Hell, I am my mother!!
I find myself doing some of the same things she did. For example, whenever we passed a restaurant, she would tell us if she ate there. Now I am doing the same thing! And trust me, I've eaten in a lot of restaurants! I say almost the same thing: Oh, I (we) ate there once. She did it all the time.
She loved to take pictures. Remember, this was in the film days. A lot of times her pictures came back and it would be of a group of people from the neck down! I get them in the frame, but I also take a lot of pictures. I put them in albums and shoe boxes, just like my mother did.
I remember after she died, I went through a photo album and there was a picture of a man at Leisure Village, a condo community for adults where she lived the last 20 plus years of her life. Many of the pictures were labeled. Neighbors, friends, relatives, all identified in her scrawl (which looks like mine).
But this man's picture stood out. He was neatly dressed, it was summer, he had a big smile and he was standing in front of her unit.
She had written on the back: "Who the hell is this man?"
The fact she saved the picture of a guy who she had no idea who he was reminds me of all the pictures I have saved that really are meaningless.
Like the man sitting in a chair at our Skare Court. house, petting Emily's first greyhound. Jackie and I have no idea who he is. If he wasn't sitting in our house, I would think we got somebody else's pictures.
Like the man in my mom's pictures, he is neatly dressed, pleasant looking, and obviously at ease in our house. I haven't written anything on his picture.....maybe if I had when I took it in 1998 I would know who he was.
When we did a Tuna show and I was Vera, I wore a blue dress. When I came on stage I could hear my entire family gasp.....it was if Mom had come back to life in the middle of a show!!
She had a little red patch on her forehead that looked like dry skin.....I have one also, it's just not as prominent.
Jackie spends hours trying to balance the check book. I share my mother's belief: when you get a statement from the bank, that's how much money you have. After three years, close the account and move to a new bank. Why spend hours trying to find $3.95? She rounded checks off to the nearest 10. But she didn't always round the same way. $24.95 could round to $20 or $30. Nobody could figure out her checkbook. But when someone did get it balanced, her estimations were always pretty darn close to what the bank reported.
I would love to have had more time with her.
Another similarity....she was a sentimental gal.
I guess acorns don't fall far from the tree after all.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Sunday, March 30, 2014
We were not looking for suds......
I almost picked up a girl in a laundromat
First off, I am shy. I find it hard to talk to strangers, especially girls. But when I was in high school, I had some uncanny ability to meet girls in strange ways. Camille actually sat on me during a city football championship. We had several dates. I met a girl at a carnival. We went out for a few months.
Believe me, I was not what you would consider a catch. No car, acne, not much money....but I was a lot of fun.
As a teenage boy, I was always anxious to meet a girl...any girl. In a group of guys, it was like a challenge.
So there we were. I am not sure who was driving...could have been John, could have been Frank. All I know is we were cruising down Montrose Avenue in Chicago and we passed a laundromat. There were three of the slutiest looking girls I had ever seen, and we were determined to get to know them.
Marc, myself, and one other person went into the laundromat. The three girls were hanging around by the door, smoking and cussing. They had black leather jackets. They were gorgeous.
We struck up a conversation.
We got names. We talked about the weather. We asked what they were doing.
Then Marc the tv mogul asked the question of the night.
"So, " he began in his suave, extremely sexy voice, "do you have boyfriends, or do you live off yourselves."
A rather interesting pick up line, I thought.
The cutest of the three reached into her purse and pulled out a huge switchblade. It must have been four feet long. It opened with a flash and waved in front of our faces.
"Would you like to repeat that?" she said, straightening up.
The three of us looked at each other, looked at the knife, looked at the door and ran like hell.
The thing is, to this day I don't know what he meant.
All I know is, those three girls didn't think it was funny.
First off, I am shy. I find it hard to talk to strangers, especially girls. But when I was in high school, I had some uncanny ability to meet girls in strange ways. Camille actually sat on me during a city football championship. We had several dates. I met a girl at a carnival. We went out for a few months.
Believe me, I was not what you would consider a catch. No car, acne, not much money....but I was a lot of fun.
As a teenage boy, I was always anxious to meet a girl...any girl. In a group of guys, it was like a challenge.
So there we were. I am not sure who was driving...could have been John, could have been Frank. All I know is we were cruising down Montrose Avenue in Chicago and we passed a laundromat. There were three of the slutiest looking girls I had ever seen, and we were determined to get to know them.
Marc, myself, and one other person went into the laundromat. The three girls were hanging around by the door, smoking and cussing. They had black leather jackets. They were gorgeous.
We struck up a conversation.
We got names. We talked about the weather. We asked what they were doing.
Then Marc the tv mogul asked the question of the night.
"So, " he began in his suave, extremely sexy voice, "do you have boyfriends, or do you live off yourselves."
A rather interesting pick up line, I thought.
The cutest of the three reached into her purse and pulled out a huge switchblade. It must have been four feet long. It opened with a flash and waved in front of our faces.
"Would you like to repeat that?" she said, straightening up.
The three of us looked at each other, looked at the knife, looked at the door and ran like hell.
The thing is, to this day I don't know what he meant.
All I know is, those three girls didn't think it was funny.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
If it's raining, at least the hat will help
I was once a human pinball
I hung around with some very smart people. People who went on to be reporters, policemen, tv moguls.
It was the tv mogul who made me a human pinball.
For some reason, a bunch of us went to a Cub game. We were young. Brash. Wild. Disrespectful. Full of youth.
As we were walking back from Wrigley on Grace Street, a trio of drunks started yelling at us from across the street.
One of the drunks was wearing an umbrella on his head, as part of his hat. I think they were called Brock Hats, but I am not sure. I digress.
As young people do sometimes, both groups were rather boisterous. The drunks yelled at us, "F... you."
The tv mogul replied, and I am positive about this: "If you are queer enough, we are near enough."
For some reason, the guys across the street took offense at that and crossed over.
To be honest, we were kids. Skinny, uncoordinated, peaceful, sober kids just coming home from the game. These guys were drunk and mean. And big.
They grabbed me.
That's when I became a pinball.
Guy with umbrella shoves me to guy without umbrella, who shoves me to the third guy, who shoves me back to umbrella guy.
All the time I am being the rational guy, saying, "Hey, just joking. Don't mean anything. Nice umbrella hat. Just a kid here."
They kept me surrounded as they walked, bouncing me from guy to guy with each step. My friends stayed a safe distance ahead, making sure the way was clear for the pinballers. Evidently they didn't want me to tilt. And they would be witnesses if the three drunks decided to beat the crap out of me.
They kept this up from Clark to Southport. When they hit Southport, they lost interest in me.
The let me go and staggered over to a car. They got in and moved into traffic. I watched carefully.
When they got to Irving and Southport, they became stuck in traffic.
When I saw a policeman directing traffic, I saw my chance for revenge.
"Officer," I yelled. "See those guys in that car? They are drunk! They can barely walk. The guy with the umbrella hat driving is the worst."
And I took off in a brisk trot.
I like to think the officer went over and checked them out. I truthfully did not care to stick around to see, because I figured they wouldn't be too happy with me. I thought the next experience would be a little rougher than pinball.
And it was not the only time Marc the tv mogul put me in a tight spot.
But that's tomorrow's story.
I hung around with some very smart people. People who went on to be reporters, policemen, tv moguls.
It was the tv mogul who made me a human pinball.
For some reason, a bunch of us went to a Cub game. We were young. Brash. Wild. Disrespectful. Full of youth.
As we were walking back from Wrigley on Grace Street, a trio of drunks started yelling at us from across the street.
One of the drunks was wearing an umbrella on his head, as part of his hat. I think they were called Brock Hats, but I am not sure. I digress.
As young people do sometimes, both groups were rather boisterous. The drunks yelled at us, "F... you."
The tv mogul replied, and I am positive about this: "If you are queer enough, we are near enough."
For some reason, the guys across the street took offense at that and crossed over.
To be honest, we were kids. Skinny, uncoordinated, peaceful, sober kids just coming home from the game. These guys were drunk and mean. And big.
They grabbed me.
That's when I became a pinball.
Guy with umbrella shoves me to guy without umbrella, who shoves me to the third guy, who shoves me back to umbrella guy.
All the time I am being the rational guy, saying, "Hey, just joking. Don't mean anything. Nice umbrella hat. Just a kid here."
They kept me surrounded as they walked, bouncing me from guy to guy with each step. My friends stayed a safe distance ahead, making sure the way was clear for the pinballers. Evidently they didn't want me to tilt. And they would be witnesses if the three drunks decided to beat the crap out of me.
They kept this up from Clark to Southport. When they hit Southport, they lost interest in me.
The let me go and staggered over to a car. They got in and moved into traffic. I watched carefully.
When they got to Irving and Southport, they became stuck in traffic.
When I saw a policeman directing traffic, I saw my chance for revenge.
"Officer," I yelled. "See those guys in that car? They are drunk! They can barely walk. The guy with the umbrella hat driving is the worst."
And I took off in a brisk trot.
I like to think the officer went over and checked them out. I truthfully did not care to stick around to see, because I figured they wouldn't be too happy with me. I thought the next experience would be a little rougher than pinball.
And it was not the only time Marc the tv mogul put me in a tight spot.
But that's tomorrow's story.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Seen any lobsters???
I have a lobster trap
This is a bonafide, used in Maine, dipped in the ocean with barnacles attached, hump backed, wooden lobster trap.
Truth is, I used to have two, but I gave one away to dear friends Renee and Wendy who fixed it up, cleaned it up and have a great looking trap.
Mine is not so great looking. Parts have fallen off. I may have lost the door.
Why do I have a lobster trap? Better yet, why did I have two??
It all goes back to my fascination with New England and Yankee Magazine.
Years ago there was an article in Yankee about a gent in Eastport, Maine, who sold lobster traps. People mailed him the money, he sent them the trap.
So I wrote him and asked him how much I needed to send.
Never got an answer.
We went east for a family wedding. We were only a couple of inches from Maine, and Eastport was only a couple of inches north of the border, so I suggested we make a trip there and buy a lobster trap.
Every part of the country has their characteristics. Californians are weird. Floridians are old. Midwesterners are friendly and welcoming. New Englanders are taciturn and blunt.
This was in the days when drivers used maps to get places. No fancy GPS or Google maps, just Rand McNally. That should have been a tip off.
I found Eastport on the map. Surprisingly, since its population was maybe 50. I had the man's name and address, and drove toward where I thought he lived.
I even stopped and asked for directions. And when a man gave me directions, I listened. Not often do you hear a man say that. And they new the man as the guy who sold lobster traps.
Eventually we pulled up in front of a house. The number on the house matched the number in the address I had. A man was sitting on the front porch. The conversation went something like this:
"Hello. I'm from Illinois. Are you Josh Smith?"
"Yep."
"I wrote you about 8 months ago about getting a lobster trap but I never heard back from you."
"Nope."
"I guess you didn't get the letter."
"Nope. Got it."
"But you never answered."
"Don't have any more traps. Why answer?"
We then had a brief conversation about my driving all the way from Illinois to buy a lobster trap. I told him I just drove Pennsylvania, because we were at a family wedding. I asked him how he shipped the lobster traps. I know he thought I was an idiot.
"Just put a label on 'em and mailed 'em at the post office."
So I walked back to the car. I don't think Jackie and Emily were particularly happy. Julia had gone back to Illinois because she had to be at work.
As we were driving through the small town, I spotted some lobster traps in a front yard with a sign that said: For sale. $3. And like a sign from heaven, the house was next to a post office.
I pulled over and got out of the car. There were three traps, a rectangular one, a humpback, and a metal one. I picked up the humpback, knocked on the door, paid my $3 and went to the post office.
You have not been stared at, and talked about, until you walk into a post office and attempt to mail a lobster trap. You can't. Despite what Mr. Smith told me, you can't mail a lobster trap.
I returned to the car, trap in hand, and took out the luggage from the trunk and put it all in the back seat. It was tight, but it fit.
Unfortunately, the lobster trap did not fit in the trunk.
At this point I could have abandoned the $3 trap, but I am nothing if not stubborn. This baby was going back to Illinois.
I pushed the driver's seat up as far as it would go and shoved the trap in the back seat. It fit, but the seat was up far. There was plenty of room in the back seat for Emily.
Luggage back in the trunk, we made it about two miles down the road when Emily started screaming.
"There's moving things on this! There's moving things on this!!"
Stopped the car, pulled over, pulled the $3 trap out, discovered there were worms, and assorted bugs that were making the trap a home. I wiped them off and put the trap back in the car.
Emily would not budge.
"I am not riding next to that trap!"
I looked at Jackie.
"I am not riding next to that trap. It's your trap, you ride next to it."
And that's how Jackie drove home from Maine. Pressed tight against the wheel, Emily on alert status for creepy crawly things, me jammed in next to a lobster trap.
But we got it home. We made the trip safely. The trap arrived undamaged.
One week later my brother Dennis and his wife Joan rolled up to our house with a surprise.
Strapped on the roof of their van was a humpbacked lobster trap, brought back to Illinois all the way from Maine.
This is a bonafide, used in Maine, dipped in the ocean with barnacles attached, hump backed, wooden lobster trap.
Truth is, I used to have two, but I gave one away to dear friends Renee and Wendy who fixed it up, cleaned it up and have a great looking trap.
Mine is not so great looking. Parts have fallen off. I may have lost the door.
Why do I have a lobster trap? Better yet, why did I have two??
It all goes back to my fascination with New England and Yankee Magazine.
Years ago there was an article in Yankee about a gent in Eastport, Maine, who sold lobster traps. People mailed him the money, he sent them the trap.
So I wrote him and asked him how much I needed to send.
