I grew up on a short street named Lamoille Street, in a small rural town where there was lots of wilderness nearby. It wasn’t that there were wilderness protection areas surrounding our town, the developers just hadn’t gotten to it yet. They did eventually, but in the meantime, it was a giant unplanned, unspoiled playground for town kids, especially the kids on my street, which abutted the wilderness. The wilderness was huge, at least by kid standards, but we didn’t need a map to find or explore it, not that we could have read a map if one existed. We all just knew the wilderness by heart, and besides, if you ever got lost (I did once, but that’s another story), the old B&L Railroad track, which dissected the playground in its entirety, ran directly past the end of Lamoille Street. Lost? Just find the tracks (never difficult, always up if below and down if above) and follow them home.
Favorite spots in our playground included Red Rock (not really red, named for its appearance when sunsets were reflected in the abundant quartz embedded in the stone). It was a place for exploring and discovering (over and over) ancient trails that led to hidden tree-lined glens with little streams containing an abundance of tiny fish. It was a place for mountain climbing (if 20 feet or so qualifies as mountain climbing) and then basking in the afternoon sun with your shirts off. It was a place to bring your girlfriend, your very first, to be impressed by the solitude and the beauty and the impressive view, and bask in the sun with your shirts off (or not).
The Clay Pit (really full of clay and owned by the Drury Brick Company) was another favorite. Definitely not for girls (unless your were Betty Densmore, who was pretty enough, but really a boy in disguise), the favorite pastime was “running the quicksand.” Not sand at all, but deep clay pockets made really soupy by recent rains, they swallowed you up like the quicksand you saw in the movies. The idea was to get running as fast as you could in the hopes that momentum would carry you through the pocket before you disappeared beneath the surface. It usually worked, and except for Denny Daniels (who was really short), we never lost a single kid. We didn’t actually lose Denny, but thought we had when he momentarily dropped out of sight. He popped back up, however, and we pulled him out, none the worse for wear. He did look more a clay sculpture of a Denny than a real Denny, but the clay eventually dried and fell off, to our great disappointment.
The Sand Pit (really sand and also owned by the Drury Brick Company) was our favorite favorite. Here was where we developed our mountain climbing skills. Shear sand walls soared upwards to heights approaching 30 feet (probably less, but it seemed like 30 feet) and being sand meant you could cut hand-holds and foot-holds into the sheer walls. Of course, the sand seldom held your weight and I don’t recall anyone every making it to the top, but the loose sand piled at the bottom of the wall made for soft landings and minimal injury. Sand is a wonderful substance (I suppose that would explain the popularity of sandboxes) and the endless piles of sand made for all sorts of clean fun. No matter how much sand got into your clothes, you could take them off, shake them out, and be clean again. An added bonus was the joy of running naked through the sand piles. For some reason, we could never get Betty Densmore to share in that joy.
12/29/10
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
The Street Where I Lived
When I was one year old, my parents moved to 24 Lamoille Street in Essex Junction, Vermont. My dad, who had just hired on with the State of Vermont as a Forensic Chemist (it sounds far more interesting that it was), was now earning a whopping $3600 a year. He figured he could finally buy his dream house, a small two-bedroom, one-bath cape on a tiny lot, only slightly larger than the house which sat on it. The house, the model home of the subdivision (actually just 16 houses at the end of a dead end street) cost $6500 and required a down payment of just 5% (that’s $325, in case you didn’t have your calculator handy). Being the model home meant that the pipes in the basement were buried under the concrete rather than just sitting on, and the windows had real shutters. They didn’t really shut but it didn’t matter because the home also featured state-of-the-art “triple track storm windows.”
Twenty-eight kids lived on our end of Lamoille Street: impressive when you factor in that eight of the 16 homes had no kids at all and six more had just 10. The five Farnham kids and13 (yes,13) Ketchum kids made up the remainder. I remember occasionally complaining about sharing one bathroom with two parents and four brothers and sisters. I remember my parents occasionally responding by pointing to the Ketchum house across the street. Remarkably, the Ketchum house was always immaculate, inside and out. I’m not sure, but I believe Mrs. Ketchum, who died early, may have been nominated for sainthood by the local Catholic Church. If she wasn’t she should have been.
It turned out that a dead end street made for a great neighborhood, especially for us kids. The only cars that ever drove up our street (our playground) belonged to the people who lived there. They knew to watch out for us and knew that games of stick ball, or dodge ball, or hide-and-seek, or tag, or bike racing always had the right-of-way. In a neighborhood that boasted only one television (everybody gathered at the Robbins twins’ house on Sunday night to watch The Ed Sullivan Show, but that’s another story), there was still always a game on, but a real game being played by real kids. It was a mixed blessing when several years after our subdivision was complete, the city decided to pave Lamoille Street, at the time the only unpaved street in town. Games became less dirty (the mud kind, not the playing house with the Robbins twins kind) but more injury-prone. Bike races were better; sliding into home base, not so much.
Not too long after the street was paved I got my first “two-wheeler.” I learned to ride it by pedaling through all the back yards on our side of the street. Fences were unheard in our neighborhood, landscaping was scarce, and the grass was far softer than the pavement. After just a few days of “sod busting,” I graduated to the street, where I was allowed to ride all the way to the corner store, which was called appropriately enough, The Corner Store. A plethora of tasty treats at two (not one, but two) for a penny filled the candy cabinet. Riding to the corner store is where the trouble began. Not accustomed to cars and drivers that weren’t always looking out for kids, I was “bumped into” several times on my journeys. I was never seriously hurt, and always driven home by the seriously freaked out “bumpers.” Fortunately, or maybe not, I was a handy little guy and always managed to get my bike back into usable, if not usual, condition. My parents may have wondered why my bicycle always looked so beat up, but they didn’t have a clue as to how many times I’d been run over.
12/27/10
Twenty-eight kids lived on our end of Lamoille Street: impressive when you factor in that eight of the 16 homes had no kids at all and six more had just 10. The five Farnham kids and13 (yes,13) Ketchum kids made up the remainder. I remember occasionally complaining about sharing one bathroom with two parents and four brothers and sisters. I remember my parents occasionally responding by pointing to the Ketchum house across the street. Remarkably, the Ketchum house was always immaculate, inside and out. I’m not sure, but I believe Mrs. Ketchum, who died early, may have been nominated for sainthood by the local Catholic Church. If she wasn’t she should have been.
It turned out that a dead end street made for a great neighborhood, especially for us kids. The only cars that ever drove up our street (our playground) belonged to the people who lived there. They knew to watch out for us and knew that games of stick ball, or dodge ball, or hide-and-seek, or tag, or bike racing always had the right-of-way. In a neighborhood that boasted only one television (everybody gathered at the Robbins twins’ house on Sunday night to watch The Ed Sullivan Show, but that’s another story), there was still always a game on, but a real game being played by real kids. It was a mixed blessing when several years after our subdivision was complete, the city decided to pave Lamoille Street, at the time the only unpaved street in town. Games became less dirty (the mud kind, not the playing house with the Robbins twins kind) but more injury-prone. Bike races were better; sliding into home base, not so much.
Not too long after the street was paved I got my first “two-wheeler.” I learned to ride it by pedaling through all the back yards on our side of the street. Fences were unheard in our neighborhood, landscaping was scarce, and the grass was far softer than the pavement. After just a few days of “sod busting,” I graduated to the street, where I was allowed to ride all the way to the corner store, which was called appropriately enough, The Corner Store. A plethora of tasty treats at two (not one, but two) for a penny filled the candy cabinet. Riding to the corner store is where the trouble began. Not accustomed to cars and drivers that weren’t always looking out for kids, I was “bumped into” several times on my journeys. I was never seriously hurt, and always driven home by the seriously freaked out “bumpers.” Fortunately, or maybe not, I was a handy little guy and always managed to get my bike back into usable, if not usual, condition. My parents may have wondered why my bicycle always looked so beat up, but they didn’t have a clue as to how many times I’d been run over.
12/27/10
Straight Dad - Part 3
Dad was basically a good parent, as was mom for that matter. We kids always had, for better or worse, plenty of food to eat and clean, if not necessarily new, clothes to wear. Our parents weren’t on the way to divorce, in fact hardly ever fought, and treated us with respect most of the time. Discipline was always, or at least almost always, exercised; and love was always, or at least almost always, assumed, if seldom expressed. There was that one time they completely forget my birthday, my 16th birthday to be exact. I mean no party, surprise or otherwise, no gift, expensive or otherwise, no card, signed or otherwise, not even a freakin’ “Happy Birthday.” But who keeps track?
Anyway, dad was basically a good parent. He was, however, incredibly straight. And by straight I mean weird. Take, for example, his habit of always parading from the bathroom (after a bath, for instance) to the bedroom completely naked. Not necessarily a problem except that our house was very small and had only one bathroom (for two adults, and five children, and occasional guests, by the way, but that’s another story) and the path from the bathroom to dad’s bedroom passed through the corner of the living room. Not necessarily a problem, except when I, or more likely my brother, was entertaining a friend or friends, especially a girlfriend or girlfriends (yet another story). Now understand that dad was in no way an exhibitionist, or worse. For him the naked parade was no more than the most practical way to get from point “a,” the bathroom, to point “b,” the bedroom. All the clothes being in the bedroom, it was only practical to travel naked.
Speaking of getting from point “a” to point “b,” dad considered all automobiles (he always called them automobiles, never cars) nothing more than a means to that end. Consequently, automobile options (he referred to them as frills) were never justified. Therefore, when a new car (I mean automobile) was purchased, it had to be without any frills. Frills included, but were not limited to, fancy upholstery, fancy wheels, or even hubcaps for that matter, fancy paint scheme, extra trim, or any trim for that matter, automatic transmission, or anything automatic for that matter, or a radio. An optional heater was his one concession to extravagance. We lived in Vermont where winter can get a little brisk. Speaking of winter, winter required the changing of the tires to “snow treads.” New snow treads being potentially quite expensive; our snow treads were always retreads. Of course, you could never get four matching retreads, but that would have been a frill anyway. Fortunately, the lack of hubcaps usually diverted attention away from the mismatched tires.
Dad didn’t travel much. I never understood why, in that he purchased and read, cover to cover, every issue of National Geographic since January of 1937 (yet another story). He and mom did make one trip of note, to an Indian reservation in the mid-west, that their church (the First Congregational Church of Essex Junction, Vermont) had sponsored for many years. Dad documented the trip in photographs (always photographs, never pictures or heaven forbid “pics”). By document I mean that for every motel in which they stayed during the trip, he took four carefully composed photographs: one of the entry door of their motel unit of the day; one looking across the street from the motel; one looking up the street; and, of course, one looking down the street. I don’t remember seeing any photographs of the actual Indian reservation, but I’m not sure if there were none, or if I just dozed off before we got to that part of his comprehensive vacation album.
If not particularly well-traveled, Dad was, nonetheless, well-informed. In addition to the aforementioned National Geographics he read voluminously, his knowledge of all things trivial was impressive. Not only could he name (and spell correctly, by the way) the capitals of all 50 states, but he also knew the names and capitals of most every country on the planet. Speaking of planets, he knew the names of all the planets in the solar system (not very impressive) as well as the names of all their associated moons (very impressive), including our moon (named, in case you didn’t know, The Moon).
Knowledge, however is not necessarily wisdom; and dad was definitely not the wisest wizard in the woodpile (OK, I have no idea what that means). To his credit, if not to his credibility, he believed all people were basically good, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, that his children would never lie, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, that husbands and wives seldom stray, despite abundant evidence to the contrary (although dad and mom never even thought of straying, at least to my knowledge), and that the American economy would never see another depression (which would be nice, but abundant evidence to the contrary makes it very unlikely). And for nearly all his life, being the good parent that he was, dad taught his children that there was a loving God, and that all people who believed in Him, and attended church regularly, and did their best to always do the right thing, would enjoy an eternal, joyful afterlife in heaven.
To his credibility, but very sadly, he questioned those beliefs at the very end.
02/11/12
Anyway, dad was basically a good parent. He was, however, incredibly straight. And by straight I mean weird. Take, for example, his habit of always parading from the bathroom (after a bath, for instance) to the bedroom completely naked. Not necessarily a problem except that our house was very small and had only one bathroom (for two adults, and five children, and occasional guests, by the way, but that’s another story) and the path from the bathroom to dad’s bedroom passed through the corner of the living room. Not necessarily a problem, except when I, or more likely my brother, was entertaining a friend or friends, especially a girlfriend or girlfriends (yet another story). Now understand that dad was in no way an exhibitionist, or worse. For him the naked parade was no more than the most practical way to get from point “a,” the bathroom, to point “b,” the bedroom. All the clothes being in the bedroom, it was only practical to travel naked.
Speaking of getting from point “a” to point “b,” dad considered all automobiles (he always called them automobiles, never cars) nothing more than a means to that end. Consequently, automobile options (he referred to them as frills) were never justified. Therefore, when a new car (I mean automobile) was purchased, it had to be without any frills. Frills included, but were not limited to, fancy upholstery, fancy wheels, or even hubcaps for that matter, fancy paint scheme, extra trim, or any trim for that matter, automatic transmission, or anything automatic for that matter, or a radio. An optional heater was his one concession to extravagance. We lived in Vermont where winter can get a little brisk. Speaking of winter, winter required the changing of the tires to “snow treads.” New snow treads being potentially quite expensive; our snow treads were always retreads. Of course, you could never get four matching retreads, but that would have been a frill anyway. Fortunately, the lack of hubcaps usually diverted attention away from the mismatched tires.
Dad didn’t travel much. I never understood why, in that he purchased and read, cover to cover, every issue of National Geographic since January of 1937 (yet another story). He and mom did make one trip of note, to an Indian reservation in the mid-west, that their church (the First Congregational Church of Essex Junction, Vermont) had sponsored for many years. Dad documented the trip in photographs (always photographs, never pictures or heaven forbid “pics”). By document I mean that for every motel in which they stayed during the trip, he took four carefully composed photographs: one of the entry door of their motel unit of the day; one looking across the street from the motel; one looking up the street; and, of course, one looking down the street. I don’t remember seeing any photographs of the actual Indian reservation, but I’m not sure if there were none, or if I just dozed off before we got to that part of his comprehensive vacation album.
If not particularly well-traveled, Dad was, nonetheless, well-informed. In addition to the aforementioned National Geographics he read voluminously, his knowledge of all things trivial was impressive. Not only could he name (and spell correctly, by the way) the capitals of all 50 states, but he also knew the names and capitals of most every country on the planet. Speaking of planets, he knew the names of all the planets in the solar system (not very impressive) as well as the names of all their associated moons (very impressive), including our moon (named, in case you didn’t know, The Moon).
