We'd come home from school to find the wreaths hanging in the windows, and we knew Christmas was coming. On our child's time line though, still a long way off. For if Ma had decorated the windows on the first day of December, Christmas was still an eternity away.
My mother must have been thrilled to be in a house of her own at Christmas, after all those dismal rental houses, five of them I think. Somehow, in those days of little or no money for anything but necessities, she had acquired wreaths, four of them by my count. They were kept in a cardboard box in one of the unused rooms upstairs and, having been squashed in storage, always took a little time to fluff out into their correct shape. They were meant for inside, being of what seemed like rolled paper of some sort. Of course they were round, and they were red. She hung one in each of the 2 front-room windows, one in the middle room window, which faced the old mill, and one in the kitchen window looking out on the cinder block building. I don't remember another wreath for the other kitchen window, but there could have been one.
Monday, December 22, 2014
The First Christmas
Well, the first one I remember anyway. In one of the first old houses we lived in. Being brought into the back room, which had been closed off and unheated, and seeing a tree in the house. Being given a small wrapped package, being cold, not understanding what was going on. I can almost---almost---remember what my toy was in the wrapping, but not quite. Dorothy's toy was a little red rubber horse. She had it for a long time, but in time its ears were broken off. She may have chewed on them, since she was only a toddler.
I suppose that may have been Dorothy's very first Christmas present. A year or so later, her Christmas present was a stick hobby horse. She used to ride it around the house and then hang its bridle strap over the doorknob. Maybe that's where she learned to love horses; Ma must have endowed her with that.
I can't remember her gifts for her last Christmas. We never know which that will be until too late. In our later years, we used to forego giving each other gifts and instead go shopping right after Christmas, and pick out what we wanted for each other. That way we could shop and do lunch. Simple activities which I'd give the world to be able to do now. We were all set to do that, almost ready to go out the door the day after New Year's in 2008, when the telephone rang with the news that would signal the beginning of the end. She left to schedule appointments.
She would see that year's Christmas, and then two more, but things were never again the same.
I suppose that may have been Dorothy's very first Christmas present. A year or so later, her Christmas present was a stick hobby horse. She used to ride it around the house and then hang its bridle strap over the doorknob. Maybe that's where she learned to love horses; Ma must have endowed her with that.
I can't remember her gifts for her last Christmas. We never know which that will be until too late. In our later years, we used to forego giving each other gifts and instead go shopping right after Christmas, and pick out what we wanted for each other. That way we could shop and do lunch. Simple activities which I'd give the world to be able to do now. We were all set to do that, almost ready to go out the door the day after New Year's in 2008, when the telephone rang with the news that would signal the beginning of the end. She left to schedule appointments.
She would see that year's Christmas, and then two more, but things were never again the same.
One Clear Christmas Eve
I've lived through many of them by now, way too many to recall. But the mind works in mysterious ways, and memory even stranger. Thousands upon thousands of days are not even a blurred memory, but are lost in time, as if they did not even happen. But for some reason, there are memories that appear as scenes, complete with the inclusion of the sounds and thoughts as the moment of memory is drawn forth. One such is a Christmas Eve.
We are walking home from Midnight Mass back in the time when the Mass was actually at midnight. Dorothy and Sandy and I are walking down the center of the road, on Main Street as it was known then. State Street may have been the official name, stashed away in some stuffy old historical document somewhere, but everybody called it Main Street. Our parents had ridden home in the car, but we three had chosen to walk. The night was clear and maybe cold, but we are clad in our winter coats and hats and gloves, so the weather is no concern of ours. All the cars have left the church, so the open road is all ours. Our boots crunch the snow of Main Street. Our minds are unfettered with problems of any type; our parents still bear the burden on that front; we are as yet untouched by romantic heartbreak, the regret of missed opportunity, the loss of loved ones, and we are on school vacation for the holidays. All is calm. All is bright. We walk and talk and laugh with the ease of waning childhood, feeling a little awed to be in the center of the road in the middle of the night, in our town, with no one else around. The streetlights are contributing only slightly to the brightness of the night and as we make our way toward home, we sense that the night is special, with the promise of tomorrow, yet so ordinary----with the unspoken feeling that if we could only keep walking we might come upon something rare and wonderful. But the road does end, and our moment of immortality, or whatever it was, ends with it.