Never got an answer.
We went east for a family wedding. We were only a couple of inches from Maine, and Eastport was only a couple of inches north of the border, so I suggested we make a trip there and buy a lobster trap.
Every part of the country has their characteristics. Californians are weird. Floridians are old. Midwesterners are friendly and welcoming. New Englanders are taciturn and blunt.
This was in the days when drivers used maps to get places. No fancy GPS or Google maps, just Rand McNally. That should have been a tip off.
I found Eastport on the map. Surprisingly, since its population was maybe 50. I had the man's name and address, and drove toward where I thought he lived.
I even stopped and asked for directions. And when a man gave me directions, I listened. Not often do you hear a man say that. And they new the man as the guy who sold lobster traps.
Eventually we pulled up in front of a house. The number on the house matched the number in the address I had. A man was sitting on the front porch. The conversation went something like this:
"Hello. I'm from Illinois. Are you Josh Smith?"
"Yep."
"I wrote you about 8 months ago about getting a lobster trap but I never heard back from you."
"Nope."
"I guess you didn't get the letter."
"Nope. Got it."
"But you never answered."
"Don't have any more traps. Why answer?"
We then had a brief conversation about my driving all the way from Illinois to buy a lobster trap. I told him I just drove Pennsylvania, because we were at a family wedding. I asked him how he shipped the lobster traps. I know he thought I was an idiot.
"Just put a label on 'em and mailed 'em at the post office."
So I walked back to the car. I don't think Jackie and Emily were particularly happy. Julia had gone back to Illinois because she had to be at work.
As we were driving through the small town, I spotted some lobster traps in a front yard with a sign that said: For sale. $3. And like a sign from heaven, the house was next to a post office.
I pulled over and got out of the car. There were three traps, a rectangular one, a humpback, and a metal one. I picked up the humpback, knocked on the door, paid my $3 and went to the post office.
You have not been stared at, and talked about, until you walk into a post office and attempt to mail a lobster trap. You can't. Despite what Mr. Smith told me, you can't mail a lobster trap.
I returned to the car, trap in hand, and took out the luggage from the trunk and put it all in the back seat. It was tight, but it fit.
Unfortunately, the lobster trap did not fit in the trunk.
At this point I could have abandoned the $3 trap, but I am nothing if not stubborn. This baby was going back to Illinois.
I pushed the driver's seat up as far as it would go and shoved the trap in the back seat. It fit, but the seat was up far. There was plenty of room in the back seat for Emily.
Luggage back in the trunk, we made it about two miles down the road when Emily started screaming.
"There's moving things on this! There's moving things on this!!"
Stopped the car, pulled over, pulled the $3 trap out, discovered there were worms, and assorted bugs that were making the trap a home. I wiped them off and put the trap back in the car.
Emily would not budge.
"I am not riding next to that trap!"
I looked at Jackie.
"I am not riding next to that trap. It's your trap, you ride next to it."
And that's how Jackie drove home from Maine. Pressed tight against the wheel, Emily on alert status for creepy crawly things, me jammed in next to a lobster trap.
But we got it home. We made the trip safely. The trap arrived undamaged.
One week later my brother Dennis and his wife Joan rolled up to our house with a surprise.
Strapped on the roof of their van was a humpbacked lobster trap, brought back to Illinois all the way from Maine.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Deja vu all over again
I am going to be in a play this September
Life works in very strange ways. I got a phone call a couple of weeks ago. White Pines is doing Greater Tuna in September. Someone from the Pines called, and I thought I had won free tickets.
I said, "I can't wait to see the show this September."
She said, "How would you like to be in the show?"
That set off the process of meeting the other person (oddly and sadly, not named Terry), reading parts, discussing the show rehearsals and getting to know the other cast member.
Greater Tuna is a two person show. Each actor plays about 10 characters. Terry C. and I have done three Tuna shows...Greater, Red White, and Christmas.....all directed by Renee P. This is a whole different story. Chemistry rules.
The person who was going to do the show evidently got cold feet. He is a little older than me and maybe did not feel he could get the memorization and characters down for the show. So he opted out.
We share the same fears, incidentally.
Today I got another call. I need to send my bio and a picture so it can be on the website.
Now this isn't done lightly. We had planned to visit Julia in mid September, but now we won't go until the end of September. I will have rehearsals in August, so that will alter my end of summer plans a little.. although, to be honest, I tend to plan less and just do what I feel like doing most days.
So it seems semi official....I also have to sign a contract.
If everything holds together ( I can imagine the captain of the Titanic thinking the same thought), I will be doing six shows at White Pines, all Wednesday and Thursday matinees.
Yes, I will be paid. No, I don't have to be an equity member. Yes, I am flattered. No, I won't let it go to my head. Yes, I am excited. No, I have not started memorizing lines but I will do that soon.
I just hope there are no icebergs in the ocean into which I am about to dive.
Life works in very strange ways. I got a phone call a couple of weeks ago. White Pines is doing Greater Tuna in September. Someone from the Pines called, and I thought I had won free tickets.
I said, "I can't wait to see the show this September."
She said, "How would you like to be in the show?"
That set off the process of meeting the other person (oddly and sadly, not named Terry), reading parts, discussing the show rehearsals and getting to know the other cast member.
Greater Tuna is a two person show. Each actor plays about 10 characters. Terry C. and I have done three Tuna shows...Greater, Red White, and Christmas.....all directed by Renee P. This is a whole different story. Chemistry rules.
The person who was going to do the show evidently got cold feet. He is a little older than me and maybe did not feel he could get the memorization and characters down for the show. So he opted out.
We share the same fears, incidentally.
Today I got another call. I need to send my bio and a picture so it can be on the website.
Now this isn't done lightly. We had planned to visit Julia in mid September, but now we won't go until the end of September. I will have rehearsals in August, so that will alter my end of summer plans a little.. although, to be honest, I tend to plan less and just do what I feel like doing most days.
So it seems semi official....I also have to sign a contract.
If everything holds together ( I can imagine the captain of the Titanic thinking the same thought), I will be doing six shows at White Pines, all Wednesday and Thursday matinees.
Yes, I will be paid. No, I don't have to be an equity member. Yes, I am flattered. No, I won't let it go to my head. Yes, I am excited. No, I have not started memorizing lines but I will do that soon.
I just hope there are no icebergs in the ocean into which I am about to dive.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
I dread the day I make a list
I always laugh at the picture collections on Facebook
You know the ones I mean.....weird family photos, funny looking pets, worst prom dates.
I laugh, but deep down I hope and pray I don't end up in one of the collections.
In the 60s I could have been on a list of "worst complexions on a teenager who lives on donuts and french fries." I loved them. It was a great after school snack. Unfortunately, my pores did not know how to handle the grease. My nickname during this period was "Spot." When passing a fire station with a Dalmatian, I never knew who the men were talking to.
In the 70s I could have qualified for "worst grade point averages at a modern day university." My picture would have been of a guy who looked pretty clueless.
Or I might see myself in "worst hair styles of all time." I would blame my wife for that. We didn't have a lot of money, so she decided to cut my hair once. Once. By the time she was done, it looked like I was wearing a bowl. Well, except for the huge bald spot she had somehow trimmed into the back of my head. I went back to Chicago to the Irish barber on Ashland Avenue, John the barber, and he took one look at the mess and said, "Aye, tis looking like ye did it yerself and ya used yer left hand an no mirra." (You have to say it with an Irish Brogue...to be honest, I don't think I ever understood a word he ever said.) He had been cutting my hair since I was knee high to a leprechaun, and he fixed it, but it still wasn't pretty.
In the 80s I might have made the "worst moustache" list. I had a brown, unmanaged mess that covered my upper lip. I tried to let it grow and one year succeeded in making handlebars, but I found the task of waxing and combing to be too tiring. I developed a habit of stroking it when thinking...which kids picked up on and mimicked. I still do it, even though I haven't had a moustache in years.
In the 90s I would have made the "worst financial investor list." I would not have been the only one to think Apple was done when it hit $5 a share. Who would have thought computers would be as popular as they are? If I had any vision, I'd be a millionaire now. We all would, but we didn't believe.
And I am sure there is a "worst used cars on the road today" gallery. My 62 Plymouth...maybe a Fury...would have counted. I bought it in 76 for $75. It did not have a defroster, which made it fun in the winter. One day a wheel came off when I was driving....well, nearly came off. The wheel was on a 40 degree angle because there was only one lug nut in place. One day, Jackie had to drive it to work in Steward and once she got it started, drove straight to the newspaper office and abandoned it in front because she had made the drive scraping ice off the inside of the window. I used it to drive back and forth to Oregon after that because she would not drive it under any circumstances. In the winter I put chains on. I had never used chains. They were about 12 inches longer than needed, and I had no idea what to do. So I drove to Oregon with the chains flapping. I had the worst headache ever from the pounding noise those chains made beating on the wheel wells. And when I got home that night I was surprised to see I had no rear fender panels anymore. It took three days for the pounding to go out of my head.
So, I'll continue to laugh at the worst dressed, worst costume, worst portraits....yet I'll keep on eye open for a familiar face that might even be recognizable.
You know the ones I mean.....weird family photos, funny looking pets, worst prom dates.
I laugh, but deep down I hope and pray I don't end up in one of the collections.
In the 60s I could have been on a list of "worst complexions on a teenager who lives on donuts and french fries." I loved them. It was a great after school snack. Unfortunately, my pores did not know how to handle the grease. My nickname during this period was "Spot." When passing a fire station with a Dalmatian, I never knew who the men were talking to.
In the 70s I could have qualified for "worst grade point averages at a modern day university." My picture would have been of a guy who looked pretty clueless.
Or I might see myself in "worst hair styles of all time." I would blame my wife for that. We didn't have a lot of money, so she decided to cut my hair once. Once. By the time she was done, it looked like I was wearing a bowl. Well, except for the huge bald spot she had somehow trimmed into the back of my head. I went back to Chicago to the Irish barber on Ashland Avenue, John the barber, and he took one look at the mess and said, "Aye, tis looking like ye did it yerself and ya used yer left hand an no mirra." (You have to say it with an Irish Brogue...to be honest, I don't think I ever understood a word he ever said.) He had been cutting my hair since I was knee high to a leprechaun, and he fixed it, but it still wasn't pretty.
In the 80s I might have made the "worst moustache" list. I had a brown, unmanaged mess that covered my upper lip. I tried to let it grow and one year succeeded in making handlebars, but I found the task of waxing and combing to be too tiring. I developed a habit of stroking it when thinking...which kids picked up on and mimicked. I still do it, even though I haven't had a moustache in years.
In the 90s I would have made the "worst financial investor list." I would not have been the only one to think Apple was done when it hit $5 a share. Who would have thought computers would be as popular as they are? If I had any vision, I'd be a millionaire now. We all would, but we didn't believe.
And I am sure there is a "worst used cars on the road today" gallery. My 62 Plymouth...maybe a Fury...would have counted. I bought it in 76 for $75. It did not have a defroster, which made it fun in the winter. One day a wheel came off when I was driving....well, nearly came off. The wheel was on a 40 degree angle because there was only one lug nut in place. One day, Jackie had to drive it to work in Steward and once she got it started, drove straight to the newspaper office and abandoned it in front because she had made the drive scraping ice off the inside of the window. I used it to drive back and forth to Oregon after that because she would not drive it under any circumstances. In the winter I put chains on. I had never used chains. They were about 12 inches longer than needed, and I had no idea what to do. So I drove to Oregon with the chains flapping. I had the worst headache ever from the pounding noise those chains made beating on the wheel wells. And when I got home that night I was surprised to see I had no rear fender panels anymore. It took three days for the pounding to go out of my head.
So, I'll continue to laugh at the worst dressed, worst costume, worst portraits....yet I'll keep on eye open for a familiar face that might even be recognizable.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
How does she do it???
I am a terrible dog sitter
When Emily goes away, someone needs to watch the dogs.
Which explains why I have spent the last four (not including today, yet) nights at her house.
She has three dogs and a psycho cat. You have to watch every animal, every minute.
Otherwise, Gwen sneaks into the kitchen and polishes off the rest of the cat food...leaving the cat hungry and foodless. As she did Monday night.
Cooper will eat your shoes...or anything else you leave lying around. After my first experience, I learned to put my shoes up high to avoid having them become expensive chew toys.
Bennett just runs away.....although last night he did come up to me and sniff my hand and allow me to pet him. But he forgot that today.
And if you leave a door open Jaz goes in the room or out the door or in the garage....and it is not always easy to get him/her back.
All the dogs recycle....a habit that is being worked on, but I try to keep my eye on them when they are out. And one of them digs... you can't rest.
So today I bought some more cat food and filled the feeder. Jaz spent a lot of time eating, and the dogs were running around barking, and Jackie was coming, and the phone was ringing....
Cat wandered into Emily's bedroom where she began the wildest, scariest howl I've ever heard from him. Or her. I don't remember.
I headed toward her/him, dogs in an uproar, and looked in in time to see her/him yak up all the food she/he had gobbled down.
Now I have to get paper towels and keep the dogs away from the reheated yet still intact food. Jaz lets out another yowl and goes into retch position, but I luckily put paper towels on the ground and she/he hit the mark.
Meanwhile, Gwen has already made a bee line for the unattended cat food in the kitchen because I didn't close the gate.
I get her out, grab more paper towels, find a plastic bag and clean up the cat's present.
As I am taking that out, cat is back at the feeder.....reloading.
I whoosh her away, pick up the food and take all but a handful out, which is what I should have done to start with.
Fifteen minutes is like two hours of work. I really don't see how Emily and John can keep up with the circus!!
