The Exploration Of a Long-Ago Memory

I am 70 years old these days. I'm not proud of it but I'm glad I made it this far. I am very sentimental. I'm sentimental at a world-class level. If sentimentality and nostalgia were Olympic events I'd win a Gold Medal. And to top it all off, I have a pretty good long-term memory. There is the groundwork for this blog entry.

Way back in the fall of 1967 when I was 16 years old, two high school pals and I picked up a three girls after a high school football game. It wasn't even our high school. It was actually a rival school. The girls were walking down the sidewalk and we asked them if they needed a ride. They were hesitant but apparently decided, correctly, that we looked innocent enough. The young ladies climbed in. Just to be perfectly clear, we were relatively naïve high school guys. We knew the fact of life, but none of us had come close to actually partaking in them. In fact, I'm not sure any of us had even kissed a girl, at least not in any sort of romantic way.  

Anyway, the six of us drove around a while with the girls giggling and sitting on one young male lap or another. After an hour or so one of the girls said she needed to go home. We obliged and took the girls to that girl's house. Before getting out of the car, we asked the names of the girls. The most attractive of the three was named Terry Laine. We jotted this information down on a piece of paper. Terry also volunteered her telephone number.

A few days later my friend called her. I know this because he called her from the telephone in my parent's bedroom when no one was around. He talked to her for about five minutes and then asked her if she, and one of her girlfriends, would want to go out with him and his friend. That friend would be me.

She was not interested. My friend said that he would be driving his father's Mustang fastback. Even that was not enough to sway her. 

For some unknown reason many details of that evening remained in my memory these 53 years later. Obviously one of those details was the girl's name, Terry Laine. I also remember the address of the house where we dropped her and her friends.

Yesterday evening in a burst of nostalgia and curiosity, I looked up that house on the county's property data base website. Surprisingly, the house remained in the Laine name until 2009. From 1963 to 1998 it was in the name of Arthur Laine. From 1998 to 2009 it was in the name of Cynthia Laine. I did an internet search using the search words "Cynthia Laine obituary". Sure enough, I found it, the obituary.

The obituary informed me that Cynthia's daughter, Terry, preceded her in death. Her married name was Wyatt. I then found the obituary of Terry Laine Wyatt. It was very short. It stated that Terry was born in August 1954 and died in 2005. She was divorced and had two grown daughters.

I did some quick math and calculated that on that evening in 1967 Terry was 13 years old. It seems surreal that one and perhaps all of those girls were 13. It is a bit funny, but also a bit unsettling given we never figured them to be that young. And then there is the thought that yet another person from my past is gone, albeit a person who was not hugely consequential in my life. Still, she was a girl from high school days, or in her case, a single evening.

Anyhow, there it is, a small, bittersweet product of an older guy with a distant memory, too much time on his hands, and internet access.

NOT Saving Money

 

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This blog entry began about 12 hours ago. I removed the cap off of a fresh canister of Quaker Oats only to find that the protective inner seal and been opened and completely removed. I thought heck, who is going to do harm to someone's Quaker Oats? So I poured a helping in a bowl, added the milk and threw in the required spoon. Then I just looked down at it and gave it some thought. In about 15 seconds I realized I could not eat it. The container of Quaker Oats had been violated by persons unknown and so I was not willing to eat my breakfast, at least not that breakfast. I dumped out the bowl and threw the Quaker Oats container in the trash.

I do not spend my money willy-nilly but neither am I a miser, at least not anymore. Never did I make a lot of money but through a life without kids nor the purchase of a speedboat, I have amassed a bit of wealth in my nearly 70 years. Now I find that I am willing to spend the modest wealth with a degree of freedom. I can financially absorb the $2.98 cost of a container of Quaker Oats.

This is contrary to my ladyfriend. She is in her mid 60s, independent and like me, she is financially secure. But unlike me, it would seem that her goal is to die with as much money as possible. She clips coupons and scans the newspaper ads (yes, she still has a subscription to a newspaper) for bargains. It seems to be almost an obsession. I have asked about it and her reply is, "Well, you can never tell what the future will hold." My guess is that she has a suspicion that should she ever die she will be allowed to take her money to heaven. That's kind of what it looks like. And yes, she is going to heaven.

A Personal Tradition Denied

I am a world-class sentimentalist. I have occasionally wondered if it might actually be some kind of mental problem. I really do not mind this aspect of myself so I do not feel any particular need to change. Anyway, sentimentality hit me pretty hard this morning.

For about the past dozen years my lady friend, Diana, and I have traveled from our home in Columbus, Ohio to a couple of state parks in Kentucky for a one week vacation. We go to the same state parks (Carter Caves and Natural Bridge) every year at the same time of year. We recognize many of the staff at Natural Bridge and are actually friends with some of the employees at the smaller state park, Carter Caves. The trip has become something of a tradition. Diana is a bird watcher. This time of year in this part of the country birds are migrating north. We also enjoy the spring wildflowers which are pretty much in full bloom in Kentucky when we are there.

About six weeks ago I made reservations for both park lodges, a three day stay at each. Within a day or two I knew that we likely would not be going this year. A pandemic was going to cancel our trip. About a month ago I got a call from Natural Bridge State Park informing me that their lodge was not going to be open. About two weeks ago I got the call from Carter Caves.

