you meet Lahcen.

So, these were the memories that flooded me as I sent the friend request over the Internet to Morocco.  And, I had the same warm glow when the request was accepted a couple of days later.  Neither of us sent an actual message.  We both knew how we felt about each other.  I was going to write a message soon.  I was busy with a big project at the moment, but the message was on my mind.  Best of intentions.

Lahcen died this week.

It took a couple of days to get the information I wanted.  His son Brahim, who was about ten the last time I saw him and spoke no English, wrote to me to let me know about his papa.  As I later learned, Lahcen also had cancer and was sick for about six months.
 
Enough already! 

I know this lesson.  I don't need to be reminded, but I guess I really do.  And, maybe you do as well.  Nobody on their deathbed ever says, "I wish I would have worked harder."  "I wish I had put in a few more hours on that project."  "I wish I had done more for my boss."  We know what we're supposed to do.  Hug your family.  Tell someone that you love them.  Hug your friends.  Surprise someone with something special just because.  Hug those in need of a hug.  Praise, encourage, thank, acknowledge and love as much as you can.  And, when you've done all you can, squeeze out a little more.  I know that almost nobody ever sends hand-written cards any more.  I sent one this week.  I plan to send more.

And, seriously, when it only takes about a minute to send someone a message telling them what they mean to you, don't miss that opportunity.

I have recently been in discussion with some young adults, college graduates, and they all make me feel kind of ancient.  Some of them knew Sergeant Pepper.  Nobody had a clue what "ring around the collar" meant, or "Plop, Plop, Fizz, Fizz" or what Mr. Whipple didn't want you to squeeze.  And, it's my guess that most likely they never heard of Simon & Garfunkel either.  Well, they may have an excuse for the last one.  I mean, honestly, when did Paul Simon last have a hit?  And, Art Garfunkel is probably most famous for how his career disappeared when the duo broke up.  But, I remember them for "The Sounds of Silence", "The Boxer", "Slip Slidin' Away" and "I Am a Rock".  If you look up the lyrics, none or them were too happy.  So, maybe these young people aren't missing so much after all?  Then again, I know what they are probably listening to today.  I'll stick with the classics.

But, all this got me to thinking.  What on earth does "Garfunkel" mean.  Seriously, of all the names anyone could select, why would anyone want to be the first Mr. Garfunkel?  And, why would the first Mr. Simon want a name that could just as easily be a first name or a last name?  I know all about that confusion.  I had to look up the names.

Most references for Simon go back to the twelve apostles of Jesus.  The disciple Simon was also called Peter, "the Rock".  The name Simon comes from Hebrew and means "listen".  It's my guess that Paul Simon didn't "simon" to his singing partner Garfunkel.  I've always heard they hated each other.  You aren't listening to the other person's point of view when you're too busy hating on him.  Of course, Paul may have simply preferred the Greek meaning of Simon which translates as "flat-nosed".

And then, there is Garfunkel.

It comes from Yiddish for "carbuncle".  I've heard of the word, never knew the definition, and looked it up.  Now, I wish I never had.  It's a collection of pus filled boils that are somehow connected under the skin.  Now, I'm perfectly willing to tell people that Phillip means "lover of horses" even though I don't care one whinny about them.  But, I'd never tell anyone what Garfunkel means if it were my name.  Never.  I know it's not safe to say never.  But, never!  Fortunately, thankfully for Art, it also refers to red granite.  And, since that folk music duo came and went, the term "Garfunkel" has a few additional meanings.  It means the friendlier, more out-going person in a duo.  It also means to tag along, like someone unnecessary (at least to Paul Simon).  And, sadly, it also means to disappear mysteriously, like Art's career.

I found it most interesting, among all this trivia, that both of their names had something to do with a rock.  Perhaps that is what moved them to write the lyrics, "I am a rock; I am an island."  In my mind, they are some of the dumber lyrics ever written.  Okay, they wrote, "a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries".  Nobody wants to get hurt.  I get that.  And, if you get hurt, you might pull away for a while.  But, the lyrics don't say, "Sometimes, to protect myself, I am a rock so I won't get hurt.  But, it's only temporary".  When in high school, they probably didn't listen to their English teacher quoting John Donne.  (If my English teacher gave the same speech, I didn't listen or remember either.  That class was a good time to be a rock - or block - head.)  Anyway, in 1624, Donne first penned these words:

               No man is an island entire of itself;
               every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;

Okay, I agree, this is a really long introduction to get to my point.  John Donne was right.  No man is an island.  Nobody should strive for that.  Forget about being a hermit.   It's not what we were created to do.  It is not God's plan.  We need community.  We have to rely on others.  There are some burdens that you just can't bare alone.  There are times when we all need help.  Even Gilligan had several other castaways. 