Maybe that explains why I have slept like a log the last three nights.
Emily and John will be back tomorrow. And I will be able to go home and sleep in my own bed and not have to worry about dogs eating cat food, or cats, or my shoes.
That is, until July!!
When Emily goes away, someone needs to watch the dogs.
Which explains why I have spent the last four (not including today, yet) nights at her house.
She has three dogs and a psycho cat. You have to watch every animal, every minute.
Otherwise, Gwen sneaks into the kitchen and polishes off the rest of the cat food...leaving the cat hungry and foodless. As she did Monday night.
Cooper will eat your shoes...or anything else you leave lying around. After my first experience, I learned to put my shoes up high to avoid having them become expensive chew toys.
Bennett just runs away.....although last night he did come up to me and sniff my hand and allow me to pet him. But he forgot that today.
And if you leave a door open Jaz goes in the room or out the door or in the garage....and it is not always easy to get him/her back.
All the dogs recycle....a habit that is being worked on, but I try to keep my eye on them when they are out. And one of them digs... you can't rest.
So today I bought some more cat food and filled the feeder. Jaz spent a lot of time eating, and the dogs were running around barking, and Jackie was coming, and the phone was ringing....
Cat wandered into Emily's bedroom where she began the wildest, scariest howl I've ever heard from him. Or her. I don't remember.
I headed toward her/him, dogs in an uproar, and looked in in time to see her/him yak up all the food she/he had gobbled down.
Now I have to get paper towels and keep the dogs away from the reheated yet still intact food. Jaz lets out another yowl and goes into retch position, but I luckily put paper towels on the ground and she/he hit the mark.
Meanwhile, Gwen has already made a bee line for the unattended cat food in the kitchen because I didn't close the gate.
I get her out, grab more paper towels, find a plastic bag and clean up the cat's present.
As I am taking that out, cat is back at the feeder.....reloading.
I whoosh her away, pick up the food and take all but a handful out, which is what I should have done to start with.
Fifteen minutes is like two hours of work. I really don't see how Emily and John can keep up with the circus!!
Maybe that explains why I have slept like a log the last three nights.
Emily and John will be back tomorrow. And I will be able to go home and sleep in my own bed and not have to worry about dogs eating cat food, or cats, or my shoes.
That is, until July!!
Monday, March 24, 2014
How to anger a policeman
I sort of busted a police stakeout
Hanging around with my brother Dennis was a lot of fun, but could result in some ticklish situations.
Yesterday I mentioned getting thrown out of a bar for being 13 and drinking beer. It was one of several instances of hi jinks he somehow drew me into, but one was really scary.
Dennis was watching me. So, he took me with him with one of his friends, nicknamed "The Rebel."
He drove a souped up Ford, maybe a 59 or 60....I was about 14 and really into cars.
The Rebel was a racer. He would hang around drive ins and challenge guys to races, with bets of $20 or $30. He usually won, either because he was crazy or really had a fast car.
Anyway, there were five of us crammed in the car. I was in the back seat in the middle.
The Rebel had had a beer. We cruised through the drive ins looking for a race, but kept coming up empty.
Someplace on North Avenue, out near the edge of Chicago, The Rebel decided he had to pee.
He pulled into an alley between two huge factories, turned off the lights, drove down the alley a ways, stopped, got out and did his business.
He got back in the car and pulled forward.
At the end of the alley, we were met by at least five police cars, with one more screaming up the alley behind us.
Several cops had guns drawn and were pointing at the car.
They ordered The Rebel out and spread-eagled him on the hood. They told the rest of us not to move. They opened the trunk, looked in, looked under the front seats and kept shining lights in our faces in the back seat.
All was done with no indication of what we had done wrong.
Then the cop asked, "What were you doing in the alley?"
The Rebel pointed at me and said, "The little kid in the back seat had to pee."
The cop shined his light in my face and said, "That the truth?"
Well, I did not lie....because at that point I think I did pee. I shook my head vigorously.
"I gotta go again," I said.
It turned out one of the factories had been burglarized four times in the past six months. The police had set up a stakeout...and this was week two of their attempt to catch the bad guys.
They were not happy.
An officer ordered The Rebel to get in the car and drive away.
And he offered some advice: "Next time the kid needs a shithouse, don't stop here or you'll all end up in the shithouse!"
I never went with them again. That was my choice.
Hanging around with my brother Dennis was a lot of fun, but could result in some ticklish situations.
Yesterday I mentioned getting thrown out of a bar for being 13 and drinking beer. It was one of several instances of hi jinks he somehow drew me into, but one was really scary.
Dennis was watching me. So, he took me with him with one of his friends, nicknamed "The Rebel."
He drove a souped up Ford, maybe a 59 or 60....I was about 14 and really into cars.
The Rebel was a racer. He would hang around drive ins and challenge guys to races, with bets of $20 or $30. He usually won, either because he was crazy or really had a fast car.
Anyway, there were five of us crammed in the car. I was in the back seat in the middle.
The Rebel had had a beer. We cruised through the drive ins looking for a race, but kept coming up empty.
Someplace on North Avenue, out near the edge of Chicago, The Rebel decided he had to pee.
He pulled into an alley between two huge factories, turned off the lights, drove down the alley a ways, stopped, got out and did his business.
He got back in the car and pulled forward.
At the end of the alley, we were met by at least five police cars, with one more screaming up the alley behind us.
Several cops had guns drawn and were pointing at the car.
They ordered The Rebel out and spread-eagled him on the hood. They told the rest of us not to move. They opened the trunk, looked in, looked under the front seats and kept shining lights in our faces in the back seat.
All was done with no indication of what we had done wrong.
Then the cop asked, "What were you doing in the alley?"
The Rebel pointed at me and said, "The little kid in the back seat had to pee."
The cop shined his light in my face and said, "That the truth?"
Well, I did not lie....because at that point I think I did pee. I shook my head vigorously.
"I gotta go again," I said.
It turned out one of the factories had been burglarized four times in the past six months. The police had set up a stakeout...and this was week two of their attempt to catch the bad guys.
They were not happy.
An officer ordered The Rebel to get in the car and drive away.
And he offered some advice: "Next time the kid needs a shithouse, don't stop here or you'll all end up in the shithouse!"
I never went with them again. That was my choice.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
It really wasn't that good
I was thrown out of a bowling alley
I was in Michigan, at Dewey Lake, on vacation. My older brother Dennis came up and took me and my friend go karting and bowling.
We had a lot of fun. We raced karts and had a ball.
Then we went bowling. I am not a great bowler, none of us were, so Dennis ordered a couple of beers. We had barely begun drinking them when the manager came storming over and yelled for us to leave immediately and never come back.
I was 13.
I was in Michigan, at Dewey Lake, on vacation. My older brother Dennis came up and took me and my friend go karting and bowling.
We had a lot of fun. We raced karts and had a ball.
Then we went bowling. I am not a great bowler, none of us were, so Dennis ordered a couple of beers. We had barely begun drinking them when the manager came storming over and yelled for us to leave immediately and never come back.
I was 13.
CRS.....the password's the key
I have too many passwords to remember
I am dog sitting. Now, that is not a problem. Emily has indoor plumbing, heat, Internet and cable access, all the pluses in a civilized society.
What I don't have is my password book.
That's right, book.
When password security started to by stressed by Internet safety groups, I took the message to heart.
One piece of advice was: don't use the same password for all your accounts.
So I don't. (Incidentally, someone else in the household is not entirely in agreement with me on that.) And I have CRS...(can't remember shit)....... which seems to grow daily. Yes, this is a real condition, but I can't remember where I read about it.
Every time I open an account or whatever that demands a password, I use a different one.
So Google has a password different from Facebook, which is different from the Capital 1, which is different than Apple, which is different from Brookfield Zoo, Amazon, BP Rewards, EBates, Eddie Bauer, Walgreen's........you get the idea.
And sometimes the user name is different. I have one site where my first name is Terru. I get e-mails to Terru, greetings to Terru, all because my user name is Terru. And there is no secret to that name, U is next to Y and when I type, sometimes I don't catch my mistakes. So I will ever more be known as TerruD on one site. And yes, I tried to change my name....but that seems to be the only box you can't edit.
My guess is they figure everyone knows how to spell their own name, right? And there is usually a box that asks, "Is all the information correct" that you have to check before hitting the obviously etched in stone submit button.
So I thought, start a new account. But I can't because the e-mail address is already in use. Yes, I know I could use a second or third e-mail address (I am sure there is a reason I have 3!), but I am confused enough about the security issues. Seems the more addresses you have, the more likely you will be scammed, spammed, phished or some other word with a ph sound at the start.
So I will go through life as Terru on that website. I don't mind, it is kind of exotic sounding and mysterious, I think. People at the website probably sit around and say, "That Terru is quite a character. Look at the choices he/she is making. Is Terru a boy or a girl? Inquiring minds want to know."
So, that's why for the first time since Jan 1 I did not have a posting. (I know, I missed it by an hour a couple of weeks ago....an hour! This was all night!)
Since I am at Emily's another three nights, I think I will make a point to blog earlier in the evening, from the comforts of my own home, where security is only a notebook away.
I am dog sitting. Now, that is not a problem. Emily has indoor plumbing, heat, Internet and cable access, all the pluses in a civilized society.
What I don't have is my password book.
That's right, book.
When password security started to by stressed by Internet safety groups, I took the message to heart.
One piece of advice was: don't use the same password for all your accounts.
So I don't. (Incidentally, someone else in the household is not entirely in agreement with me on that.) And I have CRS...(can't remember shit)....... which seems to grow daily. Yes, this is a real condition, but I can't remember where I read about it.
Every time I open an account or whatever that demands a password, I use a different one.
So Google has a password different from Facebook, which is different from the Capital 1, which is different than Apple, which is different from Brookfield Zoo, Amazon, BP Rewards, EBates, Eddie Bauer, Walgreen's........you get the idea.
And sometimes the user name is different. I have one site where my first name is Terru. I get e-mails to Terru, greetings to Terru, all because my user name is Terru. And there is no secret to that name, U is next to Y and when I type, sometimes I don't catch my mistakes. So I will ever more be known as TerruD on one site. And yes, I tried to change my name....but that seems to be the only box you can't edit.
My guess is they figure everyone knows how to spell their own name, right? And there is usually a box that asks, "Is all the information correct" that you have to check before hitting the obviously etched in stone submit button.
So I thought, start a new account. But I can't because the e-mail address is already in use. Yes, I know I could use a second or third e-mail address (I am sure there is a reason I have 3!), but I am confused enough about the security issues. Seems the more addresses you have, the more likely you will be scammed, spammed, phished or some other word with a ph sound at the start.
So I will go through life as Terru on that website. I don't mind, it is kind of exotic sounding and mysterious, I think. People at the website probably sit around and say, "That Terru is quite a character. Look at the choices he/she is making. Is Terru a boy or a girl? Inquiring minds want to know."
So, that's why for the first time since Jan 1 I did not have a posting. (I know, I missed it by an hour a couple of weeks ago....an hour! This was all night!)
Since I am at Emily's another three nights, I think I will make a point to blog earlier in the evening, from the comforts of my own home, where security is only a notebook away.
Friday, March 21, 2014
rose colored glasses
Sometimes I make it too difficult, too complex
Sometimes a circle is a circle. I forget that. I tend to make something relatively easy, into something relatively hard.
When I was in photo class at NIU I had an assignment to create a picture board of 6-8 photos.
That meant I had to take the pictures, develop the film, size and print the pictures.
I opted to take a trip to Lincoln Park Zoo. So over spring break, I took my (actually NIU's camera... a 2 and 1/4 by 2 and 1/4 Yashica D...heck of a camera) to the zoo and spent the day taking pictures.
I took pictures of animals, kids with cotton candy, a juggler, statues, and a homeless man sleeping on a bench.
He was a symbol, that even in the greatest nation in the world, and the greatest city in the world, there were still people below the fringe.
Back at NIU, I went to work, under the watchful eyes of Halle Hamilton. A great teacher, he never gave an answer. But he guided you, by questioning you, so that you would reach a solution.
All went well until I printed the picture of the man on the bench. There was a smudge in the middle of the picture.
I did everything I was taught....I dodged (fun little technique where you waved a piece of paper or something over the area of the picture you may want lighter). The blur was still there. I thought it might be a light leak, but no, the room was dark. The negative had the smudge, so I washed it again.
I spent at least an hour on that one print. No matter what I did, that smudge would not go away.
I went over to Halle and slumped in the chair in front of his desk. He looked at me and said,
"Dickow, what's the problem. You look down."
I showed him the print, told him everything I had done, explained the smudge was not on any other negative, and I was lost.
He put his pipe in his mouth and nodded.
"Was it sunny?" he asked.
Obviously not, I thought, but I said no, it was cloudy.
"Just cloudy? What other weather was happening?"
I thought for a few seconds, then I remembered. I told him it was foggy.
"Foggy. Where did you take these pictures?"
Lincoln Park Zoo, I replied.
"Where's that at?" he asked, still with his pipe in hand.
I knew he knew all the answers. I could not see where he was going.
In Chicago. Near downtown. I told him the obvious.
"Huh......are there tall buildings downtown?" he asked, grinning.
I looked at the picture.
Oh damn, I said, that's a building in the fog!
He smiled. "No matter what you do, that building isn't going away."
Then he added, "That's what you get when you look at the world through rose colored glasses."
I bet 15 years passed before I saw him again. It was at a journalist of the year banquet at NIU, the first and only one I went to. He was being honored.
I went up to him and said, "Hello, Dr. Hamilton. Remember me?
He gave his gentle, knowing smile and said, "Terry Dickow. Still looking at the world through rose colored glasses?"