A few minutes ago I was looking out the window of my condo here in Columbus, Ohio. 10:15 in the morning. I got to thinking about the trip we could not take. I thought, right now, right this moment Diana and I would be in the Carter Caves's lodge restaurant. The restaurant would not be crowded. It never is. We would be sitting at a table next to a big window that looked out upon the Kentucky forest. On the table Diana would place her binoculars, on the ready to spot any warbler pausing in a tree. I would inspect the menu given to me by Rose, one of the servers we see every year and know by name. I might contemplate a breakfast of three buttermilk pancakes. Diana would be across the table from me, glancing at both her menu and occasionally out the window to the tall trees. I image that she would be ordering grits and a poached egg as she sometimes does.

It would be the end of our three day stay at Carter Caves and so in about an hour we would be loading up the car for our trek farther south to Natural Bridge. As we drive out of Carter Caves State Park I would probably feel a touch of bittersweet melancholy. Yes we would be traveling on to Natural Bridge, but for another year we would be saying farewell to Carter Caves.

This year I am left gazing out of my condo window. I have discovered that being a world-class sentimentalist can be extra hard during a pandemic. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. The world is in the middle of a global pandemic and yet both Diana and I are fairly healthy physically and also financially. Furthermore I'm figuring we will be well next year, and so will Kentucky. I'm a sentimentalist and an optimist.

Time Is Passing Too Quickly

When I was a kid I wanted time to pass quickly. Early in my childhood I wanted to be a grown-up so I could have ice cream and candy whenever I wanted and I could stay up past my bedtime to watch TV. A few years later, in my teenage years, I wanted to be old enough to get my driver's license and buy beer. Those days are a distant past.

Seemingly not long ago I found a shiny, brand new quarter in some change. I decided to save it so I put the coin on a desk and later when the desk was jostled, the quarter fell to the floor against the wall, inconveniently behind the desk. About 15 minutes ago I lowered myself down onto all fours, climbed under the desk and retrieved that freshly-minted quarter. This is 2019. I noticed that the quarter was dated 2015. Did I really acquired that quarter 4 years ago? I could have sworn it had been within the last year. Yes, now time passes too quickly. Christmases come along too rapidly. Semiannual dentist appointments seem weeks apart. I will be shocked when I learn that a movie I saw at the theater was 10 years ago and not the 3 or 4 I would have guessed.

All of this means I am aging faster than I think I am, therefore death is coming up more quickly than I realize that it is. I am not thrilled with the aging but it is death that really concerns me. I try to rationalize it. I think: I'll be dead so I won't really miss both the fun, and the pain of living. For some reason that seems to be small consolation. On a positive note, at least now I can buy beer and am allowed to eat all the candy I want.

A Few Places I Wanted To Live When I Grew Up

I was just looking at a map of the U.S. I have traveled around the country a lot without ever actually living anyplace but in Columbus, Ohio. I have been in 43 states. I am missing a couple of New England states, Hawaii and Alaska. Most of those states were visited in optimum times of the year for pleasant weather. Several times I have said that if I could, I would like to live here (where I was at that moment).

The first time this happened to me was in 1958. I was 7 years old and we were on a family vacation to Florida. We were on the eastern edge of North Carolina when we stopped for lunch. I'm not sure what town that was but it was a family-type restaurant located in a nice neighborhood. The restaurant itself was clean and modern. I remember an outer space-ish chandelier, the type popular in the late 1950s. I thought it was a very neat-o restaurant in a really keen neighborhood. I probably had my standard restaurant meal at that age consisting of a hamburger and a chocolate milk shake. It was undoubtedly wonderful. As we piled into my dad's Oldsmobile to travel on down the highway, I declared to anyone who would listen that I was going to move into the neighborhood, right next to that restaurant, when I grew up.

About 20 years ago I was in western Colorado. My lady friend, Diana, and I had just spent a few days in the Rocky Mountains and we were headed west to Utah. We had a motel reservation in Grand Junction, Colorado. I remember pulling into the motel parking lot, looking to the east and seeing the Rockies, majestically glowing in the late afternoon sun. The next day we traveled west and immediately we encountered the headwaters of the Colorado River and the first traces of the Grand Canyon. Wow, to the east the Rockies, to the west, the spires and red rock canyons. I made a mental note to move to Grand Junction should I get the chance.

On the eastern side of California there is highway 395 going north and south. It goes through a little town of Lone Pine. To the west of the community are the scenic Alabama Hills, known as a film location for countless westerns. Travel a little farther that direction and you're in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Trek out of Lone Pine east bound and you're in desert. I have always appreciated the somber, unbound view across a desert. Diana and I have passed through Lone Pine a number of times and each time I have liked the feel of it. On one trip we actually gave a quick look to a house that was listed as for sale. I would not have had the courage to seriously consider it, let alone sign papers. Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind was that place in North Carolina. That was a pretty nifty chandelier.

A Grand Celebration, Once Upon a Time

I live in Columbus, Ohio, home of The Ohio State University. Not surprising, I have been an Ohio State University football fan since before I can remember. Given that I am 67 years old, that would place the beginning of my fandom in the 1950s somewhere. I've never been a crazed fan, but I've always been a fan.

The Team won their game today against Michigan, their archrival. They were not favored but they won handily 62-39. They may have a shot at playing for the national title.

