Christmas and Me

I am an atheist and therefore I do not believe very much of the biblical Christmas story. If there were a Jesus -and that is possible- he likely was not born in a manger in Bethlehem. It makes for a good story, but it’s just as likely that he was born in a tiny rented room, or even a fairly large rented room. A manger sounds good because we like our various saviors, heroes, etc., to come from modest means. It is also highly unlikely that there were wise men, shepherds, and so forth. Probably the most unlikely element of the story is that Jesus was born to a virgin. Virgins are considered pure and unsullied. In most religions, virgins are highly prized. It was true back when the Bible was being written, and it’s true today, albeit to perhaps a lesser degree. Point is; there is a reason why Christian religions state that Mary was a virgin, and it’s not because she actually was a virgin. But to the bigger issue; there is no evidence that Jesus was the “son of God”. Truth is; there is scant little evidence that Jesus existed at all.

But despite the possible lack of religious validity, I like Christmas. We have home movies from Christmas 1957 featuring my three sisters and me when we were tiny kids. There was a hobby horse, a fire truck, a jack-in-the-box, the board game Candyland, not to mention various uninteresting gifts such as new socks and hair brushes.

One of those long ago Christmases, Santa Claus came to our door. He came right in and perched himself on our sofa. We kids were terribly excited. We all got to sit on his lap and tell him what we wanted for Christmas. Twenty years later I learned that the Santa was in reality my Uncle Wilber.

I think that once a person has really great Christmas memories, Christmas will more than likely be special forever. My mother and father are now gone but my three sisters and I get together and exchange gifts. About every other year we pull out the old home movies, now on video tape. These days some of the youthful excitement is missing, but we still have fun. 

So even if a person does not believe in god, Jesus, and so forth, that does not mean the person cannot enjoy Christmas. I could probably argue that I enjoy it more as an atheist than I did as a theist. As an atheist I do not feel guilty for not going to church on Christmas. Come to think of it, when I was a Methodist I did not feel particularly guilty either.        

Our Never-Ending Pursuit of Women

I’m going to tell any would-be blog reader a simple fact, albeit a largely unrecognized fact; men do almost everything with women in mind. There you have it. Many times it is one woman in the mind of a man, but it is almost always a female of the human species, be it one or many.

I first heard this simple statement of truth as it was spoken by a friend of mine when we were 17 years old, about 45 years ago. We had been drinking malt liquor at the time and the alcohol worked to expose our philosophical sides. When my friend made this pronouncement, I quickly agreed with him. I had come to the same conclusion over the preceding year or two.

The first order of business in the mind of a heterosexual man is to satisfy his survival needs. So the initial priorities are food and shelter. Then comes women. Almost every man alive is capable of procuring one woman or another. The idea is to secure the best woman possible. As far as men are concerned, this involves two general categories that pertain to all women; physical appearance and mental state.

Almost every man prefers a gorgeous woman to a homely one. The man who insists he would choose a Rosanne Arnold over a Natalie Portman is a man who is either blind, crazy, or lying. Generally such men are lying. They are trying to give the appearance of being deep, and complex. Ironically, they are very possibly doing this to impress a pretty woman.        

As far as men are concerned, the second category; a woman’s mental state, would be more a matter of personal choice. There are more than a few men who would prefer a rather unintelligent woman. There are other men who would want the intellectual stimulation of a knowledgeable, creative woman. One thing is certain; the vast majority of men would opt for a woman who is non-hostile. Cooperation in women is also valued by most men.

So, a man’s lot in life is to impress women. When a man has put in a respectable effort and believes he has found the best woman possible for him, he then tries to secure her permanently by proposing marriage. However, even if both parties submit to wedlock, this by no mean ends the man’s desire to impress other women, for the yearning is innate. It will be part of his psyche on into middle age and beyond, albeit at a less intense level. 

I remember many decades ago, seeing my then-recently expired Uncle Monty resting comfortably in his coffin. As stated in his directives; he was dressed in a fine, new suit. I knew which gender he had been thinking of at the time of his post-life clothing selection, and it wasn’t the male gender. Even when there was no longer a breath in his body, Uncle Monty was trying to appeal to women. We men just can’t seem to shut it off.    

An Opinion On Social Diversity

I'm thinking that someday someone might read this blog and when they do, I ought to have some actual opinions in it. So here's one of those opinions...