The last time I saw him was in a grocery store in DeKalb.....probably 30 years after I was in his class. He still remembered my name.
He had the uncanny talent of teaching through discovery and thought. He remembered people, and names.
I thought of him today when I got my NIU alumni magazine.
He was listed in the in memoriam section, having died last December. He was 89.
I wish I had taken the time to look him up in the last five or six years, just to say thank you.
So, thanks Halle for all you did for me and hundreds of other j students at NIU. Rest in Peace, friend.
Sometimes a circle is a circle. I forget that. I tend to make something relatively easy, into something relatively hard.
When I was in photo class at NIU I had an assignment to create a picture board of 6-8 photos.
That meant I had to take the pictures, develop the film, size and print the pictures.
I opted to take a trip to Lincoln Park Zoo. So over spring break, I took my (actually NIU's camera... a 2 and 1/4 by 2 and 1/4 Yashica D...heck of a camera) to the zoo and spent the day taking pictures.
I took pictures of animals, kids with cotton candy, a juggler, statues, and a homeless man sleeping on a bench.
He was a symbol, that even in the greatest nation in the world, and the greatest city in the world, there were still people below the fringe.
Back at NIU, I went to work, under the watchful eyes of Halle Hamilton. A great teacher, he never gave an answer. But he guided you, by questioning you, so that you would reach a solution.
All went well until I printed the picture of the man on the bench. There was a smudge in the middle of the picture.
I did everything I was taught....I dodged (fun little technique where you waved a piece of paper or something over the area of the picture you may want lighter). The blur was still there. I thought it might be a light leak, but no, the room was dark. The negative had the smudge, so I washed it again.
I spent at least an hour on that one print. No matter what I did, that smudge would not go away.
I went over to Halle and slumped in the chair in front of his desk. He looked at me and said,
"Dickow, what's the problem. You look down."
I showed him the print, told him everything I had done, explained the smudge was not on any other negative, and I was lost.
He put his pipe in his mouth and nodded.
"Was it sunny?" he asked.
Obviously not, I thought, but I said no, it was cloudy.
"Just cloudy? What other weather was happening?"
I thought for a few seconds, then I remembered. I told him it was foggy.
"Foggy. Where did you take these pictures?"
Lincoln Park Zoo, I replied.
"Where's that at?" he asked, still with his pipe in hand.
I knew he knew all the answers. I could not see where he was going.
In Chicago. Near downtown. I told him the obvious.
"Huh......are there tall buildings downtown?" he asked, grinning.
I looked at the picture.
Oh damn, I said, that's a building in the fog!
He smiled. "No matter what you do, that building isn't going away."
Then he added, "That's what you get when you look at the world through rose colored glasses."
I bet 15 years passed before I saw him again. It was at a journalist of the year banquet at NIU, the first and only one I went to. He was being honored.
I went up to him and said, "Hello, Dr. Hamilton. Remember me?
He gave his gentle, knowing smile and said, "Terry Dickow. Still looking at the world through rose colored glasses?"
The last time I saw him was in a grocery store in DeKalb.....probably 30 years after I was in his class. He still remembered my name.
He had the uncanny talent of teaching through discovery and thought. He remembered people, and names.
I thought of him today when I got my NIU alumni magazine.
He was listed in the in memoriam section, having died last December. He was 89.
I wish I had taken the time to look him up in the last five or six years, just to say thank you.
So, thanks Halle for all you did for me and hundreds of other j students at NIU. Rest in Peace, friend.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
How green is my garden
I have to remember we are city folk.
City folk don't do some things.
For example: The first auction I ever went to featured a roto tiller. Jackie and I were about 12 at the time and had no idea about auctions....but we wanted a roto tiller for the garden we planted. So we went.
We made a promise to not bid more than $80....money was tight. We wanted to grow our own food to save money and needed a tiller to get the garden ready.
So there I was, at $95 and still raising my hand. We ended up buying it for $110, much more than we wanted.
I had a Chevette...and it was a bear to get that baby in the tiny back end.
Of course, the tiller worked fine when the tines were in the air, but as soon as it hit the ground they stopped. That sucker wouldn't cut through butter.
It cost another $100 to fix. But we had a tiller for a garden.
We planted potatoes. Lots of potatoes. I did not know that one eye produced several taters. I planted close to 50 eyes......we had potatoes through the winter and into the spring.
We planted carrots, beans, peas...the whole ball of wax. And zucchini.....if I remember, several hills of that. Again, we did not know how prolific it was.
As the years went on, the garden got smaller. And smaller. Then it disappeared. We have not had a garden for three years.
But this year is a rebirth of the gardening bug. We are doing a raised garden with some tomatoes, cucumber, peas, beans, green peppers.....not a lot of produce, but enough to allow us to avoid those tasteless store bought Frankensteins.
As soon as the weather warms, I'll put it together, fill it with dirt, and plant the plants.
And about July 2 I'll be frustrated, it will be hot, the weeds will be in abundance and I'll have to remind us, we are city folk after all.
City folk don't do some things.
For example: The first auction I ever went to featured a roto tiller. Jackie and I were about 12 at the time and had no idea about auctions....but we wanted a roto tiller for the garden we planted. So we went.
We made a promise to not bid more than $80....money was tight. We wanted to grow our own food to save money and needed a tiller to get the garden ready.
So there I was, at $95 and still raising my hand. We ended up buying it for $110, much more than we wanted.
I had a Chevette...and it was a bear to get that baby in the tiny back end.
Of course, the tiller worked fine when the tines were in the air, but as soon as it hit the ground they stopped. That sucker wouldn't cut through butter.
It cost another $100 to fix. But we had a tiller for a garden.
We planted potatoes. Lots of potatoes. I did not know that one eye produced several taters. I planted close to 50 eyes......we had potatoes through the winter and into the spring.
We planted carrots, beans, peas...the whole ball of wax. And zucchini.....if I remember, several hills of that. Again, we did not know how prolific it was.
As the years went on, the garden got smaller. And smaller. Then it disappeared. We have not had a garden for three years.
But this year is a rebirth of the gardening bug. We are doing a raised garden with some tomatoes, cucumber, peas, beans, green peppers.....not a lot of produce, but enough to allow us to avoid those tasteless store bought Frankensteins.
As soon as the weather warms, I'll put it together, fill it with dirt, and plant the plants.
And about July 2 I'll be frustrated, it will be hot, the weeds will be in abundance and I'll have to remind us, we are city folk after all.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
time for a little house cleaning
I have too many books
I never thought I would say that.
Jackie and I love to read. Julia and Emily love to read. We have spent a lifetime reading and buying books.
And it shows.
Books like "Reading the Landscape," big in the environmental field about 60 years ago. I had to read it for an outdoor education class at the Lorado Taft Field Campus of NIU. There is also an updated version, "Reading the Landscape of America," published about 30 years ago. A lot of description of the Rock River area, islands in the Rock, geology. It was good reading then, and would still be good reading now.
We sometimes collect books by a certain author. We have a lot of books by Rex Stout, who wrote about a corpulent detective named Nero Wolfe. Nero had an investigator named Archie Goodwin because Nero seldom left the house. Nero loved orchids and eating, as his valet/butler chef Fritz would point out. I think we have every Nero Wolfe mystery. He was popular in the 30s, 40s, and 50s.....but the books are good mysteries.
We have partial series of Janet Evanovich, Alexander McCall Smith, and my favorite of the collected authors, Donna Leon, who has mysteries set in Venice. I have some crazy funny works by Carl Hiassen.
I have four books in Chinese.
I found one book in French.
I have some spellers from the 1920s....probably picked up on a field trip.
Books on America by National Geographic.
I have several great reads dealing with WW II.
And Studs Terkel.....a great writer from Chicago who had a wonderful interviewing style.
We have six bookshelves. They were all crammed full at the old house. But I have started going through books and eliminating.
Hate to see Thomas Jefferson go, but I'm never going to read it again. And the Harlan Cobdens and James Pattersons.....sorry fellas, no room at the inn.
Mathematical Tables...you are gone.
Rick Steves guide to Europe, 2002, a little outdated and gone.
I did find an Audubon bird book from 1946....full of illustrations of ..... c'mon take a guess....Birds!! That one I am keeping. If I ever get motivated to sell things on E-Bay, that might be one to list. Or I could rip it apart and frame the bird images and then sell them at a craft fair......never mind, too much detailed work for a guy like me.
I still have a few boxes to go through. I did unpack and weed 9 boxes today.
And I am down to three bookshelves, which is a good start.
But I notice Barnes and Noble has a coupon for this weekend. And Christoper Moore is coming out with a new book, so maybe I'll add one more.
In the meantime, I'll box the unwanted ones and stack them until a garage sale, book sale, mini lending library movement....some time in the future.
A few, like on my old friend WC Fields, I'll keep....because they are old friends and I just can't say good bye. Yet.
I never thought I would say that.
Jackie and I love to read. Julia and Emily love to read. We have spent a lifetime reading and buying books.
And it shows.
Books like "Reading the Landscape," big in the environmental field about 60 years ago. I had to read it for an outdoor education class at the Lorado Taft Field Campus of NIU. There is also an updated version, "Reading the Landscape of America," published about 30 years ago. A lot of description of the Rock River area, islands in the Rock, geology. It was good reading then, and would still be good reading now.
We sometimes collect books by a certain author. We have a lot of books by Rex Stout, who wrote about a corpulent detective named Nero Wolfe. Nero had an investigator named Archie Goodwin because Nero seldom left the house. Nero loved orchids and eating, as his valet/butler chef Fritz would point out. I think we have every Nero Wolfe mystery. He was popular in the 30s, 40s, and 50s.....but the books are good mysteries.
We have partial series of Janet Evanovich, Alexander McCall Smith, and my favorite of the collected authors, Donna Leon, who has mysteries set in Venice. I have some crazy funny works by Carl Hiassen.
I have four books in Chinese.
I found one book in French.
I have some spellers from the 1920s....probably picked up on a field trip.
Books on America by National Geographic.
I have several great reads dealing with WW II.
And Studs Terkel.....a great writer from Chicago who had a wonderful interviewing style.
We have six bookshelves. They were all crammed full at the old house. But I have started going through books and eliminating.
Hate to see Thomas Jefferson go, but I'm never going to read it again. And the Harlan Cobdens and James Pattersons.....sorry fellas, no room at the inn.
Mathematical Tables...you are gone.
Rick Steves guide to Europe, 2002, a little outdated and gone.
I did find an Audubon bird book from 1946....full of illustrations of ..... c'mon take a guess....Birds!! That one I am keeping. If I ever get motivated to sell things on E-Bay, that might be one to list. Or I could rip it apart and frame the bird images and then sell them at a craft fair......never mind, too much detailed work for a guy like me.
I still have a few boxes to go through. I did unpack and weed 9 boxes today.
And I am down to three bookshelves, which is a good start.
But I notice Barnes and Noble has a coupon for this weekend. And Christoper Moore is coming out with a new book, so maybe I'll add one more.
In the meantime, I'll box the unwanted ones and stack them until a garage sale, book sale, mini lending library movement....some time in the future.
A few, like on my old friend WC Fields, I'll keep....because they are old friends and I just can't say good bye. Yet.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
What does that mean?
I have a phobia about terms of endearment
My grandmother was old country German. This was my father's mother. She used to wear black dresses, dark stockings and a head scarf we called a babooshka, or something like that.
She owned the apartment building we lived in, a building her husband built in the 1920s, if memory serves me correctly. (Sometimes it doesn't.)
We lived in the front apartment on the third floor of the north side of the building, she and Aunt Betty lived in the back, There were 12 apartments in all, six on each side. There was a beautiful rock garden in the front that gramps built. At one time it had running water. In the summer it was always filled with flowers and I often wish I could build one like it.
But Grandma Dickow had her, shall we say, quirks.
She had several pet names for me. Instead of darling, she would say in her broken English, "My little scheisskopf." When I was being impish, I was her "little hosenscheisser." And once in a while I was a hosenscheisse.
I loved those terms of endearment.
She died. I think I was about 13....maybe younger. And at some point of my adult life I mentioned those terms of endearment to a person who spoke German. The conversation went something like this:
Oh, you speak German. My grandmother was German. She spoke it a lot.
Do you remember any of it.
Oh yes! (said with a big, innocent, smile.) I'm a scheisskopf!
Pardon me?
I said 'I'm a scheisskopf'!
I heard you. You do know that means shithead in English.
What! ( with genuine disbelief. Dear sweet granny said that about me?)
Scheisskoph means shithead. You didn't know that?
No, honestly. She always said it with affection.
What else did she call you?
I was her little hosenscheisser.
Do you know what that means?
I'm afraid to ask.
It means someone who shits their pants. Your granny had a thing about shit and you, you know.
So hosenscheisser is like hosenscheisse?
You mean pants full of shit?
So there you are. Hosenscheisser, hosenscheisse, scheisskopf......that's me!
Despite that, and her terrible temper and lack of patience, she was a fairly nice person.
Certainly scheisskopf material, for sure!
My grandmother was old country German. This was my father's mother. She used to wear black dresses, dark stockings and a head scarf we called a babooshka, or something like that.
She owned the apartment building we lived in, a building her husband built in the 1920s, if memory serves me correctly. (Sometimes it doesn't.)
We lived in the front apartment on the third floor of the north side of the building, she and Aunt Betty lived in the back, There were 12 apartments in all, six on each side. There was a beautiful rock garden in the front that gramps built. At one time it had running water. In the summer it was always filled with flowers and I often wish I could build one like it.
But Grandma Dickow had her, shall we say, quirks.