You can't do it all alone.

This became ever so abundantly clear to me recently.  My legs have been mildly swollen for a very long time.  I can't remember when I last wore regular socks.  I always wear white anklets.  But, things took a turn for the worse this winter.  My feet, ankles and calves have been extremely swollen.  I turned to compression socks for relief.  If you've never worn them before, you have no idea.  They are next to impossible to pull up over your feet.  They do the job for a while, but even they stop their effectiveness eventually.

This should have been enough.  Who needs any more problems than this?  Not me, but I got it.  In May, I had an introduction to tendonitis and the foot doctor also said I had plantar fasciitis.  I went on steroids and anti-inflammatory medication for months.  If I tried to wean myself off them, as instructed by the doctor, the inflammation flared back and I couldn't walk. 

And, then, August rolled around.

Things took a turn for the worse.  You know it's worse when you can't walk.  And, that's where I found myself.  Both feet swelled up, the tendonitis inflamed and both ankles were in pain.  I couldn't walk.  The first day, I had to crawl around my home.  And, I'm still puzzled how babies do that so well.  The carpet hurt my knees.  I tried tying T-shirts or towels around my knees to crawl.  That didn't work.  Success, if you can call it that, came when I realized I could put each knee inside a cat bed and crawl around my home.  And, fortunately, two different neighbors contacted me the next day.  I knew this was no time to be an island.  When I was asked, "How are you doing?", I told the truth.  Yes, forget you, Simon & Garfunkel.  I am not a rock.  I am not an island.

There is little you can do when you cannot walk and every movement of an ankle is painful.  I moved into my bed for the next three weeks.  Eventually, I had access to a wheelchair, but getting in and out of it was strenuous.  I fell more than once.  And, to make things worse that should never be worse, I pulled some muscles in my lower back.  That did it!  I confined myself exclusively to bed until that healed.

My landmarks in the healing process mostly revolved around trips to the bathroom.  It doesn't matter if you cannot move and nobody is there to help you.  When you have to go to the bathroom, you have to go.  To accomplish that task, I had to stand and walk on legs and feet that screamed not to be used that way.  It was agony.  And, it was my lowest point.  After falling from my wheelchair, again, I finally collapsed back in bed.  I feared this might be a permanent situation.  There were not so many good thoughts swirling around my mind.  Thankfully, I fell asleep.

After a few more days exclusively in bed, the next landmark, also centered around a bathroom event, brightened my life when I realized I could stand on my left foot without any pain.  It made getting in and out of the wheelchair much easier.  There was no longer complete darkness and utter despair in this whole situation.  This was my first sign of improvement.

The next landmark, on the next bathroom visit, was when I realized I could stand on both feet.

Of course, there were several trips to the doctor's office throughout this. Again, this is no time to be an island.  Sometimes a neighbor, sometimes a brother drove me.  But after one trip, I decided I was in no mood to crawl from the car to the garage door.  I felt strong enough to walk.  And, I successfully managed the ten steps from the car to the garage door.  Then, I crawled upstairs to my wheelchair and rolled my way to bed for a well deserved, and exhausted, two hour nap.

I consider that last hurdle, actually walking, to be the final one to cross before complete recovery.  There are still things that I need help with around the home, but I can do more and more each day, before collapsing for another nap.

Simon and Garfunkel had most of their success in the mid-sixties to early seventies.  While they were fading in popularity, another singer from Hawaii began to edge her way onto center stage in the early seventies.  And, I'm happy to say that Bette Midler is still alive and kickin', belting out hits to her fans.  I'm always partial to one of her earliest songs.  Simon & Garfunkel likely disagree with her, and you may never have heard the song before, but Bette and I agree that, "You've Got to Have Friends!"

So. I want to thank my friends and family who have helped me through the recovery process -- Pat, Janice & Tim, Mark & Bubbles, Phyllis & Jim, and Gary.

ALBANIA - On my first trip to Albania, somewhere around 1995, there were no such things as travel guides about the country.  Nothing.  And, this was most certainly pre-Internet days.  I bought a ticket to Kakabia, but I wasn't sure if it was a town in Greece or Albania.  And, nobody in Greece appeared to speak any English to help.  So, with my ticket in hand, I traveled down the very bumpy road on a large Greek bus to parts unknown.