This reminds me a lot of the 1968 season. I was a high school senior then. They beat #1 ranked Purdue earlier in the season and if they beat Michigan, they would be ranked #1 and as I recall, be in line for the national title.

When they defeated Michigan that Saturday afternoon in 1968, I went down on campus to what I figured would be a massive celebration. A pretty good celebration broke out after the Purdue game so I figured the Michigan celebration would be that much better. The Ohio State campus is situated on High Street, which is a four lane, high traffic street. For about a half mile one side of the street is the campus, the other side consists of various eateries and bars. That's the way it is now and that's pretty much the way it was then.

It was a great celebration in 1968. High Street was flooded with students and revelry. They closed the street to traffic. Kids were sharing alcoholic beverages. I was spontaneously kissed by a pretty girl or two and maybe one or two more that weren't so pretty. I didn't care. I received piggyback rides from strangers and sang the team song, Hang On Sloopy, in unison with other intoxicated kids I had never seen before and would never see again. I was 17 years old, drinking Colt 45 Malt Liquor, among other beverages and was in the middle of the biggest mass party in the history of The Ohio State University.

That was 50 years ago. In fact, it was 50 years ago the day before the publishing of this blog entry. I went down to the shindig with two high school classmates. One of them I now see only every 5 years at class reunions. The other one died a few years ago. I had seen him only about 2 or 3 times in the last 30 years.

This evening I drove down to High Street on campus, to the site of that grand celebration 5 decades ago. It was purely a case of sentimentality, of "old times' sake", with perhaps a dash of simple curiousity. This time around High Street was not blocked off to traffic. Students were walking down the sidewalks. There seemed to be a fair number of kids out and about but I didn't see any overt celebrating. It is probably best that everything was under control, but I can't help thinking that they are missing out. That was one helluva party in 1968. I should know, I was definitely there.

What Roosevelt's 1914 Brazilian Expedition Taught Me

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I just watch a two hour PBS presentation on Teddy Roosevelt's expedition into the Brazilian jungle. Theodore Roosevelt was an ex-president who was a big game hunter in Africa. An expedition into the jungle would seem to be right up his alley. But it took something like three months and it was far more difficult then anyone expected. Three people in the party died. Teddy Roosevelt himself almost perished. He was never the same afterwards and he died about five years later.

Some of the media of the day thought it was just a kind of combination publicity stunt/ego boost conceived by Roosevelt to get attention and that there was no actual benefits to the expedition. When I gave it some thought, that was pretty much my opinion on it. There was really no good reason to go into the South American jungle. In reality, very little was learned, scant little was accomplished.

I got to thinking about the differences of a 1914 Brazilian jungle expedition as opposed to the American expedition to the moon in the 1960s. The lunar landing did not really have any benefits, strictly speaking. We knew most everything about the moon without actually setting foot on it. The difference between the two expeditions is that a whole lot of stuff had to be developed before we could fly to the moon. Propulsion systems had to be made, primitive computers (by today's standards) had to be built and utilized and many other scientific and technological advances had to be conceived. The Roosevelt expedition into the jungle required no such technological progress. The canoes used were no different than ones used thousands of years earlier.

It is kind of a cruel way of putting it, but if Teddy Roosevelt would have stayed home, three men would not have died and unless he was a masochist, Roosevelt would have had a more enjoyable three months of his life and very possibly, a longer life overall.

Here is what can be learned at the individual level... don't climb to the top of Mt. Everest and don't hike across Death Valley in the summer. You will be miserable. It might even kill you. And there is nothing to be gained. If there is some psychological need to do such things, the trip that should be made is to a therapist.

Fun Without Accomplishment

There is an infinite number of types of people. But there are people who are always looking to accomplish things, and then there are people who don't worry about such things. In that strict sense, there are only two types of people. I am the latter of the two. I am retired now but when I wake up in the morning, I put no demands on myself to accomplish anything. I don't think about mowing the lawn, or painting a room, or writing a blog entry. I suppose if I have a goal day in and day out, it is to find amusement. But then, that has always been the case. 

I blame this attitude on my being a poor student. I could not have been a good one. I had below average scholastic aptitude. I knew by the time I was 14 that there was never going to be a college education. I was not going to be a neurosurgeon, or a archaeologist, or a university professor. I was going to drive a bus, or sell furniture, or be a plumber. Something like that would be my source of income, none of them could be my life's interest. Those occupations simply are not interesting. They are chosen based on income and availability, not because of some life's interest. 

I did my best driving a delivery truck, and I was not ashamed of doing it, but it was not what I proclaimed I wanted to be when I was asked at age 8 "what do you want to be when you grow up?" 

I have gone through my life with the single goal of entertaining myself and hopefully, being at least a somewhat enjoyable person to those who I encountered. Usually I entertained myself with humorous and even silly observations concerning my world. Once in a while the self-entertainment has come in the form of something more philosophical than outright funny. With the absence of a meaningful career, self-entertainment has been the driving force in my life. 

I am not alone in this life situation, of course. Not many barbers or dentist receptionists had those occupations in mind for their dream job. In some ways it is too bad, though most people find meaning and purpose in their daily lives regardless of occupation. As for myself, I may not accomplish much, strictly speaking, but I have fun doing it, and that has been enough.

