Our puppy dog is named Cooper. He is one of the cutest and sweetest puppies that ever lived. This is just the truth. Just because he is our puppy and we love him deeply, does not mean were are, in any way, biased.
However, he does have a few flaws. They are very minor, hardly worth mentioning. He loves tearing up any scrap of paper he finds not in the trash, or in the trash. He occasionally barks (or more accurately yelps) at anyone walking on our road, or anyone he thinks may be walking on our road, or anyone who is thinking of walking on our road. He is afraid of thunder (but not lightning or fireworks for some strange reason) and the rain that comes with thunder, or any rain for that matter, or any water at all. Needless to say, bath time is entertaining.
He is a picky eater, pretty much turning up his nose at any dog food (but likes poaching the cat’s food for some strange reason. He likes chicken, fresh cooked or even canned, if it’s premium breast meat. He likes roast beef and hamburger, and ham in moderation. He likes eggs and most cheese (but has no use for Jarlsburg). He likes peas, with a bit of rice, but usually eats the peas and leaves the rice on the plate, or more usually, on the floor. He likes treats, but only very specific brands. So many bags of puppy treats, so many in the landfill.
Like all dogs, he occasionally succumbs to some puppy malady or other and must visit the vet. He hates going to the vet. He also doesn’t care much for riding in the car, so a trip to the vet, in the car, is pretty much the worst. He didn’t always hate the vet. His first trip there as a pup, they cuddled him and gave him treats and was quite enamored. Then they shoved a thermometer up his butt, stuck him several times with a needle, and cut of his balls. Now, the vet, not so much.
Sometimes when he goes to the vet, he gets medication to take at home. He doesn’t like to take medication, especially when it tastes bad, which it always does. He most recently got an antibiotic that he needs to take twice day. It’s a tiny pill and he only needs to take one half of a pill at a time. It might as well be a golfball, he’s not taking it. We tried grinding it up and mixing it with his chicken. He sorts through all the chicken in case some scrap is untainted, leaving the tainted chicken (oft times all of it) on the plate, or more usually, on the floor. We tried hiding the tiny one half of a pill in a bit of ham or hamburger. He somehow manages to eat all the ham or hamburger and spit out the pill, not even wet.
I’m proud to say, however, that we have figured out how to get him to take his pill. We use a clever ploy to deceive him into thinking it is just food. We take the one half pill and embed it in a dollop of cream cheese. We then roll up the dollop of cream cheese, with a few peas and bacon bits in a thin slice of chicken breast. We then lightly season the chicken roll and saute it in cream and butter sauce until it is slightly brown and crispy. When served with a bit of cat food on the side, he eats it right up.
Tuesday, May 28, 2019
Monday, May 27, 2019
SHE DOESN’T LOVE ME BEST
Well, it finally happened. I knew it was coming, in fact, has been coming for some time. And today it happened. My wife no longer loves me best. I’m no longer number one in her heart.
Of course, I can’t really blame her. The other guy has only been in the picture for a few years, but from day one, he could do no wrong. He was always there, always loving, never talked back, never asked for anything, and never, ever complained. Sure, he had his faults, but it didn’t really matter what little indescretion he might have committed, one look into those sad, apologetic eyes, and he was instantly forgiven.
Oh, I knew they were taking long walks together. I knew she chatted with him endlessly, but who could blame her, he was such a good listener. I even knew about her constant praise, and all the little treats she was givng him, usually to get him to do her bidding, but sometimes for no reason at all. I even knew that they were sleeping together, and had been for years.
Yes, I knew all the details, but still felt she loved me best. Sure I wasn’t the best looking, or in the great shape that he was, but I did earn the money, provide and maintain the home, and even take the garbage to the dump. I was the one who had been there the longest, and shared the most. But he was the one who never left here side when she was sad, or worried, or not feeling well. He was the one who proffered unconditional love, unconditionally.
And so today, when I left for work, and the dog stayed home, and she was OK with that, even expected it, even desired it; I knew was number one, no longer.
I like to think I am still number two, but she is awfully fond of her son, and awfully fond of my daughter, and seems to worry far more about them then about me; so I may be number three, or even four. Of course, there is also her best friend from years before we ever meant, who has always been there for her; but he hasn’t called for awhile, and isn’t planning to visit any time soon; so, with a bit of luck, I may not end up number five, even if she doesn’t love me best.
Of course, I can’t really blame her. The other guy has only been in the picture for a few years, but from day one, he could do no wrong. He was always there, always loving, never talked back, never asked for anything, and never, ever complained. Sure, he had his faults, but it didn’t really matter what little indescretion he might have committed, one look into those sad, apologetic eyes, and he was instantly forgiven.
Oh, I knew they were taking long walks together. I knew she chatted with him endlessly, but who could blame her, he was such a good listener. I even knew about her constant praise, and all the little treats she was givng him, usually to get him to do her bidding, but sometimes for no reason at all. I even knew that they were sleeping together, and had been for years.