We are walking home from Midnight Mass back in the time when the Mass was actually at midnight. Dorothy and Sandy and I are walking down the center of the road, on Main Street as it was known then. State Street may have been the official name, stashed away in some stuffy old historical document somewhere, but everybody called it Main Street. Our parents had ridden home in the car, but we three had chosen to walk. The night was clear and maybe cold, but we are clad in our winter coats and hats and gloves, so the weather is no concern of ours. All the cars have left the church, so the open road is all ours. Our boots crunch the snow of Main Street. Our minds are unfettered with problems of any type; our parents still bear the burden on that front; we are as yet untouched by romantic heartbreak, the regret of missed opportunity, the loss of loved ones, and we are on school vacation for the holidays. All is calm. All is bright. We walk and talk and laugh with the ease of waning childhood, feeling a little awed to be in the center of the road in the middle of the night, in our town, with no one else around. The streetlights are contributing only slightly to the brightness of the night and as we make our way toward home, we sense that the night is special, with the promise of tomorrow, yet so ordinary----with the unspoken feeling that if we could only keep walking we might come upon something rare and wonderful. But the road does end, and our moment of immortality, or whatever it was, ends with it.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Thwarted. Again.
Tuesday I planned to go shopping. Before I got in the shower in the morning, I turned up the heat. The house felt chilly, even though Dave had been up and out the door hours before. The heat didn't come on, no matter how high I set the thermostat. The oil tank had been recently filled, the circuit breakers were in order, pressing the furnace reset button did nothing. Time to call for help---but our phones were dead. Plan B involving the cell phone was futile because the battery needed charging. Visits to house of working phone resulted in service calls from John Ray and Time Warner for later in the day. No time to shop.
Wednesday, I laid out my plans to go shopping while lazing in my night clothes in front of the TV. I heard a noise and looked out my front window to see a man and a red truck in the driveway. I hastily ran and pulled on a sweatshirt to see what he wanted. His truck broke down, he said, and he ended up coasting it into the driveway. He thought it might be out of gas, because the low fuel light had come on, but usually he could drive quite a few miles beyond that. He asked to use my phone so he could call a friend to help him out. No one answered his calls. They were all at work, he said. I told him there was a gas can in the shed, but he said the can was empty. He said he had a gas can at home, in Johnsonville.
So I drove him to his house, where he retrieved his gas can, also empty, but which he replenished at nearby Marpe's Store. Back in my driveway, he poured the gas into the fuel tank of the truck. The engine turned over, but would not start. He raised the hood, but said he knew nothing about auto mechanics, so he, and I, just looked into the engine compartment. He said he didn't know what to do, so I offered to drive him home. Again. I wasn't anxious to do so because he lives on a dirt road, one of those where the ruts are covered with slippery half-frozen mud which threaten to pull you into their direction. I hesitated to enter his driveway because he said his friend had gotten stuck there the other day. So I maneuvered one of those three-point-turns from Driver Education class, a tactic I don't think I've used since 1956. The aura of good deed-ism must have aided my safe return home. The owner of the truck, Matt, and his friend arrived about 7:30 P.M. and towed his truck out and away. Before they left, however, he knocked at the door, shook my hand and thanked me for "driving him around." I can always shop tomorrow.
Wednesday, I laid out my plans to go shopping while lazing in my night clothes in front of the TV. I heard a noise and looked out my front window to see a man and a red truck in the driveway. I hastily ran and pulled on a sweatshirt to see what he wanted. His truck broke down, he said, and he ended up coasting it into the driveway. He thought it might be out of gas, because the low fuel light had come on, but usually he could drive quite a few miles beyond that. He asked to use my phone so he could call a friend to help him out. No one answered his calls. They were all at work, he said. I told him there was a gas can in the shed, but he said the can was empty. He said he had a gas can at home, in Johnsonville.
So I drove him to his house, where he retrieved his gas can, also empty, but which he replenished at nearby Marpe's Store. Back in my driveway, he poured the gas into the fuel tank of the truck. The engine turned over, but would not start. He raised the hood, but said he knew nothing about auto mechanics, so he, and I, just looked into the engine compartment. He said he didn't know what to do, so I offered to drive him home. Again. I wasn't anxious to do so because he lives on a dirt road, one of those where the ruts are covered with slippery half-frozen mud which threaten to pull you into their direction. I hesitated to enter his driveway because he said his friend had gotten stuck there the other day. So I maneuvered one of those three-point-turns from Driver Education class, a tactic I don't think I've used since 1956. The aura of good deed-ism must have aided my safe return home. The owner of the truck, Matt, and his friend arrived about 7:30 P.M. and towed his truck out and away. Before they left, however, he knocked at the door, shook my hand and thanked me for "driving him around." I can always shop tomorrow.
Apples and Oranges
"You can't do that! It's like comparing apples and oranges!" Lacking access to the trusty Venn Diagram, here goes:
Similarities:
Both are fruits.