Social diversity is all the rage. It's been that way for a while now. Companies are pushing for ethnic and cultural diversity, universities are too. The yearning for diversity is everywhere... well not quite everywhere. I'll tell you one place where right this second it is not lovingly embraced; that's right here in the room where I am sitting alone, writing this blog entry.

I have seen diversity. In a lot of places it is a good thing. I go to a Thai restaurant a couple of times a month. Believe it or not, the food is cooked by a guy from Thailand. It's great food. But he does not interact with his customers particularly well. Why? Because he does not completely understand the culture. It limits and weakens his customer interaction. In effect, he is a soldier of diversity, and he is losing-out, ever so slightly, to the socially assimilated Thai restaurateur down the street. As an American entrenched in the American mainstream culture, I want the Thai restaurateur to be personable specifically to me. I want him to understand my humor, and be able to deliver humor of his own, humor that I can grasp and appreciate. I want him to at least understand my interests even if he does not share them.

The Thai restaurant owner feels the same way. He would really like to have me understand his cultural nuances. The trouble is; both he and I are in America, so my need to understand his culture is not acute. Though he understands that, it still saddens him.

This whole diversity thing really stems from the many African-Americans who feel uncomfortable among white folks in this post-Civil Right Revolution America. Consequently, the larger culture has allowed blacks, who unlike the Thai man, have been Americans for generations, to essentially self-segregate. Consequently, many blacks do not interact within the mainstream culture as fluidly as do whites. This hurts their chances of finding job opportunities, let alone such things as workplace advancements. On the other side of the coin, many white people are not thrilled with the idea of multicultural integrated school, hence, the rise of home schooling.

How about this; we as a society promote assimilation. We advocate that the Thai man, and the African-American woman, assimilate into the larger culture, and in so doing, they bring along elements of their own cultures. The end result; an American culture that has elements from around the world, blended into new, unique creations, and people who can freely interact with each other without cultural hardship. It could be done with a little work. After all, we as a nation are undertaking a mammoth campaign to end smoking. Why not have something similar aimed at becoming a nation with one, unique culture that includes all of us?

All right, there's an opinion for you.  

A Visit From The Past

From late 1974 until sometime around April or May of 1978, I was in a relationship with the same girl. When the relationship began, she was barely 20, and I was 23. This was the first full, loving, adult relationship either of us had been in. I’m referring to the kind of relationship where you eventually find that you are relaxed and comfortable around each other, and the sexual fires that once raged have become the less intense but long-lasting, glowing embers.

She was slender and pretty. She could be silly, kindhearted, and there was not a hint of cynicism in her anywhere. She was smart but probably not a genius. And she was a little bit ditzy too. One day she decided to write her memoirs, that is, until she realized that she was 22 years old and had no memoirs to write. I thought she was wonderful. Her name was Ellen. It’s still Ellen.

About two weeks ago I received a message through my Facebook account. It was her, Ellen. Her last name had changed, but I knew it was her. For about a minute I just sat there and stared at this notification of a message from my long-ago girlfriend. Finally I read it. I could simply tell you what it said, but I think I’d rather describe to you its effect on me.

Ellen stated that she is now a 59 year-old grandmother of 2, the oldest grandchild being 10 years old. For me, this was genuinely traumatic. The last time I laid my eyes on her she was this slightly daffy girl not yet 24 years old, now she is a 59 year-old grandmother. Anyone can do the math and figure that the 24 year-old girl I last knew over 35 years ago would be a 59 year-old woman today, but through all of those years I remembered her as a young, sparkly-eyed woman. For me, the revelation was truly traumatic. It has been a few weeks and I am still not over it, hence this blog entry.

On Ellen’s Facebook page is a single photo of what I would assume is her and her husband, but the photo is very tiny and the subjects were sitting a distance from the camera, so I can discern no detail. Another words; I do not know what the 59 year-old Ellen looks like.

We have exchanged a few other messages since the first one. It might come down eventually where we might meet for coffee or something. To be forthright, I’m not sure how I feel about such an encounter. I would like to know that Ellen has lived an enjoyable life, on the other hand, if none of the lighthearted Ellen of long-ago exists, I don’t want to know it. I want her to remain a bit daffy and thoroughly good-natured, if only in my memory.