Knowledge, however is not necessarily wisdom; and dad was definitely not the wisest wizard in the woodpile (OK, I have no idea what that means). To his credit, if not to his credibility, he believed all people were basically good, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, that his children would never lie, despite abundant evidence to the contrary, that husbands and wives seldom stray, despite abundant evidence to the contrary (although dad and mom never even thought of straying, at least to my knowledge), and that the American economy would never see another depression (which would be nice, but abundant evidence to the contrary makes it very unlikely). And for nearly all his life, being the good parent that he was, dad taught his children that there was a loving God, and that all people who believed in Him, and attended church regularly, and did their best to always do the right thing, would enjoy an eternal, joyful afterlife in heaven.
To his credibility, but very sadly, he questioned those beliefs at the very end.
02/11/12
Straight Dad - Part 2
To say that my dad was straight is not to say that he was always boring, even though he was much of the time. On occasion, however, his straightness could be somewhat amusing, and in one instance that comes to mind it provided real entertainment.
The boring part, we evidenced on a daily basis. Dad had established, early in his married life, what some might refer to as a routine, except that with dad it was more akin to a religion. I don’t mean the church-going kind, although going to church was definitely a part of it. Dad, and mom to her great distress having been baptized Catholic, were members of and attended religiously (pardon the pun) the First Congregational Church of Essex Junction, Vermont. Not that there was a Second Congregational Church, but there was a Methodist Church, and even a Catholic Church, both of which were politely tolerated, but never attended; except on the third Thursday of each month, when the Masons met at the Methodist Church, but never in the sanctuary, except sometimes when the activity hall was otherwise occupied, but never in a religious context, except when sacred rites were being performed, which were highly religious, but definitely not Methodist religious…probably.
In any case, dad had a routine which he followed religiously most of his adult life. Not to bore you with the details, suffice it to say it included such rituals as the daily rotation of the suits, and shoes, and socks (always white), and fortunately, underwear. Weekends excluded, it included leaving for work at precisely 7:35 am each morning and returning at precisely 5:35 pm each evening. It included reading the paper for precisely 25 minutes, followed by dinner at precisely 6:00 pm. Approximately one hour of relaxation followed dinner which could include television, rarely, Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, occasionally, or National Geographic Magazine, regularly. He subscribed, by the way, in 1937, and maintained his subscription until he passed away in 2002, generously leaving all 780 issues, plus enclosed maps and attached supplements, to me.
On the weekends, however, routines went out the windows, except for the washing thereof. Of course, the lawn always got mowed, the garden tended, the car washed, the shoes shined (but that’s another story), and the trash taken to the dump. But after that, anything went; unless of course there was a sports event on television, or a repeat of a sports event, or the highlights of a sports event, or a televised discussion of a sports event. Otherwise anything went. Anything, it turned out, was usually an endless trip to visit the grandparents. Dad’s folks only lived about 40 miles away, but dad figured out the he could save nearly six-tenths of a mile on the trip if he avoided all paved roads and drove only on back roads and abandoned hiking trails. Fortunately, mom always packed a picnic lunch to be eaten about two hours into the expedition.
Part of dad being straight was that he was also very frugal. With the exception of abundant, if not gourmet, food, we never had a lot of material things, at least not new material things. Hand-me-downs and rummage sale items supplied our everyday needs and often arrived as birthday or Christmas gifts (but that’s another story). Of course the abundant food was never to be wasted or discarded (the starving children in China were mentioned often) and, for better or worse, we never went hungry.
So one day, with this in mind and with the rare opportunity for a little humor at dad’s expense, I didn’t hesitate when the idea hit me to replace the “sweet creamy filling” of an Oreo cookie with a white plastic poker chip (it was exactly the correct diameter) and leave it conspicuously on the table next to dad’s TV chair. Everyone was in on it except dad, and so when he finally noticed the errant cookie, glancing briefly away from a Geographic article featuring, no doubt, bare-breasted women from Borneo, and prepared to bite down, we all could barely contain ourselves. Dad bit, seemed perplexed, bit again, seemed more perplexed, and bit again. Finally it dawned on him that something might not be quite right. Five children and a wife rolling on the floor in stitches might have been a clue. He took it well, but I think he was a little hurt that mom seemed to be enjoying herself so much.
01/28/12
The boring part, we evidenced on a daily basis. Dad had established, early in his married life, what some might refer to as a routine, except that with dad it was more akin to a religion. I don’t mean the church-going kind, although going to church was definitely a part of it. Dad, and mom to her great distress having been baptized Catholic, were members of and attended religiously (pardon the pun) the First Congregational Church of Essex Junction, Vermont. Not that there was a Second Congregational Church, but there was a Methodist Church, and even a Catholic Church, both of which were politely tolerated, but never attended; except on the third Thursday of each month, when the Masons met at the Methodist Church, but never in the sanctuary, except sometimes when the activity hall was otherwise occupied, but never in a religious context, except when sacred rites were being performed, which were highly religious, but definitely not Methodist religious…probably.
In any case, dad had a routine which he followed religiously most of his adult life. Not to bore you with the details, suffice it to say it included such rituals as the daily rotation of the suits, and shoes, and socks (always white), and fortunately, underwear. Weekends excluded, it included leaving for work at precisely 7:35 am each morning and returning at precisely 5:35 pm each evening. It included reading the paper for precisely 25 minutes, followed by dinner at precisely 6:00 pm. Approximately one hour of relaxation followed dinner which could include television, rarely, Reader’s Digest Condensed Books, occasionally, or National Geographic Magazine, regularly. He subscribed, by the way, in 1937, and maintained his subscription until he passed away in 2002, generously leaving all 780 issues, plus enclosed maps and attached supplements, to me.
On the weekends, however, routines went out the windows, except for the washing thereof. Of course, the lawn always got mowed, the garden tended, the car washed, the shoes shined (but that’s another story), and the trash taken to the dump. But after that, anything went; unless of course there was a sports event on television, or a repeat of a sports event, or the highlights of a sports event, or a televised discussion of a sports event. Otherwise anything went. Anything, it turned out, was usually an endless trip to visit the grandparents. Dad’s folks only lived about 40 miles away, but dad figured out the he could save nearly six-tenths of a mile on the trip if he avoided all paved roads and drove only on back roads and abandoned hiking trails. Fortunately, mom always packed a picnic lunch to be eaten about two hours into the expedition.
Part of dad being straight was that he was also very frugal. With the exception of abundant, if not gourmet, food, we never had a lot of material things, at least not new material things. Hand-me-downs and rummage sale items supplied our everyday needs and often arrived as birthday or Christmas gifts (but that’s another story). Of course the abundant food was never to be wasted or discarded (the starving children in China were mentioned often) and, for better or worse, we never went hungry.
So one day, with this in mind and with the rare opportunity for a little humor at dad’s expense, I didn’t hesitate when the idea hit me to replace the “sweet creamy filling” of an Oreo cookie with a white plastic poker chip (it was exactly the correct diameter) and leave it conspicuously on the table next to dad’s TV chair. Everyone was in on it except dad, and so when he finally noticed the errant cookie, glancing briefly away from a Geographic article featuring, no doubt, bare-breasted women from Borneo, and prepared to bite down, we all could barely contain ourselves. Dad bit, seemed perplexed, bit again, seemed more perplexed, and bit again. Finally it dawned on him that something might not be quite right. Five children and a wife rolling on the floor in stitches might have been a clue. He took it well, but I think he was a little hurt that mom seemed to be enjoying herself so much.
01/28/12
Straight Dad
To say my father was straight would be accurate but fail to convey the degree to which he was. On a scale of 1/10, one being totally out of control, and ten being totally in, he was a 200. Keep in mind that by straight, I don’t mean that he was a heterosexual, although he was, but not so much by choice or physiology as by the belief that homosexuality was either a social disease or just people “acting up.” I mean straight-laced, ultra-conservative, totally devoid of “thinking outside the box,” totally unaware, in fact, that there even was a box.
My brother and sisters and I would often joke that dad was 16 years old when he was born. The point of course being that we couldn’t picture him as a child, doing childlike and/or foolish things. Based on his stories of when he was a teenager, I suspect he was more like 35 when he was born. My brother was born when Dad was 23, so the math gets a little confusing, unless you factor in the square root of negative 1 (“i,” to the mathematicians out there), which doesn’t help at all. My point is, I suspect my father was always very straight, even before fatherhood might have made it seem advisable to him.
Being very straight, my father never did anything less straight people, by which I mean normal people, did. I did hear him use the word “bastard” once, which really caught my attention given his reluctance to cuss, much less swear. It turned out he was referring to a certain type of coarse grain carpenter’s file, properly referred to as a “bastard file,” the possession of which he did not have. The injuries he experienced from the lack might have caused a lesser man to use a cuss word or two, but dad summed up the situation by commenting only on how unfortunate it was.
Because dad never swore it was expected, at least by dad, that his children would do (or perhaps more accurately, not do) likewise. I remember vividly being particularly exasperated one day after failing to perform some task or other, the specificity of which escapes me, and proclaiming loudly, “I don’t give a ……………darn.” Now “darn” was not a cuss word, even in dad’s vernacular, but my initial intent did not escape him, and I was reprimanded appropriately. That is to say I received a stern lecture on the proper use of the English language, with emphasis on what and wasn’t acceptable phraseology, and, more important, what words were, in fact, not words at all, could not be found in the dictionary, and thus had no relevance in any case. Of course, he did not actually use any of those “irrelevant” words to make his point, so to this day I’m not entirely sure to which words he was referring, but I can guess.
You might ask what led me to conclude that my dad was so straight, and honestly I came to that conclusion only later in life. When I was very young, I didn’t really have much of a base for comparison, so I assumed all dads were pretty much the same. Dads of the day were always the breadwinners in the family, always worked long hours, always played golf on the weekends, and were never around a whole lot to be observed for comparison purposes. Dads occasionally would take the family on an outing, or offer some instruction on whatever sport was in season, but mostly kids were left to their own resources, and what great resources we had, but that’s another story.
That said, however, I’m pretty sure no other dad in the world followed the Saturday night ritual of my father. Immediately after supper (in those days people had supper; dinner was a term reserved for holiday feasts and special occasions), and after the TV trays were wiped down and put away, dad would get out his shoes for polishing. That is to say dad would get out all his shoes for polishing. His collection grew exponentially over the years. He never threw any shoes away, or any other article of clothing for that matter, no matter how worn, or ill-fitting, or inappropriate to the style of the day. Thus when I was old enough to leave home, his collection ran to about 30 pairs of shoes, dating back at least as many years, all of which got polished on every Saturday night. Now you might ask, as I did, why every shoe got polished every week, in so much as few pairs, and usually just one pair, had been worn since the last polishing. You would learn, as I did, that the polish would dry out over time (time being one week, I assumed), so that the old polish would need to be replaced with new polish. You might be concerned, as I was, that the polish might then accumulate to an unhealthy, or least unsightly, degree. Not to worry: each shoe was meticulously cleaned of old polish with a mixture of “Old English Saddle Soap” and water before the new polish was applied.
Dad passed away a few years back. I am convinced he left behind several dozen pairs of shoes, none new, none in style, some that didn’t fit, but every last one with a coat of fresh shoe polish.
01/15/12
My brother and sisters and I would often joke that dad was 16 years old when he was born. The point of course being that we couldn’t picture him as a child, doing childlike and/or foolish things. Based on his stories of when he was a teenager, I suspect he was more like 35 when he was born. My brother was born when Dad was 23, so the math gets a little confusing, unless you factor in the square root of negative 1 (“i,” to the mathematicians out there), which doesn’t help at all. My point is, I suspect my father was always very straight, even before fatherhood might have made it seem advisable to him.
Being very straight, my father never did anything less straight people, by which I mean normal people, did. I did hear him use the word “bastard” once, which really caught my attention given his reluctance to cuss, much less swear. It turned out he was referring to a certain type of coarse grain carpenter’s file, properly referred to as a “bastard file,” the possession of which he did not have. The injuries he experienced from the lack might have caused a lesser man to use a cuss word or two, but dad summed up the situation by commenting only on how unfortunate it was.
Because dad never swore it was expected, at least by dad, that his children would do (or perhaps more accurately, not do) likewise. I remember vividly being particularly exasperated one day after failing to perform some task or other, the specificity of which escapes me, and proclaiming loudly, “I don’t give a ……………darn.” Now “darn” was not a cuss word, even in dad’s vernacular, but my initial intent did not escape him, and I was reprimanded appropriately. That is to say I received a stern lecture on the proper use of the English language, with emphasis on what and wasn’t acceptable phraseology, and, more important, what words were, in fact, not words at all, could not be found in the dictionary, and thus had no relevance in any case. Of course, he did not actually use any of those “irrelevant” words to make his point, so to this day I’m not entirely sure to which words he was referring, but I can guess.
You might ask what led me to conclude that my dad was so straight, and honestly I came to that conclusion only later in life. When I was very young, I didn’t really have much of a base for comparison, so I assumed all dads were pretty much the same. Dads of the day were always the breadwinners in the family, always worked long hours, always played golf on the weekends, and were never around a whole lot to be observed for comparison purposes. Dads occasionally would take the family on an outing, or offer some instruction on whatever sport was in season, but mostly kids were left to their own resources, and what great resources we had, but that’s another story.
That said, however, I’m pretty sure no other dad in the world followed the Saturday night ritual of my father. Immediately after supper (in those days people had supper; dinner was a term reserved for holiday feasts and special occasions), and after the TV trays were wiped down and put away, dad would get out his shoes for polishing. That is to say dad would get out all his shoes for polishing. His collection grew exponentially over the years. He never threw any shoes away, or any other article of clothing for that matter, no matter how worn, or ill-fitting, or inappropriate to the style of the day. Thus when I was old enough to leave home, his collection ran to about 30 pairs of shoes, dating back at least as many years, all of which got polished on every Saturday night. Now you might ask, as I did, why every shoe got polished every week, in so much as few pairs, and usually just one pair, had been worn since the last polishing. You would learn, as I did, that the polish would dry out over time (time being one week, I assumed), so that the old polish would need to be replaced with new polish. You might be concerned, as I was, that the polish might then accumulate to an unhealthy, or least unsightly, degree. Not to worry: each shoe was meticulously cleaned of old polish with a mixture of “Old English Saddle Soap” and water before the new polish was applied.
Dad passed away a few years back. I am convinced he left behind several dozen pairs of shoes, none new, none in style, some that didn’t fit, but every last one with a coat of fresh shoe polish.
01/15/12
Thursday, March 1, 2012
The Great Kona Kookoff
Now in its sixth and final week, the Great Kona Kook Off is really heating up (pardon the pun). Local chef Nancy has created some great meals, capitalizing on her years of experience in one of the finest eateries in Kona, and is now honing her presentation skills to a keen edge. Both an entrepeneur and chef, she doesn’t always have the time she would like to perfect her cooking skills, but never fails to impress the judges. Her Chicken Kiev served over mushroom/rice pilaf and sided with Brussels sprouts grilled to golden brown in olive oil and spices was a favorite of all the judges. It didn’t hurt that it was complemented by a lovely spinach and beet salad, sprinkled with bits of feta and tossed in a balsamic vinaigrette dressing.