Both grow on trees.
Both have seeds inside the fruit.
Both are round, diameter usually between size of baseball and softball.
Both rate high in nutrition value, with Vitamin C and lots of fiber.
Both can be a source of fruit juice.
Both can be eaten raw, or combined with other ingredients.
Differences:
Apples, when ripe, are red, green, or yellow.
Oranges, when ripe, are orange.
Apples grow in wider range of climate.
The fruit of the orange is sectioned.
There, that wasn't so hard. You will find that, deep down, all fruits are pretty much alike, regardless of the color of their skin.
Similarities:
Both are fruits.
Both grow on trees.
Both have seeds inside the fruit.
Both are round, diameter usually between size of baseball and softball.
Both rate high in nutrition value, with Vitamin C and lots of fiber.
Both can be a source of fruit juice.
Both can be eaten raw, or combined with other ingredients.
Differences:
Apples, when ripe, are red, green, or yellow.
Oranges, when ripe, are orange.
Apples grow in wider range of climate.
The fruit of the orange is sectioned.
There, that wasn't so hard. You will find that, deep down, all fruits are pretty much alike, regardless of the color of their skin.
Friday, December 12, 2014
Childish Logic
When I was 10 years old, I answered for myself the question of whether dogs could go to heaven. The answer seemed clear to me: Yes, my dog would be with me in heaven because heaven is the place where you would be completely happy, and I knew I couldn't ever be happy without my dog. Ergo, dogs would be in heaven.
I just read that Pope Francis said animals are God's creatures, and there is a place for them in Paradise. I'll have to look up how many Popes there were before one of them agreed with me. Instead of being a source of comfort, though, the Pope's words made me cry because I no longer believe that. I'd love to think that I would re-unite with Lassie, and it would be wonderful to hear Cosmo's "talking" in the morning, and writhing with joy when the boys returned home from college. But then I think of the vast numbers of cows and chickens, birds, and fish and insects, and I lose hope.
I just read that Pope Francis said animals are God's creatures, and there is a place for them in Paradise. I'll have to look up how many Popes there were before one of them agreed with me. Instead of being a source of comfort, though, the Pope's words made me cry because I no longer believe that. I'd love to think that I would re-unite with Lassie, and it would be wonderful to hear Cosmo's "talking" in the morning, and writhing with joy when the boys returned home from college. But then I think of the vast numbers of cows and chickens, birds, and fish and insects, and I lose hope.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
Layaway Humbug
I get the idea of charitable contributions to the needy, especially at Christmas time. But this Pay Your Layaway scenario seems like a really bad idea. A well-meaning benefactor surprises someone who has been saving for an extended period of time in order to buy Christmas gifts. And the benefactor announces that the amount for the purchases has been paid, freeing the "saved money" to be used elsewhere. I saw one interaction where the Christmas Club member, presumably and apparently needy, broke into tears after being told her purchases were paid for. She was filled with gratitude. When asked, she said the amount of her Christmas purchases was $2200. Of course she was grateful for the financial boon, but really? Over $2,000 of hard-to-come-by money spent on Christmas presents?
She and the others would have been better served if they had been given the gift of learning how to budget their money. NOBODY needs to spend two grand on gifts; that is insane. Another woman in need was compensated for 2 (very) large-screen televisions which she said was for her family. She didn't say whether the family lived in one house or not, but it seemed likely they did. And since it is very likely they that they already had television sets, the super-sized models fall into the category of luxury items.
No wonder people are caught up in poverty, and the encouragement of a Surprise Santa only deepens the problem facing society. The message should be to wake up: no one is going to give you stuff. Santa Claus is a myth, so is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, President Obama. Wait, strike that last one.
She and the others would have been better served if they had been given the gift of learning how to budget their money. NOBODY needs to spend two grand on gifts; that is insane. Another woman in need was compensated for 2 (very) large-screen televisions which she said was for her family. She didn't say whether the family lived in one house or not, but it seemed likely they did. And since it is very likely they that they already had television sets, the super-sized models fall into the category of luxury items.
No wonder people are caught up in poverty, and the encouragement of a Surprise Santa only deepens the problem facing society. The message should be to wake up: no one is going to give you stuff. Santa Claus is a myth, so is the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, President Obama. Wait, strike that last one.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Stuff
Step aside, George Carlin, I got stuff. I haven't gotten to the point of renting a storage unit yet, but it would solve some of the problems caused by accumulation of stuff. Oddly enough, I'm not really attached to most of the things that qualify as stuff. There is a certain number of things I can't do without, a lesser number of things I don't want to do without, and the rest I don't need or want. But I keep them hanging 'round. And I can reliably say that most of those things I did not buy, nor did Dave. They just happened to enter our house and stay there. One exception would be toys; the attic is loaded with old toys, and the parts of what were once toys. Our cellar is full of paints and tools and hardware that landed on us from many sources.