Yes, I knew all the details, but still felt she loved me best. Sure I wasn’t the best looking, or in the great shape that he was, but I did earn the money, provide and maintain the home, and even take the garbage to the dump. I was the one who had been there the longest, and shared the most. But he was the one who never left here side when she was sad, or worried, or not feeling well. He was the one who proffered unconditional love, unconditionally.
And so today, when I left for work, and the dog stayed home, and she was OK with that, even expected it, even desired it; I knew was number one, no longer.
I like to think I am still number two, but she is awfully fond of her son, and awfully fond of my daughter, and seems to worry far more about them then about me; so I may be number three, or even four. Of course, there is also her best friend from years before we ever meant, who has always been there for her; but he hasn’t called for awhile, and isn’t planning to visit any time soon; so, with a bit of luck, I may not end up number five, even if she doesn’t love me best.
THE QUINTESSENTIAL XMAS LETTER - “IT’S ALL GOOD!”
OOPS!
Seasons Greetings Friends, Family & Loved Ones
Just our annual missive to let you know how all the gang is doing and all the exciting and wonderful things that happened this past year.
First off, or son, Jimmy, has been out of rehab for three weeks now, and still doing great, except for that one little relapse, nothing really. And Mickey, his ex-girlfriend, has agreed to let him see Jimmy Jr as soon as he catches up on child support, which is assured once the settlement comes in. You may remember that we were sueing the rehab place after the roof collapse that left poor Jimmy with permanent PTSD and a total loss of ability to smell or taste.
Better yet, it looks like the other Jimmy Jr, isn’t really Jimmy’s at all. It turns out that the “porn star” he had a “date” with on his Texas trip, wasn’t being truthful when she assured Jimmy that he was the only one she had slept with for months.
Meanwhile Jimmy’s older brother, Billy, and his wife Milly, just had their second child, a beautiful little girl. Older sister, Charlene (formerly brother Charlie), is just delighted to have a new little sister. Charlene, by the way, has very generously agreed to be an “organ” donor from her upcoming reassignment surgery. How great is that?
Daughter Jennifer is still living with us and still bartending at the strip bar. Her boss adores her, and she has been there longer than anyone else, nearly three months. Of course, her tips are not as good as the “performance artists,” but she does pretty well working in the well (well in the well, get it?).
Ever the good Samaritan, Jen recently rescued a kitten from a storm sewer. She named her Penny Wise (like from the Stephen King Movie) and Penny is as clever and as evil as her namesake. Penny’s bad behavior is mild, however, as compared to her kitten stepsister, Twitch, who is evil incarnate, at least as kittens go. Jen certainly has a way with rescues. She is always bringing home strays, injured, and unwanted creatures. But we try to be understanding when it comes to her friends.
Also, good news about Uncle Fred. His parole hearing is just two weeks away and it looks really promising this time. The owner of the liquor store where the “incident” occurred has passed away, and therefore won’t be at the hearing. Keep your fingers crossed. If he gets out, he will finally be a free man, except for the restraining orders, and can live a normal and happy life. Freda, his “prison bride,” can’t wait for him to get to his new home and start fixing the “double-wide” up.
Finally, you will all be pleased to know that the bankruptcy is finally final. We were able to keep the house, the car, and all $600 in our retirement account. We gave the kids all the pieces in our black velvet art collection and sold a bunch of stuff including the poker chip collection and all the VCR’s at a garage sale before we filed, so the judge didn't take it all away. Things will be a little tight for a while, but with our new credit cards and credit line from Vinny, we should be just fine.
So that’s it with us. We’re doing great and hope all of you are doing as well.
Saturday, August 16, 2014
EJHS 50th Reunion
Having been to my Essex Junction High School 10th year reunion and none since, I thought it might be interesting to attend my 50th. Living in Hawaii with the reunion in Vermont, this was not a decision to be made lightly.
Put aside the cost of airfare, rental car, and lodging. Pretend that 12 hours in coach class, sitting in the middle seat, between a screaming child and a contender for “the world’s biggest loser,” pre-loss, will make for fascinating conversation and time flying. Ignore for the moment the that all my classmates had inevitably gotten old and unrecognizable, and ignore that also had I. And imagine that my first wife, my first ex-wife to be exact, who was also a classmate and would undoubtedly be at the reunion, would be absolutely delighted to see me and pine for the days lost and opportunities missed, due to her decision to move on to different pastures.
None of this changed the fact that The Class of 1964 was an auspicious group of misfits, the like of which had never been seen before and has not been seen since. We were a motley crew of underachievers, short on scholarship, but long on recreation. We didn't excel at organized sports, we didn't win scholastic prizes, we weren't voted the most likely to anything.