Mr. St. Clair And The Neighborhood Boy

One summer afternoon in 1959 when I was about 8 years old I was in a the backyard of a neighborhood kid, Charlie St. Clair. We got into a game of tag. There were bedsheets hanging from the backyard clothes line and we started chasing each other through the sheets. Charlie's mother came out and angrily shouted at us to get away from the sheets. A few minutes later, a bit perturbed, I calmly referred to Mrs. St. Clair as a "slob" to another kid. Mrs. St. Clair either overheard what I had said through an open window, or Charlie told her. I did not know exactly what a slob was. I had jokingly been called a slob earlier that day by a neighbor kid for wearing untied sneakers. 

Later that day, or perhaps a day later, I was once again in or near the St. Clair property. Mr. St. Clair came out and called me over. Not suspecting any trouble, I did as requested. Well, Mr. St. Clair hotly snagged me by the arm and pulled me into the house. He forced me down several steps leading to the basement and there ironing some clothes was Mrs. St. Clair. Mr. St. Clair then said to me, "Well, don't you have something to say to my wife?" I didn't know what he was talking about, but at that moment I was sacred to death. I remember that by the time I was there on those steps, I had wet my pants out of abject fright. When I didn't respond, Mr. St. Clair hotly asked me, "Did you or did you not call my wife a slob?" I must have said that I did. He then informed me that I was to apologize. I must have muttered out an apology. Mr. St. Clair then smiled and said, "Now, don't you feel better for saying you're sorry?" He then led me out the door and to safety. 

That was 1959. Obviously I've never forgotten it. I was a little boy who like a lot of kids, can say silly things. To this day the incident makes me angry. I'm not sure, but if the internet existed in 1975, I am not certain that I wouldn't have used the Net to look up the whereabouts of Mr. St. Clair. It probably wouldn't have been a good idea, but back in 1975 I was 24 and just might have done it. I wouldn't have physically injured the man. I probably would have done something to him similar to what he had done to me. I might have taken a photo of myself at age 8 and forced Mr. St. Clair to apologize to it.

Point of all this is, I consider myself a rational, relatively calm person. I was fairly rational in 1975. Yet I might have considered retaliation for a single incident that occured many years earlier in my childhood. Sometimes I find myself, albeit my past self, a little scary. But I also make it a point to treat little kids decently and keep in mind that they are, after all, kids. 

Today there is the internet, and for the record, Mr. St. Clair died a couple years ago, best I can determine through a half hour internet search. Mrs. St. Clair is alive and in her 80s.

Summer of Long Ago

I am 66 years old. I graduated from high school in 1969. I remember that summer of 1969 better than I remember any three month period in my life. I was out of high school and I had found full time employment as a laborer at a construction site. A friend and classmate was working at a local grocery store. A week later I had learned that he had befriended one male coworker, and three female coworkers. All were new high school grads. The guy had graduated from a more distant suburban high school, the three girls had all graduated together from yet another suburban high school, one more nearby. We became six friends who wandered through the warm summer days together, the warm summer days of 1969.

The six of us trekked to an amusement park, attended a local wrestling match featuring Bull Curry and Thunderbolt Patterson, and dined on carry-out pizza at a local park, to name just three of about a dozen activities we enjoyed that summer. I remember everything so well because it was all so new to me: pretty girls, complete with breasts and slim, smooth legs, sitting next to me, sometimes even listening to what I had to say.

Truth be told, in short order I had desires to be more than friends with one of the girls, but alas she wanted nothing to do with me aside from giggling at my jokes. I was going to have to settle for her friendship. Though a bit disappointed, I was willing to do that.

The summer came to an end as all seasons do, and most of us went off to college somewhere. I didn't but most of us did. We had not known each other very long, really, just that summer, and so at summer's end we simply went our separate ways. But I for one never forgot. I have always remembered the names, the places we went, and even some of the conversations, as inane as many of those conversations were.

A few weeks ago I decided to do an internet search for four of the other five. One of them I know to this day and he remains a friend of mine but the other four would require investigation.

What I found was a bit disturbing. Two of the girls are now deceased. One died about ten years ago, the other five years back. The other guy has passed away too. I do not know when. The one girl for whom I had deeper desires, she is still alive and living not far away. She is a grandmother.

I can still remember all six of us crammed into one car, windows down, the warm, humid air whirling around in the car. We were usually laughing but occasionally we would speak seriously of some long-range plan, or perhaps a concern for the Vietnam War, and whether any of us guys would end up over there with a rifle in his hands.

That was a long time ago. I'm glad I had that summer and all these years later, I am glad I can look back upon it. It saddens me to discover that not all of us can.

The Urinary Tract of Old Dudes

I am at the point where I can call myself an "old guy", and as an old guy I am about to speak from experience... almost all old guys have some sort of urinary tract problem. Some old guys have chronic urinary tract problems while other old guys have only nominal problems. I am about halfway in between.

The target problem is that bastard known as the prostate gland. The prostate enlarges as guys get older. It crowds out other things as it expands. For almost all guys who live long enough, it makes urination something of a problem. If the guy lives to be elderly, it could very easily mean prostate cancer. Prostate cancer can be resolved with radical surgery but that usually means the permanent end of sex. At the very least it makes it problematic. 