Again, I'll say I don't want or need most of the stuff in my house, but that doesn't mean that there is no sentimental or nostalgic connection with it. After my father-in-law died, Dave's mother tried, mostly in vain, to sort out her life, and one of her starting efforts was in the basement of their house, attempting to put her life in order from the bottom up, so to speak. She probably felt most and least connected to him there. He was a mechanic and a craftsman, and the basement was loaded with the tools of his trade and of his hobbies, which included woodworking. It was not her venue, strictly his, so she must have felt proximity to him while also feeling estranged from his workplace.
She started small, and sorted what must have been hundreds, even thousands, of screws and nuts and bolts and nails and hooks and the like. She sorted them by size and purpose, into glass jars. Many are still in our basement. We didn't really have a use for them; most often if Dave needed hardware for any type of project, he'd go to Wiley's to figure out what to get. But what do you do with something so remindful of a woman's agonizing attempts to try to re-start a life without her partner of close to half a century.
From the time she was a little child, Dorothy liked pretty things. I was always impressed with her ability to collect those things, even when anything tangible was hard to come by in our early circumstances. She would latch on to an old perfume bottle, a tassel, a shell, or a piece of a broken comb, and play with them in the space beneath our old round dining room table, where she would crawl onto its large curved legs beneath the fringed tablecloth. Later, when she saw something that caught her eye, say in Macy's--a miniature jewelry armoire, a soap dish, a figurine of a polar bear--she would buy it and often bought two, one of which she would give to me. So now I have doubles of some items, and no place to put them, not in the bare-bones architectural style of my house.
I realize the time is not far off when my stuff will threaten the sanctity of order in the homes of others. All the stuff will be someone else's burden, no longer imbued with the vapor of memory. I know I won't really care at that point, but my mortal coil cries out for dispensation, or maybe I mean distribution. Kind of like ashes.
When I say we grew up with almost nothing, that's not much of an exaggeration. I remember an elementary school classmate telling me one time that she'd gotten sick in the night and had thrown up all over her top sheet. I felt shocked, and then embarrassed, at the awareness that I didn't know what a top sheet was. We were lucky to have a bottom sheet. When I was a freshman in college, one of the New York City girls asked to walk with me from the campus to the athletic field. The day was chilly and she remarked that she'd called her mother that morning to have her send up her winter coats. Winter coats! Plural! I was wearing my coat. Singular. I tended to avoid her after that; she was out of my league, with multiple winter coats.
Our family ethic was not to throw anything away that was still of use, and I guess it stuck with me. Guilt and sentimentality are more powerful than my puny attempts at divesting. As a means of diverting some stuff from its entry into the maw of the Dumpster, I've been turning to eBay. I could list at least a dozen items a day for more years than I have left, and I wouldn't be half way through the contents of my house. Moreover, only about 2% of my items sell, even at rock-bottom prices. Who am I fooling anyway? There's little market for jars of old nails, or even new holiday-themed mugs.
Again, I'll say I don't want or need most of the stuff in my house, but that doesn't mean that there is no sentimental or nostalgic connection with it. After my father-in-law died, Dave's mother tried, mostly in vain, to sort out her life, and one of her starting efforts was in the basement of their house, attempting to put her life in order from the bottom up, so to speak. She probably felt most and least connected to him there. He was a mechanic and a craftsman, and the basement was loaded with the tools of his trade and of his hobbies, which included woodworking. It was not her venue, strictly his, so she must have felt proximity to him while also feeling estranged from his workplace.
She started small, and sorted what must have been hundreds, even thousands, of screws and nuts and bolts and nails and hooks and the like. She sorted them by size and purpose, into glass jars. Many are still in our basement. We didn't really have a use for them; most often if Dave needed hardware for any type of project, he'd go to Wiley's to figure out what to get. But what do you do with something so remindful of a woman's agonizing attempts to try to re-start a life without her partner of close to half a century.
From the time she was a little child, Dorothy liked pretty things. I was always impressed with her ability to collect those things, even when anything tangible was hard to come by in our early circumstances. She would latch on to an old perfume bottle, a tassel, a shell, or a piece of a broken comb, and play with them in the space beneath our old round dining room table, where she would crawl onto its large curved legs beneath the fringed tablecloth. Later, when she saw something that caught her eye, say in Macy's--a miniature jewelry armoire, a soap dish, a figurine of a polar bear--she would buy it and often bought two, one of which she would give to me. So now I have doubles of some items, and no place to put them, not in the bare-bones architectural style of my house.