She had several pet names for me. Instead of darling, she would say in her broken English, "My little scheisskopf." When I was being impish, I was her "little hosenscheisser." And once in a while I was a hosenscheisse.
I loved those terms of endearment.
She died. I think I was about 13....maybe younger. And at some point of my adult life I mentioned those terms of endearment to a person who spoke German. The conversation went something like this:
Oh, you speak German. My grandmother was German. She spoke it a lot.
Do you remember any of it.
Oh yes! (said with a big, innocent, smile.) I'm a scheisskopf!
Pardon me?
I said 'I'm a scheisskopf'!
I heard you. You do know that means shithead in English.
What! ( with genuine disbelief. Dear sweet granny said that about me?)
Scheisskoph means shithead. You didn't know that?
No, honestly. She always said it with affection.
What else did she call you?
I was her little hosenscheisser.
Do you know what that means?
I'm afraid to ask.
It means someone who shits their pants. Your granny had a thing about shit and you, you know.
So hosenscheisser is like hosenscheisse?
You mean pants full of shit?
So there you are. Hosenscheisser, hosenscheisse, scheisskopf......that's me!
Despite that, and her terrible temper and lack of patience, she was a fairly nice person.
Certainly scheisskopf material, for sure!
Monday, March 17, 2014
bug and bog....they are close to the same, right?
I don't read things closely
I read things, and then I "read" things. I think we all do it. Some writings are worth reading (like mine) so I read carefully. Other writings are just drivel (like mine) so I scan for the main ideas.
And sometimes I just don't read right.
For example, the crossword clue was light blue. Four letters. I tried navy, and it didn't work. Neither did nile. But it started with N....so I thought and I thought till my puzzler was sore. (I love Dr. Seuss!) Then I read the clue, for the 10th time. It was light bite. Nosh works. Nosh fits. It wasn't a color at all!
At the flower and garden show today I read the label: Jimmy Jump Ups.......and Linda said Johnny Jump Ups. Oops. Jimmy, Johnny....Jimmy Johns and I got hungry.
I spent time reading a sign for a bus schedule that was clearly labeled "weekends only" while today is a weekday.
And sometimes I miss the main idea completely. I thought of driving to the flower and garden show today at McCormick Place. But Dan and Linda said let's meet a the train station and take the bus. And we did.....to Navy Pier, where the flower and garden show is being held!
I can read a news article and pick out 15 mistakes...but I can make that many in something I write and never see any. Last week I posted on Facebook that I was looking for show boxes. Show boxes? What the hell are those? I was looking for shoe boxes.
But, in the long run, it did not make a difference....no one told me they had shoe boxes. Or show boxes, either.
At Homecoming last fall I was looking forward to a photography class reunion at NIU. It was from 2-4 in the photo department. I went at 2....nobody was there. I called Jackie and asked her to look at the invitation. Yes it was 2 but it was on Friday, not Saturday. How did I miss that? I read that invitation at least 5 times to make sure I had the right time. I should have known, because in my day at NIU Friday was the party day....but we met at the Shamrock, not the photo lab.
Now I wonder about all those books I read. Did the South really win? Were there Axel powers in WW II? Did the Cubs win a pennant in '08?
And schedules? Those are an entirely different topic.
I read things, and then I "read" things. I think we all do it. Some writings are worth reading (like mine) so I read carefully. Other writings are just drivel (like mine) so I scan for the main ideas.
And sometimes I just don't read right.
For example, the crossword clue was light blue. Four letters. I tried navy, and it didn't work. Neither did nile. But it started with N....so I thought and I thought till my puzzler was sore. (I love Dr. Seuss!) Then I read the clue, for the 10th time. It was light bite. Nosh works. Nosh fits. It wasn't a color at all!
At the flower and garden show today I read the label: Jimmy Jump Ups.......and Linda said Johnny Jump Ups. Oops. Jimmy, Johnny....Jimmy Johns and I got hungry.
I spent time reading a sign for a bus schedule that was clearly labeled "weekends only" while today is a weekday.
And sometimes I miss the main idea completely. I thought of driving to the flower and garden show today at McCormick Place. But Dan and Linda said let's meet a the train station and take the bus. And we did.....to Navy Pier, where the flower and garden show is being held!
I can read a news article and pick out 15 mistakes...but I can make that many in something I write and never see any. Last week I posted on Facebook that I was looking for show boxes. Show boxes? What the hell are those? I was looking for shoe boxes.
But, in the long run, it did not make a difference....no one told me they had shoe boxes. Or show boxes, either.
At Homecoming last fall I was looking forward to a photography class reunion at NIU. It was from 2-4 in the photo department. I went at 2....nobody was there. I called Jackie and asked her to look at the invitation. Yes it was 2 but it was on Friday, not Saturday. How did I miss that? I read that invitation at least 5 times to make sure I had the right time. I should have known, because in my day at NIU Friday was the party day....but we met at the Shamrock, not the photo lab.
Now I wonder about all those books I read. Did the South really win? Were there Axel powers in WW II? Did the Cubs win a pennant in '08?
And schedules? Those are an entirely different topic.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
I may become a Luddite
Technology baffles and frustrates me
I have a little I Pod. For days I have been trying to turn it on. I have charged it, and charged it, and charged it. It is 6 years old and I have not used it in two years. The chances that my battery is dead are ginormous.....but I keep trying.
I found a smaller I Pod....must have been Jackie's. Can't figure out where to plug in the ear phones.
Emily's BF John came over and pointed out I was trying to use the computer's remote to listen to music. That doesn't work.
When he was here I mentioned I was having trouble moving pictures into my new photo book project in i Photo. I selected a group of 16 pictures and moved it to a book project, but when I opened the project there were 394 pictures. So I deleted it. I created a new book project, selected 16 pictures and moved it to the new book project. When I opened it, there were 394 pictures. No, I did not type the same lines twice. Pay attention! I don't do tech stuff well. So I created another book project. And this time I did not move any photos. When I explained to John what was happening, we opened the new project and there were my 16 photos. How the hell they got there, I don't know. Whatever happened to the 394 photos is now a mystery.
Then there is the Apple TV. This device allows our computer to connect to the TV. I can use the TV screen to play games, watch movies ordered from i Tunes and most importantly....we can stream the WGN newscasts and watch them on a real TV! I can do the same with Channel 2, 5, and 7 out of Chicago.......screw the Rockford stations and the idiots who run them!!
But I digress.
John patiently explained how to turn on the Air Parrot, then pick the source, then hit the correct hookup and voila! Channel 9. I wrote it all down.
So when it came to doing it, I could not find the right source. Could not find the right remote. Could not find the right magic button.......luckily Jackie did.
I miss the days of actual newspapers, manual typewriters and tin can telephones.
And what is crazy is compared to a lot of people my age, I am pretty good with the tech stuff. Listening to other old folks talk about the computers as enemies makes me realize I am ahead of the curve with some of the skills.
But I still am considering becoming a Luddite. And if you don't know what they are...Google it. I dare you.
I have a little I Pod. For days I have been trying to turn it on. I have charged it, and charged it, and charged it. It is 6 years old and I have not used it in two years. The chances that my battery is dead are ginormous.....but I keep trying.
I found a smaller I Pod....must have been Jackie's. Can't figure out where to plug in the ear phones.
Emily's BF John came over and pointed out I was trying to use the computer's remote to listen to music. That doesn't work.
When he was here I mentioned I was having trouble moving pictures into my new photo book project in i Photo. I selected a group of 16 pictures and moved it to a book project, but when I opened the project there were 394 pictures. So I deleted it. I created a new book project, selected 16 pictures and moved it to the new book project. When I opened it, there were 394 pictures. No, I did not type the same lines twice. Pay attention! I don't do tech stuff well. So I created another book project. And this time I did not move any photos. When I explained to John what was happening, we opened the new project and there were my 16 photos. How the hell they got there, I don't know. Whatever happened to the 394 photos is now a mystery.
Then there is the Apple TV. This device allows our computer to connect to the TV. I can use the TV screen to play games, watch movies ordered from i Tunes and most importantly....we can stream the WGN newscasts and watch them on a real TV! I can do the same with Channel 2, 5, and 7 out of Chicago.......screw the Rockford stations and the idiots who run them!!
But I digress.
John patiently explained how to turn on the Air Parrot, then pick the source, then hit the correct hookup and voila! Channel 9. I wrote it all down.
So when it came to doing it, I could not find the right source. Could not find the right remote. Could not find the right magic button.......luckily Jackie did.
I miss the days of actual newspapers, manual typewriters and tin can telephones.
And what is crazy is compared to a lot of people my age, I am pretty good with the tech stuff. Listening to other old folks talk about the computers as enemies makes me realize I am ahead of the curve with some of the skills.
But I still am considering becoming a Luddite. And if you don't know what they are...Google it. I dare you.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Another way to give
I support a lot of causes
Jackie and I support a lot of causes, both with our time and with our money.
Among the causes: WNIJ public radio, WTTW public television, Chicago Tribune charities, United Way of Ogle County......and several others that send us solicitations in the mail.
But I also give a lot of time. Last year I donated 76 hours to Brookfield Zoo, time each week in a kindergarten classroom, time in the summer lunch program, and time answering telephones at the WNIJ spring pledge event.
And that's where I was this morning....sitting in the basement of the radio station on First Avenue by the Kishwaukee River, answering phone calls and taking pledges.
The people I volunteered with I knew. It seems on the Saturday morning edition of the pledge drive a few of the same people volunteer...Linda, Jill, Su, Casey. We catch up on the news about family, jobs and travel, talk about politics and the issues of the day...and although these people are not really friends, for a couple of hours we seem to be family, working together on one cause, sharing the same task, serving the same purpose.
That is one benefit of retirement. I have time to do those types of activities.
It opens new doors, creates new interests, raises new awarenesses.
Nothing funny about today's entry....more a meditation and a suggestion.
If you can volunteer someplace, do it. If you can give money to a cause, give it.
You'll be surprised how much meaning it can restore to your life, and the interest it will add to your days.
Jackie and I support a lot of causes, both with our time and with our money.
Among the causes: WNIJ public radio, WTTW public television, Chicago Tribune charities, United Way of Ogle County......and several others that send us solicitations in the mail.
But I also give a lot of time. Last year I donated 76 hours to Brookfield Zoo, time each week in a kindergarten classroom, time in the summer lunch program, and time answering telephones at the WNIJ spring pledge event.
And that's where I was this morning....sitting in the basement of the radio station on First Avenue by the Kishwaukee River, answering phone calls and taking pledges.
The people I volunteered with I knew. It seems on the Saturday morning edition of the pledge drive a few of the same people volunteer...Linda, Jill, Su, Casey. We catch up on the news about family, jobs and travel, talk about politics and the issues of the day...and although these people are not really friends, for a couple of hours we seem to be family, working together on one cause, sharing the same task, serving the same purpose.
That is one benefit of retirement. I have time to do those types of activities.
It opens new doors, creates new interests, raises new awarenesses.
Nothing funny about today's entry....more a meditation and a suggestion.
If you can volunteer someplace, do it. If you can give money to a cause, give it.
You'll be surprised how much meaning it can restore to your life, and the interest it will add to your days.
Friday, March 14, 2014
I was a pretty good teacher....of some things.
I am a stacker
When it comes to paper, I stack. I stack it on my desk, on the table, on the kitchen counter. I don't know what to do with stuff....so I stack it.
I taught Emily to stack. She has piles on counters, tables, in the garage. I taught her that.
I taught Julia to stack. She has piles on her big table.
Jackie is beginning to stack. Not that she is a slow learner, but she used to be able to handle paper until I wore her down.
I have been a stacker ever since I can remember. When I worked at the newspaper, I would have several stacks: story ideas, news releases to localize, news releases I may be able to localize, papers I did not know what to do with.
When I went into teaching I stacked. Papers to grade here; notes from the office there; lesson ideas over here; project ideas over there. At open house or parent night I would stack them all, with student papers on top, and hide them in a cupboard. At the end of the year I would create another stack of papers to deal with at the start of the school year.
No matter how many sets of organizers I buy, or stacking trays I collect, it's never enough. And it doesn't help.
It's a curse, I tell you.
My first name should be Robert.
It's getting late...and I have some papers to look through. I just have to pick one of the three stacks and get started. Maybe.
When it comes to paper, I stack. I stack it on my desk, on the table, on the kitchen counter. I don't know what to do with stuff....so I stack it.
I taught Emily to stack. She has piles on counters, tables, in the garage. I taught her that.
I taught Julia to stack. She has piles on her big table.
Jackie is beginning to stack. Not that she is a slow learner, but she used to be able to handle paper until I wore her down.
I have been a stacker ever since I can remember. When I worked at the newspaper, I would have several stacks: story ideas, news releases to localize, news releases I may be able to localize, papers I did not know what to do with.
When I went into teaching I stacked. Papers to grade here; notes from the office there; lesson ideas over here; project ideas over there. At open house or parent night I would stack them all, with student papers on top, and hide them in a cupboard. At the end of the year I would create another stack of papers to deal with at the start of the school year.
No matter how many sets of organizers I buy, or stacking trays I collect, it's never enough. And it doesn't help.
It's a curse, I tell you.
My first name should be Robert.
It's getting late...and I have some papers to look through. I just have to pick one of the three stacks and get started. Maybe.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
On the road again....
Potentially, this could have been my last zoo day
It was a beautiful morning...I was on 88 going to the zoo today. Normally I go on Friday, but there are mandatory training sessions and for some reason I opted for today's session.
I drive about 67, mainly because I like getting better gas mileage.
I came up behind a yellow semi who was going a bit slower than me....not a lot, just a bit.
I put my left signal on and pulled into the left lane to pass.