For most people these problems may not mean much since most people aren't old dudes. But most people know and even like old dudes, or at least some old dude. So this blog entry might hold some interest for any would-be reader who is either a young dude, or a woman. 

The biggest problem this old dude has with this basic situation is a problem with my dignity. I can have troubles with my urinary tract and I won't go to a doctor to have it addressed. The reason is that I simply do not want a doctor looking at my male junk. I have given this dilemma some thought and have asked myself if it might not be better to have a young, female urologist look at my junk as opposed to some old, male urologist. Since I am male and not yet dead, an examination by the young, female urologist has its appeal, but ultimately I would probably opt for a male doctor.

If only the prostate were located in the feet, huh?

Bad Timing

A few weeks ago the 2016 Summer Olympics ended. I watched a good many hours of the TV coverage. Oddly, today I had an Olympic moment. 

I watched the 1964 Olympics with some interest those 52 years ago. I was 13 at the time and I hoped, a future Olympic talent. The events that most intrigued me were the middle distance running events. For some reason I focused on the 800 meter. 

To begin my quest for Olympic Gold, my 13 year-old self first needed to get into superior physical condition. I decided that to measure my weekly improvement, I would perform an initial timed run over a set distance. I decided that it should be a run beginning in front of the family house and circling the suburban block, a distance of perhaps a half mile or a bit more. 

Since I wanted to be timed, I was going to need a watch. I asked my father if I could borrow his Bulova wristwatch and after giving me about a five second analytical stare, he told me that he would go out to the sidewalk and time me himself. That was fine with me. I told him that I was going to need to be timed to the exact second since I knew within a few minutes how long it was going to take me. In other words; a vague approximation was not going to do.

Well, we strolled out to the sidewalk that ran in front of our house and down our street. I took the required anticipatory stance as my father eyed the second hand of his watch. Finally he raised his hand, then abruptly lowered it as he yelled "Go!". Off I went.

Somehow, someway I huffed and puffed my way around the block without stopping. As I came wheezing down the street, the finish line came into sight, but not my father, or his watch. 

I crossed the finish line, gulped a few breaths of air and hurried through our house's front door. There was my father, sitting in his chair watching TV. I rushed up to him and gasp out, "Where were you? I thought you were going to time me?" My dad quickly glanced down to his watch. "Okay, yes, well you finished in about six or seven minutes. Less than eight, I'm sure."

I rolled my eyes, "Dad, I wanted an exact time. I know that I did it in about six or eight minutes. I knew that before I started."

Undeterred, the next evening I was going to get that exact time for my around-the-block run. Once more I asked my father if I could borrow his watch. He sighed and said no, but he would be sure to time me.

Well, once again we meandered out to the sidewalk. Once again my dad eyed his watch as I took my position on the starting line. For the second night in a row, as the second hand hit the watch's 12, my dad barked out "Go!" 

Off I went, down the sidewalk on my quest to circle the block as fast as I could. I had a bit of experience this time and I figured that I would go just a bit slower for most of the distance and then finish with a closing sprint. That's how Olympians did it, I knew.

As I circumvented the block and bolted down the sidewalk with our house about to come into view, I felt sure I was ahead of the pace of the previous day. Then, a hundred yards from the finish, my legs slowed in frustration. My father was not to be seen.

Dad's Boliva

With surprising calm if not short of breath, I walked up onto our front porch and gazed into the front window. There was my father, sitting in his chair, smoking a Pall Mall and watching television.

I plopped onto a lawnchair that was stationed on the porch and accepted the notion that maybe I was not destined to win Olympic Gold. I never said a word, ever, and oddly, neither did my father. It was like the whole ordeal never happened. A few years later, in high school gym class, I ran a decent time in an 800 meters, decent, but not anywhere near world class. My father died 20 years ago and the reason I am writing this blog entry is because as I was searching for a pair of fingernail clippers, I happened to open a desk drawer and there was my dad's watch. Believe it or not, it still keeps perfect time... not that I ever benefited. 

Lunch At Roscoe's

Earlier today I had lunch at rundown, dingy Roscoe's Diner. Roscoe's has four small, wobbly tables and a counter with six swiveling stools, each repaired with plenty of duct tape. As I perched myself on a stool, my peripheral vision noticed the guy sitting next to me giving me a quick glance.

"Hey, I recognize you," he chirped, a trace of enthusiasm in his tone, "you're that guy who has that 'seldom seen' blog."

I was hoping for a nice, quiet lunch. I could see that it wasn't going to happen so I sighed and nodded as I pulled a menu out from behind the counter's napkin dispenser. "Yeah, that's me," I acknowledged with a note of reluctance.

"That blog stinks," he declared. "I don't know why I bother reading it."

"Well, it isn't like reading it is costing you a fortune," I returned, my tone emotionless.

"Yeah, I guess that's true."

About that time, Eunice, Roscoe's waitress, appeared on the other side of the lunch counter, her green order pad on the ready. I requested a couple of eggs, sunnyside up, wheatbread toast, and a cup of joe.

"What are you going to write about next?" my new friend asked as Eunice departed. "Maybe some dumb memory of a bicycle crash you had as a boy, or some blind date from your younger days who had b.o.?"

"Nope, I got nothing like that on my mind."

"Okay. Are there any oddities you've noticed in the world that might appear in that dumb blog you've got? Maybe you've made some observations that'll appear in that lame 'seldom seen' internet thing of yours?"