I realize the time is not far off when my stuff will threaten the sanctity of order in the homes of others. All the stuff will be someone else's burden, no longer imbued with the vapor of memory. I know I won't really care at that point, but my mortal coil cries out for dispensation, or maybe I mean distribution. Kind of like ashes.
When I say we grew up with almost nothing, that's not much of an exaggeration. I remember an elementary school classmate telling me one time that she'd gotten sick in the night and had thrown up all over her top sheet. I felt shocked, and then embarrassed, at the awareness that I didn't know what a top sheet was. We were lucky to have a bottom sheet. When I was a freshman in college, one of the New York City girls asked to walk with me from the campus to the athletic field. The day was chilly and she remarked that she'd called her mother that morning to have her send up her winter coats. Winter coats! Plural! I was wearing my coat. Singular. I tended to avoid her after that; she was out of my league, with multiple winter coats.
Our family ethic was not to throw anything away that was still of use, and I guess it stuck with me. Guilt and sentimentality are more powerful than my puny attempts at divesting. As a means of diverting some stuff from its entry into the maw of the Dumpster, I've been turning to eBay. I could list at least a dozen items a day for more years than I have left, and I wouldn't be half way through the contents of my house. Moreover, only about 2% of my items sell, even at rock-bottom prices. Who am I fooling anyway? There's little market for jars of old nails, or even new holiday-themed mugs.
Monday, December 8, 2014
John Le Fever Editorial
I Never Called Him Herman
Sunday night, under a bright half-moon, I drove back up Route 28 after paying my last respects to Herman Schroder.
I never called him Herman. It would have been something like calling my grandfather Ralph. Most people, I think, have a "second home" when they're growing up, and "Mr. and Mrs. Schroder" were in charge of mine.
It was a modest frame house tucked among other frame houses on Wrentham Street. Nothing special to look at. Nothing special about Wrentham Street. My memories of it are like the movies from the 30's and 40's about the kid next door.
Still, that was where my buddy Bill lived, and his brothers Dave and Don. And just incidentally, their parents. For us, at that age, parents were an unavoidable phenomenon; they came with the house, like the water pipes. And Bill's father's name was Herman, and he called his wife Gert, and when they were around, it was always a little quieter than when they weren't.
Herman was a mechanic, and a good-enough one to be put in charge of a fleet of trucks at a Kingston company. He was in charge of the fleet for as long as I can remember-----until last Friday. He died on the job.
In fact, he had just gotten a broken-down truck running near Newburgh when, on the way back, he had a heart attack on the Thruway.
Mrs. Schroder was a nurse. And she worked as a nurse, also for as long as I can remember. Often one of the problems with visiting Bill in the morning was that his mother had just spent the night at the hospital and was trying to get some sleep. It was always clear to us that if we woke her up, we'd be sure to hear about it.
In those days on Saturday morning, we didn't bother to use the phone. We'd just go to the friend's house, stand near the back door and call, "Hey, Bill." But if Mrs. Schroder wasn't moving around in the kitchen, "Hey, Bill" was delivered softly three or four times near a window.
Although we kids always knew who was in charge there, we weren't afraid of that authority. There was nothing to run from, unless there was a clear-cut case of criminal negligence, such as a broken window. Then we all knew that when Herman got home, seeking peace, somebody was going to catch something that would make hell seem like a vacation.
But the central tone of the place was a warm sense of humor, a kind of wry tolerance of the human condition. In fact, with Herman, I had to watch out that he didn't catch me up in a joke of some kind. A bit like sending the new man out for left-handed pliers. And not just me---the sons had to watch out even more.
When Bill and I were 13 we caught the motor craze. Thirteen, the age when, with three years to go before the driver's test, time ground to a halt and refused to budge.
So with some help from Warren Hummer, a young man who had just survived 30-some missions over Germany as a B-17 belly gunner, Bill and I put together my first vehicle---a four-wheeled wobbler driven by a rebuilt Briggs and Stratton 2 1/2 horsepower engine that had gotten tired a little earlier and fallen off a garden tractor. I paid $20 for it.
The rig's axles were mounted on wooden four-by-fours, it had a real steering wheel, it was belt-driven with a clutch made of angle iron and a pulley, and it had a hand brake. It also had a clumsy wooden body and it could attain speeds of up to 15 miles an hour.