As I moved around his rear left, his left signal went on. I was a little ahead of the rear wheels when he started moving over. A lot. In fact, he took my whole lane.
And seeing as I was in it, it made for a tense second or two.
I moved to the left shoulder/grass area and hit the brakes. He sped past me. I honestly don't think he knew I was there.
I don't think either of us did anything wrong, we just didn't do everything right. I must have been in his blind spot. When I saw his signal, I should have slowed down. And maybe he could have been a little more diligent in moving over. But a the same time, there was a trooper with a semi on the right shoulder and both men were standing near the truck. He moved over to avoid them.
And if I had seen the trooper, I would have anticipated the semi's move. But I didn't.
Not to be maudlin, but it was a reminder of how quickly life can turn, how fragile our existence is.
It was not a near death experience, but it could have been.
No one did get hurt, nothing did get damaged. And my shorts even stayed dry.
But it did make me more aware of all the vehicles around me for the rest of the trip and on my way home.
It was a beautiful morning...I was on 88 going to the zoo today. Normally I go on Friday, but there are mandatory training sessions and for some reason I opted for today's session.
I drive about 67, mainly because I like getting better gas mileage.
I came up behind a yellow semi who was going a bit slower than me....not a lot, just a bit.
I put my left signal on and pulled into the left lane to pass.
As I moved around his rear left, his left signal went on. I was a little ahead of the rear wheels when he started moving over. A lot. In fact, he took my whole lane.
And seeing as I was in it, it made for a tense second or two.
I moved to the left shoulder/grass area and hit the brakes. He sped past me. I honestly don't think he knew I was there.
I don't think either of us did anything wrong, we just didn't do everything right. I must have been in his blind spot. When I saw his signal, I should have slowed down. And maybe he could have been a little more diligent in moving over. But a the same time, there was a trooper with a semi on the right shoulder and both men were standing near the truck. He moved over to avoid them.
And if I had seen the trooper, I would have anticipated the semi's move. But I didn't.
Not to be maudlin, but it was a reminder of how quickly life can turn, how fragile our existence is.
It was not a near death experience, but it could have been.
No one did get hurt, nothing did get damaged. And my shorts even stayed dry.
But it did make me more aware of all the vehicles around me for the rest of the trip and on my way home.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Don't call me shiftless!
I once got fired from a job
It was my fault. I applied for a job as a delivery driver for a company near my house in Chicago. They made Lava Lamps. It was a summer job, filling in for guys on vacation.
I had just gotten my license. I wasn't married. And I lied on the application.
I said I could drive a stick shift. It was not a total lie, I once shifted to reverse in a car with a stick.....and that's a stretch.
But I figured if they hired me, I could figure out how to drive the van and nobody would be hurt.
Then the man who hired me, said "I want to go on your first delivery with you."
Oops....
I managed to back out of the space and put it in first. I stayed in first for three blocks.
The man finally said, "You don't know how to work a stick, do you?"
I admitted I didn't, but I did tell him I would be a quick learner and a hard worker.
Unfortunately he had just had a new clutch installed and had no intention of letting some nut case screw it up. So, he fired me.
But he did it in a nice way. He let me work the rest of the week in the warehouse, running errands, cleaning up, helping people. He really felt bad about firing me but he said he could not justify keeping me on if I couldn't drive the van.
Later in life I would drive several vehicles with stick shift. And I would teach my girls how to drive stick. But learning it was no picnic.
It was my fault. I applied for a job as a delivery driver for a company near my house in Chicago. They made Lava Lamps. It was a summer job, filling in for guys on vacation.
I had just gotten my license. I wasn't married. And I lied on the application.
I said I could drive a stick shift. It was not a total lie, I once shifted to reverse in a car with a stick.....and that's a stretch.
But I figured if they hired me, I could figure out how to drive the van and nobody would be hurt.
Then the man who hired me, said "I want to go on your first delivery with you."
Oops....
I managed to back out of the space and put it in first. I stayed in first for three blocks.
The man finally said, "You don't know how to work a stick, do you?"
I admitted I didn't, but I did tell him I would be a quick learner and a hard worker.
Unfortunately he had just had a new clutch installed and had no intention of letting some nut case screw it up. So, he fired me.
But he did it in a nice way. He let me work the rest of the week in the warehouse, running errands, cleaning up, helping people. He really felt bad about firing me but he said he could not justify keeping me on if I couldn't drive the van.
Later in life I would drive several vehicles with stick shift. And I would teach my girls how to drive stick. But learning it was no picnic.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
The straw that broke the back
I believe advertisements, unfortunately.
We had camped, scaled a mountain, attended a picnic.....just one little jaunt to go.
I decided we should go to Bar Harbor, Maine.
As we drove, we saw signs about a campground on Frenchman's Bay. Wooded sites. Flush toilets. Hot showers. On Frenchman's Bay. Formerly KOA.
We also saw lots of cars that looked like they might be campers. So Jackie said to find a pay phone and make a reservation.
I called. They had one tent site left and no, it is not wooded, it was in the prairie section. So I made the reservation.
We arrived at the campground very late in the afternoon. I went to register and a guy walked in just before me. Turns out, the campground had a cancellation and this guy was in luck. One wooded campsite along the Bay opened up within the past half hour. That should have been my spot!.
So we got the prairie spot.
Drove over to it.....it was a field. Across from us was an RV area....generators were humming, lights going on, cooking being done on stoves inside because they were running AC.
We put up our two tents and looked around. It was hot. We were tired. We were hungry.
And I was depressed. This was not the kind of camping I imagined.
But it was Maine, and that means fresh lobster.
We got in the car, drove a little way and found a roadside stand that sold lobster and chicken...so we were all happy.
We went back to the campground and it was still hot. Plus, the mosquitoes were pretty thick, so we went to bed.
Julia did her search the tent via flashlight for 10 minutes and we all settled in.
I really did not pay too much attention to our location, other than noticing the huge RVs parked 20 feet away. I could even see some people watching TV, safe from mosquitoes and out of the heat.
But at 1 a.m., it became very apparent where we were.
The noise started low, then grew louder, and louder. Suddenly the tent lit up as if it were noon! The noise was deafening and I unzipped the fly and looked out to see the jet touching down literally feet away.
We were on the end of a runway!
Evidently there was only one flight a day in and out, because at about 2:30, our tent was literally buzzed by a big ass jet. It scared the bejezzus out of us.
The wooded sites were really just a bunch of shrubs. The sites were small and packed together. We were actually fortunate we did not have one because I am sure they were mosquito breeding condos.
Cadillac Mountain was about 20 minutes from the campground. That is the first place in the US where you can see the sunrise. So I got up at 4, and drove off to the mountain with wifey and two kids. It was cloudy.
The next morning I got up at 4 a.m. by myself and drove to the mountain top. It was cloudy.
On that day I made a startling discovery.
The floor in the men's shower was not actually dirt and sand. It was concrete. But it was covered in dirt and sand, so unless you dug through with your toe you would not know that.
It could have been the worst campground ever....and I understood why it was advertising itself as formerly a KOA.....it must not have met their standards.
I never asked the family to go camping again....and even if I had, they wouldn't have.
But we had a great time on the trip. Great memories to share.
Just not over a campfire.
We had camped, scaled a mountain, attended a picnic.....just one little jaunt to go.
I decided we should go to Bar Harbor, Maine.
As we drove, we saw signs about a campground on Frenchman's Bay. Wooded sites. Flush toilets. Hot showers. On Frenchman's Bay. Formerly KOA.
We also saw lots of cars that looked like they might be campers. So Jackie said to find a pay phone and make a reservation.
I called. They had one tent site left and no, it is not wooded, it was in the prairie section. So I made the reservation.
We arrived at the campground very late in the afternoon. I went to register and a guy walked in just before me. Turns out, the campground had a cancellation and this guy was in luck. One wooded campsite along the Bay opened up within the past half hour. That should have been my spot!.
So we got the prairie spot.
Drove over to it.....it was a field. Across from us was an RV area....generators were humming, lights going on, cooking being done on stoves inside because they were running AC.
We put up our two tents and looked around. It was hot. We were tired. We were hungry.
And I was depressed. This was not the kind of camping I imagined.
But it was Maine, and that means fresh lobster.
We got in the car, drove a little way and found a roadside stand that sold lobster and chicken...so we were all happy.
We went back to the campground and it was still hot. Plus, the mosquitoes were pretty thick, so we went to bed.
Julia did her search the tent via flashlight for 10 minutes and we all settled in.
I really did not pay too much attention to our location, other than noticing the huge RVs parked 20 feet away. I could even see some people watching TV, safe from mosquitoes and out of the heat.
But at 1 a.m., it became very apparent where we were.
The noise started low, then grew louder, and louder. Suddenly the tent lit up as if it were noon! The noise was deafening and I unzipped the fly and looked out to see the jet touching down literally feet away.
We were on the end of a runway!
Evidently there was only one flight a day in and out, because at about 2:30, our tent was literally buzzed by a big ass jet. It scared the bejezzus out of us.
The wooded sites were really just a bunch of shrubs. The sites were small and packed together. We were actually fortunate we did not have one because I am sure they were mosquito breeding condos.
Cadillac Mountain was about 20 minutes from the campground. That is the first place in the US where you can see the sunrise. So I got up at 4, and drove off to the mountain with wifey and two kids. It was cloudy.
The next morning I got up at 4 a.m. by myself and drove to the mountain top. It was cloudy.
On that day I made a startling discovery.
The floor in the men's shower was not actually dirt and sand. It was concrete. But it was covered in dirt and sand, so unless you dug through with your toe you would not know that.
It could have been the worst campground ever....and I understood why it was advertising itself as formerly a KOA.....it must not have met their standards.
I never asked the family to go camping again....and even if I had, they wouldn't have.
But we had a great time on the trip. Great memories to share.
Just not over a campfire.
Monday, March 10, 2014
flatlanders... funny people, eh?
I almost got my family killed
Seriously. We came close to not being here today.
I read "Yankee Magazine" religiously. We had a subscription and I read every issue cover to cover. That's one reason we built a New England saltbox design. Jackie loved the architecture we saw in Massachusetts. That's why I have a lobster trap. Love New England.
At one point in my life I thought we could move there. I would buy a small weekly newspaper and be happy living in Vermont, or New Hampshire or Upstate New York.
After we camped in the White Mountains, we headed for the owners' picnic at Vermont Castings.
But Yankee Magazine almost killed us. There was an article on the "Most Climbed Mountain in North America" and it was called Mt. Monadnock.
I decided we would climb it. The magazine article said it was an easy climb, a couple of hours, and for all ages.
So we stopped. It was about 10 a.m. We got out of the car and started walking up the well marked and very busy trail. Walked past the ranger station and its collection of maps. Walked past the trail maps posted near the parking lot.
About half way up there was a natural spring, and we filled a canteen with water. We met a man who must have been 85 who was coming down the mountain carrying a little boy on his shoulders. (He really wasn't that old.... but he was in his 50s or 60s, at least)
So we asked the usual questions. No, it's not far. Maybe 30 minutes. Yes it's beautiful. Oh, you're from Illinois? Not many mountains there. You should take the White Cross Trial, it's the scenic route. Oh no, not much longer. But prettier. And all of his part of the conversation lacked rs......
So I led Jackie, Julia and Emily on the White Cross Trail.
And it was pretty. You could see small ponds, houses, a town.
The route was marked by white dots on trees and on stacked stones.
After an hour, we lost track of the white markers. And stones. It seemed like we were on a trail, so we kept going.
We reached a point where the trail met a sheer cliff with a ledge about two feet wide, 15 feet long and spanning a drop off. A big drop off.
I volunteered Jackie to go first. She carefully shuffled along the edge. Just about when she hit the half way point, I noticed the path behind the ledge. The girls and I quickly scampered safely around as she reached the other side.
At two hours, we drained the water and finished the bag of GORP. By three we had no idea where we were, or where we had been. The temperature was starting to drop.
Headlines flashed through my mind: "Crazy Illinois family lost on mountain...survive by eating grass and bark; or "Flatlanders dead...film at 11."
I was really concerned...but also determined.
At about 4 we finally reached the top.
We stood there, enjoying the beauty. The quiet. Quiet? Where were all the people?
I don't know who said, "Look at those funny trees way over there...they are moving."
The funny trees were very small people. A lot of very small people. And they were far from us.
I seriously wanted to cross the top to reach them but the troops mutinied. They were hungry. They were tired. They were thirsty. Yada, yada, yada.
So we went back down.
The fastest way we knew was to sit on our butts and slide down until we hit a trail.
And we did. We slid, and slid, and slid....and finally hit the White Cross Trail, which took us back to the spring and water. As we sat there, tired, dirty, hungry, a family of four passed us heading up. They also got water and asked where we were from.
I told him and I swear, the guy said to take the White Cross Trail up because it was really pretty.
We got back to the car a little after 5. Yes....7 hours.
On our way to the next campground we saw a motel and I was ordered to pull in and get a room or regret it for the rest of my life.
They had one room left, with a single bed.
I slept on the floor.......and I was lucky they even let me stay in the room.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
once upon a time....
I took my family on a camping trip
We didn't have a lot of extra cash when the kids were little. (Part of that is because we were married at age 13....or so it seems.)
So vacations were nothing extravagant.
We bought a Vermont Castings wood burning stove. Hand crafted in Vermont, these were premium wood stoves back in the 70s and 80s.
Every year the company sponsored an owners' picnic, and one year we went.
We had two tents....and yes, I was nervous....with Jackie and one child in a tent and me and the other child in the second tent. These were two person tents, which at the time made sense but I have no idea why. We alternated kids so they would survive the trip.