Newcomer to the Kona scene, Jessica does not have Nancy’s credentials, but has shown great promise and has pulled off some real surprises for a chef of her tender years and limited experience. Bartender by day (or more accurately, by night), she cooks only on the weekends, but continues to surprise the judges. At first considered a long shot to win the competition, she is now considered by some to be the frontrunner. This judge particularly remembers divinely prepared pork medallions in a sultry Béarnaise sauce, with roasted red potatoes, lightly seasoned with rosemary, and to-die-for steamed asparagus tips, complimented with a dollop of hollandaise. The fresh made-apple tort, with vanilla ice cream and chocolate drizzle, made for an excellent finish.
This final week, however, has seen some real excitement. Late in the game, but with the blessing of the other contestants, the judges decided to allow one wildcard entry into the competition. Full-time economist/lecturer and part-time chef Chuck took on the challenge with gusto. With only one chance to make an impression, Chuck pulled out all the stops, went all out, full on, gung ho, balls to the wall; or in other words decided to give it all he had, do his damndest, make the maximum effort, give it his best shot, even make the old college try. The judges were impressed.
The appetizer was broiled scallops with a cherry and nut glaze. Rumor has it, it took hours to pit the fresh cherries. The salad was a delightful mix of greens, cucumbers, tomatoes, and white beans tossed in a Dijon mustard and balsamic dressing. The entrée was lamb chops (too many) smothered in a heavenly sauce, the ingredients of which escape me, and surrounding a mix of brown rice and couscous. The meal was exquisite, as was the desert, a mixed fruit cobbler with oatmeal crust, which I had no room for until much, much later.
Not to be outdone, Chef Jessica came back strong in the final meal of the competition. With a herb cheese, tomato, and basil on toast appetizer, and a sliced daekon, zucchini and summer squash salad with honey Dijon dressing, she was definitely bringing it on. Her entrée of fresh opa (moonfish) served with spinach tossed orzo in a lemon cream sauce, was easily one of the competiton’s signature dishes. The lack of desert was hardly noticed as no one had the room anyway, except for this judge, who made do with a bit of leftover fruit cobbler from Chef Chuck’s earlier offering.
But the big question remains, “Who will win the completion?” The judges are still deliberating and we may not have the results for weeks, but this judge would not be surprised if the contest were declared to be a three-way tie. Not so much because all the meals were wonderful, which they were, and not so much because all the chefs are very talented, which they are; but mainly because this judge would like to continue eating on a regular basis, in the future.
01/09/12
Newcomer to the Kona scene, Jessica does not have Nancy’s credentials, but has shown great promise and has pulled off some real surprises for a chef of her tender years and limited experience. Bartender by day (or more accurately, by night), she cooks only on the weekends, but continues to surprise the judges. At first considered a long shot to win the competition, she is now considered by some to be the frontrunner. This judge particularly remembers divinely prepared pork medallions in a sultry Béarnaise sauce, with roasted red potatoes, lightly seasoned with rosemary, and to-die-for steamed asparagus tips, complimented with a dollop of hollandaise. The fresh made-apple tort, with vanilla ice cream and chocolate drizzle, made for an excellent finish.
This final week, however, has seen some real excitement. Late in the game, but with the blessing of the other contestants, the judges decided to allow one wildcard entry into the competition. Full-time economist/lecturer and part-time chef Chuck took on the challenge with gusto. With only one chance to make an impression, Chuck pulled out all the stops, went all out, full on, gung ho, balls to the wall; or in other words decided to give it all he had, do his damndest, make the maximum effort, give it his best shot, even make the old college try. The judges were impressed.
The appetizer was broiled scallops with a cherry and nut glaze. Rumor has it, it took hours to pit the fresh cherries. The salad was a delightful mix of greens, cucumbers, tomatoes, and white beans tossed in a Dijon mustard and balsamic dressing. The entrée was lamb chops (too many) smothered in a heavenly sauce, the ingredients of which escape me, and surrounding a mix of brown rice and couscous. The meal was exquisite, as was the desert, a mixed fruit cobbler with oatmeal crust, which I had no room for until much, much later.
Not to be outdone, Chef Jessica came back strong in the final meal of the competition. With a herb cheese, tomato, and basil on toast appetizer, and a sliced daekon, zucchini and summer squash salad with honey Dijon dressing, she was definitely bringing it on. Her entrée of fresh opa (moonfish) served with spinach tossed orzo in a lemon cream sauce, was easily one of the competiton’s signature dishes. The lack of desert was hardly noticed as no one had the room anyway, except for this judge, who made do with a bit of leftover fruit cobbler from Chef Chuck’s earlier offering.
But the big question remains, “Who will win the completion?” The judges are still deliberating and we may not have the results for weeks, but this judge would not be surprised if the contest were declared to be a three-way tie. Not so much because all the meals were wonderful, which they were, and not so much because all the chefs are very talented, which they are; but mainly because this judge would like to continue eating on a regular basis, in the future.
01/09/12
Donny Wilson
I met Donny Wilson (not his real name) when I was in the second grade. He was a transfer student from a place I don’t remember; and when Mrs. Walters (her real name) introduced him to the class, he didn’t say a word, he just smiled. It was an odd sort of smile, barely perceptible and sort of slanted, with one eye nearly closed. I thought at the time that Donny might be retarded (intellectually challenged in today’s vernacular, but that’s another story), yet somehow not. He was dirty and disheveled and obviously from “the wrong side of the tracks.” Actually, in Essex Junction, Vermont, a town where four major railroad tracks came together, everybody lived on one side of the tracks or other, so I guess half the town lived on “the wrong side.” Any way, Donny had the look of someone who didn’t know very much. Or, just possibly, the look of someone who knew too much.
Mrs. Walters and Donny’s subsequent teachers assumed the former. He was relegated to the back of the classroom, given very little attention, and allowed to do pretty much what he pleased as long as he didn’t disrupt the class. Of course, disrupting the class was pretty much Donny’s entire agenda. Allowed access to the school supplies room (which seemed really odd to me), he was constantly creating some bizarre project or other. I remember one such project which involved copious amounts of mucilage (this was before Elmer’s Glue was invented) and carbon paper. The project culminated with Donny being paraded to the front of the classroom, purple from head to toe, and covered with carbon paper, for a “show and tell” of what should never happen in the classroom. Donnie was then soundly whacked with a ruler several times on the palm of his left hand (the preferred method of discipline at our school, at least by Mrs. Walters), and dispatched to the principal’s office. In truth, Donny spent much of the second, third, and fourth grades sitting in a chair outside that office.
By the fifth grade it was decided by the administration that Donny’s presence in the classroom was not in the best interest of Donny or his classmates. It should be noted that this was many years before concepts like “mainstreaming” or “no child left behind” were ever discussed in the halls of Congress or even in the conference rooms of school boards. Consequently, an alternative educational program was devised for Donny. I’m sure it was promulgated as an “alternative, trade-based curriculum.” What it really was, was Donny spending each and every school day helping out the janitor. Granted, he became fairly accomplished with a mop and floor polisher, and the floors of our school never looked better, but I doubt if anyone really expected Donny to graduate to the ranks of a respected “educational facility custodian.”
Nonetheless, Donny spent the rest of his elementary and secondary school years as a janitor’s assistant. He never attended classes, didn’t participate in any school sports or activities, and didn’t even eat in the cafeteria with the other students: not that it seemed to bother Donny. To my recollection, he seldom if ever got into trouble after signing on with the custodial staff. He seemed to be, at least as far as I could tell, reasonably happy. I remember seeing him on several occasions in the presence of a pleasant, if not pretty, young lady who seemed to adore him. I believe they were eventually married. Interestingly, after completing his “senior year,” Donny graduated with the Essex Junction High School Class of 1964. He wore a cap and gown like everyone else, and received a diploma. I don’t know what the diploma said. I suspect it doesn’t matter.
What does matter, and the point of this story is what I discovered several years later at my 15-year high school reunion. I was told, and later verified, that Danny Wilson had attended college. He had, in fact, received an undergraduate degree in Education and later a master’s degree in Special Education. He was, at that time, the president of a small college in the Midwest. Donny Wilson, “retarded” janitor’s assistant, had become the president of an institution of higher education. Go figure.
01/23/11
Mrs. Walters and Donny’s subsequent teachers assumed the former. He was relegated to the back of the classroom, given very little attention, and allowed to do pretty much what he pleased as long as he didn’t disrupt the class. Of course, disrupting the class was pretty much Donny’s entire agenda. Allowed access to the school supplies room (which seemed really odd to me), he was constantly creating some bizarre project or other. I remember one such project which involved copious amounts of mucilage (this was before Elmer’s Glue was invented) and carbon paper. The project culminated with Donny being paraded to the front of the classroom, purple from head to toe, and covered with carbon paper, for a “show and tell” of what should never happen in the classroom. Donnie was then soundly whacked with a ruler several times on the palm of his left hand (the preferred method of discipline at our school, at least by Mrs. Walters), and dispatched to the principal’s office. In truth, Donny spent much of the second, third, and fourth grades sitting in a chair outside that office.
By the fifth grade it was decided by the administration that Donny’s presence in the classroom was not in the best interest of Donny or his classmates. It should be noted that this was many years before concepts like “mainstreaming” or “no child left behind” were ever discussed in the halls of Congress or even in the conference rooms of school boards. Consequently, an alternative educational program was devised for Donny. I’m sure it was promulgated as an “alternative, trade-based curriculum.” What it really was, was Donny spending each and every school day helping out the janitor. Granted, he became fairly accomplished with a mop and floor polisher, and the floors of our school never looked better, but I doubt if anyone really expected Donny to graduate to the ranks of a respected “educational facility custodian.”
Nonetheless, Donny spent the rest of his elementary and secondary school years as a janitor’s assistant. He never attended classes, didn’t participate in any school sports or activities, and didn’t even eat in the cafeteria with the other students: not that it seemed to bother Donny. To my recollection, he seldom if ever got into trouble after signing on with the custodial staff. He seemed to be, at least as far as I could tell, reasonably happy. I remember seeing him on several occasions in the presence of a pleasant, if not pretty, young lady who seemed to adore him. I believe they were eventually married. Interestingly, after completing his “senior year,” Donny graduated with the Essex Junction High School Class of 1964. He wore a cap and gown like everyone else, and received a diploma. I don’t know what the diploma said. I suspect it doesn’t matter.
What does matter, and the point of this story is what I discovered several years later at my 15-year high school reunion. I was told, and later verified, that Danny Wilson had attended college. He had, in fact, received an undergraduate degree in Education and later a master’s degree in Special Education. He was, at that time, the president of a small college in the Midwest. Donny Wilson, “retarded” janitor’s assistant, had become the president of an institution of higher education. Go figure.
01/23/11
Elementary School
Though it was eons ago, I still, on occasion, think back on my days as an elementary school student. For some reason I fondly remember my very first day in the first grade. My teacher’s name was Miss Cunin. She was old, probably even over 30, but she was beautiful, and it was love at first sight. As far as I was concerned, Miss Cunin was an angel, and school promised to be heaven on earth. Even when, after recess, she accidentally closed my fingers in the schoolyard door, my love affair was undiminished. When she personally escorted me to the nurse’s office, I couldn’t help but cry with joy. When, misinterpreting my sobs, she gave me a tender hug, I nearly peed my pants. I can’t imagine a much better introduction to formal education than I experienced with Miss Cunin. I was learning, I was happy, and my grades were all “Excellent” (this was back in the day when students actually got grades, but that’s another story).
If first grade was heaven, second grade was pure purgatory. Mrs. Walters was really old, probably over 50, not particularly attractive, and weighed in at about 300 pounds (not that there is anything wrong with that). She didn’t like me at all. I probably shouldn’t have taken it personally: she didn’t much like anyone. She had no use for students in general and second grade students in particular. She had a great deal of use for rulers, but not as an instrument for measuring. Unruly students, which seemed to be all students all the time, would regularly receive a firm slap on the palm of the hand to “get their attention.” In her defense, it was always and only the palm of the left hand (considerate, unless you happened to be left-handed), and even though it stung like heck, it never did any permanent damage. I did wonder, though, why a person who so obviously didn’t like children and teaching would become a teacher in the first place. It must have been for the fabulous salaries that teachers received in those days (yeah, right).
I don’t remember much about third and fourth grade except for the day the fourth graders all got school physical exams. For better or worse this was soon after I discovered that girls were far less annoying and far more interesting than I had previously thought. The day began by dividing up the class into a boy’s changing room and a girl’s changing room. Changing, it turned out, meant stripping down to your underwear and wrapping yourself in a towel (unless you forgot to bring a towel, in which case it meant standing around in your underwear). Towels were rare as students lined up outside the nurse’s room door and, interestingly enough, it didn’t seem important any longer to segregate the boys from the girls. I vividly remember having very mixed emotions that day. I was, of course, embarrassed about being practically naked in front of my classmates, especially my girl classmates. Yet, being naturally curious, I was also fascinated by the impromptu lesson in female anatomy. And, I must admit, I was somewhat aroused by the abundance of nearly naked girls which surrounded me. I might even have bumped into one of those girls (specifically, Betty Densmore, an almost-girlfriend a few years later, but that’s another story) a few times as the line moved slowly forward: not nearly slowly enough.
In the fifth grade, I was “teacher’s pet.” My teacher, Mrs. Grannura (we referred to her as Mrs Granola, but never to her face), had worked, years before, with my father at a large chemical company. He recollected that they had competed for the same promotion, which he received, so he was somewhat perplexed as to why she seemed so taken with me. But taken she was, and in her class I could do no wrong. Don’t get me wrong: this was not a good thing. Good grades and preferential treatment in the classroom didn’t begin to make up for the ribbing and bullying I had to endure outside the classroom, not to mention how unpopular a “teacher’s pet” is with the ladies. I had certainly discovered girls by this time, but they were certainly not about to discover me. My teacher may have doted, but the guys pummeled me, and the gals pretended I was invisible. In retrospect, perhaps Dad shouldn’t have been quite so perplexed.
01/20/11
If first grade was heaven, second grade was pure purgatory. Mrs. Walters was really old, probably over 50, not particularly attractive, and weighed in at about 300 pounds (not that there is anything wrong with that). She didn’t like me at all. I probably shouldn’t have taken it personally: she didn’t much like anyone. She had no use for students in general and second grade students in particular. She had a great deal of use for rulers, but not as an instrument for measuring. Unruly students, which seemed to be all students all the time, would regularly receive a firm slap on the palm of the hand to “get their attention.” In her defense, it was always and only the palm of the left hand (considerate, unless you happened to be left-handed), and even though it stung like heck, it never did any permanent damage. I did wonder, though, why a person who so obviously didn’t like children and teaching would become a teacher in the first place. It must have been for the fabulous salaries that teachers received in those days (yeah, right).