Our class slogan, until it was disallowed by the powers that be, was "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time." It was not our way to soar, not for us to savor the competition or bask in the limelight. We were the creepers.
Did I really want to spend the time, much less the money to reunite and reminisce with this group of losers (not the good kind)? What was to be gained from such an undertaking except for a vivid reminder of my own shortcomings. Did I really need the disappointment and grief?
Perhaps I did. After all, with all their failures and shortcomings, my classmates did have one redeeming quality… a great sense of humor.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Doing Business in Hawaii
I moved to Hawaii 18 years ago fully intending to retire, or at least semi-retire. The plan was to spend my days relaxing in paradise. I looked forward to leisurely days of sipping mai-tais on the lanai and reading all the books I’d never had time for. I eagerly anticipated dabbling in the workshop, on fun projects previously abandoned or not yet begun. I envisioned Saturdays on the tennis court and Sundays at the beach. It was a good plan, structured yet flexible, designed to stimulate mind and body yet avoid anxiety and stress. And it would have worked except for one minor glitch: reality. It turns out, that as wonderful a place as Hawaii is to live, affordable it is not. My nest egg turned out to be not much nest and even less egg. My retirement plans were shelved; I went back to work; and having been self-employed for over 25 years and thus completely unemployable, I started a business (actually more than one).
The first of many businesses was a snorkel and beach gear rental shop. Off the beaten path, with little money for marketing and lots of competition, the shop lasted about a year. I like to think of the experience as an $80,000, 12 month, non-credit (pardon the pun), postgraduate course entitled “How Not To Do Business in Hawaii.” It was proof of the popular Hawaiian adage, which we all seem destined to learn the hard way: “the way to make a small fortune in Hawaii is to start with a large one.”
The second business, a faltering attempt to salvage the first business, was a modest visitor magazine about the beaches and activities available on the Big Island, named in a moment of inspiration, The Beach and Activity Guide to the Big Island. A surprisingly popular publication, our first print run, which we could afford, lasted about three days. Our next print run, which we couldn’t, lasted nearly five times as long. The BAG, as we affectionately called it, was our introduction to the all-too-common and universally dreaded Hawaii phenomenon, “the almost-success.” Unlike real success, which can provide a living, if not fame and fortune, and unlike dismal failure, which provides a valuable lesson and allows one to move on, almost-success is a cunning creature that resembles real success, yet at the end of the day, or year, or decade, leaves you with little cash, little confidence, and little else.
Many businesses followed. A larger visitor magazine, twice expanded and once reinvented, was a real success. Eventually, it was sold, unfortunately to an unscrupulous investor who had neither much cash nor the least hint of a clue. The business was a success; the sale was a dismal failure. We learned our lesson and moved on. A restaurant-and-shops discount program, complete with a colorful brochure and embossed plastic membership card, was an almost-success: three rounds, three draws, no harm, no foul, no cigar. A luxury vacation rental property had it all. Real success for a while, admittedly a short while, almost-success for a while longer, and eventually, dismal failure. Another postgraduate course completed (you don’t want to know the tuition), another lesson learned, another opportunity for onward moving.
Today my business is marketing. Coupled with graphic design and publishing, it has all the markings of success. With lots of hard work, a little help from friends and family, and a little upturn in the economy, I might be able to retire or semi-retire, in just a few more years, only 20 years or so behind schedule. I shouldn’t feel bad: unofficial statistics indicate that of all the people who move to Hawaii and start a business, 50% to 60% give up and leave the islands within a year, usually having been very successful in making a “small fortune in Hawaii.”
With this in mind, and for all those who move to Hawaii with such dreams, my marketing company makes this amazing offer: “We guarantee to save you 75% of your first-year start-up costs in any new business.” Normally our methodology is a closely held secret, but I will divulge it here for the very first time. First, we prepare for you a thoroughly researched and meticulously delineated business plan for the first year, carefully calculating all costs associated with the first-year operation, including a specific exit strategy. Then we implement the exit strategy. You cut us a check for 25% of those calculated costs, and we buy you a ticket home.
12/09/10
The first of many businesses was a snorkel and beach gear rental shop. Off the beaten path, with little money for marketing and lots of competition, the shop lasted about a year. I like to think of the experience as an $80,000, 12 month, non-credit (pardon the pun), postgraduate course entitled “How Not To Do Business in Hawaii.” It was proof of the popular Hawaiian adage, which we all seem destined to learn the hard way: “the way to make a small fortune in Hawaii is to start with a large one.”