Here’s an odd thought I had just yesterday, born from another memory. In late January 1978, Ohio was hit by one of the biggest weather events in the history of the state. It is called simply The Ohio Blizzard. I remember it well. There were howling winds, and a blinding snow storm mixed with lightning and thunder. Later that day I drove across the icy streets and through the snowdrifts to Ellen’s tiny apartment a few miles away from mine. As usual, Ellen did not have much to eat in her cupboards and refrigerator, so we drove off in search of an opened restaurant. A mile or so down the road we found one.

I remember that the parking lot was all but empty and we were just about the only people in the restaurant. But we had a good time sitting there having dinner hours after a massive blizzard. It seems almost unimaginable that before the end of that year Ellen would be married, and she would be married to someone other than me. Someone promised her things I could not, things that she wanted, and she slipped away from me. Our lives went in different directions. It might be best for me psychologically that they stay that way.          

An Ordinary Guy's Daydream (By guest blogger Sherman Langston)

Over the last twenty-five years or so I have occasionally encountered the attractive woman in my travels. This woman, whoever she may be, is of course lovely, friendly, and vivacious, as these are the very ingredients that make her attractive. Sometimes this beguiling creature is so attractive, so alluring, that I have at times become smitten by her charms. Unfortunately I am ordinary, and she is not, and so she has been out of reach. But though I am ordinary, I have always been capable of a daydream.

Sherman Langston

Often these flights of fancy begin by my saying to the woman something like, “I am playing at an outdoor concert tonight. Why don’t you come by? It’s free.”

Of course she would be surprised by my revelation and quickly reply, “You play a musical instrument?”

I would nod and modestly, humorously say, “Yes. I’ll be the guy playing the violin.” In these daydreams I am generally playing either the violin or the guitar. Sometimes I will play the guitar and then later in the concert play the violin, or vice versa. Of course in reality I can play neither. This is, after all, a daydream. Still flabbergasted by my disclosure, the alluring woman slowly nods and manages to murmur, “Maybe I’ll drop by.”

Later that night I am playing the violin beautifully. In my hands the instrument’s strings sing out in a heavenly refrain. Then, between songs, I gaze out into the small but attentive audience and I see her sitting by herself. Of course she is not only there, but also there alone, after all, what kind of daydream would it be if the lady were a no-show, or there with a man? I step up to the microphone and calmly announce, “This next piece is for a friend of mine who took time out of her evening to accept an invitation.” I then commence playing a song so tender, so entrancing, that the lady cannot hold in her tears. To her, I am ordinary no longer.

Some daydreaming guys will envision themselves rescuing the damsel from evil-doers. Instead of playing the violin, they will have infinite bravery and know karate. And there are other guys who will imagine themselves as brilliant doctors, miraculously saving the beautiful woman from some deadly disease. But for me, musical talent is my imagined weapon against real-life commonality.   

Oddly, the daydream has never gotten beyond that concert. There has never been a second chapter that has her with me afterwards. I’m not sure why I stop the daydream there. It could be that the first chapter of the daydream is all I really want and nothing else is necessary. It could be simply a matter of being beyond ordinary to a captivating lady, if only in a daydream. Yes, I think that's probably it. 

Lessons From Sea Hunt

There is a regular program on a nostalgia channel. It is Sea Hunt. Sea Hunt was around from about 1958 to the early 60s sometime. It featured Lloyd Bridges as Mike Nelson, the show’s main character. He was a scuba diver for hire. Every week he had some great undersea adventure. I tuned into an episode earlier today. Wow, did I learn some stuff, stuff such as; I can still think like a kid, even at 62.

The episode’s plot featured Lloyd’s own son, Jeff Bridges, as the mischievous skin-diving kid, Kelley, who along with a scuba-equipped pal, Joey, swiped some loose dynamite out of a box that was sitting unattended along a rocky shore. Attached to the TNT was an ordinary mechanical timer. High explosives and a timer; how much luck can two boys have?

Anyway, like any two lads, Kelley dared Joey to turn the dial on the timer. Naturally Joey took the dare and turned on the timer. Who wouldn’t? I mean; it was a dare, right? The timer immediately began ticking. Then the two boys put on their air tanks and dove down into the ocean depths with dynamite in hand, its timer running. Joey decided to explore an underwater cave while holding the dynamite. Why not? It was a really neat cave. Unfortunately Joey promptly got his leg stuck under a fallen rock there inside the cave.

