-I once was lost but now I’m found,
Was blind but now I see.- — From Amazing Grace

First stop for Marcel's Scooter Shuttle is the yellow fire hydrant, almost always. -Big crowd today, three grasshoppers and a dozen ants,- I tell him, Conductor Marcello.

He changes his name daily like the kid in A Thousand Clowns. Or I do.

On our way to the Los Gatos Free Shuttle –which takes us regularly to the Light Rail that goes into San Jose– we invariably play Pick Up the Bugs. On our way back too.

-Where's next?-, he asks. I eye the ugly Acura dealership, the new bundle of leaves under the oak tree and-the neighborhood six-year-old (born a few days after Marcelino) absorbed in a book by the Carter's lawn gnome, her back to us.

-This side of Cecily's goblin,- I direct him.

-But-she never wants to talk to me,- he responds.

-So-this side-by a yard or two,- I offer, and we take off together.

-And it's not a goblin,- he insists, momentarily looking for an argument. Then he gets one of his dreamy expressions. The kind that reminds me he still believes in Santa. That he writes love letters intermittently to Emily-of the Thomas the Tank Engine series. Mails them. Sends me.

-Let's just pass up the stop,- I offer. -There's no one waiting there anyway,- I continue, -and, besides, I see four bumblebees in front of those leaves,- I say, pointing.

-Marcel!-, calls Cecily-as we pass her by.

Engineer Marcello doesn't hear her, I don't think, and I ignore her.

While Marcel's helping the bees to get on –one's in a wheelchair, and one's very old– I tell him that I noticed that Cecily was reading a geography book.

He asks a couple of questions, I answer-and then he says: -That's an atlas, I think, Papi.- -Probably, yah.-

44 bugs later we're waiting for the shuttle that'll take us to the connection for the Discovery Museum, in the heart of the capital of Silicon Valley. But when we're downtown, we decide at the very last minute to wander over to the Martin Luther King branch of the San Jose Library, and have a different kind of fun than what the Putamayo show had to offer. Marcel's showing me flags he brought along becomes a spark of sorts.

We saunter through the center of MLK, after taking in the giant (miniature) reproduction of San Jose that they feature in the lobby. I've got Marcel's Razor as armature over my shoulder, and he's imitating different walks he's coming across-without being showy.

Ah, sunshine! Good to be out of the House of Stacks for the moment.

Sitting ensemble on one of the benches no one seems to use (facing multiple exits on the east side of the campus), I point at Marcel enthusiastically –behind his back– trying to draw people over with eye contact he's not aware of; he's being very dreamy again.

It's a combo of my salesman's smile/energy and the oddity of product –primarily Marcel– that appears to work magnetically. The flags from Brazil, Poland, Indonesia and Lesotho waving in the background (stuck in the cracks of our bench) help too. I cast my wave in the ocean of students-on-schedule, eyeballing one in particular. The guy with the horn rims, rushing diagonally past us –he wishes!– just has to stop in his tracks.

-What?-, he asks impatiently, taking out his earplugs.

-Marcel's practicing geography today –we home school him– and he'd love for you to give him the name of a country –any country in the world– so he can tell you something interesting about it.-

The guy's somewhat disoriented by the fact that Marcel looks as if all he wants to do is take off on the grounds, zooming around on his Razor, but he offers up-Germany.

Little Andretti stops his fudging with both feet on the scooter, and looks up at the fellow. I can tell that he picked up on the guy having a little difficulty coming up with any name for some reason. Was he trying to pick something -difficult- and couldn't?

-Well, Marcel?-, I ask in my best leading Stage Mother tongue.

Mon petit morceau! Oh, how he looks into those lost eyes of the matriculating man, making him forget momentarily-about his schedule, agenda.

-Used to be split,- he says. With the quizzical-look-response, he adds, -and now-the capital's Berlin for all of it.-

I interrupt his imminent Razor take-off with: -What's it border, Marcel?-

-Poland.-

-On which side?-, I probe. The guy’s glued.

-Eastern.-, he replies, outlining a small circle 8 with his vehicle.

-What else touches it?-

-The Czech Republic.-

-Amazing,- says the (verrrry busy) student finally. There's an somewhat embarrassing few seconds of silence, and then he notes, -You'd think he would have said France.-

I smile at Smarty Pants, and explain, -Yah, he likes to take the unraveled, untraveled road most of the time. That's probably why he didn't mention the capital first off.-

Le Morceau takes off around the plaza.

This day I observed a number of things which were disturbing about the academic community, citizens et. al.:

1. When asked to name a country some people provided a continent.

2. When Marcel pointed out to one individual that the flag of Monaco had the same colors and shape as the flags of Indonesia and Poland-I didn't detect any noteworthy response.

3. A visiting (matriculating) student from Ghana said she didn't know all 53 countries of Africa like Marcel. Also didn't know that our military was making use of the highly olfactory-sensitive Ghanian Pouch Rat (in lieu of dogs) to sniff out landmines worldwide.

4. A Social Science major didn't understand what Marcel meant when he pointed out that Lesotho was an enclave in South Africa. Didn't know what an “exclave” was either-and didn't stop to ask.

5. One dude –when I invited him to provide the name of a country for Marcel– asked if he could pose a question-any question he wanted. Reluctantly, I said okay. -What's the smallest country on earth?-, he asked, looking at Marcel as if they were the same age. Mr. Six-Years-Old (as of February 7th, my little Golden Double Dragon) responded by listing tiny nations for the fellow (aka The Jerk) such as Lichtenstein, Singapore, etc. When Marcel eventually landed on Vatican State the guy went bananas. But none of the other stuff registered as impressive, including an aside Marcel threw his way about a corrupt Vatican accountant and the Sistine Chapel.

6. In running through a number of countries that border China for a group of visiting students from the PRC, Marcel mentioned in passing that Myanmar used to be called Burma. Two other young adults listening nearby took it all in, but didn't find a reason to comment on that point. In fact, no one did.

7. When Uzbekistan came up and Marcel labeled it the -Capital of Stan Torture- -bursting into lyrics (immediately below) with me, not a soul said anything worth repeating. -Hey, that's 'This Land is Your Land'– was the type of thing we elicited. Virtually zero else.

-This Stan is your Stan
This Stan is my Stan
From south of Russia
To the north of Oh-man
To east of Iran
To west of China
This Stan was made for us to bomb
(I don't think so-.)-

And so on.

One doesn't have to be an anarchist to reject the notion that there's a basis for traditional concepts of solidarity. To separate oneself, for the most part, from the fallacy of mainstream national bonding. Which is the foundation for most marching-of any kind.

One of the most instructive experiences I've had of late has to be the repeated rejection I've gone through when offering educators (from K thru College) the opportunity to make use of Marcel in their classrooms-on a basis that might suit their purposes.

In each instance, I made it clear that as a former college instructor of over three decades I had plenty of suggestions respecting how to capitalize on what I had put in their laps. But I think that any dummy can see how much potential lay in the offer, my gesture. My love.

-Ah! As the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.-