The second business, a faltering attempt to salvage the first business, was a modest visitor magazine about the beaches and activities available on the Big Island, named in a moment of inspiration, The Beach and Activity Guide to the Big Island. A surprisingly popular publication, our first print run, which we could afford, lasted about three days. Our next print run, which we couldn’t, lasted nearly five times as long. The BAG, as we affectionately called it, was our introduction to the all-too-common and universally dreaded Hawaii phenomenon, “the almost-success.” Unlike real success, which can provide a living, if not fame and fortune, and unlike dismal failure, which provides a valuable lesson and allows one to move on, almost-success is a cunning creature that resembles real success, yet at the end of the day, or year, or decade, leaves you with little cash, little confidence, and little else.
Many businesses followed. A larger visitor magazine, twice expanded and once reinvented, was a real success. Eventually, it was sold, unfortunately to an unscrupulous investor who had neither much cash nor the least hint of a clue. The business was a success; the sale was a dismal failure. We learned our lesson and moved on. A restaurant-and-shops discount program, complete with a colorful brochure and embossed plastic membership card, was an almost-success: three rounds, three draws, no harm, no foul, no cigar. A luxury vacation rental property had it all. Real success for a while, admittedly a short while, almost-success for a while longer, and eventually, dismal failure. Another postgraduate course completed (you don’t want to know the tuition), another lesson learned, another opportunity for onward moving.
Today my business is marketing. Coupled with graphic design and publishing, it has all the markings of success. With lots of hard work, a little help from friends and family, and a little upturn in the economy, I might be able to retire or semi-retire, in just a few more years, only 20 years or so behind schedule. I shouldn’t feel bad: unofficial statistics indicate that of all the people who move to Hawaii and start a business, 50% to 60% give up and leave the islands within a year, usually having been very successful in making a “small fortune in Hawaii.”
With this in mind, and for all those who move to Hawaii with such dreams, my marketing company makes this amazing offer: “We guarantee to save you 75% of your first-year start-up costs in any new business.” Normally our methodology is a closely held secret, but I will divulge it here for the very first time. First, we prepare for you a thoroughly researched and meticulously delineated business plan for the first year, carefully calculating all costs associated with the first-year operation, including a specific exit strategy. Then we implement the exit strategy. You cut us a check for 25% of those calculated costs, and we buy you a ticket home.
12/09/10
Importing to Hawaii
I must admit that I’m at a loss to understand why we import so much stuff into Hawaii. I get that cars, clothes, many consumer goods, boats, and building materials must come from faraway places. They’re not easy to produce here and everywhere not here is, in fact, far away. I know we lack deposits of iron ore for making steel (not that we would want to make steel here anyway, it’s very messy). I know we lack oil reserves for making plastic (not that we would want to make plastic here anyway, it’s very messy). I know we lack sand for making glass (okay, we have lots of sand, but making glass is probably very messy), and we lack good wood for making lumber (I guess eucalyptus, that grows on the Big Island straight and tall in just a few years, doesn’t qualify, and anyway, making lumber is possibly very messy).
What I don’t get is get why we import so much food, especially fresh fruit and vegetables, fresh fish, fresh fowl, fresh eggs, and fresh meat. I live in Hawaii, in part, because the weather here is nearly perfect for pleasant living year round. I believe it is nearly perfect for plant production year round as well. We have lots of sun, areas with hundreds of inches of rain a year, and lots of fertile soil (maybe not in Kona, where real dirt can qualify as a Christmas present, but most everywhere else). We are surrounded by ocean, abundant with a variety of truly delicious fish species. In fact, I could probably eat nothing but Ahi (Yellow Fin Tuna) dipped in wasabi shoyu and be a truly happy haole.
Raising turkeys and chickens here must be easy; they are already raising themselves throughout most of the state. In my subdivision you can trip over a wild turkey just trying to get to your car in the morning. And our C,C & R’s require drivers and joggers to give the right-of-way to chickens crossing the road (no, I don’t know why they’re crossing the road). Then there are the feral pigs and feral cows (maybe not so much feral as lost) and the feral mongeese (are there non-feral mongeese?). So many mongeese, so few recipes……
I really don’t get why we import almost all our energy. I know that most all energy comes from the sun. On a sunny day something like 250 British Thermal Units per hour per square foot make it through the ozone layer (I majored in Physics for about a week when I started college). Some of that sun (but not much) supports the plants that eventually die and rot and become compressed and rot some more and become compressed some more and millions of years later turn into fossil fuels. We then use huge amounts of energy, not to mention money, to extract those fossil fuels and turn them into a readily usable form of, you guessed it, energy.
I know that solar heaters and reflective solar generators and photovoltaics aren’t very efficient, returning only about 10 to 20% of the BTU potential of the sun into readily usable energy. But I have to believe it’s more efficient than the multi-million-year plant to compost to fossil fuel to readily usable energy process. Not to mention that what took many millions of years to create will only last a few hundred years. Not to mention that most of those few hundred years have already gone by.
