In the middle of the night I am dreaming. I have to pee. I get up, go to the bathroom, take out my tiny penis and pee. I wake up in a puddle of urine that soaks the sheets of my narrow bed.

I burst into tears. My Mother comes running, switches on the light and cradles me in her arms. I feel the warmth and softness of her bosom.

“There, there. Don’t cry. You had an accident.”

She takes the urine soaked, stinky sheets off and tucks me into fresh, clean sheets.

My kid brother, alarmed and rudely awakened is angry. “Davy, did you wet your bed again?” All this ruckus rouses my three older sisters in the adjoining bedroom.

The only person who snores on is Dad. He eschews any responsibility for child rearing or housework of any kind. That’s
women’s work.

Primary functional enuresis—bed wetting—is the single most powerful independent variable shaping my lifelong character and behavior, accounts for my extremely low self-esteem, introversion, shyness and self-denigration and cripples me with a multitude of phobias that make life almost unbearable. I don’t dare speak in public (glossophobia), am terrified when I have to put something in writing (graphophobia), know that I am going to fail however hard I try (atychiphoia), am scared to death of Frankenstein’s Monster (bogyphobia), fear going to bed because of recurring nightmares (clinophobia), am really afraid of my desktop computer (cyberphobia), can’t express my opinions on controversial subjects (doxophobia), am tongue-tied and unable to express myself (laliophobia), fear death (necrophobia) and poverty (peniaphobia) and most of all fear all my phobias (phobophobia).

In the 1920s all kinds of myths were associated with bed-wetting. Guilt feelings prevailed. Bed-wetting was seen as punishment for misbehavior. Today we know better. Post nocturnal enuresis (PNE) is caused by physical and physiologic factors, not stress, poor self-esteem or emotional immaturity. Today, some medications help overcome PNE—Imipramine and Desmpressin acetate may help. More effective are retention control training where the child is asked to control urination by postponing it to increase bladder capacity and strengthen the muscle that holds the urine back. Night-lifting is effective. Waking the child periodically throughout the night and walking him to the bathroom many times. Moisture alarms can cure PNE. When the child begins to pee, an alarm is set off, wakes the child, sends him to the bathroom and then back to sleep. Finally, hypnosis is being used to re-program the brain so the child will respond to a full bladder while asleep the same as when awake.

Unfortunately, none of these cures were available in the1920s for poor little me. PNE shattered my dream of becoming a well-integrated, creative person comfortable with himself and phobia free. PNE is a choking albatross I shall carry to my grave.

(The photo is of me at one, before suffering from PNE)

My empirical observations of virtuoso musicians lead me to form this hypothesis: The master musician and his instrument morph into a single entity. YoYo Ma and his cello are one.Itzak Perlman and his violin are inseparably linked.

To illustrate my point I have created three sculptures—“Thump-Me-Tummy,” a timpanist and his kettle drum; “Strum-Me-Tummy,”a base player plucking the strings of his instrument and “Tickle-Me-Tummy,” a clarinetist fondling his keys.

The contrasting patina between the clarinet and the other two instruments can be explained by the fact that the clarinet is ebony black and even a flash bulb will not brighten its appearance. For the reader who is interested in the technical aspects of the carving, the material is masonite hardboard. I used a set of X-ACTO blades to cut and shape. The finish is brown shoe polish buffed with a soft cloth. The figures are twelve inches tall and one-eighth of an inch thick, which makes them difficult to transport without breakage. Close observation reveals that Thump-Me-Tummy has his head glued back on; Strum-Me-Tummy lost his right leg, which was repaired with Elmer’s Glue-All, but Tickle-Me-Tummy is intact.

A private showing of the original sculpture can be arranged by appointment only at 3158 Alta Vista Unit A, Laguna Woods, California 92637-8861. Please call the sculptor at (949)-859-9082 between the hours of 10 A.M. and 3 P.M. No calls will be taken between 3 P.M. and 6 P.M., because the artist is quite ancient and after an hour’s workout at the Community Fitness Center between 4 P.M. and 5 P.M. he usually takes a nap between 5 P.M. and 6 P.M. Evening calls are acceptable up to 11 P.M. when your host watches the “Daily Show” with Jon Steward on Channel 51.

Please accept my apologies for any inconvenience this rigid telephone schedule imposes. However, these photo reproductions of the three principal sculptures in a large collection—-although much smaller than the originals—-pretty much present the essence of my musical metamorphosis hypothesis.

The main auditorium of the Anaheim Convention is packed with delegates to the national convention of choral directors. All seats are taken. Standees fill every space around three walls. The applause is pervasive, reverberating, sustained. Like nothing I have ever experienced in twenty years of choral singing.

Our conductor, a diminutive little black man who demanded more of us than we could possibly deliver but did, takes bow after bow. He is Jester Hairston, leading exponent and performer of Negro spirituals. We have rocked the premises with “Wade in the Water,” as we trudge across the Ohio River to freedom with slave children on our backs. Many of us drown, but the bloodhounds lose our scent in deep waters.
“Wade in the water.
“Wade in the water children.
“Wade in the water.
“God’s gonna trouble the water.
“Jordan’s water is chilly and cold.
“It chills the body but not the soul.
“If you get there before I do.
“Tell all my friends I’m coming too.
“God’s gonna trouble the water.”