Aside from the problem with the rock, the boys had not done anything that I would not have done at that age, assuming I had skin-diving equipment. I mean, there isn’t a boy alive who doesn’t want to get his hands on some dynamite. Generally the best a kid can do is score some fireworks, and even then the lad might well get yelled at by an over-protective parent or some needlessly concerned adult. When it comes to that type of destructive fare, I think the only thing I would have wanted more than a half dozen sticks of dynamite would have been a bazooka and the accompanying ammo, that is; if I were a kid. I was going to say that I would have wanted a fully equipped army tank but at age 11 I would not have been tall enough to reach the pedals. And as for the skin-diving; the undersea world would be like a boy-heaven.

Anyhow, it took the heroics of the adult Mike Nelson to defuse the dynamite and then rescue the pinned kid from his underwater predicament. Afterwards, up on the boat, for some reason Mike felt compelled to give the two kids a lecture on the dangers of explosives, as well as the hazards of scuba-diving without adult supervision. I can just imagine myself in the place of Joey during those torturous moments, I’d be looking at Mike as he yapped away, and be thinking to myself; How long are you going to keep talking, you old fuddy-duddy? I’ve got a Pee Wee football game in an hour and the field is a half hour away by bicycle.

Anyway, just to shut Mike up, the guys politely answered, “Yes sir” at the end of the boring lecture when asked if they understood their mistake… yeah, as if there were a mistake. Kelley and Joey probably had their fingers crossed anyway. Everyone knows that’s how a kid can say something untruthful without it counting as a lie.

Obviously the show was not particularly realistic. I mean, how many kids are going to be lucky enough to find a box of forgotten dynamite?

My Father and the Great Depression

My father recently turn 101, never mind the fact he died in 1991. When I remember him, I think of how his adult life had two distinct phases. My dad was a WWII veteran and a guy who when he reached adulthood, had The Great Depression looking at him right in the eye like a big, angry bear. These factors affected my father for many decades, well after I had grown, flown the coup, and was living elsewhere.

As I was growing up, my father was one big cheapskate. Some of the penny-pinching testimonials now seem funny and even heartwarming, but at the time they made me shake my youthful head. I remember when I was going to play Little League baseball, I needed a mitt. My father took me to Woolco Department Store to look over their baseball gloves. I selected a decent, mid-priced glove with a nice catching pocket. As I was getting a feel for the glove, a clerk came up and asked if he could answer any questions. Without a second of hesitation, my father asked, “What’s the cheapest glove you got?” The clerk went into a back room and returned a moment later with a mitt that could have been made out of some old shingle off a roof. I think the brand name was in Yugoslavian. I had been looking at a glove that cost about $5. I think the glove I ended-up with cost about six bits. The mitt had no catching pocket whatsoever. The best that could be expected was to have the hurtling ball hit the glove, fall to the fielder’s feet, and then retrieved from the ground. What made matters worse, the glove was indestructible. To acquire a new, better glove, I needed to destroy the old one. Unfortunately that seemed impossible. A lawnmower did it no harm whatsoever. I ended up finding a glove that had been cast into some weeds, rejected by another little leaguer. It was the glove I used my entire Little League career. 

In 1958 our family took a vacation trip to Florida in the Oldsmobile. I think we were about halfway through Georgia when one of the car’s cheap, bald tires blew-out. Fortunately the car did not go spinning out of control, and we were able to thump down the road for a mile or so until we reached a gas station. My father could have gotten a new Firestone or Goodyear tire for a reasonable price. But apparently “reasonable” was too expensive. My father wanted something a little thriftier, after all, only the entire seatbeltless family was going to be riding on the tire at speeds over 70 MPH. My dad had a used tire placed on the car. “It still has plenty of tread,” he boasted as we returned to our highway journey. 

I can still hear my dad saying, “Just give me the cheapest you got.” He spoke that phrase many times when I was a kid.

My father retired in 1979. A few months after he retired he bought a membership at a golf course. It was not some highfalutin country club, but the membership did cost him a few hundred dollars. Needless to say, I was shocked. I actually thought he had taken ill.

To get out to this golf course, he traded in his old, smoke-belching car and bought a new one. He didn't buy a new Lincoln, but he did put out a pretty good chunk of change and purchased a high-end Nissan wagon. 

Something was going on and I had to find out what it was so I invited myself out to play golf with him. He was delighted to have a playing companion, in fact, on the way to the course he asked if I would be willing to play for 25 cents a hole. A quarter a hole!? No doubt about it, someone, or something, had hijacked my father’s body.