11/16/10
What I don’t get is get why we import so much food, especially fresh fruit and vegetables, fresh fish, fresh fowl, fresh eggs, and fresh meat. I live in Hawaii, in part, because the weather here is nearly perfect for pleasant living year round. I believe it is nearly perfect for plant production year round as well. We have lots of sun, areas with hundreds of inches of rain a year, and lots of fertile soil (maybe not in Kona, where real dirt can qualify as a Christmas present, but most everywhere else). We are surrounded by ocean, abundant with a variety of truly delicious fish species. In fact, I could probably eat nothing but Ahi (Yellow Fin Tuna) dipped in wasabi shoyu and be a truly happy haole.
Raising turkeys and chickens here must be easy; they are already raising themselves throughout most of the state. In my subdivision you can trip over a wild turkey just trying to get to your car in the morning. And our C,C & R’s require drivers and joggers to give the right-of-way to chickens crossing the road (no, I don’t know why they’re crossing the road). Then there are the feral pigs and feral cows (maybe not so much feral as lost) and the feral mongeese (are there non-feral mongeese?). So many mongeese, so few recipes……
I really don’t get why we import almost all our energy. I know that most all energy comes from the sun. On a sunny day something like 250 British Thermal Units per hour per square foot make it through the ozone layer (I majored in Physics for about a week when I started college). Some of that sun (but not much) supports the plants that eventually die and rot and become compressed and rot some more and become compressed some more and millions of years later turn into fossil fuels. We then use huge amounts of energy, not to mention money, to extract those fossil fuels and turn them into a readily usable form of, you guessed it, energy.
I know that solar heaters and reflective solar generators and photovoltaics aren’t very efficient, returning only about 10 to 20% of the BTU potential of the sun into readily usable energy. But I have to believe it’s more efficient than the multi-million-year plant to compost to fossil fuel to readily usable energy process. Not to mention that what took many millions of years to create will only last a few hundred years. Not to mention that most of those few hundred years have already gone by.
11/16/10
Moving to Hawaii
I visited Hawaii eight times before deciding to move here. I visited four times with my first wife, three times with my second wife, and once with my third wife; eight times to Oahu, three times to Maui, once to Kauai, and twice to the Big Island, where I decided to make my home 18 years ago. Life here has been always interesting, sometimes challenging, occasionally sad, and for the most part fun.
Arriving with minimal clothing (it was Hawaii after all), no furniture, nor anyplace to put any, and little cash, we booked an “affordable, private, rustic, time-honored” hotel for our first few days in paradise. We knew the Kona Surf was on Alii Drive; we didn’t know where. We crept along the Drive for hours discovering that every other hotel and condo was named Kona this or Kona that or Kona Alii something or Kona Kai something else. We were sure we had finally arrived when we came to the Kona Surf and Racquet; we hadn’t. Of course the Kona Surf was the very last hotel on the strip. Affordable, it turned out, meant not very. Rustic, it turned out, meant, literally, lots of rust. Private, it turned out, meant not near anything, and time-honored, it turned out, meant old and weathered and weary: not just the hotel, but also the staff.
Fortunately, about a week and a few pizzas later (the pizza guy, coincidentally, became an employee years later, but that’s another story), we found a house to rent. The gated community was impressive, the lot was pretty, if a bit neglected, the view was magnificent. The house was a disaster. It had been vacant, but not unoccupied, for several months after being vacated by a family who were, shall we say, not very tidy. The new occupants included a mongoose, one or two feral cats, one or two dozen geckos, a few transient turkeys, and a plethora of assorted and various insects and spiders. We were convinced the network of spider webs was designed to trap large rodents and small children. The spiders (harmless cane spiders, we later learned) looked big enough to devour toddlers, if not all at once, then leisurely, perhaps with some fava beans and a nice bottle of chianti.
We nearly didn’t rent the “spider house.” At first, deciding that the house was just too trashed and too expensive, we told the owners, a lovely couple who lived in Florida and had built the house to live in, but never did, that we needed to keep looking. A few hours of looking at houses that were even more expensive and rather trashy, if not trashed, convinced us of the potential of “casa de la spider.” Unfortunately, by the time we got back to them, the owners had agreed to rent the house to a family that had been living on the beach (a family, coincidentally, that we met years later and found to be very weird, but that’s another story). It took nearly an hour of compelling reasoning and brilliant negotiation to convince them that we would be better tenants. Or it may have been my promise to fix up the house for free and my agreement to forward a deposit and first month’s rent by electronic transfer that turned the trick.
Having successfully obtained our new home in paradise, we moved into “Hale Spider” the very next day. The first order of business being a careful analysis of the work to be done, I soon realized that the majority was cleaning and painting. Most of the basic systems and appliances were, if not new or clean, at least in working order. Some hardware needed replacing and some trim, having been omitted from the initial construction, needed placing (I suspect that when the intended owners left for Florida, the punch list got real short). I did discover, however, that the heating system in the house was not of any type with which I was familiar. Recently retired from several years of being an architect and builder in Vermont, I found it odd that none of the conventional systems that I had utilized for years were being utilized here. After an extensive search of the house and property, I finally concluded that the heating had to be a radiant system, with electric coils buried in the concrete slab. It was the only thing that made sense. It still bothered me, however, that I couldn’t locate the thermostat.