I don’t remember much about third and fourth grade except for the day the fourth graders all got school physical exams. For better or worse this was soon after I discovered that girls were far less annoying and far more interesting than I had previously thought. The day began by dividing up the class into a boy’s changing room and a girl’s changing room. Changing, it turned out, meant stripping down to your underwear and wrapping yourself in a towel (unless you forgot to bring a towel, in which case it meant standing around in your underwear). Towels were rare as students lined up outside the nurse’s room door and, interestingly enough, it didn’t seem important any longer to segregate the boys from the girls. I vividly remember having very mixed emotions that day. I was, of course, embarrassed about being practically naked in front of my classmates, especially my girl classmates. Yet, being naturally curious, I was also fascinated by the impromptu lesson in female anatomy. And, I must admit, I was somewhat aroused by the abundance of nearly naked girls which surrounded me. I might even have bumped into one of those girls (specifically, Betty Densmore, an almost-girlfriend a few years later, but that’s another story) a few times as the line moved slowly forward: not nearly slowly enough.
In the fifth grade, I was “teacher’s pet.” My teacher, Mrs. Grannura (we referred to her as Mrs Granola, but never to her face), had worked, years before, with my father at a large chemical company. He recollected that they had competed for the same promotion, which he received, so he was somewhat perplexed as to why she seemed so taken with me. But taken she was, and in her class I could do no wrong. Don’t get me wrong: this was not a good thing. Good grades and preferential treatment in the classroom didn’t begin to make up for the ribbing and bullying I had to endure outside the classroom, not to mention how unpopular a “teacher’s pet” is with the ladies. I had certainly discovered girls by this time, but they were certainly not about to discover me. My teacher may have doted, but the guys pummeled me, and the gals pretended I was invisible. In retrospect, perhaps Dad shouldn’t have been quite so perplexed.
01/20/11
I've Always Been Clever
I’ve always been clever. Never at the top of my class in school, I none-the-less, usually managed to find a place in the “A” room. Less clever lads were relegated to the “B” room. Okay, I was a “B” roomer in eighth grade, but I’m convinced it was because the principal didn’t like me. I suspect it was because my older brother, whom he liked a lot, convinced him I was a screwup. I doubt if it was because of the iodine, potato, and paper towel incident in the boys’ toilet (I’d rather not talk about it).
In any case, clever carried the day more often than not. In high school, where most of my teachers liked me, and the principal didn’t like anybody, I maintained a B+ average. It wasn’t due to a great work ethic or long hours of studying; and in fact, I seldom carried my books home from school. Of course that meant that I was available to carry the books of my less clever but more diligent and very cute neighbor, Betty Densmore (but that’s another story). I was able to get good grades because, even without a lot of effort, I would quickly get the idea. I did well on exams because, given enough time, I could usually figure out the correct answers. It didn’t hurt that multiple-choice exams were very popular in my school, and I had a system (it’s a carefully guarded secret system, but for a small fee…).
In college (more accurately colleges) I got by, almost exclusively on cleverness. I seldom studied, often didn’t even attend classes, and spent way too much time partying. I quickly discovered that college girls were way different from high school girls, or maybe I was just way different, being away from home for the first time. But in any case, at the end of my third semester, I was failing four out of five classes. Very cleverly, I dropped four out of five classes the day before final exams (you could do that back then) and maintained my B+ average for the year. The following year I cleverly got married, and my clever new wife (alas, not Betty Densmore) put an end to the partying.
After getting my degree in architecture, a field requiring a lot of cleverness, I got jobs with and got laid off from several different firms. Thereafter, I cleverly started my own firm, which met with some success. I like to think the success was due, in part, to my ability to solve vexing problems, plentiful when designing and building homes for fickle clients, with clever solutions. Later I branched out from architecture and construction to real estate. I considered it a very clever move to form a partnership with eight successful real estate professionals. I later wondered how clever it really was to form a partnership with eight successful real estate professional women. The partnership lasted several years, perhaps due less to clever and more to clever’s first cousin, cunning.
Retired now from architecture, construction, and real estate, well perhaps not so much retired as re-purposed, my new practice (with the emphasis on practice) is marketing and graphic design. In a field where cleverness is always needed, but seldom requested, and only occasionally rewarded, my cleverness is, likewise, only occasionally rewarded. On one such occasion, a clever design for a bottled water label won second place in an international competition. On other occasions, clever designs for coffee labels have won local competitions. If, these days, those occasions seem fewer and farther between, I remain optimistic.
After all, during my life I was clever enough not to marry Betty Densmore, and clever enough to not lose my children when my first wife, Jill, left me, for a woman. I was clever enough to have good health insurance, but wasn’t, sadly, clever enough to prevent my second wife, Linda, from dying of cancer. And if not clever enough to see the potential disaster of partnering with eight ambitious women in a real estate company, I was clever enough to see the potential of one of them, Nancy, to be my third wife, my soul mate and the true love of my life.
12/20/10
In any case, clever carried the day more often than not. In high school, where most of my teachers liked me, and the principal didn’t like anybody, I maintained a B+ average. It wasn’t due to a great work ethic or long hours of studying; and in fact, I seldom carried my books home from school. Of course that meant that I was available to carry the books of my less clever but more diligent and very cute neighbor, Betty Densmore (but that’s another story). I was able to get good grades because, even without a lot of effort, I would quickly get the idea. I did well on exams because, given enough time, I could usually figure out the correct answers. It didn’t hurt that multiple-choice exams were very popular in my school, and I had a system (it’s a carefully guarded secret system, but for a small fee…).
In college (more accurately colleges) I got by, almost exclusively on cleverness. I seldom studied, often didn’t even attend classes, and spent way too much time partying. I quickly discovered that college girls were way different from high school girls, or maybe I was just way different, being away from home for the first time. But in any case, at the end of my third semester, I was failing four out of five classes. Very cleverly, I dropped four out of five classes the day before final exams (you could do that back then) and maintained my B+ average for the year. The following year I cleverly got married, and my clever new wife (alas, not Betty Densmore) put an end to the partying.
After getting my degree in architecture, a field requiring a lot of cleverness, I got jobs with and got laid off from several different firms. Thereafter, I cleverly started my own firm, which met with some success. I like to think the success was due, in part, to my ability to solve vexing problems, plentiful when designing and building homes for fickle clients, with clever solutions. Later I branched out from architecture and construction to real estate. I considered it a very clever move to form a partnership with eight successful real estate professionals. I later wondered how clever it really was to form a partnership with eight successful real estate professional women. The partnership lasted several years, perhaps due less to clever and more to clever’s first cousin, cunning.
Retired now from architecture, construction, and real estate, well perhaps not so much retired as re-purposed, my new practice (with the emphasis on practice) is marketing and graphic design. In a field where cleverness is always needed, but seldom requested, and only occasionally rewarded, my cleverness is, likewise, only occasionally rewarded. On one such occasion, a clever design for a bottled water label won second place in an international competition. On other occasions, clever designs for coffee labels have won local competitions. If, these days, those occasions seem fewer and farther between, I remain optimistic.
After all, during my life I was clever enough not to marry Betty Densmore, and clever enough to not lose my children when my first wife, Jill, left me, for a woman. I was clever enough to have good health insurance, but wasn’t, sadly, clever enough to prevent my second wife, Linda, from dying of cancer. And if not clever enough to see the potential disaster of partnering with eight ambitious women in a real estate company, I was clever enough to see the potential of one of them, Nancy, to be my third wife, my soul mate and the true love of my life.
12/20/10
Make Mine Wine
Make no mistake: I am not a connoisseur of fine wine. That is not to say I know nothing about wine. I know most wines are fermented from grapes, except for some specialty wines, which are not, including one wine I know of made in Hawaii, from pineapples. I live in Hawaii, and I like wine, and I like pineapples, so I was confident that I would like pineapple wine. I was wrong. As I remember, it had a pleasant fruity “nose,” but a less pleasant, reminiscent-of-turpentine “finish.”
I also know that wines are classified as red or white, depending on the color of the grapes from which they are fermented, except not necessarily, because red grapes can be, and often are, made into white wines. Red, of course, isn’t necessarily red red. It might also be Rose (pink to us nonconnoisseurs), or amber, or Burgundy, or Ox blood, or Sangria, or even gray. White, of course, isn’t ever white, as in white like milk. It isn’t even ever white, as in clear like water. It’s usually yellow, but may be orange, or straw, or vin Rose, or juane, or even gray.
I know that wine usually comes in bottles: Glass bottles, not plastic bottles, although I don’t know why not plastic bottles, as wine also comes in boxes, with plastic liners. I don’t think fine wine comes in boxes, although I once had a box of Zinfandel (named I believe after one’s inclination after consuming copious amounts thereof) that tasted really quite fine to me. I’m pretty sure wine doesn’t come in cans, but it should if for no other reason than allowing us Hawaii dwellers to bring wine to the beach. Bottles being disallowed on Hawaii public beaches, an icecold can of Chardonnay would be a perfect compliment to a snack of spam musubi.
Yes, Chardonnay is my wine of choice: always served very cold, preferably with lots of ice, and in an insulated plastic cup. Winery and vintage are optional; temperature is not. You might say that my preference confirms that I am less than a connoisseur, but I contend that wine is to be enjoyed, not judged, and I thoroughly enjoy a big glass of Chardonnay, icy cold, served in a cup guaranteed to keep it icy cold until the very last icy drop.
Fortunately, as much as I enjoy my Chardonnay, I never overindulge: not so much by conviction as physiology. One glass of wine and I’m cheerful. Two glasses and I’m conversational; some would say obnoxious, but I prefer conversational. Three glasses and I’m asleep. So unless I start to take my Chardonnay intravenously, three glasses will always be my limit. Granted three, or even two, glasses of wine might make it inadvisable to drive after a night out, but as I have no friends, to night out with or otherwise, it isn’t really a problem.
At one time I fancied myself a wine collector. Being a bit of a computer nerd, I created an elaborate database to track the qualities of the Chardonnay labels and vintages I might try over the years. I had several rating categories, with a 10-point scale for each category. I’ve since forgotten what the categories were, though I’m sure “nose” and “finish” were among them. It didn’t really matter, as whenever I would decide to rate a particular selection, I would fail to do so. Always with the best of intentions, I would drink one glass of the subject wine, only to determine that one glass was not sufficient to reach any conclusions. Therefore, I would drink another glass, reach several conclusions, and expound on them at length. Then, to confirm those conclusions before recording them, I would drink one more glass, and subsequently fall asleep. Inevitably, the next day, what with the hangover and the fuzzy recollections, I would never get around to documenting the research.
01/20/12
I also know that wines are classified as red or white, depending on the color of the grapes from which they are fermented, except not necessarily, because red grapes can be, and often are, made into white wines. Red, of course, isn’t necessarily red red. It might also be Rose (pink to us nonconnoisseurs), or amber, or Burgundy, or Ox blood, or Sangria, or even gray. White, of course, isn’t ever white, as in white like milk. It isn’t even ever white, as in clear like water. It’s usually yellow, but may be orange, or straw, or vin Rose, or juane, or even gray.
I know that wine usually comes in bottles: Glass bottles, not plastic bottles, although I don’t know why not plastic bottles, as wine also comes in boxes, with plastic liners. I don’t think fine wine comes in boxes, although I once had a box of Zinfandel (named I believe after one’s inclination after consuming copious amounts thereof) that tasted really quite fine to me. I’m pretty sure wine doesn’t come in cans, but it should if for no other reason than allowing us Hawaii dwellers to bring wine to the beach. Bottles being disallowed on Hawaii public beaches, an icecold can of Chardonnay would be a perfect compliment to a snack of spam musubi.
Yes, Chardonnay is my wine of choice: always served very cold, preferably with lots of ice, and in an insulated plastic cup. Winery and vintage are optional; temperature is not. You might say that my preference confirms that I am less than a connoisseur, but I contend that wine is to be enjoyed, not judged, and I thoroughly enjoy a big glass of Chardonnay, icy cold, served in a cup guaranteed to keep it icy cold until the very last icy drop.
Fortunately, as much as I enjoy my Chardonnay, I never overindulge: not so much by conviction as physiology. One glass of wine and I’m cheerful. Two glasses and I’m conversational; some would say obnoxious, but I prefer conversational. Three glasses and I’m asleep. So unless I start to take my Chardonnay intravenously, three glasses will always be my limit. Granted three, or even two, glasses of wine might make it inadvisable to drive after a night out, but as I have no friends, to night out with or otherwise, it isn’t really a problem.
At one time I fancied myself a wine collector. Being a bit of a computer nerd, I created an elaborate database to track the qualities of the Chardonnay labels and vintages I might try over the years. I had several rating categories, with a 10-point scale for each category. I’ve since forgotten what the categories were, though I’m sure “nose” and “finish” were among them. It didn’t really matter, as whenever I would decide to rate a particular selection, I would fail to do so. Always with the best of intentions, I would drink one glass of the subject wine, only to determine that one glass was not sufficient to reach any conclusions. Therefore, I would drink another glass, reach several conclusions, and expound on them at length. Then, to confirm those conclusions before recording them, I would drink one more glass, and subsequently fall asleep. Inevitably, the next day, what with the hangover and the fuzzy recollections, I would never get around to documenting the research.
01/20/12
On Being Faithful
I’ve always been faithful, okay, more or less, but certainly far more than less. A few months after getting married, my first wife and I returned to Auburn, Alabama, where I was then attending architecture school. A few days after arriving I got a call from an old girlfriend. Unwisely, I agreed to meet her for coffee at the local McDonald’s (not a burger place back then, more like today’s Starbuck’s). Even more unwisely, I agreed to let her drive me back to my apartment. It was a dingy little place behind the town garage, adjacent to the railroad tracks, in a neighborhood so seedy, even the homeless wouldn’t live there, but that’s another story. In any case, and regretfully, the short trip involved a short diversion, and a little making out. It was just the one time; and in fact when, a few weeks later, an old roommate invited me to share his new girlfriend (he was a bit weird), I respectfully declined.
Then much later, but still during my first marriage, there was that “one time at band camp.” Actually my friend and business partner Rob (not his real name) and I were attending a three-day builders’ conference. After two very tedious days of seminars and networking, Rob decided that we deserved a little relaxation. After a little finger walking through the Yellow Pages he discovered “Little Fingers Massage.” Dedicated to the “release of male tension,” he figured it would be just what we needed. I admit to being a bit confused, at least at first, when my masseuse arrived in the room sans clothing. However, the massage was a real massage, if a bit more stimulating than usual; and at the end of the hour, nothing illegal, at least in most states, had transpired. As advertised, I was, at the end of the hour, very relaxed. Near the end of my first marriage, there was one other incident. Again at a builders’ conference, again at the suggestion of Rob (was there a message here?): another, not illegal if not exactly customary, relaxing massage.
My first marriage ended in divorce. I would like to think it had more to do with my first wife’s preference for the ladies and less to do with my minor indiscretions. During my second marriage, to a lovely women whose preference was for me, I indiscressed not once. I’m very glad that I was able to be completely faithful. After 10 years of a wonderful marriage, she passed away from cancer. I would not have wanted to have to deal with the guilt on top of the grief.