One day Herman came home from work and gave it an appraising eye. "Pretty good," he said. "But it sure won't carry both of you." It was clear Bill and his father had to build one.
Herman couldn't afford to buy a motor (this was 1946). But in his basement he had saved an old washing machine powered by a gasoline engine that could produce 1 3/4 horsepower if the weather was clear.
Bill complained he wouldn't be able to keep up with me. There's a large difference between 1 3/4 horsepower and 2 1/2. Herman told him to keep his shirt on.
Well, when they lifted it out of the basement, it was a sleek article indeed. It was 30 pounds lighter than mine because its body consisted of three trim and springy boards of hard oak that would bend but not break. Natural suspension, as compared to my un-natural lack of it.
It was similar in other ways except that Herman had figured the size of the drive pulleys so that Bill's rig crept by mine at 15 1/2 miles an hour. We used to hurtle around the armory, and I always had to keep Bill on the outside to win.
Sunday night I said good-bye to Herman Schroder---that is, the mortal coil he left behind. It didn't look like Herman, and since it lacked his animation, it wasn't really him at all. He would have liked the half moon shining.
Sunday night, under a bright half-moon, I drove back up Route 28 after paying my last respects to Herman Schroder.
I never called him Herman. It would have been something like calling my grandfather Ralph. Most people, I think, have a "second home" when they're growing up, and "Mr. and Mrs. Schroder" were in charge of mine.
It was a modest frame house tucked among other frame houses on Wrentham Street. Nothing special to look at. Nothing special about Wrentham Street. My memories of it are like the movies from the 30's and 40's about the kid next door.
Still, that was where my buddy Bill lived, and his brothers Dave and Don. And just incidentally, their parents. For us, at that age, parents were an unavoidable phenomenon; they came with the house, like the water pipes. And Bill's father's name was Herman, and he called his wife Gert, and when they were around, it was always a little quieter than when they weren't.
Herman was a mechanic, and a good-enough one to be put in charge of a fleet of trucks at a Kingston company. He was in charge of the fleet for as long as I can remember-----until last Friday. He died on the job.
In fact, he had just gotten a broken-down truck running near Newburgh when, on the way back, he had a heart attack on the Thruway.
Mrs. Schroder was a nurse. And she worked as a nurse, also for as long as I can remember. Often one of the problems with visiting Bill in the morning was that his mother had just spent the night at the hospital and was trying to get some sleep. It was always clear to us that if we woke her up, we'd be sure to hear about it.
In those days on Saturday morning, we didn't bother to use the phone. We'd just go to the friend's house, stand near the back door and call, "Hey, Bill." But if Mrs. Schroder wasn't moving around in the kitchen, "Hey, Bill" was delivered softly three or four times near a window.
Although we kids always knew who was in charge there, we weren't afraid of that authority. There was nothing to run from, unless there was a clear-cut case of criminal negligence, such as a broken window. Then we all knew that when Herman got home, seeking peace, somebody was going to catch something that would make hell seem like a vacation.
But the central tone of the place was a warm sense of humor, a kind of wry tolerance of the human condition. In fact, with Herman, I had to watch out that he didn't catch me up in a joke of some kind. A bit like sending the new man out for left-handed pliers. And not just me---the sons had to watch out even more.
When Bill and I were 13 we caught the motor craze. Thirteen, the age when, with three years to go before the driver's test, time ground to a halt and refused to budge.
So with some help from Warren Hummer, a young man who had just survived 30-some missions over Germany as a B-17 belly gunner, Bill and I put together my first vehicle---a four-wheeled wobbler driven by a rebuilt Briggs and Stratton 2 1/2 horsepower engine that had gotten tired a little earlier and fallen off a garden tractor. I paid $20 for it.
The rig's axles were mounted on wooden four-by-fours, it had a real steering wheel, it was belt-driven with a clutch made of angle iron and a pulley, and it had a hand brake. It also had a clumsy wooden body and it could attain speeds of up to 15 miles an hour.
One day Herman came home from work and gave it an appraising eye. "Pretty good," he said. "But it sure won't carry both of you." It was clear Bill and his father had to build one.
Herman couldn't afford to buy a motor (this was 1946). But in his basement he had saved an old washing machine powered by a gasoline engine that could produce 1 3/4 horsepower if the weather was clear.
Bill complained he wouldn't be able to keep up with me. There's a large difference between 1 3/4 horsepower and 2 1/2. Herman told him to keep his shirt on.
Well, when they lifted it out of the basement, it was a sleek article indeed. It was 30 pounds lighter than mine because its body consisted of three trim and springy boards of hard oak that would bend but not break. Natural suspension, as compared to my un-natural lack of it.