We pretty much broke even as far as the wagering, but on the way home we stopped at a Mexican restaurant where my father bought me lunch. He insisted. 

It was a few days later during a family get-together that my father declared that he had opened a new, final chapter to his time on earth. He called it the “dessert period of life”. I did not think an old dog could learn new tricks, but really, he pretty much succeeded. From then on he bought himself nice shoes, name-brand razor blades, and top-of-the-line golf balls. He and my mother had the money, and he figured it was high-time to start spending it. Yeah, I knew that somewhere in the $400 pricetag of his new swivel recliner there were a few cents that could have gone into that baseball glove I had wanted as a kid. But when all was said and done, I figured that was water long since under the bridge. I was never going to the Major Leagues anyhow. I was just glad to see that at the age of sixty-six, The Great Depression had finally ended for my dad. 

A Bad Investment (By guest blogger Chet Ryder)

My name is Chet Ryder. My dentist, Dr. Paul Cantrell, has been a lifelong friend of mine. No one knows me better. Paul and I grew up in the same neighborhood in Baltimore. He had become a successful dentist while I had become a rather prosperous entrepreneur, making my money by taking risky ventures. 

Anyway, about six months ago I had an appointment to visit Paul professionally. His office was on the 3^rd floor of a high office building in downtown Baltimore. On the day of the appointment, a Wednesday, May 6th, I walked through the building’s empty lobby and pushed a button next to a closed elevator door, summoning the elevator car. When the elevator door opened I stepped inside and since I was bound for the 3^rd floor, I was ready to push the button with the “3”. Then I saw a button below the floor buttons. It was labeled “T”. For a second I just ignored it, but I'm a spontaneous guy so I decided; what the heck, let’s push it. So that’s what I did.

Well, the elevator began to shake and bounce around. I can’t deny I became nervous. Then, a few seconds later, the shaking stopped and the elevator door opened. I was still on the ground floor. I had not moved.

I chuckled and then quickly decided I’d better go up to Paul’s office. After all, he was probably waiting for me. One or two passengers got into the elevator with me, the doors closed and this time, much to my relief, the elevator started to go up. As we ascended, I glanced at a newspaper that one of the passengers had under an arm. I casually looked at the newspaper’s headline, and the date. I started to chuckle as I noticed the newspaper had both the day of the week, and the date wrong. It was a day ahead of schedule. I humorously pointed out the mistake to the man holding the newspaper, but instead of smiling, he gave me a confused glance. “The date is right,” he stated. Right about then the elevator car came to a halt and the metal doors slid open. I stepped out onto the 3^rd floor. 

I traveled down the corridor to my dentist’s office only to find a locked door with a sign reading sign on the door that said “CLOSED THURSDAY FOR CONFERENCE”. But it was Wednesday… wait; it was Wednesday, wasn't it? I was now a bit unsure.

As I retraced my steps back to the elevator, I walked by the plexiglass office front of Miller and Sons Investments. There on a wall beyond the thick glass doors was a TV monitor showing Wall Street activity. There was a big stock market chart indicating Munson Pharmaceuticals stock shares having gone up 2000%. In the lower corner were the time and the date. According to the monitor, it was May 7^th, which did indeed make it a Thursday. It took some doing, but I was finally beginning to realize that I was missing one full day. I had no explanation. My best guesses were that either I had been confused about the day of the week, and the date, for perhaps several days running, or I had slept for a full 24 hours. Both possibilities were hard to accept, and a bit scary.

As my mind toiled with the mystery, my feet shuffled back to the elevator. I unconsciously pushed the button calling an elevator and a few seconds later one arrived, the same car I had just taken. There was one other passenger inside, a well-dressed, and rather robust man. We nodded politely to each other, I then stepped into the elevator car, turned and looked for the button that would take me to the 1^st floor. But before my finger reached the button, I once again noticed down below the floor buttons was that extra button. On it was the letter “Y”. But… wasn't that same button labeled “T” earlier? I was sure it was. I had to push it. It was as though I had no choice.

Once again the entire elevator began shaking. In fact, I was apparently knocked off of my feet, hit my head, and for an instant was on the floor, dazed. When the elevator door opened, I was woozy and seeing stars, but I was lucid enough to know that I was still on the 3^rd floor.