Now in my third marriage, going into its 19th year, I am proud to say that I have been almost completely faithful. I have to confess to one small indiscretion. It was recent, quite recent, but hardly worth mentioning. There was certainly nothing illegal, not even in some states. It was just kissing, a little touching maybe, but that was it. Believe me, nothing really happened and it meant nothing to me. Her name was Cameron. I believe her last name was Diaz.
Okay, it was just a dream. And yes, she is way too young for me, and it’s probably not appropriate to dream of such young starlets. But if dreaming of Cameron, or Gwyneth, or Uma, or Drew is inappropriate, there’s still Demi.
Then much later, but still during my first marriage, there was that “one time at band camp.” Actually my friend and business partner Rob (not his real name) and I were attending a three-day builders’ conference. After two very tedious days of seminars and networking, Rob decided that we deserved a little relaxation. After a little finger walking through the Yellow Pages he discovered “Little Fingers Massage.” Dedicated to the “release of male tension,” he figured it would be just what we needed. I admit to being a bit confused, at least at first, when my masseuse arrived in the room sans clothing. However, the massage was a real massage, if a bit more stimulating than usual; and at the end of the hour, nothing illegal, at least in most states, had transpired. As advertised, I was, at the end of the hour, very relaxed. Near the end of my first marriage, there was one other incident. Again at a builders’ conference, again at the suggestion of Rob (was there a message here?): another, not illegal if not exactly customary, relaxing massage.
My first marriage ended in divorce. I would like to think it had more to do with my first wife’s preference for the ladies and less to do with my minor indiscretions. During my second marriage, to a lovely women whose preference was for me, I indiscressed not once. I’m very glad that I was able to be completely faithful. After 10 years of a wonderful marriage, she passed away from cancer. I would not have wanted to have to deal with the guilt on top of the grief.
Now in my third marriage, going into its 19th year, I am proud to say that I have been almost completely faithful. I have to confess to one small indiscretion. It was recent, quite recent, but hardly worth mentioning. There was certainly nothing illegal, not even in some states. It was just kissing, a little touching maybe, but that was it. Believe me, nothing really happened and it meant nothing to me. Her name was Cameron. I believe her last name was Diaz.
Okay, it was just a dream. And yes, she is way too young for me, and it’s probably not appropriate to dream of such young starlets. But if dreaming of Cameron, or Gwyneth, or Uma, or Drew is inappropriate, there’s still Demi.
The New Fridge
Not too long ago, the time came to replace our old refrigerator. It wasn’t that our old refrigerator was no longer fridging; it was, more or less. It was, however, no longer icemaking, at least not the automatic way. You could still put water into those funky little plastic trays with several little compartments, if you had any funky little plastic trays with several little compartments, which I did, having found two in the very back of the bottom of the cabinet in the corner of the kitchen. They were nearly hidden behind the Lazy Susan , which really was lazy because it no longer Susaned, even a little bit. I easily extracted them by emptying the entire cabinet, lying on the kitchen floor, crawling sideways around Susan and stretching into the far, somewhat scary recess. You could then fill the funky little plastic trays with tap water (because you no longer purchased bottled water, because you had decided that tap water and food were better than bottled water and no food, but that’s another story), then place the funky little plastic trays in the freezer, spilling only about half the tap water, where, in due course, the tap water would freeze. You could then take the funky little trays from the freezer and, with a quick twist, get to see them completely disintegrate, because they were really old and really brittle.
So the time came to replace our refrigerator, which we did. It’s important to note that we were able to do so only because Jessica, our daughter, was and is an incredibly generous person; and Kevin, her boyfriend at the time, was but isn’t anymore, a manager at Lowes, and got a substantial manager’s discount. The new fridge is great. It’s big, it has all the bells and whistles, and it’s stainless steel. OK, it doesn’t actually have any bells or whistles, and it isn’t actually stainless steel. But it does have a working icemaker, a “lockable” cold water dispenser (I suppose to curb careless or indiscriminate drinking of water), and a 10-station adjustable, humidity controlled crisper drawer. And the door is painted with stainless steel colored metallic paint, so it looks just like stainless steel, sort of. Interestingly, it came with a removable protective plastic coating, very scratched-up, which the delivery guy suggested we keep on the fridge “for protection.” The logic of having the fridge be scratched-up so it wouldn’t get scratched-up, escaped me.
The new fridge also has a state-of-the-art, replaceable Refrigerator Ice & Water Filter made by PUR, a company whose name looks like “purr,” the sound, but I suspect is supposed to be pronounced like “pure,” the condition. I like the idea of having a water filter in our new fridge, and I’m sure filtered water is probably better for us than unfiltered water. In fact, the filter promises to “reduce 6 contaminates including lead and mercury.” I’m pretty sure municipal drinking water isn’t supposed to contain any lead or mercury, but it’s nice to know we’re covered, just in case. I was a bit concerned about how I would know when it was time to replace our replaceable filter until I discovered the “Water Filter Status” light. The little light bulb, usually green, turns yellow for awhile and then red when the filter needs replacing. Very handy, but how does the fridge really know if the filter really needs to be replaced? I doubt if it can measure the amount of lead or mercury or the other four unnamed contaminants in the filter at any given time. I doubt if it has a clock built in, or more aptly, a calendar, to measure the months of use. It might count the number of times ice was made or the number of times someone drank some indiscriminate water, or it might count the number of times the door has been opened since the filter was installed. It does have that little button that gets released and turns on the refrigerator light whenever the door opens, then turns it off again when the door closes (or so they claim: I for one have never crawled inside the fridge and closed the door to verify the claim).
Also, when the filter has been replaced, how does it know that it has? The fact is, it doesn’t know. Right under that aforementioned button that controls that aforementioned light, it says to “push switch 10 times in 5 seconds to reset indicator light to green” (or maybe it’s 5 times in 10 seconds). In any case, the fridge has no idea if the filter has been replaced or not, and I suspect no idea if it needs replacing or not. I’m pretty sure I don’t have lead or mercury in my water to start with or any of the other unnamed contaminants, so I’ve decided not to replace the filter, ever. However, when it turns from green to yellow to red, I will push the aforementioned button 10 times in five seconds, or maybe 5 times in 10 seconds, so my fridge and the world will believe I did.
So the time came to replace our refrigerator, which we did. It’s important to note that we were able to do so only because Jessica, our daughter, was and is an incredibly generous person; and Kevin, her boyfriend at the time, was but isn’t anymore, a manager at Lowes, and got a substantial manager’s discount. The new fridge is great. It’s big, it has all the bells and whistles, and it’s stainless steel. OK, it doesn’t actually have any bells or whistles, and it isn’t actually stainless steel. But it does have a working icemaker, a “lockable” cold water dispenser (I suppose to curb careless or indiscriminate drinking of water), and a 10-station adjustable, humidity controlled crisper drawer. And the door is painted with stainless steel colored metallic paint, so it looks just like stainless steel, sort of. Interestingly, it came with a removable protective plastic coating, very scratched-up, which the delivery guy suggested we keep on the fridge “for protection.” The logic of having the fridge be scratched-up so it wouldn’t get scratched-up, escaped me.
The new fridge also has a state-of-the-art, replaceable Refrigerator Ice & Water Filter made by PUR, a company whose name looks like “purr,” the sound, but I suspect is supposed to be pronounced like “pure,” the condition. I like the idea of having a water filter in our new fridge, and I’m sure filtered water is probably better for us than unfiltered water. In fact, the filter promises to “reduce 6 contaminates including lead and mercury.” I’m pretty sure municipal drinking water isn’t supposed to contain any lead or mercury, but it’s nice to know we’re covered, just in case. I was a bit concerned about how I would know when it was time to replace our replaceable filter until I discovered the “Water Filter Status” light. The little light bulb, usually green, turns yellow for awhile and then red when the filter needs replacing. Very handy, but how does the fridge really know if the filter really needs to be replaced? I doubt if it can measure the amount of lead or mercury or the other four unnamed contaminants in the filter at any given time. I doubt if it has a clock built in, or more aptly, a calendar, to measure the months of use. It might count the number of times ice was made or the number of times someone drank some indiscriminate water, or it might count the number of times the door has been opened since the filter was installed. It does have that little button that gets released and turns on the refrigerator light whenever the door opens, then turns it off again when the door closes (or so they claim: I for one have never crawled inside the fridge and closed the door to verify the claim).
Also, when the filter has been replaced, how does it know that it has? The fact is, it doesn’t know. Right under that aforementioned button that controls that aforementioned light, it says to “push switch 10 times in 5 seconds to reset indicator light to green” (or maybe it’s 5 times in 10 seconds). In any case, the fridge has no idea if the filter has been replaced or not, and I suspect no idea if it needs replacing or not. I’m pretty sure I don’t have lead or mercury in my water to start with or any of the other unnamed contaminants, so I’ve decided not to replace the filter, ever. However, when it turns from green to yellow to red, I will push the aforementioned button 10 times in five seconds, or maybe 5 times in 10 seconds, so my fridge and the world will believe I did.
Monday, January 16, 2012
On Getting Old, Part 3
One advantage of getting old, or at least so I thought, was the ability to take advantage of the Social Security Administration Medicare Program. The advantage is there, to be sure, the taking thereof can be a bit challenging.
Approaching age 65, I contacted the SSA to get set up for Medicare. Medicare, as it turns out, is available for just about everyone. Everyone, as it turns out, doesn’t include people with kidney cancer and/or on dialysis, whom I assume, must either be rich (they won’t be for long, dialysis isn’t cheap) or must “get their affairs in order” (because kidney cancer is almost always fatal), but for the rest of us, there are several options for little or no cost, all of which provide little or no coverage. Actually, the coverage isn’t too bad, as coverage goes, as long as you select wisely from those several options.
The application process was interesting, to say the least. I received my Medicare Card, in “due course,” after filling out a “short” on-line questionnaire (twice, because the site went down during the first filling), making a phone call (three actually, because no one was available for call one or two), and waiting for several weeks (apparently what constitutes “due course”). My card indicates that I am enrolled in Medicare Part A and Medicare Part B. I am not enrolled in Medicare Part D or Medicare Part C, if there is a Part C, which I don’t think there is, but there might have been at one time or else why would Part D be Part D instead of Part C, unless the D stands for “Donut Hole,” which I understand is the most important part of Part D, and resembles a “black hole,” into which everything that falls gets no prescription coverage at all.
In any case, because of Part D and probably because there is no Part C and because Part A and Part B don’t cover a lot of stuff, and the stuff they do cover has limitations and “co-pays,” I decided to also get “supplemental” insurance from the HMO that had been insuring my company for years. I applied and was forwarded, in due course, two (no I don’t know why) complete applications packages with complete information packages and supporting packages from the Social Security Administration, which, of course, I had already received directly from the Social Security Administration. I filled out one application carefully and completely, including all the appropriate information and making all the appropriate choices, only to discover “in due course” that I had been sent the wrong application.
So, in due course, I was forwarded two more application packages (the correct ones this time) with two more complete information packages and, of course, two more supporting packages from the Social Security Administration. I filled out one application carefully and completely, including all the appropriate information and making all the appropriate choices, and “in due course” was accepted into the program; I assume because I don’t have kidney cancer and/or am not on dialysis, but mostly because they are “happy to provide coverage” as long as they are required by law to do so and I pay the premiums. Consequently, in due course, I received my complete enrollment package, including the complete information package, twenty pages worth of information cleverly condensed to 300 pages of text and graphics, and, of course, a complete supporting package from the Social Security Administration.
I should mention that my enrollment package also included the HMO “Abridged Formulary for Part D Prescription Coverage.” The partial list of over 3000 prescription medications that are provided for a “small co-pay” to “plan participants.” Included are any all prescriptions that can be obtained inexpensively by the HMO and are also unlikely to be prescribed by the HMO doctors. Or perhaps it just seems that way.
05/12/11
Approaching age 65, I contacted the SSA to get set up for Medicare. Medicare, as it turns out, is available for just about everyone. Everyone, as it turns out, doesn’t include people with kidney cancer and/or on dialysis, whom I assume, must either be rich (they won’t be for long, dialysis isn’t cheap) or must “get their affairs in order” (because kidney cancer is almost always fatal), but for the rest of us, there are several options for little or no cost, all of which provide little or no coverage. Actually, the coverage isn’t too bad, as coverage goes, as long as you select wisely from those several options.
The application process was interesting, to say the least. I received my Medicare Card, in “due course,” after filling out a “short” on-line questionnaire (twice, because the site went down during the first filling), making a phone call (three actually, because no one was available for call one or two), and waiting for several weeks (apparently what constitutes “due course”). My card indicates that I am enrolled in Medicare Part A and Medicare Part B. I am not enrolled in Medicare Part D or Medicare Part C, if there is a Part C, which I don’t think there is, but there might have been at one time or else why would Part D be Part D instead of Part C, unless the D stands for “Donut Hole,” which I understand is the most important part of Part D, and resembles a “black hole,” into which everything that falls gets no prescription coverage at all.
In any case, because of Part D and probably because there is no Part C and because Part A and Part B don’t cover a lot of stuff, and the stuff they do cover has limitations and “co-pays,” I decided to also get “supplemental” insurance from the HMO that had been insuring my company for years. I applied and was forwarded, in due course, two (no I don’t know why) complete applications packages with complete information packages and supporting packages from the Social Security Administration, which, of course, I had already received directly from the Social Security Administration. I filled out one application carefully and completely, including all the appropriate information and making all the appropriate choices, only to discover “in due course” that I had been sent the wrong application.
So, in due course, I was forwarded two more application packages (the correct ones this time) with two more complete information packages and, of course, two more supporting packages from the Social Security Administration. I filled out one application carefully and completely, including all the appropriate information and making all the appropriate choices, and “in due course” was accepted into the program; I assume because I don’t have kidney cancer and/or am not on dialysis, but mostly because they are “happy to provide coverage” as long as they are required by law to do so and I pay the premiums. Consequently, in due course, I received my complete enrollment package, including the complete information package, twenty pages worth of information cleverly condensed to 300 pages of text and graphics, and, of course, a complete supporting package from the Social Security Administration.
I should mention that my enrollment package also included the HMO “Abridged Formulary for Part D Prescription Coverage.” The partial list of over 3000 prescription medications that are provided for a “small co-pay” to “plan participants.” Included are any all prescriptions that can be obtained inexpensively by the HMO and are also unlikely to be prescribed by the HMO doctors. Or perhaps it just seems that way.