I made reservations at a campground in the White Mountains, near the picnic site. There was no electricity, no planned activities, no pool....but there were flush toilets and showers in the community bathroom.
It was beautiful. Quiet, clear, remote. I loved it.
After we set up the tents, we got ready to cook supper. There was a fire pit and I had brought a little grill and pans. We had ham steak and potatoes, cooked on an open fire, in the middle of a wilderness. What could go wrong?
Plenty.
I got the fire going a little late. It was dark by the time we started cooking. Everyone was hungry. No one could see their food.
Our site was under some huge trees and we moved the picnic table to find rootless spots for the tents.
Jackie cooked, served the dinner, the girls were all at the table...Jackie on one end, and me on the other.
Problem one, I had moved the picnic table over a root.
Remember teeter-totters? You sit down on one end and the other flies up? Well, I sat down.
Jackie's ham steak became air born and landed on the table, which might not have been the cleanest.
Her drink went also. Peas were rolling all over the place.
When the dust settled, she just sat there quietly, picking up what dinner she could find and mopping up the beverage, and uttered those words: "I am never going camping again. I hate this."
Dinner done, they looked at me and said, "What next?"
I told them we sit around the fire, talk, tell stories and jokes, watch the stars, stare at the flames.
A chorus of, "I'm going to bed." echoed back.
Julia had a routine about going to bed. She would take the flashlight and go in the tent. Then she would scan every seam and every inch, making sure there were no bugs, especially spiders. This often took her 10 or 15 minutes.
So I sat at the table, watching her flashlight make its rounds.
A fellow camper, a man from Boston whose wife and kids had also gone to bed, came over to chat. We sat outside and watched a meteor shower, and in the clear night it was brilliant.
Little did I know that would be the best night of camping on that trip.
We didn't have a lot of extra cash when the kids were little. (Part of that is because we were married at age 13....or so it seems.)
So vacations were nothing extravagant.
We bought a Vermont Castings wood burning stove. Hand crafted in Vermont, these were premium wood stoves back in the 70s and 80s.
Every year the company sponsored an owners' picnic, and one year we went.
We had two tents....and yes, I was nervous....with Jackie and one child in a tent and me and the other child in the second tent. These were two person tents, which at the time made sense but I have no idea why. We alternated kids so they would survive the trip.
I made reservations at a campground in the White Mountains, near the picnic site. There was no electricity, no planned activities, no pool....but there were flush toilets and showers in the community bathroom.
It was beautiful. Quiet, clear, remote. I loved it.
After we set up the tents, we got ready to cook supper. There was a fire pit and I had brought a little grill and pans. We had ham steak and potatoes, cooked on an open fire, in the middle of a wilderness. What could go wrong?
Plenty.
I got the fire going a little late. It was dark by the time we started cooking. Everyone was hungry. No one could see their food.
Our site was under some huge trees and we moved the picnic table to find rootless spots for the tents.
Jackie cooked, served the dinner, the girls were all at the table...Jackie on one end, and me on the other.
Problem one, I had moved the picnic table over a root.
Remember teeter-totters? You sit down on one end and the other flies up? Well, I sat down.
Jackie's ham steak became air born and landed on the table, which might not have been the cleanest.
Her drink went also. Peas were rolling all over the place.
When the dust settled, she just sat there quietly, picking up what dinner she could find and mopping up the beverage, and uttered those words: "I am never going camping again. I hate this."
Dinner done, they looked at me and said, "What next?"
I told them we sit around the fire, talk, tell stories and jokes, watch the stars, stare at the flames.
A chorus of, "I'm going to bed." echoed back.
Julia had a routine about going to bed. She would take the flashlight and go in the tent. Then she would scan every seam and every inch, making sure there were no bugs, especially spiders. This often took her 10 or 15 minutes.
So I sat at the table, watching her flashlight make its rounds.
A fellow camper, a man from Boston whose wife and kids had also gone to bed, came over to chat. We sat outside and watched a meteor shower, and in the clear night it was brilliant.
Little did I know that would be the best night of camping on that trip.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
damn...missed it by an hour
I am grateful and appreciative
I missed my entry by an hour. I was watching a movie and simply forgot. My temptation was to stay in bed and just skip Saturday, March 8. There would be no entry. But that would mean I did not complete my task...an entry a day.
So technically this is Saturday's entry. Sure, the calendar says Sunday, but it is still Saturday night....although it is verging into Sunday morning territory.
I am grateful and appreciative of all the readers of my effort. The pages I have posted have had 2,958 views....so sometime next week we will pass the 3,000 mark.
I appreciate your comments. I am grateful I have an audience to perform for, and hopefully I will not disappoint you.
In the meantime, if you get the Chicago Tribune on Sunday, I understand there is a neat little article in the travel section's Fork in the Road page.
I missed my entry by an hour. I was watching a movie and simply forgot. My temptation was to stay in bed and just skip Saturday, March 8. There would be no entry. But that would mean I did not complete my task...an entry a day.
So technically this is Saturday's entry. Sure, the calendar says Sunday, but it is still Saturday night....although it is verging into Sunday morning territory.
I am grateful and appreciative of all the readers of my effort. The pages I have posted have had 2,958 views....so sometime next week we will pass the 3,000 mark.
I appreciate your comments. I am grateful I have an audience to perform for, and hopefully I will not disappoint you.
In the meantime, if you get the Chicago Tribune on Sunday, I understand there is a neat little article in the travel section's Fork in the Road page.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Smokey the Bear at your service
I once told a man his house was burning
Kind of a followup to yesterday. It was a dark and stormy night, the lightning was flashing and the power was gone.
We were living on Southview Drive. I looked out my front room window and in the house diagonally across from us, I saw flames! I told Jackie to stay by the phone and I raced over there, in the dark, and pounded on the door, yelling "Fire, Fire, Fire!"
This guy, about my age, came to the door.
"Whoa man, what is your problem?" he asked.
"Your house is on fire," I screamed at him. "Get out"
"Whoa....calm down, you'll wake my baby brother. The house ain't on fire, man, I was just outside burning some garbage and having a smoke....you know what I mean? You didn't call the cops did you?"
I assured him I hadn't. Looking in his front room window, you could see the huge blaze in the middle of his yard. It honestly looked like the front room was on fire....except it wasn't.
I am glad we didn't call on that one. I think the firemen were still laughing at me for calling in the overheated radiator in the car parked in the city lot on Main Street. From a distance, radiator steam looks a lot like smoke.
Doesn't it??
Kind of a followup to yesterday. It was a dark and stormy night, the lightning was flashing and the power was gone.
We were living on Southview Drive. I looked out my front room window and in the house diagonally across from us, I saw flames! I told Jackie to stay by the phone and I raced over there, in the dark, and pounded on the door, yelling "Fire, Fire, Fire!"
This guy, about my age, came to the door.
"Whoa man, what is your problem?" he asked.
"Your house is on fire," I screamed at him. "Get out"
"Whoa....calm down, you'll wake my baby brother. The house ain't on fire, man, I was just outside burning some garbage and having a smoke....you know what I mean? You didn't call the cops did you?"
I assured him I hadn't. Looking in his front room window, you could see the huge blaze in the middle of his yard. It honestly looked like the front room was on fire....except it wasn't.
I am glad we didn't call on that one. I think the firemen were still laughing at me for calling in the overheated radiator in the car parked in the city lot on Main Street. From a distance, radiator steam looks a lot like smoke.
Doesn't it??
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Do I smell smoke?
Sometimes I misread the situation.
I consider myself a good citizen. So when I see a crime being committed, I report it.
(Except for the time in high school I saw a man in my aunt's apartment. The back door to her porch was closed....which it never was. I saw the guy through her window. I thought about it for a couple of seconds, then I saw him leave through the back door. I went over and found her front door open, and her back door broken in. Then I called the police, but the horses had already left the barn.)
If I see a fire, I will report it.
I was driving down Il 38 one summer night and saw smoke coming from behind the west end of the May Mart complex, which is where the First National Bank is now located.
The smoke was pretty thick. I was working at the paper then and Hornsby's department store was located on the east end of the shopping center. I went in and told the cashier to call the fire department because the building across the drive was on fire.
I was standing in the parking lot watching the smoke, which seemed to have moved farther west, that was definitely coming from the roof of the building.
The manager of Hornsby's came out and stood besides me. We could hear the sirens of the fire trucks in the distance. It sounded like there were a lot of them.
"What's burning?" he asked.
"I don't know...the smoke seems to have moved farther west. I thought it was the real estate office."
He watched it for a few seconds. The sirens were getting louder, help was arriving. The flames would be put out and the building saved. I would be a hero!!
"You sure it wasn't the mosquito fogger? It went past a few minutes ago."
I quietly moved away, got back in my car and drove away.
I don't think anyone on the fire department knew it was me.
Unfortunately, it was only the first in a series of non fire reporting.
I consider myself a good citizen. So when I see a crime being committed, I report it.
(Except for the time in high school I saw a man in my aunt's apartment. The back door to her porch was closed....which it never was. I saw the guy through her window. I thought about it for a couple of seconds, then I saw him leave through the back door. I went over and found her front door open, and her back door broken in. Then I called the police, but the horses had already left the barn.)
If I see a fire, I will report it.
I was driving down Il 38 one summer night and saw smoke coming from behind the west end of the May Mart complex, which is where the First National Bank is now located.
The smoke was pretty thick. I was working at the paper then and Hornsby's department store was located on the east end of the shopping center. I went in and told the cashier to call the fire department because the building across the drive was on fire.
I was standing in the parking lot watching the smoke, which seemed to have moved farther west, that was definitely coming from the roof of the building.
The manager of Hornsby's came out and stood besides me. We could hear the sirens of the fire trucks in the distance. It sounded like there were a lot of them.
"What's burning?" he asked.
"I don't know...the smoke seems to have moved farther west. I thought it was the real estate office."
He watched it for a few seconds. The sirens were getting louder, help was arriving. The flames would be put out and the building saved. I would be a hero!!
"You sure it wasn't the mosquito fogger? It went past a few minutes ago."
I quietly moved away, got back in my car and drove away.
I don't think anyone on the fire department knew it was me.
Unfortunately, it was only the first in a series of non fire reporting.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Slip sliding away
I sometimes laugh at other peoples' misfortunes
I know it is not funny. I know it is not nice. I know I should be more caring. But sometimes I can't help it.
In another dimension, I worked for the Rochelle News Leader. Their offices used to be at Main and Fourth Street, right across from the city parking lot.
On the west side of the parking lot there used to be a department store named Carp's. This was in the pre Walmart days...when you could go to downtown Rochelle and find two drugstores, (one with a kick ass soda fountain) two hardware stores, three shoe stores, two men's clothing shops, a bakery, two department stores, at least three women's clothing stores......but the times changed.
It was winter and a slow day in the news room.....probably a Friday afternoon. Jean and I were watching the parking lot across the street. A huge sheet of ice had formed on the west end, just outside of Carp's. Several people had fallen and we started to make bets with each other...fall or no fall.
Down the sidewalk came Jackie, towing three year old Julia behind.
Jean and I looked at each other and thought the same thing...should we warn them. (Notice...not we should, but should we? She will surely see the ice, right?)
But it was too late. Jackie took two steps on the ice and went flying, pulling Julia behind. Jackie went down, pulling Julia with.
They got up quickly and headed right for the newspaper office.
I admit I was laughing. If I had a hidden camera, it would have been priceless.
But Jackie was not....repeat, not.....seeing any humor in the situation.
She tramped through the mush and slush and reached the newspaper door.
"I fell," she stammered.
"I know, we watched." I replied, with a little giggle that soon became a full throat laugh.
"I don't think it was funny," she glared. "And I don't know why this kid keeps crying. I'm the one who fell."
We looked at her again and burst out laughing.
"Maybe it's because you made her walk across the lot without a shoe?" I gasped.
Sure enough, little Julia's foot was covered in slush and snow. When Jackie fell, she yanked on Julia so hard, the kid lost a shoe.
I went and got the shoe while she toweled off, and warmed up, Julia's foot.
And no, in hindsight it was not funny.
But to be honest, I probably would laugh if it happened again.
I know it is not funny. I know it is not nice. I know I should be more caring. But sometimes I can't help it.
In another dimension, I worked for the Rochelle News Leader. Their offices used to be at Main and Fourth Street, right across from the city parking lot.
On the west side of the parking lot there used to be a department store named Carp's. This was in the pre Walmart days...when you could go to downtown Rochelle and find two drugstores, (one with a kick ass soda fountain) two hardware stores, three shoe stores, two men's clothing shops, a bakery, two department stores, at least three women's clothing stores......but the times changed.
It was winter and a slow day in the news room.....probably a Friday afternoon. Jean and I were watching the parking lot across the street. A huge sheet of ice had formed on the west end, just outside of Carp's. Several people had fallen and we started to make bets with each other...fall or no fall.
Down the sidewalk came Jackie, towing three year old Julia behind.
Jean and I looked at each other and thought the same thing...should we warn them. (Notice...not we should, but should we? She will surely see the ice, right?)
But it was too late. Jackie took two steps on the ice and went flying, pulling Julia behind. Jackie went down, pulling Julia with.
They got up quickly and headed right for the newspaper office.
I admit I was laughing. If I had a hidden camera, it would have been priceless.
But Jackie was not....repeat, not.....seeing any humor in the situation.
She tramped through the mush and slush and reached the newspaper door.
"I fell," she stammered.
"I know, we watched." I replied, with a little giggle that soon became a full throat laugh.
"I don't think it was funny," she glared. "And I don't know why this kid keeps crying. I'm the one who fell."
We looked at her again and burst out laughing.