It was similar in other ways except that Herman had figured the size of the drive pulleys so that Bill's rig crept by mine at 15 1/2 miles an hour. We used to hurtle around the armory, and I always had to keep Bill on the outside to win.
Sunday night I said good-bye to Herman Schroder---that is, the mortal coil he left behind. It didn't look like Herman, and since it lacked his animation, it wasn't really him at all. He would have liked the half moon shining.
Artifacts of the Aged
Not only do I have a flip phone, but I double space after periods at the end of sentences, a vestige from years past, or so I understand.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
P.S.
I never cared for "Alice in Wonderland" either. That serio-comic approach tends to turn me off.
Panning Peter
I just finished watching the live version of "Peter Pan" and, counting Brian Williams, that makes at least two viewers who made it through the big snore. I admit that I never did care for the story anyway. I think my introduction to Peter took place at my grandmother's house when Matt had brought home a Sunday newspaper which had some article in the comic section, and Helen read us the story. I never quite understood the plot line, and even now, I'm not quite sure about the Tiger Lily character. I probably should read the book.
For a live performance, the acting was okay, though I think Allison kept lapsing in and out of a British accent, the father couldn't settle on either playing his strictness straight, or turning his role into self parody, and I saw the dog being bribed with a treat to lure him into jumping on the father. And then poor Nana was punished for it! Way back then I didn't like the dog's name either: I didn't get it. Also, the actress who played Wendy outperformed the one playing Peter, though in that nightgown she looked pregnant. The whole production just seemed so darn silly. Bah, Humbug.
For a live performance, the acting was okay, though I think Allison kept lapsing in and out of a British accent, the father couldn't settle on either playing his strictness straight, or turning his role into self parody, and I saw the dog being bribed with a treat to lure him into jumping on the father. And then poor Nana was punished for it! Way back then I didn't like the dog's name either: I didn't get it. Also, the actress who played Wendy outperformed the one playing Peter, though in that nightgown she looked pregnant. The whole production just seemed so darn silly. Bah, Humbug.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Keyed In At Last
Dave drove the bad key to Rensselaer Honda today, and then drove it back home again. He'd driven his own car, and they needed the Honda to program the key. (The key is no longer that thing that used to be stamped out of metal.) So he changed cars and back down he went. This time success. I think the "Good Will" service must have escalated to a "Mercy Mission" because the total charge was only $20. Part was $8, installation $8, and tax. Being pathetic has its good points, I guess.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
KEY
In all the years that I've been driving, I have never lost my car key, this dating back to the era when there was one key for the ignition and another for the door. But now I need a new key, not because it was lost, but because it is broken. Last week, I inserted the key in the ignition and went to turn it, but it went limp. My initial thought was that something was wrong with my wrist, but it turned out that the key had bent between the metal insert and the plastic housing of the remote. A while ago, we needed a duplicate key for another auto, and the cost was a whopping $135; my understanding is that prices have increased since then. And how do I go about getting the key repaired or replaced anyway?
I searched through the manual, determining that keys are not covered under the warranty, and I knew I had not bought the extended bumper to bumper package offered when I bought the car. However, in an advice-seeking mission, I called the number for Customer Service, and, after admitting the aforementioned, was referred to someone who may be able to help--Charles. He re-took my information, went somewhere to check, and returned to tell me he "may be able to offer some assistance." But first I would have to bring the broken key to a Honda dealer, for verification of the condition of the key. He would then check with them and call me back the next day.
Bright and early the next morning, I drove the broken key to the dealership and presented it and my story to the service rep, Jennifer. She tightened the tiny screw, but said the key would need replacing, and she filled out a form for Honda Customer Service. When I got home, Charles had already called, not waiting for evening, and when I returned his call, he was out of the office. I left a message and he did call back, asking what happened at the dealership. I relayed what was said and done, and he said he would call them, and let them know what he could do. Then he would call me back to inform me, he said.
Today I learned from Jennifer at the dealership, that Honda will issue me a good will discount of 75% off the cost of the key. The going price is about $165, she says, so that leaves only about $45 for me to pay. All I need to do is surrender the broken key and pay my reduced portion. ...This is how I spend my time now that I don't have a job or anything to do.
(When I called Customer Service, the reps there acted as if the concept of a broken key was completely new to them, asking for a description of how it broke and where. But googling will unearth a plethora of defunct Honda Accord keys, with descriptions of them as flimsy and prone to break. My key was good for only 36,000 miles, so I guess a backup key may be a good idea.