05/12/11
On Getting Old, Part 2
I could be wrong, but I don’t think anybody wants to get old. I think we all have a time in our lives when we would like to get older: old enough to drive, for instance, or old enough to date, but definitely not old. I’m know that no self-respecting man wants to be considered “an old guy,” or worse, “an old fart,” or worse yet, “a dirty old man,” or the worst, “a senior citizen.” And I suspect that no self-respecting woman desires to be thought of as “a spinster,” or worse “an old maid,” or worse yet “an old hag,” or the worst, “a lovely elderly person.” I’m pretty sure that, as inevitable as it is, getting old is not something that we aspire to. My experience tells me that, in fact, most of us fear it to some degree, and some of us actually dread it. But I’m here to say that getting old, and being old, is not necessarily all that bad.
Take, for instance, dating: that age old institution that we couldn’t wait to be old enough for. Let’s face it, dating sucks; unless of course, awkward moments, unfulfilled expectations, and rejection are your idea of fun. It’s true that most of us met our spouses or partners through dating, and it was probably worth it, even though our several relationships probably didn’t work out; but it still sucks. Old people however, don’t have to date. OK, it’s usually because we couldn’t even if we wanted to, but even if we did, believe me, it would be a waste of time, and possibly a waste of Viagra, should we think we might get lucky which, believe me, we won’t. Old people who are single, for whatever reason, and there are nearly as many reasons as old people who are single, meet other old people at church, or at the senior center, or at work, but probably not at work because we are old and got fired and can’t find another job, because even though we have tons of experience, and know the job better than the kid who just started, but gets paid more, is young, and thus has more potential, though no skills whatever…. but I digress. My point is that dating sucks and old people don’t have to do it, not that it would do any good anyway.
And speaking of work (the thing that most old people don’t do anymore), the great thing is, they don’t have to, because old people get Social Security and Medicare, which allows them to retire “in comfort.” This, of course, assumes that retiring “in comfort” doesn’t require that you are able to stay in the house that you purchased many years ago and have almost paid off; because your Social Security check barely covers the taxes and insurance, much less the payment. And it assumes that “in comfort” doesn’t necessarily mean in good health, because Medicare, while cheap, isn’t free, and doesn’t cover everything, especially your prescriptions, which never seem to be in the “formulary,” and even the ones that are, aren’t covered most of the time because of the “donut hole.” But, not to be negative, as long as old people are flexible and don’t care about the frills, like houses, or fancy cars, or fancy clothes, or travel, or eating out, or eating much, or eating regularly; they, in fact, don’t have to work.
And speaking of fancy clothes, old people have little need for fancy clothes, which is a good thing because clothes today are designed for skinny children, or at least people who look like skinny children. And even if we are old people who look like skinny children, except we don’t look like children, because we’re old, chances are that jeans that don’t cover our navel, or tops that don’t cover our navel, or underwear that peeks out from both, but still doesn’t cover our navel, are not our idea of fashion, or even appropriate attire. But fortunately, sweat shirts and sweat pants come is a large variety of sizes and colors and we can wear them all the time, because exercising is a good thing and a very popular thing and how is anyone to know that we aren’t just about to go exercise, or just coming back from exercising or, if we’re out and about, actually exercising at the moment. And better yet, they completely cover our underwear, so no one knows that our underwear, which we never intended to be a fashion statement, may provide “relaxed comfort,” or “extra support,” or “superior wetness protection.”
So we can stop fearing or even dreading getting, or being, old. Now that we see a few of the many benefits, we can relax and start anticipating our “twilight years,” and/or enjoying them “in comfort.” Let’s put our favorite record in the record player, or put our favorite CD in the CD player, or our cue up our favorite itune on our ipod; pop some hot pockets in the microwave, break out a box of wine, and enjoy life. Old is good.
03/15/11
Take, for instance, dating: that age old institution that we couldn’t wait to be old enough for. Let’s face it, dating sucks; unless of course, awkward moments, unfulfilled expectations, and rejection are your idea of fun. It’s true that most of us met our spouses or partners through dating, and it was probably worth it, even though our several relationships probably didn’t work out; but it still sucks. Old people however, don’t have to date. OK, it’s usually because we couldn’t even if we wanted to, but even if we did, believe me, it would be a waste of time, and possibly a waste of Viagra, should we think we might get lucky which, believe me, we won’t. Old people who are single, for whatever reason, and there are nearly as many reasons as old people who are single, meet other old people at church, or at the senior center, or at work, but probably not at work because we are old and got fired and can’t find another job, because even though we have tons of experience, and know the job better than the kid who just started, but gets paid more, is young, and thus has more potential, though no skills whatever…. but I digress. My point is that dating sucks and old people don’t have to do it, not that it would do any good anyway.
And speaking of work (the thing that most old people don’t do anymore), the great thing is, they don’t have to, because old people get Social Security and Medicare, which allows them to retire “in comfort.” This, of course, assumes that retiring “in comfort” doesn’t require that you are able to stay in the house that you purchased many years ago and have almost paid off; because your Social Security check barely covers the taxes and insurance, much less the payment. And it assumes that “in comfort” doesn’t necessarily mean in good health, because Medicare, while cheap, isn’t free, and doesn’t cover everything, especially your prescriptions, which never seem to be in the “formulary,” and even the ones that are, aren’t covered most of the time because of the “donut hole.” But, not to be negative, as long as old people are flexible and don’t care about the frills, like houses, or fancy cars, or fancy clothes, or travel, or eating out, or eating much, or eating regularly; they, in fact, don’t have to work.
And speaking of fancy clothes, old people have little need for fancy clothes, which is a good thing because clothes today are designed for skinny children, or at least people who look like skinny children. And even if we are old people who look like skinny children, except we don’t look like children, because we’re old, chances are that jeans that don’t cover our navel, or tops that don’t cover our navel, or underwear that peeks out from both, but still doesn’t cover our navel, are not our idea of fashion, or even appropriate attire. But fortunately, sweat shirts and sweat pants come is a large variety of sizes and colors and we can wear them all the time, because exercising is a good thing and a very popular thing and how is anyone to know that we aren’t just about to go exercise, or just coming back from exercising or, if we’re out and about, actually exercising at the moment. And better yet, they completely cover our underwear, so no one knows that our underwear, which we never intended to be a fashion statement, may provide “relaxed comfort,” or “extra support,” or “superior wetness protection.”
So we can stop fearing or even dreading getting, or being, old. Now that we see a few of the many benefits, we can relax and start anticipating our “twilight years,” and/or enjoying them “in comfort.” Let’s put our favorite record in the record player, or put our favorite CD in the CD player, or our cue up our favorite itune on our ipod; pop some hot pockets in the microwave, break out a box of wine, and enjoy life. Old is good.
03/15/11
On Getting Old
I never minded getting older. In fact, when I was younger, much younger, getting older was pretty much my first priority. My brother was older, and as far as I could tell, he was having all the fun. He had lots of really cool friends, and I had a few that were not so much. He went on dates with girls, and I went to Junior Achievement and the Boy Scouts. He was pretty much a chick magnet, and I was pretty much invisible to any girl worthy of chick status. And worst of all, he drove a car and I rode a bicycle (his hand-me-down bicycle, I might add). Of course, having a license didn’t mean I would be able to get a date, and being older wouldn’t automatically make me any more popular in general, but at the time I took comfort in pretending it would.
Today I am much older, and I would like to think, much wiser: wise enough, in fact, to realize that getting older is neither the solution, nor the problem. The problem is that I’m getting OLD. I’m not exactly sure when it started; I think I first noticed it when one day after working in the yard and then relaxing in my Lazy Boy for a couple hours, I got up feeling not so much relaxed and rested as stiff and sore. Soon after, or perhaps before, I can’t remember for sure, I also noticed that peeing was more and more becoming a case of less and less, but more and more often. And I can’t remember for sure but it was somewhere around that time, that remembering for sure (or at all) was also more and more becoming less and less. I’m pretty sure that it was about that time that I discovered that my memory was still pretty good around any events that happened in the previous 30 seconds, or more than 30 years ago. But the interval between had become increasingly fuzzy. I believe it’s called the 30/30 syndrome, but I may have made that up. I can’t remember.
I remember that it was about then that my hair and mustache started going gray. It was soon after that I decided to grow a beard to cover my jowls, which had started to droop decidedly, a sure sign of getting old. The beard came in less gray, but definitely not the dirty blond of my youth. Today I’m pretty much a dirty white all over, but my wife (the love of my life) refers to it as a “distinguished silver gray.” Honestly, I don’t mind the color of my hair so much, as the increasing lack of it. My receding hairline (a sure sign of intelligence, according to that same wife) is making a beeline towards the ever-increasing baldness of my pate. When the two meet, it may be time for a “distinguished silver gray” combover; or perhaps a “distinguished silver gray” baseball cap, which I can wear turned around backwards, so I don’t look so old.
Speaking of peeing, which I was earlier in case you are getting old and can’t remember; sitting on the john is now a case of more and more, longer and longer; which wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, assuming that scheduling isn’t an issue, which it seldom is because there is nothing to schedule, because the economy is so bad that there is no money to go anywhere…but I digress. It wouldn’t necessarily be a problem because it provides an excellent time to catch up on my book reading, or magazine browsing, or app searching for my new smart phone, which I really love, and I don’t know how I ever got along without…but I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, it’s a problem because when I sit on the john for long periods, my legs fall completely asleep. Which means when I get up, or more accurately attempt to get up, I nearly fall down, which I haven’t yet, but if I did, I would probably break a hip and need a hip replacement, which means I would, officially and undeniably, be old.
In truth, I’ve been old for a while now. I must admit, however, that even though I am, getting older is still pretty much my first priority.
03/15/11
Today I am much older, and I would like to think, much wiser: wise enough, in fact, to realize that getting older is neither the solution, nor the problem. The problem is that I’m getting OLD. I’m not exactly sure when it started; I think I first noticed it when one day after working in the yard and then relaxing in my Lazy Boy for a couple hours, I got up feeling not so much relaxed and rested as stiff and sore. Soon after, or perhaps before, I can’t remember for sure, I also noticed that peeing was more and more becoming a case of less and less, but more and more often. And I can’t remember for sure but it was somewhere around that time, that remembering for sure (or at all) was also more and more becoming less and less. I’m pretty sure that it was about that time that I discovered that my memory was still pretty good around any events that happened in the previous 30 seconds, or more than 30 years ago. But the interval between had become increasingly fuzzy. I believe it’s called the 30/30 syndrome, but I may have made that up. I can’t remember.
I remember that it was about then that my hair and mustache started going gray. It was soon after that I decided to grow a beard to cover my jowls, which had started to droop decidedly, a sure sign of getting old. The beard came in less gray, but definitely not the dirty blond of my youth. Today I’m pretty much a dirty white all over, but my wife (the love of my life) refers to it as a “distinguished silver gray.” Honestly, I don’t mind the color of my hair so much, as the increasing lack of it. My receding hairline (a sure sign of intelligence, according to that same wife) is making a beeline towards the ever-increasing baldness of my pate. When the two meet, it may be time for a “distinguished silver gray” combover; or perhaps a “distinguished silver gray” baseball cap, which I can wear turned around backwards, so I don’t look so old.
Speaking of peeing, which I was earlier in case you are getting old and can’t remember; sitting on the john is now a case of more and more, longer and longer; which wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, assuming that scheduling isn’t an issue, which it seldom is because there is nothing to schedule, because the economy is so bad that there is no money to go anywhere…but I digress. It wouldn’t necessarily be a problem because it provides an excellent time to catch up on my book reading, or magazine browsing, or app searching for my new smart phone, which I really love, and I don’t know how I ever got along without…but I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, it’s a problem because when I sit on the john for long periods, my legs fall completely asleep. Which means when I get up, or more accurately attempt to get up, I nearly fall down, which I haven’t yet, but if I did, I would probably break a hip and need a hip replacement, which means I would, officially and undeniably, be old.
In truth, I’ve been old for a while now. I must admit, however, that even though I am, getting older is still pretty much my first priority.
03/15/11
Raising Children, Part 2
It seems I’ve been raising children most of my life. Let’s see. My youngest left home this year and my oldest was born 37 years ago. I’m currently 65 so, doing the math, I have been raising children most of my life. OK not most, but a solid majority of my life, I’ve been raising children.
The natural question arises then, what have I learned from being a parent for so long a time? And perhaps even more importantly, what sage advice do I have for those about to embark (for better or worse, the determination of which will come, if ever, much, much later) on the wonderful (or horrible, depending on that final determination) job of parenting.
To answer that natural question, and in the spirit of trying to enhance the joy (or ease the burden, depending on that final determination), I offer the following:
THE TOP TEN RULES FOR RAISING CHILDREN (In no particular order except more or less in chronological order and sort of least to most important, but not really, as all are really important, but some, especially one, numbered 10, is most important)
1. Breast is better than bottle.
2. Always wipe front to back.
3. Babies are not as fragile as you think.
4. Toddlers need to toddle, and talk.
5. Adolescents are more fragile than you think.
6. Discipline is important.
7. Truth is mandatory.
8. Listening works better than lecturing.
9. There’s no such thing as too much self-esteem.
10. Love trumps everything else.
I may not know much about raising children, and all my children have suggested, at one time or another, that I know practically nothing at all. BUT THESE THINGS I KNOW TO BE TRUE.
12/01/11
The natural question arises then, what have I learned from being a parent for so long a time? And perhaps even more importantly, what sage advice do I have for those about to embark (for better or worse, the determination of which will come, if ever, much, much later) on the wonderful (or horrible, depending on that final determination) job of parenting.
To answer that natural question, and in the spirit of trying to enhance the joy (or ease the burden, depending on that final determination), I offer the following:
THE TOP TEN RULES FOR RAISING CHILDREN (In no particular order except more or less in chronological order and sort of least to most important, but not really, as all are really important, but some, especially one, numbered 10, is most important)
1. Breast is better than bottle.
2. Always wipe front to back.
3. Babies are not as fragile as you think.
4. Toddlers need to toddle, and talk.
5. Adolescents are more fragile than you think.
6. Discipline is important.
7. Truth is mandatory.
8. Listening works better than lecturing.
9. There’s no such thing as too much self-esteem.
10. Love trumps everything else.
I may not know much about raising children, and all my children have suggested, at one time or another, that I know practically nothing at all. BUT THESE THINGS I KNOW TO BE TRUE.
12/01/11
Raising Children
When I married my first wife (Jill), I hoped and expected to have a couple children, preferably a son and a daughter, not necessarily in that order. As it turned out, I did have a son (Jeremy) and a daughter (Jessica), and then bit a later on three more sons (Todd, Jason, and Jeffrey), when I married my second wife (Linda). It was a package deal. Three more sons became two more sons when new son the eldest (Todd) decided he had neither the inclination nor patience to break in a new dad (me). So he moved back in with old dad (to remain unnamed) who was, an irresponsible, abusive, conniving and cheating, complete and total jerk (or so I’ve been told), but who was already broken in, and even better, not so broke as new dad. Not to worry: an able replacement for departed son came packaged with my third wife (Nancy). Alex was quite young, had recently, sadly, lost his old dad (Ed), and probably figured that any dad was better than no dad at all. So a son and a daughter became five (or four, depending on your parameters) sons and a daughter, raised (well or poorly, depending on whom and when you ask) over the course of 30-plus years.