I climbed to my feet and began wobbling out of the car, but I was soon assisted by my fellow elevator passenger as he put my arm over his shoulders and supported my weight. Together we wandered down the hallway, finally stumbling into the office of Miller and Sons Investments; there I was carefully lowered into a chair. A moment later there was a small, concerned crowd around me of about four or five people.

“The elevator malfunctioned,” I mumbled. “I guess it knocked me off my feet, and I must have hit my head.”

“We’d better get you an ambulance,” I heard someone say.

I slowly raised my hand and loosely fluttered it about. “No, no thank you,” I babbled. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

My eyes could not yet focus, but I could see that a few steps in front of me was the large monitor indicating a steady stream of stock prices. “How’s Munson Pharmaceuticals doing?” I muttered as my limp hand motioned towards the TV.

One of the men chuckled. “Munson Pharmaceuticals? They’re down 25%. They may be all but out of business by day’s end.”

“What?” I asked, my muttering voice reflecting my groggy condition. "But... they were just up 2000%."

Chet Ryder

“That's hardly possible," I was told by one of the men. "Two years ago they put all their marbles into developing some anti-baldness drug. Tomorrow they are expected to announce its failure, and most likely, the end of Munson Pharmaceuticals. Imagine; putting all your company’s assets into an anti-baldness drug. What a joke.”

Slowly my eyesight improved. A little at a time the TV monitor began to come into focus. There at the bottom of the screen was the date; May 6^th; the date I thought it was all along. “So it really is Wednesday?” I murmured.

“Well of course it is,” I heard someone reply.  

Gradually my brain began to put it all together. The “T” button, the “Y” button. Tomorrow and Yesterday. I did not know how, but I was sure that the elevator could not just take a person to a floor; it could also take a person into the next day, and then back again. I managed to laugh. “You folks have been very nice to me," I stated, my voice still a bit listless. "In gratitude I’d like to buy a few shares of stock, like $500,000 worth of Munson Pharmaceuticals.”

So yes; that was six months ago; that strange day. And now these months later I know why it became so strange, so incredibly, bizarrely strange. It seems that it was all a plot; all of it. The faulty elevators, and the makeshift “T” and “Y” buttons were instruments in the scheme, as was the man riding the elevator holding a newspaper with the phony date. Also faked were the stock information, and the date, on the Miller and Sons monitor. As for being knocked woozy in the shaking elevator; I had been tripped and then slugged over the head by the man with me in the car, a bit of violence necessary to get me into the Miller and Sons office.

It was an idea cooked up by my old friend Paul, the dentist. He knew I was impetuous, capable of investing for strange reasons, even seemingly irrational reasons. So Paul presented his idea to the Millers, owners of Miller and Sons Investments. It seems that internet brokerage companies had all but driven Miller and Sons out of business, and they had become desperate, a fact Paul had got wind of. Truth was; when all was said and done, no one had put more time and energy into the plot than the three Millers.

So there it was; Munson Pharmaceuticals was about to sink out of sight, and was perfect bait, all that was needed was some impulsive, well-to-do sucker, ripe to make a grand, foolhardy investment; an investment that would never be made, but rather pocketed by the Millers, and my friend, Paul.

But as we all were to find out one day later in a Munson Pharmaceuticals press conference; a cure for baldness had been found, and the whole plot disintegrated. The three Millers are now facing criminal charges, their business closed forever. My old friend Paul Cantrell has already pleaded guilty to charges and was sentenced to five years imprisonment. Munson Pharmaceuticals? It is now the most respected name in the pharmaceutical world.

As for myself and my half million dollar investment; there was no actual investment, of course, I never made a dime. In fact, I lost a lifelong friend. But when it comes to my personal finances, the whole ordeal apparently hasn't taught me a thing. With my money I am still as foolhardy as ever. When all is said and done, I suppose there is only one positive to be said concerning the whole affair; I am no longer bald.   

"Running Away" At Age Six

I am 62 years old and have lived my whole life in Columbus, Oho. For the first seven years I lived with my mom and dad, and eventually a total of three sisters, at 934 Weber Road, located on the city's north side. The family moved into a better neighborhood in 1958. Yesterday I traveled back to that Weber Road area to meet my sister, G.G., and together take a walk through very early nostalgia.

I have a pretty good memory for meaningless stuff. I remember little fragments and tidbits going back to my fairly early childhood. I can recollect the names of the neighborhood kids. Looking at the old house from the outside, I pointed out the individual windows, and recalled the corresponding rooms in some detail.