12/06/10
Arriving with minimal clothing (it was Hawaii after all), no furniture, nor anyplace to put any, and little cash, we booked an “affordable, private, rustic, time-honored” hotel for our first few days in paradise. We knew the Kona Surf was on Alii Drive; we didn’t know where. We crept along the Drive for hours discovering that every other hotel and condo was named Kona this or Kona that or Kona Alii something or Kona Kai something else. We were sure we had finally arrived when we came to the Kona Surf and Racquet; we hadn’t. Of course the Kona Surf was the very last hotel on the strip. Affordable, it turned out, meant not very. Rustic, it turned out, meant, literally, lots of rust. Private, it turned out, meant not near anything, and time-honored, it turned out, meant old and weathered and weary: not just the hotel, but also the staff.
Fortunately, about a week and a few pizzas later (the pizza guy, coincidentally, became an employee years later, but that’s another story), we found a house to rent. The gated community was impressive, the lot was pretty, if a bit neglected, the view was magnificent. The house was a disaster. It had been vacant, but not unoccupied, for several months after being vacated by a family who were, shall we say, not very tidy. The new occupants included a mongoose, one or two feral cats, one or two dozen geckos, a few transient turkeys, and a plethora of assorted and various insects and spiders. We were convinced the network of spider webs was designed to trap large rodents and small children. The spiders (harmless cane spiders, we later learned) looked big enough to devour toddlers, if not all at once, then leisurely, perhaps with some fava beans and a nice bottle of chianti.
We nearly didn’t rent the “spider house.” At first, deciding that the house was just too trashed and too expensive, we told the owners, a lovely couple who lived in Florida and had built the house to live in, but never did, that we needed to keep looking. A few hours of looking at houses that were even more expensive and rather trashy, if not trashed, convinced us of the potential of “casa de la spider.” Unfortunately, by the time we got back to them, the owners had agreed to rent the house to a family that had been living on the beach (a family, coincidentally, that we met years later and found to be very weird, but that’s another story). It took nearly an hour of compelling reasoning and brilliant negotiation to convince them that we would be better tenants. Or it may have been my promise to fix up the house for free and my agreement to forward a deposit and first month’s rent by electronic transfer that turned the trick.
Having successfully obtained our new home in paradise, we moved into “Hale Spider” the very next day. The first order of business being a careful analysis of the work to be done, I soon realized that the majority was cleaning and painting. Most of the basic systems and appliances were, if not new or clean, at least in working order. Some hardware needed replacing and some trim, having been omitted from the initial construction, needed placing (I suspect that when the intended owners left for Florida, the punch list got real short). I did discover, however, that the heating system in the house was not of any type with which I was familiar. Recently retired from several years of being an architect and builder in Vermont, I found it odd that none of the conventional systems that I had utilized for years were being utilized here. After an extensive search of the house and property, I finally concluded that the heating had to be a radiant system, with electric coils buried in the concrete slab. It was the only thing that made sense. It still bothered me, however, that I couldn’t locate the thermostat.
12/06/10
Tourists Can Be Fun
For several years, I operated a Hawaii air, land and sea, tours and activities, reservations and booking establishment (ad speak for an activity booking desk). Not surprisingly, during those years, I communicated and/or corresponded with many visitors (Okay tourists, but the term tourists is NOT politically correct, don’t get me started). Usually a mundane and occasionally boring task, it was on occasion, quite entertaining.
Working at a Hawaii activity desk, it seems, makes one an expert on everything Hawaiian (even if one has only been in Hawaii for a few weeks, but we’re not telling). And experts, having lots of expertise, get asked lots of questions, intelligent, probing questions on geography like: “I know Hawaii is an island but does the water go all the way around the island?” or “If the Pacific Ocean is on this side of the island, is the Atlantic Ocean on the other side?” I swear, I’m not making this up.
Questions that a concerned traveler might ask about any exotic foreign destination like: “Will I need a passport to get into Hawaii?” or “Do they take American money in Hawaii?” or “Does everyone speak English in Hawaii?” Actually that might be a reasonable question.
Questions about the abundance of varied attractions and activities available, like: “How many whales will be jumping on the whale watching cruise?” or, “What time will the volcano be erupting?” or similarly “What time does the rainbow come out at Rainbow Falls?” or one of my favorites, “Will I get wet if I go snorkeling?”