The singing is a capella and superb. Maestro Hairston is a magician. We are torn up inside as we drown in the waters of the Ohio. Powerful dynamics. Wailing sopranos and altos. Booming basses. Crashing crescendos. Singing with one voice.

We are wading in the water with Jester. The last note. A moment of total reverential silence. Then thunderous applause from hundreds of choir directors. A truly Maslowian high. A wave of euphoria overwhelms us. The mystery and magic of joining our voices as one in tribute to those brave men, women and children fleeing slavery. We are with them and would not want to be any other place on Earth.

My wife Jean is glowing. She has never had such a joyful experience, but no strong,young male on Flight 579 from Denver offers to help an 83-year-old woman download her bag from the overhead compartment. A woman flight attendant finally comes to her rescue, but nothing can spoil the feeling of rapture that she feels after four days in Estes Park as the guest of Jean and Tom Sutherland.

She is the second oldest Murray among the 70 Murrays attending a clan reunion in Estes Park, Colorado, and being treated to room and board at the fanciest hotels. How, she wonders, can her namesake second cousin and her Beirut hostage husband afford to pick up this enormous tab?

A retired professor of agriculture and a renowned expert in his field, dean of the Ag department at the American University in Beirut when he was kidnapped by the Islamic Jihad in 1985 and held captive for nearly six-and-one-half years (2,354 days), he is a highly resourceful son of Scotland. He, his wife Jean and two of his three daughters sued the government of Iran (the Ayatollah Komeini ordered his capture) and won big.Tom got $17 million; Jean, Kit and Joan hauled in $20 million for a total of $37 million (out of a $373 million judgment). Tom and Jean are generous people who live simple lives and give, give, give. After going through all that hell, I never dreamed of ending up a multimillionaire, says Tom.

They are gracious hosts, but Tom is unable to stay overnight at Estes due to medical problems. On August 30, he enters cardiac care and has aortic artery stents and a pacemaker installed and feels better than he has in eight months. The photo of Jean and Tom is taken at their cabin, 9,300-feet high near Estes Park in Colorado.

My wife’s maiden name is Jean Ann Murray. Tom’s wife’s maiden name is Jean Ann Murray. My Jean was born in 1922 and raised in Chicago. Tom’s Jean in Ames, Iowa, circa 1932 where her father was an Iowa State professor of agricultural economics and founder of the famous Iowa Living History Farm near Des Moines. William Gordon Murray died from cancer at 88 in 1991 just two days before his son-in-law was freed and reunited with his bride at Wiesbaden, Germany. My father-in-law, William M. Murray, retired vice president of Kerr-McGee Oil Company, died at 90 in his home in Oklahoma City on March 6, 1985.

Born and raised in Scotland, Thomas McGee Sutherland earned his Phd degree in animal science at Iowa State in 1958, two years after he married Jean Ann Murray who later received her Phd degree in English Literature and taught in Beirut alongside her husband and continued to teach after his kidnapping. Her doctoral thesis was on Seneca and Shakespeare. Together they wrote the gripping tale of his captivity and her tireless work to win his freedom--At Your Own Risk--that reads like a mystery thriller replete with minute details of their experience. Both demonstrate total recall of events, sights, sounds, smells, conversations, torture, pain, perseverance, patience and a deep understanding of the cultural clashes in war torn Beirut.

Above all, this book reveals the love, commitment and hope of a special couple whose faith in the future never wavered and is free of bitterness in spite of Tom’s inhumane treatment from June 9, 1985 to November 18, 1991. Tom credits fellow prisoner Terry Anderson, Associated Press Middle East Bureau Chief in Beirut and a fellow Iowa State graduate, with saving his sanity. Terry taught Tom political science, journalism and history. Tom taught Terry agriculture, statistics and French. Terry published a best-selling book--Den of Lions--about his 2,454 days of captivity (100 days longer than Tom’s) They maintain a strong friendship forged in pain and chains and profound mutual admiration and respect.

Of his captors Tom says, “They had no education. They didn’t have a decent job. They never had any chance in life at all.”
In contrast, Tom says, “I grew up in Scotland. My dad gave me all kinds of things--a bicycle and a soccer ball--and I got recognition playing soccer. He bought me a power scooter my senior year in high school and paid my way through university. I had everything going for me until I got kidnapped. That was a bit of a setback, to be sure. But even that! I come out smelling like a rose for God’s sake and end up a multimillionaire. You know? It’s incredible.”