The raising has had its moments. When Jeremy was about four or five, he fell through the ice on a lake where we lived at the time. It happened when he was off exploring on his own (never allowed, but practiced none-the-less), and we didn’t learn of the mishap until he returned to the house wet and freezing. He was none-the-worse for the mishap, but remains disinclined to water sports to this day. When he was eight or nine, he decided it would be funny to hide under Linda’s and my bed and scare us when we retired for the night. Unfortunately, that particular night was “date night,” and retiring very quickly turned to “dating.” Too quickly, it turned out, for Jeremy to spring the joke: He snuck out later when he thought (or hoped) we were asleep. I hope he was none-the-worse for the mishap, and I sincerely hope he does not remain disinclined to “dating” to this day.
Jessica was not yet two when I decided to take her and her brother for a ride in our new canoe. Purchased to better enjoy the lake (you guessed it) where we lived at the time. I had responsibly outfitted her with an appropriately-sized life jacket, which she wore with great displeasure throughout the ride. Finally, as we approached the dock, I (irresponsibly) allowed her to remove it, figuring nothing could happen this close to the end of the trip. Of course, it was at this moment that she decided to exit the canoe. In trying to prevent her exit I, of course, capsized the canoe. The water was not deep, and Jeremy and I could easily stand on the bottom. Jessica, however, could not and, worse yet, was nowhere to be seen. We found her happily treading water under the overturned canoe, amazingly, not traumatized and wanting only to do it again.
I suspect she was traumatized when, a few years later, an accident occurred in the office where I worked as an architect. A blueprint machine, recently serviced, sat with its protective cover removed from the collection of gears that controlled the speed at which it ran. While I was running a few prints, and (irresponsibly) not paying attention to her, Jessica’s curiosity led her to try to feel those fascinating gears. Of course, two fingers were quickly caught between those gears and crushed. It seemed like an eternity before I could dismantle the mechanism and release her, and an even longer eternity before I could get her to the emergency room. She remained amazingly calm, more concerned for my well-being than hers. Ultimately the fingers were saved, albeit one a tiny bit shorter and the other with a distinctive twist. She has since forgiven me my irresponsibility. I doubt I shall ever forgive myself. She has probably not forgiven me for telling her that her back surgery for scoliosis a few years later would not be a big deal or cause her a lot or pain. It was and it did.
Three sons who became two were my sons for only a few years. It was a lengthy time, no doubt, for adolescent boys struggling to become young men. It was over in a heartbeat for me, and many recollections have faded. I do remember when Jason, trying to deal with being heavy, and having his first “sort of” girlfriend, and not having good grades, and not happy about having a stepdad with “rules,” decided to move out. “Moving out,” it turned out, was very little moving, and no out at all. He took all his possessions and “moved out” to the basement. He set up housekeeping with the aid of some camping gear from the garage and the mini-fridge from the family room. “Moving out” also did not mean eating out, doing without an allowance, but he made his point. I did thereafter cut him a bit of slack on the “rules.”
It was only a few months after Jason “moved out” that he wanted to borrow my car (actually a Chevy Blazer) to run some errands before school. I suspect the “errands” had something to do with the “sort of” girlfriend, but I didn’t ask and acquiesced to his request. It was the very same day that Jeffrey asked to borrow his mom’s car, also for some errands before school. I now suspect some sort of complicity, but was oblivious at the time and acquiesced to his request. They left the house together that morning only to return about five minutes later. For reasons unknown to this day and circumstances only to be imagined, Jeffrey had somehow managed to solidly rear-end his mom’s car into the vehicle in front of him, which had stopped at the intersection of our road and the highway. Of course, the vehicle in front of him was my Blazer, driven by Jason.
Alex, it’s important to note, is a YouTube filmmaker and wannabe actor. He has wannabeed for most of his life, so it should have come as no surprise when, at about 13 years old, he asked his mom to pick up a few items for him on her way home from work. The items included, but were not necessarily limited to, lipstick, make-up, panty hose, wigs, and a feather boa or two. Given that list, it should have come as no surprise when, later that day, I spotted Alex and two of his very guy friends, walking up our residential street in full-on drag, sporting dresses, accessories, full make-up, hats, high heels, and, of course, feather boas. They were on their way to filming a sketch, the content of which I could only imagine, and since have tried hard to forget. Don’t get me wrong: neither Alex nor any of his friends are homosexuals, transsexuals, transvestites, or cross dressers; not that there would be anything wrong with that.
The raising has had its moments. When Jeremy was about four or five, he fell through the ice on a lake where we lived at the time. It happened when he was off exploring on his own (never allowed, but practiced none-the-less), and we didn’t learn of the mishap until he returned to the house wet and freezing. He was none-the-worse for the mishap, but remains disinclined to water sports to this day. When he was eight or nine, he decided it would be funny to hide under Linda’s and my bed and scare us when we retired for the night. Unfortunately, that particular night was “date night,” and retiring very quickly turned to “dating.” Too quickly, it turned out, for Jeremy to spring the joke: He snuck out later when he thought (or hoped) we were asleep. I hope he was none-the-worse for the mishap, and I sincerely hope he does not remain disinclined to “dating” to this day.
Jessica was not yet two when I decided to take her and her brother for a ride in our new canoe. Purchased to better enjoy the lake (you guessed it) where we lived at the time. I had responsibly outfitted her with an appropriately-sized life jacket, which she wore with great displeasure throughout the ride. Finally, as we approached the dock, I (irresponsibly) allowed her to remove it, figuring nothing could happen this close to the end of the trip. Of course, it was at this moment that she decided to exit the canoe. In trying to prevent her exit I, of course, capsized the canoe. The water was not deep, and Jeremy and I could easily stand on the bottom. Jessica, however, could not and, worse yet, was nowhere to be seen. We found her happily treading water under the overturned canoe, amazingly, not traumatized and wanting only to do it again.
I suspect she was traumatized when, a few years later, an accident occurred in the office where I worked as an architect. A blueprint machine, recently serviced, sat with its protective cover removed from the collection of gears that controlled the speed at which it ran. While I was running a few prints, and (irresponsibly) not paying attention to her, Jessica’s curiosity led her to try to feel those fascinating gears. Of course, two fingers were quickly caught between those gears and crushed. It seemed like an eternity before I could dismantle the mechanism and release her, and an even longer eternity before I could get her to the emergency room. She remained amazingly calm, more concerned for my well-being than hers. Ultimately the fingers were saved, albeit one a tiny bit shorter and the other with a distinctive twist. She has since forgiven me my irresponsibility. I doubt I shall ever forgive myself. She has probably not forgiven me for telling her that her back surgery for scoliosis a few years later would not be a big deal or cause her a lot or pain. It was and it did.
Three sons who became two were my sons for only a few years. It was a lengthy time, no doubt, for adolescent boys struggling to become young men. It was over in a heartbeat for me, and many recollections have faded. I do remember when Jason, trying to deal with being heavy, and having his first “sort of” girlfriend, and not having good grades, and not happy about having a stepdad with “rules,” decided to move out. “Moving out,” it turned out, was very little moving, and no out at all. He took all his possessions and “moved out” to the basement. He set up housekeeping with the aid of some camping gear from the garage and the mini-fridge from the family room. “Moving out” also did not mean eating out, doing without an allowance, but he made his point. I did thereafter cut him a bit of slack on the “rules.”
It was only a few months after Jason “moved out” that he wanted to borrow my car (actually a Chevy Blazer) to run some errands before school. I suspect the “errands” had something to do with the “sort of” girlfriend, but I didn’t ask and acquiesced to his request. It was the very same day that Jeffrey asked to borrow his mom’s car, also for some errands before school. I now suspect some sort of complicity, but was oblivious at the time and acquiesced to his request. They left the house together that morning only to return about five minutes later. For reasons unknown to this day and circumstances only to be imagined, Jeffrey had somehow managed to solidly rear-end his mom’s car into the vehicle in front of him, which had stopped at the intersection of our road and the highway. Of course, the vehicle in front of him was my Blazer, driven by Jason.
Alex, it’s important to note, is a YouTube filmmaker and wannabe actor. He has wannabeed for most of his life, so it should have come as no surprise when, at about 13 years old, he asked his mom to pick up a few items for him on her way home from work. The items included, but were not necessarily limited to, lipstick, make-up, panty hose, wigs, and a feather boa or two. Given that list, it should have come as no surprise when, later that day, I spotted Alex and two of his very guy friends, walking up our residential street in full-on drag, sporting dresses, accessories, full make-up, hats, high heels, and, of course, feather boas. They were on their way to filming a sketch, the content of which I could only imagine, and since have tried hard to forget. Don’t get me wrong: neither Alex nor any of his friends are homosexuals, transsexuals, transvestites, or cross dressers; not that there would be anything wrong with that.
Putting in the Pool
Having lived in Hawaii for about five years and having finally accepted that the weather was indeed practically perfect year round, I decided it was time to put in a pool. There was plenty of room in the backyard. The grass had never really come in, and my feeling that “if it’s green, it’s ground cover” was rapidly waning in popularity. I had a little extra money from the sale of some property in Vermont, the timing seemed right.
A perusal of the yellow pages resulted in the phone numbers of three companies that installed fiberglass pools (I had heard too many horror stories about poured-in-place pools). One number was “no longer in service,” and another remained unanswered for several dozen rings. I considered it a good sign when an answering machine of the third installer took my call. After leaving several messages over several days (the answering machine and I were becoming quite close), I finally got a return call from Paul Puaai of Pomohai Pools (the names have been changed to protect the guilty). Paul was a really big guy, with a really big smile, and a passion for hyperbole. I must admit I liked Paul from the start, but I should have taken the hint when all my questions were answered with “well, it depends.” As it turned out, “depends” ran about $2000 extra and two weeks of additional construction time per each.
Things didn’t start out well. The “excavator guy” didn’t show up on the day construction was to begin, and after several more days of no-show, Paul decided to hire someone else to dig the hole. I should have been suspicious, when the new guy arrived with a brand new backhoe in tow--all the warning stickers still affixed--and an Owner’s Operating Manual in his back pocket. Needless to say, the final size of the excavation bore little resemblance to the original size of the pool. Nonetheless, the pool sat very nicely in the hole: sitting level, we later learned, not so much. After the pool was full of water, it had to be drained and “adjusted” and refilled. The adjustment was successful, more or less. That is to say, the less water in the pool, the more successful it appeared.
The pool was finally set firmly in the ground and the pool deck area was prepared for the pouring of concrete. The preparation was uneventful; the pouring was an event worthy of ticket sales. On the day the deck was to be poured, the concrete trucks didn’t arrive until nearly 4:00 pm. It was summer and sunset wasn’t until nearly 7:00pm, but there was definitely not enough time to pour and properly finish the concrete before darkness fell. This fact escaped Paul and so pouring commenced. It was about 7:30pm when Paul asked if I had any high intensity nighttime construction lights available. Surprisingly, I didn’t. I suggested he drive a few cars around back and shine their lights on the work site. He did, and surprisingly, it worked pretty well.
I was beginning to think it might all turn out okay, so I headed in for a little delayed dinner. It was then that I heard a very loud splash, followed by an even louder, “OH S**T.” When I rushed back out to determine the cause of the outburst, it became abundantly clear that dinner, delayed or otherwise, was no longer on the agenda. Unfortunately, neither was finishing the concrete. The huge, gasoline-powered, concrete-finishing trowel, rented specifically for this job, was sitting peacefully, upside down, on the bottom of the pool. “No big deal,” Paul assured me, “Hand troweling works better anyway.” As it turned out, hand troweling, in the dark, of concrete well past the finishing window of opportunity, was a bit of a big deal. “No problem,” Paul assured me, “we have special state-of-the-art coatings that will make it ‘smooth as a baby’s butt.” True enough, it turned out, if the baby in question had a serious case of diaper rash.
How did the pool look in the end? Well, it depends. If you’re looking at it at dusk, on a day with a spectacular sunset, and squint a bit, and are not standing on the pool deck with bare feet, and the water level is a bit low; not bad, not bad at all.
01-17-11
A perusal of the yellow pages resulted in the phone numbers of three companies that installed fiberglass pools (I had heard too many horror stories about poured-in-place pools). One number was “no longer in service,” and another remained unanswered for several dozen rings. I considered it a good sign when an answering machine of the third installer took my call. After leaving several messages over several days (the answering machine and I were becoming quite close), I finally got a return call from Paul Puaai of Pomohai Pools (the names have been changed to protect the guilty). Paul was a really big guy, with a really big smile, and a passion for hyperbole. I must admit I liked Paul from the start, but I should have taken the hint when all my questions were answered with “well, it depends.” As it turned out, “depends” ran about $2000 extra and two weeks of additional construction time per each.
Things didn’t start out well. The “excavator guy” didn’t show up on the day construction was to begin, and after several more days of no-show, Paul decided to hire someone else to dig the hole. I should have been suspicious, when the new guy arrived with a brand new backhoe in tow--all the warning stickers still affixed--and an Owner’s Operating Manual in his back pocket. Needless to say, the final size of the excavation bore little resemblance to the original size of the pool. Nonetheless, the pool sat very nicely in the hole: sitting level, we later learned, not so much. After the pool was full of water, it had to be drained and “adjusted” and refilled. The adjustment was successful, more or less. That is to say, the less water in the pool, the more successful it appeared.
The pool was finally set firmly in the ground and the pool deck area was prepared for the pouring of concrete. The preparation was uneventful; the pouring was an event worthy of ticket sales. On the day the deck was to be poured, the concrete trucks didn’t arrive until nearly 4:00 pm. It was summer and sunset wasn’t until nearly 7:00pm, but there was definitely not enough time to pour and properly finish the concrete before darkness fell. This fact escaped Paul and so pouring commenced. It was about 7:30pm when Paul asked if I had any high intensity nighttime construction lights available. Surprisingly, I didn’t. I suggested he drive a few cars around back and shine their lights on the work site. He did, and surprisingly, it worked pretty well.
I was beginning to think it might all turn out okay, so I headed in for a little delayed dinner. It was then that I heard a very loud splash, followed by an even louder, “OH S**T.” When I rushed back out to determine the cause of the outburst, it became abundantly clear that dinner, delayed or otherwise, was no longer on the agenda. Unfortunately, neither was finishing the concrete. The huge, gasoline-powered, concrete-finishing trowel, rented specifically for this job, was sitting peacefully, upside down, on the bottom of the pool. “No big deal,” Paul assured me, “Hand troweling works better anyway.” As it turned out, hand troweling, in the dark, of concrete well past the finishing window of opportunity, was a bit of a big deal. “No problem,” Paul assured me, “we have special state-of-the-art coatings that will make it ‘smooth as a baby’s butt.” True enough, it turned out, if the baby in question had a serious case of diaper rash.