It is, of course, understandable that visitors want to learn about places they visit, and it’s certainly reasonable that information be garnered. We might expect questions about the tallest mountain like: “If I go to the top of Mauna Kea, can I see California?” or “I know how tall Mauna Kea is but how much does it weigh?” or “If I weigh 200 pounds at sea level, how much will I weigh at the top of Mauna Kea?” I might reply (I shouldn’t, but I might), “Well it depends, will you drive to the top of Mauna Kea or will you walk?”
It is also understandable that visitors want to collect souvenirs of their visit to Hawaii. Despite laws and kapus (taboos, in English) against collecting such things as lava, coral, and black sand, tons of the stuff leaves Hawaii every year. Ironically, tons of the stuff also return to Hawaii via mail, Fed Ex or UPS, when the collector thereafter experiences chronic bad luck (predicted in Hawaiian legend) as a punishment for their crime. Not ‘kapu’, however is the collecting of many other things, especially the abundant artifacts available in souvenir shops that blanket the state including the popular Kilauea Volcano Clock (crafted from real lavalike plastic by skilled Chinese artisans).
Also not kapu is the collecting of water. I reference the lovely lady who proudly told us of her collection of bottles of different colored ocean water from around the island. And she could have taken her collection home without incident, except that her bottles contained more than three ounces of water each. But that’s another story.
11/03/10
Working at a Hawaii activity desk, it seems, makes one an expert on everything Hawaiian (even if one has only been in Hawaii for a few weeks, but we’re not telling). And experts, having lots of expertise, get asked lots of questions, intelligent, probing questions on geography like: “I know Hawaii is an island but does the water go all the way around the island?” or “If the Pacific Ocean is on this side of the island, is the Atlantic Ocean on the other side?” I swear, I’m not making this up.
Questions that a concerned traveler might ask about any exotic foreign destination like: “Will I need a passport to get into Hawaii?” or “Do they take American money in Hawaii?” or “Does everyone speak English in Hawaii?” Actually that might be a reasonable question.
Questions about the abundance of varied attractions and activities available, like: “How many whales will be jumping on the whale watching cruise?” or, “What time will the volcano be erupting?” or similarly “What time does the rainbow come out at Rainbow Falls?” or one of my favorites, “Will I get wet if I go snorkeling?”
It is, of course, understandable that visitors want to learn about places they visit, and it’s certainly reasonable that information be garnered. We might expect questions about the tallest mountain like: “If I go to the top of Mauna Kea, can I see California?” or “I know how tall Mauna Kea is but how much does it weigh?” or “If I weigh 200 pounds at sea level, how much will I weigh at the top of Mauna Kea?” I might reply (I shouldn’t, but I might), “Well it depends, will you drive to the top of Mauna Kea or will you walk?”
It is also understandable that visitors want to collect souvenirs of their visit to Hawaii. Despite laws and kapus (taboos, in English) against collecting such things as lava, coral, and black sand, tons of the stuff leaves Hawaii every year. Ironically, tons of the stuff also return to Hawaii via mail, Fed Ex or UPS, when the collector thereafter experiences chronic bad luck (predicted in Hawaiian legend) as a punishment for their crime. Not ‘kapu’, however is the collecting of many other things, especially the abundant artifacts available in souvenir shops that blanket the state including the popular Kilauea Volcano Clock (crafted from real lavalike plastic by skilled Chinese artisans).
Also not kapu is the collecting of water. I reference the lovely lady who proudly told us of her collection of bottles of different colored ocean water from around the island. And she could have taken her collection home without incident, except that her bottles contained more than three ounces of water each. But that’s another story.
11/03/10
The Dentist
When I was a youngster, I feared a trip to the dentist as much as I feared being beat up by Jimmy Lyons. In fact, on appointment day, given a choice between a visit to Dr. D, short for Devil, as far as I was concerned, and a chance encounter with Jimmy L, I would have gladly chosen the latter. While Jimmy’s physique was impressive, his intellect, not so much; I could usually dissuade him from giving me a drubbing by use of some very clever negotiation techniques, and some cash. Dr. D, on the other hand, was immune to negotiation, or reasoning, or even pleading, and he had more money than God.
Just entering Dr. D’s waiting room and encountering the pungent aromas of anesthetic and antiseptic would provoke a near panic attack in me, not to mention copious flop sweat. If a dentist’s drill spooled up in the background, and it always did, the near would quickly become now. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Dr. D, unlike his modern counterparts, never kept patients waiting (but that’s another story), and before long my panic attack and flop sweat would be escorted to the torture room, I mean treatment room. The escort was always Dr. D’s wife, a truly sweet lady who always seemed apologetic for being the one to deliver the victims, I mean patients.