"Why do you care?" I huffed.

"I don't care. I'm just curious."

I turned just a bit in the direction of my inquisitor. "All right," I began, "I don't like all the slap-fives and quick hugs that I've been seeing in sports lately. I'm watching TV and a basketball player misses a foul shot and his teammates give him what looks like a congratulatory five. In a women's doubles tennis match, one player blows an easy shot and she gets a hug from her playing partner."

"You don't like that?"

"No. It's not right. Listen chief, what if Eunice were to bring me out my plate of eggs and toast and she stumbles with my food falling across the floor. Do I give her a 'slap five'?"

I could see by the look in his eyes that I'd got my lunch companion to contemplating. "Yeah, okay, I see what you mean."

"If I'm a competitor out there and a teammate volleyball player delivers a winning serve, he gets a 'slap five'," I continued. "If he puts it in the net, I'll let him see me roll my eyes in annoyance."

"Okay, all right, anything else that perturbs you?"

"Well, the other day I was watching the movie Saving Private Ryan," I declared. "At the end of the movie, an elderly Private Ryan talks to the Normandy Cemetery tombstone of his commanding officer who was killed 45 years earlier in the war. The old man even stands at attention and salutes the grave marker."

"Yeah, I remember that scene. What in the world could you find wrong with that? I thought it was very moving."

"Well my mother and father are both dead and you know why I never visit their gravesites?"

"No. Why?"

"Because my mother and father are dead," I pronounced, emphatically. "They are no more in those graves than are Phyllis Diller and Hugh Downs."

"Not everyone feels like you do," my fellow Roscoe's patron stated calmly. "Besides, isn't Hugh Downs still alive?"

"It's Hugh Downs so who cares? Point is: if you want to remember the dearly departed, look at their photos where they are laughing and enjoying life. Buried at that grave is a skeleton."

"Okay, well, I've got to go," said my co-conversationalist. "You don't mind if I do not give you a 'slap five'?"

"Naw," I muttered, a quick shake of my head. "In fact, I'd be disappointed if you did."

The Cost of Being Penniless

I have a friend, I'll call him Ben, who has a nice house in a well-to-do suburban neighborhood, but yet he barely has two dimes to rub together. It was Ben's parents' home and his parents have both passed away, leaving Ben with the property. He moved into the house when his father was very ill, on the verge of death. That was about 15 years ago and Ben has lived there alone ever since.

Ben is in his mid-60s, unmarried, unattached, and unemployed. That pretty much sums up the basics of his life, such as it is. He has not held a steady job in almost 20 years. He does not like to work for other people, so he doesn't. He receives a little bit of money per month through a successful lawsuit decades ago. That is all of his income. Ben does not drive. That would cost far too much money. He purchases everything on sale. He buys store brand when at all possible. Ben's clothes come from a thrift store.

Ben saves a little bit of money and invests it in long-shot penny stocks over an internet brokerage account. He's been doing this for years. He wants to have a lot of money... a lot of money. A modest amount of money will not do. It's all or nothing for Ben. So far it has been nothing. The overwhelming odds are that it will be nothing until the day he dies. To Ben's credit, he makes it a point to never burden anyone else with his poverty. He never asks for a loan, or even to be driven to the doctor.

The specific reason for this blog entry is that there is one thing about Ben that becomes apparent way too often: his constant thoughts concerning money. Ben himself has stated that those who have no money tend to think about, or at least worry about money far more often than those who actually have money. To me, this fixation on money may be one of the unnoticed tragedies about poverty: the time spent contemplating money and where it can be best acquired, or saved, or, heaven forbid, spent. Many's the time I will make some social observation or utter something intellectual only to have Ben stare at me blankly, then quickly ask me if I thought Hormel chili was on sale at the nearby grocery store. I once mused about what I would like to change if I could go back in time 20 or 30 years knowing what I know now. I said something about my younger self being more sophisticated while in the company of women. Ben stated that he would have the knowledge to invest in Microsoft. So much for that philosophical discussion. Ben does not concern himself with global warming, Islamic terrorism, or whether mankind should visit Mars. Sadly, he might contemplate all of these things if he were not worried about his economic state.

Don't get me wrong, Ben is a good guy. He laughs at jokes and will on rare occasion give me a beer out of his refrigerator. It's just that each of us has only so much time on earth and it seems unfortunate that anyone should spend hours plotting how to get a buck when that time could be spent dwelling on better things.      

Bon Voyage

Craig (left), Easter Bunny, and me

Sometimes I feel like composing an entry into this blog but I don't know quite what to write: a desire without a subject. Not so this time. 

A few days before Easter a friend told me that a long-ago mutual pal of ours, Craig, was on his death bed, literally. He was in the hospital suffering from Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome, or ARDS. The hospital is about a 20 minute drive for me. I discovered that he has been in a medically induced coma for about two weeks while doctors were trying to figure out how to generate some kind of recovery for him. 

Craig and I were friends back in the day, like for a ten year stretch beginning about 50 years ago and ending when he left for Colorado in the mid 70s. I ran into him in a grocery store parking lot about 30 years ago where we chatted for about 10 minutes. Then we ran into each other at a friend's wedding about a decade ago where we again gabbed briefly. Up until the last few days, I had not seen him since. 