Basking in the glow of these two brilliant, beautiful and gracious people, my Jean was overcome with joy. Seeing and talking, talking, talking endlessly with cousins by the dozens, getting to know new Murrays and renewing acquaintances with dear family friends was a renaissance experience--energizing, invigorating and precious.
You might say she had a "Rocky Mountain high" viewing Long’s Peak, one of Colorado’s tallest mountains. One can almost hear John Denver singing his famous song that mirrors the feelings one has when visiting the state with the most 14,000-foot peaks in the lower forty-eight. I have never been in Estes Park, but I have spend many summer vacations at the “Murray Mansion,” a three-bedroom, two-bath cabin inside a guest ranch 8,400 feet up on Mt. Princeton in the Collegiate Range. Sitting on the front porch and watching the sun set over Mt. Antero is a breathtaking sight. The Rocky Mountains are truly majestic.

I can no longer sleep at 8,400 feet, and even Estes Park at 7,300 feet is more than I can tolerate. So I was left alone and lonely in my Laguna Woods condo while my wife had the time of her life.
Now, refueled and overflowing with four days of Murray-Sutherland euphoria, Jean is back in her quality of life routine--working out at the fitness center, playing golf twice a week, duplicate bridge twice a week, social bridge twice a week and reading books evenings instead of watching the boob tube--all activities programmed to keep her mentally alert and extend her life span beyond the century mark. She is on a roll and maintains a quiet, controlled, dignified outlook on life.

On the other hand, I fritter away time at my computer, watch too much C-Span, write angry letters that don’t get printed, joust with windmills, cry out in the wilderness and rant in a chorus with my writing class soul mates--a routine designed to raise my blood pressure and my spirits but aggravate my hardened arteries and spiral me off this mortal coil. I can’t sit at the feet of Tom and Jean Sutherland for inspiration, but I do feed off the warmth and friendship emanating from Ft. Collins, Colorado, via the Internet. We are both grateful these two beautiful people entered our lives.

“Hey, lay off! Leave me be! Don’t come one step nearer! I’m warning you!”

Thirteen masked, male Carleton students surround the middle-aged night watchman menacingly, determined to put the fear of God in him. They are sick of his poking his high-powered flashlight into their faces and the faces of their dates on blanket parties. They are going to truss him up and toss him into Lyman Memorial Lake.

But Roy Brees is a special police officer and authorized to carry a gun.

The thirteen students move in.

Brees pulls out his revolver and fires a shot.
Burt Krayenbuhl, the leader of the students, is hit.
Rushed to the Northfield, Minnesota hospital, he dies from his wound a few days later. That fateful shot rings out on May 27, 1935.

Poor Burt Krayenbuhl. Poor Roy Brees. Poor Carleton. A student prank results in a double tragedy. The students mean no physical harm to Roy, but they want to end his habit of invading their private space on warm spring evenings in May when they are enjoying the loving arms and soft lips of their dates.

The coroner’s jury exonerates Roy who believes the students mean to truss him up and toss him into this beautiful lake. Roy can’t swim a stroke. He is terrified. He is convinced his life is in danger. He acts impulsively without intending to cause physical harm to Burt. Just a warning shot to say, “I’m serious. Don’t push me.”

After this trauma, Roy Brees is not the same man. He is haunted by remorse. The college removes him from his watchman duties and assigns him to work in the college shop, but he is a social pariah on campus. Persona non grata . Ostracized. Lonely. Why, oh why didn’t he fire that warning shot into the air? I conjecture.

In April 1936, almost a year later, Roy completes the task of painting the boiler room ceiling in the college’s heating plant. As he lowers the scaffold he suddenly slips and plunges to his death on the concrete floor thirty feet below.

In his depressed and fatigued state, was Roy careless and physically out of control? Or, was he so despondent over killing a student that he let himself slip and fall to a certain death?

We shall never know.

But, since its founding in 1866, Carleton College has never experienced a more tragic episode. Should we bury this story in dusty archives or keep it alive to make sure there is no recurrence?

In 2006, does Carleton employ a night watchman armed with a revolver that might be fired and kill again? What is Carleton’s policy on arming its security force? Did Roy Brees need a gun to serve and protect the college community in a small, peaceful Midwest town?

Carleton’s Archivist, Eric Hillemann, responds to my inquiry: “To answer your other question, Carleton today employs a number of campus security officers, but they are not armed. I am not certain, but I think it probable that security personnel on the Carleton campus have never been armed since the 1935 tragedy.”

Ironically, in searching the archives, Hillemann learned from Burt Krayenbuhl’s file that the occupation of his father, Harvey E. Krayenbuhl, was also night watchman.

The photo is the Upper Lyman Lake with Margaret Evans Hall in the background. This girl’s dormitory housed my wife, then Jean Ann Murray, in her senior year.

After living in this gated retirement community for more than twenty-five years, I cannot understand why we have about a dozen Security Department sergeants armed with 9-millimeter pistols. As far as anyone knows, none of these guns has ever had to be removed from its holster. PCM’s risk analyst Jodi Martin tells me our liability insurance premium is not affected by having armed security officers, but I do not feel secure knowing they are armed.

Recently, the California Legislature passed an amendment to the Davis-Stirling Act that governs housing associations and prohibits police-type security operations. The sergeants have lost their Glock handguns. I feel more comfortable now.