I remembered that one day I decided that I wanted to run away. I don't know what my motive was. I do not think I was angry over something, something like being denied an extra cookie. My guess is that I saw a hobo on some TV show, the life looked interesting, and I decided to make it my career path. For some reason my younger sister, Dottie, wanted to go with me.

Anyway, I informed my mother that I wanted to run away and she calmly asked me if I might need a lunch. I told her that yes, I could get hungry in my travels, and food might come in handy. So my mother took a couple of apples out of the refrigerator, two small bags of potato chips out of the cupboard, and made us some sandwiches. As per the style of a vagabond circa 1956, we wrapped the food in a handkerchief, and tied the handkerchief to the end of a stick, a stick that could be carried over a shoulder.

We exited the back door and began our excursion by meandering down the alley that ran near the property. We traveled about a hundred yards or so when off to the side we came across a couple of idle cement blocks, perfect height for a 3'4" person to sit restfully. My sister and I took comfort on the seating and after a moment or two of relaxation, decided it was time for lunch. As was my habit at the time, I quickly consumed the potato chips, ate the sandwich minus the crust, and threw the apple into a nearby trash can.

After lunch, Dottie and I continued to lounge on the concrete blocks for a while, but eventually we concluded that we had run away long enough and it was time to return home, so that is what we did, retracing the short route we had trekked some 45 minutes earlier.

When we stepped through the back door, our journey complete, my mother showed very little surprise in our somewhat abrupt return. In fact, it seemed almost as though she expected it. 
       

It Was a Great Run

 

I am pretty sure I have played my last game of full court basketball. My long if not illustrious career ended on Saturday. By my calculations I played until I was 62.5 years old, plus one day. I consider my “adult” basketball career to have begun in mid-January of 1970. Somewhere around then I played an intramural game at The Ohio State University, complete with referees and game clock. I was not a student at the time, and neither was anyone else on the team except for one player. We had all gone to high school together, graduating about six months earlier. Of course I had played basketball long before then, I just consider that my first “official” adult game.

Over the many years, I have played in many organized, league games, and in perhaps hundreds of casual games played among friends on outdoor courts, and in one rented gym or another. I have seen a lot of players come and go, more than I can count.

For the last decade or so I have been playing year-round on Saturday morning with a bunch of older guys, though only one is older than me. I would say that the average age is something like 50. In recent years I have wondered what would be the circumstances that would make me quit playing the game. I figured there were three basic possibilities. #1; I would suffer a catastrophic injury or illness. I might blow-out a knee or have a heart attack. #2; I simply would not have a place to play. For example; the guys I am playing with would decide that enough is enough, and quit playing. Or maybe the gym where we play would burn down. #3; someone would brazenly declare that my quality of play is such that I am no longer worthy of participation. Ironically, I had considered the possibility that I might be the person making that declaration.

Anyway, what transpired was #3. In essence I was yelled at by one of my fellow players, and at the time a teammate, to get out of the way and let the better players play the game. This came immediately after a teammate threw me a pass and a fellow teammate, deeming I was not worthy of the ball, tried to intercept the pass. When he failed to steal the pass, this pass intended for me, a fellow teammate, and instead tipped the ball out of bounds, he then turned and angrily barked at me to step aside and quit trying to be a part of the offense. I was shocked by his shouted proclamation and immediate became irate. Fortunately it was near the end of our two hour playing time, so there was no time for anything to escalate.

I am no longer angry and over the last few days I have given the episode, and other factors, some thought and consideration. My conclusion is that it is time for me to hang-up the sneakers. However, I did not have a heart attack, nor did I blow-out a knee. So if I can find a place to play where all the guys are willing to put up with the limitations of an average (although relatively physically fit) 62 year-old athlete, then I might lace them up again. Unfortunately, modestly talented, 62 year-old basketball players are not in great demand.

I am very fortunate, it was a great run.
      

The Downside of a Good Memory

My short-term memory is barely adequate. It was never that good. But my long-term memory is really pretty decent. I remember throwing an aerosol can into a smoldering, backyard incinerator, and five minutes later witnessing an explosion. I recall being shocked that the can blew-up. How would I know; I was about 6 years old at the time? I'm sure of my age because I remember where we lived at that time, and we moved away from that location just a few months after my 7th birthday.

I remember eating a Three Musketeers candy bar I bought on the way home from school. I bought the candy bar with money given to me for purposes of buying milk at school. I stood outside, along the edge of the house, and scarfed down my treat. Again, I could not have been much over 7 years old at the time.