On Easter Sunday afternoon I decided I would visit Craig's hospital room. I knew that he would not be conscious but I was told that usually his long-time lady friend, Sue, was there in his room. Sure enough, she was there when I stopped in. I gave her a photo of Craig and myself that was taken, coincidentally, around Easter, Easter time 45 years ago. She was very emotional and greatly appreciated it. The picture was of Craig and myself sitting on the lap of a young lady in a department store Easter bunny costume. Two 20 year-old guys having a little fun many many years ago. 

Earlier today Sue called me and told me that Craig's health was failing and that it had been decided that he should be taken off life support. He would be allowed to pass away naturally. Craig was to be taken off life support this evening at 7:30. Sue told me that if I wanted to be there to say good bye to him, I was more than welcome. 

I am not the kind of guy who goes for that kind of thing: a sort of spiritual farewell. But I thought that Sue might be alone and might want some emotional support. As it turned out, there were a couple of dozen friends and family members there in the small hospital room. I stayed anyway.

Craig went off life support and maintained a pulse for about 20 minutes before expiring at 7:50 this evening. I was not emotional about it. I shed no tears. But later this evening I have on occasion gazed upon that long-ago photo of my old friend and me that I saved on my smartphone. Two young guys, one of them dying earlier this evening, the other one right there to bid bon voyage. The whole ordeal has given me a feeling that is sad, heartwarming, and just a little surreal, all at once. The shot of bourbon didn't hurt, either. 

Appreciating Life

I appreciate life, my life, to be exact. I intentionally do not think about this appreciation too much. If I think about it too much, it will cut into the amount of time that I am enjoying living. It's sort of a small paradox. There are similar paradoxes. I used to go on vacations out to scenic areas with my camera in hand. I went to see the breathtaking vistas but I was often so busy taking photographs that I didn't enjoy the scenery as much as I could have.

Maybe I'm thinking of it incorrectly, this whole appreciation thing. Maybe I'm misinterpreting the concept of appreciation. If a person really enjoys a candy bar, or a movie, or life itself, then perhaps that person is appreciating life even though he or she does not specifically acknowledge the appreciation either verbally or even mentally. Maybe that's what appreciation is.

Anyway, I'm now going to stop and proofread this entry, and if I halfway like it, I'll click on the "Publish" button. It's not that I couldn't write more, it's just that I have other things that I would prefer doing. It kind of gets back to that "appreciation of life" thing and minimizing the amount of overt appreciation I need to express.

Religious Belief

I am an atheist. I know that there really is not a good reason, at least as far as evidence is concerned, to believe in the existence of a god. There is really no arguing that. But I have a pretty good idea of why the concept of a god exists and exists in the vast majority of people. First, if a person really deep down believes in a loving god, it can give comfort. Death is pretty scary, what with the notion of endless nothingness, and avoiding all that nothingness can ease the mind. Aside from that, a lot of people feel strength from being in the good graces of their god. A prayer of appreciation can feel pretty good, sort of like putting two dollars in the red, Salvation Army bucket at Christmas time. For the record, I am appreciative of life too, it's just that I do not believe that it does any good to silently express that appreciation in the form of a prayer, consequently, I don't bother.

When I die, should that ever happen, I would like to relive all the great moments I have enjoyed in life. That would include the most thrilling sled rides, the most scrumptious pizzas, the most gripping movies, and the most exciting moments I have experienced while naked. When I've done those things, I would like to relive them again but to avoid the boredom of repetition, I would have no recollection of ever reliving them the first time. I figure that God would be capable of accommodating me on that. Theoretically, my version of heaven could go on forever. Unfortunately, it is highly unlikely that my heaven exists, just like it is highly unlikely that anyone's version of heaven exists. When it comes right down to it, the two differences between me and those who actually think there is a heaven is, #1; I am more realistic and, #2; I am more nervous about The Great Beyond. Sometimes being rational comes with a price.

The Rico Rizzos of Long Ago

I attended a rather well-to-do, suburban high school. It wasn't decadent but it was better than the average Columbus public high school at that time. I graduated in 1969. I was a terrible student so there was no college.  I had no trade skills either. I knew nothing about bricklaying, plumbing or carpentry. Of course I had no previous experience in any form of employment. Consequently I went straight into the American workforce looking for any employment available. I found a job transporting temporary manual laborers to job sites. Day laborers. Basically I was driving a van full of men who were all but unemployable, transporting them to various work locales where they would do physical labor for minimal wages. Most of these men were unemployable because of alcohol problems. Some were illiterate. Still others were simply bums. One was AWOL from the Army.

I worked this job as a kind of surreal bus driver for about eight or nine months. It gave me an education like none other. A couple of times, when I was done transporting these sad characters to their job sites in the morning, I would trek down to the local watering hole about noon where I would luncheon with a few of the guys who were not selected to work that day. "Lunch" generally consisted of something like a ham sandwich and lukewarm beer. The watering hole was not exactly a four star establishment. I got to know many of these dubious individuals. Some became friends. Mid afternoon I would drive back to the job sites and pick up the men, returning them to the central office where they would receive their day's pay.