I searched through the manual, determining that keys are not covered under the warranty, and I knew I had not bought the extended bumper to bumper package offered when I bought the car. However, in an advice-seeking mission, I called the number for Customer Service, and, after admitting the aforementioned, was referred to someone who may be able to help--Charles. He re-took my information, went somewhere to check, and returned to tell me he "may be able to offer some assistance." But first I would have to bring the broken key to a Honda dealer, for verification of the condition of the key. He would then check with them and call me back the next day.
Bright and early the next morning, I drove the broken key to the dealership and presented it and my story to the service rep, Jennifer. She tightened the tiny screw, but said the key would need replacing, and she filled out a form for Honda Customer Service. When I got home, Charles had already called, not waiting for evening, and when I returned his call, he was out of the office. I left a message and he did call back, asking what happened at the dealership. I relayed what was said and done, and he said he would call them, and let them know what he could do. Then he would call me back to inform me, he said.
Today I learned from Jennifer at the dealership, that Honda will issue me a good will discount of 75% off the cost of the key. The going price is about $165, she says, so that leaves only about $45 for me to pay. All I need to do is surrender the broken key and pay my reduced portion. ...This is how I spend my time now that I don't have a job or anything to do.
(When I called Customer Service, the reps there acted as if the concept of a broken key was completely new to them, asking for a description of how it broke and where. But googling will unearth a plethora of defunct Honda Accord keys, with descriptions of them as flimsy and prone to break. My key was good for only 36,000 miles, so I guess a backup key may be a good idea.
Monday, December 1, 2014
How to Drug A Date
I always thought that the drugs were slipped into the woman's drink when she wasn't looking. But now I hear that in at least several of the cases, the perpetrator handed the woman pills, with no explanation as to why, and the woman took them, evidently without question, then woke up in a fog to an appalling scenario. He must be thinking if only the pills were secreted, or if they were a tad stronger.....
I can't help but be reminded of the long-ago time, during the single years, when a friend and I would go out, usually on Friday nights, and mostly to our regular, familiar nightspots. One evening, after some event, probably somebody's graduation or such, we were dressed up more than usual, and so decided to go to a "more sophisticated," or so we thought, venue. I think it was the Airport Inn, and since lodging was associated with the bar, a location for a faster crowd.
The night we chose to go there was during a sales convention of some type, and the bar and restaurant area was filled with out of town sales representatives, all men as I recall. As usual, though even the thought is foreign to me now, drinks were sent to our table. We never sat at the bar. The drinks were followed by two young men, though as we were in our twenties and they probably in their thirties, they didn't strike us as young then. We had our drinks and sat and talked for a while. After a time, one of the men asked my friend to dance. My companion took this opportunity to tell me that my friend would be going to her dance partner's room. I assured him she wouldn't, that she would be riding home with me, but he was adamant that she would not. When the music ended, my friend returned to the table, and I told her what was said. She laughed at first, but then said she was suddenly feeling really dizzy, and had only had two drinks, the second at the bar with the guy. She believed he had "slipped her a mickey." We threw some bills on the table, not wanting anything from them, or at least "him," and we literally ran out the door and across the parking lot to my car. We were laughing as we ran, and I remember its being a clear beautiful night, and feeling excited and relieved at the same time, and just a little bit scared.
I can't help but be reminded of the long-ago time, during the single years, when a friend and I would go out, usually on Friday nights, and mostly to our regular, familiar nightspots. One evening, after some event, probably somebody's graduation or such, we were dressed up more than usual, and so decided to go to a "more sophisticated," or so we thought, venue. I think it was the Airport Inn, and since lodging was associated with the bar, a location for a faster crowd.
The night we chose to go there was during a sales convention of some type, and the bar and restaurant area was filled with out of town sales representatives, all men as I recall. As usual, though even the thought is foreign to me now, drinks were sent to our table. We never sat at the bar. The drinks were followed by two young men, though as we were in our twenties and they probably in their thirties, they didn't strike us as young then. We had our drinks and sat and talked for a while. After a time, one of the men asked my friend to dance. My companion took this opportunity to tell me that my friend would be going to her dance partner's room. I assured him she wouldn't, that she would be riding home with me, but he was adamant that she would not. When the music ended, my friend returned to the table, and I told her what was said. She laughed at first, but then said she was suddenly feeling really dizzy, and had only had two drinks, the second at the bar with the guy. She believed he had "slipped her a mickey." We threw some bills on the table, not wanting anything from them, or at least "him," and we literally ran out the door and across the parking lot to my car. We were laughing as we ran, and I remember its being a clear beautiful night, and feeling excited and relieved at the same time, and just a little bit scared.
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