I remember one ice-cold morning when I was in the 6th grade and was a school patrol boy. We had these STOP flags on wooden poles that we would lower alongside the crosswalks when the kids were crossing. That one morning it was about 5 degrees Fahrenheit and the poles were like giant icicles in our small, inadequately-gloved hands. Afterwards, when he got inside, we were given hot chocolate in the school kitchen. I still remember holding the warm cup in my frozen hands.

But having a good memory has it's downside. I remember in the 5th grade telling a friend that fellow student Bob Luce was "nothing but a dumbhead", never realizing until it was too late that Bob was standing right behind me.

I recall staying over at a friend's house when I was about 9 years old and before bed we loaded up on Kool-Aid. Sometime in the middle of the night I had to pee, the only trouble was; I was still asleep at the time. It's tough to be a genuine 9 year-old boy and be guilty of wetting the bed, especially at someone else's house.

I recollect walking down the hall in junior high and seeing Kay Hinton at her locker. Kay was in one of my classes. She said a friendly hello and because she was not a spectacularly gorgeous 14 year-old girl, I rolled my eyes and muttered "yuk". That episode is getting near 50 years ago and I still regret it. In fact, to one degree or another I regret all of those fax pas, and a number of others I will not mention.

I hope that the long-term memories of Bob Luce and Kay Hinton are not as good as mine. But if they are; sorry you guys. If it's any consolation; I'm older now and hopefully not so insensitive... hopefully.   

     

Scorpion Lane

I wish I had the nickname Scorpion, Scorpion Lane, to be exact. I would be called “Scorp” by my friends. I’m older now, and such a nickname might actually be a little bit of a handicap, but for most of my life I would have enjoyed such a moniker, or at least I think I would have enjoyed it.

I can see myself at about 24 years-old and I am driving down the road with my girlfriend, Veronica, who is of course beautiful. As we are meandering along, she asks me to pull off to a convenient store so she can buy a soft drink and a few snacks. I turn into a Lawson’s (this was a few years ago, obviously). She rushes into the store alone while I wait in the car, a ’56 T’bird convertible. As she comes out of the store a moment later, a small paper bag in one hand, she is confronted by a couple of nasty-looking guys with greasy hair and unshaven stumble on their chins. They asked Veronica what she has in the bag but she ignores them and tries to walk on by. But one of the dudes grabs her by the arm and turns her around. At that point I get out of the car and step in their direction.

“Trouble here, Veronica?” I ask.

The thug gripping Veronica’s arm smiles menacingly and mutters, “We just want to know what’s in the bag, that’s all.”

“Let her go,” I say, coolly. “Let her go and there won’t be any trouble.”

“Yeah, we’re real scared of you,” one of the men spouts, mockingly.

“Don’t do anything, Scorpion,” Veronica instructs me. “He’s about to let me go.”

“Scorpion?” murmurs one of the tough guys with a hint of concern. “Your name is Scorpion?”

I glare at the guy for five full seconds, then, slowly, my head begins to nod and I whisper, "Yeah, the name is Scorpion, Scorpion Lane.”

Instantaneous terror fills the widened eyes of the punks. The vice-like grip holding Veronica’s arm is immediately released. “Sorry Scorpion,” one of the men mumbles humbly.

As an urchin, “Scorpion Lane” becomes synonymous with boyhood greatness, if only on Columbus, Ohio’s north side. Feats I never achieved, or in most cases never even attempted, are credited to me. It is said that I once rode a bicycle off a cliff, just to feel the wind in my hair. I could throw a baseball a quarter mile, or so it is told. I could run like a panther. “I’m almost as strong as Scorpion Lane,” a neighborhood boy might brag, “…almost.”

Even as an adult, the legend of Scorpion Lane would live on, though only in a small geographic area in Columbus. A beautiful woman would recall to a girlfriend how she once was stuck for an hour in an elevator with Scorpion Lane. “He wasn’t that handsome, and he sure didn’t seem all that bright, but he introduced himself as Scorpion Lane, and who would dare say they are Scorpion Lane except for the real Scorpion Lane?”

The girlfriend would release a heartfelt sigh and then utter, “I saw Scorpion Lane rescue a puppy, a kitten, and a baby out of a burning house… well, I did not actually see it, but I heard about it often enough.”