In the fall of 1969, I saw the movie Midnight Cowboy at a drive-in theater. I was accompanied by a girl who I briefly dated at the time. One of the central characters of the movie was Rico Rizzo, a down-and-out man from the Bronx who I could have sworn occasionally sat in the back of the van I drove for work. At the end of the movie, Rico slowly dies. He succumbs to pneumonia caused by his own ignorance as well as social apathy for pathetic individuals like him. He died to touching music while in the arms of a pal, a penniless, young, naïve, Texas man he befriended during his travels as a vagrant of New York City.

The entire movie got to me, but the end scene ravaged me. Rico dying devastated me so completely that the girl I was with noticed the effect it had on me. "Wow, that really hit you," she remarked.

"Yeah." I responded, "I know Rico, or at leas I know someone just like him."

I watched the final scene of Midnight Cowboy on Youtube just a few minutes ago. It still gets to me all of these years later. I remember how I felt, sitting in that drive-in theater that long-ago evening, and the feelings that went through me.

I can still recall a few of the names of those down-and-out men from back then too, but oddly, I can't for the life of me remember the name of the girl I took to the drive-in.

A Hero Wannabe

I want to be a hero. I've wanted to be a hero all my life, beginning in childhood. A lot of people want to be heroes, I'm not alone. Just to be clear, giving blood, or social volunteering does not count. Such deeds are noble, but they aren't the acts of heroism I'm referring to. I think it was when Atlanta hosted the Olympic Games, some ordinary guy heroically moved people away from a bomb that had been planted in a public place. The police believed the bomb had been planted by the alleged hero in an attempt to make himself a hero. Not surprising; heroism can be a motive for crime. It turned out that the man did not plant the bomb. He would have been viewed as a hero except for the police errantly raining on his parade. Talk about bad luck.

A few days ago a small but powerful storm swept through my neighborhood. In my boundless wisdom, I went outside to witness it. The storm contained almost no rain but there were winds of up to 70 MPH. A huge tree crackled and fell a few doors away from where I was standing. It crashed on a condo's east side at the approximate site of that condo's patio. From where I was standing I could not see how much damage was done or if there were any injuries.

Fearlessly I quickly hurried over and fought my way through the maze of tree limbs and debris to where the condo patio had once been located. The patio fence was destroyed, as were a table and some chairs, but no one had been on the patio and there were no injuries. It was my chance, I could have been a hero, but no, the fates were against me.

So as luck would have it, I was not a hero, at least not an obvious hero. Still, when some of the residents gathered around the fallen tree a short time later after the storm had passed, I explained in a modest tone but in splendid detail how I had seen the tree fall and had quickly rushed over to check for casualties. I figured that if I could not be a full-blown hero, maybe I could be a limited one.

Naturally, no one was interested. I guess acts of near heroism don't mean much. Still, I yet have hope. In a half hour or so I'll be headed to a convenience store. Maybe it'll be in the process of being robbed and I can single-handedly apprehend the crook. Yeah, on second thought, I don't know if I want to be a hero that badly.

A Boyhood Entrepreneur

I will occasionally discuss my childhood business forays with those interested in the science of free enterprise. I'm talking about my early childhood business ventures, early childhood beginning even before I was old enough to earn six bits by mowing a neighbor's lawn. That was a long time ago and I must confess that sometimes I have wondered if my memory, combined with my imagination, have worked to distort the reality of those days. However I have recently uncovered childhood photographs, and I'm starting to think that I have been recalling those days accurately, though I must admit, those recollections might be a little hard to believe despite being supported by pictures.

My business partners at our lemonade
 stand (post dog turd incident)

In 1958, when I was 7 years old, a friend and I opened a curbside lemonade stand, selling a glass for a nickel. Little did we know until later was that our competition was a Kool-Aid stand up the street that had as its proprietors what were popularly known as "big kids"; i.e. 12 year-olds. They did not like out lemonade stand cutting into their business and so they trekked down the sidewalk and attempted to strongarm us out of business by putting dog turds into our pitcher of lemonade.

What the big kids did not count on was that as they were assaulting our business, a couple of teenage boys were making off with their entire pitcher of unattended Kool-Aid. What a break for us. All we had to do was fish out the turds from our lemonade supply and reopen our business, our nearby competition now gone. We did feel badly about selling tainted lemonade so we reduced the price to 2 cents a glass, which much to our joy, tripled our business.

Me as a casino/treehouse operator

A year later I had become a more sophisticated man of business as I began taking book on the school playground during recess. This prove highly profitable. So profitable that I soon opened my own casino/treehouse where buying into a game of Candyland cost the young gambler 10 cents, winning earned anywhere from 15 cents to a quarter, depending on the number of participants.

Perhaps the highpoint of my childhood business ventures came at the age of 10 when a thirteen year old neighbor boy shocked and horrified my friends and me by explaining to us the facts of life in graphic detail. Among other specifics, we were told that men prefer big boobs to small, and women prefer large penises to the more diminutive variety. We were also informed that for safety sake, a man should always use a condom. That final piece of information was immediately followed by an explanation of what a condom was.

My business associates and I (second from left) 

displaying our merchandise, oversized condoms.

When the shock of what we had just heard began to ebb, our young, business-oriented minds took over. What was to follow was an establishment that used colorful party balloons stretched to look like attractive condoms for the man of girth. Any 16 year-old customer immediately received a reputation not only as sexually active, but well-endowed.

Recent photo