As it turned out, I still don't know if Kakabia is in Greece or Albania, but it certainly wasn't a town.  It was a border crossing.  It was in the middle of nowhere between two countries that really don't like each other.  There was no town, no village and I don't remember any lights.  And by the time I got there, it was getting dark. 

Fortunately for me, taxi drivers knew when to wait at Kakabia.  I was informed that the closest hotel was in Gjirokaster, about 20 miles away.  That worked for me.  And, when the taxi driver pulled out a business card of a guesthouse that read, "We speak English", I had a destination.

If you were ever welcomed into the Kotoni guesthouse in Gjirokaster, you know all about the 200 year old home in the middle of the Ottoman section of town.  Vita and Haxhi welcomed me like family.  And because of that, I've made multiple visits to Albania over the years.

On my fourth visit to Albania, in 2014, one morning at my breakfast table, I met Shane from "Down Under".  He was interested in my mural project and followed me to the school.  It happened to be during one of my two television interviews that day.  "Interview" really isn't the right word.  The microphone was shoved in front of my face and I was told to talk.  When I finished my speech, which the interviewer didn't understand, Vita took over in Albanian, waxing long and eloquent about me and my murals.  Shane did not escape unscathed.  Even though he had absolutely nothing to do with the project, he was interviewed on Albanian television as well.

We've kept in touch ever since.

AUSTRALIA - When my wanderings with the U.S. Embassy took me to Nauru to paint a mural in 2016, I had to stop over "Down Under".  If you ever travel anywhere, it is always best to have a local connection.  They know all the good stuff.  Shane showed me around Melbourne, introduced me to the Twelve Apostles (which you should really see in a video by Florida Georgia Line, H.O.L.Y.) and then helped me discover kangaroos in the wild.  Who could ask for anything more?

ECUADOR - Shane enjoys long travels to far corners of the world.  And, it's amusing how organized he is.  I travel with a vague idea of where I want to go and what I might do.  Little is ever written in stone.  Shane, on the other hand, has every day planned and every hotel paid for before he every leaves his very comfortable home in Fitzroy.  I would love to travel with someone like that so I never have to worry about anything.

When wandering South America, Shane followed a few paths that I have crossed before him.  So, while he was in the Galapagos Islands, he had a little "homework" to locate three of my murals.  It can be said, at best, that he was partially successful.  Two murals on the main island of Santa Cruz were still on the wall surrounding a big school, in the center of the city.  But, that once pristine wall was not exactly as I remembered it.  There was an awful lot of awful graffiti - with certain choice words in English - all over the walls.  Well, not exactly all over.  In the photos that I received from Shane, the graffiti "artists" left my art alone.  Their eyesores were scribbled all around my murals, but they respected my work.  I didn't think that ever happened with graffitiers. 

As for my third mural on Isabela Island, the building had been demolished.  Hey, it happens.

PERU - I've painted all over the world, but my favorite location has always been Tamboccocha, Peru.  It's a tiny little village surrounded by the snow-covered Andes Mountains.  And, as we painted, we were also surrounded by pigs on an occasion or two.  The village is so far off the beaten path and there is no reason for a tourist to ever go there, unless painting a mural or fulfilling a mission for a friend.

I was very surprised that Shane even found Tamboccocha on a map.  (I told you he was organized.)  And, a lot of his journey to get there was on foot, climbing one of those mountains.  I hate climbing mountains, but Shane had a unique mission that motivated him.

One of the local community members who helped paint my mural was Marcelino, the founding father of the village.  I was thrilled to photograph him when I visited the place in 2012.  And, when I returned home, I drew a portrait of him, the first from my travels in the Americas.  Shane's mission, in addition to checking out the mural, was to locate Marcelino and give him a copy of the portrait.

Shane is the first to admit his Spanish isn't all that great.  But, he really didn't need to speak it.  When he showed up in Tamboccocha with a portrait of Marcelino in hand, he was directed to the proper home.  In the courtyard sat the 90-year-old founding father with his wife, snapping beans.  Even with my limited Spanish, I most likely would have sat down to join them.  However, the clouds looked ominous and a storm was brewing.  Shane had time to deliver the portrait, snap a couple of photos and check on the mural (which had held up fairly well).  Then, he had to race back down the mountain.

I've always had this dream about a Phillip Martin Mural Tour, re-roaming the planet to find my previous projects.  I'm beginning to realize that the exterior murals I painted do not have a very long shelf-life.  But, if I don't make it to some of these locations a second time, perhaps more friends like Shane will cross some of the paths I've followed and send me updates.  However, I honestly think I would prefer to only hear about murals that remain more or less in pristine condition.