How did the pool look in the end? Well, it depends. If you’re looking at it at dusk, on a day with a spectacular sunset, and squint a bit, and are not standing on the pool deck with bare feet, and the water level is a bit low; not bad, not bad at all.
01-17-11
I Need to Pee
As men get older, say older than 50, and certainly older than 60, peeing can, more and more, become a case of less and less. This is not to say that 60 is old. It’s just that when you’re 60, or 64 say, than anything less than 64 is by definition, younger, and consequently 64 is by definition older. But I digress. My point is that I don’t pee like I used to. This is not to say that I pee less than I used to; in fact, I pee far more than I used to. It’s just that I pee far less than I used to, on a per pee basis.
My doctor has explained that this is caused by a condition called Benign Prostatic Hyperplasia or BPH. In layman’s terms, your prostate gland swells up as if you had cancer, but you don’t, or you hope you don’t; it can be hard to tell. They can do a test called the PSA test, or Prostate Specific Antigen test, but it’s often inconclusive. And supposedly, even if you do have prostate cancer but are old, which I am definitely not, even if not definitely young, the cancer can grow so slowly that you will probably die from something else first, a comforting thought. But my point is that I don’t pee like I used to.
There was a time, granted many years ago, when I won peeing contests in the boy’s room at Essex Junction Junior High. For those of you who may not have been boys, or attended junior high school, the classic contest involved two or more boys peeing, starting out directly in front of a urinal, then moving slowly back, in sync, until one or more could no longer “make the distance” or ran out of pee. The last man (or in this case, boy) standing (or in this case, peeing) and still making the distance was the winner. I’m proud to say (if a little embarrassed) that I won far more often than not. But, of course, I don’t pee like I used to.
Except on rare occasions. For some reason, every now and then, and I have no idea why, I can pee like a fifth grader (or seventh grader, if you need to be precise). The rare occasion is usually about 4:00 a.m. on my third or fourth trip to the bathroom in any given night, and it always takes me by surprise. I’ll approach the john with the usual trepidation, anticipating a hesitant start and paltry flow, only to be surprised by a rapid commencement and flow approaching that of the good old days of bathroom victories. I do not deny, these rare moments are cherished, and I must admit that at times I may have reveled. Enjoying the easy and powerful flow of days gone by and triumphs garnered, I might even have succumbed to the inclination that boys (and many men) have of talking to their instruments of flow (and other pleasures). I might even had said (or at least thought), “You go, big guy, show ‘em how it’s done.”
03/01/11
My doctor has explained that this is caused by a condition called Benign Prostatic Hyperplasia or BPH. In layman’s terms, your prostate gland swells up as if you had cancer, but you don’t, or you hope you don’t; it can be hard to tell. They can do a test called the PSA test, or Prostate Specific Antigen test, but it’s often inconclusive. And supposedly, even if you do have prostate cancer but are old, which I am definitely not, even if not definitely young, the cancer can grow so slowly that you will probably die from something else first, a comforting thought. But my point is that I don’t pee like I used to.
There was a time, granted many years ago, when I won peeing contests in the boy’s room at Essex Junction Junior High. For those of you who may not have been boys, or attended junior high school, the classic contest involved two or more boys peeing, starting out directly in front of a urinal, then moving slowly back, in sync, until one or more could no longer “make the distance” or ran out of pee. The last man (or in this case, boy) standing (or in this case, peeing) and still making the distance was the winner. I’m proud to say (if a little embarrassed) that I won far more often than not. But, of course, I don’t pee like I used to.
Except on rare occasions. For some reason, every now and then, and I have no idea why, I can pee like a fifth grader (or seventh grader, if you need to be precise). The rare occasion is usually about 4:00 a.m. on my third or fourth trip to the bathroom in any given night, and it always takes me by surprise. I’ll approach the john with the usual trepidation, anticipating a hesitant start and paltry flow, only to be surprised by a rapid commencement and flow approaching that of the good old days of bathroom victories. I do not deny, these rare moments are cherished, and I must admit that at times I may have reveled. Enjoying the easy and powerful flow of days gone by and triumphs garnered, I might even have succumbed to the inclination that boys (and many men) have of talking to their instruments of flow (and other pleasures). I might even had said (or at least thought), “You go, big guy, show ‘em how it’s done.”
03/01/11
Modern Technology, Part 6
I like my new smart phone. I used to love my new smart phone, but lately it’s been causing me a modicum of unneeded stress. That is to say, stress I don’t need right now, though I can’t remember needing stress right then, or ever, for that matter. I remember having stress often and wishing I didn’t, but I can’t say I ever remember not having stress and wishing I did: except, perhaps, for that brief moment when I thought I wanted to be a writer and bemoaned the fact that nothing had ever happened to me worth writing about. Of course, that was before the accident, the incident, the divorce, the untimely death, the other accident, the other incident, the other untimely death, the collapse of the economy, the foreclosure and the bankruptcy. Believe me, be careful what you...but I digress. The point is, my new smart phone isn’t as friendly as it used to be. And I think it’s up to something.
Take games, for example. Of the 50,000 or so games available, I selected about a dozen in the puzzles category that I thought might be fun and downloaded them. The process was deceptively simple. Within moments the games were on my phone and ready to entertain. And entertain they did, for a while. As I expected, starting puzzles were easily solved and ensuing puzzles were increasingly difficult. But I’m nothing if not clever, and I found the challenge stimulating; That is ,until I encountered, in every game without exception, the puzzle with no solution. That’s right: same format, same rules, same moves, just no way to solve. Try again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and still no solution. Now I can understand if one game had a puzzle that couldn’t be solved, but every game? Something is definitely up. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m sure it’s not me; after all I am really very clever.
Then there’s the music application. Now you need to understand that my smart phone is not an iphone so itunes does not come installed on the phone, nor is it available to install. Being a Verizon customer, getting an iphone was not an option when I upgraded my service. In fact it wasn’t an option until a whole week later. My account representative neglected to mention this bit of information, but I’m sure it’s only because she wasn’t aware of it. In any case, without itunes I am obligated to download music the old-fashioned way -- steal it. Fortunately my phone had a music-stealing application available at no charge, which I quickly downloaded, followed by, not so quickly, downloading about 130 of my favorite songs. The only problem is that my phone only plays one song at a time, which is expected and good and the norm, except that my phone plays the same one song over, and over, and over, and over. I just don’t think I can ride into ”the West Texas town of EL Paso” even one more time. Something is definitely up.
Finally there’s the “notification annunciator” feature of my smart phone. Lest I fail to notice whenever I receive a call (I guess, for a smart phone, turning off the ring tone doesn’t indicate my desire not to notice), or a voice mail, or a text message, or an email, or a gmail, I am notified of the event by a “delightful” five tone chime. Imagine my delight to be “chime notified” at 3:00 a.m. that I have just recieved a gmail from someone whom I don’t know, or care to know, who accidently entered my gmail address instead of their brother’s who has a similar address but lives in a time zone where it’s actually 9:00 a.m.
Similarly I am notified of any upcoming meetings or appointments I have entered in my smart phone Calendar, at a convenient 24 hours, and 12 hours, and one hour, and 30 minutes, and 10 minutes, and five minutes before said meeting or appointment. Not that I don’t appreciate a reminder now and then - I’m nothing if not forgetful, but six reminders over a 24-hour period is a bit much even for me. Not to mention the confusion when my smart phone chimes at 3:00 a.m. and I can’t tell if it’s a voice mail, or a text message, or an email, or a gmail, or my 12-hour-before-the-meeting-or-appointment reminder. Something is definitely up.
Don’t get me wrong, I still like my new smart phone. I just don’t love it, and we don’t sleep together any more. I sleep in the bedroom. My smart phone sleeps in the detached garage.
02/23/11
Take games, for example. Of the 50,000 or so games available, I selected about a dozen in the puzzles category that I thought might be fun and downloaded them. The process was deceptively simple. Within moments the games were on my phone and ready to entertain. And entertain they did, for a while. As I expected, starting puzzles were easily solved and ensuing puzzles were increasingly difficult. But I’m nothing if not clever, and I found the challenge stimulating; That is ,until I encountered, in every game without exception, the puzzle with no solution. That’s right: same format, same rules, same moves, just no way to solve. Try again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and still no solution. Now I can understand if one game had a puzzle that couldn’t be solved, but every game? Something is definitely up. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m sure it’s not me; after all I am really very clever.
Then there’s the music application. Now you need to understand that my smart phone is not an iphone so itunes does not come installed on the phone, nor is it available to install. Being a Verizon customer, getting an iphone was not an option when I upgraded my service. In fact it wasn’t an option until a whole week later. My account representative neglected to mention this bit of information, but I’m sure it’s only because she wasn’t aware of it. In any case, without itunes I am obligated to download music the old-fashioned way -- steal it. Fortunately my phone had a music-stealing application available at no charge, which I quickly downloaded, followed by, not so quickly, downloading about 130 of my favorite songs. The only problem is that my phone only plays one song at a time, which is expected and good and the norm, except that my phone plays the same one song over, and over, and over, and over. I just don’t think I can ride into ”the West Texas town of EL Paso” even one more time. Something is definitely up.
Finally there’s the “notification annunciator” feature of my smart phone. Lest I fail to notice whenever I receive a call (I guess, for a smart phone, turning off the ring tone doesn’t indicate my desire not to notice), or a voice mail, or a text message, or an email, or a gmail, I am notified of the event by a “delightful” five tone chime. Imagine my delight to be “chime notified” at 3:00 a.m. that I have just recieved a gmail from someone whom I don’t know, or care to know, who accidently entered my gmail address instead of their brother’s who has a similar address but lives in a time zone where it’s actually 9:00 a.m.
Similarly I am notified of any upcoming meetings or appointments I have entered in my smart phone Calendar, at a convenient 24 hours, and 12 hours, and one hour, and 30 minutes, and 10 minutes, and five minutes before said meeting or appointment. Not that I don’t appreciate a reminder now and then - I’m nothing if not forgetful, but six reminders over a 24-hour period is a bit much even for me. Not to mention the confusion when my smart phone chimes at 3:00 a.m. and I can’t tell if it’s a voice mail, or a text message, or an email, or a gmail, or my 12-hour-before-the-meeting-or-appointment reminder. Something is definitely up.
Don’t get me wrong, I still like my new smart phone. I just don’t love it, and we don’t sleep together any more. I sleep in the bedroom. My smart phone sleeps in the detached garage.
02/23/11
Modern Technology, Part 5
After almost two years, my Palm Pilot “smart phone” died. I suppose it was a premature death in so much as it died from drowning. I wont go into details; suffice it to say, recovering the deceased from it’s watery grave would have been less unpleasant had I previously flushed. I will admit, I didn’t mourn the passing. As smart phones go, my Palm was not so much. As a phone it was fine, as a contact database and calendar it was OK, as a camera it was marginally useful, but as a portal to information on the World Wide Web, it was useless. On the rare day I would get a connection, the combination of a tiny screen and my failing eye site would result only in copious cursing (expletives deleted) and me none the wiser.
Three days after it passed, I replaced my Palm Pilot with a new smart phone, the HTC Android Incredible. I took me three days to replace it because Verizon Wireless was going to charge me $60 to cancel my previous contract before it expired, in three days. I also had to change my phone number, because my current number didn’t qualify for the $100 credit that was coupled only to my son’s old number that was being discontinued. So now I have my son’s old number, which means I get calls at all hours (including 4:00 in the morning) from his many old girl friends who, for some reason, he decided not to inform of his new number, or even that he had a new number. I suspect it’s because he can’t remember most of their names, much less their numbers.
None-the-less, despite coming with a completely inappropriate calling circle of new friends, I love my new Incredible smart phone. And incredible it is! It’s a contact database, a calendar, a calculator (actually several calculators), camera, a camcorder, an internet portal, an email device, a navigation device, a video player, a music player, a carpenter’s level, a clock, a stop watch, a dictionary, a thesaurus, a phone book, a scanner, a compass, a planetarium …, well you get the idea. I believe you can even use it to make phone calls, but I haven’t had time yet to try out that particular application.
Speaking of applications, I understand that there are over 100,000 applications available for my new smart phone and, unfortunately, over half of them are completely free. Unfortunate because I now spend way too much time checking out and downloading applications which I don’t need and often can’t figure out. Not to mention the over 50,000 games, which I definitely don’t need and can never figure out. I have to admit I haven’t read a book or even a magazine since I got my phone, but I’m pretty sure there is a book reader application available, so if I can find it I might give it a try, not right away, mind you, but some day, if I can find the time.
Yes, I love my new smart phone, and it really is incredibly smart. Not only does it let me communicate with the world, at least for as long as I pay the cell phone bill, but it also keeps me organized and informed. For better or worse, it provides hours and hours of entertainment, and it even garners me great status among my peers, not to mention hours of discussing and comparing the advantages and disadvantages of my smart phone compared to theirs. I have only one small reservation about my new smart phone. I sometimes wonder if it is wise to have a relationship with a device that is undoubtedly smarter than I am.
02/21/11
Three days after it passed, I replaced my Palm Pilot with a new smart phone, the HTC Android Incredible. I took me three days to replace it because Verizon Wireless was going to charge me $60 to cancel my previous contract before it expired, in three days. I also had to change my phone number, because my current number didn’t qualify for the $100 credit that was coupled only to my son’s old number that was being discontinued. So now I have my son’s old number, which means I get calls at all hours (including 4:00 in the morning) from his many old girl friends who, for some reason, he decided not to inform of his new number, or even that he had a new number. I suspect it’s because he can’t remember most of their names, much less their numbers.
None-the-less, despite coming with a completely inappropriate calling circle of new friends, I love my new Incredible smart phone. And incredible it is! It’s a contact database, a calendar, a calculator (actually several calculators), camera, a camcorder, an internet portal, an email device, a navigation device, a video player, a music player, a carpenter’s level, a clock, a stop watch, a dictionary, a thesaurus, a phone book, a scanner, a compass, a planetarium …, well you get the idea. I believe you can even use it to make phone calls, but I haven’t had time yet to try out that particular application.
Speaking of applications, I understand that there are over 100,000 applications available for my new smart phone and, unfortunately, over half of them are completely free. Unfortunate because I now spend way too much time checking out and downloading applications which I don’t need and often can’t figure out. Not to mention the over 50,000 games, which I definitely don’t need and can never figure out. I have to admit I haven’t read a book or even a magazine since I got my phone, but I’m pretty sure there is a book reader application available, so if I can find it I might give it a try, not right away, mind you, but some day, if I can find the time.
Yes, I love my new smart phone, and it really is incredibly smart. Not only does it let me communicate with the world, at least for as long as I pay the cell phone bill, but it also keeps me organized and informed. For better or worse, it provides hours and hours of entertainment, and it even garners me great status among my peers, not to mention hours of discussing and comparing the advantages and disadvantages of my smart phone compared to theirs. I have only one small reservation about my new smart phone. I sometimes wonder if it is wise to have a relationship with a device that is undoubtedly smarter than I am.
02/21/11
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