The treatment room was dominated by a very impressive contraption, which originated in a distant corner and traversed the entire room to terminate at the torture table, I mean dentist’s chair. It was, of course, the dastardly and dreaded dentist’s drill. A work of impressive if ancient engineering, it consisted of a huge motor mounted on the far wall, connected to a surprisingly slow turning drill by what looked like miles of little cables. I admired the thing and might have enjoyed watching the cables racing along, turning and twisting over shiny pulleys, had I not been acutely aware of its capacity to inflict pain. Dr. D’s drill was very old, as was Dr. D, having been passed down by his father, Dr. D the I, who, I believe, bought it used; the drill that is, not Dr. D the II. It certainly didn’t have any of those fancy modern attachments, like a high speed head, or a cooling water spray.
If his drill was old school, Dr. D. was archaic school: “no nonsense and no sissy stuff” in his office. Anything but drill it and fill it or pull it, as it turns out, was the nonsense. Novacaine was, to my great dismay, the sissy stuff. Fortunately my teeth were never bad enough to pull out. Unfortunately, they almost always needed the drill and fill. I would like to think that the grimace/smile that invariably appeared on Dr. D’s face when he was drilling away was concentration rather than sadistic glee, but I doubt it. I must admit, when Dr. D. passed on, at the tender age of 94, it was difficult for me to muster even a small degree of sorrow. I did have a certain empathy for Mrs. D, but knowing that her teeth were in no great shakes, I suspect that even she was somewhat relieved.
My new dentist was also a Dr. D. But this Dr. D. was the savior incarnate, as far as I was concerned. I could get novacaine for a cleaning if requested, and his drill was a state-of-the-art, high speed, water-cooled wonder. A drill and fill may not have been a procedure to be anticipated, but it was, at least, no longer to be feared. His dentist chair was very comfortable, quite unlike your typical torture table. He had pretty pictures on the ceiling, and even personal headsets that played soothing music during procedures. The new Dr. D was young and pleasant and caring, and he always wore a surgical mask when drilling; so if he was grimacing, I couldn’t tell.
I will admit, however, that even to this day: when I hear a dentist’s drill spooling up, at a dentist’s office or even in a movie or on television; there is still a twinge of the old panic attack and a drop or two of the old flop sweat.
01/08/11
Just entering Dr. D’s waiting room and encountering the pungent aromas of anesthetic and antiseptic would provoke a near panic attack in me, not to mention copious flop sweat. If a dentist’s drill spooled up in the background, and it always did, the near would quickly become now. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Dr. D, unlike his modern counterparts, never kept patients waiting (but that’s another story), and before long my panic attack and flop sweat would be escorted to the torture room, I mean treatment room. The escort was always Dr. D’s wife, a truly sweet lady who always seemed apologetic for being the one to deliver the victims, I mean patients.
The treatment room was dominated by a very impressive contraption, which originated in a distant corner and traversed the entire room to terminate at the torture table, I mean dentist’s chair. It was, of course, the dastardly and dreaded dentist’s drill. A work of impressive if ancient engineering, it consisted of a huge motor mounted on the far wall, connected to a surprisingly slow turning drill by what looked like miles of little cables. I admired the thing and might have enjoyed watching the cables racing along, turning and twisting over shiny pulleys, had I not been acutely aware of its capacity to inflict pain. Dr. D’s drill was very old, as was Dr. D, having been passed down by his father, Dr. D the I, who, I believe, bought it used; the drill that is, not Dr. D the II. It certainly didn’t have any of those fancy modern attachments, like a high speed head, or a cooling water spray.
If his drill was old school, Dr. D. was archaic school: “no nonsense and no sissy stuff” in his office. Anything but drill it and fill it or pull it, as it turns out, was the nonsense. Novacaine was, to my great dismay, the sissy stuff. Fortunately my teeth were never bad enough to pull out. Unfortunately, they almost always needed the drill and fill. I would like to think that the grimace/smile that invariably appeared on Dr. D’s face when he was drilling away was concentration rather than sadistic glee, but I doubt it. I must admit, when Dr. D. passed on, at the tender age of 94, it was difficult for me to muster even a small degree of sorrow. I did have a certain empathy for Mrs. D, but knowing that her teeth were in no great shakes, I suspect that even she was somewhat relieved.
My new dentist was also a Dr. D. But this Dr. D. was the savior incarnate, as far as I was concerned. I could get novacaine for a cleaning if requested, and his drill was a state-of-the-art, high speed, water-cooled wonder. A drill and fill may not have been a procedure to be anticipated, but it was, at least, no longer to be feared. His dentist chair was very comfortable, quite unlike your typical torture table. He had pretty pictures on the ceiling, and even personal headsets that played soothing music during procedures. The new Dr. D was young and pleasant and caring, and he always wore a surgical mask when drilling; so if he was grimacing, I couldn’t tell.
I will admit, however, that even to this day: when I hear a dentist’s drill spooling up, at a dentist’s office or even in a movie or on television; there is still a twinge of the old panic attack and a drop or two of the old flop sweat.
01/08/11
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
The Street Where I Lived - Part 2
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
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
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.
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