"Maybe it's because you made her walk across the lot without a shoe?" I gasped.
Sure enough, little Julia's foot was covered in slush and snow. When Jackie fell, she yanked on Julia so hard, the kid lost a shoe.
I went and got the shoe while she toweled off, and warmed up, Julia's foot.
And no, in hindsight it was not funny.
But to be honest, I probably would laugh if it happened again.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Illinois tornado preparedness week.....uh oh
I hate, yet am fascinated, by severe weather
I grew up in Chicago. We didn't have severe weather. Sure, we had burglaries, shootings, flooded streets. (Which were always viewed as a plus by young kids because we could swim in the streets. Surprised we all didn't get cholera or some other disease.) But tornadoes? Hardly ever.
Living out here is an adjustment. Not a good one.
We were living above what is now B & W Appliances on IL 38. We had a two bedroom apartment on the second floor...one of three apartments in the building.
On Good Friday in 1970 a storm came...the A & W Root Beer Stand to the east of the building lost its corrugated roof...and I, well, first things first. Sequence.
The storm seemed to be pretty strong, so I knocked on the apartment next to us, (Jackie may say I pounded) ...the one with the thin walls. (Seriously, Jackie and I were just married. We were in bed one night and she said, in a rather masculine voice, "Did you set the alarm." And I answered in a rather feminine voice. We eventually moved the bed away from the wall because you could hear everything. And the lady next door was very religious. She would yell for God several times a night. And I think he had trouble breathing...)
Like I said, I knocked on the door and when she answered I asked (Jackie may say I shrieked) about where we would go in a tornado.
She had been relatively calm at that point, but I may have upset her because she started crying and she wasn't in bed.
When I was walking back to our apartment, part of the roof of the A and W went through the window of the unit across the hall. I remember watching the rubber pad in the hall way flapping up and down because the newly opened window was letting in a lot of wind.
There commenced a lot of screaming at that point.
I yelled "Tornado" and ran for the basement.
The lady started screaming "Tornado" and I shouted back "We're all going to die! Where the hell is the basement?"
Jackie, meanwhile was watching this scene with complete amazement. As was the lady's husband. The two of us were screaming and yelling, the neighbor and Jackie stood at the top of the stairs and watched.
He finally got her into her apartment and got her calmed down. It took me a little while. They moved a few weeks later.
When the weather alarm goes off, I listen carefully. Then I head to the basement. I try to convince Jackie to go, but usually she stays near the stairs.
And I do a lot of running up and down, looking out windows, checking doors, looking out windows, running downstairs, coming back up.
In fact, I find it very tiring to be in a storm.
Last year we had tornado warnings.....a neighbor in a nearby subdivision said he wasn't worried because the sirens didn't go off.
He was a little taken aback when I told him we didn't have sirens out here....make sure you have a radio.
But then again, if the storm is bad enough, he may be able to hear me shrieking over the roaring wind.
I grew up in Chicago. We didn't have severe weather. Sure, we had burglaries, shootings, flooded streets. (Which were always viewed as a plus by young kids because we could swim in the streets. Surprised we all didn't get cholera or some other disease.) But tornadoes? Hardly ever.
Living out here is an adjustment. Not a good one.
We were living above what is now B & W Appliances on IL 38. We had a two bedroom apartment on the second floor...one of three apartments in the building.
On Good Friday in 1970 a storm came...the A & W Root Beer Stand to the east of the building lost its corrugated roof...and I, well, first things first. Sequence.
The storm seemed to be pretty strong, so I knocked on the apartment next to us, (Jackie may say I pounded) ...the one with the thin walls. (Seriously, Jackie and I were just married. We were in bed one night and she said, in a rather masculine voice, "Did you set the alarm." And I answered in a rather feminine voice. We eventually moved the bed away from the wall because you could hear everything. And the lady next door was very religious. She would yell for God several times a night. And I think he had trouble breathing...)
Like I said, I knocked on the door and when she answered I asked (Jackie may say I shrieked) about where we would go in a tornado.
She had been relatively calm at that point, but I may have upset her because she started crying and she wasn't in bed.
When I was walking back to our apartment, part of the roof of the A and W went through the window of the unit across the hall. I remember watching the rubber pad in the hall way flapping up and down because the newly opened window was letting in a lot of wind.
There commenced a lot of screaming at that point.
I yelled "Tornado" and ran for the basement.
The lady started screaming "Tornado" and I shouted back "We're all going to die! Where the hell is the basement?"
Jackie, meanwhile was watching this scene with complete amazement. As was the lady's husband. The two of us were screaming and yelling, the neighbor and Jackie stood at the top of the stairs and watched.
He finally got her into her apartment and got her calmed down. It took me a little while. They moved a few weeks later.
When the weather alarm goes off, I listen carefully. Then I head to the basement. I try to convince Jackie to go, but usually she stays near the stairs.
And I do a lot of running up and down, looking out windows, checking doors, looking out windows, running downstairs, coming back up.
In fact, I find it very tiring to be in a storm.
Last year we had tornado warnings.....a neighbor in a nearby subdivision said he wasn't worried because the sirens didn't go off.
He was a little taken aback when I told him we didn't have sirens out here....make sure you have a radio.
But then again, if the storm is bad enough, he may be able to hear me shrieking over the roaring wind.
Monday, March 3, 2014
A touch of fame
I once shook hands with the President.
In my previous life, I worked at the Rochelle News Leader. They were members of the Illinois Press Association and the group had a meeting. I went.
My mind is a little fuzzy. I think it was in Springfield, but I honestly don't remember.
I do remember standing in a big room, with hundreds of people....all newspaper people. I was wearing a brown corduroy sport coat with leather elbow patches on the sleeves. It was the 70s. And I had a big, bushy moustache and hair that was a little longer than it is now.
There was a buzz in the room, and the President walked in. He was the President, not VP, Nixon had resigned. He walked through the crowd, shaking hands.
I honestly think it was the sport coat. He came right over to me and shook my hand. I mumbled something like, "It's truly an honor to meet you" but he had moved on before I got it all out.
I don't think Jackie believed me....and maybe no one else did either.
But within a week, I had two pictures from the Illinois Press Association photogs. You can clearly see me shaking hands and talking with President Ford.
I gave one to my mother...and I have the other one someplace.
When Barak Obama came to Rochelle campaigning for the Senate, I did shake his hand....but he wasn't a president yet. And I did meet Ronald Reagan, but he was just a governor then.
Years ago, when the movie "A 1,000 Acres" was being filmed, I was an extra on the Mendota set. We were told not to talk to the stars when they passed. One night after supper I was sitting in the grass and this dog came by and I started petting it and talking to it.
"Yes....youz a good dog," I said, scratching its butt. "Your such a pretty dog," and on and on. There was a woman standing next to the dog, I asked its name, she told me, I asked its age, she told me....typical dog stuff.
She left, taking the dog with her.
Two other guys looked at me and said, "Do you know who that was?"
And I said yeah, that was .... fill in the name of the dog.
They said, "No, that was Michelle Pfeiffer. And that was her dog."
I figured Michelle went back to Hollywood and thought, "wow...these Midwestern guys are pretty hard to impress....one spent more time talking to my dog than me."
I still look forward to the day Joan Allen sits down with me for some coffee and chitchat.
In my previous life, I worked at the Rochelle News Leader. They were members of the Illinois Press Association and the group had a meeting. I went.
My mind is a little fuzzy. I think it was in Springfield, but I honestly don't remember.
I do remember standing in a big room, with hundreds of people....all newspaper people. I was wearing a brown corduroy sport coat with leather elbow patches on the sleeves. It was the 70s. And I had a big, bushy moustache and hair that was a little longer than it is now.
There was a buzz in the room, and the President walked in. He was the President, not VP, Nixon had resigned. He walked through the crowd, shaking hands.
I honestly think it was the sport coat. He came right over to me and shook my hand. I mumbled something like, "It's truly an honor to meet you" but he had moved on before I got it all out.
I don't think Jackie believed me....and maybe no one else did either.
But within a week, I had two pictures from the Illinois Press Association photogs. You can clearly see me shaking hands and talking with President Ford.
I gave one to my mother...and I have the other one someplace.
When Barak Obama came to Rochelle campaigning for the Senate, I did shake his hand....but he wasn't a president yet. And I did meet Ronald Reagan, but he was just a governor then.
Years ago, when the movie "A 1,000 Acres" was being filmed, I was an extra on the Mendota set. We were told not to talk to the stars when they passed. One night after supper I was sitting in the grass and this dog came by and I started petting it and talking to it.
"Yes....youz a good dog," I said, scratching its butt. "Your such a pretty dog," and on and on. There was a woman standing next to the dog, I asked its name, she told me, I asked its age, she told me....typical dog stuff.
She left, taking the dog with her.
Two other guys looked at me and said, "Do you know who that was?"
And I said yeah, that was .... fill in the name of the dog.
They said, "No, that was Michelle Pfeiffer. And that was her dog."
I figured Michelle went back to Hollywood and thought, "wow...these Midwestern guys are pretty hard to impress....one spent more time talking to my dog than me."
I still look forward to the day Joan Allen sits down with me for some coffee and chitchat.
Sunday, March 2, 2014
That could have been me holding that Oscar
I could have won an Oscar
I really could have. But I was born in the wrong place, went to the wrong school, picked the wrong occupation.
Seriously. I perform in local theater, and sometimes I do OK. But imagine if I had gone to a performing high school, or moved to LA and waited tables.
You might have been watching me tonight. Imagine me as ..... well, OK, that is a little hard to do. I could have been in the Wolf on Wall Street as .... again, maybe not. I'd be a Kevin Spacey type actor.
Or possibly a screen writer. I have always loved writing. I have written one book. Well, maybe not an Oscar for that talent.....I sent it to a publisher and it was returned with an empty envelope. Evidently it was so bad it did not deserve a rejection notice.
Make up artist? I can't put my own eyeliner on, so I guess that's out. Besides, I may be color tone blind. (Blue could be black, brown sometimes is black, reds sometimes are orange...that's why sometimes I dress funny.)
Musical score....I don't play an instrument or read music, so maybe that would not be possible either.
Costume designer? That would work if I could design incredibly revealing dresses for every actress in every situation. Men could wear whatever.
Set design...nope, can't build anything.
Editing...., I have a hard time picking one or two when Dr. Kelly asks, "Is your vision clearer with lens one, or two?" I would spend all day agonizing over itty bitty details in the editing room... like what color socks to wear, or when to eat lunch.
Directing? I've directed a couple of plays. I prefer managing because I find the actors usually have a better vision than I do. Except for "Sideways Stories"...that came out well.
Special effects...out; ditto for best song.
OK, so maybe I would not have won an Oscar tonight.
But don't you often watch a TV show, or movie, and think, "I could do that.....that could be me up there."
I truly believe that a lot of those actors are not innately better than I am, or you are, but they had the coaching, experience, opportunity, and teaching that we were never in a position to have.
I see that in a lot of us. Former students who dance, design sets, act, sing. People I've met who wanted to break into the business, but did not. What makes someone a superstar, and someone else with as much talent an unknown.
Opportunity? Drive? Luck? Chance?
Every time I perform, or get in front of a crowd, I keep thinking someone will approach me and say, "Hey, we are looking for an older guy to play in our hit movie. Here's a million dollars for you to join us." (Years ago, older was not in that sentence.)
I know it sounds crazy.
Just as crazy as me getting a book published.
But I can dream, can't I?
I really could have. But I was born in the wrong place, went to the wrong school, picked the wrong occupation.
Seriously. I perform in local theater, and sometimes I do OK. But imagine if I had gone to a performing high school, or moved to LA and waited tables.
You might have been watching me tonight. Imagine me as ..... well, OK, that is a little hard to do. I could have been in the Wolf on Wall Street as .... again, maybe not. I'd be a Kevin Spacey type actor.
Or possibly a screen writer. I have always loved writing. I have written one book. Well, maybe not an Oscar for that talent.....I sent it to a publisher and it was returned with an empty envelope. Evidently it was so bad it did not deserve a rejection notice.
Make up artist? I can't put my own eyeliner on, so I guess that's out. Besides, I may be color tone blind. (Blue could be black, brown sometimes is black, reds sometimes are orange...that's why sometimes I dress funny.)
Musical score....I don't play an instrument or read music, so maybe that would not be possible either.
Costume designer? That would work if I could design incredibly revealing dresses for every actress in every situation. Men could wear whatever.
Set design...nope, can't build anything.
Editing...., I have a hard time picking one or two when Dr. Kelly asks, "Is your vision clearer with lens one, or two?" I would spend all day agonizing over itty bitty details in the editing room... like what color socks to wear, or when to eat lunch.
Directing? I've directed a couple of plays. I prefer managing because I find the actors usually have a better vision than I do. Except for "Sideways Stories"...that came out well.
Special effects...out; ditto for best song.
OK, so maybe I would not have won an Oscar tonight.
But don't you often watch a TV show, or movie, and think, "I could do that.....that could be me up there."
I truly believe that a lot of those actors are not innately better than I am, or you are, but they had the coaching, experience, opportunity, and teaching that we were never in a position to have.
I see that in a lot of us. Former students who dance, design sets, act, sing. People I've met who wanted to break into the business, but did not. What makes someone a superstar, and someone else with as much talent an unknown.
Opportunity? Drive? Luck? Chance?
Every time I perform, or get in front of a crowd, I keep thinking someone will approach me and say, "Hey, we are looking for an older guy to play in our hit movie. Here's a million dollars for you to join us." (Years ago, older was not in that sentence.)
I know it sounds crazy.
Just as crazy as me getting a book published.
But I can dream, can't I?
Saturday, March 1, 2014
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